Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  "How do you think Felix would fare against that Legionary?" he had asked his boss.

  "Ha! That big oaf would only last two dozen heartbeats against Felix," Vulso had laughed, but even with his bravado, Proculus could see that Vulso was as impressed by the Primus Pilus as he was.

  Now, many years later, this memory somehow dislodged itself from the recesses of Proculus' mind as the large man dismounted—if that's what it could be called, since his legs were just a few inches off the ground already. Proculus barely noticed as he tried to come to terms with his recognition that he was actually seeing the same Roman Centurion he had watched all that time ago. What was his name? Proculus thought furiously, trying to come up with it as the other man approached, one hand holding a scroll.

  "You're Titus Pullus, Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion," a voice blurted out, and Proculus was barely aware that it had been he himself who had uttered the words.

  Pullus stopped short, as surprised to be recognized after all these years by a man he was sure he'd never seen before as Proculus was in recognizing him.

  "Yes," Pullus replied, cautiously. "I am in fact Titus Pullus. But I'm not the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion." Seeing Proculus' confusion, he added, "I was the Primus Pilus. Now I'm not. I'm..." as strange as it was, this was the first time Pullus had been forced to think about what his actual status was, and he was about to say, "..retired," but caught himself. Thinking furiously—he couldn't tell how much time elapsed, but hoped it wasn't an undue pause—as he said instead, "Actually, I'm on detached duty. In fact," he continued, suddenly inspired, "that's why we're here. We've been sent by Caesar to return to Rome and meet with Marcus Antonius. He still is Master of the Horse, isn't he?"

  Proculus nodded in reply, but his face was still a study in confusion.

  "Wait," he held a hand up, as he shook his head, as if to clear it, "I must have missed something. You said you've been sent by Caesar? THE Caesar? Not..." he stopped, unsure of how to proceed.

  Like a large number of Romans, Proculus found it very hard to think of the youngster Octavian as Caesar, although as a Centurion, he knew better than most how costly it was not to do so, and, in fact, he had never slipped up once. But now, confronted by this man Pullus, who said that the original Caesar had sent him, Proculus simply didn't know how to respond.

  "No, not Gaius Octavianus," Pullus replied, thankful that he had at least learned this piece of information from Cleopatra before arriving in Rome. "Gaius Julius Caesar, my general. That Caesar. The real Caesar," Pullus finished, and while his tone was quiet, it was no less emphatic.

  Remembering what he held in his hand, Pullus stepped forward, offering to show Proculus at least the seal on the scroll. For his part, Proculus eyed it as if it were a snake, coiled to strike, so he leaned forward cautiously just close enough so that he could see the seal.

  "What does it say?" Proculus asked, but Pullus only shrugged in answer.

  Then, seeing that Proculus expected more, he snapped, "I don't know. It's not for me, it's for Marcus Antonius. That's who I've come to see."

  Proculus considered this, but then indicated the men behind Pullus.

  "And what about them? Are they your bodyguard?"

  Titus Pullus had never been known for his patience, but now his already limited supply was exhausted. It was bad enough that he was saddled with suspicions about the reception he and his men might receive, but to have this jumped-up piece of cac—who, despite wearing the transverse crest, looked like little more than one of the bully boys who ran around the Subura—questioning him to this extent was more than he was willing to bear.

  "Do I look like I need a bodyguard?" Pullus asked, but while his tone was quiet, its menace wasn't lost on Proculus, who took a step backward. Seeing his adversary retreating, Pullus pressed his advantage. "Me and my men have just traveled across the entire world to return to Rome, because our general orders us to do so. I have specific instructions to speak to Marcus Antonius and deliver this scroll to him in person," he waved it in front of Proculus, "and I also have more than a thousand very tired, very hungry, and very angry men who have come with me. We are Roman Legionaries returning home, and I refuse to waste any more time being questioned by someone like you. So you need to open these gates and allow me and my men to pass through them to conduct our official business, or I'm not going to be responsible for the mess my friends behind me make out of you and your...guards," Pullus finished with a sneer.

  Proculus had always thought of himself as a tough man, but in the presence of Titus Pullus, he suddenly recognized that he really had no true understanding of what that meant. In that instant, any thought of resistance crumbled, and all he could do was give a weak nod, before turning and walking on unsteady legs to the postern door. As he did, Pullus watched for a moment, then turned about to return to where Scribonius and the others waited, and only then did he smile.

  "It looks like you made another friend," was Scribonius' only comment.

  Pullus didn't say anything, just continued to smile as he remounted, and with his friend, he watched the huge gates of Rome slowly open again.

  Marcus Antonius was in one of his rages, pacing back and forth in his office in what had once been Pompey's extravagant villa. As was usual, the cause of his anger was the actions of the young Roman who had become his bitter rival in the rough-and-tumble world of Roman politics. Who did that precious pretty boy think he was? To tell him, Marcus Antonius, who should be the new Consuls for the coming year! Through the red haze of his anger, the rational part of Antonius' mind was forced to acknowledge that it had been his own fault, really, for not crushing the boy Octavian the day after the old man's will was read. He was equally cognizant that those who said it was a sign of his hubris had a point, when they opined that because he had been so sure of the provisions of Caesar's will that he had magnanimously decreed the presence of numerous witnesses when it was read, there was no way Antonius could have eliminated them all. But his one consolation, bare it may have been, was that the others in the room that day were at least as shocked as he had been, if not more so. Nevertheless, that was a jug that had been broken some years before, and now he was dealing with the aftermath of his decision, although he was still unwilling to admit to anyone, but himself, that it had been a mistake. Marcus Antonius had always been ruled by his passions, but despite his knowledge that it was a fatal flaw that would probably prove to be his undoing, he found it next to impossible to control. Yet, he realized, he would have to force himself to—if not quench his rage—at a minimum put it sufficiently aside so that he could think rationally about the best course of action.

  What galled Antonius the most, if the truth were known, was that the youngster's choices for Consul were extremely shrewd, and showed a foresight that probably tipped the younger noble Roman's long-range plans, if only Antonius could divine Octavian's larger intent. This had proven to be extremely frustrating, but Marcus Antonius was too proud to admit what most of Rome already knew: in a battle of wits with the young heir to Caesar, Marcus Antonius was close to being an unarmed man. Unfortunately for Antonius and his prospects for victory, that was a truth he couldn't bring himself to recognize, if only for the reason that it would shatter his own dignitas, and if he had learned anything from the real Caesar, it was the importance of that essentially Roman quality. Slowing his torrid pace back and forth, Antonius made a conscious effort to gather himself by taking a deep breath, before he turned to face the visibly nervous messenger. Stories of Antonius' temper were many and legendary, and more than one of them involved the fate of the poor soul who had the misfortune to deliver a missive that had driven him into one of his famous rages. Luckily for this man, today wouldn't be one of those that added to Antonius' reputation for brutality, and he was even favored with a tight, tense smile.

  "Tell your master, the young Caesar," try as he might, Antonius had to push this past clenched teeth, "that his suggestions are both welcome, and they are extremely...appropriate, given the
current situation."

  There was no mistaking the sudden sag in the body of the poor soul whom Octavian had sent bearing this message.

  "Yes, sir. I will," the man actually managed to get this out without stuttering, but if he thought he would escape without any further trauma, he quickly learned this wasn't to be the case.

  Turning to leave, he was stopped by Antonius, who told him, "Wait. I want to write a reply to your master. You might as well stand there; it won't take me long."

  Without waiting for a response, Antonius sat down and took a wax tablet from a pile of fresh ones on the left side of his desk. Leaning over, he frowned as he tried to form the words that would fulfill Antonius' goal of both acknowledging Octavian's wisdom in his choices, but also send a javelin of warning to the younger man that he was overstepping. Before he could put the first word down, however, he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  "Not now," he didn't have to shout for his voice to carry. But when the knock came again, this time with an insistence that told Antonius it was important, he allowed entry, but growled, "This better be good."

  The slave who approached was Antonius' most senior, and was in charge of the running of the house, which gave Antonius a clue that it was, in fact, an urgent matter, at the very least. Androcles, the slave, had been in Antonius' household for more years than either of them could easily remember, so he wasn't cowed by his master's fits of temper. However, he did know that his master would consider the news that he carried worthy of interruption, no matter what he was doing. To that end, the slave wasted no time, hurrying to his master's side to whisper in his ear. For a moment, Antonius' face registered no emotion, then he turned to look at Androcles, his puzzlement easy to read.

  "Say that again?"

  Androcles did as he was ordered, and now Antonius did show a reaction. In fact, it was several reactions in quick succession: shock, surprise, then...worry. Somewhat surprisingly, instead of saying a word, he turned back to the tablet, seemingly finding the words that had eluded him before. Writing quickly, he finished, then gestured to the messenger, who approached warily. Holding the tablet out, Antonius gave the man a grim smile.

  "Tell your master that if he knows what's good for him, he'll get here as quickly as he can. I'm sure that he will want to be here for what's about to happen."

  Titus Pullus hadn't been sure what kind of reception he would receive when he showed up at Pompey's villa, which is how he would always think of it, despite the fact that Antonius had occupied it for more than a decade. In his experience, the upper classes usually made it a point to keep their social inferiors waiting, but he was fairly sure that Antonius had never been faced with a situation like this, where a man thought dead for the last several years had risen from his grave. That had been the important piece of information Pullus had learned from the Optio Ovidius, of what Pullus was informed was the new Urban Cohort, the junior officer escorting him to Pompey's villa. As they walked, Pullus' mind was whirling from the changes wrought in the city, which seemed to have been transformed in the years since he had last seen it. One thing hadn't changed: the streets were thronged with people from all the edges of the Republic, but even here there was a major change, as Pullus saw a large number of people from the lands that had been conquered by Caesar and men like Pullus. They were mostly Parthians, although Pullus spotted a few of the nut-brown, thin, and wiry people from the lands of the Pandya. He even thought he spotted a man with yellow skin and wearing brocaded silk that Pullus knew was the uniform of a Han courtier. As Ovidius led him, the Optio proved to be a wealth of information on all that had transpired, since Caesar had disappeared into the mists of the east, but the most important piece of news was that Pullus' general had been declared dead. Moreover, while Ovidius only touched on the bitter struggle that had resulted between Antonius, Octavian, and some of the other notable men of the Republic, Pullus inferred much from what Ovidius hadn't said, although until he had a chance to talk to other sources, he wouldn't know for sure if he had guessed correctly. Probably the most notable thing Ovidius told him, outside of Caesar's status of course, was the fate of Cicero, long one of Caesar's bitterest opponents in the Senate and one of the leading figures of The Boni. If Ovidius went on a little too effusively and in too gory detail about how the Master of the Horse had finally had enough of Cicero's poison pen and had ordered the execution of Cicero, having his hands nailed to the doors of the Curia, Pullus understood that the Optio was merely displaying the avidity the lower classes showed for the bloodshed of their betters.

  While this didn't surprise Pullus all that much—he had long since counted Cicero as one of the walking dead because of his refusal to understand the inevitability of Caesar and what he represented what did shock him was when Ovidius casually mentioned that at the time of his execution, Cicero had been allied with Caesar's heir, but that Octavian had done nothing to stop the process. Pullus was further surprised to learn that all the transformations he had seen weren't done at the hand of Antonius, but of the young Caesar, who had somehow managed to divert the vast treasures of the Parthians that Caesar had sent back to Rome, simultaneously keeping those funds out of the hands of Antonius who, according to most accounts, planned on raising another army to crush his young rival. What Octavian—which was how Pullus thought of him and, until forced to, how he would continue to refer to him since the real Caesar was still alive—had done was brilliant and cunning, informing Pullus that Caesar's insight into the young man had been much keener than anyone would have thought. By subverting these funds, not only did Octavian deprive Antonius of the means to destroy his young rival, but he had also cemented himself as a champion of the mob of Rome by providing all these new public works, which Octavian had insisted not be created by slave labor. In one stroke, he had provided employment for thousands of otherwise idle members of the Head Count, while giving all the occupants of the city new temples, monuments, parks, fountains, and all manner of smaller edifices. The scope of what Ovidius was telling Pullus was so vast that, in the guise of needing to rest, he had Ovidius halt for a bit so that he could gather his thoughts and try to get a sense of where matters stood. It was during this pause that Ovidius had casually mentioned one other piece of information, and of all the things that he had told Pullus, the Primus Pilus instantly understood that this was the most important, and potentially most dangerous, to him and his men.

  "They made Caesar a god after they declared him dead," Ovidius had told him. "They had a festival and everything, and there's a temple dedicated to him in the Forum. It's just a short way down the Capitoline from the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, and it's almost as big! You should go see it, when you get a chance."

  "I'll do that," Pullus had tried to keep his tone casual, although he didn't know why.

  It was highly doubtful that this Optio, who from the looks of him would have hardly been good enough to be in the Tenth Cohort of the 10th, had the wits about him to take notice of what Pullus knew was a tremor in his voice. Needing an extra moment before starting out again, he bent down to fiddle with the laces of his caligae as his mind raced, trying to understand the import of this last piece of news. Oh Scribonius, he thought, why didn't I bring you along?

  Now, standing in the vestibule of Pompey's villa, waiting for Antonius to deign to see him, Pullus was actually thankful for the delay, his mind still racing as he thought furiously about where matters stood at this point. At least a third of a watch passed before a man appeared from the direction where, Pullus assumed, Antonius was located in the vast villa, and his first indication that he had cause for worry was that the man wasn't just a slave. Dressed in a tunic, the man approaching Pullus was clearly a patrician or highly ranked plebeian, his bearing and manner oozing that disdainful authority and belief in their own superiority that members of his class seemed to be born with, and Pullus hated him instantly. The noble was younger than Pullus, but that wasn't unusual anymore. However, Pullus saw that his hair was not only carefully coiffed
, but that it also gleamed with some sort of pomade; moreover, on almost every finger was a ring, although the most important one was the iron band that marked his membership in the Senate.

  "Primus Pilus Pullus," the man's voice was as oily as his hair and the smile was the kind of false beacon that didn't fool Pullus in the slightest. "It is not only a huge surprise, it's an even bigger honor to meet you."

  As he spoke he extended his hand, which Pullus barely hesitated to accept, grasping the man's forearm in the Roman manner and being not in the least surprised when he felt the other man's smooth, soft hand on his own.

  "I'm Quintus Dellius," the noble spoke the name as if Pullus should have recognized it, but it meant nothing to the larger man. Not seeing the reaction he was expecting, Dellius' lips thinned in irritation, but his tone didn't vary as he continued, "I've been sent by the Master of the Horse to conduct you to his office."

  Without waiting, Dellius broke his clasp and turned to lead Pullus through a maze of hallways, turning this way and that, all while speaking over his shoulder in a running monologue.