Caesar Triumphant

  Numerius Ovidius was standing just a few paces away from his Centurion and the young Caesar, so he could hear every word they said, although their conversation, such as it was, echoed his own thoughts.

  "What in Hades is that?"

  It was a combination of gasp and whisper, so Ovidius couldn't determine which of the other two men uttered the words, but his eyes were no less riveted to the sight before him. It looked like...nothing he had ever seen before, Ovidius realized, and a part of him applauded the idea that he was viewing something he was sure would be an event that would live in Roman history for the ages, something he could tell his grandchildren about. Provided he survived the day, and that sobering thought arrested his momentary flight of fancy.

  "I don't know exactly, but it looks like a formation of whores on parade," Octavian was trying to sound scornful—at least, that's what Ovidius thought—but he wasn't very successful.

  What was true was that the marching men were clad in what looked like tunics made of some sort of material from which a glow emanated in the steadily rising sun, and because of the vast array of colors, the winking light given off was simply the most spectacular thing Ovidius had ever seen. And yet, in stark contrast was the rhythmic movement of men marching in perfect cadence with each other, looking like a multi-legged beast whose upper body was composed of rippling scales of almost a thousand colors. So enthralled by the sight, it took a moment for Ovidius to realize that, again in stark contrast to what looked like a marching festival, the formation was marked and divided by men carrying what looked like Cohort and Century standards. Despite this martial touch, when the marching column made its turn and began angling towards the road, once they came within perhaps three hundred paces, Ovidius could see that none of the men appeared to be armed. He wasn't the only one to notice.

  "They're not carrying weapons," Ovidius clearly heard the surprise in his Centurion's voice. "None of them, it looks like."

  "Then this will be the easiest battle you ever fought," Octavian replied curtly.

  The words caused Ovidius to tear his glance away from the approaching column to stare over at the place where Proculus and Octavian were standing, and he saw the look of confusion and uncertainty on his Centurion's face.

  "Sir?" Proculus' tone was hesitant, as he kept shifting his glance from the man at his side to the column, still approaching inexorably and showing no signs of slowing down to shake out in anything other than this column. "I'm not sure I understand."

  "What's there to understand?" Octavian snapped, and Ovidius could see the red creeping up the back of the young Caesar's neck, disappearing into the blonde curls. "You have your orders. They haven't changed, just because these cowards are too afraid to carry weapons into battle!"

  "But, they're not..." Proculus started to protest, but was stopped when Octavian turned on him.

  Ovidius couldn't see Octavian's face, but whatever was in it caused Proculus, who was facing Ovidius, to turn as pale as if he were dead; and although Ovidius couldn't hear what was said, he didn't really need to, just from his Centurion's reaction. Proculus didn't answer and that apparently didn't satisfy Octavian, but all the other man could muster was an abrupt nod of his head. Understanding, after a moment that this nod was all he would get at the moment, Octavian turned his attention back to the scene before him, as did Ovidius. That's when he saw that following the column were a number of wagons, all of them obviously heavily laden because of the way they rocked ponderously back and forth over the uneven ground, before they reached the roadbed. Now that the column was a little more than a hundred paces away it stopped, brought to a crashing halt by a shouted command that was instantly repeated down the length of it. Ovidius stared at the now immobile mass of men, his attention torn between the sight before him and the scene to his left, where both Proculus and Octavian also stood, seemingly struck as immobile and dumb as the colorful formation a short distance away. This pause gave Ovidius a chance to examine the waiting men more closely; it was then that he noticed that despite his initial impression, there was some sort of order to the colorful, shiny tunics worn by the men. He quickly determined that those men he was sure were Centurions were dressed in scarlet red tunics, similar to the soldier's tunic, but of so deeper and richer a color that there was really no comparison between the two. Ovidius also noticed that while uniform in color most, if not all, of the tunics had some sort of embroidery on them, but he was too far away to make out what it was, or even if the embroidery was the same. Ovidius then saw that the men who were standing in what would have been his own spot in such a formation were also dressed in a uniform manner, but the color of their tunics were a deep, rich blue, most of them also similarly embroidered. For the men in the ranks, there didn't seem to be any pattern of wear, at least that he could determine, but his examination was cut short by the sight of a group of men detaching themselves from the column. All of them wore red tunics, and as they approached, they got close enough that Ovidius could see that, in fact, the embroidered pattern was different for every man, although many were very similar. Every man held his arms out to his sides, showing that he was obviously completely unarmed, although every man wore the Legionary's belt and carried a vitus. Leading them was the huge Roman who had faced down Proculus, his hands held out as well, but there as something in his bearing that would have drawn every eye towards him, even if he had not been so large and muscular.

  "That's far enough," Octavian's voice was cold, but Ovidius thought he detected a tremor there. "Have you come to throw yourself on my mercy?"

  "No, Gaius Octavius," Pullus answered calmly, eliciting a hiss of indrawn breath from the man he was addressing.

  "That is Caesar, to you," Octavian hissed.

  "You're right," Pullus answered, which Octavian clearly wasn't expecting. "You're Caesar's adopted son and heir."

  Pullus paused, and like his first sight of the colorful column, Ovidius would always remember that moment. Not what was said, as much as this moment, when it seemed as though time itself had stopped, when everything was momentarily suspended; in his later imaginings, as brief as they would turn out to be, Ovidius would think that everywhere there was a Roman presence in the world, that every man, woman, and child paused their own activities, as if waiting for what would happen next.

  "But he's not dead, and we're the proof of that." Before Octavian could react further, Pullus raised his voice, using the power of his lungs to bellow, "We are here to tell you that Caesar, the real Caesar lives! He is now a living god, in the Islands of Wa, a land far, far to the east, where the sun rises! We are the Romans of his army who have been released from our service and sent home to..."

  "That's a lie!" Octavian's voice wasn't nearly as powerful as Pullus', so what came out was a screeching howl of rage, as he pointed a shaking finger down at the giant Roman. "He's a liar! They're deserters and they've concocted this story to prevent justice from being done! Don't listen to his lies!"

  Turning to Proculus, his face was twisted with rage and fear as he grabbed Proculus by the arm with a strength born of desperation.

  "What are you standing there like a statue for, you...idiot?" Octavian snapped. "Give the order or I will! Release your javelins and cut this lying dog down!"

  Ovidius happened to be watching Proculus' face as Octavian screamed at him, and he knew his Centurion well enough to see the flicker of anger cross his face at Octavian's invective. Still, he had been given an order, and perhaps if Octavian hadn't insulted him, he would have instantly obeyed. But he didn't; he paused for a moment, and Titus Pullus, veteran of thousands of moments where the outcome rested on the edge of a blade, understood the opportunity he was given.

  "Proculus," he called up to the Centurion, "you can see we're unarmed. We're not here to cause any trouble. We're here as Roman citizens," he emphasized the word, understanding that if Proculus was like any Roman, this made an enormous difference, "and honored veterans of years of service to Gaius Julius Caesar, whom you rightly revere
as a god, asking that we be allowed to march to the Forum and make our case to the people of Rome themselves. Let them decide the truth of the matter."

  "No!" Ovidius didn't think it possible, but Octavian's voice was even shriller. "They can't be allowed into the city! You have no idea what kind of trouble they're here to stir up!"

  "But they're unarmed, sir," Proculus had finally found his voice, and while there was a tremor there, his anger at Octavian's slur gave him the courage he needed to look the other man in the eye. "What kind of mischief can they really make, if they're not carrying any weapons?" Proculus' voice dropped, but Ovidius could still hear what his Centurion said, "Unless they're telling the truth? Is that why this is such a problem?"

  "How dare you?" Octavian hissed. "How dare you accuse me of lying?" Straightening his back, the young Caesar tried to reassert his self-control, for which he had been famous, up until this moment. "Very well. You're relieved of command, effective immediately. Where's your Optio?"

  Spinning around, he spotted Ovidius, who in that instant profoundly regretted his curiosity and need to stand closely enough to hear.

  Snapping his fingers, Octavian commanded, "Come here Optio. Let's see if you're a better Roman than this fool who's so easily swayed by a coward."

  "Octavian," Pullus' voice cut through the air, stopping Ovidius in his tracks. "I just heard you call me a coward. I'm no such thing, but I think you are, and I'm willing to prove it." He had said these words relatively quietly, but now he raised his voice, so that everyone nearby could hear. "Therefore, I challenge you, Gaius Octavius, to single combat, here and now, in the style of our revered ancestors, that you may meet me in a manner befitting a member of the clan of the Julii, and as the heir of Caesar, the greatest warrior I have ever known."

  Octavian's gasp of shock was audible several paces away, and Ovidius had moved to a spot where he could see the look on the man's face. While Octavian kept his head immobile, Ovidius could see his eyes darting back and forth. He looks like a trapped rat, Ovidius thought. However, Octavian remained motionless and, more importantly, silent, not answering Pullus' challenge. Finally, after what was probably more than thirty heartbeats' of time had passed, Pullus broke the silence.

  "That's what I thought," he said softly.

  Then, dismissing Octavian with a contemptuous shake of his head, he turned back to Proculus.

  "Centurion, I'm going to have my men come and clear this barricade away. Whether you choose to obey him," he indicated Octavian with a dismissive gesture, "or allow us our rights as Roman citizens is up to you. But I tell you this now. I give you my word as a fellow Centurion and Primus Pilus of Caesar's 10th Legion, that if you choose to obey young...Caesar here," it was the first and would be the penultimate time Titus Pullus ever referred to Octavian by the title he so desired, "we won't resist. You'll be able to cut us down like wheat before the scythe, and all that will be left to show that we ever existed will be these." He plucked at the shiny tunic he was wearing, thankful that it was not only a cool day, but that sweat didn't show up as easily with silk as it did wool. "They'd make fine keepsakes for your men, and I suppose that they could be viewed as your reward for obeying him."

  Finished, Pullus stood there, feet apart, arms at his side, and looking up calmly at Proculus. Octavian seemed to have given up resorting to histrionics and shouts, standing there as pale as a corpse, staring down at Pullus with undisguised hatred, and, both Proculus and Ovidius recognized, with more than a little fear.

  "If you let them pass, I will promise you one thing," Octavian said very softly, so that only the two men next to him could hear, "but both of you will be dead men." Surprising them both, he gave a chuckle then, laced with bitterness and loss, "And you can join me in Hades."

  Numerius Ovidius never got the chance to ask Proculus what had convinced him to do as he did, but if he had, Proculus' answer probably would have surprised him. It hadn't been the insult, and it hadn't been the threat of death that spurred him to act. No, it was something much, much simpler, but for all its simplicity, every bit as powerful a motivator, and that had been when Titus Pullus had called him a "fellow Centurion". That simple act of respect and recognition of Proculus as an equal had done more to give Proculus the courage to defy the most powerful man in Rome than anything else could have. Not only did he defy him by allowing Pullus' men to pass, but he went even further by ordering his own men to jump down and assist in tearing down the barricades. Seeing the flurry of activity, the men on either flank who hadn't been able to hear the exchange between Pullus and Octavian assumed that, for whatever reason, these men were no longer a threat and were being allowed to pass. For the first time in his life, Octavian simply panicked at the sight of both Urban Cohorts streaming from their positions to help tear down the barricades, turning and fleeing back to the city, but not before snapping an order to a handful of his bodyguards, who stayed behind. With so many hands, the work went quickly, as the wagons were emptied and then set back upright before being hauled across the road. All this activity certainly didn't go unnoticed, which was another oversight of both Antonius and Octavian, because by the time the work was finished, the road was lined with people, all the way to the Porta Romana. Some had been trying to start their daily business, while others, hearing about some sort of excitement, had come to gawk, and in this they weren't disappointed by what they saw that day. With the barricade clear, the marching column of Pullus' men resumed, except that this time they had an armed escort of an Urban Cohort leading the way. It was not, however, the Cohort of Proculus, because there had been an incident that left the Cohort in complete disarray. Somehow, in the confusion of all the work being done, both the Centurion and the Optio of the Cohort had vanished. In fact, it wouldn't be for another third of a watch before their bodies were found by their frantically searching men. Having the other Cohort leading the way was no accident and had been another suggestion from Scribonius.

  "If they lead the way into the city, it will be hard for anyone to stop us," was how he put it.

  As it would turn out, Octavian had been so panic-stricken that he hadn't thought to order the gate to be closed, not that it would have done anything more than delay this impromptu procession. The sight of Rome's walls had instilled the veterans with a thrill of anticipation, but the Centurions did their best to keep emotions in check, as they drew closer.

  "It's not over yet," was repeated down the ranks, but for Pullus the sensation was one of trying to curb a stallion that wanted its head to gallop.

  His own sense of suppressed excitement, still tinged with fear of what lay ahead, made the sensation even stronger, but from outward appearances, he was the same, impassive figure of the Primus Pilus and man who had led these veterans across the world. As he had hoped, thanks to Scribonius' suggestion, the gates were wide open, and now that he could see past them, he saw that the throngs of people that had gathered outside continued inside, as well.

  "Smarten it up boys, we've got an audience," he called over his shoulder.

  Entering under the archway, the first thing that struck Pullus was the silence, which he found a bit disorienting. He wasn't sure what he was expecting, but he had thought that people would be chattering or shouting to the marching men, but they seemed to be...uneasy. That was it, he realized: the people watching this weren't sure what they were seeing, and that's when he got the idea.

  "Boys, I think these good people would like to hear a tune, don't you?" he bellowed.

  There was only a moment's hesitation, before he was answered by a roar of approval and affirmation, to which he replied, "I think there's only one song for this occasion, don't you?"

  Again, he was answered positively, but there was a moment's silence, with only the crashing sound of the hobnailed caligae bouncing off the stone walls of the buildings. Then, a lone voice started singing, then was instantly joined by the other voices, so that before a few heartbeats had elapsed, even the sound of marching was overwhelmed by a masculine chorus, b
ellowing out a song. It was based on a melody that had first been heard by the people of Rome fifteen years before, on the occasion of Caesar's first triumph, for his conquest of Gaul, and it had been created by the men of the 10th. Over the years, it had been adopted by the entire army and verses had been added, as Caesar and his army marched, fought, and died their way across an entire world. On the long march back, the returning veterans had added even more verses, so that the song was now very long, filling the entire time it took to march to the Forum and then some, which caused Pullus to amend the route on the fly. But it was more than worth it, because not only did it pass the time, it told the citizens of Rome a truth that would have been denied to them. In fact, the song was so informative that the marching column formed a tail as people hurried along behind them, to hear the entire story of the wondrous things that Caesar and his men had seen and the valorous deeds they had performed in their name. In this impromptu parade, which took more than a third of a watch, any chance that Antonius and Octavian had to stop the citizens of Rome from learning the truth was shattered, and the consequences would reverberate for years to come.

  By the time they reached the Forum, Pullus and the men were met by both Marcus Antonius and Gaius Octavius, who, while he had regained some of his color, still looked very close to the edge of collapse. Antonius was more composed, but it was easy to see his wariness, as he watched the formation, minus its escort of Urban Cohort, which had peeled off shortly before the formation came marching into the very heart of Rome. Both men were standing on the rostra, and once Caesar's veterans came to a halt, Pullus, Figulus, Scribonius, and the other Primi Pili, all adorned in scarlet, detached themselves from the men and came marching in their own small formation. Clutched in Pullus' sword hand opposite his vitus was another scroll, and the two men on the rostra glanced at each other, their thoughts running along similar tracks.