by R. W. Peake
The spot where the fleet was to meet Caesar and the army was at the settlement of Harmozeia, situated at the mouth of the Minab River, and marked the spot where Alexander and the remnants of his army reunited with his navy, led by Nearchos, after their aborted attempt to penetrate beyond the Indus River. It was a small village, although it was easy to see that it had once been larger, even if most of the buildings had fallen into various states of disrepair. The people had had plenty of warning of the approach of Caesar’s army, but what passed for a garrison numbered barely two hundred men, and the village headman, who spoke a curious dialect of Greek and some language Pullus had never heard before, had been wise enough to open the rickety wooden gates when the Romans arrived. It wasn’t a bad spot, Pullus thought, especially considering the country they had just marched through, and because of the river, there were groves of date palms, the supply of which Caesar bought up almost within a watch of their arrival, realizing that unless he did so, his men would strip them clean and leave the villagers destitute, and he had plans for this place. Despite his inexperience in nautical matters, it was easy for Pullus to see that this was a perfect spot for a harbor, because it was protected by virtue of an indentation in the coastline that formed a small bay. Directly west of Harmozeia was an island that, according to what Pullus had read, was called Oarakta Island, while there were two smaller islands on the eastern side, although from the village Pullus could only see the northernmost island, which seemed to be nothing but the top of a small peak. There was a stone pier already there at Harmozeia, but once the week of leisure was over, Caesar had put the men to work immediately, building two more, while extending the original pier out another hundred paces. As was his habit, Caesar was closemouthed about his plans, which in turn made it a matter of endless speculation among his men. At Scribonius’ request, once the first of the new piers was finished, Diocles was sent to measure out the length of the piers, and that night in Pullus’ quarters, the Secundus Pilus Prior sat with a wax tablet and did some calculations.
Once he was finished, he remarked, “Well, it’s not the Heptastadion, certainly. Unless,” he gave his friends a grin, “you add up the length of all three.” Turning the tablet around on the table so Pullus, Balbus, and Porcinus could see it, while Diocles stood looking over Pullus’ shoulder, Scribonius began by asking Pullus, “When you were in Alexandria, did you ever count the number of ships that could tie up to the Heptastadion at one time?”
Pullus hadn’t, but Diocles had, so he was the one who answered, “It depended on the size, of course, but they could fit thirty quinqueremes on each side and still give them room to maneuver.”
Pullus glanced over his shoulder in surprise at Diocles, although he quickly realized he shouldn’t be, while Scribonius nodded thoughtfully.
“Of course, we don’t know with any certainty, but I seriously doubt that there will be more than a dozen quinqueremes, if that many,” he said. “Caesar will want enough warships to protect the transports, but I think it’s safe to assume that those transports are going to be much smaller. So,” he pointed down to the figure he had incised, “I think that at any given moment, those three piers will be able to accommodate fifty transports, on each side of the pier.” It was then he looked up at his friends, finishing quietly, “I think Caesar intends to have this entire army loaded and sailing within three days.”
For once, Balbus was silent, mainly because he was as stunned as the rest of them, so it was left to Pullus to finally say, “I don’t see how that’s possible. But,” he looked at his tall, lanky friend with a look of respect, “I think you’re right, Sextus.” Leaning back in his chair, he shook his head in admiration, saying only, “Leave it to Caesar to think of something like that.”
“I don’t know that I’m right,” Scribonius protested mildly; he had few vanities, but his intellect was one of them, so this was more for form than any real objection.
“Oh,” Balbus finally found his voice, grumbling, “you probably are, which means you’ll never let us forget it.”
“You must be confusing me with someone else,” Scribonius shot back, but he was looking at Pullus as he did so, which as he hoped, evoked laughter from the others, including Pullus, although he turned a shade of red.
It was the arrival of the fleet that, for the first time, ignited in Titus Pullus a deep sense of unease, and while the prospects of boarding one of those ships was certainly part of it, seeing the scale of this fleet that was required to transport ten Legions, almost fifteen thousand cavalry and the auxiliaries, of which now almost half were former Parthian infantrymen, numbering a bit more than ten thousand was what gave him the greatest pause. It hadn’t seemed possible for Caesar to gather that many ships for the start of the campaign back in Brundisium, although the fact that it was on Our Sea meant that there were certainly ships available, if one scoured every port on the sea. Seeing that replicated, and given the fact that the construction had been performed at Clysma, which Pullus knew next to nothing about, other than it wasn’t on Our Sea and was so remote that he had never heard of it before Caesar mentioned its name for the first time, was truly a staggering feat. As it happened, he was standing on the rampart of the camp that had been built outside the village when one of the men standing watch in the tower that wasn’t part of the camp proper but had been built at the foot of one of the piers, blew the horn that hung from a nail in one of the posts supporting the roof. There was no pattern to it, but since Caesar had given strict orders that the horn only be used for one purpose, there was no need to do so, and both Pullus and Scribonius, whose Cohort was standing guard, broke off their conversation to turn and stare out over the water. The glare was such that, only after they both shaded their eyes, one of them was the first to spot a sail; that it was Scribonius, who had challenged Pullus to a wager and hooted with glee, didn’t help Pullus’ mood. But, slowly, the single sail was joined by another, then another, and neither man could recall how long they stood there, watching in awe as the horizon seemed to fill with ships, the sails of each almost blotting out the line of the horizon.
It was Pullus who noticed first, pointing out to Scribonius, “There’s something different about the sails, isn’t there?”
Scribonius nodded, exclaiming, “I knew there was something unusual, but until you said it, I didn’t realize that’s what it is. Yes,” he agreed, “they’re different. They’re triangular and not square.”
Over the course of the next watch, which the two Centurions spent on the rampart, where they were quickly joined by other officers, all of them were treated to the sight of the craft that, as Pullus first noticed, were decidedly different in design than what they had used to cross Our Sea to Parthia. The first ships to arrive looked something like Liburnians, but they actually were a bit broader in the beam, and these were equipped with the triangular sails. It was Celadus, the Centurion commanding Pullus’ Fourth Century, who noticed that this wasn’t the only unusual aspect.
“Look,” he pointed, “the sail actually moves back and forth!”
And, as they watched, it became clear that Celadus was correct, which engendered a spirited debate over the reason for it.
It was Metellus who correctly guessed, “That way, they don’t have to turn back and forth so much because of the wind.” When he was regarded with blank stares, he used his hands to demonstrate as he explained, “With the square sails that are attached to the mast, when the wind shifts, the navarch has to decide whether or not he’s going to turn his ship to catch the wind, or if it’s too far out of his direction of travel, then he uses the oars.” Everyone nodded their understanding, and he continued, “This way, it’s not the ship that moves, it’s the sail. So,” he concluded, “the navarch doesn’t have to choose as often because he can still use the wind.”
Everyone was impressed, but Metellus cared only about the opinion of his Primus Pilus. He had been Pullus’ Hastatus Posterior for the civil war, and it had been Pullus who, ignoring the more customary method
of moving a man up when the Legion was reorganized after Munda, chose Metellus to lead the Third Cohort, so while it was nice to hear the others, especially Scribonius compliment him, his eyes were on Pullus.
Who, seeing this and understanding what it meant, said only, “If Scribonius isn’t careful, I’m going to start coming to you when I need someone clever.”
It was a mark of Scribonius’ character that he laughed as heartily as the others, and they soon returned to watching the ships that would be taking them to India, only stopping when it got dark, and there were still what seemed to be at least a hundred ships, identifiable now by the lantern hanging from the bow of their vessel making their way into the harbor. A harbor, Pullus reminded himself, that he had been certain was more than enough room for whatever it was Caesar could provide. As he was about to learn, there were more surprises waiting for him and the rest of the Centurions.
The summons for all of the Centurions by Caesar wasn’t a surprise; what was the shock came very quickly, and even with the uproar it caused, it served as a reminder to Pullus and a fair number of other Centurions of Caesar’s almost inhuman ability to attend to multiple matters at once. Because of the numbers, the meeting was held outside the camp, in the village square, with the rankers confined to camp so there was no chance of overhearing what Caesar had to say. The first hint that this was more than a routine matter was the presence of all of the Legates and Tribunes standing immediately behind Caesar, who was using a rostrum made with crates, but it wasn’t their presence as much as it was their demeanor and the manner in which they were fidgeting.
“They look nervous,” Pullus commented to Scribonius, but before anything more could be said, Caesar appeared from the praetorium, and as always, it was with a sense of drama, heightened by the fact that he chose to wear his ceremonial cuirass and paludamentum, although as he normally did, he eschewed the helmet, choosing to wear the garland of ivy that proclaimed his status as Imperator.
Without breaking stride, Caesar hopped up onto the rostrum, then paused for a moment to let the murmuring conversations die down, which happened even more quickly than normal.
“As some of you may have noticed,” he began, and despite not being called into formation, the Centurions tended to place themselves in the same positions their Legions occupied when they were, which placed Pullus and his officers close enough that Pullus could see Caesar’s lip curve upward as he continued, “a paltry number of ships have arrived in our harbor, so I’m not sure what all the excitement is about.” As Caesar expected, this elicited laughter, though it died down quickly; so quickly that Pullus was certain he saw a flash of irritation cross his general’s face. Not that this could be detected in Caesar’s tone as he continued, “But, as you can all see, the moment for our departure has arrived, and there is some…information that I want to impart to you about the composition of this fleet.” He paused for just a heartbeat, giving Pullus the sense that he was thinking of a way to frame whatever it was he was about to tell them. Then, Caesar said, “I know that it’s natural to assume that the ships arrived here with full crews, but that’s not the case. In fact,” he paused again, although Pullus understood why when Caesar informed them, “many of the men who helped the fleet make their way here will be joining our ranks.”
Later, when they talked about it, the consensus among Balbus, Scribonius, and the other Centurions was that Caesar had expected his Centurions not to react as quickly as they did, because the pandemonium happened instantly.
“What? You’re letting galley slaves march in our ranks?”
“We’ll have a mutiny!”
While this was the overall tenor of the shouts, Pullus distinctly heard at least one Centurion bellow, “Have you gone fucking mad?”
For his part, Caesar chose to simply stand there and absorb the collective outrage and rejection by his Centurions, and he didn’t even look particularly perturbed.
Suddenly, Pullus felt a hand grab his elbow, and he leaned back so that he could hear Scribonius, who had to put his mouth close to Pullus’ ear and he was still forced to speak in conversational tone instead of a whisper, “This isn’t what it seems! See how he’s reacting?” Rather than respond verbally because of the noise, Pullus simply nodded, and Scribonius said, “He’s up to something.”
This did prompt Pullus to turn and inquire, “What do you think it is?”
Before Scribonius could answer, however, Caesar finally raised both hands for silence, and Pullus held up a hand to his friend, deciding that he would learn quickly enough. It took a span of several heartbeats for the men to settle down, and the fact that these were the senior officers of the army was the most potent sign of their discomposure.
“While it was difficult to hear because you’re behaving like a bunch of women at the fountain, I did pick out someone claiming that I intended to put galley slaves in our uniform and drop them into our ranks.” Caesar took the moment to scan the faces, and he was pleased to see the looks of embarrassment at his chastisement, but his tone was mild as he asked, “When did I say this?” Suddenly, he pointed at Mus, Primus Pilus of the 7th and demanded, “Mus? You seemed to be quite upset with me, but can you remember when I said anything about galley slaves?” Not surprisingly, Mus was clearly unhappy about being singled out, but Caesar had made enough of a point that he didn’t make further issue about it, saying, “I had no intention of using galley slaves. The men who crewed,” he held up a hand as he corrected himself, “or partially crewed the fleet are men from a dilectus I ordered held after we took Susa.”
If Caesar thought this information would pass unremarked by his Centurions, he was mistaken, as once more, the noise became overwhelming. Although Pullus didn’t yell, he did turn and exchange an alarmed look with Scribonius, and Balbus, who was standing on Pullus’ other side.
“You didn’t know about it?” Scribonius once more had to raise his voice to be heard, and Pullus shook his head, admitting, “Not a word. I’m going to need to talk to Diocles about this.”
It didn’t take as long for the noise to die down, so they could all hear and recognize his voice when Batius of the 5th bellowed, “Where did these new bastards come from?”
Someone guessed, “Umbria?”
Another offered, “Hispania?”
“I bet it was on this side of Our Sea,” Scribonius muttered, and before Pullus could respond, Caesar spoke again, “These men are all from Africa. But,” he assured them, “they are all Roman citizens.”
This did help settle the mood, the Centurions beginning to accept the news, but despite his inner voice screaming at him to keep his mouth shut, it was Pullus who raised a muscular arm, catching Caesar’s eye, who nodded at him, saying only, “Yes, Pullus? You have a question?”
“I have several,” Pullus admitted in his customary forthright manner, “but most of them can wait. There was one thing you said I’m still trying to understand.”
A look of what those who knew him would describe as cautiousness came over Caesar, but he didn’t hesitate in asking, “And what is this you’re having a hard time understanding?”
“You mentioned that the men of the new dilectus partially crewed the ships of the fleet, so they’ll be joining our ranks. Who’s going to replace them at the oars?”
Now there was no mistaking the transformation in Caesar’s expression, immediately becoming clear that he was irritated with Pullus, and he glared at the Primus Pilus, but Pullus also saw the shadow of a rueful amusement in Caesar’s eyes, prompting Pullus to think, Ah ha. I caught you out, you old goat.
“Actually,” Caesar admitted, “it’s the other way around.” He paused again, then plunged on, finally revealing the true reason for his summoning his officers. “The slaves will remain behind because the Gregarii assigned to each ship will be at the oars.”
That was the last quiet moment for some time to come.
“You have to admit,” Scribonius said that night during their meal, which was much later than normal, “it�
�s a brilliant solution.”
“Brilliant?” Balbus scoffed, throwing a crust of bread down in disgust, then jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “That doesn’t sound so fucking brilliant to me.”
What Balbus was referring to was the clearly audible buzzing sound of men talking, and since Pullus had taken the somewhat unusual step of ordering the men confined to their tents before the call to retire, it meant that the conversations that were taking place inside them had to be very spirited indeed if the Centurions could hear them inside their own quarters.
Scribonius was unfazed, accustomed as he was to such outbursts, so he decided to have some fun at Balbus’ expense, regarding his friend with a solemn expression as he said, “So you’re saying that Caesar is, what, stupid?”
As Scribonius intended, this alarmed Balbus, and he protested, “No, that’s not what I’m saying! I’m just saying that it’s not…brilliant.”
He knew how weak this sounded, and Scribonius obviously agreed, because he countered, “And I disagree.” Seeing Balbus’ expression and knowing what it meant, he sighed, then explained, “How many slaves does it take to power all of those ships?”
“How would I know?” Balbus demanded, but Scribonius persisted, “Not a precise number, just an estimate.”
“A few thousand,” Balbus guessed, prompting a dismissive shake of the head by Scribonius.
Pullus, having long since learned the folly of arguing with Scribonius once his friend had spent time thinking on a subject, chose to listen as Scribonius countered, “Far more than a few thousand. We now have fifteen quinqueremes, and those have about four hundred men at the oars when you consider that they will have shifts. That’s six thousand men, just for fifteen ships.” Shaking his head, he insisted, “We’re talking about twenty thousand men at a minimum. Men,” he pointed out, “who have to be fed and watered.”
