Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  The information had come from another merchant, this man dealing in spices, who knew the area to the south of Pattala well, and through Achaemenes, the man informed Caesar, “That land between here and Bharuch is very, very bad, lord.”

  “Bad in what sense?” Caesar asked intently, shifting forward in his curule chair the night before the fleet departed.

  “It is barely passable for a man with a cart,” the merchant explained, then warming to the task, he added, “which is why my prices for saffron are so high! I cannot transport it in any quantities that will not fit into a single cart. A cart,” he held up a single finger, “that can be pulled by only one mule!”

  Achaemenes wisely pared the translation down, and he saw that Caesar was suspicious about the comparative difference between the Parthian’s brief explanation and what the merchant had said.

  “Why is it so bad?” Caesar’s tone was polite enough, but he was clearly fighting to remain patient. “I appreciate that it is impassable for all but a small cart…but why?”

  Once Achaemenes translated, the merchant’s face cleared, and he nodded vigorously, “Ah! Yes, yes.” He paused for a moment, framing his thoughts, then said, “It is very soft. Very…soggy,” was what he came up with. “But,” he held up a finger again, “it does not appear as if it is. There is no water on the ground. It looks…” he frowned, trying to think of the most effective way, then he pointed to Caesar’s desk, “…like this, very flat. No trees, just small,” he held his hand down at knee level, “bushes and high grass. The grass makes it seem as if the ground is solid. But,” he shook his head, “even a man walking can sink down and there is mud just below the surface. And then,” he raised both hands, palms upward, shaking his head as he finished, “you will be stuck.”

  By the time Achaemenes was through, Caesar’s expression was grave, but he remembered to thank the merchant, then gave a surreptitious nod to Apollodorus in a signal that his secretary knew meant to pay the man. Then, when Achaemenes moved to follow, Caesar stopped him, summoning him back with a gesture. Clearly anxious, the young Parthian committed what was a common enough error whenever a Parthian came into contact with Caesar for the first time, dropping to his knees and bending down until his forehead was an inch off the ground, completely forgetting that he was in the Legions now, the habit formed over his lifetime asserting itself.

  Caesar smiled and said, “Rise, young man. We do not follow this custom. Besides,” he added, “you’re in our Legions now, so the proper behavior is to salute your general.”

  Embarrassed, Achaemenes hopped to his feet, and even with his swarthy features, it was obvious he was blushing, but he rendered the Roman salute perfectly, which Caesar returned, with equal precision.

  Then, to put him at his ease, Caesar said, “You speak Greek very well…” Now it was Caesar’s turn to look slightly embarrassed, and he glanced over at Bodroges, who supplied, “His name is Achaemenes, Caesar.”

  “Thank you, Bodroges,” Caesar replied. Turning back to the younger man, he continued, “As I said, your Greek is very good, Achaemenes. How did you learn it?”

  For the next several moments, Achaemenes told Caesar about his father, and how he had been groomed by him to take over the business. Caesar, as was his habit, listened intently, interrupting only to ask a question until, finally, Achaemenes stopped, certain that he had told this Roman everything about himself.

  He was quickly proven wrong when Caesar asked, “So why would a young man who is about to inherit his father’s business choose to come with us as a Gregarius, Achaemenes?”

  The young Parthian didn’t answer immediately, mainly because he had been certain that Caesar would already know the answer, and reliving it was particularly painful. However, when he glanced over at Bodroges, who was aware of the circumstances, the other man gave a slight shake of his head.

  “I did not…choose to do so, Caesar,” Achaemenes began carefully, but before he could go any farther, Caesar interrupted, his voice sharp as he asked, “Are you saying you were forced to enlist, Achaemenes? By whom?”

  Realizing that Caesar misunderstood, Achaemenes held up both hands, hastening to explain, “No, lord! Nobody forced me to enlist. What I mean is that I had no choice because…” he swallowed, surprised by how much it still hurt, “…my father was executed, and his business was confiscated.”

  Unfortunately, this alarmed Caesar even more, and now he looked for Apollodorus, who had just returned from seeing the merchant out, but it was Bodroges who intervened, speaking up, “Caesar, it is not what you think. Romans had nothing to do with what happened to Achaemenes’ father.”

  Caesar looked at the young Parthian with a raised eyebrow, and swallowing the lump, Achaemenes explained, “It was after you and your army took Ctesiphon and Seleucia, lord. Because you allowed commerce to continue, my father decided that he would personally escort a shipment of rugs that he was sending to another merchant who was also a childhood friend.” Achaemenes shook his head, and his voice dropped as if he was talking to himself. “I told him that it was unwise! I told him that his rivals would fill Phraates’ spies’ ears with poison!” Now the tears came, but he looked directly at Caesar as he said bitterly, “He just laughed and said that if we did not need to fear you Romans, we certainly did not need to fear our own king!” He finished by giving a simple shrug and saying, “I never saw him again.”

  Caesar had sat, listening, but when Achaemenes was finished, he looked over at Bodroges, who confirmed it by adding, “Phraates was enraged that you allowed his subjects to continue conducting their business, but he could not do anything about those in Ctesiphon and Seleucia. He could do something about the men in Susa, and yes, Achaemenes’ father was one of them. He was seized, and his property declared forfeit by order of Phraates. He did not make ten miles out of Susa before…”

  His voice trailed off because there was no need to torment Achaemenes by saying the obvious, that his father had been executed, especially since Bodroges, although he hadn’t seen it himself, had made discreet inquiries among the handful of Parthians who were with the army and learned that the man had been tortured before being beheaded.

  Caesar looked genuinely regretful and, Bodroges thought, relieved that he hadn’t been the direct cause of the man’s demise, and he told Achaemenes, “I regret that this happened to your family, Achaemenes. But,” he offered the young Parthian a smile, and not just any smile. No, this was Caesar’s Smile, and in the subsequent years to come, Achaemenes would think as this being the day he became Caesar’s man, which began with, “I believe you will be of more use to me and to Rome than in the ranks.” As always, Caesar was a stickler for matters being done properly, and he turned to Apollodorus to command, “See to it that he is officially transferred as a member of my staff, with the title of Interpreter. Which,” he regarded Achaemenes with a cocked head, then decided, “comes with an annual salary of two, no make it three thousand sesterces a year.”

  Like most of the men from Parthia now marching for Rome, trying to convert sesterces into drachmae was something that didn’t come easily, so it was left to Bodroges to inform Achaemenes that he would be making more than his father, who was considered well-off, had made in a year. More than the money, however, was the chance to learn more languages, something that Achaemenes loved to do.

  The horses of Hirtius’ cavalry smelled the elephants before their riders spotted them, and even for experienced riders, having one’s mount suddenly bucking and plunging for no apparent reason was a challenge that saw several riders unseated. Then, from a line of trees about two hundred paces ahead of the scouting party and directly in the path of their line of march, easily a dozen massive gray shapes burst from concealment. Even if they weren’t accoutered with an armored headdress and a blanket of scale armor, they would have frightened the horses, but the most potent threat to the riders came from the archers, of which there were two apiece, standing in the box securely fastened atop each beast’s back, while another man
, seated so that his legs straddled the elephant’s neck directed each animal. Before any of the cavalrymen could actually make sense of what was happening, a half-dozen of them had been shot out of their saddles, while most of the men scrambling for their frightened horses were struck down next. Ultimately, of the twenty-five-man scouting party, only four escaped unscathed, and another five men had an arrow protruding from some part of their body. Fortunately for the escapees, one thing that the armored elephants couldn’t do was pursue mounted men, nor did these handlers of the huge beasts even try. How they came to blunder into such an easily sprung ambush came down to human nature; ranging ahead of the army, these men had finally reached firmer ground, which was evidenced by the appearance of vegetation in the form of trees and heavier undergrowth now that the soil could support the weight. After the previous two weeks of slogging through a seemingly endless bog, the Decurion in command, like his men, was more focused on being happy about the end of what had been a trying ordeal than any signs of an ambush.

  By Pollio’s calculations, they were within fifty to seventy miles of the city of Bargosa, but once more, the lack of information made for yet another frustration. As the Decurion led the survivors of his patrol back towards the army at the canter, in his mind, he tried to compose the report he would give Legate Hirtius, who was his direct commander, that would somehow cover or downplay the fact that he had allowed his party to be surprised. His one hope was that the news of the presence of the long-anticipated elephants as part of the forces arrayed against them would overshadow the circumstances surrounding how he and his men discovered them. And, he thought, the fact we’ve reached solid ground can only help avoid Hirtius asking embarrassing questions. They found the army just a mile away from where the ground firmed up, which was marked by a barely noticeable rise that ran perpendicular to their line of march, and he decided to pull up and wait for the advance guard. Unsurprisingly, their return ride had been mostly silent, save for the low moans of the wounded men, two of whom had to be helped by comrades to stay in the saddle, but the Decurion didn’t get the sense that his men blamed him for what had happened; there was more than enough fault to go around. Nevertheless, as they waited for the army to reach them, they discussed among themselves the best way to report this initial skirmish, and one of his troopers, a Galatian whose Latin was barely understandable, summed up the consensus.

  “We’ve already paid for having our heads up our asses,” he put succinctly, “and I don’t think a flogging is going to bring anyone back.”

  The Decurion did his best to hide his relief; he was also aware that the trooper had lost his close comrade in the ambush, the man’s body now lying along with the others several miles south, which prompted him to offer a silent prayer to the gods, both for the men he lost and that none of his men seemed intent on making an issue of what had happened. Obviously, seeing the scouting party, both Pollio and Hirtius, along with a dozen other Tribunes and bodyguards came cantering up to them. The Decurion gave his report, starting with the good news that the army’s travails through the mud were over, but by the time he was finished relaying the rest of it, the happiness and relief both Pollio and Hirtius made no attempt to hide had vanished.

  “How far are we from the spot?” Pollio asked, and after a moment’s thought, the Decurion replied, “Ten miles, perhaps nine, but not more than ten.”

  “Very well.” Pollio didn’t hesitate. “Once we get out of this muck, we’re going to make camp at the first good spot.” Hirtius’ brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth, but Pollio, certain he knew what Hirtius’ objection was, cut him off. “I know it’s early in the day to stop, and I know that we’re already behind the pace Caesar was expecting, but I’m not about to go blundering into another ambush like these fools, especially not now that we know they have elephants.”

  This was when the Decurion realized that Pollio hadn’t been duped by his report, which was confirmed by the level look the older man gave him, before turning his horse and cantering back to inform the rest of the army that they had finally found the enemy.

  By the fifth night of making camp, the mood of Caesar’s part of the army was dangerously close to an outright insurrection. Not even the promise of the riches awaiting them in Bargosa was enough to quell the simmering discontent, but unlike their mood before they embarked, the cause for this was simpler, and as Pullus and the other Primi Pili continually reminded Caesar, the solution was just as simple.

  “The men,” Pullus had informed his general, “are tired of being wet all the time, but they’re even more tired of going into their tents and dealing with the stench of the mold and the fact that they can’t even get their tunics dried out.”

  This wasn’t the first or tenth time one of the Centurions, usually but not always Primi Pili, had informed Caesar about this, but for reasons Pullus and the others couldn’t fathom, the general resisted the idea of returning to the ships and spending the nights aboard. At first, he had forestalled this by telling the Centurions, and his Legates who were of a like mind to the Centurions, that the more the men practiced the maneuver of debarking, erecting a camp, then reversing the process, the better it was for the entire army in the long run.

  “If we need to move quickly,” was how he had put it, “it’s better to have the men accustomed to what needs to be done. It’s just like working at the stakes. The more repetitions, the better the chance of being victorious.”

  As Pullus and most of the Primi Pili understood, Caesar being logical was impossible to refute, and what he said did make sense, but Pullus was equally certain that this wasn’t the real reason for Caesar’s intransigence. Consequently, as was his habit, he sent Diocles in pursuit of finding out what was in their general’s mind, and why he seemed willing to risk the collective wrath of his army, especially when the solution was so obvious, and simple. It was their fifth night ashore, and things had been made more difficult because the only suitable spot for camp was more than a mile inland. The fleet had reached a deep inlet of a sufficient size to offer a protected natural harbor for the ships, but while it was advantageous for them, the men were forced to cross a mile of ground that, had they known it, was almost identical to the terrain that Pollio, Hirtius, and their men had been struggling to cross for weeks. And, as it normally did at that time of day, the rains came, but despite the Centurions and Optios trying to emphasize the positive aspects, that the downpour at the very minimum washed away the filth that coated the men up to their knees, the mood of the army was, in Pullus’ opinion, dangerous.

  “If the same thing happens tomorrow, where the boys have to deal with not just the rain but the muck, I’m not sure what’s going to happen,” he had said at the evening meal, his expression grim, “but I know that it’s not going to be good.”

  As usual, they were seated in Pullus’ tent, but none of the men, including Diocles, had much of an appetite. While the tent of a Primus Pilus was much more spacious than a section tent, or even the tents belonging to the Tribunes, as Pullus and his counterparts quickly learned, that meant there was more leather to turn moldy, and it took longer for them to dry out. Finished with his meal, Diocles quickly slipped out, heading on the mission Pullus had given him, leaving the others to engage in desultory conversation.

  Scribonius was studying the nearest upper corner of Pullus’ tent, and he pointed to the large black splotch that was on both walls and the roof, commenting, “I think that thing has grown since we sat down to eat.”