Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  “And they said their whole Legion is like this?” Pullus asked, his astonishment competing with a deep unease.

  “Yes,” Cyclops replied tersely. “And,” he pointed in the direction of the building on the left side of the street, down at the far end, “I’m pretty certain I saw an Optio go in there, and he hasn’t come out. If he was rounding his men up, he would have been done by now.”

  Pullus watched for a long moment, then asked Cyclops, “And you haven’t seen any Bargosan soldiers? Only these citizens?”

  He indicated the handful of bodies, along with what now appeared to be about twenty females of varying ages, all naked, and all forced to sit together as the Romans alternated between taking long drinks from the jugs most of them were carrying, cavorting around the fire that was being steadily fed by furniture and other flammables being dragged out of the houses, and coming to drag one of the women away, usually inside one of the buildings, but not always. The dead strewn about in the street seemed to be either male, or Pullus saw with a distress he would never show, children, and he forced himself to look away as Cyclops answered.

  “We caught sight of a couple men who looked like those bastards wearing swords, but only their backs,” Cyclops said. “But otherwise,” he shook his head, “only people like this.”

  Pullus turned and looked down at Cyclops with a frown, asking sharply, “Your boys haven’t done any of this, have they?”

  Cyclops shook his head again, but Pullus’ relief was short-lived when the older Centurion said, “No…not yet.”

  “What does that mean?” Pullus lowered his voice, not wanting to draw more attention to the pair.

  “It means, Titus,” Cyclops looked up at him grimly, “that if Cartufenus doesn’t get the 28th in hand, we’re going to have to make a choice. I already caught two of mine trying to sneak around the corner. That’s one reason I’ve been standing here the whole time, to keep them from vanishing. But,” he shrugged, “I don’t know how much longer that’s going to last.”

  Pullus swore softly, then rubbed his face, a sign that those who knew him recognized as a sign of worry or distraction, and at this moment, he was consumed with both.

  Finally, he said, “Keep your men here. Don’t move any deeper into the city, but I think it’s a good idea that you keep them segregated from those cunni in the 28th. I’m going to find Cartufenus.”

  As he began to walk away, Cyclops called out, “Titus.” When he turned, looking at Cyclops with a raised eyebrow, the older Centurion knew even as he said it what the answer would likely be, but he still asked, “Do you want a section of my boys to go with you?”

  “Why?” Pullus asked, his face set. “To protect me?”

  Cyclops had realized how ludicrous Pullus would consider this, so without missing a beat, he retorted, “Who said I was thinking of you? I’m more worried about those bastards in the 28th.”

  “Well,” Pullus answered, again without a flicker of a smile, “you should be. But thank you, no.”

  Then he turned and walked down the street, directly towards the large fire, leaving Cyclops to wonder, much like Caesar did with Teispes, if Pullus was joking or not.

  The breakdown of discipline among the four Legions wasn’t coordinated, at least in the normal sense. Over the ensuing months, the Centurions would spend many watches discussing and arguing how, without any kind of communication between them during the actual assault, the vast majority of men in the ranks decided that they were done obeying orders for the foreseeable future. Every man wearing a transverse crest understood to one degree or another that their control over the men of their Centuries, Cohorts, and Legions was never as solid as it appeared, but only once before had they found themselves in this situation, where some of them had reason to openly worry about their own safety. While the murder of the Centurion Considius in Mus’ 7th was the most egregious, that night was a bad one for several officers, mostly Optios, but there were a few Centurions who suffered some level of physical abuse at the hands of their men. Only one Centurion strode through the streets of Bargosa that night without any fear, which was understandable, but even Pullus moderated his behavior to a degree that he personally found distasteful, although those men he did interact with, like the Gregarius in the Sixth Cohort who was unconscious for almost a full watch, would have argued the point. Alone, refusing every one of his subordinates’ suggestions, then pleas that he have some men he trusted accompany him, Titus Pullus stalked the streets of the northern part of Bargosa, essentially daring his men to defy him. Not that surprisingly, they didn’t…nor did they continue in their assigned duties, so that the only thing that Pullus could report to Caesar when the time came was that at least his men didn’t burn anything, rape anyone, or loot any house before being given permission to do so. Instead, they essentially settled down in the middle of whatever street they found themselves in when Pullus arrived, huddled in small groups and talking in low tones while their Centurions and Optios did the same, although they remained standing and just far enough away from their own men that they would have an instant’s warning in the event that their fear of the Primus Pilus was overridden by their anger.

  Meanwhile, outside the walls with the first five Cohorts, Balbus and Scribonius stood together, growing increasingly curious, and anxious, when no runner sent by Pullus appeared to order them to move through the gate now that the rest of the Legion had advanced inside the walls. Finally, the pair decided to take matters in their own hands, with Balbus handing command to Laetus, then moving at the trot through the northern gates with Scribonius accompanying him. Very quickly, both Centurions recognized something extremely unusual was happening, running into the Septimus Pilus Prior Marcius and his Centurions, seemingly standing idle. As they got closer, however, Scribonius was the first to notice how they all were in a position where they could keep an eye on their men who, as the pair would learn, were in the same posture as the rest of the Cohorts inside the city, sprawled out, or sitting in tight circles, usually mimicking their normal routine around the fire outside their section tent. It was Marcius who offered the first account to the pair of Centurions that it would take them some time to piece together, but by the time Scribonius and Balbus found Pullus, where he was in the process of intimidating the men of Pilus Prior Nasica’s First Century, towering over a small group of rankers as he talked to them with a quiet menace they clearly understood, the pair at least had a general idea of what was taking place.

  It wasn’t until they managed to draw Pullus away, who seemed to think he hadn’t made a sufficient impression on the men before they learned about the 28th, and it was left to Balbus to impart grimly, “Well, the news doesn’t get any better.”

  Pullus asked warily, “What do you mean?”

  “We ran into Marcius,” Balbus explained, “and he told us that a couple of Centurions from the 7th had just left. Apparently, one of their Centurions was found dead, and Mus sent them to find out if the same thing had happened with us.”

  Pullus stared at Balbus, incredulous but also understanding that his second in command and friend wouldn’t lie or exaggerate about something as horrendous as the murder of a Centurion by one of his own.

  Nevertheless, he was compelled to ask, “Did they say whether or not they were sure that it was by one of the men? How do they know it wasn’t by some Bargosan deserter who got caught hiding?”

  Scribonius answered for the pair, shaking his head, “I asked the same thing. They didn’t say how the Centurions from the 7th were sure, just that they were positive it wasn’t by anyone other than one of their own.”

  “Pluto’s balls,” Pullus breathed, shaken by this even more than the recalcitrance he had witnessed among the men. “Well,” he said, “at least nothing like that has happened with us.”

  “So far,” Balbus put in, earning him a glare from Scribonius, although it was Pullus who snapped, “And it’s not going to fucking happen, Quintus. Not with the Equestrians.”

  More to change the
subject than anything, Scribonius asked, “So we know about the 7th. What do you know about the 28th?”

  Scribonius got the answer in Pullus’ expression, but the Primus Pilus said grimly, “I found Cartufenus, and all I can say is that, while they’re behaving worse than we are, at least they hadn’t killed one of their Centurions yet.”

  “I wonder what’s happening with Spurius,” Balbus spoke up, but Pullus was no better informed than they were.

  “The only way we could find out is to move that direction,” Pullus pointed to the south, towards the center of the city, “but without knowing where the rest of these bastards are, I’m not going to send anything less than a Cohort to try and find Spurius.” He went silent for a moment, and both of the other men understood why when he admitted, “And I’m not sure that any of the fresh Cohorts will do it anyway.”

  “So,” Scribonius heaved a sigh as his prodigious mind worked through the import and all the ramifications in the span of a couple heartbeats, “we’re essentially stranded here, waiting for Caesar to come unfuck everything.”

  “Seems that way,” Pullus agreed glumly, not relishing the prospect of facing his general.

  It was left to Balbus to point out, “From what I’ve seen, and what you told me, Titus, I don’t think even Caesar’s going to unfuck this. Not,” he finished grimly, “without something happening.”

  Balbus’ words would have cause to come back to Pullus and Scribonius later; in the moment, however, Pullus was reminded of something. It had been Balbus who correctly predicted the outcome at Pharsalus, that the Equestrians would revolt, a day that still ranked as one of the most painful in Pullus’ life, when he had chosen his career over a lifelong friendship. Now, here he was essentially saying the same thing, but before Pullus could dwell on the similarities, matters were taken out of not just the hands of the Centurions, but Caesar himself, when a desperate king made an even more desperate gamble.

  Chapter Ten

  In what would turn out to be a stroke of good fortune for Caesar and his entire army, the two Legions that hadn’t been infected by the bug of disobedience and the resulting fever of insurrection were ironically the two Legions standing in the darkness barely a half-mile north of the canal. Both their Primi Pili, Torquatus of the 25th and Flaminius of the 30th, harbored deep reservations because they were still understrength, but having just recently arrived to Caesar’s army, neither the Centurions nor the men had any desire other than to prove they were worthy of inclusion with what was recognized as the greatest, most veteran army that ever marched for Rome. Over the months of travel, and now as newcomers to what was an exclusive and protective circle of Primi Pili who considered them outsiders, the two men had become good friends, which was why they had moved from their respective posts to stand just behind the rear ranks at the spot where the two Legions met straddling the northern road. Like the 28th and 7th, there had been no major issues landing and unloading from their ships, which included a reduced amount of artillery, part of their full complement having been used to equip the ships carrying Pullus and his Equestrians. Neither man was sanguine that two scorpions and one ballista for each of their Legions would do much, although it was better to have them than not. Once their Legions were assembled and aligned in a manner to their satisfaction, the men were allowed to sit in place, waiting for what they didn’t know, and after the initial tension, an air of boredom had taken hold. Meanwhile, both Primi Pili and some of their other Centurions had walked a short distance south, towards the canal, mainly to get a better idea of what might be happening with the assault on the dirt rampart. By the time their two Legions landed, Pullus and his men had already begun their attack on the first wall, and they were all so busy with their own duties that, by the time they were able to turn their attention away from that, the rampart had been cleared of the Bargosans. At first, the light was only strong enough for them to make out the dark bulk of the dirt rampart, and the shadowy shapes of fellow Romans, although they had no idea of their identity, aside from the fact they weren’t the enemy. Then, something happened; it began with a sudden flare of light, but again it was on the other side of the dirt rampart, so Flaminius, Torquatus, and the others were forced to rely more on their hearing and the experience with other battles to get a sense of what was transpiring.

  Drifting across the muggy night air came a strange, undulating sound that, while it had something of a horn-like quality to it, didn’t seem to be one, and Flaminius asked, “I wonder what that is?”

  Torquatus answered immediately, and tersely, “Elephants. That’s the noise they make when they charge.”

  Flaminius glanced over at his counterpart in surprise, followed an instant later by a dawning recognition. “Ah, yes. I forgot. You were at Thapsus when you were still with the 10th. What was it like?” he asked curiously.

  Torquatus’ eyes never left the dirt rampart as he replied flatly, “Fucking horrible. But,” at this, he turned to look at Flaminius, “not so much for us. For those poor tiros in Scipio’s army,” he shuddered at the memory, “it was another story.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Flaminius said, recalling what he had heard, “the Alaudae attacked them, and they went mad, turned around, and stomped all over Scipio’s men, didn’t they?”

  The look Torquatus gave his friend was one of sardonic amusement.

  “I see you’ve talked to Batius about it,” he replied, which elicited a laugh from Flaminius, who admitted cheerfully, “Maybe. But he was buying, so,” he gave a grinning shrug, “I was happy to listen.”

  “Well, however it happened,” Torquatus turned to look back towards the city, “it was pretty fucking ugly. And now,” he sighed, and the worry in his voice was easy to hear, “some of my boys are in the same situation.”

  “Your boys?” Flaminius echoed, arching an eyebrow as he glanced over at Torquatus.

  Even in the darkness, he saw Torquatus flush, but he didn’t argue the point, saying only, “You know how it is. I was with the 10th since Caesar raised the Legion in Hispania. I was a Sergeant in the 2nd, and I was offered a post as Optio when they formed. So,” now it was his turn to shrug, “I still think of them as my boys.”

  Flaminius understood this, and he didn’t press the point, returning his attention to whatever was happening, which both men could tell had become a hotly fought battle, the sound level rising noticeably, while the underlying thrumming sound was punctuated by an occasional thin scream that managed to make it to their ears.

  “It’s getting lighter, isn’t it?” Flaminius asked. “I wonder if something’s on fire. Whatever it is, it must be big.”

  Torquatus was about to agree, then paused to study the scene a bit longer.

  “I don’t think so,” he said finally, and lifted his hand to indicate a stretch that, unknown to them, covered the middle of the Bargosan camp, on either side of the northern road they were standing in the middle of at the moment, using it as the point from which they aligned their Legions. “See how it’s spread out? It’s hard to tell, but even a praetorium tent isn’t that big.”

  Even as Torquatus was speaking, another source of light blossomed, but with enough separation from the large source in the middle, then before a count of a hundred, more such spots of illumination popped up. Fairly quickly, they could clearly see the northern wall of Bargosa, the flames on the other side of the dirt rampart creating a dancing display against the dull brown bricks. They were too far away to see any Bargosans on the city rampart, nor did they see any rocks raining down from that wall, which they took as a good sign. It was actually Flaminius’ Primus Pilus Posterior who guessed the reason, at least partially.

  “They’re probably worried about dropping rocks down on their own men’s heads,” he offered.

  Only later would they learn it had nothing to do with the two-legged Bargosans, but the Bargosan king’s prized elephants. Some of whom, about a third of a watch later, they were about to meet. It began when there was a call from the leading ranks of the
First Century of the 25th, who were standing on the western side of the road, prompting Torquatus to turn away from the city and trot to his Aquilifer, standing next to the First.

  “There’s something out there,” the Sergeant of his First Section, using his javelin to point at a somewhat oblique angle off to their west, informed his Primus Pilus.

  Torquatus strained his eyes, then just as he was about to challenge the ranker about it, he sensed something moving, just as the man had claimed. They stared for another span of heartbeats as, slowly, a figure emerged from the darkness, becoming more distinct until it was clear that it was a single horse and rider.

  “On your feet,” Torquatus didn’t bellow the order, but it was sufficiently loud enough for the men to scramble up off the ground as he added, “First Section, ready javelins.”

  Either the rider heard this or he had reached a point he knew that he was in danger, because from the darkness, a voice called out in Latin, “I don’t know your watchword, but I’m Roman! Don’t loose!”

  “That’s far enough!” Torquatus raised his voice, and the man did stop immediately, and Torquatus asked, “Who are you? What are you doing out here in the dark?”

  “I’m with Legate Hirtius’ cavalry,” the man answered. “I’m Decurion Decimus Silva, and I was sent ahead to warn any Romans I found that there’s an army approaching from the north. They’re about a mile away and heading in your direction.”

  “Come in, Decurion,” Torquatus called out, not recognizing the name but hearing the accent of a native Latin speaker. Silva trotted forward, sliding off his horse, and while he was not required to do so, he saluted the Primus Pilus. “You look tired,” Torquatus commented, and Silva gave him a weary smile.

  “I had to ride a long fucking way around to get past those bastards,” he answered, then he gave Torquatus a sheepish look, asking, “Primus Pilus, may I have something to drink?”