by R. W. Peake
“When are we going home, Caesar?”
Through that night, this was shouted, with variations that, while vulgar, also never went beyond a certain point that, even as senseless with drink and as angry as they were, the men understood would require Caesar to respond in a manner that would practically guarantee reaching a point from which there was no return for either side. Only later, when tempers had cooled and the subject of the Bargosan Mutiny was discussed, did it become accepted as fact that the anger the men had with their general wasn’t based in hostility as much as it was love and regard. Gradually, the way it became expressed was that the army was reacting in the same manner as a son with a loving but strict father who they collectively felt had been too harsh in his treatment. By the time the mutiny was not only over, but the men were sufficiently recovered and content enough to resume following their general, wherever he led them, this was generally accepted as fact. Granted, it was a fact that would cost Caesar a great deal of money to instill and spread, secretly distributed to carefully selected men in every Century of every Legion, but over the years, he would begin to look at it as an investment. All of this was in the future, however, one that seemed so distant as to be nothing more than a dream, as Caesar concentrated all of his efforts on this night of not exacerbating the situation. Which, of course, meant enduring the insults and mockery as he made an agonizingly slow progress in a northerly direction. What he didn’t divulge to Gundomir or any of his picked men was that his meandering path wasn’t solely based in whether or not he was allowed to pass groups of men who were engaged in some form of behavior that, under other conditions, would have meant at the very least a flogging, if not worse. What Caesar had immediately noticed when he had been brought to where the revolting Legions had converged wasn’t as much as who was present, it was who was missing, and despite trying to gird himself, Caesar felt a sudden flare of hope when he saw that his Equestrians weren’t represented. Perhaps most importantly, when Caesar had asked the others about what they knew of Pullus and the 10th, not only were the men unable to tell him anything, he could see that they were worried about it. As, he thought with grim satisfaction, they should be. Never far from his mind during that night was a memory of another mutiny, when a giant Centurion who, despite his relative youth, was already a legend among men under the standard, and how he displayed his utter loyalty to Caesar, at a great personal cost to Pullus. Although Caesar didn’t particularly care for the idea of prevailing on Pullus to show the same kind of loyalty, he also knew perfectly well that he would do that very thing if he deemed it necessary. Much, he realized, depended on the two Legions of his part of the army who weren’t present inside the walls, but he felt relatively certain that neither Torquatus nor Flaminius’ Legions felt sufficiently confident or inflamed enough to participate in this insurrection. Everything, Caesar thought, depends on Pullus and the 10th. This came to him as he finally reached a point where, in the slowly growing light, he spied a large open area where, beyond it, he could see a long wall, and he knew it was in all likelihood part of the palace complex where, hopefully, he would find a king, ready to submit. Instead, what he found was just another nasty surprise in a night full of them.
Pullus had been rejoined by Balbus, Scribonius, and the rest of the Cohorts inside the wall, where the men had returned to their state of sullen but passive disobedience, choosing to sit wherever the streets weren’t clogged with the remnants of the Bargosan garrison whose attempt to break out had been ruthlessly stopped by walls of flame. Whereas the officers of the Legions in open revolt had chosen to congregate together for their own safety, what was taking place with the 10th was markedly different, as Centurions and Optios walked back and forth along the street or streets occupied by their men. Not lost on them, or the rankers, was the real reason why the Equestrians were forced to content themselves with behaving like sulking children refusing to do their chores, because making a seemingly random but never-ending circuit was their Primus Pilus. More than just his presence, it was his manner, where he seemed to be daring any of the seated or reclining men to do, or even say, anything that might displease him, glaring down at men as he passed by, men who, without exception, suddenly turned their gaze away to study something they suddenly found very interesting between their feet. Walking with him was either Scribonius or Balbus, both of whom tacitly agreed to switch off since, unlike Pullus, who seemed to possess an inexhaustible supply of energy, they didn’t and both needed to catch their breath. Whichever of them was with Pullus, while neither man said anything, their presence served its purpose, a silent warning to their friend about how, more often than not, giving in to his volcanic rage usually ended poorly for someone. Sometimes, as Pullus well knew in his calm moments, it was himself who suffered the most, but while he never acknowledged either of them as they walked silently by his side, he was acutely aware that they were trying to protect him from himself as much as they were protecting the men from his wrath, and while it was another thing he would never express, it was something for which he was profoundly grateful. Given what was taking place, and judging from the sounds coming from the south, the other men were still running wild, Pullus knew that Caesar wouldn’t find fault with him for striking one of his own down, but he also understood that his own men would never forgive him for it, unless it was an obvious case of self-defense. Which, Pullus knew full well, would never happen; he could see in his men’s faces they understood that their Primus Pilus was seething and looking for an excuse to thrash someone with his vitus, or perhaps even worse, so the idea of attacking him wouldn’t enter their mind. Such was the benefit of being Titus Pullus in such moments, although none of this helped assuage his anger much.
What would have surprised his men to know was that, as angry as he was with them, much of his ire was directed towards Caesar, who, Pullus and his fellow Centurions believed, had brought this moment upon himself by not being honest with the army. For months by this point, he and the other Primi Pili had been trying to get him to address the looming question about his true plans and ambitions. Certainly, thanks mainly to Scribonius, who was the first to voice his suspicions that Caesar had much more in mind than just conquering Parthia, Pullus had assumed as much, and he had voiced this to the other Primi Pili. Suspecting it and having it confirmed, however, were two different matters, and now Pullus found himself stalking among his men, internally raging at them, and his general, for creating this mess in the first place. For Pullus personally, this wasn’t really anything that concerned him; with the death of his wife Gisela and their two children while he was fighting for Caesar in Africa, the army was his home, and he was indifferent to whether or not they continued fighting or returned to Italia, or even to Roman territory. Regardless of his personal feelings, he also understood that many of his men and those in the other Legions didn’t feel the same way. Oh, he knew that the number of men who actually cared enough to engage in this kind of behavior was smaller than the total of men who were expressing their discontent, probably much smaller, and that the rest of the men were following their lead to one degree or another. Some of this second group were the type that participated out of either a sense of loyalty or they believed this was what their comrades wanted; others were men who occupied a semi-permanent spot on every Centurion’s mental list of troublemakers, malcontents, and thieves, the latter seeing this uprising as an opportunity to enrich themselves. Along with impressing on his men the danger in arousing his temper, this was the second reason Pullus was unceasing in his circuit through the streets, waiting for whatever came next, forestalling the light-fingered among the rankers from skulking off to plunder one of the buildings that hadn’t already been picked clean. He was under no illusion that the domiciles and businesses lining the streets where his men were waiting hadn’t already been stripped of anything valuable, but this was a much as he would allow, at least until matters were settled. As he circled back around to the southernmost street that his men had reached, which was just a block removed from
the northern wall of the enclosure, Pullus was alerted by a call from the spot where Cyclops was standing with the Centurions of his Cohort, recognizing the older Centurion’s voice.
When he reached them, Cyclops signaled to Pullus to walk a short distance away, and he said in a low voice, “I know you wanted everyone to stay put, but I sent a section of my boys a block that direction.” He didn’t point, just jerked his head to the south. “We’re only a block away from what looks like some sort of huge estate.”
“Estate?” Pullus looked at Cyclops with a raised eyebrow.
Flushing, Cyclops shot back, “Well, it’s a big fucking area enclosed by a high wall, and there’s a big fucking building in the middle of it that looks like one of those huge villas outside Rome. So,” he finished irritably, “what would you call it?”
Realizing it didn’t matter, Pullus said soothingly, “You’re right, Cyclops. And it’s probably the palace, or whatever they call their version of our praetorium. But,” he asked meaningfully, “why are you telling me this?”
“Because,” Cyclops replied evenly, “the gates are open, and there’s not a single fighting man in sight. The place seems to be packed with civilians, but that’s all. Titus,” he offered his Primus Pilus a weary smile, “I think the fighting’s over.”
This, of course, was good news, but Pullus barely registered he had heard, which was explained when, as he turned in the direction of the enclosure to stare that way he murmured, “Against the Bargosans, maybe.” Shaking his head as if to dispel this gloomy thought, Pullus asked Cyclops bluntly, “If I ordered your men to come with me, how many would follow?”
Cyclops had been expecting, and dreading, the question, but he didn’t hesitate, nor did he flinch as he answered, “I’d say that at least half, probably more would go with you. Maybe even three-quarters. But,” he shook his head, “no more than that. And,” he warned, “it also depends on what’s waiting for them when they get there.”
Much in the same way as his Pilus Prior, Pullus had been expecting this answer, although he had been pessimistic that even half would obey. Thinking for a moment, he finally said, “Let me talk to Scribonius.”
Rejoining his friend, where he had been standing with the other Eighth Centurions and Optios, all of whom made no attempt to hide their curiosity, Pullus turned to the Secundus Pilus Prior, asking him the same thing he had asked Cyclops. The answer Scribonius provided was a little better, though not by that much.
“Go get them and bring them here,” Pullus ordered. “We’re going to go claim whatever is up ahead.”
“For Caesar?” Scribonius asked, his tone reflecting the warning he was trying to send Pullus, but the Primus Pilus shook his head, answering flatly, “No. For us. We’re taking that before any of those other bastards get their dirty hands on anything.”
He was looking Scribonius directly in the eye as he spoke, and as usual, his friend interpreted Pullus’ message perfectly. Pullus wasn’t lying, exactly; he would undoubtedly press a claim to the spoils contained within what was probably a king’s residence, but that wasn’t why he was doing it. In his own way, Pullus was showing his loyalty to his general once more, if not quite as dramatically as at Pharsalus. The Pilus Prior hurried away, returning with what, to Pullus’ practiced eye, numbered almost four full Centuries, although some of the men wore bandages, marking them as walking wounded. Pullus wasn’t surprised to see Gaius, but he was still irked at his nephew for his almost suicidal act of bravery that had occurred, what, a watch and a third beforehand, he thought with some surprise. Shrugging this off, he led his men, who at least looked the part of battle-ready Legionaries, although their supply of javelins had been expended, some of their shields bore the marks and scars of the fighting, and they were all covered in grime. What Pullus was counting on was Cyclops’ claim that the only thing standing between them and this king’s palace were scared citizens who, in all likelihood, would flee. As it would turn out, this was the only mistake Pullus made, but it was one that was fatal for those Bargosans who were too terrified to run back out into a city where men just like those led by the giant Roman were running wild, because they weren’t shown any more mercy by Pullus’ men. It was another mark of an unusual night since, normally, when Pullus let his men slaughter civilians, it was in retaliation for something, such as the introduction of the very weapon that had proven the salvation of the Legions this night, when the Equestrians had encountered naphtha for the very first time when they assaulted Seleucia. On this night, he didn’t even attempt to stop his men who cut down any Bargosan who, while attempting to flee past them as Pullus led his men to the northern gate, got too close. These unfortunates were slaughtered, with the ranker who did it making a hasty but practiced search of their clothing and whatever belongings they were carrying. And, as they all quickly learned from the triumphant shouts of their comrades, even the poor people of Bargosa seemed to have something worth taking. In this, at least, Caesar hadn’t been lying to them; so far, Bargosa was every bit as rich as he had claimed it. Only after more than a dozen people were cut down because they were clogging the northern gateway did the citizens turn to flee in the opposite direction, heading for the southern gate, which Pullus only peripherally noticed, marching next to the front rank of what appeared to be the First of the Second, but was an amalgamation of men from the entire Cohort. His entire focus at the moment was watching the area around the steps leading up to the large open portico that was two hundred paces away, thinking how unlikely it was that a king would completely abandon his palace and leave it undefended. When he saw movement from inside a set of large wooden doors that were larger than many he had encountered guarding an entrance into a city, he felt certain that it would be armed men, probably a palace guard similar to the Nubians who had guarded Cleopatra. He was quickly disabused of that notion, recognizing that, while this group of Bargosans were arrayed in what might be called a formation that was wide enough to block the doorway, they were clearly unarmed. If that had been all, it would have been unusual, but when Pullus discerned exactly what this group of people was composed of, although he still had no idea of who they might be, he felt his stomach clench.
“Oh, fuck us all,” he muttered, but Scribonius, who was actually marching in the normal spot for a Pilus Prior, while Pullus was to his right, had seen the same thing and was as disturbed as Pullus.
“What,” he matched Pullus’ voice in volume if not in tone, “are a bunch of women doing standing there? Waiting to be raped?”
“It certainly looks that way,” Pullus agreed, “but somehow I don’t think that’s what they have in mind.”
Without a sword being drawn, without any more bloodshed, Pullus and his men were kept out of the palace, and of all the challenges that occurred in the aftermath of the fight for and fall of Bargosa, this was in many ways the most challenging for Pullus and the Centurions and Optios, who were forced to keep their men under control while their comrades were totally unrestrained in their rapine out in the city. It wasn’t that the women were scantily clad; despite the oppressive humidity of the early morning, they all wore voluminous gowns that didn’t give a hint about the shapes underneath, and their faces were covered with veils that, while not completely opaque, were of sufficient density to obscure their features. Nevertheless, they were clearly women, and they were just as clearly waiting for their conquerors; exactly what they were waiting for, Pullus had no idea. What he did know was that, when he committed his men to securing the palace, it meant everything inside it as well, so he resigned himself to staying vigilant and waiting for Caesar to show up. Fortunately for everyone concerned, neither the women nor Pullus and his men had long to wait. Barely a third of a watch later, with the sun fully above the eastern wall, Caesar finally arrived.
Chapter Eleven
Caesar’s initial reaction at the sight of his huge Primus Pilus was of a relief so intense, he was forced to clasp his thighs more tightly around Toes, who unfortunately responded as he had been tra
ined to do and suddenly reared. Only Caesar’s superb horsemanship kept him in the saddle, but ironically, it served to distract Gundomir and Teispes, riding on either side of him, from noticing his reaction, or so he hoped. Pullus was standing next to another Centurion, and almost as distinctive in his appearance as his Primus Pilus was the one-eyed Octus Pilus Prior, but Caesar’s two eyes missed very little, and as soon as he got close enough, he noticed that, while the Signifer of the First of the Eighth was standing in his proper spot, the men in the front rank weren’t all from the First of the Eighth. The initial emotion Caesar experienced was a rush of despair, thinking that the casualties a Cohort of the third line had been so heavy that their Pilus Prior was forced to consolidate, but almost as quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it as unlikely. Not for any logical reason, but from an instinct that he had learned to rely on was telling him there was another cause, and it was likely connected to the fact that he wasn’t arriving at the head of one or more Legions because they were too busy running wild in the streets of the city. No, Caesar, he thought to himself, they aren’t just debauching, they are rebelling against you, although none of this was betrayed in his demeanor as Toes settled down and they resumed their deliberately slow walk up the paved road that led directly to the steps of the southern portico, which was identical to the one on the northern side. It was understandable that Caesar’s attention was focused on Pullus and the sight of men from his 10th, so when his attention shifted to the figures standing in the large double doorway, he experienced a stab of sudden surprise, which only deepened when, as Pullus had, he recognized these were females. This, he thought bitterly, should be another moment of triumph, a moment where Caesar reinforces his status as not just the First Man in Rome, but as the only man capable of challenging Alexander’s legacy. Instead, he was preceded by men on foot, not as lictors, as befitted his status, but as guards in everything but name, part of the “escort” that had been forced on him in exchange for the mutineers allowing him to move freely about the city. Allowing him? Caesar thought as he watched one of the rankers walking in front of him detach from the shambling group of Legionaries, most of whom couldn’t walk a straight line if their lives depended on doing so and go trotting forward to address Pullus.
