Book Read Free

Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

Page 60

by R. W. Peake


  When they were within fifty paces, the ranker that Centumalus had selected as the leader of Caesar’s guards turned about and stood directly in Toes’ path, and while he sounded almost apologetic, his voice was still firm as he said, “I’m afraid that you’ll have to wait here for a moment, Caesar.”

  Only Caesar knew the amount of self-control it took to keep him from jabbing his horse in the ribs and knock the man down, thinking savagely, the Furies take using that tone, as if you’re giving me an order! Gundomir, however, wasn’t as circumspect, but thankfully, Caesar heard the muttered oath and, sensing that his German was about to actually do what Caesar himself ached to, he reached out and placed a hand on his bodyguard’s arm.

  “Not now, Gundomir,” he said softly enough that only the German heard, then added as a seeming afterthought, “our time will come. But not now.”

  For the span of a heartbeat, Caesar wasn’t sure Gundomir would obey, but then he gave an abrupt nod, and Caesar felt the rigid muscles of the German’s arm relax somewhat. With this crisis temporarily averted, Caesar returned his attention to where Pullus was talking to the mutineer that the leader had sent forward.

  From Pullus’ perspective, there were so many things that seemed odd as he watched Caesar’s party approaching from the southern gate, it was hard for him to fathom. It had made sense to leave what passed for the Second Cohort where they were on the northern side, and he had led Cyclops’ men around the palace to place them in an identical position on the opposite side. There were other exits from what was a massive building, but one whose architecture was almost completely Grecian in style and orientation, one with which Pullus and his men were familiar, and he had left just a section from the Eighth standing on the eastern side, while Scribonius sent the same on the western side. Pullus wasn’t surprised when the women who had been arrayed along the northern portico, still standing silently, had either guessed or somehow understood that his removing himself from the southern side to the northern was meaningful, although he was curious about how they came to the conclusion that he was the key. Or, he thought with rueful amusement, Quintus, Sextus, and Diocles would say that it has nothing to do with me. This thought, one of the few humorous notions that he had experienced since this whole thing began, made him shake his head, which prompted Cyclops to look up at him, the eyebrow over his ruined eye raised in an unconscious response.

  “Nothing,” Pullus muttered to him, and while Cyclops clearly didn’t believe him, he knew better than to press the point.

  Besides which, there was plenty to puzzle over, beginning with the composition of the men who were walking ahead of Caesar’s mounted party, although walking was a charitable term, so much so that Cyclops quickly forgot other matters, asking incredulously, “Are those men…drunk?”

  “Certainly seems that way,” Pullus replied, his eyes never leaving the approaching party, but while he was shocked at the sight, he also wasn’t altogether surprised. “I get the feeling,” he added quietly, “that this isn’t Caesar’s idea.”

  In answer, Cyclops snorted, saying derisively, “Oh? Really? What gave it away? That this bunch can’t walk a straight line?”

  Rather than rise to the bait, Pullus answered calmly, “That’s part of it. But,” he couldn’t resist a jab of his own, “I guess since you only have one eye, you don’t recognize that these men are from three different Legions.”

  “I can see just fine,” Cyclops grumbled, then relented, “but no, I didn’t notice.” Examining the men, he admitted, “But I should have. They’re carrying their Legion shields.”

  Pullus didn’t respond because this was the moment one of the men, after what appeared to be a brief argument, broke from the line to come at a half-trot, half-stumble towards Pullus. Which, somewhat oddly, actually made Pullus feel better, because it was obvious that none of them had been eager to be the man to stand in front of him, and the reluctance in this man caused him to come to a stumbling stop, several paces away, too far away for a conversation to be held without shouting.

  “I won’t bite, Gregarius,” Pullus called out, more loudly than necessary, wanting the others to hear because he added, “at least not yet. But don’t try my patience.”

  Even as he said it, Pullus knew that it was a risk to do so with men who were so inflamed with their passions and drunk in the bargain, but he was counting on two things; the habit of obedience to a man wearing a white crest hadn’t simply vanished during a night of rampant debauchery, and the fact that he was the one wearing the white crest. Pullus hadn’t asked to be blessed with his size and strength, and it was in many ways as much of a curse, starting with the death of his mother trying to bring him into the world, but he had learned early in his life to use it as a means to an end, and right now, the purpose was in reminding this drunken fool that Titus Pullus wasn’t a man he wanted to anger. Most importantly, this had the desired effect, as the ranker took not one but two deep breaths, shook his head in an attempt to clear it, then walked in as straight a line as possible to stand in front of Pullus.

  He didn’t salute, but neither did he sound hostile as he said, “Primush Pilush Pullush,” the effect of the drink making him alter the words so noticeably that Pullus heard Cyclops snickering, which he ignored as the man continued, “I’m Gregariush Immunesh Gnaeush Fimbria, and I’m part of Caesar’sh…”

  He got no further, Pullus’ patience evaporating, and he snapped, “I don’t care who you are, and I don’t care about whatever this…” he waved a disgusted hand at the other men, “…festival is. Are you going to stand aside so that I can greet our general in a proper manner?” Before Fimbria could reply, Pullus, feeling his control slipping but not particularly caring, went on, “Because, while you lot were out in the streets drinking and fucking and disgracing yourselves and this army, my men,” he moved his heavily muscled arm in a gesture that encompassed most of the Eighth, “were doing their fucking job. Now,” he actually took a step closer so that he could use his height to tower over Fimbria, who seemed to be torn between trying to appear unafraid and bracing himself for some sort of blow, “you and your bunch need to step aside, or I am going to get angry. Do you understand, Gregarius Immunes Fimbria?”

  “Y-yesh, Primush Pilush,” Fimbria stammered, his breath reeking so much that it caused Pullus to cough from the fumes of a spirit that he hadn’t ever smelled to this point, but what mattered was that Fimbria turned around, moving carefully to avoid losing his balance, and nodded to the other men.

  Who, Pullus saw with some satisfaction, didn’t hesitate, moving off of the paved street that led from the southern gate to allow Caesar to pass, and neither did their general pause, immediately kicking Toes into motion. Behaving as if the men standing on either side glaring up at him didn’t exist, Pullus saw Caesar turn his head to the German Gundomir, prompting both Gundomir and the Parthian Teispes, who Pullus still didn’t trust, to draw rein to allow their general a full horse’s length distance ahead of them before resuming their own progress.

  Taking his cue from Caesar, Pullus murmured to Cyclops, “Stay here,” then detached himself from his own formation, striding three paces ahead before coming to a stop and drawing himself to intente as he rapped out the traditional words, “Primus Pilus Pullus and the 10th Legion reporting to Dictator Gaius Julius Caesar that the…” he suddenly realized he wasn’t certain what function this building served, and settled on, “…palace belonging to the King of Bargosa is secured, as ordered.”

  Caesar had drawn Toes up so his horse’s nose was no more than two paces away from Pullus, and he sat with his back rigid, his chin tilted to an angle considered proper for a conquering Roman, his face giving nothing away as he listened to Pullus. When Pullus finished, he didn’t reply immediately, instead letting his eyes move along the ranks that, to anyone unfamiliar with the composition of the 10th, would have said was in perfect order, save for the sooty grime, blood, and handful of bandages that was expected after a battle. Pullus knew Caesar well, so he could
see in his general’s eyes that he hadn’t missed the mixture of men from different Centuries; he could also see the slight glittering of the icy blue eyes that told him the seething rage was there as well, and despite his certainty that neither he nor his men would be the recipient of it, Pullus felt a shiver run up his spine as he thought, there are going to be a lot more men missing from their fires than died in battle tonight.

  Finally, Caesar responded, first by returning Pullus’ salute, which the Primus Pilus had held rigidly as he spoke, then by saying in his higher-pitched tone designed to be heard, “Salve, Primus Pilus Pullus! I accept your report, and I salute you and your men for performing their duty in such an exemplary manner while others have failed!”

  There was no mistaking the lacerating scorn in Caesar’s voice, and since he was facing in the opposite direction, Pullus could see that, despite their relative inebriation, the men of his makeshift guard heard it clearly as well, and they began muttering, but under their breaths so that it was impossible for Caesar or his bodyguards behind him to hear. This pleased Pullus, and in the moment, he exchanged a knowing look with his general that each understood perfectly well, while Caesar gave him a subtle nod.

  Caesar suddenly lifted his leg, swung it over Toes’ head, and slid off his horse, walking over to Pullus then, rather than another exchange of salutes, thrust his arm out, something that caught Pullus off guard, but naturally returned the gesture. When Caesar pulled Pullus’ arm to draw him close, while it appeared to be an embrace, which was slightly difficult because of Pullus’ height despite Caesar being much taller than other Romans, the Centurion quickly learned differently.

  “What’s the status of the Equestrians?” Caesar whispered this, it appearing natural that his mouth was only inches from Pullus’ ear. “Can I count on them to help stop this?”

  Although it genuinely pained Pullus to say it, he didn’t hesitate, matching Caesar’s whisper in volume but trying to endow it with a firmness that would brook no argument, “No, Caesar. They didn’t go as far as the others apparently did, but most of my Legion is sitting on their asses in the streets behind us. And,” he was straightening up as he finished, mainly so he could make eye contact with his general, “they won’t lift a finger against their comrades, Caesar.”

  Caesar’s face seemed to turn into stone, his expression as fixed as if he had become a living bust of himself, but it was still the eyes that gave Pullus his reaction, and for a long moment, Pullus thought that Caesar would nevertheless try to impose his will on Pullus and his boys.

  The passing of this moment was signaled by a sudden exhalation, then a curt nod from Caesar, his tone flat as he said only, “Very well. I understand, Pullus.” Then, seemingly for the first time, Caesar turned his examination to the scene behind and above Pullus, where he could just glimpse the upper halves of the women who, remarkably to every Roman present, had remained silent and largely immobile, and Caesar asked Pullus, “Do you have any idea who these women are and what they want?”

  Pullus’ answer was as quick as it had been about the state of the 10th, but this time, he was clearly as bemused as his general, saying only, “No, Caesar. I have no idea whatsoever.”

  Realizing this wasn’t enough information, Pullus explained the circumstances of their appearance upon Pullus and his men’s entry into the large enclosure, and how they had been standing on the north portico originally.

  Caesar listened, his eyes never leaving the women, then once Pullus was finished, he said with a sigh, “Well, I suppose I better go up there and find out what this is about.”

  However, when Caesar began to walk in that direction, Pullus turned and snapped an order to the first rank, who at least moved immediately, but Caesar turned and shook his head as he said, “I don’t think that’s necessary, Pullus.”

  “But, sir, it might be a trap,” Pullus protested. “We don’t know who’s inside, and that is a big fucking, er, a big building, Caesar. It could hold a whole lot of men and we wouldn’t be able to see them until it’s too late.”

  Although this was certainly true, Caesar didn’t hesitate, shaking his head again as he said, “I don’t think so, Pullus. I think their men are either dead or,” he shrugged, “they’ve run off. Besides,” he added with clearly bitter amusement, “I can think of worse ways to die than surrounded by a bunch of women.” He was turning away, but he saw that Pullus was still prepared to argue the point, so Caesar partially relented, “But if it will make you feel better, you can go up there with me so I don’t have to die alone.”

  Pullus didn’t find it amusing, but neither did he hesitate, and the pair ascended the stairs, with Caesar ignoring the shouted protests, in heavily accented Latin, coming from two of his bodyguards, but in a tacit signal to the pair, Pullus reached down and tapped the hilt of his sword as they reached the portico. Standing there about five paces away from the edge of the stairs, a line of women stood in a row of ten, while behind them, without any real precision but clearly in delineated rows, stood another forty women, who still at this point hadn’t said a word. Nor, Pullus noticed, did any of them make any sort of move that might betray their nerves, although this appearance was aided by the shapeless nature of their dress, while the veils only allowed a glimpse of their eyes, except now that he was close, Pullus saw that the space from mid-nose to mid-forehead wasn’t actually bare, but appeared to be made of a finely knit mesh that, while it obviously allowed the women to see out, made it almost impossible for anyone to see in. If Pullus had known that, within a few moments, this wouldn’t be the strangest thing he would encounter, he might have thought twice about his insistence on accompanying his general.

  For his part, Caesar stopped suddenly, so much so that it caused Pullus to flinch, his hand going to his sword as he took advantage of his height to look inside the palace, beyond the doorway, looking for the threat his general had spotted, but Caesar muttered, “Edepol!” When Pullus looked over at him, his general looked abashed, a singularly unusual expression that was explained when he told Pullus, “I forgot to make sure Achaemenes was with us.”

  “Achaemenes?” Pullus asked, frowning as he tried to recall where he had heard the name before, which Caesar explained, “He’s the Parthian whose father was a merchant who spent time here in Bargosa and knows the tongue.”

  For the first time, there was a reaction among the women; specifically, it was the woman who was standing slightly ahead of the first row, and whose attire was of a quality that bespoke a level of wealth and prestige that was over and above the others present, as she cocked her head slightly, the movement alone causing both Romans to look at her.

  “Bargosa?” The voice emanating from within the veil was lower-pitched, with an almost husky quality to it, but their surprise turned to shock when the voice asked in a lilting but understandable Greek, “Why do you use the Greek name for Bharuch?”

  What took place over the next third of a watch, as Pullus’ men and Caesar’s party were forced to stand in place, watching and speculating on what was happening, was one of the most astonishing in Titus Pullus’ career and life to that point. By the time he and Caesar turned and descended the stairs, Pullus was smitten, despite the fact that he had seen practically nothing of the woman under the veil. While he wasn’t paying attention at the time, given what transpired later, Pullus also recognized that Caesar had been no less affected, although it was clear by the end of the interview that this woman, who was queen of what they now knew was properly called Bharuch, wasn’t nearly as impressed with Caesar as he was with her. If Pullus had known that her appraisal of him was decidedly different, he might have behaved in a much different manner in the immediate future.

  It had begun immediately upon the two Romans learning that she spoke Greek, and following her correction of the name of the city and kingdom, Caesar asked her bluntly, “And who are you? And by what right do you speak for the people of this city?”

  As Pullus quickly learned, trying to discern how someone whose face w
as completely hidden was being affected during an exchange such as this was very difficult, but he was certain that he heard a thread of anger, controlled certainly, in her response, “I am Hyppolita, queen of Bharuch and consort to Abhiraka, first of his name, of the Abhira, whom I believe the Greeks refer to as the Indo-Scythians.” Her voice changed slightly, giving Pullus the sense that she was mocking Caesar as she added, “I do not know what you Romans would call us, since we have never had much contact with you before this.”

  Pullus’ guess seemed confirmed by Caesar’s reaction, and while he didn’t turn to look, he glimpsed a flush of color on Caesar’s cheeks out of the corner of his eye, but his tone was cool and correct as he answered, “We refer to your people in the same manner as the Greeks.” He hesitated, then asked, “How would you prefer to be called, Lady? By what title?”

  “Why,” Hyppolita sounded surprised, but this time, Pullus was more certain that it was feigned, “by my title, of course. I am the Queen of Bharuch, but you may refer to me as Highness, if that pleases you more.”

  “It does not please me,” Caesar snapped. “Lady, unless you are obtuse, I am standing here as conqueror of this city, and this kingdom!”

  Hyppolita countered coolly, “Is that why your men are running wild in my streets, Roman? Is that why your men are not listening to you?”

 

‹ Prev