by R. W. Peake
Caesar looked as if she had slapped him, and Pullus was only slightly less astonished, wondering, how could she know this? Had she been out in the city? That hardly seemed possible, but somehow, she had divined the situation accurately. Pullus wasn’t the superstitious sort normally, but her prescience about the conditions outside this enclosure seemed to indicate some sort of power that was derived from some otherworldly place. If he had known that the same sort of demonic aid was being ascribed to the Romans by their enemies, although this was specifically about the use of naphtha, he might have found it amusing. In the moment, however, he stared at the woman as if he could somehow penetrate her veil to discern whether she had horns, or perhaps snakes on her head.
“I do not know where you get your information, Lady, but I can assure you it is incorrect.”
Outwardly, Caesar sounded calm and controlled, but Pullus heard an undertone of not just anger, but more worryingly, real concern.
“Really?” Her head cocked again, but this time, it was for a purpose. “Listen for a moment.”
Whether he was doing so because she told him to, or because he was still in shock Pullus didn’t know, but Caesar did as she bid at least by remaining quiet, and it didn’t take more than a couple heartbeats to hear feminine shrieks, the grating, harsh sounds of male shouting and laughter, and the shattering of only the gods knew what. This was the moment when Pullus realized how inured to such noise he was, and it caused him to try and calculate how many towns and cities had fallen to the sword, all at Caesar’s command, over the years. Somewhat to his surprise, it engendered a disconcerting feeling in Pullus, one that wasn’t quite shame but was perilously close, something that was completely foreign to him prior to this, and once again, he wondered about what powers this Hyppolita possessed.
Although Caesar didn’t visibly react, his voice softened a fraction and he did sound somewhat uncomfortable as he said, “What is happening is regrettable…Highness.” For the first time, Hyppolita reacted visibly, Pullus seeing her head lift in what he assumed was surprise, but Caesar wasn’t through. “However, this is how war is waged in the part of the world from which we come. Is this not your custom here?” he asked gently, but in a manner that communicated he knew the answer.
To her credit, Hyppolita didn’t try to evade or deny the question, admitting, “Yes, it is customary to treat cities that fall by the sword in this manner.” She paused, then with what seemed to be unfeigned sadness, she added, “I had just hoped that you Romans might be different.” Sighing, with a speed that Pullus had to admire, Hyppolita switched tactics, asking his general, “Now that you know my name and title, Roman, may I inquire as to yours?”
Despite the question, Pullus felt certain she knew at least Caesar’s name, but if Caesar suspected the same, he played along, telling Hyppolita gravely, “My name is Gaius Julius Caesar, of the Julii, who are direct descendants of the goddess we call Venus, and the Greeks call Aphrodite.”
“Ah!” she said with a tone that belied her words. “So you are the famous Caesar! The most famous Roman in the world! The man who is the husband of Cleopatra Philopater! You know,” she went on, ignoring Caesar’s mouth opening to object, “supposedly, she and I are distantly related somehow, through Ptolemy. Although,” she seemed to add this as an afterthought, but to Pullus, it was obviously calculated, “I have learned that families tend to…overplay their ancestry and how they are descended from gods and kings. Although,” for the first time, she raised a hand, the ends of the voluminous sleeve falling away to give Pullus his first glimpse of flesh, which seemed to be uncommonly smooth, with long, tapered fingers that she held out in a placating gesture, “I do not mean to imply that your ancestry to our Aphrodite is in any way contrived!”
“I assure you,” Caesar answered stiffly, “it is not. And,” he added firmly, “Cleopatra is not my wife. She is not Roman, and only Romans can be legally joined in marriage.”
“Ah,” Hyppolita nodded, and Pullus noticed this seemed to be a favorite way of disrupting Caesar’s rhythm, “so she is your concubine, then.”
Caesar shook his head, clearly nettled, replying, “No, she is not my concubine. She is…” Suddenly, Caesar seemed flummoxed, as if this was the first time he had ever been forced to think of what role Cleopatra played in his life, which didn’t surprise Pullus in the least. Finally, he settled on, “…my consort.”
“I see.” Hyppolita nodded, but then with the suddenness of a striking serpent, she demanded, “And in what capacity or by what right does Gaius Julius Caesar of the Julii have to be here in Bharuch, slaughtering my subjects?” Before Caesar could respond, she continued by pointing out, “Was there a formal declaration of war by Rome on Bharuch? If so, is it not also customary among civilized nations for ambassadors to be sent to inform the attacked nation that hostilities have been declared against them? Or,” her voice was still soft in volume, and with the same lilting quality that Pullus was finding enchanting, but she was implacable as she hammered Caesar, “are you people barbarians and savages who do not know how civilized nations behave?”
This prompted Caesar to suddenly take a step forward, closing the distance between the queen and himself, but while this caused her ladies to gasp, and some of them actually moved towards Hyppolita, a move that Pullus forestalled simply by reaching across and placing his right hand on the hilt of his sword, the queen herself didn’t flinch or move in any way other than that slight tilting of the head, as if she was more curious than alarmed.
Caesar caught himself, taking a deep breath through his teeth to regain his composure, and he at least sounded calm when he asked, “Queen Hyppolita, does it really matter at this moment? We are here, Rome has come, and this city is mine to do with as I will. I can either give it completely over to my men, and I assure you,” now his voice was the implacable one, “what you are hearing right now is nothing compared to what will happen if I simply lift a finger to command it.”
While his face didn’t betray his thoughts, Pullus wasn’t as sanguine as Caesar; in fact, he was certain that if Caesar did so, he would probably be disobeyed. What was important was whether this woman believed him, and there was a tense silence as Caesar and she exchanged a glare that lasted several heartbeats.
Finally, she answered, “You are correct, of course, Gaius Julius Caesar. Why you are here does not matter; that you are does. So what is it that you demand of me and my subjects?”
“First,” Caesar said, “you need to tell me where your husband the king is.” As if it just occurred to him, he added quietly, “Unless he is dead. Then I will conclude terms with you.”
“Oh, I can assure you,” Hyppolita responded instantly, “my husband the king is very much alive.”
“Well?” Caesar demanded, “Where is he?”
Once again, she cocked her head, but Pullus got the sense she was trying to perform some calculation, which seemed confirmed when, for the first time, she actually moved, stepping past Caesar and moving to the edge of the portico, whereupon she lifted her head to gaze at the sun. Neither Roman made any move to stop her, just watching her in bemused silence as she returned to her spot in front of Caesar.
“I imagine,” she said cheerfully, “by this time, he is far to the south of here.”
It had been neatly done; even Caesar, once he calmed himself, was forced to admit she had thwarted him, albeit temporarily, although it was without any of his usual humor when someone did something clever . There was no way of knowing with any certainty whether or not Hippolyta’s distraction of Caesar was crucial in Abhiraka’s escape, but what became certain in the intervening days was that the king had managed to make his way out of the city somehow and, with only Bolon and Nahapana as his companions, had easily evaded the Roman cavalry that was more concerned with protecting the part of the army under Pollio’s command than looking for three fugitives.
Shortly after their interview with Hyppolita had concluded, Pullus requested permission from Caesar to leave the enclosure
and return to the dirt rampart.
“I want to get our wounded moved inside the walls, Caesar,” he had explained, and despite his consternation, Caesar had given his permission.
Taking Scribonius and Balbus, the three of them made their way in a circuitous fashion, trying to avoid not only the five streets still clogged with smoking, charred remains of Bargosans and their animals, but his own men, most of whom were now stretched out supine in the streets, having fallen asleep from utter exhaustion. Exiting the opened gate, the three Centurions saw that, finally, the fires had died out, although most of the tents were now piles of ash, save for those in a narrow strip on the eastern and western edge. Walking down the scorched paving stones of the northern road, despite his fatigue, Pullus noted with approval that, save for the elephants, which he supposed would have to be chopped up into smaller parts before being hauled away, the bodies of the defenders had been removed from the area. All that was left were the blackened heaps of the tents and whatever furniture and equipment had been inside them, most of them still smoldering but completely destroyed.
“Is anyone else hungry?” Both Scribonius and Pullus stared incredulously at their companion, who protested, “Why are you looking at me like that? Are you saying that the smell of that roasting meat doesn’t make you hungry?”
When put this way, the other two exchanged a rueful glance, but it was Scribonius who admitted, “Yes, I’m hungry, but I just thought it was because we haven’t eaten since…” He stopped, cocking his head as he tried to recall, finally settling on, “…I’m not sure when, just that it was a long time ago.”
“Ha!” Balbus hooted, pointing at his friend. “See? It’s because you smell that roasting meat!”
“Not necessarily,” Scribonius said, and even Pullus heard the defensive tone, which made him smile, despite the weariness and somewhat disturbing topic being discussed; the number of times Balbus put Scribonius on the back foot were few and far between.
This exchange was interrupted because they had reached the cleared area between the destroyed camp and the dirt wall, so they could all see the supine men, arranged in two separate groups. To the left of the northern road, the first group was in neat rows, and Pullus, as well as Scribonius and Balbus, knew these men had been arrayed in the same manner as they would be in formation, by Century and Cohort. It was the lack of attendants for these men that served as the most powerful testament to the fact that they were now across the river, having rowed across together with Charon. It was a sight that never failed to stir in Pullus a sense of such deep despair that, whenever they occurred, served as the only moments where he had doubts about his status as Primus Pilus, thinking that it might not be worth it.
The three stood silently for a moment, then Scribonius said softly, “We got hurt pretty badly this time, Titus. That,” he pointed down at the bodies of their men, “is one reason why the rest of our boys are sitting on their asses in the middle of that city.”
“It is,” Pullus agreed with a sigh, then deliberately turned to his right, where the second group of men were located, but not only were there men on their feet and moving among them, some of them were sitting up and chatting quietly, their wounds bandaged.
Finally, Pullus spotted the man who served as the chief medici, not one of the physicians, who would only come later once the wounded were settled in the hospital, but the man who reported directly to the physician. Like most of the physicians and senior medici, he was Greek, his name Tyndarios, and as always after a battle, the apron he wore over his tunic was liberally spattered with blood, some of which he was wiping from his hands with a bloody rag as he approached the three Centurions.
“How many burns?” Pullus asked bluntly, foregoing any pleasantries but acknowledging the Greek with a nod.
“Two dozen,” Tyndarios replied, his face grim. “And of those, I would say that no more than half will survive more than a day or two at most.” Shaking his head, his sadness was genuine as he voiced the frustration of a healer. “But as bad as they are, it’s the others that are in some ways the worst. At least,” he added, “those men will no longer be suffering. The others, the ones who survive, will be in pain for the rest of their days, however long the gods give them.”
Pullus, like every Roman who had participated in the assault on Ctesiphon and Seleucia, knew that Tyndarios was speaking the truth, however grim. When they had marched on Susa, these maimed men had been left behind, and when the relatively few who had suffered the same fate at Susa were stable, they had been transported to the twin cities. While it was true that Caesar had spent a massive sum, not just to house these men but to find ways to make their lives easier, the brutal reality was that neither Caesar, nor his Primi Pili, wanted those men around their whole and healthy comrades because it would have had a massive negative effect on morale. What happens to these men? Pullus wondered, even as he listened to Tyndarios. Will they have to endure a voyage lasting weeks, followed by a jolting wagon ride lasting almost as long, just to make sure they don’t make the rest of us feel guilty? Suddenly, Pullus was struck by the mordant thought that what was more likely to happen would be Caesar spending money to create a similar setup here in Bargosa. Before he could stop himself, his mind went on a flight, across this vast land of India, then beyond, with the trail of Caesar and his army clearly marked by buildings full of maimed men in their wake. It wouldn’t be for several years, but Pullus would have occasion to remember this moment, here in this Indian city.
Forcing himself back to the topic at hand, Pullus asked, “So the rest of the wounded are the standard stuff? Cuts, stab wounds, that sort of thing?”
Tyndarios shook his head, replying flatly, “No, Primus Pilus. There’s another kind of wound that is proving to be quite a challenge. And,” he heaved a deep sigh, “I suspect that we will have to learn how to treat better.”
“What’s that?” Balbus was the man who asked the obvious question, but before Tyndarios could reply, Scribonius offered, “If I had to guess, I’d say it was crushing kinds of wounds.”
The senior medicus looked at Scribonius with some surprise, but he nodded as he answered, “That is exactly correct, Pilus Prior. We have men whose extremities were stepped on by one of those elephants, and frankly, I have never seen that kind of injury before. The bones aren’t just broken, they’re crushed.”
“How do you treat that?” Pullus asked, suspecting he knew the answer, which was confirmed when Tyndarios said, “We don’t, not really. We have to amputate.”
Pullus had grown sick to his stomach, the combination of the fatigue and the bad news forcing him to cut the conversation short by saying, “Well, just do what you can. Do you have enough poppy syrup?”
“Yes, Primus Pilus,” Tyndarios assured him.
Pullus walked away, telling the medici that he needed to make those men who could be transported ready to move, but he was scanning the faces of the slaves and stretcher bearers, looking for one man in particular. He spotted Diocles up on the dirt rampart, bent over a man who was sitting up, and Pullus realized it was in the area where he had led his men up and over the dirt wall. This struck him as odd, thinking that if Diocles was tending to another wounded man, it should have been down here with all of the others, so he began making his way in that direction. As he moved through the rows of men, he made sure to stop and talk to any of his men who called his name, making jokes with them, asking about their wounds, teasing them about finding a way to conjure themselves onto the sick and injured list in the roughly affectionate manner that let those men know their Primus Pilus cared about them. Every Primus Pilus, and Centurion, for that matter, did this to some extent, but Pullus had always gone above and beyond, making sure to visit the hospital at least twice a day for a week after a battle. Scribonius and Balbus followed, but when they stopped to talk to some of their own men, Pullus waved at them to stay there, then ascended the ladder nearest to where Diocles was still crouching, with his back to the city side. His master wasn’t sure what h
e would find, but what greeted Pullus’ eyes was something so unusual that he stopped and just stood, observing for a moment, before he cleared his throat loudly enough for Diocles to hear.
The Greek visibly started, letting out what sounded like a squeak of surprise, and when he turned around, Pullus asked him in a deceptively mild voice, “Diocles, why are you treating that man?”
Diocles’ expression was one that Pullus would remember later with a smile, but it was the reaction of the man who was seated on the dirt rampart and had turned his head to see who had spoken that was most startling. With a shout of what could only be described as terror, the man suddenly struck Diocles’ hand, which was still holding the bandage he had been wrapping around his head, sending the roll flying into the air, rapidly unrolling it so that by the time the man had begun moving, it was a good three feet long and waving in the air. The Bargosan didn’t manage to get to his feet, but instead turned and started scrambling on all fours, scuttling away from Diocles and Pullus, both of whom stared at him in bemused astonishment.
“You frightened him!” Diocles’ tone was completely uncharacteristic for the diminutive Greek, and it was so surprising that, without thinking, Pullus protested, “I didn’t mean to! I just asked a question!”
As he was speaking, Diocles broke into a rapid walk, catching up to the man who, under other circumstances, would have been a comical sight, scrambling on hands and knees, the rest of the bandage flapping in the air as the Greek ran around to get in front of him. Pullus only watched as Diocles dropped to his haunches, holding his hands out to the man, and while Pullus couldn’t make out the words, he could tell by the tone and Diocles’ mannerisms that he was trying to assure the man he wasn’t in any danger. Which, Pullus thought with some grim amusement, may or may not be true, since Caesar hasn’t said what he wants done with any prisoners. There was an exchange between the two that consisted of more gestures than speech, but then, very reluctantly, the man allowed himself to be helped to his feet. He staggered a bit, except Diocles caught him, then gently but firmly made the man turn around, and they both made their way back in Pullus’ direction, but it wasn’t until they were almost to the spot where Diocles had been treating him that Pullus experienced the first glimmering of recognition. Diocles had cleaned the blood away in preparation for the bandaging, and even before he made the connection, Pullus had seen that this Bargosan was more boy than man, not looking more than fifteen or sixteen. Which, Pullus assumed, was what had stirred Diocles, but when the Bargosan finally lifted his gaze to look directly at Pullus, the large Roman felt a peculiar but unmistakable jolt as he realized that he had seen this boy before. By the time they had gone two more paces, the pieces had fell into place; the boy with more courage than sense, charging at him unsupported, which had amused Pullus more than angered him. And, Pullus recalled, he had swatted him away and sent him reeling, which seemed to have enraged another Bargosan, an older but still young man who had been standing on the opposite side of this boy. It was the next sequence of memories that reminded Pullus of something, prompting him to lift his left arm, and for the first time since it had happened, examine the gash on his arm. The blood had dried and the bleeding stopped, although below the wound his skin wasn’t visible, but it was the sudden stinging caused by the motion that had the most impact, remembering that was what had enraged him in the moment. This was when he looked back up, and now the boy was barely four paces away, Diocles next to him, but the Greek was staring at Pullus intently.
