“I wonder what they’re thinking at all these ships suddenly showing up?” Lutatius mused.

  “’We’re fucked’,” Balbus said immediately, prompting his comrades’ laughter.

  “I wonder what Caesar has in mind now?” Pullus pondered. “Are we going to just leave these people, because this certainly isn’t Muziris?”

  “I don’t see how he can,” Balbus replied. “If I was in charge over there, I would have already sent someone off to warn their king or whatever they call the bastard.”

  Before he could say anything more, there was movement that caught their attention, and they turned to see one of the small biremes gliding across what they could now see was a fair-sized protected harbor, while the mouth of the river that fed into it was almost directly across from them. It didn’t take long for them to determine that the ship was heading on a course that would place it at the river’s mouth, directly across from the southwestern corner of the town.

  “I think now that he has a better idea of the lay of the land, he’s sending that bireme to intercept anyone who tries to get across the river,” Pullus commented.

  Because the town was situated on the northern bank, anyone who intended to warn whoever was in control south of them would have to cross the river, and while it wasn’t as wide as the Narmada, it would still require a boat to get to the other side.

  “Like I said, that’s only if they haven’t already done it,” Balbus commented sourly.

  This was certainly true, so Pullus didn’t bother arguing, choosing instead to watch the bireme slow, then come to a stop, dead in the middle of the river, dropping their anchor.

  “I wonder if Caesar sent them out there for something besides trying to stop anyone from getting across,” Lutatius said. When Pullus turned to him in some surprise, he pointed up at the wall, where they could now see that the tiny figures who had been watching were now moving. “Maybe he’s trying to draw their fire,” the Optio ventured. “Trying to see whether they have any artillery and if they do, what the range is.”

  Pullus was impressed, and he nodded his agreement as he complimented his Optio. “That’s a good thought, Lutatius, and I think you may be right.”

  Because their collective attention was on the town, they all saw that, as Lutatius predicted, a small object came arcing out from the wall, barely visible because of the rain, but they managed to track it with their eyes to watch it splash into the river well more than a hundred paces short of the bireme.

  “You know what they just did?” The other three men looked to Pullus, who gave them a smile that they recognized, communicating a ferocious anticipation that served as a reminder that Titus Pullus was only truly happy with a gladius in his hand. “They just handed Caesar what he wanted. They loosed on us without provocation.”

  By the time Caesar had received reports from those navarchae who were responsible for what was in effect one of the squadrons of the fleet, he was pleased to learn that only a half-dozen ships had suffered damage, and all but one could be repaired within a day. The lone exception was a trireme that had been one of the last ships of the fleet to reach safety, but not before it had struck one of the rocky outcroppings that were no more than a mile north of the river, buckling several planks of the hull. While every available man worked feverishly to bail the water that was pouring into the ship, the oarsmen exhausted themselves bringing their crippled ship to a spot where their navarch could drive the ship up onto the sandbar. As soon as it was light enough, work had begun by dragging the ship up onto the strip of sand, although their efforts had been hampered by the rain. Caesar did wait for the downpour to stop before summoning his Primi Pili to the flagship, but this was all the time he would allow, and they had barely settled into their spots before he began.

  “Before we resume our voyage, we’re going to deal with this town,” he began. “While they didn’t do any damage, they launched an unprovoked attack on one of our ships without bothering to ascertain our intentions.” Pullus experienced a pang of regret that he hadn’t had the chance to inform at least Spurius about his prediction of this, viewing it as an opportunity lost. If Caesar noticed his smug smile, he made no comment as he continued, “Before we take decisive action, however, I’m sending a delegation under a flag of truce to at least attempt a peaceful surrender.”

  While there was a ripple of comment at this, it was left to Carfulenus to ask, “Do we know what these people use as a symbol of a truce, sir?”

  It didn’t last long, but Pullus was certain that he saw a look of chagrin flash across his general’s features, although he answered quickly enough, “No, Carfulenus, not with any level of certainty, but I believe that they’ll understand the intent just by the manner in which we’ll be acting. Now,” Caesar turned and gestured to the door that led up to the upper deck, “I’ve already dispatched Pollio and a party to attempt to initiate contact. We’ll watch what transpires up on deck.”

  Naturally, they obeyed, filing out in a single line because of the width of the door, but Spurius lingered next to the ladder that led to the upper deck, waiting for Pullus, whispering to him, “What did Pollio do to make Caesar angry, do you wonder?”

  Pullus shrugged. “Why do you think that’s the case?”

  “Oh,” Spurius shot back, still keeping his voice down but raising it just enough for his friend to hear the sarcasm, “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because we have no fucking idea if waving a white flag means what we think it means, or if it’s the signal they use to begin killing.”

  When put that way, Pullus could see Spurius’ point, although he would never say as much, but then they were up on deck, finding a spot on the rail that faced the city to watch as Pollio, standing in the prow of a small boat that still required six men to row, was taken across the river. Standing behind him were two men; one of them, in armor and clearly a ranker, was holding a siege spear, longer than the standard javelin, upon which a large square of white cotton cloth was affixed. However, it was the other man that caught Pullus’ eye.

  “Isn’t that the translator?” he asked of nobody in particular, but it was Caesar who answered, “Yes, Pullus. That is Achaemenes. Unfortunately, we still don’t have anyone besides him who’s fluent enough in the tongue of these people that I trust.”

  His comment caused Pullus to suddenly stand erect from where he had been leaning on the railing, the image of young Barhinder being tutored by Diocles, and how the Greek had commented on how quickly Barhinder was learning, but while he opened his mouth to say something, he didn’t have the chance, because there was movement on the other side of the river. The double gates on the western side of the town opened, a paved road leading from the town down to the riverbank where a low wooden wharf lined the shore, although the only boats tied there were small vessels that they assumed were for fishing, while on the southern side along the river as it moved inland, there was a much larger one, with more than a dozen ships moored along the dock. As they watched, what they counted to be ten men appeared, walking very slowly down the road, and in the time it took them to reach the wooden dock, it gave the watching Romans the chance to examine them.

  “They’re a lot darker than those Bharuch bastards,” Balbinus muttered.

  “It looks like three of them are elders or members of the town council, and I suppose the rest are supposed to be their bodyguards.”

  There was a murmur of assent from the others to the comment by Flaminius, but it was Caesar who mattered, yet he seemed content to watch as the party reached the dock. Immediately, five of the men spread out, and while they didn’t draw, they nocked the bows they were each carrying with an arrow, although they kept them pointed down at the wooden dock.

  “They’re not wearing hardly any armor,” Pullus observed. Then he lifted his arm to point at the two men who remained standing behind the group of three, then thought better of it, indicating with his head. “It just looks like boiled leather cuirasses. Can you tell what their shields are made of? Wood? Or wicker?”

  “Looks like wicker to me,” Balbinus offered.

  “They just have spears, no gladius,” Pullus observed, but the talking ceased when Pollio suddenly made a gesture, holding both arms out.

  They were much too far away to hear anything, relegated to trying to determine the tenor of the exchange just by the manner in which the two parties were behaving. And, as they would quickly learn, there were even more differences between these two people than they had learned about over the previous year.

  “They’re nodding their heads at least,” Felix said, and Pullus saw this was true, that while the three men who were at least attired in a manner that indicated they were more prosperous, were the only ones making any gestures, it was obvious that one of the three was the leader of the delegation.

  The first indication that something had changed came when, without any other visual clue, the five archers suddenly raised their bows and drew them back, pointing directly at the Romans standing in the boat. What happened next occurred so quickly that it was essentially over before it started as, from ships out of Pullus’ immediate range of vision, the immunes manning the scorpions, of which every ship had at least one affixed to its deck, sent their bolts streaking across the space, and while not all of what Pullus estimated to be about twenty iron-tipped bolts hit their targets, before anyone could comment on it, the entire contingent from the town lay on the ground in a welter of blood and gore, although at least two men made some sort of weak gesture with an arm before going limp. Within five heartbeats of the archers drawing, there was no movement from one of the ten men who had exited the town.

  “Pluto’s cock,” Pullus didn’t even glance over at Spurius, who had uttered the words, although he certainly shared his friend’s astonishment.

  Instead, without ever taking his eyes off the small boat that was now being rowed with a frenetic speed that roiled the water around each oar, he commented, “I’m glad that Caesar was prepared.”

  Once Pollio and Achaemenes were safely aboard, the meeting was reconvened after Caesar had a brief talk in private with both men; only then were the Centurions invited back into the cabin. Pullus’ first thought was that the Parthian interpreter, who he had come to regard almost as highly as Caesar did, was clearly shaken by the events. He was correct, but not in the way Pullus thought.

  “Apparently,” Caesar began, his face grim, “the dialect that the people of Honnavar speak, which is the name of this town, is sufficiently distinct that Achaemenes was uncertain that he was doing an adequate job of translating their words.”

  He turned to the young Parthian, who, although he looked uncomfortable, understood Caesar’s nod, and it was left to him to explain, “While there are several words in common with the tongue of the people in Bharuch, what differences there are,” he suddenly looked down at his feet as he finished, “are significant.”

  “It goes deeper than that, however,” Caesar interjected, then gave Achaemenes a pat of encouragement, and he said quietly, “Go ahead, Achaemenes. Tell them.”

  “These people, who are part of the Pandyan kingdom,” Achaemenes explained, “have not been influenced by the Greeks. In particular, they have not adopted the gestures that we have learned to interpret as meaning something.”

  Although Pullus thought that he understood in a general sense, this didn’t explain the issue to everyone’s satisfaction, and it was Torquatus who spoke up, “What exactly does that mean?”

  Achaemenes opened his mouth, but then suddenly, something seemed to occur to him, and rather than answer the Primus Pilus of the 25th, he instead asked, “Would you ask me a question that you are certain that I will agree to, Primus Pilus Torquatus?”

  This clearly flummoxed the Centurion, but he was far from alone; however, he shrugged then asked, “Do you miss Parthia? And your family?” Now it was Achaemenes’ turn to appear surprised, although he immediately shook his head, which prompted Torquatus to snort, then say derisively, “I find that hard to believe!”

  “Why, Primus Pilus?” Achaemenes asked, but while Pullus didn’t know where the interpreter was going, he didn’t miss the slight smile as he added, “Because I was agreeing with you. If,” he held up a hand, “I was a native of Pandya.”

  There was a silence for no more than a couple of heartbeats, then it was broken as they all began to talk, or in Pullus’ case, to groan aloud as he realized Achaemenes’ meaning.

  Over the noise, Achaemenes continued, “And if I did not, I would be doing this,” whereupon he began to nod.

  It was a seemingly odd moment; certainly, it was unusual, but it was one that Titus Pullus would have cause to remember, because it marked the beginning of the period where nothing that Caesar and his men would go on to encounter was within their realm of experience. All those things they took for granted, down to even innocuous gestures such as nodding one’s head as a sign of agreement were now in abeyance, and as Caesar led his army eastward, this would become more obvious, almost with every mile.

  In the moment, however, it was something that at least partially explained things, as Pollio took up the tale of what had occurred during the encounter, explaining, “When we said that we had no intention of attacking the town and only requested a day to effect repairs, the elder…” He looked over to Achaemenes, who interpreted Pollio’s gaze correctly, supplying, “Srinivas,” and Pollio nodded, “…Yes, Srinivas was his name, nodded his head, but he also said something.”

  Achaemenes took up the recounting. “This was when I realized that there are substantial differences in their dialects, but what I did understand was that they were aware that their king, Puddapandyan, had marched north with his ally Abhiraka, and while Srinivas did not know specifically, he clearly suspected that we were the cause.”

  “That’s when Srinivas gave the order to the archers,” Pollio put in, but then he turned and gave Caesar a bow, finishing, “but thanks to Caesar, here we are, alive to tell the tale.”

  Although this certainly explained how and why the incident occurred, the next question was posed by Balbinus. “So now that they know we’re not friendly, what are we going to do, sir?”

  Caesar resumed his spot in front of the small desk that, like the chair, was secured to the deck to answer, “We are going to take this town Honnavar, Balbinus. That’s what we’re going to do.”

  This announcement was met with no surprise, and judging from the manner in which his fellow Primi Pili were behaving, Pullus believed that his comrades approved of Caesar’s decision; he knew that he certainly did. What he would have been less happy about, although not particularly surprised, was the knowledge that there was already a party of horsemen, dispatched by the town elder Srinivas even before he walked out of the town gates, racing south to alert the crown prince that the Romans were coming.

  As the crew of the trireme, along with help from other crews, worked on the repairs, Caesar wasted no time, performing a quick but thorough examination of all four walls of the town of Honnavar, just beyond the range of the missiles from the defenders. While it appeared that the only artillery capable of sending rock ammunition were arrayed on the western and southern walls, Caesar didn’t exclude the possibility that the pieces were fixed in place. Armed parties were sent out into the countryside, not only to forage but to round up any natives who might prove to have valuable information about the defenses of the city. And, it was because one of those parties were men of the First Century of the First Cohort of the 10th that Pullus’ hunch about Barhinder proved correct. As with many seemingly small events that turn out to have wider ramifications, it started innocently enough, when Diocles sent Barhinder ashore to bring Pullus something to eat. Although they hadn’t constructed a camp yet, a makeshift headquarters had been set up north of the city directly across from the narrow entrance into the protected harbor, which included several canopies, one of which was where Pullus was standing. This was where Barhinder was hurrying to when the youth first spotted a group of men, marching in his general direction, and once he was within a few paces, he saw that they were surrounding a half-dozen people, all very dark, topless but wearing what was a little larger than a loincloth around their waists, and as filthy as they were, they were a stark contrast with the legs and torsos of what Barhinder recognized had to be local farmers. The Legionaries escorting them reached Pullus at about the same time as Barhinder, but from the opposite side, so the Centurion didn’t see him as he was busy accepting and returning the salute of one of the Sergeants of his Century.

  “We found these men hiding out in that bit of forest.” The Sergeant turned and gestured to where a clump of trees stood out from the otherwise flat, open fields that surrounded the town on the north side.

  “Did they try to run?” Pullus asked.

  “No, Primus Pilus.” The Sergeant shook his head. “They just huddled there like frightened rabbits.” He gave a short laugh. “I think they hoped we wouldn’t see them, but they were shaking so badly, it made the bushes they were hiding behind move.”

  This elicited a chuckle from Pullus, then he turned to where, under another canopy, Caesar was standing with the Legates, but it was Achaemenes he was looking for, and the Parthian happened to be looking in his direction. Barhinder wasn’t willing to interrupt whatever Pullus was going to ask Achaemenes, correctly assuming that the Primus Pilus needed the Parthian’s translation ability. He had only seen Achaemenes from a distance, but he was aware, from the other men of Bharuch now scattered among the army in roles similar to Barhinder, that he spoke their tongue quite well. When the Parthian arrived, while he was technically not a part of the army, he nevertheless saluted Pullus, and it ignited a queer feeling of pride in Barhinder, who had set down the sack containing the food Diocles had packed, although he still held the jug of water he brought.