Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

“Good. Have Palma turn about and stand ready.”

  I did not hear the rest since I had already trotted off with Scribonius, Balbus, and the other Evocati following behind. There were only 20 Evocati attached to the 8th Legion, the rest being with the bulk of the army, not enough to engage a force of any size, yet large enough to deter an enemy scouting force from attacking us. Moving quickly until we reached the base of a ridge that we had just marched over, I stopped for a moment to give the others their orders.

  Indicating Scribonius and Balbus, I said loudly enough for all to hear, “We’re going to go up the ridge and see what’s on the other side. I want the rest of you come halfway up and wait for us there.”

  Pointing to two other Evocati, I posted one on each flank, out perhaps a quarter mile to warn us if anyone tried to come up from a different direction.

  “I don’t remember volunteering for this,” Balbus grumbled.

  “You didn’t,” I said, giving him a grin. “But you’re coming anyway.”

  Trotting up the hill until we neared the crest, we slowed to a walk so that just the top of our heads inched up over the rim of the hill. Once we reached a point where we could see, we stopped, searching the ground in front of us. At first, I saw nothing, then Scribonius pointed off to our right.

  “There. See? That cloud of dust?”

  As I turned to where he was pointing, my heart started beating more rapidly; there was indeed a smudge of dust hanging just over a line of trees. The ground was not exceptionally dry, so I knew that it would take quite a few feet to create even that size cloud, but at that moment, we still could not see anything.

  I sighed and said, “I guess we have to get closer to see exactly what’s headed for us.”

  “Whoever it is, there are a lot of them,” Balbus replied.

  Nevertheless, they both followed me without complaint when I crested the ridge. Before I crossed over, I turned to signal for the rest of the Evocati to follow me, then headed down the slope towards the line of trees. Drawing closer, we could see by the position of the dust that whatever was causing it was still on the far side of the trees, meaning that we would have to go into the forest, which I did not like at all. It could not be helped; Crassus had ordered me to find out what kind of threat was headed for us, and that was what I would do. Reaching the trees, I repeated my orders to the other Evocati, taking Scribonius and Balbus with me. Since we had skirted this small forest when we had marched by, I did not know what to expect, and I was dismayed to see that the space between the trees was choked with undergrowth. It was not anything that Ocelus and the other horses could not push through, but there was no way to do it silently, or at least so I thought. If this advancing force had scouts of their own, a practical certainty, there was no way to get close enough to get a good look at what was coming quietly with our horses crashing through the brush.

  Leaning down, I whispered to Ocelus, “I need you to move as quietly as you can, boy. I know it’s hard, but I know you can do it.”

  Twitching his ears and pawing at the ground in answer, Ocelus began moving forward. To my intense relief and surprise, he began weaving through the dense undergrowth, making hardly a whisper of sound. I turned to see that Scribonius and Balbus were following, their horses following Ocelus’ lead, communicating in that way that horses seem to have that is beyond our understanding. All I could do was give a shrug while pointing at my horse, which was moving like a cat, albeit a big one, in the basic direction I had pointed him. I became so fascinated watching Ocelus navigate his way that I forgot to keep looking farther ahead than just a few feet. We were also approaching upwind, because Ocelus gave no indication that anyone was nearby. Making his way so quietly that when he picked his way through what looked like a solid wall of growth, we were no more than 20 paces away from a man on horseback, who had evidently just pulled up because his horse had alerted him to our presence. He was dressed in a manner similar to what I had seen of the Dacians, in a short tunic and a cloak of a muted brown tone. He was young, although by this point, everyone looked young to me, but he had a full beard of a reddish color, with very vivid blue eyes, opened wide in surprise. His mouth hung open, and in one of those strange moments of clarity that seem to happen in times like this, I noticed that he was missing one of his front upper teeth. For several long, slow heartbeats, we just sat staring at each other, before he roused himself from his trance to jerk the head of his horse around. The beast, as startled as its rider, reared a bit, then pivoted on its back legs, taking a giant leap away from me before I came to my senses.

  Scribonius had just come up behind us and, looking over my shoulder and seeing the fleeing scout, shouted, “Titus, we can’t let him escape!”

  Without thinking about it, I jammed Ocelus in the ribs with my heels while slapping his rump hard with my left hand, the first time I had ever struck him in such a manner. It was a lucky thing that my tension at being surprised had caused me to grip the reins extra tightly, or I would have been thrown off when he made his first jump like he was shot from a ballista. Suddenly, in the space of time it takes to blink an eye, we were thundering at full speed, ripping through the thickets as if they were not there. In just a few bounds, we closed the distance that the scout had gained with his initial burst, but I quickly realized that I was more concerned with not falling off Ocelus’ back than taking down another mounted rider. Instantly following that was the thought that I had never fought on horseback, and had no real idea how to do it.

  Looking ahead, I could see the brighter light and thinning trees that signaled the end of the forest. Leaning forward, I shouted to Ocelus to go faster. He must have understood because I felt the bunching of his muscles between my thighs, and before I could take a full breath, we were pulling abreast of the Bastarnae. He had been down low over his horse’s neck, making his own pleas to his mount to go faster, but then he sensed me next to him. In one fluid motion, he swung his spear, whipping it over his head in a backhand that I just managed to twist aside to avoid, hearing the tip whistle past my ear even above the roaring sound caused by the speed of my horse. My sudden movement almost unseated me, taking a heartbeat of time to regain my balance before I drew my own sword. Immediately, I let out a string of curses; as always, I had been carrying my Gallic blade, which is an infantry weapon, and for fighting on the ground there is no finer weapon in the world. But this was a cavalry fight, and while somehow Ocelus had known or sensed to draw abreast of the man on his left side, I needed a blade at least a foot longer to do any good. The scout had recovered from his first swing at me, making a second attempt, but I was ready for it this time, knocking the blow aside with my blade. Gritting my teeth, but refusing to offer up a prayer to the gods, I decided to rely on my skill and willingness to die, nudging Ocelus with my left knee, commanding him to move closer to the Bastarnae scout. Seeing his ears twitch backward, I could almost hear his thoughts, asking, “Are you mad?” yet he obeyed instantly.

  We were now about a hundred paces away from the edge of the forest. I heard shouting off to the right, yet I could pay no attention, since I had pulled within arm’s length of the Bastarnae. Moving Ocelus this close to the other horse was extremely dangerous because neither animal was running in a perfectly straight line, picking their way around obstacles, and my movement made the man panic. He took one last wild swing, his body twisting sideways, only the fact that he was a superb horseman keeping him from falling off. It did not save him from my blade as I thrust it into his unprotected side. I heard him grunt, except that he did not fall, stubbornly clinging to the saddle and I understood that since I had been unable to put my weight behind the thrust, using only the strength of my arm, it had not been a killing blow. In desperation, I reached out while still holding my sword, grabbing the neck of the man’s tunic while pushing Ocelus in the side with my right knee, moving him to the left. Immediately veering away, it felt like my arm was going to come out of its socket, but I just managed to hang on so that the man was dragged from his saddl
e. Releasing my grip, I watched him slam into the ground at a full gallop and he let out a scream as his body tumbled through the underbrush, arms and legs flailing wildly. Panting for breath, my arm felt as if it were on fire, but I was also exultant, feeling the flush that comes with victory and vanquishing your foe. That feeling was short-lived, as I heard Scribonius behind me, shouting a warning.

  “Don’t let the horse get away! They’ll know something is wrong when they see him come back without his rider!”

  But it was too late; I caught just a glimpse of the hindquarters of the animal as it went bursting out of the woods, into the brighter light. Cursing, I turned Ocelus about, blowing hard but otherwise showing little fatigue, and trotted back to where Scribonius was just dismounting, sword in hand. He walked over to the fallen man, who was moaning in pain and bleeding heavily from the wound in his side. I reached the two, and it was then I noticed that Balbus was missing.

  “Where’s Balbus?”

  Scribonius jerked his head in a direction indicating generally back in the direction where he had just come.

  “This one’s partner,” he explained. “He was deeper in the woods and somehow we missed him. Balbus cut off his line of retreat, and he headed back that way.”

  That explained the shouting, and I could only hope that Balbus and the rest of the Evocati managed to stop this man’s partner. Despite his obvious pain, our new captive was glaring up at us.

  “He’s a feisty one,” Scribonius remarked, nudging the man with a toe, who responded by spitting at us.

  Immediately, I took a step forward to put my foot directly on the man’s wound, causing him to throw his head back, letting out a shriek of agony. All signs of defiance were gone, and he looked up at me with haunted eyes, seeing in me not a shred of pity.

  “How many Bastarnae are in your party?” I asked him, speaking in Latin but very slowly, hoping that he knew enough of our words to understand me.

  He cocked his head, then shook it.

  “Pluto’s cock,” I muttered, switching to Greek and repeating the question.

  I got the same reaction, and I turned to Scribonius.

  “I thought these people spoke Greek, or at least understood it.”

  “They do, as far as I know, but let’s face it, we don’t know much about the Bastarnae.”

  Squatting down, Scribonius examined the man’s wound, then asked him quietly, again in Greek, “You understand us, don’t you?”

  For a moment, the man did nothing, and I was sure that we were wasting our time. Finally, he nodded slowly.

  “Good,” Scribonius said, shooting me a look of satisfaction that he had been able to extract from the man with a kind tone what I had not with a boot to the side.

  “Your wound isn't fatal. If it’s treated, you'll live,” Scribonius said meaningfully. “And I give you my word as an officer of the Roman army that it will be treated, but only if you cooperate. Do you understand?”

  The man said nothing, just nodded his head. Scribonius was right; if treated, his wound was not fatal, except that he was losing blood rapidly, his eyes beginning to dim as he weakened.

  “We know that the main Bastarnae army is trying to cross back over the Ister, but we also know that you're a scout of another Bastarnae force. How large is it, and did you get separated? Are you a war party, or do you have your families like the main group?”

  The scout lay looking up at Scribonius, a strange expression coming over his face when my friend asked the question. When Scribonius was finished the man said nothing, looking from Scribonius to me, then back to Scribonius, still not speaking. Then, he gave an almost imperceptible shrug, and I began to get angry.

  “This is a waste of time,” I growled, taking a step forward and lifting my foot to kick him in his side again.

  He let out a gasp, holding his hands up in supplication, shaking his head wildly.

  “I . . . not Bastarnae.”

  My foot stopped, hovering just above his side as Scribonius and I looked at each other.

  “What do you mean, you're not Bastarnae?” Scribonius asked. “What other tribe is marching with the Bastarnae?”

  Again, the man shook his head.

  “We not with the Bastarnae. We march against Rome on our own.” Some of the defiance came back and he looked into my eyes, the hatred in them needing no translation. “This is our land, not Rome land. We will destroy your army, Roman. We will drive you out of our land and you will never come back.”

  “Where are we exactly?” I asked Scribonius.

  He cocked his head, thinking for a moment.

  “Moesia, I believe.”

  This got a reaction from the man, who nodded vigorously.

  “Yes! I Moesian. My army is from Moesia. And we will kill all of you and Rome will never come back!”

  Scribonius stood, and we moved a few paces away so the prisoner could not hear us.

  “I think he’s telling the truth,” he said.

  “So do I. It makes sense, I suppose. I know that the Moesians have been just as much of a handful as the Pannonians and all the other tribes in this gods-forsaken place. I'm guessing they saw a chance to strike a blow at just one Legion.”

  Turning back to the man, I asked him, “How many are in your army?”

  At first, he refused to answer, but all I had to do was lift my foot and he blurted out, “Many thousands! Many!”

  I sighed, rolling my eyes at Scribonius. It was clear that this youth had little experience in his army.

  “You need to be specific.” I saw he did not understand the word, and I searched for a better way. “We need to know exactly how many thousands there are. Ten?”

  He shook his head.

  “Less? Six?”

  Another shake of the head.

  “More. Fifteen?”

  That got a shrug, which I took to be a positive answer. I cursed again, turning back to Scribonius.

  “What do you think?”

  Scribonius frowned, considering the question.

  “I don’t think it’s that many, but I think it’s more than 10,000, just judging from that cloud of dust. Whatever, I think we’ve gotten all we're going to out of him.”

  “Not quite,” I answered. Squatting back down, I asked the scout, “How many men like you? On horses?”

  In answer, he first held up three, then four fingers, prompting another curse from me.

  “Four thousand?”

  He nodded. This was not a good situation to be in at all. We were essentially one Legion caught between two vastly superior forces, in numbers at least. If these two separate armies were in communication and realized our predicament, we were dead men, every one of us. I turned back to the scout, thinking to ask him if he knew whether or not some sort of pact or alliance had been enacted between the Bastarnae and Moesians, but realized he would have no idea.

  When he saw my hesitation, I think he mistook it for fear, because he blurted out, “We will drive Rome from these lands! Runo will kill all of you, and Rome will leave and never come back.”

  Scribonius and I exchanged a look; we had at least learned the name of the leader of this army. This Runo did not know it yet, but he had made the lives of his people very, very difficult. I knelt by the scout, who was little more than a boy, looking him in the eyes, and I was struck again by what a vivid color of blue they were, almost the color of Caesar’s but a little darker.

  “Even if your Runo does manage to kill all of us, boy, there's something you need to remember.” I paused for a moment, then said, “Rome always comes back.”

  While I spoke these last words, I drew my dagger across his throat, cutting so deeply I could feel the blade grating against the bone, almost severing his head. His eyes opened wider in astonishment, a gurgling sound emanating from the hole, his back arching and heels digging into the ground, which began drumming with each spasm of his legs as the light left his eyes. Wiping the blade off on his tunic, I stood up, turning to see Scribonius standing there,
open-mouthed in astonishment and anger.

  “Titus, you killed that boy,” he gasped. “After I gave him my word that he'd live!”

  “You gave your word,” I said shortly. “I didn’t.”

  And without waiting for a response, I walked over to leap onto the back of Ocelus.

  “We need to go tell Crassus about this. And find Balbus. Are you coming or not?”

  I looked down at him standing there, and for a long, awful moment, I thought he might actually say no, but he closed his mouth, the muscles of his jaws clenching, then gave a curt nod. Climbing aboard his own mount, he followed me while we retraced our steps back in the direction we had come.

  Balbus had indeed caught the other scout and was waiting for Scribonius and me with the rest of the Evocati at the edge of the forest. I briefly related what we had learned on our way back to the Legion at a fast trot. Passing the Seventh standing ready, nodding to Gaius, but not stopping to let him know what was happening, we made our way to the command group. I made my report to Crassus and Macrinus, who had remained with his general while we were gone, the rest of the Legion having halted and were resting easy.

  “Moesians?” Crassus echoed when I told him what was headed our way. “It has to be that bastard Runo behind this,” he said.

  “That's who the scout said was leading this army,” I told Crassus, impressed that he had instantly identified the leader of the Moesians without being told.

  “He’s been causing us trouble for years,” he explained. “But I never thought he'd have the nerve to actually get an army of that size to march for him.”

  Crassus considered the situation for a moment, the rest of us remaining silent while he decided what to do. As second in command, I suppose I could have spoken my mind without waiting, but I was learning to trust the man.

  Finally, he said, “We need to deal with this threat now. The Bastarnae can wait.”

  He turned to give Macrinus his orders, and I waited for him to address the one nagging thought that had occurred to me in the forest. After a moment when it became clear he was not, I spoke up.