Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

  He laughed, clearly pleased that he had forced me to ask.

  “They were indeed coming to help the Bastarnae. The Getae have had a treaty put in place by Roles’ grandfather to offer mutual assistance if they're attacked. But I instantly saw that Roles’ heart wasn't in it, so I changed the subject and we talked of other matters.”

  “Other matters?” I could not think of what else could possibly interest either man when they faced the prospect of fighting each other. “What other matters?”

  “Oh, how much he admires Rome, and has always wanted to visit it.”

  He shot me a sidelong glance, gauging me to see if I could guess where this was headed. I thought I did.

  “So you dangled a free trip to Rome in front of him and he snapped at it?”

  I shook my head; that seemed to be too good to be true, and an awfully cheap price to turn the Getae home.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” he admitted, and I thought, here it comes, but I was not prepared for what was coming. “The Getae are coming back with us to the fortress, just like they promised they would by treaty. But they're now working for us.”

  I looked at him in astonishment.

  “What did that cost us?”

  He gave a shrug, as if it were no matter.

  “The Getae will be named Friend and Ally of Rome.” He threw this out offhandedly, making it sound like conferring such status was of no moment, or consequence.

  Now I stared at him in open disbelief.

  “Doesn’t that have to be approved by the Senate?” I asked cautiously, despite knowing very well that this was the case, although it is no longer.

  “Formally perhaps, but I have Proconsular authority,” he replied, his tone now stiff.

  He knows that he’s sticking his neck out, I thought, so I let the matter drop to move to something else.

  “You said the Getae are working for us. What does that mean exactly?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then said, “That hasn’t been worked out in detail yet, but we're meeting tomorrow to work everything out.”

  We returned to the makeshift camp, where for once I was thankful that my rank allowed me to share space in Silva’s Praetorium out of the rain, even if it did not make me popular with Scribonius and Balbus. They spent the night huddled together under one sagum while wrapped up in another, and were in a very foul mood the next morning. The weather finally broke shortly after dawn, but the ground of the camp was a sea of mud, and the trees continued to drip water. We returned to the hill, where Roles and Crassus met again to work out the details of what form the aid the Getae would give us would take. Fortunately, this did not take nearly as long, the two men once again clasping hands and embracing around mid-morning.

  When Crassus rejoined us, he cried, “We've found our Ulysses!”

  On the way back, Crassus explained what Roles had agreed to do for us.

  “They're going to the fortress, which the Bastarnae are expecting. But once they're allowed in, they're going to seize control of the gate and signal us when they do.”

  On the surface that sounded fine, but it had one huge and fatal flaw as far as I could see, and I asked Crassus, “And what about us? Are we just supposed to stand by and watch the Getae march up and not do anything about it? That will arouse suspicion immediately.”

  “You’re right,” he acknowledged, “which is why we're withdrawing.”

  “Withdrawing?”

  “Once we get close to the fortress, we’re going to go to the gallop, like Cerberus himself is chasing us. We’re going to go into camp and we’re going to break everything down as far as the camp goes, but we’re going to abandon all of our tools and the heavy gear, making it seem like we're in a panic to leave. Shortly after we reach the camp, Roles is sending a rider to the fortress to let the Bastarnae know that the Getae are coming shortly. That should explain why we're in such a hurry to leave. After all, between the Getae and the Bastarnae there, we'll be outnumbered.”

  “Not by much,” I pointed out, still not convinced that the Bastarnae would be fooled.

  “That's true. Which is why the Getae courier is also going to let it slip that there's another Bastarnae column approaching but is still two or three days away.”

  Again, on the surface this sounded good, except I remembered what Crassus had related about the strained relations between this branch of the Bastarnae and the rest of the tribe, which I mentioned now.

  “That’s true,” he admitted. “But these people are desperate, and desperate people will believe anything if it means they'll survive. That’s what I’m counting on.”

  It seemed a flimsy thing to rest one’s hopes on, except that things had been going Crassus’ way, so I decided to wait and see what happened. We drew up just out of sight of the fortress to let the horses rest before we began our part of the plan.

  “Remember,” Crassus called to all of the gathered Evocati. “The men can't know this is just a ruse. They need to believe that we have to pack up and get out of here as quickly as possible to avoid alerting the Bastarnae that something is going on.”

  With that last warning, he spurred his horse, beginning the run to our camp. We galloped up and over the hill that led down into the valley surrounding the fortress, whipping our mounts as if we were being hotly pursued. Ocelus’ hooves churned up the muddy ground, making sucking sounds that were clearly audible above the shrieking wind, and I gave up trying to dodge the globs that came from the heels of Crassus’ mount. I was just happy that I was near the front, but by the time we came pounding up to the camp, skidding to a halt and spraying muddy water everywhere just outside the ramparts of the camp, I was fairly covered in muck. Despite knowing our identities, the duty Centurion still went through the formality of challenging, then asking for the watchword, which Crassus provided without irritation. Charging into the camp and pounding up the Via Praetoria, I dismissed the Evocati to attend to their own packing, while Crassus and I continued to the Praetorium. The bucina sounded the assembly for all senior Centurions moments later, who did not dawdle, the word of our hurried entrance being too much to keep secret. As soon as all the Primi Pili and Pili Priores arrived and assembled in the forum, Crassus wasted no time.

  “A large force of Getae are headed this way, and will be here no later than midday tomorrow. They're coming in response to a plea for help by the Bastarnae,” he announced breathlessly, his tone urgent but composed. He waited a moment for the buzz of talk to die down before continuing. “Between their forces and those that are in the fortress, the numbers don't favor us, particularly if, as we believe, other branches of the Bastarnae are coming to help as the Getae are. While we haven't seen any sign of any Bastarnae, it would be foolish to presume that they're not coming. That's why we're breaking camp. I want the army ready to march immediately.”

  Exactly as Crassus had predicted earlier, this caused an uproar, the Centurions all beginning to talk at once, shouting questions to Crassus.

  “What about the artillery?”

  “Are we taking the heavy gear?”

  “Are we just abandoning the tunnels?”

  Crassus held his hands up for silence, but it took several moments before the Primi Pili got control.

  “We'll take the artillery, but everything else must be left behind,” he told them. “Now I need you to go attend to your duties. I know I can depend on you to get the men ready.”

  Without waiting for any more questions, he turned on his heel, returning to the Praetorium, while I went to my own tent. Diocles had already been told and was working with the other slaves to break everything down and pack up. Scribonius, Balbus, and I did little more than stand watching the camp being broken down quickly and efficiently. The word that the Getae were coming had instantly circulated through the camp, meaning that the Centurions did not need to use the vitus to hurry the men along. It may not have been the fastest I ever saw an army break camp, but it was certainly among the fastest, so there was still a fai
r amount of daylight left when we began the march. Due to the weather, it was impossible to fire the towers and other wooden structures that had been built, which actually was a good thing, since Crassus had no real intention of destroying anything, knowing that we would be returning. He was absolutely convinced that Roles was being true with him, despite my strong reservations, having had enough experience with barbarian treachery to know that nothing was certain until it happened the way it had been promised. However, I did not voice my concerns, preferring to wait and see if he was right in his judgment of Roles. I looked back to see the Bastarnae lining the ramparts, and while we weren’t close enough to see their expressions, I could easily imagine their elation at seeing us march away. Only time would tell if they were fooled in the manner Crassus had hoped.

  Once safely out of sight, Crassus called a halt to hold another meeting of the senior Centurions to let them know what was really going on. Their reaction seemed to be equal parts irritation at the subterfuge and relief for the reason behind it. Since it was almost dark, Crassus had to make a decision about what to do as far as camp, and he ordered that the men would have to endure a night in the open while we waited for Roles to make his appearance. The men were allowed to settle down in place, making themselves as comfortable as possible, wrapping up in their sagum to ward off the chill. Once it got dark, Silva was sent with a small detachment back to watch for Roles, while the rest of the army waited. Fortunately, the rain had stopped, our luck holding for the entire night, making it only slightly less miserable.

  When dawn came, the skies were still gray and low, but it remained dry. The men chewed on cold breakfasts, eating what bread or lumps of bacon they had left over from the evening meal. Sitting on their packs, they passed the time talking quietly, the topic exclusively on the news of the subterfuge of which we were waiting to see the results, the moments dragging by. The sun finally made an appearance, causing the soaked ground to emit steam, compounding the misery since it felt like one was in the baths, except fully clothed. We all found ourselves glancing at the sun much more frequently than normal, yet still no word came from Silva. Tempers grew short, men beginning to snap at each other when one asked a question or made a complaint about the waiting, while even Crassus started showing his nerves by incessantly drumming his fingers on the front of his saddle.

  “I really wish he’d stop doing that,” Balbus muttered. “It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Just like your incessant humming does to me,” Scribonius said sourly.

  Before a quarrel broke out, I slipped Ocelus between the two.

  “Enough,” I said. “None of this is helping.”

  It was shortly before midday when someone cried out that they heard the sound of hoof beats, causing us all to listen intently, but after a moment, there were a number of curses thrown at the man who had shouted the warning, sure that he was hearing things. Just a moment later, he was proven right when a rider came galloping over the crest of the hill, flinging mud in all directions as he did not spare his horse. Thankfully remembering to pull to a stop short of where we were gathered to avoid showering us with muddy water, the man trotted up, his face flushed from the excitement of his ride.

  “The Getae have arrived, but the Bastarnae are refusing them entry! The Getae king is talking to the Bastarnae now!”

  Obviously dismayed at this development, Crassus managed to maintain his composure.

  “Very well. Go back and keep me apprised of what’s happening.”

  The rider was not even out of sight when he was passed by yet another courier, heading back toward us. He was not as mindful as his counterpart and when he pulled his mount to a stop, mud was flung in every direction, sending a round of curses the man’s way. The rider, a youngster about Gaius’ age, blushed furiously and seemed to have forgotten what he had been sent for as he apologized profusely to all of us.

  “Never mind that,” Crassus snapped. “What news?”

  “Oh,” the boy gulped, his mouth opening and closing while he tried desperately to remember what he had been sent for. “Oh yes, sir,” he said finally. “The Getae king convinced the Bastarnae to let them in. They're entering the fortress right now!”

  Crassus wasted no time, turning to shout orders to the Centurions. We had decided not to use the bucina to signal, not wanting the sound carrying to alert the Bastarnae that we were still in the area, making for a bit of scrambling getting the men on their feet, ready to march. Once formed up, Crassus wasted no time, immediately taking the lead while motioning for the Evocati to fall in with him, whereupon we began the short march back to the fortress. Ocelus clearly sensed the nervousness, not only in the air but from his rider, skipping nervously along, his ears twitching and head tossing. I was preparing myself for the possibility that this was a trap, one that seemed to grow to more of a certainty in my mind with every passing step. By the time we crested the last hill and the fortress was in view, I was convinced that we would be met with a hail of missiles, and I began mentally planning the best way to escape as we passed the remains of the camp. The towers were still intact, along with the ditches, although the stakes of the rampart had been pulled up and were with us. Silva came galloping up from his position on the far side where he had been watching the gate, a broad grin on his face, making me feel somewhat better. I had come to regard Silva as one of the best cavalry commanders I had ever served with, and seeing him convinced that all was well made me feel somewhat better.

  “The Getae hold the gate and are fighting their way deeper into the fortress. Roles sent a courier to inform you that he's upheld his end of the bargain.”

  Crassus drew his sword, waving it over his head, the signal to his cornicen to sound the advance, then without waiting, began trotting in the direction of the gate.

  “I hope this isn’t some sort of trap,” Scribonius commented, but when I turned Ocelus to follow Crassus, he did the same, with a resigned shrug.

  Fortunately, there was no trickery. When we approached the gate, Roles was waiting there, his sword sheathed, a broad grin on his face. There were still a number of Bastarnae bodies heaped around the gate, and when I looked upward, I could see more dead slumped over the parapet, arrows protruding from their backs.

  “Marcus Crassus, I present to you this fortress, as part of our agreement.” Roles’ Greek was excellent, despite having a peculiar accent that I could not place.

  He bowed to Crassus, who returned the bow with a nod of his own, then asked Roles, “Is the entire fortress taken?”

  Roles shrugged as if it were not important.

  “Not yet,” he admitted. “But it will be, soon.”

  I had been listening to the sounds coming from inside the walls and while it was impossible to tell who was winning, what was apparent was that the fighting was fierce.

  Crassus obviously sensed the same thing, because he turned to Roles, saying politely, “It sounds like your men are handling things well. I would like to offer one of my Legions to assist in helping to provide security.”

  Roles’ brow furrowed, clearly not liking this offer.

  “As you say, Marcus Crassus, my men are handling things. There is no need for any assistance, but I thank you for your kindness.”

  “If you would allow my men to secure the part of the fortress you've already taken and take care of stragglers, that would free more of your men to continue the fight,” Crassus pointed out, which was perfectly reasonable and it was impossible for Roles to argue that.

  “All right,” he replied grudgingly, giving a wave of his hand to indicate that he no longer cared.

  Crassus turned to give a quiet order to Cornelius.

  “Bring the 8th up and into the fort.”

  Cornelius wheeled and trotted off. A few moments later, the men of the 8th came pounding up with Cornelius and Macrianus at their head. Roles stepped aside to let our men through, and they went charging past the gate, with Macrianus pointing in either direction from the entrance. I suspected that Crassus
had other plans for the 8th than just securing the perimeter, and he motioned to me to follow him while he rode inside the gate with Roles at his side. Curious about what was going to happen, I followed closely behind. Despite being unable to hear what Crassus said to Roles, I saw the Getae king stiffen in his saddle, but he refused to look at Crassus as we entered the fort, picking our way past the sprawled bodies of the Bastarnae defenders. Ocelus shied at the scent of blood hanging thick in the air, but I managed to control him as we got our first look inside the walls. This fortress was a town in everything but name, with several dozen buildings, most of them stoutly built of native stone, heavy logs, or a combination of both. The layout was anything but organized; at a glance one could tell that these structures were added haphazardly, creating dead ends and blind alleys, making the place a nightmare to take. I could see bunches of Getae rushing about, with no organization and seemingly more intent on looting those buildings nearest the gate. That was all Crassus needed to see and he leaned over, giving Macrianus a quiet order, whereupon the Primus Pilus began directing his Cohorts forward. I gave Roles a sidelong glance and I saw his jaw set, but to my surprise, he did not object. I supposed that he saw as plainly as we did that if we were to rely on his men to defeat the Bastarnae, we would be waiting quite a while. Catching a glimpse of the Seventh, I saw Gaius with his Century moving quickly up what appeared to be a blind alley and I tried to keep my concern from showing, because I could feel Scribonius watching me from his spot just behind. Crassus began chatting with Roles and slowly the Getae king relaxed, even giving a chuckle at something Crassus said. After a moment, I heard the distinctive sounds of a Roman Legion fighting; the cornu calls, the blasts of whistles sounding a relief, along with the shouting in my native tongue that told me that the 8th had engaged with the Bastarnae. With nothing to do but wait, I occupied myself by walking Ocelus along the inside of the wall to watch our men push deeper into the fortress until they made a turn that took them out of sight. From all appearances, the 8th was having little problem, and it was not long before Cornelius sent back word that most of the fortress had been seized, with one last pocket of Bastarnae, including their women and children, surrounded and trapped inside two buildings.