Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

  “What in Hades is this?” I muttered, I suppose to Ocelus, since there was nobody else around.

  Thinking they were Moesians, I quickly realized my mistake when I saw that the Cohort nearest the group did not sound any kind of alarm. Curious, I headed Ocelus in their direction, squinting to try to make out the identity of the 20 or so horsemen. Finally, they drew close enough and I cannot describe the relief that flooded through me when I saw at their head Balbus, his scarred face more beautiful than the sweetest Vestal to me at that moment. He had a bloody bandage tied around one thigh, yet otherwise seemed unhurt, while the men with him, all Evocati, were in much the same condition. Some sported bandages made from their neckerchiefs, one man having it wrapped about his head, looking like one of the Egyptian tribes that live in the desert, but none were seriously wounded. Seeing me, Balbus broke into a canter, and we pulled alongside each other, clasping arms.

  “It’s good to see you alive, you bastard,” I told him, too affected emotionally to say more.

  “Same to you,” he grinned back.

  “Where have you been?”

  Balbus spat on the ground.

  “We went after those cocksuckers.”

  I looked at him in astonishment.

  “Just the 20 of you?”

  He gave a laugh, but it was tinged with bitterness.

  “I didn’t say it was smart. Besides, they were already withdrawing. We just made sure that they kept going.”

  “Did you catch any of them?”

  “No.” He was clearly disappointed, jerking his head over his shoulder. “But those worthless bastards in the 13th finally woke up and pulled their heads out of their asses. They managed to ambush them as they were withdrawing and took a few down with javelins. They had a strong position on the slope of the hill, so the Moesians didn’t stop.”

  That made it clear to me that this was nothing more than a raid, and the Moesian commander had no intention of trying to engage in a battle of any scope.

  “How did a force that size manage to slip past our flanking patrol?” I asked Balbus.

  “That's a question I'd like to know the answer to as much as you,” he grimaced. I realized that I had been putting off telling him about Scribonius, but he forced me to tell him when he looked around, and asked casually, “Where’s Scribonius?”

  I opened my mouth, yet the words would not come, and he looked at me in alarm.

  “What happened? Titus, tell me!”

  “He was hit with a javelin,” I finally managed to say.

  “Where?”

  “In the chest,” I replied.

  He shook his head like it would dispel the news I was giving him.

  Seeing my face, he asked quietly, “How bad?”

  “It’s bad. The good news is that it didn’t puncture his lung. Other than that . . .” I could only shrug.

  “Where is he now?”

  I pointed in the direction of where the hospital tent was even then being erected. All around us, men were digging the ditch that would form the perimeter of the camp, working with an urgency that did not need to come from the Centurions. They knew we had been hurt, and they knew that there were comrades whose lives hung in the balance and depended on how quickly they could be settled and treatment for their wounds could begin. It had been a bad day for Crassus’ army, and I wondered how he would react to this setback, whether or not it would convince him that it was time to turn around, or make him more determined than ever to crush the Moesians. I found it hard to think about at that moment, so when Balbus turned his horse without another word to head in the direction I had indicated, I turned to follow him. The truth was that I would be useless for anything the next few days.

  Scribonius survived the night, which Philipos assured us was a good sign, while also warning us not to read too much into it.

  “If his wound does not corrupt, he may survive, but only time will tell. I am surprised that he has lived this long.”

  “I know he doesn’t look it, but Scribonius is one tough bird,” Balbus said, and I looked at him in some surprise.

  “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said anything nice about him,” I said to him.

  “That’s not true,” he protested, sounding defensive.

  “Oh really? Name the last time.”

  After a moment, he could only shrug.

  “I know I said something nice about him at some point,” he grumbled.

  “He will need all the help you can give him,” Philipos told the both of us, but I was mystified about what he meant and when I glanced to Balbus, I could see he felt the same.

  “What can we do?” I asked Philipos. “We’re not physicians, and he's just lying there right now.”

  “There is a lot you can do. Do not underestimate the power your presence has on him while he is, as you say, lying there.”

  “But he’s unconscious,” Balbus protested. “He can’t possibly hear us.”

  “Do not be so sure,” Philipos replied, glancing down at Scribonius’ inert form. “Over the years, I have seen that men who had many visitors who talked to their friend, despite the fact that they were unconscious, seem to have a higher rate of recovery than men who do not.” With a shrug, he added, “Again, it is just something I have noticed. Besides, it cannot hurt.”

  So it began that either Balbus or I spent every moment at Scribonius’ side, even when we resumed the march and he was consigned to bouncing in the wagon. Crassus gave us an extra two days in camp, ostensibly to handle the matter of disciplining the Sextus Hastatus Posterior of the 13th Legion for his lapse that allowed the Moesian attack. Balbus took over for me at Scribonius’ bedside, since I had to attend the tribunal that was held. The senior Tribune Claudius, as the name implies, was actually the presiding officer, with the other five Tribunes making up the panel. Legate and Prefect were there as observers, although any Tribune who was not completely out of his mind, or so well connected that he could go against the wishes of the Legate in a matter would do exactly what the Legate wanted. Tribunals were generally held in the Praetorium, but Crassus decided that an example should be made of the Hastatus Posterior, a sorry specimen named Quintus Plautus, because of the impact of the Moesian attack. Consequently, he had chosen to have it held in the forum, in front of all the Centurions and Optios of the army.

  Plautus was escorted by his Pilus Prior and Natalis, the Primus Pilus, both men stone-faced when they led him to stand in front of the assembled tribunal. One Tribune had been elected as the prosecution, and one as the defense, and the unlucky Centurion drew Cornelius as his defender. Cornelius had many good qualities, but public speaking and the ability to make an argument were not among them. To be honest, it would not have made any difference. Perhaps Cicero could have swayed the Tribunes, but Crassus had already made it known that Plautus had to pay a severe price for his carelessness. I had been one of those who had pressed the Legate to impose a stiff punishment, arguing that an example needed to be set to ensure there was not a repeat. Only now, years later, can I see clearly that as much of a motivating factor for me was my grief about what had happened to Scribonius, and to a lesser extent Novatus and the other Evocati who had paid with their lives because Plautus had let his mind wander. The trial was short, with Crassus following my recommendation; Plautus was stripped of his rank, busted all the way back down to Gregarius, and he was given ten lashes, though without the scourge. The Optio, who according to the men of the Century, had actually tried to do what he could to keep the men alert, received a lighter sentence of a stiff fine, and like the rest of the Century, was put on barley bread and water for 30 days. As a final penalty, the men of the Sixth Century of the Sixth Cohort of the 13th Legion were put on punishment detail, cleaning out the stables and filling in the cac trenches for a month. I told Scribonius of the punishment, sitting next to his bed that night, while the army made preparations to continue the march.

  As I had surmised, the attack by the Moesians had fired Crassus’ determ
ination to inflict even more punishment on them. Meanwhile, the Primi Pili recognized that their chances of talking him into turning around ended that day. When the army began to march the next morning, Scribonius was loaded into my wagon, which I had emptied of my baggage, the Primi Pili and even Tribune Claudius making room in theirs for my gear. I did not want him to have to share a wagon with other wounded, even of Centurion rank, of which there were three. Instead of placing him on a hard board, I had the leather immunes create a sling of the type that I had seen sailors use aboard ships that reduced the jolting he would receive. I sat in the back of the wagon with him, Ocelus tied to the wagon, and I continued talking, despite the fact that both Balbus and I had grown hoarse. It was a good thing that we had more than 30 years of memories to relive, which was mainly what we talked about, but Scribonius never made any kind of coherent response. Every once in a while he would moan softly, and one time he began flapping his hands weakly, like he was trying to beat something away from his body. Otherwise, he remained silent and still, swaying in his sling with the wagon rocking over the rough ground. It was perhaps the second day of the march, when I had run out of matters to talk about, that I began to talk to Scribonius of other things, matters that had weighed on my heart but had never talked about. It felt good to unburden myself, and despite knowing I was taking the coward’s way out by talking to an unconscious man, I could not stop myself. Philipos came several times a day to check on Scribonius, but all he would say was that every moment that Scribonius lived helped his chances. Balbus would come to relieve me, whereupon I would spend some time with Crassus, who did not press me on official business. Claudius was also a frequent visitor, surprising Balbus greatly the first time, until I explained to him what had transpired.

  “Well, at least something good came out of this,” was his only comment.

  While Claudius and I were not friends, and would never be friends, there was no longer the tension between us, which was a relief. I planned on talking to him at some point about the incident with the Centurions hailing Crassus imperator to try to make sure that he did nothing to damage Crassus with Octavian, but judged that the time was not right. Some of the wounded men died, some recovered, and it took time for the Praetorium to begin functioning again because of the death of so many of the clerks. I sent Diocles to help out, along with the Primi Pili’s clerks, and soon enough the paperwork was flowing again, and the army recovered from the attack.

  “Where am I?”

  Somehow, I had managed to fall into a light doze and I was sure that the words I heard were part of the dream, until it was repeated. That forced my eyes open and I looked over from my spot on the bench that had been placed in the wagon to see Scribonius staring up at the ceiling, wearing his familiar frown. Normally, I did not like seeing that plastered on his face, but at that moment it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Of course, I could not let him know that.

  “It’s about time you decided to wake up.” I tried to sound gruff, except my voice was too hoarse with emotion to carry it off.

  I rose to the half-crouch that I had to adopt to fit inside the wagon, crossing to Scribonius’ sling. The whites of his eyes were a horrible yellow color, his face was sunken in, the skin on his cheekbones was pulled taut, but he was alert.

  “You’re in a wagon,” I told him.

  “I gathered that,” he said dryly, his voice hoarse from the days he had been unconscious. “But why am I in a wagon?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  He gave a minute shake of the head, his eyes searching my face.

  “The last thing I remember was the attack,” he whispered. He frowned again before giving me an accusing look. “Then I remember chasing after some big idiot who decided to try and rescue a worthless Tribune that had caused him nothing but grief. Does that remind you of anyone?”

  “About that,” I began, but he cut me off.

  “So it wasn’t a dream!” His tone was accusatory, and he fixed me with what I am sure he thought was a fierce glare.

  “No, it wasn’t a dream,” I admitted.

  “You almost got me killed,” he said indignantly.

  I had imagined this scene many times; Scribonius regaining consciousness, and all the things I would say to him. However, this was not going at all the way I had thought it would. I held my hands up in a placating gesture.

  “Sextus, that wasn’t my intent, to get you killed.”

  “I should hope not,” he retorted.

  As quickly as it had come, his ire dissipated, his head dropping back onto the pillow. His face had become even paler, and I was afraid that he was going to lapse back into unconsciousness. I watched anxiously, but his eyes remained open, although they fluttered as if he were trying to fight off sleep.

  “You were badly injured,” I began, feeling the need to tell him exactly what his condition was, since I would have wanted someone to do for me.

  “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that,” he replied, except this time there was a sleepy smile on his face.

  I went on to describe the extent of his injuries, what Philipos had said, and what he had prescribed to help his recovery. I was somewhat embarrassed to admit that we had been talking to him while he was unconscious, but Scribonius got a strange look on his face.

  “I remember,” he said slowly, then paused for a moment. “You were talking about Miriam. And Gisela.”

  My blood froze; I was mortified that he had actually heard the things I had said.

  Seeing my face, he added hastily, “I really don’t remember anything other than their names.”

  I knew he was lying, but it was one of those fictions that I was willing to believe for the rest of our days.

  “Anyway, the fact that you’re still alive is a good sign. Your wound was clean and has stayed that way. Philipos says the pus is draining clear, which is normal for this stage. All in all, things are looking good, but you’re still not completely safe.”

  “Good to know,” he said, then yawned.

  I told him that he should try to stay awake long enough for me to get Philipos, and he promised he would, and I left to go find the physician. When we returned, he had passed out again, but Philipos examined him, listening to his heart and breathing.

  “He is getting better. His pulse is stronger, and his breathing is good. It’s time to try and get some food into him. Start with weak broth and see how he tolerates that.”

  With these instructions, he left me to sit staring at my friend, wondering just how much he had heard of all my confessions.

  Chapter 6-Ambush

  We were following the Nisava upstream, meaning that we were traveling uphill, making the going slower than Crassus liked. Hills turned into mountains, rising steeply from the valley floor up which we were traveling. We ran into the occasional village or small town, along with isolated farms, all of which were put to the torch, and the granaries emptied, but the foraging was becoming more difficult with each passing day. The weather was changing from the combination of the season growing late and the increased elevation, the nights becoming bitterly cold. Still, Crassus seemed intent on continuing and, to that point, the men, while clearly not liking it, were marching without more than the usual complaint. I was not sure that it would last much longer before there was open discontent, and not just with the rankers. As Philipos had instructed, Scribonius had started taking nourishment in the form of broth, sometimes with a scrap of meat thrown in. He grumbled about not getting any bread, but both Balbus and I stuck to what we had been instructed to do, ignoring his complaints for the most part. The color was slowly returning to his face, but his eyes still had their yellow cast to them, which Philipos said was due to some sort of imbalance in his bile. Personally, I do not believe that the Greek had any real idea what had caused this condition, but I did not say anything. I was just happy to see my friend slowly regaining his strength. Our scouts had cut the trail of what they believed was a second Moesian band, a bit smaller than th
e first. However, troublingly, they appeared to be headed on a course that would intersect with the first band at some point ahead of us. Despite the fact that these two groups combined would still not be enough to defeat us, we had to assume that there were other bands coming from other directions that would join with the two that we knew about. Reaching the point where the Nisava turned almost due north and up into the mountains where its headwaters lay, we were able to cross with little difficulty, since at that spot it is no more than a swiftly flowing stream with a rocky bottom. More importantly, it marked the spot where Crassus had told the Primi Pili that we would turn around, except when we crossed at about midday, continuing east without pause, I knew that he had made up his mind. Despite the Primi Pili not saying anything outright against continuing, it was clear that they did not like it, and I saw all four marching together, talking a short distance from the column. Therefore, that night when they came to my tent, I was not surprised.