Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

  “We're going to talk to Crassus,” announced Macrinus, who had been elected spokesman of the group, I suppose because of our connection through Gaius and the fact that we had a good relationship.

  “What about?”

  I knew perfectly well what they wanted to discuss, but I saw no point in making it easy for them. To his credit, Macrinus was not thrown off.

  “About his promise to only go as far as the headwaters of the Nisava before turning for home.”

  Actually, what Crassus had said was that we would follow the Nisava for a week, and we had exceeded that, but that was because we had paused for three days after the attack.

  “If I remember correctly, he made that conditional on finding significant numbers of Moesians to engage, or a settlement of substantial size that we could take,” I pointed out. “Not to mention that we haven’t been able to capture nearly enough prisoners to make up for the ones Roles killed.”

  Macrinus glanced over at the other Primi Pili, and I saw each of them give a slight nod, then he turned back to me.

  “We don’t care about the prisoners anymore,” he said flatly. “We talked it over with our Centurions, and they all agree that as much as we'd like the extra money, we want to return to Pannonia more.”

  I studied the faces of the four men, and saw that they were grimly determined.

  Sighing, I told them, “I'll go with you. But don’t be surprised if he doesn’t listen,” I warned them. “He seems dead set on chastising these people in a big way.”

  “We'll never know unless we try,” was Macrinus’ response, which was true enough.

  I put on my uniform, minus my helmet, and we marched to the Praetorium.

  On the way, I reminded them, “I'm going along as a witness, and if he asks my opinion, I'll tell him that I believe it's time to turn back. But if he doesn't ask me, I'm not going to venture my opinion.”

  The others looked disappointed, but my mind was made up on the matter. Although I understood the desire of the men to head for home, this campaign had not been that severe in terms of hardship. I suppose that the memory of Parthia always stuck with me, because I tended to compare every campaign after that against what we had been forced to endure during that nightmare. That is probably unfair, yet I cannot help feeling that way. We arrived at the Praetorium, and since Crassus had given standing orders that if I, or any of the Primi Pili requested an audience they be ushered in immediately, we were taken right into his office. The Legate was seated behind his desk, and did not seem surprised in the least to see us, but his gaze lingered on me for an extra moment.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked in a light tone, looking from one man to the other.

  As often happens, once actually in front of the general commanding the army, there seemed to be some confusion among the Primi Pili, then I saw Natalis give Macrinus a nudge from behind. Shooting Natalis an irritated look, Macrinus cleared his throat to begin speaking.

  “Sir, we're coming to you to respectfully request that you honor your promise to turn back at the headwaters of the Nisava,” Macrinus said carefully.

  Inwardly, I winced; I had tried to let him know that Crassus had not actually promised anything, but Macrinus seemed intent on ascribing to Crassus at least the intent of making a promise, even if his words did not meet that standard. Worse, Macrinus was starting by going on the attack, essentially challenging Crassus’ honor, and the Primus Pilus’ words had the predictable effect on the Legate.

  “I don't recall making any such promise,” Crassus flared, his lips a thin line. “What I said was that we'd follow the Nisava for only a week, provided,” he leaned forward to emphasize what he clearly saw to be the central point, “that we come across a significant number of Moesians that we could teach a lesson, and we haven't. Other than the force that attacked us and escaped, that is.”

  “We've taken and sacked three towns,” Macrinus pointed out, and I felt I could almost mouth the words as Crassus said them when he responded.

  “You call that collection of huts and hovels towns?” he scoffed. “They hardly qualify as being anything worthy of this army claiming a victory over, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I suppressed a smile; Crassus had just scored a major point. In every Legionary’s record goes an account of every engagement worthy of mention that he is involved in, including towns and cities taken. Crassus was right in that none of the settlements we had razed would qualify as worthy of mention, even for the most vainglorious of Legates, and as extremely ambitious as Crassus was, he was not excessively grasping for credit. He wanted to earn his accolades rightfully and in that, I could not blame him, because it had been much the same for me during my career, albeit on a smaller scale. The two parties looked across Crassus’ desk at each other, neither willing to budge. I knew that for there to be any hope that this meeting ended amicably, I would have to go back on what I had told the Primi Pili earlier, and speak before spoken to. I cleared my own throat, which sounded extremely loud in the silence, and Crassus looked over at me with a peeved expression.

  “Yes, Prefect? I suppose you're on their side?”

  “I'm on the side of doing what's best for Rome,” I said stiffly, a little irritated at his presumption. I could not resist adding, “And for this army as well.”

  I meant this as a warning to Crassus of what my role was, but his face gave away nothing.

  “So? What is it you'd like to say?”

  “Actually, I'd like to ask you a question, if I may, sir.” He looked surprised, but nodded for me to continue. “Can you provide specifics for what you're trying to accomplish? With all due respect, saying something like we’re looking for ‘significant numbers’ is a bit…..nebulous, don’t you think, sir?”

  I was using my very best Ranker When Addressing A Senior Officer tone; respectful, even a bit deferential, but it still pinned Crassus down, and he knew it. So did the others, all turning to look at the Legate expectantly, while he ignored them to glower at me.

  “Why, Prefect, I am impressed,” he did not bother to hide the sarcasm from his tone, “with your vocabulary. I'd never have thought I'd hear the word ‘nebulous’ come out of your mouth.”

  “I am full of surprises, sir,” I replied cheerfully, and I could see the others suppress smiles.

  “Indeed you are, Prefect,” he said ruefully.

  Sitting back, he folded his hands on the desk, seemingly studying them intently. Finally, he looked up.

  “Very well, I concede your point. I want one engagement, with a force of at least 10,000 Moesians, which would qualify to be included in the record of the campaign. Or, if we can't come to grips with a force of that size, I want to capture a town of at least 5,000 defenders and 10,000 inhabitants.” He crossed his arms, looking at each of us. “There,” he finished. “Is that specific enough for you?”

  For a moment, I was afraid that Macrinus and the others would ask for a moment to discuss matters, and that would have been the worst thing they could have done. Everything Crassus had done to that point had been lawful, and well within the traditional role of a Legate commanding the army, particularly a Legate with the Proconsular power with which Crassus had been vested. Whether or not he was participating in a venture that would be of such a scope that it would mark him as a possible rival to Octavian was a larger question. Most importantly, it was nothing that any of the Primi Pili, or me for that matter, should have been concerned with. If they had asked to confer outside of Crassus’ presence that would smack of mutiny, and could be seen as a direct threat to Crassus’ authority. Fortunately, at least Macrinus seemed to understand this, because he snapped to intente, gave a perfect salute, then assured Crassus that it was indeed.

  “Then, is there anything else?”

  Macrinus shook his head, but then Natalis blurted out, “How much longer are we going to keep looking for a fight that matches your criteria?”

  I could hear Crassus’ intake of breath at the question. I must say that he had be
en neatly caught out and he clearly knew it. His face reflected his unhappiness at being pinned down even further, yet he seemed to consider the question carefully before answering.

  “Another month,” he finally replied.

  Now it was the turn of the Primi Pili to have their breath taken away.

  “A month?” Macrinus was clearly struggling to maintain his composure.

  The others were not so circumspect, at least with their facial expressions, each of them clearly dismayed.

  “A month would put us at the Ides of October,” Macrinus said carefully. “Then we'd be marching well into winter, especially once the weather turns. I know that it only snows on the peaks here, but that means that we'll be marching in mud. We'll be lucky to make half the distance we're making now. Which would mean that we might not arrive back in Pannonia until after the end of the year. The men would have perhaps two months to recover, and the Legions to refit before we had to turn around and march back.”

  Macrinus was right, but Crassus was prepared. I do not know if he had thought of this before, or he was making it up as he went, but his manner was so assured it was impossible to tell.

  “That's why we're not returning to Pannonia,” he said smoothly. That was the first I had heard this, along with the Primi Pili. “We're going to march south, through Thrace, which is friendly to us, and down into Greece. We'll winter there, although I haven't decided exactly where, but I can assure you that it will be somewhere that can support an army during winter quarters and provide plenty of diversion for your leisure time.”

  He favored all of us with a brilliant smile and despite my shock and anger, I grudgingly had to admire the man. In the blink of an eye, he had turned the tables on the Primi Pili, and I suppose on me as well, given that most of the members of my household were in Siscia. The collective jaws of the Primi Pili dropped, then they exchanged bleak glances, all of them knowing that they had been outmaneuvered.

  Lying in my cot that night, reviewing what had taken place, I believe that Crassus had brilliantly exploited a regulation that, as I have mentioned numerous times, is one of the most flaunted in the army. When he had announced that we would be wintering in Greece, he had put the Primi Pili in a losing position, and he knew it. Unspoken between the two parties in this discussion was the real reason that the Primi Pili, and more importantly the men, wanted to return back to Pannonia and that was for the sake of their families. Families that are expressly forbidden by army regulations, as we all knew. Despite it being true that a fair number of unofficial wives accompanied us on every campaign, the larger number of the women tailing along were camp followers, whores by another name, who plied their trade on the march just like, if in a different way, a Legionary. Mothers and their children are usually left behind, since it is harder for them to keep up with us on the march. That is not to say that there were no children, but most of them were babes in arms, born on the march and carried by their mothers. However, there were not many of those. Going by the strict letter of regulations it should not have mattered to any man in the army where they spent the winter, since they should have had no attachments that would make a difference. The reality was far different, but the Primi Pili knew that they could not use that as a reason to return to Pannonia. While they generally liked and admired Crassus, I could not imagine any of them being willing to take the risk of exposing themselves to a tribunal should Crassus choose to enforce the regulations the way they are written. In short, the Primi Pili, and by extension all the men with families back in Pannonia, were well and truly fucked. They stayed up late into the night arguing about what to do, except I refused their request that I attend, telling them in no uncertain terms that I was done with the whole business. As far as I was concerned, the affair was over, having been decided in Crassus’ favor, and after a sleepless night, the Primi Pili finally came to the same conclusion. Now each of them had to find a way to tell their Legions that not only was there another month of marching looking for a fight, but once done, they would be spending their winter far away from their loved ones. I did not envy their predicament, and this was one time that I did not miss being in charge of a Legion in the slightest. When I told Scribonius of all that had taken place, he was grim.

  “That's going to hurt Crassus more in the long run than the men,” he said, in between spoonfuls of broth.

  “How so?”

  He paused while he considered his answer. He was looking better every day, yet he was painfully thin, and still haggard. Several days’ growth of beard partially hid his sallow complexion; in truth, he looked more like a barbarian than a Roman at that moment.

  “Because he's overextending himself,” Scribonius finally said. “Octavian is all about the customs and traditions of Rome, at least on the surface. And he's just as adamant about the unwritten rules as those on the bronze tablets. Crassus has just handed Octavian an excuse to take him down a notch. He can say that Crassus flouted one of the longest-standing traditions of the army, even if it is an unofficial one.” I sat listening, and when he was finished, I realized that what he was describing was very likely exactly what would happen. I shook my head sadly, evidently causing Scribonius to ask me, “Titus, why do you care what happens to Crassus? After all the trouble men like Crassus have caused you during your career, I would think you'd be happy to see another one fall.”

  “Crassus is different,” I began, to which he snorted in derision. Ignoring him, I pressed on. “He reminds me of his father. You remember how loved Publius was in Gaul, don’t you?”

  Scribonius’ eyes took on a faraway look, traveling across the years back to when we were young and in the ranks.

  “Yes, I do,” he admitted. “But don’t let your nostalgia for those days cloud your judgment.”

  “I don’t think I am,” I replied. “Although I'll admit that it’s possible.” Thinking about it some more, I finished with, “Whether he's just like every other patrician or not, there's one thing about him that I'm sure of, and that is that he’s capable. And Rome needs as many capable men as it can get.”

  As I expected, the rankers did not take the news that we would be continuing on and spending the winter in Greece well at all. Despite the fact they were not openly mutinous, or even disobedient, they expressed their discontent in the myriad ways that men in the ranks have. Moving a step more slowly than normal when doing some task; getting to their feet after a break on the march an extra heartbeat later than they have in the past; low, muttered conversation on the march instead of the spirited banter, all of these are weapons in the arsenal of the ranker to let their Centurions know they are unhappy. Moments like these are the real test of a Centurion, and in those days, I saw the cream rise to the top. Unfortunately, I saw the dregs as well. I had learned long ago, from the likes of Gaius Crastinus and Pulcher what not to do, which was trying to beat the men into a better frame of mind. Unfortunately, there were a fair number of Centurions throughout the army, in every Legion, who took that approach, beating men with the vitus because they were in a sullen mood. That was bad enough, but what made it worse was when those Centurions acted surprised when morale did not improve. I will say that I only saw two or three Centurions in the 8th who acted in this manner. The worst by far was the 13th, which already had morale problems because of the shame that Plautus’ Century had brought on the Legion.

  Natalis seemed at a loss on how to handle the problems in his Legion and I began spending time with him in an attempt to help him straighten matters out. After a bit of time with the man, I began to suspect that Natalis was one of those Primi Pili that was more of a political appointment than a man who had risen to the post on his merits. In some respects, every Primus Pilus is a political appointment; I am not blind to the fact that the same could be said about me with some justification, although I would put my record in battle against any man’s in the army, having the scars and decorations to back it up. In fact, I had been informed by Crassus just a few days before that he was awarding me a Grass Crown
for saving Claudius, making my second such award. The first one I won was for saving Scribonius, many years before, and I was happy that my friend seemed to be on the way to recovery now. He was still too weak to stand, yet he could now sit for short periods before the pain became too much to bear. Most of the less seriously wounded men had recovered enough to rejoin the ranks, while others succumbed to their injuries. The bouncing and jolting of the wagons probably had as much to do with killing these men as their initial injuries, but it could not be helped. If it had been possible, all the seriously wounded men, including Scribonius, would have been sent back to winter camp, or to some city that was safe for Legionaries to stay. However, we were too far from Pannonia, the situation too uncertain to risk sending several wagons with perhaps a Century escort through what was essentially enemy territory.

  We were now at a spot just north of the Thracian border, in between two chains of mountains, the southernmost forming part of what was a natural barrier into Thrace, while the northernmost curved from an east-west axis slightly northward, creating a broad valley through which a river (Hebros) ran. We turned north to follow this new river deeper into Moesia. The land began to flatten out, becoming more fertile, and it was not long before we began seeing more and more signs of habitation, beginning with small farms and villages. It was now the early part of the harvesting season, so parties were sent out to reap whatever crops were being grown. This served two purposes, helping to fill our own supply wagons while depriving the Moesians of food. Crassus believed, as did I based on experience, that the Moesians could not long remain passive, because of the threat not just from us but from their own people, who would become desperate at the prospect of starvation. If a leader cannot protect his own people, he is not likely to remain their leader for long, and as we moved northward, leaving columns of inky black smoke rising in the air, our scouts reported increased signs of enemy activity. Finally, just over a week after Crassus announced the extension of the campaign for another month, we got our first real glimpse of a large force of Moesians. We had been shadowed by outriders constantly since we had been attacked, but this was the first time we saw signs of anything larger. As was usual in these cases, it was in the form of a large cloud of dust, the rains that had plagued us earlier having ceased and left the ground extremely dry. Immediately, all the grumbling and sullen behavior was swept away, the men becoming excited at the prospect of battle. They were eager to avenge the embarrassment of the attack, along with holding the hope that if we could force the Moesians into battle and soundly defeat them, Crassus would be satisfied and we could end the campaign. The cloud was moving across our front, from east to west, causing Crassus to issue immediate orders to change our own course, putting us on a path that would intersect with the Moesians. We were headed to battle.