by R. W. Peake
“They’re Thracian, sir, just like that bastard Spartacus who caused us so much trouble all those years ago,” the Centurion ventured.
Crassus ignored him, speaking instead to the captive.
“Is this true?” he asked the man in Greek. “Are you Triballi?”
The captive did not answer for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether he would be betraying anything by replying. Finally, he just nodded his head, his eyes staying on Crassus’ face. Cursing bitterly, Crassus looked down at me, clearly angry at having this confirmed. I was not looking at Crassus, instead focusing on the Thracian, who was still being held between the two Legionaries. Now that the attention was no longer on him, or so he thought, I saw him look down at Balbus, whose eyes were still open, staring at a sky he could no longer see, and I swear that I saw the hint of a smirk cross his face at the sight of my dead friend. I am not sure what happened, because my next memory is standing with my Spanish sword in my hand, despite having no recollection in drawing it from the scabbard on my side, the blade dripping blood, with the Thracian lying at my feet. His intestines were in a greasy puddle next to him, while the two Legionaries were standing like they had become rooted to the spot, their mouths hanging open. Crassus looked no less astonished as he stared at me, while I slowly came back to my senses.
“What was that for?” the Legate gasped.
“He smiled at Balbus lying there,” was all I could think to say.
Hearing that, Crassus’ face changed, and he gave a shrug.
“Then he deserved what he got. I was going to have him executed anyway. But, Prefect,” while his tone was gentle, there was no mistaking the fact that he was giving me a command and not a request. “Next time, please warn me before you do something like that.”
“I’m running out of friends,” I said bitterly. “I doubt that there will be a next time at this rate.”
I instantly saw that I had embarrassed him as he shot a glance at Scribonius, who was oblivious, still kneeling at Balbus’ body with his head bowed. Crassus excused himself, saying that he had to see to the 15th and the other men. Before he left, he told me that he would send Philipos to attend to the wound on my cheek, which I had completely forgotten about. Then he rode away, leaving me and Scribonius alone with our friend.
Because we had been marching in our tunics and without wearing our armor, the casualties were much higher than they should have been. The 15th alone suffered almost one hundred men dead, with nearly three times as many wounded, the majority of the wounded being hit by the initial missile barrage. Of the Evocati, besides Balbus we lost another eleven dead, but because we had been involved with their cavalry, we did not have nearly as many wounded. Counting me, there were four men who could still ride, while five were litter cases, one of which would die before the next sunrise. Philipos stitched my cheek back together, leaving me with a crescent shaped scar to match the one on my left cheek.
“It’s a good thing that you are so charming,” the Greek commented as he worked. “Because I think that with your face looking like this the chances of winning the favors of a woman are very slim now.”
I knew he was trying to make me feel better, but I was in no mood for humor. I managed to refrain from saying something biting in reply, choosing instead to remain silent. He quickly took the hint, finishing his work in silence himself. Crassus had chosen to make camp at a spot less than a mile from the scene of the attack, and the men were hard at work, the shock of the attack having worn off, and the urgency of their situation making them perform their tasks with vigor. The Praetorium, which is always the first thing erected so that all distances for the dimensions of the camp are measured from that spot, was swarming with activity already, Crassus having called an immediate briefing. I had been excused to get my cheek attended to, but the moment Philipos was through, I left to go to the briefing. I was extremely worried about Scribonius, who had still not uttered a word since Balbus’ death, and it had been the better part of a day, yet I could not spare him the time. Entering the Praetorium, I saw that all the Primi Pili and the Tribunes were gathered around Crassus, and they turned to stare at me. At first I believed that it was because of the new scar on my cheek, but when I got close enough I could see the sympathetic looks and I realized that they had all heard about Balbus. I was in no mood for talk of Balbus, so before anyone could speak, I asked Crassus what I had missed.
“Not much,” he replied. “I just gave the order that we march in full armor and unslung shields until I say otherwise. We're going to march in agmentum quadratum as well.”
Those were sensible precautions, but I wanted to know what we were going to about punishing the Thracians for what they had done. I waited to listen to hear from Crassus what he had in mind; I was clearly not the only one who wanted to know, since it was Macrinus who finally asked the question. Crassus hesitated for a long moment, clearly not happy that he had been put on the spot.
Finally, he said carefully, “If we're attacked again, we'll pursue and destroy our attackers. But otherwise, we're going to continue to march to Greece.”
This was met by an uproar that in my mind was entirely predictable and justified. I knew that my judgment was clouded by my need to avenge the death of my friend, but I also believed that the Thracians needed to be punished severely for this attack. After all, I reasoned, we had done much more to the Bastarnae for much less. They had not attacked us; they had only come wandering into territory that was not theirs. It was clear that the Primi Pili felt the same way, and Crassus listened patiently to all they had to say. I had yet to voice my opinion, and when the others subsided, Crassus turned to me.
“I agree with the Primi Pili,” I said flatly. “I think we need to punish the Thracians. However,” I was willing to concede this much to Crassus, “I think that we should focus our attention only on the Triballi.”
Crassus pursed his lips as he considered this, or at least pretended to, but I suspected that his mind was made up and nothing we said was going to change it.
Finally, he shook his head and replied, “It’s already too late. The season’s over and we need to get to Greece. We can come back to Thrace next season and destroy the Triballi for what they've done. After all,” he pointed out, “we promised the Moesians that we wouldn't return, as long as they give us the second half of the payment. We made no such promises to the Thracians.”
This decision was extremely unpopular; not only with the Primi Pili, but with the entire army once they learned of it. However, the next morning, the men packed up and we continued the march. The night before we left, we consigned our dead comrades to the flames, Scribonius taking charge of Balbus’ ashes.
“He didn’t have any family, at least any that he cared about,” he explained. “So he might as well stay with me.”
And he did, and still does. Scribonius told me not long ago in a letter that he would have Balbus interred in his own family tomb once Scribonius himself leaves this world. Despite how much they picked at each other, they truly loved and cared for each other, and there is no greater proof than that. Crassus gave a funeral oration for Balbus worthy of his status and renown, for he was as well known throughout the Legions in his own right as I was. My only regret in this matter is that I was so overcome with grief that I do not remember what the Legate said, nor did I have Diocles transcribe his words, because my slave was as devastated as Scribonius and I. Balbus’ was not the only funeral, the smoke seeming to fill the sky with men sending their comrades on their way in Charon’s Boat. Unsurprisingly, the mood throughout the camp was somber, even for those Legions who had not lost any men; any loss of comrades is felt by all the men to a certain extent, particularly under these circumstances. There was anger at the treachery of the Thracians, yet it was muted by the fact that we were not going to exact vengeance.
When we broke camp to resume the march the next morning, it was the first time since I had been with this army that the men seemed to actually hope that the Triballi, or any Th
racians for that matter, would try another attack. There was no sight of them, the only signs the buzzards hanging in the sky above the relatively few Thracian bodies we had left in the open for the carrion birds and animals. Otherwise, the countryside was empty, with even the animals having begun to settle down for the winter. Our only companion was the wind, now blowing from the north, meaning that at least it was at our backs. Its keening moan was a suitable match for my mood, and I was thankful that Scribonius was in a similar frame of mind, so we could ride in silence without it being uncomfortable. As ordered, the army marched in quadratum, slowing our progress considerably, but nobody was complaining, and the Centurions had no trouble keeping the men alert. I knew that this would last at most a week, before the monotony began to wear men down again, although only time would tell if the Thracians tried to take advantage of any lapse when it came. We did stop occasionally when we came across the unfortunate farm or small village, leaving behind nothing but smoking ruin and strewn bodies in our path. While Crassus did not waver from his orders that we would not retaliate by hunting for any armed band of Thracians, or a large city, the nearest being Serdica, he did not try to stop the men from exacting some measure of revenge.
I passed the time thinking of all that I had lost during my time in the army, and for the first time in my life, I felt ready for things to end, not just my time in the army, which I had experienced before, but this whole pathetic drama. Just like it is impossible for one to remember a time when they actually felt good when they have some illness or injury, it was impossible for me to remember at that moment the periods of happiness I had experienced. I became even more withdrawn, unwilling to talk to Scribonius, Diocles, or even Gaius, who I will say did his best to penetrate my wall of indifference. I was oblivious to even the worsening weather; the trees had already changed colors and were now bare, the skies constantly leaden gray, matching my mood perfectly. Once we were out of the mountains, we did not have snow, but a portion of every day it rained, and without the sun, it did not take long for everything to become sodden. Nothing ever really dried out, including the men’s boots, which were so caked with mud that they spent a significant part of their free time every evening trying to clean them off. It was not long before they started falling apart, and very quickly, the quartermaster ran out of extra pairs. Men had to wrap their feet in rags to protect them once their boots rotted away, but they were expected to keep up on the march, and given what had happened, they did not need any extra urging to do so. Illness began to become an issue, the constant wet and cold beginning to wear men down, and soon the wagons were full of the sick to go with the wounded from the attack. The sounds of coughing became the dominant sound as this miserable march continued. Crassus did his best to keep spirits up, yet it was a losing battle. When we reached the headwaters of the Struma River, Crassus held a briefing where he announced our destination, at long last.
“We're headed for Thessalonica,” he told us. “It's a large city, and most importantly has a good port. That way we can receive the supplies we need to refit to come back here and properly handle the Thracians.”
It was this last part that the Primi Pili really cared about. Thessalonica was a secondary concern, although I suspected that the men would care more about that than going after the Thracians, with the possible exception of the men of the 15th. This announcement seemed to do the trick with the men in getting them more motivated and moving with a bit of energy in their step. When there is no clear destination, it is easy for men to start believing that they will be marching until the day they die, trudging along with nothing to look forward to. With a clear goal, one like Thessalonica at that, men began to actually believe that they would live to see the end of this campaign, and talk soon turned to what was known of the fleshpots and wineshops of where we would be spending the remainder of the winter. I did not care one way or another if we spent our winter in Thessalonica, Siscia, or inside the gates of Hades, for that matter. The only real plan I had was to drown myself in as much wine as I could down, and to see if I could stay drunk the whole winter, which is precisely what I did.
We rolled into Thessalonica on the Kalends of December, long after the end of the campaign season. The men were ragged, tired and we had lost a fair number in every Legion due to illness, along with a number of the wounded who succumbed to the rigors of the journey. Even though I had been attending to my duties as Prefect, such as they were at this point, I will be the first to admit that I did so in a perfunctory manner. Fortunately, Crassus did not find fault with the manner in which I did so, or he was too wise to make an objection, since it would have been bad for both of us. Scribonius, while melancholy, had recovered better from Balbus’ death than I had, and I actually saw him laugh a time or two. I did not begrudge him this in any way; in fact, I wish I had been able to do the same, but I could just not find it in myself to take joy in anything.
One advantage that Thessalonica had was a winter camp, already constructed and maintained by a staff of retired veterans, and it did not take long to get settled in. Crassus immediately secured the men from all but the most pressing duties, and it was a sign of their fatigue that very few left camp to hit the whorehouses, at least for the first few days. As soon as I was able, I secured a supply of wine, sending Diocles into the city to negotiate for the delivery and for the first time in some time, I was not particular about the quality. I attended to my duties during the day, but at the earliest opportunity, I retired to my quarters to begin what would become a night of drinking until I was insensible. I told myself that what I was doing was my own way of saluting Balbus, who always drank more than Scribonius and I combined. However, I was not fooling myself, nor was I fooling anyone else. I became accustomed to waking with a sour stomach and an aching head, but I still forced myself to torture my body with my daily exercises. Unfortunately, with every passing day it became harder and harder to find a reason to do so. Diocles tried on several occasions to water my wine, but I always caught him; only after threatening to beat him did he finally desist and let me be. Scribonius stopped coming to my quarters, causing me to drink even more, but I was too proud to go and apologize for the way I was acting. Crassus turned a blind eye to my obvious decline, though I believe that he also had other matters on his mind, since he was preparing to leave for Rome to celebrate his triumph. At least, so he believed at that point, and I never heard even the whisper of a rumor that he had received any hint from Octavian that he had fallen out of favor. In fact, according to friends of Diocles who worked in the Praetorium, the dispatches from Rome were full of glowing praise for all that Crassus had done. Crassus had announced that he would take the 8th Legion with him to march in his triumph, which was another reason for my depression, because it meant that Gaius would be separated from me for the first time since he had started his career in the army. Naturally, in the same way I was with Scribonius, I refused to let Gaius know that I felt any distress that he was leaving. In fact, I was quite surly with him on those occasions when he came to see me. One evening in particular stands out in my mind, and I am still ashamed of how I acted.
I could see the moment he showed his face that he had something momentous to tell me, his being the kind of face where every emotion is plainly written on it. Judging from his expression, I was sure that it was good news, which I suppose made things worse, since I was in no mood for anyone to have any kind of joy in their lives.
“Uncle, I have some news,” he said, politely ignoring my slovenly appearance and my rudeness at not greeting him when he arrived, except to give a bare wave to a chair. He was clearly waiting for me to ask, but my only response to take another swallow of wine. Finally, he decided to plunge ahead, the smile still plastered to his face, irritating me more with every passing heartbeat.
“Primus Pilus Macrinus has just informed me that the next opening in the Centurionate that becomes available in the 8th is mine. I’m going to be a Centurion soon!”
Secretly, I was as thrilled at this news
as he was, yet I was wallowing so deeply in my own misery that I refused to give him even the slightest sign of how I really felt. Instead, I stared at him as if he were out of his mind.
“Why in Hades would you want that?” I demanded, watching his jaw drop as he gaped at me in astonishment. He said nothing for several moments, clearly thunderstruck, before he managed to stammer, “I thought you'd be happy for me.”
“Why?” I asked sourly. “Why would I be happy to see you give everything you have to give, for men who don’t appreciate it?”
“How can you say that?” he gasped, rocking back in his chair.
“How can I say that?” I echoed, giving him a mocking laugh that I could see lacerated him to the core. “How can I not say that? I'm merely speaking the truth, and you should know it before you make the same mistake I did.”
“Uncle, you're one of the most respected and famous men in all of the Legions.” The poor boy looked near tears. “You're a wealthy man. You've told me yourself on many occasions that you have more than you ever dreamed of when you were a boy. You're the highest ranking man from the ranks that it's possible to be, so how can you say such things?”
He was absolutely right, but I had no inclination to think about these things, at least at that moment.
“Oh, I have money. But what else do I have? Everything I've ever loved and cared about has been taken from me. I've watched more friends die than I can count.”
I was almost shouting now, feeling a lump forming in my throat, along with the hot prickling of tears, making me even angrier.
“I've been used as a piece in patrician’s games, and I've almost lost my life because of it. I've watched them use men like me, making us kill each other to further their own ends, all the while telling us that it was for the good of Rome. But they lied, because it was always to further their ambition. That, boy, is what it means to be a Centurion of Rome.”