Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

“Forgive me, Prefect, but we both know that is horsecac.” Claudius’ rebuke was mild, but clear. “Marcus Crassus was extremely ambitious. That's no fault; in fact it’s a trait that I have. Where he erred was in being too good at being a general, and in the army loving him too much.”

  It was this last point that I believe was what ultimately doomed Marcus Crassus. It turned out that Claudius was right, in every particular. Marcus Crassus was awarded a triumph, but denied the honor of spolia opima. Shortly after his triumph, it was announced in the Senate, supposedly with great sorrow by Caesar himself, that Marcus Crassus had taken ill. The official diagnosis was “exhaustion,” presumably brought on by the rigors of the campaign where he had distinguished himself. His physicians had decreed that the only way to save his life was a regimen of total rest and isolation, and he retired to one of his villas on the isle of Capri, with his only company his staff of slaves, and the goats who roamed the island. If you were to ask the average Roman pleb today who Marcus Licinius Crassus was, very few of them would even think to name the grandson instead of the father. Such is the fickleness of the Roman people, a trait that Octavian knows perhaps better than any man alive. But there are some of us who still remember the grandson, and miss him.

  Chapter 7- The 13th

  That April, in what is now known as the second year of the reign of the man they call Augustus, at that point still known as Caesar, I celebrated my fiftieth birthday. Since my oath to Scribonius, I had returned to my daily exercises with a vengeance, yet the weight that I had put on so easily was extremely loath to leave me. Despite finally getting close to my former weight, I had lost the definition of which I had been so proud, and I never regained it. It is in these small ways that the gods take pleasure in tormenting us, or at least so I believe. My fitness also returned, though again, I did not have the same vitality that I had enjoyed before, and for one of the few times in my life I actually became ill with a cold that lingered for weeks. Add to that the loss of another tooth, and I was feeling every one of those fifty years. Still, when I looked at other men my age or even younger, I was in good shape; it was just not what I had been so accustomed to for most of my life. For the first time, I got a hint of what it was like for other men, and I suppose I should have been thankful that, outside of being wounded several times, I had enjoyed such robust health for my entire life to that point. However, I took it as just another sign that I was being punished by the gods, except this time I refused to fall prey to self-pity, preferring instead to just work harder at maintaining what fitness I had.

  As soon as the weather permitted, we received orders from Rome to march back to Siscia to our permanent base, where the 8th had already been sent after their triumph in Rome. No Legate was sent to command, putting me in charge of moving the army, and my first decision was to take the more circuitous route through Greece, in order to avoid the possibility of clashes with the Thracians or Moesians. I also decided that we would hug the Dalmatian coast, since it would be easier to be resupplied by sea while on the march, despite some rugged mountains that still have to be traversed because they run right up to the edge of the water in some places. The enormity of the task turned out to be a blessing, since it kept me so busy that I had no time to fall back on bad habits, if I had been so inclined. For the first time since I had been made Prefect, I actually felt useful. I was also reminded of how much I hated paperwork, not to mention the amount of it that is needed to get an army of three Legions, cavalry, and auxiliaries ready to move with the gear and equipment they would need for the march, which is staggering. Ingots of iron had to be melted down to make the blades for turfcutters and spades, while countless ash and oak trees were felled to make the handles for these implements. Shiploads of hides had to be procured to make the leather goods that the men would need; boots and one spare pair per man, since it was not only a long march, but a rugged one.

  Diocles was pressed back into service, with my naming him chief clerk of the army, which was not a popular move, at least among the other clerks who felt that they were more senior. That was undeniably true, but what none of the others had that Diocles did was my trust and faith in his abilities. I cannot say that he was entirely happy that I did him such honor; like me, and Scribonius, there was a part of each of us that enjoyed the freedom and leisure our respective posts brought to our lives, but he made no complaints, aloud at least. I even pulled Scribonius into the mess, mainly to be an advisor on certain matters, particularly one concerning Natalis, the Primus Pilus of the 13th. As I have mentioned, I long had doubts about his fitness for the post, those doubts being confirmed during our time in Moesia. Unfortunately, his performance during winter quarters was no better than when we were on campaign, meaning that of the three Legions, the 13th was by far the most unprepared to march. Much of that rested on my shoulders; as the ranking officer, I should have intervened much sooner than I did, but I had been too absorbed in my own problems to do so. Now I, and the rest of the army, was suffering from my inaction, unable to march until the 13th was ready. While the army quartermaster is responsible for supplying each Legion with the raw materials they need to operate, the requisitions for all of which I had to sign for, it is up to each Legion’s various immunes to turn these raw materials into the goods and equipment they would need, which was where the 13th had fallen behind. The 13th had an extremely high rate of men going absent, not deserting, but going missing for a short period of time, and this was something I had talked to Natalis about on more than one occasion. His remedy, as he told me, was flogging; consequently, the 13th also led the army in men on the punishment list. I specifically forbade him to flog a man without my express permission, something that Natalis did not like at all. Not surprisingly, things only marginally improved, and it was only after Scribonius actually sat down to compare the lists of men absent and those receiving punishment that he found a cause of the problem. And in finding it, he also gave me what I needed to remove Natalis.

  “There are a lot more men who have gone absent than are being punished.” Scribonius sat at a clerk’s desk in the private office of the Praetorium that I was currently occupying.

  He had been poring over the lists for the better part of the day, making notes in wax tablets while he worked. Bleary-eyed, looking like he desperately needed some rest, he nevertheless continued working, ignoring my friendly advice to take a break. When Scribonius was working out a problem, he was like a dog with a bone, worrying at it constantly until he got it figured out. In this case, he finally called me over to share with me what he had found. On his tablet, he had tallied up the number of men that had been reported absent in one column, while in another the number of men punished. As Scribonius had said, the two numbers were vastly different, almost at a ratio of two to one. When I saw this, I made an assumption that Scribonius had missed something, which I pointed out.

  “Did you just count the number of men flogged? The Centurions probably meted out other punishments besides flogging.”

  The look Scribonius gave me can only be described as scathing.

  “Why, thank you, Titus. I never would have thought of that myself,” he said scornfully. He pointed to a pile of tablets.“These are the lists of non-martial punishment,” he explained. “And the numbers you see in the second column take those into account. So it’s all types of punishment that's in the number of the second column.”

  I was about to ask him if he was sure that he had gone through every report from the 13th, but then thought better of it, judging that it was highly unlikely that he had missed anything.

  “So why are all of these men, reported absent in the Legion diary, going unpunished?” I asked, more thinking out loud than anything.

  Scribonius gave me a long, searching look, and again I was reminded how well we knew each other, because he communicated to me the answer without saying a word.

  “Another payoff racket,” I muttered, to which Scribonius simply nodded.

  His frown deepened, then he said, “But I will sa
y this. I’ve never seen one that involves a whole Legion. A Cohort yes, but a whole Legion?”

  He gave me a meaningful look, and again we conversed without a word being spoken. This was not the first, or second time I had run into such a scheme, but Scribonius was right. The first time was when I was the Secundus Pilus Prior of the 10th, and it was just the Century under Longus. Then, when I had been Primus Pilus, it had been a Cohort, and again Scribonius was right; I had never seen, or even heard a rumor of a racket that extended through a whole Legion. The reason was simple enough. For a scheme of this nature to work, the vast majority of the Centurions have to be involved, or if not involved, at least paid off to look the other way. With a Century, it was an easy matter, since only the Optio is the other participant, with perhaps a Sergeant or two. Even with a Cohort, it only took the participation of at most five other Centurions and Optios. But for a Legion, that would mean that sixty Centurions, and sixty Optios had to either be participants or at least know what was going on. The fact that none of them had come forward, despite the evidence that this had been going on for some time, was a good indication that somehow Natalis had managed to either persuade or coerce all of the Centurions and Optios of the Legion to go along with him. Nothing I had seen of Natalis to that point convinced me that he was made of hard enough metal to scare his men, meaning it had to be persuasion of some sort. I rubbed my face, trying to think things through, but after several moments, nothing came to me. Turning to Scribonius, I asked if he had any suggestions, yet for once, my smart friend was at as much of a loss as I was.

  “We can’t pull what you did with Cornuficius in Alexandria and just kidnap a Primus Pilus, for a number of reasons,” he said. “And we don’t have a Vellusius in the ranks to find out what’s going on. We don’t have a relationship with any of the Centurions. Most of them think you sit at the right hand of Mars himself, and aren’t likely to confide in you.”

  He shook his head, his expression bleak.

  “But we can’t let this go,” I protested. “The 13th is the worst Legion in this army, and it’s not likely to improve with Natalis in charge.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” Scribonius retorted, but I still had no idea.

  We sat in glum silence for quite a while, then Diocles knocked, and I bade him enter. Seeing our expressions, he asked what was wrong. Scribonius glanced at me, and I gave a minute nod, so he called Diocles over, showing Diocles his figures while explaining the problem. My Greek slave instantly understood, except his expression was one of surprise when he looked up at me.

  “I thought you knew about this,” he told me, and I felt my jaw drop.

  “Why, by Pluto’s cock, would you think I knew about it?” I demanded.

  “Because everyone in the army knows about it,” he replied, still looking surprised. Scribonius seemed equally astounded as I felt at this news.

  “How did we miss this?” I asked, again more out loud than seeking an answer, though Scribonius had one nonetheless.

  “We don’t have the connection with these men that we used to have with the 10th, and Antonius’ army,” Scribonius explained. “Like I said earlier, no Vellusius or any of the other old Legionaries we knew. And while Gaius is likely to know, he’s not here to tell us.”

  “How long has this been going on?” I asked Diocles.

  “Legion-wide, not that long,” he replied. “Perhaps the last six months, while we were in Moesia. Something happened while we were on campaign, but I don’t know exactly what. I just know that Patroclus told me that the punishment list of the 13th shot up about a month before the end of the campaign.”

  “What changed?” I wondered, completely perplexed.

  Again, it was Diocles who provided the answer, even if this time it was unwittingly.

  “The only thing I can think of is when their Pilus Posterior died,” Diocles commented. “Remember? He didn’t die in battle, or of a wound. He had some sort of rupture as I remember.”

  Once Diocles mentioned it, I did indeed recall, yet at the time it was just one of those things that sometimes happened. While it was somewhat unusual for a Centurion of the first grade to succumb to a sudden illness, it was certainly not unheard of, and at the time, I had just put it down to one of those unfortunate happenings that are part of any campaign. Men die without being touched by an enemy sword or missile, and in extreme circumstances, such as when a plague strikes, illness can ravage a Legion and an army worse than any enemy. Now I tried to recall the man’s name, and whatever I could remember about him as a Centurion.

  “Wasn’t his name Plancus?” I asked Diocles, who responded with a nod.

  “Lucius Plancus, as I recall,” Diocles said.

  I tried to remember more about the man, cursing the fact that when Crassus had returned to Rome, he had taken all of the Legion diaries, along with the mountain of paperwork generated by his time as Legate, to be stored in the archives. From the moment he had assumed supreme power, Octavian had been a stickler for proper record keeping, so Crassus had insisted that all necessary documentation be completed, as per regulations. Of course, that did not help save him from his ignoble fate of exile, making me wonder if Crassus ever regretted executing Octavian’s orders so faithfully, but that is just an old man rambling. At that moment in the Praetorium, I was struggling to recall what I had heard about Plancus. I vaguely remembered his features; almost as tall as I was, but of a wiry, lean musculature, with a long, thin face that ended somewhat incongruously with a strong jaw, giving him a look of resolute determination even in repose. He had an aquiline nose, with piercing dark eyes, but what I remembered most about him was an air of tough competence, one of the few positive observations I had about the 13th. I recognized that perhaps I was coloring the picture in my head after the fact in a manner that fit with the growing suspicion I was harboring, but I did not think so.

  Suddenly, I was struck by a memory, and I turned to ask Scribonius, “Do you remember one day having a conversation with this Plancus?”

  I went on to describe him as I remembered him, and Scribonius snapped his fingers.

  “Yes,” he exclaimed. “Now I do. What I remember most is what he said at the end of our conversation.”

  In fact, this was exactly what I had remembered as well, because it was one of those things that, only after the fact does it carry any significance. At the time, it just seemed to be the kind of morbidly dark humor that many men exhibit while on campaign, particularly at moments like the one when this conversation took place. In order to pass the time, I had taken to spending part of the day either riding alongside or walking with the men of the Legions, alternating my time between them. That day I had talked Scribonius into going along with me, so as luck, or fate would have it, we were walking with the men of the First Cohort of the 13th Legion. That is when we had spent some time talking to Plancus, out of earshot of Natalis, who was off somewhere else. I had asked Plancus about himself, and he had given us a bit of information about his background, not much of which I remembered, other than he had just celebrated the birth of his first son.

  “My woman has given me four daughters,” he had said, obviously proud, “and I had just about given up hope.”

  “Did you get to spend much time with him?” Scribonius asked.

  Plancus shook his head regretfully.

  “He was born the night before we left,” he replied sadly. “I only got to hold him for a short while before I had to leave.”

  That explained why his woman was not with the army; while Legates, Tribunes, and Primi Pili looked the other way with the camp followers, the line was drawn at mothers with newborns, or heavily pregnant women whose due date would fall sometime during the march. Regardless of this prohibition, there was always a woman or two, and their men, who took the risk, so there were inevitably babes born outside of a Roman army camp, but this was not the case with Plancus. He had left his woman and child behind in Siscia, and clearly missed them.

  When we parted, Scribonius sa
id to Plancus, “You’ll be back to see your boy before you know it.”

  “Only if I live through this campaign,” was his reply.

  It was the sort of thing that men say to each other all the time, and is of no great moment. Except of course, when the man who says it actually does die, as in the case with Plancus. What also made it slightly unusual was that this type of dark comment was usually uttered by rankers, or men on their first campaign who have yet to be blooded and are absorbed with thoughts of the unknown. For a Centurion as senior as Plancus to voice such a thought indicated a reason for his worry, at least in retrospect.

  “What did he know?” I wondered. “Was he worried that something might happen to him, aside from the normal danger of battle?”

  “Remember that he died of a rupture,” Diocles pointed out, but I quickly dismissed that.

  “Without seeing the Legion diary, we don’t know for sure.” I searched my thoughts, some of the pieces slowly coming back to me the more I thought about it. “What I remember is that Natalis announced his death at our morning briefing. You’re right, Diocles, I remember now, that Natalis did indeed say that he had suddenly become ill overnight, but died before he could be rushed to the hospital tent.”

  I wished Philipos had not gone with Crassus, sure that he could have shed some more light on what had happened to Plancus, even if he had not examined him personally.

  “So everything you know about his death you know from Natalis,” Scribonius concluded.

  This discussion had been singularly unsatisfying, creating more questions than it answered, while the problem still remained about what to do about Natalis. And there was still an army to get prepared to march.

  Until I decided what to do about Natalis, I swore Scribonius and Diocles to secrecy, telling Diocles to ask discreetly for any scrap of information through his network of clerks and slaves. After all that he had done to help solve what had happened in the deaths of the men at the hands of Celer and his cousin, I trusted his abilities completely. Meanwhile, I began increasing the frequency of my interactions with not only Natalis, but all of the 13th, ostensibly to put pressure on them to step up their efforts to prepare. If I could establish some sort of communication with either one of the younger Centurions or even one of the old veterans from the ranks, I thought it might be possible that I would learn about what was going on. As hard as it was for me to believe, I had to assume that all or most of the Centurions either were actively involved in payoffs, or were being paid to look the other way.