Marching With Caesar - Civil War

by R. W. Peake

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  The sky was beginning to lighten when the lookout whispered down that he had spotted land, causing us to strain our eyes in the direction that he was pointing in the gloom. I imagined more than saw the dark bulk of the hills that rise almost immediately from the edge of the coast in that part of the world, and I exchanged a glance with Crispus, wondering if he was thinking the same thing. There just did not appear to be much of a beach for us to land on, but my hopes were that because of the darkness I was missing something, that there was in fact a sufficient beaching area for us. The chop had picked back up along with the wind so that men were back to retching again, but I kept my eyes focused in the direction we were heading, straining to pick up any details of the landing area. While I did, I called quietly to my Centurions arrayed about the deck, and began relaying instructions to them to rouse the men and get them ready to disembark. The plan was to land on line, with each transport holding a Cohort, with the First, ourselves, Third, Fourth, and Fifth scheduled to be first, depending on the condition and width of the beach.

  In the darkness, I could see a blur of white foam off to the right, the hiss of the surf pounding the rocks carrying on the wind to our ears. I felt my throat tighten at the thought of those rocks, waiting to tear the bottom out of the ship, and I automatically walked over to the hold to peer down at my men huddled below. Gazing down at them sitting miserably in the fetid darkness, I sensed someone’s eyes on me and I turned to see Vibius staring balefully up at me. Despite myself, I grinned at him, and he mouthed an obscenity, causing me to realize that it was almost full light if I could read his lips. Blowing him a kiss, I walked back to my spot at the bow of the boat, staring landward. I was able to begin making out more detail, finally seeing the beach we were heading for and I bit back a curse. Essentially, the beach was lodged between two promontories of rock that jutted out into the sea, and it was plain to see why the beach was undefended, since it appeared to be suicide to try guiding any number of ships between the teeth of those rocks. Not for the first time, I wondered at Caesar’s confidence and questioned if it indeed was hubris, although I could also see why he chose the beach, because it presented a wide enough front for almost the entire Legion to land at once, provided every ship managed to steer past the rocks. I stood motionless as our own boat slid past the rocks to the right, no more than a hundred paces away, and it was not until we were safely past that I realized I had been holding my breath. Once it was clear we were safe, I turned my attention to preparing for the landing, watching as the men stood and gathered their gear up, making themselves ready. Since the decks were packed, the men in the hold were forced to wait for the men topside to go over the side before they ascended the ladder. This was the reason why I had ordered that the Centurions, Optios, and signifer of each Century be the first over the side, so they could stake out a spot for their units to assemble. The beach was deserted, and I thanked the gods for the small blessing that there would be no opposition, calling the news down to the men in the hold.

  “At least it won’t be like that fucking beach in Britannia then,” a voice called out.

  “You’re right about that,” said another man. “I almost fucking drowned that day, and had to worry about one of those Brit bastards taking my head off."

  “That’s because you’re such a short-ass that was the only thing showing above the water,” the first man shot back, and there was a rumble of laughter.

  By rights, I should have told them to shut up, but I had learned that at times like these, humor went a long way to easing the pressure of what was about to take place, so I let it pass. It was only a couple moments later that I felt the crunching of the bottom of the boat, followed by a lurch as it slowed to a halt. Instantly, I moved to the side and swung my legs over, since I would be the first of my Cohort to hit the beach. Looking over my shoulder I roared, “All right you bastards, over the side! We’re not paid by the watch! Centurions, get your parties formed up on the beach. Make sure there’s enough room for your sections! I don’t want anyone standing in the water because you didn’t count your paces correctly!”

  Then I leaped down, gasping despite myself when the shock of the water hit me. There was a flurry of men slipping over the side and I heard the splashing behind me, followed by the inevitable curses as the cold water hit men in their most sensitive bits, but I was already wading ashore. Looking to the side, I bit back my own curse as Crastinus grinned and waved at me; we had a wager about who would be the first on the beach, and he had beaten me by several feet. That did not help my mood, and I cursed at what I thought was the ragged performance of my Cohort as they came streaming onto the beach, looking for their Centurions and Optios, each of them bawling out their Century number. The men spilled off the boats, dripping water and squeezing out the hems of their tunics as they shuffled into their spots in formation. It did not take us long to get formed up, partially because of our experience, but also because there were so few of us left. At times like this when I could graphically see the toll the years of fighting had taken, I was struck by a wave of sadness, thinking of all the comrades that were not there to take their places. Compounding the problem was that an outbreak of the bloody flux had swept through camp in the weeks before we had arrived, so despite the 10th being spared, the other Legions were hit hard. The average strength per Legion was barely 2,400 men; we were just a little better with 2,800 men. My Cohort could field 305 men, and the First Century, my original unit, was down to 47 men standing on that beach. It was a sobering sight, but I would not have traded one of these men for ten new tirones. What we lacked in numbers, we more than made up for in experience; years of campaigning had weeded out the weak, the slow, and the unlucky. What was left was the fighting core of the Legion, the men who had always borne most of the burden, even when we were at full strength, so it was with the utmost confidence that I took my place at the head of my Cohort and waited for the command to step off.

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  Our first mission was to take Oricum, which lay about 25 miles to the northwest, at the base of a deep inlet that provided a sheltered harbor for the Pompeians. The only way to approach was by a roundabout route that followed a dry riverbed through steep mountains, actually heading east before gradually turning in the direction of the town. As we set off, Caesar ordered the fleet, commanded by a general named Calenus to go back to get the next wave. The 10th was the vanguard, and it was not long before we were huffing and puffing because of the steep climb up from the beach. Taking a look back, in the growing light I could see the rest of the army hundreds of feet below, looking like a group of well-organized ants waiting their turn to begin the climb up the trail. The path we were following was little better than a sheep track, forcing us to move single file for large stretches of time, making the going very slow. By the time we descended from the hills onto the plain that surrounds the landward side of Oricum, the sun was high in the sky. We had to halt to wait for the rest of the army making its way over the track to join us, so we took advantage of the delay by eating a quick meal and resting a bit, stretching out, and using our gear as a pillow. With the men resting as we waited, I walked with Crastinus and some of the other Centurions to take a look at the fort that was situated in the western corner of the inlet, with the water to the north and a steep ridge to the west. The water of the bay was a striking deep blue, and there were a number of ships of all types anchored there. As was usual in such cases, there was a town hard by the walls of the fort, although I do not know which came first. Even from where we stood, we could see that the walls of the town were lined with people watching us, although we could not tell if they were soldiers or civilians.

  “That’s going to be a tough nut to crack,” commented Crastinus. He pointed to the possible approaches. “To get to the fort, we’re going to have to cross in front of the walls of the town, which will expose us to fire.” Shifting his attention, he indicated the town. “But if we take the town first, we’re not only going to have to worr
y about fighting in the streets, we’ll have to keep at least one Legion and more likely two in reserve to watch for any sortie from the fort.”

  “Unless they commit their forces to defending the town and abandon the fort,” I suggested. “Then we’ll have to commit everything to the assault on the town or it’s likely we won’t even get over the wall.”

  “What we don’t know is what quality of troops are in the garrison.” This came from a swarthy Centurion from the First Cohort named Plinius, another of the men who had been recalled by Caesar.

  “We have to assume they’re some of Pompey’s veterans,” Crastinus replied grimly.

  Our scouting trip had been sobering and when we returned to the army, the last of the first wave was descending from the track, falling into their designated spots. Crastinus went to report to Caesar what we had seen while the rest of us returned to our respective Cohorts, kicking them awake and on their feet. Shortly after we landed, Caesar freed a prisoner that he had brought with us, a patrician named Rufus who had been a Legate of one of Pompey’s Legions, with instructions to go find Pompey, making one last offer of a peace settlement. There was considerable wagering about the outcome of his mission, most of the money being placed on the mission failing. Meanwhile, after receiving Crastinus’ report, Caesar gathered his staff and all his panoply together, including the lictors he was entitled to by virtue of his Proconsular authority, and approached the walls of the town to parley. As we stood watching, he rode with grave and stately dignitas towards the walls, which had grown even more packed with people, waiting to see what their fate would be.

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  The parley lasted less than a third of a watch. At the end of it, the gates of the town were thrown open, surrendering without a fight. Simply put, the citizens of the town were not willing to wage war against a Consul of Rome and the garrison commander, Torquatus was his name, was forced to capitulate. With the fate of the town and fort settled, we were given orders to make camp outside the walls, and access to the town was put off-limits. For once, the grumbling was muted; we were all tired from the rough march through the hills and thankful for the rest. The next morning we set out, marching north along the bay, leaving the 27th behind to man the fort and town in the event that any of Pompey’s fleet decided to show up. Our next goal was Apollonia, taking two days of hard marching to reach, but when we did, the result was the same; the townspeople refused to resist a Consul of Rome and the commander of the town was forced to surrender. In quick succession, the towns of Bylis and Amantia followed suit, and we began to think that perhaps this war could be won without any bloodshed after all. The next objective was the site of Pompey’s main supply depot at Dyrrhachium, some 70 miles away, and we made haste to reach it before Pompey did.

  Chapter 3- Dyrrhachium

  There were three rivers that we had to cross, although once we were past the mountain ranges ringing Oricum, the terrain was almost flat. Unfortunately, along with the offer of a truce, that bastard Rufus also brought a warning to Pompey that we were approaching. Learning that Apollonia was lost, Pompey turned his army to Dyrrhachium, giving orders for a forced march. In his advantage was the fact that they were marching on the Via Egnatia, while we had to cross open ground, thereby taking longer, even when the terrain was flat. The rivers also delayed us, since we had to scout for fords rather than stop long enough to build bridges. That also would have taken too long because of the lack of timber in the area. Consequently, Pompey’s army beat us to Dyrrhachium and we were greeted by the sight of the tail end of his army reaching the walls of the city while all we could do was watch in frustration. The only heartening sight was the obvious disorganization and seeming panic in the movements of Pompey’s army; as we would learn later, the green troops that comprised a large part of his army had taken fright at the sight of us, turning the march to Dyrrhachium into a wholesale flight to the safety of the city. Pompey ordered his army to set up camp outside the walls, while Caesar actually withdrew us some distance away to set up our own camp on the south side of the Apsus River that runs east and west to the sea. Now that the race was over and Pompey had won, Caesar gave orders that we would remain here for the winter and we would be joined by the rest of the army as soon as it was ferried over. To that end, we began building a fortified winter camp. With some of us working on the camp, others went foraging, since we had not brought much in the way of food. The news that we would be spending the winter was met with some grumbling, because this was in direct contradiction to what Caesar had told the army when he asked them to leave their excess baggage. I was not happy because Zeno had been left behind, meaning that all the paperwork fell on my and Scribonius’ shoulders, and one does not realize how much someone else does until they are not around to do it. But we had our orders, and we worked diligently to prepare for a lengthy stay.

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  The days passed with no sign of the rest of the army, before Caesar was finally forced to send someone back to Italia to find out what had happened to them. I did not envy their mission, or what it would take to get it done. In order to avoid detection and capture by the Pompeian fleet, the unlucky bastard selected for the job had to cross the rough winter water in as small a vessel as possible. I am sure that is part of the reason that Caesar sent more than one man, spread over a number of days. It was not a suicide mission, but it was as close to one as you could get, and it was one job I was more than happy to have someone else do. As it turned out, it was a smart move since out of the five men Caesar sent, only one returned and the news he brought was about as bad as it could be. The fleet that carried us across the sea had been intercepted by the Pompeian commander of the fleet, a man named Bibulus who was a great hater of Caesar, and a large number of transports were captured. The ships that escaped were now bottled up in Brundisium, and when they made one attempt at crossing, a combination of bad weather and pressure from the Pompeian fleet had forced them to turn back. During that endeavor, one more transport was captured, with all the men onboard executed, Bibulus’ hatred of Caesar and his cause serving as his excuse.

  Now Antony was sitting waiting for the winds to turn favorable, or so he claimed, but that did not set well with those of us who were facing a force twice our size. Nevertheless, we had no choice; first the days, then the weeks passed, waiting for Antony to arrive, and just like what happened in Hispania, it proved to be impossible to keep the two armies from fraternizing. The meeting spot was the river, serving as the water source for both armies, with acquaintances once again renewed and kinships rediscovered among the Spaniards of Pompey and Caesar’s Legions. Before long, the highlight of our day would be the gathering of the men down by the river. There was almost a festival atmosphere, with much wine flowing, bones being thrown and money changing hands as the wagering and gaming ran rampant. Of course, such good spirits and amicable exchanges could not go unnoticed by the generals, but while Caesar and Pompey were disposed to let it continue, that motherless cocksucker Labienus would not let it lie.

  One day, after a series of speeches by men on both sides about the need for peace, two Tribunes, one from each side, made a mutual agreement to go to the general of the other side to make a plea for a settlement. This was met by much cheering and joy from the men on both sides. I do not know if Labienus was warned about what was happening, or his suspicions were aroused by all the commotion, but he came charging down to the river with a bodyguard and furiously berated the Pompeian troops for showing such faithlessness in their cause. He threatened to kill any man of Caesar’s who set foot on his side of the river, no matter what their mission was, then made an oath to Jupiter Optimus Maximus that the only way to end the war was with Caesar’s head on a spike. He was soundly jeered and in truth, he was lucky that by common consent nobody came to the river fully armed, because he would have looked like a porcupine if we were. That did not stop men from picking up rocks and hurling them at the traitor, forcing him to withdraw, but the Pompeians, with an obvious show of reluctance, left
with him. That put an end to the good times down by the river, and in my mind, ruined the last chance of ending the war peacefully.

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  Caesar kept up the pressure on Antonius to make the crossing, but the excuses kept coming and finally Caesar resolved to go himself to Antony, disguising himself as a slave and hiring a small fishing boat to make the crossing. His officers argued vehemently with him about the folly of this, but he would not be swayed, and he left the camp one evening in his disguise. I happened to be commanding the guard Cohort that evening, and warned the men to make absolutely no sign that they knew the identity of the roughly-dressed man who rode out of the camp in a wagon sent to fetch firewood. Still, it was hard not to stare at Caesar, and I for one thought his disguise was useless; he did not have the bearing of a slave, no matter how hard he tried. However, I supposed that as long as he was viewed only from a distance, he would escape detection. What was more worrying were the dark clouds towering over the nearby sea, and we clearly saw the flashes of lightning streaking through them, the sky a leaden gray from the rain sweeping down. The evening turned into night, the storm moving onto land, and we were soon soaked by the deluge, the wind whipping my sagum as I walked the palisade checking on the men. It was shortly after dawn that the wagon returned, light enough to see Caesar’s anger and frustration, sitting next to a very nervous driver. We learned that the captain of the fishing boat was a brave soul indeed, because his fear of drowning was greater than his fear of Caesar, and after about two parts of a watch at sea, he insisted that they turn back, claiming that he was not willing to commit suicide for his passenger, no matter who he was. Luckily for him, Caesar did not have the same temperament or cruelty of a man like Labienus, who probably would have had the man scourged or crucified, no matter how sound his judgment. Fortunately, shortly after this, word arrived that Antonius had at last decided that the winds and conditions were favorable and was embarking the rest of the army, with the goal of landing somewhere on the coast to the south of us.