Marching With Caesar - Civil War

by R. W. Peake

  “And he doesn’t want the job,” I said instantly; despite myself I was still thinking of Vibius and what he really wanted. Old habits die hard.

  “So did you have someone in mind?”

  “Scribonius,” I again responded instantly, and I saw that I had caught Caesar by surprise.

  “Scribonius,” he said doubtfully, then shook his head. “He hasn't been Hastatus Prior very long.”

  “No, only a matter of months,” I agreed, but an idea was forming in my mind, and in that moment I decided that this would be my price. “But the men respect him immensely. In fact, I would go so far as to say that he’s the most respected, outside of me. At least until the other day,” I amended, feeling another twinge of emotion. Caesar said nothing, so I plunged on. "He’s smarter than I am, and he’s almost as good a fighter. Well, perhaps not that good.” There were limits to how far I could bend, I realized. Finishing, I spoke plainly, “That’s my price, Caesar. The only man I trust to run the Cohort effectively is Scribonius.”

  “Well, you don’t ask for much,” he replied dryly, re-crossing his arms as he leaned backward on the desk. His brow furrowed as he thought about it, then finally he shrugged, “Very well, I'll make it happen.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Are you sure that Scribonius will go along with this?”

  “Yes, I’m sure of it.”

  Truthfully, I had no idea, I realized. If he was unwilling I would just have to convince him somehow, but I had a feeling that I would not have to. Although we had never talked about it, I sensed that Scribonius had his own ambitions. I would just have to find out.

  “What about when I come back to the 10th? What position will I occupy?”

  His brow furrowed as he thought about it, then he said, “I can't honestly say at this point, Pullus. But what I can tell you is that when you return, there will be a promotion, and I'll also make sure that your status as Primus Pilus of the 6th is made official.” He grinned. “Although at this moment, I have no idea how, but I'll think of something. I always do.”

  I could not argue that, recognizing that this was the best I could do under the circumstances.

  With that business settled, I asked Caesar the next most pressing questions. “When do I meet the men? And when do we leave?”

  Caesar looked surprised. “Why, we leave immediately, of course. You can meet the men when we form up for the march. I'll say something brief, and we'll get on with it.”

  I was struck by another thought. “Do the men of the 6th know about this yet?”

  To my relief, he nodded. “Yes, those were part of the terms I discussed with them. They're not happy about it, but they will obey.”

  During the course of this extraordinary interview, I had spoken more freely with Caesar than at any point in my career, and I decided that there was no point stopping now.

  “What makes you so sure that they'll obey?”

  Caesar favored me with a smile, and responded simply, “Because I have every confidence in your ability to make them obey, Pullus.”

  And with that, Caesar ushered me out of the room and the fine young men came trooping back in, shooting me glances, again some curious, some poisonous. And for once, I did not particularly care; I had too much on my mind to take much notice.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  As it turned out, the men of the 6th were not quite as ready to march as Caesar hoped. During their surrender, they gave up all their weapons and armor, then in the resulting confusion nobody had catalogued it and checked it in, meaning that now the men had to draw from stores. There were some problems finding all the proper bits, keeping the army quartermaster Quintus Cornuficius quite busy. It also turned out that the deal Caesar made with the 6th was a bit more complex than he made it out to be. The men had recognized that in all reality they held the advantage in the negotiations, and accordingly made several demands that Caesar acceded to, since he had no real choice in the matter. These men had lost their entire fortunes and all their possessions when Pompey’s camp was sacked. There was no question of trying to retrieve either the money or the possessions, especially since it had been done by their own comrades, who fled. Therefore, the men of the 6th had submitted a list to Caesar that they claimed itemized the monetary value of these possessions. There is little doubt that the amounts were highly inflated, but Caesar was in no position to dispute the figures, and both parties knew it. Also, the men stipulated that they would not take arms against their comrades of the 6th which, while it did not surprise me when I learned of it, it did tell me that Caesar had not been totally forthcoming with me during our talk. I also learned that they were refusing to allow any men to be added to their numbers from outside the 6th, even if they were part of Pompey’s army and drawn from the prisoners we took. I was the only exception, and while I was never told I surmised that I was a concession in exchange for Caesar’s granting of the amounts submitted by them without argument. What I did not know at the time was what this meant in the grand scheme of things, but I did recognize that I would have to watch my back whenever we finally did fight someone. Because of the delay in setting out, I had the time to meet the men I was to lead while still in camp, and a formation was called for the occasion, the difficulty compounded by the fact that Caesar himself had pushed on after Pompey already, leaving me to face my new command alone. Using one of the few surviving captured slaves who was an attendant for one of Pompey’s Tribunes and knew what needed to be done, I had him make me look more than presentable. Wearing all of my decorations, my hope was that between all of them and my size, the men would be sufficiently wary of me not to start testing me immediately. I was experienced enough to know that the moment would inevitably come where someone in the ranks would try something to see what I would allow them to get away with, but it was important that it not start immediately. My confidence in myself was such that I was sure that given a few weeks under my command that the men would adjust to their new reality, but first I had to have that period of time before any of them tried to test me. What I was counting on was using the dark pillar that is one of the two foundations of respect, and that was fear. Before their regard for me could grow, they had to fear me, although I knew that it could not just be fear of me, and me alone; it had to be a combination of fear of me personally, along with the regulations and customs of the Legions. They had to be afraid of not only the unofficial, but the official consequences of disobedience and treachery, yet I also knew that the most immediate dread they needed to have was of me personally. Such were my thoughts striding through the forum, using an old trick of coming up from behind the men rather than in front of them. This trick had been taught to me by Crastinus, the idea being that nothing made the men quite as nervous as the idea of a superior lurking somewhere they could not see them, knowing that they were under the scrutiny of a Centurion. This made them extremely reluctant to risk whispering to each other as they gave their opinion on whatever matter was at hand. It also carried the added benefit of not putting me in the position of feeling like I was being judged, since all eyes would be watching me if I approached from the front. Moving quietly, I approaching the rear ranks, and from several feet away I could hear the buzzing of muted conversation as they waited for me.

  “So this is the way he introduces himself, keeping us waiting?”

  “Just trying to keep us on our toes, I guess.”

  “On our toes? Who does that prick think he is? We’re the 6th, not some bunch of tirones! If anything, he should be waiting for us!”

  I spotted the two men speaking and aimed for the man who spoke last. They were in the next to rear rank of the formation, members of the 7th Cohort and I pushed past the men in the rearmost rank, who started to mouth their protest but quickly shut up when they saw who it was pushing them aside. Stopping silently behind the two men, I studied them for a moment. They had to be brothers, I thought, because they looked like two peas from the same pod. Both were short, brown, scrawny things, with twigs for arms and sticks for legs, yet those appendages
also bore their share of scars. They were Spanish Legionaries all right, I thought to myself; not an ounce of fat, just meat and gristle and tough as old boot leather.

  I smiled grimly, then leaned forward and said quietly in the second man’s ear, “Prick, am I?”

  I was gratified to see both their bodies go absolutely rigid, and there was a moment where neither of them said anything.

  Finally, the man who had uttered the insult said in a voice that did not waver, “Yes, sir. That’s what I said. No disrespect intended. In fact, we Spaniards use it as a term of affection sometimes sir. Not sure what your custom is, sir.”

  I had to suppress a chuckle; at least the man could think on his feet, and he did not immediately fall to the ground quaking. Well, we will see how long that lasts, I thought, stepping around and turning to face him, looking down where his face was gazing straight into my chest. I was pleased to see that suddenly he did not seem so sure of himself, sure that I detected a hint of a quiver run through his body, but if it was there he quickly got it under control. Then I leaned towards him, another favorite trick of mine, and despite himself, he in turn leaned back, trying to maintain some distance between us. I smiled, but it was not a nice smile as I looked him up and down, curling my lip in the same manner that Crastinus had all those years ago, and I was struck by a sudden urge to laugh. Apparently, the numen that had once waved the invisible turd under Crastinus’ nose back when I was a tiro had transferred itself to me now that he was gone.

  Finally, I spoke again. “You’re a short-ass little piece of cac, aren’t you?” He did not say anything, and I snapped, “I believe I asked you a question, Gregarius!”

  “Yes, sir,” he barked. “I’m a short-ass piece of cac!”

  I nodded. “I thought as much. But it’s good that you see yourself for what you are. The path to true happiness lies in knowing your shortcomings. And you want to be happy, don’t you, Gregarius?”

  A look of confusion flitted across his face, but he knew the game well enough to know that no matter where this was going, he was going to lose. It is one of the secrets to being as close to happy as one can be in the army; knowing that your superiors are playing with loaded dice that will come up Venus for them on every roll. Once one accepts that, it makes life for everyone go much easier, and by this point in time, every man who thought he could beat the system had long since died or deserted.

  “Yes, sir. I want to be happy, sir.”

  “Do you know what another brick in the road to true happiness is, Gregarius?”

  “No, sir, but I hope that the Centurion will instruct me. Sir.”

  Despite myself, I was enjoying this exchange and I suspect that the Gregarius was as well. It is all just a big farce really, and we each have a role to play.

  Now I bent my knees so that I was looking directly into his eyes, saying slowly and distinctly, “Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me. Or I will beat you to death with my bare hands. Do you doubt that, Gregarius? That I could do just that?”

  Role it may have been, but I was also deadly serious, and looking into his eyes before he looked away, I saw with satisfaction that he knew it as well.

  “No, sir. I don’t doubt it at all. Sir.”

  His tone was clipped, but his voice held no emotion, his eyes now back to looking at a point above my head.

  I nodded again. “What’s your name and rank, Gregarius?”

  “Gregarius Immunes Gaius Tetarfenus, sir.”

  I turned to the first man, asking him the same, and my suspicions were confirmed.

  “Sergeant Quintus Tetarfenus. Sir.”

  I raised an eyebrow as I turned to the Sergeant. “You’re a Sergeant? And you’re talking in the ranks like a washerwoman?” I gave a loud, theatrical sigh then shook my head. “I am surprised.” I raised my voice so that more of the men could hear. “When I was told that I'd be leading the men of the 6th Legion, I thought to myself, here’s a group of men worthy of my leadership at least. Men that I, Primus Pilus Titus Pullus,” I savored the taste of my new title on my tongue, “would be honored to lead wherever Caesar deems it necessary to send us, whether it’s to Hades or to the top of Olympus to fight the gods themselves!” Pausing, I looked at the men around me out of the corner of my eye, and I could see them straining to hear my words. I let out another huge sigh. “But what’s my first impression? My first impression, courtesy of the Tetarfenus brothers, is that they gossip like camp whores, and they have no respect for their superior officers!”

  My voice was like a lash by the time I finished, and I was pleased to see that the reaction of the men seemed to be equal parts anger and shame. I had little doubt that some of the anger was directed at me, but the majority would now be aimed at the brothers Tetarfenus and when I turned to walk towards the front of the formation, I saw by their ashen expressions that they indeed felt that way. Taking my place at the front of the formation, I executed an about turn to face my new command. Staring back at me were men almost identical to the men of the Second Cohort of the 10th. Oh, the faces were different, but the men were exactly the same. Some larger than others, none as large as me, although there were a couple who came close, all browned by countless days in the sun, without an ounce of spare fat on their frames, and there were scars and decorations in abundance.

  “As you just heard, my name is Primus Pilus Titus Pullus, recently promoted to this grade by Caesar himself from my post as Secundus Pilus Prior of the 10th.”

  I am not completely sure what I was expecting, but the reaction I got at mention of the 10th was not it. Instead of respect, or at the least regard for what we had accomplished, I saw lips lifted in sneers, clear signs of contempt. I was bewildered; I know now that at the very least it was naïve of me to think that men who just days ago were on the other side of the battlefield would automatically accord the 10th the kind of respect that we were accorded by the rest of the army. At that moment, however, I honestly could not understand what was behind the reactions I was seeing, and the subsequent wave of anger that flowed through me was something white-hot, literally making my blood feel like it had suddenly turned molten. My legs began to shake with rage, and I could tell that this beast was about to burst out of my chest, just like when the madness took hold of me in much the same way it had that first time on that hill in Lusitania all those years ago. This killing rage prompted me to do something that as far as I know, had never been done before and likely has not been done since. As if my hands had a mind of their own my left hand unclenched, dropping my vitus to the ground, then I untied the straps to my helmet, laying it down on top of the vitus. I could see that I held the men’s undivided attention, but I was not finished. Unstrapping my harness next, and laying my weapons next to the helmet, I then very carefully removed my phalarae, torqs, and other decorations before pulling off my armor, laying it on the ground as well. All this was done in total, and shocked silence, but the quiet was about to be broken, by me. Now I was only in my tunic, the standard army issue tunic that in my case stretched tightly across my chest and shoulders, the sleeves barely covering my shoulders, leaving the bulging muscles of my arms exposed. Stepping away from my gear, I suddenly filled my lungs and roared more loudly than I had ever done before in my life.

  “I am Titus Pullus! I am the son of Mars and Bellona! I am of the 10th Legion, and I challenge any one of you motherless cunni to step forward and face me! I spit on your ancestors, dogs and whores that they were! I am not a Centurion, I am not the Primus Pilus at this moment! I am Titus Pullus! Do any of you have the courage to challenge me?”

  I could feel the cords of my neck straining as I shouted these words, the blood suffusing my face as I clenched my fists, stalking up and down in front of the assembled men, glaring at each of them, none of whom met my gaze.

  I gave a harsh, mocking laugh. “So these are the men of the vaunted 6th Legion? None of them even dare to look me in the eye, so I know that there’s not a man among them who dares to challenge me.” My lips curled in a sneer. “Do
I need to make it any plainer? I’m not standing here as your Primus Pilus, or as a Centurion. I give you my word that there will be no official punishment for any man who bests me. In fact, I offer a reward of a thousand sesterces if you do beat me, and I’ll exempt the man from any fatigue duties for a month!”

  I was in fact offering much more than that, and the men and I knew it. If their champion bested me, my ability to command these men was over before it started. The word of my defeat would spread through the army like a wildfire, and my career would effectively be over. I was risking everything I held dear on one throw of the dice and I was struck by the thought that perhaps during my time marching with Caesar some of his habits were rubbing off. While what I was doing was not unheard of, particularly during the early days when a Legion was first formed, as I said before, I had never heard of anyone doing it in the manner that I was doing it now. The most common form was after watch, behind the latrines, in an unofficial manner. Doing what I was doing in the forum, in front of not only a formation of Legionaries, but any other member of the army who happened to be walking by that could witness what was happening is what made my actions so unusual, but I was beyond caring. It was like all the anger and hurt from the sense of betrayal that I felt about what happened between Vibius and me, and the 10th as a whole, had been bottled up and was now bursting forth, and I wanted someone to pay. The men still stood there, but they were uneasily glancing about, making me think for a moment that none of them would answer my challenge, so that I had indeed turned back towards my piled gear, when there was a stir from where the men of the 10th Cohort stood. From the rear ranks came a man, a whispered name preceding him, whipping through the ranks, and it took me a moment to understand what they were saying.

  “Publius!”

  While the man Publius was not as tall as I was, he clearly weighed at least as much as I did, if not more, and none of it was fat. He walked with a rolling gait, but there was a litheness about his movements that told me that he was quick on his feet. His face was scarred, but they were not the marks of battle, at least the kind of battle like what just took place on the plains of Pharsalus. His scars were the kind picked up in the wine shops outside camp, and he clearly had a reputation among his comrades, their faces splitting in wide smiles at the sight of him. His broad, flat face bore little emotion and I recognized in this Publius a man that perhaps even more than me was born for nothing but combat.