Marching With Caesar - Civil War

by R. W. Peake

  Disembarking as quickly as possible under the circumstances, we began marching immediately, with the months of relative inactivity and the heat, even now in early March making the problem of men straggling something that the Centurions had to be especially vigilant about. The knowledge that any man who dropped out would be left to the tender mercies of the Egyptians and the desert was enough to keep men from dropping out altogether. The farthest any man dropped out was the rear of the column, where there was a Nabataean cavalry contingent marching drag. Caesar set his usual cracking pace, and we covered the flat ground quickly, choking through the thick dust that soon covered us from head to foot, the sounds of the men coughing and spitting out mouthfuls of sand ranging up and down the column. My eyes were burning, the grit under my eyelids making the continuous blinking I had to do to clear my eyes an agony, and my nose was clogged, no matter how often I tried to blow it clean, yet there was no slackening of the pace. Caesar chose to forego the standard break every third of a watch, marching us for a full watch before pausing for perhaps a sixth part. The men collapsed where they halted, grabbing for their canteens to wash their mouths out, while trying to snatch a few moments of sleep. Like most veterans, they fell asleep immediately, using their packs as a pillow, the air soon filled with the sound of snoring and mumbled conversations between the few men who could not sleep. I wished that I could do the same, but I had to get a head count and find the stragglers wherever they had stopped in the column to boot them in the ass to make them catch back up. Knowing as I did that the men who fell out would simply fall out again shortly after we resumed marching with those who were recovering from wounds or had been on the sick list, I was not as strict about making them spend some of the rest break rejoining their comrades. However, there were men who were as healthy as the rest of their comrades who simply were lazy. After all these years, these men were the best of the malingerers, the smartest of that portion of a Legion composed of men whose sole purpose in life is to do as little as possible and not get caught. Their slower, dumber, and less crafty counterparts had long since been winnowed out; by either being too slow in battle or deserting, or in some cases, being caught in a serious enough crime to be executed. What was left were the cream of the crop of the do-nothings; the shirkers and tricksters who could conjure their way onto a sick list, or mysteriously disappear when a work party was called. These were the men that I went looking for, kicking them to their feet, shoving them up the column. Resuming the march, we plodded across the barren terrain, the lake that rings the southern side of Alexandria barely visible on the horizon to our left. Once night fell, we made camp in the usual manner, although cutting turf blocks in the sandy soil was quite a challenge, while the men barely had the energy to chew what little rations we brought with us before retiring in their tents, not spending any time around their fire. I was as exhausted as the men, as were the rest of the Centurions, and it was times like these that I was thankful to lead such a veteran group of men, for they made my job much easier.

  Morning came and Caesar had us only pull up our stakes, not tearing the rampart down or filling in the ditch, as is standard practice, preferring to spend the time marching instead. Before we had been marching a third of a watch, we were back to choking and spitting. Thankfully, it was relatively short-lived once we came into the Nile valley. It is a valley in name only; it is more like a magic line seemingly drawn by the gods, where we crested a very low rise, seeing spread before us lush green fields, laid out in geometric patterns. The stalks of wheat were just beginning to shoot up, and there were men in the fields, pulling weeds or spreading manure, doing the things that farmers have been doing since only the gods know when. I remember thinking as we marched past the farmers who were standing to watch us: how many different fields and how many different men had I marched by, following Caesar? The men were different, at least from the Gauls, although they were similarly dark like some of the Lusitani and Gallaeci farmers, yet the jobs are essentially the same. If I had stayed on the farm, I would have been doing much the same thing as these men, growing old before my time from the back-breaking work, the worry about rain, insects, floods and droughts, all of it wearing me down until I was bent and broken, praying to the gods to take me away. I shuddered as we passed; just thinking about what could have been my fate made me shiver, and I offered a prayer to Fortuna in thanks for blessing me with the idea of being in the Legions. As hard a life as it could be, and as boring and dangerous, there was still no other life I would have chosen for myself.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Continuing our march upriver, we stayed about a mile from the banks, expecting to see Ptolemy’s fleet once we got nearer to Mithradates. The camp of Dioscorides was on the other side of the river, according to our intelligence reports, along with the camp of Mithradates, although it was approximately eight or nine miles further south. We were sure that Ptolemy would beat us, since he was coming by ship, which would move day and night. Yet with the day wearing on, we saw no sight of his fleet anywhere. Finally, a halt was called and we made camp, all of us knowing that the next day would bring us to Mithradates, and to what we hoped was a decisive battle within the next day or two. I held a surprise inspection, pleased to see that the men’s gear was as ready as could be expected under the circumstances. Despite leaving the sand behind, it seemed like a great deal of it had come with us, getting into everything and being extremely hard to clean out. The worst was with our armor, the grains of sand sticking to the light coating of oil that we apply to keep the links free of rust and as supple as we can make it. Another problem that had to be given attention were our scabbards, the mouth getting clogged with sand, making it hard to withdraw the blade. As you can imagine, this is not a good thing. However, the men had attended to these matters, and I was pleased, though of course, I did not show it, but they knew. The night passed uneventfully, and we had no trouble rousing the men the next morning, the anticipation of the coming day ensuring that they were awake well before the bucina sounded. Shortly after dawn, we were on the march again. Barely a third of a watch into the march, we began running into enemy pickets, our cavalry running them down before they could give the alarm. There was no way to hide our presence for long, but every moment counted, so Caesar put us into the formation we used when enemy contact was expected, with an ala of cavalry out front and Centuries marching on either flank a half-mile away from the main column. Shortly before midday, a mounted scout watching the river came galloping to Caesar. The word immediately was passed that we had spotted the enemy camp, yet somehow we marched past it without incident. By this point, we were only a full watch’s march away from the camp of Mithradates and we ran into his scouts at roughly the same time that we were marching past the Egyptian camp. One puzzling thing was the absence of the Egyptian fleet and Ptolemy, along with his reinforcements. They had left at roughly the same time that we had and did not have as far to go. Coming by ship, they should have been there before us, but they were not.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  There was a reunion of sorts, at least that was the feeling when we joined with Mithradates. It was somewhat understandable with the men of the 28th who had marched with us, seeing the 27th, since they were sister Legions and the men came from the same region. I found the Jews an interesting lot; their arms and armor a motley collection, no two men seeming to wear the same thing, some with little better than a leather jerkin. However, their weapons seemed to be well cared for, and they had a tough look about them that marked them as good fighting men. They certainly were talkative, which I did not understand because they kept jabbering at us in their tongue as if we would suddenly learn to speak it. No matter, it was still good to see friendly faces, even if they spoke gibberish. Mithradates was a sight to behold; I had never seen an Eastern satrap, I believe they are called. His hair was black as a crow’s wing, arranged in curled ringlets that had so much of an oily substance applied to it that his hair gleamed in the sun like polished ebony. He had a black beard, neatly trimmed and trea
ted with the same substance as his hair, while his eyes were lined with kohl, not in as dramatic a fashion as the Egyptians, but the effect was striking nonetheless. He was well built, not as tall as I was, but taller than most of the men around him, the richly brocaded gown he wore not hiding the width of his shoulders. Mithradates had the kind of commanding presence that comes with being born into a royal family, and I could not help noticing the similarities in mannerisms between him and Caesar. I suppose that our patrician class is as close to royalty as we Romans will allow, although we would never utter such ideas aloud, if we do not want to be torn apart by an angry mob.

  The camp that Mithradates had erected was almost identical to a Roman camp, so it did not take us long to find the appropriate section to erect our tents and to get settled in, while Caesar and Mithradates conferred. In a matter of a watch, I was summoned to the Praetorium to attend a briefing, where we received our orders. It took a bit longer than normal, since some of the commanders of the various contingents did not speak our tongue and someone had to translate. Looking around, I began to worry a bit; never before had Caesar commanded such a varied assortment of men. There were easily a half-dozen different tongues being spoken inside the large tent, and I could not help wondering what would happen in the heat of battle, when orders had to be instantly given and instantly obeyed, without the slightest hesitation.

  “Quite a scene, isn’t it?”

  I was startled from my reverie, so absorbed in my own thoughts that I was unaware of the man approaching to stand next to me. I looked over to see that it was one of the Jews, a man of average height and build, with a bushy beard of ginger-colored hair and piercing brown eyes that regarded me with open amusement. He was clad in a leather jerkin that had metal plates sown on, each one overlapping the other, while on his head he wore a simple leather cap, not dissimilar to our helmet liner. His Latin was heavily accented but understandable and his manner was friendly.

  “It is that. I was just wondering how this was all going to work when it’s time to face the Egyptians.”

  “I was wondering the same thing myself. I guess we will just have to see.” He offered his hand in the Roman manner, saying, “Joseph ben-Judah. I am the commander of the forces from Memphis. We joined Mithradates and Antipater a few days ago.”

  “Titus Pullus, Primus Pilus of the 6th Legion. Or,” I amended, “the two Cohorts that are with Caesar.”

  We shook hands, then stood in silence for a moment, watching the scene as men argued back and forth, trying to translate their individual orders being given by one of Caesar’s staff into their own language. Hands were waving about, and, as inevitably happens when people are having a hard time understanding each other, voices started to raise in volume as frustration grew.

  “How long do you think this will take?” Joseph broke the silence between us. I shrugged.

  “Who knows? I just hope that everything is straightened out here and there’s no confusion when we meet the Egyptians. I mean, any more than normal,” I added.

  “Well, I know what we are supposed to do. We are on the left wing as part of the allied forces. I suppose you are on the right?”

  I nodded, only partly engaged in the conversation. The more I was watching, the more disturbed I was feeling about the upcoming battle. Realizing that standing here I could not do anything to help improve communications, I turned to Joseph and wished him well.

  “If I do not see you before we fight, may your gods protect you,” I said, and I was both surprised and slightly irritated to see his mouth lift at the corner in obvious amusement.

  “There is only one god, Roman,” he laughed. “But I thank you and I return your wishes back to you.”

  I left the tent completely bemused by both what I had seen and what Joseph had just said to me. One god? What did he mean by that? I wondered, and I resolved that I would find out more about these Jews whenever I had some spare time. In the meantime, I had to get my men prepared for what hopefully would be the last battle with the forces of Ptolemy.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Marching out of the camp at dawn, we headed south towards Ptolemy, leaving behind perhaps a Cohort-sized guard contingent. Caesar put us in the vanguard, with a cavalry screen of course, the men moving out in good spirits, all signs of fatigue gone from their stride. The sun made our highly polished helmets appear as if they were on fire, and soon enough our heads felt like they were when the heat started to broil our brains. In accordance with his normal practice, Caesar had ordered us to wear full parade gear, with all plumes and decorations, making for an impressive sight as we tramped along. We marched perhaps a third of a watch before we came across our first obstacle, a substantial one at that. A tributary of the Nile was cutting directly across our path, running roughly east and west. Not particularly wide, it was deep; the scouts reported that their horses could not touch bottom, and the sides were unusually steep. That meant we would have to construct a bridge, already difficult enough because of a scarcity of timber, but compounding the problem was that Dioscorides beat us to the spot. Arrayed on the far bank was a sizable force of cavalry, along with what looked like skirmishers. Faced with this obstacle, we stopped, remaining out of range while waiting for Caesar to make his way to us, and during the pause, I sent two Centuries out to look for trees of a suitable size to use for bridging material. Caesar arrived, and I gave my report. Surveying the situation, he called for his Germans to range farther east to look for a ford, giving them orders to cross if they found one then immediately attack the enemy’s left flank. After about two parts of a watch, during which the Centuries returned with the location of an orchard that held trees of sufficient size to be used to construct a bridge, our cavalry came thundering down onto the enemy’s flank, making short work of them and scattering the men to the four winds. Immediately setting to work, the Germans stayed on the other side of the river to keep the Egyptians away from us while we built the bridge. It was finished quickly, but the heat took a toll, and when we started out again, it was not with the same spring in the step as when we had started.

  Marching for another two parts of a watch, our scouts once more came galloping back to report that the enemy camp was close, and further it was announced that finally Ptolemy and his fleet were present. Consequently, we halted again to wait for Caesar to decide what we were to do. Deeming it unwise to march to the attack after all the work we had done, we were ordered to make camp, giving us time to rest and to scout the enemy works. Ptolemy, or more likely one of his Gabinian commanders, had chosen the site for their camp well, locating it close to the river, on a small rise, with the northern approach blocked by a steep bluff with an area of swampy ground to the south. There was a village perhaps a half mile from the camp that the Egyptians linked to the camp by a wall that covered access from within. The only practicable approach was from the east, where the ground gently sloped up to the walls of the Egyptian camp. Additionally, the village was situated in such a place that it would need to be reduced first before we assaulted the camp, or we would have an enemy force in our rear. Accordingly, these were the orders that we received that put us immediately to work building assault ladders and checking the artillery to make sure it had not been damaged during the march. We would form up for the assault at first light, Caesar making it clear that he intended to end this once and for all tomorrow. The mood around the fires that night was one of grim determination, the men talking in low tones about what they planned on doing to the Egyptians the next day. To a man, we had our fill of these people and this place, considering the Egyptians to be one of the most faithless, devious, and scheming people we had ever met. Perhaps not surprisingly, it was accepted as fact that the only reason we were unable to break out of Alexandria to crush the Egyptians was due to a combination of numbers and their refusal to fight in a manner that we considered worthy.