Marching With Caesar - Civil War

by R. W. Peake

  The fact that he was taking precautions to protect me never occurred to me, and as usual, I gave my tongue free rein. “Stop circling about the subject like a vulture does a baby ewe,” I snapped. “Say what you're thinking, that's an order.”

  Diocles’ face reddened, but his tone was even and respectful as he spoke his mind. “Like it or not Master, you're in control of the Legion. General Pollio may command it, but the men will follow you, and I suspect that you know this to be true. That means that you have power, and over the next days, weeks, or months, that means that you have value to those that need help in achieving their aims. All that I'm saying is that if you value your skin as much as I do, then it would behoove you to make sure that the players in this drama are reminded of that fact.”

  I could see the merit in what he was saying, yet I was still unsure of where he was going.

  Then, a horrible suspicion began to grow in me, and I looked at Diocles with new eyes. “Are you suggesting that if it looks like they're going to come out on top, that I should throw my lot in with the bastards who killed Caesar?”

  I cannot express my relief at the sight of Diocles emphatically shaking his head. “No, Master, that's not what I'm suggesting. I know that you would rather fall on your sword than side with the men who murdered Caesar. All that I'm saying,” he suddenly fell to his knees in a dramatic gesture, something I had never seen him do before, “in fact, I'm begging, is that you not declare your intentions should you be approached by agents for the assassins who come to feel out what side you'll take. Let them think that they have you, or at the very least that you're open to listening to what they have to say, or I'm afraid that you'll meet with an accident of some sort.”

  I gave a harsh, barking laugh, pointing at the scar on my chest. “In case you haven’t noticed, I take a lot of killing. I’m not worried about the likes of Brutus, or Cassius for that matter.”

  “Well, you should be,” Diocles said flatly. “You may be hard to kill, but you're not immortal. And they are very, very rich men, and you've just seen that they'll stop at nothing. Do you think you’re better protected than Caesar?”

  That caught me up short, I can tell you. I stared hard at Diocles, seeing him as if for the first time. We had talked about politics and the situation of the moment on several occasions, but he had never talked to me in this manner before. My respect for his shrewdness and ability to assess a situation in such a short amount of time went up immeasurably, because I knew that he was absolutely right. However, I do not think even Diocles knew just how right he would prove to be over the next months and years. It is with this knowledge that perhaps the fact that I recouped my outlay of cash for the immunes in such a relatively short time, and with interest, makes more sense.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Taking a few more moments to compose myself, I dried my eyes then made attempts to cover up the signs that I had been crying, ordering Diocles to do the same before I sent him to summon the Centurions. While the tent of the Primus Pilus is large, cramming all 60 Centurions into it meant that the men would have to stand shoulder to shoulder, packed together like dried fish in a barrel. So while Diocles was gone, I moved all the furniture out of the way to make room, using the time to think through all that Diocles had said. I had never been good at hiding my feelings, but I realized that if I valued my skin, I would have to put on the acting job of my career when the inevitable visitors came to feel me out about my loyalties. In the beginning at least, I could not openly declare my feelings towards either side, until I had a better idea which way the winds from Rome were blowing. Perhaps the hardest part would be to disguise my outrage and horror at what happened to Caesar, but I knew that it was essential that I appear to be essentially unmoved by Caesar’s assassination, viewing it as a political issue rather than a personal tragedy. By the time the first Centurions came filing in, my face was a mask and my emotions were stuffed away, and I was once again the Primus Pilus of the 10th, a hardened professional soldier of Rome, determined not to give the Centurions now arriving a clue as to what happened. Although I could tell that they knew something momentous had occurred, none of them gave any indication that they knew what had actually happened. Spotting Scribonius in the second group of men to enter, I waved him over to me. His face was a mix of confusion and concern as I beckoned for him to enter my private quarters, whispering that I would join him shortly. When Cyclops and Balbus arrived, I did the same for them. Without saying anything to the rest of the men, I entered my private quarters to face my three friends, pulling the leather flap that served as a door down to give us some privacy, keeping my voice low so that what I was about to tell them would not be overheard.

  “I'm about to tell you why I've called this meeting,” I whispered. “But before I do, I need to prepare you so that you don't give any kind of outburst that would alert the rest of the men before I'm ready to tell them. So brace yourselves.” I waited for each of them to nod that they understood, then I told them, making my voice as emotionless as possible. “Caesar has been assassinated by a group of Senators.”

  As I watched their reaction, it struck me that this was probably what I had looked like when Pollio told me. To their credit, they did not give any kind of outcry, though Scribonius drew a sharp breath that probably sounded louder than it was, but still caused me to look over my shoulder nervously, forgetting that I had pulled the flap closed.

  “When did this happen?” Balbus whispered.

  “On the Ides of March,” I replied.

  “Two weeks ago,” Scribonius said thoughtfully, his tone causing the rest of us to look at him carefully, as we all respected his ability to see things that the rest of us missed. “A lot has happened in the intervening time, no doubt. There’s really no telling what's transpired and who’s in power. Do you have any information about that?”

  I shook my head. “The dispatch that Pollio received was apparently written no more than a few thirds of a watch after the murder.”

  Scribonius looked at me sharply at my use of the term. “Murder? That’s a little strong, isn’t it? I would think assassination is a more appropriate term,” he said.

  For a brief moment, my anger flared white-hot, my hand involuntarily reaching for my sword.

  Then I looked at his face, realizing that he had divined the same danger that Diocles had. I let out a slow breath, nodding carefully. “Yes, you're correct, Scribonius. I spoke in haste, and in error. Caesar was assassinated, not murdered.”

  With that settled, I gave my friends time to compose themselves, then they followed me out to face the Centurions of the 10th Legion.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  “Caesar is dead. He was assassinated by members of the Senate on the Ides of March, the day before he was to depart for Syria.”

  It was as if the air was suddenly sucked out of the room, which I suppose it was in a sense, as 56 pairs of lungs drew in a breath simultaneously. There was just a heartbeat of utter silence before total chaos broke out as men shouted in despair, cursed the gods, or just let out an unintelligible moan. Shaking their fists, turning to each other, yelling out what they would do to the assassins, asking me for details, for several moments I let the grief and anger wash over all of us as each man dealt with the news that the father of the Legion had been struck down in their own way. Finally, I held up my hand for silence, but I was universally ignored.

  Drawing a deep breath, I roared at the top of my lungs. “Tacete!”

  For the first and only time, I was not instantly obeyed, and it was only the circumstances that kept me from lashing out at the nearest man who was still baying for the killers’ blood.

  Still, I was very angry, and made no attempt to hide it. “I said shut up now, you bastards! The next man to speak I'll flay and use his ball sac as my coin purse!”

  That shut them up, as their looks of contrition and anguish extinguished the flames of my ire immediately.

  These men were heartbroken, just as I was, and I had to let them come to terms with
what had happened. “Brothers,” I said with what I hoped was a sympathetic tone. “I know that you're hurting, as I am. You all know how much Caesar has favored me, how much I owe to him, and now to his memory. But we all have to be strong now, more than at any other time. The men are young and raw, and for most of them, the name of Caesar has been in their ears since they were born. They grew up on our exploits in Gaul, with Caesar at our head. Now this one constant fact of Rome is no more, and they'll be confused and frightened about what this means.”

  “What does this mean?” someone asked, and I felt the pressure of 59 pairs of eyes looking at me for the answer.

  “It's too early to know,” I said as honestly as I could. “The dispatch General Pollio received didn't give any kind of instructions, and it was apparently sent just thirds of a watch after the….event. As of this moment, I don't know what our orders are, but I plan on finding out.”

  It was not much, yet it was the best I could do for the moment, and I was relieved to see that the men seemed to accept that. “I've decided that rather than call an assembly and tell the men all at once, that I'm going to have you tell each of your Centuries. I think that this is the best way to handle it because I don’t want a scene of mass hysterics.”

  As I expected, this did not go down well, but I was not going to be swayed. With that, I sent the men back to their Century areas, then sat down with Diocles and an amphora of wine, preparing ourselves for the coming uproar.

  The next few days passed in a blur, as I found myself going almost every third of a watch to the praetorium to find out from Pollio the latest developments. Dispatch riders came in a steady stream, not all of them from Rome, but from other parts of the Republic as the men who had belonged to Caesar sent missives back and forth, feeling each other out while trying to gather more information. First, we heard that Brutus and the other faithless bastards had been hailed as saviors of the Republic, that the people were acclaiming them as heroes, something I did not buy into for a moment, and it turned out that I was right. In fact, the reaction of the people was quite the opposite, as Brutus and Cassius in particular were now hiding from the masses. The people of the Head Count, my people, wanted to skin them alive and nail their hides to the Senate door, so the two of them were taking refuge in the Capitol. A couple of days after we heard this, word came that the two of them had ventured down to the Forum to mount the Rostra to give speeches justifying their actions, the reaction obviously not what they were expecting. The people did not tear them asunder, instead just standing there in complete and total silence. I can only imagine how unnerving that must have been, for either of the assassins or for the people watching. The eyes and attention of the people of all classes now turned to Marcus Antonius, waiting to see what he would do. When he took no actions against the assassins, I requested an audience with Pollio to get his opinion on what Antonius was thinking, because his inaction infuriated me, as well as the rest of the men. To us, it was clear-cut; no matter what I might say publicly, I viewed Caesar’s death as nothing but murder, and for Antonius to sit by doing nothing to his assassins made no sense to any of us in uniform.

  Clearly, I was not the only one missing my rest. Seeing Pollio, his eyes red from fatigue and sleepless nights, I recognized that the man was suffering from all this upheaval, as much if not more than we were. He was still seated behind his desk, and as it had become my habit, I did not wait for him to give permission, throwing myself into the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  “I believe Marcus Antonius is just being prudent,” he told me, when I asked him about it.

  “Prudent?” I asked incredulously, forgetting that Pollio was my superior for a moment as I let out a string of curses. Fortunately, Pollio was not the sort of officer who punished men for lapses like mine, particularly under the circumstances. “Prudent,” I repeated. “What’s prudent about letting the men who killed Caesar go unpunished? If anything, it would seem to me to be prudent for him to take action against them, since he was Caesar’s man just as much as you or I.”

  I am not sure what I was expecting, but it was not the snorting laugh that Pollio gave. “Antonius is nobody’s man but his own,” Pollio said acidly, and I could see that he had no love for the man, no matter how popular he had been with the troops. “And while I don't care for the man personally, in this I agree with him. His position is too tenuous for him to take any drastic action against Brutus, Cassius, and the rest of them. And make no mistake,” at this he leaned forward, pointing at me for emphasis, “it’s Brutus and Cassius that matter the most, along with Decimus Brutus. And Trebonius,” he sighed.

  I found myself sitting upright, shocked to my core. “Trebonius,” I gasped.

  I had known about Decimus Brutus, which was something of a shock, but nothing like this. Gaius Trebonius had been one of Caesar’s most loyal lieutenants, benefitting greatly from Caesar’s patronage and support.

  Pollio nodded wearily. “He didn't wield a knife, that much is true. But he kept Antonius tied up on some nonsense outside while the others did the deed. Yes,” he sighed. “I'm afraid that Trebonius was in it up to his eyebrows. So you see,” he continued, “that's another reason why Antonius can't just order the execution of any of the assassins, who by the way, are calling themselves The Liberators.” Pollio laughed at this, though there was no humor in it. “The Liberators. What a joke. What do they think they've liberated us from? The Republic is dead as Caesar, it’s never going to come back.”

  I must admit that his last remark disturbed me; like most Romans of my class, I could not really explain exactly what the Republic was, I just knew that it had been in existence for hundreds of years.

  I also believed that it was the best form of government in history, though I could no more explain why this was so than I could sprout wings. “You think the Republic is finished?” I asked cautiously.

  Pollio gave me a sharp look, clearly trying to determine if I had some ulterior motive. Such were the times that we were all looking at each other out of the corner of our eyes, wondering exactly what was going on in each other's heads.

  Apparently, Pollio discerned that I was sincere. “Yes, Pullus, I do. The fact is that it was dead before Caesar ever took power, but the boni,” he spat the term that the enemies of Caesar had claimed as their own, long before his assassination, “refused to accept that fact. Caesar’s death doesn’t change the reality, but I suspect that our Brutus and Cassius are only now coming to terms with that fact. And the jug is broken now; Caesar is dead, and nothing will bring him back.”

  “So you think Antonius is doing the right thing?” was my next question, his eyes narrowing as he thought about it.

  “No,” he said finally. “I don’t think he’s doing the right thing, I think he’s doing the only thing that he can do under the circumstances. Until he solidifies his power base, and has a better idea of how much support Brutus and the rest of that bunch have, he really has no other choice.”

  “But the people are on Antonius’ side, that has to count for something,” I argued.

  “That's true,” Pollio conceded. “Pullus, don't take offense when I say this. The people of your class may have numbers, but they don't have money, and money is power. The patricians, and the wealthy equestrians, especially those who live outside of Rome, have the money, and therefore, they have the clout.”

  “I’m actually eligible for the equestrian class,” I do not know exactly why I chose that moment to say this, other than my pride was stung by his words, no matter how true they may have been.

  Pollio’s bushy grey eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Really? I didn't know that, Pullus. Well, er, congratulations I suppose,” he said awkwardly. “However, that really doesn't change things; however wealthy you may be, you're one man, and your riches are nothing compared to what the boni can marshal to further their cause.”

  I sighed; this conversation had given me a headache, yet I had to admit grudgingly that I saw Pollio’s point, but I still needed s
ome sort of assurance from him about Antonius’ intentions, which he could not give.

  “Ultimately, as I said at the beginning of this conversation, Marcus Antonius is his own man, with his own ambitions,” Pollio finished. “He's going to do what’s best for Antonius, no matter what.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Pollio, of course, was entirely accurate, at least in his assessment of Antonius’ motives. While the common people and the veterans of Caesar’s army that had retired were grief-stricken, showing their sorrow by a spontaneous demonstration in the Forum and attempting to burn down some of the assassins’ homes, Antonius took a conciliatory stance towards the men who called themselves The Liberators, even if nobody else afforded them that title. He issued a public proclamation granting the assassins amnesty, which was hugely unpopular in the army, while I found myself making offerings of thanks to the gods that I had such a green Legion under my command, for if it had been composed of Caesar’s veterans, I do not know what would have happened. Even so, the men were extremely unsettled, while the tone was set by the remaining veterans, as whatever grievances they had had towards Caesar seemed to have evaporated with his death.

  One night, I had Scribonius and Balbus as guests for dinner, and I broached the subject with them. “Do you think it’s odd that the veterans are so worked up over Caesar’s death after most of them mutinied against him?” I asked the both of them as I poured them another cup of wine.

  “Not really.” Balbus shrugged. “Whatever grievances they had with Caesar, ultimately they loved him as a father. I don’t know how it was with your father, Pullus, but I loved and hated mine, all at the same time.”

  I had no desire or intention of discussing my relationship with my father with either Scribonius or Balbus, but I took his point.