The Swabian Affair

by Ray Gleason

  “Did you make mistakes?” Labienus mused. “I imagine you did. But, you’re only seventeen! You’re on your first campaign! The only man who does not make mistakes is the man who does nothing! The gods have granted us awareness of our errors for good reason . . . to teach us! Learn from yours! The only thing I ask of you or any officer is not to repeat his mistakes. Learn from them! Become a better leader!”

  “Finally,” Labienus continued, “that you have regrets about the men who died on the Hill of Flocks and your possible role in it is a good thing . . . a good thing after the battle is over. If you stay with the army, you will have to make decisions that will send men to their deaths . . . You should never make those decisions lightly . . . A good leader is one who always balances the lives of his men with the needs of the mission . . . After the battle, you should feel elation for your own survival . . . If you win, celebrate your victory . . . but you should also mourn its cost.”

  “My advice to you, young Insubrecus,” Labienus concluded, “is just leave it alone. Get some food in your belly and get some rest. If Caesar needs to follow up with you on this, he will. If I were you, I wouldn’t confront him with this issue . . . He has enough on his plate at the moment. Perhaps, in a couple of days, the gods will offer you the chance to revenge your loss. It won’t bring your friend back, but it’s the only satisfaction the gods allow.”

  I just nodded.

  Labienus was right, of course.

  When I look back at this episode through the lens of almost two decades of war, I am amazed at how naïve I was—and strangely, how much I now wish for just a whiff of that innocence.

  I was, of course, wallowing in self pity.

  I thought I had lost a friend. Since that day, I have lost so many mates, men as close to me as brothers, that if I allowed myself to dwell on it, I’d go as mad as a Greek priestess. I lock these memories up in a place deep within the darkest recesses of my anima. Occasionally, one escapes; a face unexpectedly appears before me. It confronts me. If I’m alone, I may even weep a bit. But, I immediately wipe my tears and slam the door on the memory. I must get on with the life Domina Fortuna has granted me.

  Like a child, I poured out my sins, me’ culpae, to Labienus, my confessio. I was disappointed in myself because I wasn’t perfect. I needed absolution, forgiveness. Labienus gave it to me.

  Early in my career, the gods granted me the blessings of good mentors: Caesar, certainly, Troucillus, Macro, but especially Labienus. Their advice and their example helped me when I had to deal with great challenges and lesser men, men who only thought of themselves as remarkable: Pompeius Magnus, Marcus Cicero, Sextus Pompeius, Brutus, Cassius, Antonius, and even our current “first citizen,” Octavius Augustus.

  To this day, I miss Labienus and regret the circumstances of his death.

  When Caesar finally broke with Pompeius and the Optimates who dominated the senate against him, Labienus broke with Caesar. It wasn’t personal. Despite his advice to me that day, there was a bit of Scaevola and Horatius left in Labienus’ sense of Romanitas. When Caesar defied the senate and defied ancient tradition, marching his army south of the Rubico into Italia itself, Labienus rallied to the cause of his Rome.

  Labienus fought for Pompeius in the First Civil War, and after Pompeius was murdered in Aegyptus, for Pompeius’s sons. Despite that, I believe Caesar would have gladly pardoned him, as he did Lucius Vipsanius Agrippa and many others. But, that was not what the gods decreed.

  Labienus fell at Munda, the last battle of the First Civil War. Munda was a blood bath. It was said that you could walk across the entire battlefield on the bodies of the slain. I believe that.

  On that day, I was Caesar’s centurio ad manum, commanding his praetorian bodyguard on the right flank of the army. Caesar’s Tenth Legion, his strong right arm, was pressed hard and was beginning to bend back under the enemy pressure. To rally his men, Caesar picked up a shield and joined the battle line. I went in with him, as his geminus, his battle-partner, and guarded his open side. We fought the enemy, shield-to-shield as muli, until the enemy finally collapsed. We pursued them beyond their camps all the way to the walls of Munda itself.

  Later, in Caesar’s tent, we were given the day’s butcher’s bill. We had lost about seven thousand, the equivalent of almost two legions. The Pompeians had lost over thirty thousand, and we had captured all thirteen of their eagles. Both Sextus and Gnaeus Pompeius were on the run. The wars were over, finally over.

  Despite his great victory, Caesar was despondent. He never relished killing Romans; he had just killed thousands and disgraced thirteen Roman legions. Then, someone broke the news to him: Labienus’ body had been discovered near the enemy camps. He had tried to rally his cavalry against Caesar’s decisive flank attack and was overrun.

  Caesar’s face went deathly pale. Despite all the carnage, this one death robbed him of any sense of relief that his long struggle against the Pompeians was finally over. This one death seemed to tip the scales against Caesar.

  That day, Caesar’s soul was wounded. Even the Macedonian, who had trailed after him to Rome with the boy she claimed was his son, asked me about it. She could sense Caesar’s pain, as only a woman and a lover could. Something in him had died. I can almost imagine that a year later when Brutus plunged his pugio into Caesar’s breast in the theater of Pompeius, Caesar felt relieved that his dark labors were finally over.

  Caesar was never much of a drinker, but that night after Munda he drank heavily. I finally had Spina, who was then Caesar’s personal physician, slip a few drops of liquor papaveris, the juice distilled from eastern poppies, used to ease the wounded or to send them mericifully to the boatman, into Caesar’s cup to prevent him from having one of his spells.

  Before he slipped off to sleep that night, Caesar said something to me: “If there were never a Caesar, there still would have been a Labienus. If there were never a Labienus, never would there have been a Caesar.”

  After leaving Labienus, Athauhnu and I found where our boys had set up for the night. They had scored some food from the muli: buccellata, jerky, and posca. The buccellata was so hard that even legionary posca couldn’t soften it. I ate it anyway; I was starved.

  I then searched out the mudduhg to ask after Clamriu. He said that the Kraut arrow hadn’t gone deep; the head came right out. The wound looked clean, and she should be fit in a couple of weeks.

  I then went to check on our wounded. I found Spina’s “shop” right where the medics always set up in camp, just down toward the porta decumena from the principia. There were still lamps burning as I approached.

  My mind was on Publicola.

  I found Spina sitting at a table, his head in his hands over a half-filled wine cup. He lifted his head and saw me looking at his pitcher. “Wine’s a medical necessity,” he announced. “It goes everywhere wid me . . . You come to check on ya tribune?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, da good news is he’s still wid us,” he shrugged. “De’udder news is I don’t know fer how long . . . Come on back.”

  Spina got up and led me back to a cubiculum in the rear of the tent. There I saw Publicola lying on a cot. He was asleep, and if anything, his color looked better. He also seemed to be breathing more easily.

  “Dat speah or stick dose Grunni stuck ‘im wid opened up his lung cavity,” Spina was saying. “Da lungs woik like a bellows . . . Open up da cavity and de’air and da blood collapse ‘em . . . Ya can’t breathe . . . Gotta clear out da cavity and seal up da hole . . . I used a nice, thick piece a parchment to seal him up wid an’ tied it down tight . . . Looks like it’s woikin’ . . . So far dat is.”

  I was about to ask Spina how he “cleared out dah cavity,” when on the ground next to Publicola’s cot I noticed a piece of brass tubing and a bowl that looked like it was filled with blood and pus.

  Spina saw me look. Then, he said, “Cac’t! Can’t get good help dese days . . . Mawkay! Get yer sorry ass in ‘ere and clean dis mess up!”

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nbsp; Wiping his eyes, Marcus, one of Spina’s capsularii, stumbled in and collected the bowl. “Sorry, Boss . . . must a dozed off.”

  “I’ll doze ya off, ingnave! Ya lazy bum!” Spina chided him. “I’ll have ya cleanin’ out latrines till ya start likin’ da smell a shit!”

  “Seen a lot a dis when I woiked in the ludus, dah gladiatorial school, back dair in Rome,” Spina continued, nodding toward Publicola. “Dem gladiators’d take one in da chest . . . My master’d try to patch ‘em up best he could . . . Ya gotta close da hole up before too many daimones get in and poison da blood. . . Your Sequani horse doctah did a pretty good job on dat . . . but if too many blood tubes’re cut, dere’s nothin’ to be done . . . Da lungs’ll just fill up again . . . We’ll see about dis one . . . If he’s still around in da morning, he’s got a chance.”

  I nodded. I took Spina’s wine cup out of his hand, drained it, and handed it back to him. “Thanks, Doc. That’ll help me sleep.”

  The next morning, I got two surprises. The first was that Publicola was “still around.” The other was that Caesar had arrived during the fourth watch of the night at the head of a flying column.

  As the eastern skies were beginning to pale, I was summoned to the principia and found Caesar, Labienus, and Caecina already there. Caesar looked up as I entered the tent, “Ah! Insubrece! You have a bit of catching up to do on my daily journals. Much has been happening, and it has been happening quickly.”

  I was trying to process that piece of unexpected and seemingly irrelevant information as Caesar continued, “Labienus has briefed me on your mission . . . You and Manius Rabirius are to be commended . . . Not many officers have been cut off by a superior force in enemy territory and lived to tell about it . . . bene gestum!”

  Bene gestum, I thought. A thing well done. That’s it in Caesar’s mind. Bene gestum to the past; now let’s get on with what we have to do next.

  Caesar was speaking: “Ariovistus has committed a strategic error by not getting to Vesantio ahead of us . . . Agrippa is back there now, establishing our logistics . . . We can bring our supplies right up the Dubis by boat . . . The Sequani in Lugdunum and the Aedui along the river were more than happy to swap their river barges for Roman silver . . . Once our supplies arrive at the docks in Vesantio, Agrippa’s frumentarii can haul them on wagons up through the Gate and into the Rhenus valley . . . So, we have Ariovistus right where we want him . . . his back’s to the Rhenus, and we’re sitting in the Gate . . . Let’s finish this thing before the leaves fall and it gets too cold up here to be wandering around without trousers . . . eh?”

  Labienus was nodding. Caesar continued, “First things first . . . I expect the army to arrive early this afternoon . . . We’re not stopping here . . . We’ll pick up the two first-line cohorts of the Tenth and drop off a third-line cohort of the Twelfth to finish up the work here and secure the Gate . . . Labienus . . . pick a reliable tribune to command here . . . an angusticlavus will do just fine . . . I want you up with me and the army.”

  Labienus was scribbling on a tabula as Caesar went on: “We have to fix the location of Ariovistus’s mob . . . That’s where you come in, Insubrece . . . I need you and the Sequani back in the saddle . . . Take an ala of riders under that Dux Bellorum fellow, the war-chief of Vesantio’s man . . . What’s his name . . . Daius?”

  Close enough, I thought. Dai.

  “Yes, Patrone,” I said.

  “Bene,” Caesar said. “That should give you a full turma, about thirty men . . . enough for this job . . . Find out where Ariovistus is . . . Shouldn’t be hard . . . They’ll be straight up the valley, sitting right out in the open with their wagons . . . You should be able to see the smoke of their fires from five thousand passus away . . . Rejoin the army before dark at this Hill of Flocks . . . That’s the goal of today’s march . . . We’ll stop there . . . honor our dead . . . It will be good to stir the men up, seeing what those cunni did to their contubernales . . . Then they’ll go after those Grunni with blood in their eyes . . . Which reminds me . . . Gai, Cerialis is in camp . . . Take him out with you . . . He’s to locate potential battle sites . . .Five legions in acies triplex . . . just about two-thirds strength . . . No more than four cohorts of each legion on the front line . . . good flank security . . . Our backs to the east for a morning fight; our backs to the west in the afternoon . . . A good supply of fresh water . . . He knows the drill.”

  “A’mperi’tu, Patrone,” I agreed.

  “Bene . . . bene,” Caesar nodded. “Get it done, Gai! Miss’est! You’re dismissed . . . and don’t forget . . . As soon as things settle down a bit, there’s a pile of my journals on your desk to get through!”

  By the sixth hour, we were tucked deep in the Silvae Vosegi, the forests of Vosegus, overlooking the valley of the Rhenus, well north of the Gate at Caer Harth.

  We had an ala of Dai’s horsemen with us, about twelve riders. Since they knew the terrain better and were riding lighter, I gave Dai the lead. He knew where to look for the Suebii and had ridden north to confirm that they were still there.

  I had established our rally point on a ridgeline about twelve thousand passus beyond the Hill of Flocks. Cerialis was out and about with Athauhnu, using Guithiru’s ala to survey the terrain for potential battlefields. Ci and I were keeping watch from a ridgeline near the edge of the forest.

  Earlier, when we passed west of the Hill of Flocks, I was hard-pressed not to ride over into the valley and look for Troucillus’ body. I knew at this point I could do nothing for him, but seeing his body would at least give me some closure. Perhaps I could quickly put him in a shallow grave to protect him from the crows and other carrion eaters. As we passed the trail that led up over the ridge into the valley of the Rhenus, I stopped and stared at it for a while. Athauhnu saw me and guessed what I was thinking.

  “We go this way, Arth,” he said, gesturing to the northeast with a nod. “Tonight, when we rejoin the Caisar, you can bid farewell to your friend.”

  I lingered there for a few more heartbeats, sighed, and nodded. Then, I followed our fintai up the trail leading north.

  With Clamriu recouperating from her wound, I was riding the black German stallion, Beorn. So far, he was behaving, but I didn’t trust him. In combat, he might still prove the traitor and deliver me to the enemy by somehow flinging me out of the saddle. All that morning, I imagined I could see a shifty look in his eyes. He was just waiting for an opportunity to do me in.

  Below us, there was a small, wooded hill in the middle of the valley between our ridgeline and a small river flowing north. The hill created a bit of a blind spot. I didn’t think it at all critical, but I was feeling restless waiting for Athauhnu and Dai to return. In truth, I didn’t want to be idle, thinking about what had happened on the Hill of Flocks.

  “Ci,” I said, “I’m taking four men to check out that hill down there.”

  Ci looked down at the little hill and shrugged, “Am ba resoum, a Pen? Why, Boss?”

  I just shrugged in answer, “It’s there.”

  I gathered my four riders. I noticed that one of them was Arion mab Cadarn, the man who had been absolved of Rhuhderc’s murder by Troucillus’ barnuchel, Aderuhn mab Enit. Somehow this vague connection to Troucillus comforted me.

  Even moving tactically, our ride to the hill took us less than an hour. We secured our horses under the shade of the trees on the western slope. I left a man to guard them, and we climbed to the top. From there, I had a better view of the small river and the valley beyond the hill, but as Ci intimated, it gained us nothing. The terrain was empty.

  Regardless, the day was warm, the shade comforting, and I felt that I was doing something. So, I decided to settle in there for a bit. I must have dozed off because suddenly I felt Arion’s hand shaking my shoulder. As I became fully awake, he pointed toward the river below us.

  It took me a while to perceive what Arion was indicating, but soon I could see movement down along the river bank. Riders! Suebii! About a dozen. They
were moving south, making good use of the terrain to cover themselves from the hills to the west.

  They stopped almost directly below our position, about two hundred passus away. There was some conversation. Then, eight of them rode off towards the south. The remaining four stayed in position. I saw more conversation. Then, one pointed toward our hill. They turned and rode directly toward us.

  Suddenly, I noticed something strange. One of the riders wore no armor. He was dressed only in a green Roman tunic. He had short hair and no beard. It was Metius!

  They were probably riding over to get into the shade and wait for their companions. They would then be sitting right below us with no idea we were there. We had equal numbers and the advantage of surprise. All the better! I had a score to settle with that Irrumptor, Metius.

  “Let them settle in,” I hissed to my men. “Then, we’ll jump them. I want the Roman alive.”

  Metius and the Suebii soon reached the bottom of the hill. Then, they did something I hadn’t anticipated. Instead of just settling in to wait, they sent one rider up the hill, either to be sure it was clear or to keep a look out. I could hear him climbling the hill directly toward us. I made eye contact with a trooper. I put two fingers across my lips: Silence! I pointed down toward the German approaching us: Him! I then drew my thumb from ear to ear: Kill!

  My man nodded and unsheathed his glev.

  The Kraut broke into the open almost immediately to my right. He saw me, and his eyes widened; he froze. A hand snaked around his mouth from behind, pulled his chin up, and a flash of steel slid quickly across his throat. A gout of hot blood splashed onto my face and down my lorica. The hand kept the Kraut silent and upright until his body spasmed, accepting its death. Then, the hand lowered the body to the ground.