Marching With Caesar-Civil War

by R. W. Peake

  My ears filled with a roaring noise as my heart started pounding so loudly that I was sure they could hear it.

  I had to swallow more than once before I could croak out, “Why is that?”

  “Because the plague has come to Brundisium. No fleet is landing there right now.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  I do not remember much of the voyage to Paestum, spending most of it in the captain’s tiny cabin, sitting with Diocles and Scribonius, who did not talk. We had barely tied up at the dock when I leaped off, Diocles hurrying after me. Putting Silanus in charge of the Century and Glaxus in charge of the Cohort and the 10th, I hired two horses for Diocles and me, leaving Paestum no more than a third of a watch after the fleet arrived. Taking the Via Popilia a few miles, we turned off on the branch road that connected to the Via Appia, pushing the horses and ourselves without mercy. We stopped only long enough to change horses, grabbing a loaf of bread and some cheese that we ate on horseback. Poor Diocles was unaccustomed to traveling at the kind of pace I was setting, yet he hung on grimly to the mane of his horse, making no complaints, though he was never the complaining type to begin with. We arrived at Tarentum, passing through the city, stopping only long enough to change horses.

  While I hired the mounts, Diocles sat in a tavern near the stables, listening to the talk, and when we had resumed our journey, told me what he had learned. “It’s an outbreak of typhus and it’s supposed to be very bad, Master.”

  Diocles kept his voice calm, but I could hear the strain in his voice, making me suspect that he had heard more than he was telling. Normally, I am the type of person who wants to hear the complete and unvarnished truth, no matter how painful or unpleasant it may be. But not this time, so I did not press him for details. We passed the remaining miles in silence, approaching Brundisium a third of a watch before sunset. In truth, we smelled the city several miles before we came within sight of the walls, the stench such that it reminded me of some of the battlefields in Gaul, Alesia in particular, which did not help my frame of mind. The traffic on the road was understandably light, and almost exclusively one way, those who were able having left earlier when the outbreak first started. By the time we arrived at the city gates, Diocles had vomited more times than I could count, but I was not in the mood to tease him about it as I normally might have. Besides, my stomach was lurching as well, though for entirely different reasons, having become accustomed to the smell of death long before. The city guard had clearly been hit hard as well, there only being two men still on duty instead of the normal six or so, both of them wearing sprigs of herbs pinned to their neckerchiefs which they had tied around their faces to block out the smell. As we approached, they examined the two of us, their surprise and shock clear when I made to ride past them into the city. Looking at each other in alarm, they both moved to block our passage. Looking down at them, I struggled to remain calm. While I was not wearing my armor or helmet, I was wearing my sword and the fact that it hung to my left told them my rank, which was how they addressed me.

  “Sorry, Centurion, but nobody is allowed into the city until the plague is past.”

  “I've come to check on my family. They live here.”

  The older of the two, a short, stocky man who was running to fat, shook his head, clearly uncomfortable, but intent on doing his duty. Normally, I would not have faulted him for his devotion, but these were not normal times and I was not in the right frame of mind.

  “I’m sorry, Centurion, but our orders are clear.”

  I do not remember making any conscious decision. In fact, it seemed as if my arm acted on its own, pulling my sword while the rest of my body urged my horse forward to get closer to the older man. In the time it takes to blink your eyes, the point of my sword was against the base of his throat.

  “I'm coming into the city to check on my family. If you try to stop me, I'll kill you.”

  I did not speak loudly, pitching my voice so only he and his companion could hear. The guard was shaking with fear, while his companion held his own spear with the point upright, either too shocked or too afraid to try to stop me from threatening his comrade.

  For a moment he did not speak, then finally managed to croak, “Very well, Centurion. You may pass.”

  “Thank you,” I said, but I did not sheathe my sword or turn my back to either of them until we were a safe distance away.

  The streets of the city were almost deserted, as those not affected had either left or had blockaded themselves in their homes to wait for the passing of the sickness. This was the same affliction that struck down so much of the army when we were camped in Brundisium before our invasion of Greece. I vividly remembered that some of the survivors were so weakened by the illness that they were unable to rejoin the army until we were in Sicily. Outside of some homes there were corpses, wrapped in whatever shroud the survivors could spare, waiting for collection. Those that could afford it paid for the proper funeral rites to be performed, so that on the south side of the city there were columns of black, greasy smoke that told the story of bodies being consigned to the flames. As we turned onto the street leading to my family’s apartment, my throat was as dry as if I was marching for a day across the desert without a drink, but even if I could have had a drink of water, I doubt I would have been able to keep it down. Arriving in front of the building, I tried not to stagger as I dismounted. The windows of the building were shuttered, which was not unusual at such a time, yet it disturbed me nonetheless. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life as I walked to the stairway then began to mount the steps, thinking of the last time I was here and watching Vibi tumble down them. Even now, in the last years of my life, more than 25 years later, I cannot speak of those next moments. I will turn to Diocles to give his account.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  In the relatively short time I had been with my master, I had never seen him in such a state as he was when we pulled up before the building where his family was living. He went to the steps, but stopped there for a moment before mounting them. He tried to open the door, but was unable to do so, the door obviously locked. He knocked, softly at first, then with more and more urgency. Still, the door never opened. He stood for a moment, and I did not know what to do for him. Suddenly he reared back, kicking against the door, which flew open with a loud crash. From where I was sitting, I heard a cry of alarm, and for a moment my heart leapt with joy before my brain recognized that the sound came not only from inside the house on the first floor, but that the voice was male. My master made no sign that he had heard, and stepped inside the door, his face set and white as he disappeared. It was a few moments before he emerged, his shoulders slumped as he descended the stairs and walked over to me.

  “There’s nobody there, and the place is cleaned out.”

  “Master, that must mean that they left like most of the others,” I said, but my words did not soothe him.

  He shook his head, and I could barely him reply, “I don’t think so.”

  He turned and walked to the door on the ground floor of the building, and began banging on it. I was sitting on my horse just a few feet away, close enough that I could hear the stirring of someone inside, but the door did not open. Banging harder, my master called out loudly enough to be heard several streets away, calling the owner of the building by name and identifying himself. Finally, the door cracked open, only by a matter of a couple of inches and I could barely make out a pinched white face peering up at my master. It was hard to tell whether it was a man or woman, and I only learned by the sound of the voice that it was a woman, the wife of the owner, I presumed.

  “Salve, Centurion. You've come at a most unfortunate time, I'm sad to say. I'm sorry that I can't open the door, but my husband won't permit visitors.”

  “That's fine, lady.” My master’s voice was calm and his tone pleasant, but I had been with him long enough to hear the strain underlying his words. “I'm here to find my wife and children. Do you know what happened to them?”

  I do not kno
w how many heartbeats of time it took her to answer, but if time has ever stood still, it was in that moment. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the doorway and the interior behind her, I could see her more clearly, and on her face, sadness was plainly written and not a little fear.

  “I'm sorry, Centurion. Your family is dead. The plague claimed them all.”

  At first, my master gave no reaction, just standing there looking down at her. I began to think that he had not heard her, though I did not see how that was possible. Then, without a word, his legs lost their strength and he collapsed to his knees, his head dropping to his chest. I leapt off my horse, taking a step towards him, then stopped, not sure what to do. The woman looked down at him, and I saw a withered, spotted hand reach out and touch his shoulder. Suddenly, it was as if a dam had burst. It began as a low moan, my master’s body beginning to shake as if he had the ague himself, then he began to sob. The woman opened the door and stepped out, and I heard a man’s voice angrily demanding that she come back inside and shut the door, but she ignored him. Kneeling next to my master, she wrapped her arms about his giant shoulders, and he leaned his head against her breast as his grief consumed him. I stood helplessly, then took a step towards them. She looked at me and shook her head, so I stopped as she murmured words to him as they both rocked gently back and forth. They stayed like this as the last light of the day faded away, and it was only when it became dark that he began to stir himself. He climbed to his feet, then helped the woman up, but even in the gloom, I could see how unsteady he was on his feet, so I stepped next to him in case he needed help.

  He had said nothing since his question about his family, and when he did speak, his voice was hoarse and barely recognizable. “Where are they now?”

  The woman looked apprehensive now, though I did not understand why, but she obviously knew something I did not, given the reaction she got when she told him, “They were taken away and buried.”

  My master went rigid, his grief turning to anger as quickly as a bolt of lightning strikes. “Buried,” he hissed. “That is not proper! You should know that. How could you have let them be buried?”

  She shrugged helplessly, the fear in her voice making it quaver. “Centurion, we didn't have any choice in the matter. The urban Praetor issued a decree that all non-citizens were to be buried as quickly as possible.”

  “My children were citizens, damn you! They should have been given the proper rites! Now,” his voice broke, “they're doomed to wander the underworld for eternity and I'll never recognize them!”

  His shoulders began to shake as a fresh spate of tears struck him at this thought.

  “Centurion, it was your wife’s wish that they be buried with her,” the woman said gently. “As I understand it, that was the way of her people anyway, wasn't it? To be buried? Besides, your children were Roman citizens, that's true, but weren't they also of her tribe as well? And if they were, then they walk with her now, in their afterlife, don't they?”

  As religious arguments go, it would not have taken me long to dismantle it, but under the circumstances, I was only too happy to see that this brought him some comfort.

  After thinking about it, he nodded. “Do you know where they're buried?”

  She shook her head and replied that she did not, adding, “And you don’t want to go to where they're taking the…..bodies, Centurion. I've heard that it's a very grim place and it wouldn't bring you any comfort. You should remember them alive.”

  “I hardly knew them,” my master replied, and there is no way to convey the amount of sadness and pain those words carried. Looking down at the woman, he said, “Thank you for telling me and for your . . . kindness. Were our accounts with you in order? Is there anything that we owe you?”

  She shook her head, saying that everything that had been owed was paid. With that, he turned away and walked past me to his horse, leaping astride it and gathering up the reins.

  “Goodbye,” was the last thing he said to the woman, leaving her standing there as I trailed behind him.

  We rode in silence, retracing our route out of the city, the streets even more deserted than when we came, the sound of our horses’ hooves echoing off the buildings. We exited by the same gate. Fortunately, the guards did not make any comment at our departure, for I believe they would have died if they had. Under normal circumstances, we should have been finding a place to sleep for the night, but I suspected that there would be no sleep for us this night.

  A third of a watch passed, then two, and finally I could take it no longer. “Master, is there anything I can do?”

  He did not answer for several moments, then finally he replied, “Yes. You'll never talk about what you saw back there. And I'll never speak of it again. My wife, my son, and my daughter are dead. There's nothing I can do to change that and there's no point in dwelling on it. This is the last I'll ever talk about them.”

  And he was true to his word. After that night, I never heard him speak of his family again.

  Chapter 8- Triumph

  I have little recollection of the journey back to Rome, and I doubt I would have made it if Diocles had not been with me. We returned to the army, camped on the Campus Martius, where the men were readying themselves for the first of four triumphs that Caesar planned for Gaul, Egypt, Pontus, and Africa. While the 10th would march in three of the four because of my time with the 6th, I would be marching in all four, meaning that Diocles was kept busy, making sure all of my uniforms and decorations were in order. The men were understandably in a state of high excitement, a state that I could not share, though I did try. Here I was finally at the gates of the city that I had dreamed of seeing all of my life, yet I saw none of the color and vibrant life that flowed in and out of the city all day. Finally, Scribonius showed up at my tent one morning after formation, informing me that he was taking me on a tour of the city, brushing aside my protests about paperwork. Entering the city was like entering another world, a place of constant noise and movement, full of people of all colors and sizes, every one of them seeming to be in an incredible hurry as they conducted what was obviously very important business. I had never seen so many slaves in one place before, and they were as varied as the freedmen walking about, each slave wearing the bronze placard around their neck that proclaimed to whom they belonged. The streets were positively jammed with humanity, the smell indescribable, a mixture of humans, animals, and the aromas of baking bread, spices, and the gods only know what else. It was all a bit overwhelming, but it was at least nice to tower above most of the people so that I could look around and take in the sights.

  “Well, what do you think? Is it everything you thought it would be?”

  I was not sure if I should be polite, since this was Scribonius’ city, or be honest. I opted for the latter. “It’s the dirtiest place I’ve ever seen. And it’s a lot more cramped than Alexandria.”

  If Scribonius was disappointed or insulted, he did not show it. He just laughed. “It is that,” he agreed, taking my elbow to point me down another street.

  One of the things I found so disconcerting about the city was the seemingly haphazard way that the streets seemed to run, with no discernible pattern to them. I realized that the time I had spent in Alexandria, with its wide, ordered streets laid out in a grid, had set an expectation that Rome would be the same, yet it was not. Because we had come from the Campus Martius, the first great structure we encountered was Pompey’s Theater, and despite vowing to myself that I would not act like a country bumpkin, I found myself standing there gaping at the sheer size and opulence of the place. It was a massive semicircular structure, with the stage positioned at the bottom of the semicircle. Scribonius told me that it had been built and dedicated while we were fighting in Gaul, during Pompey’s second Consulship, and it had caused some controversy because building such a large theater as a monument to himself was considered sacrilegious. Therefore, to avoid censure by the Senate he erected a small temple to Venus Victorious at the top of the t
heater, looking down at the stage. He was not so concerned that he did not have a huge statue of himself erected and placed in the main entry hall so that all who entered had to pass literally under his feet. Of course, it was at Pompey’s feet that Caesar was to be murdered, but we were happily unaware of what was to transpire. Leaving the theater, we headed to the Forum being built by Caesar, called appropriately the Forum Julii, to look at the temple to Venus Genetrix, the goddess from whom the Julii were descended, which was basically completed and awaiting consecration. This was going to take place during the first triumphal parade in just a matter of a couple days. The building was under guard, but since it was being watched by men of the 10th, they did not hesitate letting their Primus Pilus and Secundus Pilus Prior enter the temple, as Scribonius and I looked at each other, smiling like schoolboys who have managed to avoid classes that day. The temple had several alcoves, almost all of them empty at that moment, which would hold some of the booty taken by Caesar during his military campaigns, but only after they were paraded before the people of Rome as proof of all that Caesar had conquered.

  As we looked around, Scribonius said something that had been rattling around in my own head, yet I had not wanted to say aloud. “You know, this temple belongs just as much to us as it does to Caesar and the Julii.” Scribonius said this quietly enough, but I still caught myself looking guiltily about to see if there was anyone there to listen.

  Fortunately, the temple was empty except for us.

  “That may be true, but that’s not something you want to say very loudly,” I replied. “Still, you’re right. But it belongs more to the men who won’t be marching with us than anyone.”

  “Like Romulus and Remus,” Scribonius whispered.

  “And Calienus,” I added, feeling a sharp stab of grief at the thought of our old Sergeant, which was immediately followed by a vision of a woman with flame-red hair, holding a baby on her hip.