by R. W. Peake
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For the Egyptian games, along with the gladiatorial contests, a large hole was excavated on the Campus Martius, then filled with water, making an artificial lake where naval battles were fought, using some of the ships from the Egyptian navy that were captured along with their crews, pitted against a small fleet manned by Tyrians. The Tyrians were chosen because they had refused to help Mithradates of Pergamum when he was raising a force to come to our aid in Alexandria, so their fate was to have some of their best young men chained to the benches of their ships and fight to the death for the enjoyment of Romans. The ships sailed all the way from Egypt and Tyre, then up the Tiber River to Rome. Finally, with the use of huge rollers and thousands of slaves, the vessels were manhandled across the open ground of the Campus to the artificial lake.
The endeavor had attracted a huge crowd of men from the army to watch, but the overriding sentiment was best described by Vellusius, who sniffed, “Well, we did that in Britannia and we didn’t have any slaves to help us. It was all our sweat that did it. What’s the big fuss about all this?”
With that, he turned away, followed by the rest of the men. I went with them as well; Vellusius was right. So much of what we were seeing constructed and done for this triumph that was done by slave labor in Rome had been accomplished by citizens in the army. I was noticing that I was picking up the attitude that most of the men, who in fairness had been in and around Rome for much longer than I had been, had about their fellow citizens. To the men of the army, our civilian counterparts were spoiled, soft, and incredibly lazy, and their attitude towards any type of manual labor engendered many a campfire discussion.
“They consider it beneath them, but it’s fine for anyone wearing a uniform to work as hard as a slave,” Glaxus spat into the fire shortly after our evening meal one night.
Scribonius was visiting, and Silanus was there as well, along with Balbus and Arrianus. There was a murmur of agreement at this, and I was one of those who agreed. Although I had not been here as long as the others, I had seen enough of the attitude to understand that it was indeed the prevailing one.
“It’s a load of cac is what it is,” Arrianus declared. “These civilians stick their nose up at us whenever we walk by, and you hear them making comments about what a soft life we’ve got sitting about in camp all day and night, just lolling about. Who do they think built this camp? Don’t they know a slave never digs so much as a spadeful of dirt building our camps? Or that the roads they walk on and that carry all those goods from every corner of the Republic were made by us and by the sweat off our back?”
“No, they don’t know that.”
I smiled, knowing that Scribonius could always be counted on to provide the other viewpoint.
All eyes turned to him, Arrianus scowling at Scribonius, who was whittling on a piece of wood, a favorite hobby of his. “As far as the people are concerned, all of what you speak of happens the same way that it happens in the city, by slave labor. Nobody has thought to tell them differently, so as far as they're concerned, we're no better than they are.”
“We’re much better than they are,” retorted Glaxus, raising another chorus of agreement. “We’ve sacrificed more, we’ve lost more friends than any individual citizen will ever have, all so that they can look down their nose at us when we walk by!”
“It’s our own fault, really.” Now I looked at Scribonius in surprise, while the others’ reactions were a bit stronger. I had understood and basically agreed with what he was saying, but now he was going into territory where I could not easily follow. “Think about it like this. How many people did we enslave out of Gaul?”
“About a million,” I answered.
Nodding, Scribonius continued, “And before that, how many slaves lived in Rome itself? Anyone know?”
We all shook our heads.
“I’m not sure either, but I think it was around 300,000, and I don’t have any idea how many in the rest of the Republic, but my guess is all told there were at least 1,000,000 slaves. Now in the space of seven years, we doubled that amount. How many people did we put out of a job?”
“You mean that they’re mad at us because we freed them from having to work?” protested Arrianus. “Why, they should be kissing the ground that we walk on.”
“Do you really believe that, Arrianus?” Scribonius asked quietly. “How would you feel if you could no longer provide for your family because you were replaced by someone who works essentially for free? Not because you did your job poorly, but merely because you needed enough money so that your family wouldn't starve? Would you really be grateful about that?”
All eyes turned to Arrianus, who was smart enough to know that he was on the losing end. “No, I suppose not,” he grumbled. “But it’s hardly our fault we’re so good at conquering people. What should we have done with all those Gauls? Thrown them back so we could fight them again?”
There was some laughter at this idea, as Scribonius admitted, “No, I’m not saying that necessarily. Honestly, I don’t know what the answer is, but I do know that it’s a little much to expect everyone to be happy with us for essentially taking away their livelihood.”
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Another five days of celebration passed before the third triumph, this one for the victory against Pharnaces, and again, just the men of the 6th marched. For the Pontic triumph, there was not as much to display, only a few hundred prisoners, and unlike with the Gallic and Egyptian, there were no high-born or prominent men to execute, so Caesar attempted to make up for it with wagons loaded with the arms and armor of the Pontic army that they had discarded fleeing from Zela. One of the pictures portrayed Pharnaces running away in his chariot, which seemed to be very popular with the crowd, but the one I favored the most was not a painting as much as it was an inscription. Caesar had his by-now famous words, “Veni, vidi, vici” written on one large canvas, and it was this that led the procession of scenes. I had thought that by the third triumph, the enthusiasm of the crowd would have waned, but this was not the case. Pontus had been an enemy of Rome for years, so the record of their defeat brought much joy and jubilation to the crowd. Of all the triumphs we celebrated, this was the least controversial, which was good because the final triumph was going to prove to be the most troublesome yet.
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As far as the men of the army were concerned, the last triumph was a bad idea from the moment it was mentioned. While our conquest of Gaul, along with the defeat of the Egyptians and Pontics was straightforward, we had fought our own people in Africa. Supposedly, the triumph was celebrating the defeat of Juba, and Caesar did parade Juba’s five-year-old son, also called Juba, though he did not have him wear chains and of course, he was not executed. He was actually treated very well, being raised as Roman. If things were left at that, there would not have been any problems, but Caesar could not content himself with only going that far. Several of the paintings depicted scenes that showed the assorted demises of Caesar’s enemies. Scipio was portrayed drowning at the hands of Sittius, Petreius in his duel with Juba and subsequent suicide, but I think the painting of Cato was the most distressing to the crowd. Caesar had spared no detail, showing both Cato’s initial attempt at suicide and the most grisly version of how he actually died. I have to say that whoever the artist was, he went to great lengths to show him pulling his guts out and throwing them about, so much so that even for a crowd as hardened to scenes of bloodshed as this, it was too much. The boos this time were loud and long, raining down on us from the crowd, causing us to look at each other with some concern. The crowd did not seem to be particularly inclined to violence, but with such a massive group of people, one never knew. I was marching back with the 10th, this time in my spot as Primus Pilus, so I was closer to the crowd and the expressions on their faces were ugly, their anger at the scenes that passed them by very raw and real. As we learned later, there was even more of a reaction from men closer to Caesar’s class than from those lining the streets. As Caesar enter
ed the Circus Maximus, passing along the benches that were reserved for the Tribunes of the Plebs, all but one of them came to their feet as custom dictated. The man who refused to stand was one Pontius Aquila, which Caesar did not like one bit. There was an exchange of angry words between them, though I did not learn what was said, but while Aquila was the most visible in his disagreement with what Caesar had done, he was far from the only one. Still, Caesar was the undisputed master of Rome and the entire Republic, while the dissenters were in the vast minority and their protests little but a whisper, so if you had told me then what was to come, I would have laughed. There was still work to do, for both Caesar and the army, while many of us would be going home again as we had hoped, just not in the way we had planned.
Chapter 9- Munda
As the 20 days of festivities came to an end, it was not all good news for Caesar and by extension, the army. Pompey’s sons had escaped to Hispania after Pharsalus, where Pompey was still revered, his name carrying much weight with people. Almost immediately, two of the Legions, the men of the 2nd and Indigena, promptly declared for the sons of Pompey. Not helping matters had been the behavior of Quintus Cassius, who Caesar left behind as governor of the province three years earlier. He had been governor in Hispania before that, and during his first term acted with great avarice and cruelty towards the population. Apparently, he decided to pick up where he left off when he came back. I will not enumerate all of his crimes, but they were many and varied, the common belief being that he was his own worst enemy. He had died some time before, yet the rancor and bitterness he left behind was sufficient to make people throwing their allegiance to the Pompeys an easy choice. Caesar had left the 21st and 30th behind in Hispania and there was a dilectus for the 3rd Legion so it was full of raw youngsters. Commanded by Pedius, he was co-commander of the entire force with Fabius, but the 2nd, Indigena and the 1st, which had escaped once again, from Thapsus this time, was composed of veterans. Therefore, Caesar sent explicit instructions not to engage with the Pompeians. The Pompey brothers, Gnaeus and Sextus, were joined by Labienus, who just did not have the good grace to die, along with a number of other vermin who had managed to save their skins in Africa. The Pompey name created a stir of excitement in Hispania, culminating in the city of Corduba declaring for Pompey because of the crimes of Cassius, despite the fact that both were dead. About two weeks after the triumphs, at the morning briefing, we were given orders to make the men ready to march to Hispania, an order that was not unexpected, given all that we had heard about developments there, yet it was troubling nonetheless. When I was relaying the orders back to the officers of the 10th, there were a number of looks exchanged between the Centurions, but for several moments, nobody said anything.
Seeing this, I decided to speak up, as I was sure that the men were reluctant to voice their feelings, though I knew they were there. “I can see some concern with this order,” I began. “Anyone care to say why they’re worried?”
For a moment, I began to think that nobody was going to say anything and that I had misread the situation. Then Balbus cleared his throat. I had expected this from either him or Scribonius, or perhaps Horatius, who was not shy about speaking up.
“It’s just that we're marching back with all the other Spanish Legions,” he said. I did not understand his meaning, so I bade him to continue. “The 7th, 8th, and 9th are now several years overdue for their discharge, and yet they're marching home.”
“Have you heard anything?” I asked.
Balbus shrugged, clearly reluctant to say much more, but I was not about to let him off the hook.
He had opened his mouth, so now I stared at him until he finally replied, “Nothing definite, no. Just some grumbling about having to march home, but not being able to return to their families.”
“They will, once we finish up with the Pompeian whelps,” I protested, but the others were not moved.
It was Scribonius who spoke up next, and I knew that he was speaking for the rest when he said, “Primus Pilus, the men have been hearing that for almost three years now. I think that they’re past believing that it will actually happen.”
The rest of the men added their agreement to what Scribonius had said, as I found myself rubbing my face once more, trying to decide what to do about it. Some said that I should immediately send word to Caesar about what I had heard, yet I did not feel that there was anything specific enough that would warrant such a move. If I ran to Caesar every time the men complained about something, I might as well have brought my cot to set up in his headquarters. Besides, I reasoned to myself, Caesar had ears everywhere, so I had to believe that I would not be telling him anything he had not already heard himself. Once again, I was wrong.
~ ~ ~ ~
We packed up, marching away from the Campus Martius, the 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, and the 13th, marching rapidly west. The first few days were tough on everyone, a month of celebration and debauchery taking some of the iron out of us so that we had more than the normal number of stragglers, some of them not making it to the nightly camp until well after dark. The days were starting to get shorter, though the weather held for the most part, although there were a few squalls while we were marching near the coast. Caesar was remaining behind in Rome to finish some of his legislative work, along with his continuing consolidation of power, or else it might have been even worse for us if we had marched at his normal pace. It took us more than six weeks to reach the border between the two Hispanias, marching into the camp of Pedius, Fabius, and the three Legions under their command. By the time we arrived, all the fat and soft living was marched off of all of us, including me. It was shortly after we arrived, with the men busy setting up their tents in the area marked off for the use of the 10th that the concerns of my Centurions came to fruition.
“Primus Pilus, you're needed at the praetorium immediately,” came the summons from one of the Legionaries on headquarter guard duty.
I was about to give him a good thrashing because he had not announced himself properly and his salute was sloppy, but I could see that he was a youngster from one of the new Legions, probably the 3rd, huffing and puffing from running to find me, and completely scared out of his wits. Something was happening, so this youngster was going to escape a beating, though I do not think he realized just how lucky he was.
“What is it?” I snapped. “Why are you all out of breath like Cerberus is chewing at your heels?”
Gasping for breath, it took a moment before he could stammer out a reply. “I don’t know, Primus Pilus. It just has something to do with some of the other Legions. General Pedius has called for all the Primi Pili and Pili Priores immediately.”
“Which other Legions?” I demanded as I turned to grab my helmet and vitus.
“I don’t know, sir. I just know that some of them have deserted.”
I stared at him in astonishment, then quickly shook my head. He surely had it wrong, but I was never one to take my wrath out on helpless rankers unless it had some sort of value. Ignoring the rest of what he was babbling on about, I sent Diocles to round up the Pili Priores while I trotted over to headquarters. When I arrived, some of the other officers were already there, talking excitedly to each other. While some of the others seemed surprised, I noticed others with a look of resigned acceptance, and I hurried over to a small group standing in a corner.
“What’s happening?”
The Primus Pilus of the 5th, a tough old bird by the name of Battus, gave a harsh laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You haven’t heard then? Well, it seems that some of your fellow Spaniards have decided that they’ve had enough and are marching to join Gnaeus Pompey.”
I said nothing, sure that he was just having some sort of fun at my expense, but then I saw the grim expressions of the other men around him.
Finally finding my tongue, I asked, “How many and which ones?”
“It looks like it’s the 8th and 9th,” Battus replied.
“And the 13th, looks like,” a new
voice added and I turned to see none other than Torquatus, old of the 10th and now the Primus Pilus of the new 3rd Legion.
“The 13th!” I exclaimed. “But they still have a couple years left on their enlistment. The 8th and 9th I can understand, they’ve been unhappy for a long time. But the 13th?”
Torquatus shrugged. “I don’t have any better idea than you, Pullus, that’s just what I heard General Pedius say.”
“Where are they now?” Battus asked.
Torquatus indicated the area out beyond the front gate. “Formed up and marching away. They stayed just long enough for their Primi Pili to come tell Pedius what they were going to do, then left.”
“Pedius should sound the call to arms and we should hunt them down and kill every last one of the bastards,” Battus said angrily, as a couple of his own Centurions added their agreement.
While I understood his feelings, I knew that this was not a good idea, on a number of different levels. “And who's going to do the killing?” I asked. “My men?” I continued before he could reply. “The men of the 7th? Men who have marched side by side, bled side by side, died side by side? You really think that the men will be willing to lift a sword against some of their closest friends?”