by R. W. Peake
“Not completely. I know of two dead and four wounded. One of them is Didius.”
“How badly?”
His tone was grim. “Bad enough. It’s his leg, but the muscle is cut almost all the way through and is hanging like a piece of meat. He'll need a litter.”
This was indeed bad news, but I decided that I would bribe Caesar’s surgeon to take a look at Didius to see if he could be fixed up enough to keep marching, since we were literally months away from the end of our enlistment. Nonetheless, the regulations were clear; the only way that Didius would get his full benefit was by serving his full enlistment. Because Caesar was the master of Rome and Didius one of his Legionaries, I was fairly confident that the regulations could be bent, but it was not a foregone conclusion, and I knew that if I were Didius, I would not sleep easy until the matter was decided. Better that we did not have to rely on Caesar, I thought, so spending the money was not an issue for me. The other man I was concerned with was Vibius, though I made no comment when I learned that he was unhurt. It was not all bad news, however; the only losses we suffered were with Scribonius’ Century, the rest of the Legion with only a handful of minor wounds to show for the action. We marched back to camp, leaving the watchtower unguarded, Caesar saying that it had served its purpose and would be too much of a problem to continue guarding. This confirmed my suspicions that Scribonius and his men had been nothing but bait, and I simmered with anger at Caesar, though I was still not sure why. He had done similar things more times than I could count; I had never had a problem with it before, and he had used men of the 10th before as well. Perhaps it was that it was my old Century, with my oldest friends.
We did not have everything our way, however. The next night, Gnaeus managed to reinforce the small garrison inside the town by a stratagem of deception. One of his Tribunes, Flaccus, I believe was his name, had spotted the youngsters of the 3rd. Recognizing them for what they were, once it got dark, he went alone to one of the sentry posts, and while pretending to be from Caesar, learned the challenge and watchword. Using that knowledge, he led a force past the youngsters, giving the watchword when challenged, leading his men into the town. Caesar was understandably angry when he learned of what happened, but because of the youth and inexperience of the men, he only had them flogged and not executed, as was his right. We continued the work on the ramp, the final piece before we could assault the city, but the work was slow going because of the weather and with the garrison reinforced, the Pompeians in the city could sally forth to try to destroy the ramp. Ironically, the weather that had been hampering our efforts also was an aid in keeping the enemy from setting fire to the ramp, so they would retire back inside their walls, frustrated in their attempts. In order to discourage their attacks, Caesar ordered that any man captured in their raids be executed in front of the walls, something that he had never done before, which I took as a sign that he was getting as tired and frustrated with the continuing resistance as we were. From our point of view, the matter between the Pompeians and Caesar had long since been decided. The refusal of the Pompeians to recognize that was not only pointless, but also criminal, because we in the ranks had no choice but to obey orders and to continue killing and dying. Because of their stubbornness, we were still huddled in thatch huts, shivering against the cold, worried about where our next meal was coming from, while men like Didius who had survived more fighting than any army in Roman history were being cut down. Now when Caesar gave orders to execute captured men, whereas at one point this would have been an unpopular order, we were now completely willing to carry them out. The fact that these were men just like us, who were only following orders, no longer made any difference to us, and since we could not take out our frustrations on the likes of Gnaeus, Sextus and Labienus, they suffered the brunt of our anger. The townspeople, seeing our treatment of the enemy combatants, began to fear that their fate would be even worse, so one day, perhaps a week into the siege, a lead slingshot was flung at the feet of a Centurion supervising work on the ramp. Since it was obviously not an attempt to kill the Centurion, he correctly interpreted that there was another purpose behind it, picking the missile up. Inscribed was an understandably brief message suggesting a surprise attack should be attempted, while giving the location, along with the expected signal, a shield raised on a standard. The Primus Pilus of the 30th Legion approached Caesar, asking that his Legion be allowed to conduct this operation, to which Caesar agreed. That night, the men of the 30th began tunneling towards the spot indicated in the message, working through the night, with the intention of attacking shortly after first light. The rest of the army was ordered to continue with their normal duties so as not to arouse suspicion. Given that we were now working on the ramp night and day, the work continued normally through the night. Unfortunately, the men of the 30th did not finish their tunneling in time to launch their attack when they had hoped, so it was perhaps a full watch after sunrise before the shield was finally raised to the standard. I do not know if the delay contributed to what happened, but the attack was a disaster. It started out well enough, as the section of wall that the men of the 30th undermined collapsed with a sudden roar and roiling plume of dust, taking with it a couple men unlucky enough to be standing on guard on that section of the wall. The First Cohort of the 10th was standing guard on the rampart of our camp, so they had an unobstructed view of the action. Accordingly, it was Metellus who pointed out the problem that I think was the main cause for what was about to happen. Even as the dust was still settling, the men of the 30th went running towards the gap opened in the wall.
“It’s not wide enough.” Metellus pointed to the hole and I instantly saw that he was right.
The 30th had not created a breach of sufficient size, a mark of their inexperience. Undermining a wall is a tricky business, because the tunnel has to be sufficiently small so that it doesn’t collapse. Once under the wall, it has to be widened so that it takes a sufficiently sized chunk of the wall down with it when the pile of wood and rubbish that is stuffed in the space is set alight, so that at least a full section can enter side by side. They had not done this, so the resulting breach was only wide enough for perhaps half a section of men abreast to enter. This meant that it would not take nearly as many men to plug the hole to defend it as it should have, so very quickly the attack bogged down. As we watched, about a half Century managed to crawl up the pile of rubble to enter through the breach before their progress was stopped. The sounds of battle carried across the air towards us, and it was quickly becoming clear that our side was faring badly, the calls and cries growing increasingly panicked. The rest of the 30th could only stand helplessly outside the walls as their comrades tried to push their way into the town, yet after several moments, no progress had been made. By then, the defenders had rallied a substantial number of men to climb to the parapet to begin flinging missiles down on the heads of our waiting men. Testudos were quickly formed, but not before a number of casualties were inflicted. While protected for the moment, the 30th could not stand there for any real length of time before their arms gave out and their shields dropped.
“They need to pull back. They’ve botched it sure enough. Now they just need to cut their losses,” Varus, my Hastatus Posterior, said glumly, and I could only agree.
A few moments later, the cornu sounded the withdrawal. The 30th began moving backwards, staying in testudo until they were out of missile range, their retreat marked by the jeers and insults of the Pompeians lining the wall. Their shame was compounded by the fact that they left those men who managed to push their way into the breach to be taken prisoner.
“They’re dead men,” Metellus spat. “After what we did to those prisoners the other day, there's no way that whoever is commanding the garrison won't exact revenge.”
Again, I agreed with Metellus. Happily, we were both wrong. For reasons we did not understand at first, the men of the 30th were not executed. It was only the next day when a deputation of the townspeople managed to sneak through
the breach to approach our lines, asking to see Caesar, that we learned the reason. They were brought into his presence, and it was then that it was learned that the citizens of the town had intervened with the garrison commander on behalf of the captured men. They hoped that it would prove to Caesar that they were acting in good faith by coming to him to offer their conditional surrender. I do not know what terms they asked for, but whatever they were, Caesar deemed them unacceptable, sending them back to the town still under siege.
~ ~ ~ ~
It was about this same time that Gnaeus, realizing he must take some sort of action, moved across the river to build a redoubt closer to the town from which he could launch sorties against us, though with little success. His forces did briefly drive off one of our cavalry outposts before our horsemen rallied, in turn inflicting heavy loss on the Pompeians. Two days after the attempt by the 30th, the garrison commander Munacius rounded up a large number of civilians from the town, then taking them onto the parapet in plain view, executed them in the most barbaric fashion imaginable. Babies were tossed into the air to be caught on the points of spears, while women were defiled, then butchered while their husbands watched, all while we stood by helplessly. Supposedly, this act was perpetrated because of the intervention of the civilians with the garrison concerning our captured men and for the attempt by the town elders to surrender. Once killed, the bodies were pitched over the wall to lie in a heap in plain view of the army. We could not retrieve them to dispose of the corpses properly because they were within missile range of the defenders. What we learned later was that this was a diversion, albeit a bloody one, to allow a messenger from Gnaeus to slip into the town while our attention was occupied elsewhere. No more than one watch after the massacre, the army of Gnaeus left their camp to array for battle, while the gates of the town were flung open as the garrison made a desperate attempt to break through to link up with their comrades. Several sections of Pompeians carried hurdles to throw into our ditch, while other sections carried the long poles with hooks to pull down our palisade. Even more men carried with them bags of silver and other valuables, the idea being that they would strew these about once they had penetrated our lines, counting on the greed of the men to worry more about grabbing the loot than stopping the two Pompeian forces from linking up. As a plan, it was not bad, yet as is so often the case, the gods laugh at our attempts to arrange our affairs, especially in matters as naturally chaotic as war. This time, it was the refusal of Gnaeus’ army to budge from their spot in front of their camp. In order for the plan to work, Gnaeus would have had to attack at the same time as Munacius’ force launched their assault, yet for some reason, despite the fact that this was Gnaeus’ idea and plan to begin with, he did nothing but stand there, watching as the garrison tried to fight their way through our lines. Naturally, they were unsuccessful, being forced to retire back into the town, though not without leaving a fair number of bodies behind, along with prisoners who were promptly executed in retaliation for what had happened to the townspeople. Our casualties were minimal, while the biggest change to the situation came about because Munacius now realized that he had been forsaken by Gnaeus, who in turn had resigned himself to the town being lost. The men of the garrison continued to fight, succeeding in burning one of the towers, but it was clearly a lost cause.
~ ~ ~ ~
The night after this action, Diocles came into my private quarters to inform me that one of the slaves belonging to Caesar’s physician was waiting to speak to me. Knowing that this undoubtedly concerned Didius, I followed him to the hospital tent. No matter how many times I entered this tent my stomach always rebelled at the smells, suppressing a shiver at the sounds of suffering men, some of them mine. I followed the slave to where the physician was standing, a Greek with a suitably haughty demeanor, by virtue of his status and relationship to Caesar no doubt.
Still, his face was sympathetic as I approached. “Your man, Didius isn’t it?” he began in heavily accented Latin, “He is faring poorly, very poorly indeed. His wound has become corrupt, and the rot has spread throughout his leg. Unless I remove it immediately, he will die, but he refuses to let me touch him until he has talked to you.”
While the news was not completely unexpected, it was nonetheless disheartening to hear, and I asked, “How much of the leg do you have to take?”
“All of it,” he said firmly. “Almost to his hip joint. In fact, if we go even another two watches without removing it, the corruption will spread into his internal organs and then he will die. Primus Pilus,” he put his hand on my shoulder as he looked up into my eyes. “His life is measured in thirds of a watch right now, so say whatever you have to in order to convince him that this is his only course.”
Sighing, I nodded that I understood, then stepped through the leather curtain that separated the most serious cases from the rest of the men who were recovering. We referred to that room as “Charon’s Boat,” the vessel that ferries us all across Styx to what lies beyond, and not many men who were carried into that room emerged alive. I bit back a curse, resolving to talk to the physician or the orderly to find out exactly who had moved Didius into Charon’s Boat, knowing that this act alone was as likely to kill a man from despair at the idea that the medical staff had given up on him. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, then to find Didius, who was lying at the far end. It was quiet in here, most of the men being unconscious or so heavily drugged with poppy syrup to ease their suffering that they were already dead for all intents and purposes. As I got closer, the smell of his rotting flesh assaulted my nostrils, requiring a substantial effort of will to keep me from wrinkling my nose or making a face.
He was awake, his eyes wide and bright with fever, and not a little fear. “Salve, Primus Pilus,” he said hoarsely. “Forgive me for not coming to intente.”
“You’re on report for that,” I said with a smile, pulling up a stool to sit next to his cot.
His breathing was shallow and raspy, and in truth, I was amazed that he was alive at all. His lower leg to just above the knee was black, oozing pus that was so dark green that it was almost brown, and I could clearly see the livid red streaks on his upper thigh that marked the fingers of rot steadily marching through his body, laying waste just as thoroughly and mercilessly as we had in Gaul.
Clearing my throat, I began. “Didius, I've spoken to the physician. The only way you're going to survive is if you allow him to take your leg, and to do it now.”
“Noooo.” His head thrashed back and forth, his tone so pitiful and wracked with fear that I found it impossible to remember that for many years Didius and I had been bitter enemies.
Putting my hand on his arm, I looked him in the eye, saying firmly, “Yes. This is what must be done, Didius, or you will die.”
His mouth twisted bitterly, then he gave a weak bark that I knew passed for his laugh. “What does it matter if I die now? If he takes my leg, I’m out of the Legion and will have to live by the charity of others. I’ll be dead in a couple months in that case, so what does it matter if it’s now?”
I listened to him, not sure what to say. While Didius was right in that he would not be allowed to remain in the Legions, and that he had not finished his enlistment so therefore was not technically entitled to the pension and land that was due all of us, Didius had been marching as long as I had. He had profited from all the years in Gaul, Britannia, Greece, and Africa just as I had, not to mention the bounty that Caesar had paid out at his triumphs. It was inconceivable to me that he was destitute, and I said as much.
For a long moment, he said nothing, his expression one that I could not immediately decipher. When he spoke, I realized that he was embarrassed. “I . . . I lost most everything that I was paid over the years.” He darted a look at me, then his eyes shifted away. “The dice haven’t rolled my way lately. Fortuna’s turned her back on me, that’s for sure.” He waved his hand in disgust at his rotting leg. “If this isn’t proof of that, I don’t know what is. Just a
few weeks short of our enlistment ending, and this happens.”
I sat there completely mystified. Here Didius was telling me that he had lost most of his fortune gambling, and that did not make sense. “Didius, that can’t be true.” I shook my head. “I can’t count all the times that you told all of us who would listen about how much you had won, either at dice or tables, or whatever.”
“Primus Pilus, you haven’t spent much time at our fire in a long time,” he said quietly. “That was certainly true at one time, but that hasn’t been the case for a while now.”
“What changed?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
My question elicited a rueful laugh. “I stopped cheating.” I stared at him, sure that I had misheard, but he only shrugged, looking away as he continued talking. “I just got tired of looking over my shoulder all the time. When you're gulling men, you have to be alert constantly and careful to hide your tracks. It wears a man down after a while, and I just got tired of it. So,” he looked up at me, “I decided to go straight. Turns out that I was a much better cheater than I am an honest gambler.”
I could not help laughing. For a moment, he scowled at me, then gave a weak chuckle. I put my hand on his shoulder then said quietly, “Didius, you don’t have to worry. I'll talk with Caesar and make sure that you get your full pension, and I'll contribute enough to make sure that you'll never go hungry or want for a roof over your head. But,” I pointed at him to emphasize my point, “you have to swear on Jupiter’s Stone that you'll quit gambling.”
Tears welled in his eyes, causing him to blink rapidly, but I pretended that I did not notice, and his voice was hoarser than before as he said, “I swear it, Primus Pilus.” He reached his hand out, so I grasped his forearm, neither of us saying anything for a moment, then he let out a rasping breath and said, “Well, Primus Pilus, tell that Greek bloodsucker to get in here and do what he has to do. Might as well get it over with.”