Marching With Caesar – Civil War mwc-2

by R. W. Peake

  This was the first time I had heard her mention her name since that awful time back in Hispania, and I took it as a sign that the wound was no longer raw and open, but had begun to scab over.

  “I remember,” I said quietly, and I thank the gods that I caught myself from adding that it was different, because I know that would have wounded Vibius deeply.

  “I wish I could say that it gets easier, but it doesn’t.” He drank deeply, then turned to me, shrugging with a sad smile on his face.

  “Well, if you’re trying to cheer me up, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it,” I said, only half-jokingly, but he laughed anyway.

  Then he turned serious again and said simply, “I just wanted you to know that I know how you feel.”

  “Thank you, Vibius. It does help, a little.”

  There was a silence, then Vibius cleared his throat and awkwardly set the cup down on the desk. “Yes, well. I’ll be off then, Centurion.”

  “Thank you again, Vibius. It’s good to know I still have a friend.”

  “Always,” he replied simply, then turned and left the tent.

  Oh, how I wish those words had held true.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  One of the small benefits of marching in Italia was that we no longer had to construct the standard “marching camp in the face of the enemy” as it is called in the manuals, meaning that we would be settled down earlier in the day than usual for us. While this was a boon for the men, for the Centurions it was a never-ending source of headaches because idle time is our worst enemy since it gives the rankers more time to get into some sort of mischief, and the number of men on charges was getting to be a serious matter. I called for my Optio, glad at least that I finally had someone in the position that I knew I could rely on totally, my old comrade Scribonius. When I had first been made Pilus Prior, I was forced to name a man named Albinus as my Optio, for reasons that I no longer even remember. He had been almost useless; a weak, indecisive man who showed little initiative and even less enthusiasm for his job, thinking of it as a benefit rather than a responsibility. Unfortunately, his performance was not substandard enough for me to relieve him without a major headache, but the gods smiled on me by striking him down with the bloody flux, and he had the good grace to die shortly before we left Massilia. This time I was not going to make the same mistake, immediately approaching Scribonius, who had turned out to be one of the best choices I could have made, not only because he was one of the most popular men in the Century, but in the whole Cohort as well. His courage was unquestioned, but most importantly he was respected for his fairness and his ability to use reason instead of brute force. That did not mean he was soft; he could crack skulls with the best of us, yet he did not use force as his first resort, like some of the other officers. Now, he stood before me and I was sure my expression mirrored his, one of exasperation and a wry amusement at the ingenuity of the men. One of my saltiest veterans, Figulus, had gone missing, despite the best attempts of both Scribonius and I to keep the men too busy to think up ways to sneak out of camp. Figulus had been a close companion of the late Atilius, but possessed a shred more common sense, usually knowing when to rein in his wilder impulses. He had also been one of the men Caesar recalled and like Crastinus, had expressed his joy at being back in the army, civilian life proving not to be to his taste. But now, the fat countryside with the pleasant towns and pretty girls were proving too much of a temptation and he had managed to slip out of camp to go sample the local wares.

  “The best I can tell, he managed to hide himself in the supply wagon that came this afternoon,” Scribonius reported. I considered this, stepping outside to look at the sun to calculate the time. There were still a couple of watches of daylight, but we were scheduled for an evening formation, the Primus Pilus deciding to hold it as a deterrent for just such behavior, and the penalty for missing formation is a flogging. Knowing that, I was fairly sure that Figulus had every intention of returning before evening formation.

  “Very well. We’ll hold the report until the last possible minute. As long as he makes it back before formation, then we won’t have to write him up.”

  “Yes, sir. But we can’t just let him get away with sneaking off like that.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said grimly. “He won’t. I’ll see to that myself.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  As it turned out, I was right; Figulus magically reappeared, getting past the sentries on the gate about a sixth of a watch before evening formation. I saw him striding back to his tent, looking immensely pleased with himself, and I smiled, but it was not a friendly smile.

  “Figulus!” I barked his name, pleased to see the expression on his face change instantly as he froze in mid-stride. “Get over here, now!”

  He immediately turned and ran to me, stopping and coming to intente, eyes riveted to a point above my head. “Gregarius Figulus reporting as ordered, Pilus Prior,” he rapped out the standard response.

  To someone who did not know Legionaries in general and Figulus in particular, all would have appeared normal, but I could detect the hint of worry in his voice.

  “How are you, Figulus?” I asked with a tone of concern, a senior Centurion checking on the welfare of his men, deepening Figulus’ confusion.

  “Sir?” His tone and manner was one of uncertainty, appearing confused by my solicitous tone, precisely the effect I was intending.

  “I just haven’t had a chance to talk to you lately, and you’re one of the veterans that were part of our dilectus and came from Pompey’s Legions. You were there when Vinicius bought it, weren’t you?”

  The mention of our old Optio’s name brought a shadow of sadness across the older man’s face, and I instantly regretted bringing up the unpleasant memories associated with his name. We had watched him incinerated in front of our very eyes, during our very first campaign in Hispania under a then little-known Praetor named Gaius Julius Caesar. It was to Vinicius I owed my first position as weapons instructor; he had taught me almost as much as Cyclops had about how to fight.

  “Yes, sir,” he said quietly, and while his face remained expressionless, I could see his eyes soften at the memory.

  “There are just so few old-timers left that I try to keep an eye out for all of you, and we haven’t had a chance to talk lately. So, is everything all right? Your old bones holding up to the long march?” I asked this in a slightly teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood.

  I saw his chest puff out, indignant at the implication that his age was catching up with him.

  “Pilus Prior, I’ll march any man’s cock into the dirt!” he exclaimed, and I laughed.

  “I know you would, Figulus. I just wanted to make sure all was well.”

  “Right as rain, Pilus Prior,” he had adopted the same bantering tone that I had, an old veteran wise in the ways of flattering his superiors and giving them exactly what they wanted to hear.

  “Good, I’m very glad to hear it. Very well, carry on Figulus. Remember we have evening formation in a few moments.”

  He saluted. “Yes, sir. Haven’t missed a formation yet, sir.”

  When he turned to march away, I could see the relief and joy at having gotten away with his misdeed written all over him.

  “You didn’t really think you would get away with it, did you?” I said softly, gratified to see his body go rigid with shock as he came to an abrupt halt.

  After a moment’s hesitation, to compose himself I was sure, he executed an about-face, his face a mask. “Sir? I’m not sure I understand the Pilus Prior’s question.”

  The friendly face I had been wearing was gone, instead I stared at him with all the cold fury I could muster, and I found to my own small surprise that not all of it was feigned. I was actually angry with Figulus, although he had not done anything more egregious than a half-dozen other men in my command over the last several days, or any man in the Legion for that matter. Still, I could not let Figulus’ deed go unpunished, but I also did not have any desire to have him flogged, be
cause truth be told, I did have a soft spot in my heart for the men who had marched with me all these years.

  “Oh, you fucking understand it well enough. You actually thought that I didn’t know you hitched a ride on the supply wagon?”

  That last was a total guess, but I was gratified to see that Scribonius had surmised correctly, because the look of surprise and guilt on Figulus’ face would have been clear to a blind man.

  “P-Pilus Prior, I. .”

  “You what?” I snapped. “Were you about to say what a piece of cac you were? If so, I wholeheartedly agree.”

  I stepped close to Figulus, confident that the combination of my size and my authority would be enough to cow him, and I was happy to see him visibly shrink back. “Oh, you’re right to be scared,” I said in the same quiet voice. I saw his fear immediately turn to panic, and I recognized that I needed to offer him some small hope. “But you’re not going to be flogged.” The look of relief on his face actually made me angrier. “But I promise you this; you’re going to wish you had been. See me after the formation. Dismissed.”

  And with that, he marched away to ponder what was waiting for him.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  I beat Figulus worse than I had beaten anyone in my life up to that point, but I was careful not to break any bones to keep him from having to appear on the sick list. Besides, I wanted him fit enough to march because I knew his misery would be compounded, and he would be on display for the rest of the Century and Cohort to see. I did not do what I did to Figulus lightly, but I knew that if I did not take some drastic action, the men would continue taking advantage of what they saw as my weakness in enforcing discipline. Soon we would be at a point where a formation was missed, or even worse, a Legionary missed the morning formation before we began the march. Such a case is considered desertion and there is only one punishment for that, inflicted by his own tentmates, who are ordered to break every bone in his body before he dies. After talking it over with Scribonius, I knew that this was the only option open to me that the men would understand. Most importantly, the fact that it happened to a veteran like Figulus, and a man from my own Century at that, sent a message through the entire Cohort. It also had the added benefit of inspiring caution in men like Celer, who could plainly see the consequences of crossing me. Consequently, it was a much more obedient Cohort that marched its way down the peninsula; we had no more incidents of anyone sneaking out of camp, but we were getting closer to Rome, and I knew that even the deterrent of a beating or a flogging might not be enough. What made it doubly difficult was that I did not blame the men in the slightest, since I was dying to see Rome myself.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  In the larger world, outside the confines of the 10th, things were not going smoothly for Caesar since Massilia had fallen. There was the matter of the 9th, having marched ahead of us but who were now in open revolt in their camp at Placentia, along with the 7th, demanding their discharges. Also, young Curio, the Tribune of the Plebs that Caesar had purchased some time before in an attempt to forestall this civil war, had been given an independent command by Caesar to invade Africa to face the Pompeian general Varus and the Numidian king Juba, and there had been no word. Caesar left the army to go on to Rome to attend to the political situation, getting himself appointed dictator, which under Roman law gave him absolute power over the Republic. Needless to say, this did not sit well with Catonians like Vibius, meaning I had to endure dark mutterings whenever I got close to the fire of my old tent section, or what was left of it.

  As quickly as Caesar gained the upper hand in Hispania, the fortunes seemingly swung back to favor Pompey and the Senate, again making me wonder about the fickle nature of the gods themselves. Did they truly favor one side over another, or did they just enjoy watching us struggle with the events they put in front of us? Caesar had to leave Rome to go to Placentia to put down the rebellions of the 7th and 9th, while we continued marching to Brundisium. The only excitement came when we got within a half-day’s march of Rome, whereupon we started coming into contact with some of the traffic that poured into and streamed out of the capital city. Traders, merchants, caravans of exotic animals from all the corners of the known world were forced to step aside as we marched by, the Legions always having the right of way on the roads. There was a constant buzzing of excited talk among the ranks as we were assailed by new sights on an almost momentary basis. At one point on the Via Appia, we crested a hill, giving us a view down a valley towards the city, and we could see a dark smudge on the horizon that one of the people we passed heading away from the city swore was the smoke from the fires of the city of Rome. I found myself standing with Vibius, gazing in that direction, straining our eyes to try to pick out any detail possible.

  “It’s hard to believe we’re this close but we can’t go into the city,” Vibius said with a longing that surprised me. He had never expressed all that much interest in visiting Rome, and I glanced at him with a quizzical expression.

  “What?” he asked defensively, then shrugged his shoulders. “It just seems a shame to be this close and not be able to see it.”

  I slapped him on the back and said, “Don’t worry, we will. I promise."

  "I should live that long,” he said sourly, then fell back in.

  “All right ladies,” I roared. “Get back on the road. We still have miles to go before we can take a break and we’re not going to get there if you stand here grabbing ass.”

  I was gratified to see the men obey me with some alacrity, Figulus’ blackened eyes and limping gait doing more to instill discipline than any flogging.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  We were almost to Brundisium and in camp one night when Zeno announced that Celer was requesting entrance to my tent. Knowing how much he loathed having to take such action, I realized that it must be of some importance, either as it pertained to the Cohort or because of our personal feud, but I still decided to let him wait for a bit. I told Zeno that I would see him after I finished the very important paperwork I was doing, which in fact was a letter to Gisela, and while it did give me a twinge to see the discomfort on Zeno’s face at the prospect of telling a Centurion to wait, it was not enough to stop me. I wish I could say I was above such petty revenge, but I was still relatively young and despite now having been Pilus Prior for some time, I still experienced moments of insecurity, most of them caused, at least in my mind, by Celer. Therefore, any regret I felt at forcing Zeno to have to tell Celer to wait was outweighed by the satisfaction I felt at exerting my authority. Finishing the letter, although to be fair I did wrap it up fairly quickly, I called for Zeno to bring Celer into my office.

  A Centurion’s tent is actually composed of two parts, the parts created by a partition provided by a leather panel that basically cuts the tent into two pieces. The front half of the tent serves as the Century or Cohort office, where Zeno worked, and the second half is a combination of my personal office and private quarters. I knew some Centurions who had ordered the creation of wooden floors for their personal quarters, but I disdained such luxuries. It was partially because I thought it useless frippery, but mostly because I was still not secure enough in my position that it did not worry me, except that was something I would never share with others. I sat at my desk, seeing by Celer’s body posture that he was extremely angry, so I congratulated myself on making him wait. Any victory over Celer was one to be celebrated, at least in my mind.

  “Yes, Celer?” I asked pleasantly, leaning back in my chair, enjoying the sight of his clenched jaw grinding his teeth at the insult I had offered him by making him wait.

  “Pilus Prior, I bring some news I thought you might be interested in,” he began, albeit through clenched teeth.

  I affected an air of disinterested nonchalance, but my mind was instantly alert, knowing that Celer would never share something with me that was not momentous, such was our mutual hatred.

  “And what news is that, Centurion?” which was something of a further insult, since I did not refer to him by
his proper rank as Pilus Posterior, and for an instant I worried that I had gone too far, but to his credit, he overlooked it and continued.

  “I have a cousin in the 9th, and he sent me word of what happened when Caesar faced the Legion to answer their demands for a discharge.”

  I dropped my feet from the desk and sat forward; this was indeed something in which I was interested. The talk in the Legions had been rife with speculation about how Caesar would handle the mutiny of the 9th, so I was definitely attentive. Now, Celer held something of the upper hand, and I swallowed my irritation at his smug expression. Reaching for the amphora of Falernian, one of the last ones willed to me by Pulcher, I offered him a cup, and it had the desired effect. He took a deep draught, smacking his lips in appreciation before silently holding the cup out for a refill. Now it was my turn to grit my teeth, but I decided it was a small price to pay for what he had to tell me, and I poured some more.

  “So, what did you hear?” I asked, and I was rewarded with Celer’s tale of what had happened in Placentia.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Even now, all these years later, it still amazes me how often men of all stripes continually underestimated Caesar, and in the case of the mutiny of the men of the 9th, they committed a serious error. I am sure they were sincere in their belief that Caesar would cave into their demands, particularly since Marcus Antonius had made a bad situation worse. As Celer told it, his source was a cousin who was a Centurion in the Fifth Cohort, and he had relayed to Celer that a delegation of men of first the 9th, and then the 7th, had attempted to seek an audience with Antonius to air their grievances, only to be continually rebuffed. As far as the men were concerned, their mutiny was justified because they were not given their due process under army regulations, a sentiment with which I had to agree. Antonius then sent a desperate message to Caesar, who already had his hands full pacifying Rome while proving that he was not a blood-drenched dictator in the mold of Sulla, begging him to come pull his fat from the fire, as it were. The men of the 9th were sure that once Caesar was told of Antonius’ refusal to give them a hearing, he would want to address their grievances to make up for Antonius’ blunder. They were wrong. Calling an assembly of the Legions, Caesar responded to the demands of the men of the 9th, whose chief complaint was the non-payment of a bonus promised by Caesar, plus their discharges. Caesar, in turn, reminded the men that they had agreed to follow him for the entire campaign, not for part of it, and if anyone was to blame, it was our common enemy for refusing to acknowledge that their cause was doomed and for running away rather than fighting. Caesar pointed out that he was not known for the slowness of his movements, that this was evidence that he was doing everything in his power to end this war. He went on to say that he was disheartened and surprised at the discontent of the men of the 7th and 9th, but more so with the 9th since they were clearly playing a leading role. What he said next was as shocking as it was drastic; blaming the 9th, he ordered its decimation. The decimation of a Legion, as its name implies, is the ritual execution of a tenth of its strength, but what makes it even more brutal is that the rest of the Legion is responsible for carrying out the execution. Unlike the punishment for desertion, which requires the condemned man to run a gauntlet between his tent mates who are armed with axe handles and staves, the condemned men are stoned to death by their comrades, who surround them in a circle. Usually the punishment is reserved for a Legion that has shamed itself by running from battle or exhibiting cowardice in some other manner, and it is the worst humiliation a Legion can suffer, which is precisely why Caesar chose it.