by R. W. Peake
It was also about this time that the snake Pothinus was discovered sending secret messages to Achillas, urging him to maintain his pressure on us and not lose heart. He also included what information about our dispositions he had gleaned from his own spies, so it was with a great deal of happiness that the men gathered in the theater to watch Pothinus’ head leave his shoulders. True to his nature, he acted like a woman, shaking and crying, having to be dragged onto the stage, where one of Caesar’s Germans did the deed. The men cheered lustily at the sight of his bald head rolling across the stage, spraying blood in a trail across the stone floor. His head came to rest not far from where I was standing, and I could plainly see the look of terror and surprise still plastered on his face, his eyes sightlessly staring into the void. I noticed that for once, his face was devoid of that horrid makeup, and remember wondering if he had thought that to be some sort of punishment, not being allowed to paint his face before he died. These Egyptians with their customs are a strange lot, and I have no idea if there is some deeper meaning to all of the paint, but I suspect there is. Unfortunately, but not surprisingly, the death of Pothinus did not deter Achillas in the slightest, the Egyptian general continuing with his training and manufacturing all day and night. He was an implacable foe, with his army gaining strength every week. Consequently, the men grew more worried watching the progress his army made in both their training and their investment of our position. That is why what happened next was further sign of the gods’ favor of Gaius Julius Caesar.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Achillas is dead!”
Appolonius came immediately after hearing the news, ostensibly to tell Diocles, but knowing that I would want to hear the news as well. That I did; this time I did not even pretend to be busy in my quarters, coming straight out into the outer office.
“What happened?”
Appolonius looked smug, as only the bearer of news that he knows others wants to hear can, and said, “It appears that our young Arsinoe and her man Ganymede have a bit more ambition than just being a figurehead.”
That was indeed interesting, my expression giving him all the encouragement he needed to continue.
“Well, as you know, Arsinoe volunteered to set herself up as the symbol of Egyptian resistance against the Roman oppressors, a role which Achillas was more than happy to give her. But something changed; Caesar thinks that the real string puller is that Ganymede, and that he convinced her that she, or more likely he is just as capable of leading the army as Achillas. So she had Achillas murdered.”
Even though we had heard that a rivalry had developed between the two that split the army, we had no idea that it had grown so bitter that one of them would kill the other. From our spies, we were informed that the division in the army was between the Gabinians and the rest of the professional arm of the army, consisting mainly of Cilicians and a few other nationalities, who understandably favored Achillas, against the provincial levies and native Egyptians, who rallied around Arsinoe. Now that Achillas was dead, it was a fair question to ask just how hard the professionals would fight now that the general they favored was gone. The Gabinians in particular had developed a reputation for choosing inopportune times for demanding pay raises, usually by threatening to turn on their masters, so perhaps they would choose this time to do the same to Arsinoe. When word of Achillas’ death became known to the men, there was a period of optimism at the idea of facing a 15-year-old girl and her tutor. Unfortunately, that optimism was as short-lived as it was unfounded, because we quickly discovered that while Ganymede may not have possessed the military experience of Achillas, he more than made up for it in other ways.
~ ~ ~ ~
Ganymede began by attacking our most precious resource, our water supply. Despite having done all that we could to secure a supply of fresh water, we were unable to secure the source. Accordingly, Ganymede attacked this source. There were a number of wells in the private residences of the people who were unlucky enough to live in our sector, but the main source of supply was the canal. Blocking the conduits from the canal carrying our water was a simple enough business, except Ganymede was not content with that. Using large capacity pumps that were powered by men turning huge wheels, he began pumping seawater from the Inner Harbor to flood the streets of the city at night. With our redoubt situated in a part of the city a few feet lower than the surrounding area, the water naturally flowed in our direction. It was not long before one morning there was a rap on my door, and I opened it to find the duty Centurion Sido, his face pinched with worry.
“Sorry to disturb you, Primus Pilus, but I think you better have a look at this.”
His tone was sufficiently urgent that I did not bother donning my uniform, grabbing only my vitus to follow him outside. Standing there was a section of men, each of them carrying two buckets, their expressions a mirror of Sido’s.
Indicating the first man, he turned to me and said simply, “Taste the water.”
I dipped my hand in, took a sip, then spat it out. It was salty, not completely fouled yet, but close.
I kept my expression neutral, indicating the other buckets. “Are these all from the same well?”
Sido shook his head. “No, Primus Pilus. When we tasted the first bucket, I went to every well that’s in the 6th’s sector and had a bucket drawn. The results are pretty much the same.” He waved his hand at the buckets the other men were holding. “You can check for yourself if you would like, sir, but they’re all the same.”
I shook my head. “No, that won’t be necessary, I trust you. Very well; I'll go to headquarters and see if the 28th is facing the same problem. You’re dismissed.” As they turned to go, I called out, “Sido!” He turned to stand at intente. “Good work. That was good thinking.”
His face turned red, but I could tell that he was pleased, opening his mouth, probably to thank me before thinking better of it, then saluted and turned away, following his men. I did not bother telling them to keep this quiet because I knew that there was no way that the men would not find out. Returning to my quarters, I put on my uniform before heading over to headquarters to see if the news was any better.
~ ~ ~ ~
Fortunately, only the water in our sector was contaminated, at least at that point. But while that was good news, it was still going to pose a problem for us, since we now had to draw our water ration from the wells of the men of the 28th, whereupon the numen of that dead Gregarius came back to haunt us. Tensions were still high between my men and the 28th. While Cartufenus and I had managed to keep a lid on things, succeeding in avoiding drawing the attention of Caesar or his staff, the fact that we would now have to send detachments into the 28th’s sector to take some of their already-rationed water was not going to sit well with them. Compounding the tension was the attitude of my men towards the 28th, who they thought of as a bunch of scared boys. That this was not far from the truth did not help matters for anyone. Cartufenus and I met, agreeing that our water-carrying parties would be escorted not only by a Centurion of the 6th, but of the 28th as well, and we would only do it once a day, in the morning. Calling a meeting of my Centurions to inform them of this agreement, I stressed that there would be no exceptions; we would draw water once a day and that was all. If the men ran out before the next morning, that would be too bad; perhaps it would teach them to ration their water more carefully. However, as it turned out, I need not have worried. These men of the 6th had been part of Pompey’s army under Afranius in Hispania when we had cut them off from water, meaning this was not the first time they were thirsty. In fact, they found the whole situation grimly amusing.
“The first time we went thirsty was because of Caesar,” I heard one of the men joke to his comrades, “and now this time we’re going thirsty because of Caesar. The only difference is that now we’re on the same side.”
I had to smile; the gods certainly did have a perverse sense of humor.
The 28th’s respite from fouled water was short-lived. Barely three days later, I he
ard another rap on my door, only this time it was Cartufenus who came to bring me the news. When he told me, I was not surprised, but he was not through.
“It gets worse,” he said, his face grim. “My men are panicking. There are all sorts of wild ideas being thrown around about the cause. Some of the men say that it’s one of the Egyptian gods who's favoring Ganymede and his bunch.” He saw the look of scorn and disbelief on my face, and waved a hand wearily at me. “Oh, they're very much in the minority. It’s the other idea that worries me, and that seems to be what most of the men believe. There’s talk that this has to be the work of some of the Egyptians trapped in here with us, that they’re working as spies for Ganymede and they’re poisoning the water.”
“But it’s not poisoned,” I protested. “It’s only salty.”
He nodded, but said, “I know that, but I just wish we knew why it’s happening.” He shrugged. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe it IS one or more of the civilians with us.”
I should point out that our knowledge of what Ganymede was doing with the pumps and seawater only came after the fact. When this was happening, it was a mystery to everyone, including the officers.
I sat thinking about what Cartufenus had said, then shook my head. “I don’t think so. If it were one well, or two, and in the same immediate area, then I might see it. But this is now every well, throughout the entire redoubt. We would have noticed something if any of the civilians had been involved, I’m sure of it.”
Cartufenus sighed, then stood up. “I don’t know. All I do know is that it’s getting ugly with my boys. I need to get back before they do something foolish.”
A chill ran down my spine, and I looked at him sharply. “What do you mean, ‘do something foolish’? What do you think they’ll do?”
He shook his head. I could see the weariness and pain in his eyes, causing a pang of sympathy. The rank of first grade Centurion is what so many of us aspire to, and we work hard to achieve it. But then when we get there, suddenly it does not seem that being a Primus Pilus is as much fun as you thought it would be. That was true if you had a good group of men like the 10th or the 6th. When you got a bunch of scared rabbits like the 28th was turning out to be, it could be a nightmare from which you will never woke up. Without thinking, I walked to Cartufenus to put my hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t worry.” I spoke with as much confidence as I could muster. “Whatever comes, you’re the man to handle it.”
He gave a tired smile, but shook his head. “Thanks, Pullus, but I know you’re just saying that to help me.”
I could not help laughing. “Maybe,” I admitted, “but you wouldn’t feel so great if I told you that you were fucked, would you?”
He chuckled. “No, I suppose not.” He squared his shoulders before turning to leave. “Well, let me go find out what my boys are up to now.”
With that, he left me to sit wondering what could go wrong next.
~ ~ ~ ~
What the 28th had in mind was to demand a meeting with Caesar, the whole lot of them. Once that became known, Caesar obliged by ordering a formation that evening at the theater, with all but the guard Centuries in attendance. I sent a runner to Cartufenus asking him a question, and when the runner came back with the answer that I needed, I called a meeting of my Centurions to discuss what I had in mind.
“We're going to hold the men until the last possible moment,” I announced.
Nobody said anything at first, yet their faces wore puzzled expressions. At least, all of their faces save one. I looked at Cornuficius, who regarded me steadily, his eyes revealing nothing but I saw a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. Deciding to confront whatever he had in mind head on, I called on him.
“Cornuficius? Do you have any thoughts on what I just said?”
“Thoughts?” An eyebrow lifted, and I realized that he was considering the question, trying to find some angle that I might be taking of which he had not thought. Finally, he continued, “I don't know that I'd call them thoughts, Primus Pilus. But I think I know why you're doing it.”
“Very well. Tell me and I'll let you know if you're right or wrong.”
He shrugged, then nodded. As he spoke, he took great pains not to look at me, preferring instead to examine his fingernails, which I could not help noticing were caked with dirt. Well, I thought, we are under water rationing.
“I think you want to keep our men separated from those. . boys of the 28th who are causing all this commotion, given what's taken place between our two Legions in the recent past. I think that your reasoning is that if we get there early, and spend any time waiting for Caesar to appear, that every moment that goes by increases the likelihood that someone will say something that sparks a riot.”
Now he looked at me, his smile clearly evident. You smug bastard, I thought, but I tried to make sure my thoughts were not visible on my face.
“Absolutely correct, Cornuficius. That is my thinking precisely. So, to that end we're going to hold the men on the opposite side of the theater. I've arranged for Apollonius to let my slave know when Caesar departs his quarters, and only then will we march in. Does everyone understand?”
Heads nodded, and I was pleased to see the looks of relief on most of the men. Clearly, they were worried about the same thing as I, taking this as a good sign. Forming the men up as planned, we waited for Diocles to come running to give us the word. Just a short time later, I saw his slight figure running around the corner to give me the signal. I called the men to intente. we marched into the theater, where the men of the 28th were standing, and even over the tramping of feet, I heard their mumbling. While I could not hear what was being said, the tone was clearly ugly, and I was struck by a feeling that I have had before and since, of reliving a moment in my past once again, this particular feeling like that day on the plains of Pharsalus all over again. With the noise from our boots subsiding as the men halted, a voice carried from the ranks of the 28th.
“About fucking time they showed up. I guess they think they’re too good for us.”
Before any of the Centurions could say a word, there emanated from the entire 6th a low, guttural growl, the men too disciplined to speak out, still managing to convey their contempt for their comrades across the floor. That growl was more effective in shutting up the 28th than any threat from a Centurion or Optio and I smiled broadly, though my back was turned to the men so they could not see it. Fortunately, Caesar arrived at that moment and we were called to intente as he mounted the stage. Standing there for a moment, looking down at us, it suddenly made me feel old. How many times, I wondered, had I been standing here, looking up at Caesar? The only thing that had changed was my vantage point, since I had started out in the rear ranks. Now I was standing in front, all by myself. But it was always up at Caesar that I was looking, and the question that crossed my mind was, how much more of my life would be spent in this fashion? While I held little doubt that I would be standing here looking up at some general, what intrigued me was the question of whether or not it would ever be anyone other than Caesar. And after Caesar, if there was an after Caesar, would I ever find any general worthy of following again? These were the thoughts crowding through my mind as we waited on the great man to speak.
“Comrades,” he began in his customary style, “I have been told by my officers that some of you are discontented. Never let it be said that Caesar does not care for his men, nor listen to their complaints. That's why I am standing here. What do you have to say to me?”
To the men who had been complaining the loudest, that was like a bucket of ice water thrown directly into their face and I fought back the urge to laugh. They were being called out in front of their comrades, and being told to make their complaints public. That is a very daunting task, especially if you are a spineless, gutless cunnus to begin with.
For several moments, nothing was said, then Caesar spoke again, “Very well. I have given you the opportunity to speak, but now it seems that nobody has anything to say. The
n if there is nothing more, we must return to our duties.”
He turned as if to go, causing a panicked buzz in the ranks of the 28th, men whispering fiercely to the man next to them, each of them demanding that the man they were whispering to speak up.
“Why do you refuse to leave this place?”
I do not know who said it, but immediately there was a roar of agreement from the men of the 28th. I turned to look at the ranks of my men, pleased to see that they were standing silently, looking over at the 28th in open contempt.
“We do not leave for a number of reasons,” Caesar replied, his hand raised for quiet, “not least of which is that I have never yielded the field to an enemy yet.”
Now, that was not exactly true; I vividly recall moving away from Gergovia and Dyrrhachium, but as disgruntled as the men may have been, none of them were crazy enough to bring that up to Caesar, so his statement went unchallenged.
“More importantly, however, is the fact that we can't leave this province in the hands of forces that are hostile to us. Rome relies on the grain grown here; without it, our people, your families and friends would starve. Until we can secure that supply of grain, leaving is not an option. And the only way to secure the supply is to defeat the Egyptians.”
They did not care for this, and in the muttering that followed, I heard the name Cleopatra several times.
Then another voice called out, “That’s all well and good, Caesar. But how are we supposed to defeat the enemy when we have no water?”
This challenge was met by another roar of agreement, continuing unabated for several moments as men added their own cries of despair to the hue. Caesar stood there, seemingly impervious to the things that were being called out, his face completely expressionless. After a moment, he held both hands up, and finally the men, now little more than a mob, settled down enough so that he could speak. I had looked back again at my men, and while they still had not made any sound, I could see that they were as interested to hear what Caesar had to say next about the water as the rabbits in the 28th.