Caesar Triumphant

  He was pondering this possibility and the best way to counter it, if it indeed proved to be fact, when the rider drew up a short distance away before dismounting. Trotting over, he rendered his salute and then held out the tablet. Taking the proffered message with one hand, while wiping the crumbs of his breakfast off his other, Caesar summoned on his badly depleted supply of resolve, understanding that now, more than at any other time under his command, his men needed to see their general in his usual calm and collected state, treating every new message as if it was exactly what he was expecting.

  "Where is this from?" Caesar asked the man, his heart suddenly accelerating at the man's reply that it came from the Primus Pilus in command of the northern camp.

  Could this contain the message he was dreading? That the attack had been renewed, out of sight and sound of Caesar and the men in this camp? Opening it and reading the words, it took a supreme effort of will for him not to sag in visible relief, knowing that this would be just as disconcerting as any sign of distress to the men nearby. The release of tension that he felt came from two sources: one, that there was no assault taking place, and two, according to the Primus Pilus of the 10th, who had sent out a Cohort-sized patrol down the northern slope into the gap to check for the very thing Caesar was worried about, there was no sign of the enemy anywhere about. But it was more than just the content of the message that made Caesar suddenly feel better than he had in several watches. It was the barely legible signature at the bottom, that even for a Primus Pilus whose writing was barely readable under the best of circumstances, was the first sign to Caesar that perhaps there was hope.

  For the last he had heard, it was extremely unlikely that he would ever lay eyes on the giant Roman whom he had come to regard with something as close to affection as a man of Caesar's status could have for a man from the ranks. Feeling a smile crawling across his face, Caesar decided that, while these tablets were constantly reused, this was one he would keep as it existed at that moment, to serve him as a reminder that even when things were seemingly at their bleakest, where there was life, there was hope. And he had been reminded of that by what amounted to nothing but chicken scratches on a wax tablet that served as the signature of Titus Pullus, who was not only alive, but apparently still giving the orders in the northern camp.

  When Aulus Ventidius arrived at Caesar's camp, at the head of the rest of the two Legions of his own position, he was still undecided about whether or not he was going to pursue any action against the Primus Pilus of the 30th, Flaminius. Although he was acutely aware by this point that Flaminius had acted on his own and had even tricked Ventidius by sending him away to fend off a phantom breach so that he could organize the relief force, Ventidius was equally cognizant that the Primus Pilus' actions had undoubtedly saved the army from destruction. The Legate, who was actually 3 years older than Caesar, but like Caesar carried the vitality of a much younger man, was still fuming at the insult borne him by Flaminius. However, he was at an age at which he was honest enough with himself to know that his anger was as much about his wounded pride—that he wasn't the one allowed to take credit for making the decision to send relief to the other camps—as it was a righteous indignation that Flaminius had so flagrantly breached the chain of command.

  As it turned out, the decision was made for him by Caesar, who addressed the matter, as soon as Flaminius and Ventidius were brought to him in the newly erected praetorium, stitched together from panels of leather from the tents of men who no longer needed shelter. It was when Caesar had been informed by his quartermaster, who had been sent down to the fleet for the battle, that even with so many tents burned to cinders, there would be enough left to create a new headquarters tent without putting any man out into the elements that Caesar understood just how devastating the day before had been to his army. He had already sent word to dispatch one of the Liburnians back to the island that had served as the supply depot, where two Legions had been left behind to provide security, with orders to commandeer any shipping they found and to bring all but two Cohorts, one from each Legion, to his current position.

  Depending on what his mounted scouts told him, they, too, having been aboard ships but who were even now beginning to reconnoiter, Caesar hoped that he and the army would no longer still be here on this ridge whenever the new troops arrived. It all depended on what lay between him and the capital, but he wouldn't know that for a couple of days, at least; so, putting that matter aside, he turned his attention to the two men standing before him. Not saying anything for a moment, as was his habit, Caesar used the time to glean as much information as he could from the two men, although they were not uttering a word. This was one of Caesar's greatest talents, the ability to observe other men's body language and deducing from it much about them, and, by extension whatever matter was being discussed, before he committed himself by opening his own mouth. Sitting on his stool now, Caesar concealed his amusement at the sight before him. His Legate, who was known throughout the army as Caesar's Muleteer, since that's how he had gotten his start with Caesar in Gaul, was standing rigidly at the position of intente, anger radiating from every part of him. Even his eyebrows, which many of the men likened to two large caterpillars, told Caesar that the older man was still fuming, as it looked like the two caterpillars were glaring at each other eyeball to eyeball over the bridge of Ventidius' nose. Meanwhile, Flaminius was no less perfect in his posture, but while he didn't give off the same aura of rage, the sign he was giving Caesar was one of defiance, tinged with understandable anxiety. While Caesar's vision wasn't what it once was, it was still sharp enough to see the beads of sweat on the upper lip of the Primus Pilus, despite the heat of the day not warranting it. Caesar had seen this many times before, knowing it to be a sign of great anxiety, and he supposed that Flaminius had good cause to be worried. But, while Caesar had already decided what he was going to do about this matter, he was in no hurry to let either Flaminius or Ventidius know it, even if it was for two totally different reasons.

  "So Primus Pilus Flaminius, here we are," Caesar broke the silence, grimly amused at the visible start with which the Primus Pilus reacted to the sound. "It appears that you have much to answer for, if General Ventidius is to be believed, and he's never given me any reason to doubt him."

  When Caesar stopped talking for a moment, Flaminius opened his mouth as if to respond, but then shut it. Caesar sighed, knowing exactly the game Flaminius was playing. The Stupid Legionary was one of the oldest tricks in the enlisted man's book, and Caesar couldn't count the number of times he had seen it played in front of him. Some of the time he didn't mind playing along, amused to see how far a man was willing to go down that path. This wasn't one of those times, however.

  "Well? Explain yourself," Caesar snapped, making his irritation plain for both men to see.

  Ventidius looked relieved, but whether it was because it was Flaminius drawing Caesar's ire, or the fact that he himself was escaping Caesar's wrath Caesar didn't know, nor did he particularly care.

  "Yes sir," Flaminius' face reddened, but his tone was even and clipped, a professional giving his report. "Because we had the situation at our camp so well in hand, and knowing that the brunt of the assault was going to be on your camp or on the northern camp, I decided it might be prudent to send as many men as we could spare to offer their assistance. Sir."

  "Yes, yes, I know that," Caesar waved an impatient hand. "But who gave you the authority to do this?"

  Now the sweat that originated on his upper lip began spreading to his forehead, beading up as Flaminius was clearly growing more uncomfortable.

  "Er, nobody. Sir, I assumed General Ventidius would agree, so I didn't see the need to bother him with a detail that would take more time."

  Ventidius could take it no more, snorting in disbelief, the two eyebrows now actually touching as he stared down his prodigious nose at his commander.

  "That's an awful lot of assuming," the Muleteer spat. "And if you were so sure that I would agree, why
did you feel the need to send me off on a fool's errand?"

  Caesar turned a decidedly cool gaze on Flaminius; this was a part of the story he hadn't heard.

  "Yes, Flaminius. Please explain that, and perhaps for my benefit, you could explain what 'fool's errand' you sent your superior officer on?"

  When put that way, even Flaminius could see why Ventidius was still upset, and his nerves, which were already on edge, were now positively vibrating. Ventidius was glaring at the Primus Pilus as well, evidently forgetting that he hadn't been given leave to alter his position of intente, standing with folded arms waiting for Flaminius to explain himself. Caesar was about to rebuke Ventidius, but chose to let it go. Flaminius finally spoke again, and while his reply appeared to surprise Ventidius, it didn't surprise Caesar at all.

  "I have no excuse sir. I knew the risk I was taking, and I decided to let the dice fly."

  Despite himself, Caesar felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at Flaminius' statement, while Ventidius appeared to become even angrier, which Caesar could understand. Flaminius, you sly dog, Caesar thought, using the exact same thing I said crossing the Rubicon. Well, at least you have good taste.

  "No, you don't have a good excuse. In fact, you have no excuse," Caesar agreed, making his tone hard as he stared directly into Flaminius' eyes.

  For his part, Flaminius steadfastly tried to ignore the sudden shaking in his legs, hoping that it wasn't noticeable.

  Caesar paused, deliberately drawing it out, before continuing, "But although I have every right to have you scourged and crucified," his words were all the more chilling, because he was so matter-of-fact and his tone so even, "neither can I forget that your actions saved this army and this campaign from total failure. For that alone I should decorate you."

  For a moment, Caesar thought Ventidius would die of an apoplectic fit right on the spot, his face turning a purplish hue that Caesar had rarely seen, so he hurried on.

  "But because of your flagrant disregard for the chain of command, and for issuing orders beyond the scope of your office, I've decided that the two things cancel each other out. So you will be neither censured nor commended. No disobedience will be noted in the army diary, but Ventidius will be given full credit for issuing the command that saved the army."

  When Caesar was finished, he sat silently watching the two men, again amused, although for different reasons, because this time their expressions were almost identical. Neither of them looked happy, which to Caesar was his indication that his decision was fair and equal to both of them. For while everything he had said was true, Caesar did, in fact, hold Ventidius somewhat at fault, because he should have arrived at the decision himself, and sooner. And nothing Ventidius had told him, nor what he had heard from other sources gave any indication that he had been thinking along the same lines as Flaminius. But as much as Caesar faulted Ventidius, he still valued the older man and had no intention of criticizing his lack of initiative and decisiveness, either publicly or privately. No, he mused after dismissing the pair—watching them both walk away with straight backs and clenched fists, neither of them looking at the other man—this was the best way. I don't need any more problems than I already have, and the army doesn't need the distraction that would come from the spectacle of a Tribunal of a Primus Pilus, which is by rights what should happen. Content with his decision, Caesar turned his mind to other matters.

  Cohorts and Legions that had been lucky enough to be in the three southern camps were bearing the brunt of the work, something that normally would have caused massive complaints among the men. However, in yet another sign that the battle the day before was unprecedented, all the bickering and griping stopped as soon as the men marched through the gate of either Caesar's or Pullus' camp. The sight of what was clearly a ferocious battle silenced every Legionary who had been inclined to let his displeasure known, and by the time they were assembled in their respective forums, it was a somber group of men waiting for orders.

  As much bickering and rivalry that took place between Legions, no man in the ranks took any joy in the sight of their comrades suffering. They had shared too much, endured too much, and spent too much time together for them not to understand the ordeal the men of the two northern camps had endured. Sextus Scribonius, standing next to Volusenus, was only slightly recovered after a fitful night's rest, and had just come from checking, for perhaps the tenth time since the sun came up, on the condition of his friend. Pullus was sleeping, aided by the poppy syrup that the medici reserved for the most grievously wounded. When Scribonius had gone to check on Pullus the last time, he found that he was being attended to by one of the physicians that had joined Caesar's army to augment and replace the staff of physicians that had been attached to his army from the beginning of the campaign. The identity of the man, one of the Han physicians, told Scribonius that Caesar was not only aware but extremely interested in seeing the giant Roman recover. Scribonius knew there were a number of the men in the ranks who swore these Han knew sorcery, such was their skill compared to the others, particularly with the last four Greeks still alive, none of whom looked on their Han rivals with any favor. The physician, whose name Scribonius didn't know, nor could he have pronounced even if he had, was given explicit instructions by Caesar never to leave Pullus' side, and that the Primus Pilus was his one and only patient. Although Scribonius knew that it was a good sign that Pullus was still alive, he was also aware that if any foreign material, such as one of the links from his mail shirt, or the stuffing from the padded undershirt, even a thread from his tunic, was left behind in the wound, the Han physician would need to call on every bit of his skills to keep his friend alive.

  The Han didn't speak Latin, and Scribonius certainly hadn't mastered their tongue, but somehow through a combination of gestures and with the help of one of the Gayans pressed into service as an orderly, Scribonius learned that the physician was cautiously optimistic. Telling the Pilus Prior that it was normally within the first day that any sign of corruption began to present itself, the Han nevertheless emphasized that Scribonius' friend wasn't out of danger. Pullus had been semi-conscious for that visit, and his head had moved slowly back and forth as he tried to follow the conversation that was going on around him. That, to Scribonius, was a better sign than anything the Han could have said. Over the years, the Pilus Prior had observed that those men who eventually succumbed to their wounds universally showed a complete lack of interest in their own care, as if they already knew the outcome. Pullus’ trying, no matter how groggily, to follow the dialogue between Roman and Han had lifted Scribonius' spirits, and he had gone to find Porcinus to tell him of this development. He found him in the process of working with the two other Centurions who survived from the Tenth Cohort, reorganizing into units that were Centuries in name only. Now, just returned from his last check on Pullus, Scribonius met with the Centurions of the Cohorts that had just arrived, assigning each Century a specific work detail.

  Turning to the Pilus Prior of the Second Cohort from the 5th Alaudae, Scribonius asked, "Has Caesar decided what to do with ours yet?"

  There was no need for Scribonius to expand on what "ours" meant, if only because of where they were standing. Stretching out behind the two Centurions were now-neat rows of bodies, as cleaned up and made presentable by hiding the wounds that had killed each man as time and location of the wound allowed. This was a topic that was very much on the minds of the men in the ranks and of great concern to all of them. One problem caused by the polyglot composition of Caesar's current army was that that there were so many different customs for honoring the dead. Much as Rome did with religion, men in the ranks were allowed to worship their native gods and follow the customs that prescribed how the dead were honored. While there had been men killed in the ranks, it had never been on a scale like this, and with the scouts out, it was looking likely that Caesar would be moving the army, soon. What direction they would head in, either to the northwest in the direction of the capital, or back to the e
ast and the bay where the fleet was anchored, this was the subject of much speculation, and not just with the men. The Centurions were just as interested in their next destination as the rankers, yet it had been a custom of not just Caesar's army but of the armies of Rome for at least two centuries that the army didn't move until after the dead had been honored. There was also a more practical reason; no Roman commander liked marching without every leadership spot that had been vacated by death or incapacitating wound filled, and that had yet to happen, as well. Arranging the various ceremonies was always challenging, but the sheer scope of the numbers of men who had either to be cleansed by fire, in the Roman way, or buried in the ground like the Pandyans, or even just left to rot like the Parthians, meant that whatever was being arranged needed to be done soon. Since the Pilus Prior of the 5th had marched past Caesar's camp on the way to the northern camp where they were standing, Scribonius was hoping that the Centurion had heard something, but he replied with a simple shake of the head. Stifling a curse, knowing it wasn't the man's fault, Scribonius turned his mind back to the tasks that he could perform at that moment. His arm ached horribly, and he found it extremely painful to flex his fingers or make a fist, which of course he found himself doing over and over as a way to distract his mind from the enormity of the losses. The final butcher's bill, as the Centurions had called it, had been completed, and the 10th Legion could field barely more than a thousand men, from its strength of almost 4,000 when the battle started. Of course, some of the missing ranks would be filled by the wounded, but it was too early to tell how many it would be, and even if every man made a miraculous recovery, the Legion still would be less than half strength. From what Volusenus told Scribonius, this was about the same for the 12th. Scribonius hadn't heard the numbers for the two Legions in Caesar's camp, but given what he knew of what happened the day before, he couldn't imagine they were any better off. Even at this point, more than halfway through the day after the battle, there were still more questions than answers, for both the living and the dead.