by Peake, R. W.
Knowing how unpopular his decision would be, Caesar nevertheless issued it, knowing that he couldn't spare the time to properly honor the dead. Truthfully, he had been wavering about the matter. Until, that is, a courier sent by the mounted scouts he had sent northwest in the likely direction that the Wa army would take, or what remained of it, came galloping into the camp. Within moments, the situation changed dramatically, as Caesar read the message informing him that there was no sign of any sizable force between him and the army and the barbarian capital. The report went on to say that the scouts had found the trail of those Wa nobles who had decided before the sun rose that their only course of action was to return to the capital to receive further orders. Naturally, Caesar had no way of knowing any of this, but what he did know was that according to the report, this group numbered perhaps a thousand. Even as badly mauled as Caesar's army was, he had no doubt that the men could sweep aside a force as paltry as that. But in order to make that happen, they had to move, and move fast. Still shaken from his experience yesterday, Caesar was acting out of force of habit more than anything, doing and saying those things that he knew the Caesar of two days before would do, without hesitation. Perhaps, he thought, by playing the role of Caesar, I will become Caesar again. But first, he had to issue this order, and in this order Caesar sought a compromise, hoping that the men would understand. His decision was that he would honor the dead, respecting the customs of each nationality, but he would do so en masse, not individually, as was the custom. Normally, the men of the tent section the deceased belonged to would perform the ritual cleansing, gather the wood, cremate the body and gather the ashes, if he were Roman. But now there were whole tent sections laying in the forum waiting to be sent to the afterlife, and Caesar simply didn't have the luxury of time to sort out who would tend to them. Caesar, sitting in what had become his accustomed spot on the stool outside the praetorium, finished the order that would put this into motion, then handed it to one of the scribes that had come from the fleet.
"See that this gets to the northern camp," he directed, then turned to relay the verbal instruction to the Primi Pili standing next to him. None of the men made a comment, but as with Flaminius and Ventidius earlier, their body language communicated very clearly to Caesar what they thought about his idea.
"I know this is... unusual," Caesar decided to be direct. "But if we can get to their capital quickly, we have the chance to defeat the army there, before they're joined by other forces that might have been summoned."
For a long moment, none of the Primi Pili reacted, which puzzled Caesar more than any irritation he might have felt at the lack of a response. After an exchange of sidelong glances, the Primus Pilus of the 21st Legion, a short, stocky Campanian named Papernus cleared his throat in a signal that he was going to speak.
"Caesar, it's just that we weren't expecting this," Papernus said carefully.
Caesar instantly understood the Primus Pilus' meaning that the "this" he was referring to wasn't the funeral arrangements.
Sitting back, Caesar folded his arms, responding coolly, "Go on."
Vibius Papernus didn't lack for bravery, but at that moment he would have much preferred to face the screaming yellow-skinned bastards than looking into those ice-blue eyes of his general. Nevertheless, he plunged forward, girded by the sight of the slight nods of the other Primi Pili encouraging him to continue.
"If we move inland, we're going to be moving away from the fleet," he began, but before he could go any further, Caesar interjected.
"Yes, Papernus, that's generally how it works. The farther from the shore you go, the farther away your support is. But that's never stopped us before."
And with that, Caesar gave Papernus the opening he needed, and he immediately pounced.
"But we've never been in the shape we're in now," Papernus argued, making a sweeping gesture with an arm in the direction of where the wounded were being tended. "What are we going to do about them, for example?"
Realizing his mistake, Caesar also recognized that the retort that came to his lips would only make matters worse. Besides, he acknowledged, if only to himself, he has a point. And they have a right to know that the wounded will be cared for.
"I've sent for all but two Cohorts from the strategic reserve we left behind on the island," Caesar explained with a patience he didn't feel. "They will come here to watch over the wounded."
"But how long will that take?" Now it was another Primus Pilus who asked the question, the Centurion commanding the 14th Legion, Sextus Spurius.
"Perhaps two weeks," Caesar replied, and while the other men initially relaxed, thinking that the men would welcome a respite of that length after what they had just been through, the more observant among them were alerted by something in the way their general spoke the words.
"But, we're not going to wait for them, are we?"
Aulus Flaminius, fresh from his escape of Caesar's wrath had promised himself that he was going to keep silent, but somehow the words escaped his lips before he could stop them, and he was forced to stifle a groan as Caesar turned to glare at him.
"No, we're not," the general said after a moment, the words clipped and short because of his clenched teeth.
There was a shocked silence, before completely forgetting the proper manner in which to do these things, the Primi Pili began talking at once.
"We can't leave the wounded unprotected!"
"Caesar, the men need to rest after what they've been through!"
"If we wait for the relief to arrive, a good number of the wounded will be recovered enough to march with us."
While the others were shouting to make their complaints heard above the racket, this last comment was spoken in almost a conversational tone, but what was said more than the volume cut through the other noise. Immediately all the men became quiet, turning their eyes to Caesar, knowing him well enough to know that of all the objections, this practical one would carry the most weight. And they were rewarded by the sight of Caesar looking suddenly uncomfortable, while still managing to shoot a look at Papernus, who had asked this last question, a look of exasperation and respect in equal measure.
"That's true Papernus," Caesar acknowledged. "But that will also give the barbarians the time to muster more forces, and they would be foolish to come and try to assault us here again, when we gave them such a beating."
"But we don't know that hasn't already started," Papernus pointed out. "And they may very well already be gathering at their capital. And," he added, "we only know the approximate location of the city as it is. We could go stumbling into another army of those bastards."
"We've seen nothing that would indicate that there is a population capable of producing more than one army of the size we just defeated," Caesar said stiffly, nettled at the open skepticism that was being displayed by his most senior Centurions.
"It wouldn't have to be the same size," Carbo, the acting Primus Pilus retorted. "It wouldn't take an army the third of the size to give us more than we could handle."
Now Caesar was being confronted with yet another new emotion, just one more in a series of sensations that he'd never experienced before over the last two days. This was a feeling of desperation, as for the first time in many, many years, Julius Caesar recognized that he was losing his grip on his army.
Although the men ultimately obeyed Caesar's directive to perform the respective funerary rites en masse, they were performed in a sullen silence, the Legions letting Caesar know they were unhappy more eloquently with their muteness than with anything else they could have done. Matters between the general and his army hung on a knife's edge for the next two days, as the army stayed in place. Considering that Caesar had every intention of moving the second day after the battle, the fact that they were still in place bore testimony to his recognition that his command over the army was in jeopardy. In round after round of meetings with every Primus Pilus, it became clear to Caesar that they weren't alone; the dissension over his plan extended
to most of his Legates. With the sole exception of Ventidius- whose support for Caesar had more to do with his loathing of being seen aligned with Flaminius in anything- Hirtius, Pollio, Nero, the surviving Legates, and even most of the Tribunes looked askance at Caesar's plan to continue on to the capital. Yet, neither Caesar nor any of the Primi Pili, for that matter, would ever publicly utter the word that, if it had been years earlier, Caesar would have viewed this situation as: a mutiny. But as upset as Caesar was, a part of him understood that more than any of his other armies, this one had earned the right to a larger say in their destiny than ever before. They had, after all, followed him across an entire continent, traveling farther and fighting more than any army in the history of Rome. Meeting after meeting was held, but no resolution of the dilemma came, even after Caesar's proposal to move the wounded aboard the fleet. This appeased some of the Primi Pili, but not enough to give their assurances that the men would march when the command was given. For their part, the men in the ranks knew that something was brewing, but for one of the few and only times, word of what exactly Caesar was proposing remained between those of the upper command of the Legions. In fact, the Primi Pili had decided among themselves to keep their Pili Priores in the dark, until some resolution was made. For Sextus Scribonius, this was especially difficult, because he had no desire to be in the position that he was in, leading the 10th. Not only had he never been interested in leading the Legion, he certainly didn't want to do it while his friend still lived. In fact, Pullus was showing no sign that any foreign material had been left behind in his body, and the Han physician, who still hadn't left his side, was growing more optimistic. Even so, Scribonius knew that he would be the de facto commander of the 10th for some time, and it was in this role that he found himself beset by the other Primi Pili.
"What does Pullus say about this?"
This was the question apparently on all of their minds, but Scribonius had been firm in his refusal to subject his friend to the strain that would come from essentially holding sway over the rest of the Centurions. Ironically, the part of the camp left intact had housed the 10th, so that Pullus was at least comfortable in his own quarters; although he had been the de facto commander of the northern camp, he eschewed using the more spacious quarters available in the praetorium, saving his personal effects from being looted. And now that Diocles was back in the camp from his exile on the ships, Scribonius knew he was in good hands. That is what freed his mind enough to leave the task of repairing the northern camp to Caesar, which by the end of the second day after the battle, had been restored to a semblance of order and was once again defensible. The reorganization of the 10th was still ongoing, Caesar delaying his decision on whether or not to fold the 10th and 12th into one Legion, understandable given the other challenges. But as Scribonius well knew, this was a matter that had to be decided before the command to march was given. Now Scribonius had just left the praetorium, the last meeting dismissed by a frustrated Caesar, and he had just answered Carbo's question, making him the fourth Primus Pilus to approach him.
"Primus Pilus."
Scribonius stood, stretching his muscles that had become cramped from sitting on the stool in Caesar's office, idly flexing his left hand as he did, and he didn't respond.
"Primus Pilus!"
Again, Scribonius didn't respond, but he was beginning to get irritated that whoever was being called didn't answer.
"Primus Pilus Scribonius!"
Only then did Scribonius whirl about, finally understanding that he was the man being called, still unaccustomed to his title as chief Centurion of the Legion. Standing there was one of Caesar's scribes, beckoning to him from the entrance of the praetorium.
"Caesar wants to speak to you," the scribe said, causing Scribonius' face to crease into a frown. What now, he wondered? Nevertheless, he followed the scribe back into the tent, where he was ushered directly into Caesar's presence. From somewhere, Scribonius assumed from the quinquereme that served as Caesar's flagship, a desk had been brought to replace the one reduced to ashes. Caesar was sitting on a corner of it, in a pose that Pullus had seen more often than he could count, but to Scribonius this wasn't something he saw often, and he wondered how to approach his general. Finally deciding to play it safe, Scribonius stopped the prescribed distance for approaching a superior officer, came to intente then offered a salute, which Caesar returned with a wave. This, Scribonius thought, is unlike Caesar, who always acted with impeccable military courtesy, especially when it was addressed to him by a man from the ranks. Not this time, however, and Scribonius, who was probably the only man in the army who could have matched wits with Caesar and not been found wanting, gave himself a mental warning. Be careful, he thought, he wants something. And right now, with the army in the state that it's in, there is no telling what it will be.
"Scribonius, I need your help," Caesar immediately jumping into a subject was his style, but never this quickly.
Normally he could be counted on to at least ask how Scribonius' wound was healing, or how the men were doing. But this time he came to the heart of the matter.
"You know where things stand with the army. And it's becoming clear that it's not likely that the Primi Pili are going to budge on their own."
Scribonius wasn't sure why, but he felt compelled to defend the other Centurions.
"They're just worried that we're asking too much of the men," Scribonius said quietly.
From one of the other Primi Pili Caesar would have taken this as a rebuke, but Sextus Scribonius had a manner about him that allowed him to say things in a way that avoided offending the person with whom he was conversing at the time.
"I know they are Scribonius," Caesar replied, matching Scribonius' tone.
If the truth were known, if this conversation had taken place a few days earlier, Caesar would likely have had harsher words for Scribonius, but now things were different.
"That's why I need your help," Caesar continued, "or to be more accurate, I need Pullus' help."
This caused the lift of one of Scribonius' eyebrows, and if Pullus had been present, the sight would have caused Pullus to laugh, because the giant Roman had caused that expression on his friend's face himself on several occasions.
"How can Pullus help?" Scribonius asked in genuine puzzlement.
"Because if he agrees with me, I'm sure that the other Primi Pili will fall into line."
Although Scribonius understood Caesar's logic, he didn't share his general's seeming certainty.
"That may be," Scribonius said cautiously, "but I still don't see how I can help."
"You and I are going to pay a visit to your Primus Pilus."
Titus Pullus had long since lost track of time. His best guess was that it was three days after the battle, but he could have been off by a day, or a week. He had become accustomed to the Han physician, but the sight of Diocles, hovering over him with the worry written over his face, had made Pullus happy. From what he could gather, the Han physician was telling Pullus' servant, and Scribonius every time his friend came to visit, that it was too early to make anything more than a guess. But Titus Pullus somehow knew he would live now; if he hadn't died by this point, he reasoned, the gods must have other plans for him. He was still in agony, and was so weak that he had to have help lifting his head to drink the warm soup, or whatever vile concoction the Han had brewed up. He would never admit it, but Pullus held this Han in extremely high esteem, knowing that his ministrations were almost solely responsible for Pullus' survival to this point. The wound on Pullus' chest was still draining, requiring the bandage to be changed several times a day, but while the physicians attached to the army from the other nations would have been content with just doing that, the Han performed several other steps. As gently as he could, the Han would swab out the gaping wound in Pullus' chest, but it still was an agonizing process. Finally, Pullus had suffered enough and rebelled, threatening the Han in ways that needed no interpreter. Only after a laborious process of translation d
id Pullus understand that the Han was doing this on purpose, to help the healing of his body from the inside out. Once he understood the purpose, Pullus submitted to the treatment, albeit with clenched teeth. Still, he was extremely weak, and most of his time was spent sleeping as his body, and the Han, did their work. He was in this dozing state when there was a commotion in the front partition of his tent, where under normal circumstances Diocles would be conducting Legion business. Now that there wasn't much of a Legion to worry about, and with his master in the state he was in, Diocles was sitting next to the Han physician. At the noise, he leaped up, face clouded with anger as he prepared to banish whoever was making the racket, pushing the leather partition aside. He didn't get any farther than that, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight before him, of the acting Primus Pilus, which wasn't unusual, accompanied by Caesar himself, which was. Gasping in surprise, Diocles leapt aside, holding the partition open so that the two men could enter into Pullus' private quarters. Caesar barely acknowledged him, but Scribonius gave him a wink as he walked by, making the Greek feel better.
"Titus," Scribonius gently shook his friend, careful not to jar him too much.
Pullus opened his eyes, irritated that he had been disturbed from a particularly pleasant dream, frowning at the sight of his friend.
"Weren't you just here?" Pullus asked.
Scribonius shook his head, saying only, "You have a visitor."
"I know. You," Pullus replied, not thinking as quickly as he normally did.
Instead of saying anything, Scribonius stepped to the side and Pullus found himself looking into the eyes of his general.
"Salve Pullus," Caesar began, but before he could say anything more, Pullus, responding to habits instilled over the decades he had been under the standard, instinctively tried to sit up.