Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  The wave of pain that suddenly burst over him forced a gasp from his lips, and for a horrified moment Pullus thought he would faint. Caesar was no less disturbed, thinking that this wasn't the way he wanted to start what could be one of the most important discussions of this campaign.

  Putting a hand on the giant Roman's shoulder, Caesar said, "Pullus, forgive me! I didn't mean to give you such a start! Please, lie down, rest yourself!"

  Pullus did as Caesar directed, thankful for his general's command, as it let him off the hook. Closing his eyes for a moment, Pullus waited for his head to stop spinning before he spoke.

  "To what do I owe the honor of your visit, Caesar?"

  With other men, Caesar would have taken a more indirect approach, but as he had with Scribonius, he came right to the point. This time it was for a slightly different reason, however; he and Pullus had a bond that he didn't share with any other man from the ranks, and the presence of the Han physician at Pullus' bedside spoke more than any platitudes Caesar could mouth.

  "I need your help," he repeated the words he had used with Scribonius, and Pullus became instantly alert, knowing that it had to be important.

  "Anything I can do, you know I will, Caesar."

  Be careful promising, before you hear what he has to say, was the thought that ran through Scribonius' mind, but wisely he said nothing. Caesar spent the next few moments explaining his plan, the problem he was facing with the army, and what he proposed to do about it.

  Once Caesar was done, the silence was oppressive as Titus mulled over what his general had asked him to do. In outlook, he was somewhere in the middle between Scribonius' skepticism and Caesar's optimism. Pullus knew that he carried a great deal of influence with the other Primi Pili, but Caesar was asking a great deal—enough that not even Pullus was sure he could fulfill what Caesar was asking. However, as well as Pullus knew and understood Caesar, the same could be said, and then some, about Caesar's knowledge of the things that motivated his giant Primus Pilus. And Caesar knew that playing on Pullus' pride was the best mode of attack in this small campaign. Regardless, Caesar knew he was running a huge risk, in two ways. The first was that as proud as Pullus was of his status and reputation among his peers, it was based on a deep and profound concern for the welfare of the men in the ranks, but Caesar was gambling that this would be overshadowed by Pullus' vanity. It was the second risk that Caesar worried about more, but it was a sign of his desperation that he was willing to ask Pullus to do something that could very well kill him.

  Only when Caesar had received the reports from every scouting party did he allow himself a slight breath of relief. There was no sign of an enemy presence anywhere in the area, and it was this knowledge that prompted his calling for a formation of all the army to be held at his camp, at mid-day of the fourth day after the battle. As shrunken as the army had become, now that the mounted troops had returned from the fleet, as well, there normally wouldn't have been room to fit the entire force inside one camp, but Caesar had ordered the debris from the western half of the camp cleared. It was in this space that the army now assembled, but the general further directed that the troops be arranged in such a manner that every man was facing the praetorium. This was only made possible because of the cleared section of half of the camp, and was unusual enough that it had the ranks buzzing with speculation on what was going to happen. From his spot as the Primus Pilus of the 10th, in their accustomed spot at the far right of the formation, Sextus Scribonius, one of the only men who knew what was about to unfold, was far from happy. He had voiced his objection to Caesar's proposal when his general had presented it to him, and it was a sign of how strongly he felt that he renewed his objection when he and Caesar went to talk to Pullus. Caesar had clearly been unhappy with Scribonius, but neither had he rebuked him, knowing as he did how fiercely loyal the Pilus Prior was to his giant friend. And while Caesar hadn't dealt with Scribonius as much as he had with Pullus, he was aware of Scribonius' intelligence, and he respected the man for that, if nothing else. After Caesar left, Scribonius had renewed his assault on the idea, bringing his formidable intellect to bear on Caesar's proposal with unassailable logic expressed in clear, descriptive terms that he hoped would resonate with Pullus. But it was to no avail and now he stood, waiting with the rest of the men, his mouth set in a grim line betraying his worry about what the next few moments would hold. Caesar had yet to appear, and while Scribonius normally admired his general's flair for the dramatic, this wasn't one of those times, as he silently cursed Caesar for delaying. Finally, there was a flurry of movement, as the flap that served as the door to the headquarters tent was thrown aside and the general strode out. As was his habit for such occasions, he was wearing his muscled cuirass and paludamentum, the scarlet general's cloak that Caesar wore with a verve and style that Scribonius had never seen with any other general. Although he wasn't wearing his helmet, he wasn't bareheaded, adorning himself with the oak leaves awarded to all generals who had been declared Imperator on the field, a feat that Caesar had accomplished an even dozen times. Unbidden, the thought leapt into Scribonius' mind that it was unlikely that the men gathered at this moment would be inclined to award Caesar for a thirteenth time. While only a handful of men were left that had been at Gergovia, and a slightly higher number at Dyrrhachium as well, none of these men had ever seen Caesar suffer as he had a few days before. As much as the horrific number of casualties, it was the shock of seeing Caesar so shaken and uncertain in his actions that had, in turn, rocked the rankers to their very core. Scribonius supposed that it was a little much to expect that the survivors of the assault on Caesar's camp wouldn't talk about what they had seen that day in the night before this assembly, when all the men had gathered in preparation for Caesar's announcement. Did the men who believed Caesar was a god still feel the same way, Scribonius wondered?

  "Comrades," Scribonius was jerked from his thoughts by the sound of his general's voice, pitched high enough to carry. Still, Caesar would have to pause frequently, not only to allow his words to be relayed, but also translated for those men whose grasp of Latin still extended only to the basic commands. "I have called you here to discuss a matter of momentous importance."

  That, Scribonius thought wryly, is still an understatement.

  "I have heard from your Centurions that you are unhappy at the thought of continuing this campaign to its completion by advancing now to the enemy capital that lies no more than 4 days’ march away. Is this true?"

  Scribonius wasn't sure what kind of response Caesar expected, but what he got was, instead of a low murmur, a roar that left no doubt about not only their agreement, but the depth of their feeling about the matter. Being as close as he was, Scribonius could see the flicker of surprise flash across the face of his general, but as always he covered it quickly, his expression back to the mask that could have been one of those of his ancestors, made after their death.

  Holding his hand up for silence, it was a further mark of the men's agitation that it didn't happen immediately, but seemingly unperturbed, Caesar continued, "Yes, yes. I know how you feel. And I must say that you have wounded me, deeply."

  Now it was the turn of the men to show their surprise, Scribonius among them. Where was he going with this?

  "Have I not always done what's best for you? Have I not always led you to victory?"

  Caesar paused again to scan the faces of the men around him, reminding Scribonius that he was watching a true master in the art of manipulating men. Even when you know he's doing it to you, Scribonius thought ruefully, you have to admire him. Like now.

  "But I also understand why you feel the way you do now. The battle four days ago was not my best," the fact that Caesar admitted this was astonishing in itself, and Scribonius took it as the truest sign of his desperation yet.

  "But who among you has ever faced an enemy like this? A general who would waste his men in such a profligate manner that he throws them away by using them as fascines to fill a ditch?"
/>   While Scribonius knew that Caesar was a consummate actor, able to convey an emotion that he wasn't feeling at the moment, Scribonius sensed that at this moment Caesar was being genuine and although the questions were obviously rhetorical, they were meant sincerely. And being fair, these were questions that, along with what happened next, dominated the conversations around the fires of the men at night. As Scribonius knew already just from listening to the conversations in the ranks, the answer was a resounding "No." None of them had seen anything like what they faced four days before, and that, Scribonius realized, was the kernel of the issue. Because it wasn't just Caesar who had been shaken, Scribonius mused as the men were shouting their answers to Caesar, it was all of us. This army has lost most of its confidence in its ability to defeat any enemy they face, and for fighting men, confidence in one's ability is the cornerstone on which everything else is built. That was why the Centurions pushed the men so hard in training, smacking them with the vitus and cursing their parents, to instill in them a sense of confidence that there wasn't anything out there they needed to fear when looking over their shield. This was the moment when Sextus Scribonius suddenly understood what Caesar was doing and why.

  "We have never been defeated in this campaign, and we were not defeated the other day," Caesar continued on, oblivious to the mental wandering of one of his Centurions. "We did not yield the field! We did not run! We stood, and we prevailed!"

  This prompted a roar from the men, but compared to other times it, was more muted than usual. That could be due to our reduced numbers, Scribonius thought. Now that he believed he had an understanding of where Caesar was going with this speech, he was anxious to see if his suspicions were correct.

  Once the noise died down, Caesar continued, "But we suffered grievously in doing so, that I cannot deny."

  Now the general's face showed a sadness that could be seen even from the rearmost ranks of the men, and Scribonius knew his grief was genuine. However, unlike most of the others, his friend Pullus for example, Scribonius understood that it wasn't for the sake of the fallen men themselves, but for the damage done to this finely tuned instrument of war that Caesar had up to this point wielded with such skill. That, Scribonius suspected, was what Caesar was mourning, but this was a thought he kept to himself, especially from Titus, who had always thought Caesar could do no wrong.

  "And for that I, your general, must atone, because whether or not we've faced a foe like the one who tried to destroy us the other day, I alone am responsible for the failures. I made mistakes, and men paid for that with their lives, and I have already made many sacrifices to the gods, of all of the men, to attempt to appease them for failing you."

  Now Scribonius, and every other man, for that matter, was rocked to his core. Never before had he heard Caesar admit so freely that he had erred in conducting a battle. This was truly a day of firsts, he realized. If Caesar felt compelled to admit such a failing, who knew what else was coming?

  "But these... savages owe us a debt that can only be repaid in blood! They must be made to understand the folly of resisting Rome and all that she brings to these benighted islands! Never have we encountered such a strange, backward people, more in need of the good things that civilization brings than any other we have encountered. Yet, to make this even a possibility, we must continue and finish what we started!"

  Seemingly as quickly as Caesar won the men over, with this last statement he lost them. And yet, Scribonius observed, Caesar didn't seem surprised at this sudden turn. Instead, Scribonius saw just the ghost of what he knew to be Caesar's smile, as if matters were going in the direction he wanted.

  "I see you do not agree, comrades. I can see the doubt, there's no need for you to shout it out, so plainly is it written on your face," Caesar's voice, still pitched high, contained no hint of censure or displeasure. In fact, quite the opposite, puzzling Scribonius even further.

  "Tell me, what would convince you that what I am proposing is the correct next step for this campaign? What if," Caesar snapped his fingers, making a great show to convey to the men that this was something he had just thought of, "someone from the ranks, someone you know and respect, should speak to you to soothe your fears? Would that convince you that I am in the right?"

  Even knowing what was coming, Scribonius felt a pang of sympathy and not a little anger, knowing as he did that not only did Caesar not expect any of the men from the ranks to step forward, he was counting on them not to. In the game of tables, the best player wasn't the one who thought one move ahead, but who saw several moves, in combinations, that culminated in a final goal of victory. This was what was happening now; Scribonius saw the quiet looks of triumph on the part of the Centurions nearest him, as they looked about, waiting for someone that they knew wasn't coming. For once, the men and Centurions were in perfect accord and it would have been a brave but foolhardy soul who would speak out now. Poor fools, Scribonius thought, you think you've won, when in fact you're doing exactly what Caesar wanted.

  "Nobody?" Caesar asked after a moment, although the answer was obvious.

  With that, Caesar turned and made a gesture in the direction of the praetorium, and it was clear that someone had been peeping between the flaps because nobody was visible, yet despite that the leather was suddenly thrown aside. As this happened, Caesar turned back to look in Scribonius' direction, the cue that had been agreed on earlier, and without hesitation Scribonius broke from his spot in the formation and strode over to Caesar. Conscious of all eyes on him, the salute Scribonius rendered was parade-ground perfect. After it was returned, he stepped to Caesar's side as both men looked to the praetorium, where something was happening. Just becoming visible as they emerged were two men, each holding the end of some object, which only became identifiable when they moved in Caesar's direction. Two more men emerged, as well, and between the two sets of men they carried a litter. Scribonius heard the ripple of muttering, as the identity of the man lying on the litter was passed through the ranks, like a wave coming into shore to where Caesar and Scribonius were standing. The bearers had been selected by Caesar personally, with one simple criterion; they were the strongest of the noncombatants, because the bulk of the man they were carrying was much larger than the norm. Even without his armor, and after losing several pounds over the last few days, Titus Pullus was one of the heaviest men in the army, and the strain of carrying him showed on the sweating faces of the orderlies, who nevertheless managed to move smoothly across the forum. What had started as a low murmur increased in volume as Pullus was carried past the ranks of first the 12th, then the 10th Legion, quickly becoming a roaring avalanche of sound. While it was true that Pullus wasn't their Primus Pilus, every survivor of the 12th had seen the deeds performed by the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion, and it was the slaying of the barbarian general that every man there would say to their dying day was the turning point of the battle.

  In short, as far as these men were concerned, they owed their lives to Pullus, and in their own way they were letting him know they had seen and appreciated his action on that day. The recipient of this heartfelt outpouring looked suitably embarrassed, but nobody missed how pale the large Roman was, and how careful he was with every movement, as if a sudden gesture of recognition might cause him pain. He was propped up in a semi-sitting position, and when the orderlies bearing him in his litter reached Caesar and Scribonius, Caesar made a great show of greeting Pullus as if he was a favored son returning after a long absence. Perhaps, Scribonius thought as he watched the pair, the older general bent over the younger man sharing a private joke that made Pullus give a chuckle, even if it was weak, that's what Pullus is to Caesar. Gods know that Pullus looks to Caesar as a father, as well as a general. Now that Pullus was near to the 10th, the shouts and cheers that had started with the 12th swelled into a roaring sound that, even with the diminished numbers, was deafening and drowned out anything else Caesar said to his giant Primus Pilus. For the next few moments neither Caesar nor Pullus could do anything, a
s the men of the 10th showed their love and regard for their Primus Pilus. Scribonius felt his eyes begin to fill, but he was mollified by the sight of his friend in much the same condition, as tears streamed down Pullus' cheeks, so moved by this outpouring he couldn't contain himself. Finally Caesar held both arms up in a plea for silence. In doing so, he took a few steps away from Pullus and the litter, putting Pullus behind him. Scribonius was alternating his attention between Caesar and the men of the 10th, trying to give them his own sign that it was time to cease their demonstration, so he missed Pullus signaling him the first couple of times. At last sensing movement out of the corner of his eye, the acting Primus Pilus turned to see the true Primus Pilus beckoning to him, which Scribonius immediately obeyed. Reaching Pullus' side, he saw his friend say something, but the noise was still too much to make out the words, so he bent down to put his ear closer to his friend.

  "Help me up."

  At first, Scribonius was sure he had misheard, but then Pullus repeated the command.

  "Are you mad?" Scribonius' shock was greater than his anger at the moment, although that would come. "You're too weak to stand, not to mention that it'll tear the wound open. No, I won't help you up."

  The look Pullus gave Scribonius was one that he had seen his friend give before, but it had never been aimed at him until now. As close as they were, Scribonius felt a sudden weakness in his knees, feeling very much as if he was once again a new tirone facing his original Pilus Prior, the famous Gaius Crastinus, who had gone on to become Primus Pilus himself and who had fallen at Pharsalus. There was no hint of warmth or friendliness in Pullus' gaze, the piercing look he gave Scribonius was that of a Primus Pilus who expects his command to be obeyed. Knowing the look and understanding there would be no further debate, with a frown plastered on his face, Scribonius extended his hand. Caesar, meanwhile, was just beginning to get the silence that he had been asking for and was about to turn back to Pullus to allow him to speak from his litter, but there was a new eruption of sound, this one even louder as the men renewed their cries. This was not only louder, it was different; more guttural, primal in nature, and the sight and sound of the men seemingly disobeying him shocked Caesar. He was about to unleash his own verbal blast, displaying a temper that he used judiciously, knowing that the sight of Caesar in a rage chilled even the most stalwart of men. But then he noticed that the men of the 10th, and all the other Legions for that matter, were pointing in his direction, gesturing to the man next to them, as their shouts rose to the heavens. Completely confused now, it took Caesar another moment to realize that while the men were pointing in his direction, they weren't actually pointing at him, but at a spot behind him. Even as Caesar turned, while he wasn't sure what to expect and prepared himself, the sight before him as he completed the turn forced a shocked oath from his mouth. Standing erect, wobbling and weaving it was true, with a face as pale as a death mask and shining as if he had thrust his face into a basin of water, was Titus Pullus, Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion. One of his brawny arms was draped around Scribonius, who was clearly bearing a great deal of Pullus' weight, his own face showing the strain. Putting one foot carefully in front of the other, with Scribonius to help him, Titus Pullus took a few, halting steps away from the litter. Stopping next to Caesar, Pullus stood there as the men cheered, until finally he raised a hand. Much to Caesar's chagrin, the men fell silent almost immediately. Gathering himself, Pullus surveyed the faces of the men of the front ranks of the 10th Legion, some faces more familiar than others, but what seized Pullus' heart and racked him with even more pain were those that were missing. Normally, Publius Vellusius would have been standing in the front rank of the First Century of the Second Cohort, beaming at Pullus with a smile that had fewer teeth in almost every formation. But Vellusius, like so many others, was gone from the ranks. In Vellusius' case it wasn't all bad news; while Vellusius had fallen, he still lived, much to Pullus' relief once he was informed. However, he would never march again, because the injury he had received resulted in the loss of his left hand and part of his forearm, keeping him from carrying a shield. Pullus wasn't sure how long he could remain standing, his head already spinning violently, forcing him to grip Scribonius' shoulder so tightly it made his friend wince, despite the fact he was wearing his mail armor.