by Peake, R. W.
It helped that he was speaking to a receptive audience, Pullus in particular, who always favored the most direct approach. But he only took one glance at his friend, and seeing a familiar frown on Scribonius' face, prepared himself for this plan, such as it was, to be destroyed with clear, unassailable logic. Perhaps Pullus could be excused for heaving a sigh, before he waved for silence, then pointed to Scribonius.
"I want to hear what Scribonius has to say."
At the beginning of the long journey back to Rome, Scribonius' presence in a meeting of Primi Pili would have caused Pullus innumerable problems with his peers, if only because there was an automatic assumption by his counterparts that Pullus wanted his friend there only for political purposes. However, by this point, every man there had been present when some challenge or situation arose and it had been Scribonius whose solution had proven to be the best alternative. In many ways, the respect with which Scribonius was regarded was second only to Pullus, and if you had asked Pullus, he would have instantly offered up his friend as the man most worthy of that honor. Consequently, when Pullus now called on Scribonius, all eyes turned to him, and the men fell quiet, waiting to hear what the former Secundus Pilus Prior had to say. The man himself, although he recognized how the others viewed him, was still uncomfortable being the center of attention, which he found quite distracting. Nevertheless, he applied his mind to the situation.
"Figulus, you're certainly right in what you say," Scribonius began, but everyone knew that more was coming, "our men could cut down raw troops like wheat, and it would cost Antonius and Octavian a huge number of lives, before they could overwhelm us just with sheer numbers. But then what?"
He fell silent for a moment, as he let this sink in with the others, and each man began to cast his mind past the immediate future. Before they could arrive at their respective conclusions, however, Scribonius continued his own thoughts.
"Let's face certain facts. While it would make the two of them extremely unpopular with the mob, since most of the men we killed would be from the Head Count, what about us? Would we be viewed as being any better?"
"Of course we would! We'd just be defending ourselves! Surely no Roman would fault us for that!"
This came from Tiberius Fonteius, who was the shortest-tenured of all the Primi Pili, stepping into the shoes of Vibius Batius, the Primus Pilus of the 5th Alaudae who was slain by a freak shot from an arrow during the battle of the ridge. It had surprised Pullus, and the other Primi Pili, for that matter, that Fonteius hadn't chosen to stay behind to enjoy what was the pinnacle of a man's career, but, like Pullus, he had grown tired of watching his men die.
Scribonius regarded Fonteius for a moment, then said, "In theory, no, they wouldn't find any fault in our actions. But that's dependent on one condition, and it's a condition that I'm sure neither Antonius nor Octavian is willing to fulfill for us—Octavian in particular—and that's not spread poison in the mob's ear. Do you think that if we decide to stay and fight, they're not going to do exactly what they promise? And if we choose to make our stand here, they're going to surround us and none of us will be able to tell the citizens of Rome the truth. If we had the opportunity to state our case in the Forum, then by all means, I'd agree with you, but they're not going to give us the opportunity to do that." Looking over to Pullus, Scribonius asked, "How many Urban Cohorts are there? And one is already out there, digging in to stop us from entering the city."
"I think there are three," Pullus said reluctantly, "and yes, they're digging in. But I saw those men up close. They're not going to give us any trouble."
"But for how long?" Scribonius countered. "Isn't the 9th just two day's march away?"
"Those bastards," Figulus spat. "I doubt they're much better than these Urban Cohorts that Pullus is talking about."
This was another thing Pullus had in common with Figulus, and, in fact, with most of the men in the room. The 9th Legion had been left behind by Caesar when he embarked for Parthia for the simple reason that he didn't trust them. In the last stages of the civil war, after the defeat of Pompey, and even after Scipio was crushed at Thapsus, and the resistance to Caesar devolved onto the shoulders of the slain general's sons, the 9th had defected to them. It was a betrayal that not only stung Caesar, but the men of the 7th, 8th, and 10th, as well, because they had been collectively known as the Spanish Legions in honor of where the Legions were formed, and was something in which the men took great pride. Now, the thought that it would be the 9th they would likely have to face first was an example of a mixed blessing.
"The 9th may not be very good, but in numbers alone, they're more of a challenge than the single Cohort that's out there right now," was Scribonius' comment.
Pullus thought he was getting a glimmering of where Scribonius might be going, which prompted him to ask that very question.
"Where are you going with this, Sextus?" he asked his friend quietly.
"Well, it seems to me that whatever we do, we have to do it as soon as possible. Every watch that goes by means that Antonius and Octavian have more time to put their own plan into motion. We need to move, and move quickly. But the question is, where do we move to, and what do we do?"
It had long been a habit of Sextus Scribonius to answer a question with one or more of his own, but this was one time Pullus wasn't willing to humor his friend.
"Enough with the Socratic cac, Sextus," he snapped, exasperated. "Tell us what you think we should do."
Scribonius did just that, and it was a testament to the boldness and scope of his plan that for several long moments, there was a silence in the headquarters that hung over the men inside, as they digested Scribonius' proposal.
Finally breaking the silence, Pullus asked, "Unless anyone else has a better idea, I think we know what we need to do."
Nobody raised a hand. The rest of the night passed with the Centurions filling out the details of the plan put in motion by Scribonius, and by the time they were through, most of them didn't think it was worth going to the trouble of returning to their own tents for what would be about a watch's worth of sleep. Neither did any of them feel much like talking or spending time together, discussing what the morning would bring. For most of them, it was in the hands of the gods, and by this time the next day, their respective fates would be decided, one way or another.
As eventful as the day before had been, the next one dawned in a manner almost identical to the previous one: cloudless and bitter cold, although it would warm up quite a bit as the sun rose in the sky. Centurion Proculus didn't think he had ever been as tired as he was that morning, but the nervous energy that came from the unknown challenges this day promised kept him awake. The men of his Cohort were just as tired, and if Proculus was being truthful, he wasn't sure that, despite all of their labors throughout the night, they had done much good. It was true that the Via Ostia was blocked, but it wouldn't take much maneuvering for the men in that camp to bypass it. And after his meeting with Titus Pullus the day before, and seeing firsthand the hard-bitten men that comprised the Legions, he privately prayed that this was exactly what Pullus and his men would do: just go around. He had prided himself on being a hard man, until the day before, and now he just wanted to live to see another sunrise. Proculus had been summoned to meet with the Master of the Horse and the young Caesar, and it was the older man who had given him the order to begin the process of blocking off this camp from access to Rome. But it had been Octavian who had told Proculus that Pullus and his men were actually deserters, and not returning heroes, who needed to be put down like mad dogs, before their cowardice and dishonor was known to the good citizens of the city. Proculus hadn't believed a word of it; all he knew was that the two most powerful men in Rome wanted these men dead, and that it was his misfortune to be the commander of the duty Cohort.
Of course, the other two Urban Cohorts had been mobilized and arrived late in the day and were given their own tasks. One Cohort had been sent to a spot between the port and where Pullus' men were
camped, constructing a barricade similar in nature to that of Proculus' Cohort. As inexperienced a tactician as Proculus may have been, he didn't think it was a smart idea to divide what force they had, understanding that their only chance lay in strength of numbers. The paving stones were too solidly embedded to dig up, so on the roadway itself, a number of wagons had been turned on their sides, then weighted down with a variety of materials. Only on the flanks of the road had ditches been dug, and it was such a ditch that Proculus was inspecting now, although he wasn't sure what he was looking at. Nevertheless, he frowned as he stared down into its depths, giving a grunt that he hoped would be sufficient to let his men know he was satisfied. Speaking of the men, they were understandably nervous, but since Proculus wasn't much better off, he provided little comfort to these men who, up until today, had been barely more than glorified guards. Now they were expected to fight and stop men who, whatever their circumstances were concerning their status, had managed to survive a campaign that had lasted thirteen years? Antonius had told him that the 9th had already been dispatched and were even now marching on Rome, so that Proculus and his men "only" had to contain Pullus' for a day, as if it was such an inconsequential order that it barely merited mention.
In the middle of the night, reinforcements had arrived, in the form of what looked like every man from the various ludi, the gladiator schools, of which there were three in the city or nearby enough that men could be summoned. Although Proculus thought of them as little better than rabble, he was nonetheless glad of their company, even if they were kept separate and under the eye of their guards, on the left flank of his own position; the other Cohort occupied the space to his right. The eastern sky—which at least meant that the sun would be over Proculus' shoulder—was just beginning to turn pink, when he heard a commotion behind his position in the form of shouts of challenge, followed by what he assumed was the shouted watchword. Turning away, he told his Optio Ovidius, standing next to him, to stay put as he went to find out the cause of the disturbance. He had gone perhaps a hundred paces from the makeshift breastworks when he saw in the gloom ahead a group of men striding in his direction. At their head, Proculus saw a slender figure, and with the help of the torchlight provided by the two men flanking the leader, he recognized the young Caesar, dressed in armor, with his paludamentum swirling behind him. Instead of closing the gap, Proculus stopped, came to intente, and rendered his most perfect salute, which was barely acknowledged, as Octavian swept past.
"Well?" Octavian snapped. "Is there any sign of them yet? Or are they still cowering behind their walls like the cowards they are?"
Proculus wasn't the smartest man, but he instantly understood,—both by the words and the volume with which they were spoken—that Octavian had meant this to be heard by the men manning the barricades. So, he's going through with his story, Proculus thought, as he wheeled about and hurried to catch up with his commander.
"No sir, no sign sir. We can't see much, of course, but there's been no sign of them."
"Good," Octavian's voice had dropped down to a point where he could almost be talking to himself. "The longer they stay there, the better." Having reached a spot where he had to clamber up onto the parapet that had been constructed to give the men a perch from which to fight at an advantage, he turned and beckoned to Proculus to join him, raising his voice again, as he said, "But I know your men will do their duty to protect Rome and its citizens from these scum, Centurion! And I can see that they're ready!"
Octavian clearly expected a cheer when he was finished, but when none was forthcoming, even in the pale light Proculus could see the flush of anger and embarrassment rush to the other man's face.
Nevertheless, his voice didn't change in inflection, as he continued, "But you need to know that you're not alone! Help is coming! Even now the 9th Legion is on its way and might be here by the end of the day!"
This did rouse a cheer, with what Proculus thought was an embarrassing level of enthusiasm, but in his heart he couldn't blame his men for their feelings. Like himself, he knew that none of them had joined the Urban Cohort with the prospect of facing the most veteran Legionaries that Rome had to offer, especially those that had clearly swept every enemy they met from the field. This robust answer to Octavian's words wasn’t lost on the young Caesar either, Proculus could tell, because now his lip curled up in the same way that a man smelling a fresh turd might.
He said nothing, however, instead turning back to face in the direction of the camp, so that only Proculus could hear him mutter, "All we need is a day. Just...one...day."
Proculus wasn't sure what moved him to respond, but he assured Octavian, "My boys will give you that, sir. They may not be the equal of the Legions, but they're good boys, and they'll do their duty."
How he would live to regret those words. At least, for the rest of what remained of his life, which wasn't very long.
"Ready?"
Scribonius was the man who asked the question of Pullus, who didn't respond immediately. Instead, in his usual thorough fashion, he took a step to the side from his spot at the head of the column that had been formed up, squinting in the low light at the men neatly arranged in their ranks and files. Despite the fact they were parading in the normal fashion in which they started the march every single day, that was the only part that was familiar, to any of them.
"I suppose so," Pullus said finally, turning back from his inspection, "although I've never gone into battle dressed like this."
Scribonius grinned, reaching out to finger the shiny material of the tunic that Pullus had chosen.
"It is strange," he admitted, "but I think we look magnificent!"
"That we do," Pullus agreed. Then, with a cheerfulness that he had practiced so many times before battle, he said, "Let's not keep them waiting."
Turning to one of the three cornu players that still remained, Pullus nodded, and the man began blowing the notes that sounded the command to advance. While the notes were the same, the horn that normally blew them was the bucina, the horn that was used to sound the changes of the watch and the various other pieces of information that were required for the smooth running of the camp itself. This difference was due to the simple fact that not one bucinator was left, but since this had been the case for the last year of the journey home, the men were accustomed to respond, and such was the case this day. Stepping out, Titus was at the head of the column, and the air filled with the tramping sound of almost a thousand marching men. Exiting the camp, in order to reach the road, the column would have to perform an oblique turn, but in doing so, they would intersect the road less than two hundred paces from the barricade. If they made the same type of oblique turn in the opposite direction, however, they would be able to skirt the spot where the fortifications ended, waiting for more manpower to presumably extend the line to...where? Pullus wondered about that; were Antonius and Octavian planning on completely encircling Rome from his puny force? He thought that extremely unlikely. No, he was sure Scribonius was right, that the pair was buying time for a sufficiently strong force to crush Pullus and his men. And if Pullus and his men had decided to go back aboard the ships and sail away—essentially caving in to the demands of the Master of the Horse—they would have to perform what would be in effect two oblique turns to reverse their direction, but Pullus had already been informed of the presence of a barricade blocking the road into the port and knew that navigating a way around it was a practical impossibility, thanks to presence of the vast array of warehouses and shops spread on either side of the Via Ostia.
Not that this was ever a consideration; neither Pullus nor any man of the returning veterans was disposed to come all this way and not achieve his goal. Given the options, the most prudent one would have been to make the oblique turn that would take Pullus and his men to the far end of the fortifications. Now that the light was growing stronger, it was hard for Pullus to squint into it and see clearly, but he trusted his experience, which told him there was a large force of men waitin
g for that move. However, what Pullus saw also told him that it was unlikely that these were the Urban Cohorts facing him. Despite his low opinion of them, he couldn't imagine they would be allowed to form up in what looked like little more than a random mob of men. Gladiators, the insight flashed into his mind. Of course! These would be the only other experienced men available to the two masters of Rome on such short notice, so for a moment Pullus was tempted to deviate from his plan and head his men directly for this group of men, whom he held in such scant respect, sure that his men would make short work of them. He suppressed the thought, resisting his instinct to fight, so that when he came to the spot where he needed to make his decision, he didn't hesitate, ordering an oblique turn that pointed the column directly to the road. From a purely tactical viewpoint, this was the worst choice available to him and the men, since he would put the column in a position that made them vulnerable to attack from the mob of men on what would be their right flank. Because of the distance and the waxing light, Pullus couldn't quite make out what the far end of the fortifications looked like, but he was sure that there was another force positioned there. He was right: that was where the other Urban Cohort was located, setting up what would be a textbook pincer maneuver, as Pullus and his men presumably were to assault the barricade across the road. Antonius and Octavian would have a good chance of not just delaying, but also mauling Pullus' men so badly that it would be a case of the 9th just coming in to mop up the remnants. However, neither Pullus, nor any of his men of any rank, had any intention of fighting his way through the barricade. This was why they were attired in a manner that would be the envy of every class of working woman, from the lowest Suburan whore to the highest paid courtesan of the sort whose wares men like Antonius would be happy to sample. While Pullus wasn't sure Scribonius' plan would work, one thing he knew down to his old soldier's bones: Rome had never seen a spectacle like this.