Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

  “Actually, Prefect, it’s not convenient at all. The reason I bring it up is that I know that sooner or later you'd hear that there had been a vacancy, but the fact is that I wouldn't recommend that your nephew fill that slot.”

  “I can assure you that he’s more than qualified to handle a Century in one of the better Cohorts. The only reason he wasn't in the First of the 10th was because he's my nephew and I didn't want any charges of nepotism being leveled against him,” I said stiffly, growing angry at Macrinus’ presumption that Gaius was an Optio only because of his relationship to me, but Macrinus waved his hand in dismissal of my objection.

  “Prefect, I can assure you that it has nothing to do with the qualifications of your nephew. In fact, I've been making the assumption all along that being your nephew meant that he was personally trained by you, and anyone trained by Titus Pullus of the 10th Legion is more than capable of handling the duties of Optio in any Cohort. No, my concern isn't that your nephew can handle the duties, it’s the Centurion he'd be under that's the problem.”

  Now I was feeling a bit foolish, despite a part of me still being suspicious that Macrinus was making excuses to avoid putting Gaius in one of his better Cohorts. However, I was willing to listen, so I indicated he should continue. Macrinus hesitated for a moment, and I could see he was considering how much he should divulge.

  To offer encouragement, I said, “Macrinus, remember that I was a Primus Pilus for a long time. I know that every Legion has its secrets, and that not everyone who's in the Centurionate is there because he belongs there. I give you my word that I won’t be running to Crassus or betray your trust in any way.”

  My words seemed to be what he had been hoping for, as he nodded and continued.

  “The Tertius Hastatus Prior’s name is Glabius, and he’s a flogger, among other things.”

  The fact that this Glabius liked to flog his men was not good, but would not necessarily affect his Optio, except perhaps by association, so I knew there had to be more. I waited as Macrinus seemed to struggle to find the right words to continue.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not the worst of it. Glabius is squeezing his men. The Fifth Century is the worst in the Legion for men on punishment and, as you might expect, their morale is horrible. The whole thing is a mess, and I wouldn't feel right putting your nephew into that situation. I don’t know him, but I suspect that if he was trained by you, he'd have something to say to Glabius, and Glabius might be the best man with a sword in the entire Legion.”

  It sounded like Macrinus was a little afraid of this Glabius, but I knew better than to bring that up.

  Instead, I asked, “Why can’t you replace him?”

  Macrinus gave me a long, searching look, saying nothing for several moments.

  Finally, he spoke slowly. “I think you know why, Prefect. He is . . . connected. And he came with the Legion. He's been with the 8th for longer than I have.”

  Macrinus did not need to say any more than he had, because I knew exactly what he meant. Glabius was somehow connected to Octavian, or perhaps he was not, but had convinced Macrinus that he was, and Macrinus was understandably unwilling to test that fact.

  Turning my attention to where it looked like Gaius would be headed, I asked, “Tell me about the Tenth. Which Century would he be going to?”

  “Actually,” Macrinus replied, “I do have a bit of good news on that. After thinking about it, I decided that I need to make some changes and move some men about. So I can offer your nephew a slot in the Seventh, in the Second Century. The Pilus Posterior is a good man, even if he is from Etruria. His name is Sextus Vettus, and he’s one of my most dependable, and his Century is a good one, one of my best.”

  That sounded good, but I was struck by what he had said, prompting me to ask, “If the Century is so good, why is it in the Seventh? It seems like with this reorganization that Caesar has mandated, it would be good to move them up?”

  He hesitated again, and I reminded him of my oath that everything would stay between us.

  “I understand what Caesar is trying to do, and I applaud it,” he said carefully. “But we’re out here, about to face the Bastarnae. You know better than anyone that an upheaval the likes of what Caesar has mandated takes time to adjust to, for everyone, Centurions and Optios included. We've done as he ordered by doubling the size of the First Cohort and we took the opportunity to cut out the dead wood when we reduced the size of the Centuries, but frankly, Prefect, that's as far as I'm willing to go right now. Once we're through with the Bastarnae, then we'll finish making the changes that he's ordered. I hope that this isn't a problem for you.”

  “It’s not. In fact, it makes perfect sense,” I assured him, and I could see he was visibly relieved, while this was the first time that I got an idea of how powerful and influential others viewed this new post of Camp Prefect. “Does Crassus know about this?”

  He nodded, then said, “The general is in complete agreement and as far as I know, has told the other Primi Pili of the Army of Pannonia to do as I'm doing until we're through putting down this invasion.”

  “Then that's all that matters,” I said lightly, but Macrinus seemed worried.

  “You don’t think Caesar will take it like we're disobeying his orders?”

  “No, I think he might,” I was forced to admit. “But he's in Rome, and we're out here. And I give you my word that if he says anything against what we're doing, I'll speak up.”

  That seemed to soothe him considerably, and I stopped myself from adding that given my rocky relationship with Octavian, it was just as likely to condemn as it was to absolve us.

  It took a matter of more than a watch to find a suitable fording spot for us to cross the river and if the Bastarnae had had their wits about them, or had been led by a somewhat competent general, they would have arrayed themselves to stop us when we crossed. The ford we used still forced the men to cross in water that was almost chest-deep, making Crassus order the cavalry to line up above and below the ford like we had done so often in Gaul. We made it across, but with only a couple of watches of daylight left, Crassus gave the order to make camp just a mile from the river. We were headed in a roughly southeasterly direction, where we would be leaving the gentle terrain of the river valley, the line of hills in the distance promising harder marching to come. When it got dark, we could see a smudge of light on the horizon that experience told us was the fires of the Bastarnae.

  The next morning, we broke camp, continuing our pursuit by moving steadily towards the spot where the fires had been the night before, with what remained of our cavalry providing a screen. It was our first full day on the march, subsequently making it the first day where I rode the whole time, and rode with the command group instead of my Legion. It was a new experience, but I must say that I did like being higher than the men of the Legion, amazed at the change in perspective it brought. Not having a Legion to lead was another matter; I found that I missed the banter and chattering that took place in the ranks. Even when I tried to walk with the men for a bit, I found that they were too intimidated by me, which I suppose was understandable. Even as Primus Pilus, the men knew me and were around me on a daily basis. Meanwhile, the men of the 8th barely knew me, and what they did know was that I was second only to Crassus, which put me on a level just below the gods. The result was wide eyes and tight lips when I tried to make conversation with the Gregarii. I did take a moment to stop to talk to Gaius, wanting his men to see that I knew him and thought highly of him, but he was clearly not pleased. Although I understood his desire to stand on his own two feet and be seen as his own man, I still felt very protective of him, while I knew how valuable the patronage of a higher ranking man was to my career. Since Gaius had made it clear that he wanted to stay in the army past his first enlistment, I saw no harm in doing what I could while I was still able to help him climb as high as he could. I saw the men of his Century giving him sidelong glances as I trotted Ocelus back to the command group, and I fancied that they
were viewing him with newfound respect. Scribonius and Balbus were having similar struggles coping with their new status, and we rode together talking about it.

  “I feel about as useful as tits on a man,” Balbus grumbled.

  Although his remark made me laugh, there was much truth in what he was saying.

  “We’re not accustomed to having nothing to do,” Scribonius agreed, giving both of us a grin. “But I for one am getting used to it. I like not having to worry that Publius left his javelin behind at the last stop, or that Crito stole a chicken from the farm we just passed.”

  “Not me,” Balbus said glumly. “That gave me an excuse to thump someone, and that made my day.”

  While it was true that Balbus was known for going through his share of viti, he talked more about thrashing his men than actually doing it, and he had been well loved by the men of his Century.

  “I know what you mean,” I admitted. “I’m at a loss just sitting here riding along without a care in the world.”

  “Well, all I can say is that we earned it,” was Scribonius’ reply, something that for once all three of us agreed on.

  After passing by the range of hills that ran along a north-south axis, and behind which we had seen the reflected glow of the Bastarnae fires against the clouds the night before, we turned almost due south, where our scouts had reported their last sighting of the enemy. Making camp on the crest of a small hill some 15 miles south of the Ister, the men of the 8th worked quickly and efficiently, another sign that they were well-led. This had been the first full day on the march, always a tough day for a Legion, and I was pleased to see that despite their fatigue, the men responded well. I was also tired, but not nearly as much as I thought I would be, which I put down to the fact that I had spent most of the day on Ocelus. The gray stallion and I had definitely formed a bond and for the first time in my life, I actually looked forward to climbing onto his back to spend the day with him. I must confess that I spoiled him rotten, and I still do now that we are both in our dotage.

  Our cavalry scouts returned with the news that the Bastarnae, evidently now alerted to our presence, had not stopped for the evening. We had begun to see signs of their predations, in the form of smoking farmhouse, around which were the bodies of men and women who had decided to fight for their homes. What was puzzling me was the intention of the Bastarnae; if they were migrating and looking for a new homeland, why were they still moving? The land we were in was about as fertile as the region provided, at least from what I had been told, so I did not understand their intent. I was not the only one that was puzzled. That night Crassus, Macrinus, and I discussed the matter.

  “If they were just looking for plunder, why bring their families?” Macrinus asked, to which neither Crassus nor I could answer.

  I thought about it, then ventured an idea.

  “Maybe it’s a custom of their people to take their families with them on any kind of raid.”

  Crassus considered this before shaking his head.

  “Militarily, that doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “It just slows them down, and gives them more to worry about.”

  “It also gives them more to fight for,” I pointed out, but I could see that neither man was convinced.

  The fact was that we had no idea why they brought their families, and would only learn the answer when and if we captured some Bastarnae in a position to know. The next morning, we set out, heading south, this being the last direction we knew the Bastarnae had been located. Despite seeing signs that they had been there, we still saw no Bastarnae themselves. It was odd, since it would have been normal that a small detachment of the enemy would have been shadowing our movements, yet there was still no real sign of them. After questioning the few survivors that we came across, we learned that while few of the Bastarnae rode horses, their main weapon was supposedly a fearsome sword or something similar that could cleave a man in half, at least if the terrified people we met were to be believed. Naturally, this was instantly relayed through the ranks, and men began talking about the Bastarnae as if they were invincible, all of them standing my height or higher while carrying these great weapons dripping in blood. This weapon, called the falx, required the man wielding it to use two hands according to witnesses, which told me immediately that we would be able to make short work of them, since defending themselves with such a weapon would be difficult against the short Spanish sword.

  Consequently, I took a turn walking about the fires that night and to hear the men, these Bastarnae were all Hercules incarnate, compelling me to do what I could to dispel such talk. Stopping at one fire, I listened to the men talk until they became aware of my presence, the conversation stopping as if their throats were cut with a knife. Taking advantage of the silence I asked the men if they minded if I took a seat, which of course they agreed to, scrambling to make room.

  “You know,” I began, “we thought the same thing about the Arverni, and the Suebi.” I saw that I had their attention, so I continued, “In fact, when we faced Ariovistus, we were at Vesontio, and as I recall, there were some Tribunes and even some Centurions who were convinced that we were doomed.” I chuckled at the memory, though it was contrived. “Some of the Tribunes suddenly remembered very pressing business they had at Rome. Something about having left a lamp lit in their villa,” I joked, gratified to hear the men laugh. “Oh, it was quite a time. But then Caesar called his Centurions and Tribunes to a meeting in the forum, which of course he chose so that we could all linger about and hear what he said. He chewed their asses, I can tell you that. There was nothing but bloody ribbons left when he was through. 'What business is it of yours where we march?' he asked. 'Why don’t you trust me to know exactly what I am doing?' They were all shamed, and so were the rest of us. But then Caesar told everyone that he would march with just us in the 10th because he knew he could count on us no matter what. And, well, you know the rest, don’t you?” Heads nodded up and down, and I could see that the men felt better.

  “Well, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” I said, the men making a half-hearted protest, which I waved away. “I know it was long ago, before any of you were born, but I do remember what it was like to be a Gregarius, and I remember how I had the cac scared out of me whenever my Primus Pilus showed up at my fire, so I can imagine how you feel when someone like me shows up.”

  I turned to leave, then heard a voice tremulously call out, “Prefect? May I ask you a question, sir?”

  Turning back to see a wide-eyed lad staring at me from across the fire, I was struck by how young and old he looked, all at the same time. He looked young because he was, but he looked so much like so many of my comrades of 30 years earlier that I felt a pang in my heart.

  “Of course you can, son.”

  For a moment it looked like his nerve would fail him, then one of his comrades jabbed him in the ribs, and I heard him whisper, “Go ahead, ask him.”

  “Is it true that you were one of Caesar’s Equestrians?” he blurted out, and I instantly saw that he was not the only man who wanted to know.

  “What’s your name?” I asked the youngster, who flushed with pleasure that I would bother to ask.

  “Aulus Settius, sir.”

  “Well, Settius, to answer your question, yes I was.”

  “What was it like? Weren’t you . . .” his voice dropped off, embarrassed that he had spoken before he thought the words through.

  One never asks another man if he’s scared; it is one of those unspoken things that we all know is there, that we all have fear, but it is not something that you talk about around the fire. However, I did not take offense, knowing that his question was innocent.

  “I was scared cacless,” I told him, causing looks of astonishment. “But not for the reason you think. The fact is that I had never sat on a horse before, and I was sure that I was going to fall off in front of Caesar and shame myself and my Cohort.”

  This drew an appreciative chuckle, so I told the whole story again, for perhaps the thousandth
time, the words now coming as if they were second nature. I spoke of how I had been helped in picking out a horse by a sympathetic cavalry trooper, who had instantly seen my inexperience, and how I had clutched at the horse’s mane with all my strength, bouncing uncomfortably while we trotted to the agreed upon spot to meet the chief of the Suebi. I recalled how I had been so focused on keeping my horse still that I barely paid attention to what was going on, until I had locked eyes with the yellow-haired man, and how we had exchanged insults. Of course, over the years, the things I said to him have become much cleverer, with his responses that much more slow-witted, but the men appreciated them, which was all that mattered. When I had finished, I was pleased to see that they were much more at ease, giving me hope that I had done some good and I bade them a good and restful night before making my way to another fire to repeat the process. There would be no need, nor would it be possible to visit every fire; just one per Cohort would be enough to have the story spreading throughout the 8th Legion. Once I was done, I retired for the night, feeling useful for the first time since I had become Prefect.

  Continuing our search for the Bastarnae, they were proving to be as elusive as a wisp of smoke. Two days after I had gone around the fires, we finally found the swath of churned earth that is the telltale sign of a large group of people, animals, and wagons, except that it had rained so much it was impossible to tell which direction they were heading. The tracks ran in a north-south direction so, thinking they were headed deeper into Moesia, we turned in that direction. As we marched parallel to the track, it became clear after perhaps a half-day that we were headed in the wrong direction. Stopping for a quick conference, Crassus, the Tribunes, Macrinus, and I rode a short distance away from where the men rested to discuss matters.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” Crassus said. “They’re headed back in the direction they came from? Why would they come all this way just to burn a few farms and villages?”