Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

  “I think they learned that we were marching after them, and they turned back,” Macrinus said.

  “That might be,” I said doubtfully. “But we’re just one Legion against 20,000 warriors? I don’t see why they'd be scared of that.”

  “Maybe they don’t know it’s just one Legion,” Cornelius spoke up, and we turned in some surprise to the young Tribune, who blushed mightily at the attention.

  “I think the Tribune might be right,” Macrinus said thoughtfully.

  Crassus nodded in agreement, then said, “I believe he may be as well, but we’re still going after those bastards. I plan on making them sorry they ever decided to leave their lands.”

  Turning a Legion on the march in the opposite direction is not nearly as easy as it probably seems it should be. If it were just a case of making the drag Legion the vanguard, with the vanguard Legion becoming the drag, it would be simple, but there is the baggage train that must be moved aside, and turning the wagons requires a good deal of room to maneuver. Complicating matters was the ruined earth of the Bastarnae track, which we had to avoid putting the wagons into or they would become bogged down in the soft earth. It took almost a quarter part of the day to get everything turned around before we were back on the march, this time heading north. The fear that the men had for the Bastarnae had disappeared, turning into irritation at the wild chase they were putting them through. We marched the rest of that day before making camp. It was that night that Prixus, the gladiator who was the chief of Crassus’ bodyguards, decided it was time to get even with me.

  I will say that he chose his time well. I had gone to Scribonius’ and Balbus’ tent, where we passed the evening drinking more than we should have, considering that we were on the march, but riding instead of walking convinced us that we could indulge ourselves. Consequently, I was weaving a bit when I left their tent, my mind elsewhere, thinking of a slim, brown woman with large eyes. On an impulse, I decided to go visit Ocelus. For some reason, being with my horse when I felt a bout of melancholy coming made me feel better. I heard him blowing as I approached his stable; like all the stallions, he was penned off separately to avoid the inevitable clashes that happen between males when there are females involved. When I called his name, he nickered softly in answer, his ears pricked forward. Looking back, I should have been on my guard because Ocelus was not acting in his normal fashion, nosing through my tunic looking for a hidden treat, instead tossing his head nervously, pawing the ground.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I asked him, reaching out to soothe him with a pat on the flank.

  The blow, when it came, was completely unexpected, slamming into my kidney like a hammer, and it was just the first. The second blow was to the back of my head, my knees buckling immediately, stars exploding in my head as I reached out to grab the top rail of Ocelus’ stall. A hand that felt like it was made of iron grabbed my arm, keeping me from steadying myself, while more blows rained down on me. Without the support of the stall, I fell to my knees, trying to cover my head with my arms, but they were grabbed by a pair of hands on each one, pulling them away from my body. To that point, nobody had stepped in front of me, so I could not see who was attacking me, nor had a word been spoken, the only sounds the harsh breathing of the men beating me, but it was hard to hear because of the roaring in my ears. Despite the fact that I was dazed and disoriented, I noticed that whoever was beating me was taking care only to strike me from behind, with most of the blows to my body. I felt and heard one of my ribs snap, a white-hot stab of pain lancing through my body and I opened my mouth to cry out, then something stopped me. Suddenly, I recognized that as much as they were trying to hurt me, they wanted to humiliate me by making me cry out and that mulishness that had dogged me from my first days came back as I clamped my mouth shut. This seemed to arouse my attackers to new heights of fury, making the next several moments some of the most painful of my life. Although I do not know why, I did not put up much of a struggle once my arms had been secured, despite the fact I could tell that if I had used all my strength I would have been able to pull free. It is hard to describe, but there was a part of me that accepted this beating, the first such experience of my life, here in my forty-eighth year. All I can ascribe it to is that I was relieved that for the first time since Miriam’s death, I was feeling something, anything other than the numbness that seemed to soak through every fiber of my being. I do not know how long they continued; I suppose that somewhere along the way I lost consciousness, because my next memory is the smell of damp earth and manure, the feel of it pressing against my cheek. The next sensation I felt was the pressure of something against my foot, followed by a nickering as Ocelus nosed me. Thinking to reassure my horse, I tried to push myself up, but I was stopped by a rush of pain that for the first time forced a moan from my lips, and I fell back to the ground. I could not take a deep breath and, for a few moments, I had to fight a rising panic that I was going to suffocate there on the dirt floor of the stable. Finally calming down, I once again tried to push myself up, resolving to ignore the pain no matter how bad it was. Putting my hands flat on the dirt, I pushed upward with all my strength, hearing someone scream out in horrible pain. That is the last thing I remember of that night.

  If there is a more unpleasant way of waking up than being bounced about in the back of a wagon being pulled over a rutted road, I do not know what it is, nor do I want to find out. Jolted back to consciousness by a particularly deep rut that felt like it was focused on beating me as badly as I had been the night before, I heard myself groan when I opened my eyes, sensing movement before seeing Diocles’ face hovering above me, his eyes filled with concern.

  “Am I dead?”

  He gave me the kind of smile that one gives a badly injured man, shaking his head quickly.

  “No, master, you're not dead, but you gave us quite a scare. You’re in the back of one of the wagons now, and you’re safe.”

  “I gathered that,” I muttered, more intent on taking an inventory of my body than having a conversation.

  Wiggling my toes, I flexed my leg muscles next, relieved that they were relatively pain free, but when I tried to turn my head, a sharp pain at the back of my skull stopped me. After that, I tried my arms and I was surprised to find them more or less intact, despite my forearms being sore where my attackers had grabbed my arms to pin them. The major source of my pain was in my back, explaining why I had been placed face down on a wooden board in the wagon. Seated next to Diocles was a bearded man I recognized as Crassus’ personal physician, a man named Philipos. Seeing me look at him, he cleared his throat before speaking in heavily accented Latin that was barely understandable. I waved a hand at him to stop him.

  “I speak and understand Greek, so tell me how bad off I am.”

  “You have at least one broken rib, and perhaps two. You've been passing blood for the last two days……”

  “Two days?” I interrupted, looking over at Diocles, who nodded unhappily.

  “As I said, master, you gave us quite a scare. You've been unconscious for two full days.”

  That got my attention, I can tell you. The only other time I had been out for that long had been when I was almost killed at Munda, so I immediately understood how badly I had been injured.

  “Is there any permanent damage?”

  Words could not express my relief when the physician shook his head.

  “No, you'll heal in time, though at your age it will take longer than it would have in the past. Your back is heavily bruised, and it will take some time before they fully disappear.”

  “You don’t have to remind me that I’m old,” I snapped.

  Turning back to Diocles, I saw that he was standing up, heading to the small door of the wagon.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The general ordered me to let him know the moment you regain consciousness.”

  He jumped out, while I endured the examination of the physician, who peeled back the poultices that had been pla
ced on my back. Taking a jar from his bag, he began dabbing some vile-smelling concoction on my back, only stopping when I described in vivid detail what I would do to him and his family if he continued. Rather than be intimidated, he just shrugged, obviously accustomed to such threats from his patients.

  “It’s up to you if you want to take longer to heal,” he sniffed. “This,” he waved the jar, “is worth its weight in gold and it will help you heal much more quickly. But if you can't bear a little discomfort in order to be back on your feet more quickly, that's your affair.”

  “I wonder how much discomfort you’ll feel when I shove that jar up your ass?” I growled, but he just laughed, showing even, white teeth.

  “According to you Romans, I would enjoy it, being Greek. So perhaps you should think of something else to threaten me with.”

  Realizing that in this battle of wits I was overmatched, I very grudgingly said, “If you think it’s going to do some good, go ahead and put that stuff on. But it smells like rank horsecac,” I could not resist a Parthian shot of my own.

  “Ah, you guessed the secret ingredient,” he said as he resumed his ministrations.

  Philipos was just finishing up when the door was thrown open, Crassus hopping inside.

  “I heard a rumor that you were alive, but I had to come see for myself.”

  “Forgive me for not getting to my feet, sir. I'm alive, but I’ve felt better.”

  “I can imagine,” he said dryly. “You gave us a scare, Prefect,” echoing Diocles’ words as he sat on the bench opposite.

  He wrinkled his nose, looking over at the physician.

  “I see you're using your famous concoction on the Prefect, and that it smells as bad as always.”

  “I didn't notice you complaining when it worked,” the physician retorted, and Crassus grinned, turning to me.

  “He’s right. It smells like Pluto’s asshole, but it does work.” Turning serious, he asked me, “Prefect, did you see who did this to you?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I waited to see what Crassus would say next, since Prixus was his man, and while I had never told him the details of our encounter, he knew that something had happened between us.

  “Well, I'm sure you have an idea who it was.” He looked at me levelly, his eyes revealing nothing.

  “Not really,” I said, seeing what might have been a flicker of anger flash across his face.

  “That’s disappointing,” he said after a moment. “Because I was hoping that you could identify the culprit, who we both know was Prixus.”

  I stared at him for a long time, trying to decide how much the man could be trusted. As far as I was concerned, I could hardly be blamed for being extremely leery of placing my faith in anyone of the upper classes, given all that I had experienced, yet to that moment I had seen nothing in Crassus’ nature that suggested he was of the same breed as Lepidus. Or Octavian, for that matter, which I believe was one of the causes of what happened to Crassus later. Seeing that I was not going to say anything, he heaved a sigh.

  “You see, the problem is that Prixus and his men were very careful. Normally a man administering a beating as severe as you endured would bear the marks of his handiwork, but apparently, they wrapped their hands in rags to avoid having skinned knuckles. Not just any rags, either, but lengths of linen cut into strips that just happen to be the width of a man’s hand.”

  “That’s a trick of the pankratiostoi,” Philipos observed. “Something that a gladiator would know.”

  “How do you know they wrapped their hands?” Diocles asked curiously.

  “We found them discarded by the stables, so they couldn't be connected to the beating of the Prefect.”

  “Have they been questioned?” I asked, despite being sure I knew the answer.

  “They have,” he sighed, “but they all took solemn oaths that they were together playing dice. It was quite elaborate, I must say. They described almost every throw that was made, who won how much, and so on. Which is how I know they're lying.” He looked down at me as he said, “I was hoping that the Prefect got a glimpse of them, but since he didn’t, I suppose I have to have them tortured.”

  “No,” I said, sharply enough that the extra force caused me to wince in pain. “Don’t do that.” I saw his brow furrow, and I hurried to amend my words since he clearly did not appreciate me making it sound like an order. “I'm asking that you don’t do that, sir. As I said, I didn’t see them, and I'd hate to think that possibly innocent men would be tortured because of a minor misunderstanding.”

  I will say that the words tasted foul in my mouth, because I was lying through my teeth, and Crassus looked supremely unconvinced.

  “So you’re saying that you’re worried about these men, even knowing that they beat you to a pulp?”

  He gave a snorting laugh.

  “I don’t know that they're the ones who beat me, sir. It could have been someone else.”

  “Who? You haven’t been with this army long enough to make an enemy who hates you enough to risk the consequences of assaulting a Camp Prefect.”

  “Maybe some Bastarnae sneaked into camp.” Even as I said it, I knew how absurd the idea was.

  Crassus gave another snort, this one of clear impatience.

  “I know you don’t expect me to believe that, Pullus. And there's more at stake here than your pride. I can’t allow my second in command to be assaulted and let it go unpunished.”

  “I didn’t say anything about it going unpunished,” I replied.

  “And that’s another thing, Prefect. I can’t worry about my bodyguards showing up with their throats cut while we're on the march. That's as unacceptable in its own way as letting them get away with it.”

  “Nobody's going to show up dead, sir. I give you my word that nothing will happen that would cause you embarrassment or disrupt our operations in the field.”

  I was lying, and we both knew it, but as far as I was concerned, this was the first major test in our relationship as Legate and Prefect and I was gambling on him trusting me. He said nothing for a very long time before he finally relented.

  “Very well. I'm going to trust you on this, Pullus, but don't disappoint me.”

  He stood to leave, giving me an awkward pat on the shoulder as he did so.

  “In the meantime, rest and recover. If we catch up to the Bastarnae, we're going to need you.”

  I spent another day in the wagon before I felt up to riding Ocelus, but I did not spend a full day in the saddle before I had to retire back to the wagon for the rest of the time. I could only move with difficulty, with sudden motion being out of the question, which meant that if we had caught up with the Bastarnae, I would have been sitting in the wagon for the fight. Scribonius and Balbus kept me company, but neither of them could stand the jolting ride for very long before they left to climb back on their mounts. The hardest part of the ordeal was not the pain, but enduring the smirks of Prixus and his men. However, I had learned the value of patience, albeit the hard way, so I ignored them. Continuing north, we closed in on the Bastarnae, who were clearly fleeing the country at our approach. Talking it over with Crassus and Macrinus, the only reason we could come up with was that they thought they were being chased by the whole army and not just one Legion.

  “Although all they have to do is come ride up that hill over there and look down and see that it’s just us,” Macrinus commented.

  “I don’t think they have any real interest in fighting us,” Crassus replied. “I believe they just thought that they'd take advantage of our absence, and now that we've shown up, they want to go home.”

  Despite the fact I could not discount what the two were saying, I was not so sure that the Bastarnae had no intention of facing us. There was just a nagging feeling that would not go away that something was happening that I could not identify, but had learned long before not to ignore.

  “We’ll see,” was all I would say, and the Legion continued its pursuit.

  Aft
er another day, our scouts returned to inform us that it appeared that the Bastarnae were intent on crossing back over the Ister River, because they were commandeering every boat they could find.

  “If we hurry, we can catch them before they cross the river,” Crassus said at our morning briefing.

  “We can pin them there and finish them off.”

  Exchanging a glance with Macrinus, who gave me a slight shrug, I felt compelled to ask Crassus, “Why would we want to do that? Shouldn’t we just be happy that they’re heading back where they came from?”

  “And only have them come back as soon as we leave?” Crassus shook his head. “No, we're going to make sure that they don’t cross the border again.”

  Although I did not agree, I could not argue that the order made sense, and really all there was to do about it was salute, then carry out Crassus’ orders. As it would turn out, the Bastarnae were given a reprieve, and if they had been smart, they would have used that opportunity to get away and never come back. On the next day, shortly after we started the march that would take us to the banks of the Ister to face and slaughter the Bastarnae, the cavalry contingent that acted as rearguard sent a man galloping up to us in the command group. Barely sketching out a salute, the rider said something to Crassus that none of us understood, then Crassus snapped at him to slow down and repeat himself.

  “There’s a large force of warriors to our rear, marching our way!”

  Chapter 2-Runo

  Crassus wasted no time.

  Turning to me, he said quickly, “Pullus, I need to know what’s going on in our rear. Take your Evocati friends and go take a look, then report back to me immediately.”

  Without waiting for my acknowledgment, he turned to Macrinus, who had come trotting up at the summons of the bucina call.

  “What Cohort is marching drag?”

  “Today, it’s the Seventh.”