Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

  “Now we’re even,” he cried, and I gave him a mock frown.

  “How do you figure that?” I demanded. “That man was dead in the saddle before you ever struck a blow.”

  Novatus’ mouth dropped, and he spluttered his protest.

  “That’s not so! He was still putting up a fight when I ended him!”

  “You call that a fight?” I asked scornfully, then having had my fun, I smiled at him to let him know I had been joking, which he took with good humor.

  Turning our attention to the scene around us, we witnessed the very end of the fight between Crassus and the Bastarnae noble. They had separated themselves a short distance from the main action and apparently had been engaging each other vigorously, both men red-faced and panting for breath. Crassus had dismounted, I suppose to make things fair, the two men now circling each other, their sword points weaving back and forth, each waiting for an opening. Crassus had a long cut running down the length of his sword arm, while the Bastarnae appeared to be unmarked. The other Evocati, seeing the same thing, probably assumed like I did that Crassus had been taking the worst of it, since several of them, Balbus included, began moving their horses towards Crassus to offer help.

  Seeing them coming, Crassus, while not taking his eyes from the other man shouted, “If anyone tries to strike this man, I'll have him up on charges and I'll ruin him! He’s mine!”

  So instead of helping, we sat watching like we were at the games, some men even cheering Crassus on as if he were their favorite gladiator. Sitting there watching, I could see some of Prixus’ teachings in young Crassus’ style, and I was grimly amused at the sight.

  “I just hope you do better fighting like that than he did,” I muttered under my breath.

  I thought I had spoken softly enough, though Novatus obviously heard.

  “You hope he does better than who?” he asked, but I was not willing to divulge that tale to Novatus.

  “Nobody,” I replied. “I was thinking about something else.”

  He clearly did not believe me, yet to my relief, he did not press the issue, preferring to keep his attention on the fight happening in front of us. Suddenly, the Bastarnae made a lightning-fast slash, the tip of his sword a blur as it swept at Crassus. I do not know how he did so, but Crassus managed to dodge the slash, then almost as quickly lashed out with a quick thrust of his own, over the still outstretched arm of the Bastarnae. The noble was wearing a flowing cloak, and while Crassus had evened things by dismounting, he had not been willing to let the noble remove his cloak. The garment billowed about him, not only hindering his movement but also making it impossible to tell if Crassus’ blow struck. The Bastarnae had made a grunting noise, except that it all happened so quickly it was not clear if he had been wounded or if he had just exerted himself trying to strike his own blow. It was not until a moment later that Novatus pointed at the Bastarnae.

  “Look at his side. Crassus got him.”

  The Bastarnae had made a half-turn in answer to Crassus’ own move, a breeze blowing the cloak aside briefly, long enough for me to see that Novatus was right. The man’s armor, a finely wrought cuirass, was slick and red with blood from the mid-chest, streaming down his front. I began watching the man more carefully and saw how labored his breathing had become. He was still clearly dangerous, and as if in answer to my thoughts, he made a lunging attack, combining a series of thrusts and slashes furiously, forcing Crassus to shuffle backward, desperately working to parry each blow. Despite Crassus managing to catch most of them on his shield, he was forced to sweep his blade across his body when one of the Bastarnae’s blows slipped past his first line of defense. The sweat was pouring freely down Crassus’ face, but it showed no sign of panic, instead set in a look of concentration and purpose. His attack spent, the Bastarnae stood panting for breath, waiting for Crassus’ onslaught, while our general appeared in no hurry. I thought this was a mistake and I said as much to Novatus.

  “He can’t let him catch his breath,” I said.

  “I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” Novatus replied, again pointing at the man. “See how his head is drooping? He’s almost done for.”

  “Or he’s hoping that Crassus thinks the same thing and is waiting for him to get sloppy,” I countered, but Novatus was clearly unconvinced.

  At last, Crassus raised his sword in salute to the Bastarnae, which I thought was the kind of gesture that only a member of the upper classes would make, before starting his own, presumably final attack. Crouching low while weaving side to side, he shuffled forward, his spatha held in a slightly modified first position; still parallel to the ground, but angled slightly upward and held higher. With a speed that was impressive, his blade flicked out in a thrust that I knew was more of a probe to see if the Bastarnae’s reflexes were still intact and I saw that his block was a little late, the point of Crassus’ blade actually making it past the edge of the shield. Crassus then feinted an overhand blow, drawing the Bastarnae’s shield up to block a thrust that never came. Meanwhile, Crassus instantly recovered; instead delivering a thrust that began at waist level, he drove upward. Crassus had stepped into the thrust as perfectly as it could be done, the blade sliding under the edge of the Bastarnae’s own round shield to punch through the cuirass, driving deep into the Bastarnae’s gut. The Bastarnae was at the right angle for me to see his face, his eyes widening in shock. However, to his eternal credit, he did not cry out, despite the fact that a belly wound is the most painful of any except to the groin. Crassus twisted the blade to free it, which of course also caused more damage to the man’s insides, and this did force a groan from his lips. Ripping the blade free, Crassus had to jump back in order to avoid the fount of blood that spurted from the wound. Thankfully, the cuirass worked to keep the man’s intestines intact, although I do not suppose at that moment he cared much. Falling to his knees, the Bastarnae mouthed some words that I assumed was a prayer to his gods, before toppling slowly over, dead at Marcus Crassus’ feet. Crassus had been true to his word; he had conquered the Bastarnae leader. Crassus knelt, head bowed in a silent prayer, then began stripping the armor and weapons from the dead man. He held his trophies aloft, with the men of the Evocati giving a great cheer of pride at the victory of our commander. Intermingled among the cries of joy, however, were some cries of despair from the surviving Bastarnae, most of them lying wounded on the ground. Balbus, sword in hand, stood over one such man, who was weeping unashamedly. He looked at me in consternation.

  “I barely touched the man, and he’s crying like a baby.” He seemed indignant at the man shaming himself.

  I walked Ocelus over to look down at the man. He had a wound in the thigh, but it did not seem to me to be sufficient to cause enough pain to have him weeping in such a manner.

  “Why are you crying?” I asked the man in Greek.

  He looked up at me, his face twisted in grief.

  “Your commander has slain my lord,” the man said bitterly.

  He must have been important, I thought, and out of curiosity, I asked the man who he had been. The man looked at me as if I had gone mad.

  “That is Deldo, king of what you Roman bastards call the Bastarnae.”

  The battle was over, the Bastarnae routed and in complete disarray, leaving well more than half their men dead on the field. Returning to the army, we found the Legions scattered about; some men were busy looting the dead, while others were still fighting small pockets of survivors who had formed rudimentary orbium and were still resisting. Medici, Diocles and other slaves among them providing labor, were busy assessing the wounded, having those with serious injuries carried on litters farther back into the woods, where Philipos had directed the erection of a hospital tent in a clearing. Drawing closer, it became clear that not all of the men were present, and when we reached the breastworks, I saw that it appeared to be the entire 8th Legion that was missing. Crassus, carrying the armor of Deldo, saw the same thing that I did and called to the small group of Tribunes gathered in
a knot, no doubt congratulating each other on their heroism and exploits, despite it being doubtful that any of them had blood on their sword. The Tribune who turned to address Crassus was Claudius, and ignoring me, he pointedly saluted Crassus. He did not fail to notice the bloodstained armor strapped to Crassus’ horse, and he complimented Crassus on his victory.

  Crassus brushed the flattery aside, asking Claudius peremptorily, “Where did the 8th go?”

  Claudius, ever prideful, stiffened at the brusqueness of Crassus, but he answered with a neutral tone. “Oh, Cornelius took them to go chasing after the remnants of the Bastarnae army,” he said carelessly, giving a shrug that implied how unimportant anything Cornelius was involved in really was.

  “And you didn’t think it was a good idea to send another Legion with him?” Crassus demanded.

  “For what?” Claudius scoffed. “There are less than 4,000 of these barbarians left. Surely one Legion is more than enough.”

  Crassus pointed to the low hill, which blocked the view of the other side, and over which the 8th had gone.

  “Do you know what’s on the other side of that hill?”

  Now Claudius showed the first glimmering of doubt.

  “No, but surely they used every man for this attack.”

  “And left their families and possessions unguarded?” Crassus’ asked acidly. “I hope you’re right.”

  Beckoning to us to follow, he went trotting in the direction of the hill. We fell in behind him, but we were barely to the base when a man came trotting over the crest, headed in our direction. Meeting him halfway up the hill, he saluted, gasping that he had been sent by Cornelius.

  “We found the wagons of the Bastarnae, sir. And Tribune Cornelius says that he's isolated a part of the survivors from the battle in a grove and surrounded it, but that he doesn't have enough men to keep them contained and attack the wagons at the same time. He requests that at least one other Legion be sent up to support him.”

  Looking at me, Crassus said, “Prefect, would you be so kind as to fetch Primus Pilus Saenus and his Legion and bring them to join the 8th please?”

  Saluting, I assured him that I would. Crassus continued on his way while I went and fetched the 14th. Marching with them over the hill, we saw the circle of wagons in the distance, with the charred remnants of those that Silva had burned showing as black spots. Only when I squinted could I make out tiny figures moving about, but we were too far to tell whether they were warriors or their families. Off to our left, perhaps a mile from the top of the hill, was a grove of trees standing by itself, while ringed around it were the men of the 8th Legion. Leaving Saenus and the 14th to make their own way to the wagons, I headed Ocelus down to where Crassus and the Evocati were gathered, Macrinus and Cornelius with them.

  “Cornelius says they have about a thousand Bastarnae trapped in the grove,” Scribonius explained. “He’s tried to get them to surrender, but they refuse to come out.”

  While we watched, Crassus rode closer to the edge of the grove, where we could see Bastarnae crouched, waiting for what came next. Despite being unable to make out what Crassus was saying, I imagine that it was along the same lines as what Cornelius had said. I heard the Bastarnae shout a response, and just from the tone, it did not sound promising. After a short exchange, Crassus turned his horse to come trotting back to where we were gathered.

  Shrugging, he said, “They don’t want to come out, no matter what I promised.”

  Beckoning to Macrinus, he gave the Primus Pilus an order that chilled my blood.

  “Set fire to the grove,” he told the Primus Pilus.

  Macrinus did not move immediately, as if he did not understand Crassus.

  “Did you not hear me, Primus Pilus?”

  “I heard you, sir. You want us to set fire to the forest.”

  “Exactly. If they don't want to come out on their own, then we’ll burn them out.”

  Macrinus saluted, going off to make preparations. Each Cohort was arranged in a rough circle around the grove, and he ordered that they make fires. Once the fires were blazing well, he ordered some of the men to surrender their neckerchiefs, which were wrapped around the remaining javelins. There were not enough javelins for every man, but there were more than enough for the purposes Macrinus had in mind. Once the javelins were prepared, they were set alight, then the men designated to throw them ran forward to get within range of the forest. Flinging the javelins, hundreds of them went streaking into the grove, the Bastarnae working desperately to stamp them out, but there were just too many of the flaming missiles. In moments, smoky flames started licking up, catching in the underbrush first, and we could hear men crying out in terror at the thought of being consumed by fire. With the light from the fires growing brighter, we could see the figures of men dashing about among the trees, moving to avoid the rapidly expanding flames. The underbrush now fully alight and beginning to make a dull, roaring noise, it was not long before men came darting out in a desperate dash for freedom. Since we were out of javelins, these Bastarnae had to be dispatched with the sword, the men working in teams to surround an enemy and cut them down. Those Bastarnaes’ cries of anguish and despair, along with the sight of them being slaughtered obviously convinced other men to stay in the grove, but personally, I would have much preferred the relatively quick end by a blade rather than burn to death. Perhaps it was the shame of being little better than an animal led to slaughter that kept most of the men in the grove, even as it burned down around them. Soon enough, the first of what would be many horrific screams began issuing from inside the grove when men caught fire. Not much longer after that, the first man came streaking from the woods, hair and clothing alight, shrieking in pain and fear. These men presented a problem; there was no way to get close to them to put them out of their misery without the risk of being burned and, as we soon saw, it became apparent that for most of these men, this was their last act of defiance. Running directly for our own men, these human torches were doing their best to try and take a Roman with them, sending our men scattering in all directions trying to dodge out of the way. Quickly blinded by the flames consuming first their hair, then their face, the Bastarnaes ran in an increasingly aimless fashion before collapsing, many of them still screaming with a pain that is impossible to imagine. It was extremely nerve-wracking, and it was not long before Marcus Crassus announced to us that he needed to see how the 14th was faring. By the look on his face, I thought that he just wanted to be anywhere other than at that place, and I must say that I was not happy that he chose to leave. As far as I was concerned, he had been the one who so callously ordered the men of the 8th to torch those poor bastards, and I thought he should at least have seen it all the way through. Before he had gone very far, Crassus called my name, motioning me to follow him.

  “Lucky bastard,” Balbus muttered, his eyes fixed on the blazing forest.

  The heat, by this point, had become so intense that we had been forced to move a few dozen paces backward, yet we were still close enough to hear the agony of brave men burning to death. Catching up to Crassus, I said nothing, riding alongside him but not looking his way.

  “That was a mistake,” Crassus said in a shaken voice. I looked over at him in some surprise; his distress seemed genuine. “I just didn’t think about what it would be like to watch all those men burn to death.” He turned to look at me, his eyes haunted and I fancied I could still see the dancing flames in them looking back at me. “It was just a means to an end,” he explained. “And I didn’t stop to think how horrible it would really be. I'm sorry I made the men see that, Pullus.”

  My irritation with Marcus Crassus dissolved and I do not know what moved me to do so, but I placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him an awkward pat.

  “What’s important, sir, is that you don’t repeat the mistake,” I told him.

  “That’s the thing,” he sighed. “There might come a time when I actually have no other choice, and I don’t know if I could do it.”

  �
�You could,” I assured him, and I was sure that he could.

  Changing the subject, Crassus said, “Let’s go see what kind of trouble the 14th is in.”

  Reaching the spot where the wagons of the Bastarnae had been, another scene of devastation laid before us, with the hulks of burned wagons spread about, blackened earth in a circle around each one. Interspersed among them were the stripped bodies of those Bastarnae that had been caught in Silva’s raid, most of them appearing to be women and children. I frowned at the sight of the bodies, stark white against the dark earth, except it was not in distress.

  “Silva wouldn’t have had time to loot and strip those bodies,” I pointed out to Crassus, who had apparently not noticed.

  “Maybe the 14th,” he suggested.

  Somehow, I doubted it, since they would have not had enough time to be so thorough. Looking around, I saw no immediate sign of the 14th, save for what looked like a Cohort, spread about on the far side of the Bastarnae camp, which extended almost a mile across. Pushing on, we could see the circles of the Bastarnae campfires, with the wheel ruts of their heavily loaded wagons beside each one, except there were precious few intact wagons. Most of those that remained looked like they had sustained some sort of damage from Silva’s raid, and the majority of those were partially burned. A few had more bodies about them, also stripped naked. Drawing closer to where the men of the 14th were gathered, we could see a double line of men laid out in a row. At one end of one line a number of medici were bent over, each of them working on a man, while at the second, there were none. This informed both Crassus and me that the 14th had been in some sort of fight, and had taken casualties. Seeing us approach, a Centurion parted from the small group of Centurions and Optios that had been talking, giving us a salute. It was the Decimus Pilus Prior, who gave his report to Crassus.