by R. W. Peake
One disadvantage of being the pursuer, particularly in a strange land, is that the pursued is likely heading for a spot of their own choosing, where the ground will favor them. I was keenly aware of this, as were the Primi Pili, and to his credit, Crassus took our counsel seriously. I suppose that very prominent in his mind was the memory of what had happened when his grandfather had refused to heed the advice of the native nobles attached to his command, leading to one of the greatest disasters ever to befall a Roman army. To avoid being lured into a trap, Crassus ordered us into an agmentum quadratum, with the baggage train in the middle, in the same manner that Antonius had used during our time in Parthia. This slowed our progress, but it put the men more at ease knowing that we were prepared for an ambush. With the army in a more secure posture, we closed the distance to the last point we had seen sign of the enemy. The dust cloud had disappeared, telling us that on the other side of a high and rugged line of hills waited the Moesians, probably in numbers that they felt were sufficient to offer us battle. Whether or not they stopped of their own volition, or the circumstances of our ravaging the land forced them to do so might make all the difference. Men fighting willingly are likely to fight harder than men who have been compelled to, but I suspected that these Moesians would put up a good fight, if for the only reason that they were fighting to keep from starving this winter. Our supply situation had improved thanks to the bounty of the early harvest, yet it was still not completely solved, especially if we found ourselves in this land into winter. We needed to settle this to Crassus’ satisfaction, and every man in the army knew it. The mood of the men was one of quiet determination; they seemed to have left their discontent behind, accepting their lot, and were looking forward to fighting the Moesians again to exact vengeance. However, the first challenge was finding a passage through the hills that had a track wide enough and with a grade that could be ascended by the wagons. This turned out to be more difficult than anticipated, and we had to make a wide detour of several miles farther north before we found one. Even then, the men of the Legions had to help push the wagons up and over the final part of the grade, matters not helped by the extremely rough nature of the track itself. Several wagons suffered broken wheels, creating even more of a delay, prompting Crassus to briefly consider leaving the baggage train behind, thereby allowing us to march more quickly to close with the Moesians. The idea was barely out of his mouth when Diocles came rushing to get me from where I had been supervising the handling of Scribonius’ wagon, much to the discomfort of the poor bastards who had been assigned to it. I was shouting at them to be careful and not rock it back and forth so much, knowing how painful it must be for Scribonius, despite the fact he had not uttered a peep in protest. Diocles quickly told me what Crassus was thinking, so excusing myself with a warning to the men, I rode Ocelus at a canter to where the command group was gathered. I did not wait for Crassus to bring it up, or even to offer a greeting. Saluting, I immediately asked, “Is it true that you are thinking of leaving the baggage train behind?”
He looked startled, but said that he was indeed thinking that very thing. Drawing him aside, I tried to keep my voice low.
“General, I am just going to tell you now without waiting for you to ask. That is a very, very bad idea.”
“Well, thank you for telling me something I already know, Pullus.” His tone was mildly reproving, but he was smiling as he said it. “It was just something that I was thinking about, and I almost immediately came to the same conclusion. Your man, Diocles, isn’t it? Yes, he should have waited a bit longer and he would have heard me say as much.”
Slightly chagrined, I still wanted to get what I thought was an important point across, befitting my duties as the most senior man from the ranks.
“Please don’t blame Diocles for coming to tell me,” I began. “One thing that can get a Legate, and a Primus Pilus for that matter, in a lot of trouble is the habit of thinking out loud.”
Crassus raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, which I took as a sign to continue.
“The fate of every man in this army is in your hands, sir. And that means that they hang on every word that comes out of your mouth. I know I do not have to tell you that the walls of the Praetorium themselves have ears, and so does every tree and bush when we’re out here on the march. It’s not that the men are nosy, at least most of them. It’s just that if they have the chance to find out beforehand what’s waiting up ahead for them, well, you can hardly blame them for taking it.”
Crassus appeared thoughtful, then nodded his head slowly and said, “That is a good point, Prefect. I will keep that in mind.”
Snapping back to the matter at hand, he informed me, “But we're not leaving the baggage train behind. I don't want to be thought of as another Marcus Antonius.”
Since that was precisely the thought that had gone through my head when Diocles had informed me of what Crassus was thinking, I saw then that he had gotten the point. By the time the baggage train cleared the top of the ridge, the last one just leaving the lower slope, it was late enough in the day that a decision had to be made about making camp. We were now on the same side of the mountains as the Moesians, according to our last reports, but were almost seven miles away. That presented Crassus with three choices, and he called a meeting to discuss the options before us.
“I'm inclined to camp here,” he told the Primi Pili and me. Pointing to a rivulet cascading down the slope of the hill we had just descended, he continued, “This is sufficient for camp tonight, and we don't know exactly what water is available ahead. I know that means a longer march to battle tomorrow.”
“It also means we'd have to bring the medici and the hospital tent closer,” Macrinus pointed out. “We can’t expect to carry men all the way back to camp, if we want as many to survive as possible.”
“And we don’t know what the Moesians will do when we show up,” Aelianus put in. “They might be content to allow us to give the men a chance to rest after the march there, but I wouldn't count on that. So we have to consider the possibility that we'll go into battle without any rest.”
I remained silent, believing that the Primi Pili were doing an adequate job of pointing out the shortcomings of Crassus’ plan. Personally, I was in favor of pushing on at least three miles; four would be better. That was far enough away that we could not be surprised, yet short enough that the men could march directly into battle without being winded. However, Crassus’ concern about the water was valid, so after a moment when I saw that nobody was mentioning it, I felt compelled to bring up a question.
“If we keep marching, but don't find water, how much are in stores right now?”
There was some hesitation when the Primi Pili looked at each other, waiting for someone else to speak, causing me to lose patience.
“Are you telling me that none of you know how many barrels of water each of you have on hand?”
“I know,” Macrinus answered instantly, giving the others an apologetic look. “The 8th has an average of four full barrels per Cohort. The First has nine barrels.”
“We’re about the same,” Aelianus said, the others finally mumbling that they were roughly the same as well.
The moment I got the answers, I knew why they had been hesitant. On a normal day of marching, in temperate weather of the kind we were experiencing, the consumption of water per Legionary, for drinking, cooking, and the like, was roughly one barrel of water per Century per day. That meant at any given moment, a Cohort should have on hand six barrels, except for the First Cohort, which requires twelve. This amount was to be kept in reserve at all times, for the very reason that we were facing now. If we had to make a dry camp, the men would have enough water for a normal day, but being short, Crassus was almost forced to stop, if only to refill the barrels. Despite it making sense tactically to push on, now it was a risk, because if we marched the remaining miles with no sight of water, the men would go into battle with dry throats.
“How did this happen?” I snapped
. “Each of you is too experienced to make that kind of mistake. It’s the kind of thing that I'd expect an Optio or a Centurion in the Tenth to make, not the Primi Pili of the Legions!”
Crassus sat on his horse, looking bemused, the original topic seemingly forgotten. I was extremely angry, as much at myself as at the Primi Pili, because I had not thought to remind them to check the water supply.
“What about the animals?” I asked unhappily. “What's the water supply for them?”
“It’s better, but not by that much,” Macrinus admitted.
“Not for us,” Natalis responded, which did not surprise me.
I turned to Crassus, and said, “There's the essence of the decision, General. We either take the gamble that there's water somewhere ahead, so that our march into battle is shorter, or we do as you were inclined in the first place and camp here.”
Crassus thought for a moment, then called for his bucinator.
“Sound the call to make camp.”
With the prospect of a tiring march to battle the next morning, the men were even more pensive than one would expect before a fight. They had taken the measure of the Moesians, meaning there was a familiarity with the enemy that is oddly comforting to a fighting man. Of all the things about battle that men fear, next to being killed of course, is the fear of that which has never been seen before. The Bastarnae were an example; before we actually faced them across the field, the men of the Legions talked of little else than the supposedly invincible falx-wielding Bastarnae warrior. Once we faced and defeated them, they were no longer an object of fear and suspicion. To that point, few if any men in this army had gone straight into battle from the march, and it was easy to see that they were worried about it. That night before we faced the Moesians marked the first night that Scribonius actually sat by the fire. When he had recovered to the point that he could be moved from the wagon to my tent every night after camp was made, we would keep the flaps open so that he could at least see Balbus, Diocles, and sometimes Gaius and me sitting by the fire talking. There is something comforting about a fire at night, especially for old campaigners like we were, and I knew that he missed it. That night, Balbus and I were sitting discussing the next day, and how the army might perform, when I saw Diocles leap to his feet out of the corner of my eye. Turning, I saw Scribonius walking unsteadily toward us, his face suffused with the orange glow of the fire, which he stared at with the same longing of a man for a woman when he has not had one in a long time. I rose to help him, but he gave me a warning shake of the head, telling me in unspoken words that he wanted to do this himself. Balbus looked up, but if he was surprised, he did not show it.
“Well, look who finally decided that we were good enough to be in his presence,” Balbus said by way of greeting.
“I just figured that Titus was probably tired of hearing about whores and drunken brawls and was ready to talk about other topics,” Scribonius shot back.
Despite the sharp talk, I knew that they were both pleased, Balbus to see Scribonius up and about, and Scribonius because Balbus was not fussing over him the way I did.
“Other topics?” Balbus rubbed his chin. “What other topics are there?”
Scribonius did not stay long, but it was nice to have him back at the fire, so that for a short while, things were back to normal. I had been keeping Scribonius apprised of everything taking place, both as a courtesy and because I valued his counsel, since he always had insight into things that I often missed.
“You think Crassus made a mistake by not getting closer, don’t you?” Scribonius’ question came out of nowhere while he sat staring into the fire.
“I think either way he goes, he’s fucked,” I said after thinking about it for a moment. “Because of our water situation, he was forced to choose between the men being tired, or possibly being thirsty going into battle.”
“Neither is a good thing,” Scribonius acknowledged. “But what's he going to do about the wounded?”
“Macrinus asked the same question, and it was never really answered,” I told him.
He gave a frown, and I could see that he was troubled.
“I hope that you’ll bring it up tomorrow,” Scribonius said.
“Since when are you so worried about the wounded?” Balbus cut in.
Scribonius looked at him with a lifted eyebrow.
“I wonder why,” he replied dryly. “If Philipos hadn’t been right there, and we hadn’t made camp right there on the spot, I'd be dead. Maybe that has something to do with it.”
Over the years, I had observed that Scribonius’ attitude was not at all unusual. Men who had been seriously wounded tended to think more about that, and the possibility of it happening to others, than men who had not. Whatever the reason, he had reminded me of something that I needed to bring up with Crassus. Once Scribonius had returned to the tent, I left to go to the Praetorium. On my way, I stopped outside the circle of light of a few fires, standing in between the tents to listen to the men talk about the next day. After a bit, I had heard enough and I continued on to talk to Crassus.
“The men are worried about tomorrow,” I told him.
“Men are always worried before battle,” Crassus replied dismissively.
“Not like this.” I shook my head. “They're worried about the normal things, but it’s more than that. They’re particularly worried about the idea of a hard march into battle, and what’s going to happen to the wounded.”
“I thought we already went over that.” Crassus was clearly peeved.
“I suggest that we break camp early tomorrow morning, bring the baggage closer, leave behind a Cohort from each Legion to guard it, and set up the hospital tent, at the very least.”
Crassus pursed his lips in thought, and for a moment, it looked like he would refuse.
“Very well,” he said finally. “I'll send for the Primi Pili to give the orders.”
Feeling somewhat better, I returned to my tent to make my own preparations for the coming day. I had long since lost count of how many times I had done this, but the feeling was always the same. There was a tightness in my stomach, while my mind raced through all the things that needed to be done, although it was a much shorter list now overall, compared to my days as Primus Pilus. I took my Gallic blade and the spatha to the armory immunes to put an edge on both blades, using my rank to take head of the line privileges. With that done, I went to see Ocelus, who seemed to sense my tension and was highly spirited, pawing at the dirt as he nosed through my tunic for his treat. Having done all that I could think of, I returned to my tent to try to get some sleep, wondering what the next day would bring.
We broke camp a third of a watch before dawn, earlier than normal, the men working quickly and efficiently to pack everything up. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon when the army formed up to begin heading in a westerly direction. Silva’s men ranged ahead, alert for any sign of ambush, but there was no sign of the enemy. Approximately four miles from our original camp, we found a cascading stream crossing our path that was adequate to supply water, and despite being a bit short of how far we wanted to go, Crassus decided not to risk pushing on and not finding another source of water. The baggage train was left behind, along with a Cohort from each Legion, as I had suggested, the rest of the army pushing ahead. There was a very low ridge branching off of the line of mountains to our left that was just high enough to block our view of the ground on the other side. Silva’s troopers were within sight, climbing the ridge before suddenly pulling up short. A moment later, I saw a rider come galloping back, and I knew this meant that the enemy had been sighted. The messenger pulled up in front of Crassus, and I did not hear what he said because I was too far away, so I trotted Ocelus up as Crassus and the Tribunes were talking.
“They've spotted the Moesians,” Crassus told me, which I expected. What I did not expect was what he said next.“And they've sent a delegation out under flag of truce. They want to talk.”
Crassus marched the army to the top
of the ridge, arraying them on a front of three Legions, leaving the fourth hidden behind the hill. Across a broad valley, about a mile away, stood the Moesian host, spread out on their own hill, a bit higher and steeper than ours.
“They chose good ground,” Crassus commented as we took a moment to survey the potential battlefield.
“It makes you wonder why they want to talk,” I replied, my eyes on the small knot of horsemen standing out alone roughly halfway between the two armies.
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Crassus turned and signaled to Claudius, telling him to take a dozen of Silva’s troopers with him to make the initial contact with the waiting Moesians. Saluting, the Tribune waited for Silva to select the men to go with him, then without a word turned to trot down to meet the Moesians.
