“You’ve done that for years in Gallia Comata.”
“Why, that’s exactly the point, General. We’ve done it for years in Gallia Comata. And that war’s over. Been over for near two years. But where’s the triumph, eh? When are we going to march in your triumph? When are we going to be discharged to a nice little plot of good land with our share of the spoils in our own purses and our legion savings accounts cashed in?”
“Do you doubt my word that you’ll march in my triumph?”
Carfulenus drew a breath; he was truculent and on his guard, but not quite sure of himself. “Yes, General, we do.”
“And what leads you to that conclusion?”
“We think you’re deliberately stalling, General. We think you’re trying to wriggle out of paying us our due. That you’re going to take us to the other end of the world and leave us there. This civil war is a farce. We don’t believe it’s real.”
Caesar stretched his legs out and looked at his feet, no expression on his face. Then the unsettling eyes came up and stared into the eyes of Carfulenus, who moved uncomfortably; they shifted to Cloatius, who looked agonized, then to Aponius, clearly wishing he was somewhere else, and slowly, horribly, at each of the other seven men.
“What are you going to do if I tell you that you’re marching for Brundisium within a few days?”
“Simple,” said Carfulenus, gaining assurance. “We won’t go to Brundisium. The Ninth won’t march a step. We want to be paid out and discharged here in Placentia, and we’d like our land around Verona. Though I want my piece in Picenum.”
“Thank you for your time, Carfulenus, Cloatius, Aponius, Munatius, Considius, Apicius, Scaptius, Vettius, Minicius, Pusio,” said Caesar, demonstrating that he knew the name of every member of the delegation. He didn’t rise; he nodded. “You may go.”
Trebonius and Sulpicius, who had witnessed this extraordinary interview, stood without a word to say, sensing the gathering of some terrible storm but unable to divine the form it was going to take. Odd, that such control, such lack of emotion, could give off emanations of impending doom. Caesar was angry, yes. But he was also shattered. And that never happened to Caesar. How would he cope with it? What might he do?
“Trebonius, summon the Ninth to an assembly on, the parade ground at dawn tomorrow. Have the First Cohort of every other legion present as well. I want my whole army to participate in this affair, even if only as onlookers,” said Caesar. He looked at Sulpicius. “Rufus, there’s something very wrong with a legion whose two most senior centurions are dominated by a man of lower rank. Take the military tribunes who are liked by the rankers and start investigating who in the Ninth among the centurions has the gumption and the natural authority to fulfill the proper roles of primipilus and pilus prior. Cloatius and Aponius are nothings.”
It became Trebonius’s turn again. “Gaius, the legates in command of my other legions will have to undertake the same sort of investigation. Look for troublemakers. Look for centurions who are dominating more senior men. I want the army swept from top to tail.”
At dawn the five thousand-odd men of the Ninth Legion were joined on the parade ground by the six hundred men of the First Cohort of seven other legions, a total of four thousand two hundred extra men. To speak to ten thousand men was feasible, particularly for Caesar, who had worked out his technique while campaigning in Further Spain as propraetor thirteen years ago. Specially chosen clerks with stentorian voices were positioned at intervals through the assembled soldiers. Those close enough to hear Caesar repeated what he said three words behind him; the next wave repeated what they heard, and so on through the crowd. Few speakers could do it, for the shouted repeats formed a colossal echo and made it extremely difficult to keep going against what had already been said. By making his mind tune the echoes out, Caesar could do it.
The Ninth was apprehensive yet determined. When Caesar mounted the dais in full armor he scanned the faces, which didn’t blur with distance; his eyes, thank the Gods, were still keen both near and far. A thought popped into his head having nothing to do with legionary discontent: what were Pompeius’s eyes like these days? Sulla’s eyes had gone, and made him mighty touchy. Things happened to eyes in middle age—look at Cicero.
Though he had often wept at assemblies, today there were no tears. The General stood with feet apart and hands by his sides, his corona civica on his head, the scarlet cloak of his high estate attached to the shoulders of his beautifully worked silver cuirass. No helmet. His legates stood to either side of him on the dais, his military tribunes in two groups on either side below the dais.
“I am here to rectify a disgrace,” he cried in the high, carrying voice he had found went further than his naturally deep tones. “One of my legions is mutinous. You see it here in its entirety, representatives of my other legions. The Ninth.”
No one murmured in surprise; word got round, even when men were quartered in different camps.
“The Ninth! Veterans of the whole war in Gallia Comata, a legion whose standards groan with the weight of awards for valor, whose Eagle has been wreathed with laurel a dozen times, whose men I have always called my boys. But the Ninth has mutinied. Its men are no longer my boys. They are rabble, stirred and turned against me by demagogues in the guise of centurions. Centurions! What would those two magnificent centurions Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus call these shabby men who have replaced them at the head of the Ninth?” Caesar’s right hand went out, pointed close by. “See them, men of the Ninth? Titus Pullo and Lucius Vorenus! Gone to the honorable duty of training other centurions here in Placentia, but present today to weep at their old legion’s dishonor. See their tears? They weep for you! But I cannot. I am too filled with contempt, too consumed by anger. The Ninth has broken my perfect record; I can no longer say no legion of mine has ever mutinied.”
He didn’t move. The hands remained by his sides.
“Representatives of my other legions, I have called you together to witness what I will do to the men of the Ninth. They have informed me that they will not move from Placentia, that they wish to be discharged here and now, paid out and paid up, including their share of the spoils of a nine-year war. Well, they can have their discharge—but it will not be an honorable one! Their share of the spoils of that nine-year war will be divided up among my faithful legions. They will have no land, and I will strip every last one of them of his citizenship! I am the Dictator of Rome. My imperium outranks the imperium of the consuls, of the governors. But I am no Sulla. I will not abuse the power inherent in the dictatorship. What I do here today is not an abuse of that power. It is the just and rational decision of a commander-in-chief whose soldiers have mutinied.
“I tolerate much. I don’t care if my legionaries stink of perfume and ram each other up the arse, provided they fight like wildcats and remain utterly loyal to me! But the men of the Ninth are disloyal. The men of the Ninth have accused me of deliberately cheating them of their entitlements. Accused me! Gaius Julius Caesar! Their commander-in-chief for ten long years! My word isn’t good enough for the Ninth! The Ninth has mutinied!”
His voice swelled; he roared, something he never did in a soldier assembly. “I WILL NOT TOLERATE MUTINY! Do you hear me? I WILL NOT TOLERATE MUTINY! Mutiny is the worst crime soldiers can commit! Mutiny is high treason! And I will treat the mutiny of the Ninth as high treason! I will strip its men of their rights, their entitlements, and their citizenships! And I will decimate!”
He waited then until the last of the echoing voices died away. No one made a sound, save for Pullo and Vorenus, weeping. Every eye was riveted on Caesar.
“How could you?” he cried then to the Ninth. “Oh, you have no idea how profoundly I have thanked all of our Gods that Quintus Cicero is not here today! But this isn’t his legion—these men can’t be the same men who held off fifty thousand Nervii for over thirty days, who all bore wounds, who all sickened, who all watched their food and baggage go up in flames—AND WHO SOLDIERED ON! No, these aren’t
the same men! These men are puling, avaricious, mean, unworthy! I won’t call men like these my boys! I don’t want them!”
Both hands went out. “How could you? How could you believe the men who whispered among you? What have I ever done to deserve this? When you were hungry, did I eat better? When you were cold, did I sleep warm? When you were afraid, did I deride you? When you needed me, wasn’t I there? When I gave you my word, did I ever go back on it? What have I done? What have I done?” The hands shook, clenched. “Who are these men among you, that you believe them before you believe me? What laurels are on their brows that I have not worn? Are they the champions of Mars? Are they greater men than I? Have they served you better than I? Have they enriched you more than I? No, you haven’t had your share of the triumphal spoils yet—nor has any other among my legions! But you’ve had much from me despite that—cash bonuses I found out of my own purse! I doubled your pay! Is your pay in arrears? No, it is not! Haven’t I compensated you for the lack of booty a civil war forbids? What have I done?”
The hands fell. “The answer is, Ninth, that I have done nothing to merit a mutiny, even were mutiny an accepted prerogative. But mutiny is not an accepted prerogative. Mutiny is high treason, were I the stingiest, crudest commander-in-chief in the entire history of Rome! You have spat on me. I do not dignify you by spitting back. I simply call you unworthy to be my boys!”
A voice rang out: Sextus Cloatius, tears streaming down his face. “Caesar, Caesar, don’t!” he wailed, walking out of the front rank and up to the dais. “I can bear the discharge. I can bear the loss of money. I can bear being decimated if the lot falls on me. But I can’t bear not to be one of your boys!”
Out they came, all of the ten men who had formed the Ninth’s deputation, weeping, begging forgiveness, offering to die if only Caesar would call them his boys, accord them the old respect. The grief spread; the rankers sobbed and moaned. Genuine, heartfelt.
They’re such children! thought Caesar, listening. Swayed by fair words out of foul mouths. Gulled like Apulians in congress with charlatans. Children. Brave, hard, sometimes cruel. But not men in the true sense of that word. Children.
He let them have their tears.
“Very well,” he said then, “I won’t discharge you. I won’t deem you all guilty of high treason. But there are terms. I want the one hundred and twenty ringleaders in this mutiny. They will all be discharged, they will all forfeit their citizenship. And I will decimate them, which means twelve of them will die in the traditional way. Produce them now.”
Eighty of them constituted Carfulenus’s entire century, the first of the Seventh Cohort; the other forty included Carfulenus’s centurion friends. And Cloatius and Aponius.
The lots to choose the twelve men who would die had been rigged; Sulpicius Rufus had made his own enquiries as to the true ringleaders. One of whom, the centurion Marcus Pusio, was not among the one hundred and twenty men the Ninth indicated.
“Is there any innocent man here?” asked Caesar.
“Yes!” cried a voice from the depths of the Ninth. “His centurion, Marcus Pusio, nominated him. But Pusio is guilty!”
“Step out, soldier,” said Caesar.
The innocent man stepped out.
“Pusio, take his place.”
Carfulenus, Pusio, Apicius and Scaptius drew death lots; the other eight doomed men were all rankers, but heavily implicated. The sentences were carried out immediately. In each decury of the nominated men, the nine whom the lots let live were given cudgels and ordered to beat the owner of the death lot until he was unrecognizable pulp.
“Good,” said Caesar when it was over. But it wasn’t good. He could never again say that his troops were innocent of mutiny. “Rufus, have you a revised list of centurion seniority for me?”
“Yes, Caesar.”
“Then restructure your legion accordingly. I’ve lost over twenty of the Ninth’s centurions today.”
“I’m glad we didn’t have to lose the whole Ninth,” said Gaius Fabius, sighing. “What an awful business!”
“One really bad man,” said Trebonius, sad face sadder. “If it hadn’t been for Carfulenus, I doubt it would have happened.”
“Perhaps so,” said Caesar, voice hard, “but it did happen. I will never forgive the Ninth.”
“Caesar, they’re not all bad!” said Fabius, perturbed.
“No, they’re simply children. Yet why do people expect that children must be forgiven? They’re not animals, they’re members of the gens humana. Therefore they ought to be able to think for themselves. I will never forgive the Ninth. As they will discover when this civil war is over and I do discharge them. They won’t get land in Italia or Italian Gaul. They can go to a colony near Narbo.” He nodded dismissal.
Fabius and Trebonius walked to their own quarters together, very quiet at first.
Finally, from Fabius: “Trebonius, is it my imagination, or is Caesar changing?”
“Hardening, you mean?”
“I’m not sure that’s the right word. Perhaps… yes, more conscious of his specialness. Does that make sense?”
“Definitely.”
“Why?”
“Oh, the march of events,” said Trebonius. “They’d have broken a lesser man. What’s held him together is that he’s never doubted himself. But the mutiny of the Ninth has fractured something in him. He never dreamed of it. He didn’t think it could ever, ever happen to him. In many ways, I think a worse Rubicon for Caesar than that piddling river.”
“He still believes in himself.”
“He’ll still believe in himself while he’s dying,” said Gaius Trebonius. “It’s just that today tarnished his idea of himself. Caesar wants perfection. Nothing must diminish him.”
“He asks with increasing frequency why no one will believe he can win this war,” said Fabius, frowning.
“Because he’s getting angrier at the foolishness of other people. Imagine, Fabius, what it must be like to know that there is no one in your league! Caesar knows. He can do anything! He’s proven it too many times to enumerate. All he really wants is to be acknowledged for what he is. Yet it doesn’t happen. He gets opposition, not recognition. This is a war to prove to other people what you and I—and Caesar—already know. He’s turned fifty, and he’s still battling for what he considers his due. Little wonder, I think, that he’s growing thin-skinned.”
*
At the beginning of November the eight legions gathered at Placentia marched for Brundisium, with almost two months to complete that five-hundred-and-fifty-mile journey; once they reached the Adriatic coast they were to proceed down its length, rather than cross the Apennines to skirt the vicinity of Rome. The pace was set at twenty miles a day, which meant that every second or third day was one of rest. To Caesar’s legions, a glorious holiday, especially at this autumnal time of year.
From Ariminum, which welcomed him just as enthusiastically at the end of this year as it had at its beginning, Caesar turned to take the Via Flaminia to Rome. Up and over the lovely mountains of the homeland, their little fortified towns sitting atop this crag and that, the grass richly yellowed for nutritious grazing, the great forests of fir, larch, pitch-pine and pine stretching to the heights of the peaks, enough building timber for centuries to come. The careful husbanding which saw virtue in pure beauty, the natural affinity all Italians seemed to have for visual harmony. For Caesar, a kind of healing, that journey, taken at something less than his usual headlong pace; he stopped in every town of any size to enquire how things were, what was needed, where Rome’s omissions lay. Speaking to the duumvirs of the smallest municipia as if they mattered to him quite as much as the Senate of Rome. Truth was, he reflected, they mattered more. Like all great cities, Rome was to some extent an artificial growth; as with all such excrescences, it sucked vitality unto itself, and often at the expense of the less numerous and less powerful places doomed to feed it. The cuckoo in the Italian nest. Owning the numbers, Rome owned the clout. Owning the numb
ers, its politicians favored it. Owning the numbers, it overshadowed all else.
Which it did, he had to admit, approaching it from the north; that other visit at the beginning of April had been a dim and nightmarish business, so much so that he hadn’t noticed the city herself. Not as he did now, looking at the seven hills asprawl with orange-tiled roofs, glitters of gold from gilded temple eaves, tall cypresses, umbelliferous pines, arched aqueducts, the deep blue and strongly flowing width of Father Tiber with the grassy plains of Martius and Vaticanus on either bank.
They came out to meet him in thousands upon thousands, faces beaming, hands throwing flowers like a heady carpet for Toes to walk upon—would he have entered riding any but Toes? They cheered him, they blew him kisses, they held up their babies and small children for him to smile at, they shouted love and encouragement. And he, clad in his finest silver armor, his Civic Crown of oak leaves upon his head, rode at a slow walk behind the twenty-four crimson-clad lictors who belonged to the Dictator and carried the axes in their bundles of rods. Smiling, waving, vindicated at last. Weep, Pompeius! Weep, Cato! Weep, Bibulus! Never once for any of you, this ecstasy. What matters the Senate, what matters the Eighteen? These people are Rome, and these people still love me. They outnumber you as the stars do a cluster of lanterns. And they belong to me.
He rode into the city through the Fontinalis Gate alongside the Arx of the Capitol and down the Hill of the Bankers to the fire-blackened ruins of the Basilica Porcia, the Curia Hostilia and the Senate offices; good then to find that Paullus had used that huge bribe to better effect than he had his consulship by finishing the Basilica Aemilia. And his own Basilica Julia on the opposite side of the lower Forum, where the Basilicae Opimia and Sempronia had been, was growing from nothing. It would cast the Basilica Aemilia in the shade. So would the Curia Julia, the new home of the Senate, once he had seen the architects and commenced. Yes, he would put that temple pediment on the Domus Publica, make it more appealing from the Sacra Via, and clothe its facade all the way around with marble.
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