Marching With Caesar - Civil War

by R. W. Peake

  I was gratified to see the men obey me with some alacrity, Figulus’ blackened eyes and limping gait doing more to instill discipline than any flogging.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  We were almost to Brundisium and in camp one night when Zeno announced that Celer was requesting entrance to my tent. Knowing how much he loathed having to take such action, I realized that it must be of some importance, either as it pertained to the Cohort or because of our personal feud, but I still decided to let him wait for a bit. I told Zeno that I would see him after I finished the very important paperwork I was doing, which in fact was a letter to Gisela, and while it did give me a twinge to see the discomfort on Zeno’s face at the prospect of telling a Centurion to wait, it was not enough to stop me. I wish I could say I was above such petty revenge, but I was still relatively young and despite now having been Pilus Prior for some time, I still experienced moments of insecurity, most of them caused, at least in my mind, by Celer. Therefore, any regret I felt at forcing Zeno to have to tell Celer to wait was outweighed by the satisfaction I felt at exerting my authority. Finishing the letter, although to be fair I did wrap it up fairly quickly, I called for Zeno to bring Celer into my office.

  A Centurion’s tent is actually composed of two parts, the parts created by a partition provided by a leather panel that basically cuts the tent into two pieces. The front half of the tent serves as the Century or Cohort office, where Zeno worked, and the second half is a combination of my personal office and private quarters. I knew some Centurions who had ordered the creation of wooden floors for their personal quarters, but I disdained such luxuries. It was partially because I thought it useless frippery, but mostly because I was still not secure enough in my position that it did not worry me, except that was something I would never share with others. I sat at my desk, seeing by Celer’s body posture that he was extremely angry, so I congratulated myself on making him wait. Any victory over Celer was one to be celebrated, at least in my mind.

  “Yes, Celer?” I asked pleasantly, leaning back in my chair, enjoying the sight of his clenched jaw grinding his teeth at the insult I had offered him by making him wait.

  “Pilus Prior, I bring some news I thought you might be interested in,” he began, albeit through clenched teeth.

  I affected an air of disinterested nonchalance, but my mind was instantly alert, knowing that Celer would never share something with me that was not momentous, such was our mutual hatred.

  “And what news is that, Centurion?” which was something of a further insult, since I did not refer to him by his proper rank as Pilus Posterior, and for an instant I worried that I had gone too far, but to his credit, he overlooked it and continued.

  “I have a cousin in the 9th, and he sent me word of what happened when Caesar faced the Legion to answer their demands for a discharge.”

  I dropped my feet from the desk and sat forward; this was indeed something in which I was interested. The talk in the Legions had been rife with speculation about how Caesar would handle the mutiny of the 9th, so I was definitely attentive. Now, Celer held something of the upper hand, and I swallowed my irritation at his smug expression. Reaching for the amphora of Falernian, one of the last ones willed to me by Pulcher, I offered him a cup, and it had the desired effect. He took a deep draught, smacking his lips in appreciation before silently holding the cup out for a refill. Now it was my turn to grit my teeth, but I decided it was a small price to pay for what he had to tell me, and I poured some more.

  “So, what did you hear?” I asked, and I was rewarded with Celer’s tale of what had happened in Placentia.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Even now, all these years later, it still amazes me how often men of all stripes continually underestimated Caesar, and in the case of the mutiny of the men of the 9th, they committed a serious error. I am sure they were sincere in their belief that Caesar would cave into their demands, particularly since Marcus Antonius had made a bad situation worse. As Celer told it, his source was a cousin who was a Centurion in the Fifth Cohort, and he had relayed to Celer that a delegation of men of first the 9th, and then the 7th, had attempted to seek an audience with Antonius to air their grievances, only to be continually rebuffed. As far as the men were concerned, their mutiny was justified because they were not given their due process under army regulations, a sentiment with which I had to agree. Antonius then sent a desperate message to Caesar, who already had his hands full pacifying Rome while proving that he was not a blood-drenched dictator in the mold of Sulla, begging him to come pull his fat from the fire, as it were. The men of the 9th were sure that once Caesar was told of Antonius’ refusal to give them a hearing, he would want to address their grievances to make up for Antonius’ blunder. They were wrong. Calling an assembly of the Legions, Caesar responded to the demands of the men of the 9th, whose chief complaint was the non-payment of a bonus promised by Caesar, plus their discharges. Caesar, in turn, reminded the men that they had agreed to follow him for the entire campaign, not for part of it, and if anyone was to blame, it was our common enemy for refusing to acknowledge that their cause was doomed and for running away rather than fighting. Caesar pointed out that he was not known for the slowness of his movements, that this was evidence that he was doing everything in his power to end this war. He went on to say that he was disheartened and surprised at the discontent of the men of the 7th and 9th, but more so with the 9th since they were clearly playing a leading role. What he said next was as shocking as it was drastic; blaming the 9th, he ordered its decimation. The decimation of a Legion, as its name implies, is the ritual execution of a tenth of its strength, but what makes it even more brutal is that the rest of the Legion is responsible for carrying out the execution. Unlike the punishment for desertion, which requires the condemned man to run a gauntlet between his tent mates who are armed with axe handles and staves, the condemned men are stoned to death by their comrades, who surround them in a circle. Usually the punishment is reserved for a Legion that has shamed itself by running from battle or exhibiting cowardice in some other manner, and it is the worst humiliation a Legion can suffer, which is precisely why Caesar chose it.

  According to Celer’s cousin, there was an uproar as the men realized that they had pushed Caesar too far, and it was only through the intercession of some of the Tribunes that Caesar relented. In the end, Caesar decreed that the 9th would be spared the punishment provided the men volunteered to give up the identities of the ringleaders of the mutiny. The men of the 9th obeyed with alacrity, with 120 names offered up, including several Centurions. Those 120 men were then ordered to draw lots, and 12 of them were sentenced to death. In a further twist, it was discovered that one of the condemned men whose name was submitted by his Centurion had proof that he was not even in camp at the time, having been granted leave to visit family nearby. Instead, the Centurion who submitted his name was substituted in his place as punishment for his perfidy in trying to even an old score. While Celer was loath to admit it, I persisted in questioning him and found out that his cousin was one of the ringleaders but had avoided drawing the short straw. That told me something, at least as far as I was concerned; duplicity and betrayal ran in the Celer family tree, and I resolved to remember that. Where the fate of the 9th was concerned, once the executions were carried out, the mutiny was a thing of the past. Caesar informed them that they and the 7th would be part of the invasion force, and were ordered to Brundisium. They were still closer to Brundisium than we were at that point, arriving at the depot before us. In fact, we were the last Legion to arrive, marching into the city in late autumn, just days before the end of the campaigning season.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  I had never seen a camp as large as the one at Brundisium; in fact, nobody in the army had because this was the largest gathering of Legions in anyone’s memory, if not in our history. The depot stretched as far as the eye could see, with a stout wooden wall, much more substantial than our normal marching camps. We had just marched more than half the entire breadth
of the Republic. All of us were thankful that it was the end of the season, meaning we would not be expected to embark immediately for Greece, since we were in no shape for any kind of combat operations. Our boots were falling apart, and I had almost 20 men down with some sort of foot problems, each of them deemed injured enough to be given a spot on the Legion wagons. I am not sure that this was better for them, given the amount of complaining I heard about how rough the ride was. Still, as bad as we were, I was proud that my Cohort had the lowest number on the sick list in the Legion. It was incredibly important to me that our Cohort be seen as the absolute best in the Legion. If the low numbers of sick and injured was due as much to their fear of being administered the kind of justice that Figulus had received, as the level of care I demanded my Centurions give to the men. I did not really care. By this time, my habit of forcing the men to bathe more often and cook their meat more thoroughly had been completely accepted within the Cohort, even by Celer. Regardless, we were a travel-worn bunch that marched down the Via Principalis past the throngs of men from the other Legions, calling to friends and relatives in our midst, renewing acquaintances and issuing good-natured jeers and catcalls. In other words, the normal activities when the Legions gathered. I knew that this meant extra vigilance on my part and the rest of the Centurions; once the initial good humor of our reunion passed, there would be the inevitable brawls and even worse fights between the men. It is the nature of the beast, so to speak. We were warriors, our job to fight, and when there was no fighting with our enemies, we turned on our comrades. In truth, the rivalry between the Legions was such that some of the men held almost as many hard feelings towards fellow Legionaries as they did whatever enemy we were fighting. I was just thankful that it would be a couple of days before the men sufficiently recovered their strength and energy and that became a real issue. Even I was exhausted, although I could not betray that to the men, and once we settled into our quarters, which at least were constructed already, I struggled to stay awake while going over the daily reports with Zeno. The first order of business was to replace our worn and unserviceable gear. Naturally, a form had to be filled out for every pair of boots, and almost every man needed a new pair. I remember thinking that this was one of those times when I questioned if I was truly following the right path.

  My second order of business was of a personal nature, sending for Gisela and young Vibius to come to Brundisium, where I had arranged for quarters for them. I was forced to pay dearly, space being at a premium, and I refused to do what many of my comrades had done, trusting my family to one of the new insulae thrown together to meet the demand. I had heard too many stories from the men who lived in Rome of what happened when the chance for profit was such that builders cut corners, with greedy landlords cramming too many people into a poorly constructed building. If my comrades were to be believed, buildings like the ones that now lined the streets immediately outside the gates of the depot collapsed on an almost daily basis in the capital, so I dug deeply into my purse, finding a set of rooms on the second floor of a cloth merchant, complete with a cooking area and two rooms. I was taking a bit of a gamble, I knew, but I was as close to certain as I could be that we would not be shipping to Greece for several months, given the series of events that had transpired.

  Shortly after we arrived at the depot, we learned of the disaster in Africa and the loss of two Legions, the 17th and 18th as I recall, but the biggest blow to Caesar’s plans for invading Greece came with the news of Gaius Antonius’ misadventure. The younger brother of Marcus Antonius had, on his own authority, launched a punitive expedition across the Inland Sea to Greece, where he was promptly surrounded and forced to surrender. Not only did Pompey gain two Legions from his folly, but more importantly, Caesar lost more than 40 of the desperately needed transport ships to ferry the huge army across the sea. Finally, Caesar still had his hands full in Rome, working to secure his power base and beginning the push for his legislative reforms, so we were all confident that we were not going anywhere for some time.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The winter we spent in Brundisium was one of the dreariest, most trying of my career to that point, brightened only by the arrival of my small family. Just in the months we were separated, Vibius had begun toddling about and was forming his first words. I am afraid I frightened him half to death when we were reunited, and looking back, I can see how fearsome I must have been, rushing to the apartment straight from duty when Gisela sent word that they had arrived, not bothering to change out of my uniform. The combination of my size and the sight of me in my full regalia was more than enough to send him running to his mother’s arms, and I must say that it hurt quite a bit that my own child was scared of me. Happily, once I doffed my helmet and my armor, his curiosity soon overcame his fear and he came toddling over to me, helped along, I suspect, as much by the candied plum and carved toy Legionary I had brought, as by me. But I was not going to quibble and it was not long before he was settled on my lap and things were right as rain between us. Gisela looked lovelier than ever; she still took my breath away whenever I laid eyes on her, and she blessed me with a smile of such happiness that I did not think that life could possibly be better than that moment when we were reunited. Sitting there, snug in the apartment still filled with crates, bags, and boxes containing our household goods that she brought with her, with a cold, drizzling rain beating against the shutters and the fire blazing merrily away, I suddenly let out a laugh of sheer joy. Because I did so in the middle of Gisela’s description of the horrible journey, I was rewarded with an arched eyebrow as she pursed her lips, a clear sign of irritation that I was not listening.

  “And what,” she demanded, “could be so funny about hearing how your son and I had to suffer staying in a flea-infested inn, being groped by some drunk?”

  I held up my hand in a placating gesture. “Pax, my darling.” I did not often use endearments, but I judged this was strategically a good time to do so, and was rewarded with a slight softening around the corners of her mouth. "It’s just that I was struck by the thought of what the men would say if they could see me now.” I drew her to me, my arm around her waist, and she came willingly, a smile beginning to form. “They’re sure that I sprang up from dragon’s teeth; I even overheard a couple of the men arguing over whether I actually had a mother.”

  Although we both laughed, I felt the pang of an old ache that I thought had long passed, because in truth I did not have a mother, at least in the sense that most people know, but it was at odd moments like this where I felt the loss most keenly. I shook those thoughts from my head, adding, “In truth, it surprises me as much as it would them.”

  “What, that you’re happy to see your family?” Gisela pulled away and put her hands on her hips, a severe expression on her face but I could tell that she was being playful.

  “That I even have a family,” I said quietly, and I think it was at that moment I came closest to accepting the idea that I might leave the Legions when my enlistment was up.

  I had indeed mellowed with age, although I laugh now at the thought that I considered myself old at the age of 28, which I would be my next birthday. To be fair, I had experienced more in the last 12 years than most people did in their lifetime and indeed, thanks to Caesar, had seen more action than most Legionaries did their entire career. Still, I was young, especially compared to now, and life was full of possibilities.

  I settled into a routine balancing my family and duty, not all that hard given the level of inactivity in the depot as the winter passed. Most of my time was spent working with the senior Centurions of the other Cohorts and Legions in keeping our men from killing each other. In the spirit of honesty, however, I must confess that it was not only the rankers chafing at the idleness and there were a fair number of brawls involving Centurions, which I somehow managed to avoid, although I do not know how or why. I began spending more time with Priscus, who I had come to appreciate as the best of the Centurions under my command. Celer and I were in what can
only be described as an uneasy truce. I believe that he had resigned himself to the idea that I was not going anywhere, and since every scheme to undermine me had gone awry, he was beginning to grudgingly accept his lot. Niger was still his toady, the two seldom apart, so I guess it was only natural that I teamed up with another Centurion.

  My friendship with Vibius was still intact, more or less, but the differences in our rank made fraternization difficult, along with our differences concerning Caesar. Vibius was growing increasingly isolated in his resistance to Caesar’s charms, our general being elected Consul, then promptly pushing through legislation that was exceedingly popular with the people of our class. Additionally, he continued to act with restraint against his enemies, refusing to use his powers to exact revenge. In short, Caesar was becoming increasingly harder to hate, and whereas before when Vibius had held forth at the fire about his grievances against Caesar there had been some heads nodding in agreement, even that silent support had dried up. I cannot say that I was not secretly amused at seeing Vibius’ surprise and subsequent irritation the first time he began one of his diatribes against Caesar and tongues previously always still were now roused to Caesar’s defense. It only took a few times for Vibius to realize the futility of arguing, so he would sit fuming by the fire, unable to give vent to his frustration. I had long since given up the idea that Vibius would eventually come around on the subject of Caesar; while I did not, and still do not truly understand the nature of his dislike, I did recognize that he would hold his opinion of Caesar until one of them was dead. Not that I imagine Caesar lost much sleep over the idea that Sergeant Vibius Domitius did not approve of his actions. Vibius’ disapproval notwithstanding, the overwhelming majority of the rankers, along with the civilians of the lower classes did approve of the actions that Caesar was taking, and Pompey’s support had ebbed away to nothing, at least publicly. Even so, what the people wanted more than anything was the two combatants to make peace without further bloodshed, but that did not look likely.