by R. W. Peake
“What in the name of Pluto’s thorny cock is going on here?” I demanded, my voice pitched to the level I used when issuing commands.
Scribonius saluted, then responded calmly, “Pilus Prior, these men,” he indicated the men of the 9th, “have strayed outside of their assigned area and mistakenly started clearing the houses on this street.”
“That’s a lie,” spat one of the men on the other side who did not wear any insignia of rank but seemed to be in charge. One thing I was sure of was that he did not outrank Scribonius, or he would have immediately taken charge and used his authority to send our men packing empty-handed, whether it was right or not.
“And who the fuck are you?” I stepped towards him, my suspicions immediately confirmed when he shrank back and instinctively drew himself to intente.
“Optio Lucius Vetruvius, First Century, Fifth Cohort, 9th Legion, Pilus Prior.”
I paused, looking him up and down, making sure that the sneer on my face was easily seen by everyone. “So Vetruvius, you’re saying my Centurion is a liar, neh?”
Once I repeated it back to him, the full import of his words hit him, and he licked his lips nervously before replying, “I . . . I . . . didn't say that exactly, Pilus Prior . . .”
Before he could finish, I cut in, “That’s exactly what you said, Optio. You said that Secundus Hastatus Prior Scribonius,” I deliberately used his full rank, “is a liar. That’s a very serious charge, Optio. Do you have any proof to substantiate that charge?”
As I expected, he began to splutter, his face turning bright red. “I . . . I . . . apologize Hastatus Prior. I didn’t mean any offense. Forgive my rudeness; it’s the wine talking.” He tried a grin, but it was met with stony silence, both of us staring at him impassively, and he gulped as he struggled to find words. “I simply meant to say that there was a misunderstanding. We’ve been assigned this street by the provosts, and by rights, this street is ours. Right, boys?”
He turned over his shoulder, and the murmured assent of his comrades seemed to stiffen his backbone a bit. He turned to me with a defiant expression on his face.
“Really?” I asked as if I were actually interested in what he had to say, because I had already seen what I needed, and he nodded his head.
“Yes, sir. It’s just that your boys seem to have gotten here by mistake, but there’s no harm done. All we ask is that we be allowed to finish the street. Right, boys?” he repeated, and I was not surprised that his men thought this a grand idea.
I pursed my lips as I pretended to think about it. “Well, that certainly seems fair,” I began, and I saw Vetruvius’ face light up, Scribonius’ correspondingly flushing at the idea that I was going to side with the enemy, as it were.
The men of the 9th began clapping each other on the back and smacking their lips in anticipation of what lay in wait behind the closed doors of the houses lining the street. It was in what was obviously the wealthy section of the city, Caesar rewarding the 10th with the choicest areas to loot, and I could see the gleam in the men’s eyes as they silently congratulated each other. Suppressing a smile, I remember thinking to myself, Titus you are not a very nice man.
Then I spoke. “But . . .”
The change of expression on their faces would have done Mercury proud, so swift was the transformation, their looks going from quiet exultation to wary suspicion.
Seeing that I held their undivided attention, I continued, “There are one or two problems with that. If you would notice,” I pointed back over the head of the Optio, so that he and the rest of his men craned their necks to follow my finger, “as you can clearly see, the provosts marked this street for the exclusive use of the Fifth Century, Second Cohort of the 10th Legion. You know,” I couldn’t resist adding, “Caesar’s favorites.”
And just as I had seen it, chalked high up on the side of the house that resided at the corner of the street, was the number of the Century, Cohort, and Legion that the provosts had designated for the exclusive use of Scribonius’ Century. I must confess I took rather too much pleasure in the crestfallen looks of the boys of the 9th, and I could have let it go there, but I could not resist, such was my desire absolutely to crush anyone who resisted me back in those days.
“So you can see, Optio, you’re the ones who are mistaken. But if the mark of the provosts isn’t enough for you, then there’s this.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice, but I knew that every man could hear me. “You're of the 9th, the Legion who turned on Caesar. Do you really think that you deserve such ripe pickings as these?” I gestured with my vitus at the surrounding houses. “And if your treachery wasn’t bad enough, you’re the bastards who turned tail and ran like rabbits at Dyrrhachium and forced us to abandon several months’ worth of work.”
I saw that my words had scored a direct hit, wounding Vetruvius, along with his comrades to the very core. His face turned bright red, his eyes narrowing as he clenched his fists.
I looked down at them and sneered, “Oh, so you do have some backbone after all? That’s good to see. Too bad you only turn it on your comrades and not the enemy.”
As quickly as it had come, the fight fled from him and he visibly sagged. His body communicated a defeat that his pride could not allow him to utter. The men around him all watched, ready to follow his lead, but he slowly raised his head, his eyes dull, and I saw in them the pain, making me feel a sharp twinge of regret. I did not realize how true my words must have sounded to him, and when I saw his hurt, I suddenly took no joy in vanquishing this man, on this night, but it would have been unthinkable for me to make an apology in any form, especially in front of the men. Therefore, I merely pointed them back to the end of the street, and with a curt command, Vetruvius and his men trooped away, leaving us the victors. Vetruvius lingered long enough to make sure that none of his men stayed behind to cause any trouble, and seeing him standing separate, I stepped away from the rest of my own men to walk a way down the street before calling his name. At first, I did not think he heard, or if he did, he would not obey, but the habits of a lifetime of obedience are hard to break, and with obvious reluctance he came to stand before me, stopping to stand at intente, his back to me as he stood rigidly, waiting to hear what I had to say.
I leaned closer to him and said quietly, so that only he could hear, “Vetruvius, you know you were in the wrong, don’t you?”
He did not reply for a moment, then said in the tone that I recognized all of us use when addressing a superior that we loathe, “As you say, Pilus Prior.”
“But you think I went too far casting slurs on the 9th, don’t you?”
The silence was longer this time, and I could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he struggled to think through the fog induced by too much wine, searching for the right answer.
Finally, he chose honesty over discretion and looked directly at me when he said, “Yes, Pilus Prior.”
Our eyes met for a moment, and I saw not only defiance, but the pain in his eyes, before he looked away.
“You’re right,” I said so that only he could hear, “I did go too far and for that I apologize, Optio Vetruvius.”
I do not know who was more surprised at my words, he or I, because I had not planned on saying any such thing, but I suppose I saw in him something of myself, despite the undeniable fact that he was a few years older than me.
Before he could say anything, I continued, “You’re a good leader of men, Vetruvius, I can see that in the way the men look to you. But you need to learn to pick your battles, understand? In this case, you picked the wrong battle, with the wrong Centurion. But that doesn’t mean you’re not a good leader, Vetruvius.” He stood for a moment, not saying a word, only nodding thoughtfully. Finally, I stepped away, then snapped in my parade ground voice, “Very well. Dismissed. And make sure you pay attention to the provosts’ markings in the future, Optio.”
“Yes, Pilus Prior,” he said, giving me a salute, which I like to think was more than just a bare formality.
/> Just as he turned to walk away, we exchanged a look and once again, he nodded to me, then scurried away, following his men. I turned back to Scribonius, who was clearly angry with me, and I sighed, walking over to him.
Before I could say a word, he said, angry as I had ever seen him, “Forgive me, Pilus Prior, but I had the situation under control. Your intervention wasn't needed . . . nor was it wanted.”
While I knew that he would not be happy that I had stepped in, I was a bit surprised at his last words, despite knowing now that I should not have been. I struggled to keep from making a sharp retort, both because I did not want to quarrel in front of the men, but also because I truly valued Scribonius as a friend. In a number of ways, he had supplanted Vibius as my dearest friend; because of his rank, I could be more open with him than Vibius, and I had always admired his quiet intelligence and dry wit.
Vibius would always have a special place in my heart and esteem, yet Scribonius was as valued to me in his own way, so I bit back the sharp reply that came to mind, saying with what I hoped was the right tone of patience and good humor, “Oh, why’s that, Scribonius? I can understand why you think you had the situation under control, but at least now I’m the bad one, not you.”
He shook his head impatiently, and responded, “Nobody had to be the bad one, Titus. I was just about to point out to the Optio that the provosts had marked this for us, but you couldn’t wait.”
I shook my head, biting back my irritation. “From where I was standing, he didn’t look disposed to reason, Scribonius.”
“How would you know?” he shot back. “You didn’t give me a chance to talk.”
I sighed. He was right, but I was equally sure that he would not have been able to stop Vetruvius, yet I did not want to say that outright.
Instead, I simply replied, “I didn’t want things to get out of hand, Scribonius. I’m sure that you could have handled the situation, but when I showed up, it looked like the men were ready to throw themselves at each other.”
Not deterred by this response in the least, Scribonius retorted, “Well, we’ll never know now, will we? I still think I had things in hand when you showed up.”
I put my hands out, “Pax, Scribonius. It wasn’t my intent to undermine you in front of your men. I was just worried and didn’t want things to get out of hand.”
He pursed his lips, then nodded. “Very well, Titus. I understand what you were doing.”
He turned to watch his men swarming over the row of houses on the opposite side of the street, whooping and hollering and acting like it was their birthday, and I let the matter drop as we both stood there while the men of the Legions sacked the city.
~ ~ ~ ~
Quite understandably, they were less than enthusiastic when roused the next morning, the chorus of groans and curses clearly heard all across the camp, the Centurions and Optios doing their own share of cursing as they kicked and poked the men into life, the rhythm of the army reasserting itself. We were ordered to make ready to march, Caesar thankfully ignoring the fact that it took us a bit longer than normal before we were formed up and ready to start. Continuing our march south, we reached the next city, Metropolis, two days after the sack of Gomphi. Unlike Gomphi, however, Caesar deemed that he had made his point and gave strict orders that Metropolis was to be spared the same fate. It still took some persuasion by Caesar to convince the citizens of Metropolis to open their gates to us, but he was true to his word and no harm was done to the citizens or the city. We stayed at Metropolis for just a couple of days before marching east towards the vast plain of Thessaly, where fields of ripening wheat awaited our sickles. The army was now marching with a light spirit, knowing that soon our hunger would be over, and it was in this mood we came to a spot along the Enipeus (Enipeas) River, about six miles to the north of the town of Pharsalus.
~ ~ ~ ~
Our scouts alerted us that Pompey was coming, so that our chance at harvesting what little wheat had already ripened was limited. It also meant that our attempt to crush Scipio’s army alone before linking up with Pompey failed. As Pompey approached, he met up with Scipio at Larisa and their combined forces continued south until their scouts came in sight of our camp. My Cohort had the watch when one of my men sounded the alarm, pointing out the thin trail of dust rising in the sky to our north to Vibius, who happened to be on the rampart at that moment. Vibius came running to me to report what the sentry saw. While I trusted not only Vibius and the Gregarius who sounded the alarm implicitly, I knew Caesar well enough to know that the question would come up if I had seen this sign of the approaching enemy myself, having learned his lesson from the affair with Considius against the Helvetii years before. Consequently, I followed Vibius to where the Gregarius was standing, pointing with his javelin in the manner we were trained. My eyes followed the length of the shaft to the point, seeing for myself the first signs of Pompey approaching, before hurrying off to the Praetorium to make my report. Striding along, my mind raced with all the things that needed to be done to make the Cohort ready for battle, because despite no such orders being passed, I was convinced that this time we would not be running. We were going to fight Pompey here and now, I was sure of it. The view of Pompey’s army was blocked by the range of low hills to the north, but I had seen enough to tell me that this was his whole army; nothing other than that would make a dust cloud of the size I had witnessed from the ramparts. Giving my report to the duty Tribune, who deemed it important enough to disturb Caesar at whatever he was doing, I quickly found myself hurrying with my general back to the ramparts so that he could see for himself. Even though I had been in Caesar’s presence hundreds of times by this point, it was still hard not to feel a little nervous, because I never really knew what to say to him outside of my official duties. Fortunately, Caesar was never at a loss for words and usually would initiate conversations on topics that I could easily follow along with, without feeling like I was stepping over some line between us.
“So Pullus,” Caesar spoke in a conversational tone, but I still felt a thrill of fear shoot up my backbone, “what do you think? Is it time that we get this over with?”
I considered the question carefully; unlike most men of his station, I knew that when Caesar asked a question of this nature, he was actually soliciting opinions and not just making conversation.
“Well, General,” I said carefully, “the question is what do we benefit by delaying and going on the march again?” Before he could answer, I continued, “And while you know we in the 10th will follow you wherever you take us, Caesar, we're getting tired of breaking down camp and marching. So I say let’s face Pompey here and now. Let’s end this once and for all.”
He nodded, but did not say anything. Instead, he turned to favor me with a smile and I marveled that even now, after all these years, my heart still leapt at the sight. Mounting the steps to the parapet, where Vibius had been joined by Celer and Crispus, we surrounded the poor Gregarius who originally sighted the army. I managed to suppress a smile at his expression; I knew that he would rather have been cleaning out latrines than to be standing in front of Caesar at this moment.
“Are you the Gregarius who raised the alarm?” Caesar asked, and even from where I stood, I could see the man’s throat working as he tried not to stammer.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good job. Who’s your Centurion?”
“Scribonius, sir.”
Caesar turned to Scribonius, saying loudly so that all the men nearby could hear. “Your man is to be commended, Scribonius. Make sure that he has a ration of unwatered wine tonight as my thanks.”
This elicited a cheer and the sentry beamed with happiness at the thought of the wine, probably thinking how much food he could get with it in barter, since this was one of those few times when bread was more important than wine. Meanwhile, Caesar stared thoughtfully at the dust plume; in the time it took me to go get Caesar, the vanguard of Pompey’s army had crested the hill, and we watched them spilling down the slope i
n a glittering display of winking silver and red. Caesar said nothing for several moments as he watched, then abruptly turned and descended the ladder to the ground, striding back to the Praetorium with a string of aides in his wake. Caesar waited until he was out of earshot before he turned to one of his scribes and began dictating orders, but I was reasonably sure that we were not going to be going anywhere, that we were going to fight.
~ ~ ~ ~
Pompey elected to erect his own camp on the hill to the north, and we watched them go about their business. This campaign had gone on now for more than six months and Caesar’s admonition to us not to bring our personal baggage with us from Brundisium had become something of a running joke, albeit with an edge of bitterness. Whatever the case, we were all more than ready to end this here and now, and the men were not shy about voicing their feelings whenever there was an opportunity. Accordingly, the day after Pompey arrived, the army was ordered out to stand in formation on the plain between the two camps, where we took our place on the right as usual, with Caesar offering Pompey battle. There was no more subterfuge, no more strategic gambits; Pompey could plainly see our entire force and know that he outnumbered us substantially, giving him no reason to delay further. Despite this, we stood there the better part of the day under the hot summer sun, waiting for Pompey, who did nothing. As we would learn later, Pompey and his cronies were busy arguing over the division of the spoils that would come after their inevitable victory, the dispute becoming so heated that the army would not move until matters were settled. All we knew at the time was that Pompey refused to meet us on the field, and we marched back into our camp frustrated and angry. This became the pattern for the next few days, the only change being that each day Caesar would march us closer to the slopes of Pompey’s hill, about three miles distant from our own camp. Still, Pompey did nothing, although after the third day he began sending out part of his cavalry to harass us, prompting some minor skirmishes between our forces. The only event of note was that during one of those skirmishes, one of the Allobrogian traitors who caused us so much trouble at Dyrrhachium was killed by our troopers, although I do not remember which one. It appeared as if Pompey had no intention of budging from that hill, and it also became apparent that his goal was to starve us again. The wheat was not yet fully ripe, but even if it was, now that Pompey and his army were present, harvesting it was not going to be easy. The granaries at Pharsalus were rapidly being sucked dry, so Caesar called a council of war, where he announced to us that despite our desire to stay put and fight it out, we were to prepare the men to break camp. This announcement was met with much dismay, and while nobody spoke openly against his plans, Caesar could easily see that we were not happy. Holding his hand up to quiet the muttering, he spoke in a reasonable tone, without any obvious anger.
