Marching With Caesar-Civil War

by R. W. Peake

  Instead I acted like everything was normal, turning to the cornicen to sound the call for the men to pick up their gear, who actually hesitated for a moment, opening his mouth as if to say something before I said to him quietly, “Don’t. Just carry out the order, and whatever happens will happen. Don’t compound your crime by refusing a direct order.”

  His face darkened, but he obeyed and blew the call, whereupon the men of the Cohort followed the lead of the rest of the army. Instead of picking up their gear, almost in unison, they sat down on the ground next to it. Even knowing it was coming, actually watching it happen was a blow almost physical in nature. I stood for a moment, not sure what to do at this point, looking over at the First Cohort to see if Torquatus had any ideas, but he just looked at me and shrugged helplessly. Finally, I walked towards Vibius, who sat calmly watching me approach, but did not come to his feet.

  The anger that was building inside me at being put in this situation flared up through my chest, and I spoke sharply, “Get on your feet when your superior approaches, Optio.”

  For a moment, he did not move, then slowly got to his feet, coming to intente. For moments that seemed to last forever, we stood staring at each other, neither knowing what to say. Finally, I shook my head.

  “Why, Vibius?”

  He looked at me as if I had gone mad. “Why,” he said incredulously, “why? You know very well why, Titus. He lied to us, Titus. Surely you can see that?”

  I shook my head. “First, I don’t believe that just because he hasn’t given us our bonus it’s a case that he’s lying to us. If you haven’t noticed,” my voice was heavy with sarcasm, “he’s been a little busy the last few weeks.”

  “I know exactly how busy he’s been because it’s been thanks to our sweat and blood,” he shot back, and this I could not argue.

  For a moment, we stood there, neither of us speaking and I could almost pretend that we were just two friends standing in comfortable silence, but we both knew it was just that, a pretense.

  Finally, Vibius placed a hand on my arm and said, “Titus, you know that I’m right. You know that he owes us, and he owes us more than just some bonus.”

  Now, all these years later, I will finally confess that at that moment, Vibius had almost convinced me. The surprise of that realization almost undid me, because I nearly opened my mouth. I had not realized until that moment that I had some resentment built up inside me that I was unaware of, some numen that inhabited my soul, feeding a flame of bitterness and anger that I did not even know was there until that moment. And standing there thinking on it, I also realized that I did not really know why I felt this way. After all, Caesar had favored me, not as much as some other men, but more than most; however, I was also tired. I was tired of all the marching, and I was tired of watching my men bleed and die. When all was said and done, was it not really for the reasons that Vibius had been arguing about all these years, that we were just pieces on the board of some great game being played by Gaius Julius Caesar? That all of his high-flown rhetoric about preserving the Republic and stopping tyranny were just empty words, that this was about little more than one patrician trying to gain ascendancy over another? These thoughts rushed through my mind staring down at Vibius’ hand resting on my forearm, and through all of the confusion and emotions running through my body, I remembered how Vibius and I had met, and how much we had seen together. When I first saw that hand, I thought, it was so much smaller and white. Now, it was as brown as a piece of leather, the knuckles scarred from hard work and fights. So was the forearm it rested on, his hand partially covering the long scar that ran down my arm, and I frowned, trying to remember where I had gotten it. What battle had it been, I wondered? Then I remembered; it was from the Gallaeci all those years ago, and one thing I knew was that Vibius had been by my side.

  “Join us, Titus. Caesar will listen if you’re with us.”

  And there it was; all I had to do was say yes, and my friendship with Vibius would be preserved. Besides, was there not something to what he was saying? Perhaps the way the men were going about it was not the right way, but surely they had just cause, and ultimately, did Caesar not owe us what he had promised? I do not know how long I stood there, looking down at that hand resting on my arm, but then I shook my head. Looking up, I saw Vibius frowning at me, and I was suddenly filled with a sadness that I had never felt before, because I knew that this time, our friendship could not survive.

  “No, Vibius. I won’t join you. You’re rising in mutiny against our general. And I can’t justify that, no matter what the cause.”

  Vibius jerked his hand away as if I had suddenly become red-hot. His face turned bright red, something I had seen so many times over the years, telling me that he was not just angry; he was enraged.

  “Mutiny,” he hissed between clenched teeth, his jaw muscles bulging. “This is no mutiny! This is a just act by Roman citizens who are simply demanding their rights. The men of the 7th, 8th, and 9th have been wronged . . .”

  I cut him off with a harsh laugh. “Spare me, Vibius. You could give a fart in a testudo for those faithless bastards. You hate them as much as I do, so please refrain from acting with such righteous indignation about their rights.”

  For a moment, Vibius said nothing, his jaws working as he chewed on his rage. “Fine,” he spat, “you’re right. This has nothing to do with them. It has everything to do with what Caesar owes us. And while we’re being honest,” he continued hotly, “let’s not pretend that the reason you won’t join us has anything to do with what’s right or what’s wrong. It has everything to do with wanting to be in good with Caesar. You’ll do anything to be his lapdog!”

  Before I had conscious thought, my hand gripped my sword, whipping the blade out but not bringing it up, pointing it at the ground instead. Vibius’ eyes widened, but he stood his ground, his own hand reaching down.

  “You’d be dead before you got it out, Vibius,” I said calmly. “It’s been a long, long time since you could best me.”

  He said nothing, but his hand dropped from the pommel of his sword. That is how things were for dozens of heartbeats as we stood staring at each other.

  His mouth opened and closed several times before he finally said in a croaking whisper, “You would strike me down? Your best and longest friend? It’s come to that?”

  All I could do was nod my head; then there was nothing left to say about it, and I saw the death of my longest and dearest friendship pass through the eyes of Vibius Domitius.

  Finally, he nodded, his voice becoming cold and formal. “Very well, Pilus Prior. But if that’s what the gods will, then so be it, but I’m not marching. And,” he turned and indicated the men, “neither are any of the men of the Second Cohort. We took a vote and it’s been decided.”

  “You took a vote?”

  I do not know why, but I found that the most astonishing thing; the men had voted behind my back, and I did not know it had taken place. Of course, it could very well have been that Vibius was lying about a vote, yet it certainly seemed creditable at the time, and since we never spoke about that day after this, I never did find out the truth.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  For the first time ever, Caesar was flummoxed and he did not seem to know what to do. First, he approached the other Spanish Legions, who steadfastly refused to budge, demanding their discharges.

  Then he came to the 10th, standing before us for several moments in silence, before he finally spoke. “Comrades, I know that of all my Legions, I can rely on the 10th to follow its general and hunt Pompey down. What say you?”

  For an instant, just a brief instant, there was not a sound and I dared to think that when it came down to it, standing here facing their general, the men could not go through with their threat, but then one man, quickly followed by other voices, called out.

  “No, Caesar! We won’t follow you until you pay us the bonus you’ve promised!”

  Immediately, the air was rent by the cries and calls of the men. Despite
not being given leave to move, I whirled around, glaring at the men of the Second Cohort, but none of them except Vibius met my gaze. He was the only man with the courage to stare directly in my eyes as his voice was raised in refusal to his general, and despite my anger at him, I felt a grudging respect that he was at least a man among mice.

  Turning back to Caesar, I saw he had gone white with shock seeing his most favored and to this moment most loyal Legion refuse his orders to march. I watched his face transform, the color rushing to his cheeks and I could see that he was growing terribly angry.

  Finally, he roared louder than I had ever heard him. “Silete!”

  And the men immediately shut up, faster than they ever had before, stirring in me a flicker of hope. It was clear that Caesar still possessed some sort of hold over the men, and I held my breath waiting for what was to happen next.

  That silence hung in the air for several moments, before Caesar said coldly, “Before I say anything more, I first want to know who among the Centurions and Optios feel the same way as the men?”

  What happened next staggered Caesar, as it staggered me. For a moment, there was no movement, then I sensed something out of the corner of my eye and looked over to where it originated in the First Cohort, and despite myself, I let out a gasp. Balbus had stepped forward, his back straight, his chest thrust out as he stared at Caesar calmly. A second later, two more Centurions of the First stepped forward, and I thought that Torquatus would have some sort of stroke at the sight. However, I quickly realized that if the Centurions of the First felt this way, then it was almost a certainty that my Centurions would betray me as well, and I whirled around to see who the vipers at my back were. I cannot say I was particularly surprised when Celer stepped forward, nor when Vibius did the same, but I was surprised when the only other Optios to step forward were Celer’s toady and Vatinius, who I guess would be more accurately described as acting Centurion in Niger’s place. Scribonius and Priscus, along with their Optios remained standing, stone-faced and watching their comrades step forward in defiance of Caesar. And of course, at Vibius Domitius, who for the first time at least did not look quite as sure of himself when he stepped forward to join the others. Looking down the formation, the only solace I could take was that my Cohort had less of its officers’ side with the men than any other, but it was small comfort. And Caesar clearly did not take any comfort in anything that was happening, standing there watching the Legion he had favored above all others betray him. There was a silence for several moments, with both sides staring at each other before Caesar finally spoke, and what he said next chilled me to my very marrow.

  “Very well, you have made your choice, and now you leave me with none.” Turning to one of his aides, I do not remember who it was, he said something quietly and even from where I stood I could see the aide’s face turn ashen but he merely nodded then began writing with a stylus on the wax tablet that they carried with them everywhere. Caesar then turned back to announce in a voice that carried to the other Legions as well as ours, “Since you have chosen to disobey a lawful order from your general, I hereby order that the 10th Legion be decimated!”

  The gasp of shock and dismay carried to a place where I was sure that the gods would hear, and it did not come just from the men of the 10th, but the entire army that was within hearing distance. And the moment his words were relayed to the rear ranks, the gasps became a roar of outrage that seized the entire army. From where I stood, I could see that Caesar was dealt yet another shock, and there was a moment where I got very angry at Caesar as I thought, what the fuck did you expect? That the army would just simply stand by as you decimated your favorite Legion? Do you not understand why the army would reject such a notion? If you would decimate your favorite, then what hope did any of the others have of escaping your wrath? My faith in Caesar was never tested more than it was at that moment in time, seeing him for the first time as a man who was very much like us, a man who made serious errors in judgment. Because I was, and am convinced that Caesar was very much in the wrong in this matter, and while I would remain loyal, I could never view him in quite the same light as I had before. The army was now in full cry, with the howls of protest at Caesar’s judgment raining down on him from all quarters, and I could tell that if his generals did not feel the same way, they at least understood that matters hung on the edge of a sword at this instant. Depending on the next few moments, they could have a full-scale revolt on their hands, something that went well beyond mutiny. One of them, I do not remember who it was, whispered something urgently in Caesar’s ear, the general clearly reluctant, shaking his head. Finally, Caesar held up his hand, but the gesture was not immediately obeyed like it normally was, a further sign that Caesar barely had control of the army.

  Finally, the men quieted down enough for him to speak. “I can clearly see your discontent, and I do not want to act with undue haste. I will further deliberate on this matter and render my decision in the morning. Until then, all men will stay in their areas of the camp, and any violation of this order will be meant with the harshest measures. That is all.”

  And without saying anything more, he stepped down and strode away, leaving a very angry and confused army in his wake.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The men went to their respective tents, and there is no way that I can accurately describe the feeling of tension that hung over the camp. Walking back to my own tent, with only Scribonius following me, I took one of the stools as I started to take my gear off, then thought better of it. I have to wear my armor in my own camp, I thought with dismay.

  For several moments, nothing was said before Scribonius finally broke the silence. “So what happens next?”

  I sat and thought, then shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, Scribonius. I just hope that Caesar relents on the decimation, because I really don’t know what’ll happen if he tries to go through with it.”

  “I do,” Scribonius said glumly. “We’ll have a revolt of the whole army, sure as I’m sitting here.”

  I knew he was right, yet for some reason I still had trouble fully believing it. It was like it was too big a thing for my mind to get around, and it was not a feeling with which I was comfortable. I have always been accused of thinking too much, and there had been other moments like this when my train of thought took me places that seemed to overwhelm my mind, but never before had it encompassed something so terrible but so real. Hence we sat there, listening to the sounds of the camp, our ears alert for the first sign of trouble, except it was deathly quiet, more quiet than I had ever heard before. Men were gathered about their fires like they normally did, yet their conversations were held in little more than whispers as they talked about the events of the day. The provosts were patrolling in force, making sure that Caesar’s orders were followed to the letter. Normally this task would fall to the Centurions and Optios, but after so many of us had sided with the men, Caesar was not willing to trust us with the job. Instead we sat, Scribonius and I, drinking the some of my Falernian, wondering what the next day would bring.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Morning dawned with Scribonius and I sitting in much the same spots we had occupied when we first entered my tent, and despite the wine we consumed, neither of us had felt the effects, neither drunkenness nor hangover. I suppose we were too consumed with what was happening around us for it to have its normal power over us. The camp had remained quiet all night, and that morning when the bucina sounded the morning assembly, we did not know what to expect when we emerged from the tent. Still, the men assembled readily enough, sullenly silent, but they stood there, waiting for Caesar’s final decision. I refused even to look at Vibius, taking my place in the formation without so much as a glance in his direction, hoping that my face did not betray the tightening knot in my stomach. We stood in formation for almost a third of a watch, and while this normally would have brought about a spate of fidgeting and mumbling in the ranks that the officers would have to stop with threats or worse, this day there was not a whis
per. Finally, Caesar appeared from the direction of the Praetorium, followed by his entire command staff. Looking neither left nor right, he strode to the rostra at the front of the forum and mounted it. There he stood, his body motionless, only his head turning to scan the army assembled before him, not saying a word. As much as I usually admired Caesar’s flair for the theatrical, I wished this time that he had simply gotten to the point and announced his decision. I still wonder if he truly understood just how much peril his command of the army was in at that moment, or if it was something beyond his comprehension. Given the way his life ended, I cannot help thinking that ultimately this was Caesar’s fatal weakness, his inability to see the world through anything other than his own eyes. Finally, he spoke, and I was immediately struck by how hoarse his voice sounded, not its usual clear, carrying tone, and I wondered how much yelling must have taken place in his quarters the night before.

  “After thinking it over, I have decided that I will not have the punishment carried out that I ordered yesterday, despite the fact that I am within my rights under Roman military law and custom to do so.”

  There was a great whoosh of air as thousands of lungs expelled the breath they were holding, and I felt my knees sag in relief.

  Ignoring our obvious display, Caesar continued, his voice cold and formal. “I, however, will continue my pursuit of Pompey with troops that I can rely on. I hereby command the army to be dismissed from the current campaign, and it will return to Italy under the command of Marcus Antonius.” This elicited a buzzing of comment from the ranks, which Caesar ignored, finishing with, “Only after I have completely defeated Pompey will I address the issues of your discharges and your bonuses that you have raised. That is all.”

  And without another word, he turned to stalk off the rostra, leaving a relieved but bemused army behind him. If he was sending the whole army back, who exactly was he going to be marching with? I was thinking about this as I turned to begin the necessary work to make ready to march when I heard my name called. Turning, my heart skipped a beat seeing that the person calling me was none other than one of Caesar’s private secretaries, although I do not remember his name. Standing next to him was Marcus Antonius, his face registering no emotion whatsoever, no hint of what was on his, or by extension, Caesar’s mind.