by R. W. Peake
“There'll be enough time for that later!”
I roared this at the top of my lungs as I hobbled about, grabbing men to push them towards their standards, wanting the rest of the men formed up to sweep the camp and to push the enemy into where I hoped Clemens would be waiting. Unfortunately, it took longer than it should have, so I was in a foul mood by the time we got started. It took several moments to get the men formed on their standards, which may not seem like much, but it was giving too many Egyptians the opportunity to escape. I heard someone shout my name and turned to see Felix and his Century come pounding towards us. The wall was cleared, and the Jews now swarmed into their section of the camp. Shouts and screams of men fighting and dying filled the air, making it hard to be heard, but somehow we began marching down the streets. Each Centurion issued orders for a section of men to do a quick search of every tent that we passed to make sure we left nobody in our rear, and a number of the enemy were killed in this manner, hiding underneath their bunks. I smelled smoke, cursing the fool who had indulged in that particular passion. It should not surprise you to know that just like there are men who live for the time when they are allowed to rape with impunity, there are some men whose passion is to see things go up in flames, and they are always quick to fire whatever is at hand and is flammable. Now we had to worry about the fire getting out of control, but more of a worry was the smoke, because if it got bad enough it could obscure our vision. The streets were littered with bodies as the men marched through, where we would come upon small pockets of men who for whatever reason decided to quit running to make a stand, these holdouts being cut down as quickly as we could do it. By listening to the sounds of battle, we could tell us that there was a real fight going on in the middle of the camp, close to the gate leading to the river. Accordingly, I had Fuscus take his Cohort heading in that direction, with the 7th continuing to push forward to the rear corner of the camp. My plan was to herd as many of the enemy as we could into the corner of the camp, where there was no gate, in the area where the swamp would bog down any men who leaped from the walls. Block by block we continued forward, while I struggled to keep up, let alone lead from the front. I realized that I could no longer feel my foot; I had indeed bound my neckerchief too tightly, but I was afraid that if I loosened it the bleeding would start again, so I limped along, wondering if I was doing permanent damage to my foot. The smoke was getting thicker, coming from the area where the Jews were clearing the camp, and I could finally see flames rising up as a number of tents caught fire.
“Stupid bastards, I bet they didn’t bother to clean those tents out before they set them on fire. Probably a pretty bit of loot going up in smoke.”
I do not know who said it, but I heard a chorus of agreement, the men looking regretfully at the sight.
“Never mind what they’re doing, we have our own job to do,” Valens snapped, shoving one of the men who had stopped to gawk back into formation.
Now just two blocks away from the corner of the camp, the Egyptians we had pursued were jamming together, clawing and knocking each other down in their panic. A few, a very few turned to fight, and these we ground into the dust, their bodies piling up in bloody heaps. I did not participate in the carnage since I was barely able to walk, but the men needed no leadership in this most basic task of slaughtering a virtually helpless enemy. After the few who put up a fight were cut down, their comrades began throwing themselves at our feet, begging for mercy, but there was none to be had for the next several moments, the men continuing to hack and thrust their way through the mass of packed bodies. I should have called them off, but too much had happened; we had suffered too much at the hands of these people, so I let them kill every last man who stood or groveled before us. Once they were through, my men stood, shaking with exhaustion, most of them almost up to their knees in bodies, some still twitching. After the cacophony of battle, with men shouting their battle cries or screaming with pain from a mortal wound, all punctuated by the sound of metal clashing on metal, the aftermath is always almost eerily quiet, the only sound now the panting of the victors and the moans of the dying. Ordering a couple sections of men to finish off any Egyptians still living, they walked around the piles, pulling bodies to one side to get to men who still showed signs of life. With them going about that business, I hobbled over to the wall to look back toward the center of the camp to see what was happening. The Jews had advanced through, but had obviously run into stiffer opposition, as what looked like Ptolemy’s royal guard formed square around the rear gate. They were being assailed on two sides, by the Jews from the front and the 28th on their left flank, all while behind them a mob of men were pushing their way through the rear gate itself, intent on trying to escape. There was no sign of Fuscus and the 10th, so I decided to put more pressure on the Egyptians, ordering the 7th to reform facing the right flank of the enemy, then marched them to within a few paces before giving the order to charge. The leading Centuries slammed into the Nubians, whose formation buckled under the added strain, triggering what had been a mob on the edge of panic into full-blown hysteria, with men abandoning their attempts to push through the gate and instead beginning to claw their way up the wall, intent on nothing but escape. In an instant the wall was swarming with men, the first of them jumping over the parapet and down onto the other side, where presumably the three Centuries of the 37th were waiting. Even so, when the men still on the ground saw their comrades were successful, at least in escaping the immediate danger, they followed suit. Immediately, the wall disappeared from view, covered in scrambling, desperate men. Meanwhile, the Nubians were fighting with the desperate courage of men who are doomed and want nothing more than to take as many of their enemy with them as they can, making them oblivious to what was happening behind them. When the wall collapsed, it happened abruptly, the piled turf suddenly tumbling outwards in a huge cloud of dirt and debris. The Nubians, no matter how disciplined they were, could not avoid being distracted by the commotion behind them, and almost to a man they turned to see what had happened, spelling their own destruction.
~ ~ ~ ~
With that last disaster, it was over; all that was left to do was to turn the men loose to looting the camp, except we had to send men to fight the fire that the Jews had started first. Fortunately, it did not take long to put out, being confined to a relatively small section of the camp. Soon after, the men were busy grabbing everything they thought held any value, whether it really did or not, and I finally took the opportunity to sit down, grabbing a stool from a tent, dragging it out into the street to keep a partial eye on things. Only then did I dare to loosen the bandage and as I feared, the bleeding started again, not to mention the excruciating pain, once feeling returned to my foot. I summoned a medici, telling him to bandage it properly, but he took one look at it then informed me that the best he could do was a temporary bandage and that I needed to have it stitched up. Every few moments there would be a commotion in one part of the camp or another when men found an Egyptian who had escaped the first cursory search and was summarily dispatched. Once my leg was bound back up, I stood, intent on finding Caesar and the command group to receive orders, but I only went a few steps before I realized that I could not go much farther without some sort of help. Hopping over to a tent, I yanked down one of the tent poles, cut some leather to make some binding material, and with another short piece of wood, fashioned a crutch that allowed me to move more easily. I was not happy about the idea of hobbling up to Caesar, but it could not be helped, and I navigated my way to the Porta Decumana, looking for his standard. The carnage around the back gate was massive, the ruins of the wall studded with body parts protruding from it where men were crushed. Finally, spotting Caesar’s standard outside the gate, I made my way towards it, almost tripping and falling several times. Passing through the ruins of the gateway, I got my first glimpse of what turned out to be the end chapter not only of the Alexandrian war, but of Ptolemy XIII himself. A number of the ships in the river were capsized and th
ere were hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies floating in the water. One of the capsized craft was larger than the rest, but at the time, I gave it no more than a passing glance as I hobbled up to Caesar, who looked at me in surprise and with not a little concern.
“Salve, Pullus. What happened to you? Are you all right?”
I grimaced. “A lucky shot, Caesar, it took a chunk of meat out of my calf, but I’m fine.”
He laughed. “You don’t look fine, but I'll take your word for it.”
“What are your orders, Caesar?” I did not want to appear rude, but neither did I want him to think I was weak.
He shook his head. “None for now. Let the men enjoy themselves tearing the camp apart.”
“Will we be going after Ptolemy?”
He looked at me in some surprise before pointing out to the large ship I had barely noticed before. “There's no need, Pullus. Ptolemy was on that barge and the men fleeing from the camp swam out and in their panic pulled the barge over. Ptolemy is at the bottom of the river. At least, that's what it appears at this moment and we've fished everyone out of the river that was still alive and none of them are Ptolemy. And some of the survivors reported that they saw him go under.” He gave a tight smile, but there was a hint of sadness. “Apparently his ceremonial armor wasn't conducive to floating.”
I said nothing for a moment, taking in what he said, trying to understand that it was indeed all over. A thought struck me and once again, I blurted it out without thinking, except this time I will blame the blood loss for loosening my tongue.
“Appropriate, I guess.”
Caesar looked at me sharply, then asked, “Appropriate? How so?”
“What happened to Ptolemy is the same thing that happened to us at the Heptastadion. I guess Nemesis decided to balance the scales.”
The instant I said it, I realized I should not have. Caesar’s face flushed, his lips tightening into a thin line, the sign that he was trying to control his temper.
Then he took a breath, exhaled it, and nodded. “Yes, perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. He looked me in the eye as he said, “But that's not something I would have you repeating, Pullus.”
I knew a warning when I heard it, so I emphatically agreed that such words would never pass my lips again. And they did not, until I uttered them to Diocles just now. Caesar dismissed me, telling me that there would be a meeting of the command group at the beginning of second watch, which is shortly after sundown. I hobbled off, wishing that I could lie down, but knowing that I had to keep a tight rein on the men to ensure they stayed in their assigned area. Of course, Ptolemy’s tent was marked for Caesar, but Ptolemy had a lot of retainers who traveled with him, meaning there were rich pickings in the camp to be had by the men, of which I got a cut, of course. The responsibilities of a Centurion in Caesar’s army were many and never-ending, yet I cannot lie and say that there were not many benefits. Reaching the Centurionate meant that if I did not gamble or drink my money away, I would retire a wealthy man, provided I managed to live long enough. Few of us did, but that was something I refused to think about very often, preferring to take each day as it came, much like I put one foot in front of the other on a long, difficult march. If I had stopped to think about the number of Centurions who died before they managed to reach retirement age, I might as well have fallen on my sword right then. Limping back to the stool that I had been sitting on, I dropped heavily upon it, sending a runner to find Fuscus, whose Cohort I had still not seen nor had any report from about what had happened. Men were dragging larger pieces of loot into the street, marking them with their initials, or their particular mark if they could not make their letters, with the Centurions and Optios marking down a description of the piece and who it belonged to on a wax tablet. In other words, it was the normal scene after the taking of a camp or town by the Legions of Rome. Finally, I heard my name called, looking up to see Fuscus approaching me, and I could tell by his posture and his expression that he was feeling guilty. Watching him march to me, I said nothing, instead waiting for Fuscus to give me a salute, which I returned. I waited for him to finish before I spoke, wanting to see if there was anything he wanted to say, but he stood there looking over my head, something I immediately recognized as a bad sign.
“Decimus Pilus Prior Fuscus,” I made sure to use his full rank, “what is your report? I expected to see you pushing through the center of the camp and fall onto the right flank of the enemy, but instead I had to order the 7th to do so, after they had already fought their way to the corner of the camp. What happened?”
He stood for several heartbeats, saying nothing and I could see by his face that he was struggling to form the words.
Finally, he said, “We saw that the Jews had matters well in hand. They were pushing the enemy back easily, so the men began searching the tents.”
I felt my face begin to flush. Seeing my expression, he hastened to add, “To make sure that nobody could surprise us by falling on our rear after we passed.”
“Really?” I said in mock surprise. “That's interesting. We did the same thing, but the 7th managed to carry out their orders without delay.”
His face colored, and he protested, but I could see that it was half-hearted.
I held up my hand, cutting him off. “Tell me what really happened, Fuscus,” I said quietly so only he could hear.
His head dropped and I could see his jaw clenching as he tried to decide what to do.
He looked up then said one word; a name actually. “Cornuficius.”
Even when you expect something, sometimes it is still a shock when it actually happens. I had suspected that somehow, Cornuficius was involved in the disappearance of the 10th, but until I heard it from the lips of Fuscus, it was only a suspicion. Waiting for Fuscus to continue, I could see the shame he felt at being forced to admit what I had known for some time; Cornuficius was the one who really ran the 10th.
“I gave the order to advance, but the men just ignored me. Cornuficius said that the Jews had everything in hand and that since we were near the center of the camp and Ptolemy’s tent, the pickings would be richer than the men could imagine. He said it so that everyone could hear, and before I could say anything the men had scattered to the four winds.”
“What did you do?”
“I ordered Cornuficius to summon his Century from what they were doing and get back into the fighting, but he just laughed like I was joking.”
I looked at him incredulously. “And you didn’t smash his face in?”
Fuscus shrugged helplessly, but said nothing.
“What did the other Centurions do?” I demanded.
“Nothing. I suspect that they were looking to me to do something. And I failed.”
The bitterness in his tone was plain to hear, causing my contempt for him to lessen a little; it was clear that he had more than enough for himself to serve the both of us. I sighed, looking past him at the men, some of whom, as was their habit, had found the stores of wine and were beginning to stagger about.
“I expect that you'll be relieving me, Primus Pilus.”
I shook my head. “And give the Cohort to Cornuficius? That’s exactly what he wants. He counted on your weakness, and he knows that if I were to go by regulations, I would relieve you.”
“But he was insubordinate,” Fuscus protested. “That would be more than enough cause to not only pass him over, but to bust him back to the ranks.”
“True,” I agreed. “But there would have to be another witness of Centurion rank in order to make the charge stick. Who else was present? Let me guess.” I knew the answer already and saw the realization hit him. “Salvius? Considius?”
He nodded.
“Not Sertorius though, correct?”
He shook his head, not saying anything, but I saw that I had made my point. There would be no witnesses that would back up Fuscus and we both knew it.
~ ~ ~ ~
The evening briefing was held in Ptolemy’s headquarters, which of
course had been stripped of anything valuable by Caesar’s bodyguards. Caesar arrived, the assembled officers hailing him as Imperator, which he acknowledged with a wave and a smile. He gave fulsome praise to the leaders of the Jewish contingent, and it was at this point that I learned their names were Hyrcanus, who was a priest of some sort, and Antipater, who was their king. I was pleased to see that Joseph ben-Judah had survived the battle without much more than a scratch or two, for which I teased him.
“You’re just jealous because I’m faster on my feet than you are,” he laughed, a charge I could hardly deny given my condition.
As we waited, I scanned the faces, looking for one in particular, which I did not find. After the briefing was over, when Caesar was making his way towards the exit, I managed to get his attention, not that hard since I towered over the rest of the men. Waiting for me to hop to him, while I paused until the men around him turned their attention away to other matters, I asked him a question once we were relatively alone. His face revealed nothing as he gave me the answer and I did not make any further comment, then he clapped me on the shoulder and I returned to where Valens and Fuscus were standing.
“What was that about?” asked Valens, and I told him.
“I asked about the casualties among the Centurions.”
Valens stared for a moment, then gave a short laugh. “Why? You’re already Primus Pilus of the 6th. Where else would you rather be?”
“I asked about one in particular.”
His laugh was cut short. He and Fuscus exchanged a knowing glance. “Verres Rufus?”
I nodded.
“And?”
“He was killed in the attack on the river side of the camp.”
“Well, that was to be expected,” Valens said carefully. “They were attacking with those missile troops in their rear.”
“True,” I admitted. “But the funny thing is, he was the only Centurion killed.”
