by R. W. Peake
I was horrified to feel tears start to fill my eyes, but if Scribonius saw, he had the good grace and sense to say nothing about it.
“So many of us gone,” he said sadly, then we said nothing for several moments, each lost in our own thoughts.
Finally, I shook myself and said that we had more to see, so we left the temple, the guards at the entrance saluting us as we departed.
~ ~ ~ ~
By the end of the day, I was feeling dizzy and wanted nothing more than to return to the relative quiet and routine of the camp. To my ordered military mind, Rome was nothing but chaos and disorder, a maelstrom of sights, sounds, and smells that threatened to overwhelm me. While Alexandria is similar in population size to Rome, the Egyptian city is much more spread out, due mainly to the lack of hills to enclose the space in the same manner as Rome. We walked through every area of the city, save one, the Palatine, and although I wanted to go see where the rich folks lived, Scribonius refused to take me. At first he gave the excuse, plausible enough I suppose, that the sight of two men of the 10th Legion would not be welcome after what our men had done to the area, but it did not take me long to recognize that this was merely an excuse. Scribonius’ reluctance was from some other cause, yet try as I might, I could not pry from him what it was, so I finally just gave up, much to his relief. We did go into the Subura, and I refused to believe that this was where Caesar had grown up, because it is one of the filthiest, dingiest places I have ever seen in my life. I could just not imagine that a man as high born as Caesar would have ever walked through the place, let alone live there.
“Just because a man is high born doesn't mean he has money,” Scribonius explained. “In fact, until Caesar came along, the Julii had been poor for more years than anyone could remember.”
I mused on this; perhaps this was why Caesar seemed to relate so well to people of my class. He had grown up with us, knew how we thought and lived. I mentioned this to Scribonius, and he immediately agreed that this was probably the case. Yet even knowing that Caesar had walked these same streets, I was anxious to leave. The buildings, if they can be called such, are built so haphazardly that most of them look in danger of falling over. Indeed, the taller ones leaned so precipitously at the top that they almost touched the building on the opposite side of the street, which would be leaning just as much. It gave the impression of being in a dark canyon, and I despised the feeling that I was going to be buried alive so much that I practically dragged Scribonius along until we left the Subura behind. Still, despite my happiness at returning to camp, I was glad that Scribonius had taken me on a tour, and I thanked him for showing me the sights.
“I'm happy to, Primus Pilus,” he told me, always sure to address me in the proper manner when we were back in front of the men.
I was about to turn to enter my tent, but I could see him hesitate, plainly wanting to say something more. Feeling my stomach tighten, I was sure that I knew what he wanted to say, yet I also knew that it meant more to Scribonius to say what he needed to say than it meant for me not to want to hear it.
“Yes?” I asked in what I hoped was a pleasant tone.
Scribonius, who always seemed to know the exact right words for any occasion, was now fumbling about.
Finally, he said, “Primus Pilus, I just wanted you to know how sorry we are, and I mean the men and the officers, about Gisela and your family. We've made several offerings for their safe journey.”
I looked at my friend, then for the second time that day, I felt the hot rush of tears threaten to unman me, but I managed to hold them back. “Thank you, Scribonius. That means a great deal to me.” I turned to enter the tent, then turned back. “And thank the men for me as well.”
With that, I walked into my private quarters, telling Diocles to bring me wine, and plenty of it. I sat alone with my thoughts for some time, ignoring Diocles as he came to light the extra lamps when it became dark, steadily draining the amphora of wine that Diocles had set on the table. Drinking it unwatered, it still did not seem to have any effect on me as it normally did and finally I gave up. Just as I was about to lie on my cot for the night, I realized I needed to answer the call of nature. Deciding that the fresh air from a trip to the latrine would do me good, I got up and left the tent. I had only gone a few steps when I heard a familiar voice.
“Titus?”
Whirling about, my hand clutched at my dagger, peering into the darkness towards where the sound came from, waiting for whatever happened next. A dark shadow detached itself from the backdrop of the edge of my tent then stepped into where the pool of light from the torch placed at the corner of the street pushed back the gloom. It was Vibius.
For several moments, we just stood there, staring at each other, before Vibius cleared his throat. “I just . . . I just wanted to tell you that I was very sorry to hear about Gisela and Vibi. I know how much you loved them both, and I grieve for you.”
I did not say anything, just staring at him as my mind fumbled for the right words to say. So much had passed between us, and there was so much I wanted to say, but nothing came. Finally, seeing that I was not going to answer, he abruptly turned and began to walk away, stumbling a little in the darkness.
I was jerked out of my state of silence, and I called out to him. “Vibius, wait.”
He immediately stopped, turning back slowly. As he approached, I realized that I did not know what exactly it was that I wanted to say.
At the last moment, I only managed a weak, “Thank you for your . . . just, thank you. That means a lot. Gisela always liked you.”
“No she didn’t,” he replied immediately, but it was not meant in a mean-spirited way at all and we both burst out laughing.
“No, you’re right. She didn’t care for you that much,” I admitted. “But it had nothing to do with you and everything to do with her.”
“I know. She just didn’t like sharing you. I understood.”
“But, Vibi,” I said, and immediately regretted it, as I felt my throat tighten up at the thought of my son, the namesake of my best friend, “he loved you. The last time I saw him one of his first questions was about when you were going to come visit.”
And with that, I could not hold it back anymore, and I began to weep. Yet for some reason, I did not care about doing so in front of Vibius, even after all that had transpired between us. I think it had to do with the fact that I had seen him in a similar state after Juno betrayed him and married another man. Whatever the case, I was not ashamed. I had covered my face with my hands, so I did not see him step closer, and was surprised when I felt his hand on my shoulder, awkwardly patting it. I do not know how long we stood there, but it had to have been several moments before I was able to regain my composure. We stood there, looking at each other. I did not know what to say next, and obviously neither did he.
“Well,” he broke the silence, “I just wanted you to know, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” I said again, and there was really nothing more left to say, so we both turned away and walked away from each other into the night.
~ ~ ~ ~
The day of the first triumph dawned clear and bright, the men in a state of high excitement and spirits as they did their last minute scrubbing and polishing. I walked up and down the Legion streets, checking that everything was in order, listening to the men talk animatedly about what was to come.
“I tell you boys,” Didius proclaimed, smacking his lips at the thought, “when we go marching by, the women will be wet as a September rain just at the sight of us. They’ll be ours for the taking.”
“Since when have you ever been interested in a woman that you didn’t have to hold a knife to her throat or pay?” Vellusius shot back. Didius took this with his usual bluster of threats, which in itself had become so much of a joke that even Didius could not make them without laughing about it.
This was the tone of most of the conversations taking place throughout the camp as the men, most of them never having marched in a triumph,
tried to guess what was awaiting them. Some of Pompey’s veterans had marched in his last triumph, but there were very few of these men left, so we all were relying on tales of past triumphs told to us by any number of sources. All we knew for sure was our role; we would be marching behind the last of the wagons pulling the reproductions of the notable moments of the Gallic campaign, as the 10th, despite the difficulties between the men and Caesar, was given the place of honor at the head of the procession of troops. Just three days before the triumph, we were informed that the 6th, or the two Cohorts that had fought for Caesar, would be marching in the Gallic triumph by virtue of the two years they were on loan from Pompey. Their service had come towards the end of our time in Gaul, and they had been consigned to garrison duty, though they had seen some action quelling the rebellions that had punctuated our last years there. Still, it did not sit well with some of the men, as I heard them mumbling around the fires after the news about the injustice of it all. Fortunately, they were going to be at the end of the procession, since it would have caused a huge uproar with the other Spanish Legions if they had been forced to march behind men they considered latecomers.
Shortly after dawn, we were formed up on the Via Publica, with all the wagons carrying the booty and the animals to pull them, along with the prisoners, all of them bound in chains, with Vercingetorix in the same helmet and armor that he was wearing on the day he surrendered at Alesia. His physical appearance was shocking, at least to my comrades and me, who had been there and had seen him with our very eyes on that day. Even in defeat, he had ridden his horse tall and erect, his bearing as regal as any king who ever strode the Earth. Now, he stood chained to a pole erected in the bed of a wagon, only standing upright because he was chained so tightly that he could not sit if he wanted, yet his shoulders were slumped, and he was deathly pale. His guards had done their best to clean him up, but no amount of scrubbing could mask the stench of defeat, nor could the clothing of a king disguise his complete and abject apathy. I was looking at a man who was alive in name only, for whom death would be a sweet release. Despite all the pain and loss he had caused us, I still felt a pang of sympathy for the man. It was no way for a warrior of any stature, let alone one like Vercingetorix, to end their days, except that it was our custom to execute those prisoners not sold into slavery on the day of the victorious general’s triumph for more years than anyone could remember, so this would be the fate of Vercingetorix. The rest of the prisoners who would be walking were in just as wretched a state as their former leader, and would shamble along behind the wagon carrying Vercingetorix, their chains rattling, making enough of a racket that it nearly drowned out the sounds of the horns and drums that would be playing marching tunes to keep us in step. As we formed up, the men stopped to gawk at the wagons carrying the scenes of the campaign that were constructed out of wood, plaster, and paint. There was a wagon depicting the siegeworks at Alesia, more of a huge map built in three dimensions, with a second wagon showing the surrender of Vercingetorix, the figures made of plaster but painted so well that they looked very lifelike. There was a depiction of our victory over the Helvetii, and of our battle on the Sabis as well. There were four wagons dedicated to the invasion of Britannia, with these the most elaborate and detailed by far. The prisoners were distributed among the wagons, those of each tribe and race walking in front of or behind the wagon, depicting their defeat, and I wondered how that must have felt. The group that I was sure would cause the most stir were the Britons, who had been forced to paint themselves with their blue paint, and spike their hair with lime as if they were going into battle and not to a life of slavery, or execution if they were of high enough rank. Leading the whole procession was Caesar, garlanded with oak leaves, his face painted red in the custom. It was supposed to be the blood of the bull sacrificed in the ceremony immediately preceding the triumph, but blood flaked off and was too dark, so some sort of paint was used instead. He wore a purple toga trimmed with a design of palm fronds embroidered in gold thread and he stood in a quadriga, the chariot pulled by four horses, while behind him stood one of his slaves, as custom dictated. The slave had two jobs, one to hold the garland of golden oak leaves over the head of the triumphing general, while whispering in his ear the reminder that fame was fleeting and that he was a mortal. Caesar being Caesar, he had to do things his own way, so he had chosen to wear the garland on his head. The gossip among the men was that it was to cover up his bald spot, and I think they were probably right, though I did not make any comment. Counting the wagons hauling the spoils from the campaign, all told there must have been close to 60 of them, so that along with all the prisoners and the army, the procession must have been more than a mile long. The horns sounded the signal to begin, then the 72 lictors that had been voted by the Senate for Caesar, the largest number ever for an individual in the history of the Republic, stepped off to begin the parade.
~ ~ ~ ~
The procession began down the Via Triumphalis, passing under the large wooden Triumphal Arch that was only opened for triumphs and which marked the official beginning of the parade, as the crowds lined the way 15 to 20 deep. The noise of their cheering reached all the way to where we were standing, waiting to move, causing an excited rumble of talk among the men, all of them eagerly anticipating the adoration of the people. Given the mass of prisoners, wagons, and animals, the size of this parade was similar to marching the army, although there were not quite as many animals or slaves this time. We would only be marching a couple of miles, but it still was almost a sixth part of a watch before the last of the display wagons immediately ahead of us started to move. That was our signal to make ready, so I gave the command to the bucinator to sound the appropriate call to attention, followed a moment later by the signal to march. Off we went, and the gods know that I am not exaggerating when I say that we made quite a splendid sight. Our plumes were all new, as were our cloaks, bright red and draped over our left shoulders, while pulled back over our right arms in the proper manner, the folds arranged as carefully as a patrician does his toga. Because it is technically illegal for any armed men to enter inside the pomerium, the sacred boundary of the city, we did not carry javelin or shield, though as part of the triumphant army we were allowed to wear sword and dagger. I do not understand the distinction, since a Legionary is as deadly with a sword as with a javelin, and when I asked Scribonius, all he could do was shrug and say that it had always been that way. That seemed to be the most common answer to every question about why things were done the way they were, but that had always been hard for me to accept, though I did. Every man also wore all of his decorations, polished and glittering, those of us with Civic Crowns wearing it wrapped around the crown of our helmets. Those men who had won the Corona Muralis or Corona Vallaris wore the crown in place of their helmets, making them stand out among their comrades and becoming the object of much attention and admiration, particularly from the females in the crowd. Because I was Primus Pilus, I was allowed the choice, since I had won the Corona Muralis in Alexandria, but I chose to wear my helmet so that I could wear my Civic Crown. I had won it saving Scribonius against the Helvetii during our campaign in Gaul, and of all the decorations I had won to that point, it meant the most to me.
The street we marched along was strewn with rose petals and garlands thrown for Caesar, along with a fair number of rotten vegetables and other refuse that were hurled at the prisoners. Of course, by the time we arrived, there was a fair amount of droppings from the animals pulling the wagons as well, so we had to step lively to avoid the refuse. Normally when we marched through a city, the men were ordered to look straight ahead and not speak to whatever civilians were lining the streets to watch us march by, a regulation that was almost universally ignored. However, during a triumph, the only real rule is that no man can break formation, so there was a great deal of banter between the men and the people lining the route, particularly the women. As the Primus Pilus, and because of my size, I had more than my share of attention and offers fro
m the women, but I was not in the right frame of mind to appreciate the attention, though it was flattering.
We marched by Pompey’s Theater, then turned onto what was called the Vicus Iugarius, and it was after we made that turn that the crowds grew in size and enthusiasm. It was at this point that the men launched into a song they had been working on for days, which I had heard more times than I could count by then. Still, I could not fight the grin as they began the song about our general and his legendary appetite for all things female, particularly those who happened to be married to other men. The ditty brought riotous laughter and shouts of approval from the crowd. As soon as this one was finished, they launched into another, this one aimed at the Centurions, particularly me, making fun of my size and some other things that I will not mention here. Despite being the butt of their jibe, I had to admit that it was clever and very funny, though I was not about to let them know it. We had not yet left the Via Triumphalis, when there was a sudden halt, though no command was given, almost causing us to march into the back of the wagons before I could get the men halted. All up and down the line, there were curses and shouts as men tripped over each other, though we did not have any idea why we stopped. It was not until we were done that we found out the cause. Knowing what I know now, I cannot help thinking that it was as bad an omen as could have happened. For no reason that anyone could discern, the axle on Caesar’s quadriga suddenly snapped in half, throwing him to the ground. I know that over time the story has changed somewhat, that he was almost thrown out but managed to grab the side railing and keep his feet, but immediately afterward that was not what was circulating around the camp. At the time we had no idea, yet once we got started again, we noticed that the crowd along the Velabrum, where the incident had happened was much more subdued than earlier along the route, though we did not know why. Once we passed through the Velabrum, the crowds became their raucous selves again. We marched through the Forum Boarium, which Scribonius had shown me on our tour, where most of the meat in the city is sold. Even after being scrubbed by hundreds of slaves, the stench of blood and death was still in the air, yet that did not dampen the enthusiasm of the people any that I could tell. Many of the men standing along the route in this part of the triumph obviously worked in the market, as they were still wearing their bloody aprons, signs that they had been hard at work slaughtering the thousands of animals that would be consumed by the people who would be feasting. After leaving the Forum Boarium, we turned the corner, approaching the Circus Maximus. Although I did not think it possible, the sound of the crowd up to that point was but a whisper compared to the wall of sound that descended down on us as we marched through the wooden tunnel through which the racing chariots enter the stadium. Most of the equestrian class was seated in the Circus Maximus, their rank among their peers marked by how close to the track they sat. Scribonius had told me that the Circus had a capacity of 200,000 people, a number that I found hard to believe until I actually entered the stadium. The tiers of seats seemed to rise to the sky, with the people of my class filling the upper rows of seating, though they were little more than tiny specks to our eyes. They waved down to us, their motion making a rippling effect that was somewhat disconcerting, as if the crowd were some multi-legged huge animal that could not coordinate its thousands of limbs. The women seated in the first rows of seats were much more reserved than their counterparts out along the streets or in the upper rows, looking bored and as if they would rather have been anywhere but sitting there nonetheless. However, if you looked carefully, you could see their eyes running up and down the bodies of the men as they marched by, with a look in their eyes that told us that they were anything but bored. Their husbands seemed to be oblivious, and I was struck by a memory of when Gisela told me that if men knew what their women were really thinking at any given moment, we would sleep with one eye open, keeping them under lock and key every moment we were not around. She had said it when we were fighting, yet seeing how the high-born women were acting it made me wonder if she had been telling me the brutal truth.
