by R. W. Peake
“Who did this?” I demanded coldly of him, for such was my anger that I would have struck my old mentor and friend down right there had Vibius not put a restraining hand on my arm.
The moment passed; I realized that there was no way he could have known this was going to happen, and if he did, he would have warned us because of the type of man that he was. Still, I was wary and looked at him with new eyes. All he could do was shake his head, and it took him a moment before he composed himself enough to speak.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “This doesn’t strike me as something Afranius would do; he’s more politician than soldier, and he wouldn’t want to create this kind of bad blood. It has to be Petreius, but I don’t see how he could be so foolhardy. He’s no great shakes as a general, and he’s not fit to stand in your man’s shadow, but I didn’t think even he would be this stupid.”
“Well, someone is,” I shot back, then turned and trotted over to the Primus Pilus’ tent to find out what I could.
An assembly was called to determine who was still missing, and the numbers were sobering. Of my Cohort, I still had 12 men missing, and the identity of one of those men worried me most. Scribonius, as was his norm, had been scrupulous about asking permission to go visit a cousin, which I granted, but he had not returned in the group. The only positive note at that point was that none of the escapees recalled seeing him struck down. Four of my other men were not so lucky, however; I received reports from multiple eyewitnesses that they were hacked to pieces. There was still daylight left, and we could see across the way in the Pompeian camp that they were calling their own assembly. What we learned later was that Petreius had countermanded the order of Afranius for safe conduct, but after the initial slaughter, went from Cohort to Cohort, begging his men to remain true to Pompey, blubbering big baby tears. Not satisfied with this, he then called an assembly to make every man in camp swear an oath of loyalty to Pompey, and further, demanded that any remaining men of ours that they were hiding now be turned in for summary execution. Fortunately, while most of the Pompeians were willing enough to swear loyalty, they were loath to fulfill the second part of this requirement, although a few of the craven bastards did what they were asked, causing several more of our men to be put to death in the forum in front of the assembled Pompeian army. We could hear their cries for mercy drift across to us, while we stood in helpless anger on the ramparts watching them put to death. At the distance they were at, I could not distinguish individuals, so I was unable to tell if Scribonius or any of the other of my men were the unfortunates.
Now there was a choice to make, although I do not believe any of us thought that it would turn out any differently, about the fate of the Pompeians now stranded in our camp. I will not lie; there was a good bit of sentiment among all the ranks that we return the treatment of our men in kind to the Pompeians, but I do not believe any of us really thought that Caesar would take that action. And he did not. In contrast, he allowed any man desiring freedom to return to his own camp, free of any retribution and under armed escort to our gates. Despite a good number of men doing just that, there was about an equal number who, disgusted by the actions of their general, swore allegiance to Caesar, abjuring any oaths of loyalty to a man who would do such a thing as Petreius. Neither Vibius nor I were particularly surprised when Cyclops was one of those men. We saw in his face the contempt and horror at what transpired, and I was happy to speak for him, this being the only requirement that Caesar made of the men staying behind, that someone vouch for them. Cyclops was sent to the 14th, having lost their Primus Pilus in the assault on the mound, along with a couple other Centurions, whereupon he took command of the Seventh of the 14th. I will admit that it was quite a relief to have him safely on our side, since that was one less friend we had to worry about having to face in battle. But by the time night fell, I still did not know the fate of Scribonius or the other seven men still in the Pompeian camp.
As it turned out, most of the men in my Cohort did return, having been hidden by their friends and kinsmen despite the oath they were forced to take. Of the eight whose fate I did not know as the sun set that day, six of them returned, including Scribonius, escorted under cover of darkness out of the Pompeian camp by the men who hid them. The sentiment was such that none of the sentries on the Pompeian side raised any alarm at what turned out to be almost a hundred men crossing back to our lines, and there was much relief as one by one, the missing men reported to their respective Centurions. However, that feeling of relief was tempered by sadness and anger, once it was determined that not all of them were coming back. I was luckier than some of the other Cohorts in the army. I ended up losing a total of six men: four in the initial attack and two who were betrayed, not by the friends or kinsmen of the men who invited them to come over, but by the tentmates of those men, although we did not learn this until much later. I remember wondering how much damage their actions did to the trust and bond that normally mark men of the same tent section, thinking that at some point in the future there would probably be a reckoning between them. I sat with Scribonius as he gulped down unwatered wine, still breathless from the dash he made once outside the Pompeian gates.
“I thought for sure I was a goner,” he gasped. “My cousin hid me under his bunk and piled all of his gear around me, but they had provosts come into each tent and they poked and prodded the beds and the gear. The provost assigned to search my tent stuck his sword right down into the middle of the pile, and the blade passed not more than an inch from my throat. If he had moved it around at all, I’d be dead.”
We looked at each other in mute anger and disbelief. Finally, Vibius broke the silence. “Well, this changes things,” he declared. “I don’t think Caesar is going to be so quick to forgive now, and I can’t say that I blame him.”
Again, I was surprised; this was twice in one day that Vibius had spoken up for Caesar, more than in the past five years.
Before I could respond, Scribonius shook his head. “I don’t think so, Vibius. I think he knows that it was the act of one man, and that man is going to be the one to ultimately pay.”
“True, but he wasn’t the one who did the actual killing,” Vibius protested, and there was truth in what he said. “I think every one of the friends of the men who were butchered today is going to want to exact vengeance on the man holding the sword, as well as the man who ordered it.”
“You might be right,” conceded Scribonius, “but I also think that they were just following orders, the way they, and we,” he motioned in a circle at all of us gathered about the fire, “have been trained to do, without question. That’s why I don’t think this will change things for the likes of us all that much. I know I’m no more anxious to kill my cousin and his friends than I was before.”
“We’ll see,” grumbled Vibius, but I could see that Scribonius had scored points with the rest of the men gathered about.
Scribonius and the other escapees became minor celebrities in the camp, and they were plied with wine as they were asked to recount their tales of escape. With Scribonius continuing to answer questions, I walked off to check on the rest of the men who the gods had smiled on this day, while at the same time wondering what was to happen with the bodies of our slain and if they would be allowed at least to rest in dignity and peace.
~ ~ ~ ~
The sun rose to the pall of smoke hanging above the Pompeian camp and we learned that at least our comrades had been cared for in the proper manner. Under banner of truce, a Tribune was sent to assure us that their remains would be sent to their kin, with all proper honors and rights, and while we doubted their word, we had no choice but to believe them. In the meantime, their command group held another council, apparently deciding that their position on this hill, even with water, was untenable. Just as both command groups were conferring, a new development changed the balance further in our favor in one way, but caused us more hardship in another. The auxiliary force of the Pompeians, like all auxiliaries, were neither as well
equipped nor as well supplied as the Legions, meaning their supply situation was even worse than the rest of the Pompeian army. Not seeing any relief coming from any source, they began to desert to us, first in small numbers, then in a veritable flood of men who came streaming to our camp, begging us to give them shelter and food in exchange for their service. Again, Caesar ordered clemency and we took all of them in, even with the extra strain it put on our own supply situation.
Despite these desertions relieving some of the pressure from the Pompeians, it still was not enough, and they made the decision to march back to Ilerda to their supply base. This time the Pompeians marched in a double column, except that they prepared to defend against our cavalry by having their rearguard march without their packs, putting them on mules to give them the best possible mobility against our horsemen. Again, the terrain proved to be a challenge, but for both sides this time. With the Pompeian column marching up one of the hills, the rearguard was then protected by their comrades on the higher slopes, who could fling their javelins down at our cavalry. However, once they reached the crest of the hill to start down the opposite side, the rearguard no longer had the protection of their comrades, thereby immediately coming under assault from our cavalry, who charged in to fling their own missiles, inflicting several casualties. After this was repeated a couple of times, the Pompeians adjusted by sending their rearguard in a headlong charge at our cavalry, while the main body would hurry across the level ground to the next slope. The rearguard would then turn and run to join their comrades in the time it took our cavalry to regroup. In this manner, they made a slow but steady progress, covering about four miles before halting on a hill, fortifying the slope that faced us, although they left their baggage packed on their mules. We did likewise, making camp, except that we did unpack our mules, pitching our tents and going about the business of digging the ditches and throwing up the walls.
Although from outward appearances we had taken the bait, once again, Caesar was a step ahead, having passed the word that we were to be ready to drop everything to resume our pursuit at his order. Several Cohorts were ordered to remain behind to pack the camp up should the Pompeians make a break for it, and we did not have long to wait; perhaps a third of a watch had passed when the alarm was raised that they were again on the move. Springing into action, we fell back into marching formation and were in pursuit no more than a sixth part of a watch later, with our cavalry soon back harrying the Pompeian rearguard. This time, our cavalry attacks inflicted heavy casualties on the rearguard; whether it was due to more vigor on the part of our men, or fatigue on the part of the Pompeians we could not tell, but the ground was soon littered with bodies as the bulk of the enemy still struggled towards Ilerda. The Pompeians had gotten back into the open ground surrounding the town, no longer even having the cover and protection of the small hills and rocky terrain, and it was not much longer before their commanders called another halt. Since our baggage had not been retrieved yet, we did what we could to make ourselves comfortable and secure, watching the Pompeians working feverishly to improve on their position.
Once more, the Pompeians were in desperate straits because they had halted a distance away from one of the reservoirs, while Caesar had halted us much closer to it so we did not have the same problem. As they had previously, the Pompeians began extending their fortifications towards the reservoir in an attempt to secure a supply of water, working the rest of the day and through the night. Now, however, their problem was twofold; not only did they have to get to the water, the reservoir itself was smaller than most of the others in the area, our own needs draining it almost dry by the time their ditch and wall got close. The sun rose to a desperate plight for the Pompeians when they were greeted by a sight that had caused despair in countless other enemies of Caesar; he had put us at work building a contravallation. Our baggage had caught up with us in the night, whereupon we were put immediately to work, save for a number of Cohorts left on guard. The enemy started slaughtering their remaining cattle and even killed their mules, sparing only the cavalry horses, which were sent, along with every spare man, out to find water. We were too occupied in throwing up our fortifications to spend any time pursuing the Pompeians, who went scrambling about the countryside looking for water, besides the fact that our own cavalry had already scoured the region and if there was a drop of water or a kernel of grain, it was in our possession. We spent the entire day digging, chopping, and sweating, the Pompeians only able to watch in frustration and I suspect not a small amount of fear as what was effectively a noose neared completion. Finally stopping at sunset, the men were exhausted, filthy, and barely able to pick at their evening meal. Conversation was desultory; the almost nonexistent grumbling was a sure sign of their fatigue, it simply took too much energy.
While the men rested, I was called to a meeting of the senior Centurions of the army with Caesar, who praised the work that the men had accomplished before telling us his plans for the following day. We would be finished with the contravallation by the end of the next day, and Caesar believed that the Pompeians would be forced to make a move before that happened. Accordingly, he ordered that we not commit all of our men to the work, instead having them work in shifts so that they might spare their energy. Despite knowing this would slow the work somewhat, he believed that the Pompeians would not be willing to wait and would make a move the next day. And as usual, he was right, although it was not quite the battle that we thought it would be.
~ ~ ~ ~
We began working the next morning at dawn in the manner prescribed by Caesar, and there was a sense of anticipation running through the men, a sense that the Centurions shared. Once an army is forced to slaughter its pack animals, that is a sure sign that the end is near because they are sacrificing their mobility; they must either stand and fight, or in turn be slaughtered themselves. The progress of our work slowed because of the reduced labor force, but it was still significant. Finally, in the afternoon, there was a stirring in the Pompeian camp. Since our camps were not more than a few hundred paces apart, we could clearly hear the sounds of the cornu and bucina that were sending the Pompeians into a frenzy of activity. Not long after, Caesar issued his own orders, so our horns added to the din, calling the men working on the contravallation to stop and make their way back to camp, while the men in camp who were resting now hurried to gather their weapons and fall into formation. I walked around my Cohort area, while Longus and Crispus brought back our men out working on the contravallation, and I made sure the rest of the men were moving as quickly as I thought they should be, helped by an occasional prod from my vitus.
Before the end of the watch, the Pompeians left their camp to form up in an aciestriplex facing ours, and there they stood waiting for us. It was another third of a watch before all of our men had returned from their work, whereupon we in turn left our camp to face the enemy. Despite also forming up in an acies triplex, Caesar modified it from our usual practice by placing the archers that had arrived with the Gallic column, along with a contingent of slingers with us from the beginning, in the center of the formation. He then deployed our cavalry in two wings, one on either side of the formation. The 10th took what we considered our rightful place on the right wing, making ready for whatever was to come. Because of the relatively narrow space between the two camps, by the time both armies arrayed themselves, there was little more than 200 paces between the two armies, putting us close enough to recognize some of the men facing us. I believe to this day that it was that recognition of friends and kin that stopped the battle, since the sun crept through the sky and no orders were issued by either side. There was a constant buzz of excited muttering, as men recognized each other.
“By the gods, Glabius, isn’t that that bastard Serenus over there? I haven’t seen him since the three of us. .”
“Pluto’s thorny cock, I didn’t know Fuscus was still under the standard! I thought he was dead!”
“Quiet down, you bastards,” I roared. “You act like you’v
e never been on a battlefield before.”
“Not on one where I’m staring at my cousin,” came a voice from the ranks.
I whirled around, knowing that I should find the man who said that, but truly, my heart was not in it because I knew how he felt. Meeting up with Cyclops had brought home to me what it meant to these men to be standing here, facing friends and relatives. Oh, we had gone through multiple skirmishes, but our cavalry had done the bulk of the fighting; they were Germans and had no connection with the men standing across from us. Even after the incident in the Pompeian camp, we still largely held no animosity towards the rank and file of the Pompeian army, knowing that the slaughter of our men was the doing of Petreius and, to a lesser extent, Afranius, who had not stopped Petreius. Consequently, we stood there, waiting for a command that I do not believe any of us wanted to follow, but one that I knew we would if it indeed came.
