Marching With Caesar – Civil War mwc-2

by R. W. Peake

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  Word came that Pompey’s father-in-law, Scipio, was marching to Pompey with the Syrian Legions, choosing to take the long march overland rather than attempt moving his troops by sea and risk losing them to our warships or foul weather. To keep them from joining Pompey, Caesar sent the 11th, 12th, and a force of 500 cavalry to intercept them. Additionally, he sent the 27th into Thessalia because a delegation had come from there, asking Caesar for his protection. Finally, we needed grain and it had to be foraged, prompting Caesar to take five Cohorts from the tribune Acilius, left behind at Oricum. Oricum was also where part of our fleet was now based, and because he was now shorthanded, Acilius took further precautions to safeguard the fleet by sinking a couple of derelicts in the harbor mouth. Although we recognized the need to provide men for the tasks that Caesar had set for them, none of us liked the idea of whittling down the size of the army. As it was, we were essentially stranded in territory that had been Pompeian for many months before we arrived, and despite being greeted like conquering heroes by the people of the towns we had entered so far, none of us put much faith in the steadfast nature of the Greeks. We would not have been a bit surprised if the towns that opened their gates to us just as quickly closed them if they thought that Pompey held the upper hand. What happened at Oricum did not help that feeling, when Pompey’s son Gnaeus in a single raid managed to overcome the obstacles Acilius had put in place, destroying the part of our fleet harbored there. Not content with that, Gnaeus then hurried north to Lissus where Antony's fleet was moored, burning most of the ships there to the waterline. We were well and truly fucked, stuck in Greece even if we wanted to leave and our supply situation just became even more critical now that we had no way of bringing supplies from Italia. I think it was because of these events that Caesar decided to make a move that he hoped would end the war.

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  Within a couple of watches of receiving word of the fleet at Lissus being burned, Caesar ordered us on the march, leading us to a spot just on the other side of the Genusis (Seman) River from where Pompey was camped at Asparagium. Caesar was determined to goad Pompey into doing battle, ordering us into battle formation, where we stood for the better part of a day, but Pompey refused to take the bait. That night, Caesar called a conference, announcing that his next move was to march on Dyrrhachium.

  “My hope is that by moving swiftly, Pompey will be forced either to hurry to Dyrrhachium, where we will face him, or he will abandon it, and give up his supply base. Of the two, I frankly prefer the second option because not only will it deprive Pompey of his supply base, it will solve our own dilemma.”

  We all saw the sense of what he said. Having received our orders, we dispersed to our respective Legions and Cohorts to get them ready to move in the morning. Because Asparagium was between us and Dyrrhachium, we could not make a direct march, instead first marching westward in the opposite direction of what would be considered the shortest distance, before turning north once we put a range of hills between us and Pompey. Quite naturally, Pompey assumed that the reason we were marching away was because of our supply situation. Consequently, he made no move to follow us, nor did he return to Dyrrhachium for almost half a day. When we turned north, Pompey realized what we were about, whereupon our scouts reported his breaking camp and beginning to move towards Dyrrhachium. We only stopped for perhaps a full watch to rest, not even bothering to make camp but just laying on our gear before resuming the march in the night. Reaching the Arzen River, we turned west to follow it downstream until reaching a ridgeline that pointed towards the coast before following that until the road to Dyrrhachium was visible, with Dyrrhachium to our north. Less than a third of a watch later, we saw Pompey’s advance guard approaching from the south; we had beaten them and cut them off from Dyrrhachium.

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  Now, both sides were in difficulty, although we were still in greater peril. Our army was cut off from our supply base across the water, but now Pompey’s army was cut off from Dyrrhachium. However, Pompey’s problem was more easily solved because he still had control of the sea, and it was a short cruise from Dyrrhachium to his current camp for the ferrying of supplies. Between the two armies was a rushing stream, and with this barrier forestalling an attack, we began fortifying our respective camps. Despite the immediately surrounding area being extremely hilly, there were numerous hill farms where grain was being grown and we knew that there would be a sharp struggle for the food growing there. The only way to have any chance of success in foraging was to keep Pompey’s troops at bay, giving us free access to what grain there was available. To accomplish that, once again we began to dig. As we had done at Alesia, Caesar ordered the building of a contravallation, although this would not be as elaborate as at Alesia because we had some help, courtesy of the terrain, there being places where there were hills with such steep escarpments that we could use them as part of the defenses to keep Pompey’s army penned in. In effect, what we were to do was to build a series of forts on the tops of these hills, then link the hills with a line of double entrenchments. Although we set immediately to work, Pompey divined what we were about, consequently beginning his own counter-works, with the intent of claiming as much open-grazing land along the coast as he could, since he possessed many times our number of animals, both for use as cavalry and for transport, as well as for food. Thus began a race, with both sides working southward; our goal was to extend the line past Pompey’s, curving west to the coast and cutting him off. His goal, of course, was to keep us from doing that. It was grim, hard work, done in shifts through all watches, but after a few days, the shifts stopped. Every man from then on expected to work to his utmost before staggering off to snatch perhaps a watch’s worth of sleep before returning.

  While I and the other officers did not do much actual digging, we were expected to be present whenever any of our men were working, along with attending the briefings that were held every morning, meaning that sleep was in even shorter supply for us. Nevertheless, I had to set an example for the men, making the idea of acting like I was tired simply out of the question. I made sure I shaved every morning, a task I had long since stopped performing myself, having Zeno do it, one of the few luxuries of rank in which I indulged. The first couple of days before I got used to the onerous job again, I looked like I had been in a skirmish after each shave, coming out the worse for it with nicks and cuts all over my cheeks and jaw. The men thought this hilarious, and while normally I would have smacked them for their impudence, I saw that it helped morale, so I took the ribbing with as much grace as I could muster. Day by day, foot by foot, the work continued on the double line, although not without some excitement, with Pompey sending out sorties on a regular basis to try disrupting our work. Of course we did the same, and finally the time came when my Cohort was selected to go raiding the Pompeian lines. It was an opportunity we welcomed, although not for the reason one might suspect. It was less about the chance at glory and finally doing battle than it was a break from the monotony of digging, at least where the men were concerned, making for an added element to the normally charged atmosphere in our Cohort area the evening before the raid as the men made their preparations. It was almost like we were going on parade; I found myself quite at a loss because the men turned to making their equipment ready with such zeal that I essentially had nothing to do. Seeing almost immediately there was no need for the vitus, instead I strode down the lines of our tents; to a man, they were all bent over their armor, scrubbing furiously, restoring the shine and getting the last specks of rust off of them. Or they were honing their swords; the men from the Century long ago designated as armorers bent over a pile of blades, working each one of them before handing them to their owner, who would then go through their own ritual of sharpening the blade, usually just before the call to assemble to go into battle. The shields were being attended to as well; bosses polished, paint touched up on the Legion emblem, the finished ones standing in a line in front of each tent, ready for my ins
pection. I do not think I could have been any prouder of my Cohort than I was at that moment. Here were true professionals, men who did not need the vitus across their backs, knowing what needed to be done because they knew that part of the battle was in the details being attended to at that moment. It may sound simple, perhaps even silly, to think that shining armor or a polished helmet would make a difference in battle, but it does. It makes a great deal of difference because it shows not just the enemy but their fellow Legionaries that they are proud of the job they do, making them fight harder because they do not want to let their comrades down, and knowing all the hard work that went into preparing for that moment of battle. This is one of the secrets that made us, the armies of Rome, so formidable and impossible to defeat, at least on a regular basis. Of course, this time I could not banish the thought from my mind that across the open ground between the two lines were men doing the exact same thing. Maybe not at that moment, and probably not directly across from us; the odds of both commanders picking the exact same spot to send men across in a raid at the exact same time were too high to waste time contemplating. Nevertheless, I knew that whether or not they were actually performing the same ritual that we were at that moment, the instant they saw my Cohort marching across the open ground, they would understand why we looked like we were standing for inspection.

  The sound of a throat clearing interrupted my thoughts, and I turned to see Celer standing at intente.

  “Yes?”

  “Pilus Prior, I was wondering if you wanted the men to wear their plumes?”

  I thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, why not? If we’re going to get prettied up, there’s no need in doing it halfway. We’ll let Pompey see what real Legionaries look like, right?” Celer nodded, like he was expressing his approval of my decision and I swallowed my irritation, trying to keep my voice even. “Give the order, Celer.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  He saluted and marched off. I knew that he would make sure the men got the impression that it was his idea, but I shrugged it off. I could only worry about so much, and by this time I was feeling fairly comfortable in my command of the Cohort. Turning back to my examination of the ground over which we would be marching in the morning, I looked for any obstacles, mentally plotting the best course over which to cross. Straining to see if I could spot the telltale bulk of artillery dotting the palisade of the hillfort that was our objective, I could not see anything suspicious, not that it meant anything at this distance. Well, I thought, we will find out one way or another in the morning.

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  I was up before dawn, grumbling to myself about having to don my own gear and feed myself for the fiftieth time since we had landed. Pullus, I thought wryly, you have gone soft. Here you are bitching like a patrician about having to shave, dress, and feed yourself. By the light of the oil lamp in my tent, I went through my own pre-battle ritual, doing things in the exact same way that I had done them since the morning of the first battle back in Hispania those 13 years before. We soldiers are a superstitious lot, and despite being less so than most, I still was not willing to tempt the fates by altering what had worked so many times previously. Consequently, I pulled on my boots, left foot first, wrapping the thongs with the left over the right, opposite of the way most men I knew did it, but that first morning in Hispania, in my haste I had reversed the order and therefore had stuck to doing it that way ever since. Taking my armor off the stand, I dropped it over my head, the weight of it feeling like a comforting hand draped over my shoulders as I strapped on my belt, again doing things exactly the same way as always, then attached my sword, nestled in my scabbard, to the belt. I drew the Gallic blade, having spent an entire third of a watch sharpening it the night before like I always did, carefully inspecting it, despite my head knowing that nothing could have happened to it in the scant time I was asleep. Still, it was what I always did, so I did it again. Finally, I picked up my helmet, critically eying the transverse crest, making sure that it was spotless. I would not don that until I stepped out of the tent, mainly because with my height the top of the crest would brush the roof of the tent and get dirty from all the soot that collected on the roof. Picking up my vitus, I stood for a moment, letting my thoughts settle and my mind focus on what lay ahead, ignoring the churning in my stomach. Actually, that is not true; I did not ignore it, I welcomed it as an old friend, because it told me that my body was readying itself for battle. I remember wondering to myself if there would ever be a day where I did not have that feeling, and if I did, whether it would be a good thing or a bad thing. You think too much, I chided myself, stepping out and taking a deep breath of the cool air, tasting the salty tang carried by the breeze from the sea just a couple miles away.

  The call to start the day had not sounded and most of the army was asleep, so I was gratified to see there was already a lot of activity in the Cohort, the men going through their own last-moment preparations. Our orders were to be in place and ready to begin the assault immediately before sunrise, with the goal of reaching the hillfort just when the sun was topping the hills behind us. This would put the sun in the eyes of the Pompeians, giving us an advantage as we made the assault. That was the hope anyway, but a part of me was aware that it would also mean that we would be sharply outlined, just like targets at the javelin range. Nothing to be done about it, I thought, filling my lungs to roar out the command to assemble. We would not be using the bucina or even the cornu, since the sounds of horns would carry too far. Before I actually bellowed out the order, I stopped myself. Most of my life I have been chided for having a voice that could be heard for miles; when I was a child Gaia was always scolding me about yelling too loudly indoors and how the neighbors could hear, something I thought was quite funny since they were a couple of miles away. Having a voice that could break rock had served me well in the army, but now I thought better of using it. While it was not likely that my voice would carry the more than a mile to the enemy lines, it was still very quiet and it did not make sense to take the risk. Instead, I walked down the line, calling in what I considered my quiet voice for the Centurions of the Cohort. Once they had all arrived, I was pleased to see that they were already dressed and ready to go, with one exception, and that exception was Celer. He was still wearing just his tunic, and I tried to hide my glee at having caught him out.

  “Well, Celer,” I said in what I hoped was the right combination of joviality and mocking condescension, “I do apologize for rousing you from your beauty rest.” I paused, relishing the laughter of the others. Even in the gloom, I could see the flush rising from the neck of his tunic. “However, if you don’t mind, I was wondering if I could impose on you gentlemen to quietly get your men formed up. It looks like the boys are already spoiling to go, with one exception, of course.”

  I looked at Celer and was about to add a comment that perhaps he was not ready because he was not as keen as his men to get after the enemy, but quickly realized that this would be too far over the line, and bit it back. Instead, I waited for them to give their acknowledgment of my orders, gratified to see Celer absolutely sprinting back to his tent to don his gear. I could not help feeling a bit smug at catching him unprepared. That will show you, I thought, smiling to myself as I walked to report to Crastinus that we were forming up. All was right with the world.

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  The men assembled quickly, and I understood that while I did not need to, my failure to go through with an inspection would be taken as an insult. They had spent time that they could have been sleeping or otherwise enjoying themselves making sure that they were turned out in a manner that would bring credit to their Pilus Prior, so for me not to acknowledge that would be as close to giving each of them a slap in the face as I could get. Therefore, despite my impatience to get us marching, I walked through each Century, spending a moment here to point out some imaginary speck of dust, a moment there to share a joke with one of the men. While I believe in discipline as much as any Centurion, I also believe th
at there are times when it pays to lighten the mood a bit, and I always found that the proper time for that was just before men were about to go off and possibly die. I wanted men to fight for me because they wanted to, not because they feared the consequences, although if forced to, I would use fear, like I had to with Figulus. Speaking of Figulus, that day, when I stood in front of him and inspected him, I praised his efforts, commending him for having gone above and beyond with his gear, loudly proclaiming that he was by far the most outstanding of the men I had inspected to that point. In truth, he was no better or worse than any of the other men, but I wanted to reinforce that what I did to him those months ago was not personal, that I had not been out to get him, and I was rewarded by the look of surprise and pleasure on his face as I stepped away. Almost a third of a watch had passed, the sky beginning to glow pink over the eastern hills when I stepped to the front of the Cohort. Suddenly, I was struck by the thought that the inspection should have taken much longer, but did not because I ran out of men to inspect. I currently had seven men on the sick list, and despite it still being the lowest in the Legion, that meant that there were barely 290 effectives, and that number would probably be lower in just a short while. It saddened me to think about that but I pushed it from my mind, giving the order to move out.

  Marching out of the gate of the camp, we crossed the portable bridge that was thrown across the ditch for sorties like ours, with the men from the other Cohorts standing to the side and wishing us luck. They knew the score as well as we all did; they were aware that some of their friends would not be coming back whole, or at all. Still, the men were in good spirits by the way they marched, shoulders back, their chins up, ready to get after the men who hopefully did not know we were coming….yet. But they would soon enough.

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