Marching With Caesar – Civil War mwc-2

by R. W. Peake

  “So this is the way he introduces himself, keeping us waiting?”

  “Just trying to keep us on our toes, I guess.”

  “On our toes? Who does that prick think he is? We’re the 6th, not some bunch of tirones! If anything, he should be waiting for us!”

  I spotted the two men speaking and aimed for the man who spoke last. They were in the next to rear rank of the formation, members of the 7th Cohort and I pushed past the men in the rearmost rank, who started to mouth their protest but quickly shut up when they saw who it was pushing them aside. Stopping silently behind the two men, I studied them for a moment. They had to be brothers, I thought, because they looked like two peas from the same pod. Both were short, brown, scrawny things, with twigs for arms and sticks for legs, yet those appendages also bore their share of scars. They were Spanish Legionaries all right, I thought to myself; not an ounce of fat, just meat and gristle and tough as old boot leather.

  I smiled grimly, then leaned forward and said quietly in the second man’s ear, “Prick, am I?”

  I was gratified to see both their bodies go absolutely rigid, and there was a moment where neither of them said anything.

  Finally, the man who had uttered the insult said in a voice that did not waver, “Yes, sir. That’s what I said. No disrespect intended. In fact, we Spaniards use it as a term of affection sometimes sir. Not sure what your custom is, sir.”

  I had to suppress a chuckle; at least the man could think on his feet, and he did not immediately fall to the ground quaking. Well, we will see how long that lasts, I thought, stepping around and turning to face him, looking down where his face was gazing straight into my chest. I was pleased to see that suddenly he did not seem so sure of himself, sure that I detected a hint of a quiver run through his body, but if it was there he quickly got it under control. Then I leaned towards him, another favorite trick of mine, and despite himself, he in turn leaned back, trying to maintain some distance between us. I smiled, but it was not a nice smile as I looked him up and down, curling my lip in the same manner that Crastinus had all those years ago, and I was struck by a sudden urge to laugh. Apparently, the numen that had once waved the invisible turd under Crastinus’ nose back when I was a tiro had transferred itself to me now that he was gone.

  Finally, I spoke again. “You’re a short-ass little piece of cac, aren’t you?” He did not say anything, and I snapped, “I believe I asked you a question, Gregarius!”

  “Yes, sir,” he barked. “I’m a short-ass piece of cac!”

  I nodded. “I thought as much. But it’s good that you see yourself for what you are. The path to true happiness lies in knowing your shortcomings. And you want to be happy, don’t you, Gregarius?”

  A look of confusion flitted across his face, but he knew the game well enough to know that no matter where this was going, he was going to lose. It is one of the secrets to being as close to happy as one can be in the army; knowing that your superiors are playing with loaded dice that will come up Venus for them on every roll. Once one accepts that, it makes life for everyone go much easier, and by this point in time, every man who thought he could beat the system had long since died or deserted.

  “Yes, sir. I want to be happy, sir.”

  “Do you know what another brick in the road to true happiness is, Gregarius?”

  “No, sir, but I hope that the Centurion will instruct me. Sir.”

  Despite myself, I was enjoying this exchange and I suspect that the Gregarius was as well. It is all just a big farce really, and we each have a role to play.

  Now I bent my knees so that I was looking directly into his eyes, saying slowly and distinctly, “Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me. Or I will beat you to death with my bare hands. Do you doubt that, Gregarius? That I could do just that?”

  Role it may have been, but I was also deadly serious, and looking into his eyes before he looked away, I saw with satisfaction that he knew it as well.

  “No, sir. I don’t doubt it at all. Sir.”

  His tone was clipped, but his voice held no emotion, his eyes now back to looking at a point above my head.

  I nodded again. “What’s your name and rank, Gregarius?”

  “Gregarius Immunes Gaius Tetarfenus, sir.”

  I turned to the first man, asking him the same, and my suspicions were confirmed.

  “Sergeant Quintus Tetarfenus. Sir.”

  I raised an eyebrow as I turned to the Sergeant. “You’re a Sergeant? And you’re talking in the ranks like a washerwoman?” I gave a loud, theatrical sigh then shook my head. “I am surprised.” I raised my voice so that more of the men could hear. “When I was told that I'd be leading the men of the 6th Legion, I thought to myself, here’s a group of men worthy of my leadership at least. Men that I, Primus Pilus Titus Pullus,” I savored the taste of my new title on my tongue, “would be honored to lead wherever Caesar deems it necessary to send us, whether it’s to Hades or to the top of Olympus to fight the gods themselves!” Pausing, I looked at the men around me out of the corner of my eye, and I could see them straining to hear my words. I let out another huge sigh. “But what’s my first impression? My first impression, courtesy of the Tetarfenus brothers, is that they gossip like camp whores, and they have no respect for their superior officers!”

  My voice was like a lash by the time I finished, and I was pleased to see that the reaction of the men seemed to be equal parts anger and shame. I had little doubt that some of the anger was directed at me, but the majority would now be aimed at the brothers Tetarfenus and when I turned to walk towards the front of the formation, I saw by their ashen expressions that they indeed felt that way. Taking my place at the front of the formation, I executed an about turn to face my new command. Staring back at me were men almost identical to the men of the Second Cohort of the 10th. Oh, the faces were different, but the men were exactly the same. Some larger than others, none as large as me, although there were a couple who came close, all browned by countless days in the sun, without an ounce of spare fat on their frames, and there were scars and decorations in abundance.

  “As you just heard, my name is Primus Pilus Titus Pullus, recently promoted to this grade by Caesar himself from my post as Secundus Pilus Prior of the 10th.”

  I am not completely sure what I was expecting, but the reaction I got at mention of the 10th was not it. Instead of respect, or at the least regard for what we had accomplished, I saw lips lifted in sneers, clear signs of contempt. I was bewildered; I know now that at the very least it was naïve of me to think that men who just days ago were on the other side of the battlefield would automatically accord the 10th the kind of respect that we were accorded by the rest of the army. At that moment, however, I honestly could not understand what was behind the reactions I was seeing, and the subsequent wave of anger that flowed through me was something white-hot, literally making my blood feel like it had suddenly turned molten. My legs began to shake with rage, and I could tell that this beast was about to burst out of my chest, just like when the madness took hold of me in much the same way it had that first time on that hill in Lusitania all those years ago. This killing rage prompted me to do something that as far as I know, had never been done before and likely has not been done since. As if my hands had a mind of their own my left hand unclenched, dropping my vitus to the ground, then I untied the straps to my helmet, laying it down on top of the vitus. I could see that I held the men’s undivided attention, but I was not finished. Unstrapping my harness next, and laying my weapons next to the helmet, I then very carefully removed my phalarae, torqs, and other decorations before pulling off my armor, laying it on the ground as well. All this was done in total, and shocked silence, but the quiet was about to be broken, by me. Now I was only in my tunic, the standard army issue tunic that in my case stretched tightly across my chest and shoulders, the sleeves barely covering my shoulders, leaving the bulging muscles of my arms exposed. Stepping away from my gear, I suddenly filled my lungs and roared more loudly than I had ever done
before in my life.

  “I am Titus Pullus! I am the son of Mars and Bellona! I am of the 10th Legion, and I challenge any one of you motherless cunni to step forward and face me! I spit on your ancestors, dogs and whores that they were! I am not a Centurion, I am not the Primus Pilus at this moment! I am Titus Pullus! Do any of you have the courage to challenge me?”

  I could feel the cords of my neck straining as I shouted these words, the blood suffusing my face as I clenched my fists, stalking up and down in front of the assembled men, glaring at each of them, none of whom met my gaze.

  I gave a harsh, mocking laugh. “So these are the men of the vaunted 6th Legion? None of them even dare to look me in the eye, so I know that there’s not a man among them who dares to challenge me.” My lips curled in a sneer. “Do I need to make it any plainer? I’m not standing here as your Primus Pilus, or as a Centurion. I give you my word that there will be no official punishment for any man who bests me. In fact, I offer a reward of a thousand sesterces if you do beat me, and I’ll exempt the man from any fatigue duties for a month!”

  I was in fact offering much more than that, and the men and I knew it. If their champion bested me, my ability to command these men was over before it started. The word of my defeat would spread through the army like a wildfire, and my career would effectively be over. I was risking everything I held dear on one throw of the dice and I was struck by the thought that perhaps during my time marching with Caesar some of his habits were rubbing off. While what I was doing was not unheard of, particularly during the early days when a Legion was first formed, as I said before, I had never heard of anyone doing it in the manner that I was doing it now. The most common form was after watch, behind the latrines, in an unofficial manner. Doing what I was doing in the forum, in front of not only a formation of Legionaries, but any other member of the army who happened to be walking by that could witness what was happening is what made my actions so unusual, but I was beyond caring. It was like all the anger and hurt from the sense of betrayal that I felt about what happened between Vibius and me, and the 10th as a whole, had been bottled up and was now bursting forth, and I wanted someone to pay. The men still stood there, but they were uneasily glancing about, making me think for a moment that none of them would answer my challenge, so that I had indeed turned back towards my piled gear, when there was a stir from where the men of the 10th Cohort stood. From the rear ranks came a man, a whispered name preceding him, whipping through the ranks, and it took me a moment to understand what they were saying.

  “Publius!”

  While the man Publius was not as tall as I was, he clearly weighed at least as much as I did, if not more, and none of it was fat. He walked with a rolling gait, but there was a litheness about his movements that told me that he was quick on his feet. His face was scarred, but they were not the marks of battle, at least the kind of battle like what just took place on the plains of Pharsalus. His scars were the kind picked up in the wine shops outside camp, and he clearly had a reputation among his comrades, their faces splitting in wide smiles at the sight of him. His broad, flat face bore little emotion and I recognized in this Publius a man that perhaps even more than me was born for nothing but combat.

  He walked up to me and said flatly, “I accept your challenge.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Even now, all these years later, years that have served to rub the edges off of some of my hubris and have seen me humbled on more than one occasion, I still can say with utmost honesty and clarity that the beating I gave Publius was as thorough, and more importantly, as quick as any I had administered, even to poor Figulus. The fact that he barely laid a hand on me only made my victory more meaningful, at least as far as the men of the 6th were concerned. With Publius lying unconscious at my feet, I walked back to put all of my gear back on, taking the time to carefully reattach my decorations. Picking up my vitus, I turned back to the men, taking great satisfaction in the looks of shock and dismay written on their faces as they stared at the hulk at my feet, his head now lying in a pool of his own blood. Slowly looking the men over, I finally spoke, making sure that I controlled my breathing so that they could see I was not exerted in the least, my tone sounding like none of what had just happened ever took place.

  “I look forward to leading all of you to great glory, wherever it may be. I know that I can count on you to obey me in all things, and acquit yourself as professionals in the army of Rome.” Pausing again, my gaze traveled over the assembled men, who were looking at me in a manner very different than a few moments before. Turning as if to go, I paused as if I had just thought of something, and said, “Oh, and just so you know. I’m from Hispania myself; Astigi to be exact. And I know that Spaniards don’t use the word ‘prick’ in an affectionate manner. Greeks might, but not Spaniards. Dismissed.”

  As I walked away, I was rewarded with a few chuckles at my last remark, but only a few.

  Chapter 5- Alexandria

  Pompey made good his escape, taking ship for Mytilene, among other stops, where he continued to try to rally support, while the 1st, 4th, and the rest of the 6th was gathered up by Cato to be shipped off to Africa. They were joined there by the rest of the traitors who escaped from the battle; Afranius, Petreius, and the worst of the lot, Labienus. Meanwhile, the rest of the 6th set out for Macedonia, following in Caesar’s wake as he in turn trailed Pompey, and I marched at their head. Despite the fact I had not won the second pillar of respect, I was confident that they feared me, since Publius was still confined to being carried by one of the Legion wagons, unable to walk. The added benefit to my thorough beating of Publius was that, just like my defeat would have, word of what I did flashed through the rest of the army before we left. I took some satisfaction that Vibius knew what I could have done to him if I had so chosen.

  Finally catching up with Caesar in Asia at Pergamum, where he was lingering to deal with a number of matters pertaining to the running of the province, we were ordered to make a camp outside the walls to wait while he finished attending to his business. Additionally, we were waiting for five Cohorts of the 28th, one of the newer Legions that had not participated in the revolt in camp. I looked at this time as an opportunity to start establishing firmer control of the 6th; to that point we had not spent two nights in a row in the same place, save for almost a week waiting for shipping to take us to Caesar, and that was not an appropriate time or place for what I had in mind. In Pergamum, I would have the time, and my approach was basic, focusing on what had been my first step up the ladder of promotion, with weapons training. I was going to give every man willing to try a chance at besting me in mock combat. How cocksure I was in those days, how convinced of my own strength and skill! I must laugh at myself now, not so much for having those thoughts, but at how unbearably earnest I was in my belief in myself. I also must laugh at myself because after several weeks in which to think of the best solution to my problem, this was the best I could do, simply resorting to my physical skills instead of using my brain. Elegant it was not, but it was effective, although I did not escape entirely unscathed. When all was said and done, I faced just short of 40 men willing to test themselves against me, and despite besting all of them, it was not without a supreme effort and quite a few cuts and bruises on my part. I also demanded that the men adopt the grip of the sword first taught to me by Vinicius, and while they resisted at first, after the first few bouts when I knocked the wooden sword from my opponents’ hands, they became convinced.