Marching With Caesar – Civil War mwc-2

by R. W. Peake

  At this point, I think it is appropriate to mention the Centurions who served under me; some of them would go on to become good friends, some not. The Septimus Pilus Prior was a man named Gaius Valerius Valens, a Spaniard just a couple years older than I was. Of medium height and build, he was a competent officer, respected but not loved by his men. The Pilus Posterior was Quintus Annius, a greasy little speck of nothing who held aspirations of reaching the first grade rank, except that he did not have enough of what it took to get there. He was clever but not smart, unable to think past the immediate benefit or downfall of whatever scheme he was cooking up, and would prove to be a rock in my boot. The Princeps Prior was Gaius Sido, an older man on his second enlistment. Sido had risen about as far as he was ever going to go, but he was competent enough to do his job. In command of the Fourth Century was Princeps Posterior Lucius Serenus, a companion of Annius with about the same level of competence but not nearly as wily as Annius, and who looked at Annius as being much smarter than he was, which should tell one all they need to know about him. The Fifth was under the command of Marcus Junius Felix, who reminded me of Scribonius in many ways, both in his physical appearance and in his outlook. It was perhaps because of that resemblance that I would grow closer to Felix than perhaps any of the other men. Finally, the Hastatus Posterior was Publius Clemens, and there was nothing merciful about him. He was a fighter, one of those men like Publius who lived for battle, although he was smarter than Publius, which is why he was a Centurion. Clemens was well liked, even loved by his men and he loved them back. His weakness was the same as with so many men: Bacchus and the grape. Regardless, he was still one of my best.

  The Tenth Cohort’s Decimus Pilus Prior was Gaius Fuscus, originally from Etruria, and he ran the Cohort in name only. The real muscle running the Tenth was a brute named Gaius Cornuficius, the Pilus Posterior. A combination of guile and enormous strength, Cornuficius was reputedly a fearsome fighter, but he was not one of the men who challenged me during my weapons training, which I would learn later was a sign that he was actually quite smart. Interestingly, he had the appearance of being dull, looking at the world through blank, bovine eyes, but it was all a sham, as I would learn the hard way. The Princeps Prior was Lucius Salvius, more or less a non-entity who did the bare minimum needed to run his Century, relying on his Optio, a man named Porcinus who, just on ability, should have been in that slot. Princeps Posterior was Marcus Favonius, and he was Cornuficius’ toady, much in the same way that Niger was to Celer. Of all the men under me, I think Favonius was the most tragic, because he had a great deal of potential to be a real leader, if he had not been polluted by Cornuficius. The Fifth’s Centurion was Quintus Sertorius, and based solely on ability he should have been the man running the Cohort. Like Clemens, he was well loved by his men, but unlike Clemens, he did not have any obvious weakness. Finally, was Marcus Considius, commander of the Sixth Century, and there is not much I can say about the man one way or another. I believe that he was promoted to the Centurionate because of connections and not ability, something that sometimes happened, although thankfully not in any Legion Caesar commanded. However, Pompey’s army had apparently been run differently and I was stuck with Considius until I could think of other alternatives.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Being de facto Primus Pilus, I was not only given a raise in pay, I was also accorded the other benefits that come with the position. Namely, I had a larger tent, and I was eligible for two clerks and a personal body slave. Because I was only running two Cohorts, I chose not to take advantage of the second clerk, although I did take on the body slave, choosing the slave who helped me prepare for my first meeting with the 6th. He was a miserable looking, short-ass little thing, scrawny even for a Greek, and it was not until several weeks into his service with me that I even bothered to learn his name. He said it was Diocles. Yes, gentle reader, the very same man hurriedly scribbling away as I speak, I first met many, many years ago in a dusty army camp. I am smiling now at the memory, and am pleased to see that he is smiling back. He was barely out of his teens, ten years younger than me, and when I first took him into my service, it was only as an attendant to my physical needs. At the time, I was unaware, and truthfully did not particularly care about Diocles’ many other talents of a more cerebral nature; that would be a pleasant surprise, but down the road after many, many miles and battles.

  (Since I am the topic of this part of my master and friend’s narrative, I am inserting my own recollection of the event of our meeting, because it was much more momentous for me than it was for him. As he mentioned, I had indeed been in the service of a member of Pompey’s staff and had managed to survive what was a horrific experience when first Pompey’s very own men sacked the camp, followed by members of Caesar’s army. I hid myself under a pile of bodies dispatched by Pompey’s men, servants and retainers of Pompey’s staff, along with clerks and the like who tried to stop our own troops from looting their officers and comrades’ valuables, but I have never seen such a madness come over men as I saw that day. I burrowed into a pile of corpses, and when Caesar’s men came into the camp, they more or less picked up where Pompey’s men had left off, taking whatever was left, and killing whoever they found. It was not until Caesar came and took control of the camp, and even then I waited a full watch for nightfall, before I felt safe enough to climb from my gruesome refuge. I surrendered myself to the provosts, who herded me into a large holding area, separate from the combatant prisoners, where I stayed with others like myself who through some combination of luck and guile had managed to survive the madness. We were well treated, considering our status and our station, and it was from this state that I was plucked by none other than Titus Pullus. I first laid eyes on him when he came to our enclosure, calling for anyone with experience as a body slave. As he now knows, I had absolutely no practical experience in such matters, although I had seen it done more times than I could count, having been my former master’s personal secretary. Even now, these many years later, I do not know why I chose to step forward and raise my hand, despite giving the matter much thought over the years. But that is exactly what I did, entering the life of Titus Pullus, as he entered mine. Neither of us at the time had any idea that we would be together so many years; at that moment I just made the determination that what Titus Pullus was offering was better than what my immediate future seemed to have in the offing. He has described me (accurately I might add, as much as it pains me to admit it), but here is what I saw when I first laid eyes on him. While my master and friend may not be shy about proclaiming the greatness of his deeds, he does not exaggerate in his descriptions. When he says he was a large man, if anything it is an understatement; in truth I had never seen a man as large and powerful as Titus Pullus up to that moment. He was not in uniform, but he carried his vitus, so I knew that he was a Centurion, and if I had contented myself with just taking in his physical appearance, I would have dismissed him as a typical Roman, his size notwithstanding. But as we stood in those few moments studying each other, I thought I detected something in his brown eyes that indicated that there was something there that was more than a professional soldier of Rome’s army. I hesitate to call it intelligence, because to say as much would give the Centurions of Rome’s army short shrift; most of them are intelligent, strictly speaking, but there is more to a man than how quickly he can think through a problem. Perhaps what I saw was a certain sensitivity (which will undoubtedly cause my master to spew a mouthful of wine all over when he reads this), or a spark of what might be described as imagination. But no, that is not it, and as I write this I think I may have touched on the quality I saw in his eyes, and that was curiosity. As boastful as my master may be about his physical deeds, he is the exact opposite when it comes to his other qualities, and one thing that I have noticed missing in his description of himself is his absolute curiosity and willingness to learn more about the world around him. He says that he only became interested in learning to read better because of his promotions, but
that is not a complete truth. In fact, one of the duties that kept me the busiest, then and now, was laying my hands on reading material for him. He was and is a voracious reader, and now in the twilight of his life his library rivals that of any patrician or equites of Rome. I know why he did not speak of his habits while he was on active service; soldiers view literacy with suspicion, for a number of reasons. To men in the ranks, and even to other officers, it speaks of a dissatisfaction with one’s station in life, since education is one of the most vital components for a New Man to rise in Roman society. They also view it as a sign of cleverness, and to a Roman that is not a compliment. Lastly, a literate man is more likely to know the rules and regulation of the army and can use those to enrich himself, at the expense of others.

  My master has made no secret in his narrative that his primary goal when he decided to join the Legions and make the army his career was to better himself and his descendants, but such ambition must never be spoken of openly in Roman society when one is of the lower classes. It is funny; even after almost an entire life spent in one of the pillars of Roman society in the army, I still view myself as an outsider, looking in on the workings of the society and culture that I believe will enter the annals of history as the greatest of all time. I say this with some pain; I am a Greek by birth, and slave or not, I am as proud of my heritage as any Roman citizen, but while the Romans may lack culture and refinement, they make up for that lack in many other qualities, not all of them martial. What has made the Romans great is not in their ability to just conquer, but in to hold what they have conquered by offering the subdued both tangible and intangible benefits that far surpass the benefits that the conquered society offered its citizens before Rome showed up. And one of the things that Rome offers is the ability to improve one’s circumstances. But make no mistake, it is rigidly controlled and is not an easy course to pursue. Equal to the suspicion of the lower ranks when a man displays too much interest in literacy (and I shudder when I say that to Romans there is such a thing as too much) is both the suspicion and the resistance to such a man from the upper ranks of Roman society. While the lower ranks and their attitude towards a man bettering himself is a barrier, the resistance of the patrician class to such a man can be downright dangerous, and not just to a man’s status, but to his life. The countryside of the Republic is littered with the bones of men who some patrician deemed to be getting above himself. So I understand and at the time, I approved of my master’s reluctance to display his literacy to anyone other than those few he trusted completely, but those days are long past. His status is secure here towards the end of his life and career, so I am somewhat puzzled why even in this account of his life he is reluctant to speak of this aspect of his character. Perhaps it is as he has said himself; old habits die hard. So that is what I saw in the eyes of Titus Pullus on that day those many years ago. In that moment, our fates intertwined, and I have enjoyed the experience immensely.)

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  I was called to the villa of a Roman citizen living in Pergamum, a merchant I believe, where Caesar made his headquarters. I was ushered in immediately and I saw that Caesar was amidst his usual whirlwind of activity, dictating to a number of different scribes on a number of different topics. Waving me closer, he stopped his dictation, whereupon almost every one of his clerks immediately went scurrying off to either relieve themselves or get something to eat. Service with Caesar at any level or function was not easy, but I believe that his clerks had the absolute worst of it.

  Looking at me, Caesar grinned. “How’s Publius?”

  I know I should not have been surprised, but I was, which I think was half the reason Caesar said such things, just to keep people around him off balance.

  “He’s almost recovered, Caesar.”

  “Good.” As quickly as it came, his smile disappeared, and he looked at me coldly. “Because if he had died, I would have had no choice but to have you executed.”

  I was determined that he would not keep me off balance, so I merely replied, “I know. But he’s not dead and will make a full recovery.”

  He gave me a speculative look. “Pullus, while I understand what you did, I must ask if there wasn't some less. . dramatic and violent a demonstration that you could have made?”

  In truth, I had never thought about it, but when he said it, I realized that I probably could have done something else, and I felt a sense of shame wash over me. Damn the man, I thought! Can he always find something to make me feel like I am inadequate for the job he has given me? But I had undergone more exposure to Caesar in the last few weeks than I had experienced in my whole time in the army previously. What I learned during that time was that he was always testing the people around him, that every exchange with him held more meaning than met the eye, and I was determined that I would not be flustered by his questioning.

  So I just shrugged. “Perhaps, Caesar, but rankers aren’t as appreciative of subtlety as other types of people. I could have tried something else, I suppose, but I’m fairly certain that it would have been as successful as trying to teach a pig how to speak our tongue.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, and I was pleased with myself for amusing him.

  “Well put, Pullus. Well put. And I take your point.” That done, he became all business. “The reason I called you is to tell you to prepare the men. We're leaving.”

  “Where to, Caesar?”

  “Alexandria. I've received reliable reports that Pompey has decided to head there with the goal of trying to convince their young king that his cause isn't doomed. I want to get there as quickly as possible and end this nonsense once and for all.”

  Although that sounded good to me, I had my doubts about whether it would in fact end, and obviously, the reservation showed, because Caesar read my face and gave a sigh.

  “You have your doubts, neh, Pullus?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Caesar, I have my doubts.”

  Crossing his arms, he sat on a table, regarding me steadily, then asked, “And why is that?”

  “Cato.”

  I am not sure what reaction I expected, but he pursed his lips and considered me with narrowed eyes. “And why do you fear Cato?”

  Before I could stop myself, I retorted, “I don’t fear Cato, Caesar. There’s not a man born that I fear, and I certainly don’t fear a. .”

  I stopped myself before I made what could have been a huge error. No matter what Caesar may have thought of Cato, Cato was of his own class and the upper classes of Rome are incredibly touchy about any slurs or even criticism leveled at men of their own station, particularly by one as lowly born as me, Centurion or not. But I need not have worried, for Caesar finished for me.

  “You don't fear a. . prick like Cato?” His eyebrow arched as he asked, and I laughed.

  “Actually I was going to call him a ‘cunnus,’ Caesar. But ‘prick’ will do just fine.”

  “So why do you think Cato poses a threat?”

  It was then that I explained to Caesar the longstanding argument between me and Vibius about Cato, how I had sat by more fires than I could count as Vibius recounted all that he thought Cato represented. He said nothing as I relived our endless arguments, but finally held up his hand.

  “Pullus, as much as I appreciate hearing about Domitius’ feelings about Cato, it still doesn't answer the question.”

  I felt the heat rising through my neck to my face, mainly because I realized he was right. I was not touching on the heart of the matter.

  Thinking for a moment, I finally said, “I worry about Cato because he hates you, and is fanatical in that hatred. I think the reason he hates you so much is because you represent change, and despite all of Cato’s talk about preserving traditions, at his heart, he’s just a small man who hates change. And small men hate great men with a passion that never dies.” I finished by saying, “Pompey may not agree with you, but he doesn’t hate you. Cato does, and he’ll never stop. And he has three Legions.”

  Caesar leaned back, arms st
ill crossed as he regarded me thoughtfully. “Pullus, I said once I may have underestimated you. Now I know that I have.” Then he shrugged. “I have no doubt you're right, Pullus. But it makes no difference; as soon as I finish with Pompey, we'll go and meet Cato. And defeat him.”

  With that, the interview ended. I was given my written orders by one of the harried clerks, and returned back to the camp, nodding to the Primus Pilus of the 28th who had been summoned as well, absurdly pleased that I was summoned first.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Reading my orders, Caesar very specifically stated that I was not to mention our destination to anyone, and thereby unwittingly, or so I like to think, created the first big challenge to my command of the 6th. Once I returned to camp, I called a meeting of the other officers in my tent, regretting that since this was the first big occasion I had run out of the Falernian, it forced me to make do with whatever was available. Despite being indifferent to such things, I knew that many men thought highly of what type of wine they were served by a superior, viewing it somehow as a reflection of the regard or lack thereof in which they were held. However, there was nothing I could do about it, although looking back at how things transpired, perhaps if I had paid more attention to such things, my life would probably have been easier. I sent Diocles out to inform the command group to meet at my tent, and at the appointed time, I was pleased to see that they were all there, seated on stools and attentive to what I had to say. First having Diocles serve them, I waited the obligatory time for them to take a few sips of their wine, getting my first inkling of trouble from the sidelong glances some of them gave each other as they swallowed.