by R. W. Peake
~ ~ ~ ~
With that last disaster, it was over; all that was left to do was to turn the men loose to looting the camp, except we had to send men to fight the fire that the Jews had started first. Fortunately, it did not take long to put out, being confined to a relatively small section of the camp. Soon after, the men were busy grabbing everything they thought held any value, whether it really did or not, and I finally took the opportunity to sit down, grabbing a stool from a tent, dragging it out into the street to keep a partial eye on things. Only then did I dare to loosen the bandage and as I feared, the bleeding started again, not to mention the excruciating pain, once feeling returned to my foot. I summoned a medici, telling him to bandage it properly, but he took one look at it then informed me that the best he could do was a temporary bandage and that I needed to have it stitched up. Every few moments there would be a commotion in one part of the camp or another when men found an Egyptian who had escaped the first cursory search and was summarily dispatched. Once my leg was bound back up, I stood, intent on finding Caesar and the command group to receive orders, but I only went a few steps before I realized that I could not go much farther without some sort of help. Hopping over to a tent, I yanked down one of the tent poles, cut some leather to make some binding material, and with another short piece of wood, fashioned a crutch that allowed me to move more easily. I was not happy about the idea of hobbling up to Caesar, but it could not be helped, and I navigated my way to the Porta Decumana, looking for his standard. The carnage around the back gate was massive, the ruins of the wall studded with body parts protruding from it where men were crushed. Finally, spotting Caesar’s standard outside the gate, I made my way towards it, almost tripping and falling several times. Passing through the ruins of the gateway, I got my first glimpse of what turned out to be the end chapter not only of the Alexandrian war, but of Ptolemy XIII himself. A number of the ships in the river were capsized and there were hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies floating in the water. One of the capsized craft was larger than the rest, but at the time, I gave it no more than a passing glance as I hobbled up to Caesar, who looked at me in surprise and with not a little concern.
“Salve, Pullus. What happened to you? Are you all right?”
I grimaced. “A lucky shot, Caesar, it took a chunk of meat out of my calf, but I’m fine.”
He laughed. “You don’t look fine, but I'll take your word for it.”
“What are your orders, Caesar?” I did not want to appear rude, but neither did I want him to think I was weak.
He shook his head. “None for now. Let the men enjoy themselves tearing the camp apart.”
“Will we be going after Ptolemy?”
He looked at me in some surprise before pointing out to the large ship I had barely noticed before. “There's no need, Pullus. Ptolemy was on that barge and the men fleeing from the camp swam out and in their panic pulled the barge over. Ptolemy is at the bottom of the river. At least, that's what it appears at this moment and we've fished everyone out of the river that was still alive and none of them are Ptolemy. And some of the survivors reported that they saw him go under.” He gave a tight smile, but there was a hint of sadness. “Apparently his ceremonial armor wasn't conducive to floating.”
I said nothing for a moment, taking in what he said, trying to understand that it was indeed all over. A thought struck me and once again, I blurted it out without thinking, except this time I will blame the blood loss for loosening my tongue.
“Appropriate, I guess.”
Caesar looked at me sharply, then asked, “Appropriate? How so?”
“What happened to Ptolemy is the same thing that happened to us at the Heptastadion. I guess Nemesis decided to balance the scales.”
The instant I said it, I realized I should not have. Caesar’s face flushed, his lips tightening into a thin line, the sign that he was trying to control his temper.
Then he took a breath, exhaled it, and nodded. “Yes, perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. He looked me in the eye as he said, “But that's not something I would have you repeating, Pullus.”
I knew a warning when I heard it, so I emphatically agreed that such words would never pass my lips again. And they did not, until I uttered them to Diocles just now. Caesar dismissed me, telling me that there would be a meeting of the command group at the beginning of second watch, which is shortly after sundown. I hobbled off, wishing that I could lie down, but knowing that I had to keep a tight rein on the men to ensure they stayed in their assigned area. Of course, Ptolemy’s tent was marked for Caesar, but Ptolemy had a lot of retainers who traveled with him, meaning there were rich pickings in the camp to be had by the men, of which I got a cut, of course. The responsibilities of a Centurion in Caesar’s army were many and never-ending, yet I cannot lie and say that there were not many benefits. Reaching the Centurionate meant that if I did not gamble or drink my money away, I would retire a wealthy man, provided I managed to live long enough. Few of us did, but that was something I refused to think about very often, preferring to take each day as it came, much like I put one foot in front of the other on a long, difficult march. If I had stopped to think about the number of Centurions who died before they managed to reach retirement age, I might as well have fallen on my sword right then. Limping back to the stool that I had been sitting on, I dropped heavily upon it, sending a runner to find Fuscus, whose Cohort I had still not seen nor had any report from about what had happened. Men were dragging larger pieces of loot into the street, marking them with their initials, or their particular mark if they could not make their letters, with the Centurions and Optios marking down a description of the piece and who it belonged to on a wax tablet. In other words, it was the normal scene after the taking of a camp or town by the Legions of Rome. Finally, I heard my name called, looking up to see Fuscus approaching me, and I could tell by his posture and his expression that he was feeling guilty. Watching him march to me, I said nothing, instead waiting for Fuscus to give me a salute, which I returned. I waited for him to finish before I spoke, wanting to see if there was anything he wanted to say, but he stood there looking over my head, something I immediately recognized as a bad sign.
“Decimus Pilus Prior Fuscus,” I made sure to use his full rank, “what is your report? I expected to see you pushing through the center of the camp and fall onto the right flank of the enemy, but instead I had to order the 7th to do so, after they had already fought their way to the corner of the camp. What happened?”
He stood for several heartbeats, saying nothing and I could see by his face that he was struggling to form the words.
Finally, he said, “We saw that the Jews had matters well in hand. They were pushing the enemy back easily, so the men began searching the tents.”
I felt my face begin to flush. Seeing my expression, he hastened to add, “To make sure that nobody could surprise us by falling on our rear after we passed.”
“Really?” I said in mock surprise. “That's interesting. We did the same thing, but the 7th managed to carry out their orders without delay.”
His face colored, and he protested, but I could see that it was half-hearted.
I held up my hand, cutting him off. “Tell me what really happened, Fuscus,” I said quietly so only he could hear.
His head dropped and I could see his jaw clenching as he tried to decide what to do.
He looked up then said one word; a name actually. “Cornuficius.”
Even when you expect something, sometimes it is still a shock when it actually happens. I had suspected that somehow, Cornuficius was involved in the disappearance of the 10th, but until I heard it from the lips of Fuscus, it was only a suspicion. Waiting for Fuscus to continue, I could see the shame he felt at being forced to admit what I had known for some time; Cornuficius was the one who really ran the 10th.
“I gave the order to advance, but the men just ignored me. Cornuficius said that the Jews had everything in hand and that since we were near the cent
er of the camp and Ptolemy’s tent, the pickings would be richer than the men could imagine. He said it so that everyone could hear, and before I could say anything the men had scattered to the four winds.”
“What did you do?”
“I ordered Cornuficius to summon his Century from what they were doing and get back into the fighting, but he just laughed like I was joking.”
I looked at him incredulously. “And you didn’t smash his face in?”
Fuscus shrugged helplessly, but said nothing.
“What did the other Centurions do?” I demanded.
“Nothing. I suspect that they were looking to me to do something. And I failed.”
The bitterness in his tone was plain to hear, causing my contempt for him to lessen a little; it was clear that he had more than enough for himself to serve the both of us. I sighed, looking past him at the men, some of whom, as was their habit, had found the stores of wine and were beginning to stagger about.
“I expect that you'll be relieving me, Primus Pilus.”
I shook my head. “And give the Cohort to Cornuficius? That’s exactly what he wants. He counted on your weakness, and he knows that if I were to go by regulations, I would relieve you.”
“But he was insubordinate,” Fuscus protested. “That would be more than enough cause to not only pass him over, but to bust him back to the ranks.”
“True,” I agreed. “But there would have to be another witness of Centurion rank in order to make the charge stick. Who else was present? Let me guess.” I knew the answer already and saw the realization hit him. “Salvius? Considius?”
He nodded.
“Not Sertorius though, correct?”
He shook his head, not saying anything, but I saw that I had made my point. There would be no witnesses that would back up Fuscus and we both knew it.
~ ~ ~ ~
The evening briefing was held in Ptolemy’s headquarters, which of course had been stripped of anything valuable by Caesar’s bodyguards. Caesar arrived, the assembled officers hailing him as Imperator, which he acknowledged with a wave and a smile. He gave fulsome praise to the leaders of the Jewish contingent, and it was at this point that I learned their names were Hyrcanus, who was a priest of some sort, and Antipater, who was their king. I was pleased to see that Joseph ben-Judah had survived the battle without much more than a scratch or two, for which I teased him.
“You’re just jealous because I’m faster on my feet than you are,” he laughed, a charge I could hardly deny given my condition.
As we waited, I scanned the faces, looking for one in particular, which I did not find. After the briefing was over, when Caesar was making his way towards the exit, I managed to get his attention, not that hard since I towered over the rest of the men. Waiting for me to hop to him, while I paused until the men around him turned their attention away to other matters, I asked him a question once we were relatively alone. His face revealed nothing as he gave me the answer and I did not make any further comment, then he clapped me on the shoulder and I returned to where Valens and Fuscus were standing.
“What was that about?” asked Valens, and I told him.
“I asked about the casualties among the Centurions.”
Valens stared for a moment, then gave a short laugh. “Why? You’re already Primus Pilus of the 6th. Where else would you rather be?”
“I asked about one in particular.”
His laugh was cut short. He and Fuscus exchanged a knowing glance. “Verres Rufus?”
I nodded.
“And?”
“He was killed in the attack on the river side of the camp.”
“Well, that was to be expected,” Valens said carefully. “They were attacking with those missile troops in their rear.”
“True,” I admitted. “But the funny thing is, he was the only Centurion killed.”
~ ~ ~ ~
Caesar left shortly after the evening briefing, ordering the infantry to stay behind, clean things up, tend to our wounded, and bury our dead. Taking the cavalry, he rode straight for Alexandria, his purpose being to stop Ganymede from rallying the remaining garrison to continue resistance, but he had no cause for worry. Word of Ptolemy’s death took any thought of further opposition from the people, and we heard that they gathered in great crowds along the wide avenues, coming to Caesar as suppliants to beg for his mercy. I think that this was entirely calculated on their part, since by this time Caesar’s mercy and clemency was widely known and the Egyptians were simply doing what so many of Caesar’s enemies had done. Caesar would not disappoint them either. The only action he took was to have Arsinoe removed from the city, along with Ganymede, while the younger Ptolemy was installed as co-regent with the very pregnant Cleopatra, but he was just a puppet and I suspect he knew it. Of course, Cleopatra was not much more than a puppet, yet for reasons I never fully understood, Caesar trusted her, letting her rule as she saw fit for the most part. Nonetheless, I heard from Appolonius, through Diocles of course, that he had to forbid her from killing her sister. Ganymede he was less gentle with; he was clapped in irons for leading young Arsinoe astray, but from everything I saw and heard when I was in her presence in the royal compound, she needed no encouragement. The whole family was a nest of vipers as far as we were concerned, though we could not verbalize that sentiment.
Before he left for Alexandria, Caesar did give us a task to perform, and although it was a bloody one, it was done with enthusiasm. Our job was the execution of the surviving Gabinians. These men were Romans who had turned on their own kind to serve the Egyptians, and nothing could have saved them, even if they had not caused us so much trouble. The other matters that had to be attended to were promotions because of losses. The 6th had not lost any Centurions, although Clemens and Sertorius had been wounded, but we had lost three Optios out of the 20 dead, and one of the men I promoted was Sergeant Tetarfenus, who I had kept an eye on, thinking that he had the makings of a good leader. I still found it somewhat strange to be in a position where I was judging the merits of men older than I was, although they were not that much older in most cases. After a few days, Caesar returned, but he was not alone, coming with Cleopatra, along with the entire Egyptian fleet. We were about to spend the next few weeks doing things that most Legionaries dream about their whole career but never get to do, and that was absolutely nothing.
~ ~ ~ ~
I think that Caesar must have decided that he deserved a respite from all the trials and travails of the last seven months. I cannot say that I blame him, particularly since we were the recipients of this leisure time. To be more accurate, I should say that it was the 6th who were the beneficiaries; the other two Legions were sent back to Alexandria to help clean the city up, much to their dismay and our delight. When I said that Caesar brought the Egyptian fleet, I am not exaggerating. There were at least 300 ships of varying types, and it is testament to the massive size of the Nile River that the entire fleet could sail on the river without running into each other. The royal barge was the most massive vessel I have ever seen, literally a floating palace, with a dining room, throne room, and gods know how many private chambers. It was powered by sail and oar, and I did not envy the men chained below decks who had to move that massive craft. My men and their Centurions were spread out so that we were not nearly as cramped as we were on any of our other voyages. In most cases, each Century was given their own ship and the men scarcely knew what to do with such luxury. I was given accommodations aboard a trireme, with the captain’s cabin as my private quarters, something that he was not particularly happy about. When Appolonius and I met so he could discuss our arrangements, I asked him what was going on.
In his maddeningly typical Greek way, he answered my question with a question. “What does it matter? You’re going to be living like a king, and so are the men.”
“Can you swim?” I asked this in a pleasant enough tone, but he did not mistake my meaning.
He put his hands out in a placating gesture. “Pax, Pullus
. By the gods, you’re touchy as a Vestal about the flanks.”
I grimaced at the comparison, but he was right. “I apologize. It’s just my damn leg hurts like I don’t know what. You’d think that this was the first time I had been wounded.”
“I know why it pains you so much,” he replied, and I was in so much discomfort that I did not notice the gleam in his eye as he said this.
