Marching With Caesar – Civil War mwc-2

by R. W. Peake

  The streets of the city were almost deserted, as those not affected had either left or had blockaded themselves in their homes to wait for the passing of the sickness. This was the same affliction that struck down so much of the army when we were camped in Brundisium before our invasion of Greece. I vividly remembered that some of the survivors were so weakened by the illness that they were unable to rejoin the army until we were in Sicily. Outside of some homes there were corpses, wrapped in whatever shroud the survivors could spare, waiting for collection. Those that could afford it paid for the proper funeral rites to be performed, so that on the south side of the city there were columns of black, greasy smoke that told the story of bodies being consigned to the flames. As we turned onto the street leading to my family’s apartment, my throat was as dry as if I was marching for a day across the desert without a drink, but even if I could have had a drink of water, I doubt I would have been able to keep it down. Arriving in front of the building, I tried not to stagger as I dismounted. The windows of the building were shuttered, which was not unusual at such a time, yet it disturbed me nonetheless. I was more scared than I had ever been in my life as I walked to the stairway then began to mount the steps, thinking of the last time I was here and watching Vibi tumble down them. Even now, in the last years of my life, more than 25 years later, I cannot speak of those next moments. I will turn to Diocles to give his account.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  In the relatively short time I had been with my master, I had never seen him in such a state as he was when we pulled up before the building where his family was living. He went to the steps, but stopped there for a moment before mounting them. He tried to open the door, but was unable to do so, the door obviously locked. He knocked, softly at first, then with more and more urgency. Still, the door never opened. He stood for a moment, and I did not know what to do for him. Suddenly he reared back, kicking against the door, which flew open with a loud crash. From where I was sitting, I heard a cry of alarm, and for a moment my heart leapt with joy before my brain recognized that the sound came not only from inside the house on the first floor, but that the voice was male. My master made no sign that he had heard, and stepped inside the door, his face set and white as he disappeared. It was a few moments before he emerged, his shoulders slumped as he descended the stairs and walked over to me.

  “There’s nobody there, and the place is cleaned out.”

  “Master, that must mean that they left like most of the others,” I said, but my words did not soothe him.

  He shook his head, and I could barely him reply, “I don’t think so.”

  He turned and walked to the door on the ground floor of the building, and began banging on it. I was sitting on my horse just a few feet away, close enough that I could hear the stirring of someone inside, but the door did not open. Banging harder, my master called out loudly enough to be heard several streets away, calling the owner of the building by name and identifying himself. Finally, the door cracked open, only by a matter of a couple of inches and I could barely make out a pinched white face peering up at my master. It was hard to tell whether it was a man or woman, and I only learned by the sound of the voice that it was a woman, the wife of the owner, I presumed.

  “Salve, Centurion. You've come at a most unfortunate time, I'm sad to say. I'm sorry that I can't open the door, but my husband won't permit visitors.”

  “That's fine, lady.” My master’s voice was calm and his tone pleasant, but I had been with him long enough to hear the strain underlying his words. “I'm here to find my wife and children. Do you know what happened to them?”

  I do not know how many heartbeats of time it took her to answer, but if time has ever stood still, it was in that moment. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the doorway and the interior behind her, I could see her more clearly, and on her face, sadness was plainly written and not a little fear.

  “I'm sorry, Centurion. Your family is dead. The plague claimed them all.”

  At first, my master gave no reaction, just standing there looking down at her. I began to think that he had not heard her, though I did not see how that was possible. Then, without a word, his legs lost their strength and he collapsed to his knees, his head dropping to his chest. I leapt off my horse, taking a step towards him, then stopped, not sure what to do. The woman looked down at him, and I saw a withered, spotted hand reach out and touch his shoulder. Suddenly, it was as if a dam had burst. It began as a low moan, my master’s body beginning to shake as if he had the ague himself, then he began to sob. The woman opened the door and stepped out, and I heard a man’s voice angrily demanding that she come back inside and shut the door, but she ignored him. Kneeling next to my master, she wrapped her arms about his giant shoulders, and he leaned his head against her breast as his grief consumed him. I stood helplessly, then took a step towards them. She looked at me and shook her head, so I stopped as she murmured words to him as they both rocked gently back and forth. They stayed like this as the last light of the day faded away, and it was only when it became dark that he began to stir himself. He climbed to his feet, then helped the woman up, but even in the gloom, I could see how unsteady he was on his feet, so I stepped next to him in case he needed help.

  He had said nothing since his question about his family, and when he did speak, his voice was hoarse and barely recognizable. “Where are they now?”

  The woman looked apprehensive now, though I did not understand why, but she obviously knew something I did not, given the reaction she got when she told him, “They were taken away and buried.”

  My master went rigid, his grief turning to anger as quickly as a bolt of lightning strikes. “Buried,” he hissed. “That is not proper! You should know that. How could you have let them be buried?”

  She shrugged helplessly, the fear in her voice making it quaver. “Centurion, we didn't have any choice in the matter. The urban Praetor issued a decree that all non-citizens were to be buried as quickly as possible.”

  “My children were citizens, damn you! They should have been given the proper rites! Now,” his voice broke, “they're doomed to wander the underworld for eternity and I'll never recognize them!”

  His shoulders began to shake as a fresh spate of tears struck him at this thought.

  “Centurion, it was your wife’s wish that they be buried with her,” the woman said gently. “As I understand it, that was the way of her people anyway, wasn't it? To be buried? Besides, your children were Roman citizens, that's true, but weren't they also of her tribe as well? And if they were, then they walk with her now, in their afterlife, don't they?”

  As religious arguments go, it would not have taken me long to dismantle it, but under the circumstances, I was only too happy to see that this brought him some comfort.

  After thinking about it, he nodded. “Do you know where they're buried?”

  She shook her head and replied that she did not, adding, “And you don’t want to go to where they're taking the…..bodies, Centurion. I've heard that it's a very grim place and it wouldn't bring you any comfort. You should remember them alive.”

  “I hardly knew them,” my master replied, and there is no way to convey the amount of sadness and pain those words carried. Looking down at the woman, he said, “Thank you for telling me and for your. . kindness. Were our accounts with you in order? Is there anything that we owe you?”

  She shook her head, saying that everything that had been owed was paid. With that, he turned away and walked past me to his horse, leaping astride it and gathering up the reins.

  “Goodbye,” was the last thing he said to the woman, leaving her standing there as I trailed behind him.

  We rode in silence, retracing our route out of the city, the streets even more deserted than when we came, the sound of our horses’ hooves echoing off the buildings. We exited by the same gate. Fortunately, the guards did not make any comment at our departure, for I believe they would have died if they had. Under normal circumstances, we shoul
d have been finding a place to sleep for the night, but I suspected that there would be no sleep for us this night.

  A third of a watch passed, then two, and finally I could take it no longer. “Master, is there anything I can do?”

  He did not answer for several moments, then finally he replied, “Yes. You'll never talk about what you saw back there. And I'll never speak of it again. My wife, my son, and my daughter are dead. There's nothing I can do to change that and there's no point in dwelling on it. This is the last I'll ever talk about them.”

  And he was true to his word. After that night, I never heard him speak of his family again.

  Chapter 8- Triumph

  I have little recollection of the journey back to Rome, and I doubt I would have made it if Diocles had not been with me. We returned to the army, camped on the Campus Martius, where the men were readying themselves for the first of four triumphs that Caesar planned for Gaul, Egypt, Pontus, and Africa. While the 10th would march in three of the four because of my time with the 6th, I would be marching in all four, meaning that Diocles was kept busy, making sure all of my uniforms and decorations were in order. The men were understandably in a state of high excitement, a state that I could not share, though I did try. Here I was finally at the gates of the city that I had dreamed of seeing all of my life, yet I saw none of the color and vibrant life that flowed in and out of the city all day. Finally, Scribonius showed up at my tent one morning after formation, informing me that he was taking me on a tour of the city, brushing aside my protests about paperwork. Entering the city was like entering another world, a place of constant noise and movement, full of people of all colors and sizes, every one of them seeming to be in an incredible hurry as they conducted what was obviously very important business. I had never seen so many slaves in one place before, and they were as varied as the freedmen walking about, each slave wearing the bronze placard around their neck that proclaimed to whom they belonged. The streets were positively jammed with humanity, the smell indescribable, a mixture of humans, animals, and the aromas of baking bread, spices, and the gods only know what else. It was all a bit overwhelming, but it was at least nice to tower above most of the people so that I could look around and take in the sights.

  “Well, what do you think? Is it everything you thought it would be?”

  I was not sure if I should be polite, since this was Scribonius’ city, or be honest. I opted for the latter. “It’s the dirtiest place I’ve ever seen. And it’s a lot more cramped than Alexandria.”

  If Scribonius was disappointed or insulted, he did not show it. He just laughed. “It is that,” he agreed, taking my elbow to point me down another street.

  One of the things I found so disconcerting about the city was the seemingly haphazard way that the streets seemed to run, with no discernible pattern to them. I realized that the time I had spent in Alexandria, with its wide, ordered streets laid out in a grid, had set an expectation that Rome would be the same, yet it was not. Because we had come from the Campus Martius, the first great structure we encountered was Pompey’s Theater, and despite vowing to myself that I would not act like a country bumpkin, I found myself standing there gaping at the sheer size and opulence of the place. It was a massive semicircular structure, with the stage positioned at the bottom of the semicircle. Scribonius told me that it had been built and dedicated while we were fighting in Gaul, during Pompey’s second Consulship, and it had caused some controversy because building such a large theater as a monument to himself was considered sacrilegious. Therefore, to avoid censure by the Senate he erected a small temple to Venus Victorious at the top of the theater, looking down at the stage. He was not so concerned that he did not have a huge statue of himself erected and placed in the main entry hall so that all who entered had to pass literally under his feet. Of course, it was at Pompey’s feet that Caesar was to be murdered, but we were happily unaware of what was to transpire. Leaving the theater, we headed to the Forum being built by Caesar, called appropriately the Forum Julii, to look at the temple to Venus Genetrix, the goddess from whom the Julii were descended, which was basically completed and awaiting consecration. This was going to take place during the first triumphal parade in just a matter of a couple days. The building was under guard, but since it was being watched by men of the 10th, they did not hesitate letting their Primus Pilus and Secundus Pilus Prior enter the temple, as Scribonius and I looked at each other, smiling like schoolboys who have managed to avoid classes that day. The temple had several alcoves, almost all of them empty at that moment, which would hold some of the booty taken by Caesar during his military campaigns, but only after they were paraded before the people of Rome as proof of all that Caesar had conquered.

  As we looked around, Scribonius said something that had been rattling around in my own head, yet I had not wanted to say aloud. “You know, this temple belongs just as much to us as it does to Caesar and the Julii.” Scribonius said this quietly enough, but I still caught myself looking guiltily about to see if there was anyone there to listen.

  Fortunately, the temple was empty except for us.

  “That may be true, but that’s not something you want to say very loudly,” I replied. “Still, you’re right. But it belongs more to the men who won’t be marching with us than anyone.”

  “Like Romulus and Remus,” Scribonius whispered.

  “And Calienus,” I added, feeling a sharp stab of grief at the thought of our old Sergeant, which was immediately followed by a vision of a woman with flame-red hair, holding a baby on her hip.

  I was horrified to feel tears start to fill my eyes, but if Scribonius saw, he had the good grace and sense to say nothing about it.

  “So many of us gone,” he said sadly, then we said nothing for several moments, each lost in our own thoughts.

  Finally, I shook myself and said that we had more to see, so we left the temple, the guards at the entrance saluting us as we departed.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  By the end of the day, I was feeling dizzy and wanted nothing more than to return to the relative quiet and routine of the camp. To my ordered military mind, Rome was nothing but chaos and disorder, a maelstrom of sights, sounds, and smells that threatened to overwhelm me. While Alexandria is similar in population size to Rome, the Egyptian city is much more spread out, due mainly to the lack of hills to enclose the space in the same manner as Rome. We walked through every area of the city, save one, the Palatine, and although I wanted to go see where the rich folks lived, Scribonius refused to take me. At first he gave the excuse, plausible enough I suppose, that the sight of two men of the 10th Legion would not be welcome after what our men had done to the area, but it did not take me long to recognize that this was merely an excuse. Scribonius’ reluctance was from some other cause, yet try as I might, I could not pry from him what it was, so I finally just gave up, much to his relief. We did go into the Subura, and I refused to believe that this was where Caesar had grown up, because it is one of the filthiest, dingiest places I have ever seen in my life. I could just not imagine that a man as high born as Caesar would have ever walked through the place, let alone live there.

  “Just because a man is high born doesn't mean he has money,” Scribonius explained. “In fact, until Caesar came along, the Julii had been poor for more years than anyone could remember.”

  I mused on this; perhaps this was why Caesar seemed to relate so well to people of my class. He had grown up with us, knew how we thought and lived. I mentioned this to Scribonius, and he immediately agreed that this was probably the case. Yet even knowing that Caesar had walked these same streets, I was anxious to leave. The buildings, if they can be called such, are built so haphazardly that most of them look in danger of falling over. Indeed, the taller ones leaned so precipitously at the top that they almost touched the building on the opposite side of the street, which would be leaning just as much. It gave the impression of being in a dark canyon, and I despised the feeling that I was going to be buried alive so much that
I practically dragged Scribonius along until we left the Subura behind. Still, despite my happiness at returning to camp, I was glad that Scribonius had taken me on a tour, and I thanked him for showing me the sights.

  “I'm happy to, Primus Pilus,” he told me, always sure to address me in the proper manner when we were back in front of the men.

  I was about to turn to enter my tent, but I could see him hesitate, plainly wanting to say something more. Feeling my stomach tighten, I was sure that I knew what he wanted to say, yet I also knew that it meant more to Scribonius to say what he needed to say than it meant for me not to want to hear it.

  “Yes?” I asked in what I hoped was a pleasant tone.

  Scribonius, who always seemed to know the exact right words for any occasion, was now fumbling about.

  Finally, he said, “Primus Pilus, I just wanted you to know how sorry we are, and I mean the men and the officers, about Gisela and your family. We've made several offerings for their safe journey.”

  I looked at my friend, then for the second time that day, I felt the hot rush of tears threaten to unman me, but I managed to hold them back. “Thank you, Scribonius. That means a great deal to me.” I turned to enter the tent, then turned back. “And thank the men for me as well.”

  With that, I walked into my private quarters, telling Diocles to bring me wine, and plenty of it. I sat alone with my thoughts for some time, ignoring Diocles as he came to light the extra lamps when it became dark, steadily draining the amphora of wine that Diocles had set on the table. Drinking it unwatered, it still did not seem to have any effect on me as it normally did and finally I gave up. Just as I was about to lie on my cot for the night, I realized I needed to answer the call of nature. Deciding that the fresh air from a trip to the latrine would do me good, I got up and left the tent. I had only gone a few steps when I heard a familiar voice.