by R. W. Peake
~ ~ ~ ~
The second part of a triumph is a massive feast, and as was his habit, Caesar was determined that his one would be larger and more extravagant than anything the people of Rome had seen before. A total of 22,000 tables were set up, each table seating ten people, and that was just for the civilians. The army held their own banquet back at camp, a prudent measure to keep us separate from the masses, given the amount of wine that flowed. The fare was the most extravagant and exotic that the men had ever seen, rivaling what I had experienced at Cleopatra’s banquet the year before. Platters of meats of every description, pastries stuffed with both meat and sweets, loaf upon loaf of fresh, steaming bread, along with fresh fruits and vegetables prepared in more ways than one could count. Truth be known, the bread was the most popular with the men, as more than one of them turned their nose up at the meats, which was fine as far as I was concerned, since it meant more for me. I had taken a lot of teasing over the years about my preference for meat over bread, but I had long since learned to shrug it off.
As the day progressed, the conversation grew steadily louder and more boisterous. It had not even gotten dark yet when the first fight broke out. It did not start with my men, though it certainly did not take long for the violence to spread to the series of tables where my men were sitting and I was not surprised that one of the first men to be knocked to the ground was none other than my long-time tent mate, Didius. Sighing, I looked over at Scribonius, who was still Didius’ Centurion. He gave me a rueful smile and a shrug as he got to his feet to stride over to where Didius and another man were now rolling about in the dirt, as Scribonius administered a few whacks with the vitus that broke it up. This was the theme of the rest of the night: a few moments of drunken camaraderie, punctuated by flying fists and bodies rolling around on the ground, keeping the Centurions and Optios hopping from one brawl to the next. Even after all these years together, there were still grudges and disputes, some of them going back ten years or more, over gambling debts never paid, suspicions about cheating during dice or tables, or most commonly about a woman. As long as the men were sober and under our eye, these problems rarely flared into open hostilities, but with the wine flowing and the spirits high, fights were breaking out all over the place. In other words, it was a normal night of revelry and abandon and a good time was had by all, except for the Centurions.
~ ~ ~ ~
The five days before the next triumph were devoted to games, again held on a scale never seen before in Rome. A wooden amphitheater was erected in the Forum for gladiatorial games, where hundreds of pairs fought, some of them to the death, the most notable being between a disgraced Senator who was slain by the son of a Praetor. There was a series of battles fought out, first between two groups of 1,000 gladiators per side acting as infantry, then between 200 mounted men per side. The blood flowed freely, and the crowds loved it, including the men who sat in the section designated for the army, these Legionaries attending according to the lots drawn every day to determine who could go. Out on the Field of Mars, a temporary stadium was erected where people watched athletic competitions featuring contestants brought in from all parts of the Republic.
But the best part, at least as far as all the men were concerned, was the news given to us at a formation the day after the triumph, where Caesar himself announced to us that he was paying off all that he had promised to the men, and then some. Each man was given 5,000 denarii apiece, or about 20,000 sesterces, while each Centurion received 10,000, except for all Centurions of the first grade who received twelve thousand. Primi Pili like myself received 15,000, which equates to about 60,000 sesterces. With this amount added to what I already had, I now had the 400,000 sesterces needed for a man of my station to elevate to the equestrian class. With the term of my enlistment ending soon, my future was assured. Yet, I no longer had any intention of leaving the army. That decision was made for me when my family died, and now I was not willing to leave the only other family I had. Unlike most of the men, I did not celebrate the news by immediately running out and gambling a large percentage of it away, or by attempting to drink the city dry. I did replenish my stock of Falernian, which cost me quite a bit more than usual because of the circumstances of so many people and so much money floating about, which inflated the cost.
All around the city, rivers of wine were flowing as the masses spent part of the 100 denarii that Caesar had paid to each and every citizen toasting his name. I believe that you could not have filled a Cohort with sober men, yet not everyone was happy with Caesar. It is easy to look back now to see the signs that would lead to the event of his death, though at the time, it seemed little more than sour grapes from members of his own class. It was only after the first triumphal parade when we had returned to camp that we heard about the negative reaction to Caesar’s 72 lictors, although we thought it a perfectly reasonable thing to reward every man who had been a lictor with the chance to march in the parade. A lictor’s term is only one year, so over the years, Caesar had many lictors, and not all of them were in the parade. Apparently, his fellow patricians and Senators did not see it that way, so there had been some grumbling about it. Of course, once Caesar heard about it, he was more determined than ever that every one of his parades would contain the same number of lictors. In fact, word was sent out to look for the rest of the men who had not been summoned to march in the first parade, though fortunately, none of them showed up, or there is no telling what his peers would have made of him marching with 90 lictors, or a hundred. Still, as far as the people were concerned, Caesar could do no wrong, and his name was toasted night and day. Finally, the day came for the second triumph, for his victory in Egypt, and for this occasion, I was reunited with the men of the 6th.
~ ~ ~ ~
The Egyptian parade was in some ways more elaborate than the first, but during this procession, I believe that Caesar made his first real misstep, because it was with the people and not the upper classes. The night before the parade, I made my way over to the 6th’s area, where I found Felix, Sertorius, and Clemens sitting around a fire, talking idly about something or other. They appeared to be genuinely happy to see me. I had seen them briefly before, but since it was shortly after I returned from Brundisium, I had not been in much of a mood for small talk. Now I was sufficiently recovered, and I am sure the amphora of wine I brought along smoothed whatever awkwardness there might have been.
“How have things been with the men?” I asked.
The three of them looked at each other, then Felix shrugged. “Well enough. They were certainly happy about the bonus Caesar paid us, but they’re all ready to go home, Primus Pilus.”
I nodded, having expected to hear something like that, this now being a common refrain throughout much of the army, particularly the Spanish Legions.
“Well,” I replied, “that’s to be expected. But since those whelps of Pompey ran off to Hispania, we will be going home, I just don’t think it’s quite in the way that the men were hoping.”
“We figured as much,” Sertorius replied. He scratched his chin as he stared into the fire. “Truth be known, it doesn’t really much matter to me. I’m not leaving the army.”
“Neither am I,” added Clemens. Felix remained silent, and soon we were all looking his way.
Catching our gaze, he shifted uncomfortably, then shrugged again. “I still haven’t decided. What about you, Primus Pilus?” he asked me. “Last time we talked about it, you still weren’t sure what you were going to do. Have you decided?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said, mentally preparing myself for what I knew was coming next.
“I bet your wife’s not happy about that. You probably won’t be doing any slap and tickle for a while,” Sertorius joked. I saw by the wince on Felix’s face that at least he knew.
“You’re right about that,” I said as lightly as I could, for I truly did not want Sertorius to feel badly about something he had no knowledge about, so I changed the subject.
“The me
n are ready for tomorrow?”
“Of course, Primus Pilus,” Clemens said a little stiffly, and I saw that I had offended all three of the men by even asking the question of such a veteran Legion.
“I knew they would be. Forgive me, it’s just a habit.”
We talked of other things for a while, then I took my leave, and I could see their relief at my departure. It is a funny thing about being in a unit. When you are finally accepted, you are as a brother to each and every man, but once you leave, something changes. Each Legion, each Cohort, each Century in the army has a life of its own, and that life continues whether an individual is present or not. When someone returns after an absence, even a short one, things have happened that the returning man is not part of, which makes him a little less a part of the family than before he left. The longer he is away, the more pronounced the effect, and I had been back with the 10th now for almost a year. I would always be welcome at their fires, yet I would never quite be a part of things the way I was when we were besieged in Alexandria, which made me a little sad as I thought about it. It seemed as if a large part of my life in the last year had been one of loss in a number of different ways.
~ ~ ~ ~
The parade the next day was not as long as the Gallic because there was a much smaller army marching, just the less than 900 remaining men of the 6th, along with the Gallic cavalry, the 28th and 36th having been left behind in Africa to fulfill different duties. While I was marching with the 6th and was technically the Primus Pilus, Valens had been ably filling that role since my departure, so I asked him to march in my spot while I marched at the head of the Seventh Cohort. The wagons carrying the scenes of the Alexandrian campaign were even more elaborate than those of the Gallic campaign, perhaps because the craftsmen making these had more time to work on them. The most spectacular was the scale model of the lighthouse that was complete with a small flame burning at the top in front of a polished metal mirror, just like the real one. The spoils from Alexandria were even more staggering than those of Gaul, at least in how exotic they were. Piles of golden crowns, chests containing mounds of gemstones of varying sizes, but all large, and all manner of riches were on display. Yet what caught the attention of the crowd even more than these were the animals, particularly the giraffes. These beasts are nothing if they are not 15 feet tall, and while their torsos are shaped somewhat like a horse, they have extremely long and spindly legs. However, what makes them fantastic is the length of their neck, which is easily the height of a man my size. Perched atop this long flexible neck is a head very much like a camel, while the whole thing is covered in brown spots over a tawny backdrop. Caesar had shipped 20 of the animals, but only six survived the voyage and ensuing captivity. It was these six that were pulled and dragged along the route while the people ooh’ed and aah’ed. Caesar had planned on using the water horse that inhabited the Nile, with which the men had such sport on the river cruise in the parade, but he had given up. They proved to be impossible to manage, however, not to mention that their smell was absolutely atrocious, so they were left behind. Still, it was not with the animals or the spoils where Caesar made his error; it was in his choice of prisoner to be the center of attention of that part of the triumph. Standing in a wagon, draped in chains was Cleopatra’s sister Arsinoe, along with her tutor and general, Ganymede. The sight of such a young and seemingly innocent girl chained in the same manner as a man like Vercingetorix did not sit well with the crowd, and we could follow the progress of the procession by the boos and catcalls of the crowd as we marched. We knew that the crowd was upset, but did not know why until later, and it did not seem to matter that Arsinoe was not to be executed, just banished. The crowd did not like the appearance of Rome bullying young girls, no matter how deceiving that appearance may have been. There was not a man in the 6th who felt the same way as the crowd, but we had all been subject to her ruthlessness and cunning, and we knew her true nature, while all the crowd saw was a helpless youngster. Cleopatra had come to Rome by that time, and was living in a residence on the Janiculan Hill, though she was not allowed inside the pomerium, since she was a sovereign and no king or queen is allowed inside the sacred boundary. However, the rumor was that she had managed to slip past her guards and had come to the city in disguise so that she could watch the final humiliation of her sister and rival. I have never spoken of it until now, but I can say that this is not rumor; it is fact, because I saw her with my own eyes.
~ ~ ~ ~
We had just exited the Circus Maximus, about to turn onto the Via Sacra, when my eyes met a pair of dark brown ones, though the rest of her face was hidden by a veil, and I saw them widen in recognition and surprise for just an instant before she regained her composure. She was standing on the second floor balcony of what appeared to be a private residence, dressed as a common household slave, but if I had the chance to consult with her before she put her costume on, I would have pointed out to her that slaves did not wear veils in Rome. Fortunately, since she was above and a little way behind the crowd, nobody seemed to notice. I saw just behind her two large Nubians, dressed in short tunics and cloaks, designed to hide the daggers they wore under the robes. Our eyes remained on each other as I drew closer, so I could see the worry in hers, and I wondered how much trouble it would cause if I told Caesar that I had seen her. I am sure this was the same thought going through her mind as well, but making up my mind, I just winked at her while touching the side of my nose. Her relief was clearly written in those very expressive eyes, and I confess I felt a small thrill at being a co-conspirator with the likes of Cleopatra. As far as I was concerned, it was the least I could do for her. She had been very kind to a country bumpkin at his first, and so far, only banquet of state, for which I would never forget her, so her secret was safe with me. I could not wipe the silly grin off my face the rest of the parade, which I am sure the women on the route thought was meant for them, yet I did not really notice any of them that day. Once more, Caesar made his way up the steps of the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, with his second garland, along with the ivy from the lictors to be given as offering. I could not help wondering if the god would grow tired of this, since there were still two more times to go and he would be receiving the same offering every time. Even the gods like a little variety, or so I think, but that is the way it has always been done, and therefore will be the way all the times in the future.
~ ~ ~ ~
For the Egyptian games, along with the gladiatorial contests, a large hole was excavated on the Campus Martius, then filled with water, making an artificial lake where naval battles were fought, using some of the ships from the Egyptian navy that were captured along with their crews, pitted against a small fleet manned by Tyrians. The Tyrians were chosen because they had refused to help Mithradates of Pergamum when he was raising a force to come to our aid in Alexandria, so their fate was to have some of their best young men chained to the benches of their ships and fight to the death for the enjoyment of Romans. The ships sailed all the way from Egypt and Tyre, then up the Tiber River to Rome. Finally, with the use of huge rollers and thousands of slaves, the vessels were manhandled across the open ground of the Campus to the artificial lake.
The endeavor had attracted a huge crowd of men from the army to watch, but the overriding sentiment was best described by Vellusius, who sniffed, “Well, we did that in Britannia and we didn’t have any slaves to help us. It was all our sweat that did it. What’s the big fuss about all this?”
With that, he turned away, followed by the rest of the men. I went with them as well; Vellusius was right. So much of what we were seeing constructed and done for this triumph that was done by slave labor in Rome had been accomplished by citizens in the army. I was noticing that I was picking up the attitude that most of the men, who in fairness had been in and around Rome for much longer than I had been, had about their fellow citizens. To the men of the army, our civilian counterparts were spoiled, soft, and incredibly lazy, and their attitude towards any type of manual
labor engendered many a campfire discussion.
“They consider it beneath them, but it’s fine for anyone wearing a uniform to work as hard as a slave,” Glaxus spat into the fire shortly after our evening meal one night.
Scribonius was visiting, and Silanus was there as well, along with Balbus and Arrianus. There was a murmur of agreement at this, and I was one of those who agreed. Although I had not been here as long as the others, I had seen enough of the attitude to understand that it was indeed the prevailing one.
“It’s a load of cac is what it is,” Arrianus declared. “These civilians stick their nose up at us whenever we walk by, and you hear them making comments about what a soft life we’ve got sitting about in camp all day and night, just lolling about. Who do they think built this camp? Don’t they know a slave never digs so much as a spadeful of dirt building our camps? Or that the roads they walk on and that carry all those goods from every corner of the Republic were made by us and by the sweat off our back?”
“No, they don’t know that.”
I smiled, knowing that Scribonius could always be counted on to provide the other viewpoint.
All eyes turned to him, Arrianus scowling at Scribonius, who was whittling on a piece of wood, a favorite hobby of his. “As far as the people are concerned, all of what you speak of happens the same way that it happens in the city, by slave labor. Nobody has thought to tell them differently, so as far as they're concerned, we're no better than they are.”
“We’re much better than they are,” retorted Glaxus, raising another chorus of agreement. “We’ve sacrificed more, we’ve lost more friends than any individual citizen will ever have, all so that they can look down their nose at us when we walk by!”
“It’s our own fault, really.” Now I looked at Scribonius in surprise, while the others’ reactions were a bit stronger. I had understood and basically agreed with what he was saying, but now he was going into territory where I could not easily follow. “Think about it like this. How many people did we enslave out of Gaul?”
