Marching With Caesar - Civil War (24 page)

~ ~ ~ ~

The fight for the camp was furious, yet it was over quickly; I think the heart had gone out of the Pompeians by this point, and once it was clear that our superior numbers made the outcome inevitable, they quickly threw down their weapons to surrender. I did not come out unscathed; sometime during the fight I received a fair-sized gash on my left arm just below the shoulder, due to a moment of carelessness when I dropped my shield too low blocking a thrust. I like to think that it was due to my fatigue and not that the man I was facing bested me, although I exacted my revenge on him with a thrust through his gut. With the main resistance ended, all that was left was to mop up, hunting down survivors and small groups of men who decided to make a stand. Making our way through the camp, it was only then that I got my first inkling of how complete was our victory. The camp had been hurriedly sacked, that much was clear, but since we were the first of Caesar’s men into the camp, the only people that could have been responsible were Pompey’s own men. Before we had a chance to investigate further, the
cornu
sounded the recall at the main gate, so I rounded up the men, then we all half-trotted, half-stumbled back to find out what was happening. Falling back in once we got back to the gate, it became clear how our numbers had shrunk just since the beginning of the day, but taking a quick head count, I was pleased to see that I had not lost any more men at the fight at the camp. So far, I had 20 dead, twice as many wounded, with roughly the same amount unaccounted for, making the strength of my Cohort less than 200 men. The other Cohorts were in much the same shape, but our work was still not finished.

“One final effort, comrades, one final effort is all that's needed,” Caesar’s voice was almost throbbing with intensity, trying to convey to us the urgency and importance of what he was saying. “We can't stop and plunder the camp right now. The remainder of Pompey’s army has taken position up on that hill over there.” He pointed to the spot where we could plainly see the Pompeians frantically entrenching around the crest of the hill that loomed above the walls of the camp to the northwest. “If we can get around the base of the hill, our scouts have reported that we'll cut them off from the only source of water, but we must hurry before they can dig a ditch down the hill to protect it. I have ordered that every entrenching tool that can be found in this camp be brought to us, but first we must hurry to get into position. One more effort, my comrades. Just one more!”

The fact that we cheered his words at all should be considered a tribute to the leadership of Caesar, because in truth I was not sure the men had the energy for what he was ordering, but I knew that we would die trying.

~ ~ ~ ~

Despite our almost overwhelming fatigue, we marched quickly, although it was more of a stumbling half-run than a march, out of the camp to the base of the hill about six miles from the rear gate by the route we took, swinging around to the north. By this time, the sun was close to setting, meaning we would be working well past dark, and Caesar quickly made his dispositions, placing us in a circle around the hill before ordering us to dig. At first there were not enough spades and picks to go around, something of a blessing in disguise for the men, since it allowed them to work in shifts and get a small amount of rest. Nevertheless, once we began, I sent the men who were not working to fetch water, using their helmet as makeshift buckets. Beginning the job, we had to use our bare hands, but finally men came with mules loaded down with entrenching tools. Once all the men had tools, the work progressed rapidly, despite it being done in the dark. This was the advantage gained from all the digging we had done all over Gaul, Hispania and now Greece, enabling us to work just as quickly in total darkness as if the sun was shining high in the sky. The Pompeians could not see us, but there was no doubt that they could hear us digging, and I am sure it was that sound that compelled a deputation from the Pompeians to come down the hill under a flag of truce, asking Caesar for terms. His reply was that he would only take their unconditional surrender, whereupon the deputation marched back up the hill to discuss the matter. It was a short discussion, and at daybreak the day after the battle started, the remainder of Pompey’s army threw their weapons down, falling to their knees and begging Caesar for mercy. And of course, Caesar showed them mercy, in the same manner he had been doing the whole civil war, ordering us not to molest our prisoners in any way and to respect their property. This did not set well with the men, who felt that they were being cheated of their just reward for all that they had done, especially since the contents of the camp traditionally went to them. Ultimately, I believe that this was the final straw for the men and was a direct cause of what happened next. For it was on this day of Caesar’s greatest victory that came not only the greatest challenge to his leadership, but to mine as well, along with the death of the friendship between Vibius and myself.

~ ~ ~ ~

The details of accepting the surrender of such a large force of men took at least a couple of watches, making it mid-morning before things settled down sufficiently to allow our own men the chance to rest. Once given permission, they finally just dropped to the ground in their normal spot in formation, with adjustments made for our losses. With the men sitting on the ground talking quietly among themselves, I called my Centurions to my side, or more accurately, the Centurions who were still standing. Niger had fallen, victim of a slingshot to the eye that penetrated his brain, killing him instantly. Crispus was down with a serious wound to the thigh, but he would probably recover if the wound remained clean. In their places were their Optios; Niger’s was Gaius Vatinius, a man who was part of my
dilectus
and in fact had lived not very far away from me and Vibius. In Crispus’ place was Vibius Flaccus, also one of our
dilectus
, but I do not remember where he came from. We went looking for Torquatus, finding him standing grim-faced with the remaining Centurions of the First Cohort. I could tell by the postures of the men surrounding him that something was amiss, and we soon found out the cause.

“Caesar wants us to be ready to march in two parts of a watch,” Torquatus said grimly, and despite myself, I gasped with shock, the only saving grace being that I was not alone in my reaction.

“Why?” Celer blurted out, and I was still in too much shock to admonish him for speaking out of turn. Truthfully, he only asked the same question I would have asked.

Torquatus smiled, but it was not a happy look on his face as he said, “Because as many big fish as we may have bagged, the biggest one got away. Pompey was spotted heading for Larisa and Caesar wants to hunt him down. He’s ordering the Spanish Legions to march with him.”

“How many men does Pompey have?” I asked, but the answer was only a shrug as Torquatus looked away, clearly not wanting to answer the question.

Again, I was not alone, evidenced by one of his own Centurions asking him again.

Finally, Torquatus let out a sigh and said, “Perhaps 30 mounted men, and less than a Century of infantry.”

“And he wants to chase that with four Legions?” someone asked in astonishment; I do not remember who.

Now Torquatus’ face started to suffuse with red and he snapped, “I don’t remember hearing that the Legions have become a debating society. Caesar has ordered it, and that’s that. Make your men ready.”

As quickly as it had come, his anger passed. He could only look at us and shrug helplessly, “I know that it stinks, but those are our orders.”

“The men are really not going to like this.”

All heads turned to the one of us with the courage to utter aloud what we were all thinking, and it was with equal parts pride and irritation that I saw that Scribonius had opened his mouth. His tone was less of an admonishment than it was thoughtful, and looking at him, I saw an expression that I had come to learn meant that he was thinking things through.

Torquatus, however, was in no mood for indulging Scribonius’ mental exercise, and he said angrily, “You think I don’t know that? Well, I do, but I also know that they’re going to do what they’re fucking told, or I’ll flay every last one who so much as whispers a word against my orders.”

“Primus Pilus, with all respect, I'd be careful what you say, because I think that you’ll have to carry it out on almost every man of the Legion, and not just in the ranks.”

I cannot convey the quality of shock that immediately descended on the group when these words were uttered, not just from the words themselves but who had uttered them. Quintus Balbus was the Primus Princeps, the Centurion in charge of the Third Century of the First Cohort, and outside of Gaius Crastinus himself, was one of the most respected Centurions of the Legion. He was a large, muscular man, although not as large as I was, and his arms were covered with scars, as was his face, where a Gaulish axe had sliced off one ear and left the right side of his face a knotted mass of scar tissue. Balbus was well regarded enough that if he were to be permanently appointed Primus Pilus over Torquatus, none of us would be particularly surprised, nor displeased. Except Torquatus, of course. Balbus did not talk much, but when he did, he usually said something that needed to be said, and apparently, he believed that this was one of those times.

Despite there being no love lost between Torquatus and Balbus, the acting Primus Pilus could not afford to ignore such dire words from a man like Balbus, and his face clouded with doubt as he asked warily, “What do you mean Balbus? Spit it out, man! Don’t talk in riddles.”

However, Balbus was not one to be cowed, even by his superior, and he did not speak for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.

Finally, he spoke in a lower tone of voice to keep his words from carrying far. “Simply this, Primus Pilus. The men are as exhausted as any of us have ever seen them. Would anyone disagree with that?” We all shook our heads, and Balbus continued. “Add to that the men weren’t allowed to plunder the camp, nor were they allowed to take the Pompeian baggage as spoils of war.”

“But you know why Caesar did that,” Torquatus protested, but Balbus held up his hand in a placating gesture.

“I’m not saying I disagree, Torquatus. What I am saying is, put yourself in the men’s boots for a moment and see it how they see it. I’m not saying they’re right; in fact, I think they’re in the wrong, but right now I don’t think right or wrong much matters.” Grudgingly, Torquatus nodded his head, indicating that Balbus should continue. “We all know that there's already been trouble with the men, although thankfully it hasn’t been with the 10th . . . yet.” He looked meaningfully at each of us, then finished, “I think that the men are at the end of their tether physically, and they feel like they've been wronged. What I’m afraid of is that if those bastards in the 9th refuse to march, and I think that’s exactly what they’re going to do when they get the order, that our boys are going to follow suit.”

We stood for a moment, digesting what Balbus said.

Finally, Scribonius spoke, his face creased in a thoughtful frown. “But the men of the 9th have at the least a legitimate complaint because of their discharge situation. None of the 10th is due for a discharge for some time yet. So what do you think they’ll use as their excuse?”

No sooner had the words left Scribonius’ mouth than I was hit with a sickening certainty, making me feel like I had been punched in the stomach.

Slowly, I said, “I think I know what it’ll be.”

Almost like it was on command, all heads turned, the eyes of every Centurion fastening on mine. By this time, our small group was joined by most of the rest of the Centurions of the 10th, and before I spoke, there was a whispered account of what had been said to that point. Seeing the mixture of expressions sweep across the face of the other Centurions as they digested what had transpired, my sick feeling increased when I saw that surprise was not one of them.

Finally, I spoke again. “I know that the men have been muttering for several days about the bonus that Caesar promised them.”

Despite myself, I glanced at Scribonius, and saw that he knew exactly where my thoughts were, because one of the loudest complainers was my very own Optio. I had hoped that promoting Vibius to Optio would at the very least modify his feelings about Caesar, because now that he was an officer, albeit a junior one, he could no longer engage in the kind of talk that pervades the ranks about their senior officers. Also, I hoped that by more exposure to Caesar and his decisions, he would come to see the man for what he truly was and not what Vibius had made him out to be in his mind, just another patrician who used the plebs to further his own ends without any regard for the greater good. However, nothing of the sort had happened; if anything, Vibius’ animosity towards Caesar had increased. And I was guilty of turning a deaf ear to his talk around the campfire, except in truth, I was not ignoring his talk any more than I did over the last several years, but that was, and is, a shabby excuse. Being my Optio, I should have called him to account long before and made him shut his mouth, no matter how it had to be done, but I had not. And now, I was sure that if Balbus was right, and there was a mutiny, the men of the 10th would use the bonus as their justification for joining their comrades.