Marching With Caesar - Civil War (45 page)

“This is a fucking disaster,” I muttered, and the shock was such that none of the others could even answer me, only grunting at my words in what I took to be agreement.

What had begun with just a few men on the far right now became a complete collapse, as one by one men peeled away from their position to follow their comrade, usually the man to his right, towards what they hoped was safety. First one, then another ship, their captains either moved by the plight of the men on the mole, or forced to do so by the stranded men’s comrades, moved towards the causeway, pulling alongside to throw up their ladders. Perhaps if the men still on the mole had kept their heads, forming a perimeter to keep the Egyptians at bay while their comrades loaded onto the boats in an orderly fashion, disaster could have been averted, but the men were obviously gripped by panic. Just like the seamen earlier, they now pushed and shoved each other, fighting for a spot to descend the ladders of the ships. At first, men were content just to push each other, but it was not long before we saw the flash of a blade as a man struck down one of his own comrades. There was an audible gasp from the men around me, and I suspect from me as well.

“By the gods, is that a Centurion stabbing his own men?” Fuscus exclaimed, pointing down to the second ship, where the scene was more or less identical.

I had been paying attention to the ship closest to us, while Fuscus was pointing at the farthest ship, but when I looked, I saw that he was right. My stomach lurched at the sight of the familiar transverse crest on the head of a man, chopping down his own men. As sickening a sight as that was, I squinted at the ship, and my mouth went dry with fear.

“That’s Caesar’s ship!”

He had obviously decided to try to rescue some of his men, but they were so consumed with fear that they were now trying to climb over the side of the ship, and we could see it start to lean dangerously, the water just inches from the side.

“They’re going to capsize him!” someone said in horror.

It was one of the worst feelings I have ever experienced, watching what appeared to be the inevitable capsizing of our general’s ship, but completely helpless to do anything about it. Despite the obvious danger, men continued adding their own weight as they tried to leap down into the ship. The entire side, what little of it was still above water, was now completely obscured by the bodies of men attempting to pull themselves aboard. Then, we saw a number of figures on the opposite side of the ship leap into the water, and for a moment, I could not understand what they were doing. I wondered if the men who dived into the water had simply decided that they would rather drown on their own than be dragged under by men they had thought of as friends. Then my eyes caught something that seemed to be coming from one of the men, and at first, I thought it was blood because it seemed to be a pool of red surrounding his head, the only part of him visible above the surface. Squinting, I saw that the man did not appear to be struggling in the water the way a man who is wounded is likely to, and that pool of blood did not seem right. It did not seem to be growing, despite the man being clearly alive, meaning his heart was still pumping, but it did seem to be changing in size as I watched.

“That’s Caesar!” I exclaimed, pointing to the man, “and he’s swimming away and taking his
paludamentum
with him!”

~ ~ ~ ~

Indeed it was our general, who chose to abandon the ship, which he recognized was doomed to capsize, and take his chances swimming to safety, dragging his
paludamentum
with him in his teeth so that it would not be captured. Unfortunately, it became so waterlogged that even as strong a swimmer as Caesar could not continue dragging it without running a real risk of drowning, so he discarded it, where it was fished out by the Egyptians the next day and put on display like they had captured Caesar himself. Caesar swam to a small boat that pulled him aboard, then transferred him to one of the thirty’s. It was from this ship that Caesar tried to salvage something from the disaster. Directing some of the small boats that had not taken part in the debacle at the mole to go back to the causeway to pull as many men out of the water as they could, Caesar did everything in his power to rescue as many men as possible. These sailors, unlike their counterparts who climbed onto the causeway, behaved with great courage, braving savage missile fire from the Egyptians on the mole, their numbers continuing to swell as men jumped in ships to be rowed to the Heptastadion. Our sailors fished a couple hundred men from the water, some more dead than alive, yet the damage was done, and it was horrific. We continued to hold the island, but we had lost control of the entire length of the Heptastadion. Additionally, the work done in blocking the two passageways was reversed in a matter of a couple thirds of a watch, the enemy clearing the passages of the stone we had dumped there, thereby providing the Egyptians free access to the Great Harbor and giving them the ability to attack our fleet once again. More than 400 Legionaries died, most of them from drowning, although a fair number were cut down by their own comrades, making me wonder how the survivors would find trying to sleep at night with the deaths of friends on their conscience. Only one Century’s worth of men actually kept their heads enough to form square, trying to make a stand, led by a Centurion. Tragically, they were wiped out to the last man. At least as many sailors died as well, if not more, from identical causes as the Legionaries. No amount of honey would sweeten this bitter drink; we were soundly defeated, and had failed in our objectives. The fact that it was the men of the 37th who behaved so shamefully was not lost on any of us, but it was particularly hard on my men, because there were friends and in one or two cases, relatives who died in the mess. The 37th was composed of Pompey’s veterans, from a number of different Legions. While I understood why the men had such mixed feelings, what I was not prepared for is how it added to the hostility and hard feelings between us and the 28th. For the men of the 28th, what happened on the mole was something of a blessing sent by the gods, for they no longer were the only Legion in disgrace. What made it worse was that it was Pompey’s men who failed so miserably, a fact that the rankers in the 28th were never shy about pointing out to my men. The men of the 6th were in a tough spot; while they understood that the 37th had performed poorly, they still felt compelled out of loyalty to both the memory of Pompey and to their former comrades to offer a defense of their actions. Less than a day passed before I was called on by Serenus, who was the commander of the guard, informing me that there had been a killing down in Hump Alley, which was what the men called the side street where the whores plied their trade. He was accompanied by one of Cartufenus’ Centurions who was Serenus’ counterpart for the 28th guard shift; his name was Flaccus, as I recall. I sighed, shaking my head, because it was not unexpected, but it was still something that none of us needed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Well of course there are two different versions,” said Serenus.

I saw Flaccus shoot him an angry glance, although I did not know why; the very presence of Flaccus told me that there was a dispute about what happened.

Continuing, Serenus gave his report. “Gregarius Immunes Lucius Verres of the Second of the 10th was off duty and was spending some time in Hump Alley. According to Verres and his witnesses, a man from the 28th started an altercation with Verres.”

“He did no such thing,” Flaccus interjected, his face flushed with indignation I suppose.

Before he could say anything else, I wearily held a hand up. “You'll have your chance to speak. Until then I expect you to remain silent.”

He looked like he was thinking of protesting, his mouth open to say something, but I gave him a look that snapped it shut.

“What was the altercation about?” I asked Serenus.

He shrugged, “It’s hard to tell, Primus Pilus. Supposedly it was over a woman that the man from the 28th claimed had been paid for her services during the time that Verres was with her.”

Flaccus coughed, opening his mouth, but I shot him a warning look.

“Witnesses?”

“Several,” Serenus replied. “All of whom said basically the same thing, that the Gregarius from the 28th forced his way into the who . . . the woman’s room, where she was with Verres and began shouting at Verres, calling him names, you know, the usual insults. Then the man from the 28th pulled a blade and attacked Verres. Verres defended himself, and in the ensuing fight, killed the man from the 28th.”

“He cut his throat from ear to ear,” Flaccus burst out, but I did not say anything.

It was clear that Flaccus was upset, more upset than a man who knows his own is in the wrong normally would be, I thought.

Turning back to Serenus, I asked, “Anything else?”

He shook his head. I looked at Flaccus, but before he spoke, I asked him for his full name and rank, so that I would know how to address him. He did not know that I actually knew a bit about him; Cartufenus had spoken of him and thought highly of the Centurion, a tall thin man with what I considered a weak chin. Yet his gaze was direct, and he spoke clearly and firmly, with an accent that told me he was from Etruria.

“I am Tertius Princeps Posterior Gaius Flaccus, Primus Pilus.”

I nodded my thanks, indicating he should continue.

He cleared his throat and began, “First, I'd request that we refer to the dead man by his name. He was Gregarius Gnaeus Plautus.”

He looked meaningfully at both of us, and I nodded. It was only right that we call the dead man by his name; no matter how he died, we owed him that much, and my respect for Flaccus grew a bit.

“Very well, Princeps Posterior, we shall refer to him by his name. His unit?”

Now Flaccus looked uncomfortable, so I had an inkling that I knew what he was going to say.

“Fourth of the Third.”

I was right, and I hoped that my face did not betray my internal groan at the news. This complicates things quite a bit, I thought, because this is Flaccus’ man. I have a habit when I am distracted or worried in some way of rubbing my face, and I found that I was doing that very thing.

“So, he’s your man then,” Serenus said triumphantly, Flaccus shooting him an angry look.

“I assure you, that has nothing to do with my report,” he replied angrily, and I made a placating gesture to him.

“Nobody,” I looked sternly at Serenus, angry that he had spoken out of turn, forcing me to verbalize this, “is making any suggestion that it will, Princeps Posterior. In fact,” I lied, “it means that you may be able to provide even more valuable insight into what happened precisely because you do know the Gregarius . . . I mean, Plautus . . . very well. Please tell us your side.”

I took great pains to avoid using the word “version,” having learned that when one used that word, others took it that you were inferring that they were not being truthful.

Flaccus nodded and continued, “What Serenus has just described is not what happened.” I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise, but he either ignored or did not see my expression. “It's true that Plautus and your man Verres had words, but that is all they were . . . words. Plautus didn't force his way into the woman’s room; in fact, it was the exact opposite. According to my witnesses, both men were sitting in the outer room, waiting their turn for their . . . partners. My information is that they were not seeing the same woman. Anyway, what is true is that my man Plautus began talking to Verres, but the subject wasn't which woman they were seeing.”

I suspected I knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “What was the topic, Flaccus?”

Now he was looking like he would rather be anywhere but standing in front of Serenus or me, and I felt a pang of sympathy. Serenus was staring at him coldly, waiting for him to speak.

“It concerned . . . the . . . uh . . . the events of yesterday.”

I raised an eyebrow, a trick I had learned from Gisela.

“Well, that's certainly understandable,” I said reasonably, “since yesterday was an eventful day. Do you know exactly what Plautus was saying?”

Flaccus looked positively miserable, but as much as I may have sympathized, I could not let this question go unanswered, so I repeated the question.

“Plautus was commenting on the . . . performance of the men of the 37th,” he could not look at either of us as he finished.

“Let me guess, he wasn't exactly complimentary, was he?”

Flaccus sighed then shook his head. “No Primus Pilus, he wasn't.”

“Do you know specifically what he said about the 37th?”

Oh, I am willing to bet my entire fortune that at that moment, Princeps Posterior Flaccus was offering an urgent prayer that the ground beneath his feet would suddenly open to swallow him up.