Marching With Caesar - Civil War (78 page)

~ ~ ~ ~

At Utica, Cato was in command of the city and its garrison. As we marched, there was much talk of what we could expect when we reached the city. Cato had been Caesar’s bitterest enemy from before the civil war, and in my view and the view of most of the army, was one of the primary instigators of the war. Thinking about him gave me a pang, because Vibius was one of Cato’s staunchest supporters. We had spent many third of a watch around the fire arguing the rights and wrongs of Cato and Caesar’s respective positions. But as time went on, even Vibius had become less willing to voice his support for Cato, as more and more men died because of his implacable hatred of Caesar. Since Cato was in command, we had no illusions that the gates of Utica would be open to us, but the gods had other ideas. The cavalry fleeing from Thapsus, who slaughtered the people of the village we had come across, came next to Utica. Instead of being grateful for the refuge, they fell upon the citizens of Utica as well, killing a number of them before being driven off by Cato and his troops. The fighting with men who were supposed to be on their side so further demoralized the Utica garrison that even a man as uncompromising as Cato realized that further resistance to Caesar would be useless. As we learned later, Cato himself urged the remaining Roman citizens who had helped to fund Scipio’s campaign to make peace with Caesar, a fact that surprised me a great deal. He might have helped the others to appeal to Caesar, but that was not an option for Cato. It was not because Caesar would not have offered his mercy, but precisely because Caesar would and a proud man like Cato could not bear to live with that shame. Once he had arranged his own affairs and then ensured that he had done all he could to prepare for Caesar’s coming, Cato went off and opened his stomach. Apparently, he botched the job, being found by his slaves and friends, who stitched him up. That did not stop Cato however; as soon as he was left unattended, he pulled the stitches out. Then, depending on what version you heard, he either bled to death or actually pulled his intestines out, throwing them about the room. You can probably imagine which story was most popular with the men. In any event, Cato was dead when Caesar arrived at Utica, vexing him greatly. Caesar was not a vengeful man, but of all the Pompeians, he most wanted to see Cato humiliated, and his suicide robbed Caesar of that pleasure.

The gates were open when we arrived, a long line of supplicants waiting for our general to decide what to do, and we were slightly mollified to learn that he fined them a substantial amount to help pay for the expense of the campaign. We camped outside Utica as Caesar took care of his business, and it was while we were in camp those several days that we heard of the capture of Afranius by Sittius, who was brought in chains before the assembled army. There was considerable wagering in the camp about whether or not Caesar would show mercy to this particular Pompeian, though I refrained from wagering because I had heard from Diocles through Apollonius that Caesar was going to make an example of the man. Our general wasted no time; the next morning at formation, Caesar announced that Afranius was to be executed for crimes against the Republic, a necessary fiction I suppose. However, Caesar refused to allow the army to witness the execution of Afranius, which was extremely unpopular with the men, especially those who were in Hispania and had lost friends when Petreius so vilely betrayed them while Afranius stood by and let it happen. Caesar would not budge, and Afranius was executed inside the headquarters tent, with only Caesar and his generals as witnesses. Scipio had attempted to escape by ship, but he was run down by vessels that belonged to our friend Sittius. In the ensuing fight, Scipio drowned. Finally, the news reached us of the fate of Petreius, which was a bitter disappointment to all of us who had hoped that he would be brought before us in the same manner as Afranius. I had even planned on approaching Caesar in order to convince him that unlike Afranius, the army should witness the execution of Petreius because of his absolutely despicable deeds. We were to be denied that pleasure though, as we learned that Juba and Petreius, the former being turned on by his own people, had held a banquet, after which they fought a duel to the death. Petreius was the winner, whereupon he immediately committed suicide. As part of their revolt against Juba, the Numidians sent a delegation to Caesar promising the city of Zama, with Caesar sending a contingent of cavalry to hold it and putting Sallustius in charge of what was now a Roman province. Caesar was now done in Africa, all affairs arranged according to his desires, so it was time for him to return home to Rome. At the morning briefing the day after the execution of Afranius, Caesar stood before us, surveying his officers and Centurions a moment before he spoke.

“Now that Scipio has been defeated and I've arranged affairs here in Africa to my satisfaction, I'm returning to Rome. And the Spanish Legions, along with the 5th and the 13th, will be shipping to Italy to march in the triumphs I'm planning on holding.”

I am not sure what else he said after that, because he was drowned out by our cheering. Not everyone was happy of course, but as far as we in the Spanish Legions were concerned, the chance to see Rome and march in a triumph was long overdue from our service in Gaul. I was grinning from ear to ear as I looked over at Scribonius, thinking he would feel the same way as I did. I would be seeing Rome at long last, while he would be returning home, yet Scribonius looked anything but happy at the thought. I shrugged then decided that if the moment were ever right I would finally ask him about it. In the meantime, I had some news to give to the men that I was fairly sure they would appreciate.

~ ~ ~ ~

As usual in the army, matters were not as simple as just packing the few belongings we had brought from Sicily with us then marching down to the docks at Utica. Moving six Legions, even under strength as all but the 5th was at that point is a massive undertaking, especially when the trip was in two movements. First, we would ship to Sicily where we would retrieve the rest of our property, then to Italy. As accustomed as I was to the slow progress, I was still in a state of seething impatience, because I had been told that we would be landing either at Brundisium or close enough to it that I could take only a few days to go see my family. I am afraid I took that impatience out on the men. After almost three weeks, it was finally our turn to land in Sicily, where we spent the next week packing up while the Centurions had their hands full adjudicating disputes of ownership and investigating the inevitable theft of the possessions of the men, guarded by supposed comrades who had bribed their Centurions into being left behind. Some of the cases were either so egregious or the men so inept that their guilt was clear, meaning that there were about a half-dozen executions and twice as many floggings while we were in Sicily. Thankfully, none were from the 10th. Finally, our day came to be loaded up and transported to the mainland, having marched to Lilybaeum from our camp the day before. We were on the quay at dawn. I went looking for the master of the fleet and I found him standing, chatting to some of the shipmasters. I had a question for him, and my patience had long since been exhausted, so eager was I to get to Brundisium, and I am afraid I was rather abrupt with him.

“Where are you landing us?” I demanded, not even bothering with the formalities of identifying myself.

He frowned, obviously irritated with my manners, but my Centurion’s crest and I suspect my size kept him from being as rude to me as I was to him. “Paestum,” he replied, and I cursed bitterly.

Paestum is nowhere near Brundisium; I had hoped for Tarentum, which would have allowed us to march straight up the Via Appia, but most importantly, was just a few thirds of a watch walk or less by horseback to Brundisium.

He made no attempt to hide his amusement at my unhappiness. “Why so upset, Centurion? You wanted to land somewhere else?”

“I was hoping we would land in Tarentum at the least or Brundisium most ideally.”

I cannot say for sure what it was, but something in his manner changed immediately, giving me my first stirring of unease.

“Why do you want to land in Brundisium?”

“My wife and children live there,” I replied.

His face turned grave as he shot a glance at the shipmasters around him, who looked equally grim. “That wouldn’t be possible under any circumstances, Centurion,” he said quietly.

My ears filled with a roaring noise as my heart started pounding so loudly that I was sure they could hear it.

I had to swallow more than once before I could croak out, “Why is that?”

“Because the plague has come to Brundisium. No fleet is landing there right now.”

~ ~ ~ ~

I do not remember much of the voyage to Paestum, spending most of it in the captain’s tiny cabin, sitting with Diocles and Scribonius, who did not talk. We had barely tied up at the dock when I leaped off, Diocles hurrying after me. Putting Silanus in charge of the Century and Glaxus in charge of the Cohort and the 10th, I hired two horses for Diocles and me, leaving Paestum no more than a third of a watch after the fleet arrived. Taking the Via Popilia a few miles, we turned off on the branch road that connected to the Via Appia, pushing the horses and ourselves without mercy. We stopped only long enough to change horses, grabbing a loaf of bread and some cheese that we ate on horseback. Poor Diocles was unaccustomed to traveling at the kind of pace I was setting, yet he hung on grimly to the mane of his horse, making no complaints, though he was never the complaining type to begin with. We arrived at Tarentum, passing through the city, stopping only long enough to change horses.

While I hired the mounts, Diocles sat in a tavern near the stables, listening to the talk, and when we had resumed our journey, told me what he had learned. “It’s an outbreak of typhus and it’s supposed to be very bad, Master.”

Diocles kept his voice calm, but I could hear the strain in his voice, making me suspect that he had heard more than he was telling. Normally, I am the type of person who wants to hear the complete and unvarnished truth, no matter how painful or unpleasant it may be. But not this time, so I did not press him for details. We passed the remaining miles in silence, approaching Brundisium a third of a watch before sunset. In truth, we smelled the city several miles before we came within sight of the walls, the stench such that it reminded me of some of the battlefields in Gaul, Alesia in particular, which did not help my frame of mind. The traffic on the road was understandably light, and almost exclusively one way, those who were able having left earlier when the outbreak first started. By the time we arrived at the city gates, Diocles had vomited more times than I could count, but I was not in the mood to tease him about it as I normally might have. Besides, my stomach was lurching as well, though for entirely different reasons, having become accustomed to the smell of death long before. The city guard had clearly been hit hard as well, there only being two men still on duty instead of the normal six or so, both of them wearing sprigs of herbs pinned to their neckerchiefs which they had tied around their faces to block out the smell. As we approached, they examined the two of us, their surprise and shock clear when I made to ride past them into the city. Looking at each other in alarm, they both moved to block our passage. Looking down at them, I struggled to remain calm. While I was not wearing my armor or helmet, I was wearing my sword and the fact that it hung to my left told them my rank, which was how they addressed me.

“Sorry, Centurion, but nobody is allowed into the city until the plague is past.”

“I've come to check on my family. They live here.”

The older of the two, a short, stocky man who was running to fat, shook his head, clearly uncomfortable, but intent on doing his duty. Normally, I would not have faulted him for his devotion, but these were not normal times and I was not in the right frame of mind.

“I’m sorry, Centurion, but our orders are clear.”

I do not remember making any conscious decision. In fact, it seemed as if my arm acted on its own, pulling my sword while the rest of my body urged my horse forward to get closer to the older man. In the time it takes to blink your eyes, the point of my sword was against the base of his throat.

“I'm coming into the city to check on my family. If you try to stop me, I'll kill you.”

I did not speak loudly, pitching my voice so only he and his companion could hear. The guard was shaking with fear, while his companion held his own spear with the point upright, either too shocked or too afraid to try to stop me from threatening his comrade.

For a moment he did not speak, then finally managed to croak, “Very well, Centurion. You may pass.”

“Thank you,” I said, but I did not sheathe my sword or turn my back to either of them until we were a safe distance away.

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.