Marching With Caesar - Civil War Read online

  Changing the subject, he said, “So, can your man Caesar be trusted?”

  Before I could speak up, I was surprised when Vibius answered, “Absolutely. Caesar may be a lot of things, but he’s an honorable man. You and the rest of the men who came into our camp are safe, that I can promise you. Right, Titus?”

  By rights, I should have been the only one giving such assurances, but I did not begrudge the breach of protocol, so surprised was I that Vibius would defend Caesar. My feelings were obvious, since I saw the color rise to Vibius’ cheeks.

  Before we could get into an argument, I simply said, “What Vibius says is true, Cyclops. You and the rest of your comrades will come to no harm.”

  He nodded with some relief at our words. “Good, I thought as much. I’ll be honest, I don’t know about you boys, but none of us are really all that eager to keep on fighting.” He looked at us to gauge our reaction, yet neither of us spoke, so he continued. “It’s just that we look across the field at you, and we don’t see the enemy, we see men just like us. Men that we know, and are related to, both by blood and marriage.”

  Despite my attempts to remain impassive, I was touched that Cyclops still thought of me as kin, since in reality his bond with me had died with Livia.

  With that knowledge, I lowered my defenses, and agreed. “We feel the same way, Cyclops. Although I will say that yesterday, there was some sentiment among the senior Centurions that we should go ahead, assault the hill, and get it over with. I can’t help but wonder now if they still feel the same way.”

  “Why’s that?” Cyclops asked, looking at me in a speculative manner.

  “Because I assume that there are reunions of this sort happening in a lot of tents in this camp,” I said honestly. “And it’s one thing to want to end the war with one final battle when we look across the distance at your camp. But now that you’ve come, you’re flesh and blood, you’re all too real, and I think that there are going to be some men who see things differently in the morning.”

  “I hope you’re right, Titus,” Cyclops said, raising his cup in a toast, which we joined.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  I was more right than I knew. The very same men who had been openly questioning Caesar’s decision not to attack were now singing his praises and commending him on his vision. Still, I did not hear many of them taking themselves to task so much as they were praising Caesar, but I did not push the point. There were reunions going on all over the camp and before long, men were going in both directions; our men went into the Pompeian camp under the supposed protection of Afranius, many of them carrying loaves of bread in search of hungry friends and kinsmen who had not come into our camp. Meanwhile, some of the senior Centurions in Afranius’ army had gathered, asking to approach Caesar to request of him that he promise the same sort of leniency to their generals and officers that he was showing to the rankers, to which he readily agreed. As he had told us the day before, there was nothing to be gained by further bloodshed of men who were the same as us. His attitude was a great relief to the Pompeians, some of whom agreed to join our standards, so great was their admiration of Caesar. It was a festive atmosphere in the camp to be sure, and soon any attempts at maintaining some sort of discipline about who went over to the Pompeian camp to visit fell apart. In my own Cohort, some 20 men were given permission to visit, and I suspected there were at least as many who had simply just slipped away to go with their friends.

  I asked the Primus Pilus what was to be done, and he just shrugged with a wry grin and said, “Just hope they get back in one piece. I don’t want to have to flog half the Legion.”

  Looking back, I realize that it never occurred to either one of us that we could not trust the Pompeian generals; after all, what did they have to gain by harming our men? That is a question I am still asking.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Piecing the events together, after the proverbial dust had settled, this was what we learned happened in the Pompeian camp, leading to one of the darkest episodes of the civil war. While Afranius had acquiesced to the actions taken by his men in reaching out to Caesar, and indeed, according to some prisoners who worked in the headquarters, had actually instigated the delegation of Centurions who went to Caesar, the other general Petreius harbored no such feelings. Completely ignoring the safe conduct offered by Afranius, he armed his personal slaves while summoning about a Cohort's worth of his lackeys, those men who fawn all over a general in order to gain his favor. He deputed these men to do his dirty work. I was alerted to the change in the situation by alarmed yells, followed by the screams of our men who were caught, the first few of them completely unaware that they were betrayed. Most of the men were mingling in the area of the reservoir, but a fair number of our men had actually gone all the way into the Pompeian camp. These men were the first to fall, butchered where they were found, some of them dragged out of the tents of the friends and kinsmen whom they were visiting. Once the alarm was raised, a large number of our men rallied together, forming a makeshift orbis, using their sagum as makeshift shields wrapped around their left arms. They had gone into camp bearing only their swords and daggers, as regulations prescribed, but they presented enough of a defense that they were able to move slowly towards our camp. Our guard Cohorts were summoned and had sallied forth out the nearest gate, where they absorbed the refugees into their midst before retreating into the camp. There was complete pandemonium inside our camp as everyone tried to determine exactly what had happened. Cyclops was standing with us outside my tent as men came running up, shouting that we had been betrayed by the Pompeians and that every man of ours in the camp, except for the group who had formed up, were slaughtered. Despite not knowing if that were indeed true, it certainly seemed possible, and I looked at Cyclops, his face gone gray with shock.

  “Who did this?” I demanded coldly of him, for such was my anger that I would have struck my old mentor and friend down right there had Vibius not put a restraining hand on my arm.

  The moment passed; I realized that there was no way he could have known this was going to happen, and if he did, he would have warned us because of the type of man that he was. Still, I was wary and looked at him with new eyes. All he could do was shake his head, and it took him a moment before he composed himself enough to speak.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “This doesn’t strike me as something Afranius would do; he’s more politician than soldier, and he wouldn’t want to create this kind of bad blood. It has to be Petreius, but I don’t see how he could be so foolhardy. He’s no great shakes as a general, and he’s not fit to stand in your man’s shadow, but I didn’t think even he would be this stupid.”

  “Well, someone is,” I shot back, then turned and trotted over to the Primus Pilus’ tent to find out what I could.

  An assembly was called to determine who was still missing, and the numbers were sobering. Of my Cohort, I still had 12 men missing, and the identity of one of those men worried me most. Scribonius, as was his norm, had been scrupulous about asking permission to go visit a cousin, which I granted, but he had not returned in the group. The only positive note at that point was that none of the escapees recalled seeing him struck down. Four of my other men were not so lucky, however; I received reports from multiple eyewitnesses that they were hacked to pieces. There was still daylight left, and we could see across the way in the Pompeian camp that they were calling their own assembly. What we learned later was that Petreius had countermanded the order of Afranius for safe conduct, but after the initial slaughter, went from Cohort to Cohort, begging his men to remain true to Pompey, blubbering big baby tears. Not satisfied with this, he then called an assembly to make every man in camp swear an oath of loyalty to Pompey, and further, demanded that any remaining men of ours that they were hiding now be turned in for summary execution. Fortunately, while most of the Pompeians were willing enough to swear loyalty, they were loath to fulfill the second part of this requirement, although a few of the craven bastards did what they were asked, causi
ng several more of our men to be put to death in the forum in front of the assembled Pompeian army. We could hear their cries for mercy drift across to us, while we stood in helpless anger on the ramparts watching them put to death. At the distance they were at, I could not distinguish individuals, so I was unable to tell if Scribonius or any of the other of my men were the unfortunates.

  Now there was a choice to make, although I do not believe any of us thought that it would turn out any differently, about the fate of the Pompeians now stranded in our camp. I will not lie; there was a good bit of sentiment among all the ranks that we return the treatment of our men in kind to the Pompeians, but I do not believe any of us really thought that Caesar would take that action. And he did not. In contrast, he allowed any man desiring freedom to return to his own camp, free of any retribution and under armed escort to our gates. Despite a good number of men doing just that, there was about an equal number who, disgusted by the actions of their general, swore allegiance to Caesar, abjuring any oaths of loyalty to a man who would do such a thing as Petreius. Neither Vibius nor I were particularly surprised when Cyclops was one of those men. We saw in his face the contempt and horror at what transpired, and I was happy to speak for him, this being the only requirement that Caesar made of the men staying behind, that someone vouch for them. Cyclops was sent to the 14th, having lost their Primus Pilus in the assault on the mound, along with a couple other Centurions, whereupon he took command of the Seventh of the 14th. I will admit that it was quite a relief to have him safely on our side, since that was one less friend we had to worry about having to face in battle. But by the time night fell, I still did not know the fate of Scribonius or the other seven men still in the Pompeian camp.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  As it turned out, most of the men in my Cohort did return, having been hidden by their friends and kinsmen despite the oath they were forced to take. Of the eight whose fate I did not know as the sun set that day, six of them returned, including Scribonius, escorted under cover of darkness out of the Pompeian camp by the men who hid them. The sentiment was such that none of the sentries on the Pompeian side raised any alarm at what turned out to be almost a hundred men crossing back to our lines, and there was much relief as one by one, the missing men reported to their respective Centurions. However, that feeling of relief was tempered by sadness and anger, once it was determined that not all of them were coming back. I was luckier than some of the other Cohorts in the army. I ended up losing a total of six men: four in the initial attack and two who were betrayed, not by the friends or kinsmen of the men who invited them to come over, but by the tentmates of those men, although we did not learn this until much later. I remember wondering how much damage their actions did to the trust and bond that normally mark men of the same tent section, thinking that at some point in the future there would probably be a reckoning between them. I sat with Scribonius as he gulped down unwatered wine, still breathless from the dash he made once outside the Pompeian gates.

  “I thought for sure I was a goner,” he gasped. “My cousin hid me under his bunk and piled all of his gear around me, but they had provosts come into each tent and they poked and prodded the beds and the gear. The provost assigned to search my tent stuck his sword right down into the middle of the pile, and the blade passed not more than an inch from my throat. If he had moved it around at all, I’d be dead.”

  We looked at each other in mute anger and disbelief. Finally, Vibius broke the silence. “Well, this changes things,” he declared. “I don’t think Caesar is going to be so quick to forgive now, and I can’t say that I blame him.”

  Again, I was surprised; this was twice in one day that Vibius had spoken up for Caesar, more than in the past five years.

  Before I could respond, Scribonius shook his head. “I don’t think so, Vibius. I think he knows that it was the act of one man, and that man is going to be the one to ultimately pay.”

  “True, but he wasn’t the one who did the actual killing,” Vibius protested, and there was truth in what he said. “I think every one of the friends of the men who were butchered today is going to want to exact vengeance on the man holding the sword, as well as the man who ordered it.”

  “You might be right,” conceded Scribonius, “but I also think that they were just following orders, the way they, and we,” he motioned in a circle at all of us gathered about the fire, “have been trained to do, without question. That’s why I don’t think this will change things for the likes of us all that much. I know I’m no more anxious to kill my cousin and his friends than I was before.”

  “We’ll see,” grumbled Vibius, but I could see that Scribonius had scored points with the rest of the men gathered about.

  Scribonius and the other escapees became minor celebrities in the camp, and they were plied with wine as they were asked to recount their tales of escape. With Scribonius continuing to answer questions, I walked off to check on the rest of the men who the gods had smiled on this day, while at the same time wondering what was to happen with the bodies of our slain and if they would be allowed at least to rest in dignity and peace.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The sun rose to the pall of smoke hanging above the Pompeian camp and we learned that at least our comrades had been cared for in the proper manner. Under banner of truce, a Tribune was sent to assure us that their remains would be sent to their kin, with all proper honors and rights, and while we doubted their word, we had no choice but to believe them. In the meantime, their command group held another council, apparently deciding that their position on this hill, even with water, was untenable. Just as both command groups were conferring, a new development changed the balance further in our favor in one way, but caused us more hardship in another. The auxiliary force of the Pompeians, like all auxiliaries, were neither as well equipped nor as well supplied as the Legions, meaning their supply situation was even worse than the rest of the Pompeian army. Not seeing any relief coming from any source, they began to desert to us, first in small numbers, then in a veritable flood of men who came streaming to our camp, begging us to give them shelter and food in exchange for their service. Again, Caesar ordered clemency and we took all of them in, even with the extra strain it put on our own supply situation.

  Despite these desertions relieving some of the pressure from the Pompeians, it still was not enough, and they made the decision to march back to Ilerda to their supply base. This time the Pompeians marched in a double column, except that they prepared to defend against our cavalry by having their rearguard march without their packs, putting them on mules to give them the best possible mobility against our horsemen. Again, the terrain proved to be a challenge, but for both sides this time. With the Pompeian column marching up one of the hills, the rearguard was then protected by their comrades on the higher slopes, who could fling their javelins down at our cavalry. However, once they reached the crest of the hill to start down the opposite side, the rearguard no longer had the protection of their comrades, thereby immediately coming under assault from our cavalry, who charged in to fling their own missiles, inflicting several casualties. After this was repeated a couple of times, the Pompeians adjusted by sending their rearguard in a headlong charge at our cavalry, while the main body would hurry across the level ground to the next slope. The rearguard would then turn and run to join their comrades in the time it took our cavalry to regroup. In this manner, they made a slow but steady progress, covering about four miles before halting on a hill, fortifying the slope that faced us, although they left their baggage packed on their mules. We did likewise, making camp, except that we did unpack our mules, pitching our tents and going about the business of digging the ditches and throwing up the walls.

  Although from outward appearances we had taken the bait, once again, Caesar was a step ahead, having passed the word that we were to be ready to drop everything to resume our pursuit at his order. Several Cohorts were ordered to remain behind to pack the camp up should the Pompeians make a break for it, and we did not h
ave long to wait; perhaps a third of a watch had passed when the alarm was raised that they were again on the move. Springing into action, we fell back into marching formation and were in pursuit no more than a sixth part of a watch later, with our cavalry soon back harrying the Pompeian rearguard. This time, our cavalry attacks inflicted heavy casualties on the rearguard; whether it was due to more vigor on the part of our men, or fatigue on the part of the Pompeians we could not tell, but the ground was soon littered with bodies as the bulk of the enemy still struggled towards Ilerda. The Pompeians had gotten back into the open ground surrounding the town, no longer even having the cover and protection of the small hills and rocky terrain, and it was not much longer before their commanders called another halt. Since our baggage had not been retrieved yet, we did what we could to make ourselves comfortable and secure, watching the Pompeians working feverishly to improve on their position.

  Once more, the Pompeians were in desperate straits because they had halted a distance away from one of the reservoirs, while Caesar had halted us much closer to it so we did not have the same problem. As they had previously, the Pompeians began extending their fortifications towards the reservoir in an attempt to secure a supply of water, working the rest of the day and through the night. Now, however, their problem was twofold; not only did they have to get to the water, the reservoir itself was smaller than most of the others in the area, our own needs draining it almost dry by the time their ditch and wall got close. The sun rose to a desperate plight for the Pompeians when they were greeted by a sight that had caused despair in countless other enemies of Caesar; he had put us at work building a contravallation. Our baggage had caught up with us in the night, whereupon we were put immediately to work, save for a number of Cohorts left on guard. The enemy started slaughtering their remaining cattle and even killed their mules, sparing only the cavalry horses, which were sent, along with every spare man, out to find water. We were too occupied in throwing up our fortifications to spend any time pursuing the Pompeians, who went scrambling about the countryside looking for water, besides the fact that our own cavalry had already scoured the region and if there was a drop of water or a kernel of grain, it was in our possession. We spent the entire day digging, chopping, and sweating, the Pompeians only able to watch in frustration and I suspect not a small amount of fear as what was effectively a noose neared completion. Finally stopping at sunset, the men were exhausted, filthy, and barely able to pick at their evening meal. Conversation was desultory; the almost nonexistent grumbling was a sure sign of their fatigue, it simply took too much energy.