Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 4 (Cont.)
Whether or not Zhang was planning any treachery, Caesar didn't know, but he was thankful that he apparently didn't have anything in store for the passage through the straits. As Zhang had predicted, traversing the strait had been a nightmare, made all the more urgent and vivid by the knowledge that every watch spent at sea meant more of his wounded were likely to die. Nevertheless, they had made it, although as they made their way through the strait they were forced to hug one shore because of the narrowness of the passageway, and because the opposite shore was lined with Wa archers who were waiting for any ship to come within range. Thank the gods these Wa didn't have any artillery, or Greek fire for that matter, Caesar mused. If so, it was highly likely that most of his fleet would have been damaged or destroyed. As it was, his own flagship had suffered damage when it had come close to foundering on the built-up silt and had to be hauled into deeper water. There hadn't been just mud in that strait, as the buckled timbers of the quinquereme attested, but fortunately they were now safely ashore, a camp was made and repairs could be made. Once through the strait, Volusenus, with Zhang's help had guided them due north to where a river flowed into the Inland Sea, with a smaller stream entering the inlet from the western side. The ground wasn't perfect; there were some heights to the west less than a mile from the edge of the camp, but judging from what Caesar had seen of this island so far, he suspected that level ground was going to be hard to come by. Regardless, the men had worked hard and well, erecting a strongly fortified camp with their usual speed and efficiency, and if they ended up staying longer than a week, Caesar would have them improve the defenses even more. Nothing gave men better sleep than knowing they were safe, and Caesar was no different in that regard. Sighing, he stood from behind his desk in the praetorium, straightening his tunic before he had his slave lower his cuirass over his head, then hand him the eagle-headed handle of his sheathed sword. He was about to go to the hospital tent, to make one of his twice daily visits to the wounded, knowing that the sight of their general seemed to help them heal more quickly than any potion.
Titus Pullus and Sextus Scribonius sat in Titus' tent, the remains of their evening meal still sitting in front of them before it would be cleared away by one of the slaves. It had been almost a week since the aborted landing, but Pullus was still sore, just another sign to him that he was getting too old for this kind of nonsense. This didn't help his mood any; like the rest of the army, there had been a pall hanging over his head resulting from the recent defeat. For a couple of days, the Primus Pilus of the 10th had been more in a state of shock than anything, not quite believing what he knew to be true, that for the first time in this campaign, now 10 years old, Caesar's army had been beaten. Once that new reality sank in, it had plunged him into a depression the likes of which he had never experienced before. It hadn't been as acute as his grief over the loss of some of his comrades who were close friends, but while not quite as painful as those personal losses were, this one was more profound in ways that he couldn't describe, even if he were so inclined. Which he wasn't, thanking the gods for how well his friend Scribonius knew him and recognized that trying to cheer him up wouldn't help. Besides, Scribonius had his own grief to deal with; after all, he had been on the beach as well, and while not as overt about it, he was just as proud as Titus. Still, there were matters to discuss that couldn't be avoided forever. Finally breaking the silence, Scribonius asked, "Have you given any more thought to what we talked about?"A flash of irritation showed on Titus' face, but it disappeared as he heaved a weary sigh, knowing that Scribonius was right to bring it up and that it couldn't be avoided any longer. "Yes," he finally answered, if a bit grudgingly. "But I still haven't made up my mind." Now it was Scribonius' turn to be irritated, and they had been friends much too long for him to be cowed by either Pullus' rank or reputation. "Pluto's thorny cock, Titus," he snapped. "You can't put this off forever. I don't remember ever going this long without an Optio, and I didn't argue with you when you took mine to put in your Cohort. And Mardonius is the logical choice to be my Optio."Instead of getting angry, Pullus rubbed his face, a habit of his whenever he was thinking or distracted. "I know that," he finally replied, his tone as tired as his face looked. "But we both know that this isn't as straightforward as it looks. We are talking about the Second Cohort."Now it was Scribonius' turn to sigh, because he knew Pullus was just as right as Scribonius himself was, and that was the reason no decision had been made. The nub of the problem was that Mardonius was a Parthian, and while he was Tesseraurius in one of Scribonius' upper Centuries, there had been a string of Parthians promoted in the last few months, and some of the men, and not just Romans, were muttering about it. Compounding matters was that Mardonius would be the Optio of the First Century of the Second Cohort, leapfrogging other men who were at the least more senior, if not more qualified. Normally this was little more than a headache, but the situation was made more difficult because of the overall mood of the army. Too many men that were rescued from the beach had gone on to die of their wounds on the pitching deck or crammed into the holds of ships because there had been no place to land. Suffering the defeat was bad enough, but the combination of all these things meant that Pullus' hold on the 10th was more tenuous than it had been since the dark days immediately after Pharsalus, when he had stood with Caesar and against not just his comrades but his longest and dearest friend, Vibius Domitius. In fact, Titus had come dangerously close to striking Vibius down, a memory that had stayed with the giant Primus Pilus even to this day. However, he wasn't alone; aside from the promotion issue, the other Primi Pili were in similar straits, none of them sleeping well at night, even with the security of the camp walls around them. This threat was from within, and for any leader is the most difficult challenge that they will face, no matter what their circumstances. "Well, as bad as it may be," Scribonius broke the silence between them, "at least we're not the 28th." "Who are you telling?" Pullus asked, with grim humor. "If we were, I wouldn't be sitting here right now."And with that thought, they toasted each other with the rancid rice wine that Diocles had managed to scrounge up.
Scribonius was correct; the men of the 28th were devastated both at the loss of their Primus Pilus Gnaeus Cartufenus and at the manner of his death. It was a situation of which Caesar was acutely aware, but as yet, he had not replaced the Primus Pilus, nor had he addressed the men of the 28th, or the rest of the army for that matter. This was another thing troubling the men of the ranks, but it troubled the officers even more, and to men like Pullus who had followed Caesar for 27 years it was very uncharacteristic. Normally when there had been a setback, Caesar never hesitated to not only face trouble head-on, but in cases where the army appeared in danger or faced a huge threat, he often exaggerated the danger, as he did in the case of Ariovistus, or when the army faced elephants for the first time at Thapsus. But for reasons only Pullus and the other Centurions could guess at, Caesar had chosen to remain silent, at least to this point. Pullus, who knew Caesar better than almost any other man from the ranks, suspected that his general was in what passed for him as a state of shock. Oh, he had conducted his daily briefings, but they had been extremely short, and before anyone could raise a question, he would end the meeting and stride out of the large partitioned area that served as the General and staff's mess when it wasn't used for meetings. Pullus had been tempted to seek an audience with Caesar to speak to him in private, both to try and plumb the depths of Caesar's despair, and to urge him that he needed to be more of his old self and address the army. Yet something held him back; as much as he loved and respected Caesar, there was still a healthy dose of fear there. Over the years he had seen men suddenly disappear, and had even been peripherally involved in an incident where a Centurion who struck down one of his own men during the time when Caesar was besieged in Alexandria was killed in action under suspicious circumstances. Although Pullus knew that in almost every case the disappeared men had been troublemakers, it still instilled in him a healthy caution around Caesar. Like Caesar, Pullus made regular visits to the hospital, and he was relieved to see that all but a few men were on the road to recovery; those who the gods had fated to die for the most part had done so.
Finally on the fifth day after they landed, two things happened. The first was that Charon's Boat, the separate section of the hospital tent where those destined to die were taken, was finally empty, the first concrete sign that there would be no more deaths. The second came when Diocles burst into Pullus' private quarters, where his master and friend was resting after conducting a morning's worth of weapons training. This had been Titus Pullus' first post in the Legions, as a weapons instructor, and even now he still prided himself on his prowess with a weapon. Sensing Diocles' presence, he looked over from his cot, instantly understanding that something momentous was taking place, and he swung his feet to the ground then stood as he reached for his vitus, the twisted vine cane that was symbol of his rank. His instinct was correct as Diocles said excitedly, "I just heard from Apollodorus," naming one of Caesar's secretaries. "Caesar is calling an assembly of the army." "When?" Pullus asked, his mind automatically running through the things that needed to be done whenever Caesar ordered the parade of the entire army. "At the beginning of the next watch," Diocles answered, causing Pullus to swear. "That's less than a third of a watch to go," Pullus protested, but even as he was doing so, he began donning his mail shirt and strapping on his harness. "But maybe we'll find out what his plan is."Diocles was already on his way out to begin his own set of tasks required to summon the Legion, but he clearly heard Pullus mutter, "Gods help us if he doesn't have one."
All posts by R.W. Peake on blog.rwpeake.com are copyrighted by the author, 2012.
Titus Pullus and Sextus Scribonius sat in Titus' tent, the remains of their evening meal still sitting in front of them before it would be cleared away by one of the slaves. It had been almost a week since the aborted landing, but Pullus was still sore, just another sign to him that he was getting too old for this kind of nonsense. This didn't help his mood any; like the rest of the army, there had been a pall hanging over his head resulting from the recent defeat. For a couple of days, the Primus Pilus of the 10th had been more in a state of shock than anything, not quite believing what he knew to be true, that for the first time in this campaign, now 10 years old, Caesar's army had been beaten. Once that new reality sank in, it had plunged him into a depression the likes of which he had never experienced before. It hadn't been as acute as his grief over the loss of some of his comrades who were close friends, but while not quite as painful as those personal losses were, this one was more profound in ways that he couldn't describe, even if he were so inclined. Which he wasn't, thanking the gods for how well his friend Scribonius knew him and recognized that trying to cheer him up wouldn't help. Besides, Scribonius had his own grief to deal with; after all, he had been on the beach as well, and while not as overt about it, he was just as proud as Titus. Still, there were matters to discuss that couldn't be avoided forever. Finally breaking the silence, Scribonius asked, "Have you given any more thought to what we talked about?"A flash of irritation showed on Titus' face, but it disappeared as he heaved a weary sigh, knowing that Scribonius was right to bring it up and that it couldn't be avoided any longer. "Yes," he finally answered, if a bit grudgingly. "But I still haven't made up my mind." Now it was Scribonius' turn to be irritated, and they had been friends much too long for him to be cowed by either Pullus' rank or reputation. "Pluto's thorny cock, Titus," he snapped. "You can't put this off forever. I don't remember ever going this long without an Optio, and I didn't argue with you when you took mine to put in your Cohort. And Mardonius is the logical choice to be my Optio."Instead of getting angry, Pullus rubbed his face, a habit of his whenever he was thinking or distracted. "I know that," he finally replied, his tone as tired as his face looked. "But we both know that this isn't as straightforward as it looks. We are talking about the Second Cohort."Now it was Scribonius' turn to sigh, because he knew Pullus was just as right as Scribonius himself was, and that was the reason no decision had been made. The nub of the problem was that Mardonius was a Parthian, and while he was Tesseraurius in one of Scribonius' upper Centuries, there had been a string of Parthians promoted in the last few months, and some of the men, and not just Romans, were muttering about it. Compounding matters was that Mardonius would be the Optio of the First Century of the Second Cohort, leapfrogging other men who were at the least more senior, if not more qualified. Normally this was little more than a headache, but the situation was made more difficult because of the overall mood of the army. Too many men that were rescued from the beach had gone on to die of their wounds on the pitching deck or crammed into the holds of ships because there had been no place to land. Suffering the defeat was bad enough, but the combination of all these things meant that Pullus' hold on the 10th was more tenuous than it had been since the dark days immediately after Pharsalus, when he had stood with Caesar and against not just his comrades but his longest and dearest friend, Vibius Domitius. In fact, Titus had come dangerously close to striking Vibius down, a memory that had stayed with the giant Primus Pilus even to this day. However, he wasn't alone; aside from the promotion issue, the other Primi Pili were in similar straits, none of them sleeping well at night, even with the security of the camp walls around them. This threat was from within, and for any leader is the most difficult challenge that they will face, no matter what their circumstances. "Well, as bad as it may be," Scribonius broke the silence between them, "at least we're not the 28th." "Who are you telling?" Pullus asked, with grim humor. "If we were, I wouldn't be sitting here right now."And with that thought, they toasted each other with the rancid rice wine that Diocles had managed to scrounge up.
Scribonius was correct; the men of the 28th were devastated both at the loss of their Primus Pilus Gnaeus Cartufenus and at the manner of his death. It was a situation of which Caesar was acutely aware, but as yet, he had not replaced the Primus Pilus, nor had he addressed the men of the 28th, or the rest of the army for that matter. This was another thing troubling the men of the ranks, but it troubled the officers even more, and to men like Pullus who had followed Caesar for 27 years it was very uncharacteristic. Normally when there had been a setback, Caesar never hesitated to not only face trouble head-on, but in cases where the army appeared in danger or faced a huge threat, he often exaggerated the danger, as he did in the case of Ariovistus, or when the army faced elephants for the first time at Thapsus. But for reasons only Pullus and the other Centurions could guess at, Caesar had chosen to remain silent, at least to this point. Pullus, who knew Caesar better than almost any other man from the ranks, suspected that his general was in what passed for him as a state of shock. Oh, he had conducted his daily briefings, but they had been extremely short, and before anyone could raise a question, he would end the meeting and stride out of the large partitioned area that served as the General and staff's mess when it wasn't used for meetings. Pullus had been tempted to seek an audience with Caesar to speak to him in private, both to try and plumb the depths of Caesar's despair, and to urge him that he needed to be more of his old self and address the army. Yet something held him back; as much as he loved and respected Caesar, there was still a healthy dose of fear there. Over the years he had seen men suddenly disappear, and had even been peripherally involved in an incident where a Centurion who struck down one of his own men during the time when Caesar was besieged in Alexandria was killed in action under suspicious circumstances. Although Pullus knew that in almost every case the disappeared men had been troublemakers, it still instilled in him a healthy caution around Caesar. Like Caesar, Pullus made regular visits to the hospital, and he was relieved to see that all but a few men were on the road to recovery; those who the gods had fated to die for the most part had done so.
Finally on the fifth day after they landed, two things happened. The first was that Charon's Boat, the separate section of the hospital tent where those destined to die were taken, was finally empty, the first concrete sign that there would be no more deaths. The second came when Diocles burst into Pullus' private quarters, where his master and friend was resting after conducting a morning's worth of weapons training. This had been Titus Pullus' first post in the Legions, as a weapons instructor, and even now he still prided himself on his prowess with a weapon. Sensing Diocles' presence, he looked over from his cot, instantly understanding that something momentous was taking place, and he swung his feet to the ground then stood as he reached for his vitus, the twisted vine cane that was symbol of his rank. His instinct was correct as Diocles said excitedly, "I just heard from Apollodorus," naming one of Caesar's secretaries. "Caesar is calling an assembly of the army." "When?" Pullus asked, his mind automatically running through the things that needed to be done whenever Caesar ordered the parade of the entire army. "At the beginning of the next watch," Diocles answered, causing Pullus to swear. "That's less than a third of a watch to go," Pullus protested, but even as he was doing so, he began donning his mail shirt and strapping on his harness. "But maybe we'll find out what his plan is."Diocles was already on his way out to begin his own set of tasks required to summon the Legion, but he clearly heard Pullus mutter, "Gods help us if he doesn't have one."
All posts by R.W. Peake on blog.rwpeake.com are copyrighted by the author, 2012.
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