Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 10
“Why don’t we just brush them off the hill?” Libo asked, flush with the aggressiveness and verve that comes from being young.
“We could,” I conceded. “But I don’t know how easily they'd be brushed. From this distance, I can’t tell if they're entrenched at all. We also don’t know what tribe they belong to.”
“What does that matter?” the Tribune asked, and I swallowed the urge to make a sharp retort, forcing myself instead to explain.
“Libo, we can handle the Triballi with the army we have. And we can handle the Serdi. We might be able to handle both tribes together. But can we handle a third tribe?” I shook my head. “Until we know, or at least have a good idea exactly what tribe those men belong to over there, I’m not in any hurry to go try to knock them off.”
“And how do we find that out?”
I considered for a moment.
“We could approach them under a flag of truce and try and find out, but then we’d have to explain what we're doing here. The better way is to take some prisoners, except there’s not much chance of us doing that, since they’re prepared for us.”
I turned Ocelus to go back to the main body, having seen enough.
“So we have to figure out a way to surprise them.”
When we returned to the rest of the army, Primus was waiting for us.
“Well?” he demanded. “Are they there?”
“They’re there all right,” I told him.
I did not relish telling Primus what I had in mind, yet I also knew that any choice I made was liable to get an argument from him.
“Until we know exactly who these Thracians are, I think we should look to go around them.”
“Go around them?” Primus scoffed. “What for? First, we don’t engage with our cavalry, and now you want to skulk around them as if we’re afraid? No!” He pounded on the pommel of his saddle with a pudgy hand. “I order that we attack that mob and show them the might of Rome!”
Macrinus and Flaminius had joined us by this time, their faces revealing none of their thoughts, but after Primus spoke, they both turned to look at me, something that was not lost on Primus.
“I'm giving the orders here,” he snapped, his face turning red.
There was a silence, the air feeling like it suddenly had become imbued with tiny particles of lead that one could not see, but could feel like an oppressive weight, while things seemed to slow down. I could see that Macrinus’ eyes had suddenly dilated, and even from where I was sitting on Ocelus, I could hear his breathing; harsh but regular as he deliberately turned to me, completely ignoring Primus.
“What are your orders, Prefect?”
Because my eyes were on Macrinus, I did not see Primus’ face, yet I could clearly hear him gasp in shock.
“Prefect, I order this man arrested, immediately!” the Praetor shouted.
Then Flaminius, his face set and determined, also faced me, repeating the question, word for word.
“Him too,” Primus screamed, and it was only then that I faced him.
His face was almost purple with rage as he pointed at Flaminius. Only Masala moved, but he looked extremely uneasy, putting his hand on his sword, heading his horse in the general direction of the two Primi Pili. Lucullus, seeing Masala and interpreting his move as obedience to Primus’ order, spurred his horse to a spot in between Primus’ aide and the two Primi Pili.
“You!” Primus shrilled. “You too?”
The Praetor whirled around, his eyes wild as he looked for help, but then Libo turned away from the Praetor and, in a shaking voice, asked the same question as Macrinus and Flaminius. Immediately following Libo was Capito. Only then did Marcus Primus see that he was alone and isolated. I had not planned this, and in fact did not want to have a confrontation with Marcus Primus at all, but the dice had been thrown and now I had to choose. On impulse, I nudged Ocelus to trot next to Primus, who looked equal parts angry and frightened. Staring down at him, my mind raced, trying to think of some way to dispel the tension. I could sense that there were hundreds of eyes now staring at us, the men near the command group clearly seeing something out of the ordinary taking place.
“Praetor, on my honor as a Legionary of Rome, I did not want this,” I whispered so that only he could hear.
His fat face contorted with the bitterness and rage of the man who has seen exactly what others think of him.
“Yes, you did,” he hissed. “And I'll have you scourged, I swear it on Jupiter’s stone!”
“Praetor,” I remained calm, ignoring the rapid beating of my heart. “I'd be very careful about making threats like that. Do you think Masala is enough to protect you?”
A look of fear flashed across his face and his eyes darted about. Although I did not look, I knew that the men watching him were doing so with anything but friendly stares.
Primus drew a shaky breath, closed his eyes, then asked, “What do you want?”
“I want you to give the order that we're going to bypass the Thracians.”
“But that's not what I want,” he pouted.
I jerked my head at the other men.
“It’s what they want.”
“And what you want,” he said accusingly, and that was true enough.
“Forget about what I want,” I told him. Then, I was struck by an idea. “How about a compromise?”
He looked at me warily.
“What kind of compromise?”
I explained what I was thinking. When I finished, he said nothing for several moments, finally giving an abrupt nod.
In a voice loud enough to carry so that the command group could hear, but no one else beyond our immediate circle, I asked, “Praetor, what are your orders?”
Primus’ mouth opened, nothing coming out at first.
Then, in a strangled voice, he called out, “Yes, I have decided that our best course of action is to bypass those Thracians on the hill. However, we need to find out what tribe they belong to. I don’t want them in our rear if they are Triballi. So tonight, after we make camp, I'm ordering a raid to take prisoners so that we can determine exactly who these Thracian scum are.”
There was a momentary pause before first Macrinus, followed by Flaminius, saluted, then hurried off to their respective Legions, each having grown increasingly restless at the delay. Libo followed suit, then Capito, while Masala and Lucullus glared at each other for a moment before Lucullus turned his mount aside, letting Masala pass to move to Primus’ side.
Before he reached us, Primus said softly, “I will not forget this Prefect.”
“Neither will I,” I told him. “And remember this, Primus. I have a lot more friends out here than you do.”
Without waiting for his response, I turned away and we resumed the march.
We had to make a wide circuit of the hill on which the Thracians sat. In order to avoid detection, we kept the first hill between us for as long as we could. It was not much of a ruse; it is impossible to hide the dust raised by more than ten thousand pairs of feet and almost as many hooves, yet I judged that every moment we gained while the Thracians wondered what we were up to helped our cause. It was a very real concern that we were essentially putting a force in our rear, and if we had been marching on a campaign that would take more than one season, I probably would have chosen to go ahead and engage with the Thracians, trying to bloody them to make them move. But since this was going to be of a short duration, or at least so I hoped, with a defined objective, and we were carrying most of what we would need during that time, it was not so much of a concern. Our biggest worry was forage for the animals; fortunately, this is also the easiest to come by, except for the high quality feed needed for the cavalry horses, and of course the mounts of the command group and Evocati. We were carrying five wagons full of barley, which may sound like a lot and, if this was supplemented with grass or hay, would hopefully last for most of the campaign. However, if for some reason we could not obtain enough forage, then we were in trouble. Nothing will cripple an army like losing their cavalry, because it essentially blinds the commander on the march, along with robbing him of his screening ability. This was why, on the logistical side of things, I was most worried about our foraging ability. Copying what I had learned from Caesar, I made sure that the troopers out on flank patrol and scouting missions carried nets in which to carry forage to bring back.
Moving west, back in the direction of the Strymon, we marched until we came within sight of the riverbank before heading north, the tail of the ridge where the Thracians had been waiting for us, now several miles away, descending down to the river valley on our right. Even though I had little illusion that our march would escape their notice, I was still a bit disappointed when one of the outriders on our right flank came galloping back to report the sighting of another mounted group sitting on the high ground, watching us march past. Now we had to worry about the Thracian commander using his wits, moving quickly to bring his force down on our flank by traversing the length of the ridge west. I ordered Macrinus to detach two Cohorts, sending Capito along with him, ordering the Tribune to have his men bring out their slings and make them ready.
“I want you to use the slingers to drive those men off the hill,” I told Capito, adding, “if you can.”
I turned to Macrinus and the two Centurions he had selected, my heart skipping a beat at the familiar face of Gaius’ Pilus Prior, Palma. Gaius was now the Hastatus Posterior of the Seventh, the most junior Centurion in the entire Legion, despite his position in the Seventh.
“Once Capito and his auxiliaries dislodge those bastards, I want you to set up a blocking position across the ridge. I’m also detaching some of the Evocati to stay with you to act as scouts and messengers.”
I turned to Scribonius, who already knew what was coming, but I said it anyway.
“You’re in charge of the Evocati. I’ll send someone back with our camp location.” I squinted up at the sun, judging how much time was left. “We’ll probably make another six or seven miles. You should be able to reach us easily enough.”
“If the Thracians let us.”
I looked at Scribonius, somewhat surprised that he was so pessimistic. I was also a little irritated that he voiced that pessimism in front of others.
“I don’t think you’ll have any problems,” I said, admittedly a little harshly. “Because if the Thracians attack, then we have the excuse we need. Even though we’re in their territory, they’re a client state and, as far as they know, we might just be marching through into Dacia.”
Scribonius considered, then nodded his head.
“You’re probably right,” he conceded. “So what do we do if they approach us under flag of truce to ask that very thing?”
Naturally, he had brought up something that I had not thought about. As much as I hated to go to him, this was a question for Marcus Primus. Telling the others to wait, I trotted over to where the Praetor was still sulking with Masala by his side, like always. I relayed the question that Scribonius had raised. Primus looked back at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Why are you asking me? You’ve taken over this campaign, you and your dirty low-class Legions.”
Well, it is a military operation, I thought to myself. Who better?
But I did not voice those thoughts, saying instead, “You're mistaken, Praetor. As you've said yourself, your Proconsular imperium far outstrips my lowly station. And this is more of a political question, of which you know much more about than I do.”
Like I had hoped, this seemed to soothe his ruffled feelings, and he puffed out his chest, rubbing his chin in thought.
“If they do approach under flag of truce, then simply tell them that we're passing through to Dacia, under orders from Rome.”
This was actually a sound order, and made sense. The Thracians may not have believed it, but they would have enough doubt that their commander would most likely try to check our story, and that would take days, if not weeks. I trotted Ocelus back, relaying the orders to Capito, who was the ranking officer of the detachment. With these dispositions made, we continued the march. Before I left, I went to Scribonius, who was sitting on his horse, talking to another Evocati.
“I really don’t think you’ll have any trouble, but take care of yourself anyway.”
He grinned at me, a gap showing where he had recently lost another tooth, something that I was still managing to avoid for the most part.
“I don’t have the talent for trouble that you do. I’ll be fine.”
We parted, and I headed back to my spot in the column, with Scribonius rejoining the rest of the Evocati and placing them behind the two Cohorts. The auxiliaries had been shaken out into open formation in front of the Cohorts. Once ready, the whole force started up the hill. They continued marching, the Thracians milling about nervously, seemingly confused about what was happening, which was understandable. Finally, when the auxiliaries acting as slingers got within range, the Thracian commander gave the order to withdraw, suddenly turning about to trot back east along the ridge, presumably to meet with the oncoming Thracian army and report what was happening. We slowly moved far enough away to the point that I could not make out individuals, just seeing the dark lines represented by the two Cohorts settling into their position athwart the ridge. Because of the width of the ridge, I could see that both Pili Priores had been forced to use all of their Centuries in the first line in order to cover it entirely. Just beyond their position, barely visible on the horizon above the ridge, I could see a smudge that might have been mistaken for a cloud, but knew from experience was dust. I assumed that this was the main body of Thracians heading westward down the ridge. Even if it was, there was nothing I could do at that point, and we continued to march.
Making camp about seven miles from the ridge, the men erected a strong camp on a hill with a gentle slope on the northern face, and a steeper side on the opposite slope, this being the likely approach of the Thracians. With the men working, I found myself looking south, watching the horizon for the telltale dust that would signal that our detachment was marching to join us. Finally, shortly before sundown, I spotted what I had been looking for. A short time later, we spotted a small group of horsemen that turned out to be the Evocati returning. Relieved that Scribonius was safe, I still worried about Gaius, yet I could now see the dark mass of marching men on the horizon. Since I really had nothing to do, I mounted Ocelus, going out to meet Scribonius. Picking my way carefully down the slope, I was about halfway there when I pulled Ocelus up short, my eye catching some sort of movement. Just behind the main body of our men returning to camp, I saw another dark shape, more indistinct, like a blob of ink dropped onto the landscape.
“Pluto’s cock,” I swore, although only Ocelus heard me. “Those fucking Thracians are following our boys.”
Putting my horse into a trot, I hurried down the slope, reaching Scribonius and the Evocati.
Seeing my expression, Scribonius asked, “What is it?”
I pointed back in the direction from where they had come, telling him what I had just seen. Without a word from me, Scribonius snapped an order to the Evocati, who wheeled about, and we all headed at the trot for the Cohorts and auxiliaries. They had obviously spotted the Thracians on their trail as well, now moving at a much quicker pace than before, the auxiliaries spreading out behind the Legionaries, their slings out, ready to employ. Drawing nearer, we could see that it was the main body of the Thracians, marching in the mob-like way of the barbarian tribes, following the Cohorts, but maintaining a safe distance from the auxiliaries. They made no overtly offensive moves, not even shouting or shaking their spears and swords at us, the normal sign that they intended to do battle, and that relieved me. Passing Palma’s Cohort first, I spotted Gaius running alongside his men, giving me a quick nod as they went by. We reached Capito, mounted and behind the auxiliaries, his eyes on the Thracians now just out of the range of our slingers. Meanwhile, his men continued taking a few steps, then turned about to face the Thracians to see if they were making any overt move, repeating the process. It was slow going, except the Cohorts were drawing away too quickly, and I quickly recognized that this might tempt the Thracians into making a rush for the auxiliaries. I had Scribonius go back at the gallop to order the Cohorts to stop and wait, which they did. Once the gap was smaller, the retreat resumed, the camp drawing ever closer, albeit too slowly for the men, I was sure. Reaching the base of the slope, I again sent Scribonius ahead to alert the Cohorts on guard duty on this side of the camp to man the ramparts to provide cover, but it was needless, because the Thracians had drawn up, seemingly content to watch us reach the safety of the camp. We made it safely into the gate via the Porta Decumana, the men panting from the exertion and excitement, and I dismounted Ocelus to climb up to the rampart to watch the Thracians. They had retreated a good distance away, giving every indication that they were settling down for the night themselves. While I watched, a haphazard collection of tents and other crude shelters were thrown up, men claiming patches of ground, yet without any discernible organization. This was a sight very familiar to me, but the young Legionary next to me gaped in amazement at the sight.
“How do they ever get anything done?” he mused, and I had to chuckle.
It was indeed an extremely strange concept to the highly ordered Roman mind, the way barbarian tribes seemed to operate where all men were more or less equal, at least among the lower classes. There was no hierarchy, no organization; traits that we Romans simply could not understand.
“Don’t underestimate them just because they don’t know how to make a camp,” I warned the youngster. “They’re still dangerous. Remember that Spartacus was a Thracian.”
I instantly regretted my last words, a look of fear flashing across the boy’s face. I had to kick myself, remembering that a whole generation of Romans had been kept in line by their mothers by the use of the name of the gladiator slave who led a revolt that shook Rome itself.
“Remember, they never found his body,” mothers would tell their recalcitrant children. “So he still may be out there, looking for more Romans to kill.”
