Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 13
I thanked him, taking the opportunity to sit on the edge of a desk, afraid that if I sat on a chair or stool I would not be able to get up. Lucullus returned, saying with a shrug that he had delivered the message, not to Primus but to Masala, his face giving nothing away. I do not know how long I waited before the flap that led into the private office and quarters of the Legate was finally pulled aside, Marcus Primus entering, followed by Masala. They were both dressed in what I suppose was fashionable sleeping wear in Rome, consisting of a shiny gown wrapped around the waist by a matching sash. To my eyes, they looked like tarted up whores, but I tried to keep my face a professional blank and stood to come to intente.
“Camp Prefect Pullus reporting the success of your ordered mission to retrieve prisoners, Praetor,” I announced while rendering a salute. He returned it readily enough, but then I saw his eyes narrow at the sight of the unkempt, shaggy men who had been forced to kneel, the body of the fourth Thracian dumped behind them.
“Well, Prefect, it appears that your definition of success and mine are much different, which shouldn’t surprise me,” he said sourly. He was still trying to shake the sleep off, and I had known that waking him up was a risky move to begin with, and he was giving every appearance of making this difficult. Only after he gave a cursory examination to the prisoners did he look over at me again, this time seeing the stain of the wound on my side.
“Are you wounded, Prefect?”
“Only slightly, Praetor.” True enough words, despite the fact I could feel my legs shaking.
“Well, that is unfortunate,” he replied, making it clear that it was anything but. “Still, I distinctly remember telling you that we needed ten prisoners, and I see before me only four.”
His eyes narrowed, and he pointed at the prone figure behind the three Thracians.
“Is that man dead?”
No, he is just very tired and catching up on his sleep, since we disturbed him, I wanted to say. Instead, I simply nodded my head.
“Well,” he sniffed. “He can hardly be counted, then. So you have brought only three prisoners, Prefect. That doesn’t seem like success to me.” He turned to Masala, a smirk on his face.
“Does it to you, Masala?”
I fully expected Masala to agree with his patron, but again, Masala proved full of surprises. He did not answer immediately, which was an answer in itself. I do not know who was more surprised, me or Primus.
“Well?” the Praetor snapped. “Do you agree or don’t you?”
“I would agree that the Prefect certainly did not snatch the ten prisoners that you demanded,” Masala said carefully. He paused, clearly trying to choose the right words, Primus visibly fuming at what I am sure he thought was some sort of betrayal.
“However,” Masala said finally, “snatching ten prisoners was quite an ambitious undertaking. If I remember my instructions in this matter, it is expected that it takes at least eight men to secure one prisoner, which means that to secure these ten prisoners, would have required a full Century of Legionaries.”
Masala looked directly at me, his face expressionless.
“Isn’t that so, Prefect?”
The fact is that Masala was making this up; in my almost forty years under the standard, I had never heard anything about the right ratio of men needed to snatch prisoners. I did not know why Masala was lying to his patron and, from everything I had seen, his lover, but a drowning man cannot be choosy about the rope thrown to him, so I grabbed on with all my might.
“Quite right, Masala. You remembered your lessons very well, indeed.”
While Masala’s face remained the same, I could see the flash of relief in his eyes as he turned back to Primus.
“Besides, Praetor. With the men from the torture detachment, these three will be more than enough to tell us what we need to know. After all, we are only trying to determine what tribe they are from, are we not?”
Primus looked clearly confused as he tried to determine what was happening, looking from Masala to me, then to the prisoners and back. I could see that he was suspicious, but I imagine that it was hard, if not impossible for Primus to believe that Masala would be lying to him. And I had no doubt that Primus had no idea that there was in fact no such formula for snatching a prisoner, judging from his other martial abilities. I simply could not imagine that the fat little man had spent a full afternoon on the Campus Martius. Despite the importance of what would come out of Primus’ mouth, my attention at that moment was also torn away by a sound behind me. It took me a moment to realize the significance; when Masala had spoken of the torture detachment, one of the Thracians behind me had let out a low moan of fear.
“They understand Latin,” I muttered, then Primus spoke.
“Thank you, Masala, for making that clear. On reflection, I suppose you are right, and of course, as soon as you mentioned it, I remember that very lesson about snatching prisoners. I should have thought of it before, I know.”
“You have too many other matters on your mind, Praetor,” Masala said smoothly, giving his mentor a way to salvage his pride.
“Yes, I do, I do,” Primus agreed. “Well, no matter.”
With the matter seemingly forgotten, I heaved an internal sigh of relief, though I was still mystified about Masala’s aid.
“Turn these men over to the torture detachment,” Primus said, his manner brisk and businesslike. He was about to turn away and supposedly retire again, when I spoke up.
“Actually, Praetor, I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Primus spun about, surprised, and not a little irritated.
“Oh? And why might that be, Prefect?”
I pointed to the man in the middle of the three bound prisoners, whose eyes were wide with fear, sweat rolling down his forehead.
“Because that man speaks Latin.”
I was prepared for Primus either being angry, or disbelieving me altogether. I did not expect the look of surprise and fear that flashed across his fat features.
“How do you know?” he asked warily. Instead of answering him, I walked over, pulling the gag out of the mouth of the middle man.
“Do you want to tell him, or should I?” I asked him gently, in Latin. At first, he said nothing, his eyes looking everywhere but at me, and I had to sigh.
“Perhaps I was wrong, Praetor,” I said loudly. “We’ll take them to the torture detachment immediately.” On impulse, I added. “I think Varrus is on duty tonight. He’s one of our best, and he really, really hates Thracians. Something about his grandfather being killed by Spartacus.”
There was no such man in the torture detachment, and even if there had been, they were all tucked away fast asleep, yet the Thracian clearly did not know that, because he blurted out, in heavily accented but understandable Latin, “No! Wait! I will talk!”
In fact, we could not get the man to shut up. Ignoring the glares of his comrades, he answered every question we put to him, and for us the news could hardly have been worse. The force of Thracians camped a short distance away from us was in fact an informal confederation of three tribes: the Sapaei, the Tralles, and the Bessi. That the Bessi were there was understandable, because we had just marched through their territory. The same went for the Satrai, the second tribe in this confederation; we were currently passing through their lands and their territory adjoins that belonging to the Bessi. Finally, there were the Medi, who lived on the opposite side of the Strymon and favor the falx as their main weapon. The surviving man my team had captured was Satrai, while the other two captured by Scribonius’ team were Bessi. The Satrai’s name, as I recall, was Andrysios, though I am not sure of that since I did not know him that long. As I said, he was extremely cooperative, to the point where I was suspicious that he was telling the truth, so the other two were turned over to the torture detachment the next morning and confirmed his story, if a little more unwillingly. When we had finished with him, I could see that I was not the only one dismayed at the news; both Lucullus and Masala were plainly worried. The only man who was completely unruffled at the prospect of fighting the combined forces of three tribes of Thrace, none of whom were our original target, was Primus. I could not tell if it was bravado, or if he was completely unhinged. Even Masala was moved to ask, “Praetor, aren’t you concerned that we are facing these three tribes?”
Primus looked crossly at his aide.
“Masala.” His tone was scolding, like he was correcting a favorite pupil. “Surely you are not afraid of a few Thracians, no matter what tribe they are from?”
Masala jerked as if he had been stung.
“Certainly not,” he replied indignantly. “But none of those tribes are either the Triballi or the Serdi. Surely we can’t afford to engage all of them?”
He posed it as a question, yet in my mind, it was a simple statement of fact.
“We can and we will,” Primus said confidently, except that when he saw my expression, then glanced around at Lucullus and Masala, added, “but only if we are forced to.”
Rubbing his hands, he looked around, then announced, “It has been a busy evening, and I need to get some sleep.”
The Praetor turned without another word, a huge breach of not just military etiquette, but plain courtesy, and I heard someone, I assume it was Lucullus. gasp. While I was not particularly surprised, I was angry. Again, it was Masala who came to the rescue, since I was just opening my mouth, only the gods knowing what would have come out. Hurrying to catch up to Primus, he whispered something in his ear, causing the Praetor to stop in his tracks. Turning about to face me, I saw that he did look chagrined, but he made no apology; I suppose that would have been expecting too much.
“Oh, yes, Prefect. You are dismissed. And…well done.” Somehow, he managed to make it sound like anything but a compliment before he spun on his heel, his gown flowing behind him. Without looking back again, he called out, “Oh, yes. And see that wound attended to. I can’t afford to have you lolling about on the sick list in the event that these Thracians do decide to attack.”
I stared at the retreating man’s back, and I still would have said something if Masala had not looked over his shoulder from his spot a few paces behind Primus to mouth an apology. I heaved a sigh, making me wince from pain and a fresh leak of blood trickle down my side as I left the Praetorium.
Scribonius, as he had promised, was waiting in my tent with the camp physician, not Primus’ personal doctor, suiting me perfectly. I missed Philippos, but the Greek had been Marcus Crassus’ personal physician, returning to Rome with him, though I did not know if he shared his employer’s fate of exile. The camp physician was another Greek, except he was from the island of Crete and not the mainland, and had a distinctly different accent. His manner was thorough enough, though, and as he gently probed around the wound after peeling the tunic and underpadding away, I appreciated his soft touch. It still hurt like someone had thrust a lit oil lamp against my side, but even I could see that it would not require sutures. The physician confirmed this, cleaning the wound before wrapping a white linen bandage tightly about my body.
“I would tell you that you are going to be sore, but you already know that, judging from all those,” he said, pointing to the other scars across my torso. I do not normally pay much attention to such things, but I suppose it was normal that I looked down as he pointed. He was right. Crisscrossing my body were a number of scars; the puckered indentation in my upper chest, still slightly purple despite it being almost twenty years old, where I had almost died at Munda. There were a number of lines of varying lengths and hues along both of my sides where sword or spear blades had scraped along my ribcage. Of all people, I knew how lucky I had been that none of those had pierced through my ribs and into my heart or lungs. The tale of my time in the Legions was told in all of those scars, like a map with rivers and roads marked on it, all of them there to be read by anyone who knew how. My eyes went to my left hand, where the stump of my little finger was still protected by the leather sling that had been fashioned for it more than five years before, the reminder of my fight with Prixus.
“What are you thinking?” Scribonius asked me, his face unreadable.
“How old I am.” I gave a brief laugh, then turned serious. “And how lucky.”
“None luckier,” my friend agreed, and I knew he was right. More men than I could count had fallen along the road I had taken. While I did not know for sure, I was positive that most of the men that had been part of that dilectus in Hispania so many years before were dead by now. Perhaps one in ten still survived, for as far as I knew, I had been the youngest man in the Legion when I joined, lying about my age to sign up. Those who had not died in Gaul, or in the civil wars and had retired, had been like Vibius. The toll that the years of marching had taken on them; the illnesses, the wounds, the privation brought on by hunger and the elements, had undoubtedly caught up with them by this point. Scribonius was still here, that was true, but if I am being honest, he was a shadow of his former self, never really the same after his brush with death, the combination of that and his age having caught up with him. He looked as exhausted as I felt, dark rings under his eyes, his cheeks hollow, and jaw hanging slack. Yet there he was, making sure that I was seen to, and suddenly I felt the prickling of tears, forcing me to turn away.
“Are you done yet?” I asked the physician, my tone unnecessarily harsh, I knew, yet I was unable and unwilling to apologize.
“Yes, I am done, Prefect.”
He did not seem to take offense, standing and gathering up his instruments and supplies while I fumbled for my purse. Forgetting that I had not taken it with me, I had to call Diocles, who had been standing, waiting for my summons, and he gave the physician a denarius.
“That is too much,” the physician protested, but I waved it off, and that was as much apology as I was willing to give. To force myself to drag my mind away from the sad current it found itself drowning in, I told Scribonius of what I had learned from Andrysios. He listened intently, despite his fatigue, giving a low whistle.
“Titus,” he said when I was finished. “I don’t think we have to worry about getting much older.”
Breaking camp in the face of an enemy can be a tricky business. With a full army, the Legate would normally dispatch one Legion, while the other four or even more break down the camp, knowing that a Legion is formidable enough to stop even the largest force long enough to allow the others to assemble and join the fight. However, with only two Legions and an auxiliary force the size of ours, it was another matter entirely. If the Thracians were spoiling for a fight, deploying a Legion to guard while the other Legion broke camp meant that it would be double the time before we were ready to march. Fortunately, the Thracians did not seem any more interested in attacking us than I wanted them to do so. Instead, they stood at the edge of their camp, in rough formation, armed but not making any move to stop us, simply watching us break camp. To start with, I had ordered Flaminius and the 13th to stand guard, then gradually had one Cohort at a time stand down to help breaking down the camp, until we were ready to march only slightly later than normal. We were now perhaps three days march from Serdica, although that depended on what the nearby Thracians had in mind. If they decided to put pressure on us, we would be forced to march in agmentum quadratum, slowing us down considerably. As it was, I moved the baggage train into the middle of the column, with the 13th marching drag, which, while not as sluggish as the quadratum, still meant that our progress was painfully slow. I did take the opportunity of the slower pace to wait for a moment when Masala was not riding next to Primus, which was rare enough, to pull him aside for a talk.
“Why did you help me last night?”
I saw no point in working up to the topic, mainly because I knew my time with Masala was limited before Primus started looking for him. Masala did not look in my direction, keeping his eyes ahead as we rode.
“I didn’t help you,” he said after a long pause. “I helped the Praetor avoid making a mistake.”
“By lying to him?”
Masala shrugged. “I did what I had to do to. Besides, why are you complaining? He was going to punish you for not bringing him ten prisoners.”
“I’m not complaining. In fact, I want to thank you. But I am curious. This isn’t the first time you risked crossing Primus; don’t think I haven’t noticed. And I do appreciate it. But he’s your patron.”
“Yes, he is,” Masala agreed. “That doesn’t mean he’s perfect. I am well aware of his faults, Prefect. Besides, I have my own reasons that I prefer not to discuss.”
“Fair enough. Still, thank you.”
Then, Masala finally turned to look at me, giving me a direct stare.
“Just remember that I helped you, Prefect, in case I ever need the same from you.”
Ah, there it is, I thought. However, I agreed that I would indeed keep it in mind.
The Thracians were following us, but not too closely, keeping about a mile from our rearguard. Their presence made Primus nervous, despite his truculent words, and he kept bouncing back and forth between the command group and the rear of the column to peer back at the Thracians, Masala always at his side.
“He’s going to kill his horse doing that,” Scribonius commented once, after the Praetor passed by us for what seemed like the hundredth time.
“Maybe if he does, it will fall on him and kill him,” I said, only half-joking.
“We can hope.”
About midday, Libo, ranging ahead with a squadron of his cavalry, sent a man back with word that they had spotted a large force of Thracians, again blocking our path.
“So it starts,” Scribonius said grimly.
“I just hope these bastards are Triballi or Serdi and not even more Thracian tribes,” I said, because this was my real worry. So far, the three tribes trailing us had been content to just watch us, but I had to assume that they were in communication with whoever was ahead of us. Libo had been unable to determine the size of the Thracian army awaiting us, yet if it was at least the size of the one following us, or worse, larger, we could be in serious trouble. With this new development, Primus’ nervousness increased, all of his martial ardor seemingly evaporating like a drop of water on a hot oven. It was not long after the report from Libo that Primus sidled up to me, waiting for a moment when Scribonius had pulled aside to answer a call of nature.
