Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 2
Norbanus sat back, giving me a speculative look, considering what I had said.
“I suppose you’re right,” he said slowly, drawing the words out like he was reluctant to acknowledge the sense in what I was saying.
What I told Norbanus was true enough, but was not the reason behind wanting the 8th. Norbanus muttered a soft curse.
“Very well, the 8th it will be, but I don’t like it. Not one tiny bit.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you,” I commiserated with the man, for he was truly in a tough spot.
Both Pannonia and Dalmatia had been relatively quiet, yet there was a seething unrest among the natives just below the surface. I could easily imagine that when the news that half of the army was no longer in the region spread, there would be more than enough mischief to keep the other half busy. However, I could not worry about Norbanus’ woes, because I had to go make my own preparations to move out.
“I think I know what this Marcus Primus is up to,” Scribonius said, just a few heartbeats after I told him of the summons. “He’s planning on exacting revenge against the Thracians for what they did to us when we were marching back here with Marcus Crassus.”
That brought me up short, and I found a seat in his quarters so I could digest this. Somehow, I knew that he was right immediately after the words came out of his mouth. I must admit that my initial reaction was one of happiness; the death of Balbus still a raw, open wound, even years later, while the thought of drowning that memory in blood was very appealing, to say the least.
“And you think that Octavian sanctioned this campaign?”
Scribonius shrugged, his face reflecting his indecision.
“That I don’t know. I can’t see how Primus would dare to launch an expedition like this without his blessing.”
Neither could I, although I did not know if it made me felt better or not. All I was sure of at that point was that, once again, we would be marching, and I must admit that I liked the idea. It would relieve the monotony and boredom of life in garrison. Despite being suffused no longer with the same martial ardor as in my youth, I was not quite ready to sit quietly by the fire, waiting for my time on this Earth to end. After finishing with Scribonius, I hurried over to tell Macrinus, except that was just an excuse to tell Gaius, but I knew that if I had gone to tell one of his Centurions of the upcoming move without talking to him first, that would be a mortal insult. Besides, I liked and respected Macrinus and did not want to ruin what had become a friendly relationship. At first, he was not happy with the news until I told him what it was probably for, then his face took on a look of grim satisfaction.
“Good,” he replied. “I’ve been hoping to exact some retribution on those bastards for a while now.”
With Macrinus informed, I went to find Gaius, who was understandably less than happy with the news. Unlike me, Gaius enjoyed life in garrison, but I put that down to his love for Iras and his family. Little Titus was now a very active four-year-old, Livia was toddling about, and Iras had just informed us one night at dinner that she was pregnant again, normally a hard time for a young mother, yet I had never seen Iras look happier. She was still technically my property, but I had promised that I would manumit her as soon as I got around to going through the required steps. Iras hadn’t spent a night in my household for years; the way in which she had come into my possession and the circumstances surrounding how we met had long been forgotten. Iras had proven to be as faithful a wife to Gaius as a man could ask for, despite the union not being legally or religiously sanctioned. The wife was as unhappy as the husband about being sent off to Macedonia, but there was no question that he would obey, and I think he was secretly relieved. Despite the love a man might have for his family, small children can be very trying, making any chance to escape from their clutches usually welcomed, no matter how much the man may protest otherwise.
Diocles was his usual efficient self; by nightfall of the day I told him, most of what I would be taking with me had already been packed up, with a wagon procured to haul my baggage. Even now, after all these years and some five years into my time as Camp Prefect, I was bemused at the sight of all the things that I had accrued over the years, well remembering the time when all of my worldly possessions fit inside the pack suspended from my furca. The two Legions were in a similar state of activity, on a much larger scale, of course, and it was less than a week before we were ready to begin the march.
Since Norbanus was staying behind, once again I was in command of the 8th and 13th, along with the requisite baggage and attendants. Norbanus gave me free rein to select the route and best method to get the men to Philippi.
“Frankly, I don’t care what you do,” was how he put it. “I'm giving Primus my best Legion and I've done that much. After that, I wash my hands of the matter, so if you want to get to Philippi by way of Hispania, that's fine with me.”
It may have been all right with Norbanus, but I knew who would be blamed if we did not make the march in the best time possible. Starting out a couple weeks before my fifty-fourth birthday, we marched south, skirting the Dinaric Alps to our west. We were taking the overland route, which I was not happy about. However, between the fact that there was not a port city in this part of the coast that was large enough to accommodate the number of ships needed to transport two Legions and baggage, and the fact that the prevailing winds were now coming from the south, I did not feel we had much choice. My main fear was the temptation that our baggage train would provide for first the Dalmatian tribes, then the Moesians when we passed through their territory. I was most concerned with the Moesians, who I was sure were still smarting from not just the defeat we had dealt them under Marcus Crassus five years before, but the talents that he had demanded as part of the cessation of hostilities. I could not discount the possibility that the Moesians would see an opportunity to strike a blow at Rome by attacking us on our march through Moesia, despite the fact that, for all intents and purposes, Moesia was now part of the Roman world. I knew from experience that often the people we had conquered did not view themselves as such, and while Moesia had been quiet, all it took was one lapse on our part to give them what they might consider an opportunity that they could not pass up. However, first we had to make our way through Dalmatia.
After the first three days on the march, where I allowed the men to work themselves into some sort of fitness for the long march, I ordered the men to don their armor, but not their helmets, ordering them to uncover their shields as well. I was determined that we would not be caught by surprise, and to that end, I doubled the flank security while we marched along the eastern slope of the Dinarics. The rugged terrain, with its folds and creases, provided ample sites for an ambush, but luck was with us, and we saw only signs that we were being watched.
The one advantage of taking the overland route was that we would arrive in Philippi fit and ready for whatever Marcus Primus had in mind, which as one can imagine was one of the predominant topics of conversation around the fire every night. Norbanus had sent three Tribunes along with us: Lucius Aurelius Libo, who had been with the army for two years at that point; Publius Cassius Capito, now starting his second campaign season; and a new Tribune, just arrived from Rome, by the name of Aulus Menius Scipio, supposedly from an obscure branch of the family that produced Scipio Africanus, at least that was the rumor that he made no attempt to dispel. Libo and Capito I knew, while they knew me, but Scipio was one of those Tribunes who initially was very impressed with himself because he had read the Anabasis, Polybius, and, of course, Caesar’s account of our time in Gaul, meaning that Scipio considered himself an expert. The fact that I had actually been there did not seem to impress him all that much, presumably because I had been hefting a shield and wielding a sword, actually killing all those Gauls that he read about. At least, that was my impression, although I was to find out differently later. Because of his reading, it appeared that he felt qualified to question many of my decisions. We were not much more than a week on the march when, one day, Scipio questioned my choice for a campsite.
“Wouldn’t we be more secure on that promontory over there?” Scipio pointed to a steep-sided hill about a half-mile from the spot that the engineering officer, a veteran officer named Flavianus, had chosen.
I know that I could have either ignored the boy, or patiently explained that the exploratores had been doing their jobs longer than he had been alive, and knew more about siting a camp than any book ever written. Instead, I decided to take a slightly different approach.
“Tribune, you obviously have studied a great deal about the art and science of warfare. Perhaps you'd enlighten me as to why you believe that promontory is a superior position to this hill?”
Now, if Scipio had been more experienced, he would have been suspicious that I was actually eliciting an opinion from him, since I had completely ignored him for our entire march to that point. But he seemed to be thrilled that I was asking, and proceeded to describe the obvious advantages of the position.
“As you can see, Prefect, the sides of the hill are very steep, while the top is flat, and clearly spacious enough for our camp to fit, with some room to spare to accommodate the auxiliaries. Anyone trying to mount an attack would have to scale those steep slopes, and the sides of the hill are bare of any real cover, so they would be chopped up by our artillery before they could get close.”
The truth was that Scipio was right, and despite my irritation with him, I was somewhat impressed at his eye. Yet, there is much more to selecting a campsite than bare defense of the camp, especially when it is in what might be enemy territory. On the spur of the moment, I changed my mind about raking the Tribune over the coals, deciding to go easy on him.
“I must say that I'm impressed, Tribune,” I said cordially, and he beamed with pleasure at my compliment. “You have a good eye for defense, and that's certainly important. But perhaps you could point out the source of water for that particular hill?”
He looked about for a moment, then pointed to the base of the hill on which we were standing, where a small rivulet cascaded down from a spring about halfway up the slope to run along the base of our hill, off into the distance in the direction that we would be marching.
“Right there,” he said confidently. “Only a furlong or two from the other hill.” Thinking that he had anticipated where I was going, he quickly continued, “But if you look carefully, there's a natural path down the side of that hill that could be used for the water carriers to use, so there's water. It would be a bit of a chore, but nothing that the men couldn't easily handle.”
Scipio was speaking with the callow assurance of a man who had probably never hauled a bucket of water across the courtyard of his villa, let alone up what I could see was an extremely steep and torturous track that would be a huge chore that the men would loathe being forced to carry out. That was not what concerned me about the Tribune’s choice.
“That’s true,” I agreed. “It wouldn't be impossible for the men to carry the water we'd need, but keep in mind that they'd have to bring not only water for their own needs, but for all the livestock. Do you know how much water each animal needs?”
His face clouded, showing doubt for the first time. Then, after a moment, he shook his head.
“They drink four times the amount a man does on average. A little more than that for the draft animals, a little less for the cavalry mounts and mules.”
“That’s a lot,” he admitted, but he was clearly not ready to concede defeat. “But still not too great a task for the men, surely.”
“No, not for a single night. If we were to stay longer, then it would be a different matter.”
“But why would we stay here for more than one night?”
Now I had him, except he did not yet know it.
“Before I answer that, let me ask you about this hill, the one where we're making camp. Why wouldn't you choose it?”
“Because the other hill is a better position as far as defense. You said so yourself,” he replied instantly.
Now, that was not what I had said, but I let it pass.
“Would you say this hill is indefensible, then?”
“No,” he said a bit reluctantly. “It’s not, but it’s just not as good a position as the other hill.”
“Tribune, what would happen if a whole swarm of Dalmatians suddenly showed up?”
I pointed down the valley between the two hills to the south, which I considered to be the most likely direction from which we would see Dalmatians if they decided to throw the dice to see if they came up Venus. Scipio followed my finger with his eyes, and I was heartened to see his eyes narrow as he began to get an idea of the problem with his choice.
“They'd put themselves between us and the water,” he said finally.
However, he was not ready to concede defeat yet.
“But they wouldn't be able to dislodge us from our position, and if they tried, they'd lose most of their army.”
“They wouldn’t have to,” I countered. “All they'd have to do is sit here, on this hill that we're on now and watch us die of thirst.”
“We'd knock them off this hill, though, wouldn’t we?”
Now the Tribune was sounding doubtful, his earlier confidence in tatters, but I wanted to make sure this lesson stuck with him, so we wouldn’t have to have this conversation again.
“How?” I asked him, pointing back to the other hill. “The advantage of that hill as far as defending it is also its biggest weakness. The minute we began leaving camp, we'd have to reduce our march down to perhaps a section-wide front to get down the only approach to that hill, and the Dalmatians would see that. All they'd have to do is send a thousand men from their position here, or wherever they were, to block it. We’re good, Tribune, we’re very good, but not even the 10th Legion under Caesar could have forced our way off that hill under those circumstances.”
Scipio looked crushed and, despite my irritation with him, I felt a pang of sympathy, though I did not show it.
“I see.” He could not hide his disappointment.
“Tribune,” I said as gently as I could. “If you want to be successful at this, you have to learn to trust the men who've been doing this since before you were born.”
“Meaning you,” he said bitterly.
I must say I was surprised at the vehemence in his tone, but I did not strike back.
“Not just me,” I replied with a patience I did not feel. “It was the exploratores I was referring to in this case. They have a great deal of experience in selecting a camp site, and they've been trained to take into account all the various factors that make a good camp.”
“What would Caesar have done?” he asked suddenly. “That’s what I should be asking myself.”
I stifled a groan; here was yet another fine young man determined to put himself in the same class as Caesar as a general, none of them realizing that Caesar was in a class all by himself, that no man would ever occupy with him. As great a general as Marcus Agrippa is, not even he is Caesar’s equal. I suddenly felt even more for the boy, realizing the soul-crushing pressure that young men like Scipio felt, trying to live up to the legend of Caesar. The fact that the pressure was self-imposed did not make it any less acute, and I had to fight the urge to put my arm about the young man’s shoulders, so disconsolate was he looking, staring at the hill that he had thought would show me his tactical acumen.
“If you want to be another Caesar, Tribune, then you have to learn to think about the larger picture, while attending to the smaller details. It’s like a game of tables,” I said, trying to find a suitable example to make my point. “In order for tables to be more than just a game of luck, you have to think several moves in advance, not just about the next one.”
Scipio seemed to consider this, nodding slowly, though he said nothing, so I continued.
“And you have to learn to think like your enemy. That was perhaps Caesar’s greatest failing.” I cannot say who was more surprised that these words came out of my mouth, but now that the words were out, I plunged ahead. “Caesar could never understand why men opposed him, because he always believed that what he was doing was best for Rome, even if it did improve his own position at the same time. And he never realized, at least until the last few moments of his life, just how much men hated him because of his excellence.”
“You knew him well?”
Scipio’s question did not sound skeptical, though I could see how hard it would be for a young nobleman to see what a man like Caesar and I had in common.
“Not that well,” I said, looking off into the distance. “I don’t think anyone knew Caesar well. But he was the man who put me in the Centurionate,” I continued, saying this not without some pride. “And I marched for him from the time he was Praetor in Hispania, so I got to see him at his best and worst. So perhaps I knew him as well as any man.”
“Was he as great a general as people say?”
I looked at the Tribune. I was struck by how young he was, how childlike his curiosity was, and I felt very, very old.
“Better,” I said simply, then turned away again, my mind moving elsewhere.
To his credit, Scipio could see I wanted to be alone. Turning his horse, he went off somewhere; I suppose to lick his wounds and try to soothe his savaged pride.
Our progress was slow but steady; while we never made thirty miles in a single day like we had under Caesar, we averaged a bit over twenty-five, which I was satisfied with, given the rugged terrain. The weather cooperated for the most part, though we did have one stretch of a week where it rained every day, slowing our progress considerably. The Dalmatians were our constant companions, in the form of small groups of horsemen hovering off each flank, so that we did lose an occasional straggler who disappeared, never to be seen again. The losses were not significant enough to justify making some sort of response, since in fact, these disappearances did me a bit of a favor, keeping the men more alert while we marched.
