Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 22
“Because I’m done, Titus. I’m too old for this,” he said quietly. “As I was chasing that boy, shouting at him to stop, it hit me with all the force of a javelin.”
“But you were overmatched,” I protested. “That’s what I realized. Scipio’s horse was far superior to what you or just about anyone else was riding.”
“Titus.” He sounded so tired. “It wouldn’t matter if I had been on Toes. Even if I had caught him, I couldn’t have stopped him. I haven’t been the same since I was wounded and almost died.”
I started to protest, but he cut me off with a chopping motion of his hand.
“Don’t,” he said, and for the first time I heard anger in his voice. “Don’t make excuses for me, Titus. You’ve been doing that ever since I recovered, but we both know that I’ve never been the same.”
“Neither was I, after Munda.”
“Yes, but there is one big difference,” he replied in his usual calm manner that told me his mind was made up. “You wanted to come back to the Legions. You wanted to keep fighting. I don’t, and I didn’t.”
“Then why did you?” I asked him.
He gave me a smile that was so sad that I felt tears come to my eyes.
“Because you needed me,” he said simply. “Or rather, you needed someone to keep you from getting into more trouble than you already found on your own.”
I simply did not know what to say.
“Titus, one of the greatest joys in my life has been watching your career, and all that you’ve achieved,” he went on. “I was born with privilege, relatively speaking, and I never wanted for anything. You were born with nothing, but you’ve created a whole new future for yourself and for Gaius and his children. If I had been blessed with your ambition, there’s no way to know what I could have accomplished.”
Scribonius turned back to stare into the night.
“I never wanted my brother to die, but I’m glad that we met, because you’ve been like a brother to me, perhaps even closer.”
The truth was that I had often thought of Scribonius like a brother, and I told him as much.
“And now, as one brother to another, I have a favor to ask you,” he said to me, and I knew that it was something momentous. Turning to face me, he said quietly, “I want you to let me leave the army immediately.”
If Scribonius had made that request just a few years earlier, or even when we had still been back at Siscia, it would not have been nearly as difficult. The role of the Evocati, like everything to do with the army had changed under the rule of Octavian. Before, the Evocati had been a much less formal organization, and men with that title had been allowed to come and go more or less as they pleased. Most common was when an Evocatus chose to leave the army in the winter, returning for the campaign season, but it was certainly not unknown for one or more to depart from the army in the midst of campaign for one reason or another. I suppose that this just did not sit well with Octavian, his ordered mind not able to countenance such a loose arrangement, making this one of the first things he reformed. In his usual manner, he started small, simply issuing an edict that once an Evocatus started on a campaign, he was required to remain with the army for the entire period of the campaign. Only those Legates armed with Proconsular imperium could release the man from duty. That was reasonable, and in truth, there was only a little grumbling from the Evocati, mostly from those men who liked to complain about all manner of things. It was not until a couple years later, buried among the avalanche of edicts issued, ostensibly by the Senate but really emanating from Octavian, in between the order regulating the length of tunics and number of chickpeas that each Legionary should consume in a given day that the next blow to the Evocati came. When a man entered the class of Evocati, it was for a period of time, usually for five years, renewable at the end of that period for another five. Again, this was more by custom than by anything inscribed on a bronze tablet, meaning that if a man chose to retire from the Evocati early, that was essentially his choice. In fact, I could not recall seeing or hearing of a case where a commander had refused to allow an Evocatus who, like Scribonius, had decided he simply had had enough and wanted to spend the rest of his days in peace. Until, that is, Octavian, through the Senate, of course, mandated that if a man entered into a contract for five years as Evocatus, he had to serve that entire time. The only way he could terminate that contract early was first by obtaining written permission from his Legate, and by this time, all Legates had been endowed with Proconsular imperium, and who then sent his endorsement along with the Evocatus’ request on to the Senate. In reality, this meant that Octavian, whose supply of energy seemed to be inexhaustible, would personally examine each case, deciding the man’s fate and whether or not he could retire early. As much as I did not really appreciate the Princeps’ meddling in absolutely every facet of army life, I had to marvel at his grasp of the minutiae of details involved. However, this was absolutely no help in the current situation. To begin with, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that Marcus Primus would refuse Scribonius’ request, if only to spite me. Second, looking into my friend’s eyes, I knew in my bones with equal certainty that he could not wait for all of the paperwork and formalities to be properly handled. He simply would not survive this campaign if he was not allowed to leave in peace. I cannot articulate how I knew this, but the feeling was so strong in me that I had to fight down a feeling of panic at the very thought of it. Whether he took ill, or he fell on his sword, or simply refused to put up a fight in the next battle, I was looking at a man at the absolute end of his tether. I had seen it before, and it had never ended well. Looking at Scribonius now, there was really only one answer I could give him, or I would never have been able to live with myself.
“I’ll take care of it.”
My friend’s body sagged in obvious relief, and he closed his eyes, his lips moving in a silent prayer of thanks. I placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it hard as I blinked back the tears.
“Go get some rest,” I told him. “Let me do what I need to do to make this happen for you.”
Saying no more, Scribonius left, while I stood on the rampart for several moments, awash in so many emotions that I felt paralyzed. My body felt like it was twice its normal weight, and I was finding it hard to focus, I was so tired, but I forced myself to push through the fatigue and worry as I thought about what to do. It was not nearly as easy for me to push past my physical weariness as it had been when I was younger, but I knew that Scribonius was counting on me to come up with a solution. Finally, an idea formed in my head, and with it, I realized that I had no time to spare.
“Have you turned in your casualty lists to the Praetorium yet?”
I found Flaminius in his tent, looking every bit as exhausted as I felt, yet the relief I felt when he shook his head gave me a surge of energy.
“Where are your dead?”
The Primus Pilus of the 13th looked startled at the question, but he answered readily enough.
“I suppose some are still being prepared for the funeral rites by their friends. Those that are ready are outside the hospital tent. May I ask why?”
“I need a body, and I need you to do something for me,” I explained.
“What is it?” he asked, and he had every right to be cautious.
“You and I are going to go look at the bodies. I’m going to select one. You’re going to remove that man from the rolls of the dead, and list him as missing instead.”
Flaminius’ jaw dropped, his expression hardening, for which I could not blame him. What I was asking him to do was a serious offense, because such a thing has been used in the past by unscrupulous Centurions to milk the army, since a missing man is still on the rolls until he is found or his death could be verified.
“It’s not for me,” I explained, but I could see he was not convinced.
“I see,” he replied politely, his eyes refusing to meet mine. “May I ask, then, what this is about?”
I realized I would have to tell him the truth.
“It’s for Scribonius,” I said quietly.
His expression changed as I went on to explain the whole story.
When I was finished, his only comment was, “Let’s go find someone.”
Walking back to the hospital tent, I thought about Flaminius’ willingness to help once I had told him it was for Scribonius. I realized that it made sense; Scribonius had been the de facto Primus Pilus of the 13th, and in fact, it had been Scribonius’ recommendation that Flaminius be nominated to replace him as Primus Pilus. Even in the relatively short time Scribonius had run the 13th, he had become well loved, and most importantly, well respected by his men, from the Centurions down to the lowliest Gregarius. We arrived at the hospital tent to find two rows of bodies laid out, wrapped in their cloaks, faces covered, waiting for the pyre that would be lit in the morning. Moving down the rows, I finally found a shrouded corpse roughly the same height as Scribonius, but when I pulled the cloak back, I saw a heavily built man, his face wrapped in a piece of linen as is our custom when the face is disfigured from a wound. Covering him back up, I moved farther down the row, examining a couple of more bodies until I found one that was suitable, with the right build. It was a young Legionary, with a thrust from what appeared to be a spear in the middle of his ribcage. His comrades had lovingly washed his body, so that all the blood was gone, leaving only a slightly puckered slit that hardly seemed to have been enough to kill him. He had obviously bled to death inside, because the area just below his breastbone was bulging up above his chest, proof that a pocket of blood had formed there.
“Ignatius,” Flaminius said. He gazed down at the boy’s face; his eyes were closed and, except for his deathly pallor, he looked like he was simply asleep.
“He was in the Tenth. Good boy; not the brightest, but steady. He was due to be promoted into a higher Cohort soon.”
As much as I hate to ascribe any of the events and actions in my life to the gods, I would be lying if I said that the thought did not cross my mind that perhaps there had been a greater reason for my refusal to send in the second line after all. I had no way of knowing exactly when Ignatius had died, of course, but the idea persisted in my head that the gods had provided a substitute for Scribonius in this boy. All I had to do was act like a stubborn mule and allow him to die, which had been exactly what I did. Although the boy fit my needs, my problems were not over. Our custom dictates that the dead man, or woman, is dressed in their best, then wrapped in a fine linen cloth with their face showing so that their loved ones can gaze upon it one last time before they are cleansed by the flames. In this case, Ignatius and the others would be clad in their dress tunics, the ones they used for parades, which were kept a spotless white and were carefully stored in a man’s pack, wrapped to protect it. Naturally, neither he nor the other dead would be wearing their armor, both because of the difficulty in burning armor, and because of the expense. What was problematic, of course, was Ignatius’ face; despite the fact I seriously doubted Marcus Primus could pick Scribonius out of the rest of the Evocati, and scarcely knew he existed, he would clearly see that Ignatius could not possibly be an Evocatus because of his age. In the case of severe disfigurement from battle, the deceased’s face is also wrapped, which would have to be done now in order to complete the ruse. However, I was unwilling to simply wrap Ignatius’ face, then count on nobody being interested or suspicious enough to examine the corpse. As distasteful as it was, I had to mutilate the boy’s face to a degree that he was unrecognizable. I told Flaminius what needed to be done. He clearly did not like it, but his objection was more practical than based on the principle.
“Even if you do that, if someone is going to actually lift that cloth they’re going to see that it’s an obviously young man.”
Flaminius pointed to Ignatius’ hair, lank and black, and kept longer than mine.
“No gray in his hair, and he has all of it, to begin with. And if you’re going to mess up his face, you’re going to have to do it in such a way that nobody will notice that he has no wrinkles.”
My heart sank as Flaminius talked. He was right; now I was faced with the choice of simply wrapping his head up and claiming that he had been disfigured with the hope that nobody would check, or removing his head altogether. That was not that uncommon, especially among the Thracian tribes, who often took heads as trophies. But I was not sure that I could do that to this boy, despite how much Scribonius needed it.
Flaminius must have seen the indecision on my face, because he took a step, coming closer to me so that he could whisper, “I’ll do what needs to be done, Prefect. For Scribonius.”
I stared at Flaminius, reading his face, grim but set.
“Are you sure?”
He swallowed, then nodded. Standing there, we heard the sound of a party approaching and while it was dark, the reflected light from the torches placed at the edges of the hospital tent meant that we could see and be seen.
“Well, you can’t do it now,” I whispered as four men came, two of them carrying another body, obviously one of their comrades.
Seeing their Primus Pilus, they came to a halt uncertainly, looking at him, then at me. Flaminius greeted them, and they returned it. Then, in order to divert attention, he pointed at the body.
“Who is this, boys?”
One of the men gave Flaminius a name, and he gave a grave nod.
“He has his coin?” he asked them. They assured him that he did.
“Good.” Flaminius said nothing more, and neither did I speak.
The men seemed to realize that they were not wanted, so after they deposited their comrade gently on the ground, they left.
“It’s going to be like this for the rest of the night,” I muttered.
“We’re going to have to move him somewhere else,” Flaminius agreed. Recognizing that there would not be a truly good time to do so, we each picked up an end of the corpse, moving quickly away from the hospital tent.
I did not witness what Flaminius did after we carried Ignatius’ body to the nearby stable area. I had other matters that had to be taken care of to finish this business, namely to produce a new casualty report that listed Sextus Scribonius as a casualty. When I returned to my tent, I found Diocles waiting. Without a word, he handed me a wax tablet. I opened it, and saw the list, thankfully short, but with one extra name.
“How did you know?” I asked Diocles, eying him with a mixture of curiosity and concern. While I was not worried about Diocles talking, just the idea that someone else knew of what we were doing made me nervous.
“Master Scribonius came to say goodbye,” he answered, and I felt my chest tighten. I had been so absorbed in making this happen that I had not stopped to think what it meant. Taking the tablet, I could not ignore the shaking of my hand, but put it down to my extreme fatigue and not the thought of life without Scribonius.
“Where is he now?”
“His tent,” Diocles replied. “Packing.”
“I hope he’s not planning on taking a lot,” was all I could think to say.
I left the tent to make my way to Scribonius’, finding it hard to put one foot in front of the other. It would be a lie to say I had never been that tired before, yet it had been many years. Arriving at Scribonius’ tent, I paused for a moment outside, hearing sounds from inside that told me he was present, as he talked in low tones to one of his slaves. I slapped at the leather, things going suddenly still inside, then a moment later I saw an eye peering out from inside, peeking out of the flap to examine me.
“It’s Pullus,” I said in a low tone, the flap quickly being pulled aside by one of Scribonius’ slaves, and I stepped inside.
“The Master is in his private quarters.”
He led me past the partition to Scribonius’ sleeping quarters. My friend was finishing stuffing some items into an ordinary Legionary marching pack, and I was relieved to see that he was indeed packing light. He turned to look at me, his face gaunt, the question burning in his eyes, even as he refused to ask it.
“It’s essentially done,” I told him. The feelings I had at his look of relief are hard to describe.
“Thank you,” he breathed, taking an unsteady step to sit heavily on his cot, putting his head between his knees.
“I was going to ask if you had changed your mind, but I think I just got my answer.”
Scribonius gave a tired laugh.
“No, I haven’t changed my mind. But I am trying to decide what I’m going to do.”
“Go back to Rome, surely.”
To my surprise, he shook his head.
“After I thought about it, I realized that it’s not a good idea.”
“Why? Once we get past submitting this report and Primus buys it, I don’t see you having any more problems.”
Scribonius gave me his frown, and the thought flashed through my mind that this would perhaps be the last time I would see that sight, filling me with such sadness that it was hard to breathe. However, I forced myself to concentrate on what he was saying.
“Other than never being able to come out of my home so that nobody ever knows I am alive, you mean?”
He shook his head sadly.
“No, that’s no life to have.”
“Why do you think that?” I laughed, though it was a bit forced.“You’re not nearly that important. Once we get past this, Primus will forget about you, and so will Octavian.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he said quietly. “And while I agree about Primus, it’s Octavian that concerns me.”
He leaned forward to stare at me with a blazing intensity that I had rarely seen on my friend’s face.
“You’re talking about a man who knows down to the last chickpea how much Publius Servius eats, who knows the number of links in every mail shirt. If a sparrow dies in the Forum, Octavian knows about it before it’s finished falling to the ground.”
Scribonius pursed his lips, shaking his head again.
