Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 23
“No, that’s a risk I can’t take. Because if and when he discovers our ruse, he won’t come after me. He’ll come after you.” He jabbed a finger at me to emphasize his point.
“You don’t know that for sure,” I muttered weakly, not really believing it myself.
“No,” he acknowledged. “Not absolutely, but given your history, I think it’s highly probable that he would. Titus, you don’t have the same relationship with Octavian that you did with Caesar, and it’s very clear to anyone with eyes that the nephew doesn’t feel about you the way his uncle did.”
That I could not argue with and, for the last time, I was reminded that Sextus Scribonius was a true friend.
“So where are you going to go?” I sighed.
“I’m not sure. Someplace warm. I’m tired of these winters where my bones ache. I want to spend my last years in the sun.”
His face lit up as he thought of something else.
“And someplace where there are a lot of books.”
“Alexandria,” I said immediately, which surprised him.
“But Caesar burned the library down.”
“Caesar didn’t; it was an accident,” I said peevishly. “And he burned down the annex, not the main library.”
Scribonius considered this for a moment.
“Alexandria,” he mused, drawing the word out as he turned it over in his mind. Then, shaking himself out of his reverie, he stood, then stooped to pick up his pack.
“I do have another favor to ask of you,” he said, his face turned away from me.
“What’s that?”
“Please care for my books. If you can ship them to me when I get settled, and send word, I’d appreciate it. The other things ...” He waved at his small desk, bookshelf, and cot. “You can burn them for all I care.”
“What about them?” I jerked my head in the direction of the outer room, where his two slaves were sobbing not so quietly. In answer, he handed me two small scrolls.
“These are the manumission documents that they’ll need, per the instructions of my will. You still have it, don’t you?”
I nodded; we had been keeping each other’s wills for many years by that point, once Vibius and I had fallen out, and Scribonius’ own close comrade had retired. The tightness returned to my chest with talk about his will, the thought of having to go through the process of reading it extremely painful, even knowing that he was not really dead. For all intents and purposes, he was as close to dead to me as it was possible to get, since I knew that the likelihood of me seeing him ever again was extremely small. A thought occurred to me.
“What about your money in the Legion bank?”
He thought for a moment, then shrugged.
“I trust you,” he said simply. “Do something with it that I’d approve of, or if you can figure out a way to get it to me once I’m settled, then send it to me. Either way is fine.”
I found it hard to believe that he would be so casual about what was essentially his life’s savings, and I said as much.
“Titus, as frugal as you are, you can’t hold a rotten fig to me.” He laughed.
Reaching down, he picked up his cloak, and then, with two hands, offered it to me. Thinking his actions odd, I reached out to take the cloak, but when he let go, it tore from my grasp to fall to the ground with an odd, slightly metallic sound. The cloak was extremely heavy, and I understood then why he was not so concerned.
“How much is in that cloak?” I gasped.
“More than enough,” was his only reply. “It’s sewn into the lining.”
“You better never take it off.”
“If the ship goes down, I’m in trouble,” he agreed with a laugh.
Finally, there was nothing really left to say, and I knew that any words I could think of would still never be enough. Instead, I crossed to him, engulfing him in a hug, and we stayed that way for some time, neither of us wanting to say goodbye. But dawn was rapidly approaching, and we had to get Scribonius out of camp as quickly as possible.
Since the 13th had been in battle, they were naturally not required to mount the guard that night, so telling Scribonius to stay put, I went to find Macrinus. The lamp in his tent was out, signifying that he was asleep, yet I had no choice but to wake him up. I rapped loudly on the piece of wood that was suspended from the tent ridge pole for that purpose, and it was only a moment before I heard shuffling from inside, followed by the inevitable delay as Macrinus’ slave fumbled about for his tinder box to light a lamp.
“It’s Prefect Pullus,” I called out impatiently, casting a worried eye toward the eastern horizon, trying to determine if the lightening just above it was real or my imagination. The flap was pulled aside, and once again, I peered into a single eye, this one squinting in the darkness.
“Hurry up,” I snapped. “I need to speak to the Primus Pilus immediately. Go and wake your master, now!”
The flap was dropped, and again, I heard a scuttling, followed by a mumbled conversation, whereupon the slave finally managed to get a lamp lit before returning to the front of the tent.
“Come in, Master,” he managed to yawn and make it clear that he did not appreciate being disturbed in the same breath.
Pushing past him, I entered the front area that served as the Legion office. Macrinus emerged from his private quarters, also yawning but otherwise alert. His eyes took in the sight of me, and I could hear him sigh from where I was standing.
“Prefect? Is this about Porcinus and why I selected the Seventh? I visited with him before I retired for the night, and he’s got a bit of a headache but otherwise is fine, I assure you.”
The surge of guilt that washed through me was just another emotion on a night that had seen them come in waves, one after the other, and I briefly closed my eyes. In all of the excitement about helping Scribonius, I confess I had completely forgotten about what had happened to Gaius.
“No, that’s not what this is about,” I snapped. “It’s about another matter and I need to speak with you privately.”
Macrinus turned to move back into his private quarters, waving me to follow him, but I did not move.
“We need complete privacy,” I insisted.
Macrinus looked worried now, telling his slave to leave the tent, rousing his body slave from his pallet in Macrinus’ private quarters as well. When they had departed, Macrinus was clearly fully awake and equally concerned.
“This has nothing to do with Porcinus, or anything with you or the 8th,” I assured him, and he relaxed somewhat.
I went on to explain what I needed from him, except I did not say why. I had decided I would only tell him if I was forced to, not because I did not trust Macrinus with the secret, but because Scribonius’ words had sobered me considerably and I did not want to endanger more men than I had to. After I had finished, he did not speak for some time, regarding me with an unsettling gaze.
Finally, he asked me, “Does this have anything to do with Scribonius?”
I was startled, and I knew my face showed it.
“Perhaps,” I said cautiously, not sure how much he knew or how it was possible that he knew it.
“That’s all I need to know,” he replied immediately. “I’ll take care of it. When is this happening?”
“Immediately,” I answered.
“Then I better get moving,” was his only comment as he went back into the back to retrieve his belt and vitus.
I left Macrinus’ tent to go back and fetch Scribonius. Walking along, my mind whirled with all that had happened, but I felt a sense of relief that at least someone had checked on Gaius and that he was all right, relatively speaking. My friend was still sitting on his cot, rising to his feet when I entered. I waited as he bade a brief but emotional farewell to his two former slaves, both of whom were sobbing, though I did not know if it was from sorrow at their master’s departure, happiness about their impending freedom, or both. With that, we left the tent, making our way to the stable, where Diocles and Agis were waiting. They had Scribonius’ horse already saddled, along with a mule from the pool of spares. I would have to account for the loss of the mule in some way, but that was a minor matter that I could deal with easily enough.
“Don’t let him steal my books, you little pederast,” Scribonius joked to Diocles, who was standing there with essentially the same look as Scribonius’ slaves. They embraced, then Scribonius mounted the waiting horse, waiting while Agis tied his pack and some other essential items to the pack saddle of the mule. As we had planned, Scribonius wrapped the lower part of his face with his neckerchief, pulling his cloak up high on his shoulders to further obscure his face. As we walked alongside each other, we said nothing, both of us knowing that there was not much left to say, and time was our enemy. What I had thought I imagined earlier was now brutally real; the sky was definitely lightening to the east, meaning we only had moments to finish this. Scribonius would be leaving by the Porta Principalis Dextra, the right side gate of the camp. I had selected this side because unlike the Porta Praetoria or even the Porta Decumana, as a side gate it was not as heavily manned, nor as well lit. Most importantly, men like Marcus Primus most likely did not even know of the existence of these side gates, since they only ever entered by the Porta Praetoria, or the Porta Decumana. Even though this is something of an exaggeration, I was very confident that the chances of running into anyone who might pose a threat to all that was taking place was extremely small.
When we approached the gate, I became worried, because I could see in the waning darkness what looked like many more men than would be normally manning a side gate. My first thought was that somehow Primus had discovered what was happening and had sent the provosts to stop us. Drawing closer, I saw that there were two lines of men, and that was when I realized what was happening. So did Scribonius, and I heard him let out a gasp as his eyes took in the same sight. I did not know how, but Flaminius had alerted the Centurions of the 13th Legion, and they had formed up into an impromptu honor guard, close to thirty men on each side, all of those surviving the day’s battle turning out to honor their former unofficial Primus Pilus. Of all the things that could be said about Sextus Scribonius, I believe that simple act, in the darkness of a pre-dawn morning in Thrace, spoke more eloquently than any oratory by Caesar or Marcus Antonius ever could. He had been their Primus Pilus for a short time, yet in that period, he had forged a bond of respect and I believe singlehandedly resurrected the 13th Legion from the pathetic specimen they had been under Natalis into a true, fighting Legion. The men gathered there recognized the gift he had given them, one beyond price, the return of a fighting man’s self-respect, and I had little doubt that his actions had actually saved lives during the battle just the day before. Passing between the two rows of men, I could hear the Centurions murmuring their thanks to Scribonius, who was riding his horse with his head bowed, covering his face with his hands, too overcome with emotion to speak. I was almost as affected at the sight, thinking that it was the best gift that he could have received. Sextus Scribonius never received the kind of accolades that I had, but it was mostly because he did not seek them the way I did, and for that I am sorry and somewhat ashamed. It never seemed to bother him though, and he seemed to appreciate this heartfelt demonstration as much or more than any decoration or award in front of an assembly. Flaminius was waiting by the gate, Macrinus standing beside him, telling me how and what the Primus Pilus of the 8th knew. Both of them saluted, but I did not return it, knowing that they meant it for Scribonius and not me. My friend pulled himself erect, returned the salute, then turned to me, leaning down to offer his hand. Since we had already said our true farewells, I was content to clasp his forearm, but the truth is I could not have spoken with the lump in my throat, and I suspect Scribonius was in the same condition. With that, Scribonius rode out of the gate, and I was sure I would never see him in the flesh again.
Chapter 2 The Thracians
Dawn came to the camp shortly after Scribonius slipped away, while I had returned to my tent to retrieve the new report. This would be a night without sleep, but I had experienced many of those in my career. I knew that if I sat down, or even worse, lay down, I would not get back up, so instead I stood, eating a bit of my unfinished meal from the night before, now seeming like it had happened a year ago. I waited for the bucina call to rouse the rest of the camp, but I knew there were a fair number of men like me who had not gotten any sleep. The one good thing about this day after a battle was that we would not be marching, instead consigning our dead to the flames and allowing the wounded to stabilize somewhat before being loaded onto wagons. I was sure that once I got through fooling Marcus Primus, I could get some sleep, an extremely pleasant thought on both counts. I was almost finished eating when the bucina sounded the call I had been waiting for, and once I was through, I left the tent and headed back to the Praetorium. It had taken some doing, but we had finally gotten Marcus Primus into the habit of rising with the bucina like the rest of the army. Masala had more to do with that than any of us, so I was fairly confident I would not have to wait long.
There was already activity at the tent, and I was slightly puzzled when I saw two of the clerks carrying out the wooden box that contained some of the paperwork that is as much a part of the army as the Legionary. It almost seemed like they were packing to march; when I entered, that feeling was reinforced by the sight of the other clerks breaking down their desks and other equipment. Lucullus, Silanus, and Libo entered shortly after I had, looking as confused as I felt.
“What’s going on?” Lucullus asked me, his eyes puffy, with dark circles under them betraying his lack of sleep, and I remembered that he and Scipio had become good friends.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I also wanted to tell you that I grieve for Scipio as well. He was a good young Tribune, and it’s a very sad business.”
He flashed me a grateful look, and I assumed it was for not ignoring his obvious grief the way many men do.
“Thank you, Prefect. I heard a rumor, though, and I hope it’s not true.”
I braced myself, knowing what he was going to say.
“Is it true about Evocatus Scribonius?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is,” I nodded, thankful at least that I was not having to feign my own grief.
Lucullus gave me a puzzled look, and I noticed that Silanus and Libo had drifted closer, so I decided that it was best to address all of them.
“But I distinctly remember him returning with us, and he was fine,” Lucullus was saying.
“Yes, he was,” I agreed. “But then he went back out to look for Munatius, who was still missing. He was ambushed by some Thracians who had been hiding in the woods.”
Despite making this up as I went along, I realized that I had to get to Munatius to at least hear what his story was, then to plant my own with him in the event that he was asked. Fortunately, the Tribunes seemed to accept this without much question, each of them murmuring their own condolences, looking genuinely sorrowful, yet another confirmation of how well my friend had been liked.
“As far as what’s going on,” I continued, “no, I don’t know. But I’ll go find out.”
I headed towards Primus’ private office just in time to see Masala emerge, grim-faced.
“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Why does it look like we’re packing to move?”
“Why do you think?” he snapped, clearly unhappy. “The Praetor has decided we need to press on.”
“What?” I was incredulous. “And what are we supposed to do about our dead?”
Masala heaved a sigh that was so weary it told me that he had been fighting this fight for some time.
“I told him that,” he replied patiently. “But that battle yesterday scared him badly. He originally wanted to turn around and march back to Siscia, but I convinced him that the army would likely revolt if they came all this way, and lost their friends for nothing.”
“That they would,” I agreed.
My respect for Masala was growing bit by bit; while I did not trust his motives, I could not argue with his analysis of the situation. If Primus had indeed ordered the army to turn around without the chance of plunder, I and the Primi Pili would have had our hands full from keeping the men from rising.
“Still, he wants to get to Serdica and get this campaign over with.”
“What happened to his desire to avenge the insult done to us at the hands of the Thracians?”
Masala shrugged, saying nothing. Looking past him, I saw that Marcus Primus was pushing the flap aside from his private quarters, so I stepped past Masala, holding up the wax tablet. I decided on the spot that broaching the subject immediately would be a mistake. Instead, I offered him my wax tablet, which was a trifle unusual since it is normally given to the clerk, who then presents the combined casualty report.
“I have the casualty report for the Evocati prepared,” I told the Praetor, more or less thrusting the tablet into his hands, knowing that would be the only way he would open it.
“What? Oh, yes, that,” he muttered irritably as he opened it up.
He stared at it for a moment, making a humming noise while he scanned the list, before snapping it shut and handing it back to me.
“Yes, all right. You lost four Evocati dead and had five wounded, two of them seriously enough for the hospital wagons. Well, they should be loaded shortly.”
Only then did his brow furrow, as he said, “May I see that again please?”
Handing it back to him, he reopened the tablet to look again. I saw his eyebrow rise, then he gave me a peculiar look.
“Sextus Scribonius? He’s a friend of yours, isn’t he?”
“He was,” I replied quietly, and he did manage to look a bit embarrassed.
“Er, yes. I am sorry about that. He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”
“We were part of the same dilectus in Hispania where the 10th Legion was born,” I replied through gritted teeth. Primus took no notice of my anger at his slighting reference to Scribonius, acting like he was an afterthought.
