Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 29
“I know your orders were not to engage, Prefect. But I knew that if they could bring more archers to the fortress, it would cause us all sort of trouble.”
“We had to hurry to cut them off, because they were almost to that road up to the fortress,” Lucullus put in.
“We knew that if they got to where the road turned off from the main one, they would be within range and have covering fire from the fortress,” Libo continued.
“Because the main road on the northern side of the fortress is definitely within range of artillery, and archers as well, even though it’s extremely long range for the archers.”
“So we managed to cut them off before they could get there,” Lucullus picked up the story. “And we ran them all down. We didn’t leave anyone alive, but while we were doing that, they saw what was happening from Serdica, and sent their own cavalry after us.”
Although they did not say so, I could fill in the blank spots well enough. Both Tribunes, along with the troopers, had been so busy enjoying themselves running archers down that they weren’t paying attention until it was almost too late. It was true that they had disobeyed orders; still, I could not fault them for showing initiative, because Libo was absolutely correct. Augmenting the fortress garrison with five hundred archers would have made our task even more difficult, and would have cost us more lives in the process.
“I’m surmising from what you just told me that you didn’t have the time to do the job I sent you to do,” I sighed.
Both young men looked extremely uncomfortable, and suddenly they did not seem quite as anxious to stand up for each other.
Finally, Libo cleared his throat, saying awkwardly, “No, Prefect, we didn’t. But we got a good look at the ground, and I’m sure we can answer your questions.”
“We’ll see,” I told the both of them, while neither of them looked very hopeful.
As it turned out, they did a fairly good job of providing me with enough information to make a decision about what to do next. They had already confirmed that there was another approach to the fortress, and that the Serdi had already attempted to send reinforcements. The road leading to Serdica never crossed the river, because the city was sited with the river along its western wall as it continued north from the valley, forming a barrier from that direction. This was good, since it meant we did not have to worry about the Thracians destroying a bridge once the fortress fell. However, it also meant that it was absolutely essential to block that road before they could make another attempt to send help to the fortress. And it could not wait until the next day; we had to move that night.
Two Cohorts would be sent, under cover of darkness, to take up a blocking position athwart the junction of the road to the fortress with the main one leading to Serdica. I debated about sending one from each Legion, then decided against it, seeing the possibility of some sort of conflict between the two Pili Priores over who was senior. Choosing the 8th, I left it up to Macrinus to select which two, and since he knew how important their job would be, he chose carefully.
“The Third and Fifth,” he told me. Despite myself, I heaved a silent sigh of relief. Gaius had been given light duty by the camp physician, but like a good Centurion should, he had refused, returning to his Century. He still sported a huge white bandage around his head that was so thick he could not get his helmet on, making quite the odd sight, standing bareheaded with his bandage almost seeming to glow in the sunlight, yet I was proud of him. I was also happy that he would not be in danger. Despite how wrong I knew it to be for feeling that, I could not help it. On the spur of the moment, I also told Capito to send five hundred of his auxiliaries to act as slingers, although they could also be pressed into service as infantry.
“They march in light order. No more than two days’ rations, weapons, shields, armor, and digging tools,” I told Macrinus, who nodded his understanding, but I was still not finished.
“They’re going to march without armor,” I continued.
“What? You just said that you wanted them to take their armor.”
“I do,” I confirmed. “But I don’t want them wearing it tonight when they’re sneaking past the fortress. You know it’s too noisy. Metal pieces of gear always hit against it and make noise.”
“How are they going to carry their armor if they don’t have their packs?”
I thought for a moment.
“We did this once in Gaul. Use your cloaks….” Realizing that it would be easier to demonstrate, I called to a nearby Legionary, ordering him to strip out of his armor, which he did, albeit with a surprised look on his face.
“Now hand me your cloak.”
He did so. I laid it out on the ground, fully spread out. I placed the armor on one half of the poncho, folding the second half over the top. That done, I began rolling the cloak up with the armor in it, and when that was done, I picked the roll up, placing the bundle around my neck so that the long ends hung down off each shoulder in front. I had to make some adjustments to make it ride evenly, then gave it a test by hopping up and down a few times, rewarded with a small sound of metal clinking that I doubted could be heard a dozen paces away.
“There, that’s how.” I could not hide my triumphant grin, clearly irritating Macrinus, who walked away muttering something about people who knew everything.
For all the humor, this was a deadly serious business, and we both knew it. Despite being obscured by darkness, moving more than a thousand men was running a huge risk, with most of that risk coming from sound. Noise travels much farther at night than it does during the day, for what reasons I do not know. Along with the muffled armor came the standard practice of wrapping the tools and weapons, as well as the men’s feet. I just hoped there were enough rags to go around to do what needed to be done. The sound of hobnails striking rock makes a very distinctive noise that any experienced sentry would recognize, and multiplying that by two feet per man meant we had to do everything we could think of to avoid detection. While the two Cohorts were preparing themselves, I found Flavianus still at the plutei, despite it now being fully dark.
“Is there any way we can continue the bombardment at night?” I asked, without much hope. Nonetheless, I was still disappointed when Flavianus shook his head.
“Not if you don’t want to run out of ammunition,” he told me. “And we would have no way of knowing until morning how much damage we had done. Besides, after each shot we have to make adjustments to the ballista because the jar it receives causes it to jump a bit.”
“Don’t you have those marked?”
Again he nodded, but he continued in the same vein.
“We do, but we also have to factor in that the night air is heavier, making the missiles fly differently, so putting the piece back in its old marks doesn’t necessarily mean it will be back on target. Not to mention that the air is damp as well as cool, which also affects the torsion ropes. No,” he concluded, “we’re better off waiting until it’s light.”
“How much ammunition have we expended?”
Flavianus considered for a moment.
“About a third part,” he said finally.
That was more than I had hoped, and it did convince me not to risk continuing the bombardment during the night. Leaving Flavianus, I returned to find the two Cohorts ready, faces, arms and legs blackened with the mixture of oil and charcoal, their armor wrapped in their cloaks like I had instructed. The Centurions were walking up and down, tugging on bits of gear to make sure they made no noise, ordering men to fix those items that did. Didius Julianus was the Tertius Pilus Prior, a good, solid man if a little unimaginative yet very dependable and steady in a fight. The Quintus Pilus Prior was Aulus Septimius Licinius, though he was known as Septimius, a quick-tempered Campanian who had been part of the dilectus for the other 10th Legion raised by Octavian during the civil war, which I tried not to hold against him. He was a good leader of men; his flaw being that he would never back down from a fight, even when that was the best course of action, making him more similar to me than I cared to admit. I thought Macrinus had done a good job of choosing two men who balanced each other out, and would be capable of performing what was likely to be a challenging and dangerous independent duty. With the bulk of the lower slope of the large mountain in between us and the two Cohorts, they would essentially be cut off and on their own. Everything depended on our being able to create a breach and exploit it quickly, before the garrison in Serdica sent an overwhelming force that these men could not handle. I hoped that augmenting the two Cohorts with slingers would give them the extra firepower that they needed. I had also considered detaching two scorpions to go with them, but decided that it would be too difficult in the dark, while the noise of them being broken down would alert the men inside the fortress that something was afoot.
“According to what the Tribunes said, the ground isn’t quite as rocky on that side,” I told the two Centurions. “So you should be able to at least throw a ditch and rampart up.”
They both indicated they understood as I continued.
“Be sure to detach at least a Century from each Cohort to set up a defensive position facing the fortress in case those bastards inside decide to sally out and try to take you from behind.”
It was fully dark, with broken cloud cover and only a quarter moon, yet even through the gloom I could see that while they were both listening politely, they were anxious to go. I remembered what it felt like to have some old man nattering on about things I already knew, so I cut my instructions short.
“We’ll relieve you as soon as we can,” I promised them. “Expect to see us coming from behind after we’ve taken the fortress.”
The two Centurions exchanged wishes for luck with Macrinus and me on the respective endeavors each of us were going to undertake, then the men started out. I stood to watch them walk by, deliberately out of step so that the rhythmic tramping of feet would not carry to the ears of the Serdi. Moving as silently as it is possible for more than a thousand men to do, they disappeared into the gloom on their way. Knowing there was nothing left to do, I went to find the spot that Diocles had selected for us to spend the night. I had tried to convince my scribe to stay behind in camp and he had refused, although Agis had quite sensibly chosen to remain. Diocles had managed to rig up a makeshift shelter on the hillside a short distance from where the rest of the army had bedded down. Fortunately the weather was fair, except it was still cold at night because of the altitude, and firewood was scarce, forcing men to double and triple up around a fire in order to cook their rations. Once finished, they would be wrapping up in their cloaks for the night, waiting for the dawn and the sudden violence of breaching a wall and slaughtering the garrison inside. Not surprisingly, the mood was subdued around each fire, the laughter softer, the conversations more muted than normal. Dice were still being thrown, and there was still the inevitable wagering on exactly when the wall would come down, meaning it was still a normal night before battle. Diocles had a loaf of bread, along with a thick chunk of meat from one of the horses broiling over a fire, which I found somewhat surprising.
“Where did you get enough wood for a fire that size?”
He looked at me smugly, his features seeming to change as the flickering light illuminated his face.
“If the Camp Prefect’s body slave can’t get his hands on enough wood to cook a meal, what good is he?”
“Not much,” I admitted, laughing at the look on his face.
I settled down on the ground where he had spread my spare cloak, glad that I would have my fur-lined one to wrap up in, since I was finding it harder to stay warm at night. Now when I woke in the cold, I found myself much stiffer than I had been in the past. I relaxed, content to watch him go about his business, thinking about the coming day. I heard someone approaching, turning to see Columella, the Evocatus who had been in the 6th Ferrata.
“May I join you for a bit?” he asked, and I motioned for him to sit down.
“Do we have enough to feed this mouth?” I called to Diocles, who answered with a nod, his face telling me that he was not happy about it. Fortunately Columella waved him off.
“I’ve already eaten, thank you Prefect.”
“You know you can call me by name when we’re alone,” I reminded him as he sat down on the ground near the fire.
“I know, but we’re outside and I’m afraid the men might hear. So what do you think of this campaign, Pullus?”
The question caught me completely off guard, as I suppose had been his intention. I saw Diocles look up sharply from what he was doing, eying Columella, who could not see him, with obvious suspicion.
“Why do you ask?” I decided to try to flush out his purpose, and to his credit, he did not hesitate or prevaricate in any way.
“The rest of the Evocati have been talking, and there’s something about this that just doesn’t make sense.”
“Oh?” I asked, keeping my tone noncommittal. “What part of it are you referring to?”
“The part where we launched a campaign against someone we’re not at war with,” he answered quickly.
“No, not technically,” I granted. “But remember, they attacked us when we were with Crassus and were pushing the Bastarnae back into their lands, at the Thracians’ original request,” I reminded him.
Columella nodded slowly. Then, he turned from the fire to look me in the eye.
“That’s true, but now we’re not fighting against the tribe who did that, and it doesn’t seem to matter to the Praetor. My understanding of this whole campaign was that we were going to avenge that attack to teach those bastards a lesson. Still, once we learned that Serdica didn’t even belong to the Triballi, but to the Serdi, we didn’t change our direction and head for the lands of the tribe that wronged us. That’s the part that doesn’t make sense. It’s like Marcus Primus is more concerned with Serdica than the tribe.”
I must admit that I had not quite looked at it in this manner. Personally, I had not been viewing it that Marcus Primus was more interested in taking Serdica, instead just assuming that he was too lazy to put in the extra time it would take to reach the real Triballi lands, which were farther northeast. I sat thinking about what Columella had said, realizing that I could not provide any answer to him. I shot a glance at Diocles, seeing that he was as unsettled as I was, and I experienced one of those moments that old veterans who have lost a limb talk about, because I almost turned to ask Scribonius what he thought. Being born an equestrian, and having been involved even peripherally in the Catiline conspiracy seemed to have endowed him with an ability to untangle the labyrinthine maze that constitutes the minds of upper-class Romans with political ambitions.
“What is there about Serdica that’s so important to him?” I mused aloud, tacitly accepting this new line of logic from Columella. For his part, the Evocatus looked even more worried than when he had sat down.
“I had been really hoping that if anyone knew, it would be you,” he said, the disappointment in his tone feeling like a rebuke, even though I knew it was not meant that way.
“That makes two of us, Columella,” was all I could think to say. Masala, I thought suddenly; perhaps it’s time to push Primus’ aide for information.
“I’ll try to find out more,” I promised Columella, who departed back to the Evocati, albeit empty handed, or headed, as it were.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” I said aloud to Diocles.
“Neither had I,” he admitted. “I’ll try and find out what I can.”
“So will I,” I replied.
Then it was time to eat, and I found that even with this new question nagging at me, I had quite an appetite. When I was finished, I rolled up in my cloak, looking up at the stars, trying to remember the last time I had slept out in the open. That was the last thing I remember.
Diocles called to me shortly before dawn, having long since learned the danger of touching me while I was asleep, and I sat up to stretch, feeling the aches and pains from the hard ground.
“Titus, you are getting softer with each passing day,” I grumbled to myself, except I said it aloud, causing Diocles to give a short laugh.
As was his habit, he had risen before me, and again the fire was already starting to come back to life. He was heating some wine, which I had gotten in the habit of drinking on chilly mornings. Down the slope, along the roadway and scattered about the lower slopes the army was shaking itself awake. I could hear those Centurions who liked getting a jump on things, before the bucina call that signaled the official start of the day, yelling at their men to rouse them, which was met by the usual chorus of groans and curses. In other words, a normal day for the army, except the truth was that it was not going to be a quiet, normal day. At least, so I hoped, although I could not ignore the possibility that the wall would somehow hold. I had no way of knowing if the two Cohorts of the 8th had made it undetected, yet there had been no alarm raised in the fortress at night, so I assumed they had been successful in the first part of their mission. With the men slowly beginning their morning routine, I took the time to stretch, then perform some exercises to loosen up my muscles, an activity that drew a concerned frown from Diocles.
“You’re not thinking of leading the assault?,” he asked in an accusing tone.
“No,” I was equally defensive, “I don’t plan on leading the assault.”
Mollified, he turned back to his task of preparing a light breakfast, the light growing slowly stronger. Here in the shadow of the large mountain, we would not actually see the sun for some time, but the sky was still turning a lighter shade of gray. The bucina sounded the call to rise, even as most of the men had long since been up and about. Meanwhile I wondered how much peace and quiet I would have before Marcus Primus showed up. He had of course returned to camp to spend the night in his own bed in the Praetorium, and I could not imagine he would show up before mid-morning. The walls of the fortress became more defined, changing from just a blacker mass to a defined structure, and before long we could see men on the ramparts peering down, taking advantage of the momentary lull before we resumed the bombardment. Flavianus had already returned under cover of darkness, and was now behind the protection of the plutei¸ joining his men who had spent the night there. They began their preparations to resume, removing the ten pound balls from their racks, more of which had been brought to their position during the night. Seeing me look at him, the engineering officer gave a curt nod, which I returned, knowing that the moment he felt it to be the right time, with enough light to see the target he would give the order to resume. Finally, he deemed that the lighting was adequate enough, but just when he was about to give the order to fire, the Serdi beat us to it, their archers suddenly appearing on the rampart, firing a volley all at once, after which each man fired as quickly as he could draw the bow back to loose another missile. In the space of a moment, the air was thick with flying arrows, our men shouting warnings to each other, with those who could scrambling down the hill away from the artillery to get out of range. While this was understandable, I knew that our whole siege was in more danger at that moment than it had ever been if the scorpion gunners did not brave this fire and knock the Thracians off the wall. It would be a matter of another few heartbeats before their artillery was pulled into place, whereupon Greek fire missiles would be raining down on the plutei and ballistae. If that happened, there would be no stopping them from being consumed by the flames, since the sticky substance is almost impossible to get off of wood.
