Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 3
Our first hint that we crossed into Moesia was when the Dalmatians abruptly stopped following us, pulling up short on a low rise one day about second watch, content to watch us continue to march away. I was alerted to this development by one of the outriders, though I did not understand the significance at first. It was not until our advance party sent a man galloping back to report a new group of armed men, not with sufficient numbers to cause us any threat, but alarming nonetheless, that I recognized that we had crossed into Moesia. I immediately ordered a halt, summoning the Tribunes, Macrinus, and the new Primus Pilus of the 13th Legion, Lucius Flaminius, who had been the Princeps Prior of the First Cohort, and had been Scribonius’ recommendation for Primus Pilus, with which I had concurred. Fortunately, Norbanus agreed, since I had been afraid that he would want to do something along the lines of Octavian, like to put a man in the post because he paid for it. How Natalis had become Primus Pilus at the hands of Octavian was still a mystery to me, but I had resigned myself to this being just one more of the unanswered questions I would carry with me into the afterlife. Flaminius arrived first, followed shortly by Macrinus, along with the Tribunes, each of whom was in command of the other contingents of our force. Libo commanded our squadron of cavalry, composed of a mishmash of native tribes; Capito was in charge of the auxiliaries, of which there were a little less than two thousand men, while Scipio, being the most junior, was responsible for the baggage train and all the attendants. As one can imagine, commanding the baggage was the least desirable job, yet the reality is that it is without doubt the most difficult of all these tasks and it should have been performed by the most experienced Tribune. There was no way that was happening, since no Tribune who had once held that post would ever agree to do it again. Add to that the fact there was no chance of covering oneself in glory with the baggage meant I had not even attempted to change what had become a long-established custom.
“We’re in Moesian territory now,” I announced to the others when they had all arrived. “That means that we march with shields uncovered and, for the first day or two at least, with helmets on.”
Neither Flaminius nor Macrinus showed any emotion, but I knew they did not relish the idea of giving that command. Men hate marching with their helmets on, for very good reason. Although it was not particularly hot, the metal seems to absorb every ray of sun, magnifying the heat so that even on a cooler day, the felt helmet liner would be absolutely soaked with sweat by the first rest stop. The other difficulty was the weight of the helmet, pushing down on the neck muscles, bouncing with every step taken, making men stiff and sore by the end of the day. But I was unmoved, knowing all too well what kind of havoc could be wrought by a sudden attack on an unprepared army. This is for you, Balbus, I thought to myself, and when I glanced over at Scribonius, who was sitting on his horse next to me, I could tell he was having similar thoughts.
“Remember that we whipped them once, and Crassus took two thousand talents of silver from them. They’re not likely to forget that, and they’re going to be watching for one slip. So I want the flank guards doubled, and I want tighter spacing than what I’ve been seeing the last few days.”
I let my gaze linger on each man as I spoke, trying to impress on each of them the importance of what I was saying. They seemed to be listening, but only time would tell if they had been paying attention.
Turning to Scipio, I finished, “The baggage train in particular is what they're going to be watching, which is why we’re going to put it in the middle. But that also means that you can't let the train stretch out, Tribune. I don’t care how you have to do it; you must do everything in your power to make sure the wagons keep the proper amount of space between each of them. Do you understand me?”
Scipio’s eyes were wide with apprehension, but he gave a quick nod. Satisfied I had done all I could do to that point, I sent the others back to make the changes. Scribonius sat next to me, watching Macrinus, Flaminius, and the rest hurry back to their respective commands.
“You know we’re going to be moving a lot slower now,” was Scribonius’ only comment.
Coming from anyone else, I would have bristled at what I would take as an implied rebuke, but we knew each other much too well for me to take offense.
“I know,” I acknowledged. “But until I get an idea of what these Moesians are about, I’m not willing to take any chances.”
Scribonius made no immediate reply, instead watching Scipio gallop back in the direction of the baggage train.
“I don’t envy that boy one bit,” he commented.
I answered with a noncommittal grunt, yet I was as worried about Scipio as Scribonius was. Even though the baggage train is, strictly speaking, a part of the army, the reality is that the men driving the wagons are not Legionaries, and are in fact almost evenly divided between slaves and freedmen. Ideally, we wanted wagon drivers to be slaves, because we could subject them to the kind of discipline and punishment that was as harsh, and even harsher than that applied to the Legions. With a force entirely composed of slaves, we could make doing things like enforcing a tighter spacing easier. Despite how much I disliked the practice, there is nothing like a good flogging to ensure that one’s instructions are carried out perfectly. However, driving a heavily laden wagon over rough terrain is a special skill that not many men possess. This meant that we had to rely on hired men who, while not citizens, were also not slaves, consequently reducing the type of punishment available to the baggage commander. It was not unknown for freedmen to quit the baggage train because they considered the baggage commander excessively harsh, although I did not worry about that particular problem overly much. We were in the middle of what at the very least was unknown territory, at least concerning the intentions of the Moesians. This fact made me believe the odds of members of the baggage train choosing to leave the security of the army to take their chances with the Moesians was very low, no matter how harsh Scipio turned out to be. Still, Scipio had a very challenging task ahead of him.
With our progress slowed by the new marching arrangement, I had to revise my estimate of our arrival in Philippi, and I was dismayed to realize that it would not be until late May. Knowing that this Marcus Primus would be champing at the bit to get started on whatever it was he had planned, that meant the men would likely get little or no chance to recuperate before marching onward. This, more than anything, spurred my decision to revise my plan of march after just a week. We had seen nothing but small groups of Moesians following us in almost the identical manner as the Dalmatians, seemingly content just to watch us pass. Finally, at the morning briefing a week after we crossed into Moesia, I announced that we would be reverting back to our original order of march. Macrinus and Flaminius were clearly pleased with this new order, and so was everyone else, with one glaring exception. Scipio sat there looking extremely distressed, his face such a study in unhappiness that, despite myself, I asked him what was wrong. At first, he did not reply, looking about at the others before he finally replied.
“I apologize, Prefect. I have obviously failed you in some way.”
It took me a moment to realize that Scipio thought that my changes had something to do with the job he had been doing with the baggage train.
“Not at all, Tribune. In fact, I was going to commend you on the job you'd been doing with the baggage train,” I lied.
Whereas it was true that he had performed admirably in making sure that the wagons stayed as tightly spaced as possible, it had not occurred to me to acknowledge him for it until he expressed such obvious distress at the idea he had not done a good job. The youngster brightened immediately, looking inordinately pleased with himself, apparently not seeing the grins of the others. I had not rescinded the order to march in armor, except I did relent with the helmets, since there had been no sign of a force of Moesians large enough to cause us mischief. I also detached two Cohorts, one from each Legion to escort the baggage train, along with the auxiliaries. Our pace picked up immediately, the main body no longer being encumbered by the pace of the baggage train. Things went back to the normal rhythm of the march; the Legions would arrive at the campsite to begin the work of making camp, which I demanded be constructed according to the standards set by Caesar so many years ago, with the wider and deeper ditches and the higher rampart.
Shortly before dark, the baggage train would arrive under escort, the heavy baggage that was needed to finish the construction of the camp broken out, with the rest of the baggage that was not for immediate use gathered inside the camp walls. The camp followers, a relatively small group because of the size of the army, would make their own camp a short distance away on the other side of our ditch and palisade, always on the Porta Principalis sides, either left or right, depending on that evening’s camp. They were never allowed to camp on the side of the Praetorian Gate, because that would be our direction of march the next day, and the Decumana Gate was off limits as well. I do not remember specifically when it occurred, but one day, Scribonius and I were riding together when young Scipio came galloping up, showering us with dirt when he jerked to a stop.
“Prefect, I wanted to report that there's a group of Moesians trailing behind us!” Since this was not any different from any other day, I waited for more from the Tribune, regarding him with a raised eyebrow. Seeing my face, he became flustered, stammering out, “It’s just that they’re closer now than they’ve ever been to the baggage train. They seem to be having some sort of conversations with some of the camp followers. I think they might be up to something!”
Scribonius and I exchanged amused glances because we both knew what was happening, having seen it many, many times before.
“They are up to something, Tribune, but I assure you that it’s nothing to worry about.” Scribonius’ tone held no rebuke.
Scipio looked at each of us, clearly confused.
“With all respect, Evocatus,” Scipio asked stiffly, “how can you be so sure? The camp followers may be giving them information that they can use against us.”
“Oh, they're giving them something all right.” I laughed. So did Scribonius, but Scipio was still clearly mystified. Deciding that this could be a valuable lesson for the Tribune, I asked him, “Tribune, you're obviously very observant. What did you see, exactly?”
He paused, his face a study of doubt since he had learned by this point that I rarely asked a question without some deeper purpose behind it.
“I saw a group of the Moesians approach one of the wagons of the camp followers,” he said cautiously. “There appeared to be some sort of conversation, then one of them dismounted and jumped into the wagon. After a short time, the first man left the wagon, then another one took his place in the wagon.”
I must say it was amusing to watch the realization dawn on him, his face suddenly flushing.
“Oh, they’re….” His voice trailed away, and I nodded in confirmation.
“Yes, Tribune, they're conducting business.”
The boy gave a rueful laugh, then turned serious.
“Does that happen often? That men who might be our enemies have congress with the camp followers?”
“All the time,” I assured him. “I’ve even seen it happen when we were engaged in open hostilities, not only at times like this when they're just following us.”
“But why do we allow it to happen?”
This was actually a sensible question, and I turned to Scribonius to provide the answer.
“For a couple of reasons,” my friend said. “First, it would require that we essentially guard the camp followers’ train along with our own baggage, and no commander is going to be willing to devote men to that. So, since we can’t stop it, we actually use it to our advantage. Over the years, the camp followers have proven to be a very valuable source of information for us because they report back to us things that they've heard from their customers on the other side.”
“Doesn’t that work both ways? Couldn’t the Moesians be gathering information on us from the camp followers? They are whores, after all, so I can’t imagine that it would be too hard to find their price.”
“They could,” Scribonius conceded. “But it’s not likely, because we're their protection out here in the wilderness. If they were to betray us, they'd strip themselves of our protection, not to mention that if we found out about it, let’s just say it wouldn't go well for them. Provided, of course, that we survived their treachery.”
“But they could just make a deal with the Moesians that when they attacked that they would refrain from harming the camp followers that gave them the information that betrayed us couldn’t they?” Scipio insisted.
Scribonius and I exchanged a grimly amused glance. The question posed by the Tribune was the type of question asked by a man who had only read of battle, never seeing firsthand the madness and bloodlust that sweeps away all reason before it like an onrushing flood.
“Tribune, I assure you that if that were to happen, the chances of the camp followers who betrayed us escaping unscathed at the hands of our enemies is very, very slight,” Scribonius said gently. “It's generally just not worth the risk for them, which is why, as far as I can remember, it’s never happened. I acknowledge that it could, but the risk is slight. And what can be gained is well worth that slight risk.” He favored the Tribune with a smile, the kind one man shares with another, winking as he said, “And men talk, particularly when they have an itch that needs scratching, and most of the time their brains can’t work at the same time as their pricks. You’re a man of the world, Tribune; you know how it is.”
That Scipio was decidedly not a man of the world was obvious just by looking at him, but he beamed with pleasure at the words of Scribonius.
“Yes, I see that you’re right. Prefect, I apologize for making a report that was obviously unnecessary.”
“No report is unnecessary, Tribune. It’s good that you were paying attention,” I assured him, and I was being honest.
I would rather be bothered by such seemingly trivial information than only to learn later that something happened that would have given us warning of some calamity. Scipio saluted before trotting back towards the baggage train as we watched him leave.
“That boy is killing himself, Titus,” Scribonius said, his eyes still on the Tribune. “And maybe you should start acknowledging the effort that he’s making.”
I looked at him in a little astonishment.
“What for? Doing his job?”
My friend turned to look at me with an expression of amusement and disgust.
“That boy worships the ground you walk on, Titus. Surely you can see that. He’s trying so hard to impress you it’s painful to watch.”
In fact, I had not seen it at all, but I was not going to admit that to Scribonius.
“I know that. But I don’t want to give him any more attention or praise than I do to Libo or Capito.”
“They don’t need it the way that boy does,” Scribonius replied. “They’ve been with the army for some time now, and their position is secure. Scipio is new, and he’s struggling to prove himself and find his place. And you’re not helping matters.”
“So what do you want me to do about it?” I protested.
“Titus, that boy is like a lump of clay right now, clay that you can mold into the kind of nobleman that you don’t mind serving under instead of someone like Doughboy.” Scribonius invoked the nickname of the first almost-forgotten Tribune that we had served under as tiros when Caesar had been Praetor in Hispania.
Even now, almost forty years later, Doughboy was still one of the worst Tribunes who marched with the standard, and mercifully, he had long since stumbled on the cursus honorum, disappearing from Rome and into oblivion.
“Fine,” I said sourly, goaded by Scribonius’ mention of our hated first Tribune. “I'll mother him like a nanny goat does with her kid. Are you happy now?”
“Yes,” he replied, a trifle too smugly for my taste.
“Did anyone ever tell you that you'd make someone a wonderful wife? You already have the nagging part down to perfection.”
I ducked his swing and, laughing, we continued on our way.
We arrived in Philippi shortly after the Kalends of May, to receive a less than cordial reception from Marcus Primus.
“What took you so long?” he demanded after I had made my way to the residence that Primus had commandeered for his own purposes.
I had not taken the time to clean the dust of the march from my uniform, while in contrast, Marcus Primus was expensively barbered and oiled, rings on every manicured finger, dressed in a richly embroidered tunic with the purple senatorial stripe. He was portly, bordering on obese, everything about the man stinking of privilege and rank, and he was a great deal younger than I was. I detested him immediately. Still, he was the Praetor of Macedonia, outranking me by a good deal. Accordingly, I rendered him a perfect salute and tried to sound contrite.
“I apologize, sir. I assure you that we marched as quickly as we could, and it is a long way from Pannonia.”
“Still, I’ve been waiting here forever,” he sniffed before waving a pudgy hand. “No matter. You're here now, and we can begin our great adventure.”
He clapped his hands together in undisguised glee, his fat face wreathed in a smile as he walked from behind his desk to stand in front of me. I towered above the little toad. He suddenly seemed to realize how undignified he appeared when standing near me and gave a little cough, retreating back behind his desk. Leaning on it, he indicated what appeared to be a large map unrolled on it, the ends held down, but the map itself covered by a cloth.
“I'm sure you've spent most of your march here wondering exactly what I need two Legions for,” he continued.
Despite having a pretty good idea what was going to happen, I will admit I was curious about whether or not I was correct in my assumption. Besides that, I knew what was expected of me.
