Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 35
About that time, I heard a great shout go up and, turning to see its cause, I saw one of our men grab at a Serdi banner, a triangular patch of red silk with what looked like a bull stitched on it in bright green inside a geometric pattern. Some men of the First Cohort had fought their way to the standard that was obviously a personal standard of a Serdi noble, and I could see that he and his standard bearer still stood, except they were now alone and surrounded, kept at bay only by the frantic efforts of the nobleman. Slashing and thrusting with a controlled ferocity, he was able to fend our men off with his longer blade, at least until he finally had to stop, exhausted. The moment he did, the Legionaries pounced like a pack of wolves, closing in from all sides, and I saw the man’s head drop in recognition that he had failed. The standard bearer was swinging the staff of his standard wildly, managing to strike at least two men that I saw before he was overcome. There was a brief struggle, but this time between comrades, each trying to claim the prize. I had seen this turn ugly in the past, even witnessing one man strike down a close comrade, the holder of his will, killing him over an enemy standard. Fortunately, this ended without bloodshed between comrades, while the loss of this standard seemed to signal to the Thracians in the immediate vicinity that their cause was lost. Unable to watch because there was still unfinished business to my direct front, I turned back to those Serdi standing before me, none of whom seemed eager to engage. Gaius was still on my right, and I waited for him to take a breath. There was a narrow strip between the leading element of our wedge and the Thracians, who had backed up and were waiting for us to come after them. Standing on my toes, I could see over the heads of the Serdi in the front ranks that they had essentially run out of room. Men were ducking into the barracks buildings; others were trying to get up to the rampart, presumably to take the risk of jumping over the wall in an attempt to escape. Those Serdi facing us looked resigned to their fate, still willing to fight but without any real hope of victory, which was true enough. That did not make them any less dangerous; nor did they show any sign of surrender. I suppose they had seen us ridding ourselves of those men that did try to give up. For the first time, the balance in terms of numbers had tipped in our favor, our whittling down of the enemy garrison and subsequent pressure freeing up more space inside the fortress for the rest of the 8th Legion. Even then, Centuries had been sent up the ramp to destroy the artillery and kill the remaining archers, but as it turned out, the reason they had not been firing at us was that they had been almost completely eliminated by our scorpions.
Calling to the men around me to rally one last effort from them, I took a breath and began to close on the remaining Serdi when I heard yet another shout, but this was of alarm and not triumph. I looked behind me where the shout had emanated to see a crack of light appear at the north gate, gradually widening as it opened, and I was suddenly sure that it was the relieving force sent from Serdica arriving. This of course meant that the Third and Fifth had indeed been overwhelmed. I was clearly not the only one who thought this, hearing a chorus of curses and groans at the sight of the daylight appearing. But we were lucky; it was in fact a group of Thracians who had made it to the northern gate and opened it, trying to escape. Most of them were cut down in the attempt, just a handful managing to get outside the walls. Turning back to the remaining Serdi before us, I took a step toward them, when on some unseen signal, the Thracians of the front rank suddenly dropped their weapons, the clanging of metal on metal sounding harshly above all the other noise. These men were taking a huge risk in surrendering to us, yet their comrades farther back quickly followed suit, throwing their weapons down as well. Now the sound could not be ignored by any of the men still fighting. Like a wave moving across the open ground of the fortress, Serdi that were not actually engaged followed the example of their comrades and surrendered until there were just isolated pockets of fighting, prompting our men to look to their Centurions for orders. In turn, the Centurions looked to their Pili Priores, who looked to the Primus Pilus, Macrinus, who came trotting up to me.
“Do we accept their surrender, or put them to the sword?”
Matters would have been so much easier if the Thracians had simply continued to fight. Now I was faced with making a decision, starting with whether I involved Primus or not. Knowing that this would take time, and that it was extremely likely that Primus would not make a quick decision, or make a decision that would sit well with the men, I tried to decide on my own. Being fair, I had to acknowledge that Primus was so disliked by the army by this point, particularly after his words that morning, that any decision he made would be the wrong one in the men’s eyes. Perhaps this was what served as the spur for my decision, yet my own contempt for the Praetor made the decision easier.
“We accept their surrender.”
Macrinus looked relieved, and I knew that he was thinking of the men that he would lose if we continued. This was in my mind as well, along with that same nagging feeling that there were things about this campaign that just did not make sense. It is easy to say that; looking back, I was determined to take some action that would appear favorable to anyone that chose to second guess this expedition because of the damage that it did to our relations with the Thracian tribes in general. Of course, there was only one man that I was concerned with, and whose judgment meant anything, and that was Octavian, the supposed secret general of this campaign. I just don’t know if that is the truth; it is equally possible that I chose to accept the surrender because I knew that it would undoubtedly goad Marcus Primus. Either way, the decision was made, and the men of the 8th began the transition from an all-out assault to essentially acting as provosts, which in practice is much messier than it sounds. One cannot simply go from fighting to the death one moment, with a pounding heart, the fear tasting coppery in your mouth as you thrust your blade into another man’s gut, to then suddenly stop and instead take the man alive as easily as one snuffs out a lamp. Simply put, the killing did not stop for several moments, the Legionaries taking out their anger and fear on men who had thrown down their weapons. Some Serdi, realizing that their captors were still in the grips of the killing madness, made desperate attempts to retrieve their weapons and at least die fighting. Some managed, some did not, and all died nonetheless. Those Thracians who had managed to slip inside the barracks buildings refused to come out, and we were forced to send men in to finish them off.
While the men carried out the disarming and securing of the Serdi who had surrendered, separating the nobles from the lower class of warriors, I knew that I could no longer put off informing Primus. However, I still was not willing to see him face to face. Instead, I sent a runner, writing a quick note on a wax tablet informing him that the fortress had essentially been taken. At the same time, I sent another runner to Flaminius, alerting him to take his Legion north up the road toward Serdica to relieve the Third and Fifth Cohort, confident that a full Legion could handle any size force the Thracians might have sent from the city, realizing as I did that this was something I should have done long before. I could only hope that it was not too late. Finally, I had Macrinus send three Centuries from the men already in the fortress out through the northern gate by the most direct route to reinforce the Third and Fifth, with orders to send a report back on the current situation. This last was to relieve the overcrowding as much as it was to support the Cohorts, the fortress now so crammed full of men that it was hard to move. The combination of the dead and wounded, along with the effect of men fighting and sweating, all jammed together, made for a powerful stench: a mixture of blood, shit, and fear sweat. There were no more sounds of a battle being fought, replaced instead by the moans of the wounded, the shouted commands of Centurions and the calls of comrades to each other while they looted whatever they found from the men they were taking prisoner. The protests of these Serdi earned them a punch, or worse and, soon enough, they lapsed into a sullen, defeated silence. It was only after I was sure that matters were in hand and the seizure of the fortress was moving as smoothly as possible that I took stock of my own situation. I had a sizable gash on my left shin, just above the greave that looked like it would need to be sewn up, although it had managed to stop bleeding. Otherwise, I was unhurt, much to my surprise, and when I went to check Gaius, I was pleased to see that he was unwounded as well. Men were being organized to go through the bodies where they lay in piles to look for our own men who had fallen, and to drag the Serdi bodies into one massive pile. Feeling the tension and anger slowly draining from my body, I was hit with an almost overwhelming sense of drowsiness, and at that moment only wanted to find a place to lie down and sleep. That was out of the question, naturally, yet I suppose I fell into a kind of daze standing there watching the aftermath of the fight, so that when I heard someone call my name, it almost made me jump out of my skin. Turning to find the runner I had sent to inform Primus standing there, panting from the exertion of crossing the rubble pile twice, I returned his salute.
“The Praetor demands your presence immediately, Prefect,” he gasped, his tone apologetic for the peremptorily worded order.
Unlike some men I had known, like Marcus Antonius, I never punished the messenger for relaying a message, no matter how infuriating it might have been. I dismissed the man, telling him to catch his breath while I went to face the Praetor. Navigating the ladders in the opposite direction, I marveled that we had been able to ascend the rubble pile at all. Looking down, it appeared to be so steep that I hesitated for a moment before taking the first step and, by the time I reached the bottom, my legs were shaking from the effort of maintaining my balance. I paused to catch my breath and collect my thoughts before walking over to where Marcus Primus was now seated in his curule chair, under an awning that had been rigged to provide shade. Next to his chair was a bucket that had been filled with snow, undoubtedly fetched by one of his slaves from the nearby peak, and nestled in the bucket was a jug of wine. Primus was sampling some of that wine, drinking from a gold goblet and smacking his lips appreciatively, a look of satisfaction on his face. Until he looked up and saw me approaching, at least, whereupon his expression immediately changed, his lips thrust out in that pout I had come to despise. The moment I was within shouting distance, the fat little man stood, pudgy hands on his hips, looking down at me mounting the rise.
“Prefect, what’s this nonsense about the fortress being taken?”
“It has been,” I confirmed. “The men are finishing up securing the prisoners and attending to our wounded.”
“Prisoners?”
Primus seemed confused by the very concept of prisoners.
“Yes, the rest of the garrison surrendered to me, and I accepted.”
“Who told you to do that?”
“Nobody,” I admitted. “But the alternative was to continue fighting and lose more men for nothing. The battle was won, and the Serdi knew it, which is why they surrendered.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” Primus retorted. “You should have sent for me, and I would have made it.”
“Are you saying that you want me to give the fortress back?” I asked mildly. “Or are you saying that you wouldn’t have accepted the surrender?”
This made him pause, his face turning red.
“No, that is not what I am saying,” he fumed. “I’m just saying that I should have been consulted.”
“I apologize, Praetor.” I did not mean it, but he was actually correct. He looked surprised, and I suppose he had been prepared for an argument.
“Well, regardless, we have the fortress, and now we can move on Serdica.”
“After the men have a rest,” I amended.
“Of course,” he said irritably. “We’ll give them the rest of the day, then we can move on Serdica in the morning.”
Despite the fact he was again ignoring the traditional rest, I actually agreed with this, knowing that the sooner we could put pressure on the city, the better. The 13th was fresh and rested, although their remaining that way depended on whether or not they ran into any trouble on the road to Serdica. I remained standing there, despite Primus making it clear that I had been dismissed.
“What is it? I don’t suppose you want some chilled wine, do you?” He could not have sounded less gracious, and while the idea of a cold drink was appealing, that was not why I remained in place.
“The prisoners?”
Primus grimaced, setting his cup down.
“Ah, yes. I had forgotten about them.”
I was bracing for an argument, especially given our last conflict over prisoners, but I was in for a surprise.
“Keep them,” he ordered. “They might be useful for bargaining later.”
That was true enough, yet I was not sure why we would need to bargain with the Serdi, given this was a supposedly punitive expedition aimed at punishing the Triballi. Still, I was just relieved that he did not give the order to slaughter them, because that is something that no matter what civilians think, most fighting men do not relish. There is no honor in killing unarmed and helpless prisoners, and while we all recognized that there were times we had no choice for whatever reason, I only knew a few men who actually enjoyed and looked forward to doing the job. My long-departed tent mate, Spurius Didius, had been one of those, and Balbus had been close to him, except he was more indifferent to the idea of plunging his sword into the chest of a helpless person than actually enjoying it.
I saluted and departed the area before Primus could change his mind or give some other ridiculous order. My next order of business was to find out how the Third and the Fifth were faring, and if the 13th had run into trouble. I paused to examine my choices; I could either ride Ocelus the long way around, taking the road, which would be easier unless I pushed him and would take longer regardless, or I could ascend up the shaky ladders again, then exit the northern gate, taking the more direct route, just on foot. I opted for the former, the decision made easier by the combination of my growing fatigue and the fact that Diocles had been keeping Ocelus on the rise near Primus. Calling for my horse, I mounted and immediately started out, putting Ocelus into a trot, then after a few moments into the canter, heading up the northern road. I heard someone call my name, and I turned to see Lucullus, Libo, and Silanus hurrying to catch up with me.
“We didn’t want you going by yourself,” Lucullus said with a grin. “We came to protect you.”
The fact was I did not mind the company, and it was not a bad idea to go with others. Continuing north up the road, we reached the spot where the road bent around the base of the mountain, giving us a clear view of Serdica and the road out of the city. Pulling up for a moment, we sat regarding the city, but other than a lingering pall of dust hanging above the road leading up to the gates, there was no sign of any Serdi force. We resumed up the road, following it around as it turned east along the base of the slope that marked the beginning of the peak. After a bit, we saw the 13th formed a short distance north of where the Third and Fifth had built their blocking position, looking like they had been pursuing Thracians back toward the city. Drawing closer, I could see dark shapes on the ground, scattered immediately behind where the 13th was, becoming more thickly clustered up the slope toward the Cohorts of the 8th. It was clear that there had been some sort of action, and I just hoped that most of those bodies belonged to the enemy and not to us.
Unfortunately, a fair number of the men lying on the field did belong to us, most of those coming from the two Cohorts of the 8th. As I had feared, they had come under a heavy attack by a mixed force of Serdi infantry and cavalry sent from the city, Tertius Pilus Prior Julianus estimating perhaps three thousand men altogether. The Third and Fifth had suffered slightly more than a hundred casualties between them, more than thirty of those dead and, of the wounded, about fifteen that would either die in the next few days or were too badly injured to return to duty. However, the Serdi had paid a much heavier price; the official count was more than six hundred Thracians left dead on the field, and gods only knew how many wounded were carried back to the city. The 13th had arrived before the fighting was over, and naturally, Flaminius claimed that their presence had been what saved the two Cohorts of the 8th. Not surprisingly, both Julianus and his counterpart in the Fifth Cohort Septimius hotly contested that, insisting that the Thracians were already in the process of falling back to the city when the 13th showed up. The discussion became so heated that it took me physically interposing myself between Flaminius and Septimius, telling both of them that I did not care how it happened.
