Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 36
“What’s going to be recorded in the campaign record?” Septimius asked, not backing down an inch. That was really the crux of the issue, at least as far as the Centurions were concerned. Since an official account of this engagement would undoubtedly be recorded by the scribes in the Praetorium, it was understandable that both parties were interested in how it would be described, both for reasons of pride and also because it reflected not only on the Legion but on the Centurions. Whereas before the right to select Centurions had been completely within the authority of the Legate commanding a Legion, usually with the recommendation from the Primus Pilus and Pili Priores, that power had been increasingly shifted back to Rome, and supposedly the Senate. Which of course meant Octavian, who apparently reviewed the records of every candidate for promotion within the Legion, at least if rumor was to be believed. In the event that a Centurion was struck down while on campaign, the Legate still had the authority to promote a Centurion into the fallen man’s spot, yet despite the fact that it had been permanent and binding before, it was now considered a provisional promotion, pending approval from Rome. Depending on the circumstances, a man could serve as a Centurion for months, if not longer, before word came back that his promotion had been approved or disapproved. I thought this was a horrible idea, because the men knew that their Centurion might not be in command of them permanently, and would act accordingly, depending on the rumors about whether he had the money to bribe the right people. It also encouraged the kind of corruption that saw unworthy men like Natalis put into the Centurionate. While I had not heard at that point of any case where a Centurion had been forced to relinquish his slot after word from Rome arrived, I was sure it was only a matter of time before it happened. And one consequence of this new policy was that Centurions were now more interested than ever what was recorded in the Legion and army diaries, and was what led to this current disagreement. Only when I assured both parties that I would make sure that what was entered would reflect well on both Legions, without detracting from the honor and prestige of the other did I avert a confrontation, despite having no idea how I was going to accomplish my promise. I sent Lucullus galloping back up the direct route to the northern gate of the fortress to bring the orderlies and stretcher bearers, and Flaminius graciously volunteered those orderlies attached to his Legion, along with some of his own men to act as bearers. This helped smooth things over, and I reminded myself to thank Flaminius for the gesture later. Seeing that all was in hand, I decided to keep up the pressure on the Thracians, instructing Flaminius to construct a camp directly straddling the road to Serdica, at a point roughly halfway between the edge of the mountain slope and the city walls, a distance of perhaps two miles, with the road serving as the Porta Praetoria and Porta Decumana. The camp would not be fully fortified, at least at first, and I knew this was something of a risk, so I instructed Flaminius to dig his ditch to Caesarian proportions, confident that would be enough to discourage any temptation on the part of the Serdi to mount an assault of their own, at least for the time it took to pull up stakes at the other camp and bring all of the baggage and rest of the army to this spot. With all that done, I returned to the fortress, hoping to find a quiet place to rest for a bit, and to get my own wound looked at. Returning through the north gate, the scene was now much different. Our wounded had been moved to one of the barracks buildings, which would serve as the hospital for the rest of the time we were conducting the siege, while our dead were laid outside the building next to the interior eastern wall. The Serdi dead were carried outside the fortress by the prisoners, where they would be buried in a mass grave. All in all, it was a scene of Roman efficiency and organization, and a reminder of why we rule most of the known world. As quickly as the men were working, the day was still rapidly coming to a close, and it was becoming apparent that we would not have time to move the camp unless the men worked into the dark. Although the road between the two camps was clearly marked and not excessively rough, it was not a smoothly paved Roman road, and the last thing we needed were more men injured from stumbling in the dark. This meant that the men of the 13th would be forced to spend the night out of their tents, but more importantly, it meant that they would not have their grindstones, camp ovens, and cooking pots. I could just hear the complaining, yet it could not be helped. However, I could make some of the men more comfortable and, to that end, I called Macrinus to my side from where he had been holding a meeting with his Centurions.
“I’m going to put as many of your men as will fit into the barracks that aren’t being used for the hospital, starting with the Third, Fifth, and First.”
Macrinus smiled, showing he appreciated my gesture, and went to tell the respective Pili Priores while I continued on to the building being used as a hospital. I heard someone call my name and saw Diocles hurrying up to me. He inspected me carefully, and I had to fight a smile as my little Greek walked around me, clucking like a hen at my minor wound.
“That needs to be sewn up.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” I said dryly. “That’s why I was headed to where the people who can do that are located.”
“You don’t have to be smart about it,” he said huffily.
I didnot reply, instead handing him Ocelus’ reins, then walked into the hospital. I had to stop for a moment to let my eyes adjust, but after they did, I wished I hadn’t taken the time. As many times as I have seen this, and been part of it, I have never become accustomed to the sight of so many men suffering. What the eyes take in is bad enough. Making it truly horrible are the sounds of men in pain, along with the smells of cauterized flesh, blood, puke, shit, and piss. The combination of all this is enough to make the stomach churn, no matter how many times you are exposed to it. My injury seemed so trivial in comparison to what I was seeing that I felt a momentary sense of shame that I was even standing there, yet I knew that if it was not cleaned and stitched up, it would corrupt, so I waved to a medici who was between patients. He directed me to a broken stool, left over from the original inhabitants who had been kind enough to leave the entire barracks furnished with cots and the personal effects of the men who had occupied them up until this morning. Of course, all these effects had been thoroughly searched and looted, I was sure by the medical staff, yet I did not begrudge them whatever they found. Taking a seat, I unstrapped my greave, caked with blood, and set it aside while the orderly made his preparations, bringing a bowl of water, and a cloth that looked as if it had been used on quite a few other men. He dipped the cloth in the water and began scrubbing; first around the wound before moving to the gash itself. I tried not to start at the flash of pain, gritting my teeth and reminding myself that I was the Camp Prefect, and there were men with much more serious wounds than mine. Still, my jaw ached by the time he was through cleaning the wound before producing a curved needle and waxed thread. Somewhat surprisingly, this did not hurt nearly as much as the cleaning, and in no more than a moment or two, he was finished, the wound now a clean, straight line, around which he wrapped a linen bandage. I left the building, running into Macrinus, and I instantly saw from his expression that something was amiss.
“Prefect, I appreciate what you wanted to do for the men, regardless of how it turned out.”
I stared at him, not understanding what he was talking about, and I told Macrinus to explain.
“We’ve been informed that the other barracks buildings are not for our use; they’ve been reserved for the Praetor,” he explained.
“Pluto’s cock.” It was all I could do to keep from shouting. I took a deep breath to regain a semblance of control. “I will talk to Primus about it.”
“Should I have the men wait?”
“No,” I was emphatic. “Go ahead and have them get settled in. I’m going to see him now.”
This meant I had to negotiate the ladders again, and the stitches had made my leg stiff, making it even more difficult than before. I almost fell twice, but I managed to avoid looking like a fool and taking a tumble that could have seriously hurt me in the bargain. The Praetor was still seated under the awning, with Masala nowhere in sight, leaving only a half dozen slaves to wait on Marcus Primus. I was puffing a bit from the climb up the slope to the rise where he was seated, yet before I had gotten within a dozen paces, I could see that the Praetor was drunk. An empty jug was lying next to the bucket, and another one had replaced it, along with a fresh supply of snow. At least the wine had put Primus in a jovial frame of mind, and he greeted me with an actual smile as I approached.
“Prefect Pullus, you are a sight!”
He waved to me, pointing to a spot next to him.
“Come, sit down; you look very tired.”
“Thank you, Praetor, I appreciate that, but there’s nothing to sit on.”
He turned and looked at the bare ground next to him in dull surprise, then gave a honking laugh.
“Why, you’re right! There’s nothing to sit on, is there?”
Primus twisted in his curule chair to glare at one of the slaves, snapping his fingers and pointing at the spot next to him.
“Why isn’t there a chair or stool or something here next to me? Go get one, quickly now, or I’ll have you flogged.”
Not wanting to cause this poor slave a punishment he did not deserve, I held up my hand to wave him off.
“I appreciate that, Praetor, but I regret that I have other duties that can’t wait, so I won’t be long.”
“Oh?” He shrugged carelessly. “Then never mind. So what is it you want?”
“I was told by Primus Pilus Macrinus that you’ve designated the barracks buildings for your own personal quarters.”
“Of course.” He sounded surprised. “I’m not going to spend a night under leather when I can sleep under a roof, even in a place as dreary as I’m sure that place is.” He gave a shudder at the thought, then something seemed to strike him, his expression changing as he looked at me carefully. A sly look creased his fat features, and he nodded his head as if he had experienced a revelation.
“Ah,” he said softly. “You were planning on doing the same thing, weren’t you? Well, I suppose there’s enough to go around. You can have one of the buildings for your own, though I will, of course, claim the largest one.”
How can this man continue to surprise me? I wondered to myself.
“No, Praetor, that’s not why I bring it up. I had informed the Primus Pilus that the men of the 8th who participated in the assault had earned the privilege of spending the night in the barracks.”
“Why in Hades would you do something like that? The men don’t need that kind of coddling, do they? I thought you men of the Legions were supposed to be tough.”
“They don’t need to spend the night in the barracks,” I replied, trying to remain patient. “But I think they earned it more than anyone else.”
“What are you trying to say?” His eyes narrowed.
“That they just got through watching some of their friends die, unlike any of us,” I said quietly, making sure to include myself, except I doubted it would make any difference.
“That’s their job,” he shot back. “And it’s their duty to Rome.”
“Praetor, I assure you that none of those men need to be reminded about their duty, because they just did it.” My tone was icy, and I was on the raw edge of losing my temper. Fortunately, Primus folded, his liquid courage apparently running out.
“Take the barracks then,” he snapped, turning away from me to grab at the jug of wine. Just then, Masala came riding up, dismounting to report to Primus.
“The wagons with your belongings will be arriving shortly, and it shouldn’t take much longer after that to have them moved into the buildings.”
“Tell them to turn back around and go back to camp,” Primus said bitterly. Masala looked surprised, and when he looked over at me, I explained.
“The Praetor has graciously decided that the men of the 8th who participated in the assault are more deserving to rest in comfort than he is, and has agreed to yield all but one of the buildings for their use,” I explained with a straight face. Standing behind Primus, I saw the look of amusement on Masala’s face, but his tone was neutral as he replied that he understood.
“That was very wise and gracious of you, Praetor,” Masala said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. Primus looked somewhat mollified, still slurping on his wine moodily without replying.
“I’ll just have those belongings and furnishings that are most important to you removed and put into one of the buildings.”
“The largest one,” Primus insisted, making it clear that this was very important to him.
Masala remounted and headed back to the Praetor’s wagons to turn them around, and I left Primus pouting on the hill. That night, the men of the Third, Fifth, and First Cohort slept under a roof, while Marcus Primus had to endure being in close proximity to his inferiors, listening to them snore and fart all night. Perhaps there is some justice in the world, after all.
Despite Primus’ insistence that we immediately begin the siege of Serdica, the next day was spent in consolidating the camps. The wounded men were resting comfortably in the barracks building and, after their night of comfort, the men of the 8th were summarily dismissed to allow Primus to move all of his furnishings into the remaining barracks. This may have been suitable for him, yet it was an awkward arrangement for everyone else, since the Praetorium tent was still in the center of the new camp, meaning scribes had to move back and forth between the camp and where Primus was located to conduct the business of the army. He was also still governor of Macedonia, and couriers were constantly streaming back and forth from his province to the army as well. Naturally, they would come to the camp first, under the reasonable belief that the Praetor would be with his army, only to find that he was two miles away at the fortress. There would be much back and forth with whatever business being conducted, and the poor scribes and couriers were consigned to trudging back and forth. It apparently never occurred to Primus to come to the camp during the day before returning to his comforts at night. However, his absence did serve to make my life easier, since he did not interfere with our preparations for the siege. With the camps being consolidated, Flavianus and his assistants, the Primi Pili, and I went on an inspection tour around the city. As I have described, the western wall of the city fronted the river, and we could see that canals had been carved out of the rock that traveled under the walls. The river flowed north to south; we had been traveling upstream, meaning that if we wanted to divert the flow and cut the water off from Serdica, we would have to travel past the city to do so. That would require us to split our force in two, because we could not afford to vacate the fortress and leave the Thracian garrison in Serdica between us and it, thereby basically giving them the key to the fortress to reoccupy. If that happened, once again, we would have an enemy force in a position to cut off our line of supply and communication, and was why we took it in the first place. Beside the tangible reasons I just described, there was also the effect it would have on the morale of the army if we did that; nothing infuriates and demoralizes men more than giving something up without a fight that their comrades died taking. What all this meant was that cutting off their water was not an option, in turn informing me that the siege was likely to last much longer than we had hoped, making it even more crucial that we keep the road south open. Very soon, the cavalry would have to be employed in foraging patrols, and if we were forced to send out Cohort-sized patrols as well to take whatever food we could find, that would hamper the siege. Our inspection revealed that Serdica was larger than we had been led to believe, although since it had been Marcus Primus who insisted that this would be little more than a collection of huts and a wooden wall, I had been skeptical. Still, until I saw it with my own eyes up close, I really did not know what to expect, and what I saw I did not like in the slightest. After some desultory remarks between us as we began, the entire party had fallen silent as we rode around the city, looking for obvious weak points. Once we had completed our circuit, and Flavianus had taken copious notes, I girded myself to ask him his opinion, despite being fairly sure what it would be.
“Well?”
As usual, he was succinct, wasting no words.
“We’re going to need a bigger army.”
It may sound funny, but he was being serious. Making it worse, I knew he was right. With two Legions, Legions that had suffered losses at that, even if they were not particularly heavy, we would be stretched extremely thin, and that was if we focused on just two or three spots to conduct an assault. We had learned from some of the prisoners that the garrison that remained was not all that large, perhaps five thousand men, including almost a thousand cavalry, that arm of the army being useless for a besieged army. However, they had the advantage of interior lines, forcing us at the very least need to station men completely around the city to keep them contained. Our scouts had reported no signs of any other Thracian tribes coming to the aid of these Serdi, but we could not count on that lasting, and this fact required us to be prepared for a relief effort from the outside along with being ready for an attempted breakout.
