Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 40
“You’re a brave man,” I said in Greek. “But I couldn’t let you warn your friends back at Serdica. I promise I will be quick.”
“Fuck you,” he gasped, speaking in Latin, which surprised me a bit. “I spit on you and your city. Rome has no business being here in Thrace. We have done nothing to deserve this.”
I really do not know why, but I said, “You’re right. We have no business here.”
Despite his pain, I could see the surprise in the man’s eyes, and I imagine this was the last thing he had expected to hear.
“Then why are you here? Why are you doing this, causing so much sadness and misery in so many Thracian homes?”
“Because our Praetor is an ambitious, immoral cocksucker, and he wants to win glory for himself,” I replied with a shrug. I saw no point in lying to the man since I was about to kill him.
“And yet you follow him,” the Serdi said bitterly. “And you do what he says.”
“It’s my job, just like it’s yours to try and fight us.”
“But this is my home, this is my land, not yours,” he pointed out.
I could see in his eyes that he was playing desperately for time, hoping with all the fervor of the doomed man that somehow he might say something that would save his life.
“Again, you’re right. If it makes you feel any better, I take no pleasure in this. But I have a duty to perform.”
“Then go ahead and do your duty, Roman,” the Serdi said bitterly, realizing that I was not going to be swayed. And I did.
By the time I arrived back at the fortress, the fight was over, if it could even be called that. Caldus had done his job perfectly, along with the rest of the men, bursting out from their hiding places, or pouring through the hole in the eastern wall and the breach to cut the Serdi down even as they were trying to understand what was happening. A group of perhaps two hundred had managed to get organized and fought their way to one of the barracks buildings, inflicting heavy casualties on the Fourth Cohort of the 8th, although thankfully, there were not all that many dead. Only two of the mounted men had made it back out of the northern gate, the one just outside the gate and the other the man I had run down. Those infantry who had tried to escape were cut down, most by the javelins, but a few had actually managed to avoid being hit by the missiles. The Evocati had hunted down the rest, or so we believed, at least. Inside the fortress was a mess, every patch of the ground almost literally soaked in blood, with bodies and parts of bodies lying in heaps. If we were going to use this fortress again, there would have to be another mass grave dug, yet I refrained from making the men do the work, counting on being able to convince Serdica to surrender now that the bulk of their garrison had been eliminated. Lucullus and Silanus had left to go to the baggage train, the latter stopping and waiting once it had gotten safely out of sight. Despite all that had been done, it was still barely past midday, and I hoped that we would have enough time to march to the city, with Marcus Primus at the head of the army. Despite being a figurehead for the most part, this was a time when he was needed, since even barbarians are rank conscious when it comes to dealing with Romans. The leaders of Serdica were much more likely to listen to a Marcus Primus than a Tribune Lucullus, or Camp Prefect Pullus, for that matter. Of course, it was the army standing behind us that would provide the ultimate persuasion, that and the realization that over the last few days we had killed or captured the better part of ten thousand men. Our wounded and dead were being cared for, one of the other barracks buildings once again serving as a hospital. The two hundred Thracians were still inside the other when I arrived back at the fortress.
“We were going to storm the building, but we decided to wait for you,” Macrinus explained.
I was happy that he had done so, because I had no desire to lose more men for just two hundred Thracians. Using a bandage tied to a javelin, I approached the barracks building, calling out in Greek to the occupants. I saw one shutter move slightly, and I could make out a dim figure standing just behind it. Shoving the butt of the javelin into the ground, I held both arms out to show I meant no harm.
“I am Camp Prefect Pullus, and I am in command of this army,” I called out. “And you can see what happened to your comrades.” I gestured to the piles, the flies already buzzing busily about them, feasting on the blood and gore. The swarms had not yet arrived, but it would not take long, and I wanted to be gone from here before that. “So you know there is no escape. However, I have no desire to shed the blood of my men needlessly, so I am making you an offer. It is an offer that I will make only one time.”
I paused, waiting for some response. After several moments, the shutter cracked open a little wider, another bearded man peering out. He had a bloody bandage wrapped around his head, his face gaunt from all that he had witnessed.
“What is it, Roman?” he asked cautiously. I was sure he had to know it was not going to be anything he liked.
“Surrender now, and I promise that you will all live. You will join the other prisoners that we have already taken.”
“Prisoners?” He gave a harsh, bitter laugh. “You mean slaves, don’t you? That is what you are offering us, Roman. Lives as slaves.”
Even from where I was standing, I could feel the hostility and hatred radiating from the man.
I shrugged like it was of no importance to me, that much at least being the truth.
“But you will be alive. The other way leads down only one road.”
“Better to die as a free man, than live as a slave,” the Serdi spat.
“Maybe for you, but you should ask your men if they feel the same way.”
“I speak for my men.” He tried to sound assured, but I could hear the uncertainty in his voice, and his eyes darted back to somewhere behind him. “And I know they feel the same way.”
Suddenly, I began calling out in a loud voice, using the power of the years spent as a Centurion, repeating the same thing I had just told the first man.
I saw the look of desperation cross his face, and he moved to slam the shutter, but before he did, I told him, “You have the time it takes to count to one thousand to decide. Then I send in my men, and you know what will happen.”
He did not answer, slamming the shutter so hard that it splintered, and I picked up the javelin, walking a short distance away. While we were waiting, I had the 13th begin moving back around to the north side of the fortress in preparation for moving to Serdica, but not before I detached a Cohort.
“Your boys wanted to fight,” I told Flaminius. “I can’t get the whole Legion into a fight, but here’s your chance. If they don’t come out, then you’re going in.”
I expected him to be happy about this, but he had a morose look on his face, and I expressed my surprise at his disappointment. In answer, he simply pointed back over my shoulder. I turned to see a man standing in the doorway of the barracks, waving a white rag.
“We surrender,” he called out.
I walked over and assured him that he and his comrades would be safe, whereupon they came filing out, unarmed like I had instructed, their heads down. At the very end of the line was the man with the bandage, his eyes blazing with a mixture of disgust and anger, presumably at the men he was leading. Watching him be bound, I wondered how much of their reluctance to fight was because of his leadership, or lack of it. With that resolved, we had nothing to do but wait for the Praetor to arrive, the 8th filing out to form up with the 13th.
Marcus Primus finally arrived and he had at least changed into his uniform, a good decision despite how ridiculous it looked. Somewhat surprisingly, he appeared very nervous. Therefore, once we began marching to Serdica, I decided to talk to him.
“At least the hard work is done,” I began, yet his only reply was an absent nod, his eyes straight ahead.
It was easy to see that he was nervous, and I suppose he had every reason to be, because a lot was riding on his ability to convince the people in Serdica to surrender without a fight.
“What do you think will happen?” he suddenly blurted out, looking embarrassed immediately.
“I think they'll understand that their plight is hopeless, but a lot depends on you convincing them that there's an alternative.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you give them the idea that fighting to the death is at least as good an alternative, then that's what they’ll do.”
I wondered why I had to explain this, but I reasoned that at least it would be better that there was no question about what he needed to do.
“So you’re saying that I should give them some hope?”
I nodded, adding, “Where there’s life, there’s hope. The men in the barracks proved that. Their commander was sure that his men would be willing to fight to the death, rather than being taken prisoner. But the idea of being alive is more powerful than the idea of dying as a free man, at least for most people. Because they'll believe that things can always change, as long as they remain alive.”
Primus did not say anything, and we continued the ride in silence, the walls of the city becoming visible. The men behind us were similarly silent, all of us knowing that much was riding on the next period of time. We moved quickly, leaving the baggage train behind, under guard, of course, knowing if things worked out as we hoped the contents of the train would not be needed. Just after we topped a low rise, I saw that we had drawn close enough to Serdica to make out details, and I immediately noticed that the walls were lined with people. My heart sank, realizing that we were expected, and while it should not have been a surprise that we had been spotted, something in my gut warned me that there was a reason for the presence of so many people.
“They must have seen us coming from a long way off,” Lucullus commented from his spot next to me.
My response was simply to shake my head, sure that there was more to it than that. When we got to within a furlong of the city walls, I saw the city gates open, so I ordered an immediate halt. Emerging from within the city came a small group of mounted men, one of them carrying a white flag, signaling that they wanted to talk.
“Praetor, this is your moment,” I told Primus.
I expected him to look eager, or at least ready to face the Serdi. Instead, his fat face was wrinkled from brow to chin in a worried scowl, gazing at the men who had pulled up a hundred paces or so away from the walls of the city.
“What if it’s a trap? What if they want to kill me for all that I've done to them?”
I should have said something reassuring, using a soothing tone the way one would with a skittish horse.
I suppose it is just that I was so worn down from all that had taken place, and from Primus’ constant and total self-absorption that it caused me to snap, “By the gods, man, get hold of yourself. They could care less about you. It’s those men behind you that they’re worried about. Those men are the ones who've done them injury, not you.”
Primus’ features seemed to become infused with a glowing pink color as he stared at me furiously. He opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut and turned to face the city.
Instead, he kicked his horse forward and, with a curt, “Follow me,” he went to face the Serdi.
Finally, you are acting like a Roman Legate, I thought, following him, but making sure that I stayed a short distance behind. Primus turned and, seeing that Masala was not following, a hesitant look on the boy’s face, waved to him to come along as well.
“All of the Tribunes will come,” Primus commanded, and I was about to object, because if it was a trap and they managed to kill or capture the entire command group, the army would be essentially leaderless.
However, I quickly realized that if I did, in Primus’ current mood, he would do exactly that thing anyway, just to spite me, so I kept my mouth shut. Lucullus, Libo, Capito, and Silanus all joined us quickly, having to go to a canter to catch up. Primus remained looking straight ahead, sitting as erect as I imagine it was possible for him to do, and for a brief moment, he actually looked imposing. I was happy that his horse’s head obscured the view of his pot belly, even if the plume was still ridiculously high, but he was wearing his paludamentum and carrying the ivory baton that is the symbol of Proconsular imperium. I think what made him so formidable were the two Legions arrayed in formation, along with the auxiliaries and the bulk of the cavalry on each wing. As armies go, it certainly was not anything on the scale of Philippi or even Pharsalus, but two Legions are nothing to trifle with for our adversaries.
Drawing up a dozen paces away from the waiting Serdi, I took the time to examine our enemy, looking for any signs of nervousness, or shifting about that might give a warning of an impending attack. There were a half dozen men present and, while their expressions were all variations of the same unhappiness at their plight, I did not see anything that would indicate that our lives were in imminent danger. Still, just to remind these men who they were dealing with, I kept my hand on the hilt of my sword as Ocelus, sensing the tension in the air, danced nervously about. The men were clearly tribal nobility and the one who I assumed would be their spokesman was a barrel-chested man of what looked like medium stature, with an almost completely white beard, but his long hair was still predominantly black, making for a startling contrast. His face seemed to be a mixture of the two as well; the seams in his face spoke of many days squinting in the sun, his skin looking like a piece of tanned leather, much as mine does. However, his eyes were those of a younger man, bright and alert, yet even from where I was sitting, the sadness in them was evident. He was not wearing armor, dressed instead in a simple tunic, over which he was wearing a robe with some sort of embroidering on it that I could not make out. Despite his lack of martial wear, I could see that he was, or had been a warrior and I wondered if he was the commander of the garrison.
“I am Marcus Primus, governor of Macedonia, Legionary Legate, and I carry this symbol of my Proconsular imperium that empowers me to speak on behalf of the Senate and People of Rome,” Primus began, and I had to admit that whatever nervousness he had been experiencing was nowhere in evidence, speaking in ringing, but not strident tones, his voice carrying clearly.
He was speaking in Greek, and the leader of the Serdi delegation responded in kind.
“We know who you are, Marcus Primus,” the man said in a baritone voice, the quality of his tone sounding like a metal pot full of gravel being shaken about. “The question is, what do you want of us?”
“You and those tribes who have allied with you to fight us are in violation of Roman law,” Primus replied, and I almost fell off my horse, this being not at all what I was expecting.
It was clear that I was not the only one, because I saw the Thracian’s jaw drop, his companions looking no less astonished.
“Roman law?” the Serdi finally managed to gasp. “You are in Thrace, waging an unprovoked war on peaceful people, and you say that we are in violation of some Roman law? What law is that, for daring to defend ourselves? Perhaps we should have been more gracious hosts and fallen on our swords for you.”
There was some laughter at this, but it was not with any real humor.
“We are conducting a campaign of retribution against the Triballi for their unwarranted attack on a force of Rome five years ago,” Primus continued, ignoring the Serdi’s jibe. “You and other tribes made an unprovoked attack on this army when we were marching to conduct our campaign.”
