Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 6
“This is Aulus Honorius Silanus.” Primus drew out the man’s last name, laughing at the face the Tribune made as we clasped arms.
His grip was moist but firm, my initial impression of him being that he would be lost in the shuffle of Tribunes once Scipio, Libo, and Capito were added to the mix. Finally, the third man stepped forward, his nose tilted upward as he tried to look down it at me, yet, like Primus, he was much shorter than I was. He was dressed almost as expensively as Primus, exuding the same aura of superiority based on class as Primus. Diffidently offering his hand, he made it clear that this was an ordeal for him. I noticed he wore as many rings as Primus and, by the way he offered his hand, I wondered if he expected me to kiss it in the fashion of the eastern potentates. Instead, I grabbed his forearm, pleased to see him wince when I applied pressure, even if it seemed to be equal parts pain and disgust.
“And this is my personal aide, Gnaeus Vitellius Masala.” There was little mistaking the pride and affection in the fat Praetor’s voice.
“It is a pleasure, Prefect,” Masala intoned, making it clear that it was anything but, as far as he was concerned.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Primus staring at Masala with the kind of fixation that a man has for a lover, making me suspect that was exactly what I was watching.
“Now that the introductions are out of the way, let’s get on with this business,” Primus said. Turning to Masala, he joked, “Our Prefect was nervous about going into Thrace without everything planned down to the last detail, and we certainly don’t want a nervous Prefect, do we, Masala?”
“No, we must do everything to make the Prefect as comfortable as possible about this great adventure,” Masala agreed, smiling at me while making no attempt to hide the fact he was mocking me.
“Actually, I agree with the Prefect,” Lucullus broke in, surprising me considerably, clearly irritating Primus, who turned to scowl at his senior Tribune.
“You would,” Masala muttered just loudly enough for only me to hear.
There was an undercurrent going on in Primus’ Praetorium that I needed to understand as this campaign progressed, and the sooner the better. Unrolling the map that Primus had originally shown me just a couple of days before, I saw that this time it was marked with a number of symbols.
“Since you think it’s such a good idea, you can show the Prefect.” Primus yawned. “I have other matters to attend to.” Without waiting for an answer, the Praetor turned to waddle out of the room. Before he left, he turned to Masala, giving his aide what looked to me very much like a leer, then asked, “Masala, are you coming?”
“Of course,” Masala said, languidly rising from the couch that he had fallen back into after our introduction.
With a nod to the rest of us, he followed Primus out of the room. I watched Lucullus out of the corner of my eye while I pretended to study the map, seeing his lip curl up in a look of disgust, but he said nothing. The moment they were gone, he pointed to the line tracing out from Philippi.
“This will be our line of march,” he began.
Then, for the better part of the morning, we discussed the plan for the campaign.
As plans went, it was fairly sound, and I came away impressed with Lucullus and his ability. It became clear very quickly that Silanus had contributed next to nothing to the plan, but I was a bit surprised when Lucullus admitted, if a bit grudgingly, that Masala had been a major contributor as well.
“We plan on heading north, but on the Macedonian side of the border and about three days’ march away before we turn east. That way, we hope to catch the Thracians by surprise, since it’s unlikely that they'll have scouts out that deep into Macedonia.”
“Although that would actually be a good thing if they were,” I mused, looking at the map.
Silanus looked confused, but Lucullus instantly understood.
“True,” he agreed. “That would give us the perfect excuse to cross into Thrace. Perhaps we should rethink things and march closer to the border. There’s sufficient traffic back and forth across the border that it wouldn’t take long for word to reach the Thracians.”
I considered for a moment, wishing that I had brought Scribonius. Finally, I shook my head.
“Too many things could go wrong,” I said. “We’re only going after the Triballi, who are up north. If we're spotted earlier and rouse the other tribes, we’re going to have trouble we don’t need. No, I think we should stick to the original plan.”
Continuing, Lucullus pointed to the area between the two chains of low mountains that is the only passage into northern Thrace, retracing essentially the same route that we had taken under Crassus five years before when we marched to Thessalonica. I was familiar with the country, and knew that there were large tracts of forest that would provide ample opportunities for ambush.
“Once we get to this area,” I said, pointing to the map, “we'll be marching with armor and helmets on, and uncovered shields.”
Lucullus looked doubtful.
“Are you sure it will be necessary?” he asked. “I know the men hate to march that way.”
“I’m sure,” I said shortly.
I had no intention of explaining why I was so adamant, but Lucullus was wise enough not to continue arguing. We discussed a few more details before I felt comfortable with the plan to that point. Finally, I asked what had been gnawing at me from the moment Marcus Primus and I had first met.
“What exactly is our objective? Other than ‘exacting vengeance on the Triballi,’ I mean?”
Lucullus gave a short laugh. “Yes, that is a bit vague, isn’t it?”
Leaning farther over the map, he stabbed a finger down at a spot just south of Thrace’s northern border with Moesia. I saw writing next to a large dot, but I had to squint to make it out.
“Serdica,” I read. I looked over at Lucullus, my surprise no doubt showing. “We’re going to take Serdica.”
The moment I learned that besieging and taking Serdica was our ultimate objective, matters changed, things instantly becoming more difficult. Taking a town or city the size that Serdica was supposed to be with just two Legions was going to be a difficult proposition, especially since we did not have sufficient artillery or engineering tools to conduct a proper siege. We would need heavier artillery, and more of it, but finding enough experienced men to man the pieces out of just two Legions was going to be a challenge. When I had finished with Lucullus and Silanus, who said perhaps three words the entire time, I headed back to camp, calling an immediate briefing with the Primi Pili, Flavianus our engineering officer, along with the Tribunes who had accompanied us from Siscia. In addition, I asked Scribonius to come along as well. Once the others were gathered, I wasted no time in announcing our ultimate goal. I was somewhat surprised at the reaction, Macrinus and Flaminius merely exchanging a glance before each of them gave a shrug.
“After seeing our Legate, nothing about this surprises me anymore,” was Macrinus’ comment, which I should have admonished him for making, but I did not.
“Surprise or not, that means we have a lot of work to do,” I told them. “Specifically, the artillery immunes and armorers are going to need to work throughout the watches to make enough artillery.”
“But where are we going to find enough seasoned wood to make what we need?” Flaminius asked. “It’s not like we can just cut down trees and use that wood.”
“I'll worry about that,” Flavianus told them, but I could see they were not convinced.
I actually had no idea where we would find timber in sufficient amounts and quality to make the number of pieces we would need. If Philippi had been on the coast, Flavianus could have raided a shipyard where shed after shed of stored timber could be dried out and cured for use. I realized I would have to go to Primus for his aid in this, knowing he would shriek to Olympus over further delays, but it could not be helped if he wanted to be successful. I turned to Capito, commanding the auxiliaries.
“Also, I want you and your men to start training with the sling. I'll have the armorers start molding bullets for them.”
“What do we need slingers for?” Scipio asked, and I decided to take the time to answer the youngster’s question.
He had managed to stay out from underfoot the last couple of days, which I appreciated, and it was a sensible question.
“We'll need slingers to keep the heads of the Thracians defending the walls of Serdica down, unless they want to get a sling bullet between the eyes. Since I don’t know much about Serdica’s defenses, I don’t know if it will even be possible to employ them, but I'd rather be prepared than to get there and need them.”
As I spoke, I remembered the old muleteer Ventidius, and his use of the sling against the cataphracts of Parthia. I looked over at Scribonius to see that he was thinking the same thing, exchanging a secret smile.
“How are we with supplies?”
Scipio consulted his wax tablet. He read off some figures representing the number of swine that he had tallied available in the city and surrounding area, along with the estimated cost to fill the barrels devoted to salt pork. Diocles had already supplied me with the needed figures for chickpeas and wheat, all of which toted up to a huge sum. Because Philippi is in a Senatorial province, we could not appropriate anything without paying for it, but that was Primus’ problem, especially since it was his province. However, I strongly suspected that this would not mean much to someone like him.
“Flavianus, I'm putting you in charge of building the artillery and I need an estimate of when you'll be ready as quickly as possible.”
“I can’t give you one until I have an idea where the timber is coming from and how long it will take to get here,” my engineer objected.
He was right, so I agreed that I would wait for his estimate until after I had found a source of timber.
Turning to Scipio, I told him, “Tribune, now that we have an idea about how much foodstuffs are available and where to get them, I'm putting you in charge of gathering it and getting it ready for transport.”
This was another thankless job where it was only noticed if it didn’t go well, but Scipio glowed with pride at being singled out for such a task, and I saw Scribonius with a wry smile on his face out of the corner of my eye.
“Is there anything else?”
Libo raised his hand.
“I need extra mounts for the cavalry.”
“And some of our wagon stock went lame on the march here,” Flaminius put in, forcing me to stifle a groan.
It appeared very much like nothing was going to come easily on this campaign.
“Very well. Libo, give me an estimate of what you need as far as saddle mounts. Flaminius, I want you to conduct a complete assessment of not just the wagon stock, but the Legion mules for both Legions, then let me know what we need.”
I was pleased to see Flaminius turn slightly red, clearly not liking being assigned this task, but in my mind, this was a good sign. Everyone was leaving feeling a little put upon, the sign that I had distributed the load as equally as possible.
I signaled the end of the meeting, hearing Flaminius mutter to Macrinus under his breath, “And what, exactly, does he do?”
I stifled a smile. The fact was that I had to deal with Marcus Primus, and I was willing to wager my entire fortune that after one conversation, not one of the others would envy my position in the slightest.
“What?” Marcus Primus’ shouted question was so shrill that it felt like someone had punched my eardrums with an awl.
The Praetor was standing behind his desk where, somewhat to my surprise, I had actually found him appearing to work. At least there were scrolls spread on his desk, with Masala standing over his shoulder, Primus’ aide staring at me down his nose, his expression mirroring that of his mentor. The dumpy little man’s cheeks were quivering with rage and frustration while I stood there in front of him, absorbing his wrath.
“We're never going to march, are we, Prefect?”
“Of course we are,” I assured him. “But if you want this campaign to be successful, then we need to prepare beforehand, and we need the artillery to be augmented in order to accomplish our goals.”
“Why didn’t you bring the necessary artillery?” Primus’ tone was accusatory, like I had somehow deliberately omitted bringing the heavy artillery on purpose.
“Because I didn't know the nature of our campaign,” I shot back, refusing to give in on this at all. I was not going to accept the blame from this toad because he had kept his ultimate objective a secret. “If I had known we were going to be besieging a city, I would have brought our heavy baggage.”
“Why can’t we just do it with what we have?” he asked plaintively, looking to Masala for support, who patted the Praetor sympathetically on the shoulder.
“We could,” I replied, watching his face light up, if only for a moment before I continued, “if you want to spend the winter in front of the walls of the town, that is.”
His face fell immediately, then he glowered at me.
“Of course I don’t,” he snapped. “I can barely abide the thought of spending the winter here, let alone in some dreary wilderness squatting over a hole in the ground.”
It seemed to be the thought of a winter in Thrace more than anything else I had said that convinced Primus that the delay could not be avoided.
“Very well.” He heaved a huge sigh to signal his discontent, then turned to look at Masala. “If we must, we must.”
He waved a pudgy, ringed hand at me to dismiss me, but unfortunately for Marcus Primus, his headaches and sorrows were not over. I did not move to leave, and he sat back in his chair, looking at me warily.
“What else? There’s obviously something else going on, so spit it out.”
I explained the dilemma we were facing with finding seasoned timber. Irritation flashed across his face once I finished.
“Then go cut down some trees,” Primus sniffed. “I don’t know why you’re bothering me with such trivialities.”
I was about to open my mouth to explain, when I found that I had an ally, at least in this matter, from an unlikely source.
“Green wood won’t do, Marcus,” Masala said quietly. “The Prefect is right. We need seasoned timbers to construct the pieces we require.”
“And since there's no shipyard, which would be the ideal spot to find them, I don’t have the authority to appropriate it from other sources,” I added.
“So you need my permission to find this wood?”
“More than that,” I replied. “I need you to do the appropriation of the wood yourself, because I'm pretty sure I know the only place we'll find what we need.”
“And where, might I ask, is that?” he asked exasperatedly.
Again, before I could answer, Masala provided the answer to Primus.
“Correct me if I'm wrong, Prefect, but I believe that the only place we'll find timbers of the appropriate size and seasoning will be as part of some sort of structure.”
Masala looked in my direction, and I nodded, my respect for Primus’ aide rising a bit, albeit grudgingly.
“You mean we’ll have to tear a building down?” Primus was dismayed at the prospect. “And I’m just supposed to walk in and tell someone that their property is forfeit for Rome?”
“They'll be compensated, of course,” Masala assured him, but this did not soothe Primus in the slightest.
“But that will have come out of my purse! And you know that whoever it is will demand the highest price he can get away with!”
I certainly had not thought of it in that way, but the thought of this costing Marcus Primus money cheered me a great deal.
“Perhaps not,” Masala said thoughtfully, leaning down to whisper something in Primus’ ear.
The Praetor’s look of distress dissolved as he listened, until he was smiling broadly, chuckling and rubbing his hands together again.
“Oh yes, that is a good idea, my dear Masala! Very good indeed! And it will be worth every sesterce.”
Turning to me, Marcus Primus said, “I'll take care of everything, Prefect, and you'll have the timber you need. When do you want it?”
Primus was good to his word, not more than three days passing before several wagonloads of heavy timbers arrived in camp, most of them still with the plaster attached or nails embedded in them. The wood was cleaned up, then the immunes went immediately to work, while Scipio worked steadily throughout the watches, gathering up all the supplies he had inventoried, organizing the working parties needed. Soon, the wagons were groaning under the weight of the supplies he had gathered, and after tallying up the figures, I was pleased. We would have enough to last until very late in the season without having to do much foraging, except for the salt pork, which would go first, but that was normal. Capito was training his auxiliaries with the slings, and Libo was busy with the livestock and cavalry horses. We were at a point where I felt confident enough to go to the Praetorium to give Primus a departure date.
“We'll be ready to march a day short of one week from today,” I told him.
Primus clapped his hands, clearly pleased.
“That is wonderful news! I take it you've received the timber you required?”
I was about to answer that I had, when there was a tremendous commotion in the entrance vestibule, and I heard shouting, most of it in Greek, then Primus’ slave came bursting into the office, his face red. Just behind him was a heavyset man with a beard of equal parts gray and black, wearing a linen tunic of excellent quality, cut in the Greek fashion. His face was as red as the slave’s, but he was also panting like he had run a great distance.
“Master, I am very sorry,” the slave wailed, trying to push against the heavyset man.
By reflex, I had my hand on my sword, although the man suddenly seemed to realize how dangerously close he was coming to being considered a threat. He stopped several paces short of where Marcus Primus was looking at him. I looked at Primus, expecting to see him looking as shocked as everyone else in the room, all of whom seemed to be rooted in place. Instead, he was grinning at the man, but it was not a pleasant smile.
