Marching With Caesar - Civil War (29 page)

“As you just heard, my name is Primus Pilus Titus Pullus, recently promoted to this grade by Caesar himself from my post as Secundus Pilus Prior of the 10th.”

I am not completely sure what I was expecting, but the reaction I got at mention of the 10th was not it. Instead of respect, or at the least regard for what we had accomplished, I saw lips lifted in sneers, clear signs of contempt. I was bewildered; I know now that at the very least it was naïve of me to think that men who just days ago were on the other side of the battlefield would automatically accord the 10th the kind of respect that we were accorded by the rest of the army. At that moment, however, I honestly could not understand what was behind the reactions I was seeing, and the subsequent wave of anger that flowed through me was something white-hot, literally making my blood feel like it had suddenly turned molten. My legs began to shake with rage, and I could tell that this beast was about to burst out of my chest, just like when the madness took hold of me in much the same way it had that first time on that hill in Lusitania all those years ago. This killing rage prompted me to do something that as far as I know, had never been done before and likely has not been done since. As if my hands had a mind of their own my left hand unclenched, dropping my
vitus
to the ground, then I untied the straps to my helmet, laying it down on top of the
vitus
. I could see that I held the men’s undivided attention, but I was not finished. Unstrapping my harness next, and laying my weapons next to the helmet, I then very carefully removed my phalarae, torqs, and other decorations before pulling off my armor, laying it on the ground as well. All this was done in total, and shocked silence, but the quiet was about to be broken, by me. Now I was only in my tunic, the standard army issue tunic that in my case stretched tightly across my chest and shoulders, the sleeves barely covering my shoulders, leaving the bulging muscles of my arms exposed. Stepping away from my gear, I suddenly filled my lungs and roared more loudly than I had ever done before in my life.

“I am Titus Pullus! I am the son of Mars and Bellona! I am of the 10th Legion, and I challenge any one of you motherless
cunni
to step forward and face me! I spit on your ancestors, dogs and whores that they were! I am not a Centurion, I am not the Primus Pilus at this moment! I am Titus Pullus! Do any of you have the courage to challenge me?”

I could feel the cords of my neck straining as I shouted these words, the blood suffusing my face as I clenched my fists, stalking up and down in front of the assembled men, glaring at each of them, none of whom met my gaze.

I gave a harsh, mocking laugh. “So these are the men of the vaunted 6th Legion? None of them even dare to look me in the eye, so I know that there’s not a man among them who dares to challenge me.” My lips curled in a sneer. “Do I need to make it any plainer? I’m not standing here as your Primus Pilus, or as a Centurion. I give you my word that there will be no official punishment for any man who bests me. In fact, I offer a reward of a thousand sesterces if you do beat me, and I’ll exempt the man from any fatigue duties for a month!”

I was in fact offering much more than that, and the men and I knew it. If their champion bested me, my ability to command these men was over before it started. The word of my defeat would spread through the army like a wildfire, and my career would effectively be over. I was risking everything I held dear on one throw of the dice and I was struck by the thought that perhaps during my time marching with Caesar some of his habits were rubbing off. While what I was doing was not unheard of, particularly during the early days when a Legion was first formed, as I said before, I had never heard of anyone doing it in the manner that I was doing it now. The most common form was after watch, behind the latrines, in an unofficial manner. Doing what I was doing in the forum, in front of not only a formation of Legionaries, but any other member of the army who happened to be walking by that could witness what was happening is what made my actions so unusual, but I was beyond caring. It was like all the anger and hurt from the sense of betrayal that I felt about what happened between Vibius and me, and the 10th as a whole, had been bottled up and was now bursting forth, and I wanted someone to pay. The men still stood there, but they were uneasily glancing about, making me think for a moment that none of them would answer my challenge, so that I had indeed turned back towards my piled gear, when there was a stir from where the men of the 10th Cohort stood. From the rear ranks came a man, a whispered name preceding him, whipping through the ranks, and it took me a moment to understand what they were saying.

“Publius!”

While the man Publius was not as tall as I was, he clearly weighed at least as much as I did, if not more, and none of it was fat. He walked with a rolling gait, but there was a litheness about his movements that told me that he was quick on his feet. His face was scarred, but they were not the marks of battle, at least the kind of battle like what just took place on the plains of Pharsalus. His scars were the kind picked up in the wine shops outside camp, and he clearly had a reputation among his comrades, their faces splitting in wide smiles at the sight of him. His broad, flat face bore little emotion and I recognized in this Publius a man that perhaps even more than me was born for nothing but combat.

He walked up to me and said flatly, “I accept your challenge.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Even now, all these years later, years that have served to rub the edges off of some of my hubris and have seen me humbled on more than one occasion, I still can say with utmost honesty and clarity that the beating I gave Publius was as thorough, and more importantly, as quick as any I had administered, even to poor Figulus. The fact that he barely laid a hand on me only made my victory more meaningful, at least as far as the men of the 6th were concerned. With Publius lying unconscious at my feet, I walked back to put all of my gear back on, taking the time to carefully reattach my decorations. Picking up my
vitus,
I turned back to the men, taking great satisfaction in the looks of shock and dismay written on their faces as they stared at the hulk at my feet, his head now lying in a pool of his own blood. Slowly looking the men over, I finally spoke, making sure that I controlled my breathing so that they could see I was not exerted in the least, my tone sounding like none of what had just happened ever took place.

“I look forward to leading all of you to great glory, wherever it may be. I know that I can count on you to obey me in all things, and acquit yourself as professionals in the army of Rome.” Pausing again, my gaze traveled over the assembled men, who were looking at me in a manner very different than a few moments before. Turning as if to go, I paused as if I had just thought of something, and said, “Oh, and just so you know. I’m from Hispania myself; Astigi to be exact. And I know that Spaniards don’t use the word ‘prick’ in an affectionate manner. Greeks might, but not Spaniards. Dismissed.”

As I walked away, I was rewarded with a few chuckles at my last remark, but only a few.

Chapter
5- Alexandria

Pompey made good his escape, taking ship for Mytilene, among other stops, where he continued to try to rally support, while the 1st, 4
^th
, and the rest of the 6th was gathered up by Cato to be shipped off to Africa. They were joined there by the rest of the traitors who escaped from the battle; Afranius, Petreius, and the worst of the lot, Labienus. Meanwhile, the rest of the 6th set out for Macedonia, following in Caesar’s wake as he in turn trailed Pompey, and I marched at their head. Despite the fact I had not won the second pillar of respect, I was confident that they feared me, since Publius was still confined to being carried by one of the Legion wagons, unable to walk. The added benefit to my thorough beating of Publius was that, just like my defeat would have, word of what I did flashed through the rest of the army before we left. I took some satisfaction that Vibius knew what I could have done to him if I had so chosen.

Finally catching up with Caesar in Asia at Pergamum, where he was lingering to deal with a number of matters pertaining to the running of the province, we were ordered to make a camp outside the walls to wait while he finished attending to his business. Additionally, we were waiting for five Cohorts of the 28th, one of the newer Legions that had not participated in the revolt in camp. I looked at this time as an opportunity to start establishing firmer control of the 6
^th
; to that point we had not spent two nights in a row in the same place, save for almost a week waiting for shipping to take us to Caesar, and that was not an appropriate time or place for what I had in mind. In Pergamum, I would have the time, and my approach was basic, focusing on what had been my first step up the ladder of promotion, with weapons training. I was going to give every man willing to try a chance at besting me in mock combat. How cocksure I was in those days, how convinced of my own strength and skill! I must laugh at myself now, not so much for having those thoughts, but at how unbearably earnest I was in my belief in myself. I also must laugh at myself because after several weeks in which to think of the best solution to my problem, this was the best I could do, simply resorting to my physical skills instead of using my brain. Elegant it was not, but it was effective, although I did not escape entirely unscathed. When all was said and done, I faced just short of 40 men willing to test themselves against me, and despite besting all of them, it was not without a supreme effort and quite a few cuts and bruises on my part. I also demanded that the men adopt the grip of the sword first taught to me by Vinicius, and while they resisted at first, after the first few bouts when I knocked the wooden sword from my opponents’ hands, they became convinced.

At this point, I think it is appropriate to mention the Centurions who served under me; some of them would go on to become good friends, some not. The Septimus Pilus Prior was a man named Gaius Valerius Valens, a Spaniard just a couple years older than I was. Of medium height and build, he was a competent officer, respected but not loved by his men. The Pilus Posterior was Quintus Annius, a greasy little speck of nothing who held aspirations of reaching the first grade rank, except that he did not have enough of what it took to get there. He was clever but not smart, unable to think past the immediate benefit or downfall of whatever scheme he was cooking up, and would prove to be a rock in my boot. The Princeps Prior was Gaius Sido, an older man on his second enlistment. Sido had risen about as far as he was ever going to go, but he was competent enough to do his job. In command of the Fourth Century was Princeps Posterior Lucius Serenus, a companion of Annius with about the same level of competence but not nearly as wily as Annius, and who looked at Annius as being much smarter than he was, which should tell one all they need to know about him. The Fifth was under the command of Marcus Junius Felix, who reminded me of Scribonius in many ways, both in his physical appearance and in his outlook. It was perhaps because of that resemblance that I would grow closer to Felix than perhaps any of the other men. Finally, the Hastatus Posterior was Publius Clemens, and there was nothing merciful about him. He was a fighter, one of those men like Publius who lived for battle, although he was smarter than Publius, which is why he was a Centurion. Clemens was well liked, even loved by his men and he loved them back. His weakness was the same as with so many men: Bacchus and the grape. Regardless, he was still one of my best.

The Tenth Cohort’s Decimus Pilus Prior was Gaius Fuscus, originally from Etruria, and he ran the Cohort in name only. The real muscle running the Tenth was a brute named Gaius Cornuficius, the Pilus Posterior. A combination of guile and enormous strength, Cornuficius was reputedly a fearsome fighter, but he was not one of the men who challenged me during my weapons training, which I would learn later was a sign that he was actually quite smart. Interestingly, he had the appearance of being dull, looking at the world through blank, bovine eyes, but it was all a sham, as I would learn the hard way. The Princeps Prior was Lucius Salvius, more or less a non-entity who did the bare minimum needed to run his Century, relying on his Optio, a man named Porcinus who, just on ability, should have been in that slot. Princeps Posterior was Marcus Favonius, and he was Cornuficius’ toady, much in the same way that Niger was to Celer. Of all the men under me, I think Favonius was the most tragic, because he had a great deal of potential to be a real leader, if he had not been polluted by Cornuficius. The Fifth’s Centurion was Quintus Sertorius, and based solely on ability he should have been the man running the Cohort. Like Clemens, he was well loved by his men, but unlike Clemens, he did not have any obvious weakness. Finally, was Marcus Considius, commander of the Sixth Century, and there is not much I can say about the man one way or another. I believe that he was promoted to the Centurionate because of connections and not ability, something that sometimes happened, although thankfully not in any Legion Caesar commanded. However, Pompey’s army had apparently been run differently and I was stuck with Considius until I could think of other alternatives.

~ ~ ~ ~

Being
de facto
Primus Pilus, I was not only given a raise in pay, I was also accorded the other benefits that come with the position. Namely, I had a larger tent, and I was eligible for two clerks and a personal body slave. Because I was only running two Cohorts, I chose not to take advantage of the second clerk, although I did take on the body slave, choosing the slave who helped me prepare for my first meeting with the 6th. He was a miserable looking, short-ass little thing, scrawny even for a Greek, and it was not until several weeks into his service with me that I even bothered to learn his name. He said it was Diocles. Yes, gentle reader, the very same man hurriedly scribbling away as I speak, I first met many, many years ago in a dusty army camp. I am smiling now at the memory, and am pleased to see that he is smiling back. He was barely out of his teens, ten years younger than me, and when I first took him into my service, it was only as an attendant to my physical needs. At the time, I was unaware, and truthfully did not particularly care about Diocles’ many other talents of a more cerebral nature; that would be a pleasant surprise, but down the road after many, many miles and battles.

(Since I am the topic of this part of my master and friend’s narrative, I am inserting my own recollection of the event of our meeting, because it was much more momentous for me than it was for him. As he mentioned, I had indeed been in the service of a member of Pompey’s staff and had managed to survive what was a horrific experience when first Pompey’s very own men sacked the camp, followed by members of Caesar’s army. I hid myself under a pile of bodies dispatched by Pompey’s men, servants and retainers of Pompey’s staff, along with clerks and the like who tried to stop our own troops from looting their officers and comrades’ valuables, but I have never seen such a madness come over men as I saw that day. I burrowed into a pile of corpses, and when Caesar’s men came into the camp, they more or less picked up where Pompey’s men had left off, taking whatever was left, and killing whoever they found. It was not until Caesar came and took control of the camp, and even then I waited a full watch for nightfall, before I felt safe enough to climb from my gruesome refuge. I surrendered myself to the provosts, who herded me into a large holding area, separate from the combatant prisoners, where I stayed with others like myself who through some combination of luck and guile had managed to survive the madness. We were well treated, considering our status and our station, and it was from this state that I was plucked by none other than Titus Pullus. I first laid eyes on him when he came to our enclosure, calling for anyone with experience as a body slave. As he now knows, I had absolutely no practical experience in such matters, although I had seen it done more times than I could count, having been my former master’s personal secretary. Even now, these many years later, I do not know why I chose to step forward and raise my hand, despite giving the matter much thought over the years. But that is exactly what I did, entering the life of Titus Pullus, as he entered mine. Neither of us at the time had any idea that we would be together so many years; at that moment I just made the determination that what Titus Pullus was offering was better than what my immediate future seemed to have in the offing. He has described me (accurately I might add, as much as it pains me to admit it), but here is what I saw when I first laid eyes on him. While my master and friend may not be shy about proclaiming the greatness of his deeds, he does not exaggerate in his descriptions. When he says he was a large man, if anything it is an understatement; in truth I had never seen a man as large and powerful as Titus Pullus up to that moment. He was not in uniform, but he carried his
vitus
, so I knew that he was a Centurion, and if I had contented myself with just taking in his physical appearance, I would have dismissed him as a typical Roman, his size notwithstanding. But as we stood in those few moments studying each other, I thought I detected something in his brown eyes that indicated that there was something there that was more than a professional soldier of Rome’s army. I hesitate to call it intelligence, because to say as much would give the Centurions of Rome’s army short shrift; most of them are intelligent, strictly speaking, but there is more to a man than how quickly he can think through a problem. Perhaps what I saw was a certain sensitivity (which will undoubtedly cause my master to spew a mouthful of wine all over when he reads this), or a spark of what might be described as imagination. But no, that is not it, and as I write this I think I may have touched on the quality I saw in his eyes, and that was curiosity. As boastful as my master may be about his physical deeds, he is the exact opposite when it comes to his other qualities, and one thing that I have noticed missing in his description of himself is his absolute curiosity and willingness to learn more about the world around him. He says that he only became interested in learning to read better because of his promotions, but that is not a complete truth. In fact, one of the duties that kept me the busiest, then and now, was laying my hands on reading material for him. He was and is a voracious reader, and now in the twilight of his life his library rivals that of any patrician or equites of Rome. I know why he did not speak of his habits while he was on active service; soldiers view literacy with suspicion, for a number of reasons. To men in the ranks, and even to other officers, it speaks of a dissatisfaction with one’s station in life, since education is one of the most vital components for a New Man to rise in Roman society. They also view it as a sign of cleverness, and to a Roman that is not a compliment. Lastly, a literate man is more likely to know the rules and regulation of the army and can use those to enrich himself, at the expense of others.

My master has made no secret in his narrative that his primary goal when he decided to join the Legions and make the army his career was to better himself and his descendants, but such ambition must never be spoken of openly in Roman society when one is of the lower classes. It is funny; even after almost an entire life spent in one of the pillars of Roman society in the army, I still view myself as an outsider, looking in on the workings of the society and culture that I believe will enter the annals of history as the greatest of all time. I say this with some pain; I am a Greek by birth, and slave or not, I am as proud of my heritage as any Roman citizen, but while the Romans may lack culture and refinement, they make up for that lack in many other qualities, not all of them martial. What has made the Romans great is not in their ability to just conquer, but in to hold what they have conquered by offering the subdued both tangible and intangible benefits that far surpass the benefits that the conquered society offered its citizens before Rome showed up. And one of the things that Rome offers is the ability to improve one’s circumstances. But make no mistake, it is rigidly controlled and is not an easy course to pursue. Equal to the suspicion of the lower ranks when a man displays too much interest in literacy (and I shudder when I say that to Romans there is such a thing as too much) is both the suspicion and the resistance to such a man from the upper ranks of Roman society. While the lower ranks and their attitude towards a man bettering himself is a barrier, the resistance of the patrician class to such a man can be downright dangerous, and not just to a man’s status, but to his life. The countryside of the Republic is littered with the bones of men who some patrician deemed to be getting above himself. So I understand and at the time, I approved of my master’s reluctance to display his literacy to anyone other than those few he trusted completely, but those days are long past. His status is secure here towards the end of his life and career, so I am somewhat puzzled why even in this account of his life he is reluctant to speak of this aspect of his character. Perhaps it is as he has said himself; old habits die hard. So that is what I saw in the eyes of Titus Pullus on that day those many years ago. In that moment, our fates intertwined, and I have enjoyed the experience immensely.)