Final campaign, p.21
Final Campaign, page 21
part #7 of Marching With Caesar Series
The Primus Pilus of the 13th was kneeling by a man’s bed, sharing some joke to cheer up the wounded man. I made my way over to him, stopping myself to have a word with a man I recognized from the ranks, although I did not know his name. Of all the things I missed about being Primus Pilus, it was this connection to the men most of all; there were simply too many faces and names to remember as Camp Prefect, and I knew that I sounded awkward. Flaminius looked up to see me, nodding to acknowledge my presence, but not stopping what he was doing immediately. This was a deliberate insult, and I imagine that my fatigue had eroded my patience, because I was unwilling to indulge his fit of petulance.
“Primus Pilus, I need to speak to you immediately,” I kept my voice low, yet made sure there was no mistaking my tone. He came quickly enough, his posture stiff, his face the carefully composed mask of the professional Legionary.
“Follow me,” I said curtly, leaving the tent without glancing back to see if he was following. Outside, I scanned the area to find a spot where we could talk without prying ears. Finding one, I turned to address the Primus Pilus. Flaminius was standing at intente, a clear signal that he was not planning on making this easy, and I stifled a sigh.
“Flaminius, I already told you that I made a mistake, and I am sorry for making it.”
“Yes, sir, you did. Much appreciated, sir.”
Flaminius’ words were clipped, his eyes fixed at a point above my head. I had to fight the urge to grab the man by the shoulders or slap him across the face. Instead, I asked wearily, “All right. You win. What do you want?”
My question clearly confused him, the mask slipping a bit, his eyes darting to me uncertainly.
“Sir? I’m not sure I understand.”
“Of course you do,” I snapped. “It’s clear that you’re looking for something more than my heartfelt apology for being too stubborn and thinking that your men could perform as well as I had thought.”
It was a shabby trick to pull on the man, but I saw that what was ailing Flaminius was a bad case of self-pity. I saw the flash of anger in his eyes at the slight to the men of his Legion, but his tone was controlled.
“Sir I assure you that I’m not looking for anything for myself.”
“All right, for the men, then. What do you want from me?”
Finally, Flaminius understood, his shoulders slumping. Dropping his head, he closed his eyes tightly, shaking his head.
“Nothing,” he said finally. “I don’t want anything. It’s just that…”
“I know,” I said softly, reaching out to give him a squeeze of his shoulder. “This is the first time you had to watch your men stand in the line and get cut down, and it’s a terrible, terrible thing to see something you love so much take that kind of punishment.”
Flaminius finally let go, his body shaking as he lost control of his emotions.
“And I didn’t help matters any, and for that I am truly, truly sorry,” I continued.
I felt awkward, thinking that perhaps I should try to embrace the man, but not knowing him well enough to feel comfortable doing so. Instead, I stood helplessly, watching him silently sobbing out his grief. Flaminius managed to compose himself after a moment, yet refused to meet my gaze, and I know he felt ashamed.
Deciding that I could offer him some comfort, I told him, “After my first battle as Primus Pilus during the civil war under Caesar, I cried all night afterward. I had just sent men I had been marching with my whole career to their deaths, and it was the most horrible feeling I had ever had. I wondered if I had made the right choice in chasing my dream of becoming Primus Pilus.”
As I suspected, I got a guilty, surprised look from the Primus Pilus, confirming my belief that these were the emotions he was experiencing. His anger was more at himself than at me, because he found himself questioning all the decisions he had made that led him to this point.
“Flaminius, you need to realize something. What would have happened if you hadn’t been Primus Pilus?”
The other man looked at me warily, not sure where I was going with my line of questioning. Finally, he gave a shrug, saying he did not know.
“The exact same thing,” I said firmly. “Instead of you, it would be someone else visiting that hospital, someone else I’d be having this conversation with. It’s inevitable in our business that men die, and someone has to give the order to send those men to do the business of the Legions. There will always be a Primus Pilus, just as there will always be a Legion to do Rome’s bidding. So instead of asking ‘Why me,’ you need to ask yourself, ‘Am I doing the best I can for these men,’ knowing that sometimes it won’t be enough. Some men will die.”
My words may have been harsh, but he seemed to take some comfort from them. Seeing that he was in a better frame of mind, I gave him another pat on the shoulder.
“Go back to your men, Primus Pilus. They need you.”
The salute Flaminius rendered this time was perfect, with no trace of hostility.
“Thank you, Prefect. And I’m…”
“I know,” I finished for him. There had been enough words between us this night. Besides, I was not through apologizing for the events of this day, and I had business elsewhere.
Despite my exhaustion, I knew that I would not be able to rest until I made things right with Scribonius, and I headed to his tent on the street devoted to the Evocati. When I got there, my friend was not in his tent, his servant telling me he had no idea where he was. Troubled, I finally went to my own tent, where Diocles and Agis were waiting to help me out of my armor. Too tired to go to the baths, I stood as they scraped me down, cleaning my body, taking care not to open the wound on my side, still wrapped as it was. Neither of them said much, but there was a tension in the air that was palpable. Diocles and Agis exchanged furtive glances, then I caught Diocles giving the other slave a shake of his head at one point, but I was too tired to question either of them about it. Once I was clean, Diocles brought me a fresh tunic, while Agis prepared a light meal. Finally, I was able to sit and relax, and felt the tension of the day drain away, munching on a piece of bread smeared with garum and some cheese, washing it down with wine that was perilously close to being vinegar, but I did not mind. It was no worse than the stuff I had downed over the years in so many different places, in so many different camps that it was impossible to count. Eating my light meal, I noticed that it was oppressively quiet as well as tense, and I slowly realized that neither Diocles nor Agis were peppering me with questions about the battle like they normally did. Looking around, I saw that Agis was nowhere to be seen, and Diocles was sitting at his small desk, seemingly absorbed in reading some scroll. Pushing aside my meal, I turned about to face Diocles, knowing that something was wrong, yet not sure what it was. Deciding to go about it obliquely, I asked him, “Have you seen Scribonius, by any chance?”
“Yes.”
A terse, one word answer was all I got. Ah, I thought, there is the sore under Diocles’ saddle. Now how to lance it? I cleared my throat, a trait Diocles has told me is always an indication that I am about to discuss something I find uncomfortable. Before I could get a word out, however, Diocles stopped reading his scroll, placing it on his desk to give me a direct look.
“Before you speak, Master, may I say something?”
Every fiber of my body told me that I should say no. Then I decided that the least I could do was to take some punishment, knowing that I deserved it. I indicated that he could speak, knowing that he would speak freely, from his heart. He rose, dragging his stool to place it directly across from me so that he could look me in the eye, albeit by looking upward.
“For what I’m about to say, Master, I fully expect that you’ll have me whipped, at the very least,” he said quietly. “But it must be said, and I know that Master Scribonius will never speak of it.”
This was shaping up to be much worse than I thought, and I found myself wondering what Diocles could possibly say that would anger me so much. I suppose that I could have stopped him there, but I did not. Even now, several years later, I am still not sure that I made the right decision.
“Go ahead, get it out if it’s so important,” I said with a bit more asperity than I intended.
“You asked if I had seen Master Scribonius, and I have, but I want you to know that he did not speak a word to me about what happened when he returned with the Tribune.”
“You know about that?”
I was surprised, although I do not know why.
“Everyone in the army knows about it,” he replied quietly, his gaze never leaving mine, and in doing so imparting much more meaning than his words alone. I stifled a groan, angry at myself for my fit of temper.
“I suppose that Scribonius is angry with me, and he has every right to be,” I mused, but Diocles shook his head.
“He’s not angry with you, Master. He’s shattered because he knows he let you down. He knew it before you ever opened your mouth.”
“I was angry,” I said defensively. “And I didn’t think before I spoke.”
Even as I said it, I knew that this was as limp an excuse as my member is nowadays. Diocles said nothing for a moment, looking at me with a mixture of sadness and reproach that wounded me more than his words. At least, so I thought before he continued.
“Master, if I had a denarius for every time I’ve heard you say that, I would have been able to buy both my freedom and Agis’ years ago. But it’s part of who you are, and we’ve learned to accept it. It’s one thing when you do it to Agis or me, but Master, you have used Master Scribonius ill for much too long. You have never had, nor will you ever have a friend as faithful and honorable as Master Scribonius, and that’s coming from someone who loves you and serves you well, with every part of my being.”
I sat listening in silence, but while I did, I was sure that with every word Diocles spoke, he was somehow reaching my eye level. I do not know if it was because of how small I felt, or how large his courage in speaking to his master in this manner made him. If he had reached over to slap me across the face, he could not have had a greater effect on me.
“And he has never asked you for anything, other than your friendship,” Diocles was continuing, his tone calm, but I could see the tremor in his hands, despite keeping them in his lap.
“He has overlooked your fits of temper, and he’s always given you wise and good counsel. He decided long before I came into your service to subordinate his ambitions to follow you, but in the years since I’ve been with you, I’ve never seen him waver in his friendship towards you.”
I closed my eyes to break Diocles’ gaze, a feeling of such intense shame washing over me that it threatened to cause me to eject the contents of the meal I had just partially consumed. I heard him take a deep breath, and somehow I knew that even worse was coming.
“But what you did today, Master, shaming your very best friend in front of the other Evocati, is something that I never thought you would do, even with your temper. Did you not think that he already felt badly enough, that he failed you? Was it really so important to hurt him even more?”
It pains me to say it, but I began weeping, Diocles’ words falling like hammer blows on me, and I covered my face in my hands. I felt Diocles’ hand on my shoulder, shaking it off, not because I was angry with him, but because I did not feel worthy of any comfort. Diocles’ words had been brutally honest; my temper was not something that I was proud of, and had been struggling with my whole life, and continue to do so even now in my sixties. His words were all the more painful because they were true. There had been no need to speak harshly to Scribonius; I could see in his face how much anguish he was in, yet I still felt the need to lash out at him. I still do not know why I felt that need, and I certainly did not that night.
“Where is he?” I asked, hating the sound of my voice, choked with emotion. “I must beg his forgiveness, no matter what. And I must do it tonight.”
“Oh, Master,” Diocles sighed. “Master Scribonius has forgiven you. He forgave you as soon as you said it, like he always does. And as he always does, he made excuses for you, saying that you were obviously in great distress from the events of the day.”
That was true enough, but so was everyone else, including Scribonius.
“Did you even bother to find out exactly how the Tribune died?” Diocles asked quietly.
My heart, already feeling like it was in the grasp of some invisible numen, squeezing it like a whore’s tit, thudded even more heavily against my ribs. In fact, I had not so I shook my head, saying nothing.
“He ranged too far ahead of the others,” Diocles said, and I remembered that much, my last sight of the young Tribune having been as he was pulling away, Scribonius in hot pursuit. But the Tribune was a wealthy young man, from a patrician family, so the quality of his mounts far exceeded anything that the Evocati, or even the cavalry rode. It was little wonder that he pulled ahead, and Diocles continued his recounting of the Tribune’s death.
“The Thracians he was pursuing obviously saw him separate himself from the others, and they went racing into a wooded area, where they immediately dismounted. Instead of stopping to wait for the others to catch up, he plunged into the woods. And, well, you can imagine what happened then.”
I could, sure that I knew the rest of the story without Diocles having to tell it. It takes a considerable amount of skill, timing, and luck, but a dismounted warrior can defeat a mounted man, particularly one in headlong pursuit that is as inexperienced as Scipio was. The simple truth, however painful, was that either one of the other Tribunes, who were mounted on horses of comparable quality to Scipio’s beast, or me, riding Ocelus, would have had a chance of reaching him and reining him in before it was too late. And it was highly unlikely that the other Tribunes would have had the wherewithal or self-possession in that moment to recognize the danger, since they were equally inexperienced. In fact, it was simply a matter of luck that it was not Lucullus or Libo, although I could not see Silanus putting himself in such danger. Diocles and I sat in silence for many moments, both of us spent.
“If you feel that I should be punished for what I’ve said to you, Master, I completely understand.”
“Punish you for telling me the truth?” I asked, swallowing the bitterness that I felt. “I wouldn’t compound the sins I’ve committed today by whipping the only man willing to stand up to me.”
I stood then, wiping my eyes, and Diocles started to rise, but I put a hand on his shoulder.
“Stay here. I have to go find Scribonius before the night is over.”
I wandered through the camp, looking in every spot that I had long since learned men go for what little privacy can be found in an army camp. I returned to his tent several times, but he was never there, and I was about to give up in despair when I decided to go up on the rampart near the Porta Praetoria. I found him there, staring out into the darkness, his cloak wrapped tightly around his body, despite it not being a chilly night. He did not see me immediately, so I stood simply watching him for a moment, trying to decide the best way to approach him. I had been rehearsing what I planned to say on my walk through the camp, but suddenly all the words left me. Even in the light from just the torches that lit the gateway, I could see the sadness and fatigue etched in Scribonius’ face, those lines I had seen earlier that day on the field even deeper now. Swallowing hard, imagining that it was my considerable pride that was causing the lump in my throat, I walked over to stand by his side, saying nothing at first. He did not even seem to notice, then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw his head turn, taking me in as I stood next to him.
“I had all these things I was going to say, but nothing comes to mind now,” I began.
I heard a small snorting sound.
“Then that’s a first,” he said wryly.
“Sextus.” I was determined to say what I had come to say, even if I was not sure what it was. “The reason nothing comes to mind is because there are no real words to say how sorry I am. You did nothing to deserve my treatment of you, and I humbly beg your forgiveness. Will you forgive me?”
To that point, I refused to look at him while I was speaking, but now when I turned, I saw him regarding me, one eyebrow raised almost to where his hairline had once been.
“That must have hurt,” he commented, and despite the fact that I was completely serious, I had to laugh.
“It did,” I acknowledged. “Even more because I mean every word. Sextus, you had nothing to do with killing that boy. I know that now. Pluto’s cock, I knew it then, but as usual, I was angry about something else, and I took it out on you. And that’s what I’m apologizing for, but I’ll completely understand if you don’t accept it.”
My friend heaved a huge sigh, shaking his head, an expression of equal parts amusement and sadness.
“Titus, I forgave you moments after it happened,” he replied, confirming what Diocles had said. “I knew you were just lashing out because you were angry about something. Oh, it did hurt me. I won’t lie about that, but I got over it. It’s not that.”
I was puzzled.
“Then what is it?”
He turned to give me a direct look, his eyes boring into mine, and it tore at my heart to see the sadness there.
“Because I’m done, Titus. I’m too old for this,” he said quietly. “As I was chasing that boy, shouting at him to stop, it hit me with all the force of a javelin.”
