Final campaign, p.4
Final Campaign, page 4
part #7 of Marching With Caesar Series
“Yes, sir, I have been wondering that very thing.”
With a dramatic flourish, he pulled the cloth covering the map away. My suspicions were confirmed; before me was a map of Thrace, with one area of it outlined in charcoal. Primus watched me expectantly, but my reaction was not what he had been expecting and he made no attempt to hide his disappointment.
“Prefect, I must confess that I expected more from you. Surely you recognize the area outlined on the map?”
Indeed, I did. It was the northern border area of Thrace, the site of the ambush by the Triballi that had killed Balbus. I suppose I should have felt some satisfaction that we were finally heading back to Thrace to take care of unfinished business, yet the memory of Balbus just made me sad. I think that was what Primus saw in my face, instead of the expected happiness.
“I do recognize it, sir. I recognize it very well.”
Either mistaking or ignoring my tone, Primus rubbed his hands together again, something that I was noticing seemed to be a habit of his, like a man about to tuck into a delicious meal.
“I knew that you would. That's why I asked for you specifically. You and I are going to have the opportunity to avenge the insult done to Rome. And to avenge your friend, of course.” He added this clearly as an afterthought, causing a surge of anger I could feel uncoiling in my stomach.
However, a distinctly unsettled feeling was even stronger than my anger, as I wondered just how this man I had never met, or heard of for that matter, knew about Balbus. I could only think of one way: Octavian, who seemed to know everything about everybody, no matter how minor a player they might have been. I stared at the map, my mind swirling with all kinds of thoughts, the pudgy little man still looking at me expectantly.
Realizing he expected me to say something, all I could think to say was, “The men are ready for whatever lies ahead.”
“I should hope so! Given how long it took you to get here, I expected that you stopped early every day to conduct all manner of training.” He tapped the map with a finger and spoke with all the confidence of the couch general. “We'll move quickly, and take these Triballi scum by surprise. I expect to leave nothing but scorched earth and grieving widows in our path, Prefect. Do you understand me?”
I understood perfectly; here was another nobleman seeking personal glory through our strong right arms. To be fair to Primus, he was no different from Marcus Crassus in that respect, but I did not get the same feeling of competence from Primus that Crassus seemed to exude with every step he took and word he spoke. A thought occurred to me, but before I vocalized it, I chose my words carefully.
“I imagine that this expedition has the approval of Augustus?”
I posed it as half-question, half-statement, like the answer was a foregone conclusion, yet it was a real concern. Given what had happened to Marcus Crassus, I had no desire to be associated with another ambitious patrician who ran afoul of Octavian. Primus favored me with another smile, this time his expression smug, wreathed in the certainty that only comes from the assurance of favor from a powerful patron.
“I can assure you, Prefect, that what I'm doing is under direct order from Augustus himself. However...” His voice lowered and, despite the fact we were alone, he looked around, making sure no one could overhear. “This is highly secret. For reasons of state, it can't be known that Augustus condones this kind of operation against a nation that's ostensibly an ally and protectorate.”
The years I had spent with Scribonius taught me to listen carefully, especially in matters like this, when there was a possibility that there would be some sort of aftermath.
“Forgive me, governor,” I said very carefully. “But I just want to make sure that I understand you correctly. First, you said that Augustus ordered this operation, but then you said it can't be known that he condones what you're proposing we do to the Triballi.”
Much like I expected, a look of irritation crossed Primus’ face, but his answer came with a dismissive wave.
“Prefect, you sound like one of those lawyers who hang about the forum trying to wrangle up business by finding fault with every little word in a contract. As I said, I assure you that I wouldn't be here unless Augustus approved of what we're going to do.”
In fact, this made sense to me, especially after what had happened to Crassus, who was now living in exile. I could not imagine anyone of any status in Rome taking such a huge step like what Primus was proposing, although looking back, I will concede that I might have thought that more readily because I wanted vengeance for Balbus and Primus was offering the opportunity. We discussed some other details, then I was dismissed. As I was leaving, Primus called out to me.
“By the way, Prefect, I'll inspect the men first thing in the morning. After that, we'll begin the march.”
I froze in my tracks, cursing all Praetors with Proconsular powers. I turned about, once again finding myself choosing my words.
“Sir, while I appreciate your desire to begin this campaign, the men have just arrived from a very long march. Holding an inspection in the morning, then expecting them to be immediately ready to march is not…” The word I wanted to use was “possible,” but instead, I used “…easy.”
Primus gave me what I was sure he thought was his severe look, although I was distinctly reminded of a petulant child as he stuck his lip out.
“Prefect, I'm not interested in hearing excuses. I've given a command and I expect it to be carried out. Is that clear?”
I realized that we were at a point where I had to establish our respective roles. I had hoped that this Marcus Primus would have been the good sort of Praetor who knew where his responsibilities and expertise ended, and mine began, but it was not to be. I was opening my mouth to argue, when on the spur of the moment, I decided to change my tack.
“Of course, sir, that is perfectly clear. It will be as you command, of course. If you'd just show me the location of the granaries, I'll have the men begin work immediately.”
“The granaries?”
“Yes, sir. Naturally, we marched with just enough in the way of supplies to get here, or our progress would have been even slower. We're also low on chickpeas, and pork, of course. The men do love their salt pork. Also, we need several sows of iron ingots, although I don’t know the amount off the top of my head. Finally, we need to replenish our stock of boots. Most of the men wore out one pair and are on their spares now. But you know all this, being Praetor and acting Legate now of this army. So all you need to do is point me in the right direction, and I'll take care of the rest. The men will have to work all night, of course, but they're used to hardship. We will be ready, as you command.”
It was supremely satisfying to watch Primus’ chin quivering, his mouth opening and closing several times like he was a fish out of water. He was clearly being assaulted by a mixture of emotion, each one flashing across his face in rapid succession. Irritation at me for thwarting him in his wish to depart immediately; and, perhaps at himself, followed closely by chagrin at not being aware of one of the most basic requirements for setting out on a campaign, something that even the most junior Tribune would know. Finally, he reached a state of resignation, heaving a sigh and fixing me with a baleful glare.
“Fine, Prefect. You've made your point,” he snapped. “We won't be departing in the morning, but we will have an inspection.”
I was sorely tempted to point out that having the men prepare for an inspection would take away from the time we would need to get ready to march, but I decided not to push my luck. I rendered another perfect salute before exiting Primus’ office. Making my way through the streets of Philippi, I saw statues of Octavian on what seemed to be every corner, almost all of them bearing some sort of inscription about his great victory over The Liberators now some fifteen years before. If my mind had not been occupied with other matters, I might have found that grimly amusing; my recollection of the battle and Octavian’s role in it was substantially different from what was described on those statues. However, my mind was elsewhere, recognizing that I was going to have my hands full with Marcus Primus.
“Did you ask to see any kind of written order?”
This was Scribonius’ first question after I had told him about my meeting with the Praetor. I shook my head, and I saw by my friend’s face that I had made a serious mistake.
“Should I ask to see it now?”
He considered for a moment.
“No,” he said finally. “I think you lost your chance and if you did now, it would just antagonize Primus and let him know you don’t trust him.”
“But I don’t trust him,” I protested.
“He doesn’t need to know that,” Scribonius admonished. “For once, you need to keep your feelings to yourself, Titus. You’re too close to the end to jeopardize everything now because you can’t hide your feelings.”
I have always found it doubly frustrating when I disagreed with someone, knowing that they were right, and such was the case now.
“Fine,” I fumed. “Marcus Primus will never know that I don’t trust him.”
The men were forced to work well into the night to get ready for inspection, cleaning the dust from the march out of every crack and crevice of their gear, varnishing their leathers, and digging their plumes out of their packs to make them ready. Quite understandably there was a great deal of grumbling up and down the ranks, yet I made no attempt to quell it, for a number of reasons, not least of which I wanted Marcus Primus to get a taste of what happens when an army is unhappy. It was petty of me, and I knew it, but it did not stop me. The next morning, I went to the Praetorium to fetch Marcus Primus, only to be forced to wait by one of his slaves, the kind of cheeky bastard who thinks because his master outranks me that this somehow extended to him.
“Master has not yet risen.” He looked down his nose, or up it, at me as he said this.
Without another word, he pointed to a chair, turned about, and left the room. Seething, I sat down in my full dress uniform, including my decorations, both because it was an inspection, but mainly to show this Primus exactly whom he was dealing with. I do not know exactly how long I sat there, but it was a considerable amount of time. I passed the time watching the sunlight grow stronger through the windows as the sun rose in the sky. Finally, I could take it no longer, and I stood up, calling out in a loud voice,
“Praetor Primus, there's an army waiting for your inspection!”
Seemingly out of nowhere, the slave who had greeted me came rushing out with a horrified look on his face.
“The Praetor is almost ready, Prefect! There is no need to shout!”
“Get away from me before I rip your head off,” I growled, pleased to see the man almost falling over himself to scurry away.
I was dangerously close to mounting the stairs to drag the Praetor down to face the troops who had been waiting now for most of the morning out in the hot sun, when I heard him clomping across the floor above. I was standing at the base of the stairs when he appeared, dressed in the uniform of a Legate of a Legion, complete with scarlet paludamentum and sash. There is no way to describe the physical effort it took to keep from laughing at Marcus Primus, striking a martial pose at the top of the stairs like he was posing for a statue, which I supposed, in his mind, would be happening shortly. Oh, his uniform was correct in its style and configuration, and it was obvious that he had paid an enormous sum of money for his cuirass and greaves, made of hammered silver with filigree of gold ivy leaves inlaid in an intricate pattern. Emblazoned on the chest of the cuirass was the image of Jupiter Sol Invictus, the rays of sun radiating from his head, also covered in gold leaf. All in all, it would have been an impressive piece of work, yet the effect of martial splendor was ruined by the simple fact that the smith who had created the piece had obviously done so specifically for Marcus Primus. What this meant was that instead of the musculature that is customary, giving the muscled cuirass its name, the creator had to accommodate for Primus’ huge paunch, making the cuirass bulge out just under Sol Invictus. It bulged out so prominently that I estimated that the cuirass could have been used to cook a good-sized amount of porridge if it had been turned over and suspended over a fire. Even so, I could plainly see the Praetor’s padded tunic bulging out from the sides, making me wonder if he had gained weight since the fitting, or had been too vain to admit how fat he was. Perched atop his head was a helmet, clearly made by the same craftsman, but essentially with the same problem as the cuirass in that it was obviously too small for his head. The plumes were ostrich, dyed the same color scarlet as his cloak and sash, but they were ludicrously tall, jutting a good two feet above the crest of the helmet. Completing the outfit was a handsomely worked scabbard, with the traditional ivory handled sword, carved into the likeness of an eagle. However, even from where I was standing, I could see that there was absolutely no wear on the grip, telling me that the man had never handled this sword. And I seriously doubted that he had ever handled a sword of any type, although that was clearly not the impression he was trying to give. He remained standing there for a moment, one hand on the hilt of his sword, head tilted at what I am sure he believed to be the proper angle to show his resolve. Unfortunately, it only served to accentuate his double chin, and it took a moment before I understood that he was waiting for me to make some sort of comment. I was totally at a loss, finally managing to muster something that apparently served its purpose, because he beamed with pleasure.
Descending the stairs, he announced grandly, “Prefect, let us go inspect my army.”
“Don’t you mean Rome’s army?” I could not help myself, the words just coming out, and I inwardly winced, but he was in too much of an expansive mood to take offense.
“Yes, yes, that’s what I meant. It’s just mine to use. So let’s go take a look at the men, shall we?”
Without waiting, he went sweeping past me. I caught the distinct whiff of some sort of perfume, I assumed from the pomade applied to his hair. His cape swirling behind him, the pudgy little man and I headed to the spot outside of Philippi that we had selected for the formation and inspection. I will say that Primus was superbly mounted, on a coal black stallion that was bigger than even Ocelus, who was the largest horse I had ever seen up to that point. Even so, I still towered over the Praetor, who bounced along in the saddle, making it clear that he had spent more time in a litter than on horseback.
Nearing the army, I could see the standards jutting above the heads of the men of the Centuries and Cohorts, the sun’s rays catching the glint of the eagle’s wings of the Legion standards. No matter how many times I saw that sight, it stirred my heart, filling my soul with an emotion that I still cannot adequately describe. The fact that I was escorting a buffoon who would make a mockery of what is normally a solemn and important occasion, the inspection of the Legions by their Legate, elicited feelings of amusement and disgust in me, in equal measure.
The inspection of the 8th and 13th Legion, along with the cavalry and auxiliary troops, was the most farcical display I have ever witnessed in my more than forty years under the standard. The men instantly knew that Primus had no idea what he was doing, and took full advantage of that fact. The inspection of a Legionary, as with almost everything Roman, is a very rigid, formal affair, done a certain way simply because it has been performed in this manner since anyone can remember. The inspecting officer stands directly in front of the Legionary, basically starting his inspection from the top of the man’s head to the bottom of his feet. The inspector first checks the plume of the Legionary’s helmet to make sure that it is completely blacked, or dyed with the appropriate color. The helmet is examined to make sure that it is serviceable and has no cracks or dents, this being done by the Legionary doffing his helmet to present for inspection. Primus clearly did not know this, so the men, instantly seeing and understanding, simply stood at intente, not moving a muscle. Primus had selected the 8th to start his inspection, naturally starting with the First Century of the First Cohort, with Macrinus on one side and me on the other. Like the men, Macrinus had instantly seen Primus for what he was, making no attempt to steer Primus in the right direction, and was content to watch straight-faced as Primus simply stood staring at the man he was facing, whose eyes were fixed at that imaginary spot above Primus’ head. Several moments passed, while I was finding it harder with each heartbeat to keep my own composure. Finally, Primus turned to Macrinus in obvious confusion.
“Is he supposed to do something?”
It was impossible to miss the sound of snickering from the rear ranks, and Macrinus’ face turned red.
“Silete!” he roared before I could.
Turning to Primus, Macrinus apologized before snapping at the hapless Legionary to doff his helmet, which he did and presented to Primus, who stared at it like it was something he had never seen before.
“Praetor, you’re supposed to inspect his helmet,” I whispered.
Now it was Primus who turned red, snatching the helmet from the man’s hands.
He stared at it for a moment, turning it over in his hands, then handed it back to the man with a mumbled, “Very good.”
With that done, Primus stood there looking completely lost, and I was sorely tempted to let him stand there, but I realized that, at this rate, the inspection of two Legions would take several weeks. I whispered to him what was expected of him next, and in this manner, we conducted the inspection. Fortunately, it did not take him long to pick up what was expected of him, and he quickly seemed to forget that he had no idea what he was doing. By the time we had finished with the first few Cohorts, Primus was strutting about, making jokes with the men as if he were Caesar incarnate. What he did not realize was that the men were mocking him, but they were doing it in a way that he would not understand. Except that I did, as did every Centurion involved. I know I should have put a stop to the foolishness, but I did not, since the Praetor had no idea he was being made to look the fool. It was a decision that would later cause me some difficulties.
