R. Peake - Marching With Caesar – Civil War

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Taking a few more moments to compose myself, I dried my eyes then made attempts to cover up the signs that I had been crying, ordering Diocles to do the same before I sent him to summon the Centurions. While the tent of the Primus Pilus is large, cramming all 6 °Centurions into it meant that the men would have to stand shoulder to shoulder, packed together like dried fish in a barrel. So while Diocles was gone, I moved all the furniture out of the way to make room, using the time to think through all that Diocles had said. I had never been good at hiding my feelings, but I realized that if I valued my skin, I would have to put on the acting job of my career when the inevitable visitors came to feel me out about my loyalties. In the beginning at least, I could not openly declare my feelings towards either side, until I had a better idea which way the winds from Rome were blowing. Perhaps the hardest part would be to disguise my outrage and horror at what happened to Caesar, but I knew that it was essential that I appear to be essentially unmoved by Caesar’s assassination, viewing it as a political issue rather than a personal tragedy. By the time the first Centurions came filing in, my face was a mask and my emotions were stuffed away, and I was once again the Primus Pilus of the 10th, a hardened professional soldier of Rome, determined not to give the Centurions now arriving a clue as to what happened. Although I could tell that they knew something momentous had occurred, none of them gave any indication that they knew what had actually happened. Spotting Scribonius in the second group of men to enter, I waved him over to me. His face was a mix of confusion and concern as I beckoned for him to enter my private quarters, whispering that I would join him shortly. When Cyclops and Balbus arrived, I did the same for them. Without saying anything to the rest of the men, I entered my private quarters to face my three friends, pulling the leather flap that served as a door down to give us some privacy, keeping my voice low so that what I was about to tell them would not be overheard.

“I'm about to tell you why I've called this meeting,” I whispered. “But before I do, I need to prepare you so that you don't give any kind of outburst that would alert the rest of the men before I'm ready to tell them. So brace yourselves.” I waited for each of them to nod that they understood, then I told them, making my voice as emotionless as possible. “Caesar has been assassinated by a group of Senators.”

As I watched their reaction, it struck me that this was probably what I had looked like when Pollio told me. To their credit, they did not give any kind of outcry, though Scribonius drew a sharp breath that probably sounded louder than it was, but still caused me to look over my shoulder nervously, forgetting that I had pulled the flap closed.

“When did this happen?” Balbus whispered.

“On the Ides of March,” I replied.

“Two weeks ago,” Scribonius said thoughtfully, his tone causing the rest of us to look at him carefully, as we all respected his ability to see things that the rest of us missed. “A lot has happened in the intervening time, no doubt. There’s really no telling what's transpired and who’s in power. Do you have any information about that?”

I shook my head. “The dispatch that Pollio received was apparently written no more than a few thirds of a watch after the murder.”

Scribonius looked at me sharply at my use of the term. “Murder? That’s a little strong, isn’t it? I would think assassination is a more appropriate term,” he said.

For a brief moment, my anger flared white-hot, my hand involuntarily reaching for my sword.

Then I looked at his face, realizing that he had divined the same danger that Diocles had. I let out a slow breath, nodding carefully. “Yes, you're correct, Scribonius. I spoke in haste, and in error. Caesar was assassinated, not murdered.”

With that settled, I gave my friends time to compose themselves, then they followed me out to face the Centurions of the 10th Legion.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Caesar is dead. He was assassinated by members of the Senate on the Ides of March, the day before he was to depart for Syria.”

It was as if the air was suddenly sucked out of the room, which I suppose it was in a sense, as 56 pairs of lungs drew in a breath simultaneously. There was just a heartbeat of utter silence before total chaos broke out as men shouted in despair, cursed the gods, or just let out an unintelligible moan. Shaking their fists, turning to each other, yelling out what they would do to the assassins, asking me for details, for several moments I let the grief and anger wash over all of us as each man dealt with the news that the father of the Legion had been struck down in their own way. Finally, I held up my hand for silence, but I was universally ignored.

Drawing a deep breath, I roared at the top of my lungs. “ Tacete !”

For the first and only time, I was not instantly obeyed, and it was only the circumstances that kept me from lashing out at the nearest man who was still baying for the killers’ blood.

Still, I was very angry, and made no attempt to hide it. “I said shut up now, you bastards! The next man to speak I'll flay and use his ball sac as my coin purse!”

That shut them up, as their looks of contrition and anguish extinguished the flames of my ire immediately.

These men were heartbroken, just as I was, and I had to let them come to terms with what had happened. “Brothers,” I said with what I hoped was a sympathetic tone. “I know that you're hurting, as I am. You all know how much Caesar has favored me, how much I owe to him, and now to his memory. But we all have to be strong now, more than at any other time. The men are young and raw, and for most of them, the name of Caesar has been in their ears since they were born. They grew up on our exploits in Gaul, with Caesar at our head. Now this one constant fact of Rome is no more, and they'll be confused and frightened about what this means.”

“What does this mean?” someone asked, and I felt the pressure of 59 pairs of eyes looking at me for the answer.

“It's too early to know,” I said as honestly as I could. “The dispatch General Pollio received didn't give any kind of instructions, and it was apparently sent just thirds of a watch after the….event. As of this moment, I don't know what our orders are, but I plan on finding out.”

It was not much, yet it was the best I could do for the moment, and I was relieved to see that the men seemed to accept that. “I've decided that rather than call an assembly and tell the men all at once, that I'm going to have you tell each of your Centuries. I think that this is the best way to handle it because I don’t want a scene of mass hysterics.”

As I expected, this did not go down well, but I was not going to be swayed. With that, I sent the men back to their Century areas, then sat down with Diocles and an amphora of wine, preparing ourselves for the coming uproar.

The next few days passed in a blur, as I found myself going almost every third of a watch to the praetorium to find out from Pollio the latest developments. Dispatch riders came in a steady stream, not all of them from Rome, but from other parts of the Republic as the men who had belonged to Caesar sent missives back and forth, feeling each other out while trying to gather more information. First, we heard that Brutus and the other faithless bastards had been hailed as saviors of the Republic, that the people were acclaiming them as heroes, something I did not buy into for a moment, and it turned out that I was right. In fact, the reaction of the people was quite the opposite, as Brutus and Cassius in particular were now hiding from the masses. The people of the Head Count, my people, wanted to skin them alive and nail their hides to the Senate door, so the two of them were taking refuge in the Capitol. A couple of days after we heard this, word came that the two of them had ventured down to the Forum to mount the Rostra to give speeches justifying their actions, the reaction obviously not what they were expecting. The people did not tear them asunder, instead just standing there in complete and total silence. I can only imagine how unnerving that must have been, for either of the assassins or for the people watching. The eyes and attention of the people of all classes now turned to Marcus Antonius, waiting to see what he would do. When he took no actions against the assassins, I requested an audience with Pollio to get his opinion on what Antonius was thinking, because his inaction infuriated me, as well as the rest of the men. To us, it was clear-cut; no matter what I might say publicly, I viewed Caesar’s death as nothing but murder, and for Antonius to sit by doing nothing to his assassins made no sense to any of us in uniform.