R. Peake - Marching With Caesar – Civil War

“Who did this?” I demanded coldly of him, for such was my anger that I would have struck my old mentor and friend down right there had Vibius not put a restraining hand on my arm.

The moment passed; I realized that there was no way he could have known this was going to happen, and if he did, he would have warned us because of the type of man that he was. Still, I was wary and looked at him with new eyes. All he could do was shake his head, and it took him a moment before he composed himself enough to speak.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “This doesn’t strike me as something Afranius would do; he’s more politician than soldier, and he wouldn’t want to create this kind of bad blood. It has to be Petreius, but I don’t see how he could be so foolhardy. He’s no great shakes as a general, and he’s not fit to stand in your man’s shadow, but I didn’t think even he would be this stupid.”

“Well, someone is,” I shot back, then turned and trotted over to the Primus Pilus’ tent to find out what I could.

An assembly was called to determine who was still missing, and the numbers were sobering. Of my Cohort, I still had 12 men missing, and the identity of one of those men worried me most. Scribonius, as was his norm, had been scrupulous about asking permission to go visit a cousin, which I granted, but he had not returned in the group. The only positive note at that point was that none of the escapees recalled seeing him struck down. Four of my other men were not so lucky, however; I received reports from multiple eyewitnesses that they were hacked to pieces. There was still daylight left, and we could see across the way in the Pompeian camp that they were calling their own assembly. What we learned later was that Petreius had countermanded the order of Afranius for safe conduct, but after the initial slaughter, went from Cohort to Cohort, begging his men to remain true to Pompey, blubbering big baby tears. Not satisfied with this, he then called an assembly to make every man in camp swear an oath of loyalty to Pompey, and further, demanded that any remaining men of ours that they were hiding now be turned in for summary execution. Fortunately, while most of the Pompeians were willing enough to swear loyalty, they were loath to fulfill the second part of this requirement, although a few of the craven bastards did what they were asked, causing several more of our men to be put to death in the forum in front of the assembled Pompeian army. We could hear their cries for mercy drift across to us, while we stood in helpless anger on the ramparts watching them put to death. At the distance they were at, I could not distinguish individuals, so I was unable to tell if Scribonius or any of the other of my men were the unfortunates.

Now there was a choice to make, although I do not believe any of us thought that it would turn out any differently, about the fate of the Pompeians now stranded in our camp. I will not lie; there was a good bit of sentiment among all the ranks that we return the treatment of our men in kind to the Pompeians, but I do not believe any of us really thought that Caesar would take that action. And he did not. In contrast, he allowed any man desiring freedom to return to his own camp, free of any retribution and under armed escort to our gates. Despite a good number of men doing just that, there was about an equal number who, disgusted by the actions of their general, swore allegiance to Caesar, abjuring any oaths of loyalty to a man who would do such a thing as Petreius. Neither Vibius nor I were particularly surprised when Cyclops was one of those men. We saw in his face the contempt and horror at what transpired, and I was happy to speak for him, this being the only requirement that Caesar made of the men staying behind, that someone vouch for them. Cyclops was sent to the 14th, having lost their Primus Pilus in the assault on the mound, along with a couple other Centurions, whereupon he took command of the Seventh of the 14th. I will admit that it was quite a relief to have him safely on our side, since that was one less friend we had to worry about having to face in battle. But by the time night fell, I still did not know the fate of Scribonius or the other seven men still in the Pompeian camp.

As it turned out, most of the men in my Cohort did return, having been hidden by their friends and kinsmen despite the oath they were forced to take. Of the eight whose fate I did not know as the sun set that day, six of them returned, including Scribonius, escorted under cover of darkness out of the Pompeian camp by the men who hid them. The sentiment was such that none of the sentries on the Pompeian side raised any alarm at what turned out to be almost a hundred men crossing back to our lines, and there was much relief as one by one, the missing men reported to their respective Centurions. However, that feeling of relief was tempered by sadness and anger, once it was determined that not all of them were coming back. I was luckier than some of the other Cohorts in the army. I ended up losing a total of six men: four in the initial attack and two who were betrayed, not by the friends or kinsmen of the men who invited them to come over, but by the tentmates of those men, although we did not learn this until much later. I remember wondering how much damage their actions did to the trust and bond that normally mark men of the same tent section, thinking that at some point in the future there would probably be a reckoning between them. I sat with Scribonius as he gulped down unwatered wine, still breathless from the dash he made once outside the Pompeian gates.

“I thought for sure I was a goner,” he gasped. “My cousin hid me under his bunk and piled all of his gear around me, but they had provosts come into each tent and they poked and prodded the beds and the gear. The provost assigned to search my tent stuck his sword right down into the middle of the pile, and the blade passed not more than an inch from my throat. If he had moved it around at all, I’d be dead.”

We looked at each other in mute anger and disbelief. Finally, Vibius broke the silence. “Well, this changes things,” he declared. “I don’t think Caesar is going to be so quick to forgive now, and I can’t say that I blame him.”

Again, I was surprised; this was twice in one day that Vibius had spoken up for Caesar, more than in the past five years.

Before I could respond, Scribonius shook his head. “I don’t think so, Vibius. I think he knows that it was the act of one man, and that man is going to be the one to ultimately pay.”

“True, but he wasn’t the one who did the actual killing,” Vibius protested, and there was truth in what he said. “I think every one of the friends of the men who were butchered today is going to want to exact vengeance on the man holding the sword, as well as the man who ordered it.”

“You might be right,” conceded Scribonius, “but I also think that they were just following orders, the way they, and we,” he motioned in a circle at all of us gathered about the fire, “have been trained to do, without question. That’s why I don’t think this will change things for the likes of us all that much. I know I’m no more anxious to kill my cousin and his friends than I was before.”

“We’ll see,” grumbled Vibius, but I could see that Scribonius had scored points with the rest of the men gathered about.

Scribonius and the other escapees became minor celebrities in the camp, and they were plied with wine as they were asked to recount their tales of escape. With Scribonius continuing to answer questions, I walked off to check on the rest of the men who the gods had smiled on this day, while at the same time wondering what was to happen with the bodies of our slain and if they would be allowed at least to rest in dignity and peace.