Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign

By R.W. Peake

In the final installation of the bestselling Marching With Caesar®-Titus Pullus series, Camp Prefect Titus Pullus participates in his Final Campaign, the invasion of Thrace by the Governor of Macedonia, Marcus Primus. Although claiming that the expedition has the blessing of the Roman now referred to as Augustus, the reality turns out to be far different, and Pullus finds himself embroiled in the toughest battle of his career. Making it more difficult, his final fight will be conducted not on a battlefield, but in Rome itself, in a courtroom, pitting Titus against some patricians of Rome who are determined to make an example of a man who dares to try and improve his circumstances and standing in the rigid hierarchy of Roman society. The question that plagues Titus is: What side is Augustus on?

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.W. Peake
• Release date: Nov 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9780989734899

R.W. Peake

R.W. Peake wrote his first novel when he was 10.He published his first novel when he was 50.Obviously, a lot happened in between, including a career as a “grunt” in the Marine Corps, another career as a software executive, a stint as a semi-professional cyclist, and becoming a dad.But, through it all, there was one constant: his fascination with history, which led him back to school in his 30s to earn a degree in History from the Honors College at the University of Houston.One morning years later, R.W. was listening to Caesar's Commentaries while he was on his morning commute to a job he hated. A specific passage about Caesar’s men digging a 17 mile ditch between Lake Geneva and the Jura Mountains suddenly jumped out at him.He was reminded of his own first job at 13 digging a ditch in Hardin, Texas. For the rest of the drive that morning, he daydreamed about what life must have been like not for the Caesars of the world, but for the everyday people who were doing the fighting and dying for Rome, and the idea for Marching with Caesar was born.Not too long after that, he quit that job, moved into a trailer halfway across the country, and devoted the next four years to researching and writing the first installments of Marching with Caesar.Some of his research methods-like hiking several miles around Big Bend National Park in the heat of summer wearing a suit of chainmail and carrying a sword so he would know what it felt like to be a Roman legionary-were a bit unconventional and made his friends and family question his sanity.But such was his commitment to bringing these stories to life for his readers with as much detail and accuracy as possible.Even as his catalog continues to grow, he still brings that passion to every story he tells.He has moved out of the trailer, but he still lives on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington with his Yellow Lab, Titus Pomponius Pullus and his rescue dog, Peach.

Book preview

Also by R.W Peake

Marching with Caesar®-Conquest of Gaul

Marching with Caesar-Civil War

Marching with Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra, Parts I & II

Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

Caesar Triumphant

Critical praise for the Marching with Caesar series:

Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony

Peake has become a master of depicting Roman military life and action, and in this latest novel he proves adept at evoking the subtleties of his characters, often with an understated humour and surprising pathos. Very highly recommended.

Marching With Caesar-Civil War

"Fans of the author will be delighted that Peake’s writing has gone from strength to strength in this, the second volume...Peake manages to portray Pullus and all his fellow soldiers with a marvelous feeling of reality quite apart from the star historical name... There’s history here, and character, and action enough for three novels, and all of it can be enjoyed even if readers haven’t seen the first volume yet. Very highly recommended."

~The Historical Novel Society

The hinge of history pivoted on the career of Julius Caesar, as Rome’s Republic became an Empire, but the muscle to swing that gateway came from soldiers like Titus Pullus. What an amazing story from a student now become the master of historical fiction at its best.

~Professor Frank Holt, University of Houston

MARCHING WITH CAESAR

Final Campaign

By R.W. Peake

Marching with Caesar® –Final Campaign by R.W. Peake

Copyright © 2013 by R.W. Peake

Cover Artwork by Marina Shipova

Cover Artwork Copyright © 2013 by R.W. Peake

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2013

For John Somers, USN

1924-2013

And

Robert Curtis Graham, MSGT, USMC (Ret.)

1945-2013

They Will Be Missed

Chapter 1 Last Campaign

Time is a funny thing. Some moments drag by, the passage of the sun through the sky seeming to have come to a total stop and you are convinced that you are trapped in a moment that will never end. Other times, it seems that you blink your eyes and days have passed. This is what seems to have happened during the next five years of my time as Camp Prefect. It was like I lay down to sleep one night, then awoke the next morning only to realize with immense surprise that years had gone by. Oh, there were certainly momentous occasions and interesting events that took place; Gaius Porcinus, my nephew and heir and Centurion in his own right, and Iras had the first two of their six children, the firstborn being a boy that they named Titus Pullus Porcinus in my honor, and I love that boy more than life itself. Most importantly, for Gaius in particular, my estimation of Iras’ pregnancy just proves that men have no eye for such things, because young Titus was born nine months and two weeks after Gaius had returned from Rome.

Soon after young Titus came along, Iras became pregnant again and bore Gaius a daughter, naming her Valeria after his mother, whom he and I had not seen for more years than either of us cared to remember. Also during that time, Gaius’ father, Porcinus, died, but I am somewhat saddened to say that Gaius took his father’s death with relatively little emotion. Despite the fact that Porcinus had been a good father and even better husband, at least according to Gaius, he and his father had never been close, and I suppose I bear some responsibility for that. As I had come to learn, my life and career had captivated young Gaius’ imagination from an early age, and the idea of life as a farmer left Gaius dead inside, much as it had me. I felt badly about this, because Porcinus had been so much of a better father than Lucius had been to me, to make it not even worthy of comparison, but who can explain the mysteries of how the human heart works?

Sextus Scribonius, my best friend who I had met when we were both wide-eyed tirones during the dilectus of the 10th Legion that was raised by Gaius Julius Caesar in Hispania so many years ago, returned to his status of Evocatus. Taking up tutoring the children of some of the Centurions, this surprised everyone but me, who knew that of all the things that Sextus Scribonius could do, teaching was perhaps his greatest talent.

In the larger world outside of Siscia, Octavian had absented himself from Rome, as he had promised when he relinquished his power back to the Senate, going to his province of Gaul and setting it to rights. The whole region had been severely affected by the neglect and turmoil of the civil war, and had generally been neglected by Rome, the internal struggles having taken all of the attention and resources of the great men. With his usual efficiency, Octavian reorganized the provinces, sending the most corrupt administrators packing while conducting a complete inventory and census. There was a brief rumor that he planned to invade Britannia again, but that came to nothing, which was fine with me, because I had no desire to see that island ever again. Affairs in Rome began to settle down, the Senate becoming more accustomed to conducting business without Octavian sitting in the Princeps Senatus chair, yet he still cast a long shadow in the form of Marcus Agrippa and Gaius Maecenas, who had remained behind in Rome.

In Siscia, Gaius Flaccus Norbanus had also settled into his role of Legate, matters developing into a routine, with first one Legion, then another spending time out at the outposts on the frontier, each one rotating back after a period of a couple of months. The reforms Octavian had instituted were still taking shape, and there was an element of hit and miss with some of them. All in all, things had become so that I could have performed my duties in my sleep, with some days having a dreamlike quality to them that made me wonder at times if I was awake at all.

That was why the day I was summoned to the Praetorium by Norbanus, not the father but his son, who by this point was Proconsul of Asia, did not seem any different than any other day and, making my way there, I imagined that it was little more than some routine matter.

There’s a new governor in Macedonia, Norbanus told me the instant I arrived, waving a scroll in my direction.

I suppose I should take this time to explain the organization of this part of the Republic during the period of time of Augustus’ seventh and eighth Consulship, or more commonly known as the first years of his reign. Pannonia and Dalmatia were not yet Senatorial provinces, meaning that they did not require the post of Praetor, although Norbanus the younger, like all Legates appointed by Octavian, was vested with Proconsular powers. Macedonia, to the south, was a Senatorial province and as such required a Praetor. This was what Norbanus was referring to now with obvious disgust. At first, I did not understand why he was so upset, but when he went on to explain, it soon became clear.

The new Praetor is Marcus Primus, and he was given Proconsular authority, Norbanus said.

Norbanus had no need to explain further the cause for his dismay; simply put, he was now outranked, since a Praetor armed with Proconsular authority is higher in our hierarchy than a Legate is, even if that Legate also had Proconsular powers. Despite understanding why Norbanus did not like it, I still did not see why he was glaring at me from beneath his eyebrows, which were wiggling all over his forehead like two caterpillars. This was a trait that he had inherited from his father, and even though he was younger than I was by several years, it made him appear much older. Which, I suppose, was a good thing for his command presence.

And he's just sent orders to me to send two Legions to him immediately.

This was a surprise and it explained why Norbanus was upset, but I still did not see what it had to with me.

It appears that he has some sort of plan that he says was approved by Augustus. What’s interesting is that he asked for you. Actually, he ordered me to send you and your friend, the Evocatus. What’s his name?

Scribonius.

Yes, that’s it. Anyway, he didn't say specifically why he needs half of my army so desperately, but he did say something quite mysterious.

I did not see how things could be more mysterious than a peremptory order to send half of the Army of Pannonia out of its territory, but Norbanus turned out to be correct.

Primus says that you and your friend will understand why you've been summoned when you get there, and will thank him for it.

When do we leave? And where are we headed to in Macedonia?

Immediately of course. Norbanus gave a harsh laugh. When have you ever seen orders that say that you can leave at your leisure?

Looking back down at the scroll, he found the relevant passage and grunted.

You're to report at Philippi, of all places.

Norbanus pierced me with his gaze, his eyebrows beetling together.

Do you have any idea what's going on, Prefect?

I honestly did not, and I said as much, which did not please him. I am not altogether sure that he believed me, but at that moment, I was as mystified as he was about these orders.

Well, you better go make your preparations, he said irritably, shooing me out of his office with a wave. I have to decide which two Legions to send.

I suggest the 8th and the 13th, I offered, and he looked at me in some surprise.

The 8th? They’re my best Legion. I can see sending the 13th. They’re in better shape now, I'll grant you, but they’re still a mess. But why would I send my best Legion along to serve at Primus’ whim?

Because according to that letter, it’s not coming from Primus, but Augustus. And if that's true, and I don’t think Primus would just make that up, do you want to be seen sending your inferior Legions to help the man picked by Augustus himself to run Macedonia?

Norbanus sat back, giving me a speculative look, considering what I had said.

I suppose you’re right, he said slowly, drawing the words out like he was reluctant to acknowledge the sense in what I was saying.

What I told Norbanus was true enough, but was not the reason behind wanting the 8th. Norbanus muttered a soft curse.

Very well, the 8th it will be, but I don’t like it. Not one tiny bit.

For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you, I commiserated with the man, for he was truly in a tough spot.

Both Pannonia and Dalmatia had been relatively quiet, yet there was a seething unrest among the natives just below the surface. I could easily imagine that when the news that half of the army was no longer in the region spread, there would be more than enough mischief to keep the other half busy. However, I could not worry about Norbanus’ woes, because I had to go make my own preparations to move out.

I think I know what this Marcus Primus is up to, Scribonius said, just a few heartbeats after I told him of the summons. He’s planning on exacting revenge against the Thracians for what they did to us when we were marching back here with Marcus Crassus.

That brought me up short, and I found a seat in his quarters so I could digest this. Somehow, I knew that he was right immediately after the words came out of his mouth. I must admit that my initial reaction was one of happiness; the death of Balbus still a raw, open wound, even years later, while the thought of drowning that memory in blood was very appealing, to say the least.

And you think that Octavian sanctioned this campaign?

Scribonius shrugged, his face reflecting his indecision.

That I don’t know. I can’t see how Primus would dare to launch an expedition like this without his blessing.

Neither could I, although I did not know if it made me felt better or not. All I was sure of at that point was that, once again, we would be marching, and I must admit that I liked the idea. It would relieve the monotony and boredom of life in garrison. Despite being suffused no longer with the same martial ardor as in my youth, I was not quite ready to sit quietly by the fire, waiting for my time on this Earth to end. After finishing with Scribonius, I hurried over to tell Macrinus, except that was just an excuse to tell Gaius, but I knew that if I had gone to tell one of his Centurions of the upcoming move without talking to him first, that would be a mortal insult. Besides, I liked and respected Macrinus and did not want to ruin what had become a friendly relationship. At first, he was not happy with the news until I told him what it was probably for, then his face took on a look of grim satisfaction.

Good, he replied. I’ve been hoping to exact some retribution on those bastards for a while now.

With Macrinus informed, I went to find Gaius, who was understandably less than happy with the news. Unlike me, Gaius enjoyed life in garrison, but I put that down to his love for Iras and his family. Little Titus was now a very active four-year-old, Livia was toddling about, and Iras had just informed us one night at dinner that she was pregnant again, normally a hard time for a young mother, yet I had never seen Iras look happier. She was still technically my property, but I had promised that I would manumit her as soon as I got around to going through the required steps. Iras hadn’t spent a night in my household for years; the way in which she had come into my possession and the circumstances surrounding how we met had long been forgotten. Iras had proven to be as faithful a wife to Gaius as a man could ask for, despite the union not being legally or religiously sanctioned. The wife was as unhappy as the husband about being sent off to Macedonia, but there was no question that he would obey, and I think he was secretly relieved. Despite the love a man might have for his family, small children can be very trying, making any chance to escape from their clutches usually welcomed, no matter how much the man may protest otherwise.

Diocles was his usual efficient self; by nightfall of the day I told him, most of what I would be taking with me had already been packed up, with a wagon procured to haul my baggage. Even now, after all these years and some five years into my time as Camp Prefect, I was bemused at the sight of all the things that I had accrued over the years, well remembering the time when all of my worldly possessions fit inside the pack suspended from my furca. The two Legions were in a similar state of activity, on a much larger scale, of course, and it was less than a week before we were ready to begin the march.

Since Norbanus was staying behind, once again I was in command of the 8th and 13th, along with the requisite baggage and attendants. Norbanus gave me free rein to select the route and best method to get the men to Philippi.

Frankly, I don’t care what you do, was how he put it. I'm giving Primus my best Legion and I've done that much. After that, I wash my hands of the matter, so if you want to get to Philippi by way of Hispania, that's fine with me.

It may have been all right with Norbanus, but I knew who would be blamed if we did not make the march in the best time possible. Starting out a couple weeks before my fifty-fourth birthday, we marched south, skirting the Dinaric Alps to our west. We were taking the overland route, which I was not happy about. However, between the fact that there was not a port city in this part of the coast that was large enough to accommodate the number of ships needed to transport two Legions and baggage, and the fact that the prevailing winds were now coming from the south, I did not feel we had much choice. My main fear was the temptation that our baggage train would provide for first the Dalmatian tribes, then the Moesians when we passed through their territory. I was most concerned with the Moesians, who I was sure were still smarting from not just the defeat we had dealt them under Marcus Crassus five years before, but the talents that he had demanded as part of the cessation of hostilities. I could not discount the possibility that the Moesians would see an opportunity to strike a blow at Rome by attacking us on our march through Moesia, despite the fact that, for all intents and purposes, Moesia was now part of the Roman world. I knew from experience that often the people we had conquered did not view themselves as such, and while Moesia had been quiet, all it took was one lapse on our part to give them what they might consider an opportunity that they could not pass up. However, first we had to make our way through Dalmatia.

After the first three days on the march, where I allowed the men to work themselves into some sort of fitness for the long march, I ordered the men to don their armor, but not their helmets, ordering them to uncover their shields as well. I was determined that we would not be caught by surprise, and to that end, I doubled the flank security while we marched along the eastern slope of the Dinarics. The rugged terrain, with its folds and creases, provided ample sites for an ambush, but luck was with us, and we saw only signs that we were being watched.

The one advantage of taking the overland route was that we would arrive in Philippi fit and ready for whatever Marcus Primus had in mind, which as one can imagine was one of the predominant topics of conversation around the fire every night. Norbanus had sent three Tribunes along with us: Lucius Aurelius Libo, who had been with the army for two years at that point; Publius Cassius Capito, now starting his second campaign season; and a new Tribune, just arrived from Rome, by the name of Aulus Menius Scipio, supposedly from an obscure branch of the family that produced Scipio Africanus, at least that was the rumor that he made no attempt to dispel. Libo and Capito I knew, while they knew me, but Scipio was one of those Tribunes who initially was very impressed with himself because he had read the Anabasis, Polybius, and, of course, Caesar’s account of our time in Gaul, meaning that Scipio considered himself an expert. The fact that I had actually been there did not seem to impress him all that much, presumably because I had been hefting a shield and wielding a sword, actually killing all those Gauls that he read about. At least, that was my impression, although I was to find out differently later. Because of his reading, it appeared that he felt qualified to question many of my decisions. We were not much more than a week on the march when, one day, Scipio questioned my choice for a campsite.

Wouldn’t we be more secure on that promontory over there? Scipio pointed to a steep-sided hill about a half-mile from the spot that the engineering officer, a veteran officer named Flavianus, had chosen.

I know that I could have either ignored the boy, or patiently explained that the exploratores had been doing their jobs longer than he had been alive, and knew more about siting a camp than any book ever written. Instead, I decided to take a slightly different approach.

Tribune, you obviously have studied a great deal about the art and science of warfare. Perhaps you'd enlighten me as to why you believe that promontory is a superior position to this hill?

Now, if Scipio had been more experienced, he would have been suspicious that I was actually eliciting an opinion from him, since I had completely ignored him for our entire march to that point. But he seemed to be thrilled that I was asking, and proceeded to describe the obvious advantages of the position.

As you can see, Prefect, the sides of the hill are very steep, while the top is flat, and clearly spacious enough for our camp to fit, with some room to spare to accommodate the auxiliaries. Anyone trying to mount an attack would have to scale those steep slopes, and the sides of the hill are bare of any real cover, so they would be chopped up by our artillery before they could get close.

The truth was that Scipio was right, and despite my irritation with him, I was somewhat impressed at his eye. Yet, there is much more to selecting a campsite than bare defense of the camp, especially when it is in what might be enemy territory. On the spur of the moment, I changed my mind about raking the Tribune over the coals, deciding to go easy on him.

I must say that I'm impressed, Tribune, I said cordially, and he beamed with pleasure at my compliment. You have a good eye for defense, and that's certainly important. But perhaps you could point out the source of water for that particular hill?

He looked about for a moment, then pointed to the base of the hill on which we were standing, where a small rivulet cascaded down from a spring about halfway up the slope to run along the base of our hill, off into the distance in the direction that we would be marching.

Right there, he said confidently. Only a furlong or two from the other hill. Thinking that he had anticipated where I was going, he quickly continued, But if you look carefully, there's a natural path down the side of that hill that could be used for the water carriers to use, so there's water. It would be a bit of a chore, but nothing that the men couldn't easily handle.

Scipio was speaking with the callow assurance of a man who had probably never hauled a bucket of water across the courtyard of his villa, let alone up what I could see was an extremely steep and torturous track that would be a huge chore that the men would loathe being forced to carry out. That was not what concerned me about the Tribune’s choice.

That’s true, I agreed. It wouldn't be impossible for the men to carry the water we'd need, but keep in mind that they'd have to bring not only water for their own needs, but for all the livestock. Do you know how much water each animal needs?

His face clouded, showing doubt for the first time. Then, after a moment, he shook his head.

They drink four times the amount a man does on average. A little more than that for the draft animals, a little less for the cavalry mounts and mules.

That’s a lot, he admitted, but he was clearly not ready to concede defeat. But still not too great a task for the men, surely.

No, not for a single night. If we were to stay longer, then it would be a different matter.

But why would we stay here for more than one night?

Now I had him, except he did not yet know it.

Before I answer that, let me ask you about this hill, the one where we're making camp. Why wouldn't you choose it?

Because the other hill is a better position as far as defense. You said so yourself, he replied instantly.

Now, that was not what I had said, but I let it pass.

Would you say this hill is indefensible, then?

No, he said a bit reluctantly. It’s not, but it’s just not as good a position as the other hill.

Tribune, what would happen if a whole swarm of Dalmatians suddenly showed up?

I pointed down the valley between the two hills to the south, which I considered to be the most likely direction from which we would see Dalmatians if they decided to throw the dice to see if they came up Venus. Scipio followed my finger with his eyes, and I was heartened to see his eyes narrow as he began to get an idea of the problem with his choice.

They'd put themselves between us and the water, he said finally.

However, he was not ready to concede defeat yet.

But they wouldn't be able to dislodge us from our position, and if they tried, they'd lose most of their army.

They wouldn’t have to, I countered. All they'd have to do is sit here, on this hill that we're on now and watch us die of thirst.

We'd knock them off this hill, though, wouldn’t we?

Now the Tribune was sounding doubtful, his earlier confidence in tatters, but I wanted to make sure this lesson stuck with him, so we wouldn’t have to have this conversation again.

How? I asked him, pointing back to the other hill. The advantage of that hill as far as defending it is also its biggest weakness. The minute we began leaving camp, we'd have to reduce our march down to perhaps a section-wide front to get down the only approach to that hill, and the Dalmatians would see that. All they'd have to do is send a thousand men from their position here, or wherever they were, to block it. We’re good, Tribune, we’re very good, but not even the 10th Legion under Caesar could have forced our way off that hill under those circumstances.

Scipio looked crushed and, despite my irritation with him, I felt a pang of sympathy, though I did not show it.

I see. He could not hide his disappointment.

Tribune, I said as gently as I could. If you want to be successful at this, you have to learn to trust the men who've been doing this since before you were born.

Meaning you, he said bitterly.

I must say I was surprised at the vehemence in his tone, but I did not strike back.

Not just me, I replied with a patience I did not feel. "It was the exploratores I was referring to in this case. They have a great deal of experience in selecting a camp site, and they've been trained to take into account all the various factors that make a good camp."

What would Caesar have done? he asked suddenly. That’s what I should be asking myself.

I stifled a groan; here was yet another fine young man determined to put himself in the same class as Caesar as a general, none of them realizing that Caesar was in a class all by himself, that no man would ever occupy with him. As great a general as Marcus Agrippa is, not even he is Caesar’s equal. I suddenly felt even more for the boy, realizing the soul-crushing pressure that young men like Scipio felt, trying to live up to the legend of Caesar. The fact that the pressure was self-imposed did not make it any less acute, and I had to fight the urge to put my arm about the young man’s shoulders, so disconsolate was he looking, staring at the hill that he had thought would show me his tactical acumen.

If you want to be another Caesar, Tribune, then you have to learn to think about the larger picture, while attending to the smaller details. It’s like a game of tables, I said, trying to find a suitable example to make my point. In order for tables to be more than just a game of luck, you have to think several moves in advance, not just about the next one.

Scipio seemed to consider this, nodding slowly, though he said nothing, so I continued.

And you have to learn to think like your enemy. That was perhaps Caesar’s greatest failing. I cannot say who was more surprised that these words came out of my mouth, but now that the words were out, I plunged ahead. Caesar could never understand why men opposed him, because he always believed that what he was doing was best for Rome, even if it did improve his own position at the same time. And he never realized, at least until the last few moments of his life, just how much men hated him because of his excellence.

You knew him well?

Scipio’s question did not sound skeptical, though I could see how hard it would be for a young nobleman to see what a man like Caesar and I had in common.

Not that well, I said, looking off into the distance. I don’t think anyone knew Caesar well. But he was the man who put me in the Centurionate, I continued, saying this not without some pride. And I marched for him from the time he was Praetor in Hispania, so I got to see him at his best and worst. So perhaps I knew him as well as any man.

Was he as great a general as people say?

I looked at the Tribune. I was struck by how young he was, how childlike his curiosity was, and I felt very, very old.

Better, I said simply, then turned away again, my mind moving elsewhere.

To his credit, Scipio could see I wanted to be alone. Turning his horse, he went off somewhere; I suppose to lick his wounds and try to soothe his savaged pride.

Our progress was slow but steady; while we never made thirty miles in a single day like we had under Caesar, we averaged a bit over twenty-five, which I was satisfied with, given the rugged terrain. The weather cooperated for the most part, though we did have one stretch of a week where it rained every day, slowing our progress considerably. The Dalmatians were our constant companions, in the form of small groups of horsemen hovering off each flank, so that we did lose an occasional straggler who disappeared, never to be seen again. The losses were not significant enough to justify making some sort of response, since in fact, these disappearances did me a bit of a favor, keeping the men more alert while we marched.

Our first hint that we crossed into Moesia was when the Dalmatians abruptly stopped following us, pulling up short on a low rise one day about second watch, content to watch us continue to march away. I was alerted to this development by one of the outriders, though I did not understand the significance at first. It was not until our advance party sent a man galloping back to report a new group of armed men, not with sufficient numbers to cause us any threat, but alarming nonetheless, that I recognized that we had crossed into Moesia. I immediately ordered a halt, summoning the Tribunes, Macrinus, and the new Primus Pilus of the 13th Legion, Lucius Flaminius, who had been the Princeps Prior of the First Cohort, and had been Scribonius’ recommendation for Primus Pilus, with which I had concurred. Fortunately, Norbanus agreed, since I had been afraid that he would want to do something along the lines of Octavian, like to put a man in the post because he paid for it. How Natalis had become Primus Pilus at the hands of Octavian was still a mystery to me, but I had resigned myself to this being just one more of the unanswered questions I would carry with me into the afterlife. Flaminius arrived first, followed shortly by Macrinus, along with the Tribunes, each of whom was in command of the other contingents of our force. Libo commanded our squadron of cavalry, composed of a mishmash of native tribes; Capito was in charge of the auxiliaries, of which there were a little less than two thousand men, while Scipio, being the most junior, was responsible for the baggage train and all the attendants. As one can imagine, commanding the baggage was the least desirable job, yet the reality is that it is without doubt the most difficult of all these tasks and it should have been performed by the most experienced Tribune. There was no way that was happening, since no Tribune who had once held that post would ever agree to do it again. Add to that the fact there was no chance of covering oneself in glory with the baggage meant I had not even attempted to change what had become a long-established custom.

We’re in Moesian territory now, I announced to the others when they had all arrived. That means that we march with shields uncovered and, for the first day or two at least, with helmets on.

Neither Flaminius nor Macrinus showed any emotion, but I knew they did not relish the idea of giving that command. Men hate marching with their helmets on, for very good reason. Although it was not particularly hot, the metal seems to absorb every ray of sun, magnifying the heat so that even on a cooler day, the felt helmet liner would be absolutely soaked with sweat by the first rest stop. The other difficulty was the weight of the helmet, pushing down on the neck muscles, bouncing with every step taken, making men stiff and sore by the end of the day. But I was unmoved, knowing all too well what kind of havoc could be wrought by a sudden attack on an unprepared army. This is for you, Balbus, I thought to myself, and when I glanced over at Scribonius, who was sitting on his horse next to me, I could tell he was having similar thoughts.

Remember that we whipped them once, and Crassus took two thousand talents of silver from them. They’re not likely to forget that, and they’re going to be watching for one slip. So I want the flank guards doubled, and I want tighter spacing than what I’ve been seeing the last few days.

I let my gaze linger on each man as I spoke, trying to impress on each of them the importance of what I was saying. They seemed to be listening, but only time would tell if they had been paying attention.

Turning to Scipio, I finished, The baggage train in particular is what they're going to be watching, which is why we’re going to put it in the middle. But that also means that you can't let the train stretch out, Tribune. I don’t care how you have to do it; you must do everything in your power to make sure the wagons keep the proper amount of space between each of them. Do you understand me?

Scipio’s eyes were wide with apprehension, but he gave a quick nod. Satisfied I had done all I could do to that point, I sent the others back to make the changes. Scribonius sat next to me, watching Macrinus, Flaminius, and the rest hurry back to their respective commands.

You know we’re going to be moving a lot slower now, was Scribonius’ only comment.

Coming from anyone else, I would have bristled at what I would take as an implied rebuke, but we knew each other much too well for me to take offense.

I know, I acknowledged. But until I get an idea of what these Moesians are about, I’m not willing to take any chances.

Scribonius made no immediate reply, instead watching Scipio gallop back in the direction of the baggage train.

I don’t envy that boy one bit, he commented.

I answered with a noncommittal grunt, yet I was as worried about Scipio as Scribonius was. Even though the baggage train is, strictly speaking, a part of the army, the reality is that the men driving the wagons are not Legionaries, and are in fact almost evenly divided between slaves and freedmen. Ideally, we wanted wagon drivers to be slaves, because we could subject them to the kind of discipline and punishment that was as harsh, and even harsher than that applied to the Legions. With a force entirely composed of slaves, we could make doing things like enforcing a tighter spacing easier. Despite how much I disliked the practice, there is nothing like a good flogging to ensure that one’s instructions are carried out perfectly. However, driving a heavily laden wagon over rough terrain is a special skill that not many men possess. This meant that we had to rely on hired men who, while not citizens, were also not slaves, consequently reducing the type of punishment available to the baggage commander. It was not unknown for freedmen to quit the baggage train because they considered the baggage commander excessively harsh, although I did not worry about that particular problem overly much. We were in the middle of what at the very least was unknown territory, at least concerning the intentions of the Moesians. This fact made me believe the odds of members of the baggage train choosing to leave the security of the army to take their chances with the Moesians was very low, no matter how harsh Scipio turned out to be. Still, Scipio had a very challenging task ahead of him.

With our progress slowed by the new marching arrangement, I had to revise my estimate of our arrival in Philippi, and I was dismayed to realize that it would not be until late May. Knowing that this Marcus Primus would be champing at the bit to get started on whatever it was he had planned, that meant the men would likely get little or no chance to recuperate before marching onward. This, more than anything, spurred my decision to revise my plan of march after just a week. We had seen nothing but small groups of Moesians following us in almost the identical manner as the Dalmatians, seemingly content just to watch us pass. Finally, at the morning briefing a week after we crossed into Moesia, I announced that we would be reverting back to our original order of march. Macrinus and Flaminius were clearly pleased with this new order, and so was everyone else, with one glaring exception. Scipio sat there looking extremely distressed, his face such a study in unhappiness that, despite myself, I asked him what was wrong. At first, he did not reply, looking about at the others before he finally replied.

I apologize, Prefect. I have obviously failed you in some way.

It took me a moment to realize that Scipio thought that my changes had something to do with the job he had been doing with the baggage train.

Not at all, Tribune. In fact, I was going to commend you on the job you'd been doing with the baggage train, I lied.

Whereas it was true that he had performed admirably in making sure that the wagons stayed as tightly spaced as possible, it had not occurred to me to acknowledge him for it until he expressed such obvious distress at the idea he had not done a good job. The youngster brightened immediately, looking inordinately pleased with himself, apparently not seeing the grins of the others. I had not rescinded the order to march in armor, except I did relent with the helmets, since there had been no sign of a force of Moesians large enough to cause us mischief. I also detached two Cohorts, one from each Legion to escort the baggage train, along with the auxiliaries. Our pace picked up immediately, the main body no longer being encumbered by the pace of the baggage train. Things went back to the normal rhythm of the march; the Legions would arrive at the campsite to begin the work of making camp, which I demanded be constructed according to the standards set by Caesar so many years ago, with the wider and deeper ditches and the higher rampart.

Shortly before dark, the baggage train would arrive under escort, the heavy baggage that was needed to finish the construction of the camp broken out, with the rest of the baggage that was not for immediate use gathered inside the camp walls. The camp followers, a relatively small group because of the size of the army, would make their own camp a short distance away on the other side of our ditch and palisade, always on the Porta Principalis sides, either left or right, depending on that evening’s camp. They were never allowed to camp on the side of the Praetorian Gate, because that would be our direction of march the next day, and the Decumana Gate was off limits as well. I do not remember specifically when it occurred, but one day, Scribonius and I were riding together when young Scipio came galloping up, showering us with dirt when he jerked to a stop.

Prefect, I wanted to report that there's a group of Moesians trailing behind us! Since this was not any different from any other day, I waited for more from the Tribune, regarding him with a raised eyebrow. Seeing my face, he became flustered, stammering out, It’s just that they’re closer now than they’ve ever been to the baggage train. They seem to be having some sort of conversations with some of the camp followers. I think they might be up to something!

Scribonius and I exchanged amused glances because we both knew what was happening, having seen it many, many times before.

They are up to something, Tribune, but I assure you that it’s nothing to worry about. Scribonius’ tone held no rebuke.

Scipio looked at each of us, clearly confused.

With all respect, Evocatus, Scipio asked stiffly, how can you be so sure? The camp followers may be giving them information that they can use against us.

Oh, they're giving them something all right. I laughed. So did Scribonius, but Scipio was still clearly mystified. Deciding that this could be a valuable lesson for the Tribune, I asked him, Tribune, you're obviously very observant. What did you see, exactly?

He paused, his face a study of doubt since he had learned by this point that I rarely asked a question without some deeper purpose behind it.

I saw a group of the Moesians approach one of the wagons of the camp followers, he said cautiously. There appeared to be some sort of conversation, then one of them dismounted and jumped into the wagon. After a short time, the first man left the wagon, then another one took his place in the wagon.

I must say it was amusing to watch the realization dawn on him, his face suddenly flushing.

Oh, they’re…. His voice trailed away, and I nodded in confirmation.

Yes, Tribune, they're conducting business.

The boy gave a rueful laugh, then turned serious.

Does that happen often? That men who might be our enemies have congress with the camp followers?

All the time, I assured him. I’ve even seen it happen when we were engaged in open hostilities, not only at times like this when they're just following us.

But why do we allow it to happen?

This was actually a sensible question, and I turned to Scribonius to provide the answer.

For a couple of reasons, my friend said. First, it would require that we essentially guard the camp followers’ train along with our own baggage, and no commander is going to be willing to devote men to that. So, since we can’t stop it, we actually use it to our advantage. Over the years, the camp followers have proven to be a very valuable source of information for us because they report back to us things that they've heard from their customers on the other side.

Doesn’t that work both ways? Couldn’t the Moesians be gathering information on us from the camp followers? They are whores, after all, so I can’t imagine that it would be too hard to find their price.

They could, Scribonius conceded. But it’s not likely, because we're their protection out here in the wilderness. If they were to betray us, they'd strip themselves of our protection, not to mention that if we found out about it, let’s just say it wouldn't go well for them. Provided, of course, that we survived their treachery.

But they could just make a deal with the Moesians that when they attacked that they would refrain from harming the camp followers that gave them the information that betrayed us couldn’t they? Scipio insisted.

Scribonius and I exchanged a grimly amused glance. The question posed by the Tribune was the type of question asked by a man who had only read of battle, never seeing firsthand the madness and bloodlust that sweeps away all reason before it like an onrushing flood.

Tribune, I assure you that if that were to happen, the chances of the camp followers who betrayed us escaping unscathed at the hands of our enemies is very, very slight, Scribonius said gently. It's generally just not worth the risk for them, which is why, as far as I can remember, it’s never happened. I acknowledge that it could, but the risk is slight. And what can be gained is well worth that slight risk. He favored the Tribune with a smile, the kind one man shares with another, winking as he said, And men talk, particularly when they have an itch that needs scratching, and most of the time their brains can’t work at the same time as their pricks. You’re a man of the world, Tribune; you know how it is.

That Scipio was decidedly not a man of the world was obvious just by looking at him, but he beamed with pleasure at the words of Scribonius.

Yes, I see that you’re right. Prefect, I apologize for making a report that was obviously unnecessary.

No report is unnecessary, Tribune. It’s good that you were paying attention, I assured him, and I was being honest.

I would rather be bothered by such seemingly trivial information than only to learn later that something happened that would have given us warning of some calamity. Scipio saluted before trotting back towards the baggage train as we watched him leave.

That boy is killing himself, Titus, Scribonius said, his eyes still on the Tribune. And maybe you should start acknowledging the effort that he’s making.

I looked at him in a little astonishment.

What for? Doing his job?

My friend turned to look at me with an expression of amusement and disgust.

That boy worships the ground you walk on, Titus. Surely you can see that. He’s trying so hard to impress you it’s painful to watch.

In fact, I had not seen it at all, but I was not going to admit that to Scribonius.

I know that. But I don’t want to give him any more attention or praise than I do to Libo or Capito.

They don’t need it the way that boy does, Scribonius replied. They’ve been with the army for some time now, and their position is secure. Scipio is new, and he’s struggling to prove himself and find his place. And you’re not helping matters.

So what do you want me to do about it? I protested.

Titus, that boy is like a lump of clay right now, clay that you can mold into the kind of nobleman that you don’t mind serving under instead of someone like Doughboy. Scribonius invoked the nickname of the first almost-forgotten Tribune that we had served under as tiros when Caesar had been Praetor in Hispania.

Even now, almost forty years later, Doughboy was still one of the worst Tribunes who marched with the standard, and mercifully, he had long since stumbled on the cursus honorum, disappearing from Rome and into oblivion.

Fine, I said sourly, goaded by Scribonius’ mention of our hated first Tribune. I'll mother him like a nanny goat does with her kid. Are you happy now?

Yes, he replied, a trifle too smugly for my taste.

Did anyone ever tell you that you'd make someone a wonderful wife? You already have the nagging part down to perfection.

I ducked his swing and, laughing, we continued on our way.

We arrived in Philippi shortly after the Kalends of May, to receive a less than cordial reception from Marcus Primus.

What took you so long? he demanded after I had made my way to the residence that Primus had commandeered for his own purposes.

I had not taken the time to clean the dust of the march from my uniform, while in contrast, Marcus Primus was expensively barbered and oiled, rings on every manicured finger, dressed in a richly embroidered tunic with the purple senatorial stripe. He was portly, bordering on obese, everything about the man stinking of privilege and rank, and he was a great deal younger than I was. I detested him immediately. Still, he was the Praetor of Macedonia, outranking me by a good deal. Accordingly, I rendered him a perfect salute and tried to sound contrite.

I apologize, sir. I assure you that we marched as quickly as we could, and it is a long way from Pannonia.

Still, I’ve been waiting here forever, he sniffed before waving a pudgy hand. No matter. You're here now, and we can begin our great adventure.

He clapped his hands together in undisguised glee, his fat face wreathed in a smile as he walked from behind his desk to stand in front of me. I towered above the little toad. He suddenly seemed to realize how undignified he appeared when standing near me and gave a little cough, retreating back behind his desk. Leaning on it, he indicated what appeared to be a large map unrolled on it, the ends held down, but the map itself covered by a cloth.

I'm sure you've spent most of your march here wondering exactly what I need two Legions for, he continued.

Despite having a pretty good idea what was going to happen, I will admit I was curious about whether or not I was correct in my assumption. Besides that, I knew what was expected of me.

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

Reviews for Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign

[oparaxenos · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was an excellent story in desperate need of an editor. While I thoroughly enjoyed the yarn about life in the legions from the standpoint of the ordinary solider, the clumsy syntax and sloppy grammar were a constant irritant. Notwithstanding, it says something for the quality of the story that I was spellbound through all 600 pages.

[darleneewilliams · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Published 2012, Smashword Edition, 652 pages Marching with Caesar is the historical fiction story of Titus Pullus, as dictated to his scribe and companion, told from a legionary’s point-of-view commencing when Titus is 16 and determined to enter Rome’s legions. It is his sole dream, one that is nourished by his brother-in-law, Cyclops, a former legionary, who trains Titus and his best friend, Vibius, for a military career. Titus Pullus is a big boy, standing over 6 feet tall and heavily muscled. This size is both a downfall and a blessing. The downfall is his father despises him because his mother died giving birth to such a large baby. The blessing becomes apparent when he becomes a soldier in the ranks of the legions, although it does make him a target for the enemy who want to kill such a large foe. Fortunately, for Titus, he has two loving sisters and a slave couple who raised him. Yet, this is not enough to protect him entirely from his father’s hatred. Residing on a fallow farm with his alcoholic father, Titus fantasizes about the day he can leave forever. Although he is underage by one year, the promise of never seeing his son again and a belly full of booze convinces his father to swear to officials Titus is 17 years old, the minimum age Rome legions will accept tiros for training. Titus is smug and full of pride at his size and his fighting capabilities. His time with Cyclops has him convinced he knows pretty much all there is becoming a legionnaire. His smugness quickly evaporates the first day when harshly disciplined by his superior for minor infractions. Rome’s strength was the absolute obedience of its legions regardless of whether they agreed with commands. Titus, Vibius and their tent mates complete their intensive training and are now ready for action under their new Praetor, Gais Julius Caesar, in the newly raised 10th Legion. Caesar will rely heavily on the 10th Legion in the years and campaigns to come. Marching with Caesar is 652 pages long. Fortunately, Caesar was a busy, ambitious man building an empire. In conquering such an empire, Caesar is forced to repeatedly subdue tribes in Gaul bent on rebelling against Rome’s rule. Marching with Caesar details the daily lives of legionnaires, complete with the killing lust, comradeship, vulgarities (Peake has a glossary of Latin terms, a few of which made me laugh out loud), harsh punishments dealt for infractions and the joy of victories. Peake makes no excuses for actions that would be viewed as atrocities, in that day and today. It was what it was. I won’t go into any detail of the plot, as to do so would contain spoilers. Marching with Caesar is not just a man’s book. Peake captivated me throughout this entire epic work. I marched in the mud, huddled in wet misery, dug trenches, brutally killed enemies and massacred villages, buried bodies, built and destroyed Roman camps with incredible efficiency, was the enemy’s target, lost and loved with Titus. I was present at his every move compliments of Peake’s superior prose. My recommendation is to read the foreword. It contains vital information which assists in understanding military operations, formation of legions and ranks.