There were no questions, so we made our way back to our men, where the orders were relayed. I could plainly see the exhaustion etched in the faces of the men of not just my Cohort, but the entire Legion. Yet, they better than any other group of men knew the stakes for which we were playing. The sun was hanging just above the rim of low hills to the west and I calculated that Caesar would wait until the last possible moment, so it was light enough to launch our foray then regroup, but close enough to dark that once we did, we could make our escape in the night. As the moments passed by, the tension increased; the enemy continuing to dash towards us to throw their missiles, which the men continued to try and block. We had already made several rotations of the front line, meaning very few men had shields that were not pierced in several places, the nubs of the javelins sticking out jaggedly from where the shafts were knocked off by our men. A sign of the desperate straits we were in was the complete absence of the normal amount of complaining about the cost that the men would have to incur in drawing another shield from the quartermaster, since the amount for it would be deducted from their pay. I was beginning to think that Caesar either had cut it too fine or even changed his mind when the cornu blast finally came. Fighting through the fatigue, the men leaped forward once again, while I was in the lead, determined that I would not be limping along this time.
~ ~ ~ ~
Dispersing the enemy, we sent them flying once again before hurrying back into formation just as the sun plunged behind the hills. In the quickly growing gloom, we prepared ourselves as much as we could to march quietly, wrapping the bits of gear that tended to rub together with strips of cloth from our neckerchiefs or bandages. I personally inspected the First Cohort, instructing the Pili Priores to do the same for theirs, making sure that the men made their preparations correctly, and I was pleased to see that I did not need to make any corrections. This next bit was going to be tricky, because we could not rely on our normal signaling methods of cornu call or waving of the standards. Instead, Caesar was relying on mounted couriers, galloping back and forth from one end of the formation to the other, passing instructions. We set out shortly after dark, moving as quietly as we could for a group of armed men of that size, none of us making a sound, not even whispering to each other. Marching quickly under the circumstances, we progressed through the darkness, yet we had no contact with the Pompeians. It was only later that we learned that Petreius had chosen roughly the same time to withdraw back to Thapsus, though I do not know why. We made it back to camp at Ruspina shortly before the beginning of third watch, the men throwing themselves down on their cots, not even bothering to undress, only pulling off their sword belt and armor. Naturally, we Centurions did not have that luxury, having to get a final head count then present the butcher’s bill to headquarters. The 10th had lost 15 dead and 30 wounded, while it looked like at least three of the wounded would either die or be so badly crippled they would have to be sent home on a ship returning to Italy as soon as they were able. One of the dead was an Optio in the Third Century, pierced through the eye by a Numidian javelin, so there was the matter of a promotion to attend to at some point as well. When I went to headquarters, my mood was not improved any by the news that first thing in the morning, Caesar had decided that we needed to improve the defenses of the camp.
“We'll construct a ditch linking the camp with the town, so that when supplies come in we can transfer them without being worried that they'll be subject to interception.” Caesar was looking at the survey map of the town and the camp that his engineers had drawn for him, his finger tracing the line that would mark where thousands of men would be sweating the next day.
The lines around his mouth were even deeper than normal, while there were dark circles under his eyes, his features drawn and haggard from the ordeal we had just gone through. I am not the only one getting old, I thought to myself as I looked at him, startled at the sudden insight into how much he had aged in just the last year. He still moved with the same vitality, had the same seemingly inexhaustible energy that made younger men like me envious, but the cares and troubles of the civil war could plainly be seen in the contours of his face. Even as I was studying him, he suddenly looked up, catching my eye, seemingly divining my thoughts and giving me an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders as if to say, “Here we are. What more can we do?”
I turned back to the map, and when it was my turn to say so, I acknowledged the instructions. I made haste to depart so that I could get at least a couple thirds of a watch of sleep, but not before I walked the tent lines to check on the men on guard, who were the only ones up and about. Finally satisfied, I retired to my tent, cursing yet again the absence of Diocles.
~ ~ ~ ~
Next morning saw the beginning of the work on the defenses that Caesar had outlined, with the men of the 10th assigned to digging the section of the ditch immediately next to camp. The men were not happy about the work, meaning that the Centurions were busy with their vitus, making sure that none of them were shirking. Meanwhile, the Legion armorers were put to work creating lead slingshot and javelins, signs that Caesar was going on the defensive.
I was standing with Scribonius, watching his Cohort at work when he motioned to me to walk a few feet away to where the men could not hear. “I think that what happened yesterday shook Caesar up pretty badly,” he said, his face turned towards the men so I could not look him in the eye.
If it had been anyone other than Scribonius, I would have rebuked him sharply, but we had been together too long and he was as staunch a supporter of Caesar as I was. For the first time, I heard doubt in his voice and realized that he was looking for some sort of reassurance from me that the situation was in hand, that Caesar was still master of our fates. Unfortunately, at least for Scribonius, I could not disagree with his assessment, because I had seen something in Caesar’s face the night before that I had never seen before, real worry and even worse, doubt.
I could do no better for Scribonius than shrug my shoulders, replying, “I can’t dispute that Scribonius, I think he was surprised by the number of the enemy and how quickly they showed up.” I turned to him and smiled, hoping that it did not look as false as it felt. “But we’ve been in tighter spots than this and he’s always gotten us out on top, hasn’t he?”
“I’m not worried about all the times in the past; I’m worried about this time. Everyone’s luck runs out and of all the people whose fortune has run longer than normal, Caesar is at the top of the list.”
“Just proof how much the gods favor him,” I retorted.
“But we both know how fickle the favor of the gods is, and how quickly they can turn their faces away.”
I always hated arguing with Scribonius, because he never got upset, nor did he let his emotions rule his tongue. Before he ever opened his mouth on any subject, he thought it through thoroughly, and this time was no different.
Finally, in exasperation, I threw my hands up, signaling that I surrendered. “Scribonius, I'm not sure what you're looking for, but if it’s reassurance that everything will be all right, you said it yourself. Everyone’s luck runs out and this might be Caesar’s time.”
“Thanks,” he said sourly. “If I wanted to feel bad, I would have kept my thoughts to myself.”
His expression was so peeved that I could not help but laugh, and I punched him in the shoulder. “What’s the matter? You wanted to live to a ripe old age or something?”
That got a laugh out of him, rueful as it may have been. “The thought had crossed my mind,” he admitted.
“Well, let’s see if we can survive today and the next couple of days, then we’ll worry about that.”