Seeing this, I decided to speak up, as I was sure that the men were reluctant to voice their feelings, though I knew they were there. “I can see some concern with this order,” I began. “Anyone care to say why they’re worried?”
For a moment, I began to think that nobody was going to say anything and that I had misread the situation. Then Balbus cleared his throat. I had expected this from either him or Scribonius, or perhaps Horatius, who was not shy about speaking up.
“It’s just that we're marching back with all the other Spanish Legions,” he said. I did not understand his meaning, so I bade him to continue. “The 7th, 8th, and 9th are now several years overdue for their discharge, and yet they're marching home.”
“Have you heard anything?” I asked.
Balbus shrugged, clearly reluctant to say much more, but I was not about to let him off the hook.
He had opened his mouth, so now I stared at him until he finally replied, “Nothing definite, no. Just some grumbling about having to march home, but not being able to return to their families.”
“They will, once we finish up with the Pompeian whelps,” I protested, but the others were not moved.
It was Scribonius who spoke up next, and I knew that he was speaking for the rest when he said, “Primus Pilus, the men have been hearing that for almost three years now. I think that they’re past believing that it will actually happen.”
The rest of the men added their agreement to what Scribonius had said, as I found myself rubbing my face once more, trying to decide what to do about it. Some said that I should immediately send word to Caesar about what I had heard, yet I did not feel that there was anything specific enough that would warrant such a move. If I ran to Caesar every time the men complained about something, I might as well have brought my cot to set up in his headquarters. Besides, I reasoned to myself, Caesar had ears everywhere, so I had to believe that I would not be telling him anything he had not already heard himself. Once again, I was wrong.
~ ~ ~ ~
We packed up, marching away from the Campus Martius, the 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, and the 13th, marching rapidly west. The first few days were tough on everyone, a month of celebration and debauchery taking some of the iron out of us so that we had more than the normal number of stragglers, some of them not making it to the nightly camp until well after dark. The days were starting to get shorter, though the weather held for the most part, although there were a few squalls while we were marching near the coast. Caesar was remaining behind in Rome to finish some of his legislative work, along with his continuing consolidation of power, or else it might have been even worse for us if we had marched at his normal pace. It took us more than six weeks to reach the border between the two Hispanias, marching into the camp of Pedius, Fabius, and the three Legions under their command. By the time we arrived, all the fat and soft living was marched off of all of us, including me. It was shortly after we arrived, with the men busy setting up their tents in the area marked off for the use of the 10th that the concerns of my Centurions came to fruition.
“Primus Pilus, you're needed at the praetorium immediately,” came the summons from one of the Legionaries on headquarter guard duty.
I was about to give him a good thrashing because he had not announced himself properly and his salute was sloppy, but I could see that he was a youngster from one of the new Legions, probably the 3rd, huffing and puffing from running to find me, and completely scared out of his wits. Something was happening, so this youngster was going to escape a beating, though I do not think he realized just how lucky he was.
“What is it?” I snapped. “Why are you all out of breath like Cerberus is chewing at your heels?”
Gasping for breath, it took a moment before he could stammer out a reply. “I don’t know, Primus Pilus. It just has something to do with some of the other Legions. General Pedius has called for all the Primi Pili and Pili Priores immediately.”
“Which other Legions?” I demanded as I turned to grab my helmet and vitus.
“I don’t know, sir. I just know that some of them have deserted.”
I stared at him in astonishment, then quickly shook my head. He surely had it wrong, but I was never one to take my wrath out on helpless rankers unless it had some sort of value. Ignoring the rest of what he was babbling on about, I sent Diocles to round up the Pili Priores while I trotted over to headquarters. When I arrived, some of the other officers were already there, talking excitedly to each other. While some of the others seemed surprised, I noticed others with a look of resigned acceptance, and I hurried over to a small group standing in a corner.
“What’s happening?”
The Primus Pilus of the 5th, a tough old bird by the name of Battus, gave a harsh laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You haven’t heard then? Well, it seems that some of your fellow Spaniards have decided that they’ve had enough and are marching to join Gnaeus Pompey.”
I said nothing, sure that he was just having some sort of fun at my expense, but then I saw the grim expressions of the other men around him.
Finally finding my tongue, I asked, “How many and which ones?”
“It looks like it’s the 8th and 9th,” Battus replied.
“And the 13th, looks like,” a new voice added and I turned to see none other than Torquatus, old of the 10th and now the Primus Pilus of the new 3rd Legion.
“The 13th!” I exclaimed. “But they still have a couple years left on their enlistment. The 8th and 9th I can understand, they’ve been unhappy for a long time. But the 13th?”
Torquatus shrugged. “I don’t have any better idea than you, Pullus, that’s just what I heard General Pedius say.”
“Where are they now?” Battus asked.
Torquatus indicated the area out beyond the front gate. “Formed up and marching away. They stayed just long enough for their Primi Pili to come tell Pedius what they were going to do, then left.”
“Pedius should sound the call to arms and we should hunt them down and kill every last one of the bastards,” Battus said angrily, as a couple of his own Centurions added their agreement.
While I understood his feelings, I knew that this was not a good idea, on a number of different levels. “And who's going to do the killing?” I asked. “My men?” I continued before he could reply. “The men of the 7th? Men who have marched side by side, bled side by side, died side by side? You really think that the men will be willing to lift a sword against some of their closest friends?”
“And relatives,” added Torquatus, but Battus was unmoved.
“The men will do what we tell them to do, damn them,” he stormed. “They take orders, and if the General orders it, and I hope he does, then they'll do their duty.”
“Speak for yourself,” Torquatus retorted. “I’ve got nothing but green youngsters. That lot,” he indicated the cloud of dust marking the passage of the defecting Legions, “would take a lot of killing, and you should know that as well as anyone. And just because your boys took on some elephants, that doesn’t mean that they’re any match for those Spaniards.”