“Caesar wants us to be ready to march in two parts of a watch,” Torquatus said grimly, and despite myself, I gasped with shock, the only saving grace being that I was not alone in my reaction.
“Why?” Celer blurted out, and I was still in too much shock to admonish him for speaking out of turn. Truthfully, he only asked the same question I would have asked.
Torquatus smiled, but it was not a happy look on his face as he said, “Because as many big fish as we may have bagged, the biggest one got away. Pompey was spotted heading for Larisa and Caesar wants to hunt him down. He’s ordering the Spanish Legions to march with him.”
“How many men does Pompey have?” I asked, but the answer was only a shrug as Torquatus looked away, clearly not wanting to answer the question.
Again, I was not alone, evidenced by one of his own Centurions asking him again.
Finally, Torquatus let out a sigh and said, “Perhaps 30 mounted men, and less than a Century of infantry.”
“And he wants to chase that with four Legions?” someone asked in astonishment; I do not remember who.
Now Torquatus’ face started to suffuse with red and he snapped, “I don’t remember hearing that the Legions have become a debating society. Caesar has ordered it, and that’s that. Make your men ready.”
As quickly as it had come, his anger passed. He could only look at us and shrug helplessly, “I know that it stinks, but those are our orders.”
“The men are really not going to like this.”
All heads turned to the one of us with the courage to utter aloud what we were all thinking, and it was with equal parts pride and irritation that I saw that Scribonius had opened his mouth. His tone was less of an admonishment than it was thoughtful, and looking at him, I saw an expression that I had come to learn meant that he was thinking things through.
Torquatus, however, was in no mood for indulging Scribonius’ mental exercise, and he said angrily, “You think I don’t know that? Well, I do, but I also know that they’re going to do what they’re fucking told, or I’ll flay every last one who so much as whispers a word against my orders.”
“Primus Pilus, with all respect, I'd be careful what you say, because I think that you’ll have to carry it out on almost every man of the Legion, and not just in the ranks.”
I cannot convey the quality of shock that immediately descended on the group when these words were uttered, not just from the words themselves but who had uttered them. Quintus Balbus was the Primus Princeps, the Centurion in charge of the Third Century of the First Cohort, and outside of Gaius Crastinus himself, was one of the most respected Centurions of the Legion. He was a large, muscular man, although not as large as I was, and his arms were covered with scars, as was his face, where a Gaulish axe had sliced off one ear and left the right side of his face a knotted mass of scar tissue. Balbus was well regarded enough that if he were to be permanently appointed Primus Pilus over Torquatus, none of us would be particularly surprised, nor displeased. Except Torquatus, of course. Balbus did not talk much, but when he did, he usually said something that needed to be said, and apparently, he believed that this was one of those times.
Despite there being no love lost between Torquatus and Balbus, the acting Primus Pilus could not afford to ignore such dire words from a man like Balbus, and his face clouded with doubt as he asked warily, “What do you mean Balbus? Spit it out, man! Don’t talk in riddles.”
However, Balbus was not one to be cowed, even by his superior, and he did not speak for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.
Finally, he spoke in a lower tone of voice to keep his words from carrying far. “Simply this, Primus Pilus. The men are as exhausted as any of us have ever seen them. Would anyone disagree with that?” We all shook our heads, and Balbus continued. “Add to that the men weren’t allowed to plunder the camp, nor were they allowed to take the Pompeian baggage as spoils of war.”
“But you know why Caesar did that,” Torquatus protested, but Balbus held up his hand in a placating gesture.
“I’m not saying I disagree, Torquatus. What I am saying is, put yourself in the men’s boots for a moment and see it how they see it. I’m not saying they’re right; in fact, I think they’re in the wrong, but right now I don’t think right or wrong much matters.” Grudgingly, Torquatus nodded his head, indicating that Balbus should continue. “We all know that there's already been trouble with the men, although thankfully it hasn’t been with the 10th. . yet.” He looked meaningfully at each of us, then finished, “I think that the men are at the end of their tether physically, and they feel like they've been wronged. What I’m afraid of is that if those bastards in the 9th refuse to march, and I think that’s exactly what they’re going to do when they get the order, that our boys are going to follow suit.”
We stood for a moment, digesting what Balbus said.
Finally, Scribonius spoke, his face creased in a thoughtful frown. “But the men of the 9th have at the least a legitimate complaint because of their discharge situation. None of the 10th is due for a discharge for some time yet. So what do you think they’ll use as their excuse?”
No sooner had the words left Scribonius’ mouth than I was hit with a sickening certainty, making me feel like I had been punched in the stomach.
Slowly, I said, “I think I know what it’ll be.”
Almost like it was on command, all heads turned, the eyes of every Centurion fastening on mine. By this time, our small group was joined by most of the rest of the Centurions of the 10th, and before I spoke, there was a whispered account of what had been said to that point. Seeing the mixture of expressions sweep across the face of the other Centurions as they digested what had transpired, my sick feeling increased when I saw that surprise was not one of them.
Finally, I spoke again. “I know that the men have been muttering for several days about the bonus that Caesar promised them.”
Despite myself, I glanced at Scribonius, and saw that he knew exactly where my thoughts were, because one of the loudest complainers was my very own Optio. I had hoped that promoting Vibius to Optio would at the very least modify his feelings about Caesar, because now that he was an officer, albeit a junior one, he could no longer engage in the kind of talk that pervades the ranks about their senior officers. Also, I hoped that by more exposure to Caesar and his decisions, he would come to see the man for what he truly was and not what Vibius had made him out to be in his mind, just another patrician who used the plebs to further his own ends without any regard for the greater good. However, nothing of the sort had happened; if anything, Vibius’ animosity towards Caesar had increased. And I was guilty of turning a deaf ear to his talk around the campfire, except in truth, I was not ignoring his talk any more than I did over the last several years, but that was, and is, a shabby excuse. Being my Optio, I should have called him to account long before and made him shut his mouth, no matter how it had to be done, but I had not. And now, I was sure that if Balbus was right, and there was a mutiny, the men of the 10th would use the bonus as their justification for joining their comrades.
Now that I had spoken my suspicions, I saw several heads nodding, and someone said, “I think Pullus is right. I know that my boys have been moaning about it for a couple weeks now.”
“I can’t say that I blame them,” said a voice.
I whipped my head around to see who had uttered such nonsense, but was shocked to the core when I heard many voices add their agreement, and I looked over at Torquatus, who looked as surprised as I did. But significantly, or at least so I thought, Balbus did not look surprised at all, and wondered what that meant.