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With that last disaster, it was over; all that was left to do was to turn the men loose to looting the camp, except we had to send men to fight the fire that the Jews had started first. Fortunately, it did not take long to put out, being confined to a relatively small section of the camp. Soon after, the men were busy grabbing everything they thought held any value, whether it really did or not, and I finally took the opportunity to sit down, grabbing a stool from a tent, dragging it out into the street to keep a partial eye on things. Only then did I dare to loosen the bandage and as I feared, the bleeding started again, not to mention the excruciating pain, once feeling returned to my foot. I summoned a medici, telling him to bandage it properly, but he took one look at it then informed me that the best he could do was a temporary bandage and that I needed to have it stitched up. Every few moments there would be a commotion in one part of the camp or another when men found an Egyptian who had escaped the first cursory search and was summarily dispatched. Once my leg was bound back up, I stood, intent on finding Caesar and the command group to receive orders, but I only went a few steps before I realized that I could not go much farther without some sort of help. Hopping over to a tent, I yanked down one of the tent poles, cut some leather to make some binding material, and with another short piece of wood, fashioned a crutch that allowed me to move more easily. I was not happy about the idea of hobbling up to Caesar, but it could not be helped, and I navigated my way to the Porta Decumana, looking for his standard. The carnage around the back gate was massive, the ruins of the wall studded with body parts protruding from it where men were crushed. Finally, spotting Caesar’s standard outside the gate, I made my way towards it, almost tripping and falling several times. Passing through the ruins of the gateway, I got my first glimpse of what turned out to be the end chapter not only of the Alexandrian war, but of Ptolemy XIII himself. A number of the ships in the river were capsized and there were hundreds, if not thousands, of bodies floating in the water. One of the capsized craft was larger than the rest, but at the time, I gave it no more than a passing glance as I hobbled up to Caesar, who looked at me in surprise and with not a little concern.
“Salve, Pullus. What happened to you? Are you all right?”
I grimaced. “A lucky shot, Caesar, it took a chunk of meat out of my calf, but I’m fine.”
He laughed. “You don’t look fine, but I'll take your word for it.”
“What are your orders, Caesar?” I did not want to appear rude, but neither did I want him to think I was weak.
He shook his head. “None for now. Let the men enjoy themselves tearing the camp apart.”
“Will we be going after Ptolemy?”
He looked at me in some surprise before pointing out to the large ship I had barely noticed before. “There's no need, Pullus. Ptolemy was on that barge and the men fleeing from the camp swam out and in their panic pulled the barge over. Ptolemy is at the bottom of the river. At least, that's what it appears at this moment and we've fished everyone out of the river that was still alive and none of them are Ptolemy. And some of the survivors reported that they saw him go under.” He gave a tight smile, but there was a hint of sadness. “Apparently his ceremonial armor wasn't conducive to floating.”
I said nothing for a moment, taking in what he said, trying to understand that it was indeed all over. A thought struck me and once again, I blurted it out without thinking, except this time I will blame the blood loss for loosening my tongue.
“Appropriate, I guess.”
Caesar looked at me sharply, then asked, “Appropriate? How so?”
“What happened to Ptolemy is the same thing that happened to us at the Heptastadion. I guess Nemesis decided to balance the scales.”
The instant I said it, I realized I should not have. Caesar’s face flushed, his lips tightening into a thin line, the sign that he was trying to control his temper.
Then he took a breath, exhaled it, and nodded. “Yes, perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. He looked me in the eye as he said, “But that's not something I would have you repeating, Pullus.”
I knew a warning when I heard it, so I emphatically agreed that such words would never pass my lips again. And they did not, until I uttered them to Diocles just now. Caesar dismissed me, telling me that there would be a meeting of the command group at the beginning of second watch, which is shortly after sundown. I hobbled off, wishing that I could lie down, but knowing that I had to keep a tight rein on the men to ensure they stayed in their assigned area. Of course, Ptolemy’s tent was marked for Caesar, but Ptolemy had a lot of retainers who traveled with him, meaning there were rich pickings in the camp to be had by the men, of which I got a cut, of course. The responsibilities of a Centurion in Caesar’s army were many and never-ending, yet I cannot lie and say that there were not many benefits. Reaching the Centurionate meant that if I did not gamble or drink my money away, I would retire a wealthy man, provided I managed to live long enough. Few of us did, but that was something I refused to think about very often, preferring to take each day as it came, much like I put one foot in front of the other on a long, difficult march. If I had stopped to think about the number of Centurions who died before they managed to reach retirement age, I might as well have fallen on my sword right then. Limping back to the stool that I had been sitting on, I dropped heavily upon it, sending a runner to find Fuscus, whose Cohort I had still not seen nor had any report from about what had happened. Men were dragging larger pieces of loot into the street, marking them with their initials, or their particular mark if they could not make their letters, with the Centurions and Optios marking down a description of the piece and who it belonged to on a wax tablet. In other words, it was the normal scene after the taking of a camp or town by the Legions of Rome. Finally, I heard my name called, looking up to see Fuscus approaching me, and I could tell by his posture and his expression that he was feeling guilty. Watching him march to me, I said nothing, instead waiting for Fuscus to give me a salute, which I returned. I waited for him to finish before I spoke, wanting to see if there was anything he wanted to say, but he stood there looking over my head, something I immediately recognized as a bad sign.