Free Marching With Caesar - Civil War by R. W. Peake

nodded and said simply, “I thought so.” He suddenly stood and turned away so that I could not see his face as he continued, “Titus, I know how you feel, trust me in that. Remember how I felt about Juno?”
    This was the first time I had heard her mention her name since that awful time back in Hispania, and I took it as a sign that the wound was no longer raw and open, but had begun to scab over.
    “I remember,” I said quietly, and I thank the gods that I caught myself from adding that it was different, because I know that would have wounded Vibius deeply.
    “I wish I could say that it gets easier, but it doesn’t.” He drank deeply, then turned to me, shrugging with a sad smile on his face.
    “Well, if you’re trying to cheer me up, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it,” I said, only half-jokingly, but he laughed anyway.
    Then he turned serious again and said simply, “I just wanted you to know that I know how you feel.”
    “Thank you, Vibius. It does help, a little.”
    There was a silence, then Vibius cleared his throat and awkwardly set the cup down on the desk. “Yes, well. I’ll be off then, Centurion.”
    “Thank you again, Vibius. It’s good to know I still have a friend.”
    “Always,” he replied simply, then turned and left the tent.
    Oh, how I wish those words had held true.
    ~ ~ ~ ~
    One of the small benefits of marching in Italia was that we no longer had to construct the standard “marching camp in the face of the enemy” as it is called in the manuals, meaning that we would be settled down earlier in the day than usual for us. While this was a boon for the men, for the Centurions it was a never-ending source of headaches because idle time is our worst enemy since it gives the rankers more time to get into some sort of mischief, and the number of men on charges was getting to be a serious matter. I called for my Optio, glad at least that I finally had someone in the position that I knew I could rely on totally, my old comrade Scribonius. When I had first been made Pilus Prior, I was forced to name a man named Albinus as my Optio, for reasons that I no longer even remember. He had been almost useless; a weak, indecisive man who showed little initiative and even less enthusiasm for his job, thinking of it as a benefit rather than a responsibility. Unfortunately, his performance was not substandard enough for me to relieve him without a major headache, but the gods smiled on me by striking him down with the bloody flux, and he had the good grace to die shortly before we left Massilia. This time I was not going to make the same mistake, immediately approaching Scribonius, who had turned out to be one of the best choices I could have made, not only because he was one of the most popular men in the Century, but in the whole Cohort as well. His courage was unquestioned, but most importantly he was respected for his fairness and his ability to use reason instead of brute force. That did not mean he was soft; he could crack skulls with the best of us, yet he did not use force as his first resort, like some of the other officers. Now, he stood before me and I was sure my expression mirrored his, one of exasperation and a wry amusement at the ingenuity of the men. One of my saltiest veterans, Figulus, had gone missing, despite the best attempts of both Scribonius and I to keep the men too busy to think up ways to sneak out of camp. Figulus had been a close companion of the late Atilius, but possessed a shred more common sense, usually knowing when to rein in his wilder impulses. He had also been one of the men Caesar recalled and like Crastinus, had expressed his joy at being back in the army, civilian life proving not to be to his taste. But now, the fat countryside with the pleasant towns and pretty girls were proving too much of a temptation and he had managed to slip out of camp to go sample the local wares.
    “The best I can tell, he managed to hide himself in the supply wagon that came this