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

afternoon,” Scribonius reported. I considered this, stepping outside to look at the sun to calculate the time. There were still a couple of watches of daylight, but we were scheduled for an evening formation, the Primus Pilus deciding to hold it as a deterrent for just such behavior, and the penalty for missing formation is a flogging. Knowing that, I was fairly sure that Figulus had every intention of returning before evening formation.
    “Very well. We’ll hold the report until the last possible minute. As long as he makes it back before formation, then we won’t have to write him up.”
    “Yes, sir. But we can’t just let him get away with sneaking off like that.”
    “Don’t worry,” I said grimly. “He won’t. I’ll see to that myself.”
    ~ ~ ~ ~
    As it turned out, I was right; Figulus magically reappeared, getting past the sentries on the gate about a sixth of a watch before evening formation. I saw him striding back to his tent, looking immensely pleased with himself, and I smiled, but it was not a friendly smile.
    “Figulus!” I barked his name, pleased to see the expression on his face change instantly as he froze in mid-stride. “Get over here, now!”
    He immediately turned and ran to me, stopping and coming to intente , eyes riveted to a point above my head. “Gregarius Figulus reporting as ordered, Pilus Prior,” he rapped out the standard response.
    To someone who did not know Legionaries in general and Figulus in particular, all would have appeared normal, but I could detect the hint of worry in his voice.
    “How are you, Figulus?” I asked with a tone of concern, a senior Centurion checking on the welfare of his men, deepening Figulus’ confusion.
    “Sir?” His tone and manner was one of uncertainty, appearing confused by my solicitous tone, precisely the effect I was intending.
    “I just haven’t had a chance to talk to you lately, and you’re one of the veterans that were part of our dilectus and came from Pompey’s Legions. You were there when Vinicius bought it, weren’t you?”
    The mention of our old Optio’s name brought a shadow of sadness across the older man’s face, and I instantly regretted bringing up the unpleasant memories associated with his name. We had watched him incinerated in front of our very eyes, during our very first campaign in Hispania under a then little-known Praetor named Gaius Julius Caesar. It was to Vinicius I owed my first position as weapons instructor; he had taught me almost as much as Cyclops had about how to fight.
    “Yes, sir,” he said quietly, and while his face remained expressionless, I could see his eyes soften at the memory.
    “There are just so few old-timers left that I try to keep an eye out for all of you, and we haven’t had a chance to talk lately. So, is everything all right? Your old bones holding up to the long march?” I asked this in a slightly teasing tone, trying to lighten the mood.
    I saw his chest puff out, indignant at the implication that his age was catching up with him.
    “Pilus Prior, I’ll march any man’s cock into the dirt!” he exclaimed, and I laughed.
    “I know you would, Figulus. I just wanted to make sure all was well.”
    “Right as rain, Pilus Prior,” he had adopted the same bantering tone that I had, an old veteran wise in the ways of flattering his superiors and giving them exactly what they wanted to hear.
    “Good, I’m very glad to hear it. Very well, carry on Figulus. Remember we have evening formation in a few moments.”
    He saluted. “Yes, sir. Haven’t missed a formation yet, sir.”
    When he turned to march away, I could see the relief and joy at having gotten away with his misdeed written all over him.
    “You didn’t really think you would get away with it, did you?” I said softly, gratified to see his body go rigid with shock as he came to an abrupt halt.
    After a moment’s hesitation, to compose himself I was sure, he executed an about-face, his face a mask. “Sir?