Legio XIII Gemina: The Rubicon

II- Embers to Flames

     When Caesar received word of this, he ordered the camp prefect to have the men of the thirteenth prepare to march south at first light. 

Publius Sentius' perspective

"Any reason why the column is stopped, Decanus?" I call to Granius, over three heads. I rise onto my toes, straining to see what could be obstructing our path. A small river meets my eyes. A small river or a fast-moving creek? Either way, there should be no problem in fording the river. By Jove, I could reach the other side by walking on my knees!

Junius turned about after getting word from the man in front of him, "Granius says that the centurion told him that Caesar himself halts before the river." 

"Any word on why? Caesar has crossed many a river, so why balk at this one?" I hop, just to ensure that the river I saw is the same that Caesar stands before.

Junius turns back around, leaning around the man behind Granius. After a short discussion, he informs me of why, "Caesar hasn't received expressed permission from the Senate to march an army in Italia. However, the centurion is adamant that Pompey is raising an army in Magna Graecia." He hesitates, glancing at the lines of men adjacent to us. At barely a whisper, he continues, "Truthfully, Publius, we may be the aggressors."

"Thank you much, Junius." I keep my tone in check to hide the thoughts swirling in my head from spilling out. Aggressors against whom? Against Pompey? With Pompey being dictator, wouldn't that mean that we are marching against the will of the Senate? Such a treason is unlikely to sit well with the gods. I may be fighting Jupiter himself, if I accompany. 

     Dust began to hang low on the ground, paired with the stomping of hundreds of feet; we march again. I wade into the fording spot, the water laps against my upper calves -never reaching above my knees- with a current light enough to sail toy boats on and still manage to recover them. I step onto the southern shore, apprehension building in my muscles and my gut, sloshing water onto the pebbles underfoot. First steps into Italia, ne? Let the die be cast. 

     The sun has long since dipped below the Apennines as we stride under the gates of Ariminum. My numb feet remain a slave to the rhythm of the march. Horns continue to sound the marching beat, even while the northern half of the city falls away to reveal a marketplace. Empty and closing stalls remain, their goods packed and carted off. What few people still amble the cobbled streets do so with an urgency; hustling off to return home or imbibe. 

     Torch-lit streets funnel our stomping mass to a spot, draped in the shadows of the walls, for tired bodies to find a place to lie until the morning sun beckons them again. Centurions speed between slowing cohorts towards the camp prefect. As quickly as centurions arrive before the prefect, they salute and leave, journeying back to inform their units of the arrangement. Our centurion returns, leading us off to the block. A room, void of any adornments aside from the odd straw of hay lurking in the corners, greets me as the door slides open. I slide my bedroll off of my bag, the sound mirrored as my comrades do the same. I roll my linens out, slumping onto it with a sigh. Something lands next to my chest with a soft thump. Rolling over, my bread ration, courtesy of Granius, greets me. Rumbling overtakes my abdomen, begging to be satiated. I conquer my bread with bites larger than Jupiter's member. With each gulp of the wine infused water, my eyelids grow heavier. They finally close amidst some new recruits talking about the lay of a local barmaid.

    Someone kicks my thigh. Bright light. Morning. I rub my eyes. Once they readjust, I look up and see Marcus towering over me.

"It's the first hour. Get up. It's time to get marching," he growls, glaring over the bags under his eyes. 

"Understood." I break eye contact and hop up to my feet. 

     Hundreds of feet shuffle down the stairs and out the entrance of the insula that we resided in for the night. I barely attempt to walk, since my comrades eagerly push me ever forwards through the door. Stepping across the threshold with my right foot, I follow the tide through the streets and back to the forum. I gaze out across men filling their ranks as the morning sun sparkled on the dew atop market canvases. Before the cohorts sits a temporary rostra. Five chairs sat empty upon it- three more than what would be necessary for the legion's prefect, tribune and legate to speak. Three additional officials? Have the other legions from Gaul caught up?  My eyes trace the tops of the formations in search of my cohort's Signifer. I spot him at stage right, adjacent to the sixth cohort. 

"Salve, Junius." I greet, grabbing his wrist and shaking it. 

"Salve to you, my friend! Glad to see that Marcus managed to wake you. Sleep well, I hope?" He claps the back of my neck, studying my face and eyes.

"Like baby Hercules. The early light eludes my memory, though waking at the first hour is no more late than Caesar himself rises." I glance at the rostra, still vacant. "Any word on when Caesar will speak or what it is about?"

Junius furrows his eyebrows, glancing towards his right foot. Meeting my eyes again, he answers, "not that I've heard. We have marching to do, so I believe it should be close."

"Ranks remain empty. Caesar must be waiting for them to be filled before rising to the stage," I say, circumspecting for a glimpse of Caesar's bodyguard. Yet, my search was as fruitless as searching for a fig amidst falling snow. 

     After some time, men filed out of an alley to my right. Two lines quickly formed on either side of the illustrious general, wordlessly slipping from position to position until he ascends the stage. Behind Caesar trails our prefect and tribune. The additional three ascend a moment after the legion's officials and took their seats in the middle. They wore well-kept togas with a stripe denoting their office as Tribunes of the Plebs. Isn't it illegal for Tribunes of the Plebs to leave the city during office? How are they allowed to be here? Caesar stepped forward, gesturing for the legion to be quiet. 

"Legion Thirteen, I bear sad tales from Rome. Behind me sit Quintus Cassius Longinus, Lucius Marcius Philippus and Marcus Antonius. All three men have been chased from the Senate -and even Rome itself- by those same men who corrupted Pompey's heart! Alienating him from our sacred pact and driving me to where I stand! Like before the blood-soaked reign of Sulla, these men, burning with jealousy hotter than the sun itself at the laurels you men bestowed upon me, are raising troops in Magna Graecia without approval from the Senate. And so, it is without the approval of the Senate that I must march south and put their tirade to an end! 

"It is my solemn regret to say that Pompey indeed marches with the rebels to the south- worse still, it is he who holds the mantle of Dictator! It burdens my heart so to aim for victory by defeating my dear friend..." his eyes drop to a spot between his feet for a moment, but just as quickly, he triumphantly flicks his eyes to his men. "But I will do what is necessary for the Republic and for the Tribunes of the Plebs! What about you men?" He throws his arms open, preparing to be bathed in our calls of reassurance.

We rattle our shields with our swords or pilae, whooping and chanting, "for the Tribunes and for our Imperator!"

"Then follow me! Glory awaits!"