II

On the next day Caesar called before him the thirteenth legion,—­the only force he had at Ravenna,—­and from a pulpit in front of the praetorium he told them the story of what had happened at Rome; of how the Senate had outraged the tribunes of the plebs, whom even the violent Sulla had respected; of how the mighty oligarchy had outraged every soldier in insulting their commander.  Then Curio, just arrived, declaimed with indignant fervour of the violence and fury of the consuls and Pompeius; and when he concluded, the veterans could restrain their ardour and devotion no more, five thousand martial throats roared forth an oath of fealty, and as many swords were waved on high in mad defiance to the Senate and the Magnus.  Then cohort after cohort cried out that on this campaign they would accept no pay; and the military tribunes and centurions pledged themselves, this officer for the support of two recruits, and that for three.

It was a great personal triumph for Caesar.  He stood receiving the pledges and plaudits, and repaying each protestation of loyalty with a few gracious words, or smiles, that were worth fifty talents to each acclaiming maniple.  Drusus, who was standing back of the proconsul, beside Curio, realized that never before had he seen such outgoing of magnetism and personal energy from man to man, one mind holding in vassalage five thousand.  Yet it was all very quickly over.  Almost while the plaudits of the centuries were rending the air, Caesar turned to the senior tribune of the legion.

“Are your men ready for the march, officer?”

The soldier instantly fell into rigid military pose.  “Ready this instant, Imperator.  We have expected the order.”

“March to Ariminum, and take possession of the town.  March rapidly.”

The tribune saluted, and stepped back among his cohort.  And as if some conjurer had flourished a wand of magic, in the twinkling of an eye the first century had formed in marching order; every legionary had flung over his shoulder his shield and pack, and at the harsh blare of the military trumpet the whole legion fell into line; the aquilifer with the bronze eagle, that had tossed on high in a score of hard-fought fights, swung off at the head of the van; and away went the legion, a thing not of thinking flesh and blood, but of brass and iron—­a machine that marched as readily and carelessly against the consuls of the Roman Republic as against the wretched Gallic insurgents.  The body of troops—­cohort after cohort—­was vanishing down the road in a cloud of dust, the pack train following after, almost before Drusus could realize that the order to advance had been given.

Caesar was still standing on the little pulpit before the praetorium.  Except for Curio and Drusus, almost all the vast company that had but just now been pressing about him with adulation and homage were disappearing from sight.  For an instant the Imperator seemed alone, stripped of all the panoply of his high estate.  He stood watching the legion until its dust-cloud settled behind some low-lying hills.  Then he stepped down from the pulpit.  Beyond a few menials and Drusus and that young man’s late comrade in danger, no one else was visible.  The transaction had been so sudden as to have something of the phantasmagoric about it.