Julius Caesar and the Mishap at Zela

The battle done, Julius Caesar turned his attention to dictating messages for his supporters back in Rome. In his tent sat his favourite scribe, Didius, scribbling on one papyrus after another, frantically keeping pace with Caesar’s thoughts. Beside Didius sat two teenage lads, similar to each other in build and facial features, but with an important exception: one was bald, while the other possessed a lush growth of curly, black hair.

“I have to send a message to the Senate urgently. That is the most important of all,” Caesar said, as he hurriedly concluded his speech to a prominent wine trader in Rome.

The papyrus on which Didius had been written was instantly whisked away by one of the lads and replaced by a pristine one. He had trained the lads well.

Caesar sat with folded arms, deep in thought. Having served Caesar for more than five years, Didius knew not to interrupt when he was planning. He was aware that Caesar was mulling upon his choice of words that would produce a favourable impact within the Senate. 

Caesar had a good many enemies in the Senate, and being an immaculate statesman, he exerted the full capacity of his literary prowess, aided by Didius’ stylus, to silence any loose tongue that might have the temerity to wag against him. 

A sudden clang outside and a rush of feet brought an end to Didius’ train of thoughts. Caesar had already leapt off his chair, and was halfway out of the tent.

“Light the torches,” he shouted, as he dashed out of the tent into the fading light of dusk.

... the year was 47 BC. Less than twenty years ago Pompey had defeated Mithridates of Pontus and brought his lands under Roman dominion. Now Pharnaces, son of Mithridates, had risen to reclaim Pontus, and Julius Caesar decided to discipline him. Near the town of Zela, beside the Black Sea, Pharnaces led an unexpected charge upon Caesar’s legions. His chariots had scythes projecting from their wheels, and many Roman legionaries had their legs sliced off that day. After  the initial havoc wreaked by the chariots, the training and discipline of the Roman legions proved superior, and Pharnaces was defeated. In the aftermath of battle, the Roman camp was littered with the debris of Pharnaces’ chariots, many smashed to bits with their scythes sticking at unpredictable angles, interspersed with the corpses of dead horses and men. Once again Rome had prevailed over her enemies.

As Caesar left, Didius assumed charge within the tent. “Did you not hear him? Light the torches,” he ordered, pointing to the wooden logs wrapped in cloth lying in a corner. 

Didius had bought the twins two years ago from a poor farmer in northern Italy. But he treated them more as apprentices than slaves, sometimes even entrusting the transportation of his precious scrolls and tablets to them. A rambunctious donkey had been the  twins’ proud predecessor, but Caesar had set it free at the river Rubicon. Didius had parted with the donkey with some reluctance that day. He still held fond memories of that donkey who, though encumbered by an unruly spirit, had served him well, like the twins were doing now.

Over the last two years, the lads had been happy to leave their father’s farm and enjoy the adventures with the Roman legions. Likewise, their father had been glad to get rid of them—for reasons that Didius did not fathom till later. The twins held a streak of turning mundane occurrences into the most perilous of escapades. To make matters worse, when Didius chose to punish one of them, both pleaded innocence and accused the other. Their physical similarities made it impossible for Didius to tell them apart.

To overcome this dilemma, one day Didius caught hold of one of the lads and proceeded to shave his head with the blade of a dagger. Thereafter, he ensured that that lad shaved his head everyday. He appropriately named the boys based upon the status of their hair: Cincinnatus for the curly haired one and Calvus for the bald. 

Didius shuddered to think of the day when Cincinnatus might sabotage this scheme and shave his own head. Then the twins would look alike once again. Fortunately for Didius, the twins were still farm lads at heart and did not have the intellect to outwit him.

As the twins fidgeted with the torches in preparation for Caesar’s return, Didius peeked out from the doorway. The legionaries had surrounded a man who wore a different uniform than them. 

Ah, an enemy legionary. What fate awaits him?

Caesar was standing near the captive speaking with an officer. Didius recognized that officer. They called him Brutus and he was a friend of Caesar’s. From the very first day Didius had crossed paths with Brutus, his ferocity and cold demeanour had inspired him with fear. 

The legionaries pushed the captive to his knees. The man, unarmed and defenceless, raised his arms in supplication. With an energetic thrust, Brutus buried his gladius into the captive’s chest, the sharp end penetrating through the body and piercing out of his back. As the man shrieked but for the last time, Didius shuddered and retreated within the tent. 

Now he was even more terrified of Brutus. This barbarism is beyond me.

By then Cincinnatus and Calvus had lit two torches, but left unsupervised, they were playing, pretending to be enemies and clashing the torches. 

“Stop that, you fools,” Didius retorted. “Caesar will be back soon.”

Startled on hearing Caesar’s name, Calvus' grip slackened on his weapon. At that exact moment, Cincinnatus struck a blow upon Calvus. The torch, still aflame, flew out of Calvus’ grasp and landed squarely upon the pile of papyri that held Didius’ writings. The papyri erupted into flames.

“My scrolls…,” Didius gasped. He sat on the floor, clutching a hand to his chest.

Cincinnatus leapt into action. He picked up the offending torch and threw both it, and his own, out of the tent. Then he stripped off his tunic, with Calvus following suit. The twins started beating the pile of burning papyri with their tunics, taking turns as they did. 

The flames had enveloped the entire pile by then, and the incessant pounding, instead of dousing them, encouraged the flames to spread through the fragile fibres of the papyri. To make matters worse, the half-charred scrolls were being rapidly shredded by the spirited assault by the twins.

“Water,” Calvus yelled, sprinting toward an amphora resting on a table nearby.

“That’s not water.” Didius shrieked, aghast. “That’s…”

But Didius’ words were lost upon the enthusiastic lad as he unloaded the contents of the amphora on the burning pile of papyri. A flow of red liquid, lit bright like blood by fire, touched the conflagration. The flames leapt up with renewed vigour, spreading along the trails made by the liquid.

“You fools… that was wine in the amphora.” Didius was breathless. “My scrolls...”

“Get out, the lot of you.” A harsh voice rang out. Caesar was standing in the doorway of the tent. 

Didius stumbled up and hurriedly retrieved his palette of styli and pot of ink before the flames could engulf them. Casting a last look at the pile of burning papyri, he rushed to obey Caesar, the twins in tow. 

Once outside, Didius came to an abrupt halt, face to face with Brutus who was staring daggers at him. 

Is he going to run me through too? 

Didius shrank back from Brutus, keeping an attentive eye on his gladius-wielding arm.

Clouds of smoke billowed out of the tent. Several legionaries, armed with pails of water, dashed inside.

“Who started the fire?” Caesar asked. 

He glanced at the twins, then at Didius, and then swept his gaze behind. The corpse of the enemy legionary lay within sight, encircled by a reddish-brown patch on the ground.

It was Cincinnatus who answered first, not daring to look at Caesar. “It was me.”

All, except Calvus, turned towards the culprit.

“It was me, not him,” said Calvus. The confession took Didius by surprise. 

But Cincinnatus countered his brother. “Don’t punish him. I started the fire. Punish me.”

The twins had always blamed each other for their misdemeanours in the past. For Didius, this was a rare spectacle—brothers trying to protect each other, despite the danger of punishment. On witnessing the self-sacrificing behaviour of the brothers, Didius felt a head taller. 

Now I don’t have to force Calvus to shave his hair.

A legionary trailed out of Caesar’s tent and reported to Brutus. “The fire goes down. One table and papyri on the floor burnt completely.”

“It’s important to send a message to Rome about my victory at Zela,” Caesar told Brutus. He turned towards Didius. “But all the papyri have been destroyed by your lads.”

Didius flinched at Caesar’s reprimand.

“Maybe I should punish both of you,” Caesar said, now looking directly at the twins. 

A surge of resentment coursed through Didius. 

All that he thinks of is how he can be a hero to the Senate. While my scrolls… ruined. And these young lads may have to pay the price.

But then Caesar’s expression softened and there was a hint of a twinkle in his eyes. “Or find a way to send my message to Rome and redeem yourselves,” he told the twins.

Without uttering a word, Calvus held something out towards Caesar. Didius peered at the object that the bald twin was offering. It was a small bit of papyrus. 

So Calvus rescued a piece of papyrus from the fire. Oh, but such a tiny sliver. Now let’s see how the great Caesar sends his message to Rome. 

Caesar took the uneven piece of papyrus from Calvus and measured it against his hand: it was the size of his palm one way and half a finger’s length the other.

Didius smiled with smug satisfaction at Caesar’s predicament but then held his mirth in check. Brutus was still monitoring him, his hand now resting upon the handle of his gladius.

“This is sufficient,” Caesar said. He handed the papyrus to Didius. 

“Now write this: ‘I came. I saw. I conquered.’ And send it to Rome immediately.”

Didius’ eyes widened. Caesar held the familiar look of concentration that commanded silence from all.

Didius dipped the tip of his stylus into the pot of black ink that he clutched. His hand shook as he wrote on the sliver of papyrus in Latin.

“VENI   VIDI   VICI”

Heaps of scrolls lie forgotten, but these words by Julius Caesar have stood the test of time. It shows that brevity paired with finesse creates a lasting impact.

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~ A. David Singh