Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part II-Cleopatra

by Peake, R. W.

  “Any troublemakers?”

  He looked chagrined, but I did not hold his answer against him.

  “More than I'd like. It seems as if some of our Centurions aren't the best judges of character, Decimus Ovidius in particular,” he replied, naming the Princeps Prior of the Fifth Century. “I was tempted to throw out half the men he signed up, and of the problems we had on the march, most of them came from his group. Numerius Cossus wasn't much better, but I think he’s a scoundrel at heart himself.”

  I sighed, shaking my head at Scribonius’ words, not just because of the implication of them concerning the number of men who might cause problems, but I also knew that his assessment of Cossus was dead accurate. Cossus was the Hastatus Posterior of the Seventh Cohort, and was proving to be one of those Centurions I so despised, using his Century as a source of income by inflicting or withholding punishment depending on how much a man was willing to pay. His Century was one of the unhappiest in the Legion, but to that point, I had been unable to catch him in anything egregious enough to relieve him.

  “Anyone stand out? Someone who might be worthy of being restored to the Centurionate or as Optio?”

  “Quintus Albinus,” he responded instantly. “He was a Pilus Prior in Pompey’s First Legion, or so he claimed, and I believe him. He’s about our age. Or, my age,” he amended hastily, “but he's fit. And he's a leader; you can tell just by looking at the way he goes about his business and the way he was helping the raw youngsters.”

  My brow furrowed, trying to remember where I had heard that name before.

  “Is he about this tall?” I held my hand up to just above my shoulder.

  Scribonius laughed. “Yes, but isn’t everyone compared to you?”

  I shook my head in irritation, the memory of a man in Dyrrhachium slowly returning.

  “Very fair?”

  “Yes, hence the name ‘Albinus,’” Scribonius replied dryly.

  The final piece of what had become a puzzle clicked into place as my mind’s eye recalled more details from that day and the man of whom I was thinking.

  “Did he have a long, jagged scar up his arm?”

  Now Scribonius was surprised, which made me feel a bit smug, I can tell you.

  “Yes! You do know him! But how? From where?”

  I explained the circumstances of my meeting with then-Decimus Princeps Prior Quintus Albinus, when I had led the Second Cohort to take a redoubt that Pompey constructed in the lines surrounding our positions, when Scribonius was my Optio. As I recounted what I remembered, my old friend’s eyes lit up, then he snapped his fingers.

  “Yes! I remember now! I should have recognized him myself, but that was so long ago. Titus, you have the memory of Perseus himself. I didn’t speak to him that day. I was taking care of the wounded as I remember, but I certainly saw him closely enough.”

  Once we had established his identity, I decided to renew our acquaintance, and I knew just how to do it. I called for Agis, and was about to send him to find Albinus. Then, realizing that he would disappear and never come back, I gave him the simpler task of finding Lutatius, who arrived shortly. If he was surprised at my order to go find a ranker out of the new men, he did not show it. Since we had not made the assignments of the men to their respective Cohorts and Centuries, they were in their own part of our area, meaning Lutatius had to parade up and down the streets calling out Albinus’ name before he was found.

  Quintus Albinus, new Legionary Gregarius of the 10th Legion was escorted into my presence by Lutatius, who I dismissed to return to whatever it was that Optios did in their spare time. Scribonius and I sat silently, surveying the man standing at intente¸ his eyes locked at the spot above our heads as they were supposed to be. He had not had the chance to look at my face, as I made sure that it was turned from him when he entered, pretending to be absorbed in some paperwork.

  Since I was seated, my unusual height did not give me away either, so the surprise on his face was unfeigned when I asked him, “So, Albinus, did you ever give Labienus that message I asked you to relay?”

  Along with the surprise came confusion, his eyes shifting nervously in my direction, but being the good Legionary that he was, his eye contact with me was only fleeting before he looked back at the original spot.

  “Sir?”

  His voice was hesitant, but I thought I heard the first glimmering of realization.

  “I didn’t think I stuttered. As I remember it, I was very specific in telling you that as part of the condition of your surrender at Dyrrhachium that you were to convey to that bastard that Titus Pullus was going to cut his balls off.”

  Now the flood of conflicting emotions was plain to read on his face as the memory of that day came back to him. There was the dawning of recognition, then his eyes moved back to my face, which I now made no attempt to hide from him, widening as he realized that sitting before him was an old enemy. Then I saw the unmistakable look of shame in his eyes as the memory came back to him of the day when he was forced to surrender the redoubt that he commanded, or at least had been the only surviving Centurion, so commanded by default. I suddenly felt a similar sense of, if not shame, unease at rousing what had to be undoubtedly unpleasant memories of a day when the fighting had been fierce and bloody. To counter this, I stood and walked over to the man, offering my hand. He hesitated for a moment, then clasped my forearm as we looked each other in the eye for a silent moment, both of us reliving that day of blood and chaos. Finally, he gave a hesitant smile, revealing surprisingly good teeth, which I returned, then turned to point to a seat next to Scribonius, who was also standing.

  “I don’t have to tell you that this is unusual, as you're technically a ranker, but when I heard your name, I thought it was right to renew our acquaintance.”

  “Frankly, Primus Pilus, I've spent most of these years hoping that I never saw you again.”

  Scribonius’ smile froze on his face, and I admit that I was taken aback. However, his tone was more rueful than defiant, and I found myself laughing at his candor.

  “Fair enough,” I conceded, then offered him some wine, which he accepted.

  We spent the rest of the evening chatting, Albinus admitting that he had never given Labienus the message, which I had truly not expected him to do, nor did it matter because he was long dead, getting what was coming to him for many years. Albinus talked of Pharsalus and I complimented him on the performance of the 1st Legion that day, as they had proven themselves to be worthy opponents and had been one of the only Legions to leave the battlefield in good order.

  “Life as a farmer just didn't suit me,” he admitted, a common complaint heard by more old Legionaries than any of us could count. “It’s hard work, every day, and you can do everything right, you can make the right sacrifices to Ceres, and to all the different gods that control the weather, and one drought can ruin you.” He took a deep swallow of wine then shook his head. “Truth be known, I would rather lead men anyway.”

  “Well, that’s not going to happen right away.” I wanted to make sure that he had the proper expectations, and while it was plain that he did not like it, he nodded in understanding.

  “But,” I said carefully, “that doesn't mean that you can’t exhibit leadership in other ways.”

  He looked at me sharply, his face a mix of interest and caution, and he was right to be wary.

  "What are you asking of me, Primus Pilus?” Before I could say anything, he shook his head. “Because I won't be a spy for you.”

  “I don’t want you to be a spy,” I said a bit more sharply than I intended, for he had unwittingly touched on another sore subject with me, the practice of some Primi Pili and lower grade Centurions to pay men to inform on their comrades.

  While I certainly appreciated the need and usefulness of a carefully cultivated network of men like Vellusius who would alert their Centurions to possible trouble, I refused to pay men, having seen firsthand the corrosive effect it had when it inevitably becomes known that a man mar
ching next to you is spying.

  “What I need is your leadership skills in the Tenth Cohort,” I said as I proceeded to explain to him what had happened to the Tenth during the last campaign.

  “I wasn’t going to put any former Centurions, or Optios for that matter, in the Cohort because I don’t want that kind of tension with the officially appointed officers,” I said, and he nodded his head at the sense of this. “But I know that I can count on you not to be disruptive, and to provide the new men with help and guidance, because it will be the rawest of the Cohorts in terms of experience within the 10th.” Now it was time to dangle the promise of reward. “And if you perform as I expect you will, I'll put you on the list to be promoted at the earliest opportunity.”

  I felt Scribonius’ eyes on me, but he said nothing. At least not until after Albinus had left.

  “That's not going to go over well with the veterans already on the list,” he said quietly.

  “No, it isn’t,” I agreed. “But if Albinus is the leader I think he is, I'm willing to risk it.”

  Arriving in Damascus, we moved into the winter quarters, which are maintained by a staff of men who have been invalided out for injuries, but who are fit enough to keep up the various winter camps spread throughout the Republic in proper working order. All that needed to be done were sweeping the huts out and taking the shutters off the windows, as it was not winter and Damascus can get hot. There was a mad scramble, men with women and families who had not planned ahead running into town at the earliest opportunity to secure some sort of lodgings for them, paying exorbitant prices in the process. Not that I expected to pay that much less; moving an army of our size is not a secret and, as is usual, the citizens of the city knew well before we did that we would be arriving.

  As soon as we were settled in, Diocles came to camp with Gaius, but instead of just giving me directions, both of them insisted on escorting me to where Miriam was waiting, refusing to say any more. Intrigued and irritated in equal portions, I followed them through the streets of Damascus, past the district that I would have expected to be suitable for our circumstances. Still they refused to answer my questions, both of them looking very much like cats that had gotten into the cream. Reaching the outskirts of the city just outside the main walls, I saw it was in the area where the wealthier merchants obviously lived, with wide paved streets that were swept daily from the looks of it. My confusion deepened when they both stopped outside a Roman-style villa, with a wall enclosing it that bordered right to the edge of the street. There was a wooden door set in the whitewashed wall, with a peephole protected by an iron grille in the middle of the door. Without saying anything, Diocles went and knocked on it. He was clearly expected, because the peephole door opened immediately and I could see an eye set in wrinkled folds of skin peering out, looking up and down at the three of us, the sound of the latch as it lifted making a jarring sound. The door opened to reveal an old man, the rest of his face as wrinkled as the eye that had surveyed us before allowing entry. However, it was what he was wearing that gave me a shock, because the wizened old man was wearing a full Roman toga, folded perfectly and draped over his left arm in the appropriate manner. His skin tone was akin to a darkened walnut, but he addressed us in flawless, native Latin.

  “Salve, Primus Pilus Titus Pullus, hero of the 10th Legion.”

  He laughed at my obvious confusion before stepping aside to beckon us into the confines of the villa as he did so. Both Diocles and Gaius were beaming at me in the same manner as this little Roman, but before I could say anything, the man I assumed to be our host spoke again, offering his hand in a thoroughly Roman manner.

  “My name is Tiberius Flavius Laevinus, Primus Pilus, and I must say that it is a great pleasure meeting you.” The man was positively bubbling over, pumping my forearm enthusiastically. “When I heard that one of the stalwarts of Rome, a man who chastised the Parthian and Median scum and his lady were looking for accommodations, I absolutely insisted to your servant here that it would not do for you to stay anywhere else but with me. And please, I insist that you call me ‘Uncle Tiberius.’”

  My head was positively whirling and Diocles, seeing how confused I was, stepped forward, grabbing my elbow.

  “Master,” he insisted on using a formal title in front of others, no matter how much I insisted that he could call me by my given name or my family name, if he preferred. “When Gaius and I were searching for accommodations, I ran into Master Laevinus, er, I mean Uncle Tiberius,” he grinned at the older Roman, who was beaming back at him, “and when he heard that it was you that was looking for lodging for yourself and the Lady Miriam, he insisted that you be his guest.”

  “But that's too much to ask,” I protested, mainly to be polite, but also because I had no wish to share a house with anyone, no matter how much of a kindly uncle he may have been. However, he seemed to read my true thoughts because he gave a laugh, which sounded remarkably like the braying of a goaded mule.

  “My boy, clearly you don't understand. This is my second home. I live just over there.” He pointed over my shoulder at some point across the street. “So this villa would be entirely your own, for as long as you wish. It’s the least I can do.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned, beckoning to us to follow. “Please, come. I want to show you where you'll be living.”

  I looked over at my nephew and servant, who were grinning at me, as Gaius whispered, “Uncle, I wouldn't argue. Believe me, you're going to want to see this.”

  I entered a residence that could have been ripped from the streets of Rome and magically transported to this spot outside of Damascus. Walking through the main entrance, we passed around the atrium, in which a number of plants and small trees were growing, clearly attended to with much care and love. Ringing the atrium was a number of rooms, while on the left side was the oecium, in which there were a number of couches and chairs, the floor covered in rich carpets, with marvelous frescoes decorating the walls. Seated on one of them, and astonishingly dressed in a Roman gown, with her hair swept up in the Roman style, sat Miriam, looking more beautiful and radiant than I had ever seen her. Her smile washed over me, making me feel warm and loved, my desire for her never greater than it was at that moment. Seated next to her was an older woman, dressed in the same manner as Miriam, except her hair was as gray as iron, but I could clearly see that in her day she had been a great beauty herself. Nevertheless, I only had eyes for Miriam at that moment, and I barely heard our host speaking.

  “This is my wife, Pompeia. She absolutely insisted on being here to meet you, for she is as much an admirer of you as I am. Judging from the way she's mooning at you, I daresay she's an even bigger one.”

  He chuckled, and I was astonished to see the older woman blush.

  “Tibi,” she chided the man I was even beginning to think of as Uncle Tiberius, “you really shouldn't say such things! People will get the wrong idea!”

  “What people? It’s only us here,” he boomed, sweeping his arm in an expansive gesture. “Besides, you know it’s true. I can tell by the way you're blushing.

  “So, as Diocles here, a good man, a great fellow I can tell you, says, when I heard that it was the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion, of Caesar’s 10th who was looking for some hovel in which to shelter this lovely, lovely creature! Well, I just wouldn't hear of it! I told Mother that since we had this great huge house sitting vacant, it would be absolutely silly for you to stay anywhere else!”

  He turned his wrinkled, bald head towards me, the gaps in his teeth not detracting from the dazzling smile he gave me.

  I realized that all eyes were turned on me, and I found myself stammering, “Sir, I mean, Uncle Tiberius, that is most, most generous of you. But a house like this,” I swept my arm at the wonderful carpets on the floor and the equally impressive frescoes on the wall, “I simply can’t afford something this grand.”

  I was worried that I would offend the man, but he threw his head back with that braying sound of a laugh again. “My bo
y,” he gasped, after he had recovered from his spell of mirth, “this trifle of a house won't cost you one brass obol. As I said, it’s my second house. Mother forced me,” he grinned at her squawk of protest, “to build something a bit more suited to the style to which she aspires, and because of you and the Legions, business has been good enough that I could indulge her.” He gave me a wink then continued in a loud whisper that he clearly meant for his wife to hear, “Though why I don’t know. My mistress is much less demanding.”

  Despite his wife spluttering in protest, it was clear that this was all done in fun and love. I felt myself relaxing as my mind started to accept what was taking place.

  I believe it was the sight of Miriam’s face, aglow with happiness as she sat on the couch that clinched the decision for me, so I sighed and in the same playful tone, “Well, sir, I know when I've been outflanked. I surrender, and I thank you for your kindness and generosity.” I winked at Uncle Tiberius. “Besides, I know if I refused, I'd be sleeping by myself.”

  “Yes, you would,” Miriam said sweetly, causing all of us to laugh.

  The villa was the largest house I had ever lived in, despite the apologies of our host for its small size. Uncle Tiberius was Roman, a native of Campania who had come to the East some 20 years before to import, among other things, olive oil and wine, obviously making a fortune in the process. He was one of the most powerful and influential Romans in Syria, though you would not know it to look at him. He took us on a tour, passing through the atrium where a host of plants and small trees grew, every name of which he knew, pointing them out while giving a brief explanation of their origin. Surprisingly, very few of them were native to the region, but had been brought from Italia, an expense that I did not even want to consider.