by Peake, R. W.
Uncle Tiberius gave me a long look, his rheumy eyes viewing me with an undisguised look of sadness, and not a little pity. Shaking his head once more, he heaved a great sigh as he did so. I noticed the tremor in his hand, wondering if it had always been there.
“Everything you say is true, Titus my boy. But you're making a faulty assumption. You're assuming that our young Caesar would stop at anything to achieve his aim of being the First Man in Rome.”
He stopped, his expression still grave, watching as the import of his words sunk into my brain.
I heard someone gasp, only realizing it was me as I spoke. “What are you saying? That Octavian somehow got his hands on the will?”
Uncle Tiberius nodded. “That's exactly what I'm saying, dear boy. Caesar,” he emphasized the name, and I took this as a reminder that it would be wise of me to refer to him by the name he preferred, “went into the temple of Vesta, or I should say, sent some men and retrieved the will. It's in Caesar’s possession now.”
I was glad I was seated because my mind was whirling as I tried to think. It is hard to describe just how damaging this news was to Antonius. Seeing it written down, I suppose it is easy to wonder why this was as momentous as it turned out to be. After all, it seems straightforward; Cleopatra was Antonius’ wife, even if he was married to Octavia as well for a period of time, so it should not be a controversial decision to give her most of his fortune. The lower classes would not care whether Caesarion or Octavian was considered Caesar’s legal son, meaning it could be argued that it was just Octavian’s problem. No, what would shake the foundations of our society down to the very bottom was in his insistence on his body being embalmed and interred with Cleopatra. That would horrify most Romans, particularly in the lower classes, who believed that the only way the soul could be released was through the purification of fire. Leaving a man’s soul trapped in his body meant that his numen would wander the earth forever, causing all sorts of mischief for the living. It would be this fact that Octavian would use to show that Marcus Antonius the Roman no longer existed, that he had been replaced by a minion of Cleopatra. That would be the reason that Octavian would give when he roused the people of Rome against Antonius; the real cause was in the form of a teenage boy who would be legitimized in the eyes of the world, spelling the end of Octavian’s status as the only son of Gaius Julius Caesar. This was the real danger that Octavian had to eliminate, and I shivered as I wondered how much blood would be spilled to achieve that aim.
Thanking Uncle Tiberius for the news he brought, for once I was not just being polite, but was truly grateful. Walking with him to show him out, he paused at the entrance, his face a study of conflicting emotions. I must confess that my mind was elsewhere, thinking about the next steps to take, so I was not prepared for what was coming.
“Titus, I just wanted to tell you that over these last months, I've come to think of you as a son.”
My thoughts were interrupted by his words as I looked at him sharply, about to remind him that he had said that when we had known each other for just a few thirds of a watch, but there was something in his manner that stilled my tongue.
As if reading my thoughts, he continued hastily, “I know that I said that when we first met, so I understand if you don't believe me, but now that I've gotten to know you and Miriam, I just wanted you to know there's no way that I could ever do anything that would bring any harm to you or her.”
Giving him a long, searching look, I tried to find a sign of deceit, but his gaze was steady as he peered up at me.
Finally, I could think of nothing else to say but, “Thank you. That's good to know.”
He was clearly pleased by my acceptance of his words, though I did not want to have to put his promise to the test.
“Besides, I can't agree with what Caesar has done,” he was saying, then a look of alarm flashed across his face as he searched my eyes. “Not that he needs to know that.”
I had to laugh at this sudden reversal; now this old man was worried about what I might say to Octavian.
“Don't worry, Uncle Tiberius. I won’t be sending a report to Octav…..I mean Caesar,” I amended.
The old man’s leathery face flushed even darker. “I'm sorry, Titus. Of course, you wouldn't. You’re not that kind of man.” He shook his head, giving me a rueful, toothless grin. “It’s a sorry day that's come to pass, hasn't it, Titus? That we should worry about guarding our tongues with fellow citizens?”
“Indeed it has,” I agreed.
With that, we parted, he back to his villa, me to camp to tell Scribonius, Balbus, and the other Centurions to expect to move.
For once, I had news before Scribonius, who was as surprised as I had been.
He did not say anything for a long moment, the frown firmly in place. “Antonius can't ignore this,” he said finally. “I think we’ll be marching soon.”
“That was my thought,” I agreed. “I’m going to alert the Centurions to get the men ready.”
“Good idea. But that doesn’t address the real question.”
“Which is?”
I suspected that I knew what Scribonius was about to say, but for some reason I needed it to be spoken aloud by someone other than me, perhaps because I did not want to tempt the Fates, since I seemed to have had more than my share of good luck.
“What does the 10th Legion do when Antonius commands us to attack fellow Romans?”
The question hung in the air between us. I hesitated in my answer as I thought about it, although I had been thinking of little else lately. It would not be the first time we would be called on to fight fellow Romans; in fact, almost all of the battles we had fought in the last 15 years were against our own countrymen. The ranks of the Legion were full of men who had never lifted a sword against a Helvetii, or Allobroges, and they had never shirked their duty before, cutting down whoever stood before them regardless of their nationality. Somehow, though, this felt different, and I could tell that Scribonius felt the same way. Some of the differences were obvious; we would be fighting against a Caesar this time, albeit his adopted son who seemed to have inherited part of the great man’s genius, but not all of it. If we marched for Antonius, we would be on the side of the mos maiorum, no matter how much Octavian tried to position himself as the defender of the old values and traditions of Rome, whereas if we marched with Octavian, he posed a threat because he was something new. Antonius, through what I believe was apathy more than anything, represented a return to the way things were before Caesar came. The army that marched with Caesar was composed of veterans from Gaul, while the army of Antonius was more than half full of raw youths or Legions who had only been slightly tested in combat, never facing anything as formidable as another Roman. The 3rd Gallica and 4th Macedonica had just finished their enlistments, so there had been a dilectus for each one, but as Antonius was barred from recruiting in Italia, the men of these Legions were from Syria and Judaea. Roman citizens they may have been, but very few of them were what we would consider truly Roman. However, there were other, deeper and more subtle differences that I felt tugging at my gut. At the base of my decision was the simple question; who was going to win? While this last campaign had gone well, it was still cut short, and when I looked at the entire picture, it seemed clear to me that despite Antonius’ blustering about it, Caesar’s luck had settled squarely on Octavian’s shoulders. Also, I could not discount the impact that Cleopatra had on every decision Antonius made. While she was more predictable than Antonius in that everything she did was to advance the fortunes of Egypt, she was still a threat to do something that would put the Legion in needless danger. Perhaps it was this that tipped the scales in my mind. Simply put, Cleopatra wanted to raise Egypt into the spot of the most powerful nation in our world; in order to do that she had to destroy Rome. I had spent almost 30 years in the cause of advancing the glory and power of Rome, or at least so I believe, and if I led my Legion under the banner of Marcus Antonius, it would help to achieve Cleopatra’s goal, m
eaning that my life’s work, and that of all the men who marched beside me, would be for nothing. That was something I could not accept. At long last, I turned back to face Scribonius, having thought things through.
“I'm not going to allow this Legion to be used to help Cleopatra destroy Rome,” I said slowly, thankful to see Scribonius’ face show relief and agreement.
“I don’t know what that means right now, exactly,” I added.
“This is only the first step, deciding what we're going to do. The moment’s not right for you to announce your intentions, because in reality nothing has been said officially.”
“That’s only a matter of time. We’re going to be getting orders in the next few days. I can feel it in my bones.”
“That may be, but even when we get orders it will be too soon.”
I did not understand or like what Scribonius was saying, since it ran against my grain to not just act then handle the consequences that came up, whatever they may be.
“Why? I say the quicker we announce our intentions, the sooner whatever Antonius is going to do about it will happen, then we’ll know.”
Scribonius gave a sigh. I knew that sigh and I did not like it one bit, because it told me that he was seeing things in a way that I had not. Of all the men I have known, Scribonius was the one who could make me feel stupid, though I do not believe it was ever his intention to do so. Now he gave me a level look as he thought about his next words.
Finally, he posed a question. “All right. Let’s say that we do as you say. As soon as we get our orders, we announce by word or deed that we're not going to march for Antonius. Then what?”
I felt a thrill of something when he put it in this manner, and it took a moment to realize that it was fear. What Scribonius described was a mutiny of a Legion, nothing short of that, and I had never been involved in that, being with the 6th when the 10th had done so under Caesar. Of course, I suppose technically we had mutinied when we had been under the command of Lepidus, but I did not then, nor do I now consider him even worthy of mention as a commander of the Legion, and I have absolutely no regret for the action we, and being honest, every other Legion in his army took. Still, I had heard enough tales around the fire from the men to know that it was a shattering experience for most of them. I thought about it, not liking where my train of thinking took me. Once I took a moment, it became clear that without having to spell it out, Scribonius was right. If the 10th mutinied, I was rolling the dice that a significant number of the other Legions would follow our lead. In fact, without verbalizing or even really thinking it through, it was the key to the success of what I wanted the 10th to do and to his credit Scribonius had immediately seen that. Now he was forcing me to really think about it, and I suddenly did not have any confidence that the other Primi Pili and Centurions would follow so readily. Torquatus had just retired; he was still in the army as one of the Evocati, which I suspected was as much to keep an eye on his son as any love for the army, and I did not have the same close relationship with the new Primus Pilus, Decimus Galerius, who had been the Pilus Posterior. Spurius was still in command of the 3rd Gallica, and while I respected his ability I also believed him to be bought and paid for by Marcus Antonius. Both of these men, even if they were inclined to join with the 10th, had their hands full with a new Legion and new Centurions in at least half the Centuries. Running down the mental checklist, of the nine Legions in the Damascus camp the only one I thought I could rely on was Balbinus’ 12th, and I had to admit to myself my only reason for thinking thus was based on my conviction that he was an agent of Octavian, something that he had never admitted. Even if I was right, that would be just one other Legion to face the rest of the army, should it come to a fight. I could easily envision the carnage and slaughter that would ensue, realizing that Antonius would have no choice but to try to destroy the mutiny before word of it spread to the other Legions encamped in Antioch and elsewhere. He could not take the risk of doing anything else. Although I was proud of my Legion and its capability, an army of this size, even with as many raw youngsters as this one, would be too much to defeat, and we would be overwhelmed. Seeing all this in my mind’s eye, I bit back a curse at Scribonius for being so much quicker than I was.
“You’re right,” I said, if a bit grudgingly. “If we move too soon I'll just end up doing what I’m trying to avoid and get men killed for no reason.”
Scribonius was plainly relieved that I had seen his point, but he was not yet through. “That’s only part of it. You have to make sure that all the Centurions are of the same mind as we are.”
In my view, that was going to be next to impossible, if only for the reason that getting 60 men of any kind to agree on something almost never happens. I decided that since Scribonius seemed to have all the answers, I would ask him. After thinking about it for a moment, he burst out laughing.
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “But you’re going to have to think of something, and I suggest that you keep quiet about it until the last possible moment.”
“So you’re saying I should wait until the night before the battle, whenever and wherever that is, then somehow convince all of the Centurions that their best interests and that of their men are served by turning on their commanding general.”
“Something like that,” Scribonius conceded. We both sat there for several moments, absorbed in our own thoughts, then Scribonius asked, “You know that you can count on me, don’t you?”
I do not know why, perhaps it was the way he said it, but I was deeply moved. I opened my mouth to reply, yet somewhat to my surprise, I felt a lump in my throat that threatened to choke any words that came out. Finally, I just reached out to clasp him on the shoulder, the only thanks I could manage at the moment.
It did not take long for the news of Antonius’ will to circulate on both sides of Our Sea, and as I suspected, his desire to be embalmed and entombed with Cleopatra caused a huge uproar among the men. I suppose I should have thanked Antonius, because the contents of his will made the Centurions much more willing to listen when the moment arose, but that is said only with the clarity of looking back over the years. At the moment, the confusion and anger at Antonius’ actions was so strong that the men talked of nothing else. Octavian chose to read the will aloud, not only in the Senate but in the forum as well, so that Romans of all classes could witness how the man they thought of as Roman no longer existed. With ships crisscrossing Our Sea, word reached us that Antonius and Cleopatra had relocated to Ephesus, then using the queen’s money, were commissioning a huge fleet to be built or commandeered, the first solid sign that Antonius was preparing for war. Orders were sent to shift the army to Ephesus in stages, staggered over a period of a month, in order to give the engineers with Antonius time to construct a large enough camp. The 10th was scheduled to leave in the last group, giving me time to send Diocles ahead with Miriam, along with my baggage and the other slaves to find a place to live. I debated with myself whether to leave Miriam behind, thinking that I could send for her, yet the future was so uncertain that I did not have any confidence that I would be able to do so when the time came.
The men were subdued, for a number of reasons, not least of which that relatively few of them could afford to bring their women along with them, and we had been in Damascus for a few years by this point. That meant children, so yet again it was a pitiful sight, seeing the families lining the street outside camp, women clutching their small children, wailing as their men marched away. The feeling was much different from previous campaigns, with an air of finality and farewell that seemed to drape about our shoulders. Somehow, we knew that we would not be coming back here, the people of Damascus seeming to understand this as well. I am sure that some of them were happy to see the backs of us, though there would be a lot of businesses of all sorts that would suffer, while some of them would shut down operations to follow us to Ephesus.
I had not breathed a word of my plans to anyone other than Scribonius, Balbus, and Diocles, not even tel
ling Gaius because I did not want to burden him with the secret. Still, I caught snatches of whispered conversations that immediately stopped whenever I approached, then saw the long, searching glances out of the corner of my eye as I passed, and I knew that every man in the Legion was waiting for some signal from me. Finally, it was a delegation consisting of the Pili Priores and some of the Centurions who had been with me the longest who approached me one evening just a couple of days outside of Damascus. They waited until I was busy doing my daily exercises shortly after dinner, where I was stripped to the waist and sweating well despite the cool evening air. I had turned 45 a short while before, and my mind was occupied with thoughts of where the time had gone and how I was beginning to have trouble with my teeth, meaning that I was not in the best frame of mind when I saw the small knot of men gather before me. I was under no illusions about why they were there, not needing the warning look Scribonius was trying to give me, though I decided to play dumb anyway.
“Well? What is it? The wine supply already turned to vinegar? The grain’s moldy already?”
I did not mean my tone to be so harsh, but as I said, I had been contemplating my continuing degradation at the hands of whatever gods control the passing of time. I saw men glancing at each other as if asking if this was really a good idea. Naturally, all eyes turned to Scribonius, since it was no secret that he was my closest friend, and I do not know if the uncomfortable look on his face was feigned or not, but it looked real to me. He cleared his throat, then using my correct title as he always did in front of others, spoke just loudly enough that those immediately around could hear, but not enough that his voice would carry to the rankers.
