by R. W. Peake
“My Centurions!” he began without warning, and to Pullus, he seemed in a hurry; or, he suddenly thought, he wants to get through this as quickly as possible because he knows how unpopular it would be. “I know that you have many questions! And,” he gave a knowing smile, “I can only imagine what the men have been saying about what’s in their future.” This brought appreciative chuckles, not least because, as any of them would admit, it was just as likely that it was a man wearing a transverse crest who was either the originator or at least a propagator of what was almost like the food of the Legions, the camp rumor. When the mirthful noise faded, Germanicus continued, “And while it’s true that a partial reason for the delay is to give our comrades in the cavalry time to reorganize, along with the need to select a new Primus Pilus for the 14th, that’s not all of it.”
From where Pullus stood, he felt certain he saw the shadow of, if not anger, then disappointment cross the Propraetor’s face, while his own thoughts were about Gaesorix, who still somehow clung to life. He had not learned until two days after the battle that Cassicos had not been so fortunate, and the story that Pullus heard was that the leathery tough Optio had sacrificed himself, not for Gaesorix, but for Prefect Pedo, who had survived the ambush. If the story Pullus had heard was the correct one, and he held little doubt that it was, Pedo had panicked, completely abandoning his command in an attempt to save his own life. In the process, he had gotten himself surrounded, and it was only because Cassicos had carved a bloody path through the surrounding Germans that enabled the Prefect to escape that Pedo was still among the living. Returning his attention to the Propraetor’s speech, he realized that he had missed part of it as Germanicus continued, “…have decided that we are ending the campaign now, and we will be returning to our respective camps to recover and prepare for next year.”
It was not that the Centurions reacted negatively to this announcement that Pullus saw clearly unnerved Germanicus; it was their lack of any kind of reaction that the Propraetor was obviously unsettled by, although he did not make any comment, nor did he attempt to explain his reasoning. Pullus was struck by the thought that, if anything, his counterparts looked as if they were carved from the same marble that was used for the statues of Divus Julius, Divus Augustus, and the Imperator Tiberius, their countenances similarly immobile and blank of expression.
Suddenly, from somewhere near the rear of where Pullus recognized the Centurions of the 16th Legion were standing, a voice shouted, “What’s going to be done about the cavalry?”
If Germanicus was surprised, or discomfited, by this, he hid it well, and there was only a barely perceptible pause before he answered, “As I said, I spent the days immediately after the battle reorganizing the cavalry. And,” now he did hesitate, “in that process, I reviewed their actions, as well as the decisions made by Prefect Pedo and Prefect Batavius. Who,” Germanicus did offer a smile, “I am happy to report that Prefect Batavius still lives, and as some of you may have heard, he has been under the care of my personal physician, who tells me that he is growing stronger every day, and while there is still danger that his wound corrupts, his chances improve with every watch.”
“That’s good news, but he wasn’t the problem!”
It was more difficult for Pullus to place where whoever had shouted this was standing, although it was not with the 16th, but if Germanicus had any designs on identifying the culprit, this was made next to impossible by the sudden chorus of angry agreement that came from the officers of every Legion, including the 1st. Although it could not have been classified as an uproar, there was enough vehemence in the collective tone that it caused Pullus to exchange a troubled glance with Structus, who had been among the men who raised their voice in agreement.
“What?” Structus shrugged, though he sounded defensive as he argued, “You know it’s true.”
This Pullus could not, nor would he dispute, but he said nothing, mainly because the rest of the Centurions had stopped voicing their opinions, allowing Germanicus to continue, which he did with obvious care.
“I will be the first to admit that there were mistakes made by Prefect Pedo,” Germanicus began, but this time, he ignored the angry rumble at his characterization to continue, “and I have already taken steps to ensure that he will not make the same errors.”
“Says you,” Structus muttered, and again, Pullus could hear he was far from alone in this sentiment, which Germanicus either did not hear or more likely chose to ignore the ripple of comment.
Apparently deciding that this was all he intended to say, Germanicus concluded, “Your Primi Pili will be receiving their detailed orders in the morning, but I can tell you that we will not be marching together. Just as we did when we began, we will be returning home separately. That is all.”
Without waiting for anything more, the Propraetor turned and stepped off the rostrum to disappear into the praetorium, leaving the Centurions to make their way back to their part of the camp.
“We’re marching back with Caecina, with the rest of the Army of the Upper Rhenus, day after tomorrow,” Vespillo informed them in his quarters. He was not in the least surprised to see by the reaction of his Centurions this was already known, eliciting a sour laugh from him, but he did challenge, “So, since you all know that, how many of you know what route we’re taking?” The fact that, as he saw by their reaction, none of them knew this pleased Vespillo, especially since he knew what their response was going to be, and he clearly savored the moment as he told them, “We’re going by the Long Bridges.”
As he expected, this triggered an eruption of curses from all but one Centurion, Pullus looking on mystified at this response.
“What’s the ‘Long Bridges’?” he asked, which he thought was a reasonable enough question, although within a heartbeat after uttering it, he realized his mistake in handing Vespillo this opportunity.
“The rich boy doesn’t know about the Long Bridges!” Vespillo hooted, then in what Pullus was certain was a calculated insult, thrust a finger in his direction as he sneered, “Anyone who’s a real veteran knows about the Long Bridges, Pullus.”
“I didn’t,” Licinius interjected, not loudly, but it was loud enough to cause Vespillo to go stiff behind his desk as the Princeps Prior turned to Pullus and explained, “I didn’t enlist until the next year, so I wasn’t there when it was done, but I heard about it from the veterans.”
Before Vespillo could intercede, it was Pullus’ former Optio who spoke up next, explaining to Pullus, “It was,” he looked to the others, “what? Fourteen years ago?”
“Fifteen,” Licinius corrected. “Like I said, it was the year before I enlisted.”
“Right,” Structus nodded his thanks to his counterpart, “fifteen years ago. Anyway, the Legate was Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, and he built a raised roadway like the one we just did on our way here.”
“Where is it?” Pullus asked, trying to recall if he had heard anything about it.
“South of here, but it’s still in this fucking forest,” Structus answered.
Vespillo was watching this exchange, his mouth twisted into what could only be described as a grimace that communicated his displeasure that his subordinates had not participated in his attempted belittling of Pullus, and he interrupted, “Yes, yes. All right, enough of that. Although,” he sneered, “it does your Pilus Prior’s heart good to see how quick you are to support one of your fellow Centurions.”
Pullus had to fight the urge to revel in this show of support, and while he was largely successful, he did manage to take some satisfaction in asking blandly, “Is there anything else we need to know, Pilus Prior?”
“No,” Vespillo muttered, tossing the tablet he had been holding on to his desk, saying disgustedly, “That’s all that really matters. Get your men ready to move at dawn, day after tomorrow.”
As they filed out, Pullus made a point of averting his gaze from anywhere near Vespillo, yet he could still feel the glare and the hostility radiating from the Pilus P
rior. When he reached the outer flap of the tent, he dared to hope that he had escaped; after all, Vespillo had been pointedly ignoring him over the previous days. Why should now be any different?
“Pilus Posterior Pullus,” Vespillo’s voice felt like a dagger between the shoulder blades, “I want to talk to you.”
“Fortuna watch over you,” Gillo muttered, having been just behind Pullus, and his former Optio brushed past Pullus without looking up at him.
Taking a breath to compose himself, Pullus walked back to the inner partition, pushing it aside to find Vespillo still seated at his desk. He couldn’t have just told me to stay? He needed to let me think I was getting out of here clean? These were the thoughts that flashed through Pullus’ mind as he crossed to the desk, but in something of a surprise, the Pilus Prior pointed to the stool that he had just been occupying.
Waiting until Pullus took his seat, Vespillo said bluntly, “You know that your…friends intervened and…persuaded me to forego writing a report about your flagrant disobedience of standing orders.” Pointing a warning finger at Pullus, he snapped, “And don’t try to deny you don’t know about it.”
“I’m not.” Pullus tried to keep his tone as mild as he could manage, even thinking to add, “Pilus Prior.”
As Pullus suspected, his reply clearly displeased Vespillo, who scowled fiercely at him for the span of several heartbeats before he continued, “I don’t know exactly how you managed it, Pullus, but I have my suspicions, and I’m sure they’re right. After all,” his face twisted into a mocking sneer, “you were already a rich boy when you showed up here, and that was before you inherited your Tata’s money. In fact,” Vespillo added, “I’m surprised you haven’t already used that money to purchase your way out of the Legion so you can go back to wherever you came from and fuck your slaves while they feed you lark’s tongues and grapes.”
Pullus understood that Vespillo was taunting him, yet he also could not deny that the dark beast within him was stirring, but he made certain this did not show as he replied calmly, “I’m not sure where you got your information, Pilus Prior, but I’m not going anywhere.” He surprised himself when he continued, “I realized recently that I love the Legion and being under its standard, so I’m here for as long as I can wield a gladius and do so in a manner that meets the approval of the Primus Pilus and whoever is in the position of Legate.”
As he hoped, Vespillo did not miss the fact that Pullus had excluded him, which obviously agitated the man, because as he spoke, Pullus could see little drops of spittle as Vespillo shot back furiously, “And your Pilus Prior don’t count, is that it? Eh? What I think about how you’re performing your duties doesn’t fucking matter? Is that what you’re saying…boy?”
It took a supreme effort on Pullus’ part not to respond in kind, or to answer at all, yet he managed somehow, and the span of several heartbeats was filled with a silence that became increasingly tense.
Finally, Vespillo broke it by offering a chuckle that was obviously counterfeit, then said, “You don’t have to say it, we both know it’s true. You have never given me the respect I’m due! And now,” once again, Vespillo’s ire resulted in a spray as he almost screamed, “you’ve turned the other officers of this Cohort against me! How much, eh? How much did you have to pay them?” Before Pullus could respond, the Pilus Prior continued, yet did so in a manner that made Pullus feel as if his presence was no longer even noticed, “Cornutus, he’s a greedy bastard, so I’d wager he cost the most. Structus, probably not nearly as much because he was Pullus’ Optio, so he’d want to help the son. Gillo?” He gave a cackling laugh then that actually made the hairs on Pullus neck stand up as the thought came to him that perhaps his Pilus Prior had gone mad. “He was the son’s Optio for six years, so he maybe didn’t even ask for anything. But Licinius,” suddenly, Vespillo thrust a finger up in the air, wagging it, “now Licinius is a puzzle. He’s been quiet, and at first I thought that he was just trying to get the lay of the land in the Fourth. But now? Now I think he’s a devious bastard! Maybe the worst of the bunch.” For the first time since he had begun this diatribe, he returned his attention to Pullus, and there was no way to disguise the hatred that radiated from Vespillo as he said, “Except for you. You’re the worst of the bunch! You’re a plague on this Cohort, and now you’ve gone and turned my own officers against me!”
Vespillo’s tirade ended with what to Pullus’ ear sounded more like a whining complaint than any kind of accusation, but what there was no way for him to mistake was the level of hostility and loathing the Pilus Prior held for him.
It was this recognition that caused Pullus to ask impulsively, “Why do you hate me so much?”
Vespillo blinked rapidly, obviously surprised, and stared at Pullus for a long span of time, and Pullus had the impression that this was the first time he had even been forced to think about it.
This seemed to be confirmed when Vespillo repeated, clearly puzzled, “Why do I hate you?” Then he said nothing for a moment, as if he was actually thinking about it, but when he resumed, there was no hesitation or doubt. “Because of who you are, boy. It’s bad enough that you’re a paid man, although I got used to that with Macer. He’s the first man who stole my promotion. A paid man! Being named Pilus Prior? Over me?” He shook his head, and Pullus noticed that Vespillo had stopped looking at him and was staring at some spot over his shoulder. “Still, I swallowed that. But then,” he became even more agitated, “it happened again.” The Pilus Prior returned his attention to Pullus as he continued, his voice rising again, “And this time, it was him! Your father! And now,” he glowered at Pullus, who learned the true cause for this extraordinary moment when Vespillo said, “you. You’ve been made Pilus Posterior! You think I don’t know what that means? You think I’m stupid, eh? You think Numerius Vespillo can’t see what’s happening? And,” suddenly, he slumped over his desk, closing his eyes as he continued, “just like your father, you’ve got Germanicus behind you. You’ve got Sacrovir behind you. Oh,” he waved a hand at Pullus to cut off what he was certain was coming, “don’t bother to deny it. I know all about it. The Primus Pilus wants you to spy on me for him.”
Pullus remained silent, nor did he move, physically at least, but his mind was racing as he tried to determine the best course of action for him to take. Is that just a guess? he wondered. If so, it was a good one. Finally, he decided that there was no good answer; if he acknowledged what Vespillo said, at least the part about the Primus Pilus, to what height of rage would it send the Pilus Prior? Who might be mad; Pullus was growing increasingly certain that there was some sort of imbalance in Vespillo’s mind and soul, but he was still Pullus’ superior. Denying it, on the other hand, might actually make Vespillo even angrier, which was why Pullus sat there, not saying anything at all. When Vespillo stood up so abruptly and Pullus heard the stool hitting the wooden floor, he tensed, waiting for the Pilus Prior to come across the desk at him.
This did not happen; instead, Vespillo thrust a finger at him, which Pullus noticed was shaking quite a bit, and his voice had gone rough with fury as he said, “Mark this, Pullus. Mark this moment. I am going to destroy you. I swear it on the black stone! I swear it by the Furies! You think you’re going to do me in and take over this Cohort, but that will never happen. I’ve worked too long, too hard, and I’ve swallowed far too much cac from the likes of you paid men and brutes like your father to have this Cohort taken away from me.” This seemed to help Vespillo recover his equilibrium somewhat, and he stood erect, finishing flatly, “Don’t say you haven’t been warned. That will be all.”
His face as much of a mask as he could keep it, Pullus stood and saluted with a cold but precise formality, although Vespillo only acknowledged it with a bare nod. Knowing this was all he would get, Pullus executed an about turn and walked towards the partition. Just get out of here, Gnaeus, he thought; don’t do anything stupid, don’t say a word. Just get out of here and then you can figure out what to do.
He
had thrust the flap aside and was halfway into the outer office when, even as part of his mind screamed at him to stop, he turned about to regard Vespillo, who had been staring at his retreating back.
“Pilus Prior,” he recognized that it was his voice, and that it sounded quite cool and dispassionate, “I do have one question.” Vespillo did not respond, just looked at Pullus, who asked, “Has it ever occurred to you that the reason you were passed over, especially by my father, is because you’re not the cac on his boots as a Centurion?”
Vespillo stiffened, his face going white with rage, and he let out an audible gasp, but before he could summon a response, Pullus was already gone.
Contrary to Pullus’ expectations, Vespillo did not make an issue of their meeting, while Pullus made the decision not to share what occurred with Alex. Which, he learned with a mixture of disgust and amusement, only meant that it took an extra watch before his clerk knew all that had transpired.
“Did you really tell Vespillo that he wasn’t the cac on Uncle Titus’ boot?”
He asked this, without any warning, the next morning as he brought Pullus his chunk of bread and warmed bowl of stew from the night before.
