Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “Why are they complaining?” Volusenus asked, but while Philus shrugged and said he did not know, I was certain I knew the reason.

  “Because they marched drag today, they don’t think they should be digging the ditch,” I explained.

  “But wait,” Cornutus interjected, “didn’t they do the palisade stakes yesterday?” When I affirmed this, he said indignantly, “Then that’s only fair! They shouldn’t be getting the easy duty two days in a row!”

  While the others agreed, I held my tongue, reminded yet again of how the majority of men in the ranks are only concerned with fairness if it benefitted them. As we watched, I spotted movement from the praetorium, which as always was the first tent raised, and when I turned and saw that it was the Legate, trailed by his Tribunes and his bodyguard, I could not stop a groan escaping from my lips, prompting the others to turn to see the cause.

  “Oh, fuck me,” Philus muttered.

  “He’s not going to try and do something about this, is he?” Volusenus asked, and there was no missing the anxiety in his voice.

  “It looks like it,” I answered grimly, watching Caecina striding towards where the Seventh was now clustered together, all semblance of a formation gone, simply a mob of men.

  Armed men, I thought miserably, and for a moment, I thought that perhaps Caecina realized this, because when he was about a hundred paces away, he came to a stop, quickly surrounded by his gaggle.

  “Maybe one of those Tribunes will convince him what a bad idea that is,” Cornutus said hopefully, and in fact, it appeared that way, because Caecina reversed himself, eliciting a collective sigh of relief from us.

  Macer and Vespillo, seeing us standing together, made their way to us, so that we were all together to watch as, contrary to our hopes, Caecina had not thought better of inserting himself into this mess with the Seventh. Instead, he mounted his horse, which had been brought to him, which was bad enough, but then he made it even worse.

  “Look!” Macer pointed, saying in disbelief, “He ordered his bodyguards to get on their horses too!”

  “Pluto’s balls,” Vespillo gasped. “He’s not going to try and have those bastards break this up, is he?”

  “It looks like it,” I heard my voice, though I barely recognized it since my throat closed up at the sight.

  Indeed, once the bodyguards, a mixed lot of Germans, Gauls, and even a couple of gladiators that belonged to the Legate personally, were all mounted, they quickly arranged themselves into a wedge, while Caecina pointed towards where the Seventh was still protesting. Not surprisingly, none of them were paying attention to what was happening behind them, and one glance at the others told me we all were of a like mind; a significant number of our comrades in the Seventh would be cut down. Understanding this, it was Macer who began moving first, heading in that direction, but I was right behind him.

  “We’ve got to do something,” I heard him say as he broke into a run.

  Before we got a dozen paces, off to our right, I saw the lean figure of the Primus Pilus, running at an all-out sprint, heading directly for Caecina, who had just begun walking his horse towards the Seventh. Sliding to a stop in front of his horse, Sacrovir’s appearance obviously surprised the Legate’s mount, which reared violently, sending the Legate flying off his saddle. Despite the gravity and danger, I let out a barking laugh as I watched the supposed commander of the Legion flail wildly in mid-air, rather than try to gather himself for what would be a hard landing, and he hit the ground flat on his back.

  “Maybe,” I heard Vespillo behind me, his breathing harsh, “we got lucky. Maybe he’s dead.”

  He was not dead, nor was he badly injured, just having the wind knocked from him. Most importantly, thankfully, Sacrovir was able to stop the Legate from doing something that would have made matters much, much worse. Normally, such a precipitate action on the part of a Centurion, even a Primus Pilus, would bring immediate repercussions; fortunately for Sacrovir, the events that were literally a matter of watches away from taking place made his “crime” be quickly forgotten. As far as the Seventh, they finally went to work, not because of anything the Centurions did or said, but because their fellow rankers in the other Cohorts who had done their jobs, however leisurely they did them, turned on them and demanded the security of a fully constructed camp. No, we were not in the Teutoberg proper, but we were on the wrong side of the Rhenus, and none of us, Centurions included, wanted to spend a night without a ditch and wall around us. The camp was not completed until after dark, the evening meal consumed in a moody, sullen silence that draped over the entire camp; I do not believe I heard anyone chuckle, let alone a full belly laugh. Just the low buzzing of men muttering to each other, which came to a stop when they heard my footsteps approaching, whereupon they watched me pass with unfriendly eyes, although the few times I met a man’s gaze, they quickly looked away. Normally, I made at least three passes around the tents, but this night I only did one, then retired to my tent to sit, moodily sipping from the cup of wine that Alex had set out for me. Before I finished it, there erupted a noise that instantly sent a shiver up my spine, a bellow of what was clearly rage as voiced by many, many men. As I jumped to my feet, Alex was already ready, helping me into my armor, something I would not have thought of doing at any other time before I rushed out of my tent.

  “You’re coming with me,” I ordered Alex, who appeared as if he was going to argue before he saw my face and relented.

  Even in the short span of time it took us to emerge onto the Cohort street, the noise had grown, the cause being that one or more men were rushing from one section fire to the next. Before I had gone a half-dozen steps, I heard what had caused the uproar.

  “They’re marching us to Caedicius’ camp!”

  “The Legate wants to curse us all!”

  “We’re not going anywhere near that fucking place!”

  Somehow, the men had learned of Caecina’s intention, and I spared a moment of thought to what I would do to the man who had let this slip, intentionally or otherwise. What I did not expect was that I would be the object of Sacrovir’s suspicions, though I would find that out soon enough. At this moment, I moved as quickly as possible without running in the direction of Macer’s tent, with Alex immediately behind me, while every step of the way, I was accosted by angry men, who for the first time did not even pretend to pay me the deference due my rank.

  “Is it true?” Centho demanded, stepping directly into my path, and while he was clearly angry, he was also just as nervous, his gaze shifting back and forth from my face to my vitus. “Is the Legate really taking us to Caedicius’ camp?”

  “Yes.”

  I said this despite not giving any conscious thought to how I would respond; somehow, in the time between the moment I heard the uproar and this confrontation, I must have decided that I did not see the point in lying. More likely, it was because deep down, I agreed with not just the sentiment of the men who were protesting, but perhaps a part of me also thought that Caecina deserved no less than what was happening. Centho was clearly not expecting me to answer him in this manner either, because even in the dim light, I could see that he did not know what to say, and for a long moment we stood there, staring at each other, as his comrades in his Fifth Section came drifting over to stand behind him.

  “What did he say?” Trigeminus asked him, which prompted me to snap, “I’m not invisible, idiot. If you want to know, ask me.”

  Before Trigeminus could, Centho said hoarsely, “The Princeps Prior just told me that that fucking Legate is taking us to Caedicius’ camp.”

  I was not surprised that Centho had spoken up before Trigeminus could do so; they were close comrades, and Centho was very protective of Trigeminus because of the two, Trigeminus was the duller, although nobody would ever accuse Centho of being a deep philosopher. In another sign of how things stood, the other men burst into a ragged chorus of curses and exclamations, raging at Caecina, and saying things that, if I was to obey the letter of the
regulations, would not only see them on the punishment list, but strapped to the rack for a flogging, or worse. Yet, I just stood there, silently watching them until finally, they ran out of breath.

  “Did you get all that out of you?” I asked them, and somewhat sheepishly, most of them mumbled their assent. “Good. Now go back to your fire and calm down.”

  Most of the men complied, except for Pictor, their Sergeant, who essentially assumed Centho’s position blocking my way, but while I could see he was not eager to confront me, he regarded me steadily for a heartbeat before asking in a quiet voice so that the others would not overhear, “Did you know about this, Princeps Prior? Did you know he was taking us to Caedicius’ camp?”

  For the barest moment, I was about to lie and say no; instead, I admitted, “Yes, I knew.”

  He did not look surprised, but his mouth twisted into a grimace, and he said bitterly, “Which means the Pilus Prior knew. And,” the anger was clear to hear, “the Primus Pilus.” Suddenly, he gave me a shrewd look and challenged, “It was yesterday, wasn’t it? When you stopped Batavius as he was riding past us? That’s when he told you.” I only replied with a nod, and there was a note of triumph in his tone as he exclaimed, “I knew it! I knew just by the way you reacted that it was something bad.”

  This exchange served as a powerful reminder to me how, even when they do not appear to be doing so, the men are always carefully observing and listening to any conversation or interaction between their superiors, all in an attempt to get an idea about their immediate future. My first reaction was a flicker of irritation, but not only did I know this was not the moment to indulge my temper, the larger reason was that Pictor was only doing what I would have done in his place, and had done when I was a ranker myself, serving as the representative of his tent section in a contentious matter.

  While I was not going to make an issue of it, neither was I willing to be delayed any longer, and I told Pictor, “You need to move out of my way, Pictor, and let me find out what’s going on.”

  He did step aside, but as I passed, he said to me, “What’s going on is that we aren’t going another foot closer to that place, Princeps Prior.”

  Ignoring him, I resumed my progress, and while I was assailed by the others, none of them blocked my path, although the streets were now filled with rankers. Once we left the Fourth’s area, making our way to Sacrovir’s quarters, the men from other Cohorts were not quite as willing to move out of our way, though none of them responded when I shouldered them aside, to which I attributed my size and reputation, especially after I heard about how some of the Centurions were actually jostled and shoved around on that night. Again, going by the letter of the regulations, and how strictly they were interpreted, those offenders who had laid their hands on a Centurion could be executed, but such was the atmosphere that none of the Centurions who had been accosted were willing to write up charges. More importantly, none of the men bothered harassing Alex, who never hesitated following me, despite the fact that I could see that he was scared out of his wits. Finally reaching the Legion office, I saw that it was virtually surrounded by men, all of whom were shouting, shaking their fists, and essentially making it clear that they were very, very angry. This was bad enough, but when the men on the outer fringe turned and saw me approach, this time, they showed no inclination to move, and in fact, more than a dozen turned to face me.

  “We’re right behind you, Pullus,” I heard and recognized the voice of Vespillo, prompting me to glance over my shoulder to see the rest of the Centurions had caught up and joined me, save Macer, who I assumed was already inside the Primus Pilus’ tent.

  Catching Volusenus’ eye, I indicated with my head that he move to my side, which he did readily enough, though he did not look happy doing so, for which I blamed him not a bit.

  “This is the first time I’m not happy to be our size,” he muttered, to which I laughed, more for the benefit of the men blocking our path than any real humor, showing them that I was not the least bit intimidated.

  “It does have its drawbacks sometimes,” I agreed, but once my attention had returned to the mob, my eyes never left them.

  That was how I saw a hand, holding what appeared to be a turfcutter handle, surreptitiously move to offer it to one of the men standing nearest us, and while it was difficult, I clearly saw the white stripe of an Optio who was trying to lose himself in the crowd. The man directly opposite me took the handle, and before a span of another heartbeats passed, easily a half-dozen men, all of them on the outer edge of the mob were handed similar implements from deeper in the crowd.

  “They’re not going to try and stop us, are they?” Volusenus gasped.

  “It looks that way,” I answered, but in doing as they had, these men had just entered into an outright mutiny, and now I was angry, so that before I had any conscious thought of doing so, my gladius was in my hand, which I held loosely, point down and making tiny, perfect circles.

  Suddenly, the men holding cudgels did not look quite so resolute, glancing at each other, while the men deeper in the mob, alerted to a change of some sort, were turning their attention away from shouting imprecations and threats in the direction of the Primus Pilus’ quarters towards this more immediate, and dangerous, threat to their own safety. I was heartened to hear the metallic hissing sound of my fellow Centurions drawing their own weapons, but frankly, I did not care whether they helped or not, as for the first time in a long, long span, I felt that thing I thought of as the beast that resided deep within me begin to uncoil itself.

  “Wait here,” I told Volusenus and the others, then without waiting for them to acknowledge me, I walked a few steps closer to the men.

  As I did, the noise level was dropping dramatically, with more of the mob, which I estimated to be well over two hundred men, turning their attention towards the large Centurion walking alone towards them. While the men I could see were not in the Fourth, I knew they recognized me, another thing that comes with being one of the largest men in the Legion, and I was also certain that my reputation, particularly as it pertained to the skill with which I handled my gladius, was another factor.

  “Move out of the way,” I said, this time loud enough to be heard by more than just the men immediately facing me.

  I suspect the ranker who answered, taller than average but nowhere near my height, with a lean build and missing the top of one ear, was bolstered by the numbers behind him, because he shot back belligerently, “Nobody passes! Not even Centurions!”

  “Not until we hear from the Primus Pilus what he plans to do about this!”

  This came from deeper in the crowd, but I immediately recognized the voice, confirming my suspicion that at least one Optio was involved. That it was the man belonging to the First of the Fifth, Clepsina’s Optio, a man named Marcus Cartufenus, was shocking in itself. It might have shaken me, but my dark beast was already beginning to stretch itself, fueling a burning deep within my gut, which meant that instead of trying to reason with them, I took a step closer, grimly pleased at the manner in which not just the ranker who had spoken first, but the men surrounding him, all of whom were holding a club of some variety, took a step backward. This was evidently not acceptable to their comrades immediately behind them, because the tall ranker suddenly lurched forward to regain the backward step he had taken, clearly shoved from behind.

  “It looks like one of your friends wants to get you killed,” I said conversationally. “Do you owe him money? Or,” I actually grinned, though it was not a nice one, “does he owe you? That would be my guess.”

  “We can’t let you pass,” the tall ranker said stubbornly.

  “Besides, look how many there are of us, and there’s only five of you!”

  “And I,” I replied calmly, “have this.” I lifted my blade slightly, then in what I can only consider a divine inspiration, I lifted it above my head, pointing it towards the night sky, and I raised my voice. “How many of you know who this gladius belonged to? How many of you kno
w who I am?” There were only a few mumbles from the men, but I accepted that as enough of a sign of recognition, and I continued, this time allowing my anger to color my voice. “And you think you’re going to stop me? I am Titus Porcinianus Pullus and I will gut any man who tries to stop me!” I bellowed this so loudly that it made me lightheaded, but I ignored the slightly dizzy feeling, lowering my arm, slowly, until I was pointing my gladius directly at the tall ranker, and my voice back to a normal tone, I said calmly, “And you’ll be first.”

  Then, before any of them could react, I sensed a presence to my left, and while my eyes never left the mob, I could tell just by the bulk that it was Volusenus, who sounded astonishingly calm as he said, “I’m no match for Princeps Prior Pullus with a blade…yet, but he’s taught me more than enough to handle any of you.”

  Vespillo came to my right, and just that quickly, the collective nerve of the men facing us failed, and without having to order it, the mob parted, opening a path to allow us to pass. Leading the way, I walked in between the two parts of the now-separated mob, followed by the rest of the Centurions of the Fourth. As I did, there was a low, growling sound, emanating from the men forming this impromptu gauntlet, but none of them made any kind of move that could be construed as an assault on us, to which I attributed the fact that I was still holding my gladius. In a breach of custom, I did not pound on the square of wood that hangs outside the tent of every Centurion and Optio, only pushing the flap aside to enter the outer office. Or, I should say, I tried to do so; in the office proper, there appeared to be at least half of the Legion’s Centurions and a good number of Optios, so I had to essentially shove my way inside to make room for Volusenus and the others. I stood next to the flap, but while it might have appeared as if I was ushering the others in, I was making sure that Alex, who was following so closely behind Volusenus, and was the last one in the tent, that despite the tension, I felt a grin form on my face. For his part, my nephew still appeared calm, but the lamplight reflected the sheen of sweat on his brow, and when he passed by and I gave him a pat on the back, I could feel him trembling.