by R. W. Peake
For the briefest instant, I considered turning around and attempting to rescue the Secundus Pilus Prior, who to this point was the highest-ranking Centurion detained by the mob, and perhaps something in my demeanor tipped that, because a man I did not recognize, meaning he was from the 20th, apparently decided that felling a man my size, particularly a Centurion, would be a notable achievement. And, perhaps I was distracted by the furor behind us, because I was unable to dodge the blow, aimed directly at my head. From my viewpoint, I had the barest sense of a blur of movement before a terrific impact slammed into the side of my face, where the cheek piece of my helmet protected my skull from being shattered. Not that it felt like it helped much; lights of a thousand colors exploded in my vision, rendering me completely blind for just long enough for my mind to comprehend it, but even worse, my legs buckled. Even as I felt myself dropping to my knees, the thought that flashed through my mind was the despairing one that I would die at the hands of a fellow Roman and not against an enemy. I had seen just enough in the face of my attacker, in the eyeblink before he struck me, to see the madness of battle in his eyes, and I held no illusion that the man would stay his hand because of my identity. Indeed, since he was from another Legion, and I was a hated Centurion, even through the fog in my mind, I was certain I was breathing my last. Fortunately, Volusenus had seen it happen, and I felt more than saw him leap forward to interpose himself, once more saving me from further damage. By the time my vision was restored, as those lights gradually faded away, what I saw was eerily similar to the moment where Germanicus had stood over me, saving my life during the assault on Splonum, a pair of legs positioned directly in front of me. Before I could completely recover my senses, I heard more than saw Volusenus defend me, though it did not sound like the sound of a vitus, or even a fist striking my attacker. Then someone grabbed me by the back of my armor, dragging me to my feet, just as we were quickly surrounded by the Legate’s bodyguards, who had been a matter of paces away. Half-dragged, I was manhandled into the praetorium, then unceremoniously dumped on the floor, which I barely noticed since I was still trying to gather my wits. Barely conscious of all that was going on around me, I actually pulled my way up to all fours, shaking my head to clear it.
“Are you all right?”
Volusenus’ voice cut through the fog somewhat, then after a few steadying breaths, I drew myself to a kneeling position, reaching up to feel the left side of my head, my fingers first brushing the cheek guard. There was a deep indentation in the metal, but I did not feel any wetness, telling me that the skin was unbroken, and I gingerly pulled my helmet off. As I was attending to myself, there was a flurry of activity around the entrance, and while I was certainly absorbed in checking myself out, the furor was such that I did turn to see that a small band of mutineers were trying to force their way into the tent. To this point, there had been no real bloodshed, and it was clear that Caecina’ bodyguards had been ordered to keep their weapons sheathed. That changed in an instant when, whether from fear or anger, I saw one of the men standing in the doorway, one of Caecina’s gladiators, draw his gladius, and in the same motion, thrust it into the chest of one of the rankers, who dropped to his knees in an unintentional mimicry of my own posture at that moment. Just for a heartbeat, everything went quiet, and I clearly saw the looks of shock and disbelief on the fallen man’s comrades, first staring down at his body, which fell facedown but still twitching, then looking up at the gladiator. His back was to me, so I could not see his expression, though he took a slight step backward, giving me the impression he realized what he had done. That movement broke the spell, as one of the rankers, his initial expression of shock twisting into a mask of hatred, howled with blind rage and literally threw himself at the gladiator. Fortunately for him, the bodyguard next to him kept his head and used his shield to knock the lunging ranker backward; unfortunately for the first gladiator, a ranker to his left, taking advantage of being somewhat screened by the second bodyguard’s shield and body, used the full turfcutter handle he was wielding not as a club, but as a stabbing weapon, thrusting it directly into the face of the slayer of his comrade. Because I was behind the action, I did not see the actual strike, though I saw the results as the bodyguard’s head snapped back, and that first backward step he had taken just a couple heartbeats earlier turned into him reeling backward so violently that I had to scramble to my feet to avoid him colliding with me. He managed to execute a half-turn while still on his feet, giving me a view of where the ranker, either through luck or skill, had plunged the end of the handle into the man’s eye socket, and judging from appearances, the only reason the end did not burst out the back of the man’s skull was because the handle had a blunt end. Truly, it was a grotesque sight; the handle thrusting out from the gladiator’s head for its entire length, save that portion that was embedded in the bodyguard’s skull. The gladiator took a tottering step back into the tent before his legs finally collapsed, yet before matters turned even bloodier, from somewhere outside, I heard a bellowed command, ordering the mutineers to withdraw. That they obeyed was quite startling, though in the moment, I was still trying to regain my wits and only dimly noted this as unusual.
“Are you all right?” Volusenus asked again, and this time, I could respond and assure him that I was, more or less, recovered. He did not seem convinced, looking at the side of my face critically, commenting, “The way that’s swelling up, you should see a medicus.”
“I’m fine,” I insisted, then for the first time took a moment to turn and examine the large room that serves as the outer office of the praetorium. “Besides,” I observed, assuring myself that the blurred vision I was experiencing would go away, “is there even one here?” Before he could answer, even as unfocused as my sight was, I spotted a familiar face, and I briefly felt a return of the dizziness that had just begun to fade, except this time, it was from relief. Pointing, I told Volusenus, “There’s my nephew; he’s got some training. And,” my scanning the room had been fruitful, because I pointed, “there’s the Pilus Prior, and that’s the Primus Pilus near him! Let’s go see what the situation is.” Climbing to my feet, I signaled to Alex that I wanted him at my side, while I started making my way through the crowded room, not even checking to see if Volusenus was following.
Both Primi Pili turned out to be in the praetorium, as were a majority of the Pili Priores, though not all of them, and it was left to Varo as the ranking Centurion of our party to inform Sacrovir that Sentius had been seized by the mob outside, who were still making an enormous racket, but had at least retreated from the entrance. The corpse of both the ranker and the gladiator had been unceremoniously dragged away from the flap, and I silently wondered if we would be trapped within this tent long enough for their corpses to start stinking. Caecina’ bodyguards moved back outside, just on the other side of the flap, which naturally had been lowered from its normal position serving as an awning above the cut that functioned as a doorway. Becoming more steady on my feet with every step, I made my way to Macer, where the other Centurions were already gathered, along with three Optios, though none of them were mine.
“Where’s Structus?” Macer asked me, but all I could offer was a shake of my head, which I instantly regretted because of the pain it caused. He must have noticed me wincing, since he leaned slightly to look at the side of my head, and he let out a hiss. “It looks like you have a hen’s egg under your skin, Pullus! Are you sure you’re all right?”
Actually, I was not sure, because he, and everyone else, was still slightly out of focus, but given everything that was happening, I did not feel right saying as much, so I assured him I was fine.
Clearly not believing me, he turned to Volusenus and ordered, “Keep an eye on him. You’re the only one of us strong enough to haul his fat ass off the ground if he passes out.”
Ignoring my protest, and that of Alex, who was behind me, the young Centurion assured Macer he would not let me out of his sight; with this settled, the Pilus Prior told us what h
e knew, little that it was at the moment.
“Caecina is in his quarters, refusing to come out and face the men,” he began, not hiding his disgust. “A delegation of men from both Legions approached Sacrovir and Neratius first, demanding an audience with the Legate to discuss their grievances. And,” Macer grimaced, “the Legate didn’t refuse, exactly, but when he said that he wouldn’t do so until he heard from Germanicus, well,” he finished with a bitter wave, “you can see how that was received.”
“That’s not the only reason,” a new voice interrupted, and we all turned to see Sacrovir, who had been talking to Neratius and some of the Tribunes when we first burst into the praetorium. “I just heard something from one of the Tribunes, and if it’s true,” the Primus Pilus paused, then went on, “well, let’s just say now our problems are a lot worse.”
This prompted a barking laugh from Vespillo, who spoke before Macer could open his mouth, a clear breach of custom, “Worse?” he echoed, shaking his head. “How could things possibly be any worse?”
“Because a rider came in just before dawn,” Sacrovir replied, seemingly ignoring Vespillo’s discourtesy, which I saw as another indication of just how unsettled the Primus Pilus was, because under normal circumstances, he was adamant about men of subordinate rank paying the proper respect to their superiors. “He’d been riding all night, coming from Mogontiacum. The 5th and 21st have risen up as well.”
This was understandably staggering news, and Sacrovir did allow us a moment to express our shock and dismay.
“Wait,” Macer spoke up, his eyes narrowed in an expression I had learned meant he was thinking matters through. “Excuse me, Primus Pilus, but you said this rider came in just before dawn?” When Sacrovir nodded, Macer went on, “All this…” he waved a hand in the general direction of the forum, “…whatever it is, started yesterday.”
Sacrovir frowned, clearly not taking Macer’s meaning, but while I was not completely certain, I thought I had an idea where my Pilus Prior was headed, though it was proving extremely difficult for me to concentrate.
“Yes,” Sacrovir replied shortly. “So?”
“So,” Macer explained, his tone patient, which was one of the qualities I admired in him, probably because I have none of it, “if the courier rode all night, then it stands to reason that whatever’s going on in Mogontiacum started at about the same time as here.”
I saw by Sacrovir’s expression that he immediately grasped Macer’s point, and indeed, he finished for him, “Which means that it’s either one of the biggest coincidences that I’ve ever seen, or this was coordinated somehow.” Before any of us could react, the Primus Pilus spun on his heel, searching the room. Then, spotting Neratius, who had moved off a distance to confer with some of his own Centurions, he began striding towards him, but as he did, he called over his shoulder, “Follow me.”
Of course, we all complied, but I must have staggered a bit when I turned to follow Sacrovir, and truthfully the move did make me a bit dizzy, but a hard hand clamped on my bicep, then Volusenus was there, grinning, “Easy there, Princeps Prior. Remember, the Pilus Prior told me to watch you.”
“I’ll talk to him about that later,” I growled, but when I assured him I was fine, he let go, and we both hurried to catch up, neither of us wanting to miss anything.
We arrived just as Sacrovir was explaining to the 20th’s Primus Pilus what was essentially Macer’s deduction, though I was not surprised that he did not mention the Pilus Prior’s name, presenting it to Neratius as if it was his own conclusion. I glanced over at Macer, but while his face was composed, he caught my glance and gave me a slight eye roll, which was not noticed by the two Primi Pili. Neratius listened, but while he did not say anything at first, I saw the line of his jaw tighten as Sacrovir made his case that there had to be a level of coordination in this revolt, of which none of us had been aware.
Once Sacrovir finished, Neratius was silent for a moment, then said, “So, this nonsense about not wanting to be near Caedicius’ camp was just a pretense all along.” Suddenly, his mouth twisted into a snarl, and he smashed one fist into his palm, exclaiming, “I knew it! I knew there was something more going on than just their not wanting to march to that camp.” Looking at Sacrovir, he said, “Come on, we need to tell the Legate about this.”
For a moment, our Primus Pilus looked as if he would refuse, but I suppose that to do so in front of us would have created even more problems. Making his reluctance obvious, which Neratius ignored, Sacrovir nevertheless followed the other Primus Pilus in the direction of the partition that separated the Legate’s office and private quarters from the outer office.
“I’m fucking dying of thirst,” Philus suddenly said, and as almost always happens, once one man mentions it, the rest of us realized that this was the same for us.
Frankly, since I was finding it difficult to concentrate, and if I am being completely forthcoming, I was finding it hard to summon much interest in what was taking place at the moment as well, I took this as a sign that the blow to my head was more serious than I had thought. However, I did think about Alex, aware at least that once Macer had assigned Volusenus to be my caretaker, he was essentially dismissed, and I scanned the large room, finding him, not surprisingly, in the darkest corner, along with Lucco and Cornutus’ clerk Demeter, mixing in with a couple dozen others of the same station. When he saw me as I made my way over to him, his mouth dropped open, and I realized he was staring at the side of my head.
“Uncle…er, Princeps Prior Pullus, that lump has gotten even bigger! Are you sure you’re all right?”
Before I could respond, he hurried over to me, the concern in his expression making me feel better, in an odd way, reminding me once again, albeit at a decidedly peculiar moment, the importance of having a family that loves you.
“I think so,” I answered him honestly, then once more reached up to touch my head, the first time I had actually done so since the immediate aftermath. I was gentle, but even so, I could not help wincing as my fingers touched what, as Macer had correctly described, was a lump the size of an egg, laid by a good-sized hen. “But,” I admitted, “it hurts like Dis.”
“Have you been seen by a true medicus yet?” Alex asked, and when I shook my head, he actually put his hands on his hips to demand, “And, why not?”
This was a mannerism that he had gotten from his mother, Birgit, and just the sight of it, as unconscious as it may have been, made me smile at the sight, even if doing so made my head hurt.
“Because I haven’t had a chance!” I answered. “Besides, I don’t think there are any around.”
Obviously not satisfied, my otherwise bashful nephew looked around the room, then apparently spotting what he was searching for, marched over and, exchanging a few words with the Optio, appropriated the stool on which he had been seated. I will say that, at first, the Optio, who I vaguely recognized as belonging to the 1st, but that was the extent of my memory of him, looked as if he was about to argue, whereupon Alex merely pointed in my direction. This was clearly enough, because he instantly hopped to his feet and actually reached down to hand the stool to Alex, who returned with it in his hand, but not before stopping to confer with another man of his station. This man – youth is more accurate – I did recognize as the clerk for the Fifth of the First of our Legion, but more importantly, also served as a medicus when required, and he immediately turned to accompany Alex, who returned to where I was standing, a bit slack-jawed if I must admit.
Putting the stool down, my nephew pointed and said simply, “Sit.”
Now, at any other time, I would probably have bridled at this, especially in front of other officers, yet this time, I found myself obediently dropping onto the stool, to which I attribute my injury.
“Let Parmenion take a look at you,” Alex said. “He’s practically a full medicus, and he’s had experience with head wounds.”
“It’s not a wound,” I protested, then amended, “exactly. It’s just a bump on the head.”
“And quite a bump it is,” Parmenion agreed, leaning down to peer at the side of my head. I did appreciate that, before he touched me, he warned, “This might hurt a bit, Centurion, but I need to feel your skull to make sure it’s not broken.”
I did not answer, merely nodding, mainly because I was girding myself for the pain. Which, I quickly learned, was coming the instant he touched me, and even with my admonition to myself, when his fingers pressed into the side of my skull, I let out a yelp of pain.
“I know, Centurion,” Parmenion said soothingly, which I found somewhat odd because he was, at most, five or six years older than Alex, making him much younger than me. “I know it hurts. But…” He stopped speaking then, as his fingers apparently found something, and the dizziness came back with a vengeance as he pressed harder into the side of my head, just above my ear. I was seriously worried that I would pass out, but he suddenly relented with the probing, standing up straight, as he pronounced, “I’m almost positive that your skull isn’t broken. Now,” he warned, “that doesn’t mean there might not be bleeding going on inside your skull.” This sounded quite dire to my ears, particularly when he turned to Alex and directed, “Do not let him fall asleep for the next three watches. And,” he glanced down at me to ask, “have you had anything to eat?” Honestly, I could not remember, which I told him, and he turned back to Alex to explain, “If he throws up, don’t be alarmed. That’s normal. Otherwise,” Parmenion returned his attention to me, shrugged, and said what all physicians and medici always say, “it’s in the hands of the gods.”
While I was being attended to, Sacrovir and Neratius had not only seen the Legate, but had already returned to the larger room. By this time, everyone present had gotten wind that there was information pertaining to our situation, so the instant they emerged from Caecina’s office, they were accosted by a crowd of very worried officers. Not everyone scurried over; I was content to remain seated on the stool, which I naturally had not surrendered to the Optio from whom Alex first procured it, ignoring the man’s glare at me. I’ve got a reason to sit on my ass, I thought. You’re just lazy. The matter of the stool was quickly forgotten by the Optio, who joined the rest of the officers crowding around the two Primi Pili. My interest was aroused, slightly, by the idea of learning what Caecina had said, but not enough to get up; thankfully, Sacrovir spoke loudly enough for me to hear.
