by R. W. Peake
I briefly considered taking the secondary road that turned southeast at the outpost of Crucium, which served only as a relay point for couriers, but given that it would take us through both Latobici and the heart of Colapiani territory, and given my history with them, chose not to do so. Latobius was beginning to show signs that he was fatigued to the point where I would need to allow him to rest more than a watch, but as much as I hated to do it, we could not afford to tarry. Dolabella brought up the idea of leaving Latobius once we got to the next relay station, then coming back for him on our way back; such was my uncertainty about what lay ahead that I did not take this suggestion. The closer we got to Siscia, the direr the tales; from one fleeing merchant, we heard that the Legions had slaughtered not only Legate Blaesus, but every Tribune, and the majority of the Centurions. He based this on his supposed inside knowledge, which came through being one of the main suppliers to the Army of Pannonia of grain. Only after being pressed did he finally admit that he had no firsthand knowledge, though he insisted that the source for this information was a man he completely trusted. Once we let him go on his way, Dolabella and I quietly discussed it, yet while neither of us thought it likely, we could not completely disregard the possibility that the merchant was telling the truth. Which meant, of course, that we would be too late, and if that was true, then the fate of men like Domitius, presuming he was on the side of the mutineers, was already sealed. The only thing we knew with any certainty was that we were closing in on Drusus and his party, although incrementally, since they were essentially doing the same thing that we were, riding horses into the ground to reach the army as quickly as possible, at least so we believed.
Dolabella held out hope that, knowing Drusus as he did, Tiberius’ natural son would, after several days of hard travel, be too tempted by the baths and pleasures of Siscia, such as they were, and would stop for at least a night. This was something I found hard to believe, but Dolabella proved that he knew Drusus quite well, because we learned immediately upon our arrival at the camp, still a mile outside of Siscia, that Drusus had done that very thing. This was all well and good, but neither the auxiliary sentry nor the Centurion in command of the auxiliaries left behind by the army could provide anything more substantial than the knowledge that Drusus and his company were staying in the town and not in the camp. This was enough, however, since there were only two possibilities where a man of Drusus’ rank would deign to spend a night, and Dolabella seemed certain which of the two he would choose. Although it would not be correct to say that Siscia was deserted, the traffic in the streets was noticeably thinner than was normal for the time of day, late afternoon, but it was the demeanor of the people that was the most telling that something quite unsettling was taking place. Dolabella’s guess, if it could be called that, proved correct, and when I asked him how he had been so sure, he laughed.
“Remember, I know Siscia pretty well myself.” He pointed to the building next to the inn, which was decorated in a style that was understated yet in such a manner that it left no doubt as to the carnal pleasures that lay within its confines. “I remember Juno’s Chamber. And,” he added with a grin, “I remember mentioning something of it to Drusus once.”
I complimented him on his powers of deduction, but when I began to swing out of the saddle, Dolabella stopped me with a hand on my arm, all traces of his smile from an instant before gone.
“Actually, Pullus,” he spoke in a low tone, a habit of his that I had long before supposed he had developed because of his work, “I don’t think you should come in.” When I opened my mouth, he said quickly, “It has nothing to do with being worried about you being around Drusus. Although,” for the merest flash, I saw his mouth twitch, “it might do him some good to be around someone like you before he goes and tries to cow the Legions here. No,” he shook his head, “I think it’s in our best interest if you get to where the army is camped, ahead of Drusus and whatever message he plans to deliver.”
I felt my jaw go slack as I stared at him in astonishment; this was not at all what I had been expecting.
Somehow, I managed to speak loudly enough to be heard. “You expect me to go down there by myself? And to do what?”
He did not look surprised at the question, because he answered readily, “I think you need to find Domitius and talk to him. Let him know why you’re there and why you’re worried.” There was no mistaking the grimness of his tone. “I’ve told you of my concerns about how Drusus will handle this, but if I’m right about who one of his companions is, I think the chances of him handling this badly are about as close to certain as you can get.”
I tried to recall Dolabella’s mentioning of whoever this mystery man may have been, but I could not recall, yet when I asked him, he said evasively, “It might be nothing. I just want to be certain. Besides,” he pointed out, “it can’t hurt to try and contact Domitius before things become really official, because once Drusus shows up, he is Tiberius’ representative, and he’s been empowered by his father to act as he sees fit, and Tiberius trusts Drusus’ judgment. The problem with that is,” Dolabella sighed, “Tiberius is blind when it comes to seeing any faults with his natural son, just like he’s blind to seeing anything good about Germanicus. At least,” he amended, “as far as politics goes.” Shaking his head, he finished with, “I’m just trying to do what I can to make sure that this turns out as well for all parties as can be arranged.”
Now, I will say that there was a time when, if Tiberius Dolabella had said this, I would have called him a liar and probably would have ended up with my hands around his neck again, something that had become something of a joke between us. But on this journey, I had glimpsed a side to the spymaster I had never seen, and I have wondered on occasion if it had always been there, but my hostility for the man had blinded me to it, or if this was one of the effects of Dolabella aging. The gods knew that, as I grow older, some of the things I viewed as absolute truths no longer seem as absolute, and I doubt I am unique. And, once I shoved the thoughts of my own safety to the back of my mind, I had to acknowledge that Dolabella was correct; if I could get to Domitius somehow, as slim a chance as it might have been, to affect some sort of positive ending to this drama, it was worth taking it.
“What about Titus and Algaia?” I asked him.
“They can stay with me,” he replied. “In fact, it might be best if they stay in Siscia when I leave with Drusus.”
“I’m going with you, Uncle Titus.” Young Titus, who, along with the girl, had been completely forgotten, had nudged his horse forward so that he was beside us.
“No you’re not,” I answered firmly. “I have no idea what I’m heading into, but the one thing I’m sure of, I’m going to have enough to worry about just keeping my own head on my shoulders. I can’t afford to worry about you.”
He opened his mouth, but while I could guess it was going to be some sort of objection, the Breuci girl, also moving her horse, reached out and touched Diocles’ youngest son on the elbow. When he turned to face her, she said nothing but just gave a slight shake of her head, and I was thankful that Titus was facing the opposite direction, because if he had seen Dolabella and me giving each other a glance and grinning, his young pride would have been pricked, and there is no telling what might have happened.
“Fine,” he said sulkily, then twisted his mount’s head around to return to the spot he had been a moment before.
The girl did not look triumphant, nor did she look all that pleased, and I suspected she knew that she had embarrassed Titus, but I also knew it was the right thing for her to do, and while I did not say as much, I gave her a grave nod of thanks, which she acknowledged before she also turned to join Titus.
“Take care of them,” was all I said to Dolabella. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. And,” I confess this was something of an afterthought, “try to watch after the girl. I still plan and freeing her once I have the chance.”
This clearly surprised Dolabella, and he took a quick gla
nce over his shoulder before turning back and saying softly, “Have you talked to her about this?”
This caught me off guard, so I answered a bit brusquely, “I told her the day we left Arelate. She knows.” Suddenly, I felt a glimmer of doubt, which prompted me to ask, “Doesn’t she?”
“I think,” Dolabella made no attempt to hide his amusement, “things may have changed on that account.”
I was about to answer, then realized this was not something that was immediately important, so instead, I turned my horse in preparation to leave Siscia.
“May Fortuna bless you, Titus,” Dolabella said solemnly while offering his arm.
“And you, Tiberius,” I answered, then grasped it.
“Hopefully I’ll still be alive the next time you see me.” I tried to sound lighthearted, as if it was a joke, but it did not feel like one, nor did Dolabella take it as such.
“So do I,” he answered soberly.
Then, I kicked the spare horse I was riding, and leading Latobius and the other mounts, I went immediately to the trot, leaving Siscia. I had spent the first ten years of my life, then after an interval, another ten years here, but on this occasion, I was inside the town walls less than a third of a watch.
From the moment I left Ubiorum, this journey had proven to be one of the most trying, strangest trips I had ever taken. Between the interval in Arelate, and now, when I was revisiting the countryside where I had seen, experienced and suffered so much, I quickly began to feel the hand of the gods at work, something that I have been unable to shake since. Roads as familiar to me as any I have ever traveled, with memories both pleasant and painful that colored my view of almost every mile, created such an intense sensation that twice I had to stop and catch my breath, despite the fact that I was sitting in a saddle. I was not the only one affected; even Latobius seemed different, his ears pricked forward, blowing through his huge nostrils as he took in scents that were familiar to him, or so I assumed. We gave Splonum a wide berth, but I was not fooled into thinking that I was passing through Colapiani, Breuci, and Maezaei territory unobserved; my hope was that whoever was watching me was at a sufficient distance that I was not recognized, either by my size or by my features. The camp was located almost equidistant between the Maezaei mining town of Clandate, where I had burned the village against the express orders of Primus Pilus Atticus in the immediate aftermath of Sextus’ death, and Raetinium, which I had helped subdue with Germanicus, and where one of my oldest comrades Servius Metellus had died. I bring this up as a way to explain my state of mind, and why, despite knowing the dangers of this country better than perhaps anyone, I was caught by surprise by a party of men. The only reason I am alive is because they were fellow Romans, Legionaries from the 9th Legion, who, much like the mutineers back in Germania, had been sent out to forage by their leaders, and they saw me approaching from the north, on the road that served as a secondary artery to the lower half of Pannonia. I only got a bare moment’s warning, from Latobius, who came to a sudden stop, his head jerking up, blowing a huge breath out that I knew was his way of warning me that he had picked up the scent of men.
“Salve, Centurion!”
The words may have been friendly, but the tone was not, as a half-dozen men suddenly appeared from the underbrush that lined the track, the man who had called out stepping out into the middle of the road, although it was the gladius in his hand that gave me a clearer indication of his possible intentions.
“Salve, Gregarius,” I replied, keeping my voice mild, even as I inched my hand closer to the hilt of my own blade. “Is there a problem?”
As I hoped, this seemed to catch the man by surprise, but he recovered quickly enough, shooting a look over at his comrades, who had arranged themselves in a line across the track. I could have probably cut my way through them, but that was not only not my intention, Latobius gave me a second warning, his ears suddenly twitching and twisting rearward, so without looking, I was certain that there were men behind me as well. And, I thought, if this bunch are even somewhat competent, those men would have javelins, ready to hurl right into my back if I did try to escape.
“I don’t know, Centurion,” the Legionary I took to be their leader, though he was not an Optio, answered me after his glance back at his friends. “I suppose that depends on why you’re here.”
This, I knew, was a delicate moment, yet before I could provide an answer, I heard an exclamation from behind me.
“Hold there, Glabius!” While I did not turn, not wanting to move suddenly, the voice seemed somewhat familiar as he said, “This is Titus Pullus!”
I must confess I was slightly disappointed when my name did not seem to make an impression on the leader, who shrugged and answered offhandedly, “If you say so. But,” he shook his head, “I don’t know who that is or why I should care.”
“Because,” the location of the voice had moved, and then a figure appeared at the edge of my vision as he walked to stand in such a way that he was facing both me and the other Legionary, “he was in the 8th, and he was Domitius’ best friend.”
This, I instantly saw, did mean something, but before either of them could speak up, I said, “I’d like to think I still am. And,” I added, “that’s who I came to see.”
That proved to be enough to allow me to pass, although not alone. Despite my protest that being accompanied by men on foot would slow me down, the man identified as Glabius refused to let me continue on alone.
“We’re only a couple miles from the camp,” he said sourly, and I got the distinct impression that he had been looking forward to some sort of confrontation with me. “It’ll only take a little longer.”
Given my sense that he wanted me to argue, instead I simply nodded my head, though I did kick Latobius into motion, keeping him at a walk to be sure, but it made the mutineers hurry to catch up with me. As we made our way in the direction this Glabius had indicated, I called to my unidentified savior, who came to walk beside me.
“You’re familiar to me,” I told him, “but I don’t recall your name, Gregarius.”
“No reason you should know it,” he answered readily enough, “but I was in the Fourth of the Fifth before I transferred to the Ninth.” While I instantly understood the deeper meaning, he continued, “I was there the night of the ambush by the Colapiani and Draxo, when you and Domitius guided us into position.”
Just the mention of that night brought yet another flood of memories, but it served to make the time pass as the man, his name Gaius Norbanus, and I reminisced about that night, and naturally, Primus Pilus Urso.
“He was a right hard bastard,” Norbanus said, though without any rancor, “but I tell you, Pullus, they don’t make men like that anymore.”
“No,” I agreed, “they don’t.”
Even as I said this, I wondered how much Norbanus knew of my tangled, complicated relationship with the man who had once been my father’s second in command, of the Fourth Cohort, how I had been one of the men Urso used for his “off the books” business of selling armor to tribes like the Colapiani, and how, in fact, I had been indirectly responsible for Draxo’s rebellion, although it was only because I followed Urso’s orders to break a woman’s arm. I did not mention any of this, but mainly because I surmised from the sidelong glance upward that Norbanus gave me, sitting on Latobius, that he knew at least part of the story. Besides, I was more occupied by grappling with the realization that, now that two decades had passed, the passionate hatred I had felt for Urso had faded to the point where, when I thought about the man, most of what I felt was positive. He was as crooked as a warped vitus, as we like to say, yet despite his greed, when it came to the skills a Primus Pilus needs in order to properly lead a Legion, I recognized that I put him second only to his successor, Gaius Sempronius Atticus, as the best Primi Pili I had served under. I might have considered Sacrovir, but I had not served with him long enough for me to be willing to make that declaration, while I honestly never really warmed to Crescens’, nor his style
of leadership.
It was the thought of Atticus that prompted me to ask Norbanus, “Where’s Prefect Atticus? Is he in camp with the Legate?”
Norbanus gave me a surprised look, searching my face, then he grunted, “Ah. Yes, I suppose there’s no reason you’d know about that.”
