Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “Know about what?” I asked sharply, suddenly worried that these mutineers had done something even worse than what they had done to Rufus, which he seemed to understand.

  Holding up a hand in a placating gesture, Norbanus responded, “No, it’s not what you think, Centurion. Prefect Atticus died about six weeks ago.” He paused for a moment, I guessed to torment me a bit, before finishing, “Of a bilious fever.”

  Yet another hammer blow to my mind landed then, and I was assailed by a sudden feeling that my world and all that I had known was collapsing down around my ears. Following immediately behind this came another thought, but this one was something I took great care in expressing to Norbanus, especially when, at that moment, the man Glabius looked over his shoulder to glower at me.

  “Six weeks ago?” I asked with a casualness that sounded forced to my ears.

  “Two days before Augustus, as it turns out,” Norbanus confirmed. He took a step away from Latobius’ side, and I saw him glance at Glabius’ back now that the man had returned his attention to the front, then he whispered, “I think things might have gone a lot differently if he hadn’t died, Centurion.” Pausing for a moment, Norbanus kept his eyes glued to Glabius, then continued in the same tone, “Without the Prefect, Blaesus was lost, and it seems like every decision he made was the wrong one.” Shaking his head, he sighed, then turned to look up at me and said, “I never wanted this, Centurion. Most of us didn’t want this, if the truth be known. But men like him,” he nodded his head in Glabius’ direction, “they did a good job of swaying those boys who will go whichever way the strongest wind blows. And,” he chuckled bitterly, “the gods know there was a lot of wind, if you take my meaning.”

  “Anyone in particular?” I said this without thinking, and I immediately knew I had erred, Norbanus’ expression turning suspicious, and I added hastily, “I’m just worried about Domitius’ part in all this, Norbanus. That’s really all that concerns me.”

  This seemed to allay his doubt, and he answered readily, “Oh, Domitius is one of the cool heads in the camp. I don’t think he wanted things to go the way they did either, but once it became clear that this was going to happen, he and some of the other Centurions have been doing their best to keep the real hotheads from doing anything so stupid or damaging that it can’t be undone.”

  Even though this confirmed what we had heard, I still had to hide my relief, and despite the circumstances, I felt a jolt of pleasant anticipation at the thought of seeing Domitius again. And, rounding the bend in the road that followed the stream that flowed along a north/south axis, I saw the turf walls of the camp where the mutiny was taking place. From a distance, it looked no different than any other marching camp, but as we drew closer, the signs that something unusual was taking place became more evident with every passing foot. The gates were not only opened, they were unmanned, but it was the sight of men wandering in and out as if it was a festival day that gave the strongest indication of how much discipline had deteriorated.

  Almost as if he had read my mind, Norbanus commented, “It wouldn’t take a whole lot of effort on the Breuci’s part to come down on our heads and wipe us out, would it?” When I agreed, he shook his head disgustedly, saying only, “Not even Domitius or the other Centurions have been able to convince Percennius and his bunch to mount a guard.”

  “Percennius?” I was not familiar with the name; try as I might, I could not recall of ever hearing of a Centurion or Tribune by that name. “Who’s that?”

  Norbanus shot me a bitterly amused look, saying only, “Oh, you’ll find out soon enough.” He seemed to consider for a moment, but I suppose he was encouraged when Glabius, obviously spying a comrade, let out a shout in the man’s direction and went trotting ahead. “I suppose he’s sort of the leader of this thing, whatever it is.” Then, while I know Norbanus was unaware of the import of what he was about to say, he nevertheless identified what I will go into the afterlife convinced was the ultimate cause of the dual rebellions. “He was one of those men the Princeps sent from Rome after the Varus disaster. Supposedly, he was some sort of famous actor in the theaters there. That,” Norbanus shrugged, “I don’t know about, but I will say that the cunnus has a gilded tongue, I’ll tell you that.”

  Although this explained a great deal, there was one part that puzzled me.

  “I thought Augustus only sent that scum up to us in Germania.”

  “He did,” Norbanus agreed, “but the Primus Pilus of the 2nd up there somehow managed to get rid of him from his Legion and got him sent to the 9th.” Giving me a sardonically amused look, he added, “Supposedly, our Primus Pilus took a hefty bribe to take the bastard; I wonder how he feels about it now.”

  Before I could reply, we were at the gates, where Glabius had stopped, waiting for us to arrive.

  Pointing at me, he spoke in what I sensed was a deliberately provocative manner, saying abruptly, “You need to dismount, then follow me.”

  Without waiting to see if I complied, he turned about and began stalking into the camp.

  Sighing, I swung off Latobius, but when one of the men who seemed to always be at Glabius’ side reached out to take the reins, I stopped him with a look.

  “You’re not touching my horse,” I said this quietly enough, since I had no real desire for a confrontation, but he clearly understood I was serious, because he flushed deeply, opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, giving an elaborate shrug as if it did not matter.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, but I was already moving, stretching my legs to catch up to Glabius before he could sense I was lagging behind.

  This man was cowed easily enough, but I had become convinced that Glabius would not only welcome the chance to make an issue of it, he was spoiling for some sort of fight. Fortunately, by the time he did turn around, I had managed to catch up.

  “This is where I leave you, Centurion,” Norbanus informed me, then under his breath, he said, “May Fortuna bless you.”

  I made no real reply, giving him a nod instead as he headed down a Cohort street, leaving me alone in what was clearly a largely unfriendly environment, making me glad I was wearing my armor. Not all the looks I received were hostile; some of the men seemed more curious than angry, while I actually heard my name mentioned, and I did recognize some faces. Not many, reminding me how much time had passed since I last served with the 8th, which meant that men like Tiburtinus and Atilius had retired, both of them shortly after the end of the Batonian Rebellion. However, along with Domitius, there were two other men I was almost as anxious to see, but given their respective positions in the 8th, I was expecting to find both of them clapped in irons, and that was the best possibility I could imagine. Even if I had been disposed to ask Glabius about them, there was no time, because we approached the forum from the Porta Praetoria side, where I saw a sight that not only took me a moment to decipher, but was something I had never seen before. Matters were made more difficult because the forum was thronged with men, all of them in their tunics, and with a large number of them not bothering with their baltea, yet another sign of the total lack of discipline. As striking as this was, it was the sight of a large rostrum, made not of shields but of squares of turf that I judged to be every bit as high as the turf walls of the camp. Now, a rostrum, even in a marching camp is not all that unusual, except that it is almost always made of stacks of boxes, or sometimes shields, never something as semi-permanent as turf. This was not its only unusual feature; this rostrum was several times larger than a normal one, large enough that it could fit several chairs, one of them curule, with more than enough space left over for several men to stand upon and not be crowded.

  As Glabius and his bunch cleared a path, shoving men aside who, from my judgment, were too drunk to take offense at this treatment, I kept my eyes on the large turf structure, the thought suddenly striking me; it looks almost like a stage. The moment it came to me, I recalled what Norbanus had said just a few moments before, about this Percennius character, who I assume
d to be the man seated in the curule chair, surveying the scene before him with a satisfied smile. Standing immediately to either side, and I noticed, slightly behind the chair, were a pair of men, one of them carrying a vitus, while the other was holding a cudgel, which rested on his shoulder. As if the scene could not be even stranger, it was the combination of the sparkling white toga that the man who I assumed, correctly, to be Percennius was wearing, along with a crudely fashioned garland of ivy that was perched on his head at a jaunty angle that had me almost convinced this was a dream. Since Percennius was absorbed in something that was taking place immediately in front of the rostrum, which I could not make out because of the men thronged around the base of it, all of them equally absorbed in whatever was taking place, it was left to the man with the vitus to notice our approach. I saw him lean down and say something to Percennius, whose expression of avid interest instantly changed, and he stood to look in our direction, which in turn alerted the men on the ground with their backs to us that something was happening behind them.

  “Wait here.” Glabius had to raise his voice to be heard, because now that our presence had drawn attention, the men immediately around us began talking excitedly, their attention torn away from the sight that had captivated them a moment before, which I now could see clearly.

  At the base of the rostrum, perhaps a half-dozen men were either on their knees or crouched around a woman, the tattered remnants of her clothing strewn about, where they had clearly been taking turns raping her. And, not surprisingly, they were the only men not paying attention to me.

  “Who’s that big bastard?”

  “I bet Tiberius sent him!”

  “To do what? He wouldn’t send just a Centurion! By the gods, Mummius, you’re a thick one!”

  “Maybe Tiberius sent him to kill me!”

  This came from Percennius himself, who was now standing on the edge of the rostrum, and I noticed the heavy silver cup in his hand, the contents sloshing out as he weaved a bit. In contrast, however, there was no tremor in his voice, and as soon as his words came out, my ears detected the signs of a man trained in the arts of the theater, his voice projecting farther than normal, his speech distinct despite his state of at least mild inebriation, or, the thought came to me, this was all just part of the act. Regardless, his words created an instant effect, as the men around me went from a state of curiosity to hostility in the blink of an eye, and the air of menace surrounding me was so palpable that I had to fight the urge to draw my gladius, knowing that it would mean my death.

  “However,” Percennius continued, after a pause that I was certain was a calculated warning to me, “I do not believe that is why he is here, comrades! Am I correct, Centurion?”

  My throat had gone so dry that I was not sure I could answer, yet I surprised myself by responding in what sounded to me like a cool, calm tone of voice. “You are correct…” My voice trailed off in such a way that he correctly interpreted it.

  “Aulus Percennius,” he said grandly, then made the kind of low, sweeping bow that actors like to give at the end of a performance, “at your service, Centurion.” There was no missing the mocking note in his voice, and when he straightened up, any cordiality, however fake it may have been, was gone. “Now, who might you be, and if you’re not here to kill me, why are you here?”

  Before I could answer, a voice from outside the ring of men called out, “I don’t know why he’s here, but I can tell you who he is. This is Titus Porcinianus Pullus, grandson of the first Camp Prefect of the Army of Pannonia, son of Gaius Porcinianus Pullus, Quartus Pilus Prior of the 8th. And,” the tone hardened, “he’s my best and longest friend.”

  I did not need to see him to recognize the voice of Titus Domitius, and I turned in time to see men parting, moving out of his way as he made his way towards me. For the moment, I forgot everything else; the peril I was in, the reason I was there, none of it mattered as I first saw just the top of his head approaching through the crowd, a smile forming on my face despite the circumstances. Then, he stepped past the last man between us, and we were there, facing each other, yet while I immediately recognized him, in appearance, it was a very different Titus Domitius from the man I had last seen more than five years earlier, although that did not matter. I felt the stinging of tears threatening to push their way out from behind my eyes, and I could see by his own eye that he was experiencing the same powerful emotions I was. Perhaps, dear reader, you noticed my use of the singular when I describe him, but this is no accident. While his right eye was visible, and to me looked exactly the same, if not for a few extra wrinkles around it, his left was covered with a patch. This in itself would have been bad enough, but the skin around his left eye, extending down his cheek to just above the jawline, was a knot of scar tissue not dissimilar to my left outer forearm, while the top half of his ear was missing altogether. Despite myself, I felt my jaw drop, and the words I had been about to utter vanished as we stood there, just a couple paces apart. If men were talking or even whispering, I did not hear them, such was my concentration on Domitius.

  His voice seemed to have suddenly gone hoarse as he said, “And I’m still better looking than you are.”

  I cannot recall what I said in response, if anything, other than to laugh, and weep at the same time as we embraced, hugging each other tightly about the neck; I was only dimly aware of hearing the men around us cheering.

  Finally, I managed to get out, “Pluto’s cock, Titus! What have you done to yourself?”

  Even with one eye, the look of amusement he gave me stirred so many memories as he replied lightly, “What, do you think? I cut myself shaving? I’m not nearly as clumsy as you are, you big oaf.”

  My laughter seemed to please him, but before either of us could say anything, Percennius’ voice brought us back to the present.

  “As touching as this is,” he said mockingly, still standing at the edge of the rostrum looking down at us, “I am assuming that your friend…Pullus, was it?” At my nod, he continued, “…Isn’t here just to catch up with you, Domitius. Am I correct, Centurion?”

  “You are,” I confirmed, but I was not disposed to say anything more, which, once it became obvious, clearly irritated Percennius.

  “Well,” he asked, acidly, and I did not miss that he raised his voice, “are you going to enlighten us as to why you’re here?”

  I had known when I left Siscia that I would be facing this moment, and I was under no illusions about whether or not Domitius would be able to protect me if the leaders of this mutiny wished to make an example of me, and I had carefully rehearsed in my mind what I was going to say.

  “I’ve been sent by Tiberius’ representative to observe for myself the mood of the men, and to determine how seriously the Imperator needs to treat your demands.”

  Percennius smiled, but it was more a baring of his teeth as he replied in the same mocking tone he had used earlier, “So, an emissary sends an emissary? That doesn’t seem to me that Tiberius is taking us seriously!” Suddenly, he lifted his face to address the larger crowd, “What do you think, my comrades? Does it sound like our new Imperator is taking us seriously?”

  “No!” It was not in unison, exactly, but the roar of hundreds of voices shouting the same word was impossible to misinterpret.

  As bad as this was, though not unexpected, I could pick out individual men shouting out their own ideas for what should happen next.

  “Flog him! With the scourge! Send him back in bloody bits!”

  “Crucify him like a slave! That’s what he is!”

  “Cut his tongue out!”

  This last one caught my attention, mainly because, the part of my mind that is always detached even in moments of danger thought, That would make it hard for me to tell Drusus he needs to take this seriously. Percennius seemed content to let all these ideas for my demise be expressed for the span of a dozen or more heartbeats as he gazed down at me, with what now seemed to be a genuine smile, one of real pleasure, and I wondered if it was
because some of these suggestions sounded good to him, or if he simply enjoyed watching me sweat. That was something I was determined not to let him see, and I kept my face a hard mask as I met his gaze, reading the malice in his eyes as plainly as if he was speaking. Finally, he lifted one hand in a simple gesture, and the noise died down; gradually, it should be said, which I saw irritated him, which gave me an insight into the man himself. He likes the power, I thought. He’s not drunk from wine, he’s drunk from the idea that he’s in control of…this.

  Once it had quieted some, Percennius said teasingly, “Well, Centurion Pullus. I don’t know about you, but I think some of those ideas show some imagination. Perhaps I should consider giving my comrades what they seem to want.”

  I was not able to respond, because Domitius, taking a single step to interpose himself between me and Percennius, looked up at him and said flatly, “You’re not going to do anything, Percennius, except shut your fucking mouth.”

  Honestly, I could not decide what was more shocking; what my friend had said to the man I had assumed was either the lone leader or the most influential one of this mutiny, or the manner in which Percennius reacted. So certain was I that he would turn and order the two men still standing behind the chair to come and intervene, I actually did drop my hand to my gladius, but Percennius seemed to physically shrink back.

  “I was only having some fun, Domitius.” His voice took on a whining quality to it, transforming from a man in supreme command to a cringing cur so quickly that I was not certain it was not some sort of trick.

  “You’ve had more than enough fun,” my friend snapped, then he turned to indicate me, saying, “Pullus and I are going to my tent to talk.”

  Without waiting for any reply, Domitius turned, and beckoned to me to follow. Still leading Latobius, I watched the men instantly stepping aside as I followed my friend out of the forum, and I was not fooled into thinking that they were moving so hastily for me. Once we were on the street that bordered one side of the forum, the way was relatively clear, although men were still wandering about. More bemused now than I had been shortly before, I followed along behind him.