by R. W. Peake
“Those German bastards have forgotten they’re fucking barbarians,” Galens complained, although he took the hunk of bread I offered, settling down beside me with our backs to the outer wall of the tent.
“You’re just angry because they didn’t let you listen in.” I laughed at him, but while he did not join in, I did see the glint of amusement in his eyes that I recalled from long before.
“Maybe,” he admitted grudgingly, then added, “but I’m a fucking Primus Pilus, aren’t I? I should be involved in this!”
“Neither of the other Primi Pili are,” I pointed out, “so at least Drusus is being fair.”
“I don’t give a fart in a testudo for fair,” he growled, but then a corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
Thinking to change the subject and getting his mind off his exclusion, I said, “I was just thinking about something.”
“Oh?” he mumbled through a mouthful of bread. “You were thinking? That’s unusual.”
Ignoring the jibe, I went on, “I was remembering our trip to Rome.”
As I hoped, Galens smiled at the memory, admitting, “You know, I’d forgotten all about that.”
For the next several moments, we chatted about that trip, when we had accompanied our Primus Pilus Atticus to answer charges that we later learned had been engineered by the Princeps, as a reminder to our former Praetorian Primus Pilus where his loyalties lay, and to send a message to a coalition of powerful men in Rome that their attempts to create an atmosphere whereby Augustus would be forced into naming Tiberius as his heir would not work. Of course, it did happen, just not eighteen years earlier when these men tried to do so. I had a purpose for bringing this up with Galens other than to distract him, because when I lay down the night before, I gradually realized that somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I had been devoting time to thinking about how we had come to this moment, where not one but two armies had risen in revolt.
Finally, I tried out what was still a half-formed idea about our situation, asking Galens, “Do you think that all this,” I waved a hand around us, “actually started a long time ago?”
Galens surprised me by not answering immediately, actually thinking about it for a moment. Finally, he sighed and agreed, “I’ve thought that as well. And, yes, I think this has been building for some time.” He shot me a glance, asking curiously, “Are you talking about anything specific?”
“Do you remember Arruntius?” I asked him, not so much to stall but to give Galens an idea where I was headed.
“The Tribune who defended Atticus,” Galens answered, nodding.
“Yes, that’s him. Do you remember what he told me about how I might be used as a symbol because of my grandfather?” Galens nodded again, though he said nothing, and I continued, “Well, I think that what led to this actually started even before that, during the first Titus Pullus’ time under the standard.”
This seemed to lose Galens, which he confirmed by asking, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I think that once the patricians saw that whoever owned the Legions owned Rome, it opened up this Pandora’s Box where we’re used as pieces on a board.”
“That’s not new,” Galens scoffed.
“No,” I agreed, “but think of the timing. These mutinies happened, in two separate armies, within days after the Princeps’ death.”
My old Centurion twisted to stare at me, though his expression was unreadable.
“And?” he asked, saying no more.
“And I think that the men who came before us, the veterans of the civil wars, got used to the idea that they were the real power,” I explained, speaking slowly because, frankly, this was the first time I was uttering my thoughts aloud. “Which they passed on to men of your era when you were tiros and they were ending their careers.” Struck by something, I asked Galens, “How many watches do you think are passed sitting around the fire, with younger men sitting and listening to the veterans talking about ‘the good days,’ and how much money they made just because they were being courted by a rich patrician who wanted to be First Man?”
“That’s true,” Galens granted, but he shook his head, pointing out, “but that was before the Princeps solidified his power. Now we’ve had, what, forty-odd years where he’s the unquestioned ruler of Rome?”
“That’s actually my point,” I replied. “This is the first time in forty years where the Legions have the chance to improve their situation because there’s instability at the top. There wasn’t anything we could do when it was Augustus, but his death just created a chance for men of the later generations to take advantage of the situation. But,” I finished, “I honestly don’t think it would have occurred to anyone under the standard that this was even possible if it hadn’t been for what took place during the time of my grandfather.”
I could see this scored with the Primus Pilus, who sat, chewing his bread thoughtfully, before he finally grunted, “Maybe.”
Understanding this was all I would get from him, I returned my attention to the other side of the tent, where the guards were still standing, their backs to the flap leading into the Legate’s office. After a couple tries, even the Tribunes had gotten the hint that their attempts to listen in would be fruitless, and they had contented themselves with standing in a small knot, glaring at the Germans. Who, I saw with some amusement, were retaliating in the best way a man from the ranks can, completely ignoring the collective ire of the young Roman noblemen. Blaesus Minor, not surprisingly, was the clear leader of this group, but finally, with a great show of disgust, he went and took a seat on one of the vacant stools, whereupon he was quickly joined by the others, all of us settling in to wait and see what happened next.
Over the course of the next watch, on a couple of occasions, we heard a muffled, unintelligible voice, and despite not being able to make out the words, just by the tenor of it, we knew that it was the same man doing the yelling.
“I’ll bet you twenty sesterces that it’s Drusus doing all the yelling,” Galens offered at one point, but I just laughed, saying, “I’m not taking that bet. It’d be the same as just handing you the money.”
Aside from that exchange, we did not talk much, other than to do some more reminiscing, and by unspoken consent, we restricted our swapping stories to lighthearted moments, neither of us wanting to dwell on those times that end up haunting our dreams. Such is the way of the Legions and Legionaries, at least that I have known. Only once did Galens change the subject; more accurately, he returned to the topic that I had introduced, which informed me that he had been ruminating over what we had been talking about.
Seemingly out of nowhere, he asked me, “So, Pullus, if what you said earlier about how the seeds were planted for what’s happening now back in your grandfather’s day, why is it only the Pannonian and Rhenus armies mutinying?”
Honestly, I had not considered this question, and I had to pause to collect my thoughts before I answered with what I thought was the likely explanation.
“None of the other armies have done as much fighting as these two,” I answered at last. “Syria’s quiet, Hispania’s quiet, and nothing has happened in Africa in decades.” As I talked, I was convincing myself that this was, indeed, the answer, but while I did not need to, I also reminded Galens, “And none of those places lost three Legions at once.”
Galens did not take nearly as long to reply this time, and his nod was, while not emphatic, sent the message that he had in all likelihood reached this conclusion already, and I was just confirming what he had worked out for himself. I would also add that, if he was inclined to say something, he never had the chance because, just at that moment, there was a sudden commotion across the tent, as the Germans turned about to face the flap. We looked over just in time to see Drusus emerge first, followed by Blaesus Major, then the three Centurions, with Domitius trailing behind the other two, but then it was Sergovax, with no sign of Dolabella. This meant my attention was torn between the men who had emerged, trying to read from their exp
ressions anything that might hint at what lay ahead, and glancing over at the flap, watching for Dolabella. Just from what I saw, it seemed as if matters were back to an impasse again, judging from the angry expression on Drusus’ face, while Clemens, Catonius, and Domitius just looked exhausted.
“So, I suppose you’re wondering what happened in there.”
Dolabella’s voice, coming from a completely unexpected quarter, directly behind Galens and me, elicited a reaction from both of us that was completely unbecoming of two veteran Centurions of Rome.
“You better have a good fucking reason for sneaking up on us, you cross-eyed cunnus,” Galens growled immediately after the yelp of surprise that he unleashed, although in fairness, it could have been me.
“How did you do that?” I asked, since that was more of a concern for me, and ignoring Galens, he gave me a grin.
“I used the hole you made,” Dolabella admitted, but the grin vanished as he gave his real reason, “because I didn’t want to be seen walking over directly to you right now.”
“Why?” Galens asked, and if Dolabella was angry at Galens’ slur a moment before, he hid it.
“Let’s just say that our Proconsul isn’t in a forgiving frame of mind,” he answered, glancing past us to where the two parties were still mingled, engaged in some sort of discussion.
“Don’t tell me that he’s fucked this up and refused their terms!” I exclaimed, experiencing an intense stab of relief when Dolabella shook his head.
“No, he’s returning to Rome, along with Catonius, and he’s going to advocate for the men. At least,” he added grimly, “that’s what he says now. Between here and Rome?” He gave a shrug, admitting, “I don’t know about that.”
“So why’s he still acting like they pissed all over his boots?” Galens asked, and Dolabella gave the Primus Pilus a bitterly amused look.
“Funny that you should characterize it like that, because that’s almost exactly the way Drusus expressed it.” Dolabella sighed. “When you boil it down to its essence, this is about a young man not wanting to appear weak or ineffective to his Tata. What he’s angry about is the fact that Catonius and the others have already dealt with Percennius and some of his bunch.” This did not make sense to me, and I said as much, while Galens nodded, so Dolabella explained, “Drusus is worried that if word gets out that he wasn’t the one to enforce the punishments that he publicly decreed, it will fatally undermine him. That,” Dolabella allowed, “is how he puts it. But I think he’s more worried about how Tiberius will view it. And,” the spymaster admitted, “I think he has good cause to be worried. Tiberius is likely to believe that the Legionaries pulled one over on Drusus and that Percennius and a few others are going to get away free of any punishment.”
I considered for a moment, then asked him, “So what did Catonius and the others say about what Drusus said?”
The look Dolabella gave me sent a clear message that he was not fooled by my mention of Catonius and not Domitius, though he said nothing about it, replying, “They offered to show Drusus proof that Percennius and the others have been dealt with. That,” he nodded in the direction of the party, and I turned just in time to see them exit the praetorium, “is where they’re going now.”
“Do they have them in chains?” Galens asked; Dolabella shook his head, then gave us both a look that I knew was meaningful.
“No,” he replied, “they’re not in chains. Apparently,” his face did not register any emotion, nor did his voice, “they’re out in the ditch.” Seeing this was not descriptive enough for us, he added, “At least, their bodies are.”
Galens and I exchanged a startled glance, and he let out a low whistle, saying only, “Well they didn’t waste any time, did they?”
“No,” Dolabella agreed, “they didn’t. They want this to be over as much as anyone else. Maybe,” he allowed, “more than anyone else.”
“We might as well go out and see what’s what,” Galens said this casually, but neither the spymaster nor I were fooled, though I did not blame him.
He and those Centurions and Optios who remained loyal had been confined to the praetorium and quaestorium for more than two weeks and had been allowed out only to go to the latrines, and that was after a tense few days where there were negotiations that kept matters from becoming so violent and bloody that neither party could ever go back, so it was no surprise that the tent was already almost completely deserted, most of the officers following Asinius’ example. While Domitius had not said anything about this period, from Galens and others, I learned that my friend had been instrumental in keeping a lid on the simmering pot that men like Percennius were determined to make boil over for their own purposes. I will say that I was curious about what the actor and those men of his faction had hoped to gain by making the mutiny a bloody affair, but if Percennius confided in anyone, they either never talked, or more likely, were with him. Which, as we found out quickly enough, was exactly where Dolabella had said they would be, thrown into the ditch on the Porta Praetoria side of the camp, with throats cut to a man. There was no need for Dolabella to explain why they had chosen this side to make their demonstration, sending a clear message not just to Drusus, but to the Praetorians who were still waiting outside that the mutiny was over. Walking out into the forum, I found that the atmosphere was unlike anything I had experienced to that point; there was an air of relief that was palpable, while the expressions of the men who surrounded the forum seemed to be equally divided between men who looked as if a huge weight had been lifted from their shoulders, those who looked somewhat sheepish, and those who seemed determined to take a wait and see attitude. Frankly, if I had been in their boots, I would have been with the latter group, simply because of my belief that Tiberius would do everything within his power to avoid giving in to the demands of the mutineers. Perhaps I was being cynical, but I tried to look at it from his viewpoint, as the newly anointed Imperator. If he gave in to the demands of his Legions in Pannonia and on the Rhenus, would he be vulnerable to the other armies if they got it in their heads to do the same? Regardless of my personal feelings, ultimately, my primary concern was that I could return back to my own Legion once matters here with Domitius were sufficiently settled that I felt confident that I had accomplished what had become my most important, and frankly, only goal, ensuring that I at least partially appease the shade of my Avus and his long-time best friend. Honestly, I cannot point to one passage in the account of Titus Pullus where he said outright that he regretted his decision concerning Vibius Domitius at Pharsalus, but I did not then, nor do I now feel that I was making a huge assumptive leap in my belief that he regretted how matters between them turned out. Still, I wanted to return to Ubiorum, but in this I was more confident in the abilities of Germanicus to handle that mutiny than I was with Drusus.
Trailing behind the Proconsul, Blaesus, and the trio of Centurions were the Legate’s son and other Tribunes, who were clustered together in a manner that informed us that they were not as confident that the mutiny was over as the Proconsul seemed to be. Walking with Galens and me were the Primi Pili of the 9th and 15th, Aulus Vetruvius and Gnaeus Mancinas, but we were essentially surrounded in a protective cordon by some of the other Centurions and Optios who had been trapped in the praetorium. I did not hear any of the Primi Pili give the command to do so, but it was an understandable precaution; however, there was really not much hostility, overt or otherwise, aimed in their direction by the rankers, although they had formed what I suppose could have been viewed as a gauntlet down the Via Praetoria. My observation was that, just like the men who had been standing in the forum, their comrades were similarly relieved that the ordeal was over; not happy, exactly, just ready for things to return back to normal. I still felt a flicker of unease when, reaching the rampart, I saw that the men who had been standing ready to stop any attempt by Sejanus and his Praetorians to storm the camp were still present, but a quick glance told me that their posture was not indicative that they were expecting trouble,
most of them turned inward to watch the procession. Somewhere along this portion of the walk, Dolabella managed to use the small crowd of officers to disappear; I was unaware of his absence until I turned to ask him a question, but when I realized he had vanished, I was not unduly alarmed, given his profession, certain that he had more than one man inside these three Legions who were essentially me in terms of their role. The gates were closed, but they swung open quickly enough just as Drusus and his party reached them, and my body tensed a bit, somewhat expecting a sudden rush by Sejanus’ Praetorians. Since my view was blocked by the gaggle of Tribunes and our impromptu guard, I watched the men on the ramparts for any change that might indicate matters would degenerate at this late moment. Fortunately, while most of them turned back to face outward, nothing in their reaction suggested that there was any kind of organized assault now taking place. Our progress halted momentarily while Drusus examined the corpses of Percennius and the couple dozen men who Catonius, Clemens, and Domitius had used as dupes. A short time later, the rest of us were able to resume our own movement, and naturally, we all stopped to survey the pile of bodies lying in the ditch; I was certain it was no accident that Percennius’ body, still clad in his toga with its snowy white color now marred by the copious amount of blood from his throat, was positioned in a manner that made his corpse impossible to miss. His mouth was hanging open, not unusual, nor that his eyes were opened widely in that look of surprise worn by those for whom death comes unexpectedly, although my thought when I gazed down on him was, What did you think was going to happen? That you would act your way out of being killed because your hubris was so powerful that you made yourself the symbol of this mutiny? How could you not know there would be a reckoning for that? Or, I acknowledged, maybe he did know that there was death in his future, but he thought he would have a chance to savor this, what I am certain was the largest, most important role he had ever played in his life. Whatever the truth was did not matter now, and I did not linger that long, other than to perform a quick scan of the other bodies, all of whom, like Percennius, were carefully displayed so their faces showed.
