by R. W. Peake
I cannot say that this was taken well by the mutineers; several of them looked angry, but more of them suddenly looked ashamed, breaking the stare of their general by either looking at the floor or glancing to one another.
The mutineer who had spoken either sensed that Germanicus’ words were having an impact on his comrades, or perhaps the words hit home with him personally, but he was still not quite ready to capitulate.
The defiance in his demeanor returned somewhat, which meant I was quite surprised when he answered Germanicus’ first question, saying, “My name is Gregarius Immune Publius Quintidius, Fourth of the Eighth,” then he confirmed my suspicion, “of the 1st Legion. That standard,” he nodded in the direction of the eagle, “is as much mine as any man’s in the Legion, I don’t care who they are!” Pausing for a moment to lick his lips, betraying the true state of his nerves, the now-named Quintidius demanded, “And, if it’s as you say, that it’s not a given that the Imperator is breaking your promise, then when will we know?” Turning and giving a contemptuous look at Plancus, who was still clinging to the standard with one hand, although he had at least pulled himself erect, he demanded, “Will he tell us now?” This seemed to restore some of his equilibrium, because the mutineer finished, “We could end this all right now, sir. All he has to do is tell us a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’”
Germanicus did not hesitate, replying coldly, “He will do no such thing. Not right now. We,” he indicated Plancus, “must have a chance to confer first.”
By this point, I could see that the majority of the men who had come bursting into the praetorium had cooled their ardor enough to understand that they had almost committed a crime so serious, so unforgivable, that not one Roman citizen, nor most men under the standard, would have any sympathy for the perpetrators. Some of them were glancing over their shoulders at the door, and had begun taking small but noticeable steps in that direction. One of the men standing immediately behind Quintidius leaned forward and whispered something in his ear; it became clear what it was when he glanced over his shoulder, took in the collective mood of his comrades, then realized that he had been thwarted. He might have taken it upon himself to be the man who spoke for them, but he obviously understood that, without the support of his fellow mutineers, he had no chance of winning this battle.
His face contorted in a fury that was no less vehement because he recognized he had lost, but he managed to answer, “Very well, Propraetor. It will be as you say. But,” I suspect that he could not stop himself from trying to salvage something of his pride, “we’ll be outside.” Turning back to Plancus, he finished ominously. “Waiting.”
Without exception, every one of the intruders walked backward towards the door, with Quintidius out last. The sight of the flap falling served as a signal, as I believe every single man in the praetorium exhaled at the same time. Germanicus’ expression of calm resolve vanished in the time it took for the flap to close, his face instantly transforming into the look of grave concern that I had witnessed on a handful of occasions during the Batonian revolt. Those of us who had not moved a step from the spots we had been occupying when this whole episode began only then made any move, and I turned in the direction of Germanicus, though I cannot say why, since I should have conferred with Macer first, given he was my direct superior. I did feel my Pilus Prior’s eyes on me, but I chose not to acknowledge him, intent as I was on speaking to Germanicus first, but before I reached him, he beckoned to the commander of his bodyguard, who was closer than I was and reached him first. I was within earshot, so I heard what the Propraetor said, and it sent a thrill of alarm through me.
“Go to my camp and find my wife.” He sounded calm enough, but there was no mistaking the urgency in his voice. “Tell her that she needs to pack, quickly, taking only what she needs for herself and Gaius. I’m sending them back to Ubiorum as fast as possible.”
“You don’t think they’re in danger, do you?”
I did not think I had spoken, but it was certainly my voice, and Germanicus, turning his attention to me, gave me an inquisitive glance.
“Why wouldn’t I, Pullus?” he countered, then gestured towards the door. “You saw what just happened. They were about to kill Plancus just because of what they thought he was here for, to tell me that my father denied my request.”
“I know,” I acknowledged, but I could not accept what he was suggesting, “but they wouldn’t do any harm to either Agrippina or little Gaius!” While I was certain he already knew, I thought to remind him, “You know what we call him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Germanicus answered, nodding wearily. “I know the men call him Caligula. But,” his tone turned firm, “Pullus, you’re not a father, or a husband. You don’t know what it’s like to have a family.” Shaking his head, he said flatly, “No, I’m not taking the chance that because the men think of Gaius as some sort of good luck charm, they wouldn’t do anything to either him or Agrippina. Not after what I just saw.”
I knew that Germanicus did not intend to be cruel, but his reminder to me of my loss did not sting less because of that. And, when I shoved the memory and the feeling that came with it back into the cupboard I keep it in my mind, I had to acknowledge that, given the reality of the situation, this was a sensible precaution.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Germanicus, as always, was being polite, but it was no less of an order when he continued, “I need to go talk to Plancus.”
Without waiting for an acknowledgement on my part, not that he needed one, he turned and walked over to where Calpurnius was standing next to the former Consul, our Aquilifer holding Plancus with a steadying arm, which was understandable given how shaken the man was. Taking this as my cue, only then did I return to Macer, who was now surrounded by Vespillo and Volusenus of the Centurions, and Structus, Closus, Sevilla, and Gillo of the Optios.
When I joined the group, Macer asked, “Where are Philus and Cornutus?”
It was Vespillo who answered, but while his tone was neutral, I was certain that his message was understood by our Pilus Prior.
“They’re out in the camp. Along with Saloninus,” Vespillo named his own Optio, then added with, what to my ears sounded like some satisfaction, “and yours, of course, Pilus Prior.”
Macer shook his head, saying, “I sent Fabricius on an errand to go to the Cohort office and check on Lucco.” He took a deep breath, then said, “That’s probably where Philus and Cornutus are as well, taking care of something, or in their own offices. What about Saloninus? Is he doing something you told him to do?”
I know I was certainly aware that there was more going on in this exchange than what the words implied, but I wondered if Volusenus understood; a glance at his face informed me that he did.
Vespillo stiffened, but he did not try to dissemble, answering flatly, “No, Pilus Prior. He doesn’t have my permission to be anywhere other than here.”
Macer did not comment, just giving a nod, then he turned to Sevilla and Closus, telling them, “Go find your Centurions and order them to report to my quarters by the beginning of third watch.” Turning to us, he said, “I need to go talk to the Primus Pilus. You all heard what time I expect you.”
Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he turned and strode off.
Vespillo, as was his duty, was the one who took command, telling us, “We go back to the Cohort area together, in case those bastards out there are still angry enough to try something stupid.”
Even if we had been disposed to argue, that it was the ranking Centurion meant we would obey, but I could see that the only other one who was not happy about this was the only other man in the Cohort who was my size. Regardless of the slight to our pride, neither of us said anything, and as we exited the praetorium, the other Centurions and Optios were busy organizing themselves in the same manner to return to their respective areas. This is what it’s come to? I wondered. Just having a vitus or a white stripe isn’t enough anymore? With that troubling thought rattling around in my head,
I followed the others out.
“Tomorrow is going to be a big day,” Macer began the meeting, albeit slightly delayed, “but first, we have to get through tonight. And,” his face was grim, “you can hear that it’s already not pretty.”
This was something of an understatement; there had been no overt acts of violence, but the word of Plancus’ arrival had swept through the camp, along with the attack on him, and I shuddered to imagine what the story being told about that sounded like. And, as I well knew, once the sun went down and with every passing watch through the night, that story would change, becoming more lurid, and more crucially, farther from what actually had taken place. Nothing any of us who had been present could say would have made any difference, given how most mutineers viewed Centurions and Optios at this particular moment. Only later would we learn that what had transpired inside the tent would certainly play a role in what was to come, but not in the way I, for one, would have thought. Meanwhile, our missing Centurions and Optios had been located, so Cornutus and Philus were present, but while nothing was said by Macer that might create an awkward situation concerning their whereabouts, I suspected that there would be a reckoning in the future.
“Does the Primus Pilus have any idea when we’re going to find out why Plancus is here?” Volusenus asked.
Macer shook his head. “All I’ve been told is that we’re having our normal morning formation as always.” Then he added, “I think he wants to conduct business as usual.”
“No chance of that,” Cornutus muttered, loud enough for Vespillo and me, seated on either side, to hear, prompting us to exchange a look, wondering what he knew that we did not.
Macer either missed it or chose to ignore it, understandable given what came out of his mouth next.
“What we need to talk about now is how each of you are going to handle your troublemakers in the event that the news from Rome is bad.”
“I know what we should do,” Volusenus burst out, “and I suggested that we do it more than a week ago!”
This was news to me; I had only had one conversation with the young Hastatus Posterior since my return, and most of it had been devoted to me retelling my account of Pannonia.
Macer responded to Volusenus with a weary sigh. “Yes, Volusenus, I’m well aware of your feelings on the matter. But,” his voice hardened, and he pointed directly at the young Centurion, who I saw suddenly stiffen out of the corner of my vision, “you’re not going to do anything along those lines, especially now! Is that clear?”
Since it was appropriate, I swiveled in my chair to look directly at Volusenus, who was visibly fuming, making me wonder if it was Macer’s words or the fact that our Pilus Prior had shaken a finger at him, given how much I loathed that myself.
Regardless of how he felt about it, or what the cause of his anger was, Volusenus’ tone was controlled as he answered Macer, “Yes, Pilus Prior. I understand and will obey.”
This satisfied Macer, and shortly thereafter, we were dismissed; all but Cornutus and Philus, that is, neither of whom looked happy at being held back, which I could understand, being close to positive I knew what questions our Pilus Prior would be asking them. I made sure to walk out with Volusenus, though I waited until the other Centurions had drawn away and were out of earshot to say, “I realize we’ve only talked once since I’ve been back, and I haven’t heard about whatever it was you suggested to the Pilus Prior.”
Volusenus glanced over at me, giving me the impression he was trying to determine my motives, but despite our rocky beginning, we had reached, if not a real friendship, then a mutual regard, at least partially based in our similar size and all that came with it.
Finally, he looked away and shrugged. “I thought we should arrest the men who are the troublemakers in each of our Centuries and separate them from the rest.”
I immediately understood the appeal of this approach; it was certainly straightforward, but I think it was because of my experience, both as a Centurion and as one who had been either under the standard or around men who were for so much of my life that it prompted me to try and educate the young Centurion on why this was a bad idea.
Thinking for a moment, I decided to fall back on the manner in which first Scribonius, then Diocles used, so instead of telling, I began by asking, “On what charges would we have done that?”
Volusenus shrugged again, answering in an offhanded manner, “Whatever we could think up in the moment, because that’s not important. What is would be getting these bastards away from the good men.”
I sensed him glancing over at me, so I gave a thoughtful nod, then asked, “Then what?”
For the first time, Volusenus’ face reflected an uncertainty, and he admitted, “Actually, I hadn’t thought about what happened after that. Just that getting them away from their Century before the delegation got here would have given us a better chance to control the reaction of the men, in case things don’t go well.”
That, I was forced to admit to myself, was not a bad idea; at least, Volusenus’ intentions were good and his judgment that this would help our cause was sound. What I realized, however, was that he had indeed not thought past the immediate benefit that would come from removing the men like Pusio.
“How do you think the rest of the men would have reacted?” I asked him.
To his credit, he clearly understood that I was not asking idly, so he was silent for a couple paces, then answered, “They probably wouldn’t have liked it much. But,” he insisted, not quite ready to concede the point, “not to the point where they would have done anything about it.”
I did not hesitate, asking him pointedly, “How sure are you about that?” Seeing this had scored, I pressed further, “And, what if they did have a problem with it? Not,” I allowed, “because they have any love for any of these faithless cocksuckers, but because in their minds, if it happened once, it could happen again. To them.”
We had been slowing our pace as we talked, and now Volusenus came to a stop, turning to face me, and I saw the warring emotions playing across his face. He took a breath, let it out slowly, then answered, “I…see your point. But,” his tone turned vehement, “I don’t like the idea that a Centurion can’t enforce discipline on his men! That we’re hostages to our Century and have to make sure we don’t do anything to displease them!”
Now I completely agreed with Volusenus in terms of his sentiment, but I also wanted to make something clear to him.
“First, I’d be more worried about you if you didn’t feel that way. And, I will say that under normal circumstances, I’d never tell you what I just did, but these aren’t ordinary circumstances. In fact,” I said truthfully, “I’ve never seen anything like what’s happening now.”
He seemed to consider this, then an expression crossed his features that I had not seen before, an awkward hesitance, and he finally asked, “Wasn’t your grandfather at Pharsalus?” When I nodded, he asked, “Did you ever hear anything about how he handled it?”
This prompted a sudden stirring of feelings that were both unexpected and powerful, and it was a struggle to maintain my composure, but I did answer him, though I still do not completely understand how and why I did so in the manner that I did, because I divulged something that I had kept a secret from almost everyone but one or two very close, trusted friends, like Titus Domitius.
“Actually,” I heard the words coming out of my mouth, and I recognized my voice, but it was as if someone else was saying them, “I know quite a bit about how he dealt with it, because he wrote about it in his account.”
This clearly caught Volusenus by surprise; that is the only reason why I believe the first thing he blurted out was, “Your grandfather was literate? He knew his letters?”
My initial reaction was, naturally, one of irritation, then I reminded myself of his own background and that he was only repeating what most members of the equestrian class, along with the higher-ranking plebeians and patricians of course, believe. And, being brutally frank, he was not wr
ong to make that assumption.
Rather than making a biting retort, I simply answered, “Yes, he was actually quite well-read. Although,” I acknowledged, “that was later in his life, once he was in the Centurionate.”
Volusenus seemed to accept this and returned to the topic he had broached. “So, how did he deal with it?”
Again, I am not sure why, but Gaius Volusenus became one of the very few people in whom I confided the contents of my Avus’ extraordinary life, and I left nothing out when I described the events that followed Pharsalus and are as famous as the actual battle itself. We had stopped walking as he stood listening to me recounting how Titus Pullus had advanced his career by his display of loyalty, but at the expense of a lifelong friendship with Vibius Domitius. The only thing I left out was what I had just done in Pannonia to repay the debt of honor that I believe the Pullus family owed to the Domitius clan, although at this point in time, I had no way of knowing whether I had been successful or not. As might be expected, Volusenus listened intently, saying nothing as I talked, then once I was finished, he did not reply immediately, and I could see he was deep in thought.
“It sounds like,” he finally said, speaking slowly as if the words were not coming easily, “that while it did his career a great deal of good, it wasn’t without a heavy cost.”
I cannot say how I was expecting Volusenus to respond, but it certainly was not like this, and I confess I was not only surprised, I was also impressed with his insight in discerning the hidden cost of my Avus’ actions at Pharsalus.
“That’s a good way of putting it,” I replied. “That’s very astute of you, Volusenus.”
