Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “But, Primus Pilus, how are the men supposed to do both? At least, without staying up all night?”

  For the first time, Barbatus showed some emotion, the glimmer of a smile, and his tone was almost cheerful as he replied, “Why, I doubt they can do both without staying up all night, Pilus Posterior.” Raising his voice for the first time, he added iron to his tone as he finished, “As I said, gentlemen, I expect this Legion to meet my standards, not the other way around. This Legion will be the match of any Cohort of the Praetorian Guard. At least in looks, if not in ability.”

  And with that insult serving as the last word, Quintus Barbatus had introduced himself to his new Legion.

  That was three days before Titus had come into the camp, which meant that Porcinus was already worn down. Matters hadn’t improved between Barbatus and the Legion, and they had gotten much worse between Porcinus and Barbatus. It was after the inspection when the new Primus Pilus conducted individual meetings with his Pili Priores, in their order. That wasn’t unusual; in fact, it was expected. But while Porcinus wasn’t sure what to expect specifically regarding himself, it certainly hadn’t been the reception he received from Barbatus. When he reported, he had behaved in the prescribed manner, squaring himself in front of the Primus Pilus’ desk, then rendering an impeccable salute as he informed Barbatus that he was reporting as ordered. That had been the last normal moment of their meeting. It started when the Primus Pilus didn’t acknowledge the salute, choosing instead to sit back and examine Porcinus, still standing rigidly with his fist against his chest, waiting for the acknowledgment in the form of an identical movement, before finishing the salute by extending the arm outward. Porcinus was forced to stand there for a period of time that he couldn’t calculate before Barbatus had returned the salute in a perfunctory manner.

  “Sit down,” he said curtly.

  Naturally, Porcinus did, holding his helmet on his left knee in the proper manner, making sure to keep his back erect and not touching the back of the chair. It was a good thing he did so, although when he thought about it later, he wondered if that had helped at all. Barbatus continued his inspection of his Quartus Pilus Prior, making it clear by his expression that he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. In and of itself, this didn’t disturb Porcinus; he had learned to accept that, unlike his father, he didn’t quite look the part of a Centurion. Even now, approaching forty years old, he still had a fresh-faced look about him that Iras, and friends like Corvinus, teased him about. The addition of a few scars had helped, but he had long since given up trying to build up the same kind of musculature that had made Pullus so recognizable. All he had was the height, yet, if anyone, he most resembled Scribonius. Nevertheless, his record was exemplary in the area that mattered; he had won a Civic Crown, and a Corona Muralis, although none of that seemed to matter to Barbatus.

  Finally, Barbatus spoke again, and Porcinus imagined that the room had suddenly become frigidly cold.

  “Gaius Porcinus.” Barbatus spat the name as if it was some sort of indictment, puzzling Porcinus even more. The mystery was cleared up with Barbatus’ next breath. “The nephew…” he made an exaggerated mock bow, which was slightly ridiculous since he was seated, “…I apologize, the adopted son of the great Titus Pullus.” Barbatus’ lips curled back in a sneer. “A traitor to Rome.”

  Gaius Porcinus didn’t have the volcanic temper of Titus Pullus; in fact, his father had often worried that Porcinus was missing what he considered an essential ingredient to making the perfect Legionary, that sense of fury that fueled a man and kept him fighting through the most extreme times of danger. Furthermore, Porcinus understood that Barbatus was baiting him, and that giving in to the rage he did feel would be playing into this man’s hands, so it was with a titanic effort that he quelled the sudden itch in his sword hand, as if the appendage was begging to have a blade in it so he could find out what this man was made of, literally. Consequently, he said nothing, yet when he thought about it later, he wryly wondered if somehow his father’s numen hadn’t suddenly decided to inhabit his body, because when his only reply was to stare at Barbatus levelly, communicating everything that needed to be said through his eyes, it was the Primus Pilus who broke the gaze.

  Suddenly appearing to be interested in the scroll in front of him, Barbatus dropped his head, pretending to scan the document. Seeing the man discomfited so gave Porcinus a small sense of victory, except that he still wanted so much more.

  “Yes, well,” Barbatus broke the silence, which had stretched out for more than a dozen heartbeats. “I’ve looked at your record. It’s…acceptable,” he sniffed. Then, he looked back up, seemingly recovering his nerve to finish. “But in my opinion, it’s hardly worthy of someone who is a Pilus Prior in a front-line Cohort.” Barbatus smiled at Porcinus, but it was a leering, knowing one, and he winked. “I bet that cost your…father a pretty penny, to buy your post.”

  Without thinking, Porcinus replied, “I wouldn’t know about that, Primus Pilus. I myself don’t have any experience in buying a posting. Perhaps you could enlighten me on how it’s done.” He gave the other man a cheerful grin. “In the event that I want to buy my way up, you understand.” Even as he continued, a part of him shouted at himself to stop now, but he couldn’t resist adding, “How much does the post of Primus Pilus cost, for example?”

  Barbatus’ smooth and freshly oiled features darkened, and Porcinus saw that his lower jaw was trembling.

  “How dare you?” he hissed, all sense of decorum or aura of command that Porcinus had come to expect in a Primus Pilus gone, and his lips pulled back in a snarl of fury. Well, he’s at least missing a couple of teeth, Porcinus thought. “Are you insinuating that’s how I was promoted to this post? That I bought it?” Still seated, he leaned forward threateningly, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “I would be very, very careful if I were you, Pilus Prior Porcinus.”

  Although it took an effort, Porcinus returned the man’s glare with a look of wide-eyed innocence, falling back on that fresh face to appear as if he was shocked that Barbatus had so misconstrued what he had said.

  “Why no, not at all, Primus Pilus! And I apologize if that’s how it sounded! I know that Augustus would only appoint the most capable man to such an important position! It’s just that you are clearly knowledgeable about such matters, and I’m truly curious about this topic since I’ve never seen it happen. Or heard of it,” he finished, and while his expression remained the same, his message was clear that, Primus Pilus or not, this was a topic Barbatus had best not pursue any farther.

  The Primus Pilus glared at Porcinus for a moment, clearly trying to determine the real intent behind the words.

  Finally, he grunted and sat back, saying only, “Fine. As long as we understand each other.” He regarded Porcinus for a moment longer. “I will say that it appears that the warning I was given about you appears to be fully justified. I was told that whether he was your real father or not, you had adopted many of Pullus’ bad habits.”

  Now Porcinus’ surprise was unfeigned as he asked, “Warned? By who? Who in Rome could possibly know about me?”

  For the first time, Barbatus smiled, but it wasn’t pleasant in any aspect. It was the smile of a man who’s sure that he will land a final blow, and it will be a crippling one. And, in many ways, he was correct.

  “Why, Augustus, of course,” he replied cheerfully. “He knows all about you. And he warned me specifically that you might have been infected by your uncle’s,” he put special emphasis on the word to let Porcinus know that he for one didn’t accept the idea of Pullus adopting Porcinus, “aspirations to climb above the station set for him by the gods.”

  As angry as Porcinus was, he was also puzzled by something, which prompted him to prolong what was a disastrous conversation by asking, “But it was Augustus who sponsored my father. And I happen to know that because of the proscriptions, he’s made the path to being elevated to the next class easier.”

  “That’s true,” Barbat
us conceded. “And for those who are truly qualified, and possess the right character, the Princeps is vigorously working to ensure those men are elevated. Your uncle, as it turned out, wasn’t truly fit to be an equestrian, which is why Augustus corrected his mistake.”

  “Only after my father died,” Porcinus pointed out, equally unwilling to concede the role of Titus Pullus to him as Barbatus.

  “That,” Barbatus’ tone was more grudging now, “is also true, but that’s because Augustus is a truly merciful man, and frankly, he’s a bit soft-hearted. Particularly when it comes to men who marched with his father.”

  Again, Porcinus knew better, but he couldn’t resist.

  “I wasn’t aware that Gaius Octavian the elder ever marched with the Legions,” he said gently. Then, before Barbatus could answer, he continued, “Ah. I forgot. You were referring to Augustus’ adoptive father. Not his real one.” His brow furrowed as he pretended to think about it. “What was Augustus’ relationship to Divus Julius again?” Snapping his fingers, he smiled. “Ah, yes. It was his uncle. His great uncle, in fact, wasn’t it?”

  Barbatus’ jaw had started trembling again, but he seemed to sense that any further exchange would just be worse, and he needed to cut his losses.

  “That’s true,” he said curtly. “But hardly the same case as with your…situation.” Trying to regain the upper hand before dismissing this upstart, he added, “As I said, Augustus learned of your uncle’s true nature, but he is a merciful man. However,” he glowered at Porcinus, “he also doesn’t make the same mistake twice. And I am letting you know that I’ll be watching you to make sure that you don’t get any silly ideas.”

  “Ah.” Porcinus returned Barbatus’ gaze levelly. “So you’re saying Augustus made a mistake. That’s….interesting.”

  As angry as Barbatus was, he couldn’t help feeling a stab of alarm at Porcinus’ words, and as the Pilus Prior had seen so often in connection with the man who ran Rome, his eyes suddenly darted to look to the corners of the room.

  “You’re dismissed, Pilus Prior,” he said stiffly.

  No matter how things between them had transpired, Barbatus could find no fault with the correct manner in which Porcinus stood, rendered another salute, which the Primus Pilus returned with a haste that was in direct opposition to their greeting, and marched out the room. Feeling the stabbing glare of Barbatus boring into his back, Porcinus was awash with conflicting emotions, but the overriding one was one of a rueful chagrin. Congratulations, Gaius, he thought, you won that battle. But you probably lost the war.

  Despite the small drama being played out, the work of the Legions continued as men of all ranks hustled about in the controlled chaos that was an army preparing to move. Like his father, this was something at which Porcinus always marveled, how what seemed to the eye to be complete confusion and random, disconnected movements was actually a carefully orchestrated operation, one that would see a fully equipped army, ready to march at the appointed time. His normal appreciation of all that was taking place was tempered by his worry, but to anyone who knew him, they wouldn’t have been surprised that it wasn’t the sudden downturn of his career prospects. Instead, almost his entire focus was on the safe return of his family, and being there to comfort his oldest son. Like all children, Titus’ wound seemed to start healing overnight, but it wasn’t his physical welfare that concerned Porcinus. The boy spent one night in the hospital building, and it had been extremely hard for Porcinus to resist the urge to spend the night at Titus’ bedside. Fortunately for both of them, he had memories of his own embarrassment when Titus’ namesake had fussed over him when he was wounded. Besides, the boy was already well known among the men of the Legions stationed in Siscia; the fact that he now bore his own wound, and the circumstances that had earned him this mark of valor made him a minor celebrity, so the less seriously wounded men crowded around his bed. Porcinus’ last sight of his son that first night was of a beaming Titus, answering the questions of clearly impressed Legionaries. Even the camp physician, a Greek named Philandros, was captivated by the story of Titus’ ride.

  “Your boy is a rare one, Centurion,” the Greek had told Porcinus. “Not many ten-year-olds, even his size, could have done what he did.”

  “Yes, I know.” Porcinus, standing at the door of the hospital, looked back fondly at the small crowd gathered around the bed. “But he had help.”

  “Yes, the horse. Ocelus, isn’t it?”

  Porcinus nodded, unprepared for the sudden surge of emotion at the mention of the big, gray horse, who, at that moment, was enjoying an extra helping of oats and barley.

  “I remember hearing stories about your uncle and that horse when I first arrived here,” Philandros went on, oblivious to the glimmer in Porcinus’ eyes until he turned to glance at the Centurion. Seeing the emotion, the physician turned quickly away, not wanting to embarrass either of them, but asked anyway, “Are any of them true?”

  Porcinus managed a laugh past the lump in his throat.

  “It depends on which one it is,” he answered, still looking at Titus. “But from what I’ve heard, yes, most of them are true.”

  “Remarkable!” Philandros exclaimed. Then, “Well, if you will excuse me, Centurion, I must shoo the admirers from young Achilles. He needs to rest.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he left Porcinus, who lingered for only a moment more before returning to his quarters, but not before paying a quiet visit to the stable to give his own quiet thanks to a horse, carrying an apple with him.

  The day before the army was scheduled to leave, there was still no sign of Iras and his family, and it forced Porcinus to do something that he had desperately hoped he wouldn’t have to do. Approaching the office of the Primus Pilus, he tried to ignore the knocking of his heart against his ribs, but he was forced to pause for a moment to gather himself before entering the building. As he expected, the two clerks assigned to a Primus Pilus for the clerical work were at their respective desks. The senior one, Porcinus thought he was a Macedonian named Perdiccas, the other named Crito, looked up at the sight of the Pilus Prior, his lips compressing. Like happened so often, Perdiccas had assumed the attitude and viewpoint of the Centurion to which he was attached, and the fact that there was no higher rank than Primus Pilus meant that Perdiccas was quite often a pain to deal with, looking down his nose at free Romans because they were of a lower rank than his master. One mark in Frontinus’ favor, at least as far as Porcinus and most of the other Centurions were concerned, was that he hadn’t tolerated this type of behavior in Perdiccas, yet it was clear that the lesson had been lost.

  “Yes, Centurion Porcinus? What can I do for you?”

  The smile Perdiccas offered was more a grimace of distaste as he made it clear he didn’t appreciate being interrupted. Porcinus was forced to resist the urge to use the vitus in his hand, as Frontinus had, to remind this slave of his place.

  “I need to speak to the Primus Pilus,” Porcinus answered shortly.

  “And what is it concerning?”

  This was too much for Porcinus under any circumstances, but while it would have irritated him before, his frame of mind was such that before he could catch himself, he had taken a step forward to lean over the desk and glare down at the Macedonian.

  “None of your fucking business, slave,” Porcinus snarled, and while a part of him was somewhat ashamed at his behavior, more than anything, he was pleased to see all the superiority and bluster vanish as Perdiccas cowered.

  “I’m sorry, master,” Perdiccas whined. “It’s just the Primus Pilus has been very specific in his instructions to us about being disturbed. As you can imagine, he’s very busy.”

  That, Porcinus was forced to acknowledge, was, in all likelihood, the truth, and he chastised himself for lashing out at a man who was powerless to resist anything that either he or Barbatus chose to do to him. It had been yet another lesson passed onto him by his father, that there was no honor or strength in bullying the helpless.

  T
aking a deep breath, Porcinus said, “Very well. I understand that you’re just doing your job. Will you please go request that the Primus Pilus take a moment to see me? It’s really quite urgent.”

  Perdiccas inclined his head, the haughty manner instantly returning, as if he were bestowing a favor, yet he did as Porcinus asked, moving to the door leading to the Primus Pilus’ quarters. Knocking on the door, Perdiccas’ voice was pitched too low for Porcinus to make out what he said, and he heard Barbartos’ response only as a muffled noise, but he did manage to catch his own name. He tried to keep his breathing steady, and he was half-expecting to be denied, or at the very least, be made to wait. Consequently, he was very surprised when the Macedonian turned and beckoned to him.

  “The Primus Pilus will see you now.”

  Porcinus, thrown off-balance by this quick agreement, hesitated for a moment, then hurried across the outer office to where Perdiccas was waiting, hand on the latch. The thought flashed through his mind that this was most probably what Barbatus intended, putting him on his back foot, as they liked to say in the Legions, so Porcinus took one more deep breath before nodding to Perdiccas. He was barely conscious of the smirk on the Macedonian’s face at this sign of nerves when he moved past the slave to march, once more, into Barbatus’ private office. As he crossed the few paces to stand in front of the desk, Porcinus’ nose wrinkled involuntarily. What was that smell? he wondered. It had a fruity, cloying scent, but it was oddly familiar. In the space of time it took for him to reach where Barbatus was again seated, he placed the memory, helped by the sight of some items sitting on a small table off to his left. The items were a bronze, highly polished disk, a small jar and what Porcinus assumed was a hairbrush made of boar bristles exactly like the one that his wife used every night. He remembered the first time he had been confronted with this odor had been, in fact, during an inspection, the one performed by Marcus Primus that was such a disaster. When it became Porcinus’ time for the man who was the Proconsular governor of Macedonia, endowed with the imperium that awarded him the title of Legate to stand before him, he had almost been knocked flat by the smell coming from the fat little man. And while the odor he was assaulted with in Barbatus’ office was essentially the same, during the inspection, it had competed with whatever perfume Primus had apparently bathed in. At least, Porcinus thought as he completed his salute to Barbatus, he’s not wearing perfume. The surprises continued when Barbatus returned the salute immediately instead of playing the little game with which he had tormented Porcinus at their first private meeting. In fact, if Porcinus was any judge, the Primus Pilus appeared impatient, which was understandable. If, that is, he’s not in a hurry to go back to brushing his hair. This thought threatened to mar Porcinus’ composure, and he roughly jerked his attention back to the purpose for which he had come.