by R. W. Peake
“I apologize, Centurion,” he mumbled as he held the tray, now empty of cups. “It’s just that when I turned in the morning report to the praetorium, I ran into Crito.” This was the name of Lysander’s counterpart in the First Cohort. Hearing the slave’s name wrought an instant change in the atmosphere of Porcinus’ office, and Lysander hurried on. “And he told me that there’s been a desertion in the First Cohort.”
Porcinus sat back, a sick feeling in his stomach, knowing the name without asking.
“Philo.”
It was Corvinus who supplied the name, and Lysander nodded, his face showing regret at being the bearer of this news.
“Deserter?” Urso scoffed. “He’s no more a deserter than I am. Barbatus has just salted him away somewhere, and is saving both himself and this bastard from Tiberius’ own men sniffing out and proving that he’s not from the 9th Legion.”
Porcinus considered Urso’s words and nodded slowly, accepting this as the most likely explanation.
“Not that there’s anything we can do about it,” Urso finished his thought, and Porcinus knew that this was true as well.
“Still, you have Tiberius as an ally,” Corvinus insisted. “You’re not going to be like your father when he was hung out to dry and had to win his fight all on his own.”
Porcinus opened his mouth, then thought better of it; this wasn’t the time or the place to correct Corvinus.
“That’s true,” he said, instead of telling Corvinus the reality, that if Tiberius was an ally, it was only because it was convenient for him to be one.
That reality was an entirely different matter from the case with the men in this tent, he realized as his eyes traveled the room. He was beginning to accept the idea that Urso could be depended on in this fight, and perhaps completely, while with the others he had no doubts that he could trust them with his life. On the other hand, Tiberius would help him as long as it was in his interests to do so, and the best that Porcinus could do was hope that remained the case.
“We go back out tomorrow.” Porcinus deliberately changed the subject, understanding that nothing more could be accomplished by further talk. “So make sure the men are ready to go. What’s our strength?”
One by one, each Centurion rattled off the numbers from their respective wax tablets, upon which the figures were compiled. Porcinus knew the number of dead men; that was always the first and most bitter number he had to hear. In fact, that was what this day would be about for the rankers, sending their comrades on their way, releasing their souls by fire, cleansing their immortal essence by burning away the flesh that kept it trapped here on the earth. Then each survivor’s close comrade, the man responsible for holding the other’s will, would open it and, to the extent possible, fulfill the bequests in it. Not that many men had to actually read their deceased friend’s will; as Porcinus well knew, this was a very common topic around the fires every night, as men bickered back and forth about their plans for their property, and who should get what. He couldn’t count the number of times he had heard one man threaten another with amending his will in order to cut the other man out from some prized possession. Shaking his head, he banished those thoughts, forcing himself to concentrate on the numbers being recited. After the dead were the number of wounded, divided into a number of sub-categories; wounded, expected to die; wounded, expected to live but be crippled and therefore be cashiered out; wounded and expected to return to the standard, but were currently in the hospital. Finally, there were those men who were wounded but had been cleared by the medici to return to duty, and were also further sub-divided by what level of duties they could perform. Once every man was finished, Porcinus did his own figures, writing the numbers laboriously down in his tablet, then sat back, slightly stunned.
“We’re only going to be at half-strength when we march tomorrow,” he said hoarsely.
Although each Centurion knew the specific numbers in their own Century, and were generally aware of the losses in the others, none of them had heard the numbers once they were combined in regard to the entire Cohort. Hearing it put so baldly took them all by surprise, and it was a very glum group that sat there for several moments.
Realizing that it was up to him to lift the spirits of his subordinates, Porcinus pointed out with an optimism that was only partially feigned, “But we have a really high number of men who can’t march tomorrow but will be back under the standard. By this time next month, we’ll be at about eighty percent strength.”
As he had hoped, that seemed to cheer the others some, even if it was tempered by the knowledge that they were going to possibly face the Varciani once more with severely depleted ranks. Dismissing the Centurions, Porcinus sat at his desk, lost in thought.
Mention of the ordeal his father had gone through, and how the common perception was that he had managed to defeat the designs of “them” back in Rome, which was how other men of his class always referred to this episode to Porcinus, occupied his thoughts for the rest of the time he sat in his office, before he got up and went about the business of making sure his men were ready for the next day. What Porcinus understood was that those men who talked to him of such matters only referred to “them” because of their fear of pointing to one man, and one man alone. Because that was the open secret about what became the last notable chapter of the remarkable career of Titus Pullus, that Augustus had been the unseen mover behind the tribunal of the Camp Prefect. However, Gaius Porcinus was one of the few people who knew that this was only partially true; it was certainly the case that Augustus had a hand in arranging a Tribunal, but from everything that Diocles, Pullus, and his friend Scribonius could gather during that time, the true architect had been another patrician. This man had seen a dual threat in Pullus; his son Claudius had been a participant in a scheme carried out by the Primus Pilus of the 13th Legion to squeeze the men of his Legion, and although it was true that Pullus had become aware of the younger Claudius’ participation, he never had any intention of exposing the young nobleman’s secret, not once they had made amends after Pullus saved Claudius’ life. Understandably, this event had a huge impact on Claudius, and while Pullus would never count a man of Claudius’ class a friend, they had forged a relationship based on mutual respect nonetheless. However, the man’s father not only considered Pullus’ knowledge of Claudius’ activities with the 13th a threat, what Porcinus had always believed was the elder Claudius’ real objection lay in what Pullus represented. Styling himself as an “old Roman,” what it meant was that he took a very dim view of any man of Pullus’ status elevating himself from the Head Count into the Equestrian class. Diocles’ belief was that Augustus hadn’t been the driving force behind Pullus’ tribunal. Instead, the Princeps had merely been the facilitator, either doing or returning a favor to a man who was not only a member of his own class, but known to be close friends with the Princeps. The fact that, according to those who only knew the bare bones of all that had gone on, Pullus had managed to somehow outwit and defeat the combined forces of Roman nobility, all on his own, had just added the final luster to the sheen of his legend. And while Porcinus was as proud as any man of his adoptive father, even more so, he also had learned that it was a burden. Like earlier that day, when Corvinus had unwittingly brought up the episode. Porcinus had almost blurted out what, as far as he knew, only he, Diocles, and probably Scribonius were familiar with, that Pullus hadn’t thwarted Augustus’ plans by his own wit and courage. Naturally, Porcinus hadn’t been in Rome with Pullus when he stood trial, yet when Pullus returned to Siscia not only free but exonerated, the Camp Prefect was a changed man. Porcinus thought his then-uncle would have been elated, but while he was happy the ordeal was over, he seemed to be in a thoughtful, pensive mood, one that lasted for several weeks. And although Titus Pullus never divulged it, Porcinus had learned from Diocles about an event that occurred on the night that Pullus had been found not guilty by the tribunal that, to Porcinus, at least partially explained his father’s attitude. Not surprisingly, t
he Greek and Pullus had been in a celebratory mood, and from Diocles’ accounting, they were on their third or fourth cup of unwatered wine when there was a knock on the door. Diocles had described to Porcinus everything that happened.
“The man who showed up looked like a slave,” Diocles had explained to Porcinus one night in Siscia. “And he brought a message. He looked scared half to death. Although,” Diocles had given a chuckle at the memory, “I suppose that’s understandable. Titus yanked the door open and had his sword in his hand. Anyway,” Diocles continued, “the man carried a scroll that he handed to Titus. But before he did, he made your father promise that he would never divulge the contents of the message, or the identity of who sent it.” Diocles laughed again, although this had a bitter edge to it. “Oh, he did not like that and, for a moment, I thought he’d refuse. You see, he was just so worn down by all that he’d been through, all the secrets, and the intrigue, and the double-dealing. He just wanted to come back here and be allowed to do his job without worrying about politics.” That Porcinus had known, and understood, very well. “But I think he also realized that he didn’t really have a choice. So, he agreed.” Diocles tapped the side of his nose with his finger, winking at Porcinus as he pressed on, “But your father wasn’t dumb, not by any stretch. He wasn’t as smart as Scribonius, although I haven’t met many men who are. So when he took the scroll, he made a great show of having to turn it to the light. To get it to the proper angle, you know, so that he could read it. I remember he even made a joke about his old eyes and his short arms. Anyway, he had positioned himself so that I could see the scroll from where I was sitting, and he was close enough that I could read it. Most of it, at least,” Diocles corrected himself. “Enough to know who it was from, anyway. And what he had done, more or less.”
This conversation in Siscia that Porcinus was recalling now in his tent had actually been fairly recently; in fact, it had been one night, late, shortly after Diocles had arrived with his news about the death of his father.
When Porcinus saw that Diocles was waiting to be asked, he sighed at the theatrics but gave in, asking the Greek.
“It was from Marcus Agrippa,” Diocles said quietly, clearly savoring the look of shock on Porcinus’ face. “He wanted to let Titus know that he had been the man who made sure the prosecutor was so inept, and that we had the best possible defender in Lucius Calpurnius Piso. He also told Titus that Augustus was very angry at being thwarted, and while Agrippa could protect himself, he warned Titus that he needed to leave Rome immediately. You see,” Diocles had sat back, looking off into the distance, “Agrippa is a soldier at heart. And he knew that an injustice was being done. But, because of his position, he couldn’t openly come out on Titus’ side. So,” the Greek said with a shrug, “he did what he could.”
Sitting alone in his own office in camp, Porcinus recalled those words and wished that he could count on Tiberius to be his Marcus Agrippa, but nothing he had heard or seen gave him any confidence that Porcinus was anything other an ally of convenience, and would be discarded, or even worse, expended should the need arise. With that thought haunting him, Porcinus rose to go rouse the men and get them ready.
When the army marched out the next day, it was almost as a whole Legion; Tiberius wasn’t willing to divide his forces again, not after what happened the previous time. The Second Cohort, or what was left of it, remained, this time along with the Ninth, much to the dismay of Maxentius, their Pilus Prior. Every man in the 8th Legion was thirsting for revenge; despite all the rivalry between Cohorts, the relationship between men from different Cohorts in a Legion could be likened to that of siblings who fight each other all the time. At least until an outside threat shows up, and then to hurt one of them is to hurt all of them, meaning that it was an angry army at Tiberius’ back, ready to bring death to the remaining Varciani.
Silva and his troopers had been hard at work, scouring the surrounded area, and Tiberius had sent couriers to each camp, ordering them to change their tactics. When the First and Fourth had returned to the site of the ambush, Tiberius ordered a count of the enemy dead. Porcinus and all of the men of the Second and Fourth Cohorts had taken grim satisfaction when they heard that there were almost four thousand Varciani dead left behind. Although there had been signs that small bands of Varciani, no more than twenty or thirty men at a time, were slipping past the patrols sent out by Tiberius to join the main body, Silva’s scouts’ best estimate was that the slain left to rot accounted for a bit more than half the total strength of the remaining Varciani. Early on in this endeavor, Tiberius had hoped that by surrounding this area and placing camps at the most commonly used routes into the interior of this hilly country, that he could starve out the Varciani. He was quickly disabused of this notion by men like the Primus Pilus of the 13th, Traianus, who was a veteran of Pannonia and knew that these hills hid a variety and abundance of game, especially for skilled hunters like the Varciani. The Legate had even briefly considered employing the drastic tactic of using the prevailing winds and starting fires in the hope that it would drive the Varciani to a location in this area that favored Tiberius and his men. He was talked out of that very quickly, it being pointed out to him that conflagrations of that size were impossible to control. There was really only one way to end this, and that prospective end was announced by the tramping sound of hobnailed soles marching out of the camp one more time. Between the casualties and the fact that campaigns where the goal was suppressing a rebellion were soundly hated by all ranks, the men were in a surly mood as they left, completely foregoing the normal ritual of calling to the guard Cohorts about being left behind. Neither was there the normal chatter as the men passed the time spent on a march by resuming conversations where they had been left off the night before around the fire or, in some cases, picking a story back up that was only told while on the march.
The 8th was as grim and silent as Porcinus had ever seen it, and it gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction knowing what that meant for the Varciani. Unlike Pullus, Porcinus didn’t immediately hate the men he was facing, but once whoever the adversary was had shed the blood of even one of his men, it became a different story. And, with each death and each wounded man, that initial feeling of mild dislike turned into something else, growing and hardening into what he was feeling now, a silent fury waiting to be unleashed. He had often wondered why the gods hadn’t seen fit to pass on the gift of battle madness to him that was such a defining characteristic of Titus Pullus. Most of the time, however, he was thankful that they had passed him over. Not this time; as they marched north on the now-familiar trail, Porcinus offered up a prayer that was slightly different from the normal one he offered whenever he and his men went into battle, and that was that if there was a fight today, that the gods bestow on Porcinus the gift that would enable him to exact vengeance on these Varciani who had so savaged his Cohort. He was praying when Silva, who had just seen to the rearguard element of his cavalry, came trotting up the column. Seeing Porcinus, he veered over to him.
“Salve, Porcinus,” Silva called out.
Porcinus almost tripped over his feet, so caught by surprise was he, and when he turned to look up at Silva, the mounted man burst into laughter.
“You look like I’m Cerberus about to catch you and chew your balls off,” the Decurion said.
Porcinus was about to make a retort, then bit it off, knowing Silva meant no harm by it, and he understood that Silva wasn’t the type just to stop and chat, meaning there was something on the man’s mind.
“Sorry,” he said instead. “I was thinking about something else.”
“That’s all right,” Silva replied genially. “You gave me something to smile about.” His expression changed, a look that Porcinus would describe as apprehensive if he didn’t know Silva better. “Gods know there hasn’t been much to smile about the last few days.”
“That’s true,” Porcinus granted, but he was unwilling to spend time on what would be an unpleasant topic, prompting him to ask,
“What can I do for you, Decurion?”
Silva started, as if he was reminded of something, and he replied, “Ah, yes. Sorry. I did want to tell you something. But,” he said as he glanced over Porcinus’ shoulder, where his men were marching alongside in formation, each of them trying to appear as if they weren’t listening intently to every word. “I think it’s better if you come this way.”
Without waiting for an answer, Silva laid the reins over his horse’s neck, a coal black stallion that he had ridden for almost his entire time here in Pannonia, moving just out of earshot of the column. Porcinus was intrigued and irritated in equal parts, not relishing the idea of having to go trotting off, then come scampering back, not to mention walk alongside Silva’s horse. Normally, Porcinus would expect a man to dismount and walk alongside whoever he was giving a message to, but Porcinus knew Silva well, and knew that he was more or less molded to the saddle, disdaining the idea of walking a step when he could ride, so he didn’t take it as a personal insult. Reaching Silva’s side, he gave the Decurion an inquiring glance.
“I wanted to talk to you about something that one of my boys found,” Silva began and, despite the distance away from the column, he took care to keep his voice low. “At first, we didn’t know who the man we found belonged to. But when we brought him into camp, someone identified him as belonging to you.” Porcinus’ face clearly reflected the confusion he was feeling, compelling Silva to explain further. “It’s about your man. Paperius, is it?”
Porcinus’ chest tightened, but he nodded and said, “Yes, Paperius is one of mine. Or was,” Porcinus corrected himself. “What’s this about?”
