by R. W. Peake
“I meant if Tiberius makes any decision about a new Primus Pilus,” Porcinus said hastily.
“Ah. Don’t worry, I will,” Corvinus assured him, seemingly accepting Porcinus’ words.
Still, long after the pair left, Porcinus lay there, deep in thought.
As Corvinus had predicted, the army broke camp the next day. By that time, Porcinus’ condition was worsening, and the only evidence he needed was the sight of his foot. Rather than slowly returning to a normal color, it remained a deep purple, almost the hue of a plum, and he still had no feeling in it, nor could he do more than barely wiggle his big toe. Philandros was doing his best to minimize the severity of Porcinus’ plight, but the Centurion could tell the physician wasn’t optimistic. Outside the hospital tent, there was the normal noise, composed of shouted orders, braying mules, and the constant chattering as men talked while they worked, striking their tents before filling in the ditches. Being transferred to a wagon was just the beginning of what was an ordeal for every wounded man, and one that Porcinus never had to endure before. The other times he was wounded, either the camp had stayed in place long enough for him to be discharged, or he had only been required to stay overnight. Consequently, he gained a new appreciation for the horrible pain and discomfort that was part of being wounded with an army on the move. Because of his rank, he and the other Centurions at least had their own wagon, which only made the misery marginally less; bouncing and jolting in the back of a wagon over the kind of rough ground they had to cover was uncomfortable whether it was with ten men or four. Philandros did what he could to make his charges more comfortable, offering them each a spoonful of poppy syrup, but when Porcinus learned he was only doing this for the Centurions, he refused his dose, a decision he would later regret, but didn’t reverse. Instead, he occupied himself by trying to think of anything and everything other than the creeping rot that he knew was claiming his leg. Although it was true that when his bandage was changed, his leg, while not as purple as his foot and not displaying the livid red streaks that every experienced Legionary knew to fear, was still horribly swollen, looking very much like the skin would burst, and the area around the places the bones had poked through were an angry red and leaking pus. Even if he hadn’t seen that, Philandros’ expression was eloquent in itself, so Porcinus forced himself to think of other things. Naturally, his family was on his mind, yet most of the time, he dwelled on what had happened in those last moments before Barbatus was killed. He had resigned himself to never knowing exactly why Barbatus had tried to kill him; he didn’t accept Barbatus’ claim that he was going to kill Porcinus because of some grudge he held against his father, but that was actually less important to him than why Urso had saved him. There were two reasons for his concern; the first and most obvious was that even if he was convinced he knew the purpose of Barbatus’ attack, the man was dead. Consequently, what was even more important and urgent to him was not only why Urso had chosen to save him, but under whose authority or protection he had taken action. When Porcinus had first regained consciousness, he had almost convinced himself that he imagined Urso’s statement, but in the intervening watches between then and now in the wagon, he forced himself to acknowledge that what he tried to pass off as vision or dream was very, very real. That left a simple but, for Porcinus and his future, extremely crucial question; who was Urso’s master? There turned out to be one blessing concerning his refusal to take the poppy syrup, in that his mind was clear and he was able to concentrate, even through the pain. As the wagon bounced along and he rocked in the slung hammock the wagons carrying the wounded used to transport their cargo, he ran through the possibilities. The most obvious candidate was Tiberius, and Porcinus tried to calculate whether this was a good or a bad thing as far as he was concerned. It was true that they shared a common enemy, or at least they had, in Barbatus, but Porcinus forced himself to acknowledge that there was another man who, if not an enemy, certainly wasn’t an ally, and that was Augustus. And while Barbatus had posed the more immediate threat, Porcinus was under no illusions about who was the most dangerous. Regardless, Porcinus mused, he still didn’t think that Augustus truly cared about Gaius Porcinus, as long as Gaius Porcinus didn’t get any lofty ambitions. But what if somehow Augustus learned of the truth behind the death of Barbatus, his handpicked Primus Pilus, and if the dead man was to be believed, in fact, his agent? Even worse, what if Augustus discovered that Urso did indeed work for Tiberius? Would the fact that Urso was the second in command of his Cohort mean Porcinus would be considered guilty by association? And, in fact, wasn’t he guilty by association? No matter why he had done it, Urso had saved Porcinus’ life, and that was a debt that must be paid, or Porcinus would never be able to live with the shame of it. If that meant that he was implicated by Augustus, and considered a threat to the Princeps, then that was what the gods had willed. Unlike his father, who had severed all ties with the gods after Miriam died, Porcinus did pray and make sacrifices, although it wasn’t something he did with any real regularity. No, he decided, about halfway back to Siscia on the second day of the miserable march, even if it meant being considered an accomplice, he would never betray Urso for saving his life. He also realized that he would have to face Urso at some point in time, and he dreaded the idea, yet he knew it was not only inevitable, but necessary.
The march back to Siscia took three days, and by the time the army marched back through the gates, Gaius Porcinus was delirious with fever, and if anything, his leg had become even more swollen. It was at dawn of the second day when Philandros ordered the dressing changed that Porcinus saw the red streaks he had been dreading. By the midday halt, Porcinus’ fever was so high that he had made the final break with reality, and was living in a world where shadows were solid, and men who had been dead for some time were sitting next to him in the wagon. And the wagon wasn’t the wagon; it was alternately his own apartment back in Siscia, or the farmhouse in which he’d grown up. He wasn’t particularly surprised to see Titus Pullus show up, staring down at him with a mock frown that Porcinus knew he used to hide when he was worried.
“What stupid thing did you go and do now?” he asked Porcinus.
When Porcinus, at least in his own mind, explained what had happened, Pullus had been anything but sympathetic.
“How many times have I told you that you can’t trust anyone associated with men like Augustus?” the Camp Prefect, looking exactly the same as the last time Porcinus had seen him in the flesh, had pressed. “You never turn your back on any of them!”
“But I was in the middle of a battle,” Porcinus protested. “How was I supposed to know that the bastard would sneak up on me and push me?”
“You should have known,” Pullus insisted, and there was a part of Porcinus’ mind that, understanding that no matter how real the conversation might seem, it was taking place in his mind. Nevertheless, he fervently wished his father had somewhere else to be.
“Does it really matter?” Porcinus asked, and only then did his imaginary visitor relent.
“I suppose not.” Pullus, or his ghost, pointed to Porcinus’ leg. “You know you’re going to lose that leg, don’t you?”
In Porcinus’ fevered mind, he glared at his adoptive father, and shouted at him, “That’s not true! Philandros will come up with something! I’m not losing my fucking leg!”
“Gaius,” Pullus’ shade said, and this time he did sound sympathetic, “you know that’s not the truth. You saw it when they changed the dressing. You have the red streaks, and you know what that means. Besides, how many times have they had to change your dressing? Every time the army stops? Because the places where the bones poked through have become corrupt.” Pullus’ shade shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Gaius. But when you get to Siscia, you need to listen to what Philandros tells you.”
“Noooooooooooo,” Porcinus moaned, and if he had been lucid, he would have been aware that he wasn’t just saying the word in his mind; in the wagon, his voice was raised to a shout, and his
head was thrashing back and forth, flinging sweat in every direction. His condition had deteriorated to the point where Philandros had ordered a medicus ride in the wagon, yet no amount of sponging could keep up with the torrent of fluid oozing from every inch of Porcinus’ skin. The only blessing, at least for Porcinus, was that he accepted the ladles of water that the medicus put to his lips, although a fair amount of the liquid spilled and splashed when the wagon would suddenly bounce over a bump or drop into a hole. Better yet was that Porcinus managed to keep the water down, although it was a never-ending cycle as his body raged with fever, and he fought a battle in his mind, not just with his father, but with himself.
“Stop it,” Pullus’ shade snapped, standing to his full height over Porcinus, as he had done on multiple occasions in real life. “Stop indulging in self-pity; you know I can’t stand that! This is what The Fates have ordained for you, and I’ll be the first to admit that it’s a bad one. But it’s not as bad as it could be! Do I have to remind you about Didius?”
The mention of this name, in fact, did have meaning for Porcinus, although he had never personally met the man. However, he had certainly heard of Spurius Didius, one of his father’s original tentmates, back when the 10th Legion was formed in Hispania. Moreover, he had heard about Didius and the role he played in Pullus’ life from two of the other members of the tent section of the First Century, Second Cohort, led by Gaius Crastinus. Scribonius, Porcinus’ first Centurion and Pullus’ best friend, had relayed many tales of the battles that Pullus waged within their Century with the one man who had convinced himself that he was, if not a better man, at least the equal of Titus Pullus. And while it was true that when it came to strength, Didius was a match for Pullus, in every other way, he was sadly lacking in the qualities that make a man a great Legionary and a great leader. It was in the first civil war, after Pharsalus, when the 10th was back in Hispania, where Divus Julius had crushed the last remnants of rebellion by the sons of Pompeius Magnus, and Didius suffered a wound that, like Porcinus’, became corrupt. He had lost his leg almost all the way up to the hip, and it had happened just a few weeks before the enlistment of the 10th was completed. Back then, under the regulations, it meant that Didius was eligible for nothing in the way of the retirement bonus that had been promised to the men. No land, no money, nothing; at least, if the regulations were followed. Nevertheless, even if the regulations had been followed, it still shouldn’t have been a catastrophe; Didius, like Scribonius, Vellusius, and Pullus, were veterans of the Gallic campaign, and each of them had received a portion of the proceeds from the sale of slaves taken by Divus Julius. A very small portion, it was true, but when a million souls had been sold into slavery, even a tiny part of the proceeds was a staggering sum. Yet, Didius was broke, although as Porcinus had been told by many men, he wasn’t unusual. A disturbingly high proportion of the Legionaries who by rights should have been wealthy had pissed their money away on wine, women, and gambling, usually in some combination of all three vices. In Didius’ case, he was an inveterate gambler, and while in his early days had actually been fabulously successful, by the time he was wounded, more than a decade of looking over his shoulder, always waiting to be caught cheating, had taken its toll. Pullus had become Primus Pilus by this point, making his relationship with Didius naturally more distant, so he was unaware that Didius had not only gone straight, but had turned out to be a much better cheater than an honest gambler. Without his leg, and with the prospect of no retirement bonus, Spurius Didius’ prospects were bleak, and it was the mention of the man’s name that forced Porcinus to realize something.
“Yes, I remember Didius,” he said, even weary in his dream. “And I understand what you’re saying. But…it’s my leg,” he finished quietly.
“I know, boy,” Pullus’ shade replied, his tone gentle this time. “But if you fight Philandros on this, by the time he does what’s inevitable, it may be too late. And as much as I miss you, I’m not ready for you to join me yet.” Once he regained his senses, Gaius Porcinus would always believe that the hand that reached down to grasp his shoulder was as real as he himself was, and didn’t belong to a shade. “You know what needs to be done.”
And Porcinus did. Now the only question was whether his internal decision would be uttered to the external world, which could only happen if he regained his senses.
Whether it was by coincidence, or from some other force, Gaius Porcinus’ fever broke almost at the exact moment the army arrived in Siscia. He had a difficult time opening his eyes, as they seemed to be gummed shut, and he finally was forced to use his fingers to pull his eyelids apart. The movement alerted the medicus, who at that moment was peering out the back flap of the wagon, watching as the wagon they were in rolled through the gates.
“Centurion! You’re awake!” The medicus practically leaped over to Porcinus’ side, beaming down at the prone Roman as if he had something to do with this change in condition.
“I guess I am.” To Porcinus, his voice sounded like a rusty hinge, and his throat was so dry that he could barely get the words out. “Where are we?”
“We’re just arriving in Siscia,” the medicus told him.
Porcinus frowned. “How long have I been…out?”
“For a bit more than a day,” the other man replied. “You became delirious shortly after noon yesterday.”
“What time is it now?” Porcinus asked, and the medicus leaned over to glance out through the flaps of the wagon.
“About a watch before dark,” he told Porcinus.
Even as he spoke, the wagon came to a halt, and Porcinus heard the shouted commands that told him they had arrived at their destination. The medicus got up, and was about to leap out of the wagon, but Porcinus stopped him.
“Go get Philandros and tell him I need to see him,” Porcinus told the medicus.
“He’ll be seeing you fairly shortly, Centurion,” the other man replied. “Right now, we have to begin unloading the wounded.”
“That wasn’t a request,” Porcinus said shortly, fixing the man with a cold stare. “I need to see him. Now.”
“Very well, Centurion,” the medicus answered stiffly. “As you command.”
Without waiting for a reply, he pushed through the flaps of the wagon.
“Fucking right ‘as you command,’” a new voice interrupted. “These little bastards have some nerve!”
Porcinus craned his neck, but although he couldn’t see the face of the man who was slung above him, he recognized the voice as belonging to the Secundus Hastatus Prior, commander of Volusenus’ Fifth Century who had taken a serious wound to his thigh that, while it was healing cleanly, would leave him with a limp. But at least he’ll have his leg, Porcinus couldn’t stop the bitter thought from flashing through his mind, and was only half-hearted in chastising himself. Fortunately, he didn’t have long to dwell on the injustice; the wagon flap was pulled aside, and Porcinus saw Philandros peer in, although he didn’t bother climbing up into the wagon.
“Yes, Pilus Prior?” Philandros made no attempt to hide his impatience, but Porcinus was beyond caring.
“How soon can you do it?” he asked the physician quietly.
For a moment, Philandros didn’t seem to understand. Then the meaning dawned on him and he stared hard at the Roman, who gazed back calmly, his face still flushed from the fever.
“Why, as soon as you’re ready,” Philandros finally answered. His expression was grave, but he assured Porcinus, “You’re doing the right thing, Centurion.”
“I know.” Porcinus couldn’t hide the bitterness. “That doesn’t make it any fucking easier.”
“I understand,” Philandros replied.
Porcinus opened his mouth to utter a retort, then realized there was nothing to be gained from speaking harshly to Philandros. Despite his own pain and anxiety for what was about to come, he also understood that the physician had seen more than his share of suffering. Porcinus knew Philandros was a kind man by nature, and most of the time, he
took no pleasure in his job; in fact, from Porcinus’ viewpoint, it was hard to understand why anyone would practice his profession.
“I can be ready in less than a third of a watch,” Philandros said.
“Not that soon,” Porcinus hurriedly replied. “There’s something I need to do first.”
Philandros opened his mouth, but shrugged instead.
“Very well. A full watch then?” he asked.
Porcinus nodded grimly.
“That will be enough time.”
In order to have some privacy for what he had planned, Porcinus ended up bribing the medicus who had been caring for him to leave him in the wagon until last, and make sure the wagon remained parked next to the hospital until Porcinus was done. To make this happen he also had to promise the wagon driver a bribe, who he asked to go find Quintus Pacuvius, the son of the Centurion who had accompanied his father. The youth had survived his first campaign, short as it was, and he would never look at the profession of his father in the same way again. In fact, although the elder Pacuvius had yet to be told, the son had decided that there were other occupations that he would rather pursue than being a man of the Legions, something that the father would have no argument with whatsoever.
“I need you to go find Titus,” Porcinus had told him. “Just Titus, not his brother or sister. You understand?” Then he gave the youth a weak grin and finished, “And by the gods, not his mother.”
Young Pacuvius needed no extra incentive to avoid Iras; he had not only witnessed her wrath, he had been the recipient of it on more than one occasion when he and his best friend Titus had gotten involved in one misdeed or another. Assuring Porcinus that he would be back shortly, with Titus, he slipped out of the wagon. For the first time, Porcinus was completely alone, his only companion the sounds of the army settling in to their permanent quarters. The 8th, in particular, had been badly bloodied, and while Porcinus wasn’t sure whether Tiberius had plans to go back out in pursuit of the Latobici and the Colapiani, the tribe who lived to the south of the Latobici and west of Siscia, he assumed that Tiberius would do so. There was still at least a month left in the season, and he had learned during his time in Pannonia that it didn’t do well to let these rebellions fester over the winter months if it could be avoided. However, he was reasonably sure that the 8th wouldn’t be part of Tiberius’ army even if he did continue the campaign. But that, he forced himself to remember, was no longer his concern, because in a matter of a watch, his career would be over.
