by R. W. Peake
"But didn't Pullus' grandfather and yours have a….falling out?" he asked, his tone almost gentle. "A fairly famous one at that? At Pharsalus?"
Looking over my shoulder, I saw Domitius' face flush, but his tone was steady.
"That's true," he admitted. "I didn't know my grandfather that well. I was just toddling around when he died, but I know everything my father told me, and he said his father always blamed himself for what happened between them and held no hard feelings towards Titus Pullus." He lifted his chin to look directly at Corvinus. "My grandfather named my father Titus, after Pullus' grandfather, and my father gave me the same name. Would you like to know why?" Corvinus did not answer, but since I was looking back at Domitius, I assume he gave some sign of assent, because Domitius finished. "Because of Titus Pullus. It's an auspicious name for anyone from Baetica. What I do remember is my grandfather telling anyone who came into his taberna that he served with the greatest Legionary who ever marched under the standard. My father said if I was half the Legionary that Titus Pullus was, he'd die a proud man."
For some reason, the image of Titus Domitius took on a mysterious shimmer as, horrified, I turned back to face Corvinus so that I would not shame myself. My former Pilus Prior was not a sentimental man, but I could see he was no less affected than I was, although he did not look like he was about to cry.
"Fair enough," Corvinus said, but then he turned to me. "Yes, it's true. But I'll let you fill him in on the details. He's your comrade. Besides, I have a lot to do." He stood up suddenly, and while I had burst into his office, even if Lysander had allowed it, I was determined to maintain some decorum, so I rendered a salute, then took the step back as prescribed in regulations, before turning about.
It is absurd, I know, but I was very pleased that Domitius had mimicked me exactly, because I was now facing his back as we marched out of Corvinus' quarters.
"Titus."
This was the second time in a short period of time where my praenomen had been used, and I turned to face Corvinus. His face was grave, and I instantly saw that he was not only serious, he was concerned.
"Don't. Do. Anything. Stupid." His tone was such that I knew he was issuing me an order.
"I won't," I assured him.
I suspect he knew I was lying.
On the way back to our own area, I told Domitius everything that had not been contained in my father's letter, the background information that would illuminate just how dangerous a situation we were in.
"Publius Philo used to be a Praetorian," I began. Seeing Domitius' blank expression, I used the term that was even then still more common than the one I had used. Fourteen years later, almost everyone recognizes the Praetorians and, more importantly, what that means, but not then.
"The Brundisium Cohorts."
His expression cleared.
"Ah." He nodded. "Those men hired by…" He paused as he tried to remember.
"Marcus Antonius," I prompted, and he snapped his fingers, nodding.
"Right! You know," he shot me a sidelong glance, "that Marcus Antonius doesn't exist, don't you?"
Even with the grave topic, I had to laugh at that; despite the divine Augustus' best efforts, Romans of every class still speak of Marcus Antonius, Cleopatra, and the romance that shook the world.
"Well, the man who didn't exist created the Brundisium Cohorts, which are now the Praetorians," I went on. "And when Vettus died," I knew I did not have to explain to Domitius who Vettus, the long-time Primus Pilus of the 8th was, "our wise Augustus sent one Quintus Barbatus to take his post as Primus Pilus."
Domitius' forehead wrinkled as he tried to place the name; early on, I had learned he had joined the Legion the year after Barbatus' ill-fated, and very brief, tenure as Primus Pilus.
"I only heard men talking about him, and what I heard wasn't good. Wasn't he the one who walked into the Senate? Way back during the civil war?"
"The same one," I confirmed, although I did not point out that there had been, in fact, two civil wars, and it was in the first one that Pharsalus had happened. "And, I suppose as a reward, he was sent here to Siscia to take over the 8th. And when he did, he brought some of his…men."
I honestly did not know how to describe what in all reality were his bully boys, his tough men, his muscle. Fortunately, Domitius understood immediately.
"Like Philo," he said thoughtfully. But when I confirmed that, he frowned and said, "But that still doesn't explain why you had to go see Corvinus."
"I'm getting to that." Now it was my turn to sound peevish, but he did not comment. "When Barbatus came here and brought some men he trusted, he put them in the First Cohort." I paused as I tried to decide the best way to frame what came next. Deciding, I asked him, "What do you remember hearing about the first campaign of Tiberius and Drusus? Anything?"
He thought for a moment, then replied, "Yes, the season before I joined. Wasn't it in Rhaetia?"
I confirmed that it was, happy that I did not have to delve that deeply into our history.
"And do you remember that there was an uprising here? In Pannonia?"
"Yes." His tone turned testy. "I'm as well-versed in our history as anyone. Besides," he added with grim humor, "it's easier to list the times these fucking tribes haven't been in rebellion."
"Yes, well, I'm sorry," I hurried on. "I just don't want to tell you something you already know."
This mollified him, and he indicated I should continue.
"Well, what you don't know is that, unknown to my father, or anyone, I suppose, Quintus Barbatus had plans to elevate himself to the equestrian class. Just like my Av…my grandfather." I hurried to correct this use of the name used by children but not adults. "Except there were some…complications." Now I was unwilling to go into any more detail, so I merely said, "And because of those complications, Barbatus got it in his head that my grandfather was to blame."
Domitius was still puzzled, as he should have been.
"So how does that mean anything?"
"Because he blamed my grandfather, Barbatus decided to take revenge on my father, because my father was," I thought for a moment, "and I suppose still is Titus Pullus' heir."
"I still don't see how that fits into any of this."
"I'm getting to that." I forced myself to be patient. "So when the Pannonian revolt happened, Tiberius was in command, and when the army went out to confront the barbarians, the army was ambushed."
"I think I heard something about that." But I could tell by his tone that he, in fact, had not, which did not surprise me in the least.
"Tiberius split the Legion into three parts, with my father's Cohort in one section, consisting of the Second and Fourth. They were ambushed, and the barbarians created a deadfall that blocked their line of retreat back to the main column. My father sent a man," I confess I had to consult his letter, "Publius Paperius was his name, back to the main column where Tiberius and the First Cohort was located, informing them of the situation and that they needed help. But when Paperius got there, Tiberius was off with his cavalry scouting ahead, so Barbatus took this as his opportunity to get revenge. He sent Paperius back with another man," I said this last slowly, adding emphasis, "to tell my father that the First Cohort and Tiberius were too heavily engaged to come to their aid and that they'd have to fight their way out."
Domitius' eyes widened as his mind absorbed not only the words, but the underlying meaning.
"You don't mean," he gasped, "that this Barbatus was going to sacrifice a whole Cohort just to get revenge, do you?"
"No," I answered, but with a grim humor. "He wasn't going to sacrifice one Cohort; he was going to sacrifice two. But when Paperius delivered my father's message to Barbatus, the reply the Primus Pilus gave wasn't that they themselves were under attack, because he could see that wasn't the case. No, the message he gave Paperius was to tell my father that help was coming. But then he apparently gave other instructions to the man he sent back with Paperius."
I said nothing for sev
eral heartbeats, letting Domitius work it out for himself. If he had been surprised before, his shock now was profound.
"You don't mean," his voice was a strangled whisper, and despite the fact we were all alone, he glanced around, "it was Philo that went with this Paperius?"
"One and the same," I confirmed. "Except that, as I can see you've worked out for yourself, Paperius himself never made it back to the Cohort. Just Philo. Who," I added, "relayed a very different set of orders to my father."
"But why?" Domitius asked.
"To discredit my father," I answered, because despite the fact that he did not explicitly spell it out, that had been the essence of the letter my father had sent to me when I informed him of my elevation to the First Century, First Cohort. It was only by happenstance that I mentioned the name of the Sergeant of our section, which prompted my father's reply, and warning.
And all I needed was my father's seemingly casual mention that Publius Philo had come to the Legion with Quintus Barbatus; as I am sure he knew, what pieces I did not know already I would not hesitate to go find out.
Domitius shook his head, clearly confused, for which I did not blame him a bit.
"But how did this not come out later?" he asked, a perfectly reasonable question. "I mean, since your father clearly survived, once the Legion was back together, he was sure to make a stink about it."
"True," I granted, then paused a moment; I was being cruel, I know. "If Philo hadn't suddenly disappeared."
"Wait!" Now Domitius actually staggered back a step as he tried to keep up with all that I had told him. "You're saying he deserted? How is that possible? I mean, he's a Sergeant now! He would have been scourged…"
"At the very least," I agreed. "But not if his Primus Pilus, Barbatus, was protecting him."
When I said that, it seemed to answer Domitius' doubts, but I said nothing more as we continued walking back to our area as I mentally counted the heartbeats before he worked things out for himself.
"So," he finally asked, before I had reached twenty. "If all this is true, what happened to Barbatus?"
Mentally, I congratulated my new diminutive friend for getting to the heart of the matter.
"Why, he happened to die in battle, just a couple of days later."
"That's convenient," he said dryly.
"Yes, it is," I agreed. "At least, for my father. Barbatus had charged my father with cowardice the day after the ambush. Fortunately, the Legate in command wasn't buying anything that cunnus was selling. In fact, the Legate knew that Barbatus was as much of an enemy to him as he was to my father."
I did not say anything more, once again letting him work through the labyrinth that is Roman politics.
"Who was the Legate then?" he asked, finally.
I looked down at him, making sure my expression remained blank.
"Tiberius."
By this point, Domitius appeared to be in a daze, shambling along beside me as his mind tried to cope with all that I had told him. Finally, he spoke again.
"That doesn't explain why Philo is still alive. And a Sergeant. If he deserted, that is," he said.
"No, it doesn't," I agreed.
The truth was that I did not have anything other than my suspicion and conjecture about the rest of this sordid tale, and as we drew nearer to our hut, I slowed, trying to decide how forthcoming to be about what I thought was the rest of the story. Before I made my decision, though, Domitius made what was the clinching argument for telling him.
"If that bastard is dangerous," he put hand on my arm to stop our progress, "and I mean more dangerous than just because he's our Sergeant and a stupid, cunning cunnus who's only looking out for his own skin, don't I have the right to know about it?"
Sighing, I swallowed the lump in my throat, but answered by nodding my head.
"I suppose you do," I agreed, but I cannot say I did not have serious misgivings. "But I don't need to tell you that, first, this just what I think is going on, and second, how much danger we're both in if I'm right and one of us lets any of this out. Do I?"
A look of irritation flashed across his face at what I know he believed to be obvious, but for my own conscience, I needed him to acknowledge it aloud.
"No, you don't need to tell me that if any of this reaches the wrong ears, we're both fucked," he finally replied, once he saw I needed him to utter the words.
"Good." I took a deep breath. "What I believe is this: Philo deserted; we know that without a doubt. And we also know that Barbatus was dead just a couple days later. And I'm guessing you know how long Urso has been our Primus Pilus?"
I could see that he, in truth, did not, but the realization came quickly.
"You mean," he gasped, "that Urso replaced Barbatus? So he had to be the one who allowed Philo to come back and avoid punishment?"
"No." I shook my head, which I saw confused him, so I hurried on. "I'm not saying that Philo wasn't punished. You've seen him without his tunic."
Publius Philo's back was, in truth, a gruesome sight, a mass of knotted scar tissue that told the story that he had not only been flogged, but it had been done with the scourge. When I had first seen him stripped down, which only occurred when we were at the baths—he was always careful about disrobing in front of us because there is no greater mark of shame to a Legionary than the kinds of scars that do not come from battle but from punishment—a number of thoughts had crossed my mind. Not least among them was wondering how a man who had clearly run afoul of the army in such a serious way to be scourged had redeemed himself to attain the rank of a Sergeant, not to mention in the First Century of the First Cohort. At the time, I had assumed he had performed some act of bravery that our Primus Pilus had seen fit to forgive whatever his past transgression had been and reward him by elevating him on the first rung of the leadership ladder. Now, still holding the letter from my father, I no longer believed anything of the sort. Oh, I had no doubt that Philo had performed some act that Urso deemed to be important enough to put him in the position in which he was at the time I joined the First of the First, but I did not think it was on the battlefield.
"What I think is that Urso saw he could be useful for…certain jobs he wanted performed."
Domitius' face cleared, then his mouth twisted into a bitter frown.
"Ah." He spat on the ground. "I understand. Our Primus Pilus keeps him around to keep us in line and to make sure that anyone who pisses him off has an…accident."
This was the first time Domitius, or anyone, for that matter, had broached the topic that I am sure was one that was never far from any of our minds but I had resolved never to bring up. Now that it was out, I was struck by another thought, and it was with some shame that I hesitated before I spoke again. We had come to a complete stop, and while all about us Legionaries were walking about, either hurrying to finish a last piece of business or returning from a visit with friends in other units, I felt extremely vulnerable, sure that if Philo, Mela, or Caecina were also out and about and saw us standing there, it would arouse their suspicion. Only now, with the wisdom that comes from all that happened in the intervening time between then and now when I am writing about it can I recognize that this was precisely the atmosphere that our Primus Pilus was trying to create in his Legion. He wanted his men to always be mindful that he had eyes and ears everywhere, that we had no secrets from him; it was in this way his control over the 8th Legion was as hard as iron.
Closing my eyes, I began, "There's something else you should know."
The laugh that burst from Domitius' lips was tinged with bitterness as he quipped, "Really? More than knowing that I have to sleep with one eye open because my Sergeant will slit my throat?"
His attempt at humor did not make me feel any better about what I had to say, but I plunged on nevertheless.
"Not just from Philo. At least," I hurried to add, "as far as Urso's concerned."
"Gods! You mean there are others?" Misunderstanding, he added, "Oh, you mean Mela and Caecina? I know about th
em; they're attached to Philo's ass like leeches." He laughed at his own humor. "Ha! Leeches! That's good! Don't worry; I already watch them like a hawk."
This was becoming more difficult with every breath, so I blurted, "Not them, Titus. Me."
"You?" Domitius laughed again. "I know you're dangerous but…" His voice trailed off as his eyes studied my face. He suddenly staggered back a step as if I had shoved him, which I suppose in a way is accurate. "Wait. You're not saying that you…work for Urso, are you?"
"As far as he's concerned, yes."
"But…how? And…why?"
One of the many ways in which I am similar to my Avus, or at least so I have been told, is I tend to do things impulsively. Sometimes—in fact, if I am being honest more often than not—I end up regretting my rashness. This time, however, turned out to be one of the exceptions to that rule. I have never had cause to regret telling Titus Domitius exactly how I had come to find myself in the predicament in which I lived those early days in the First. Nor, for that matter, any of the other decisions I made concerning his loyalty as a friend. In this area, perhaps the only one, my rashness has never come back to bite me. That day, once I had finished, I was acutely aware that he had not said a word or interrupted in any way; I was also sure that I had seen Philo himself exit our hut out of the corner of my eye, coming to a stop and staring in our direction for what felt like a third of a watch.
Finally, I could take the silence no longer, blurting out, "Well? Don't you have anything to say?"
"Yes," he finally said ruefully. "I'm sorry I asked."
Despite the grave subject, I burst out laughing, but he joined in immediately. Without waiting, he turned and resumed walking towards the hut, and I found myself in the unusual position of being the one hurrying to catch up. Once I drew abreast of him, I shot him a sidelong glance, trying to determine what was going on in his head.
Catching it, he just reached out, and up, to pat me on the shoulder reassuringly as he said, "And I thought I had problems because I owe that bastard Vetruvius in the Second Section twenty sesterces."
