Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  Now, I lay a matter of just a few paces away from where my father had been lying in the wagon, contemplating the same prospect that he did. And it is because of his example I was able to even consider the idea that, if I did lose my arm, I would somehow manage. Nevertheless, the relief I felt when the bandages were unwrapped, and the engorged, sated maggots fell out, leaving behind nothing but pink, living flesh is impossible to describe.

  "It looks as if the treatment was successful," the physician pronounced, looking as pleased as if he was the one who had actually eaten away the dead flesh. "But," his expression became, if not grim, then sober, "this is just the beginning, Gregarius. You are going to have to work harder than you ever have in your life to regain a level of strength even close to what you enjoyed previously." Then, as if for the first time, he looked at my frame, and sighed, "And I can see that level is very high. Well," he flashed me a smile that was not convincing at all, "I'm sure you're up to the challenge." Turning his attention back to my arm, he frowned, sending a stab of alarm through me as he pointed to one spot. "But that worries me. I cannot lie. If that does not close up properly, we will need to talk about other measures."

  Following his finger, I looked where he was pointing. As I suspected, it was in the area where the chunk of flesh had disappeared, and the only real way to describe it was that there was a gaping hole there, where the reattached portion of my muscle was located. It gleamed a dull red, a semi-liquid, semi-solid translucent substance only partially filling the hole to the level of my skin.

  "If that does not close itself, it will never heal, and you will have to keep it covered at all times to protect it from dirt and the like," he explained.

  "So," I asked, "what are the 'other measures'?"

  I suspected I knew, but I needed to hear it confirmed.

  "We would have to cauterize that tissue," he explained, then warned, "but it would make any chance of you regaining anything close to your former strength impossible. And if that happens," he shook his head, and his sadness appeared genuine, "your chances of staying under the standard are very small."

  "Well," I tried to joke, "that can't happen then, can it?"

  Thanks to the gods, I never had to face cauterization of the hole in my arm. Granted, it was a slow process, but gradually, the hole became smaller almost every day. Despite that positive development, what did not happen as quickly as I would have liked was regaining my strength. As the physician predicted, I worked harder than I ever had before, or since, for that matter, yet my progress was slow, and if I am being honest, while the strength in my left arm is now close to what it had been, the ability for my wrist to rotate is seriously compromised to this day. Sometimes, I joke to myself, this was why I toiled so hard to rise through the ranks to get to the point where I did not carry a shield. However, I did learn how to compensate for the lack of flexibility, so that anyone who faces me now and does not know my past would find it difficult to discern the difference. Nevertheless, learning how to compensate and do things differently takes time, so I am afraid that both my body and my ego took some lumps. I was off the active duty roster for six weeks, yet it is a mark of pride that during that time, the only admonition I received from both Tiburtinus and Urso was not to push myself too hard.

  "You don't want to pull a muscle or break something from a stupid mistake because you're too tired to think straight," was how Tiburtinus put it.

  Urso was a bit more pointed. One day, as I was working at the stakes, bashing on it with a training shield, over and over, I became aware that he was watching me. I do not know how long he stood there, but finally, when I paused for a moment, he walked over to me, his face expressionless. I came to intente, yet before I could salute, he waved me to stand at ease as he looked at my arm. I confess it was, and still is, an ugly sight, the scar tissue beginning to form and toughen, although it was still very pink and wide, and while the hole was closing, it was still visible. Additionally, it still oozed a bit, but the physician had assured me that as long as the discharge continued to run clear, this was normal.

  Done with his inspection, he looked up into my face and said, "Tiburtinus told me how hard you've been working, so I decided to come see for myself."

  "Yes, sir," I answered him honestly. "This is the hardest I've ever worked in my life."

  "Harder than what your father put you through when you lived in Arelate?"

  I do not know why, but I was surprised that he possessed that level of knowledge about me and my family after we relocated from Siscia to my Avus' villa when I was ten. I suppose that was why he said it; to rattle me.

  "Yes, sir," I admitted. "I'm more sore and tired than I've ever been."

  "Well," his tone turned abrupt, "as long as you know that you're not back in the ranks when you think you're ready, it'll be when I think you're ready."

  Frankly, it had not even occurred to me that it would be otherwise.

  But, as always, Urso was a man of surprises, because then, he asked, "So, how close to ready are you?"

  What does it matter, I wondered, if yours is the only vote?

  Regardless of that thought, I actually considered it, then said, "I think another week and I'll be able to start sparring."

  "You have three days," he replied, then turned about, leaving me agape at his retreating back. It was when he made one last remark that it became clear, as he called over his shoulder, "You and Bestia are going to have a rematch."

  "He said what?" Domitius stared at me, his mouth hanging open much as I imagine mine had a third of a watch before. "He's going to put you in with Bestia for your first sparring session?"

  Although it had been a few months before by this time, it was clear that Bestia still had not forgiven me for our sparring session when I had knocked his rudis out of his hand, although he had finally started speaking to me. However, I think that was due more to Dentulus, his close comrade, getting tired of relaying messages when Bestia and I were separated by only a few feet. Still, every time I had tried to strike up a normal conversation with him, he had answered with a series of grunts that said more about his feelings than any words.

  "Bestia will kill you!" Domitius must have seen my face, because he hurriedly added, "I don't mean he'll really kill you. I just mean…"

  "I know what you mean," I snapped at him.

  I find it somewhat amusing; if I had been asked about my prospects facing Bestia, I would have said essentially the same thing as Domitius. But when he said it, I got offended at his lack of faith in me.

  "I think," I finally broke the silence between us, "the Primus Pilus is testing me, and at the same time giving Bestia a chance to salvage the pride he lost when I beat him."

  "Maybe." Domitius nodded, his tone thoughtful. "I can see that. But, I can also see it another way, and that is that the Primus Pilus wants to send you a message that he still controls your fate. And," he chuckled, "I bet he wouldn't mind seeing you take some lumps in the process."

  I shot him an irritated look, yet despite not wanting to, I had to join in with him. It was true, and in fact the most likely reason for Urso doing this.

  Finally, I shrugged and told Domitius, "Nothing I can do about it except be as ready as I can be."

  During my recuperative period, I had been forced to watch the 8th march without me. It was about a month after the ambush before they did, the Second Cohort and the First, although less so, needing that time to recover its strength and get as many men back under the standard as possible. During that intervening time much, and nothing at all, had happened. Draxo had quickly withdrawn northwest and, in fact, the word was that the Colapiani had enticed the Latobici into throwing in with them. Although this turned out to be false, settlers still had to make the choice to fight or flee; most of them, the majority of whom were retired from the Legions, chose to flee. They were old hands, in every sense of the word, especially when it came to dealing with the wild tribes of Pannonia and Illyria. They had long since learned that staying and fighting was no
t only futile, usually ending in the deaths of not only the men, but their families. Consequently, Siscia was packed full with people fleeing from Draxo. Frustratingly, just as these barbarian tribes always do, they were proving almost impossible to pin down, despite the fact that the Legate, whose ineptitude did not help matters, was forced to mobilize the 13th up in Poetovio (Ptuj), along with the 15th, the latter not actually being at the camp in Siscia at the time but in a semi-permanent camp in Scordisci territory to the south, near the border with Dalmatia. They had to march from their camp, and for a short period of time, the rumor was that the remaining Legion of the Army of Pannonia, the 14th, would be summoned as well. Their posting was even farther than the 15th, far to the east and north, where the river that is now called the Danuvius, but was still more commonly referred to as the Ister then, makes a great bend from a north-south orientation to its east-west direction. Nothing came of that, but I suspect that the Legate was doing everything in his power to avoid having to send word to Rome that the Army of Pannonia needed help suppressing yet another rebellion. Yet, despite the fact that there were three forces of Legion size in the region, I was not at all surprised when first one Legion, then another would march out on the hunt, only to return a week later. There was quite a bit of speculation about why the Legate did not order all three Legions out at the same time, but it was explained to me by my old Optio from the First Century, Fourth Cohort, Aulus Galens, when I went to visit before they went out into the province.

  "Our supply situation won't allow all three Legions in the field at once," he told me. "It seems that our current crop of Tribunes aren't up to the task of filling out the proper paperwork. So our stockpiles are dangerously low, and I overheard one of the clerks in the Praetorium say that it's not likely to change."

  "But why?" I asked. "All he has to do is send word to Rome…"

  I immediately realized I had answered my own question. The Legate would not be eager, let alone willing to essentially tell Rome that he had fucked things up, especially after sending his regular "All is quiet in Pannonia" report. Yes, it is true the Tribunes assigned to the army were responsible, each of them serving as Quaestor, then rotating the job to the next Tribune, usually for a month at a time. Ultimately, however, the Princeps holds the man in overall command responsible for the success and failure of his Legion, or army, in our case. That was when something else occurred to me.

  "And is that why he didn't discipline Paullus?"

  Galens' laugh held little humor; I had learned that he lost a cousin, the son of his mother's brother, in the ambush. The man had been in the Third of the Second, the hardest hit, and whose man I had spent some time next to in the hospital.

  "What do you think?" he replied, answering my question.

  "I think no." I cursed bitterly. Aware that Galens was still mourning his cousin, I tried to find a bright spot. "Well, at least he won't dare try anything like that again."

  The Optio shot me a look that I found peculiar, but although I tried, he would not say anything else, so I let it drop.

  When the 8th returned from their fruitless search, the men who had gone out returned in a horrible mood, the frustration rubbing tempers raw.

  "We go marching here and marching there," was how Domitius put it disgustedly, "and oh, we see signs of them. A lot of tracks, and sometimes, they're not that old. So we follow them, and they just…"

  "Disappear," I finished for him, knowing the story well.

  During the rebellion seven years before, when my father had lost his leg, Tiberius was the Legate, and he had been forced to use all four Legions to trap the Varciani, the rebelling tribe. But, although Tiberius had trapped them, I remember not only my father but all the men talking about one particularly rugged and remote area that they all hated.

  I think that was when the idea first struck me, and I asked Domitius, "How far north did you go this time?"

  Domitius considered for a moment, then replied, "Not that far. We mainly pushed west, because there are those mountains that direction in between here and the sea. I heard the Centurions talking when the Primus Pilus called them for a conference when we were on the march. He seemed positive that's where Draxo would run because it's the western border of Colapiani territory."

  "The Primus Pilus said that?" I asked, my curiosity turning into something else. "That the Colapiani went west?"

  "That's what I said," Domitius replied peevishly. "And I will say that the ground out that direction is so torn up and broken that it was hard to tell which way they were going." He thought a moment, then added, "Actually, the last trail we followed wasn't due west; it was more southwest. And it was pretty fresh; it was still muddy."

  I tried to recall one detail in particular about the region I had spent so much of my life in, and of which I had covered a fair bit. Realizing there was only one place I could get an answer, I excused myself from Domitius. Just before I reached the door of the hut, it was yanked open, and I came face to face with Caecina.

  "Ayo, Pullus." As always, his tone was genial. "I hear that you're set to spar soon."

  "Tomorrow," I admitted, but said nothing else.

  "So," he dropped his voice to a whisper, but in the same way an actor in a farce does so that the crowd can still hear him, "who should I put money on? Are you going to beat Bestia again?"

  I was aware that the noise of the others rustling about and doing their myriad chores had stopped, and I had just a glimpse of Bestia, sitting at his customary spot at the table. While I could not really see his expression, I saw that his face was turned towards me.

  "I highly doubt it," I told him honestly. "But I'll do my best either way."

  "Of course you will," my Sergeant replied cheerfully, giving me a slap on my shoulder and a smile. "I expect no less."

  Thinking he was through, I made to move past him, except he still blocked my way, making me uneasy. He was still smiling, while his one good eye held not a hint of any humor as he examined me, but before I could ask him to pass, he took a step back out of the hut.

  "Where are you going?" he asked pleasantly, once I was out of the hut as well.

  At first, I was not going to answer, then thought better of it and said with a shrug, "I'm going to the Primus Pilus' quarters."

  "Oh?" He seemed not only surprised, but suddenly uneasy. "Why?"

  "I just need to check with Crito about something," I made up the lie on the spot. Seeing that was not going to be enough I added, "They deducted from my pay for losing my baldric, but I didn't."

  Although he nodded his head, I was not sure I convinced him, then when he said, "Well, I'll come along and keep you company," I knew he was not.

  "There's no need." I tried to sound casual, but when I began walking in that direction, he matched my stride.

  "Oh, it's no bother," he assured me. "Besides, we really haven't had a chance to talk since I was promoted."

  "Talk about what?" I tried not to sound suspicious; again, I was unsuccessful.

  "Pullus," he laughed, "don't sound so worried! We just haven't talked much lately."

  Understanding that I was not going to give him the slip, nor avoid whatever it was he wanted to talk about, I just nodded my head; I also decided that I should not be the only uncomfortable one.

  I saw him open his mouth, but I just beat him to it, asking suddenly, "So did you see how Philo was killed?"

  He came to a sudden stop, the false smile disappearing as if it had never been there, and he gave me a cold stare.

  "Why do you ask?"

  I shrugged, and keeping my tone casual, replied, "It's just that none of the others saw it, and you march next to him. I thought you might have seen what happened."

  I kept walking as I said this, so that it forced him to choose between standing there and cutting off the conversation, which was fine with me, or catch up to me. To my disappointment, he chose the latter.

  Reaching my side, he spoke slowly. "No, I'm afraid I didn't. Things were really confused there fo
r a bit. We got cut off." He shot me a sidelong glance and said, "In fact, if you hadn't gone off trying to get to the Primus Pilus, you would have been with us where you belonged."

  Now it was my turn to stare at him, and I asked, "Is that some sort of accusation?"

  "No." He shrugged. "Just an observation. Still," he insisted, "if we had your sword with us, who knows what might have happened?"

  I felt my right fist clench; my left was more or less stuck that way at that time, but somehow, I refrained from saying anything he could twist around and use against me. We walked on in silence, then as we neared the brick quarters where Urso lived and our office was located, Caecina slowed. I was tempted to keep walking, but I did not.