Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  "There are wounded men too close to the fire for our medici to get," Asinius announced to us after returning from the jumbled mess that was just beginning to get sorted out. "They're roasting alive, but we can't get to them."

  Consequently, we were forced to stand there, helplessly listening to the sounds of our comrades who were so severely wounded they could not drag themselves away from the killing flames essentially be cooked within their armor. Even now, all these years later, I suffer dreams where I can hear them screaming; even worse than just the insensate cries of agony were those calls men made to one of their comrades to come and drag them from the flames. And it must be said, more than one man tried, but after two attempts that saw otherwise unwounded men suffer the worst kind of burns on their arms and faces, Macerinus forbade anyone else from trying. It is one of those hard, grim and brutal decisions that Centurions must make, removing one's emotions from whatever is happening and opting to sacrifice the few for the many. Even when it is the right decision; and I believe that it was, even now, it does not mean rankers view it that way, at least not in circumstances like this when men we know and who marched in our ranks were burned alive. Honestly, I cannot say how I would have reacted if I had been aware of something that only afterward became known, that one of the men we heard screaming for us to rescue him was actually someone we knew. In fact, it was someone who not that long before I had taken steps to repair my relationship with, after knocking a rudis from his hand what seemed like years before but had just been a few months. As we stood there, however, we were all happily ignorant of Bestia's horrific and tragic fate, but I at least hope he and Dentulus have been reunited. I still find it a bitter blow and sign of the caprice of the gods that Caecina and Mela were already dead when the flames consumed them, while a good man like Aulus Bestia was consigned to the most horrible death imaginable. That is something I plan on bringing up when I meet the gods. Nevertheless, the suffering was not over, and for one group of people in that town, was just about to begin.

  Even under these extreme circumstances, the Centurions of the 8th worked diligently and quickly, organizing the movement of the wounded to the safety of the northeastern edge of the common area, although we could all see this was a temporary measure. The fire had just moved to the corner where the southern and eastern wall met, which in turn forced us to move in the opposite direction. While we were not called on, both Avitus and I felt compelled to go to Asinius and ask his release so we could help transfer the wounded, which he gave. We were quickly joined by Sido and Ventidius, who turned out to be the only other unwounded left of our section. At least, not seriously enough that they were incapacitated; Sido had his neckerchief wrapped around his forearm while Ventidius bore an ugly but superficial gash on the outside of one thigh, which he had also wrapped with his neck covering. Frankly, the worst part was that we had to get closer to the fire, and I believe we can be excused for our relative haste, which meant we handled some of the wounded men a bit more roughly than we normally would have done. I do not think any of us were offended at the epithets hurled at us by those men, usually with leg wounds or serious wounds to the upper body as we rolled or lifted them onto a shield before hurrying them away from the same fate as those who had been immolated. As for those unfortunates, I saw more than I ever wanted and, even now, I will not describe the scene in any detail out of respect for those comrades who were condemned to this horrific outcome. By the time the wounded were transferred to the spot designated by Macerinus, the sky just above the eastern hill was tinged with pink, contrasting with the dull orange reflection of the fire against the western hill. Just as the last of the wounded were relocated, the cornu sounded the command for the Legion to assemble in formation, and automatically, the four of us looked for Flaccus. While I cannot speak for the others, I suspect the emotions that overcame them in the instant they realized Flaccus would not be there and, in fact, our standard had been rendered into two pieces by Draxo, was very similar to mine; a queer, empty and somewhat lost feeling. Fortunately, Capulo and the eagle were normally just a couple of paces away, and we quickly saw the golden eagle, catching the firelight and actually not far away.

  "Looks like we're forming up in our normal spot this time," Avitus commented.

  I do not think it was lost on any of us that, in doing so, it also put us the farthest away from the fire and closest to the southern gate. Just from that, I was not alone in assuming we would be leaving this town in the immediate future, but although that might have been the plan there was one more drama to be played out.

  This final act began when Macerinus gave the order to the Nones Pilus Prior to begin the process of securing the prisoners. I cannot say exactly when the responsibility for the captive Varciani had been given to the Ninth; neither can I say with any certainty that what was about to transpire would not have occurred if it had been another Cohort. But as I had observed since the previous campaign season, of all the Cohorts of the 8th, the Ninth was the most ineptly led, and I do not believe it a coincidence, nor much of a surprise that the post of Nones Pilus Prior was filled by a man who had essentially purchased the post. Despite the fact I am reluctant to question or criticize our beloved Augustus, who even now in his dotage is a wise and extremely powerful ruler, of all the reforms he carried out early during his time as Princeps, the practice of essentially auctioning off posts in the Centurionate is one that is most questionable. And I would point to what happened this night as an example of what happens when a Cohort, or even a Century, is under the command of a weak leader who is in fear of the men he leads. Consequently, because of my spot, I was in a position to be among the first to learn that a problem existed when the Nones Pilus Prior approached Macerinus, who was huddled with the Pili Priores of the first line Cohorts, including Corvinus. In fact, as we stood there, I was idly wondering if Corvinus was relieved about Urso's death, especially since our Primus Pilus took only the gods know how many secrets with him as he stepped into Charon's boat. Then the Nones Pilus Prior appeared from his spot, and there was something in his posture that gave me a hint that, at the very least, the exchange would be interesting.

  "Well? Are the prisoners secured?" Macerinus' voice was a raspy shell of the one I normally heard booming out at the men of his Century, but it was loud enough so that we could hear.

  The Nones Pilus Prior's back was to me, but I saw him shifting from one foot to another, back and forth, which is not the expected behavior of a Centurion, and I quickly learned why when he replied, "Er, yes, Primus Pilus. But there's a…problem."

  "Problem?" I saw one of Macerinus' eyebrows lift and I could only imagine his weariness as he pressed, "What kind of problem? I knew we'd be short of chains; the immunes didn't have time to make enough, but you had more than enough thongs. So, what is it?"

  The Pilus Prior did not answer immediately and I saw Macerinus' eyes narrow, but just as he opened his mouth, the other man blurted, "My Cohort refuses to escort the prisoners."

  I can only imagine that our acting Primus Pilus' expression was a mirror of mine, a combination of irritation and bemusement in equal measure.

  "What the fuck do you mean?" he asked the Pilus Prior, but before he allowed the other man to answer, he shook his head, pointing with his vitus. "Go back there and tell them they'll do what they're fucking told, man! By the gods, you're their commander! Start acting like it!"

  "But it's not just that, Primus Pilus," the Pilus Prior protested, and I felt my lip curl in disdain at the whining quality of his voice. "They're demanding that the prisoners be executed!" I cannot say with any certainty, but I think the sudden look of rage that suffused Macerinus' face, which I am sure was precipitated by the use of the word "demand," caused the Pilus Prior to hurry on and add, "As retribution for the Primus Pilus! I mean, the former Primus Pilus."

  The anger seemed to drain from Macerinus and he waved his hand wearily, "I know who you mean."

  He heaved a sigh and I remember this as a moment, one of many I must say
, where a tiny voice inside me cautioned me that these were the sorts of situations I would likely face if I pursued what I believe is my destined course; obviously, I did not listen to that voice.

  Oblivious to my own internal musing, Macerinus continued, his voice calm, "Go back and tell the men that, while I understand their desire, those aren't our orders. We're bringing these prisoners back to Siscia as ordered by the Legate."

  Although he clearly hesitated, the Pilus Prior nonetheless saluted, then spun about to return to his Cohort. This gave me a good look at his face and I would liken his expression to that of a man being shoved out into the arena to face an array of hungry and ravenous beasts, armed with only a dagger for protection. Which is probably not that far off the mark, considering what happened. Macerinus returned his attention back to the other Centurions, but they were speaking in low tones, although this did not stop me from observing them, and I took heart when I saw Macerinus gesture in the direction of the north gate.

  Turning to Avitus, I muttered, "It looks like we might be about to get out of here."

  "I fucking hope so," he replied.

  Unfortunately, our hopes were quickly dashed when, from the opposite direction, there came a new eruption of noise, a mixture of voices either roaring or howling their repudiation of what they had just been told.

  "This isn't good." Avitus' mouth was set in a grim line, but I knew he was speaking nothing but the truth.

  Macerinus' attention was jerked away from the other Centurions, but when I looked over, although I did not know him that well, his expression was strange to me. A combination of anger, yet with a strong appearance of unease, although it did not make him hesitate. Even so, neither I nor my comrades were prepared for his snapped command for our Century to follow him. Nevertheless, when given a command, the habit of obedience is drilled into us to the point where, even if he had been paying close attention to our response, he would not have seen much, if any, hesitation. Marching behind him, I was acutely aware of the eyes of the other Cohorts as we passed, and I was shaken to my core at the coldness of their collective stares. Only after the fact did we piece together what was happening as far as the other Cohorts, but because of their closer proximity to the men of the Ninth, they had received advance warning of what the Ninth was actually demanding. Complicating matters even more, as we quickly discovered, the other Cohorts thought the Ninth had the right idea. The way we learned this was after we were ordered to halt a short distance away from where the Nones Pilus Prior was standing, with his other five Centurions, including our old Optio Tiburtinus, recently promoted, but who had separated himself slightly. And, I immediately noticed, the Optios as well.

  "What's the meaning of this?" Macerinus demanded.

  "Primus Pilus—" the Nones Pilus Prior was the one who spoke; at least, he started to, but instantly, someone from the ranks broke in, cutting him off, which is an offense in itself.

  "We're not marching these cunni back to Siscia! We're putting them to the fucking sword!"

  At least, I believe the last word was "sword," because the unseen ranker was instantly drowned out by the roaring approval of the men around him. This was shocking enough, but when the shouts of approval suddenly seemed to envelop our Century as the men of the Cohorts around us added their voices, I experienced a stab of fear. It was similar to, yet unlike anything I felt before battle, and I was struck by the thought, Was there more blood about to be spilled? From my viewpoint, this seemed a certainty, yet the real question was, whose would it be? Macerinus, whose back had been to us, whirled around, and thanks to the growing light, I saw his face go white as he looked past me in the direction of the other Cohorts. While we were technically still at intente, considering what was happening, I felt confident that my turning around to look over my shoulder would not be taken amiss since, as I did I saw every other man in the Century do the same.

  "Pluto's cock," I heard from behind me; I assume it was Fronto. "Are we going to have to fight our own?"

  "I hope not," I told him, but honestly, I was not sure.

  Turning back to Macerinus, I saw him holding his hands up, but it was clearly more a plea than a command for silence. My best estimate was that it took about another twenty or thirty heartbeats before it calmed down enough so he could be heard.

  "Comrades," he began shouting, that term of address unusual in itself. "I hear you, and I understand your desire to avenge the death of our Primus Pilus! Publius Canidius," as usual, it took my mind a moment to recall this was Urso's name, "would be flattered and humbled by this honor you are showing him! But," his voice hardened just a fraction, "he would also demand that you obey the orders given to us by the lawfully appointed Legate of the Army of Pannonia…"

  "Who's a preening, incompetent cunnus!"

  This came from deep within the ranks somewhere behind us, but if Macerinus was going to respond, anything he might have said was drowned out by another roar, this one accompanied with men thrusting their fists, or more ominously, their swords into the air. As bad as this was, it was made infinitely made worse when, on some unheard or unseen signal, the men around us broke formation to begin crowding around the prisoners. The fact that Macerinus had marched us to a spot where we were now positioned between the rest of the Legion and the prisoners meant that my palms instantly became wet with the kind of sweat I associated with going into battle. Even though I did not believe our own comrades would cut us down, their anger was so powerful, their desire for vengeance so palpable, that I could not dismiss the possibility, and when I glanced over at Avitus standing next to me, I am sure he bore the same expression as I did. Darting a glance over at Macerinus, I saw that he was clearly overwhelmed, but he thrust both hands into the air again, this time not making any pretense that he was not begging for the men to settle down. Except they did not; if anything, the clamor grew, but although I was justifiably worried about the safety of my comrades and myself, I nevertheless cast a glance over Macerinus' shoulder in the direction of the prisoners. The nearest of the captives in the disorganized mob was about fifty paces behind Macerinus, and with the sun just peeking over the eastern hill, between it and the light from the fire, there was no mistaking the abject terror of the Varciani prisoners, almost entirely composed of older men, younger women, and children. Just as they were hemmed in by the Centuries of the Ninth ringed around them, I was able to determine that we were essentially surrounded as well, as the previously intact formations of the other Cohorts had moved in the direction of the prisoners. The only spot I could not see was on the opposite side of the chieftain's hall, but considering that on either side of it there was an unbroken ring of Roman shields and the contorted, hateful faces of my comrades all topped with Roman helmets, I knew we were completely encircled. Not only did the prisoners not have anywhere to run, neither did the First Century, and I can imagine just how pitiful we looked, being as understrength as we were, and arrayed as the only protection for the Varciani. Then, from the general area where the Fourth Cohort had been formed up, a figure broke through the ranks. Rather, the packed mass of Legionaries suddenly parted, and even if it had been quiet, I am sure no command had been given. When I saw Quartus Pilus Prior Gnaeus Corvinus stride across the narrow strip of open ground in Macerinus' direction, I was assailed by a number of emotions, most of them in direct conflict with the other. Relief at seeing a familiar face; apprehension wondering whose side he would take in this showdown, but underlying it all, a vestige of bitter anger that he had not turned out the man I thought him to be. Once more, because of my spot, and there being no way to keep one's voice down and still be heard, I was able to listen to their exchange.

  "Looks like you've got a dilemma on your hands," was how Corvinus started, except it was said in such a nonchalant manner, as if he was commenting on the fact that a barrel of chickpeas had come up missing, even Macerinus gave a short, snorting bark of a laugh.

  "You think?" he retorted. "Thanks for pointing it out. I wasn't sure until you told me."
>
  From my vantage point, I saw Corvinus grin at him, the same kind of cheerfully insolent grin I had seen him give my father when I was a child and my father had chastised him about showing up at formation hung over.

  "That's what I'm here for," he replied, but then the smile left, and while he lowered his voice, I was still able to hear him say, "But I don't have to tell you how serious this is."

  "No," Macerinus conceded, staring over Corvinus' shoulder in the direction of the rest of the men.

  "And," Corvinus pressed, this time jerking a thumb in our direction. "Not only will these boys not be able to stop it, do you really want them to get hurt in the process?"

  As strange as it may seem and as much as it may strain the bounds of credulity, my first reaction was to bristle at what I took as a slight against my Century. Thankfully for all of us, when I turned my head to commiserate with Avitus about this slur, I saw he had other issues on his mind than the honor of the First Century, like staying alive.

  "But we have our orders," Macerinus protested. "So what do we do when we get to Siscia?"

  "Do you think we're going to make it back to Siscia if you don't let the men have their way in this?"