Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  Finally, he made a sound that sounded like it was part hiss, part whistle as he tossed the stylus down disgustedly and said, "Well, I seriously doubt either of them decided to desert. They had too much to lose, and neither of them had ever done anything like that before. So," he shook his head, "they're dead."

  "Don't you have to have some sort of proof?" Didius asked. "Otherwise, whatever back pay they have is supposed to be sent to their families?"

  "That's true," Asinius granted, but then he pulled another tablet from the stack Crito had brought and consulted it. "But Caecina didn't have any next of kin listed." Suddenly, he frowned, but to me it seemed he was more puzzled than anything as he continued, "That's strange."

  "What's strange?"

  I do not remember who asked this, but I was just as curious.

  Glancing up in irritation, Asinius did not seem disposed to answer at first, then he shrugged and answered, "It says here that a couple years ago, Caecina had gone to Titius," he named our Tesseraurius, "and informed him that he had modified his will."

  This, as I would come to learn, was not unusual at all; as men die or friends fall out with each other, it is more unusual that a will remains inviolate than it is modified. Nevertheless, when Asinius uttered his next statement, I was as stunned as everyone else.

  "He named the Primus Pilus as his inheritor." Asinius was, understandably, clearly bemused about this.

  His confusion, however, did not last long and I saw his face suddenly clear.

  "Ah," he said softly, barely audible over the babble of my comrades as they offered their comments and ideas about this piece of information. "I think I know why."

  "Why?" Quirinus demanded, but Asinius just shook his head.

  "It doesn't matter," he replied abruptly, then continued, "and it's none of your business, anyway."

  "That's true," Domitius was the one who interjected, "but the Primus Pilus is dead too. So now who does it go to?"

  Asinius shrugged and replied offhandedly, "Unless he named someone as a secondary inheritor, it goes to his family, but if they can't be located, then into the Century burial club account."

  As far as it went, I knew that was true; being a child of the Legions means that one's mind is stuffed full of all manner of arcane knowledge concerning the army and how it operates. Even so, I did not offer confirmation, being more intent on this episode ending with no more questions asked. Seeing that Asinius was done with this line of inquiry, the others went on the attack.

  "So what have you heard?"

  The instant this came from Ventidius, I could have warned him that Asinius' sense of humor was, if not cruel, at least of the type that took some pleasure in tormenting others.

  "Heard about what?" Asinius asked blandly. "About the schedule tomorrow?"

  He looked down at a tablet, although I was certain he was not reading it.

  "You know what I'm talking about," Ventidius shot back sourly.

  "Oh, you mean about who'll be leading the 8th and commanding this Century? Is that what you're asking about?"

  "Yes," we all shouted, more or less in unison.

  "Oh. Well, I haven't heard anything."

  With that, he stood, ignoring the cascade of jeers from us for tormenting us in that way. However, before he opened the door, he beckoned to me.

  "Pullus," he called out, "come with me."

  I suddenly became aware of my heart pounding heavily enough I could hear it in my ears, but I stood and followed him outside nonetheless. As I did so, I was acutely aware the eyes of my comrades were on me, but unlike previous times, I felt no hostility in their gazes, which I must say made me feel much better.

  Joining Asinius outside, he turned and told me, "You're the new Century weapons instructor."

  Being frank, I had not even thought about it until he said it; only then did I remember Bestia had been the weapons instructor for the Century. However, he was not through.

  "And," he added, "you're the new section Sergeant."

  That froze my blood; I wish I could say my first emotion was a rush of pride or sense of accomplishment, but it was not.

  "What?" I gasped. "Are you mad? I'm not senior enough to be Sergeant!"

  Asinius stared at me, his features cold.

  "You're whatever I say you are, Pullus," he snapped.

  I cannot say this with any certainty, but I believe I looked so miserable that he felt enough sympathy to relent somewhat.

  "Pullus," his voice was softer, "you're the best and obvious choice. At least," he amended, "among the other men of the section right now."

  "What about Domitius?" I asked and I honestly believed this was a valid question and he was a viable candidate.

  "He's not mean enough." Asinius shook his head. "Oh, I can see that everyone likes him, and he's got some leadership qualities. But," he poked his finger in my chest, "he's not hard enough. And especially when new men come into the section, they'd run right over him." Shaking his head, he continued, "But you? You'll break anyone in half if they cross you. Besides, like you keep reminding all of us, you're born for this."

  I felt the rush of blood to my face, but it was as much due to my recognition that he was speaking the truth as it was the words themselves.

  "I understand, Optio," I heard my voice say, "and I will obey."

  "I know you will," he shot back, but then I saw a corner of one lip turn up, "because you don't have any choice."

  Asinius returned back to the hut just long enough to inform the others of my promotion. Much to my surprise, none of my comrades looked upset, or surprised, for that matter. If anything, they seemed relieved; I believe it was Domitius who summed up the prevailing sentiment.

  "Sergeants of the First Section, First Century of the First Cohort," he intoned with mock solemnity, "have a bad habit of dying."

  Although the others roared with laughter, I cannot say I was particularly amused, mainly because it was true. After I received the congratulations of the others, I pulled Avitus aside, asking him to come outside with me.

  "Why did you speak up like that?" I asked him bluntly once we were clear of the others.

  I am somewhat ashamed that my state of mind meant it was more inclined to view Avitus' actions with suspicion, but considering all that I had witnessed during my time in the First, perhaps I can be forgiven. While my intention had been to catch Avitus off balance, I did not seem to succeed.

  "Because," he shrugged, "nothing good would come from the Optio poking around in all that mess. Besides," he had been looking down the street, but now turned to look at me directly in the eyes, "whatever you did or didn't do doesn't matter, really. What does is that Caecina was dangerous to the section because he was…close to the Primus Pilus." Suddenly, he broke eye contact to resume his examination of the street, shrugging again as he finished, "Anything we said or did that he thought Urso would want to know, he'd use against us, mainly to make sure we looked in the other direction with all of the schemes he was running."

  While I did not physically stagger, my mind was reeling as it peeled back the layers of Avitus' words like an onion, trying to find his real meaning.

  "Wait," I gasped, "you don't mean that Caecina and Urso were…?"

  Frankly, I could not finish, but I clearly did not need to, because he looked over at me once more, and while he did not speak, his eyes sent a message to me that, at least at that moment, seemed very clear.

  Then, for the third time, he gave me a shrug and said simply, "Not that it matters one way or another. And if I'm being honest, that's not what made Caecina dangerous to the rest of us. So," he finished firmly, making it clear he would speak of it no more, "that's why I told the Optio you were there with me. Because ultimately, we're better off without him."

  I cannot say what compelled me to ask, "And Mela?"

  Avitus snorted in obvious derision, spitting onto the street as he answered, "What about him? That cunnus couldn't lace his fucking boots without Caecina's approval. No," he shook his head
again, "Caecina was the key to it all, even when Philo was still alive."

  That much I had learned, albeit after Philo's death and seeing firsthand who had been the true mind behind that gang. A silence descended on us; I suppose both of us were lost in our own thoughts, but then Avitus spoke again, surprising me considerably.

  "The section's a mess right now, but we just need someone strong to follow." Suddenly, he reached out and put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it as he urged, "You can be that man, Pullus. You're our Sergeant now, and as long as you do the job the way we know you can, you'll have nothing to worry about from us."

  Although I had believed this to be the case, having Avitus confirm my observation was crucial for my fragile confidence, but although it helped, I still had very strong reservations, which caused me to blurt out, "But I'm so young, and the men we're going to be getting to plump us out are going to be veterans themselves! And this was only my second campaign!"

  If had expected a sympathetic ear, I picked the wrong man in whom to confide if I was looking for that; instead, he did not tell me what I wanted to hear, but what I needed.

  "Stop whining!" he snapped. "Yes, you're young. And yes, this is only your second campaign. But," he reached out to poke a bony finger into my chest, "remember who you are! And remember, I've seen you in a fight and so have the rest of us who are left. You're the man who slew Draxo! And last year, you were decorated by Drusus himself for putting paid to that Chatti…" He paused as he tried to recall the name.

  "Vergorix," I mumbled. "His name was Vergorix."

  "Yes, him." He waved a hand in acknowledgement. "And you killed him." He pointed, first at my cheek, then down to my arm, which was still pink and raw although the swelling had gone down, and in its size and shape, the scar was basically identical in appearance as it is today. "Any man with eyes can see you've been in some hard fighting. But the most important thing you need to know is that the rest of us will stand with you against anyone who wants to challenge your authority." His face broke into a grin, but despite my emotional state at this declaration of loyalty, I felt my own smile forming in answer. "Besides, I have a feeling you'll be able to whip any cunnus who crosses you without our help."

  When we returned to the hut, we were both laughing; my vision was a bit cloudy perhaps, but if anyone noticed, they did not mention it.

  Despite this personal advancement in my career, there was still a pall hanging over the entire Legion that dampened my own excitement and pride in my unexpected promotion. The only thing we were informed about came perhaps a week after our return to Siscia, when just our Legion was summoned to the forum, whereupon we were curtly informed by the Legate that, while a permanent replacement for Urso had not been decided, Primus Pilus Posterior Macerinus was not a candidate. Even at intente, I know I was not alone in looking at Macerinus out of the corner of my eye, who was still standing in the spot of the Primus Pilus. From what I could tell, he had already been informed of this, because his face looked set in stone, although I thought I saw a slight twitch of his jaw muscle as he stared straight ahead. It was one of the shortest duration formations in which I have been involved, even until now, as the Legate's words still seemed to be hanging in the air when he spun about, whirling that damned paludamentum again as he stalked away. Not surprisingly, the instant Macerinus dismissed us, the buzzing of conversation began, but I saw he himself was one of the few who did not linger around the forum, walking at least as quickly as the Legate had in his attempt to escape. Since it was the first time we had been gathered as a Legion, I was hailed by Metellus, Bassus, and some of my other friends from the Fourth who clustered around me and congratulated me on my promotion. It was an intensely satisfying moment, and a memory I will always prize as my first friends in the Legion expressed their pleasure, which I believe was unfeigned, at my first promotion. Very quickly, my former section mates were joined by Vibius Tuditanus, his bright red hair that always stood straight up from his head no matter how hard he tried to slick it down announcing his approach long before he arrived. His freckled face which stayed more or less permanently reddened during the campaign season, was split by his gap-toothed grin and, like with the others, after clasping arms, we embraced.

  Pointing to my face, he joked, "I never thought anything could improve your looks!"

  "At least I don't always look like my hair's on fire," I retorted, and I was happy to see him laugh back at me; this had been a long-standing joke between us since we were tiros together.

  Then someone poked me, hard, in the back, and I spun around to see Gnaeus Figulus, meaning the ritual of arm clasps and embrace was repeated. Of all the men clustered together in this moment, he was the one who knew me the longest, if not the best. Like me, he and another boy, Vibius Pacuvius, were sons of Centurions, but of the three of us, Pacuvius had opted not to follow in his father's footsteps, a decision for which Figulus had nothing but disdain. And, being honest, although I tried to defend Pacuvius' choice, understanding it had come as a result of his being allowed to accompany the Legion on what was my father's last campaign, meaning that, in fact, he had gotten a taste of what war was about and found it not to his liking, I actually shared Figulus' feelings. Standing together in the forum, we all chatted a few moments, the topic of my promotion lasting for just a few heartbeats before moving on to another subject, something I understood completely, as we shared the latest gossip and rumor about the upcoming major event in our lives.

  "I wonder if Tiberius will choose the Primus Pilus like he did last time?"

  The instant I uttered this question, I realized I had just blurted out something that was actually not common knowledge, and I was forced to spend the next few moments enlightening my friends about all that I had learned since I had joined them under the standard. However, I was not the only one with information that others did not possess.

  Once I had finished, I believe it was Figulus who interjected, "I seriously doubt Tiberius will have any say in it." When asked why he thought this, he seemed surprised. "You haven't heard? Tiberius is in bad odor with the Princeps right now."

  "Why?" someone asked.

  Figulus shrugged but replied, "Who knows for sure? But what my father heard was that he's gotten tired of the Princeps showing his grandsons more favor than him."

  "But that's understandable," Tuditanus pointed out. "After all, they're his grandsons, not his stepson."

  "True," Figulus granted, then added, "but nobody has been as steadfast and loyal to the Princeps as Tiberius. He's always gotten the dirty end of the sponge and, even so, he's always done his duty to Rome."

  There was certainly nothing objectionable in what Figulus said, yet I did wonder how much of what he had just uttered was his own opinion and how much belonged to his father, who was one of the First Grade Centurions in the 17th Legion, stationed on the Rhenus. However, considering none of us had anything else to offer, after another few moments, we started drifting apart, heading back towards our respective areas. I suppose I was so lost in thought I did not really pay attention to the fact that I had actually wandered closer to the Praetorium than I normally would have; as a rule, we rankers give this building as wide a berth as possible.

  "Gregarius Pullus!"

  Truthfully, I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard someone call my name from the direction of the Praetorium, and consequently, I was filled with trepidation, composed of equal parts apprehension and sheepishness at my reaction when I turned to see who had called my name. Instantly, confusion was added to my emotions because the only man standing anywhere near the source of the call was someone I only knew by sight. Thankfully, my body overcame my mind's hesitation as I automatically approached and came to intente.

  "Tribune Claudius?"

  Clutching the scrap of parchment, on which the pass allowing me into town was written, by a Tribune who I only knew by name, I exited the camp wondering what lay in store for me. When he had surreptitiously thrust it into my hand as he pretended to inspect me,
circling around my rigid body with a clear look of disdain, whispering the place and time I was to meet him, I came very close to refusing to accept it outright. It would have been simple enough; as he pretended to correct the placing of my clenched fist, he had stuffed the scrap into it, and I could have just tightened my grip to stop him. Thinking as quickly as I could, I tried to calculate what would be more costly; accepting the scrap and going to the meeting, or refusing it. Of course, I obeyed my impulse as I normally did and opened my fist just enough to allow him to shove it into my hand. It was shortly after dark when I left the camp, the duty Centurion, the Hastatus Prior of the Sixth as I recall, stood near a torch as he peered down at the pass, then handed it back to me with a grunt and a wave. Making my way through the streets I had known since I could walk, although finding the spot was easy enough, it was with a fair amount of caution and apprehension that I did so, since I had never actually been in the establishment chosen by Claudius. It was not the fact that it was a brothel that had kept me from crossing its threshold; it was that it was the most expensive in Siscia. While I could easily afford it, this was one of the places my father had specifically warned me about.

  "A ranker showing up in that place?" he had admonished me. "That will get tongues wagging! If you're a Centurion," he shrugged, "that's one thing. But not as a Gregarius." I remember he actually wagged his finger at me, which made me laugh.

  And to this point, I had obeyed his command, but now there I was, pausing outside. Taking a breath, I pounded on the door and, instantly, the small flap behind the iron grill opened, and an eye peered out at me.

  "I'm…" Before I could supply my name, I was cut off.

  "I know who you are." The voice had the gravelly quality that told me it had, at one point, bellowed orders to men like me. "You don't need to say it."

  Then the heavy door was yanked open, and a short, thickset man with iron-gray hair and seamed face beckoned to me to enter. When he did, I saw he was missing a hand, although when my eyes went to his stump, he did not appear offended.