Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  "You get used to it," was his only comment as he waved the stump in the general direction of the door beyond the small vestibule.

  Walking through the open arched entryway, the murals decorating the walls in front of me sent a rush of heat to my face; I was still in many ways a callow, green boy, although I will say that a couple of the pictures provided fodder for my future leisurely pursuits. A woman who, despite being close to the doorman's age, was still an alluring beauty was standing there to greet me, and while her smile was warm and inviting, my father's admonition about always watching someone's eyes and not their facial expression allowed me to see the coldness there, behind the false friendly demeanor of the proprietor.

  "Your host is awaiting you, Master." I must say her voice was a perfect complement to her outer appearance; husky but dripping with honey that seemed to promise delights a man could scarcely imagine.

  Now that time has passed, I can laugh at how my body betrayed my interest, something she took notice of immediately. Reaching down, she grabbed at that most sensitive part, which she essentially used to lead me down the hallway.

  Before pulling aside the curtain, she whispered to me, "After your meeting, come see me and we'll see what we can do about your…problem."

  If it had not happened, I would never have believed I could have been blushing more than I already was, but my face became so hot I felt beads of sweat pop out on my forehead.

  "I…I…don't have the money for a place like this," I managed to mumble finally.

  "Who said anything about money?" She laughed but then she shoved me into the room.

  Claudius had been lounging on a couch, while one of the women belonging to the house was draped across the back of the couch, tousling his long, curly hair. Ignoring her, he stood up as I entered, and, surprising me a great deal, he offered his arm.

  "I see you've managed to impress Madame Eirene." He laughed. "That's quite an accomplishment."

  Only force of habit saved both of us from embarrassment as I reached out, clasping his forearm as he did mine in the manner of equals, and I remember noticing his hands were a bit rougher than I had thought they would be. Then, he pointed to another couch placed directly across from his, with a small, low table between them.

  "Please, Pullus, have a seat."

  Despite phrasing it as a request, I was not sufficiently rattled to miss that, just by his tone, he made it clear it was anything but one. Like all nobility, he was a man accustomed to being obeyed, and I congratulated myself that I remembered this as I sat down. I did not recline, however, instead sitting on the edge of the couch with my hands on my knees and back straight as he curtly dismissed the girl with a wave of his hand. She complied, making a show of pouting, yet he was clearly not swayed although he blew her a kiss, grinning as she swayed out of the room.

  "She is…flexible." He turned his grin at me, and despite the unsettling circumstances of this meeting, I had to laugh.

  He offered me wine from the small jug on the low table, but while I knew it would be impolite to refuse, when he handed me my cup, I reached over and deliberately added water to it, cutting it by more than half. Rather than offending him, he laughed and raised his own cup in a mock salute.

  "Wanting to keep a clear head, neh? Good thinking, Pullus."

  Then, the smile and good humor vanished from his demeanor as if it had never been there, and he leaned back as he continued examining me. I was determined that, since he had been the one to arrange this meeting, he would be the one to speak first.

  Finally, he either sensed this, or got bored by the silence, because he asked abruptly, "What do you know of the dealings between your family and mine?"

  Despite trying to prepare myself for this possibility, as I am sure he was hoping, I was thrown off-balance.

  "Not much," I finally answered, but I spoke slowly in order to form my words before they came out. "I know that one of your relatives served with my grandfather. And my father," I felt compelled to add, but although this was true, I was sure this was about my Avus and not him.

  Once he realized I was finished, I saw a flash of what I interpreted as irritation, as he said, "Yes, well. That's the bare bones of it. But," now he leaned forward, matching my own posture as he looked at me intently, "what specifics do you know?" This I did not answer, and now there was no mistaking that he was annoyed, his lips thinning down as he frowned at me. Then he seemed to reach a decision, saying, "Pullus, I'm going to show you my dice. And believe me, I understand why you'd be cautious in your dealings with anyone named Claudius. But," the tone of his voice changed, becoming more intense as he continued, "your family has suffered at the hands of mine, and I want to show you that we Claudii are generally honorable men. And I'm determined to prove that to you. Now," he asked me again, "what do you know about the events that transpired between our families?"

  For the second time in a relatively short period, I obeyed my first impulse. I told him everything I had learned from my Avus' account, how he had saved a member of the Claudius family who was serving as Tribune under Marcus Licinius Crassus, grandson of the contemporary of Divus Julius', a man whose name has been removed from all official records and, as far as I knew, had died in exile. I did not stop there, however, going on to relate how it had been another Claudius who, under pressure from the paterfamilias of the Claudii at the time, Appius Claudius Pulcher, had corroborated a fabricated charge that Titus Pullus, as Camp Prefect, had colluded with Marcus Primus' illegal invasion of Thrace. It was a crime for which Primus was the first patrician in some time to be executed under the Lex maiestatas, the most serious and heinous offense a Roman could commit. The perfidy of the Claudius family went further than a false statement under oath, however; despite making a solemn vow to my Avus to offer whatever aid or help my Avus might need, in his time of need, the Tribune whose life he had saved failed to do as he had promised. What I found remarkable when I read this, the last chapter of my Avus' account of his extraordinary career, was that he bore no real malice towards the Tribune who had failed so miserably in fulfilling his oath. I suppose it must be noted that the Tribune did, in fact, perform a small favor by filching a crucial scroll from the table of the prosecutor during my Avus' Tribunal on the Campus Martius, but from my viewpoint, it was much too little and too late. Once I finished, there was another silence as Claudius digested this, I suppose comparing it to his version of events.

  "That," he finally acknowledged, "is a very accurate account, at least of what I know." Continuing, he added, "But my guess is that you're still wondering why we're sitting here now."

  I did not reply verbally, but I did nod my head.

  Taking a deep breath, he plunged in, "Because your grandfather saved my father's life when he served under Crassus. That," he added, "would be enough, but according to my mother, my father returned from that campaign a different man, a better man, and his failure during your grandfather's Tribunal haunted him. I know," his mouth twisted into a look I took to be equal parts bitterness and sorrow, "because he told me as much."

  There is no way for me to discern whether it was his expression, or how he used the past tense; whatever it was, it did prompt me to ask, "Where's your father now? Back in Rome?"

  "His ashes are," Claudius replied, but he paused long enough to take a swallow from his cup. Then he answered my next question with his gesture as he raised the cup in a bitter, heartbroken salute. "And this is why. Bacchus claimed his soul after the Tribunal." Pausing, he sighed, and his eyes took on a faraway look. "I worshiped him, you know. I was only about six when the Tribunal happened, and I was just twelve when he died. But he called me to his side when…" His voice trailed off, and the lamplight made the tears in his eyes shimmer.

  Being completely honest, I suspect my vision was similarly clouded at this display of grief. I give thanks to the gods that my father still lives even now as I write this; this does not mean I have not experienced my own devastating loss, but it was in my future then.

 
; Partially regaining his composure, Claudius continued, "As I was saying, when he was on his deathbed, he made me swear on Jupiter's black stone that, if the moment came when our family was in a position to help yours that I do everything I could to do so. That," he finished, "is why we're meeting tonight."

  I considered this for some time, which he seemed content to allow, sipping again from his own cup. In my mind, while there were thousands of questions floating about, there was only one that continued to resurface amidst all the others; could I trust this nobleman? While it was true his story made sense, and it fit with everything I knew, it did not necessarily mean he could be trustworthy.

  "Why now?" I finally asked him. "I mean, thank you, I suppose." He waved a dismissive hand at my gratitude, but I pressed on. "But couldn't you have approached me before now? Like, before we marched against the Colapiani the first time?"

  "You mean when fucking Paullus almost got all of us killed?" His laugh was tinged with an anger that we shared. "I thought about it," he admitted, "but there was a lot going on."

  "That's true," I granted.

  It was somewhere at this point I made my decision; at least, that is how I remember it.

  "So," I asked, "what now?"

  He considered this for a moment, then replied, "Well, there's not much I can do right now. And," he added, "you don't seem to need any help from what I hear. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way."

  I thanked him, but as I did, I resolved to get something out of this exchange now, prompting me to press, "So you can start helping me by telling me who our next Primus Pilus is going to be."

  In truth, I was speaking mostly in jest, but instantly, his face clouded over, although it was the fact that his eyes suddenly started dancing around the room and looking everywhere but directly at me that gave me my first intimation of bad news.

  "I don't know," he said, then added, "At least with any certainty. But," he admitted, "I've heard some talk, and it comes from reliable sources."

  I waited, except he did not seem eager to continue.

  "And?" I demanded. "What have you heard?"

  Rather than answering me directly, instead, he asked, "What do you know about the situation in Rome?"

  "I know that there's something going on between Tiberius and the Princeps," I replied; I admit I was absurdly proud I possessed even this scrap of information, even if I had just learned it a watch or so before.

  "That's one way of putting it," he snorted. "Tiberius has a legitimate grievance, though. After all he's done for Rome, all the campaigns he's conducted, then to have his spot usurped for a couple of boys who haven't even donned the toga virilis?" He shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know how he's endured the slights and insults as long as he has. In fact," suddenly, he leaned forward as his voice dropped to a whisper, "I've heard rumors that he's considering leaving Rome altogether."

  "Leaving Rome?" I asked, puzzled. "What does that mean?"

  "It means," he explained patiently, "that he's always fancied himself as more of a scholar than a general. That was more Drusus' calling than his. So I've heard he's thinking about going to Athens. Or maybe Alexandria." Sitting back, he shrugged. "Either way, Tiberius is on the outs with the Princeps, and the grandsons…"

  "Adopted grandsons," I pointed out, but Claudius gave a dismissive wave.

  "You of all people should know that doesn't matter," he reminded me, but despite the fact that it stung, I was forced to recognize he was speaking the truth.

  Once a Roman adopts, their progeny is considered to be theirs in entirety, and former blood ties no longer have any meaning. As I have learned, it is a peculiarly Roman trait, this view toward adoption, and is not shared by the other nations of the world; not that their opinion matters to us.

  "So," I said slowly, "Tiberius isn't in the good graces of the Princeps. What does that mean?"

  "It means," Claudius replied, "that the chances of Tiberius having any influence in choosing a man to fill your Primus Pilus slot is nonexistent. It will be up to the Princeps."

  Considering this, I recognized that I had no idea how this was significant, and I said as much.

  "What it also means," Claudius said grimly, "is whoever it is, you can be sure they don't belong to the Legion; they belong to Augustus."

  I was forced to dodge my more inquisitive comrades about my whereabouts and how I managed to procure a pass into town at a time when most of the Legion was confined to base, but it quickly passed. There were enough things going on around us that my disappearance was nothing more than of fleeting interest, for which I was thankful. And I will admit I was no less concerned with those other matters than my comrades. Finally, perhaps four weeks after our return to Siscia, we were summoned by bucina to assemble in the forum. When we emerged from our huts early that morning, we were greeted by a thin crust of snow; it was still late October, meaning it was definitely earlier than normal. Seeing the white blanket, I was reminded of the period of freakishly cold weather we had experienced during our initial pursuit of the Varciani a full month before. Very quickly, our street became a slushy mess, the formerly pristine coat crushed beneath our boots as we made our way to the forum. Hovering above the mass of men moving down our street was the combined vapor cloud of our breath, and I reminded myself to invest in a fur-lined sagum this winter. Still, I was thankful for my socks, padded tunic, and bracae, although we are not allowed to wear the socks on our hands during formations. Rocking back and forth as we waited, the Legion struggled to stay warm, but ironically enough, at least I was sufficiently distracted by the reason we had been summoned that I did not really notice the cold all that much. Finally, the doors to the Praetorium opened and the Legate appeared with a Centurion by his side, followed by the Tribunes, including my new ally Claudius. Not surprisingly my eyes were riveted to the man walking beside the Legate, as I am sure were every other man's in the Legion, understanding there was only one reason we would be summoned to the forum. At first glance, in many ways, he resembled Urso in that he was about the same height, and while his chest was smaller, it was not by much. Once he got close enough, I examined his face, but honestly, I cannot say with any certainty the way I view him now was formed at that moment. He appeared to be in his forties, with a seamed, lined face and square jaw. In many ways, his appearance was unremarkable, except for the number of phalarae affixed to his mail, topped with a gold torq, similar in style if not size and workmanship as the one Urso had appropriated from me the year before. Had that really been just a year ago? I remember wondering, with quite some surprise. There was something else I noticed that, as I discovered a short time later, was noticed by my comrades as well. Unlike the rest of our Centurions and us rankers, his hair was very long, although it was pulled back flat against his skull, and had obviously been treated with some sort of ointment so that it gleamed. At the time, it rang a tiny bell in the back of my mind, but it would not be until later that I recalled the reason for it disturbing me. Returning my attention to the moment at hand, I watched as the pair came to a halt, still side by side. My first impression was not particularly positive; from where I stood, he seemed nothing more than a pale imitation of the man who had stood there before. Only later was I forced to recognize the truth, that men in the ranks are constantly measuring their new Centurion against the man who preceded them, and no matter his other failings, Publius Canidius had left some large boots behind. It would take quite a man to fill them.

  "Men of the 8th Legion," the Legate began speaking in what, to my ears at least, became more of a nasally whine every time he opened his mouth, "I bring good news!" He actually paused then, as if expecting us to burst out into a cheer, except he was met with a wall of stony silence, which clearly flustered him so that he stumbled on, "Yes…well, as I said, I bring you good news!"

  "You said that already, idiot," I heard Fronto mutter from behind me and it was all I could do to keep from bursting out in laughter.

  I was aided by the knowledge that I was in the
front rank with nothing between the Legate and my presumably new Primus Pilus but air, so consequently, I did not want to start my time under his command with a flogging.

  Oblivious to or uncaring about our impatience, the Legate droned on, "I, that is, the Princeps has seen fit to promote Gaius Sempronius Atticus into the post of Primus Pilus of the 8th Legion!" At least that time, he did not expect us to burst out into a cheer because he did not pause. "He comes from his latest office in Rome." This caused a ripple of movement, accompanied by the buzz of muttered comments among men standing in the ranks as they offered a terse opinion on this news.

  "A fucking Praetorian," Avitus groaned, albeit quietly. "Didn't they learn the last time what happens when you bring one of those lapdogs into a Legion?"

  I suppose it was the mention of the personal guard of the Princeps that nudged the nagging thought from the back of my mind to the front as I recognized why I had been so struck by the length of the Centurion's hair. While it was true the last time I had seen a man of the Legions wearing his hair so long, I had been a child, one is unlikely to forget the man who, as I had learned, tried to kill one's father. Instantly, my groan joined the muted chorus of speculation and dismay as I thought, Another Barbatus?

  Still either not noticing or ignoring our reaction, the Legate plowed ahead, "Primus Pilus Atticus has had a long and distinguished career, including time in both the old 2nd and the 2nd Legion Augusta, where he was the Secundus Pilus Prior. He is a veteran of the 2nd's campaign in Cantabria, and he has been personally decorated by Augustus himself!"

  "That explains a lot," Fronto muttered.

  "I expect you to show Primus Pilus Atticus the same level of devotion and attention to duty that you showed your previous Primus Pilus," the Legate slogged on, but while it might have been my imagination, as I learned later, I was not the only one who noticed the slight lifting of the Legate's lip when he referred to Urso, even if it was not by name. "But," he gave us a hint of warning by the change in tone, "while you demonstrated your loyalty to your former Primus Pilus, your loyalty to Rome is what is in question!" There was no way he did not hear the low-pitched, guttural growl from men choking back their rage at this unfair and untrue accusation, yet he clearly chose to ignore this as he continued in the same harsh manner, "And know this, men of the 8th! Our wise and benevolent Augustus is watching all of you! His eyes and ears are everywhere, and that is one reason why he has sent this Centurion, a man whose loyalty has been proven time and again, to supply the firm hand on this Legion that until now it has been missing!"