Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  Before six months had passed, I started counting the days until the time Sextus could enlist; from my viewpoint, he needed to be subjected to the untender mercies of an Optio and Centurion to knock the last of what I viewed then as his youthful exuberance and lack of discipline from him. The gods know that my whacking him about, something I did often and both on the training ground and off it, did not seem to make much of a difference in his attitude. Of all the things I can say about Sextus Porcinianus Pullus is that, in his own way, he was every bit as tough as I am, or my father and Avus, for that matter. He could absorb a beating better than anyone I ever saw, but it quickly became a source of frustration and concern for me that it did not seem to alter his philosophy that life was one big festival, and laughter was always the best way to handle a situation and get himself out of trouble. And yet I can see now that, albeit in a different way, I was as negligent and indulgent with my younger brother as my parents, or Diocles and Birgit, and I have often wondered if I could have done something different with him. But I cannot write of that, not yet.

  When I look back on that year, I admit it is with more than a little bitterness, with one phrase continually coming back to mind: "All is quiet in Pannonia." But while I know that as far as the citizens of Rome who do not live there were concerned, this was the state of things because of their complete trust in Augustus, I cannot help feeling bitter about it. For those of us in the Legions who were in Pannonia, none of us would describe matters there as "quiet"; not only are there urns, inscribed with the names of the Romans who fell, but only the gods know how many bones are scattered about the province as well, both Roman and Pannonian. Specifically, I think of Flaccus and Lutatius, men I considered friends; yet, I remember Publius Canidius more than anyone else, for all that he was and what he was not. Even now, I cannot say I understand the man any better than I did when I saw him sacrifice himself to a Colapiani chieftain's axe, a completely selfless act performed by a man who, in the eyeblink before I would have insisted to my dying breath was in fact the opposite, one who only cared about advancing his own fortunes, no matter who got hurt in the process. One day, I hope to understand him better; he deserves at least that much.

  However, that is all I am writing now. Another winter has come and gone, the bucina call has sounded for the Centurions to assemble, and this day is when we learn what lies ahead of us in the coming campaign season. In order for me to perform my duties to the best of my abilities, I must lock away the memories from my past, when I proudly watched my brother follow what is now a tradition of service to Rome, even if it is from within the ranks of the lowborn Head Count. And, as so often is the case, there can be no joy without sadness, no triumph without failure, nothing gained without loss. Of all the things I learned from Titus Pullus, this is perhaps the most important.