by R. W. Peake
“Quintus Pilus Prior Gnaeus Verres Rufus, requesting permission to speak to Primus Pilus Pullus, sir.”
I could not fault his delivery of the obligatory greeting, although his voice sounded like a cup full of gravel being shaken. I stood and offered my hand, and for a moment, I thought he was going to refuse to take it, but then grudgingly accepted it. As I expected, he proceeded to try to crush my forearm in his grasp. He did have quite a grip, yet I responded in kind before we both released and stood back. He was a bruiser, except I thought I detected a kind of cunning intelligence in his hooded eyes, which were almost covered over by scar tissue. I motioned for him to sit, and he did so, leaning forward in his chair.
“So what is it you wish to see me about, Pilus Prior?”
“I think you know,” he growled. “You’re going to Caesar tomorrow about my brother, despite the fact that he has witnesses who've sworn that he was attacked by that cunnus.”
“That's no way to speak of the dead,” I said mildly.
“I piss on the man, and his whole family,” he spat, shifting in his chair.
“Whether you piss on him or not is beside the point.” I struggled to keep my temper, sensing that this was exactly what he wanted, for me to lose control. “And the next time you try to buy your brother out of trouble, try not to bribe every single one of his tent mates to say that they were all together at the same place at the same time. The only time that ever happens is in formations. But I can tell that thinking isn't your strong suit, is it?”
Now he was the one getting angry, his face turning bright red, giving me a clue where his cognomen came from, and I watched as a vein in his forehead started throbbing. I could literally hear the wood of the arms of the chair creaking under the strain as he gripped them tightly.
“Do you know who I am?” This came out in a choked whisper. “I am Gnaeus Verres Rufus, the boxing and wrestling champion, not just of the 3rd Legion, but of Gnaeus Pompey Magnus’ whole army!”
“Do you mean the same army that a few half-strength Legions from Caesar’s army ground into the dust at Pharsalus? And isn’t Pompey dead now?”
He leaped to his feet, his fists balled up and I thought for a moment that he would lose control of his senses and actually attack me. I had kept my right hand draped over the back of my chair as I sat in it in an offhand manner, but the hilt of my sword was just inches from my grasp.
“It would be a shame if the Verres line ceased to exist in the space of a couple of days,” I said calmly. "Unless, of course, there's another brother I don't know about."
He gasped like he was dashed with a bucket of cold water. Then he sat down abruptly, his mouth working, except no sound came out. I eyed him coldly while he collected himself.
A man of even moderate intelligence would have at this point changed his approach, seeing that his blustering had not worked, but Verres Rufus was clearly a horse that knew only one trick, so he began again. “You’re making a big mistake if you go to Caesar. I could break you in half if I wanted. I don’t care how big you are.”
“And I could have you scourged then crucified for threatening a superior officer.”
Some of his bluster was coming back, because he gave me his version of a smile. “There’s just the two of us in here. Who’s to say what was said?”
“I’m to say, and that'd be enough. Don’t tell me that your cousin, Cornuficius,” I was pleased to see his eyes widen in surprise, “didn’t warn you that I'm one of Caesar’s favorites. After all, he did pick me to be the Primus Pilus of the 6th.”
The wheels turned in his head, but, oh, they moved slowly indeed. I could see him struggling to try to think of something to counter what I had just said.
The best he could do was, “I have friends too, and they’ll be more than happy to help me stop you from hurting my brother. I’ve broken many a man who got in my way, and I’ll break you too.”
That’s when the nagging feeling that I had seen him somewhere before made something click in my brain, and I asked suddenly, “Were you involved in the fight on the causeway the other day?”
Clearly startled, his eyes darted about as he tried to think through what I was up to.
Finally, he answered suspiciously, “Yes, why?”
I did not say anything, just stared at him, looking into his eyes, and ever so slowly, I could see the realization dawn in his eyes.
The silence hung between us, until I finally spoke. “I saw you. I saw you cut down your own men just to save your own skin.”
This time his face went utterly white, his mouth sagging open for a moment before he struggled to regain control. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was hoarse, yet even as I was staring into his eyes, he could not keep his gaze locked with mine and he looked away. “Besides, there's no way you can prove what you’re saying.”
He looked back at me defiantly, as if daring me to argue the point.
“You’re right,” I conceded. He looked at me triumphantly, but it was short-lived, “I can’t, but some of your men saw what you did. You didn’t cut all of them down.”
His laugh sounded like a dog barking. “They won’t say a word. They know better. They know what would happen to them if they opened their mouths.”
I had heard of Centurions who ruled only by brute force, but I had never run into one. Even men like Longus who viewed their Centuries as means of making money knew that there were times where something other than a good beating would accomplish what they wanted done. If your only means of enforcing obedience is by beating a man, sooner or later you put him in a position where he has nothing to lose. Either way, all he can expect is a beating, so he might as well make it worth his while. But sitting here before me was a Centurion who ruled by terror, and I thought for a moment of trying to goad him into actually attacking me. I had no intention of fighting him with my bare hands; it had been several years since I last entered the Legion games, and I was sure that even if I beat him at his own game, it could not be done without him inflicting a fair amount of damage to me. What I thought about was somehow prodding him into doing something where I would be justified in pulling my sword, but I quickly dismissed the idea. There were too many things that could go wrong, although the idea that he could best me with a blade never occurred to me. What I was most worried about were the questions that would be raised; even if I got away with it, there would be a black mark hanging over me the rest of my career. I would just have to trust that the gods would arrange an appropriately horrible end for a man who would kill his own.
Finally, I just shrugged. “Well, now we know where each other stands. But I’m still seeing Caesar tomorrow about your brother. If you want to try stopping me, by all means go ahead, and I’ll gut you and put you on a spit.” I pointed to the door. “Now that’s settled, get out of my office.”
He was shaking with rage as he stood up, but he turned to walk out the door. As he exited, he said savagely, “This isn’t over, Pullus. I swear that it’s not.”
“As you say,” I replied then pretended to read a report on my desk.
~ ~ ~ ~
The next morning came without incident; nobody came to my quarters to try anything, and once I disposed of my morning business, I made my way to headquarters for the morning briefing. Once we were through, I caught Appolonius to tell him that I needed to see Caesar on an important matter. Normally, it was not an easy thing to secure an audience with Caesar, but there were two factors working in my favor. The first was that of all the people who wanted Caesar’s time, he gave the highest priority to his Centurions, even over his generals. The second was that I very rarely requested an audience with Caesar, so Appolonius knew that it had to be important. Moments after the briefing was over, I was ushered into Caesar’s office, where he was dictating to several scribes, each occupied with a different subject. As I came to intente, Caesar looked up at me. One glance at my face must have told him something, because he immediately dismissed the scribes from the room.
After they left, he looked at me gravely, and said, “I don't know why you’re here, Pullus, but from the look on your face, it can’t be good news.”
“No, sir. It’s not.”
He sighed, then gave a rueful laugh. “Well, I was hoping anyway. So, what is it?”
As briefly as I could, I described the events that led to the death of Plautus, my investigation and my conclusion that the version of events that I was given by Verres and his witnesses was not what had happened. I went on to say that while Plautus certainly held some culpability, he had not done anything that warranted being killed for, at least in my view. I did not expand on what had actually been said, holding out a very faint hope that Caesar would not ask, since this would be the thread that would unravel everything. A hope that lasted all of a heartbeat.
“So what exactly was it that Plautus said that caused all this to happen?”
I took a deep breath then relayed the exchange that led to the killing. Caesar’s mouth twitched a little at the colorful terms Plautus used, but it only lasted for a moment. After I finished, he stayed silent for a moment, his brow furrowed as he thought about what I had told him.
Finally, he said, “It seems very straightforward. While I appreciate you keeping me informed, this appears to be a routine matter, which I'm sure you'll handle in the proper way.” His expression changed, and he eyed me with that shrewd look that made me feel like he was staring right through me. “But I suspect that there's a bit more to this situation than meets the eye, or you wouldn't be standing here looking like you would rather be facing the Egyptians naked.”
“Yes, sir. There is. The problem isn't between Verres and Plautus. There’s been a long-running feud between my men and the 28th that Cartufenus and I have been trying to keep a lid on for months now; the business with the water just made things worse. What happened with the 37th on the Heptastadion apparently gave the 28th the idea that their cac doesn’t stink, pardon the expression, sir, but it’s not the 37th that the 28th hates, it’s my boys. And,” I admitted ruefully, “it’s not without cause. The 6th has been giving the 28th the business pretty good, especially after they tried to mutiny. What Plautus said about the 37th was just an excuse for Verres to strike a blow in this feud.”
While I was speaking, Caesar did not interrupt, instead just sat on the edge of his desk, giving me a look that I could not interpret, only serving to increase my own tension.
When I finished, his only reaction at first was to purse his lips as he thought. “And why am I just now being informed of these problems between your men and the 28th?”
There it was; the question that I had been dreading was now in the open. My career and all that I had achieved and hoped to achieve flashed before me, yet I knew that evading the question or trying to tell Caesar what I thought he wanted to hear would make things worse. So I plunged in and opened my mouth to tell the truth, but before I could get started he interrupted.
“Before you say anything, let me take a stab at what's been happening.”
I was not likely to argue, so I merely nodded for him to continue, as if he needed my consent.
“You and Cartufenus, perhaps with the agreement from the other Centurions, decided that it was best, given our situation here and all that you see me dealing with, to try and keep this…feud as you call it, contained to a level that it didn't come to my attention, or that of my generals. Do I have that part right?” I said that he did, and he continued, “But things haven't calmed down, they're getting steadily worse and now you're faced with a situation where, depending on my decision, I may be facing a full-scale riot between my troops.”
His tone was calm, but I could clearly hear the icy anger underlying it. Despite myself, I felt my legs start to tremble.
Trying to keep my voice calm and steady as I answered him, I hated the fact that there was really only one answer. “Yes, sir.”
“Pullus, did it ever occur to you that if you had come to me sooner, at the first signs of trouble, that this could have been nipped in the bud?” He turned to rummage around on his desk, then found what he was looking for and waved a scroll in front of me. “As with any situation like this, the best way to contain it is to stop it early, and there are always a few key players, the malcontents whose words and actions fire up the rest of the men to do things that they wouldn't normally have the inclination, the energy, or the brains to do on their own. If you had come to me earlier, I could have arranged it so that the few men listed on this scroll could have been removed over the period of a few days. The crisis would have been averted, with only the loss of a few men who weren’t very good Gregarii anyway, which would have helped the 28th in the long run. It would be a case of addition by subtraction, if you will. But now, tensions are too high; the men are too much on edge, and this murder has everyone paying attention, waiting for what happens next. If these men were to disappear now, it would guarantee the thing that you're rightly afraid of will happen.”
As Caesar explained the full extent of my error, I was assailed by a number of thoughts, some of them conflicting. What I remember most vividly is the shock at Caesar’s matter of fact tone as he basically admitted to using murder for his own purposes, although I do not know why I felt that way. I had been marching with Caesar for a long time, and I remember other times when men, singly or in very small groups, just disappeared from around the fires. When that happened, we all shot sidelong glances at each other, touching the side of our noses and winking, since the men who disappeared had always been involved in some unrest at the time of their disappearance. However, suspecting a thing and having the architect of such events openly discuss it are two different things. Now, here he was calmly telling me that our suspicions about these men who disappeared were correct, and that he was behind them. Still, his logic could not be faulted, and I knew that he was right. I had made a grave error in judgment. The only thing that remained to be seen was whether my career would suffer irreparable damage because of it.
“Now my options are limited, Pullus. If I accept your judgment, and I must say that I think you're right, and I punish Verres in the manner called for, both by regulation and by custom, I alienate the 6th, not to mention putting you in extremely difficult circumstances. And, because you were my choice as Primus Pilus for the 6th, it would be a blow to my own dignitas.”
Now he seemed to be heading in the direction that I had hoped for when I came to see him, and I waited for him to make the decision to suspend punishment of Verres, but that was not where he was headed. “But, if I do what I think you want me to do, and not punish Verres, then I have a problem with not just the 28th, but the 37th, because the story of what this Plautus said has undoubtedly spread throughout the army.” He shook his head, clearly frustrated. “The only way that I might be able to retrieve something from this disaster rests on a question, but I'm afraid I already know the answer. Pullus,” he stared at me closely, “who did you tell that you were coming to me on this matter?” My face gave him the answer that he needed, and he gave a bitter laugh. “Of course, you told everyone involved, didn’t you? In fact, you probably threw it in their face, as a challenge. The great Titus Pullus couldn’t appear to be afraid, could he?” The sarcasm in his tone lacerated my soul, made worse by the truth of his words. “There’s also the matter of Verres’ brother and the fact that he's undoubtedly bribed Verres’ tent mates,” my look of astonishment finally evoked a smile from Caesar, albeit a sour one. “Pullus, I'm surprised at you. Surely you know by now that I'm intimately familiar with every Centurion in my army and their backgrounds. I know a great deal about Verres Rufus.” He looked directly into my eyes, conveying to me in that moment that he was aware of what Rufus had done on the causeway. “And I know that while punishing Verres might be the right thing to do, it will undoubtedly make Verres Rufus very angry, and in his position he can cause a great deal of harm. But, neither am I willing to let Verres Rufus think that I'm acting in a way because of whatever threat he may pose
to the stability of the army. Here's what I'm going to do.” He turned away from me so I could not read his expression. “After hearing your report, I'm sentencing Legionary Verres to be executed.”
I experienced a shiver of dread, even though this was exactly what I was hoping for, but as Caesar spoke, I had been thinking. Was I pushing for Verres to be executed because I honestly believed that he was guilty of murdering Plautus? Or was I just reacting to the pressure and threats from Verres Rufus by showing that I did not fear him or any man? A few years before, I would never even have considered the question, but I had gotten to an age where I was able to view myself in a more critical light. Now that Caesar had confirmed the sentence that I expected, I was awash in doubt. Still, there was a second part to my plan, and I waited for Caesar to make further comment.
