by R. W. Peake
Finally, he spoke. “You gave us all quite a scare, Primus Pilus Pullus,” he said this lightly, but I could tell that there was real concern there, and I was deeply touched. I bowed my head as I tried to compose myself before I spoke and Caesar, seeing my shame, continued speaking. "When I heard you had fallen, then was told how seriously you were wounded, I made several offerings for your complete and speedy recovery. I'm happy to see that the gods looked on not just my offerings, but those of all your friends and comrades with favor. Your death would have been a huge loss to Rome.”
“Thank you, Caesar,” my voice was husky with the emotion I felt and the strain of controlling myself. “I’m very thankful for your prayers and those of the men. I’m glad I could keep them from going to waste.”
It was a feeble jest, but Caesar laughed heartily, as if I had said the cleverest thing in the world. “That makes two of us. You would be a hard man to replace, if not for your size alone.” Turning serious, he continued, “And that's why I’m here. We have some decisions to make about the vacant spots in the Centurionate. I wish we could wait until you were fully mended, but unfortunately, we need to get the slots filled. I hope the work we need to do won't tax you too much.”
I shook my head, seeking to reassure my general. “If you don’t mind me doing it sitting or lying down, I can do whatever you need me to do, Caesar.”
“It’s your mind and experience that's needed here, Pullus. You know most of the men we'll be discussing more intimately than I do, so it doesn't matter whether you’re standing up or lying down while we work.” Standing up, Caesar finished with, “But I'll let you get some rest now, and we'll start in the morning. I have some other matters that must be attended to, and I'll have to leave for Rome in just a couple of days.”
He turned to leave.
Without thinking, I blurted out, “It seems that I’m not the only one in need of rest, Caesar.”
He looked back at me, giving me a smile that showed his fatigue more clearly than anything he could have said or done. “There's too much to do, Pullus. Once I've done all that needs to be done to put Rome to rights again, then I'll rest. But not before then.”
And with that, he left me to continue his work.
~ ~ ~ ~
As promised, Caesar was ready to start work early the next morning, sending a litter to carry me to the Praetorium. When I saw the contraption, the thought of being carried through the camp on it so mortified me that I got to my feet, announcing that I would walk. The slaves given the task of carrying me to headquarters looked terrified, and I understood that in his usual thorough way, Caesar had given them explicit instructions that I was to be transported by this conveyance and not allowed to go under my own power. Caesar was not the type to threaten slaves with all sorts of dire punishment if they did not follow his instructions, but he did not have to resort to such measures to instill the belief that he would nail up anyone who did not follow them. In fact, there was a pile of bony hands in Gaul that bore mute testimony that showed their fear was not misplaced. Not wanting the thought of men nailed to crosses on my conscience, slaves or not, I relented, lowering myself into the litter while insisting that the curtains be drawn so that I would not be seen. This was a pathetic ploy on my part, given the damn thing was parked outside my tent in plain sight of the entire camp, but I had to do what I could to retain some sense of dignity. My largest concern was for the new tiros, who I had yet to lay eyes on and vice versa, since I did not want their first view of their Primus Pilus to be of me lounging about on a litter. It never occurred to me that none of the men, new or veteran, would view me as weak, all of them knowing how close I had come to death, along with my reputation in the army. Even with all that I had achieved, there was still a large streak of insecurity in my makeup, vestiges of that time when I was an oversized boy who crawled into his sister’s bed for comfort during a storm. It is only now, here near the end of my days that I can even acknowledge that, when it really no longer matters. I arrived at the Praetorium, and here I flat-out refused to be carried into the headquarters building, insisting on walking in under my own power.
When I was announced into Caesar’s office, he turned from where he had been poring over one of his endless scrolls with one of the scribes, his eyes narrowed at my now-gaunt frame moving under my own power. “I gave explicit instructions that you be carried here, Pullus,” he snapped. “I hope for your sake, and the sake of those poor slaves outside, that you heeded my orders and didn't walk here from your tent.”
Silently thanking the gods that I had read the situation correctly, I hastened to assure Caesar that the only steps I walked had been from the entrance to his office. Immediately mollified, he turned to point to a couch arranged with a number of pillows so that I could either sit or lie on it, ordering me to park myself on it, which I did without any protest. While I could now walk for short periods of time, the small distance between the entrance and Caesar’s office had tired me out a bit, not much but enough to know that if I were to try standing for any length of time I would be faced with the prospect of keeling over at my general’s feet. Settling myself on the couch, I chose for the time being to keep my feet on the floor; even being given leave by Caesar, I was still extremely reluctant to lounge about in front of my general. Caesar was finishing up what he was doing, which gave me the opportunity to examine the young man sitting quietly in the corner of the office. When I got a good look, my heart skipped a beat. I was looking at a young Caesar! He had the same brilliant blue eyes, the same strikingly handsome features, although as I examined him more closely, there was something almost feminine in his beauty that Caesar did not possess. I was struck by a wicked thought, that here was the kind of boy that men of a certain persuasion are very fond of, and I wondered if he would be receptive to their advances. I snuck a peek at Caesar, sure that he would be able to read my mind, and I was relieved to see that he was paying me no attention. Nonetheless, before he noticed me looking in his direction, I quickly looked away, returning my gaze on the young man. I got a second shock, because our eyes met, as he had obviously taken the opportunity to do his own examination of me when he thought I was not looking. I cannot help thinking now that the memory I carry with me today of the impression I came away with is colored by all that has transpired in the intervening time since that day. But where I was Caesar’s man through and through from the first time we locked eyes those many years ago, I did not have the same feeling when I looked into the eyes of this young man, who I had deduced was the young Octavian. In fact, the more closely I looked, the more I realized that the similarities I had thought so striking on first glance were more superficial than real. Although he had grown his hair long to cover them, there was no disguising that his ears stuck out like jug handles. His chin was not quite as strongly formed as Caesar’s, but the real difference was in the eyes. When you looked into the eyes of Gaius Julius Caesar, and he chose to reward you with the warmth of his gaze, there was no hint that it was forced, that there was anything that was not completely genuine in his affection and regard. With Octavian, there was a coldness behind the gaze, and I was struck by the thought that I had seen that type of look before, though it took a moment for me to put my finger on it. Then I remembered where I had seen that look, which I found very disquieting, because it was nothing human. Octavian’s cool, unblinking stare reminded me of the cobras that the Ptolemies kept as pets as they sat coiled in the corner of the cages in which they were kept. I could only hope that my thoughts were not revealed on my face, though I have never been very good at that, but he did not seem to notice me recoil as he gave me a shy smile before looking away. The smile softened my heart quite a bit, because in that moment he looked like what he was, a teenage boy who was awestruck by his surroundings. However, as I was to learn, there was much about Octavian that was not what it seemed on the surface, and I realize now that he was anything but a star-struck boy. Fortunately, that lesson was down the road.
~ ~ ~ ~
&nbs
p; Finally done with his other business, Caesar turned to me, ordering the slaves who hovered in the corners to move the table he had been working on next to my couch. “You don't mind if I stand while we work, do you, Primus Pilus?” Caesar asked me, as if I would even think to say that I did mind, but these little things that Caesar did that made him different from every other patrician I ever met. I shook my head, and satisfied, Caesar then turned to Octavian, beckoning him to stand beside Caesar. “Pullus, I'd like you to meet my niece Atia’s boy, Gaius Octavius,” Caesar announced.
Caesar’s pride was obvious and to my eye, completely unfeigned, and I had enough experience with Caesar that I was sure I could tell if it was. I struggled to my feet to offer my hand, pleasantly surprised at the firmness of Octavian’s grip, though the skin was soft and smooth, a sign that he had not been partaking of the military training that all fine young men are supposed to go through at his age.
“Young Master Octavius, it's an honor to meet you,” I could not bring myself to call him “sir,” so I decided that this was the least offensive alternative, but neither he nor Caesar seemed to notice or mind.
“No, Primus Pilus, the honor and pleasure is mine. You're a legend, and my uncle has spoken very highly of you.”
Now, I am just as susceptible to flattery, perhaps even more so, than any man, and I felt my heart soften towards the boy, thinking that perhaps I had been harsh in my initial assessment.
“I was hoping that you'd be my guest at dinner tonight,” Octavius continued. “I have so many questions about your experiences that it would take many, many thirds of a watch, but if I could have just a few of them tonight to at least ask the most pressing questions, I'd be eternally in your debt.”
Oh, he was smooth, knowing all the right strings to pluck, and while I had warmed to the boy considerably, there was still something in me that caused me to hold back, though I still did not fully understand what it was.
“It would be my honor and my pleasure, young Master,” I replied, then with those details seen to, Caesar indicated that I should resume my spot on the couch so we could begin our work.
~ ~ ~ ~
There were 35 slots in the Centurionate that needed to be filled in the 10th as it was brought back up to full strength, slightly more than half. In addition, we had to make decisions about how best to assign those Centurions who had decided to stay on for another enlistment. In the past, the usual custom was just to shift all the Centurions into the leading Cohorts until all the spots were filled, then bring in new Centurions, or men from other Legions who were looking to advance but could not in their existing Legion to fill out the rest. However, neither Caesar nor I were proponents of this method, no matter how entrenched in custom and tradition that it may have been. The problem, at least to our minds, was obvious. While the first four or five Cohorts would be led by experienced men, the rest of the Legion would be filled with green men at all levels. The more sensible approach would be to salt every Cohort with experienced Centurions, but there was a challenge with this approach, which was behind the reason why the system of promotion had been done in the manner it had been for all these years. With the old system, every remaining Centurion was almost guaranteed of a promotion, some of them jumping several grades at once. This enticement was responsible for the high retention rate of the Centurions compared to the rest of the men, but the rumors had already spread that Caesar would be doing things differently. As a result, several Centurions had come to me in the days before, seeking reassurance that if they chose to stay they would be rewarded with promotion, a promise that I could not give because I was not sure exactly what was going to happen. Caesar and I had enough discussions over the years that I had a feeling for his thoughts on how to handle this delicate matter, but since he had never given me any concrete plan before this, I was unwilling to stake my personal reputation on the outcome. Now, while we had 35 Centurions who had indicated they would stay, relatively few of them had signed their new enlistment oaths, choosing to wait to see how things turned out. It was a very tricky situation; while we had to do what was best for the Legion, we also had to keep the self-interest of the Centurions in mind, or we would lose the majority of the men who were staying on. Caesar decided that our first order of business was to arrange the disposition of the re-enlisting Centurions, before we began discussing candidates for the Centurionate. Next on the list were the Optios, who presented their own set of challenges, though not as pressing. As the scribes began laying out the scrolls containing the records of the Centurions, Caesar ordered some of the slaves to leave the room to fetch something. When they returned, they were carrying in a large board, with legs attached so that it stood almost like a wall. While I had seen Caesar use such a device to hang maps on, this board was different because it was painted with a series of columns and rows, each of which had markings heading each column. It took me a moment to recognize that the columns were the numbers of each Cohort, and the rows were for each Century. There were hooks attached to the board, at the junction point of every Century and Cohort. I was puzzling over this when another set of slaves walked in, each carrying a handful of tiles, which they set on the table. I looked at the tiles, and saw that they each had a hole in them. Finally, on every tile was written a name, the names of the thirty-five Centurions.
“I thought this might help make our task a little easier,” Caesar explained. “I've always found that when I can see a problem arranged in a logical fashion, it helps me solve it more quickly.”
I do not remember what I said, because I was still consumed with admiration at the genius of Caesar in thinking up such a contrivance. He had indeed made things much easier, but that only became apparent as we used his device, and once you saw it, it made perfect sense and you wondered why nobody had thought of this before. I suppose that is the sign of true genius, in solving a problem in the simplest manner possible, and in doing so making people wonder why nobody has come up with this solution earlier. The way it worked is that we would take the name of a Centurion, place his tile on the hook of the Cohort and Century that we thought would be the best fit for him and the Legion, then we would have an open discussion about our choice. General Pollio was invited to participate, which I did not mind, as well as some of the Tribunes, who were strictly enjoined from speaking. What we found is that rarely did a Centurion stay on the hook that he was initially given, as his relative strengths and weaknesses were discussed. It was in this manner that the day passed, although I found that I had to go from a sitting to a reclining position fairly quickly, and it became night, but Caesar showed no sign of stopping.
We had been taking only very short breaks to relieve ourselves, and it was during one of these breaks that Octavian approached me and whispered, “I'm sorry, Primus Pilus, but it looks as if our dinner will have to be postponed.”
I laughed. “I would have warned you that you were being exceedingly optimistic about that,” I agreed. “Once Caesar gets the bit in his teeth, there's no stopping him.”
“So I’m learning.” Octavian gave a rueful laugh of his own, then grimaced at the sight of Caesar waving us back to work. “But I'm learning a lot, and that’s what’s most important.”
As we walked back to the board, Octavian, seeing that I was a bit wobbly, offered his arm. It was a sign of my fatigue that I took it without hesitation or complaint.
I thanked him, though I was also a bit surprised, not at the offer of help, but at what he had just said. “You plan on a career in the army?”
The doubt must have been evident in my voice because he looked up at me, and just for a moment I saw what I thought was a flash of anger.
Then it was gone almost more quickly than it had come, and he gave me a smile. “Not necessarily, Primus Pilus. Oh, I plan on doing my obligatory campaigns, but I don’t believe that I'm cut out for a military career any more than you do.” I could feel the flush rising up my neck as I began to stammer out some sort of protest, but he cut me off with a laugh and wave of his
hand. “No, don’t be embarrassed. You’re absolutely right in your assessment. But I still find this all very fascinating, and I love to learn new things, no matter what the subject. Except Greek, perhaps.” He made a face, and I saw the schoolboy emerge. This time I held my tongue, remembering how touchy young men are about their youth. “Still,” he continued, “you never know when something like this will come in handy. Who knows, one day I may be in Uncle’s position myself, and what I learned today will come in very handy indeed.”
I was about to laugh at his hubris, but something stopped me, and now I am glad that it did. We had made it back to the board by this time, where there were just a couple of tiles left, but one in particular I had been surreptitiously shuffling back to the bottom of the stack, wanting to put off the decision.
At least, I thought I had been sly. “Pullus, it’s time that you stop delaying the decision about where to put your friend Scribonius,” Caesar said gently, proving once again that he did not miss a trick.
~ ~ ~ ~
I had been in an agony of indecision about Scribonius, who had told me some time earlier that he was planning on re-enlisting, no matter how things shook out. While I took that as a sign that he would accept whatever posting he was assigned, I still wanted to do my best for him. Since the rift between Vibius and me, Scribonius had become my closest friend, and he was one of only two of my original tentmates that was staying on. The other was Vellusius, who by his own admission would never be anything other than what he was, a Gregarius. Vibius had made his decision to leave the army the day he found out that Juno’s husband had died, and as far as I knew, was already back home and married to her. Scribonius, on the other hand, I considered much smarter than I, and while he was not as good a fighter, he was an outstanding leader of men, and when all is said and done, that is probably the most important aspect of a Centurion’s job. You can be the greatest swordsman in the army, or you can do vast sums in your head faster than the quickest clerk, but if men will not follow you willingly, into and through anything, then it is all for nothing. Perhaps most importantly to me, I trusted Scribonius with my life. So the question before me, while simple, was also damnably hard at the same time. Did I reward Scribonius by moving him into the First Cohort, and thereby into the first grade of Centurion, but in one of the lower Centuries, or did I keep him as Pilus Prior of the Second, where he had demonstrated that he was one of the best in the army at running a Cohort? While moving into the First was technically a promotion, the reality was far different. Being a Pilus Prior, even of a lower Cohort, gave a Centurion a certain autonomy that would be missing if they were commanding a Century in a higher ranked Cohort. Many times, operations, especially under Caesar, were of Cohort size, and that is one place where Scribonius had flourished, when he was in independent command, out on his own and away from my prying eyes. It was also a load off my mind knowing that I could depend on Scribonius to make the right decisions without running to me for help. For perhaps the hundredth time, I cursed myself for being too cowardly to discuss this with Scribonius before now, because I was afraid that he would give me an answer that I did not want to hear, since the truth was I was as close to decided as one could be to keep him where he was. I valued him too much as Pilus Prior for him to be Princeps Posterior, which was the post that was open in the First at that point, but I honestly did not know how he would respond. As I said, he had assured me that he would accept whatever posting he was given, yet I did not want him to resent me, and I also wanted him to know how much I valued his service and his friendship. Keeping him in the Pilus Prior slot, at least to my mind, was not exactly praise and reward. All these thoughts were going through my head as I fiddled with his tile, and I suddenly realized that Caesar, Pollio, and Octavian were all studying me. For the second time, I felt the heat rising to my face, Caesar’s expression of amusement not helping any.
