by R. W. Peake
“No, he's not joking Pullus. I know that this is somewhat unusual, that normally if you were promoted to Centurionate rank that you would be made a Junior Centurion and serve in the Tenth Cohort, or perhaps the Ninth. But it's not unheard of, and given the high casualty rate among the Centurions, when we looked at a list of candidates, your name was at the top of the list.”
Before I could respond, Caesar added, “That’s not to say that everyone,” and he looked over at Labienus, who was still fuming, “agreed. But I saw what you did when Vercingetorix’s men tried to breach the wall. You fought like ten men, and that's what convinced me that I'm making the right choice.”
Because I was not sure what the proper response should be, the best I could manage was, “Thank you sir, I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not, or I'll never hear the end of it from Labienus,” Caesar replied mildly. He stood then, and offered his hand.
“Congratulations, Pilus Prior Pullus.”
Leaving the Praetorium in a daze, I found Crastinus standing there waiting for me, his earlier reserve gone, a broad smile on his leathery face.
He slapped me on the back, exclaiming, “Congratulations you big bastard.”
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew,” he shot back somewhat huffily, “I was asked my opinion on the matter. I saw the list of candidates they had drawn up.”
“And you thought I was the best one?” I asked half in astonishment, half in hope.
“Nah. I just figured that you couldn’t fuck it up any worse than the other cunni on the list.”
I had to laugh at that, but a pit was forming in my stomach. I was now the senior Centurion of the Second Cohort, and although I knew I was respected, having been in the army almost ten years, I was still only twenty-five. There were men much more senior than I who had just been passed over. The thought of their reaction dampened my enthusiasm like a sudden rainstorm, and Crastinus saw my glum face.
Growing serious, he said quietly, “I won’t lie, Pullus. It’s not going to be easy. This is going to piss a lot of the boys off, particularly the other men on the list. That’s one reason it was so hush-hush; I think Caesar always planned on picking you but didn’t want to create a storm of cac flying and get men riled up enough that he couldn’t promote you without it being a big problem. Now,” he mused, “he’s dodged a javelin by just doing it. You’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.”
“Thanks, I feel better already,” I replied sarcastically, drawing a barking laugh.
“I’m not here to provide sympathy boy. But I'll do what I can to help. Mostly though, it’s going to be up to you. You’re going to have to prove to everyone that you’re worthy of the promotion.”
We were walking to the quartermaster’s tent to draw the crest I would need to affix to my helmet, along with some of the other extra gear that the rank provides. The first the Century would know I was now their Pilus Prior would be when I showed up wearing the crest; I already carried a vitus, although that was later abolished for Optios. There would be a formal promotion ceremony, but that was done all at once, in front of the whole army. Before that happened, I first had to call a meeting of the Centurions of the Cohort, followed by a meeting of the Cohort itself. My mind was racing with all the things there were to do, so I missed what Crastinus said, prompting him to call me by name. I looked at him, and he shook his head in mock seriousness.
“Not a very good start, ignoring your Primus Pilus.”
“Sorry, Primus Pilus Crastinus,” I admit to a bit of apple-polishing in addressing him by his full rank, since I knew that he had not heard himself called by that much as of yet, and I could tell it pleased him.
“I was saying, for whatever it’s worth, I know you can do it Pullus. And I’ll help you any way I can.”
I looked at him in gratitude, then unbidden my mind raced back almost ten years before when I hated this man to the soles of his boots, marveling at how far I had come.
Approaching the Century area, the men were lounging by the fire, and they looked up as one of them automatically called out that senior Centurions were approaching. They all immediately popped up to stand at intente before any of them noticed that something was different, and I am sure their first thought was something like, “Here comes the new Pilus Prior. By the gods, he’s as big as Pullus.”
It was a few heartbeats after that before there was a registering of the fact that not only did the new Pilus Prior look like me, it was indeed me in the flesh. Even at their position of intente, I was heartened to see smiles creeping across the men’s face as they realized what it meant.
A knot in my throat started to form, then the Primus Pilus’ voice cracked out, stopping the moment. “What are you cunni smiling at like drooling idiots? Haven’t you ever seen a Pilus Prior before?”
He looked at me and said sternly, “I apologize Pilus Prior Pullus,” giving my new title and name a boost in volume so that everyone not in eyesight could hear the news, “your new command seems to be composed of imbeciles and lunatics. I don’t know who trained this lot, but they should be dismissed from the eagles immediately.”
Of course, this was all in jest, since it was Crastinus himself who trained this very Century and was our first Pilus Prior. Now they were on their fourth, and if I was not so happy it would have been a sobering thought. Only one was promoted, and he stood before us. One was forced to retire while the other died, not exactly reassuring odds. But there was a saying; if you wanted to live a long life, why did you join the Legions? Live hard, die young and leave a good looking corpse behind for cremation was how most of us looked at things. Very few of my comrades thought seriously about the future the way I did, and I have often wondered what role this played in my survival through so many battles. My side was aching, meaning I was still not quite up to doing anything strenuous, but I had survived yet again and I made a mental note to find some way to properly thank the gods with an appropriate offering. The Primus Pilus left me with the men, and immediately after I gave them the command to return to their prior attitudes, they came bounding to me, offering their congratulations. I wanted to think that most of them were sincere, but I was smart enough to know that a fair number of them were merely trying to grease the wheels in the event that they fell afoul of me at some point down the road. Just when I was about to get upset, I thought wryly, why should I, it’s exactly what I would have done, and I think one of the keys to my success in many areas was that I never lost sight of what it meant to be a Gregarius. During my career, I saw too many Centurions who underwent some sort of transformation, thinking that suddenly because they were no longer in the ranks and had their own latrine, their cac did not smell the same as the rest of the men. The men whose reaction I was most anxious to gauge were of course my former tentmates, particularly Vibius, because I was now two ranks ahead of him. Then I realized with a sudden thrill that now that the spot of Optio was open I could appoint who I wanted, provided they were sufficiently senior, which Vibius certainly was, and of the appropriate rank, which he was as well. Just as suddenly, however, my stomach twisted as I was hit by the recognition that because I was already operating at a disadvantage, with the Centurions under me watching every move I made like a hawk, there was no real way I could make Vibius my Optio. It would not matter whether he was qualified or not, his promotion would cause jealousy, making it as close to guaranteed as possible that whispers of favoritism passed from one fire to another. I felt like I was dashed by cold water, even as I went through the motions of accepting the congratulations from the men, agonizing over how to tell Vibius. The fact that I had not even brought the subject up with him but was already worried about how he would react at being passed over shows how entrenched in my own viewpoint I was back in those days. It never occurred to me that perhaps Vibius did not want to be Optio; because of my own ambitions, I naturally assumed that others shared the same goals. Luckily, for both of us I think, once I did broach the subject with Vi
bius, he instantly threw up his hands in horror at the thought of being considered for Optio.
“Titus,” he said once we walked away to chat in private, “I've got no desire to be an Optio. This is as far as I want to go. I’ve got a little more than six more years to go, and then I’m going home to start my life. This isn’t my career like it is yours. I may have thought so at one time, but I know that although I love the army, I’ll be ready to go home when my time is up.”
There was no way to adequately express my relief at his resolution of this one dilemma, yet I still faced others ahead of me, and we both knew it. I have sometimes thought that the main reason Vibius said he did not want to become Optio is to help spare me at least one of the trials that lay ahead.
My meeting with the other Centurions did not start auspiciously, since I was late to my own conference, although I do not remember the reason for my tardiness. The five other Centurions were gathered in my tent, all of them rising to intente as I entered, startling me. My reaction caused a couple of smirks, and my heart sank at this sign that I was already making a hash of things. It is probably a good idea now to give the names, along with the Centuries they commanded, of the first Cohort I was to command. Gaius Domitius Celer was the Pilus Posterior of the Second Century; a squat, ugly little man with a nose broken so many times it was just a misshapen lump protruding from his face. Normally, he would have been the leading candidate for the position I now held, but Celer possessed a tendency to drink a bit too much, and I guessed that this was the main reason he was passed over. He clearly did not see it that way and would prove to be the most obstinate of the Centurions in the Cohort when it came to accepting my authority gracefully. Titus Flavius Priscus was the Princeps Prior, leader of the Third Century. Priscus was a good man, even if just to look at him he did not present the sight of what one would think of as a Legionary, let alone a Centurion, but this was deceiving. He was of average height, several inches shorter than I, of medium build, with plain regular features and a strong jaw that slightly jutted out his only distinguishing characteristic. The Centurion in charge of the Fourth Century was Princeps Posterior Marcus Arrius Niger, a dark swarthy Capuan who got his start in Pompey’s army and was a crony of Celer’s, to the point where he mimicked the other’s attitude in everything, including how he viewed me. He bore a long scar down the length of his arm that he earned in our battle with the Nervii, but he was a brave enough man and a decent leader. Marcus Julius Longus was the Hastatus Prior, the Centurion in charge of the Fifth Century, and was a man to watch because of his apparent fondness for finding reasons to punish his men. There were plenty enough men like Longus in the Legions who completely forgot what it was like to be a Gregarius and therefore decided to rule by fear. While I have no problem with using fear in itself, there had long been whispers that Longus was using these punishments to enrich himself. Once I got settled in and reviewed the Cohort diary, in which every activity and punishment is recorded every day, I was struck by the fact that, despite leading the Cohort in writing his men up, the rate of those accused of charges serious enough to earn some sort of corporal punishment, like a flogging, was the lowest in the Cohort. The vast majority of the infractions for which he wrote his Legionaries up were of the variety that called for monetary fines and it was this I found disturbing, although discovering the problem would have to wait for a while. First, I had to get the idea in their head that I was leading the Cohort, whether they liked it or not. Finally, there was Marcus Antonius Crispus, the Hastatus Posterior, Centurion of the Sixth and final Century. At that time I did not know much about him; what I did know amounted to the mutterings of his men that I overheard. He was the oldest of all of us, and I believe he had either accepted or resigned himself to the idea that this was as high as he would go and no higher. Here they all were, standing before me, technically subordinates to me, but I could already tell that there were a couple of them who were going to pose a problem. Clearing my throat, I began by offering them some wine, an offer which they all accepted. Zeno, who was actually more experienced in matters of this type than I was had already prepared for this meeting, presenting a tray with six cups. In his will, Pulcher left me a number of amphorae of Falernian wine, though at the time I did know why, but I suspect now that he had a hunch that I would be his replacement. Because I had no real interest in wine, he probably figured that I would not worry about using it in a profligate manner. In fact it was Zeno who casually informed them that what they were being offered was Falernian, and I saw a number of different reactions, ranging from surprise on the face of Priscus, a hint of anger that was in a clear struggle with desire on the face of Celer, to a look of concern on the face of Niger, who kept glancing at Celer to gauge what reaction he should be having. Unfortunately, Celer was torn between the idea of refusing the drink, which I suspected was part of the plan he hatched with Niger, thereby drawing a clear line of battle, yet was taunted by the spirit of Bacchus that resides in every wine lover’s soul, and in the end Bacchus won. Giving Niger a slight shrug, he licked his lips thirstily as he reached for the cup. Once their cups were charged, I offered a salute.
“To the Tenth, and to the best Cohort in the Legion, led by the best Centurions. Second Cohort!”
“Second Cohort!”
They echoed my toast, and we all tossed back the cup of wine.
“Congratulations on your promotion, Pilus Prior,” said Longus, in a tone and manner that oozed insincerity. However, I made no comment, choosing to accept his words at face value for which I thanked him politely. Now that the formalities were out of the way, I motioned for the Centurions to take a seat on the stools. Since Pulcher held many meetings in his tent, there were more than enough stools to go around, and I took one, although I faced them. They sat, hands on knees, none of them speaking, all waiting to hear how I would approach this. The truth was that despite agonizing over it, I still had no idea what would come out of my mouth; the only thing I could control at this point was the manner in which I spoke, so I tried to remain as calm and unemotional as I could.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “thank you for your kind wishes. I'm extraordinarily proud and more importantly, humbled by the trust that Caesar has placed in me.”
These were not idle words; I wanted to introduce Caesar’s name as quickly as possible, to reinforce the point that it was he who promoted me and nobody else.
“I can only hope that I live up to the high honor he's given me, but with you helping me, I know that the Second Cohort will acquit themselves with as much glory and devotion to duty as we have in the past. I look to the example you've already set, and I'll do my utmost to meet that standard.”
Heads nodded; I was not saying anything particularly surprising at this point and it has never ceased to amaze me how susceptible to flattery Legionaries of all ranks are, and I include myself in that group. We love to be praised, and I could see my honeyed words were striking home with at least a couple of them.
Forging ahead, I continued, “As you all know, we’re in the process of reorganizing the army, and then we’ll be dispersed to winter quarters.”
This was common knowledge, yet what I hoped to do was to impress them with something they did not know.
“Perhaps you'd be interested to know where the 10th is going to be stationed this winter." My words created the desired effect, because to a man they sat forward on their chairs. Waiting for a moment, I savored the undivided attention I was being paid, before I told them, “Narbo. We’re going to be going back to Narbo.”
This was met with a round of cheers; Narbo had been our home for two years and we carried fond memories of the town. Perhaps it was because of the milder climate than the other places we stayed in, although I think it had more to do with the friendly townsfolk, particularly the females.
“Now that you know, we can begin the work of getting the Cohort ready to receive the orders. Whether the men know where we’re going or not, we’re going somewhere, since it’s close to the end of the
season and for all intents and purposes the war is over.”
My last sentence raised some eyebrows. Raising his hand, Crispus asked warily, “Excuse me Pilus Prior, but what do you mean ‘for all intents and purposes’? The war’s over, we all know that. Are you saying that something's afoot?”
I hesitated, because the truth was that I had heard no such rumors; my feeling that there would be more fighting was mine and mine alone, putting me in a bit of a dilemma with this question. If I tried to add to the veracity of my beliefs by fabricating some sort of information I was supposedly privy to, then nothing else happened, I would be seen as someone who at the very least exaggerated, if not outright lied. However, if I were to tell the complete truth, that this was merely a feeling I had, how would it be received by these men who, in their eyes at least, were more senior than me, if not by rank than at least by virtue of time in service? My mind raced as I tried to decide the best tactic.
