by Peake, R. W.
He looked at me as if I was perhaps the most stupid man in the Republic, which I must admit is a possibility when it comes to matters of the heart.
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” he replied quietly.
That was, and is certainly true, and I could think of nothing to add to that. Then I thought of something else.
“Do you realize,” I asked, “that I’ve learned more about you in the last few weeks than I did in the previous 25 years?”
He gave a short laugh. “I didn’t feel like talking about it before now.”
“Well, I’m glad you finally changed your mind,” was all I could think to say.
I spent several thirds of a watch a day working with groups of Tirones on the stakes, smiling inwardly when I heard the countless groans and muttered curses as I forced the new men to bash the poles with their wooden swords, over and over and over, never satisfied. Just as I had hoped, I did feed off their youthful energy, feeling rejuvenated by their exuberance and enthusiasm, despite being tempered as it was by their frustrations. Like countless other generations of Legionary before them, they carped and complained about being forced to use the heavy wooden sword instead of being able to immediately start hacking away with a real blade. And just as all the Centurions who came before me, my colleagues and I were unmoved by their plight. The new men had learned how to at least march in a manner somewhat resembling Legionaries on their travel from their respective recruiting grounds. Now we had to integrate them into the Legion and go out into the countryside, which we began to do three times a week. The older veterans like Albinus fell easily back into the rhythm and routine of a Legion in winter camp. Still, it was easy to see that some of the older men were struggling. I was determined that there would be no alteration or diminishment of the training cycle to accommodate the older men, so inevitably we lost a fair number of them who had to be sent back to their homes because they were found unfit for further duty. There was also quite a bit of grumbling from these older men, who seemed to think that their status as veterans should exempt them from the harshest of the training that I had devised. These malcontents were quickly silenced, not by me or the other Centurions, but by the men themselves, who understood what I was doing and why. The horrors and deprivation of the campaign in Media were still fresh in every man’s mind; the memory of the seemingly endless miles of harsh terrain with the wind howling in the ears with every step, the towering mountains covered in ice that had to be traversed could still rise up and haunt a man’s dreams, causing him to cry out the names of friends as he relived seeing them fall to their deaths or die of exposure. The veterans in the ranks who had survived their ordeal knew that I was doing my best to prepare the Legion for the moment when we would find ourselves once again in those barren wastes, so when the new arrivals began to complain, there was a bit of unofficial chastisement dealt out to them, and the complaining soon stopped.
The men were not the only ones haunted by what we had endured, although my sleep was not interrupted by dreams of seeing men plunging down icy slopes. I had lost almost half my Legion to a foe who never drew a sword or fired an arrow to cut them down, and I was determined to do what I could to avoid a repeat of the same fate. The other Primi Pili were similarly involved, making it a very busy time in camp for every man. After we trained the new men up to a basic level where I was reasonably sure that they wouldn’t stab themselves to death, only then did we begin training with real weapons, which is always a day of great moment to a new Legionary. I enjoyed the look of wonder that men had when they hefted the real weapon for the first time, realizing how much lighter it was than the wooden sword. Then when they were given their shields, they had the same reaction as they whipped them about in delight. Scribonius and I were watching, and I imagine we had the amused expression of a father when his child has a new toy.
I turned to him and said, “I think it’s time we have a few mock battles, don’t you?”
He grinned. “I was wondering how long it was going to take you.”
This was the manner in which we passed the time as the army rebuilt itself, preparing for the day that Antonius would return to lead us back into Media. Our general had other matters on his mind, however, the most controversial being his marriage to Cleopatra. When Antonius sent Octavia back to Rome, according to her brother he had not properly divorced her, so he was now an adulterer. And who he was committing adultery with made matters worse, because Octavian always hated Cleopatra; it was he who coined the term Queen of Beasts to describe her. Octavian continually declared that he would never attack Marcus Antonius, that he would not make war on a fellow Roman, yet there are more ways of waging war than picking up a sword, and it was in these more subtle ways in which Octavian has no equal. Antonius made no attempt to reply to Octavian’s charges directly, though I have no doubt that he had his own creatures hard at work behind the scenes in Rome trying to refute the various accusations. It was clear to everyone in our world that these two men were on a collision course, the only question being when and how it happened, which not surprisingly was the topic of conversation most nights in the huts of the men. The only place where it was never discussed was at Uncle Tiberius’ villa, where all guests who came to visit were strictly warned that the subject was off-limits. Uncle Tiberius and his wife were frequent guests and I must say that, even knowing how dangerous he was, I enjoyed his company, as did Miriam. For the sake of peace in the house, I did not tell Miriam any details about Uncle Tiberius’ true nature or who he worked for, just making her promise that she would not venture any opinion about Roman politics in his presence. She agreed and thankfully did not ask any questions, though I could see she was curious.
The months marched by, and now the Primi Pili were faced with the problem that always come from a prolonged period of peace, which has two prongs. The first is that without an opportunity for fighting and plunder, men become restless for action, and it is always the civilians or their comrades who bear the brunt of their boredom. This is an issue that can be controlled with a few floggings and perhaps an execution or two to keep the men in line. It is the second prong that is actually more of a challenge. Like a blade that is finely honed, an army that is not allowed to fulfill its true purpose will become dull and worn down from constant sharpening without any cutting to go with it. We had trained the army back up to a level that every Primi Pili believed was sufficient to sweep any enemy we faced from the field, but now we had to go into the field before that edge was completely lost.
As Spurius, the Primus Pilus of the 3rd Gallica put it, “If Antonius waits another year to put us in the field, we're going to have start over with another training cycle, and these men aren’t getting any younger. Neither are we, for that matter.”
None of us wanted that, so with that in mind, all the Primi Pili put their names to a message to Antonius where we outlined the situation and asked if we could expect to march soon. We received a curt reply from Antonius telling us that he would indeed be marching, and that he was sending Canidius to begin preparations for our march into Armenia. With the pact between Artavasdes the Median and Antonius, our focus now became Artavasdes the Armenian, which was perfectly fine with every man in the army who had survived his treachery. About a week less than a month after we received our reply from Antonius, Canidius arrived in Damascus from his post in Antioch, and we began our preparations for the invasion of Armenia.
Chapter 2- Armenia
“We'll be marching with an even larger army than before,” announced Canidius when the Centurions met him in the praetorium shortly after his arrival. “Antonius has summoned the Macedonian Legions, along with those in Egypt to join us. We'll march with sixteen Legions.”
We all listened impassively, more concerned with other matters, which Canidius went on to address.
“And this time we'll march with the baggage train no matter how slowly it marches.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I heard a voice say quietly, and there were a few sni
ckers, but if Canidius heard, he chose to ignore them.
“We're going to begin marching to Zeugma in Januarius, which we'll use as a jumping off point. This time we're not going to Parthia, at least at first. We're going to subdue Artavasdes first, and I know I don't have to tell you why. Depending on how long that takes, we'll either continue on to Parthia to bring back Phraates, or we'll spend the winter in Artaxata before renewing the campaign the next season.”
This was a sound plan for a campaign, and ambitious to say the least. If we prepared ourselves properly, it was a challenging but attainable goal. Canidius went on with some other details, but if the other Primi Pili were anything like me, they stopped listening as soon as he uttered the information that was pertinent to us. Seeing that we were no longer paying attention, Canidius dismissed us, and we hurried off to our respective Legions to make preparations. He had joined us on the Kalends of December, giving us a month in which to prepare, precious little time, given everything there was to do. That is always how it seems to be in the army; you either have nothing but time, or not enough of it. Fortunately, the core of the Legions were still veterans who had done this before, so the work went smoothly, although there were a few sleepless nights, mostly on the part of the Centurions on whose shoulders fell the ultimate responsibility to make sure that every man’s equipment was in first rate order and they were ready to march. The myriad details to make that happen are positively dizzying; everything from inspecting that the blades of the turf cutters are still serviceable to making sure that the wicker baskets are still tightly woven and will not break or leak depending on what they carry. Each of these items had to be attended to, and there was no detail too small, because it is precisely those small details that can spell the difference between a campaign that sees men marching in a Triumph through the streets of Rome at its conclusion, or trying to survive a death march as we had been forced to, and none of us wanted the latter. This preparation period was notable in the lack of persuasion that the Centurions had to administer with the vitus to get the men to perform all of their various tasks, a clear sign that the men understood the importance of all that they were doing.
Whenever I could, I continued working with Gaius, and I was pleased to see how much he had progressed, making me confident that he would come out victorious against all but the most experienced and skilled warrior we might face. I barely had enough time to go to the villa to see Miriam, though I did manage to squeeze in a few visits. She did not complain, but her worry was plain to see on her face. Meanwhile, I had gotten to an age where I was no longer so blithely confident that I would return alive or even unscathed. Still, I tried to make light of our impending parting, making the evenings pass pleasantly without argument or too much sadness.
Finally, the day came that all was deemed ready, the baggage train fully loaded and arrayed in a huge park just outside the camp under heavy guard. There was no huge battering ram this time, as that had been the most significant impediment that contributed to the slow pace of the train, although there were raw materials to assemble at least four rams of a standard size. Most significantly, every man was equipped with warm gear, with spare fur-lined socks for the hands as well, and the men treated these items as if they were made of gold, which of course in a sense they were. In recognition of their hard work, the men were given two days to debauch and spend what money they had left on the whores of Damascus. Naturally, I chose to spend it with Miriam, and the last evening I invited Uncle Tiberius, Scribonius, Balbus, Macrianus, and Gaius to dinner. Gaius declined the invitation, having developed a romantic relationship with a young lady in the city and wished to spend it with her, for which I could not rightly blame him.
I put Diocles in charge of making the dinner a memorable one, but unfortunately it was more tense than enjoyable, each of us occupied with our own thoughts. Scribonius and Balbus still viewed Uncle Tiberius with barely disguised hostility, understanding but disagreeing with my desire to keep him close so that I could keep an eye on him. Therefore, it was not surprising that the conversation between these parties was stilted. Miriam and Pompeia did their best to keep the talk on neutral subjects, but it was like a weak swimmer trying to fight an outrushing tide, since it seemed that no matter how hard they tried the talk turned political.
“Antonius has forgotten what it is to be Roman,” Uncle Tiberius declared, after quaffing his third cup of unwatered wine. “He's setting himself up to have his own kingdom, but the only way he can do so is to take the Eastern provinces from Rome.”
Now, I happened to know that both Scribonius and Balbus were essentially in agreement with Uncle Tiberius, as was I for the most part. It did seem to me that he was shedding the skin of the Roman patrician, becoming more of an Eastern potentate with each passing day. However, I also knew that Uncle Tiberius’ role as an agent for both Octavian and Antonius made anything he said against either man suspect, making it just as likely to be an attempt to bait one of us into saying something impolitic as it was an expression of his honest opinion. I shot a warning glance at Scribonius, despite believing he was the last person likely to forget this, but he either chose to ignore me or missed my signal.
“It’s interesting that you should say that,” my friend said coolly, setting his cup down to turn his full attention to the old man. “Antonius is, after all, still a Triumvir and has been legally appointed the entire East to govern,” Scribonius emphasized the word “govern,” clearly intent on making a distinction, “not rule. Kings rule, and he was extremely clear not to give himself such a title.”
Uncle Tiberius snorted in derision. “No, he just gave his children the titles, and they're minor children, so who's making the decisions?” He gave his braying laugh. “Perhaps you’re right. I'm sure that it’s Cleopatra, now that I think of it.”
“So you’re saying that Marcus Antonius is not actually governing the provinces?” Scribonius asked in an idle manner, but I knew there was nothing idle about the question at all.
I sat wondering where he was headed. Clearly, Uncle Tiberius did not see that, because he did not seem to be wary in the least, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture.
“Isn’t it obvious? You’ve seen how he moons over Cleopatra. Absolutely disgusting for a Roman man to behave in such a manner, especially over a foreign queen.”
“She’s hardly foreign in her own lands,” Miriam spoke up, and while her tone was mild, I could see she was angered by Uncle Tiberius’ words.
I was suddenly reminded of how Gisela felt about what we had done in Gaul, the bitterness and sadness that would spill out at odd times, causing harsh words between us.
Uncle Tiberius peered over at her in surprise before reaching out to pat her hand as he said, “Yes, that may have been true at one time. But they're Roman lands now, my dear. Her father Ptolemy Chickpea,” he cackled at the derogative nickname that had been given to Cleopatra’s father, “gave Egypt to Rome.”
“Just because they occupy it does not make it theirs,” she said tightly. “And one day Rome will be gone, and the people will still be there, as they always have.”
“Rome's not going anywhere,” I said in what I hoped was a tone gentle enough not to make her angrier, but ensured she knew there was no point in arguing.
“Rome is forever,” Scribonius agreed, while Balbus raised a cup at Scribonius’ words.
Seeing that she was at least outnumbered if nothing else, she fell silent, yet I could see by the set of her jaw that this was likely to come back up later in private.
Turning back to the original topic, Scribonius picked up where he had left off. “So Antonius loves Cleopatra,” he continued. “What does that have to do with how he governs the East?”
“Look at how he gave the balsam rights of Judaea to Cleopatra,” Uncle Tiberius argued. “Those are in Herod’s kingdom, yet she wheedled and cajoled Antonius, and he gave her lands that aren't even adjacent to her own kingdom!”
Scribonius nodded thoughtfully, as if seeing the poin
t, then gave one of his frowns.
“But didn’t she also pay for the bonuses for the army? Couldn’t that be argued to be a payment for those rights?”
“That’s what Antonius claims,” Uncle Tiberius grudgingly agreed. “But do we really know where that money came from?”
To be fair to Uncle Tiberius, he was not saying anything that had not been a matter of some conjecture, the rumor certainly going around that Antonius actually borrowed the money from the plutocrats in his camp, making the payment of the bonus from those funds while claiming that it came from Cleopatra in order to make her more popular with the army.
“So you think he might be lying about that?”
“I think it’s certainly a possibility.”
Almost as quickly as the words came out of Uncle Tiberius’ mouth, he seemed to realize that he had gone too far, but it was too late, Scribonius giving me a long and meaningful look before turning back to Uncle Tiberius.
“That’s certainly good to know,” my friend said quietly, and Uncle Tiberius immediately raised his hands in protest.
“I’m not saying that he is,” he sputtered. “I just said that it’s . . .”
Scribonius cut him off. “I know, a possibility. You're saying that it’s possible that Antonius lied about the source of funds to the army.”
There was no way that Uncle Tiberius could dispute this, because that was exactly what he said. It just sounded much different when Scribonius repeated it back to him, which of course was exactly what Scribonius intended. The old man began looking wildly at me, then Balbus, but there were no friendly faces looking back at him, though I imagine I was looking a bit triumphant.
“It’s good that we're just speaking here, in private, among friends,” Scribonius said with a smile. “Because that kind of talk could be dangerous. If it were to get back to the Triumvir, of course.”