The Man With Two Names

by Vincent B Davis II

  “I’m assuming you’ve both heard the news?” I asked. Their eyes widened, and they exchanged a perplexed look.

  “Yes, but we didn’t know you’d heard it,” said Titus.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “We’re not concerned about that. We’re thinking of your health. You don’t need to worry about those Reds. We’ll take care of them.”

  At first I nodded, until I realized what Lucius meant. “Wait, what? Who will take care of them?”

  “We will. I know you’ll want to be here for the fight, but Rome will be victorious,” Lucius said, eyeing me levelly.

  “What? Of course I’ll be here! I’m not going anywhere.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Leaving hadn’t entered my mind. I’d just been made a centurion. The gods had spared my life, so I could continue fighting for Rome.

  “Quintus.” Titus’s voice was stern, no give. “There will be other battles, and you can certainly earn glory when that time comes, but we need you to be healthy first.”

  I shook my head. “Titus, I am healthy!” Behind us, Arrea laughed.

  “Look at your damn leg, little brother. You’re useless right now.”

  “No, you look at the progress I’ve already shown! I’m already up and walking, right? By the time the Reds get here, I’ll be in perfect shape.”

  “And I will sacrifice to Mars and Bellona that you are. But there is no reason for you to stay here and risk your life. Maximus has already informed me that you have been authorized to seek a medical discharge. There is no reason to not take that and go home,” Titus said.

  “I can think of several reasons, big brother. I should leave why? The risk?”

  He gritted his teeth. “It’s a big risk.”

  “Of course it is. But we’re here to fight the Reds, aren’t we? You knew that when you joined, and I knew it when I joined. We didn’t come to fight bandit tribes and rebel villages.”

  “And what if we both die? What then?”

  So that’s what this was about. My heart leaped. Titus was not worried about my injuries, so much as he had realized the gravity of our situation and he wanted me home safe. I think Lucius, too, had been so frightened by my near escape that he couldn’t bear the thought of me facing another.

  “That was always a possibility, was it not?”

  “And what will happen to our home? What will happen to Mother if both of us die?” Though Titus’s voice was stern and his posture strong, I’d never seen him so vulnerable. Perhaps for the first time I was seeing him afraid.

  “I could also ask what will happen to our home if I return now with my tail tucked between my legs? How am I to earn a living for them, huh? What of my future wife and children—what of your wife and child? I’ll have to take care of them all by myself if you’re gone. And how can I do that now? With no patrons and no job?”

  “What about Marius?” Lucius asked.

  “Perhaps I could rely on him. But old favors are quickly forgotten. If I am out of the legion, he has nothing left to gain from me. There is no going back now, friends. There is just as much risk associated with leaving as there is with staying. So I am staying. I appreciate your concern for me, truly, but I would ask that you not mention it again.”

  “And what of your slave?” Titus motioned to Arrea. I turned to her. If not for her determination to stay, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so sure of myself either.

  “She is not my slave, she is my shield-bearer.” She tried to hide her grin. Lucius laughed, and Titus grunted.

  “No matter what you call her, what will happen to her if our camp is raided?”

  “Damn it, Titus! You just said Rome would be victorious. We haven’t lost the damned battle yet, so stop acting as if we have!” My temper flared, though I’m sure the irony of my argument struck Arrea like a blow. Titus nodded his head and said nothing more about it.

  The flap of my tent opened.

  “Permission to enter, Centurion?” came an unfamiliar voice.

  “Yes, come in,” I said, and a man who was unknown to me entered and saluted.

  “General Mallius Maximus is requesting your presence… . I mean, he is requesting Prefect Sertorius and Contubernales Hirtuleius. He said you were also welcome to come, Centurion.”

  “When does he need us?” Titus asked.

  “Presently. Come in full kit.” The soldier saluted and turned on his heel to leave. We followed him.

  AS WE ENTERED Maximus’s tent, the gathering of officers looked diligently over a map and paid us no mind.

  “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. We’re still waiting on the Eighth’s legate,” Maximus said, distracted. “Oh, it’s good to see you, Quintus.” I’d never seen him so visibly stressed, even during the bloodshed of the elections. He clenched his jaw, shuffled his feet, and cracked his knuckles. The other men around him echoed his posture. He gestured to his slave. “Give them some wine.”

  “Centurion, why are you here?” the legate of one of the other legions asked me.

  “He is here on my bidding. He is an old friend,” Maximus said before I could reply. “You look good with a centurion’s helmet, Quintus Sertorius.” He gave a forced smile.

  “I thought only first-spear centurions were being informed?” a prefect asked.

  “That is true. But if I have asked this man here, then that should be enough for you, Prefect,” Maximus said with irritation. He knocked back the remainder of his wine and requested more, much as I’d seen Marius do when worried.

  “Quintus, have you heard what is about to happen?” Maximus asked as all eyes turned on me. I saluted and gazed past them.

  “I have heard only whispers, sir,” I replied.

  “The Reds are on the move. We haven’t encountered their force at large, but our scouts have seen their scouts. And the size of their scouting party is really more like a small army, if that tells you anything about their numbers. They are leaving violence and destruction in their wake.”

  “The Cimbri and Teutones are bloodthirsty animals. They need little reason to kill,” a legate spoke up.

  “Even so, they kill to send a message, and it is a message I intend to take seriously. They bring violence, and they will receive that which they seek to give.”

  “Agreed, sir,” the legate replied.

  “Quintus, do you think the men are ready? Are they prepared to fight?”

  “And he means a real fight. Not simply killing peasant Gauls,” the same legate added, before receiving a disdainful look from Maximus. I stumbled over my words, unsure what to say.

  “The men—especially the newer recruits—have had a lot thrust at them very suddenly. So many pitched battles at the beginning of the campaign is unprecedented.”

  “Unprecedented?” A grizzled old prefect approached me. “Unprecedented? You coward! What do you think the men of Scipio’s legion did when he sailed for Spain to fight Hannibal’s allies? Do you think they sat on their asses until they damn well felt like fighting? The rank and file don’t get to decide when they fight! They will be told when and where, and they will follow orders honorably or face the consequences! What do you think—” Maximus waved him into silence.

  “Excuse me, Prefect. May I continue?” I asked, waiting for his temper to cool.

  “I asked him to tell me how the men feel, and he is simply responding to my question. Continue, Centurion.”

  “The men don’t need any more fights like Burdigala. We won an overwhelming victory there, and victories tend to inspire confidence. While the men are confident they can destroy villages of Gauls, they are less confident that they can fight the Reds. They’ve heard too many myths and legends. They need to fight the Reds soon, or they’ll lose faith in themselves entirely.”

  “There are no myths and legends, only facts,” the old prefect said.

  “No, I agree with the centurion. So if battle begins tomorrow, they will be ready?” he asked again.

  “As ready as they’ll ever be, s
ir. I believe they will face the enemy with courage and dignity. But I cannot be certain they will be victorious.”

  “I don’t believe there is any way for any of us to be certain of that, friend.” Maximus shook his head and sighed. He returned to his map. “One hundred miles. One hundred damned miles southwest. They could be upon us in days.” He brought his thumb to his mouth and bit the nail. “But I do not intend to meet them here. We would be surrounded and butchered. We will have to leave Burdigala and find a location with strategic advantage. Prefect Sertorius, ensure that a scouting party from the Fourth Legion leaves at first light to begin the search. Understood?” Titus nodded. “It is still my intention to talk with the Reds before we endure a pitched battle. If we can prevent bloodshed, we will. If not, then we will be in a position of strength.” The officers in the room shifted uncomfortably—some clearly disagreed.

  “And how will a display of weakness place us in a position of strength?” the old prefect asked, neglecting to call Maximus by his proper title.

  “Amnesty is not weakness, Prefect. And you’d do well to remember that.” He looked up from the table to address us. “I don’t want any of you thinking I am afraid of bloodshed. I am not afraid of the Reds or their allies, and I am prepared to fight them presently. But the Mediterranean is large enough for both of us, if they are willing to lay down their arms.” Some of the officers shook their heads, and Maximus replied more forcefully, “Gentlemen, do you not see that by meeting with the Reds, we give them a choice? There is nothing more detrimental to an army’s morale than a choice. As of right now, the Cimbri know that they cannot settle here without facing Roman retribution. They must conquer or be conquered, kill or be killed. They are stranded and far away from whatever corner of Hades they came from. If they know there is even a chance at peace—after so many years of fighting—their men will continue on with less enthusiasm. Our men, however, defend their own homes. They have no alternative but to conquer or be conquered, kill or be killed.” Everyone fell silent. “I will meet with the Cimbri, even if I have to do so alone, to talk of their surrender. And nothing else. If they refuse, then they shall die.”

  A man entered the tent and saluted. He was clad in ceremonial armor, with a freshly pressed and cleaned tunic, a firm purple plume atop his helm. He stood to attention with the laxity of someone who was accustomed to meeting with officers.

  “Can I help you?” Maximus asked, irritated.

  “I have been sent to speak with Consul Gnaeus Mallius Maximus,” the man replied.

  “I am he.”

  “I am an envoy, sent by the Senate and populous of Rome, to inform you that your consular colleague and friend Quintus Servilius Caepio will be joining you here in the north at the head of two legions. Rome received word that the Cimbri and Teutones are on the move, and duly voted for Consul Caepio to receive a special commission as your joint commander.” I looked to Titus, and his eyes said it all. Knots materialized in my gut, and I know he felt it, too. Maximus exhaled deeply and shook his head.

  “That petulant child always gets his way, doesn’t he?” Maximus looked to me.

  The envoy stepped forward and extended a sealed scroll. Maximus took it and opened it with his dagger. After he finished reading, he exploded with anger, slamming his fist on the table and sending a cup of wine to the dirt. The veins in his neck bulged and his face turned scarlet. I had never once seen a shred of such emotion in the stoic Maximus.

  “These are my men, damn it! My men!” he shouted, then gritted his teeth. He lowered his head and fell silent as he realized the envoy could not be the target of his fury. In a quieter, more melancholy tone, he replied, “The Senate has passed a measure giving the Fourth Legion to Caepio’s command, to balance out the force. There is nothing I can do.” My knees began to shake and I felt they might buckle. I struggled to hold on to my cup of wine. I looked to Titus, but his face was blank and he stared at the ground, his mind seeming to pore over the endless possibilities of what this meant for our futures.

  “When will the consul be here?” Lucius found the gumption to ask.

  “Tomorrow,” the envoy said cheerfully. “I myself left just shortly before his army did.” Maximus beat the table again. The officers all kept their eyes down. “If you’ll excuse me, I will excuse myself. May Fortuna guide you against the Cimbri.”

  Finally Titus looked up at me. We locked eyes, and he shook his head.

  “To Hades with Fortuna!” Maximus kicked a box of parchment and threw his cup of wine at the tent entrance just folding back into place after the envoy’s exit.

  Lucius grabbed my forearm and said, “So it begins.”

  SCROLL XX

  Gaia seems to be intrinsically in tune with the events of man. On this day it was, as it has been during many other such days, gray and dark. The air held a bitter chill, and the sun remained hidden behind a vast expanse of angry clouds.

  For hours, the Fourth stood in a silent formation, just before the walls of Burdigala. No empty chatter, no whispered jokes about the officers. The only sound was the whip of the cohort flags in the sporadic bursts of winds. The Burdigalans themselves—those that still lived—watched intently and with curious anticipation. They didn’t need to speak our language to understand something was amiss.

  I’m not sure how long we stood there—certainly it was several hours—before we heard the distant rumble of a marching army. As Consul Quintus Caepio and his legions neared, the earth began to shake beneath our feet. Trumpets and drums rang out in glorious fashion.

  At length, Titus and the legate of the Fourth stepped forward and received word of Caepio’s approach. Once they came within view, the command was given to open the gates.

  “Forward, march!” Centurion Scrofa’s voice rang as we stepped out from Burdigala and back into the wilderness. The feeling in my gut was the same as when we marched on the city. We were going to meet our comrades—a reinforcing army that greatly increased our chances of victory in the north—and yet somehow it felt as if we approached a hostile force. Though Titus and I had our own reasons for this feeling, the entire Fourth moved like a funeral procession.

  When we finally reached Caepio’s force, his soldiers parted to allow us entry. We stood in formation as they broke for lunch. They spread out and separated, gathering in their individual cohorts, centuries, and contubernium. We stood there, at attention, while they fed themselves, laughing and sharing stories as we had in Burdigala.

  It began to rain—the kind of rainfall that scalds the skin. Each drop felt like frozen knives against the bare flesh of our forearms, but nevertheless, we were left to stand there for a great length of time. I interpreted this as a statement.

  As they dined, I spotted my old mentor Quintus striding through the camp. He took command of the legion with a halfhearted salute and looked us over. He wiped the breadcrumbs from his hands onto his tunic and picked at the food in his teeth.

  When Caepio used to tell stories of how he’d once been a conquering general, I always found it hard to imagine him in armor. Nor could I picture in him the commanding aura that men like Marius were famous for. But here he stood now, in a breastplate and helm so finely crafted that it made Maximus’s look like a Mule’s kit. Though his vain patrician gait was still apparent, he did not look like an imposter in his armor.

  “So this is the Fourth Legion?” he asked and nodded. His voice was so familiar to my ears and instantly reminded me of every experience I’d had in Gnaeus’s home. “I applaud and salute the efforts of my consular colleague in preparing you men for what lies ahead. You certainly look the part.” He clasped his hands behind his back and strutted before the formation, analyzing each face.

  To my relief, he didn’t seem to spot me.

  “But let us get one thing out of the way: you are my legion now. You are my men. We will do things my way, not your former commander’s, and you will obey my orders to the letter or you will be punished accordingly. I call on you to remember that my colleague
has never before commanded an army without the watchful eye of his father-in-law. He seems to have done an adequate job, though I’m sure this has been a trial-and-error command for him thus far.” Some of Caepio’s officers laughed. “I, on the other hand, have conquered an enemy. I know what it is like to wear a laurel of victory and enter Rome’s gates as a conqueror, as an imperator. If you men fulfill your duties and perform them admirably, perhaps you will be with me when I enter Rome triumphant for the second time.” He continued to analyze the men; perhaps he searched for me. Titus stood at the front of the formation with the legate, just paces from Caepio, but they never met eyes. “I am about to release you to your centurions and to lunch. Eat quickly, for we are leaving this godsforsaken corner of Gaul before nightfall. Dismissed.” This time, Terence and Grumble had no colorful quips, nothing about the Colors or spit-shining gear. Ax and Bear gave us no cheerful anecdotes. Flamen said nothing of the gods. We were all silent for some time.

  “All right men, start lining up for grub,” I said to them, not knowing what other orders to impart.

  “Centurion Sertorius?” I heard a voice from the distance.

  “Moving!” I shouted, as taught, in the direction of the voice. It belonged to one of Caepio’s tribunes. I stopped and saluted. He didn’t care to return it.

  “The general requests your presence,” he said, “now.” I failed to hide my dismay, but nodded to Basilus to assume control of the century, and I set off to find the man I had vowed to destroy.

  IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG to find him. Even against the darkened sky, Caepio’s armor glistened. Titus and I stood at attention beside each other, as Caepio conversed with a Gallic tribal elder. I couldn’t hear what they said, but the man seemed to enjoy divulging whatever information he gave.

  The Gaul wore fur robes and a ring on every finger, but even from where I stood I could smell his stench. He smelled like grease and bear fat. His teeth were rotten, his hair matted.