by R. W. Peake
I could count on one hand the number of times I had been in Germanicus’ presence alone and have fingers left over, but I was aware that he was unlike other patricians in how he treated and related to men of the ranks, and when I did break the position and look down at him, I saw him looking at me with a slight smile on his face. It was probably his expression that gave me an instant’s warning of what was coming.
“I still don’t know how I missed it,” he said, although the most I could offer him was a smile of my own; this was something I had heard so often over the previous weeks that the humor was wearing thin. Not, of course, that I would have uttered this to Germanicus. His own smile faded, and his voice dropped so that only I could hear, “How are you doing, Pullus? I know it’s been quite the ordeal the last couple of months.”
I was actually about to offer what I would have said to anyone who I did not know or trust; what came out was, “It’s been…difficult, Propraetor.” Out of nowhere, I felt a hard lump forming in my throat, and it took some effort to maintain my composure as I admitted, “It’s hard enough knowing that my father is dead, but how he died…” I could not finish, not without running a real risk of shaming myself in front of my commander.
Germanicus nodded, sounding genuinely sympathetic, saying, “I can only imagine, Pullus. But I know that if he had to do it over again, Pilus Prior Pullus wouldn’t have hesitated. And now,” his tone changed, subtly but unmistakably, “here I am, talking to Pilus Prior Pullus.” Suddenly, he stood up, so abruptly that I am afraid I reacted by taking a step backward, but he did not appear to notice, moving out from behind his desk and pointing to a small table against the wall. “Come, sit with me, there are some things I want to ask you.”
Of course, I obeyed, but I was not particularly happy about it, acutely aware as I was that it was Germanicus who was responsible for my elevation to Pilus Prior after the sudden and completely unexpected retirement of Numerius Vespillo, at least according to my Primus Pilus. And, as I knew all too well, if Alex had little birds in the Praetorium who let him know things, I would have been foolish to think that Primus Pilus Sacrovir did not, and I wondered with some trepidation if I would even be back to my quarters before he knew of this chat I was about to have. I was sitting down when Lysander, the one clerk I knew, came with two small jugs and two cups on a tray, and Germanicus was content to remain silent while the clerk poured wine, then added water, to both our cups.
“The reason I want to talk to you,” he began, even before he took a sip from his cup, “is twofold. First, I’m gathering information about what took place with the Legions under Caecina’s command, and to do that, I’m talking to men I trust.” I felt his eyes on me, but I was intent on my drink. “As you know, your father was one of those men from the Centurionate who I trusted more than any other.” He paused for a heartbeat before he said, “And now, I am coming to his son. Can I count on you?”
This shocked me, but if I hesitated, it was not enough for him to comment, and I somehow managed to stammer, “Of course, sir. You can count on me for whatever you need!”
He did not gloat or look pleased, only nodded solemnly, but he did not hesitate to ask, “So tell me about what happened when you were on the Long Bridges.”
Again, I did not hesitate, telling him in as much detail as I thought was necessary about how, during what was an admittedly difficult march, after Legate Caecina deemed that putting us in an agmentum quadratum was the best tactic to counter the pressure being put on us by Arminius and his Cherusci, how the 5th and 21st not only abandoned us, but because of their position on the flanks, by doing so exposed the baggage train. As I talked, I tried to study Germanicus’ face without being obvious about it, and he was listening intently, stopping me a few times to ask a question. Once I was finished, he said nothing, while I drank some of my wine to wet my throat, waiting for whatever was coming next.
“So,” he said suddenly, “if you were me, what would you do about it, Pullus?”
If someone had told me before this moment that it was possible to feel flattered and utterly terrified at the same time, I would have dismissed it as foolishness, but this was exactly how I felt. Suddenly, I got a glimpse of what it might be like for a man like Germanicus, because I was just being asked my opinion and I felt this way; he would be making the decision, and depending on what it was, men might be flogged, or worse.
Regardless of this feeling, I reminded myself that I had just sworn to serve Germanicus faithfully, and it would be a lie to say that I had not thought about what the appropriate action to take might be.
“I think,” I spoke slowly as I tried to form my words, “that, if this were under different circumstances, it would be right and proper to order a harsh punishment.”
“Like what?” he asked, and I managed to only groan inwardly, but I answered without hesitation, “Decimation and punishing the Primi Pili of both Legions.”
Germanicus did not seem surprised, but neither did he give any indication of his own thoughts.
“You mentioned ‘different circumstances’,” he said. “I assume you’re referring to…what happened last fall?”
I had heard my father mention on more than one occasion how Germanicus refused to use the word “mutiny” or “revolt,” but there was no mistaking what he meant, and I nodded.
“Yes, sir, that’s what I’m talking about. And,” I admitted, “the 5th in particular did redeem themselves somewhat when we lured Arminius and his bunch into the camp. They held the wall just long enough to convince the barbarians that they were trying to do so, so that when they fell back, the Germans took the bait. The 21st?” I shrugged, “Honestly, I don’t think they distinguished themselves, but I also don’t think it would be wise to punish them and not the 5th.”
“That,” Germanicus replied immediately, “is my assessment as well. However,” he added, perhaps because of the look on my face, “that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to deal with the Primi Pili and Pili Priores. But that doesn’t concern you. Now,” his tone changed, subtly but unmistakably, “let’s talk about you and your future.” Before I could say anything, he held up a hand, and said, “By that, I mean your immediate future.” Taking a sip of his cup before he continued, he said, “You know that we’re heading into winter quarters, that’s no secret. And, we will be resuming the campaign to finish Arminius for good.” Accepting my nod, Germanicus suddenly looked down, just as I had been doing, frowning into his cup, and I got the impression that he was considering something potentially serious or important. Finally, he did look me in the eye. “Were you aware that your father wrote a letter that was meant for me in the event of his death?”
“Nobody told me,” I answered honestly, “but I assumed that he had, given how certain…events transpired.”
“Pullus,” his tone sharpened, slightly but noticeably, “before I say anything else, let me assure you of something. Primus Pilus Sacrovir approached me about elevating you to Pilus Prior, but if I didn’t think you were worthy and ready for that post, I would never have approved that. You do understand that, don’t you?”
Even if I did not, I was not about to say as much, and I assured him that I did, although the first part of what he said was essentially the opposite of what Sacrovir told me.
Seemingly assured, Germanicus returned to the topic. “As I was saying, your father made some…requests of me, and there is one that I am happy to grant.”
He stopped, and I assumed that he wanted me to ask, so I did, “Which is, sir?”
I understood why he paused, because his expression had become grave, and he answered, “He asked me to give you leave to carry his ashes to Arelate to be interred in your family’s tomb. And,” he finished, “I have already signed the warrant approving you to do so, as soon as you return to Ubiorum.” Suddenly, he grinned at me, which seemed incongruous given the subject, but I quickly understood why when he said cheerfully, “And you’ll get to ride Latobius, the most spoiled horse in the Empire, to get there
.”
I could not stop the groan from escaping, realizing that I had completely forgotten about my father’s horse, which the Propraetor seemed obscenely happy to remind me about.
“That,” Alex admitted, “I didn’t know.” I stared at him, hard, but I was certain he was speaking the truth, and he went on, “I knew in general terms that he had asked the Propraetor to keep an eye on you and, if possible, help you whenever you needed it, but not that he asked for that.”
He fell silent, and we sat in my quarters, absorbed in our own thoughts, such as they were. For my part, my head was reeling as if I had drunk several cups of wine, but when I glanced over at Alex, I saw that he looked troubled, and I asked him why.
“Algaia,” he answered immediately, then took a deep draught from his cup, refusing to look anywhere near me.
All I could think to say was, “Ah, I see.”
While at that moment in time, I still had not heard the entire story, I had learned enough to get at least a sense of why Alex was in a quandary. Algaia was, and still is, Alex’s woman and is now the mother of his child. She had actually lived in Arelate and had been one of the slaves owned by the man who was one of my two surviving uncles, Gaius Pullus. Her time with him had clearly been horrible, and it had moved my father to remove her from Arelate when he returned to Ubiorum during the mutiny, and I knew that this was a consideration for Alex, if only because, without saying a word to him, I saw he understood that he would be coming with me. However, there was another aspect, and I regret to say that, since I am dictating this account and it is clear that I am upsetting him, I beg his pardon for bringing it up, but like my father and my great-grandfather, I have made a solemn vow. Given who this account is meant for, while I do not have a son yet, I intend to be as honest and forthcoming as I can, so I must confess that my immediate thought was not about Algaia and Gaius, but Algaia and Alex’s brother Titus.
Nothing was said for several heartbeats, but he finally broke down and admitted, “I’m not sure what to do, Gnaeus.”
“If you’re worried about the journey, just leave her here,” I suggested, although I was fairly certain this was not the issue, which he confirmed.
“It’s not the trip I’m worried about,” he said.
It was then he broke down and told me the entire story, and suddenly, many things made sense from that horrible and confusing time after my father died, returning to Ubiorum and conducting the burial rites for Titus Pullus, and the other men who fell when Arminius and his men caught up with us on our return to the Rhenus with Segestes, and most importantly to the Cherusci chieftain, with his pregnant wife Thusnelda. This was when I first met Algaia, when she came to attend the funeral rites, and while I had no idea of the cause, I immediately sensed there was some sort of tension between young Titus and the girl, who I learned was a member of the Breuci tribe, which is one of the tribes of Pannonia, where my father once served and spent part of his childhood. That night after my meeting with Germanicus, Alex told me the whole story, or at least as much of the story as he is willing to tell, which even now I can see is not that much, given how red he is as he writes this. What I learned that night was how, while Algaia and Titus were a couple for the duration of their journey from Arelate to Ubiorum, it did not take long for my clerk’s charms to win the heart of Domina Algaia once they returned. I had noticed that there was something going on about which I was unaware, but once Alex filled me in on the details, I not only saw his predicament, I understood it.
“If you take Algaia with you, she’ll be forced to be around Gaius,” I mused, refusing then, and now, to refer to him as my uncle. “But if you leave her here…”
“Titus said he’s over her, but I don’t think that’s true,” Alex said, and I could see in his face that this was truly a problem to worry about.
All I could come up with in the moment was to say, “You don’t have to decide right now. We still have to march to Ubiorum, and I imagine that Sacrovir isn’t going to be willing to let me go immediately.”
“I wouldn’t be so certain,” he countered, pointing to the scroll that Germanicus had handed to me personally. “That says otherwise. The Primus Pilus isn’t likely to stop you. Besides,” he finished with a shrug, “we are going into winter quarters.”
This was certainly true, so I accepted Alex’s assessment, and we retired shortly afterward. Not surprisingly, I found it difficult to sleep, but what might be a surprise was that my thoughts were not consumed with the idea of traveling to Arelate. Instead, I wondered about my mother Giulia and how she would respond to the news that I was going to be carrying my father’s ashes back to his home. This is the last I remember thinking about before falling asleep.
Since it was just the 1st and 20th, our return to Ubiorum for the winter was uneventful, and as always happened, the talk among the men grew more raucous, and more explicit, with every mile. While the rankers were occupied with thoughts of debauching, the Centurions were concerned with more than the prospect of how drunk we could get and sampling the newest additions to the brothels that are a regular feature of an army town. Not, I will confess, that this did not occupy a portion of our collective time, at least in the case of the Fourth, but we had suffered casualties in this campaign that would have to be replaced. The promotion of Titus Fabricius to the Centurionate had robbed me of the most experienced Optio in the Cohort, crucial to any new Pilus Prior, but Aulus Saloninus, who I had gotten to know very well during my brief time in command of the Second Century, possessed that level of experience. More importantly, despite my suspicions because of his association as Numerius Vespillo’s Optio for several years, I had learned to trust him, and his judgment, and he still serves as a reminder about the danger of letting preconceived notions color one’s thinking. He was happy to accept what is in effect a promotion to Optio of a First Century, although in his case, I suspect it was bittersweet, because normally, the Optio of a First Century is considered most likely for promotion to the Centurionate. Such was not the case with Saloninus, through no fault of his own, but once he lost his right eye, his chances of wearing the transverse crest were essentially reduced to nothing. It is not something that is in the regulations, nor is it something that I still fully understand, because over the previous years under the standard, I had run across more than one Centurion who was missing an eye, and even more who were missing fingers, although it was almost always the smallest finger, or the finger next to it, and usually the left hand. Regardless of this reality, what I learned fairly early on during my time was that those men had already been in the Centurionate when they lost an eye or one of their digits. Nobody with whom I have spoken to about this unwritten rule seems to know where it came from, but they were unanimous in their judgment that a man who has been maimed before achieving Centurion rank has effectively reached the highest post they can hold. Saloninus was obviously aware of this, but it was a mark of his professionalism that he did not let his disappointment affect his demeanor or the manner in which he carried out his duties, and I was happy to have him remain as my Optio. The fact that he was able to make the march to Ubiorum, in his spot in formation, despite still wearing a heavy bandage that obscured his right eye and upper face, is a testament to his toughness, and it was such a smooth transition for the men of the First that it was barely noticeable. Another factor in favor of my being able to take leave without excessive worry is that when first line Cohorts receive replacements, they are experienced men from the higher numbered Cohorts. Not, it should be said, that Centurions of those Cohorts are not notorious for attempting to foist their malingerers and malcontents on us, but this is where Divus Augustus’ obsession with record-keeping plays such an important role, because there are copies of the daily reports from every Century, going back for a period of two years, available in the Quaestorium for officers to peruse. It is not a foolproof system, because as I quickly learned, for every entry in the Century diary about a ranker’s misdeeds and punishments, there are easily three or four that
go unrecorded, for the simple reason that any Centurion who enforced every regulation to the letter would not have enough men left to fill even a section. Still, it was a relief knowing that, between my faith in Saloninus and the fact that we would not be getting raw Tirones, I did not have more than the normal misgivings about embarking on a long journey.
Our arrival in Ubiorum was in stark contrast to our return from campaign, despite the fact that we did not have Agrippina, Germanicus’ wife, waiting to greet us when we had marched across the new bridge into Vetera. As noble a personage as she may be, the crowd waiting for us meant more to the men than any patrician, man or lady, and as always, it was the children who were the most boisterous, at least at first. I had returned with my Cohort on several occasions, but this was my first time marching in the spot of the Pilus Prior, and I felt the eyes on me as we marched up the paved road from the riverbank. I learned from my father that, when Ubiorum was first turned into a permanent camp, the walls were located just two stadia from the riverbank, and the area between the camp and river were kept bare for the first few years, and whenever someone who had chosen to live next to a Legionary camp tried to erect a structure, it was quickly torn down. This was no longer the case; whether there was a change in policy or one Legate just gave up having us tear down the shacks that continually sprang up, I have no idea, but what it meant was that the street was lined for its entire length, while there was a fair number of people standing on the balconies of the handful of two-story structures, almost all of them brothels, who, as one might imagine, need the extra space another story provides.
While a homecoming is usually a happy occasion, it is not always the case; indeed, it is hardly ever a completely joyful event, and there were the inevitable shrieks from the women and crying from the children of those men who were missing from their spot in formation, which every child of a Legionary learns almost as soon as they can talk. At least, this is how it seems, given the ages of some of the children I saw and heard wailing when they saw another man in their Tata’s spot in the formation. Equally inevitable is that it is those of us wearing the transverse crest or white stripe on the shoulder who are besieged by those camp wives, forced to walk alongside us since the Legion never stops marching past, begging the officers for information about their man. And, sometimes, we can at least tell them that their Legionary is riding in the wagons carrying our wounded; unfortunately, this is not always the case, and while they may be in a wagon, it is the one carrying the urns of our dead. When it came to the First of the Fourth, I had to rely on Publius Gemellus, who had been my father’s Signifer from the time Titus Pullus had been promoted to the Centurionate, and who had come with my father to the First Century from the Third, to tell the women the fate of their man, since I had yet to learn all of the names to go with the faces that were still there, let alone those who had fallen before I took command. Frankly, entering through the camp gates was a relief, but I did feel a bit ashamed of myself for feeling this way, recognizing that it had been barely three months earlier when I was one of those grieving. We were still under the command of Caecina, who did not waste time making a speech, something that we appreciated about the old Legate, although I am certain it was because he had made one when we returned to Vetera.