by R. W. Peake
The wagons carrying the wounded were driven straight to the hospital, while those carrying the urns of the fallen who we had managed to carry back with us were driven to their respective Cohort area, where the urns would be stored in the warehouses assigned to each one, waiting for the close comrade of the fallen man to carry out the instructions in his friend’s will. We do attempt to retrieve all of our fallen, but this was one time where we were unable to do so, and I did think of those families who would not even have their man’s ashes to remember him, only memories. Our dismissal came within heartbeats of the last Cohort falling into their spot, and like most Centurions, I dismissed my men from the forum instead of marching them all the way to our huts. And, since the Legate had announced that the men would have the liberty of the town, in accordance to the normal winter routine, it meant there was a mad dash, the only impediment being their personal load.
The sight of these men trying to move as quickly as possible while carrying their furcae, javelins, and shields prompted Structus to observe, “You know if we let them, they’d dump everything right here and worry about it later.”
“And our arms would fall off,” Fabricius laughed, “from striping them for doing it.”
“Good thing they don’t, then,” I agreed.
The six of us were walking together, following behind the men of our Cohort as if we were parents following children who are dashing ahead to see some new sight or play a game on a festival day. Which, I suppose, in many ways, we are, but while this was a normal thing, one reason I remember this time so vividly is because it was the first where I was struck by how different the atmosphere among my comrades was compared to when Vespillo was one of us. Even before he was Pilus Prior, his sour disposition and overall bitterness always put a damper on such moments, and perhaps I can be forgiven for feeling a bit smug about this, though I managed to refrain from bringing it up. Both Alex and Eumenis were already in the quarters of the Pilus Prior, so they were thankfully unaware that, out of habit, I had returned to the hut for the Pilus Posterior. Which, I confess, I had barely gotten accustomed to, but the fact that Structus did the same thing, heading for the Fifth Century hut, which now belonged to Fabricius when I promoted Structus to the post of Pilus Posterior, at least made me feel better about my error. My choice of Structus had not come easily; the bargain I was forced to strike with the Primus Pilus was accepting the elevation of Lucius Calpurnius from another Cohort. Otherwise, I would have preferred to name Publius Closus, or even Manius Sevilla, along with Fabricius, but Sacrovir made it clear that this was not acceptable, and while he did not have to, once he explained his reasoning, I found it hard to fault. Essentially, as Primus Pilus, he was not comfortable with a first line Cohort led by a new Pilus Prior and two men new to the Centurionate, despite their familiarity with the men of the Cohort. In exchange for Calpurnius moving to the Fourth, the Primus Pilus did promise me that Closus would be one of the first men considered for the Centurionate, whenever a vacancy came up. Which, as those of us under the standard know, would probably be happening with the next campaign season. Once I realized my error, I turned around and headed for the Cohort office, entering to find a small pile of possessions that I did not recognize in the middle of the outer office.
“These belonged to Vespillo, but he didn’t take them with him when he left. Apparently, when he left Vetera, he didn’t even stop here in Ubioroum,” Alex explained, then asked, “What should we do with them?”
My first impulse was to tell him to throw them away, but I refrained, telling him to take them to the Cohort warehouse to store them in the event that he showed up. He did so, returning quickly, and it gradually became apparent to me that he was stalling.
“You know that you’ve rearranged my desk three times already,” I pointed out, which he did not appreciate; he was even unhappier when I said bluntly, “You need to go into town to talk to Algaia, Alex. I’m going to be checking with the Primus Pilus in the morning to find out when he’ll allow us to take leave. And,” I warned him, “if he says immediately, we’re leaving immediately.”
“I know, I know.” He raised both hands, then grumbled, “I’m leaving now.”
“Let me know what you decide,” I told him, and he glared at me as he walked to the door, which I returned with a broad grin. Then, just before he exited, I called out, “You’ll find me at the Dancing Faun. I’m standing for drinks for the Centurions and Optios.”
I had the best of intentions when we arrived at our normal spot, the Dancing Faun. Which, I had just recently learned, I actually owned, thanks to my father’s purchase of it immediately after the mutiny. While this disturbed some of those who knew, like Marcus Macer, my father’s best friend and the Secundus Pilus Prior, what became quickly apparent was that Titus Pullus had made this purchase to protect the Cohort funds from damage and those men of the Fourth who frequented it from the risk of running afoul of the army whenever the provosts were summoned because of the inevitable brawls that break out, even among close comrades. What I also realized was that this was really the first time when the men of the Fourth Cohort could honor the memory of their Pilus Prior, and my father, so every time I tried to open my purse, I was stopped from doing so. I do wish I could remember more of that night, because while they were not the first, they were perhaps the most heartfelt tributes these men knew how to give, relating some story about Titus Pullus. What I do recall, vividly, was how I laughed as much as I cried, yet for some reason, I was not ashamed of my tears that night, if only because I was not alone, but somehow, it was not a maudlin event. Alex arrived in time for us to have a semi-coherent conversation, which I did remember the next morning.
“She’s coming with us,” he told me, which did not surprise me all that much, although I did ask him whether this was her choice. The answer he gave did surprise me, a great deal, because he did not hesitate to assure me, “Oh, yes. This is her idea, actually. I didn’t even bring it up. I had just told her that Germanicus gave you leave to return to Arelate, that I was going to go with you. Then,” he shrugged, “before I could say anything else, she said she’s coming along.”
“You could always say no,” I suggested; the look he gave me reminded me of my mother those times when I opined on something about females, an expression that was part scornful and mostly amused.
“I could,” he seemingly agreed, “but I’m not a fool.” His smile faded, and he dropped his voice so that only I could hear. “Besides, I worry a lot less about Gaius than I do about my brother. At least,” he allowed, “when it comes to Algaia.”
This was the last we spoke of it that night, and the last coherent conversation I can recall, so when I awoke the next morning with a pounding head and a sour stomach, I did not particularly look forward to visiting the Primus Pilus. I managed somehow, and if Sacrovir noticed my state, he made no mention of it.
When I tried to show him the scroll from Germanicus, he waved his hand and said shortly, “I already know about it, Pullus.”
I blame my surprise on my slow wits that morning, but I had enough of my senses to ask him, “When do you want me to leave, Primus Pilus?”
This clearly startled him, and I heard the caution in his tone when he said, “Why are you asking me?” Something seemed to occur to him. “Did the Propraetor give you any indication when he wants you to take leave?”
“No, Primus Pilus,” I answered, then I managed to think quickly enough to add, “He said that it was completely up to you.”
Germanicus had said no such thing, but at the time, I felt that this was a lie told for a good purpose, and it seemed to matter to Sacrovir, judging by the sudden change in demeanor.
He considered for a moment, then asked me, “How many new men are you getting in total for the Cohort?”
“Twenty-three.”
“So almost four per Century,” he mused, then added, “but I’m guessing that it’s not spread evenly.”
“No, sir,” I replied, thanking the gods that Alex, antic
ipating that this might come up, had just reminded me of the distribution before I left my quarters. Using my fingers, I explained, “The First is getting three; the Second only needs two; the Third doesn’t need anyone; the Fourth needs four; the Fifth needs four. And,” I had to swallow the lump that came as I thought of my former Century, who had suffered so badly because of the failure of the Third Cohort, “the Sixth is replacing ten.”
He listened, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully, before he finally shrugged and said, “If you were a second or third line Cohort, I’d have to delay your leave, because I’ve just been informed by the Praetorium that there’s already a replacement draft on its way here. But since we plump up our Cohorts with veterans, the fact that Gillo is a new Centurion won’t be much of a factor. And, while it’s true that Calpurnius comes from the Sixth, he’s a good, steady man, while Structus and Licinius can help Gillo if he needs it with integrating the new men. Fabricius is new, it’s true, but he was an Optio of the First. So,” he finished, “you can leave as soon as you want, and you’ll have eight weeks, with an extra two if necessary, although you’re going to have to send a dispatch to that effect, and why you need the extra time.”
Given that I was expecting six weeks total, this was far more generous than I had anticipated, which served as a reminder of what it means when someone like the Propraetor is viewed as one’s patron, even if that is not the case. Not, I would add, that I was disposed to argue that point.
I informed Alex that we would be leaving in two days’ time, whereupon he hurried off to make the necessary arrangements, but before he left the office, he reminded me, “You need to go to the stables, Gnaeus. Latobius hasn’t been ridden in months, and he needs to get used to your scent.”
It was not fear, exactly, that prompted me to say, “I’m not going to do it by myself. You should come with me since he knows you better.”
“He knows you too,” Alex countered. “It’s not like you’ve never been around him.”
“But I’ve never ridden him,” I protested.
“Neither have I,” he shot back, but then, seeing I was not budging, he sighed and said with undisguised exasperation, “All right, I’ll go with you. But it won’t be for another watch, at least.”
He left, leaving me to my own duties, such as they were, which at this moment consisted of me telling Eumenis that I wanted him to go alert the other officers that I wanted to meet with them at the end of the day. Then, I returned to my private office and resumed reading one of my father’s scrolls. As I did, I recalled that the box containing the account of the Prefect were still with my mother, and I realized that we would have to be making a detour to Mogontiacum, not only for the box, but to inform my mother that I had returned safely and about my promotion. It would be the first time we saw each other since I confronted her about my father, and I still was angry about it, although it had cooled a bit; even now more than a year later, I would be lying if I said there was not still a vestige of it lingering, although it only surfaces occasionally now. And, for this change, I must give credit where it is due; the scrolls that my father left behind that enabled me to know him, perhaps not as well as if I had grown to manhood with him in my life, they have nevertheless provided me with a level of comfort. On this day, on the Ides of October, however, I was still a fair distance from that, so that just the thought of seeing her stirred some feelings in me that, as I had learned, could be dangerous, especially to other people. Although, I hasten to add, I never considered the idea of making my mother the target of that anger, even when most of it was a result of her actions, which only means that someone innocent might have suffered my wrath.
Alex returned, and now it was my turn to find reasons why I could not leave right then, but as I had been with him, he was unmoved by my attempts. Finally, I realized and accepted this as fact, and I got up, albeit not without a fair amount of the same kind of peevishness that he had exhibited when I forced him to go out into town.
I followed Alex as he headed towards the stables where the mounts of senior officers were kept, which prompted me to ask him, “How much does it cost to keep Latobius stabled here?”
He gave me an amused glance.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Probably not,” I admitted, and I was about to bring up the idea of moving my father’s horse, then remembered that the conditions of his will specifically forbade this, so I shut my mouth.
We reached the stables, and the first thing I noticed was how the man, an old trooper, judging by the bowed legs and features that were so weathered that the lines in his face were better described as crevices, greeted Alex in a manner that convinced me that he was a frequent visitor, who introduced the old trooper as Didius. Alex must have sensed my curiosity, or I was looking at him in a certain manner, because he shot me a sidelong glance, but he said nothing. My suspicions were confirmed by the manner in which he headed directly for a stall, but when we were still more than a dozen paces away, Latobius thrust his nose out over the gate of the stall, and Alex actually faltered a step.
“He’s never done that before when it’s just me,” he commented, but I thought nothing of it, suggesting, “It’s been a while since he’s had company, hasn’t it?”
“Maybe,” he replied, but I heard the doubt there, and he did not stop his approach, so I followed him.
When we were within a dozen paces, Latobius thrust his entire head out over the gate. Now, I had seen him several times, the white blaze on his broad forehead identifying him, yet this time, there seemed to be some difference. Alex was a step ahead of me, so he opened the gate of the stall, but when the horse stepped out of the stall, he did not even seem to acknowledge his presence, heading straight for me in a manner that made me take an involuntary step backward, and I confess that my thought at the time was that he intended to run me down. He did stop, however, abruptly and barely a pace from me, but what I was completely unprepared for was the manner in which he thrust his long neck forward so that his nose physically struck me dead center, right above my baltea. Somehow, I managed not to move, holding my arms out to my side, and I heard his huge nostrils taking in air, making a snuffling sound as he moved his nose around my waist. Then, he bit me, not hard, but enough to make me give a completely undignified yelp of surprise, and I will confess a bit of pain, causing me to take a hop backward as I stared at the horse in disbelief. Who, as I would come to learn, was completely unrepentant at his behavior, but it was the reaction of Alex that caught my attention, and I was shocked to see the tears streaming down his face.
I barely recognized his voice as he told me, “He’s looking for his apple. Your father always hid it in his tunic somewhere.” At first, I did not understand the significance, and to his credit, Alex saw and correctly interpreted my confusion, explaining, “He’s never done that with me, or with Didius. Only with you.”
I stared at him, uncertain that he meant what I thought he meant, which was what prompted me to ask, “What are you trying to say?”
“That he knows you’re his son,” Alex did not hesitate in answering. Before I could say anything, he held up a hand. “Maybe not that you’re his son, but that you smell like your father.”
Suddenly, Latobius and everything surrounding him dissolved in my vision, and I leaned my head against his broad forehead, while I listened to the sound of his huge nostrils sucking in and blowing out air. This, I thought, is my horse now. And, I freely confess, I became as attached to him as he became to me in that moment.
Young Titus was not there to see us off when we departed just after dawn two days later, but I took one look at Alex’s face and decided not to ask. Algaia, on the other hand, was beaming, her excitement so obvious, and infectious, that I found myself smiling along with her. I had ridden Latobius the day before, not without some trepidation that was only partially from the fact that I had not done much riding since I entered the Centurionate. Nosing me for an apple was one thing, but I was not sanguine that he would be willing
to accept my weight on his back, yet, aside from one sidestep, followed by a half-hearted hop that I would come to learn is his habit starting the day, the chestnut stallion accepted me as his rider without any other issue. This morning, two days after the Ides of October, the air was quite crisp, and we could see our breath in the early morning air, while Alex rode his horse, named Lightning, which I would learn was a family joke, and Algaia rode the mare we had rented for her, a smaller bay with black mane and stockings. Both Alex and I had a lead rope that was attached to another horse that carried our baggage, and we had had a bit of a debate about this, because I had opted for mules since I could draw them from the Legion pool of animals.