Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “Maybe Febris just likes your offerings better than ours,” was how Macer told me Maluginensis put it at the meeting of Pili Priores.

  “Well, if Macer is right, then we’re sacrificing to the wrong god to begin with, and it should be Valetudo.” Macer recounted that this came from Sentius, and while it was odd that the Secundus and Tertius Pilus Prior were in accord, ultimately the reason they were of a like mind did not matter.

  And, within a week after ceasing the practice, our sick and injured list was roughly comparable to those of the other Cohorts, then not long after that, I lost a member of my Eighth Section. Before the end of Januarius, well more than a tenth of our force was incapacitated on any given day, which may not sound like much, but it is the same as a Legion losing an entire Cohort. Work parties became more difficult to fill, although Sentius’ foresight in having us range farther afield when we first arrived helped relieve the burden on the healthy men who were now going out on a daily basis. The river froze out to a point where there was a gap of perhaps a dozen feet between the ice on our side and the opposite bank, which created even more tension, since the ice was thick enough to support an armed party out most of the way.

  “All they would need is a couple of boats to bridge that gap, and we’d be fucked,” Philus said gloomily, when his Century was relieving mine from guard post one day.

  We were standing on the rampart, looking out across the river as our Optios went through the ritual of exchanging sentries, yet while I could not really argue that this was a possibility, I was not as concerned as Philus.

  “I think that if they were going to cross, they would have done it by now,” I countered, albeit somewhat cautiously.

  Philus, however, was a gloomy sort and always tended to view things in a more pessimistic manner, and he waved a dismissive hand, scoffing, “Or they’re just waiting to see if the river completely freezes over. Or maybe,” he persisted, “they’re just watching for the moment we have half the men sick from this fucking plague, and our guard is down.”

  Again, this was something with which it was hard to argue, although I was struck by something, and I asked Philus, “You’ve been on the Rhenus longer than I have. Has the river ever frozen solid enough to let anyone come across?”

  He shook his head, seemingly reluctantly to my eyes, which was supported when he agreed, “No, I haven’t. But,” Philus turned and began scanning the rampart around us, which was confusing until he spotted someone, “Nerva has.” Before I could say anything, Philus bellowed, “Nerva! Come over here and attend to your Centurion!”

  The Gregarius did as he was bid, of course, and I recognized the man immediately; while I had not known his name, he had been pointed out to me as the oldest serving member of not just his Century, but our entire Cohort. Like most men of the Legions, he was not much to look at, no more than three or four inches over five feet, and even with the bulk of his sagum, bracae, and the woolen scarf he had wrapped around his throat, it was easy to see that he was as stringy and lean as dried beef. But, as I also knew, both from my own service and growing up among men like this, any man who survived three or more decades under the standard would be tough and hard to overcome. As he saluted us, Nerva’s expression was one that every man of the Legions has worn at one time or another, no matter what their current rank may be; his seamed features were a study in a mixture of suspicion, wariness, and a little apprehension.

  “Nerva, didn’t you tell me once that you’ve seen the river frozen over?”

  Seeing that he was not in some sort of trouble, the old veteran’s face cleared, and he actually grinned, exposing a mouth where there were only three or four teeth left.

  “Yes, Centurion,” he answered cheerfully, I suppose happy now that he was no longer subject to a thrashing for something. “It was in my second year under the standard.” His face screwed up as he tried to think what year that might have been, but Philus waved a hand. “I don’t need to know exactly what year it was, Nerva. But you did see this river frozen all the way over?”

  The veteran nodded, his expression now becoming apprehensive as he seemed to actually examine the surface of the river for the first time, seeing the brown ribbon of water that, if the ice was thick enough on both sides, looked almost narrow enough for a man to leap across.

  “Actually, Centurion,” Nerva’s voice changed now, matching his expression, “I’ve seen the Rhenus freeze twice, but only once was it thick enough for those German savages to come across.”

  “And,” I interjected, “did they?”

  “Oh, yes, Centurion Pullus,” he nodded emphatically now, “they did. It was a band of Marsi, as I recall. That,” he explained, “was back before the Princeps had Tiberius shift them all around. This,” he lifted his javelin to indicate the opposite bank, “was all Marsi lands back then, not Sugambri.”

  “How much damage did they do?” Philus asked, but to this, Nerva could only shrug and offer, “Oh, the usual. Burned some farms, killed some settlers, stole some livestock. Then,” he made a whistling sound, “they were back across the river, quick as Pan.”

  “See?” Philus turned to me, happy to be vindicated in his gloomy assessment, but I was watching Nerva’s expression as his Centurion crowed, “I told you! And this time it’s not just a band of Marsi. It’s a fucking army that wiped out three Legions! So,” he turned and pointed at the river, “if that freezes the rest of the way, you can bet every sestertius to your name they’ll be coming across.”

  And, I thought, why are you saying that loud enough for every one of your men, and mine, to hear? To my ears, it sounded very much like Philus would have rather been proven right and see us wiped out in the process than that gap in the water not freezing over.

  However, despite my technically outranking Philus, there is an unwritten rule that Centurions, at least those belonging to the same Cohort, do not contradict each other or argue in front of the men. Unless, of course, it is on a subject like the best chariot racing team, most imaginative whore, or something of that nature.

  Consequently, all I said was, “Well, Philus, I’m going to go give an offering to Mars and their goddess Danu to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Although I am naturally something of a skeptic when it comes to the gods, I confess that I have sometimes wondered if that sacrifice, which was in the form of most of my evening meal, might have had something to do with the fact that we made it through that winter without the river freezing over. More importantly, we were not attacked, nor was there any incursion by any Germans, at least of those tribes now united under Arminius. It would not be until much later before we learned that, as unprepared for defeat as Rome was, the Germanic tribes commanded by Arminius were at least as unready for a victory of such epic proportions.

  In the larger world outside of Novaesium and our own travails, in terms of substantive action, nothing much happened. As the winter progressed, Tiberius returned to Rome, as did Germanicus from his posting in Pannonia, and the uproar in the city died down once it became apparent that there would not be any Germanic hordes sweeping down the Via Tiburtina. On a day in March, in the year of the Consulships of Publius Cornelius Dolabella and Gaius Junius Silanus, a courier arrived from Ubiorum, recalling us back home. That the Consul Silanus was none other than the older brother of the man who served as the prosecution in the Tribunal of my former Primus Pilus, and in essence tried to destroy the career of Gaius Sempronius Atticus did give me some pause, wondering if this was an ill omen. Regardless, since Atticus was now the Camp Prefect of the Army of Pannonia, this was an example of how truly inept Quintus Silanus had been in presenting his case, and I had to wonder just how alike the two brothers Silanus might have been. Not, I must add, that it mattered all that much; the office of Consul has been ceremonial in nature for quite some time, and although the Princeps was in his last years, nothing led any of us to believe that he was still not the complete and total master of Rome, and by extension, all of us. Our return to Ubiorum only took pla
ce once the auxiliary Cohorts arrived from Vetera, along with Clepsina’s Fifth Cohort, meaning that once more, we spent a tense two days with both Legionaries and auxiliaries sharing a camp designed for a much smaller force. However, somewhat to our surprise, while it could not be said that our men suddenly viewed their auxiliary counterparts as anything remotely resembling equals, now that we had experienced a taste of the auxiliary life and how much harder it is in comparison to those of us in the Legions, after an initial period where every officer of both forces walked around with their viti or other implement, waiting for trouble, it became clear that there would be none.

  “As much as I hate to admit it,” Structus remarked as we stood, watching our men begin, tentatively at first, to interact with the auxiliaries, “those bastards have it a lot worse than we do.”

  This was nothing more than the truth, and while I had gotten a glimpse of their rougher existence during my time serving under Germanicus as part of the Legio Germanicus, I suppose it was a good reminder of this reality. At the time, frankly, all I cared about was that none of my men tried to bash the skull of an auxiliary, nor did the opposite happen. Marching away from Novaesium the next morning, we had one wagon filled with the urns of men who had died over the winter, all of whom we burned in one mass cremation, the final toll now well over a tenth part of the three Cohorts who had been at Novaesium. We had been forced to store their frozen bodies in a tent erected specifically to hold their corpses in a corner of the camp, and sacrificing the final reserves of our firewood, whereupon we apportioned an amount of ash to each urn inscribed with each man’s name, far from an ideal situation, but one that could not be helped. The Fourth had done slightly better, but not much, with all but three sections now missing at least a man and with one section losing three, forcing me to shift men around. This is a common enough practice, but usually losses like this are a result of battle, yet in that regard, that entire year had been extraordinarily quiet for the 1st, and the winter had passed with only a handful of sightings of Germans, all of them on the eastern side of the Rhenus, consisting of scouting parties watching us as we watched them. The march went without incident, aided by the fact the track was still frozen, enabling the wagons to pass without men being forced to heave them out of ruts. When we reached Ubiorum, it became clear that, while not completely back to normal, the inhabitants of the shantytown had begun drifting back, with the camp itself appearing unchanged. And, although none of us, and I include myself, would have ever considered Ubiorum as a model of what a permanent camp should look like, since it was still somewhat ramshackle, with the rankers’ huts still being constructed of wood, given our experience at Novaesium, the men, and officers, raised a spontaneous and heartfelt cheer at the sight of home.

  “I’m going to love being able to sleep in just my tunic and not wrapped up in every fucking piece of clothing I own,” Macer commented.

  “I just want to take a bath, a real bath,” I offered, the very thought making my face itch as I added, “and get rid of this fucking beard.”

  “I’m going to go see if any of my favorite whores are back yet,” was Vespillo’s contribution.

  Conversations identical to this one were taking place all up and down the column, as by unspoken yet common consent, the officers allowed the men to chatter and begin to relax, even before we dismissed them. Arriving at the gate, we were allowed in without delay, unlike our approach to Novaesium, and it reminded me that not only would whoever was commanding the guard recognize us, the collective nerves of the 1st were calmer than they had been five months earlier. Pausing in the forum only long enough for the men to stop in formation and come to intente, Sentius wasted no time dismissing us, our ordeal ending in one final spontaneous cheer as the men actually ran towards their respective areas, eager to get back to what we all thought of as home, where the section slaves had already gone to unload the mules. The Secundus Pilus Prior turned and walked to the Praetorium, while Macer and the rest of the Centurions of the Fourth, including me, followed behind our men. I had sent Alex ahead of me as well, telling him to make sure that the slaves who were assigned to the bath were already stoking the fires since it was still early, and they did not normally start readying the bath until a watch before the end of our day. I could hardly keep my mind on the conversation, thinking ahead to the feeling of the hot steam softening what felt like the accumulated grime of a hard winter, while I scratched my chin, relishing the knowledge that the beard that had protected my face would be a thing of the past in the very near future. Parting ways at our Cohort street, each of us made our way to our quarters, and I found Alex waiting, whereupon he informed me that he had accomplished his mission, then we began the small ritual of shedding my armor. Alex had barely settled it on the wooden rack when our idle conversation was interrupted by the blast of a cornu, but coming from the direction of the Cohort office and not the Praetorium, sounding the call for all officers to attend to our Pilus Prior.

  “Pluto’s balls,” I grumbled. “Can’t a man get a moment to himself?”

  “Not if they’re a Centurion,” Alex said in what sounded to my ears like an obscenely cheerful tone, and when I glared at him, he just grinned as he handed me my sagum.

  After I took it and draped it over my shoulders, I took a small revenge by snatching up my vitus and brandished it in his direction, growling, “I’ll deal with you later.”

  He knew me too well to be intimidated, laughing as he said, “Maybe the Pilus Prior’s news is good. Maybe we’re getting a bonus from the Princeps!”

  I shot him a sour look, then left my quarters, just in time to meet Cornutus, Philus, and Macula, all of whom were in a similar mood.

  “This better be good,” Macula muttered. “I was just about to head into town.”

  “Without taking a bath first?” I shook my head in disgust. “How can you stand the itching?”

  “Oh, I’ve got an itch,” he countered, giving me a leer, “just not one that a bath will fix.”

  We were at the Cohort office then, and we entered, where Vespillo was already waiting, but when Lucco indicated that we should go into Macer’s quarters, the Pilus Prior actually came out, stopping him.

  “This won’t take long,” he said, but while he did not appear alarmed, or angry for that matter, there was something in his manner that informed me that something important was happening.

  We waited just long enough for the Optios, all of whom had been busy making sure the men were settled in and taking note of any complaints about the condition of the huts that had been occupied by strangers.

  Once we were all together, Macer said, “I’m going to keep this short. It’s not an emergency or anything like that, but I suspect that you all will want to hear what I just learned.” As he paused just a moment, I saw his chest rise as he took a breath, then announced, “We have a new Primus Pilus.”

  Chapter Two

  Quintus Valerius Crescens’ patience had finally been rewarded by the Princeps, because what we learned from Macer was that he had finally achieved the post he had been coveting for so long, the office of Camp Prefect of the Army of the Rhenus, replacing the fallen Caedicius. Although this was certainly momentous news, as Macer understood, while we all were happy, albeit to varying degrees, to hear that our Primus Pilus had been promoted, of more immediate concern was who had replaced him. In this, at least, for the first time in recent memory, the Princeps, or perhaps Tiberius had been empowered to make the decision, the longstanding tradition of elevating the second in command had been followed, meaning that Tiberius Sacrovir was now our Primus Pilus. Although there was no way to know with any certainty, my opinion at the time was that, given the extraordinary circumstances of the previous months, either Augustus or Tiberius had decided to forego what had become the more common practice of selecting a Primus Pilus from outside of a Legion. More importantly, with the elevation of Sacrovir, it seemed that less attention was paid to the man’s political reliability in the eyes of the Princeps than his fami
liarity with the Legion, and his competence as a Centurion worthy of leading an entire Legion. And, I must stress, Tiberius Sacrovir’s reputation alone marked him as worthy of promotion, yet even with this being the case, there was also a fair amount of trepidation with all of us, of every rank. Adjusting to a new Centurion is always something rankers worry about, and when it is either a new Pilus Prior or the Primus Pilus, that worry is extended to any Centurion or Optio who will be under that new man in the chain of command. Not surprisingly, the men of the Second Century of the First Cohort became some of the most popular men in Ubiorum as they were plied with drink, their debauching with whores paid for, or were offered a substitute for some unpleasant duties, whereas for the officers, Sacrovir’s former Optio was the only source of information we had. I doubt he passed one off-duty watch sober, nor did he have to touch his coin purse to pay for anything, but while I would have happily been one of those plying him for any scrap of information, Alex actually stopped me.

  “You know you don’t have to do that,” he pointed out when I mentioned I was going out into Ubiorum to the spot where the officers of the First Cohort congregated. “There are going to be plenty of others who are willing to spend their money trying to find out something about Sacrovir. If you’re patient, you’ll hear it all.”

  Which was exactly what happened, and it served as another reminder that, as young as he was, Alex was the son of Diocles in every respect. What we learned was that, while Sacrovir could not be characterized as a striper, he was a stern, tough disciplinarian and was especially hard on repeat offenders. He also had a family, consisting of his woman who, not coincidentally, ran the wineshop favored by the First Cohort, three daughters, and a son, who was now an Optio in the Second of the Eighth. His physical appearance was not particularly imposing, being of an average height and a build that was slightly reminiscent of my father’s, being more lean than muscular. Whereas Crescens’ only visible scar was the missing top of one ear, Sacrovir’s right arm bore a puckered scar in the forearm, where it had been pierced by an arrow, and he was missing the tips of the last two fingers of his left hand. The actual promotion had taken place at the beginning of Januarius, but again, since we had been cut off from communication, it was news to the four Cohorts who had spent the winter away from Ubiorum, so rather than repeating the formal ceremony, the day after we returned, our four Cohorts were assembled on the forum and formally introduced to Sacrovir. Honestly, the one notable thing he said only became so after the fact, when he mentioned that he was working on a plan to replace our losses from the plague; this was not considered unusual in the slightest way. Ever since the Princeps had begun the reform of the Legions after Actium, we had become accustomed to being plumped up, usually during the winter months, with probationes brought to us by the men who had bid to take on the role that was once filled by the conquisitores during my Avus and father’s time. The only slight difference was in the timing, although our concern was compounded by the belief that, despite a quiet winter, Arminius and his Germans would be certain to at least try and finish what they started with the slaughter of Varus and his Legions. None of us wanted to be tasked with training tiros while conducting an active campaign, and while I understand why Sacrovir came up with this as a solution, it cannot be denied that it was a decision that would create a massive amount of trouble, for all of us.