Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “He’s planning on asking Tiberius for permission to draft from the dilectus that Tiberius brought back with him from Rome,” Macer informed us.

  Looking back, perhaps if we had been back longer and had more time to ask around, we would have heard enough to warn Macer and the other Pili Priores who had been at Novaesium and Vetera that we should resist this alternative. Unfortunately, I was like my fellow Centurions in that I was more worried about being saddled with completely raw tirones before going into what we felt certain would be the campaign to avenge Varus and his men, and we knew that these men had at least undergone training. Now, I also will not deny that, even in the relatively short period of time we were back in Ubiorum, we had heard grumbling about the relative quality of these men who had been part of the second dilectus the Princeps had called in Rome, but honestly, none of us took that seriously. To our ears, it sounded like the same kind of complaining that Centurions and Optios made about every new batch of recruits who showed up, and it would not be until quite a bit later that we would experience the true consequences of what happens when the dregs of our society are impressed into service. And, by this I mean that, as we would learn to our detriment, the men of what became known as the second emergency dilectus were truly at the bottom of the heap of the Head Count, or for a few, equestrians who had run afoul of Augustus in some way. Whereas, with the first complement called for by the Princeps in response to the Batonian revolt, his call for volunteers in response to the Varus disaster had been a total failure, requiring sterner measures. Those measures included essentially cleaning out the slums of the Subura, snatching up men who, up until that moment, had not passed a sober watch in years, ignoring men with obvious deformities who would not normally have been considered, and even worse, enrolling men whose character was so base that they were considered unfit for the Legions. And, as anyone with experience of the men of the Legions can attest, that particular barrier is already very low, which should support my comment about them being the bottom of an amphora that was already drained almost dry. However, as problematic as the men of the Batonian dilectus would prove to be in many ways, they were a shade compared to the rotten core of these replacements, and I will cross the river still convinced that they were the real source of the problems that would be confronting us in a matter of a handful of years.

  At the time, however, our immediate concern about the qualities of our new replacements were focused on the obvious things our eyes could see.

  “Is he really a hunchback?” Structus asked me, his tone expressing the same kind of doubt I felt as he pointed to one of the ten new men I required to fill out my Century. “Surely he’s trying to play a joke on us. Isn’t he?”

  Honestly, I felt torn, because I understood Structus’ disbelief, yet I could not summon a reason why a ranker would think that his first meeting with his Centurion and Optio would be the right time for some sort of prank. Also, while this man’s affliction was certainly the most noticeable at first glance, I had been examining the others, and he was not the only one who concerned me. There was one man who, while appearing sound in body and was, in fact, almost my size, stood with his mouth hanging open in a slack manner that, coupled with a gaze that appeared as if he was daydreaming of something, concerned me almost as much as the man with the hump. Frankly, there were only two men out of this group who, from outward appearances, gave me no qualms about their ability to carry out their duties as rankers in the Century; I have often thought of this moment, reminding myself of the danger of judging a man based on what the eye can see.

  “Somehow,” I finally answered Structus with a sigh, “I don’t think he is.”

  These men had been assigned to my Century by Macer, but while I was not happy, I also knew that they had been drawn by lot, and I trusted my Pilus Prior to not do anything underhanded, like trying to select the best men for his own Century, then leave the rest of us to scramble for ourselves. As I quickly learned, this belief was not shared by my fellow Centurions, each of whom were certain that they had been given the worst of the bunch of men who had been sent from Mogontiacum, which was where they were stationed by Tiberius once they had been enrolled back in Rome. That my fellow Centurions all seemed to be equally disgruntled was what I used as proof that Macer had done everything aboveboard and fair in the distribution of these new replacements, and while it did not stop the grumbling, once I pointed this out, it did quell the accusations of Macer playing favorites. Almost as troubling as their physical appearance were their records, a copy of which had been recorded on a wax tablet and sent along with them, under escort of a Century from the 5th Alaudae. On its face, this was understandable; the Varus disaster was barely six months before, the expected attack from Arminius had not come, and while not at the same level, there was still an air of anxiety that permeated every day. Perhaps if one of the Centurions of our Cohorts had been present and watched long enough when our new men arrived, they might have noticed that the Century from the Larks was less about protection than it was about escorting men who, if left to their own devices, would have vanished long before arriving in Mogontiacum. Unfortunately, we were unaware of this reality, although the first hint came when, once the men were assigned to each Century, we Centurions and Optios began the process of integrating these men into our Centuries. And, thanks to the Princeps and his insistence on proper documentation, this starts with studying each man’s record. It was Alex who noticed it first as he sat at his desk in the Legion office with a double stack of tablets in front of him.

  “How many men did you say we’re getting?”

  “I already told you,” I confess I was a bit irritable from my cursory examination of the new arrivals, “we get ten men, which brings us back up to strength.”

  Alex did not reply immediately, causing me to turn away from watching Structus inform each man of his new section and where it was located, and when I did, he simply pointed to the twin stacks.

  “Then,” he said quietly, “why are there fifteen tablets here?”

  I should note that, for a man who has served a substantial period of time under the standard, the fact that his record might require more than one tablet is not only not unusual, it is expected. But, as both Alex and I understood, these men had been in the army a matter of months, and I distinctly recall a slight fluttering in my stomach as I walked slowly over to the tablets. Apparently, I stood there for a fair amount of time, staring down at them, and I suppose I was just trying to delay what, in the span of a couple of heartbeats, I was sure would be an unpleasant task.

  When Alex cleared his throat, I started, which he cleverly ignored, and he asked, “What do you want me to do, Centurion?”

  Sighing, I said, “Start with matching which of those tablets belong to which man. Once you do that, we’ll know where to begin as far as knowing which one of these mentulae have already managed to fill up more than one tablet.”

  It did not take long, but while Alex was busy organizing them, I went back to the window to see that Structus was with the last two men to receive their new section assignment, and I thought for a moment of having the Optio stop, then recall those who had already taken their packs in the direction of their new quarters. I discarded that fairly rapidly; convinced as I was that Macer had been scrupulously fair in his allocations, and knowing that the likelihood that the other new men were just as bad was almost a certainty, I realized there was no point.

  “Uncle Titus?”

  We were alone, so I did not reprimand him for his use of my familial title, walking over to his desk, where I eyed the tablets, now arranged in multiple stacks.

  “The good news,” Alex informed me, “is that there are actually only four men who have already filled up more than one tablet.” He did not need to point those out, since there were indeed four tablets on the desk, upon which another one rested, but it was the stack of three that caught my eye, which Alex noticed. Since he had opened each one and scanned their contents, he handed me the top tablet on this st
ack, saying, “This is the standard information for Gregarius Publius Atilius Pusio.” As I opened it and read its contents, my nephew did the same with the second tablet, informing me, “And this is the list of punishments that have been levied on Gregarius Pusio since he enlisted.” Naturally, this got my attention, and when I glanced at him, Alex turned the tablet so that I could see that while it did, in fact, have several lines inscribed in the wax, it was not even close to full, which prompted me to point to the third tablet and ask, “So, what’s in that one?”

  Alex opened it, and I saw the blood drain from his face, his jaw dropping as he gazed down at the incised lines, which naturally prompted me to lean over and try to get a glimpse of what was written there. But, while I did not see the actual words, the sight of the style of the letters incised in the wax, with their peculiar forward slant, caused my heart to start hammering against my ribs, realizing that the likelihood of two men writing in the same manner was almost nonexistent.

  “Dolabella wrote this?” I gasped aloud, and Alex’s reaction to my words matched the pallor that had come over his face, telling me that he was no less aware of the author of whatever was in this tablet.

  “Do you want me to read it?” Alex asked, but I shook my head, and I am afraid that I may have been a bit abrupt in the manner in which I snatched it from his hand, though my motive was pure; I did not want him possibly tainted by whatever the spymaster who worked for either Augustus, Tiberius, or more to my way of thinking, both of them, had attached to this man Pusio’s record.

  “No.” I tried to keep my voice level. “There’s no need. I’m going to take this into my quarters to read. You,” I pointed back to the stacks that contained more than one tablet, “look at those and let me know if there’s anything I need to be worried about.” As I turned and headed to my room, I could not stop myself from adding, “Besides this.”

  As such things went, the information contained in Pusio’s record as compiled by Dolabella was more or less the same kind of thing that he compiled on a number of men that I had seen during the years I had been one of Tiberius’ men. What made it unusual was that I had never seen this amount or type of information attached to the record of a Gregarius, particularly one who was barely more than a Tirone and had only been under the standard for a matter of months. And, while I was not surprised, I was somewhat dismayed to see that Dolabella had not included the reason why this Pusio had earned the scrutiny of Tiberius’ spymaster. I read the account twice, trying to find some sort of underlying message that might give me an idea of why he was worthy of such suspicion, before I realized that perhaps the answer was not as much in Pusio’s actions but who he was, or more likely, to whom he was connected. Before I made that determination, I summoned Alex, telling him to bring me the other tablets for Pusio, and it was with some chagrin I realized that if I had read the entries into Pusio’s record first, Dolabella’s observations would have made more sense. Reading the report quickly, which is an arcane skill in itself given our practice of abbreviating most commonly used words, once I did, matters made more sense.

  “It seems,” was how I put it to Alex, “we have a budding demagogue in our Century.”

  Since Alex had already read Pusio’s record, his response was in the form of a grim nod, and despite his youth, I felt a sense of gratification that his assessment matched mine. As far as Pusio was concerned, the reason why he had come to the attention of Dolabella was now clear to me; on no less than four occasions, he had been disciplined not for any kind of normal infraction, like reporting late for a duty or losing a piece of gear, but for urging his comrades to be more vocal about claiming their rights as Roman citizens. Specifically, he insisted that, because he and his other comrades had been part of an emergency dilectus, there was no requirement for them to spend sixteen years under the standard. Even as I read this, I confess I felt a grim smile tugging at my lips as I wondered how Pusio would react if he knew that, because of the Varus disaster, one of Augustus’ measures had been to extend enlistments to twenty years, something that had been rumored to be coming for many years. Varus’ demise had given the Princeps the pretext for doing so, yet I had already heard that this was a compromise measure that, according to Dolabella, Tiberius had managed to persuade him to take, rather than the twenty-five years Augustus now wanted. If I am being honest, I cannot say that I was not at least somewhat sympathetic to Pusio’s complaint; it did strike me as unjust that men who had been essentially forced into service would then be required to serve a full enlistment. However, I had heard nothing to suggest that these men were not aware of this, and even if they were, by this time, they had been in long enough to know that things like justice and fairness of treatment are in short supply for men like us.

  “All right,” I thought for a moment, then decided, “we’re putting this Pusio character in Pictor’s section.”

  That Alex did not seem surprised told me he had assumed as much, and he gave me a grin as he offered, “Pictor’s not going to love you for that.”

  This was certainly true, but I also knew that I could count on Pictor to keep this Pusio on a short tether, and if the man did display the kind of behavior listed in his record, I could think of no better man than Pictor to take care of it in a manner that, frankly, saved my vitus the wear and tear, if one takes my meaning. With Pusio’s immediate fate decided, we went through the rest of the troublemakers’ records, and ironically, I was actually relieved to see that these men were more in the nature of shirkers, malingerers, and one of them was clearly a man who loved his wine to the point it had gotten him into trouble. Even without matching names to records, I was certain I knew which man this was, just from his appearance when they were standing in front of the Century office, which was why when, after my visual inspection, I had ordered Structus to put him in the Tenth Section. My reasoning was straightforward, since the Sergeant of this section was known as a man who despised those who worshiped Bacchus a little too fervently, having something to do with the Sergeant’s father being one of those from what I had heard, although I never asked. Otherwise, only Pusio was not going to the section Structus had designated for him, and I sent Alex to inform my Optio while I finished familiarizing myself with the rest of the records belonging to the new men of the Third Century. Like every other officer in the Legion, I felt a sense of urgency in getting these replacements settled in as quickly as possible, certain that we would be marching out of Ubiorum in a matter of weeks. When Alex returned, it was with Structus, whose normally saturnine expression was gone, replaced with a look of, if I was judging correctly, satisfaction. I also noticed he was out of breath, which meant that Alex, after glancing at the Optio, who gave him a curt nod as he regained his wind, was only too happy to tell me what had transpired.

  With a grin, my nephew informed me, “Apparently, Gregarius Pusio was…unhappy at being moved from the Second Section to the Fifth.”

  Structus had caught his breath by this time, because he interjected with a sour laugh, “Unhappy? That’s a nice way of putting it. The bastard had just emptied his pack on his bunk when Alex found me and told me he was going to Pictor’s section.” Shaking his head with what I took to be mild disbelief, he continued, “And he refused to repack his things. He said he had been assigned to the Second Section, and that was where he planned on staying.”

  This was so unusual that I was suspicious that my nephew and Optio had decided to make this into some sort of joke, although when I thought about it immediately afterward, I could not only not think of a good reason why they would do so, I could not fathom how this could be turned into a source of amusement.

  But, when I looked over at Alex, he assured me, “He’s telling the truth. I was standing there when Pusio said it. And then he…”

  “This is my story, boy, let me tell it,” Structus growled, though not with any rancor. In his own way, Structus was as fond of Alex as I was, which was why my nephew rolled his eyes as he made a gesture that Structus continue this tale that was at
least something to break the monotony of life in garrison. “Then,” the Optio continued, “the bastard sat down on his bunk and said he wasn’t going anywhere!”