by R. W. Peake
Before I could stop myself, I laughed, more at the indignation of Structus than the idea that I countenanced this kind of blatant defiance.
“So?” I asked.
“So,” Structus tapped his turfcutter handle dangling from his baltea, “I thrashed the cunnus, and I thrashed him good.”
Glancing at Alex, I saw that this time he was not smiling, just giving me a grim nod; even when a man deserves it, there is nothing pleasant about seeing him getting beaten. At least, not to most men.
I was struck by a thought. “Please don’t tell me that he’s…”
“No,” Structus cut me off, somewhat indignant. “I didn’t do anything that will give him an excuse to report on the sick and injured list.”
Honestly, I was not overly concerned about this, but given this Pusio’s actions in the brief period of time he had been in my Century, I wanted to make sure.
“Where is he now?” I asked, and this made Structus grin.
“Where do you think? He’s with Pictor. Now,” he allowed, “he might be moving a bit slower than you might like, Centurion. But he’s where he belongs.”
Despite this good news, I suspected that, while this would be the first, it would not be the last conversation about Publius Pusio we would be having.
The one consolation I can take in how wrong I was about our prospects for a busy campaign season is that so was everyone else. Days, then weeks passed, yet despite being kept on a high alert, with the word from the Praetorium that we were simply awaiting orders to march, that word never came. Indeed, the entire year passed without any Roman Legion, or subunit for that matter, crossing the Rhenus, and our activities were devoted solely to construction projects, although we also maintained our normal training schedule. As part of the latter, in my role as weapons trainer for not just the Century but the Fourth Cohort, every one of the replacements faced me with a rudis; most of them only had to do so once, because it had become something of an initiation into the Fourth that they face me. And, at the request of their Centurions, a half-dozen of them were forced into the square, the boundaries of which were formed by their comrades, two times, while one recalcitrant in Macer’s Century suffered at my hands on three separate occasions. However, the record holder was one Publius Pusio, who achieved the dubious honor of facing me on a total of five occasions, but what made this even more unusual was that two of those times was at his “request,” in the sense that he challenged me to face him. Why he did so is still a mystery, because, frankly, he was not very good with a rudis, although he was not the worst man in my Century. Even so, after our first bout, which I confess I prolonged a bit because of the trouble he had been causing for Pictor, and by extension Structus and me, it was clear he was not ever going to be a threat to defeat me. Nevertheless, on two separate occasions, at the end of our time at the stakes, Pusio stepped forward with a rudis in his hand, the normal procedure for letting me know someone wanted to face me. That there was now a purse of three hundred sesterces that would go to the man who defeated me had proven to be a temptation to other men in the past, but they were all vastly more skilled than Pusio, and I had not heard that he had a gambling habit that had put him in debt. It would not be until much later that I learned what Pusio was up to, and given all that transpired, as much as I despise the man to this day, I must salute him for his cunning. At the time, while I was slightly mystified why he put himself through this torment, given the amount of trouble he was causing Pictor, I was more than happy to oblige him in whatever he was seeking. On more than one occasion, I considered moving Pusio yet again, because the type of trouble he was causing was not the usual sort; it turned out that Pusio was a very, very clever man and, from somewhere, he had gotten hold of a copy of all the various regulations that have steadily grown since the time of my Avus. And, worst of all, he had studied them carefully, particularly the parts where certain rights that are accorded all Roman citizens have been subordinated for the good of the Legions, but are still technically in place. Specifically, even rankers are afforded the right to appeal every punishment that is substantial enough to be recorded in the Century diary, which is turned in to the Cohort, whereupon from there, that list is combined with the other Centuries, then sent to the Legion office. One reason that the Primus Pilus has no less than five clerks is because of this requirement, since there are three copies made of what becomes the daily report; one is kept with the Legion, another goes to the Praetorium of the camp where the Legion is stationed, and one is sent to Rome, although this only occurs on a monthly basis. Such is the Princeps’ belief in proper record keeping, but as any man who has spent more than a few months under the standard knows, the Legion that is represented in the official record and the actual, real workings of it are vastly different, and one of the largest discrepancies concern the supposed rights a Legionary has to appeal any official punishment. As men learn very quickly, not only does this serve to antagonize their Optio or Centurion even further, because it requires more tablet work, but the chances are next to nothing that an Optio or Centurion’s decision will be overturned by his superior. Unfortunately, another reform by Augustus also gives a man the right to appeal that decision all the way up the chain of command to the Princeps himself, which means that it is either a supremely desperate or stupid man who is willing to endure the consequences if the Princeps denies his appeal. Put in its simplest terms, if matters reached this point, the flogging that the ranker was facing will almost certainly become so much more severe that their chance of living through the punishment is nonexistent. Which is why, to my memory, I never recall any ranker being that mulishly persistent, but Pusio certainly came close.
We learned very quickly that Pusio was not only literate, he was extraordinarily well educated for a man of the ranks, although he was not quite up to my standard, but I had learned very early on that, if any man did have a tutor like Diocles, as Sextus and I, they were wise enough never to mention it. Neither did either my brother or I, for that matter, but our family name practically guaranteed that there was no way for us to keep that secret. In the case of Publius Pusio, I had learned from Dolabella’s report that Pusio was connected to one Lucius Seius Strabo, Pusio’s father being a client and trusted friend. He was an equestrian, which explained much about the man, both in his attitude and his level of education, but what was something of a mystery was how he had run afoul of the Princeps and ended up being essentially forced into the ranks instead of being allowed to at least be an Optio. While this was never confirmed, I do think that Dolabella guessed correctly, that Pusio was one of the men who Augustus decided to make an example of, when there was such a paltry response to the second dilectus. If the rumors were true, despite appearances to the contrary, and I am sure how Pusio felt about it, he had been luckier than some of the men the Princeps had executed as an example to the recalcitrant citizens who did not answer the call. The problem was that, since Pusio could not lash out at Augustus, he fought back in a manner that was at least unique, using and twisting the written regulations to make us, his officers, starting with Pictor and ending with Sacrovir, miserable. Within the span of two months after his arrival, I found myself having my first private meeting with Tiberius Sacrovir to discuss Gregarius Pusio, and it was illuminating and disturbing in equal measure.
“It appears,” the new Primus Pilus began our meeting, “that we have a problem, Pullus.”
“Yes, Primus Pilus,” I heartily agreed, and I confess I was hoping to hear from him that he had a solution, “we do.”
The meeting began routinely enough, despite the unusual subject, with me reporting to him as he was seated behind his desk, but once salutes were exchanged, he had gotten up from his desk and waved me to a seat at a table where I presumed he took his meals. Now we were seated across from each other, each holding a cup of wine that I asked to be watered more than usual, which he clearly noticed with a slight smile, but made no comment as the slave did as I requested. Sacrovir had brought what I assumed was Pusio’s late
st appeal, this one complaining about the monetary fine he had been assessed by me for the loss of a baltea strap. Sacrovir sipped from his cup as he perused the tablet containing Pusio’s appeal, which Macer had, of course, denied, deeming that the three sesterces I had assessed was a fair and just punishment.
“What Gregarius Pusio is claiming is that he had lent the strap to another Gregarius in his section, which his comrade confirmed when this Pictor conducted a routine inspection?”
While I was unsure why Sacrovir posed this as a question, since I was sure he knew the reason, I affirmed that this was the bare bones of the matter.
“So,” Sacrovir asked mildly, “why did you fine him?”
“Because, Primus Pilus,” I answered frankly, “Pusio has turned into a disruptive element in my Century, and he’s begun to encourage other men to follow his example.”
Sacrovir seemed unsurprised at this, since he nodded his head thoughtfully, but I was completely unprepared for what came out of his mouth next.
“Given that the strap wasn’t actually lost, don’t you think that the fine is…excessive?”
Honestly, I was too shocked to answer immediately; it had never occurred to me that the Primus Pilus would be anything but completely supportive of one of his Centurions, but I did manage to point out, “Primus Pilus, I actually checked the regulations, because that’s what that cun…Gregarius Pusio has been using against us, and what it says is that,” I recited from memory, “‘any item that has been issued to a Gregarius from the Quaestorium that cannot be produced on inspection is to be considered as lost, and the Gregarius punished accordingly for this loss.’”
“I’m aware of what the regulation says, Princeps Prior,” Sacrovir replied icily, and he sat back as his lips compressed tightly enough that the blood seemed to disappear. He glared at me for a moment, then he relaxed, his expression returning to what it had been a moment before, sighing as he said, “Pullus, I understand what you’re doing. You’re proving to Pusio that the regulations can work two ways, and that he’s in a position where, no matter what he tries, he’ll always lose if he tries to buck the system.” Sensing that he wanted something from me, I only nodded, which prompted him to continue, “And, under normal circumstances, I would agree with your approach.” He paused for a moment, but when he resumed, I heard a caution in his tone that I was not sure whether it was meant for me or he was choosing his words carefully for some other reason. “But these aren’t normal circumstances. Would you agree with that, Pullus?”
“I would,” I answered no less cautiously, wondering what we were speaking of exactly; I assumed it was because we had yet to respond to Arminius, but I also recognized there could be something else at play.
“Given that you agree,” Sacrovir continued, “then you shouldn’t be that surprised when I tell you that I’m granting Pusio’s appeal. Not,” he held up a hand, clearly seeing my mouth open, “because I think he’s right, Pullus. I don’t. But there are several factors to consider here. What,” Sacrovir suddenly seemingly switched subjects, “have you heard from your friends in Pannonia?”
I confess I was somewhat proud of myself because, while he caught me by surprise, I quickly determined why he had brought it up, or thought I did, so I answered, “That there’s a lot of discontent about the extension of enlistments.”
“And,” Sacrovir asked, “is that any different than it is here?”
“No,” I admitted reluctantly, “not really.”
“And that’s why I’ve decided that appeasing this Pusio is in the best interests of the Legion.”
“But, Primus Pilus,” I protested, “isn’t that actually going to make matters worse?”
“Yes,” he agreed, or seemed to, but then he added, “for you. It will. But I also know who you are, Pullus. And,” with this, he rose and walked back to his desk, then pointed to a double stack of tablets that I had barely noticed before, “Pusio is just one of many problems that we’re facing right now. And, frankly, he’s the least of my concerns when it comes to discipline. There are men throughout the Legion; good, solid veterans, every one of them, who are becoming angrier by the day, and I have to think of a way to keep that anger contained until we can go out on campaign, because you know as well as I do that nothing will take the edge off of all that anger like a good, hard fight.”
I sat there, considering his words, yet, while I did see his overall point, I could not agree with it. Regardless of this, I elected not to say anything, mainly because I did not know Sacrovir well enough, other than by his reputation and what I had observed in the months since he had been made Primus Pilus. At the moment, I was actually quite happy with myself for deciding to accept this loss with as much grace as I could, although it did leave a bitter taste in my mouth at the thought of having to refund Pusio his five sesterces. And, I confess, there was an element of calculation in my acquiescence, thinking that it might put me in Sacrovir’s good graces in the future.
“I understand, Primus Pilus,” was what came out of my mouth, “and I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”
“Thank you, Pullus.” Sacrovir actually seemed relieved, and it gave me a glimpse into the strain he must have been feeling, trying to keep a lid on the boiling pot that was our Legion. “I appreciate this, and when the moment’s right, I promise, I will back you on whatever you deem necessary with this Gregarius. Now is just not the right time.”
With that, I was dismissed, and as I walked back to my quarters, I decided that this was one time I was going to delegate a task and have Structus hand the money back to Pusio; I was afraid that if the man smirked or in some way expressed any kind of satisfaction, I would be unable to control myself. The reason I bring this episode up is that, first, as I had learned from Sacrovir, Pusio was just one of many men in the Legion causing trouble, and in hindsight, while many faulted not just Sacrovir but the Primi Pili of every Legion involved in what was to come, I now honestly believe that if they had cracked down earlier, it would have only accelerated events.
Despite the simmering discontent, that entire year passed without any bloodshed, either against an enemy or within our own ranks, although there were more than the usual number of brawls out in the town. Speaking of the town, the original populace had returned, but in yet another example of how quickly people forget, by the end of the next year after the Varus disaster, the town had grown even larger. Perhaps even more tellingly, the construction of more permanent brick structures had begun taking place, almost exclusively by the merchants who supplied the army, it must be said, but it was a stark contrast to the mood in the months after Varus. More than likely, it had less to do with a lifting of spirits than it did the reassignment of the 20th Legion from Dalmatia to our camp in Ubiorum. Not surprisingly, the Varus disaster had forced there to be some shuffling of the Legions from one army to another, as the14th was sent from Pannonia and now was stationed in Vetera, along with the 21st Legion, which had been sent to Mogontiacum early on to serve with the 5th, that reassignment being made permanent.
It was not until the year of the consulship of Marcus Aemilius and Statilius Taurus that, finally, Tiberius arrived in Mogontiacum with the express purpose of waging a campaign against the Germans. He did not come alone; Germanicus came with him, but in the status of a Proconsul. This was unusual, although not unprecedented, but usually Proconsular status is only conferred on those who have served as Consul at least once. While I certainly welcomed having my former commander from my time with the Legio Germanicus now three years earlier attached to the army, of more immediate concern to me, and to every other man, was how large our force was going to be. Before Varus, an army composed of three Legions marching on campaign would have been considered more than sufficient to handle anything any barbarians could have thrown at us; now, with four Legions slated to march, men were still decidedly nervous, and I include many of the officers. Despite this, our preparations went smoothly enough, including the 1st being sent north to Vetera, which was going to be our laun
ching point for the campaign. Starting on the Kalends of March, elements of the Army of the Rhenus began migrating from their normal stations, and we marched for Vetera while there was still a fair amount of snow on the ground. This time, however, we did not have to struggle along a rutted, muddy track; this had been one of our construction projects the previous year, and while it was not a truly Roman road like the Via Appia, it had been graded all the way to Novaesium, with adequate drainage and partially paved with gravel that had been hauled from somewhere. Not only did this mean that men were not forced to heave our wagons, of which we had an even larger complement since we were hauling the supplies for the entire campaign, out of ruts, our progress was much faster than the previous time. Reaching Novaesium, we were greeted by the same size force of auxiliaries, although from a different levy than the last time we had been there, but what was not lost on any of us was that there had been virtually no improvements made to the living conditions of the men in the intervening time, something that Sentius told us he brought up in his report back from our winter spent there. The only visible change was that there was now a wooden wall, with towers and reinforced gate; otherwise, their situation remained unchanged, and I believe that, for the men of the Cohorts who had been forced to winter there, there was a feeling of sympathy, and somewhat to my surprise, a little anger.
“I know they’re not citizens, but you can be sure that Tiberius’ horse has it better than those poor bastards.”
This comment had come from Structus, and while I did not reply, I agreed, albeit silently. Because it was the entire Legion, we made camp outside the walls, then moved on the next day, which also meant that we reached the end of our road improvements and were back to the same rutted track. Fortunately, the temperatures had held enough that the melt happened gradually, so while the track was soggy, it certainly was not as bad as it could have been. Not that one could tell from the complaining of the men marching rearguard, and when we made camp that night, I will say that they were every bit as filthy from the time spent behind an even larger baggage train than normal. Of course, this meant that the last day’s march would find the men of the Fourth Cohort slogging behind the last wagon, reaching Vetera covered in muck. It was the first time for all but the Fifth Cohort to come to Vetera, which had been the base of operations for Varus and the vanquished Legions, but was now occupied by another five Cohorts of auxiliaries. The difference between Novaesium and Vetera, however, could not have been more dramatic, and served as a reminder that, when a man of Legate rank has the favor and trust of the Princeps, no expense will be spared in ensuring that not only the fortifications but the accommodations will be exemplary, although the former had deteriorated somewhat, which had been beyond the capabilities of the auxiliaries to repair on their own. Most importantly, the camp was even larger than Ubiorum, because from the beginning, it had been constructed for a three Legion army, and as Sacrovir pointed out, since we were the first there, we naturally had the choice of where to settle in to wait for the rest of the army. This meant expelling the auxiliaries from the street nearest the Praetorium, which was done with a bit of squabbling from their commanding Centurion, but by the end of the day, the 1st was quartered, and smoke was rising from the chimneys of the huts as the evening meal was prepared. While our Optios took care of these details, Sacrovir summoned the Centurions to discuss our orders.