Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  Young love notwithstanding, the business of the Legions continued, where we resumed our occasional forays across the river, but we never went more than ten miles deep. Thus passed the year, a time where it seemed as if things had returned to at least a semblance of normality. Meanwhile, in Rome, Tiberius was finally given a triumph for the Batonian Revolt; that it was a full three years after the revolt was officially crushed is perhaps the best example of just how much turmoil and upheaval the Varus disaster had caused Rome and her Legions. This was certainly well-earned by Tiberius, and I confess that up until the moment when it would not be physically possible to do so, I had held out hope that my time as the Primus Pilus of the Legio Germanicus would be recognized, and I would be summoned to take part. However, my wounded pride was actually soothed by a balm, in the form of a letter from young Germanicus himself, written in his own hand, which I still have in my possession. It was not long, but he conveyed to me that there was no slight intended by my exclusion, that it was simply a matter of time and expense, and he swore to me that my name was included in the rolls for individual honors, which is read to the crowd, usually at the traditional feast that is held after the event. Probably not surprisingly, this was extremely flattering, but it was actually another piece of news, which he imparted to me, that I took as a sign that I was still viewed with favor by Germanicus. I brought it up the night I received the letter, when I was seated in Macer’s private quarters, which had become a nightly routine, since neither of us particularly liked going out into town when we had no intention of availing ourselves of the whores or drinking ourselves senseless.

  “I got some news from Rome,” I began, but this was no surprise to Macer, since all missives are routed through the Pilus Prior’s office first, nor was the identity of the author a secret.

  “So?” he teased. “What great state secrets did your patron give you?” Laughingly, he added, “Any hint about our future?”

  “No,” I admitted, “at least about our future. But,” I paused then, deliberately, and as I expected, Macer’s expression changed, reminding me once more of how much of a political creature we Romans are, “I do know who our consuls for the coming year are.”

  His smile faded as he asked, puzzledly, “How so? They haven’t held the election yet. They’re not for, what,” he paused as he recalled the date, “almost another month? How can you know before that?”

  “Because,” I replied smugly, “my patron trusts me enough to confide that he’s going to be named Senior Consul for the coming year, along with,” I confess that this time I was the one pausing, trying to recall the name, coming up with, “Gaius Fonteius Capito.”

  I shot him a grin then, but Macer was as quick a thinker as he was on his feet, and he also knew how to deflate my pride, which was what prompted him to shoot back, “So, Germanicus trusts you…and you can’t wait to come running to tell me about it?” Fortunately, he was unable to contain his own mirth, bursting out laughing as he pointed at my face, hooting, “You look like you just swallowed a rat turd with your chickpeas!”

  “You’re just lucky you outrank me,” I grumbled, but that only made him laugh harder.

  By the time he was done gloating over my gloating, I could not help seeing the humor in it, and I knew that he would never betray me by telling others what I had told him, and the rest of the evening passed in its normal comfortable, affable manner. And, when the announcement was made several weeks later, during the morning formation, we exchanged a secret smile and wink. That Germanicus was only twenty-seven was notable; if this had been sixty years before, it would have been unthinkable, but it was none other than the Princeps himself who shattered centuries of tradition when he assumed the Consulship when he was only nineteen. Honestly, it had very little impact on our daily lives or routine; I suppose that it just gave me a sense of pride that someone from the patrician class with whom I had a relatively close relationship had reached the highest step available to a Roman as long as the Princeps still lived. This is not to say that we did not hear of his accomplishments, such as the games that he held, and it quickly became known that, between the two of them, it was on Germanicus’ shoulders that the bulk of the work fell, given to him by the Princeps. This served as yet another sign that Germanicus was being groomed for bigger things, but in this I was more troubled than pleased; I served Tiberius, after all, not Germanicus, and I could not help wondering how the older man viewed this mark of favor by Augustus, particularly since it was not his son by blood, but by adoption. I suppose the best way to characterize it is that my heart was with Germanicus, but the rest of me was owned by Tiberius, which was reinforced in the spring of Germanicus’ Consulship, when one evening, Alex knocked on my door.

  When he entered, I had learned by this time to interpret his expressions, so I was not altogether surprised when he announced, “Tiberius Dolabella is here.”

  Fighting the urge to simply refuse him entry, instead I gave Alex a weary wave, understanding that there was no point in trying to avoid talking to Tiberius’ spymaster, which was what I had deduced he had become by this point, more of a manager of those whose job it was to listen in on conversations, purloin indiscreet letters written by members of the Senate, and if necessary, make their authors disappear. While I had not been called on by Tiberius, through Dolabella, of course, to perform any of those tasks of which I will not speak for some time, when the man entered my private quarters, I felt certain that this spell was about to end. Why else, I thought sourly, would he be here? Outwardly, I waved him to a seat, and even managed to avoid sounding grudging when I ordered Alex to fill two cups of wine, although I did know that, without being told to do so, Alex would not pour from the amphora containing one of the good vintages, like Falernian or Chian.

  “Salve, Pullus,” he said as he dropped onto the chair across from my desk, and while I was not disposed to care all that much, I took notice that he looked weary.

  I did experience a flicker of surprise, however, at the sight of the silver strands in his black hair, and I tried to remember if they had been there the last time we were in each other’s company.

  Oddly enough, I took some satisfaction in the grimace he made after taking a sip of the wine, then he plunged straight in. “I won’t waste our time together engaging in pleasantries, if that’s all right with you.”

  Of course, this was perfectly acceptable, though I merely nodded in agreement, whereupon he said, “I am guessing you’ve heard that Germanicus is now the senior Consul for this year.”

  “I have,” I answered, albeit cautiously. “The Legate made the announcement to all of us.”

  Dolabella nodded his understanding but then went on, “I doubt that he told you all of it, though.” Pausing a beat, he said, “Germanicus intends to serve the full year.”

  The spymaster was correct; the Legate had made no mention of this at all, and as I write these words, without knowing what the future will hold for those who come after me and bear the Pullus name, I realize that my reaction to this seemingly straightforward statement may come as a surprise, because I sat back and I believe I muttered, “Gerrae!” I thought for a moment, then offered the verbal form of the kind of test shot we make with a ballista. “I can’t imagine Tiberius is very happy.”

  This elicited a snort that was Dolabella’s version of a laugh, and he shot back caustically, “Oh? Really?” Shaking his head, he stared down in his cup, then said moodily, “That’s a bit of an understatement. It’s because,” he sighed, “Germanicus has some…ambitious plans.”

  “Plans?” I asked cautiously, yet I was intrigued at the same time. “What kind of plans?”

  “Well, he’s already held games, although those were to honor Tiberius’ triumph,” he allowed, “but he also has this idea that our justice system needs some…” he frowned for a moment before coming up with “…reforms. He’s decided that he’s going to actually sit as judge for the civil courts, and for certain criminal trials. Although,” Dolabella added hastily, “onl
y the common sort; murder, theft, that sort of thing.”

  I considered for a long moment, because despite appearances, a Roman noble who was elected Consul serving a full year, while at one time was completely normal, was no longer the custom, and had not been for many years under the rule of the Princeps. The office of Consulship was usually passed around in a given year to at least one other candidate, although it was usually more, so Germanicus, who as the senior Consul held the most sway, insisting on serving the entire year of his Consulship was, to put it mildly, highly unusual. Most importantly, to me anyway, was trying to determine how Tiberius would react to Germanicus’ program, and almost as crucial to those of us who were the most immediately impacted by the actions within the family of the Princeps, whether this was done with the tacit approval of Augustus. And, finally, what it all meant. As Dolabella and I sat there, neither of us speaking and seemingly absorbed in our own thoughts, I recall thinking with a rueful amusement, at least this will make the long winter nights pass more quickly. As it would turn out, it was much longer than just a winter, and I know I was not alone at the time as I began to relax and think that, perhaps, the loss of Varus’ Legions would go largely unavenged.

  This is not to say that the ensuing period was completely uneventful as far as the fortunes of the Fourth Cohort were concerned. It was in the month named for Divus Julius that, as often happened when we were in camp for an extended period of time, a plague swept through our ranks once more, and, as happens from time to time, the mortality that is inevitable when sickness hits struck the Centurionate. Specifically, Decimus Macula succumbed to the bloody flux, leaving a post unfilled. During the time of my father and my Avus before him, replacing a Hastatus Posterior, even in a first-line Cohort would most commonly be handled as a matter of Legion business, although there were certainly occasions when the Legate in command would make his wishes known about who should replace the departed Centurion. Since we were not on campaign, there was not the same urgency to fill the post, but on the first full day after Macula succumbed and crossed the river, Macer was summoned to the Primus Pilus’ quarters and informed by Sacrovir that the decision had been taken out of his hands. I learned of this when Macer summoned me to his quarters, whereupon, once my cup was filled and settled in my normal seat in his private quarters, he launched into a diatribe that, surprisingly to me, was not aimed at Sacrovir.

  “The Primus Pilus informed me that he has been instructed that we’re going to fill this post with a paid man,” he began bitterly, using the term we had adopted for this custom, now well more than a decade old, that allowed men of equestrian rank to purchase a posting in the Centurionate. Macer was actually pacing back and forth behind his desk, staring at the floor with a frown, so he did not see the expression on my face when I interjected, “Yes, the gods know those paid men are as useless as tits on a man.”

  So distracted was he that it took him a moment to grasp the irony, as he began, “I know! And what with this business with Arminius still unsettled…” Suddenly, he stopped in mid-step, turning to regard me with a scowl that dissolved into a sheepish grin as he said, “Useless as tits on a man, eh? Well, I’m glad to know what you really think about your Pilus Prior.” We shared a laugh at his sudden remembrance that he, Marcus Macer, was, in fact, one of those paid men, and I did not feel I was being false when I offered, “You turned out pretty well, so we can hope for the best, neh?”

  Macer did not immediately answer but did choose to drop heavily into his seat, snatch up the cup from his desk, and take a deep swallow of the wine before he said with a grimace, “I forget sometimes how I got started and how green I was. And,” he gave me a look that ignited a quietly unsettling twinge in my gut, “I certainly know that it’s within the rights of the Princeps and Tiberius, for that matter, to appoint whoever they want to an open posting.” To my ears, Macer’s tone sounded careful. “It’s not that I’m complaining necessarily, it’s just that…”

  “That you don’t like the choice being taken out of not only your control, but without any say in the matter,” I finished for him, and I could not miss the expression of relief that flooded his features at my words as he nodded. Deciding to slightly move away from what I could see was a troubling topic, I asked, “Did Sacrovir give you any kind of time for how long the post remains open?”

  Instead of easing his mind, this seemed to agitate Macer even more, but I understood why when he replied, “No! He said, ‘as long as it takes.’” He actually did a fair job at sounding like our Primus Pilus. “And he also told me that he didn’t think it would be filled for at least a month!”

  This, I understood, was at least part of Macer’s concern, because of all the Optios in our Cohort, Numerius Gillo was the one who I knew Macer worried about the most. Not, it must be said, because of his incompetence, but because of his reputation for petty cruelty and vindictiveness, which, although I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, Macula did not do much to quell. Frankly, I was of the private opinion that Macula was scared of Gillo, although I never shared that with Macer since he never asked. Understanding that this was more about Macer’s need to vent his frustration about his powerlessness, I decided to shift the topic, though not before offering, “Well, there’s no use in worrying about something you can’t control.”

  “No,” he agreed, then grinned and said, “but I still can whine about it.”

  We moved on to other topics, and this was the last time I heard Macer complain about the unknown new Hastatus Posterior; it would indeed be another month, yet when the newly minted Centurion showed up, I quickly learned that he would prove to be a rock in the caliga, not for Macer, but for me.

  Chapter Three

  His name was Gnaeus Claudius Volusenus, and the first I became aware that we had a new Hastatus Posterior was when Alex informed me that not only had he arrived, he had already made quite the impression.

  “Lucco was entering his name in the Cohort roll, and he only put down his Praenomen and Cognomen.” Alex came to find me, and since I was in our Century office, he made no attempt to hide his feelings. “But the new Centurion threatened to thrash Lucco for ‘insulting’ his family honor.”

  This elicited a snort from me, since this was simply the standard practice of the army and I had heard of other men complaining about it, but Alex was not finished, and I got a bare hint of warning as his expression changed, subtly, yet in a manner that told me he was worried about how I would react.

  Which meant, of course, that I made no attempt to take his feelings into account, demanding, “What? What else is there?” Suddenly, I thought I knew, prompting me to gasp, “He didn’t actually touch Lucco, did he?”

  While, technically speaking, I suppose this new Centurion had the right to do so, I had never heard of anyone so arrogant and, frankly, simple-minded, that they would show up to their new posting and immediately beat the chief clerk of not just the Century, but Cohort. To my relief, Alex shook his head, yet his manner did not change all that much, but it was his use of my familial title that was somewhat alarming.

  “Uncle Titus,” he said haltingly, “I don’t really know how to put this…”

  “Then,” I snapped, my patience wearing thin, “just come out with it!”

  “He’s…big,” Alex said, then stopped.

  “Big?” I was momentarily puzzled, then asked, “What do you mean? He’s big like me?”

  Relief flooded my nephew’s features, and he nodded with what seemed to be a bit too much enthusiasm, exclaiming, “Yes, Uncle Titus! That’s what I mean! He’s,” he paused as he took a step backward to examine me in a manner that, frankly, I found a bit unsettling, “actually a bit taller than you. But he’s also as…” Rather than say it, Alex held his hands out to roughly correspond with the breadth of my body. Unmindful of the consternation he was causing me, he went on to say, “The instant I saw him, he reminded me of you. I mean,” for the first time, he seemed to understand why I might not find this good news, “his arms aren’
t as big as yours, but he is…”

  “Big,” I supplied, and despite my own feelings, I had to acknowledge that it amused me to see how quickly he nodded.

  Sighing, I tried to make light of this moment when, for the first time in my career, I was confronted with the prospect of someone who might match my physical prowess, clapping Alex on the shoulder as I said, “I can’t wait to meet this new Hercules.”

  I got my chance quickly enough, when Macer summoned us to his quarters the next morning, ostensibly to meet the new Centurion. I had no reason for doing so, but I realized when I entered Macer’s office, I had been doubting Alex’s judgment about the new Hastatus Posterior, having convinced myself how unlikely it was that there could be a Roman who could match me physically. Seeing Gnaeus Claudius Volusenus sitting there, wearing nothing more than a soldier’s tunic that was still bright red, cinched by an equally new baltea, with a vitus standing vertically in between his knees was one of the more startling, viscerally brutal shocks of my life. Even taking into consideration that Volusenus was seated, I instantly saw that, if anything, Alex had been kind. Not surprisingly, the moment I entered, our eyes locked; what I saw reflected in his eyes, a level of disdain that I had long since learned seems to be inherited at birth by those fortunate enough to be born in one of the classes higher than those of the Head Count, only served to inflame me even more. Honestly, I cannot say with any certainty, but I acknowledge that it is highly probable that even if this Volusenus had given me the blandest expression possible, I would have found fault with it. Whatever the truth may be, what is certainly true is that we were destined to clash, and I could see just by Macer’s expression as he studied my face that he was intensely interested. However, it was Vespillo who, in his normal manner, made matters even worse.