by R. W. Peake
“Princeps Prior Pullus!” I had seen Marcus Macer get truly angry before, but it had never been turned on me; until this moment, at least. “By the gods, that’s enough!”
Without realizing it, I had sidestepped Macer to get closer to Volusenus, who stood there eyeing me with a gratifying level of nervousness, but then Macer reached out and grabbed me…right on the scar tissue of my left arm. Despite the fact that it was more than a decade earlier, during the ambush at The Quarry when Urso had been Primus Pilus of the 8th, my first Legion, and the actual scar had turned white, when it was grabbed as firmly as Macer did it, my reflex reaction was automatic and unthinking, caused in part by the sudden flash of pain.
“Get your fucking hands off me,” I snarled at my superior, and even worse, a man I considered a close friend.
To his credit, Marcus Macer was the only one who kept his head, because he did let go, but while he lowered his voice, his tone was as harsh and unyielding as any time I had ever heard it, as he ordered, “Princeps Prior Pullus, attend to your Century…now. I will not tell you again.”
Thankfully, either the words or the tone penetrated the red haze of my rage, and I stopped moving towards Volusenus, turning back to my own men, but I was still sufficiently angered to glare at Volusenus and mutter, “You and I will settle this later.”
I expected Macer to make an issue of this, yet to my surprise, he did not, choosing instead to pull Volusenus aside to speak to him, while I returned to my Century, ignoring the eyes on me from both the Sixth and my own men. Not much longer after this, we resumed the march, with a makeshift litter fashioned to carry Clustuminus and Plautus, the Gregarius who was clinging to life at the moment, but with the Fifth Century switching with the Sixth. We finished the march for the day, making camp about four miles from the site of the ambush, and by the time the ditch was dug and the tents raised, Plautus had died. I was not surprised when Lucco came to summon me to Macer’s quarters, which served as the praetorium in our small camp, and I braced myself for some sort of reprimand from my Pilus Prior, wondering yet again if my temper had put me into a predicament that might permanently damage my career. Yet, even as I chastised myself, recognizing that I had acted in a completely untoward manner with Macer, the memory of two dead rankers, and, although not as impactful, two dead slaves, was still fresh in my mind, so that I arrived at Macer’s tent prepared to argue my case, such as it was.
And, at first, it seemed as if Macer was intent on setting aside our personal relationship and act as Pilus Prior, his face seemingly chiseled from stone as he watched me enter and march to his desk.
He did return my salute, but his face gave nothing away as he said curtly, “Sit down, Pullus.”
His discarding of my praenomen, our normal form of addressing each other under different circumstances, gave me another hint that this would probably not be pleasant. Naturally, I did as he commanded, dropping onto the stool that was placed in front of the tiny camp desk, and as always, I felt somewhat foolish, given the relative size between me and the stool; frankly, I was always surprised that it did not collapse, especially when I dropped down as heavily as I did then. I sat there, taking some comfort in how, even when I was seated, I still was able to command the high ground, in a manner of speaking, but Macer regarded me coldly, his face betraying none of his thoughts.
Finally, after a silence lasting several heartbeats, he suddenly heaved a sigh and said, “He made a mistake, Pullus. He’s green.”
“A mistake that cost me two men,” I countered immediately, and his face darkened, although his tone was even as he answered, “I’m aware of that.” He paused then, before adding, “And he knows that he bungled the job, I can assure you.”
“That doesn’t do much for Plautus and Florus.”
Even as the words came from my mouth, I knew I was being mulishly persistent, yet I could not seem to help myself, and it was plain to see that it stretched Macer’s patience.
“Pluto’s cock,” he snapped, “I just said that Volusenus knows he erred, so there’s no need for you to keep flogging that dead horse!”
Somehow, I managed to refrain from responding, and we lapsed back into staring at each other.
Finally, Macer broke the silence by saying in an offhand manner, “You know, I had an Optio once who told me something that I’ve never forgotten.”
Macer had had four Optios by this point, but I was fairly certain that not only did I know the identity of this Optio, I would not like whatever it was that I had said at some point in the past when I served under him.
Nevertheless, I decided to match his demeanor, replying, “Oh? And what knowledge did this wise Optio impart to you?”
For the first time since my entrance, I saw the glimmer of a smile forming on his lips as he answered, “Only that as far as he was concerned, if a Centurion didn’t make a mistake that ended up badly, that man was just an empty uniform and not worthy of the rank. But,” he went on, and if there had been a smile coming, it vanished, “the truly dangerous men were the ones who made the same mistake twice.”
Even as he was speaking, I recalled that, indeed, I had said that very thing to him, not long after I had been transferred from the 8th Legion to ostensibly aid in the development of a paid man who had purchased the posting of the Third Century of the Fourth Cohort of the 1st Legion. When I had said these words, I was trying to imbue Macer with the confidence that a Centurion needs to do his job, and while I had certainly meant them, I confess I did not much care for the taste of them being shoved back down my throat at this moment.
“I don’t know who that Optio was,” I told him, “but he sounds like a fucking idiot to me.”
As I hoped, this made Macer laugh, but while the worst was over, he was not quite through.
“Titus,” he said seriously, “while I don’t know exactly why you hate Volusenus so much, I can guess the reason. And you need to give the man a chance.”
“I don’t hate him,” I protested, yet I felt the need to add, “exactly. I just…” I struggled to articulate what it was about this young Centurion, aside from his obvious carelessness, that disturbed me so much, finally settling on, “…don’t trust him, that’s all. He’s certainly got the same advantages that I do with his size and strength, but he’s a spoiled, soft, rich equestrian from everything I’ve seen. And he thinks his cac doesn’t stink.”
I was being honest; at least, as honest as I was capable of being at this moment, but while I hoped that Macer would at least understand my viewpoint, instead, he said in a lightly mocking tone, “Now, I seem to recall someone telling me that that was exactly what people thought him, that because of who he was, he was soft and spoiled and thought his name would be enough to win him respect.”
This conversation, which I had been dreading, had turned out even worse than I feared, just not for the reason I had imagined, and once more I was forced to experience the bitter taste of my own words.
“That was…different,” I finally managed, but even I heard how lame this excuse sounded, and was. Thankfully, Macer chose not to answer, but after a moment of him regarding me with the same kind of expression he bore when he had beaten me at a game of tables, I muttered, “All right, maybe not that different.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Macer said, “I’ve ordered him to make a formal apology for his error to your Century.”
This was something, at least, and I asked, “When?”
“Tomorrow, before we break camp, at our morning formation.”
While this was still not enough to completely satisfy me, I did take some pleasure in the idea of the haughty youngster forced to make a public statement, taking responsibility for what had happened, certain as I was that his pride would take a severe beating because of it.
“And, Titus,” Macer broke into my thoughts, and while he spoke in a conversational tone, there was a severity to it that I rarely heard aimed at me, “don’t ever show me that kind of disrespect again. Do you understand me?”
In fact, I did, quite well, and I assured him that I would not. And, I have not.
As ordered, Volusenus stood in the small forum of our camp and expressed his regret at the outcome caused by his error in forgetting to send flanking guards out after our rest stop the day before. He spoke clearly enough, and despite my feelings towards him, I could see the remorse was genuine, although I told myself it might be counterfeit. Not once did he look in my direction, choosing to keep his eyes riveted on an imaginary spot just above the heads of the men in the middle of the formation. Once he was finished, he spun about, and marched to resume his spot next to the Sixth, but Macer had nothing to add, other than the command to break camp and begin the day’s march.
Our original task had been to make an appearance at two Sugambri villages, part of the program prescribed by Tiberius after our campaign after Varus’ defeat, both to remind the natives Rome was still here and to perform a search for supplies of weapons, over and above the bare minimum allowed by the Princeps. We reached the first village less than a watch after resuming the march, where we were met with the same sullen but muted hatred, as the village headman stood in front of his assembled people in their version of a forum, the standard practice Rome demanded. Macer conducted a brief interrogation of the headman, using the freedman interpreter who was more or less permanently assigned to the Fourth Cohort whenever we ventured across the Rhenus, while the rest of us supervised the search. And, as we expected, we found nothing in the way of armor and weapons; the only slight oddity was that their food supplies seemed to be quite a bit more than the number of villagers present would require, something that Macer called the rest of us to discuss.
“They have more grain than they need to feed the number of people they have,” the Pilus Prior mused.
“Last winter was fairly easy, and they had a good harvest,” Philus observed. “Maybe this is just surplus.”
This, we all knew, was true, but while Macer nodded in seeming acceptance, his tone was doubtful as he answered, “That’s certainly possible.” He looked over at me, asking, “What do you think, Pullus?”
“I think that we need to assume the worst,” I answered honestly. “All that being true, it’s just as likely that they’re missing men.”
“The headman did say there was a hunting party out right now,” Macer said, but I was not convinced.
“Did he say how many?”
“A dozen,” Macer replied.
“The amount of grain we found will feed a lot more than just a dozen more mouths,” Vespillo put in, then pointed out, “and we all know that we never find every single cache.”
This was nothing more than the truth, and I saw that this scored with Macer, and he slowly nodded, then said, “We need to make sure we report this to the Legate when we get back. Otherwise, there’s not much we can do.”
“Not much we can do?” To this point, as he should have been, especially given the events of the day before, Volusenus had been silent, but he burst out with this now, and before we could say anything, he continued, “They’re clearly lying to us! They should be punished for that!”
This outburst was greeted with mutters from my counterparts, but while they were smart enough to let Macer handle this matter, I could not stop myself from growling, “You’ve done enough damage for one march, boy. You need to keep your mouth shut when your superiors are talking!”
As I hoped, Volusenus did not take this well, stiffening and staring at me with undisguised hostility, which I returned in kind, until Macer’s voice cut in, “That’s enough, Pullus. But,” he turned to Volusenus, “the Princeps Prior is right in that you don’t have the experience with these matters that the rest of us do. So you should spend your time listening, not talking.” Volusenus clearly did not care for this, though he did not say anything more, while I ignored his glaring at me as Macer continued, “We’ll report this to the Legate when we get back. Otherwise, I’ll let them know we’re done. And,” he paused, “I’ve decided we’re not going to go check on the second village. It’s another five miles east, and I don’t like us being any deeper across the river than we are.”
Frankly, I was relieved, and I saw that the others were as well; with one exception, of course, but he kept his mouth shut. Within a few hundred heartbeats, we had formed up and were marching back towards the river, which we reached the next day, crossing back over to Ubiorum with only my Century suffering any casualties.
The night of our return, I was sitting at my desk, writing out the report that is required whenever a Centurion loses men under his command. Naturally, this meant that my mood was not the best to begin with, but it was about to get worse when Alex knocked at my door.
“Centurion,” his use of my title alerted me that this was not a routine matter, but it was his expression that was even more telling, “someone is here to see you.”
I had been so absorbed in my report that I had not even heard anyone enter the outer office, and I asked him who it was.
“It’s Hastatus Posterior Volusenus,” Alex said carefully, although the flat inflection he used was one with which I was familiar. “He requests a moment of your time.”
I signaled him to close the door, and when he did, I asked quietly, “Did he really request it? Or did he demand it?”
The shrug he gave I considered eloquent proof that Alex was being judicious, and in his way, trying to watch out for me, and I confess that, despite the flare of anger I felt at this display of arrogant disrespect, in my own way, I heeded it.
Not commenting further, I said only, “Send him in.” Alex turned, but before he opened the door, I added, still speaking quietly, “And send Balio for Structus. Have him wait in the outer office.”
My nephew simply nodded, then opened the door and stepped back out, which partially muffled his voice as he told Volusenus, “The Princeps Prior will see you now.”
Without a word spoken, I heard Volusenus’ heavy tread, but because of the door, I only caught a glimpse of the manner in which he brushed by Alex, not even acknowledging his presence, just like every other haughty bastard who viewed those around them as nothing more than furniture; there only to serve a specific purpose. Regardless of this display of brusque rudeness, I admit that even if Volusenus had been polite to Alex, it would not have altered the outcome of what was about to take place. Volusenus did not walk as much as march the few steps across the room, stopping in front of my desk, and while it caused me to grind my teeth, I gestured to the chair in an unspoken invitation.
“I prefer to stand for this,” he said stiffly, his eyes aimed at a spot above my head.
I gave a shrug that I hoped conveyed my air of disinterest, saying, “As you wish. Now,” I asked pleasantly, “what can I do for you, Hastatus Posterior Volusenus?”
This was the moment he looked down at me, and when he did, I realized with a jolt of an energy that this was really the first time the two of us had looked each other directly in the eye and reminded me of a time I had almost forgotten. And, while I cannot say with any certainty, I got the sense that Volusenus experienced something similar, because an expression of what I took to be confusion briefly washed away the look of grim determination that he had been wearing less than a heartbeat before. As far as what that sensation was, I can only speak for my own state of mind, which was that there was something queerly familiar in those eyes of his, as if they belonged to someone I knew, or more accurately, had known. How could he possibly remind me of Sextus? I wondered.
Volusenus stood there for what was perhaps two heartbeats of time, then the mask he had been wearing when he entered returned, and he finally spoke, saying, “I have come for an apology from you, Princeps Prior.”
My initial reaction was to tell him that, since he had already offered a public apology a couple days before, there was no need for him to do so in private, but then my mind caught up with my ears, and I managed to stop my initial response.
What came out was something of a gasp as I sputtered, “A
n apology? From me?”
“Yes,” he snapped. “You publicly humiliated me the other day, and I will not tolerate that kind of thing, not from anyone.” He paused, then added, “Especially not from you.”
Honestly, at this moment, I was more bemused than angry, and without thinking how it might be taken, I began, “Son…”
“I. Am. Not. Your. Son!”
So enraged was Volusenus that he actually took a step towards my desk, his empty hand curling into a fist, although he did not raise his vitus, which told me that he was at least partially in control of himself, since that could have spelled his doom. I was sufficiently alarmed that I rose to my feet as well, but I was also getting angry too, which a part of me took note of, and I took a breath.
“Volusenus, that is just an expression,” I began carefully, “because you’re a youngster…”
“My age has nothing to do with this!” he shot back, and while he un-balled his fist, it was to do something even worse, and that was to point a finger directly at me. “You’ve shown me nothing but disrespect since the day I arrived! I’m in the Centurionate, just like you…”
“You’re in the Centurionate,” I agreed but matched his harshness, “because your Tata bought you a spot. And,” I went on, realizing that, despite my intention to keep it in check, my anger was now loose, “you’re an arrogant boy who got my men killed.”
“I apologized for that!” He was shouting now and had taken another step closer, so that we were now separated by only the width of my desk. “But you’ve been insulting me before that even happened, and I won’t tolerate it!”
Rather than shout right back, I forced myself to take a breath, then deliberately pitching my voice back to a conversational level, I asked, “And? What do you propose to do about it if I don’t stop? Write to Tata? And then what? He’ll run and tell the Princeps?”
As I hoped, this scored a blow, his face flushing even more than it already was, which also told me that he had been considering doing that very thing.