Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “I don’t need my father to fight my battles,” he finally replied stiffly. “I assure you, Pullus, I can handle myself quite well.”

  “Oh?” Now that I felt I had the advantage, I was not about to let up, and I gave a laugh that was as mocking as I could manage. “Can you, boy? Did your gladiator tutor really teach you enough that you think you can best me?”

  “I know all about your reputation,” Volusenus retorted, “but that doesn’t scare me.”

  “It should.”

  This did not come from my mouth, and we both jerked in surprise, Volusenus spinning about while I bent at the waist to look past him to the man standing in the door. Marcus Macer was leaning against the frame, in his tunic without his baltea, although he was carrying his vitus, which he pointed directly at Volusenus.

  “Volusenus, I don’t know what this is about, and I don’t care. But I heard enough, and consider this a fair warning. If you want to spar with Princeps Prior Pullus, I’m going to be held responsible for the damage he does to you.”

  “Or I do to him!” Volusenus shot back, having clearly lost his self-control.

  I expected Macer to lose his temper then; instead, he stared, long and hard at Volusenus, then he glanced over at me. Correctly interpreting his look, I gave a small shrug, sending him the message that I was more than happy to take this matter to its conclusion, yet rather than looking pleased, he seemed as irritated with me as he was with Volusenus.

  “Fine!” he snapped. “We’ll convene in the bathhouse a third of a watch after the call to retire. Only the Centurions and Optios of the Fourth will be there. I’ll bring the rudii, training shields, and the protective gear. Then you two can bash each other’s brains out for all I care. But,” now he lifted his vitus to point it again, first at Volusenus, then at me, “once this is over, if either of you tries to get revenge because you lost, I will bring you both up on charges, and I’ll do everything in my power to see that you’re busted back to the ranks. Is that understood?”

  “Understood,” I answered first, which, as I hoped, got under Volusenus’ skin, because he shot me a poisonous glare as he answered Macer, also in the affirmative.

  “Now, let me go get this arranged so we can get this nonsense out of the way,” Macer said as he strode out of my quarters, leaving Volusenus and me to stand there.

  I waited until our Pilus Prior was out of earshot, then gave Volusenus a grin that I did not mean as I said, “Well, at least I’ve been in the ranks before.”

  Just as I hoped, this seemed to rattle Volusenus even further, but he had the sense to keep his mouth shut and stalk out, following Macer, and leaving me to watch through my open doorway at his retreating broad back. Naturally, he slammed the door on the way out, and after the shouting that had been going on, the sudden quiet after his departure was a bit unsettling. While I had a view out into the outer office, I could not see either Alex or Balio, a Gaul who had been born a slave and now served as Alex’s assistant clerk. Despite there being no sign, I was not fooled.

  “You might as well get in here,” I said loudly enough that there was no way either could claim they did not hear me.

  I heard a voice mutter something, then Alex stepped into the doorway, alone, looking understandably cautious.

  “I told you to get Structus here,” I said severely, “not the Pilus Prior. Or,” I thought to add, “was that Balio’s bright idea?”

  “No,” Alex answered readily enough, but I also noticed he seemed content to stand just inside the doorway, “it was mine.”

  I stared at him, hard, then I grunted, “Good boy. That was the right thing to do.”

  For an instant, I thought he would faint, but he recovered himself quickly enough that it might have been my imagination, then he came bustling in, moving to the rack to get my armor and make sure it was properly oiled, which I knew it was.

  “Uncle Titus,” he looked at me with an intensity that he only used when he considered a matter to be of the utmost importance, “I want you to knock that cunnus out.”

  Technically, I should have admonished him for speaking about a fellow Centurion in such a flagrantly disrespectful manner, but I suppose I just was not in the mood to do so.

  Gnaeus Volusenus was certainly strong, probably second only to Draxo, the Colapiani chieftain I faced and slew the night Urso died. And, if I am being brutally honest, he was not unskilled, so it took me a bit longer than I would have liked to demonstrate to him, and the other officers of the Fourth who were watching, that I was still the best man with a gladius, not only in the Cohort, but in the Legion. Only once did he have me in any real difficulty, after he landed a hard thrust to my ribs that, even with it being a blunted wooden blade, and wearing armor and padded tunic, knocked the wind from my lungs and forced me on the defensive for the length of time it took me to catch my breath. His youth also helped him last longer than I would have liked, as I noticed that, even after catching my wind, his own breathing was always easier than mine. Nevertheless, I found myself standing over him after knocking him flat on his back with a combination of a feinted thrust that forced him to overcommit himself, followed by a shield punch that hit him square in the chest. The sight of the soles of his caligae, particularly given his own size, flying up in the air as he landed heavily on his back, a great whooshing sound as the air left his lungs from the impact, was quite gratifying, although the gasps and mutters of surprise from our onlookers was almost as good. Nevertheless, I was also strangely dissatisfied, not because I had not proven my superiority to the extent that I wished, but at myself, because before we began, I had promised myself that, short of shattering his arm, I was going to punish Volusenus the way I had Maxentius, now more than twenty years before. However, when the moment came, rather than prolong the bout so that I could inflict more pain on my opponent, I found I could not do it, choosing instead to end it in the manner I just described. Even more unsettling, at least as far as I was concerned, was that I did not feel nearly the sense of satisfaction I thought I would; indeed, there was a part of me that was disgusted with myself for having participated in this bout at all. Even as the others were pounding me on the back, laughing and joking about how easily I had put this young, haughty paid man in his place, I was struggling with the unexpected sense of worry I was feeling for Volusenus. Not physically; he had gotten to his feet quickly enough, and had even insisted on continuing, but Macer had put a stop to that immediately, and now he was standing in the corner, alone, stripping off the arm padding and untying the wicker faceguard from his helmet.

  “That’ll teach the young pup!” Vespillo laughed, and without thinking, I shot a glance over at Volusenus, but his back was to us.

  Macer, seeing me look over at my vanquished opponent, turned and walked over to Volusenus. The others were still chattering away, reliving the bout, such as it was, and asking me questions about certain moves I had made. I kept my eye, surreptitiously, on the Pilus Prior and Volusenus, and I saw the younger man shake his head at something Macer had said. While he did not raise his voice, I knew the look on Macer’s face, so I prepared myself for what I was certain was coming.

  “Pullus! Get over here,” Macer commanded, then added, “The rest of you as well.”

  We walked over; only after Macer took Volusenus’ arm and physically turned him about did the younger man face me, and I was again assailed by the uncomfortable feeling caused by the stab of sympathy I felt at his flaming cheeks, the shame of his defeat plain to see.

  “You two are going to shake hands, just like after every sparring bout,” Macer commanded.

  I thrust mine out, and while Volusenus hesitated, it was barely noticeable, or perhaps it was my imagination. Still, we clasped arms, and as we did, Macer said loudly enough for the rest to hear, “This is the first and last time we’re ever going to speak about this. And this stays in this Cohort. If I hear a whisper about this from anyone outside, I won’t stop until I found out who ran their mouths. And,” he finished with a grim, harsh
smile, “I’ll have Pullus here thrash you. And I won’t stop the bout. Does everyone understand me?”

  Not surprisingly, the nine other men all swore on the black stone that not a word would be heard about this. Somewhat surprisingly, they all proved true to their word; I suppose it is because of my hubris that I like to think that Macer’s threat had something to do with it.

  When I returned to my quarters, Alex was naturally still up and waiting for me, where he helped me out of my armor and the sweat-soaked tunic, then gave me a quick scraping. I had just changed into a fresh tunic and was looking forward to collapsing on my cot to get some rest when Balio knocked on my door, which Alex opened, since he was about to leave.

  “Centurion, you have a visitor.” Groaning, I was about to tell Balio to send them away, when he added, “It’s the Hastatus Posterior.”

  Alex and I exchanged a surprised glance, and I told Balio to see him in, while I hurried to sit behind my desk, wondering if this youngster was truly foolhardy enough to continue pursuing this matter. Volusenus entered, but this time, while he did not say anything, he acknowledged Alex with a nod, while my nephew stood there, looking at me questioningly. Waving at him to leave and shut the door, I pretended to have my attention on this, although I was surreptitiously eyeing Volusenus. And, I confess, I was happy to see him moving gingerly. Like the last time, when I motioned to the chair, he shook his head, which seemed to confirm my fear that this hardheaded equestrian rich boy was going to make both our lives more miserable.

  Instead, I was shocked when he said ruefully, “If I sit down, Princeps Prior, I don’t know if I can get back up again.”

  Before I could stop myself, this evoked a laugh, which caused his face to darken, then even more surprisingly, he actually chuckled; weakly, but it was unmistakable.

  “What can I do for you, Volusenus?”

  I tried to keep my tone light, but this seemed to agitate him, and he muttered something under his breath that I could not make out, then he burst out, “It’s just that I’ve never been beaten before! And,” I saw the knob of his throat bob, “you did it so easily.” As he shook his head for a second time, there was not a hint of the arrogant, haughty youngster who had marched into my office just a matter of a couple watches earlier. “I just…it’s…hard.”

  Before I could think about it, I was standing, and I circled around my desk to put a hand on his shoulder; frankly, I do not know which of us was more surprised at my gesture, but I was cautiously pleased that he did not jerk away. Sitting down on the edge of the desk, I regarded him for a moment, trying to think of the best way to approach this unexpected matter.

  Finally, I began, “I’m guessing you know who my grandfather was.”

  Nodding, he answered, “Of course. Titus Pullus, Primus Pilus of the Equestrians, one of Divus Julius’ favorites and one of the first Camp Prefects, named by the Princeps.”

  “That,” I agreed, “is the bare bones of it. But,” this time, I was the one who shook my head, mainly because this mention of my Avus stirred up so many memories, “he was more than that to me. He was my first real teacher about what…” I waved one hand around at our surroundings. “…this life is all about.” Pausing again – this time, I was trying to frame my thoughts – I then asked, “How often do you work the stakes?”

  “Now?” Volusenus shrugged. “Whenever I have time. Being a Centurion is new to me. Well…” He gave me an embarrassed grin, the first time I had seen him display this kind of emotion, and I experienced another unexpected stab of…something. Which, naturally, he was oblivious to, as he went on. “…you know that. But I suppose I wasn’t prepared for all the paperwork involved.” This did make me laugh in agreement, and he returned to the original question. “So, now how often am I at the stakes?” Shaking his head, he admitted, “Probably no more than twice a week, if that.”

  “My grandfather,” I told him, “and my father, for that matter, worked for at least a third of a watch a day, every day, working at the stakes on their forms. In fact,” I remembered, “my grandfather did that after he retired, up to the day he died. Naturally,” I did add, “it’s not always possible, like when we’re on campaign. But in camp?”

  “Do you do that?” Volusenus asked.

  “Yes,” I assured him. “It’s gotten to be such a habit that if I miss a day, I don’t feel right.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and acknowledged, “I can see how that would be the case.”

  “Your size is a blade that cuts both ways,” I continued, deciding on the fly to keep going, “and you’ve gotten accustomed to using that size to just overpower your opponents. Which will work…most of the time.” I paused for a moment, trying to decide how far down this road I could go before I pricked his already battered pride. As usual, I plunged ahead. “Until you run into someone like me.” Before he could say anything, I hurried on, “And, trust me on this, Volusenus, while you and I are unusual for Romans, I’ve seen more Germans than I can count that are at least as big. And,” I added, “even larger. And we’re not the only ones who train a lot.”

  I shut up then, watching the other man absorb this, and I saw that he was taking my words seriously, looking thoughtful.

  Still, I was not prepared when he asked abruptly, “Will you help me, Princeps Prior? Will you,” again, I saw the knot of his throat dip, “train with me so that I can move and fight the way you do?”

  This was so unexpected, given our previous interactions, I was at a loss for words, which he interpreted as a rebuff, because his face closed up, the head tilted again, and I realized that I had to speak quickly, or this moment would be gone.

  “I’d be happy to help you.” The words felt foreign as they left my mouth, but they clearly did not strike a false note, since Volusenus’ face expressed his relief. “But,” I warned him, “we both need to go to the Pilus Prior and tell him about this, because if he sees us in the square…”

  “He’ll bust us back to the ranks,” Volusenus finished, and again, the grin appeared, which completely changed his entire countenance and demeanor. “And you’re right. I’ve never been a ranker, and I don’t want to find out what it’s like.”

  Standing erect, I offered my arm, and this time he took it without any rancor or reluctance, and I told him, “We’ll start tomorrow.”

  His expression changed, slightly, which I understood when he asked, “Could it be the day after tomorrow? I’m a bit sore.”

  Laughing, I assured him that was fine, and he left me in my quarters, in a thoughtful mood.

  Somewhat to my irritation, Macer did not seem a bit surprised that Volusenus and I had reached this agreement, which was only partially explained when he observed, “It makes sense. You’re the only other man his size in the Cohort, and one of the only ones in the Legion. And,” he added, “you’re better with a gladius than any of those other giants.”

  This certainly made sense, yet there was something in Macer’s manner, a certain air of smug satisfaction that not only told me there was more to his words, but rankled me deeply. Regardless, I made no comment, other than to say that we would be sure that our training would not impact either of our Centuries. As he had requested, we began sparring two days after our bout, and fairly quickly, I realized something that was not only unexpected, but was quite pleasing; I was enjoying myself immensely. Not, I must clarify, for the reason one might think, that it gave me an opportunity to reassert my superiority over Volusenus, but because he was so eager to learn, and, frankly, a quick study. It was perhaps a month after we began, when the frost was becoming a daily occurrence, before I sensed that our relationship had reached a point where I felt I could ask a question that had been nagging at me.

  “You know,” I began, “you clearly have a natural talent for fighting.” This clearly pleased him, so I was encouraged to continue. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but what I remember is that your father never served under the standard.”

  “No,” Volusenus answered readily enough, “he didn’t.
” Suddenly, he broke his gaze away from me, studying his feet, and he continued, “He wasn’t particularly happy that I wanted to serve in the Legions. He expected me to take over his business.”

  Honestly, I was struck by this, recalling a recent letter from my father, which prompted me to say, “Well, that’s not surprising, really. I have,” even now, some years later, I had to amend, “actually, I had three brothers.” At this, he looked up at me as I went on, “And you know about my family history. But not too long ago, I got a letter from my father, who was a Quartus Pilus Prior like Macer until,” the bitterness I still felt surprised me, “he lost his leg. Anyway, he was telling me that my two younger brothers, Gaius and Septimus, have made it clear they have no intention of joining the Legions. Not like me. Or,” I had to take a breath, “my brother Sextus.” Shaking my head, I finished, “The point is that sons don’t always follow in their father’s footsteps. And that’s not a bad thing.”

  Volusenus seemed to consider this, nodding thoughtfully. Then, he asked, “Where’s your brother who’s serving? Is he in the 1st?”

  Despite knowing he meant nothing personal with his question, nevertheless, I felt a deep, acute stab deep in my gut, which I tried to ignore as I answered flatly, “No. He was in the 8th. And he’s dead now.”

  Volusenus’ expression conveyed his embarrassment, and he mumbled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No reason you should,” I answered him, hoping this would be enough.

  For a moment, he seemed as if he was going to pursue it, but I suppose he saw my face; instead, he asked, “How did your father take your brothers who don’t want to serve in the Legions?”

  Shrugging, I answered, “The way he looks at it, he had two sons who served Rome, so he’s satisfied.”

  “I’m an only child,” Volusenus said glumly. “So my father had different ideas for my future. But,” he shook his head, “as long as I can remember, all I’ve ever wanted is to serve in the Legions.”