Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “What about your mother?” I asked, only slightly curious, if I am being honest.

  The look he gave me was somewhat veiled, which I understood when he admitted, “Actually, it was my mother who gave me the idea about serving in the Legions.” He sighed, then gave a shrug similar to the one I had just given. “She’s always seemed to know that I’m not cut out for being in business like my father.”

  We talked no more about it, resuming our sparring session, and very quickly, I forgot the conversation until recently.

  The Legions went into their winter routine as Germanicus finished his Consulship, and all we had to show for this campaign season was a bit more than two dozen men dead, spread over the Legion, all of them in ambushes like the one in which I lost three men, a few burned villages, and a frustratingly small number of dead Germans. While I cannot say we had become complacent, we had definitely become accustomed to an atmosphere of almost constant rumors swirling around Ubiorum, whispers of secret pacts between tribes who wanted to unseat Arminius, who still held sway over the confederation of Germans. That his grasp of power was tenuous was no secret; the evidence was the fact that, now a couple months more than three years after Varus’ defeat, we still had not been inundated with a Germanic horde, rolling across the Rhenus to slaughter every Roman they found. I can only imagine how foolish the citizens of Rome felt, given the level of panic we heard had infected the populace, to the point where there were barricades thrown up around the Subura and slaves were offered manumission in exchange for serving in a scratch military force. Although this fever had subsided, we in the Rhenus Legions were still dealing with the effects of those days, namely in the rabble we had been forced to fill our depleted ranks with, like Pusio. Over the previous three years, he had learned, albeit the hard way, to at least be circumspect in his seemingly never-ending attempts to incite his comrades into a state of almost constant discontent. If there was one positive thing I could say about Pusio, it would be that he could take a beating; I know this to be the case because, when a thrashing at the hands of his Sergeant, then by Structus did not seem to get across to him his activities would not be tolerated, I took my turn, not once but on three separate occasions. The last time, my frustration got the better of me, and I broke two of his ribs, injuring him enough that he could not perform his duties, although he was wise enough to insist that he had fallen in the bathhouse when he was put on the sick and injured list. And, while it pains me to admit it, I allowed him to lounge on the list for a few days longer than was necessary for him to recover, which made him something of a hero among his comrades. Any man who is able to somehow subvert the regulations, escape regular duties that the men consider onerous or unpleasant, and in myriad other ways cheat the entity known as “the army” is destined to become an admired figure within his Century, and even by the Cohort. This was something I forgot on occasion, so I must take my share of responsibility with creating Pusio as a figure of admiration, one who held a considerable amount of sway over men who had grievances of their own.

  Those grievances, it also pains me to say, were legitimate; for three years after the Varus disaster, there were no extended leaves allowed by any of the Legions of the Army of the Rhenus, even in the case where a man’s parents died and his presence was required for the disposition of the will. This extended to officers, both in the Optionate and Centurionate, and it had a direct impact on me as well, because I received a letter from my brother Gaius in Arelate, who was now in his mid-twenties, that my father, Gaius Porcinianus Pullus, had finally died, much like my Avus, peacefully, in his sleep. Normally, even when leaves were technically restricted, if a man was willing to pay enough, those rules could be overlooked; these were not normal times, and I did not even attempt to do so, mainly because I had seen both Cornutus, in my own Century, and the Quintus Pilus Prior Clepsina have a similar situation, and they were both denied, despite offering the Legate a hefty sum to go home. Next to my Avus, I can think of no other man who deserved to die in such a manner, at peace and in his bed. I would like to think that, since it happened with the first Titus Pullus, and my father, perhaps I will be lucky enough to make old bones and die in bed. Somehow, while I have never given it much thought, the few times that I have, such as immediately after reading Gaius’ letter, I cannot picture this as a likely fate for me, though neither can I say why I feel this way. Nevertheless, knowing that I could not go home to pay my respects to my father sat no better with me than it had with Cornutus, Clepsina, and the men of the ranks who suffered a similar loss. This was one thing; Augustus’ decision to extend enlistments to twenty years because of the Varus disaster was the decision that aroused the ire of most of the men, even among the Centurionate. Frankly, it did not matter to me all that much, if only because I had set as my goal long before of spending as much time under the standard as Titus Pullus, but that did not mean I was not sympathetic to the complaints of men who, thinking they were nearing the end of their enlistment, were told that they had four more years. This was bad enough, but as loath as I am to give credence to any complaints by men like Pusio, their plight was even worse, since they had been pressed into service because of the Varus disaster, then only after they were under the standard were they told they were expected to fulfill a complete enlistment. Then, less than two years into their term, they had another four years added to it. Augustus did not make many errors in judgment, but his decision to apply this term of service on every man in the Legions, and not only to new enlistees, who would have at least known what they were signing up for, was one of his worst, and I was far from alone in that opinion. Although none of us ever heard any confirmation, it was also accepted among us that what was behind Augustus’ decision as far as the men of the special dilectus was to remove some of the more troublesome elements from Rome, more or less permanently. One reason for this belief was the relatively high number of men of the equestrian order; granted, they were not the wealthiest of the class, but in the months after their arrival, Centurions who had been stuck with these men who had connections to someone in the city made discreet inquiries, which was how we learned that every one of these men, including Pusio, had been agitating for any number of reasons. Regardless of the reasons, they were with us, and we had become accustomed to their presence, although a fair number of them had been winnowed from the ranks in a number of ways over the previous three years. Most of this latter category either fell ill, like in the plague that claimed Macula, or were one of the sprinkling of men who were killed in what little action we did see during this time period, and if I was a suspicious man, I might find it peculiar how they seemed to be a disproportionate number of the casualties. Only after Macer pointed this fact out to me, I must add; he was also the one who noticed how many of these men were also involved in the inevitable brawls out in town, and how few of them were the victors in these combats, usually between men in different Cohorts, or since we had been joined by the 20th, a different Legion. Once I gave it some thought, I surmised that, when it came to the events outside camp, this was an example of how the rankers in the Legions handle their own problems, dispensing justice as they see fit, and in a manner that we Centurions and Optios could suspect was more than met the eye, yet we could never prove it. Looking back, I believe that the officers were guilty of becoming complacent; while it was true that there had been this mood of resentment, it always remained just subdued enough that, as the weeks turned into months, and then into years, we learned to turn a blind eye to all but the most egregious examples. There was some good news coming in our future, though, which also helped keep the lid on the boiling pot a bit longer.

  On the Kalends of Januarius, the Centurions of both Legions were summoned to the forum, where the Legate made an announcement that, for one Centurion in particular, was welcome news.

  “The Princeps has named Germanicus Julius Caesar as the Praetor of all of Germania and Tres Galliae, with Proconsular imperium.” His tone was flat, giving nothing away in terms of his personal feel
ings on the matter that he was now outranked. “He will be residing in Colonia Copa Munatius Felix, although I am sure that during his duties, he will be visiting us here in Ubiorum, as well as the Legions in Vetera and Mogontiacum.”

  Not unexpectedly, this created a ripple of comment through the ranks, while Macer elbowed me in the ribs and said, “I bet you’re happy about that. Maybe he’ll request you to be his bodyguard. Or something,” he added, which caused me to give him a sharp glance, but his face did not give me any hint of his meaning.

  It had been quite some time since I had had any communication either with Germanicus or Tiberius, for that matter, through Dolabella, of course, but I was quite thankful for seemingly being forgotten, although I was also aware that Macer had long harbored suspicions that I played some sort of role for Tiberius.

  “No more happy than anyone else by the sound of it,” was all I said, and he did not pursue the matter.

  With this piece of news, we dispersed, back to our areas and the realities of the mundane and constantly restive atmosphere of our men. On our way back, Macer and the rest of his Centurions walked in a group, and after a brief discussion of the news about Germanicus, as we had been doing for months, we ended up on the topic that was foremost in our collective minds and concerns.

  “I think that we need to get stuck in to those fucking Germans, once and for all,” Vespillo said, as emphatic as he always was when expressing this opinion.

  When he had first made this pronouncement, I had dismissed it, although a fair amount of this came from my personal feelings towards the man, who was still rankled that Macer was Pilus Prior. By this time, it had now been more than six years, and Vespillo still resisted Macer’s authority, much like my Avus’ old nemesis Celer when he took command of the Second Cohort of the Equestrians, which had done more to alter my original opinion of Vespillo than any other single factor. However, as loath as I was to admit it now, I had begun to believe that, in this, Vespillo had the rights of it.

  “Well,” this from Philus, “I certainly haven’t heard anything that would suggest we’re going to be marching. At least,” he added, “as an army.”

  “It would still be at least four months before that could even happen,” Cornutus put in glumly, indulging in his natural tendency towards pessimism and viewing matters in the worst light possible.

  As he said this, I was reminded of something Macer had said about Cornutus, and I was forced to look in the other direction to avoid him seeing my smirk.

  “You could give that man an amphora of honey, and he would empty it out on the ground, certain there was a rat turd in there somewhere.”

  Still, like Vespillo, he was only speaking the truth, no matter how gloomy it may have been. As odd as it may sound, I agreed with the others that the best thing to quell this growing discontent would be going on campaign, with the entire army, and closing with Arminius’ confederation of tribes once and for all. Not only would it give the men an enemy to focus on that was not Rome, in the person of the Princeps, just based on the law of averages, it would perform a further winnowing of those malcontents who spent more time complaining than time at the stakes. Speaking of the stakes, I noticed that, while all of the Fourth Cohort Centurions expressed an opinion, Volusenus seemed content to wait for the rest of us to speak, then when he did open his mouth, it was to essentially proclaim that he was willing to follow the lead of our Pilus Prior. By this point in time, I had spent a fair amount of time with the younger man, and aside from what I considered a natural tendency towards haughtiness, and the belief that he was superior not just by virtue of his size and strength, but his ancestry, I had come to think that he had the potential to be a good, perhaps great Centurion. Working in his favor was that he had discerned the manner in which Gillo had been running his Century, and had put a stop to it in a way that left us wondering, and Gillo with his fair share of bruises, although the Optio refused to comment on how he came by them.

  Although Germanicus did go to Colonia Copa Munatius Felix, he was not there more than three months before moving to Ubiorum. At first, this was met with something close to jubilation, because it was instantly assumed that his reason for doing so was to prepare us for campaign. However, no orders issued from the Praetorium to begin the work we knew had to be done in order to make the Legions ready to march. Through Alex, who pumped his friends among the clerks in the headquarters building, we learned that Germanicus had radically different priorities than avenging Varus, at least at this point in time.

  “He’s busy conducting a census of all the Gallic provinces,” I informed Macer within moments of learning this from Alex.

  Macer was surprised, commenting, “That doesn’t seem like something he’d be involved with directly.”

  I had thought this as well, which was why I had pressed Alex, so I replied, “Apparently, he’s directing the effort personally.” As we sat there, sipping our wine, I tried to think of something, finally coming up with, “I think the last time a census was conducted of the provinces was by Germanicus’ father. But,” I shrugged, “I could be wrong.”

  Macer let out a low whistle.

  “That would be, what, twenty years ago?” he ventured.

  “More than that,” I assured him. “It’s at least twenty-five.”

  Macer considered, then said with a shrug, “Then I suppose it’s time. And, given how fast these Gauls and Germans breed, I can only imagine how many more people are there.”

  “And they all owe the Princeps tribute,” I reminded Macer, “which means some of it will come our way.”

  “You mean they owe Rome a tax for the protection we provide them, and all the other good things we bring to these barbarians, don’t you?”

  If it had been someone other than Macer, I would have taken this as a warning that I had overstepped and was now treading in dangerous territory.

  Instead, I just grinned and replied, “One man’s tax is another man’s tribute. All I care about is some of that money trickles down to us.”

  While I was being deliberately lighthearted, Macer was not fooled, understanding the real concern I was feeling about the state of the Legion, which I knew he shared, signaled by his own grin fading, followed by a heavy sigh.

  “I’ll give an offering to make it so,” he said soberly. We sat in silence for a moment, and I could see he was considering something, which he finally articulated by asking, “If we don’t march this year, what do you think is going to happen?”

  While the question was not unexpected, I did not particularly want to answer, if only because I knew my opinion would distress my Pilus Prior and friend.

  “I think,” I tried to be careful with my words, “that if we don’t march, it’s a virtual certainty that there’s going to be some sort of trouble with the rankers. I mean,” I added hastily, “more than what they’re already giving us.”

  “You mean a mutiny?” Macer’s voice was hushed, as it should have been when using this word. “You really think that’s a possibility?”

  “If you had asked me a few months ago, I would have said it was unlikely,” I answered. “But now?” Shaking my head, I finished, “I think it’s probably going to happen unless we march.”

  It was barely more than a week later when it seemed as if our collective prayers were answered, but I was still wrong.

  “The Germans have crossed the Rhenus!”

  Alex had burst into my quarters, having run all the way from the Praetorium, where he had been dropping off the monthly ration request. Looking up from the schedule I was working on for the coming week, I saw he was not only breathless, his eyes were alight with the kind of eagerness that reminded me that not just men under the standard look forward to the idea of going on campaign.

  Nevertheless, I was not quite as willing to get excited, simply because this had happened before, which I reminded him, but he dismissed this by saying, “I already heard the Legate’s chief clerk talk about what needed to be done to march as quickly as possible.”r />
  That brought me to my feet, and taking Alex by the arm, I took him to Macer’s quarters, where he repeated what he had heard. Macer knew and trusted Alex, but he was, if not doubtful, at least cautious about whether or not he would rouse the Cohort to make preparations.

  “We did that once before,” he pointed out, “and we didn’t march. And,” he reminded me, although there was no need, “it caused us more problems than it was worth.”

  This was true, certainly; several months before, word had come from one of the northern settlements that a large horde of Germans had swarmed across the river. That time, it had actually been Macer’s clerk and Alex’s best friend Lucco, who had come hurrying from the Praetorium after overhearing an almost identical report. The one difference turned out to be the crucial one, since Lucco had been present when a near-hysterical courier had burst into the building, blurting out this lurid tale of rampant slaughter by what he swore was the entire German host. Thinking to get ahead of the frenzied chaos that is a Legion marching on short notice, and more importantly, placing us at the head of the line at the Quaestorium, Macer gave the order to start preparing, and we Centurions worked the men like dogs, through the night. When the morning dawned, and we paraded the men, stumbling with exhaustion but ready to march, only then did we learn that new information had arrived after the first courier, and that the “horde” of Germans turned out to be another warband of perhaps a hundred men. More importantly, they had spent less than a full day on our side of the Rhenus, retreating back across the river shortly before sundown. The only thing that saved the Fourth Cohort from being the object of mockery and ridicule by the rest of the Legion, which is the favorite sport of Legionaries, is that all but two Cohorts had behaved in the same manner. More importantly, it gave the men something to complain about, and the week after this incident saw the Centurions and Optios working even harder than normal, meting out punishment, both official and unofficial, before the men lapsed back into obedience; a sullen, resentful obedience, but this was one of those times we looked the other way. This time, however, was different, which Macer discerned, so that when we began grabbing our Centuries from what they had been doing to start preparing to march, the Fourth Cohort, along with the Second, Third, Sixth, and Eighth were able to report to Sacrovir that they were ready to march whenever Germanicus commanded two days later. More importantly, at least to me, was the identity of the Legate who would be commanding us, the 1st and 20th, in the field, and I learned it from Germanicus himself. We happened to run into each other by chance, as he was exiting the Praetorium and I was on the way to the Quaestorium in the next building, but despite clearly being in a hurry, he stopped and called my name, a broad grin on his face.