Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “No.” He glanced down at the bandage. “Honestly, I don’t remember when that happened.” He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, with a furrowed brow that seemed familiar to me, then went on, “I was just…angry, although I can’t say exactly why. Oh,” he allowed with a slight wave of his hand, “I suppose I was just so excited since this was my first engagement.”

  Volusenus stopped then, ostensibly to sip from his cup, but I sensed that he was at a loss, which was what prompted my decision to speak.

  “Let me tell you about something that happened to me.” And I went on to relate the times I had experienced what I had come to believe, and still do, was a divine fit of rage, passed on to me by the first Titus Pullus, starting with when I was a boy and I split the dwarf slave Spartacus’ skull, to the time against the Marcomanni when, for the first time, I was actually able to summon this madness on command.

  I talked for a fair amount of time as he listened intently, while I included everything I could think of or recall from those moments. His attention on me never wavered, and while I did not look in his direction, I felt his eyes on me as I talked. When I was finished, he said nothing for a span of heartbeats that seemed to stretch out forever.

  Finally, he said, “That sounds like what happened to me.” Thinking about it more, he added, “And, now that you mention it, I do remember that I had gotten so far ahead of the Century that the Germans we were after must have seen me isolated, so they turned on me. And,” he shrugged, “that enraged me for some reason, so I suppose instead of either waiting for the men or running back to them, I went after them.” When I did not respond once he finished, he finally asked, “Why do you think that happens to both of us?”

  Although I had thought about the cause of these bouts at length, this was the first time I had to contemplate the idea that there was someone else, other than the first Titus Pullus, who experienced anything like this.

  Now, I thought for a moment, then offered, “It clearly has something to do with our size. My Av…my grandfather, Titus Pullus, experienced the same thing. Although,” I allowed as I added, “he wasn’t really my grandfather, he was my uncle. My paternal grandmother’s brother. He adopted my father in his will.”

  Volusenus considered this for a moment, then shook his head, saying only, “If everything I’ve heard about his size is true, I don’t think it matters whether he was your true grandfather or your uncle. Your size obviously came from him. But,” his face shadowed, “I have no idea about where mine came from.”

  “Your father isn’t a large man? Or his father?” I asked, to which he shook his head. “What about your mother’s side? Have you met her family?”

  “My mother’s parents are dead,” he answered shortly, in such a way that I sensed this was a sensitive subject, so I let it alone.

  Returning to the larger topic, I said something that I had never uttered before, not to Alex, not to my dead brother Sextus, not even to Giulia more than twenty years earlier, “I think that, being our size, we’ve become used to being better at…” I searched for the right word, finally settling on just waving my arm in an encompassing gesture, “…all of this, especially the fighting. And when someone challenges us in some way,” I shrugged, then finished, “we get angry.”

  “‘Angry’?” Volusenus commented dryly, one eyebrow lifted in a mannerism that reminded me of the way Sextus would react to something I said. “That’s certainly one way to put it, but I think it’s more than that. I mean,” he gave a self-conscious laugh, “I don’t have the best temper under the best of conditions, so I get angry if my meal is cold, or if one of the men drops one of his javelins when we’re on the march. But this?” He paused for a long, long period, and I had just opened my mouth when he resumed talking. “What if it happens again? But not in a fight? What if I just lose control because one of the men has made me so angry I go into this…rage?”

  “Honestly,” I replied immediately, “I don’t think that you have to worry about that. From what you’ve described, it sounds like the same thing that happens to me, and it only has happened in moments of extreme danger.” I gave a laugh, hoping that it did not sound forced. “And I doubt that Publius losing his baltea right before inspection can be considered extreme danger.”

  “No,” he agreed readily enough, then gave me a grin. “At least, not for me.”

  We shared a quiet laugh, two Centurions sharing one of the many small ordeals we must endure, the clumsiness and stupidity of some of the men we are responsible for, but the smile faded from his face, and he peered down into his cup, as if he would find some answers there.

  “Am I cursed?” he asked abruptly, his voice almost a whisper, and he looked up to meet my gaze. “By the gods, I mean?”

  Honestly, of all the things Gnaeus Volusenus said to me that night, this was the one that pierced my heart, as I was suddenly transported back to a time roughly three decades earlier, when I asked my father this very question, after I had slain Spartacus; I was ten years old.

  Perhaps that was why I told him with as much sincerity as I could muster, “No, you’re not cursed. In fact, what my father told me, about my grandfather, and me, is that Titus Pullus believed he had been given a gift by Mars and Bellona, but he said that it’s a gift that comes with a price. And,” I experienced what felt like a lump of lead suddenly threatening to clog my throat, as a rush of memories came flooding into my mind, but I forced myself to continue, “that price can be a heavy one. Trust me when I tell you that I’ve found this to be more true than even my grandfather might have known. But, if you need it, it will come to you, and it will probably keep your men, and you, alive.”

  We did not speak much after that, both of us content to sip from our cups, then Volusenus rose, and thanked me for the meal and hospitality, leaving me in a thoughtful mood, recalling moments and events that I had not considered for some time.

  As expected, we returned to Ubiorum, whereupon Germanicus resumed his duties as Praetor and we settled back into life in garrison. Under normal circumstances, our foray against the Germans would not have been considered worthy of being called a campaign, and our engagement a true battle, but because of who was leading us, both of these conditions were considered met, not that I am complaining since these are entered into the record of every participant. Although he was not awarded a triumph, or even triumphal ornaments, much was made of Germanicus’ victory, including coins being struck, and a statue of him was erected in Blariacum in thanks that they had been spared because of our intervention. We had declared him Imperator earlier in the day of my talk with Volusenus, but by common consent, we had done this in the camp, before returning to Ubiorum; none of us wanted to be indirectly responsible for Germanicus running afoul of the Princeps. I had even more reason than most, because my interactions with Tiberius and his treatment of Germanicus four years earlier had convinced me that the older man held his adopted son in suspicion that Germanicus coveted Tiberius’ spot as presumptive heir to the Princeps. Returning to his task of ordering Gaul, I only caught occasional glimpses of him, usually when he was leaving Ubiorum to travel west to one of the towns or cities in one of the Gallic provinces. The rest of the year passed in this manner, with no further incursions by Germans across the Rhenus, so that soon enough, the temporary suspension of the state of discontent on the part of the men ceased and the grumbling resumed. I call it “grumbling”; it was much more than that, and it got worse, seemingly by the day. The number of brawls between men of the 1st and 20th out in town almost doubled, and while Germanicus was not one to sentence men to floggings, or worse, executions, lightly, from my viewpoint, he was forced into that position by the actions of the men. Which, not surprisingly, only made matters worse, reminding me of something that I not only read in my Avus’ account, specifically during his time in Alexandria with Divus Julius and a situation with which he had to contend, but my father had tried to get across to me when he realized I was determined to live a life under the standard.

 
“Rankers don’t care about fair,” he had told me on numerous occasions. “They care about whatever makes their lives easier or puts coins in their purses. The only time they care about fairness is if it benefits them in some way. Otherwise…”

  He seldom finished this thought with anything other than a shrug, and I had read as much in Titus Pullus’ words to keep this in mind, even before I saw it proven with my own eyes. This was one of those occasions; men knew they were in the wrong by getting into a fight out in town, yet they, and more importantly, their comrades were every bit as angry at receiving punishment for it as if it had been unwarranted. Any action by Centurions and Optios, whether it be on the books or with the vitus, was beginning to be viewed as an abuse of our authority, and not just by men like Pusio. One day, I overheard Clustuminus talking to Caninas, and if I had not recognized his voice, I would have sworn that it was Pusio or Trigeminus from the Fifth Section doing the talking. What made it doubly shocking was that I had been preparing for the time when Structus was promoted, because he not only had served long enough as Optio, but he was deserving of it, and Clustuminus was my choice for Optio, although I did not share that with either of them. Hearing such talk from one of my most solid, dependable men shook me to my core, yet when I brought it up with Macer, all he could do was commiserate.

  “I’ve got the same thing going on in my Century,” he had told me, “and so does everyone else.”

  Perhaps the only positive note, at least for me, was that the expression of discontent in my Century was confined to being verbal in nature; the only other Century of the Fourth who could claim the same was the Sixth, and I did not then, nor do I now believe that this was a coincidence, especially after Volusenus’ episode in the forest. Speaking of Volusenus, shortly after we returned to Ubiorum, Macer invited me to an evening meal, which was not uncommon; what was unusual was the topic.

  “How worried should I be about what happened to Volusenus?” he asked me bluntly, and I remember thinking, at least when I talked to Volusenus, I waited until we had finished eating. “Is he likely to have something like that happen again, but here in camp?”

  I did not reply immediately, mainly because I was caught by surprise, not as much by Macer’s question, but the anger that it stirred in me, although it took a moment for me to realize why.

  Instead of answering him directly, after a silence, I said, “How much have you heard about me? I mean,” I saw the look of confusion cross his face, “as far as before I was assigned to the 1st?”

  He regarded me curiously, but he replied readily enough, “Just that you had had some sort of trouble when you were with the 8th that had something to do with a rebellion.”

  “Anything else?” I pressed.

  Now his face shadowed, and this time, he clearly hesitated, admitting, “Well, I may have heard some…things. About a couple of fights where you were involved.” When I did not say anything, he added reluctantly, “Something about you killing a chieftain of one of the tribes when your Primus Pilus was killed.”

  “And?”

  Shrugging, he looked away as he said, “And not much more, really. Just that there seem to be times when you…lose your head,” he finished lamely.

  “Did your father ever tell you about my grandfather? Did your father ever see him do anything that sounds like what you’re describing?”

  “No,” Macer answered, then after a pause, he allowed, “but he heard stories about him.”

  “Well,” I told Macer firmly, “without knowing the specific details, what I can tell you is that there’s probably a bit of truth in them. I,” I amended, “we, as in my grandfather and me, have experienced…moments in a battle where, as you said, we lose our heads. Except, we don’t really lose our wits. I know what’s happening, but it’s as if,” I searched for the proper description, then remembering what I had come up with for myself, continued, “whoever I’m fighting is suddenly encased in honey and they’re moving so slowly that I can see what they’re going to do before they do it. And,” I added, “it’s not that I don’t know I’m in great danger; I just don’t care.” Macer absorbed this, but I was not finished making my point. “Now, how many times have you seen me behave like I’ve lost my wits?”

  “None,” Macer agreed, then added with a faint grin, “and I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Considering that it only happens when I and the men around me are in real danger of losing a fight, neither do I. But,” I continued, “I’ve talked to Volusenus, and it sounds exactly like what I’ve experienced. So, if I haven’t suddenly started chopping Publius,” I almost had said Pusio, but caught myself in time, “into bloody bits because he dropped his shield by this point, I think you’re safe. From both of us.”

  This made him laugh, and he said, “Fair enough.”

  He moved on to another topic, yet while I listened, it was with only half my mind. The other half was worried that, if Volusenus found out about this conversation, he would view it as a betrayal of confidence, although why I cared all that much was beyond me, other than, of course, because it might affect the Cohort in some way. How that might be, I had no idea, and I soon pushed it from my mind.

  Over the years since I have begun this account, I recall mentioning how the matter in which time passes is a somewhat unusual, strange thing, where there are days that seem to last forever, and other times when you seemingly blink, and a year has passed. Such was the case with the rest of that year with Germanicus as Praetor, as the Legions continued to perform as they always did during a time of relative peace, on the surface, at least. Just like the current of the Rhenus that is constantly flowing past the docks of what has now become a good-sized town, almost a small city here in Ubiorum, with the quelling of this one crossing by the Germans, the days resumed flowing past in a routine fashion. Oh, there were punishments, and promotions; men were broken back to the ranks, and fines were levied. We still made regular forays across the Rhenus, but the defeat we had dealt the Sugambri and Tencteri seemed to have sent a message to the other tribes, and they restricted their activities accordingly. Speaking of Germans, Arminius was still the ostensible leader of a united clan of German tribes, but such was the political intrigue, secret dealing, and betrayal among those tribes that he simply could not seem to bring them together in the manner he had with Varus. Going into the year of the Consulships of Sextus Pompeius and Sextus Appuleius, really the only notable thing was that, not only had the Princeps extended Germanicus’ tenure as Praetor, he was also awarded Propraetor authority, whereupon he left Ubiorum to resume the interrupted census of Gaul he had been conducting. Then, without any warning, our entire world was turned upside down.

  Chapter Five

  “Augustus is dead!”

  Even writing the words, some time after the event, I see my hand shake slightly. How, I wonder, can someone such as myself, a somewhat educated man but no writer by any stretch, accurately describe to you, dear reader, what this cataclysmic event meant and the impact it had? Not just on a grand political and diplomatic scale, since he embodied Rome itself, but on the everyday lives of not just Roman citizens, but anywhere Rome has a presence? Truly, I am sitting here, at my desk, at a loss as to how I could even begin to describe the turmoil and upheaval that began, almost within watches after Gaius Octavianus Caesar Divi Fili Augustus breathed his last. I suppose I will start with the bare bones of it: he had been traveling, Tiberius with him, to Nola, when he took ill. He stopped there, while Tiberius continued to Illyricum, preparing to take command of the Legions there for another campaign. Apparently, he initially recovered from a bilious fever, then took a dramatic turn for the worse; of course, this was guaranteed to engender all manner of speculation that the Princeps had been helped along by Livia, since he had finally officially named Tiberius as his heir. Personally, I did not believe that, though it was not because I did not think Livia capable of such an act, but simply put, the man was seventy-five years old, closing in on seventy-six. Honestly, because of my intimate know
ledge of the Princeps, albeit second-hand through the eyes of my Avus, I was astonished that he lived as long as he did, and when I met the man for the first and only time in my life, where he essentially coerced me into serving him in the matter of trapping my former Tribune Claudius in intriguing against Augustus by writing the man letters, the contents of which were dictated to me by the Princeps, through Dolabella, of course, I thought he would be dead long since. That meeting had been more than a decade before, and I was certain that he could count his time on this side of the river in months once I laid eyes on him.

  As far as how and when I learned of this momentous event, it was actually out in town, where Macer and the other Centurions of the Fourth save Vespillo were taking a rare night off, spending it at our customary spot for all men of the Fourth Cohort, a place down by the river named The Dancing Faun. The bearer of the message was, considering the nature of the news, understandably excited, having burst in, flinging the door open and shouting what I have described, wild-eyed and, in a voice tight with the tension and fear that was completely appropriate, given the enormity of what he was relaying. If he said anything after this, I have no way of knowing because of the eruption of noise as men, almost as if the order had been given by our Primus Pilus, came to our feet, knocking over chairs, with cups crashing to the floor, shattering and leaving their contents spread all over the wooden planks, while men shouted their dismay, grief, and if my ears were any judge, fear. A fear which, I would argue, was not only understandable, but was warranted, given that no man currently present had even been alive for a time when the Princeps did not rule all. For some reason, my first thoughts went to my father, who had died just the year before, but honestly, it was my Avus who I missed the most, and while I did not say anything aloud about it, I resolved that, given the first opportunity, I would consult the scrolls that are my most treasured possession. I think my reasoning was and still is sound; the only event that could compare to the death of Augustus was the death of his adoptive father, Divus Julius, and the first Titus Pullus had lived through all that had transpired from this event. At that moment, however, there was no time, as Macer had to practically shout to be heard over the uproar.