by R. W. Peake
“The Primus Pilus has called a meeting of all Centurions at the end of the watch,” he told us without preamble. “So we don’t have much time.” Pausing for a moment, as if to collect his thoughts, he finally shook his head in exasperation, asking plaintively, “What do we do?”
“We stripe any bastard who behaves the way they did tonight,” Vespillo answered immediately. “We’re not fucking rabble, we’re not the mob in Rome. We’re in the fucking Legions!”
When he was finished, he glared around at the rest of us, as if daring anyone to challenge him, and I exchanged a wryly amused glance with Macer, knowing that at least part of this display by Vespillo was calculated. Whether it was because he was guessing that this would be what Macer planned on saying, or words to that effect, or he wanted to stake out an opposing position to what he thought our Pilus Prior would take was impossible to know. What had remained constant was that Vespillo still chafed and fumed, privately of course, about being passed over for a position that he viewed was rightfully his, until Macer showed up as a paid man. And, if I am being brutally honest, at first I was quite sympathetic to Vespillo’s plight; he had been second in command of the Fourth Cohort for some time, and like me had worked his way up through the ranks and not purchased his posting. However, Marcus Macer had long before proven himself to be worthy of leading our Cohort, and from my viewpoint, Vespillo was only making himself more miserable by continually harping on the injustice that had been done to him, although I cared less about that than I did about him inflicting his sour disposition on the rest of us.
“Under any other circumstances,” Macer answered him, “I’d agree with you, Vespillo. But,” he turned his attention to the rest of us, asking, “have any of you seen anything like what happened tonight?”
Truly, it was not as much a question as a statement, since he knew fully well that none of us had. The breakdown we had all witnessed this night, even taking into account the extraordinary circumstances that came with the announcement of the death of Augustus, was unprecedented, but even recognizing this, I confess I felt a bit smug about the fact that, relatively speaking, the Third had been well behaved, resorting to only some fist-shaking and shouting. Thinking of this made me glance over at Volusenus, and he must have been thinking along the same lines since he met my eyes and gave a grin.
“I’m glad you think this is amusing, Volusenus,” Macer snapped, but like a guilty schoolboy, before our Pilus Prior could look over at me, I wiped my own smirk from my face so that when he did, I did my best to look as solemn as a Vestal Virgin, “but unless you have a suggestion, I’d caution you against taking this lightly. You,” Macer finished, “are the least experienced Centurion in the Cohort. Maybe that’s why you don’t view this as being as serious as it is.”
Chastised, Volusenus wisely said nothing, just dropping his head to stare at his feet as Macer held his glare for a matter of a couple heartbeats before returning his attention to the rest of us. Once he did, I caught Volusenus scowling at me out of the corner of my eye, yet I did not feel the slightest bit guilty, and if I could have gotten away with it, I would have shot him another grin. Nevertheless, despite this moment of levity, I was also as worried as the rest of the Centurions.
“Pullus?” Macer looked at me. “We’ve heard from the Pilus Posterior. What does the Princeps Prior think? Any ideas?” Then, proving he had been paying attention, he added, “Your Century, and,” he nodded his head towards Volusenus, “the Sixth were the only ones who didn’t completely fall apart.”
“While I agree with Vespillo in spirit,” I answered carefully, “I also agree that we can’t afford to crack down too hard on the men.” As expected, this produced a snort of disgust on Vespillo’s part, which I ignored as I continued, “I think a lot depends on the next few days. There’s no way either Caecina or Germanicus, once he returns, can ignore what happened, and while it’s possible that either one of them could order us to crack some heads and stripe some backs bloody, I don’t think they will.”
“That’s because he’s soft,” Vespillo sneered. “He always has been. He’s more concerned with being loved by these bastards than with being feared!”
While Vespillo could have been referring to the Legate, we all knew he was not, and this did cause me to turn and regard Vespillo, eyeing him coldly as I struggled to maintain my composure, but I finally answered, “Germanicus may be a lot of things, Vespillo, but soft isn’t one of them. You weren’t there with him at Raetinium, were you?” While posed as a question, it was not, and as I intended, it shut Vespillo’s mouth; my point made, I turned back to Macer. “If I’m being completely honest,” I continued, “I don’t see where Germanicus has much choice but to address the men’s grievances, because I’m certain that the Legate won’t. Although,” I did think to add, “ultimately, it will be the decision of Tiberius, since he’s now the man in charge.”
I could tell just by the expressions on the faces of the others that it was as strange for them to hear this last statement as it was for me to say it, and I thought, this is going to take some getting used to, referring to Tiberius as Princeps. One by one, Macer asked the others; Cornutus did his best to not express an opinion that could be construed as having one position or another, while Philus was quick to agree with what he thought Macer’s position was, which I had noticed he had yet to clearly articulate. Finally, it was Volusenus, who was obviously still smarting from Macer’s rebuke, and there was a vestige of the haughty equestrian youth who had first arrived in Ubiorum in his demeanor, causing me to inwardly wince, worried that his temper would get the better of him.
However, his tone was measured and calm, as he replied, “As you pointed out, Pilus Prior, I don’t have enough experience to even presume to know how to deal with this situation, but whatever you decide, I swear on the black stone I will obey to the fullest. You’ll have no reason to worry about the Sixth.”
Macer’s smile was faint, but it was plainly visible, and he nodded to Volusenus, saying only, “I didn’t have any doubt about that, Hastatus Posterior.” There was a brief silence, then Macer said, “Well, let’s go find out what wisdom Primus Pilus Sacrovir has to offer, shall we?”
Draining our cups, we all stood, following Macer out of his quarters, and headed for the Legion office; it would be cramped with all sixty of us, and I was not looking forward to that.
The meeting was not only as cramped and close as I had feared, with all sixty men standing shoulder to shoulder in the outer office of the Primus Pilus, but it was as unsatisfying as our own Cohort meeting had been. Ultimately, Sacrovir was as flummoxed as the entire Centurionate of the 1st; the only difference was that he had sent a message to Caecina, asking for some form of guidance, but when we held the meeting, no word had come from the Praetorium.
“The Legate’s got other things on his mind,” Sacrovir had said, in what I thought was the biggest understatement I had heard in some time.
“I still think he’s weighing his options about whether to support Germanicus or not,” Macer whispered to me, but by this point, I had deduced that he said these things more to needle me than because he believed them, so I did my best to ignore him.
Oblivious to our back and forth, Sacrovir went on talking. “He has decided to send a courier to where Germanicus has picked back up with the task he was given by the Princeps, the census of Gaul, and he had told the Legate he was planning on going to Gallia Belgica.” Sacrovir shrugged, adding, “My guess is that the Legate’s trying to behave as if this is just a routine matter.”
I, for one, could certainly see the sense in this; my only equivocation had more to do with the current state of unrest and the need for it to be addressed immediately, but I instantly saw that I was in the minority, as Secundus Pilus Prior Sentius, raised his hand, and while it was posed as a question, there was no way to miss the worry in his voice as he asked, “So we’re going to just follow whatever Caecina commands, even if it’s to ignore what’s happening with our men? Is that wha
t you’re saying?”
Sacrovir glared at Sentius, but he admitted, “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”
This immediately created an outcry by almost every Centurion present, and I essentially agreed with their concern about Caecina, thinking him to be a nobleman who had proven to be more in the mold of the man I still loathed more than any other, Lucius Aemilius Paullus. Speaking of that toad, as far as I knew, he was still in Rome, although I held out hope he had choked on a fig, or better yet, one of his slaves had slit his throat. Whereas even I will admit that, speaking in strictly military terms, as in actual campaigning, Caecina was not just competent, he was considered a good commander; his problems had all stemmed from his harsh treatment of those lower than him in the social order. He was also known as a striper, which meant that if there was a worse choice for a Legate to command the 1st and 20th at this point in time, I never heard of him.
Sacrovir’s mouth twisted into a grimace, and he snarled at us to shut our mouths. “I don’t care who our Legate is! He’s been duly appointed by Rome, and that means we’ll obey his orders as if they came from the mouth of…” Suddenly, he stopped himself, yet another example of how we were all struggling to cope with this enormous change, and he finished, “…Tiberius himself.”
Once it became clear that there was nothing more that would be forthcoming from our Primus Pilus, Pilus Prior Sentius, speaking on behalf of the rest of us, asked for Sacrovir’s leave, which he quickly granted; honestly, he seemed as happy to get rid of us as we were to escape. After we had made our way back to our own area, I tarried a bit outside each hut; while I did not go so far as to press my ear against the door, I did listen intently. Frustratingly, I could not make out any details, other than an occasional raised voice as one comrade shouted angrily at another, and I soon gave up and returned to my quarters. Neither I nor, I suspect, any man wearing a transverse crest or Optio’s stripe got much sleep that night, but to our surprise, it passed uneventfully.
Caecina had chosen to delay sending a courier to Germanicus for two days, erroneously believing that matters would settle down. It was a decision that would come back to haunt him, and for which he drew a fair amount of criticism from the Centurions; or, I should amend, those Centurions who did not participate in what was to come. Personally, I do not believe Germanicus’ presence at the moment things went from the smoldering burn they had been for months into the fully blazing conflagration that was in our very near future would have made any difference, but we will never know one way or another. After the departure of the courier, we all spent a tense couple days, pretending they were normal ones, filled with the routine tasks of life in garrison, but despite nothing untoward happening, by the time I would retire for the evening, I would be as exhausted as if we had been on campaign. Regardless of my fatigue, I slept badly, waking up more often than normal to listen to the night sounds, trying to discern any hint of impending trouble, but dawn arose to a seemingly normal camp. Which, of course, meant that Caecina then decided to make matters worse.
“We’re leaving Ubiorum,” Sacrovir informed us, having summoned the Centurions once more. “The Legate has decided that a,” his mouth twisted as he quoted Caecina, “‘good, stiff march’ is just what we need.”
The reaction was immediate, and loud, as we all voiced our protests at what was one of the more stupendously stupid ideas that any of us had heard in some time. Sacrovir clearly agreed, but he was also Primus Pilus, so finally, after allowing us to vent our collective anger, he bellowed at us to shut our mouths, which we did reluctantly.
“The Legate has decided this,” he repeated, “and despite my best attempts, along with those of Primus Pilus Neratius, we were unable to change his mind. We’re marching day after tomorrow.” He paused then, and we understood the reason he was reluctant to continue when he finished, “And we’re marching across the Rhenus.”
If he said anything after that, there was no way to hear it, but once it became clear he had nothing more to say, we quieted down enough for him to dismiss us, and we left the Legion office, each Cohort’s Centurions clustered together as we discussed this latest development.
“It’s almost as if Caecina wants the rankers to mutiny,” Macer muttered; that even Vespillo agreed with this assessment was a mark of how serious this was.
“But why would he want that?” Philus asked, and while it was a reasonable question, I was the one who answered, “I don’t think he does. I just don’t think it even occurred to him that this is about the worst time to do something like this. And,” I added, “I’m willing to wager that it has to do with the fact that Germanicus is gone now. He’s trying to assert his authority over us and remind us that he’s still in command of these Legions.”
“Then he’s truly a fool,” Vespillo said sourly. “And we’re the ones who are going to have to pay for it.”
That, as we all knew, was true, but by then, we had reached our Cohort area, where our Optios had been busy with the men performing their morning routine, and Macer paused in the middle of the street.
Sighing, he said only, “There’s no point in delaying this.” Looking at each of us, he said simply, “You know what to do.”
And we did, each of us suddenly bellowing out the call of our own Century, striding in different directions, heading for the huts of our men. Because of where we started from, I actually worked in opposite order, starting with the Tenth Section instead of the First, but in a slight change of how I normally did things, I actually knocked and announced myself, then waited a couple heartbeats before entering. Any other time, I liked to keep my men on their toes, foregoing this formality, often catching men in some minor crime like lounging on their bunks during the duty hour, which was forbidden, although I very rarely put men on punishment for it. There were exceptions, of course, like Pusio and a couple other men like Trigeminus, but on this day, even Pusio got the gentler version of his Centurion. Not, it must be said, that any of the men seemed appreciative, although their sullen anger was more about the orders I was giving than anything else. I would be remiss if I did not say that this was one of the times where I struggled to maintain my distance as a Centurion, because for one of the few times in my career, I wanted to let the rankers know that I was in complete agreement, at least as far as the needless stupidity of being forced to march, simply because a Legate desired it. Regardless of my personal feelings, I kept them to myself, and only later did I recognize that, in fact, I probably went too far the other way, lashing out at the men in more than a verbal manner, using my vitus inside their quarters, something that I had never done before. Although I do not know where it came from, if it was from the time of my Avus or even earlier, it had been an unwritten rule that Centurions did not thrash men inside their quarters unless it was to stop some sort of brawl that broke out between comrades, which was common enough. Otherwise, however, men were brought outside if their Centurion felt the need to apply the vitus, but such was my tension and the surliness of the men that at least one man in every section felt the sting of it. Somewhat surprisingly, when I reached the Fifth Section, I did not strike Pusio, who confined his defiance to a glare, although on reflection, I suppose that he had experienced enough of a taste of my “medicine” to know when it was time to keep his mouth shut. More troubling was the man who I did have to apply this discipline to, when for a span of heartbeats, it appeared that Clustuminus would refuse and did not move until I lashed out not once, but three times, striking his legs. Not only was it that he was the Sergeant of the First Section, but I was still considering him for Optio, despite some troubling signs from his behavior. Finally, though, he began moving, and if he did it slower than I would have liked, I chose to ignore it, leaving the men to their preparations to tell Structus and the other men who shared his quarters. Not long afterward, I heard from every Centurion of my Cohort, including Macer, that they had run into the same problem.
“At this point, I’m not sure they’ll obey the command to march when Caecina gives it
,” Macer worried, and while I would have liked to offer some form of encouragement, I could not.
Perhaps the only saving grace was that Caecina had not decided to begin the march the next morning, because we would not have been ready, and neither would the 20th, as we heard their men were acting in the same manner as our own. Even in the watch before the march, I know that there was not a Centurion, nor Optio for that matter, who would have been willing to wager a brass obol on whether or not when the bucina sounded, the men would respond. When they did so on that second day, falling out of their huts, dragging their packs, their shields strapped to their backs and carrying their javelins and furcae, I tried not to show my surprise, and I knew Structus felt the same way from the glance we exchanged. Deciding in the moment that I would behave as if nothing untoward was happening as far as my expression, I also understood that acting as if this was a normal day would mean I used my vitus when men were moving too slowly, and I refrained from doing that. From what I observed, neither did any of the Centurions, so that our forming up in the Cohort street was much slower than normal. The Fourth was far from alone, and our assembly as a Legion in the forum was so leisurely that we were certain Caecina would take exception and destroy the fragile calm by insisting on some sort of punishment. Thankfully, while he sat his horse, watching as the 1st and 20th formed up, he did not seem perturbed, which I felt certain was due to the fact that he was at least aware of the tension, which I cautiously took as a good omen. Somehow, when he ordered his Cornicen to give the command, the 20th, selected to lead the way, stepped off just as always, and we followed behind, with the baggage train following. The pontoon bridge had already been strung across the river, and he and his staff, along with Gaesorix and his ala, led the way across.