Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  While we waited for the 20th to start, Macer and the rest of us stood together, and I saw that we were all still trying to pretend that everything was normal, while Volusenus asked Macer, “Pilus Prior, do you have any idea where we’re headed?”

  “No,” Macer said with a short laugh, “our Legate hasn’t seen fit to inform us.” Seeing our inquiring looks, he admitted, “I asked Sacrovir if he knew.”

  “I wonder when he plans on letting us know,” Vespillo muttered.

  “Hopefully before we walk into some German ambush,” Philus offered, which did nothing to settle our nerves.

  Then it was time for us to march, and we headed to our respective Centuries, none of us knowing what a catastrophe was waiting for us.

  When Caecina turned north, just a couple of miles east of the Rhenus, it raised no comment; when we continued north, by midday, the men were muttering to each other, though they were still more curious than anything. Despite being on the east side of the Rhenus, we were heading in the direction of Novaesium, where part of the 2nd Augusta was stationed, with only the width of the river and a couple miles separating us. It was when this became obvious that the talk started, as men began questioning why, if we were heading this far north, was it not the 2nd and even the 14th in Vetera who was marching? And, not surprisingly, the farther north we marched, the louder and more insistent became the chatter, as men who had been careful to keep their voices down were now no longer bothering. Then, when I was certain matters could not get worse, during a rest interval, I saw Gaesorix come trotting back, obviously going to check on his Batavians who were stuck as the rearguard, along with our Eighth Cohort, who had drawn the short straw and were behind the baggage train. Seeing me wave to him, he turned and came readily enough, but one look at his face, which was missing his customary smile, made me wonder if I had done the wise thing.

  “Salve, Titus.” Only then did he give me a grin, but it was not a happy one. “Enjoying this fine day?”

  Returning his greeting, I ignored his nicety, although as far as the weather went, it was actually a pleasant day, not too hot, asking, “What has you looking so sour?”

  Rather than answer immediately, he jerked his head and led his favorite horse, a black stallion he called Tanarus, which was some Batavian god, away from the men, who were sprawled out on the ground. Even with this precaution, I felt their eyes boring into my back, and I knew that at that moment, they were conducting a furious, whispered debate on how they could overhear the Decurion and me talking.

  Once more than twenty paces away, only then did Gaesorix answer, “Do you really want to know? I’ll tell you, but,” he glanced over my head back at the men, and this time his grin was a bit more like his usual self as he admonished me, “you’re not very good at hiding your feelings, and when I tell you what’s going on…” he shrugged, but I could not deny what he said, and I promised that I would not react in a manner that alerted the men. Only then did he continue, “I found out where the Legate intends on taking us.” He lowered his voice even more. “We’re about to turn northeast. We’re heading in the direction of Caedicius’ camp.”

  Despite giving my word, before I could stop myself, I let out a string of oaths, earning me a glare from Gaesorix, and I was sufficiently chastened to mumble an apology, and I did manage to lower my voice when I asked the obvious question. “Why? Did he give any kind of reason?” Before he could answer, I added, “Not that there can be a reason.”

  “Oh, there’s a reason all right,” Gaesorix answered bitterly. “You’re just not going to believe it.” When I said nothing, just looked up at him inquiringly, I saw him actually take a breath before he went on, “It seems that our Legate isn’t quite as oblivious as he seems. He knows the men are angry, so he thinks that taking us to Caedicius’ camp will ‘put some fire in their bellies,’” he mimicked Caecina’s nasal tone surprisingly well, “and remind the men how fortunate they are.”

  “Fortunate?” I echoed, shaking my head in disbelief. “What? Fortunate to be alive?”

  Gaesorix shrugged, saying, “I suppose so. Honestly, I did not ask him.”

  “Did you at least try to talk him out of it?”

  The look my Batavian friend gave me was bitterly amused, and he retorted, “What do you think? And I wasn’t the only one. Neratius tried; even a couple of the Tribunes tried, but he’s convinced that this is exactly what the men need.”

  “Does Sacrovir know?” I asked, but Gaesorix answered he did not know, then said he had to finish attending to his men, and I thanked him, which he acknowledged with a wave as he resumed his progress back to the rear.

  I immediately walked to where Macer was standing next to his Century, keeping my gaze averted from my own men, feeling their intense stares, and I cursed my curiosity, thinking it would have been better not to know where we were headed. Gesturing to Macer when he saw me approaching, I drew him aside and relayed what Gaesorix had told me, instantly regretting forgetting to admonish him beforehand about not reacting in a manner that would alert the men.

  “Does Sacrovir know?”

  I repeated what Gaesorix had told me, then before I could say anything, he said curtly, “Come with me. We need to hurry before…”

  His words were cut off by the blaring of the cornu from the head of the column, prompting a string of oaths that, frankly, had me staring at him, impressed because my friend and Pilus Prior did not normally display such a rich vocabulary of curses.

  “All right,” he muttered, “we need to get the men on their feet, but once we get going, you and I are going to have to run up the column to tell Sacrovir.”

  Frankly, I did not relish the idea of running the length of three Cohorts, and I protested, “What if he already knows?”

  Macer did not answer, verbally, instead giving me a scathing look, and I muttered my assent, then turned to go back to the men, who as I expected, were only slowly coming to their feet, while Structus was now prodding some of them with his handle. Not, I noticed, using it as anything more than a goad, which I thought was a wise move. Only slightly slower than normal, thankfully, the men were ready to resume the march, and as soon as we began again, with a muttered curse, I broke into a brisk trot, going to where Macer was waiting for me, and together we headed to find our Primus Pilus at a fast pace.

  “He what?” Sacrovir’s mouth hung open in astonishment, giving us the answer as to whether or not he had been informed of Caecina’s ludicrous decision. Turning to me, he demanded, “Who did you hear this from, Pullus?” I told him, and his shoulders sagged as he admitted, “Well, he would know since he’s riding up at the front. Pluto’s cock,” he spat in the dirt, “this is a right fucking mess.” Returning his attention back to me, he asked, “And you said that Neratius tried to talk him out of it?”

  “As did Batavius and some of the Tribunes,” I assured him.

  Cursing again, he rubbed his chin, ignoring the men marching by; we had stopped long enough that it was the Sixth of the First by this point who went marching by, all of them making no attempt to hide their interest in our small conference.

  “I don’t know what the fuck to do,” Sacrovir finally said quietly, and he glanced over at Macer, who interpreted the Primus Pilus’ look to be that he was looking for suggestions, although Macer could only offer, “I don’t think there’s anything you can do, Primus Pilus. There’s no way to get the word to the rest of the Centurions without the men overhearing.” Sacrovir nodded, though he clearly did not like Macer’s assessment, then looked to me. All I could offer was, “I think the Pilus Prior’s right, Primus Pilus. We’re going to have to let the men figure it out for themselves.” Once more, Sacrovir nodded, his expression about as grim as if we were about to go into battle, while the thought crossed my mind that we very well may have been, just not with the Germans. “All right,” he said finally, “I need to catch up to my boys.” Before he left, he said sharply, “And say nothing to anyone. At least,” he amended slightly, “don’t tell your other
Centurions when the men have a chance to overhear.”

  We both assured him we would take adequate precautions, and he went off at a loping run, heading for the front of our Legion, while we waited for our Cohort to catch up. Once more, I had to keep my eyes on the ground, not wanting to let any of the men even catch my eye. When we took a narrow track that, for the first time, turned from a direction that was paralleling the Rhenus, no more than a count of five heartbeats passed before the men started talking.

  “Why the fuck are we going this way?”

  “We’re heading towards the Teutoberg!”

  Perhaps the only positive thing that could be said was that I had gotten a hint of warning of what was coming, as the men ahead of us erupted in a dull roar of questions identical to those I was hearing. Most surprising to me was that our progress did not appreciably slow, telling me that, so far, the 20th was still following along behind Caecina and his command group. The day ended with our halting in a large open area that we had used before, with the edge of the forest and the beginning of the gradual slope that marked the beginning of the Teutoberg to our right. Despite the fact that we were not actually within the confines of the forest, the men were still nervous and upset, and those of us who knew our destination, that we would reach the day after the next one, recognized this was as good as things were going to be for the foreseeable future. At this moment, the men just suspected that they would not care for wherever we were headed; as soon as they understood that it was anywhere near Caedicius’ camp, which was considered by men of all ranks to be cursed, inhabited by the numeni of the men who had been slain there, despite our interring their bones in the months after the disaster, only the gods knew what would happen. Nothing good; that was the only certainty, and it was awkward because Macer and I were the only ones of the Fourth who knew our destination. That I was the man who asked Gaesorix and became the first one to know did not make me feel any better, yet despite being approached by every one of my fellow Centurions on the remainder of that day’s march, I rebuffed them, giving answers that I saw did not convince any of them. I did not even tell Structus, finally snapping at him when he tried for the third time to broach the subject in a manner slightly different than he had tried the time before.

  Making matters worse for us, the Fourth was one of the Cohorts assigned to digging, which is considered the most onerous of the tasks in constructing a marching camp, but once again, I did not use the vitus. Later, I learned that most of the Centurions, of both Legions, adopted this approach; most, but not all, and that started the first flare-up of tempers. Since it was on the far side of the camp, where the 20th was assigned, we only became aware of it when matters had escalated to the point that first a Century, then a full Cohort was involved. The uproar of hundreds of men shouting at the top of their lungs drew our attention, and when I turned to look at what caused it, I saw men waving their spades and turfcutters as weapons in the direction of a small cluster of Centurions and Optios, I was thankful that my men had already dug the ditch deep enough they could not see what was going on. Naturally, within a span of heartbeats, the men of the Second Century, who had been charged with packing the spoil and creating the rampart, let their comrades down in the ditch know, while Vespillo roared at them, in vain, to return to work, which they deliberately ignored. Hurrying up the partially completed rampart, I stared down to see that, not surprisingly, Pusio was leading the way, heading for the single ladder that we lower into the ditch to enable men to climb out when they are finished, obviously intending on climbing out.

  “Don’t.” I did not shout, but I pitched my voice loudly enough I knew everyone gathered at the base of the ladder could hear, while I stared directly into Pusio’s eyes.

  He looked up at me with a hatred that was even more virulent than usual, and for a span of heartbeats, I thought he might actually defy me and try to come up the ladder. Whether he would or not I will never know, because Clustuminus, standing just behind Pusio, reached out and grabbed Pusio’s elbow, saying something I could not hear, but the Sergeant’s face was a mask that did not betray how he felt personally in any way. With this tiny insurrection quelled, I returned my attention back to the larger one, seeing that even in the short span of time, more men from the 20th had appeared, and I guessed that they had done what Pusio and the others tried to do, ascend out of their portion of the ditch. Just bare moments before, I could spot the Centurions, but now they were surrounded and completely obscured from view, which turned my concern into rapidly growing alarm. For the first time since I had been under the standard, I thought it was not only possible, but likely, that the rankers would turn on their Centurions, which as one might imagine, is the stuff of nightmares for any man wearing the transverse crest.

  “Get the men back to work.”

  I turned to see that Sacrovir was striding past where the 1st was working, and I assumed that he had been repeating this message as he passed by, making his way down the line. He seemed to make a point to look each of us in the eye, both Centurions and Optios, but he said nothing more than that, at least in my hearing. This, I thought, was easy for him to say, yet I turned back and looked down into the ditch.

  “You heard the Primus Pilus,” I snapped. “This camp isn’t going to build itself.”

  Once again, I thought the men would refuse, but finally, they turned back around and began attacking the dirt with their spades, except they did so silently, another unusual aspect of this day. Deciding to set the example, I refused to turn back around, trying to determine what was happening behind me with my ears, telling myself that if there was trouble, I would have some warning, if only by sound. Fortunately, the men of the 20th were brought under control, and what I heard in the immediate aftermath was that, while there were dire threats made by some men, none of the Centurions or Optios were actually physically assaulted. Somehow, though I never really understood how, the camp was finished, the tents erected, and the men settled in, though it was about two parts of a watch later than normal. I made one pass down my Century street, but the hostility radiating from the men around every fire was so unsettling that I elected to go commiserate with Macer, only to learn I was the last one to arrive, the other Centurions already there.

  “What do we do?” Cornutus asked plaintively. “Am I going to have to make Demeter stay up all night to make sure my own men don’t come into my tent and cut my throat?”

  Under any other conditions, I would have mocked Cornutus mercilessly, but it was a valid question, as troubling as it was, and I saw the others were similarly discomfited at the thought that they might have to set a watch to ensure their own security. Personally speaking, I was not very worried, knowing that it would take more than one man from my Century to strike me down, even if they came charging into my tent. I was more worried about Alex, honestly, since he slept in the outer office whenever we were out on the march, sharing the space with Balio, and as we talked, I made the decision that he would be sleeping next to my cot that night, whether he liked it or not. Otherwise, after discussing it, we came to the collective decision that there was not much we could do, other than try to get some sleep. I suppose I must have dozed off but came jerking awake at the slightest sound outside my tent, which naturally brought Alex leaping to his feet every time, and despite the darkness, I could see he was clutching his dagger. The bucina call to begin the next day found me wide awake, and after he lit the lamp, I saw how haggard Alex appeared, making him look much older than he was, although I am certain I looked worse. Nevertheless, we began the morning routine of a Legion on the march, and despite our fears, the men behaved in a manner that passed for normal during this time. Today, the 1st led the way, and the Primus Pilus designated the Sixth to be in the vanguard, with the Third behind them, and with the Seventh being pissed on by Fortuna to march drag. Despite the men being convinced we would be heading into the heart of the Teutoberg, when Caecina led us on a course that skirted it, this seemed to calm the men down some, but it was still much quieter
than normal. Only the deep, thudding sound of thousands of hobnails striking the ground, the slight creak of leather, and the clinking when metal bits struck each other filled the air, punctuated only occasionally by a muttered comment by someone in the ranks. No banter, no arguments, good-natured or otherwise, and certainly no songs were being sung, making for an extremely gloomy atmosphere, despite the sun shining brightly, with only partial clouds, and it made me realize how I had always taken those signs of good spirits for granted before this moment. Regardless of the mood, the men were moving at the pace set by Caecina, and the day passed slowly, but it passed without any major incident, until we reached the spot where we would camp for the night. Switching tasks as is the practice, it was the turn of the Fourth to set the palisade for the 1st, one of the easiest tasks that can be drawn outside of standing guard, yet even then I suppose I should not have been surprised to hear men complaining about it. And, once more, it was Pusio who was leading the chorus of discontent, but what troubled me was seeing how many heads were nodding or adding their own voice to that chorus. Fortunately for all of us, they were doing so in such a low tone of voice that I could not hear exactly what was said, but one did not need to be an experienced Centurion to know, just by the manner in which the men were conducting themselves, that they were not singing the praises of anyone higher up the ladder than they were. There was another outburst, and to my dismay, it was the 1st this time, though I was not surprised, specifically the Seventh Cohort. What was surprising, indeed quite shocking, was that two of their Centurions and all of their Optios were with the rankers in their protest that, since they had marched drag, they should not have been assigned to digging the ditch. All work ceased this time, and while Sacrovir had not given us any instructions to that effect, there was an unspoken consensus that this was not the time to force the men to return to their respective tasks. Truly, I, and I know I was not alone in this, was just thankful that my men were content to watch the mess rather than take part in it, at least to this point. I wandered over to where Volusenus, Philus, and Cornutus were standing, and we stood there much like our men, an audience to the small drama being played out in front of us.