Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  I put my hand on his shoulder, which caused him to look up at me, and I assured him, “Trust me in this, Septimus. I know exactly what you mean, and I don’t blame you.” Taking a deep breath, I said, “All right, enough of that. We need to go find Birgit’s wayward son.”

  We resumed walking, and my mind, which I thought was already overwhelmed with all these new discoveries, was even fuller now as I wondered what to do about my brother Gaius being a cruel man.

  Turning the corner, we saw the small crowd of people, and I remembered that this tavern was also used by the Poplicolas to run whores of the lowest kind, the ones that took their customers into the space in between the buildings on the opposite side of the street to finish their transaction.

  “All right,” I told Septimus, “stand right here,” I directed him to a spot slightly behind me and to my right, and I finished sternly, “and don’t fucking move from that spot! Do you understand me? Your one and only job is to keep anyone from getting behind us.”

  “Yes.” His voice was hoarse, but I took that as a good sign, not needing any kind of false bravado from him.

  “Let’s go,” I said, and we resumed our approach.

  The guttering lamps hanging on the brackets outside of the tavern created pools of light, and it was when we entered that first pool our presence was noticed. That it was noticed by the two heavyset men, both of them wearing tunics that were stretched tight across their chests, their arms heavily muscled, and most importantly, bearing the scars and bent noses of brawlers, that was what meant the most. It began when the man nearest us, leaning against the wall, gave a casual glance in our direction in a reflex motion, then he looked away, back to where a whore and customer were haggling over the price of her services. For an instant, I thought we might be able to get close enough that I had the advantage, but his head whipped back around, and I saw his eyes narrow as he looked me up and down, then straightened up and gave his companion a nudge to get his attention.

  “Oy, you’re a big one!” he called out with a false geniality that I had heard more times than I could count, knowing that there would be a jibe or taunt coming next, the prelude by a man who thought he was tough provoking a challenge. Then, however, his eyes dropped down to my waist, and he saw both my gladius in its scabbard and my vitus in my left hand, and whatever he planned on saying was forgotten as he turned to squarely face us. His companion, still unsure of what was going on, but reacting automatically, stepped away from his spot and came to the other man’s side. Pointing at my gladius, the first man sneered, “I hope you don’t think you’re coming in here with that, soldier boy!” He smiled, revealing the broken off stumps of his top front and bottom teeth so that he looked like he had fangs. “But you can just hand it to my friend Nerva here,” he indicated his companion, “and we’ll keep it safe for you. Then,” he made a mocking bow towards the entrance, “you’re more than welcome to enjoy the delights of this establishment, where we can satisfy every need and taste.” His face twisted into a leer as he added, “We even have some tasty young boys, since I know that’s what you soldier boys like so much!”

  I let him talk without interrupting, but when he stopped then, I said conversationally, “The only way you’re getting my gladius is if you come and get it, fat man.”

  Just as I hoped, this got under his skin, since now that I had gotten a closer look, whatever muscle he may have had at some point was now encased in fat, and the light was strong enough I could see his face flush, but it was what he did that was more important. Taking his eyes off me for an instant, he looked to his companion, gave a jerk of his head, which the man clearly understood, because he took a step backward, and then without hurrying, walked over to where a barrel was placed against the wall on the far side of the entrance, and as I expected, reached behind it and produced two gladii, which he carried back to his companion, tossing him one. There was more than enough light for me to see that, while they were Spanish gladii like the one on my hip, the iron was pitted, with rust spots the length of both blades. More telling, however, was the manner in which these two started waving them in my direction, and I decided there was no need for me to draw my own, at least at first.

  Without taking my eyes off the pair, I told Septimus, “Stay right there, don’t move.”

  As I expected, this served to not just freeze Septimus in his spot, it distracted the door guard nearest to me, the man I had taunted for being more fat than muscle, so he never saw my vitus sweeping upward in a smooth arc, starting from below my waist, even as I was speaking. The end of the twisted vine hit him, hard, in the pit of his stomach, and I was blasted with the breath that exploded from him, washing me in an invisible blanket of wine, garlic, and rotted teeth. His companion, reacting to my sudden assault, raised his gladius above his head, signaling his intention to smash his blade down on my bare head, which I countered simply by executing another thrust with the vitus, except this one was aimed in the direction of his face, specifically his right eye, though my aim was slightly off, hitting him squarely between them instead. The result was essentially the same as it had been with the first guard, who had fallen to his knees and was even then in the process of toppling over to his side, his hands clutching his stomach, except that the second guard collapsed straight down to the filthy paving stones as if the bones in his body had simply vanished, this and the sudden crunching sound of the hard cartilage of his nose snapping telling me that I had perhaps hit him a bit too hard. If he ever woke up, I knew that his brains would be too addled for him to be of any use to whatever Poplicola brother was running this collegia. Not that this mattered to me a bit, and both men were barely laid out before I was stepping over them, heading for the entrance of the tavern before an alarm could be raised by any of the bystanders, all of whom were standing there, open-mouthed in shock at what had taken perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that it was not just the onlookers; Septimus was standing there, staring down at the two men, one of them writhing in pain, the other completely still, save for a slight tremor that, when I sensed the movement out of the corner of my eye and glanced at the second guard, told me that I had indeed killed the man.

  “Don’t just stand there,” I snapped, which served to goad Septimus into moving, and I watched him carefully step around the pair of men, his eyes fastened on the second guard, whose body was still jerking spasmodically in his last moment of life.

  “Did you…kill him?” Septimus asked, but frankly, I was already focusing on what lay before us, not behind us, and I think I answered carelessly, “Looks that way.”

  I was just stepping past the entrance into the tavern, and I stopped there to allow my eyes to adjust, but while I saw some faces turn in our general direction, nobody seemed to be alarmed, only curious, which was not unusual. Naturally, I saw some of them do essentially what the first guard outside had done; glance up in a reflexive response, begin to look away, then my size caused them to return their attention to me, their expressions varying from mild concern to acute interest in what my presence might mean for their entertainment; or, more likely given the type of place it was, their health.

  “Do you see Titus?” I asked Septimus, keeping my voice low.

  He did not answer immediately, and I was beginning to think that he was not in this place when my brother suddenly pointed and said, “Yes! There he is. Next to the man with the eyepatch!”

  Following his finger, it did not take more than a heartbeat for me to see him, less time for my eyes to take in the sight, and my mind to realize how much Titus resembled his father Diocles. A bit taller, perhaps, but with hair the color of a crow’s wing, the same aquiline nose and olive complexion that was discernible even in the dim lighting of the tavern. This was Diocles in the flesh, although I could see that along with being taller, he was also broader through the chest. He was paying attention to whatever the man in the eyepatch was saying, and while it was not with any certainty, the man looked enough like a Poplicola that I deduced i
t was probably one of the surviving brothers. The sudden change in the atmosphere, presaged by the muttering of the customers closest to the door, apparently alerted both of them, since they stopped talking to look in our direction. I did not miss that, of the two, it was the man in the eyepatch who reacted first, coming to his feet as he faced me and Septimus, and as we approached, I saw him turn to give a quiet word to Titus. I suspected that he was telling Titus to place himself in between us, in a first line of defense, because when Titus did not move a muscle, it obviously irritated the man, who turned and snarled something at the young man I considered a nephew, who still stood as if rooted to the spot, his eyes wide and staring directly at me.

  Again, I did not take my eyes off the man with the eyepatch, knowing he was the most important one in the room, but I told Septimus, “Watch my back. If anyone tries to get behind me, stop them.”

  “Stop them?” he asked. “How?”

  He sounded so bewildered that, despite everything, I had to fight a laugh, and I risked a quick glance over my shoulder to catch his eye.

  Pointing down at his waist, I said, “You pull that out.” He did so, then I grinned and indicated the point of his blade. “Then if someone gets between us, you stick that end right in their guts.” Shaking my head in mock exasperation, I asked, “Didn’t Tata teach you youngsters anything?”

  I did not wait for his reply; my attention had been diverted long enough, but when I turned back, I saw that Titus still had not moved, which clearly enraged the man with the eyepatch.

  Snarling a curse, he made as if to grab Titus, but I spoke up, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “If you put a hand on my nephew, I’ll gut you.”

  I suppose it was the sound of my voice that did it, because young Titus gasped so loudly I could hear it from where I was standing.

  “U-uncle Titus?” Then, he turned his head, clearly recognizing Septimus. “Septimus? What…what are you doing here?”

  “I’m here to get you out of this cachole,” I told him calmly, and as I expected, this enraged the eyepatch man even more, who hissed something, then stepped around Titus, careful, I noticed, not to touch him.

  “I know who you are!” He pointed a shaking finger at me, but it was easy to see that it was from fury and not fear. “You’re Titus Pullus!” Then, he confirmed my suspicion, revealing that the plot Sextus and I had concocted all those years before that resulted in the murder of his father and the execution of his brothers had been uncovered somehow by saying, “You and your fucking cunnus of a brother got my Tata and two of my brothers killed!”

  Now that I knew the secret was out, I did not see much point in denying it; also, I knew my acknowledgement would further infuriate him, and angry men are more likely to make mistakes, so I gave a shrug that I knew everyone in the tavern could see, replying, “Your brothers were so stupid, I’m surprised they managed to live as long as they did. But,” I hardened my voice, “they plotted against my family, so you’re fucking right I got them killed. My only regret is that I didn’t do it myself.”

  As I hoped, this scored a telling blow, his face twisting into an expression of utter hatred. Perhaps if he had moved more quickly, he might have gained an advantage, but by the time I was finished speaking and before he could react in an overtly physical manner, I had drawn the gladius carried by the first Titus Pullus and was holding it loosely in my hand. However, rather than holding it point down or even in the first position, I deliberately held it in such a way that everyone could see it, away from my body and above my waist, twisting it slightly so that the dark, whirling patterns of the blade caught the light. It was a calculated gamble on my part, because if this Poplicola kept his head, with my blade held away from my body, he could have conceivably crossed the space between us to get inside my guard. Fortunately, as I suspected it would, the appearance of this gladius evoked a response far and above that which one might normally expect, because this was Arelate. And, as I heard the sudden buzzing whispers of the people in the tavern, I knew that my ploy had worked.

  “I can tell that everyone in here recognizes this.” I spoke louder, still holding it high above my waist and outside the plane of my body. “Or,” I amended, “they think they do.” I turned my head as if I was addressing the crowd, but my eyes never left Poplicola, who was shaking with impotent rage. “Well, they’re right. This is the gladius of Titus Pullus, Primus Pilus of the Equestrians, one of the first Camp Prefects appointed by our dear departed Augustus, and one of the prominent citizens of Arelate. And,” now I stretched out my arm and pointed it directly at Poplicola, “I’m his grandson and namesake. I’m the Quartus Princeps Prior of the 1st Legion, and I’m here to take my nephew home.” Pausing for the span of a couple heartbeats, I asked Poplicola simply, “Do you intend to try stopping me?”

  As I expected, the collective attention of the crowd in the tavern turned to Poplicola, who had, quite wisely, not moved a muscle, his arms held out in such a manner that I knew he was signaling he had no intention of doing anything. Nevertheless, I knew that it had to be a bitter draught for him to swallow, here in his own tavern, but as I expected, Poplicola was a cur who needed the strength of numbers, and he had to have deduced by this time that, if the two burly guards outside had not arrived, they would not be coming. There was a table of men who I saw fancied themselves as tough men, but just as I knew they would, suddenly, they had more interest in what was in their cups than standing behind their leader. The silence stretched out, and I was certain that most of the patrons were holding their breath, watching this with the avidity of a mob at the gladiatorial games hoping to see blood, waiting to see how Poplicola responded.

  And, just as I expected, he seemed to sag a bit, yet he answered me with empty defiance, “There’s no need to try and stop you, Pullus! Young Titus here,” he turned and gave him a hearty clap on the back, “will be back soon! Am I right, Titus?”

  Titus, whose eyes, I had noticed, had never left either Septimus or me, did not even acknowledge Poplicola’s words, nor did he register that he had been touched. Instead, without a word, he stepped out of Poplicola’s reach, walking towards my brother and me, though he refused to look either of us in the eye. Once he walked past, I began backing away, but I did not sheathe my gladius. Then, Poplicola had to open his mouth.

  “Pullus, you need to thank your household gods that I’m in a forgiving mood,” he said this louder than necessary, “and letting you walk out of here.”

  “Pluto’s balls,” I recognized Septimus’ voice, “why did he have to say that?”

  Turning to my brother, I ordered, “Give me your gladius.”

  As I said this, I dropped my vitus and extended my left hand, which to Septimus’ credit, he drew back out and tossed me the blade in one motion, which I deftly caught. Then, in a continuation of the same movement, I tossed the blade in such a manner that it landed with enough force that the point lodged in the floorboards of the tavern, just a pace in front of Poplicola.

  “You were saying?” I asked him, but while I did not raise my voice, I did not need to do so. Pointing to the gladius, which was still slightly swaying back and forth, I taunted Poplicola, “Something about being in a forgiving mood, wasn’t it? Well,” I gestured towards the crowd, “I’m not going anywhere after all.” My gaze was fixed on Poplicola, so I knew even before I was finished that he was not going to accept the challenge I had offered, but I did allow several heartbeats to pass, in total silence, before I said with a sneer, “I didn’t think so.”

  Then, taking what I suspected the people in the tavern would think was a needlessly foolish risk, I turned around, telling Septimus and Titus, who had been standing there watching, “Let’s go.”

  I was completely expecting that Poplicola would be foolish enough to take advantage of me turning my back, but while I was speaking to my brother and nephew, my eyes never left the people sitting in the tavern, knowing that their reaction would provide me more than enough warning. Somewhat disappointingly, Poplicol
a was either smarter or more of a coward, because he made no move, either towards the gladius or towards me, and we walked out of the tavern. As we exited out onto the street, the body of the second guard was still lying there, but the man I had punched in the stomach with my vitus was nowhere to be seen, and I could see that the dead man’s purse and shoes had already been taken, with his tunic pulled open, a sign that his body had been thoroughly searched. For a few paces, I kept glancing over my shoulder at the tavern, but nobody emerged from it.

  Nothing was said for about a block, then Septimus turned to me and complained, “You left my gladius behind!”

  “If you want it,” I told him with a grin, “you can go back and get it.”

  “No,” he mumbled, “never mind.” Laughing, I slapped him on the back, and he regarded me with an expression I could not immediately decipher, but then he said quietly, “Titus, you killed that man. Just with a vitus.” Shaking his head, he continued, “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  I chose to make a joke, saying, “I’m just surprised you know what a vitus is, little brother.”

  “Of course I know what a vitus is,” he shot back. “I’m the son and grandson of a Centurion, just like you!”

  I could feel the heat of his words, and however awkward it may have been, I offered him a pat on the back as I assured him, “I know you are, Septimus. And,” in this I was being sincere, “I’m proud of you. You didn’t hesitate when I told you what to do. I knew you wouldn’t let anyone get behind me.”

  I could tell this pleased him, but he also seemed troubled, then he said, “I’ve just never seen anyone killed before.”

  He looked away as he finished, and I was, perhaps surprisingly, sobered by my brother’s admission, reminded just how different his life had been from mine, despite our shared blood and name. I was about to open my mouth to say something that I hoped would be comforting, when, finally, young Titus broke his own silence.