by R. W. Peake
“Go get some more things to wear,” I said gruffly. Turning to Titus, I told him, “You go with her. Make sure she stays safe.” As I expected, this made Titus draw himself up, thrust out his chest, and declare that he would do that very thing, then they both went off, while I watched with a smile and a shake of my head before I remembered what had drawn my attention in the first place. Calling to the girl, when she turned around, I pointed at her neck, ordering, “And when you come back, I don’t want to see that thing around your neck. Understand?”
While she nodded, nothing came out of her mouth, and I believe it was this moment she truly accepted that her days as a slave were over, and Titus took her gently by the elbow and led her off.
“Don’t be surprised if she’s with child by the time we get to Siscia,” Dolabella teased me, then with a spark of what I had learned was his sense of mischief when it came to taunting me, he grinned and said, “and who knows? It might be mine.”
This did evoke a laugh from me, and I told him, “I have a feeling young Titus might have something to say about that.”
It was an offhand remark, one that I offered with little thought; this ranks as one of the few times when I appeared to have the gift of sight like the Oracle of Delphi.
Two days past a week after we left Germanicus, we rode into Emona, the first large town inside the borders of the province of Pannonia, but before we reached it, we saw the first signs of trouble, in the smaller settlement of Nauportus. The place had been thoroughly looted, most of the buildings either seriously damaged or reduced to ruins, but although we attempted to question the few people we saw, the instant they saw us, they fled in terror, something that neither of us understood at the time, although we would be learning why soon enough. As far as Emona was concerned, arriving there about a third of a watch later, I was not sure what to expect; my last time there was during the Batonian Revolt, but that had concluded four years earlier, while my part in it with the Legio Germanicus ended a year before the rebellion was finally crushed. Given its location and its importance, Emona was always bustling, and had always been one of the first stops for settlers fleeing from marauding tribes, though that was more the case during my childhood and my early years in the 8th. Regardless, I confess I was surprised to see how much it had grown, the evidence being that there were now a substantial number of buildings, both dwellings and businesses, outside of the town walls, although it was still the same wall, in the same spot it had been the last time I was there. This was the last leg of our journey, Siscia a bit more than a hundred miles away, but even with the urgency, Dolabella and I conferred, and we agreed that tarrying here for an extra third of a watch or two might prove to our profit.
“All we have to do is sit down in The Grotto of Pan, keep our mouths shut, and listen,” was how Dolabella put it, naming the spot frequented by the lower classes, which meant people who were most closely associated with the Legions, “we’ll learn more that way than we would by asking questions.”
Not only did I agree, in this area, even if I did not, I would have deferred to Dolabella’s expertise, so we began heading to the establishment Dolabella had mentioned.
“I’m going to show Algaia around the town,” Titus informed us. “She’s never been here before.” He was so earnest that I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.
“Well,” I answered him genially, “we wouldn’t want Algaia to miss all the wonderful things to see in Emona. Would we, Tiberius?”
I turned to Dolabella, who was grinning broadly, and he was no less enthusiastic in agreeing, “No, we wouldn’t, Titus. It is a truly wonderful place, Emona, and I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I thought that the Mistress Algaia missed any of it.”
Titus knew he was being teased, the flush moving all the way up his face to his hair, while the Breuci girl looked off in another direction, but I saw the corners of her mouth twitching as she tried to keep from laughing.
As lighthearted as this was, I still warned Titus, “I expect you back here in a third of a watch. Do you understand? And if we’re not out here, you come in.”
He opened his mouth as if he intended to argue, but I gave him a look that, like his older brother would, he interpreted correctly, mumbling that he understood. With that, the pair wandered off, and for no real reason, I watched them walking down the street; I was rewarded when, after Titus had clearly decided they had gone a sufficient distance to be out of range of my prying eyes, he reached out his hand. And, completely unsurprisingly, I saw the girl respond to the gesture, her hand falling into his in a manner that told me this was not the first time they had done as much. What was surprising was the stab of an emotion that struck me so hard it brought a sudden misting of tears to my eyes, but it took me a moment to recognize it for what it was; a combination of memory, envy, and regret.
“Are you ready?” Dolabella asked, jerking me away from the sight of the pair of young lovers, and when I turned to assure him that I was, I saw him looking at me with an expression that told me he had probably divined my thoughts.
Thankfully, he did not say anything, and I told him that I was, so we entered The Grotto of Pan, a place that any man who has served under the standard for any length of time would immediately recognize. Indeed, I often had the thought that, in some form of magic, every such place I entered, no matter where it was located, was actually the same establishment, just mysteriously transported from one spot to the next.
As always happened, our entry drew scant attention from those patrons nearest the door, until they took in my size, which kept them from turning back to their cups for perhaps a heartbeat or two longer, making a quiet comment to their companions, which prompted Dolabella to mutter, “So much for not being noticed.” Before I could respond, he grinned at me and said, “I keep forgetting that just standing next to you draws attention.”
Moving to an empty table, we took our seats, which resulted in a small battle about who would sit facing the door, which was a habit that we both had developed, and I was not shy about using my bulk to gently muscle him away from the chair, which he grumbled about, taking the chair next to me and not across the table so that he could at least partially see the door. The woman who served us was just as interchangeable as any of those that worked in Ubiorum, although her eyes did linger on me for a moment, and while I could not be sure, I thought there was a flicker of some form of recognition in her eyes, though she said nothing. I watched her walking away to the counter, behind which the proprietor stood, and my fears seemed to be confirmed as I saw her say something to the man that prompted him to look over her shoulder, directly in our direction.
“So much for that,” I muttered to Dolabella, but he had already noticed, although he shrugged it off, saying only, “Maybe they’re just talking about how big you are.”
This was possible, but I did not believe it to be the case, though there was nothing to be done about it. The woman returned quickly enough, bearing cups containing what I assumed was the normal grade of wine served in such places, except that when I took my first sip, slightly curious as to why the woman seemed to be lingering, I was quite surprised. Pleasantly so, I should say; while not Falernian nor Chian, it was a vintage that was quite good, and Dolabella noticed immediately as well, and we exchanged a glance.
Turning to the woman, who was still standing there, Dolabella said smoothly, “This is an excellent grape, madam. If I had known you served such high quality refreshment, I would have made a special trip to come here long before this.”
This amused the woman, who gave a short laugh, “We don’t serve that, normally. That’s from our special amphora that we only serve certain guests. Besides,” she turned away from Dolabella to point directly at me, “this isn’t in your honor; it’s in his.”
I felt the rush of blood to my face, and I stared hard at the woman, trying to recall if we had ever met, and if we had, under what circumstances; my initial guess was that perhaps I had been one of her customers, back
when she was young and pretty enough to ply another trade back in Siscia, but she was not familiar to me, not that this meant anything.
Thankfully, she cleared it up as she continued talking, “It’s just me and Lucius’ way of thanking the Primus Pilus here for what he and young Germanicus did a few years back.”
Things fell into place then; although I still did not recognize her, this was not unusual, but more importantly, I understood she was referring to my time serving under Germanicus, and we had indeed spent time in Emona as we hastily assembled a scratch force as part of Rome’s attempt to put down the Batonian Revolt.
I did feel compelled to point out, “That was a temporary rank. I’m not a Primus Pilus, just a Princeps Posterior now.”
She reacted in the manner of all civilians when confronted with the intricacies of the Legions, with a shrug and a comment, “Whatever you say, Centurion. All I know is that young Germanicus and all you who marched with him helped save us, and we haven’t forgotten.” I murmured my thanks, which she waved off, but she still lingered, which was only partially explained when she asked, “So, what brings you here to Emona, Centurion?” Before either of us could respond, she added with a casualness that was obviously feigned, “Are you heading to Rome?” Then, she leaned forward slightly, took a quick look around at the other patrons and whispered, “Are you the one the boys from the Legions are sending to talk to Tiberius?”
This changed matters dramatically, at least as far as I was concerned, and this was one time I was happy to defer to Dolabella. I glanced over just in time to see the look of surprise cross his features, but he was far too experienced to allow the woman to see it, and he correctly interpreted my lack of response as the cue to speak for the both of us.
“No, madam,” he began, but she made an impatient wave, saying, “My name’s Fulvia.”
Dolabella corrected himself, “No, Fulvia, we’re not heading to Rome. In fact, we’re heading in the opposite direction, towards Siscia.”
Her eyes narrowed, but it was the expression of what I interpreted as a conspiratorial slyness, and she kept her voice to a whisper, “Are you sent by Tiberius?”
“Now why would you think that?” Dolabella asked lightly, but I could feel his sudden tension.
“Because of him,” she nodded at me, but then she surprised me and rocked Dolabella when, only then did she turn to look at Dolabella and inform him calmly, “and because I know you’re one of Tiberius’ men.”
And, just that quickly, I began to worry for this woman Fulvia, who was either too observant, too nosy, or most likely a combination of both, for her own good.
“And,” Dolabella’s tone was calm enough, but I heard the menace there, “what makes you believe such nonsense? How could you possibly think that I’m, what did you call me,” he cocked his head, and he spoke in slightly mocking way, “‘one of Tiberius’ men’?”
Judging from the manner in which Fulvia suddenly stiffened, then glanced over to where the man I assumed was Lucius was standing there, his eyes fastened on our table, she had realized her misstep.
“Oh,” she said casually, “it’s just a guess.” The laugh she gave was forced, waving a dismissive hand as she babbled, “Sometimes I just make guesses about things, and I have no idea what I’m saying! It’s a bad habit of mine, I know.”
“Yes, Fulvia,” Dolabella agreed quietly, his good eye never leaving her, which meant that his other eye was looking in my general direction, something I still had not really gotten used to, “it is a bad habit. And,” he added, this time not bothering to disguise that there was a warning there, “if I was one of Tiberius’ men, as you say, I’d be most…upset to know that someone’s tongue was wagging and letting other people know that.”
Fulvia’s face went deadly pale, and she gasped, “Oh, sir! I would never do anything like that! You can ask anyone in here. I don’t betray anyone’s trust! Why,” she tried another laugh, but it was even less convincing than the previous one, “if I told half of what I know about the people in this town, there would be so much trouble in every house in Emona! But I don’t say a word! I swear it! I…”
Dolabella held up his hand, and I admit I was impressed how it served to cut this woman’s words off as if he had stuck a cork in her mouth.
“I believe you, Fulvia,” he said, and she sagged in relief for just long enough for Dolabella to add, “but in order for me to trust you, I…” He gestured at me. “…we need information.”
“Information?” Fulvia repeated, then said eagerly, “Anything you need, good sirs! I wasn’t lying when I said that Lucius and I are grateful to the Centurion here, and I’m a good Roman citizen!”
Indicating that she pull up an empty chair, Dolabella watched with quiet amusement at how quickly she moved to do so, picking up a chair and bringing it to our table.
Waiting for her to sit down, only then did Dolabella ask her, “So, what do you know about all the things that are happening in Siscia?”
“Siscia?” Fulvia shook her head. “The Legions aren’t in Siscia, Master.”
We glanced at each other, and I know that our thoughts were running along the same lines; had we gone out of our way for nothing? Ultimately, we were in The Grotto of Pan for well more than the third part of a watch I had told Titus; indeed, we were there so long that Titus and Algaia came wandering in, and I was so absorbed in what we were hearing from this woman that I barely noticed their respective states, just tossing them another couple coins and telling them to go find something to eat. By the time Fulvia had finished relating all that she knew about the situation with the Legions, which was quite a lot, the sun was hanging low in the sky, my mind was reeling, and I was suddenly certain that we would arrive too late to be of any help, mainly because we learned that the Legions were not in Siscia.
Just as Caecina had done, the Legate in command of the Army of Pannonia, Quintus Junius Blaesus, had marched the army away from Siscia within watches of the word of Augustus’ death, choosing a spot I knew very well, near Splonum. I tried to hide my reaction when Fulvia had informed us of this, given how much of a role the seat of the Maezaei kings had played in my life, but I could tell that Dolabella was not fooled. As bad as this was, the other things we had learned from Fulvia were just as disturbing, to put it mildly, although we did learn that what happened at Nauportus had nothing to do with native tribes taking advantage of the unrest with the Legions; indeed, it had been the Legions who had been the cause of it. Specifically, five Cohorts from the 15th, who were now normally quartered in Poetovio since the 13th had been transferred east, had been dispatched to perform some repair work on the roads and bridges in and around Nauportus. They were under command of a Camp Prefect named Avidienus Rufus, it now being the practice that Camp Prefects are assigned more to locations where there is a permanent camp than to a particular army. This was a relatively new development, and I did know that it was not viewed with any favor by those men like my former Primus Pilus, Gaius Sempronius Atticus, who up until this change, had been the sole Camp Prefect of the Army of Pannonia, because in his view, it diluted the prestige of the posting. This was something I had learned in one of Domitius’ last letters to me a couple years earlier, before he stopped corresponding, a situation I intended to get to the bottom of as soon as it was possible. Regardless of Atticus’ feelings, Camp Prefect Rufus, who was in nominal command of these five Cohorts, had apparently tried to crack down on these men because Blaesus had relaxed the discipline in response to the news of Augustus’ death. While it was somewhat understandable – I felt reasonably certain that the men of Pannonia had been as upset and anxious at the news of the Princeps’ death as the Army of the Rhenus had been – I also could not imagine that Prefect Atticus had counseled Blaesus to take this step. And, obviously, Rufus had not been in agreement with Blaesus’ decision either, because his attempt to instill the normal discipline and habits that are an integral part of life under the standard ended up with him being beaten, put into chains, and made to m
arch as a prisoner all the way back to the camp near Splonum. Not immediately, however; the destruction and looting of Nauportus had to be done first, wagons and carts being appropriated to haul back the loot. Meanwhile, matters in the camp had apparently completely degenerated in much the same manner as they had in the camp near Caedicius’, the only difference being that Blaesus was initially allowed to move among the men freely and was not confined to the praetorium.
The woman Fulvia had proven to be a true fount of information, which made sense when one considered how effective wine is as a lubricant to tongues, and I have little doubt that her willingness to cooperate was also heavily influenced by Dolabella’s quiet but very potent threat. Normally, I would have bridled at how the spymaster had used his status as Tiberius’ man to threaten this woman, but given the circumstances and the time constraints, I chose to look the other way in a figurative sense. Honestly, I was every bit as eager to hear whatever news the woman could impart to us about what we were heading into, and in this respect, she did not disappoint. She did mention Domitius’ name, but not as one of the men who were causing the most problems, and in fact, he was brought up as one of the cooler heads among the Legionaries who were trying to keep the lid on a simmering pot. All I could hope for was that Tiberius was not willing to be punitive in his punishment of any of the men of Centurionate or Optionate rank who had a role in this uprising, and I confess I was anxious that Dolabella keep this in mind. Unfortunately, my friend’s role as a moderate voice was clearly not being heeded, which we learned in more graphic detail from the hundreds of civilians we ran into fleeing in the opposite direction, from Siscia. It was from them we heard what happened after the mutineers from Nauportus returned to Siscia carrying their loot from the town, forcing Rufus to lead the way through the city on their way to the marching camp. If the mutineers persisted in their treatment of the Prefect all the way back into the marching camp, still in chains, it would be a provocation so blatant that Blaesus could not ignore it. Frankly, it was difficult piecing it all together, since not one person we met seemed to know the complete series of events, and that was not even taking into account the normal tendency of people to exaggerate things they may or may not have actually witnessed, or even fabricate things that never happened. The practical consequence of our stopping those fleeing citizens willing to talk was that our progress was slowed even further, but Dolabella and I discussed it, agreeing that it was better to be slightly delayed if it gave us a better idea of what we were heading into.