by R. W. Peake
Turning and glancing over his shoulder, he grinned, and for the first time, I saw the old Domitius, and he asked me, “Are you still spoiling that horse, Titus?”
“Why does everyone think I spoil him?” I complained, though it was done in jest; I was well aware of how much I indulged my horse.
“Because you do,” he answered, laughing.
The rest of the way to his tent was spent with us conducting a mock argument about Latobius, who even as we did so, kept shoving his nose into my back, reminding me that he was due for an apple.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked as soon as we were inside his tent.
“Norbanus came and found me,” Domitius told me, which confirmed my suspicion this had been the case.
I followed him into the partitioned portion that are the private quarters of a Pilus Prior, which are slightly larger than those of the lower grade Centurions, and this was the first indication I had that he had been promoted.
“When did this happen?” I asked, and I heard the wounded tone in my voice, but honestly, I was quite put out, and Domitius heard it as well, flushing slightly.
“A year ago,” he admitted.
“A year?” I was incredulous. “You haven’t written a word in that time!”
“I know!” Domitius protested, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “I was just…busy,” he finished lamely.
“No busier than I was,” I snapped. “And I found time to write!”
“I know, Titus!” he repeated, then he heaved a sigh, his eye closed, and I saw a tear caught by the lamp he had lit make a glittering trail down his cheek. “I just…couldn’t. Not after Petrilla died.”
Before he could say anything more, I walked to him, and grasped his shoulders, and told him, “I grieve with you, Titus. Petrilla was a good wife and a good mother. I know you still miss her.”
“I do,” Domitius replied miserably. “I really do.”
“How are the children?” I asked, and he shifted uncomfortably, turning his face away from me.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” he admitted. “I hired a woman to take care of them, but I don’t go into town to check on them as much as I should. I…I just can’t.”
Since I had no idea what to say, I did not even try, and we stood there, regarding each other awkwardly, then with a self-conscious laugh, Domitius wiped the tear away, pointed to the chair on the other side of his desk, and poured two cups of wine. Handing me one, he dropped into his chair, and I realized that, as much as I was enjoying just spending time with my friend, time was our enemy, as it had been from the moment I began this journey.
“The reason I’m here is because Dolabella sent me ahead to try and talk to you,” I began, but Domitius cut me off with a frown.
“Dolabella?” He repeated the name, and his good eye narrowed in suspicion. “Titus, what are you doing having anything to do with Dolabella? That cunnus has almost gotten you killed more times than I can count.”
This was something I could not deny, so I did not try, agreeing, “That’s true. But,” I paused for a heartbeat to frame my thoughts for what I was going to say next, understanding that in many ways this would be the most important thing I had to say, “this time is different, Titus. Dolabella doesn’t want to see good men suffer because of the misdeeds of a few.”
“’Misdeeds’?” Domitius interjected, a frown on his face. “While I agree that men like Percennius aren’t helping matters, Titus, surely you see that we have legitimate grievances!”
“I do,” I agreed, and I was not being false. “And I think that Tiberius might listen to our grievances, as long as they’re presented in the correct manner.”
“You mean like Augustus did?” Domitius shot back. “How many petitions did the Army of the Rhenus send to the Princeps the last five years?”
“Quite a few,” I sighed.
“And we sent at least a dozen,” Domitius argued, “but nothing happened with any of them. So,” he sat back and crossed his arms, staring hard at me, “why would Tiberius do anything different?”
“Because,” this at least I was prepared for, “he’s just become Imperator, and he doesn’t need two of his armies rebelling when he has to solidify his position. You know as well as I do how those patricians are back in Rome. They all think they’d make a better Imperator than anyone else. Tiberius has enough on his hands right now making sure they don’t form some sort of coalition to bring him down.”
“Which is all the more reason for us to strike now,” Domitius said flatly.
Again, I could not argue against his logic, not with any conviction, because the truth is that I agreed with him, not only that there were issues that needed to be addressed, but that from a strategic viewpoint, this was the best time to stage some sort of demonstration, although not necessarily for the men who Tiberius determined were the leaders of this revolt. Nevertheless, there was something that stuck in my gut about this business, yet I knew I had to tread carefully.
“While I agree with your reasoning,” I began, “there’s one thing that’s working against you, and I’m afraid is something that’s going to be more important to Tiberius in the long run.”
“Which is?” Domitius asked, his eye fixed on my face.
“Do you remember me writing you about one of the men in my Century?” I asked, which was an indirect approach that I normally would not have taken. “One of the men sent to us after the Varus disaster?”
Domitius pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, “I remember something about him. What was his name? It started with a P.”
“Pusio,” I confirmed. “Yes, that’s him. He and men like him are behind what’s happening up in Germania, and from what I’ve seen here with this Percennius character, the same thing is true. And,” I added, “Norbanus told me that he was originally from the Rome dilectus that Augustus held to get rid of all the troublemakers and dump them on us.”
“Percennius is scum,” Domitius replied instantly. Then, he hesitated for a moment, as if he was considering saying more. “I wouldn’t worry about Percennius. He isn’t as…influential as he likes to think.”
“Well, that’s good to know, but is he going to be the man Drusus is going to talk to?” I asked him, and now he looked uncomfortable, which I assumed was because of the nature of the man himself.
“Yes,” he admitted, clearly reluctant, then insisted, “but he’s just a figurehead, really. He’s not going to make any decisions that have to do with what’s going on here.”
“That’s not what it looks like to me,” I replied. “Just from what I saw, he looks very much like he’s running things, and all the men in the forum seemed fine with it.”
Domitius did not respond, not immediately, and I sat watching as he stared down into his cup, as if seeking some sort of answer there.
Finally, he raised his head and said quietly, “Appearances can be deceiving, Titus. Trust me,” his voice hardened, “he’s not making any decisions.”
“Well, who is then?” I asked, puzzled. “Who should we go talk to once we’re done here?”
The answer came in the form of the silence that suddenly draped over us, coupled with his unblinking gaze directly into my eyes, and I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach by the recognition of what this meant.
“You?” I gasped. “You’re the leader of, of…all this?” I waved a hand in a gesture that encompassed everything around us. “By the gods, Titus! Are you mad? Do you know what Tiberius is capable of?”
“No, I’m not mad, and yes, I think I know what Tiberius can and would do to me,” Domitius replied calmly.
“I don’t think you do,” I snapped, still struggling to fully comprehend what this all meant, not just for our personal relationship, but for the mutiny itself. “And believe me when I tell you, I do know what Tiberius is capable of.,.”
“Because you were the man who did his dirty work?” Domitius challenged, yet despite the flare of anger this caused me, I could neither deny
the truth nor did I want to, and I shot right back, “Yes, because of that. No matter what happens, if Tiberius ever discovers that you’re the true leader of this, he’ll destroy you, Titus. And,” I could not keep my thoughts from running in this direction, compelling me to add bitterly, “he’ll probably order me to be the one to do whatever it is he decides.”
“And?” Domitius asked me quietly. “Would you?”
Despite several attempts to do so, all of which I have scratched out in this account, I cannot summon the words that come close to properly describing the sensations that assailed my mind and body in that moment, as the feeling of reliving a moment struck me with a palpable force. Yet, even as I sat there, I understood that this feeling was not created by anything I had personally experienced, and I confess it took me a moment to realize from where it came.
“Pharsalus.” I believed I only thought this, but I must have spoken aloud, because Domitius not only heard, but understood.
“Pharsalus,” he agreed. Then, he gave me a smile, the likes of which I had never seen on his face before; a combination of sadness, understanding, and a bit of dark humor at the manner in which the gods choose to amuse themselves. “Just like our grandfathers, neh?”
“Just like our grandfathers,” I agreed numbly.
For this was exactly what was happening; because of a cruel whim of the gods, Titus Domitius and I were reliving an event that had had a profound impact on the lives of the first Titus Pullus and his longest and best friend Vibius Domitius, and like the ripples in a pond, extended down to us. Granted, some of the trappings were different; Vibius had been an Optio, while my Avus had been Secundus Pilus Prior, and the mutiny of Caesar’s army had occurred at the end of a long, grueling campaign against Pompeius Magnus, after a battle that had sealed Magnus’ fate and elevated Caesar to the status of First Man. Also, Vibius had been a minor part of a larger mutiny, but these differences were superficial; the essence was ultimately the same. I was on the side of the man who wielded ultimate power over all men under the standard, while Domitius was representing men who were my comrades in arms, many of whom I knew personally, just like my Avus and Vibius. And, I understood, all I had to do in order to advance my own career would be to do essentially the same thing that my Avus had done, side with the man who had the power. Tiberius is many things, but I had never known him not to reward those men he considered to be faithful to him, and I held little doubt that he would reward me. I had long since given up on the dream of becoming a Primus Pilus like the first Titus Pullus; my aspirations at this point in time was perhaps being a Pilus Prior like my father, but I knew that was as far as I would rise, at least until this moment.
“So?” Domitius asked, quietly. “What are you going to do, Titus?”
I left the camp about a third of a watch later, almost immediately going to the gallop, heading north, knowing that Drusus had in all likelihood set out from Siscia by this time. There was a risk that I would take the wrong road, but I was gambling that, now that Dolabella was with Drusus’ party, he would guide them around Splonum and use the same route I had taken to get to the camp. My faith was rewarded about fifteen miles north of the camp, when I saw in the distance a cloud of dust that I knew was too large to be just a few riders. Deciding to slow Latobius but continue moving, it was not long before I caught a glimpse of a standard, one of the polished metal disks catching the rays of the sun, which was my first hint that Drusus had come with a substantial force of his own. Closing the distance quickly, I was able to see a force of at least five hundred horsemen leading the way, but it was the neat, compact groups of men on foot that ignited a sense of unease, although it also explained how we were able to catch Drusus.
.
“Who are they?” I wondered aloud; Latobius did not seem to know either, though he twitched an ear, his sign that he had heard me at least.
My initial reaction quickly turned into a sense of real dismay as I got close enough to make out the blue tunics of not just the mounted men leading the way, but of the marching men as well, all of whom were wearing their armor. Only Praetorians wear blue tunics, and I spent the remaining time before meeting the oncoming party trying to determine what this meant, although I knew that there was nothing good about it. When I got within a hundred paces, a group of seven riders detached themselves and came at the canter, and I decided the prudent thing to do would be to pull up.
One of the men wore the black feathered crest of a Tribune, and he naturally was leading the small group, yet despite my clear indication that I had no ill intentions, the Tribune snapped an order, and the other half-dozen cavalrymen moved around me, effectively surrounding me.
“Who are you?” the Tribune, who appeared to be in his early thirties, asked abruptly, without any attempt at courtesy or greeting. “State your business!”
“I am Quartus Princeps Prior Titus Pullus, of the 1st Legion,” I tried to keep my voice calm, while at the same time conveying that I had no ill intent, “and my business is to talk to Drusus Julius Caesar.”
“And why would a Centurion from the Army of the Rhenus be down here in Pannonia?” The Tribune was openly skeptical. Suddenly, something seemed to occur to him. “Unless you’re one of the faithless dogs behind this illegal mutiny, and you’re down here to confer with the other ringleaders.” Before I could respond, or react in any way, the Tribune pointed at me and shouted, “Take this man into custody by my order!”
“Hold! He’s with me!”
I had not noticed that Dolabella, seeing me approach, had come from his spot near the rear of the mounted contingent, cantering up to where I sat, already surrounded by a ring of hard-faced, scowling Praetorian cavalrymen.
The Tribune turned at the shout, watching as Dolabella approached, a sneer on his face, and his tone was just as brusque with Dolabella as he taunted, “So one of the spymaster’s spies, is that it?”
“I’m not a spy, Tribune.” I said this with more heat than I knew was wise, but I was already angry before this slur. “I am exactly who I say I am.”
“I sent him ahead to speak with the leaders of the mutiny.” Dolabella rode in between the Tribune and one of the cavalrymen to reach my side. “And that’s all you need to know, Sejanus.” Without waiting for the now-identified Tribune to offer a reply, Dolabella indicated I should follow him with a jerk of his head, leading the way back to where the main party had stopped. This Sejanus character was clearly angry, but I was not all that surprised that he did not make an issue of Dolabella’s curt rebuke, and I felt his eyes boring into my back as I followed the spymaster.
Once we were out of earshot, Dolabella slowed long enough for me to pull beside him, and he muttered, “You need to watch yourself around that one, Titus. He’s probably one of the most dangerous of Tiberius’ clients, and not just because he and his father command the Praetorians. Sejanus has more ambition than a man of his station should, and he’s got a cruel streak in him.” That, I thought, is probably one reason Tiberius has him around, though I did not articulate that. He had slowed to a walk as we got closer to where I could now see a man who, if I had not known better, I would have sworn was the nobleman for whom I had marched in my first campaign more than twenty years earlier, and for whom this man was named, and his voice dropped lower. “So? Did you talk to whoever is leading the mutiny?”
“Yes,” I answered him, but I kept my eyes on Drusus, realizing as we got closer that, while there was certainly a resemblance, there were also distinct differences.
“And?” Dolabella asked irritably, pointing out, “You’re going to be standing in front of Drusus in a moment, so if there’s anything I should know that you don’t want him to hear, this is your only chance.”
This was such a decidedly odd thing for him to say that it caused me to look over at him, and I saw that he was regarding me closely. As if, I thought, he’s actually waiting for me to confirm something he suspects; the sudden lurch in my stomach made it difficult to maintain my composure.
&n
bsp; Somehow, I managed to answer him, without any hesitation or without betraying myself, telling him, “There’s nothing unusual. The leader is a cunnus named Percennius…”
“Percennius?” Dolabella cut me off, his face registering surprise. “You mean, Percennius the actor?”
“Honestly,” I answered, and I was being truthful with this at least, “I didn’t know he was an actor until someone told me, but yes, I’m assuming that’s the same man.”
“I thought we sent him to the Army of the Rhenus,” he muttered, and now it was my turn to stare at him in surprise, but before I could press him, we had come close enough to where Drusus, sitting his horse, was waiting.
“Well, Dolabella?” he demanded abruptly, barely giving me a glance. “Is this the man you were talking about?”
“Yes,” Dolabella replied, and I noticed that, while his tone was respectful enough, he did not make any other attempt to show Tiberius’ natural son deference, which Drusus clearly noticed and equally obviously did not like. “He’s just returned from the camp after talking to the leaders.”
“Actually,” I interjected, “there really only appears to be one man who matters. His name is Aulus Percennius, and he’s the man I talked to.”
This was certainly true, strictly speaking, that I had spoken to him, but I had no intention of divulging that my conversation with Percennius had been anything but an exchange that held no real bearing on the outcome of this mutiny.
“And?” Drusus demanded. “What does he want?”
In answer, I related the things that Domitius had listed, and while I did not specifically mention Percennius’ name, if Drusus made the assumption that they had come from only him, that was perfectly fine with me.
Once I finished, it was not Drusus who spoke, but another nobleman who appeared to be about the same age as Tiberius’ son, sitting on a dun stallion slightly behind and to the side of Drusus, exclaiming, “That’s exactly the same list of demands that I brought to you from my father, Drusus!”