Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  Drusus looked irritated, but his tone was civil as he answered, “Yes, I understand, Blaesus. But this confirmation is important in itself. Hopefully,” he added pointedly, “you can see that.”

  From where I was sitting, it appeared that Blaesus’ son, who I learned later was serving as a Tribune on his father’s staff, had been prepared for some sort of argument, so when Drusus agreed, he looked decidedly nonplussed, finally mumbling something that I could not make out, but I assumed to be agreement. Before Drusus could say anything more, I heard horses approaching from behind me and turned to see that the Tribune Sejanus and the other Praetorians were rejoining us; I chose to ignore that Sejanus was still staring at me with a hostility that, frankly, was more puzzling than anything else. Usually, I thought to myself, people have to at least have met me before they hate me like he apparently did.

  “Proconsul,” Sejanus addressed Drusus, “what are your orders?”

  The title Sejanus used surprised me at first, then I thought about it and realized that it made sense; Tiberius would not have sent anyone of Legate rank, and in our system, a Proconsul holds rank over a Legate.

  “We’re going to continue on to their camp,” Drusus told Sejanus, but that was clearly not what Sejanus meant, because in response, he turned and pointed at me.

  “I meant what are your orders concerning this…Centurion?” His lips, which were abnormally thin and barely visible under normal conditions twisted into a sneer as he uttered my rank. “Do you want him in chains?”

  Drusus appeared startled at this, but not nearly as much as I was, and I nudged Latobius with one knee so that he sidestepped slightly, though not in a manner that suggested I had flight in mind; instead, I got closer to Sejanus, my thought being that he would interpret my doing so as an implicit threat, and I stared, hard, directly at him, which he clearly noticed and was taking correctly if his sudden nervousness was any guide.

  My movement seemed to jerk Drusus from his surprise, and he shook his head, answering abruptly, “No, Sejanus. That won’t be necessary.” The Praetorian Legate opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Drusus went on, “But I suppose it would be prudent that the Centurion ride with an…escort.” He turned to me, and the look he gave me was purely Tiberius in coldness and demeanor, and I imagined that this was how the new Imperator looked when he was Drusus’ age. His voice matched his expression as he asked me a question that I knew was an order. “I don’t believe the Centurion will have a problem with that. Will you?”

  Of course I had a problem with it, but I knew better than to argue, so I simply answered in my best Stupid Legionary manner, “No, sir.”

  With this settled, Drusus led his party past us, which Sejanus rejoined, glaring at me, while his men and I moved aside to allow them by, but when the end of the mounted contingent passed by, and one of the Praetorians reached out to take hold of Latobius’ bridle, I said, “You’re going to lose your hand if you touch my horse.”

  Apparently, he believed me, because while his face darkened; he was still a trooper, and Praetorian or no, I was a Centurion, so he gave an abrupt nod, whereupon I nudged my horse forward, falling in at the end of the mounted party. Dolabella remained near Drusus, but I did not hold this against him, and when it became clear that the Praetorians surrounding me were content to either ignore me or only glare at me when they thought I was not looking, I was perfectly content to ride in silence as I retraced my steps back to the camp.

  Since we were marching with men on foot, and Drusus was not willing to leave two Cohorts of Praetorians behind given what might lay ahead, our progress back was much slower. One consequence of this was that, while they still did not address me, the Praetorians around me quickly grew bored with the silence and began talking among themselves. Not surprisingly, they did not discuss anything political, instead chattering about the chariot races, their favorite gladiators, and which whore was the best in the brothel that serviced the Praetorians. Frankly, I did not mind, and in truth, I welcomed the distraction of listening to something that was more like what a man under the standard was likely to hear around the fire, and not all the political talk that had dominated our collective conversations for the last few weeks. As I sat on Latobius, pretending not to listen, the thought crossed my mind that, with help from Fortuna, maybe by the time I got back to Ubiorum, Germanicus would have quelled the mutiny there. As far as where things stood between the Army of Pannonia and Drusus, my foremost concern was that Domitius’ role never be revealed, although I felt somewhat certain that Dolabella, at the very least, suspected that he was more than just a moderating voice. Secondarily, while I had not marched with the 8th for many years, I still had many friends in the ranks, both in the First and Fourth Cohorts, including the man who had been my first Optio and was now the Primus Pilus of the Legion. Aulus Galens had been Primus Pilus for three years, with Appius Asinius serving as the Primus Pilus Posterior. By this point in time, how these two men came into their respective roles I was sure was known outright by no more than a half-dozen men, although I also felt certain that many more men knew aspects of the story, or had their own suspicions that were close to the truth. Not that it mattered anymore, but I suppose I felt a certain level of ownership in the circumstances that found both my first Optio, and the first Sergeant of the Tenth Section, First of the Fourth rising to the first and second in command of my former Legion, although the true architect was Corvinus, my father’s successor as Quartus Pilus Prior and my first Centurion.

  Suddenly, as two men were arguing about the outcome of some bout where one of them was convinced it was fixed, I was reminded what might have been the true origin of the sequence of events, that Urso had been selling armor to the Colapiani, and as we learned later, other tribes like the Latobici and Varciani. Using his knowledge about this, Corvinus had approached Urso and essentially extorted the Primus Pilus, an extraordinarily dangerous thing to do, even for Corvinus, demanding that Galens be made a Centurion in the First Cohort, while Urso take on Asinius as his Optio, which of course made him my Optio after my transfer into the First of the First. And, as quickly as I recalled this, I recognized that, ultimately, I was the true cause, because in acting as he did, Corvinus was fulfilling a promise made to my deceased father, that he do everything within his power to protect me as long as I marched in the 8th. Not lost on me was the recognition that, most of the time, whenever I had to be saved, it was from myself, in the form of my own actions, going all the way back to my first campaign when I had defied orders to remove myself from the front rank, all in order to slay Vergorix. Yes, it had won me my first accolades, from no less a personage than the man for whom the young Proconsul leading our party was named, but only with time can I recognize now that it set a pattern for my future actions. Because of who I was, both as the son of Gaius Porcinus, but more as the grandson of the first Titus Pullus, I had always assumed that the rules and regulations did not truly apply to me, at least to the extent that it did with other men. Strictly speaking, my entire career was a testament to that truth; after all, I had sparked more than one rebellion, although the first time, and the one that resulted in Draxo slaying Urso, only to be in turn slain by me, I was only the instrument when I obeyed Urso’s orders to break a Colapiani woman’s arm for the “crime” of trying to keep her son from being forcibly impressed into the auxiliaries. The second, however, started by my avenging Sextus’ death, I knew fully well would likely end up in the manner in which it did, with yet another rebellion. However, while it resulted in my transfer to the 1st, I knew at the time that it was only because of the intervention of someone else, Atticus in this case, that I did not suffer an even harsher punishment. As the miles slowly rolled by, I alternated between listening to the men continue their bickering and looking more deeply within myself, realizing how, in one way or another, my connection to Titus Pullus was what had sustained my career, far more than it had hampered it, as I once believed. My one hope now, heading towards the camp, was that I could play
some small role in protecting my friends and comrades in the same manner they had protected me.

  There was perhaps a full watch of daylight left when we rounded the bend and the camp came into view, although the one difference this time was that we had not run into any parties out on the road. Not, I was sure, because they had all returned to camp; it would be a foolhardy bunch of mutineers to allow themselves to be snatched up by a large force of Praetorians. More than once, I was certain that I saw a flash of sun on metal off in the undergrowth near the road, but the Praetorians were oblivious, reminding me how few of them actually had any real experience in the Legions. It is true that most of the rankers are recruited from the ranks of the Legions, but it was an open secret that such men considered perfect for this duty in Rome were more known for their political reliability, their physical stature, and their willingness to obey all orders without any questions or qualms, than for the number of barbarians they had slain. Consequently, I was not surprised a bit when something that would have caused an entire Century or Cohort to become alert went completely unnoticed by the men around me, or the men marching behind us. Once the camp came within view, however, the scene was much the same as it had been on my first arrival, with men milling about just outside the gates, except that it was obvious they were all turned in our direction, watching us approach. This was when Dolabella came trotting back to summon me.

  “Proconsul Drusus wants you with us to identify Percennius in case he decides to try and blend in,” he said louder than he needed to, indicating that perhaps Sejanus had given the Praetorians around me some orders of his own, but they did nothing to impede me as I joined Dolabella.

  By the time we were within a couple furlongs, the few men who had been congregated outside clearly communicated our approach, because rankers began pouring out of the gate. None of them were attired for battle, but Drusus still called a halt, obviously nervous at the sudden appearance of so many men, despite their lack of armor or weapons. Not surprisingly, it was Sejanus, who in my short association with him, seemed to have taken it upon himself to serve as some sort of adviser to Drusus, who suggested that the mounted portion stay put while the two Cohorts of Praetorians marched forward.

  “Naturally,” Sejanus said, “I volunteer to be the representative for you when we move into position. If those mutineers have anything treacherous in mind, you’ll be safe.”

  “They’re unarmed and not wearing their armor,” Drusus pointed out, but Sejanus was unmoved, rejoining, “Those we can see aren’t. But, sir, that’s not a full Legion’s worth of men, and there are three Legions in that camp. We don’t know what they have planned!”

  This clearly had an impact on the young Proconsul, but as I watched, I could see the emotions play across his stern features, as the pride that is a feature of a young man, particularly a Roman, that bridles at the thought of appearing to be cowed, no matter what the reason, warred with his understanding that what Sejanus was saying was, on its face, the truth. During his moment of indecision, those mutineers outside the gates were in the process of forming up into a rough semblance of the kind of formation that we use to welcome men of high rank. Oh, it was ragged, and I had the distinct impression that this was something that had not been planned beforehand, but this made Drusus’ decision for him, because he indicated the two ranks, each arranged on opposing sides of the gate.

  “They clearly don’t mean me any harm, Sejanus.” Drusus sounded confident at least, but I saw his eyes darting between the two bodies of men, giving me the strong impression that he was not certain this was the case. “We’ll be fine.”

  Then he urged his horse forward, and I confess that I was impressed with the young nobleman’s courage; his common sense I was not as certain about, although I did not think it was likely the mutineers would assault Drusus. Not, I thought, until they have an idea whether or not he is going to give them what they want.

  Dolabella turned to me and said softly, “Let’s just wait here for now. When Drusus wants us, he’ll let us know.”

  I had no objection to this, not that it mattered, but when Drusus’ personal bodyguards, Germans naturally, began moving with him, as did young Blaesus, the Proconsul gave a firm shake of his head, moving forward alone. When he reached the nearest edge of the two lines, I felt myself tense, and I could sense the others around me doing the same, but none of the men on either side, moved from their position. Both ranks were longer than they were wide, extending for more than a hundred paces to the gate, and they were about five men deep, although their alignment and spacing was something one might see with a batch of tiros, not men of a veteran Legion. Neither, we immediately saw, did they render a salute to Drusus, and I was close enough to see him stiffen in his saddle when he realized that he would not be afforded the honors due to a man of Proconsular rank. This group of mutineers might not have been acting in a physical sense, but before Drusus had passed the first three or four files, the relative quiet evaporated.

  “Are you here to give us what we want?”

  “You can see for yourself how worn down we are!”

  “What is your father going to do to help our suffering?”

  Those were just the calls I could make out, as within a heartbeat or two, it sounded as if every man present added his own question or demand. And, very quickly, what began as a plaintive call to a man these mutineers hoped was empowered to help them turned into something darker and more demanding, as the frustration and anger clearly came boiling out of them. We all heard this change, and Dolabella and I exchanged an alarmed glance, while Sejanus began cursing bitterly.

  The Praetorian commander turned to snap an order to the Decurion next to him. “Go back and tell Fibulanus to bring up the First Cohort immediately! We’re going to teach this scum a lesson they won’t forget!”

  “That,” Blaesus surprised me by being the one to speak up, “isn’t what Drusus wants.”

  “The Proconsul is brave,” Sejanus shot back, “but he’s young, and he doesn’t know these lowborn bastards like I do!” Turning back to the Decurion, he reiterated his orders, but before the man could respond, someone else interjected.

  “You’re not going to do that.” For the first time, an older man, who I had barely noticed, spoke up and told the Decurion, calmly and without any real heat to his words, which made the Decurion’s response a confirmation of my surmise that this man had to be important in his own right, because he actually complied, not moving his horse.

  “This isn’t your area of expertise, sir!” Sejanus wheeled on the older man, his thin mouth now offering a smile that was as false as it was obsequious. “The security of the Proconsul is my responsibility, not yours! Need I remind you, with all respect, of course, that you have no authority over me and my men!”

  “No,” the old man agreed, which seemed to surprise Sejanus, then he pointed out, “but the Proconsul does, and his orders were clear. Has he given any signal that he needs help?”

  This naturally made Sejanus return his attention to Drusus, whose back was to us, but the men still had not moved from their spots and were not making any overtly threatening gestures; mainly, it was the tone of their collective voices that could be described as hostile. Drusus had stopped his horse, roughly midway between our party and the camp gates, and at least from where I sat, appeared to be doing his best to listen to what had to be an absolute cacophony of noise. Frankly, I did not believe it was even possible for him to actually hear a single question or demand these men were hurling his way, yet I also realized that at this moment, the appearance of listening was more important than the actual act of doing so. Finally, he raised both hands in a clear plea for silence, and much to my surprise, the men quieted down more quickly than I would have thought, although it made sense.

  “Who speaks for you?” Drusus’ voice drifted back to us, but we were a bit too far away for me to hear if there was a tremor in it that betrayed his nerves.

  At this, a man down at the farthest end of one of the line
s, nearest to the gate, stepped forward, and while he was in just his tunic and baltea, he also carried a vitus, and for a moment, I felt as if I would topple from the saddle, thinking that it was my friend Domitius. Fortunately, when he turned to face Drusus, I could see that he was not missing an eye, although he was about the same size and stature as my former close comrade.

  “I do, sir.” The man’s voice was a bit easier to hear since he was facing our direction. “My name is Aulus Gabinius Clemens, Sextus Hastatus Prior of the 9th Legion, Proconsul.” The salute he rendered was proper, but it engendered some angry shouts from the mutineers, which both Drusus and the Centurion wisely ignored. Drusus returned the salute, then Clemens turned slightly and made a gesture in the direction of the gate, which was partially open but not enough to allow any of us an unobstructed view. Nothing happened for a moment, and I did notice the noise level had dropped dramatically, as now everyone’s attention was focused in the direction where Drusus was still seated on his mount, Clemens standing facing his direction a few paces away, and the gate behind the Centurion. I, for one, was completely unsure what to expect, but my surprise was nothing compared to that of young Blaesus, when his father came striding out, wearing the regalia of a Legate of Rome, and to my eyes, appearing completely unharmed.

  “Father!” the youngster blurted out with such obvious relieved joy that I was struck by an unexpected pang, thinking that this would have been my reaction if it had been my father appearing from such a precarious situation. Oblivious to the rest of us, Blaesus still spoke aloud, “He’s lost weight, but otherwise, he looks fine.”

  “Did they threaten your father?” Dolabella asked.

  “At first,” the son answered, but he still kept his eyes on his father, “but when he offered himself up to them, telling them to kill him rather than make him endure this shame…” His voice trailed off, and I glanced over to see that there was a glint in his eyes that I knew were unshed tears, making me wonder whether his grief was because his father had been shamed, or from the relief that he had clearly survived. “…they stopped threatening him and gave him the freedom of the camp.” His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. “Under escort, of course. He wasn’t even allowed to go the latrines alone!”