Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “Of course, sir!” Percennius smiled, his manner expansive as he gestured to the rostrum on which he stood. “As you can see, we have chairs, and we can discuss matters here quite comfortably.”

  I confess I was a bit surprised when Drusus countered, “What about my men?”

  “They have the freedom of the camp.” Percennius made another wave of his hand, the same kind of gesture that a man of Drusus’ class makes when bestowing some favor on someone lower than him, and I was sure this was a calculated insult. “However,” Percennius added, “they will be escorted at all times.”

  For a moment, it appeared as if Drusus was going to argue, then thought better of it, although he did cast a somewhat apologetic glance in the direction of the commander of his bodyguard, although I could not even imagine that the man, or any of Drusus’ bodyguards would go wandering away from the man they were sworn to protect, especially given the identity of his father. Drusus swung down out of the saddle, and somewhat surprisingly, the men who had been in between us and the rostrum meekly stepped aside, without a show of reluctance or hostility, made a path for him; indeed, it seemed to me that some of the men looked somewhat ashamed. For his part, Dolabella swung down as well, as did young Blaesus and old Lentulus, and only then did I see that Blaesus’ father, the Legate, had been standing, surrounded by mutineers, a few paces away. From what I could see, it seemed clear that the men standing around the older man were there as guards, but to my surprise, they did not stop father and son from rushing towards each other to embrace. The Germans seemed of two minds; some of them clearly wanted to remain mounted, while others also dismounted. Perhaps this was done on purpose, but I never asked. That left just me, and I was of the same view as the Germans who wanted to remain mounted, but it was as I was sitting there, pondering what to do, I saw one of the main flaps of the praetorium be pushed aside, whereupon a face peered out. The instant I recognized the face, my mind was made up for me, and I swung off Latobius, where I led him over to Dolabella.

  “Are you going to stay here?” I asked him. When he said that he was, I held out the reins to him and asked, “Will you hold these?”

  Even with everything going on, Dolabella retained enough of his wits to look surprised, asking me, “Are you really going to let me watch your horse?” He grinned, adding, “All by myself?”

  “You’re not alone,” I retorted, jerking a thumb over at one of the Germans. “They may not know much, but they know good horseflesh. They won’t let you do anything stupid.”

  He gave a small laugh, but under his breath, he asked me, “Where are you off to? To see anyone in particular?”

  “Yes,” I answered honestly. “I’ll be back shortly.” Stepping away from him, I saw there were a pair of men, both rankers, and while they were wearing only tunics, both of them were carrying cudgels, and I asked them, “Are you two going to be the ones following me around?” They exchanged a glance, but then one of them nodded, and I said curtly, “Then let’s go. Try to keep up.”

  With that, I went striding towards the headquarters tent, leaving Drusus just settling, quite reluctantly, into the chair Percennius offered, and I wondered what the next watch held in store.

  Not surprisingly, there were men standing in front of the praetorium entrance; what was unusual was that there were clearly two different sets of them. Four men who were wearing only their tunics but, like the pair of men who were following me, carrying cudgels were standing a couple paces away from the tent. Directly behind them, with their backs to the canvas, were four fully armed Legionaries, although they were leaning on their shields, and there did not seem to be an inordinate amount of tension or hostility. Nevertheless, when the four mutineers realized that I was actually heading for the tent, they straightened up in what was essentially the position of intente, reminding me that the discipline of the Legions is not something that is easily forgotten.

  “Yes, Centurion?” The man who spoke wore the white Optio stripe. “Is there something we can do for you?”

  “Yes,” I replied pleasantly enough, but I was not inclined to do more than that, and I pointed at the flap. “You can step aside. I want to talk to Primus Pilus Galens.”

  “How do you know he’s in there?”

  This was not the Optio, but one of the men with him, and unlike the Optio, his tone was belligerent, and I was slightly encouraged to see that the Optio was clearly irritated, and while I was willing to address the Optio with a certain level of respect, that did not go for a ranker.

  “Because I’ve got fucking eyes in my head, Gregarius,” I snapped. “I just saw him look out.”

  At this, the Optio turned and gave one of the Legionaries an inquiring look, to which the man answered, “The Centurion’s right. The Primus Pilus wanted to see what all the fucking noise was about this time.”

  The Optio seemed to consider for a moment, then shrugged and stepped aside, though he actually had to shove the belligerent ranker to move out of my path, but when I began moving towards the flap and the pair of mutineers followed, the Legionary who had spoken raised a hand, while the other three men stood up and hefted their shields.

  “You know the rules, Poplicola,” the Legionary spoke to the Optio. “None of you lot is allowed inside.”

  Before Optio Poplicola could speak up, one of the men behind me protested, “But Percennius told us we can’t let him out of our sight! We have to go in.”

  “That’s not happening,” the Legionary said, but while the mutineers clearly did not like this, it was easy to see they also understood that they were not only unarmored and armed only with cudgels, but were unwilling to do anything to rupture the tenuous peace.

  The man identified as Poplicola turned to me, and I read in his eyes a plea that I change my mind and turn around, but while a part of me sympathized with the man, it was simply from my recognition he was in a tough spot.

  However, deciding that it would be politic to do so, I did say, “I’m not going to go sneaking out the back; you have my word on it.”

  One of my escorts snorted, muttering derisively, “Oh, well, his word. That makes a difference.”

  I turned and pinned the man with my gaze, and while it was cold, I suspect that moving my hand from where I had it hooked in my baltea with my thumb and reaching across and tapping my fingers on the hilt of my gladius was likely more effective.

  “That’s all you’re going to get,” I told him, “but you’re welcome to try and stop me instead if it’s not enough.”

  As I expected, he wilted, breaking eye contact and giving a sulky shrug, which I accepted, but when I stepped forward, the Legionary who had spoken held up a hand.

  “I’m sorry, Centurion,” he was clearly nervous, “but our orders are that nobody be allowed in if we don’t know them.”

  Biting back a curse, I forced myself to sound patient, saying, “Then one of you go tell Primus Pilus Galens that the best tiro he ever trained is outside and wants to talk to him.”

  I confess it was more an impish urge that I phrased it in this manner than any desire to be secretive, but despite looking confused, the Legionary in command of the detachment disappeared inside the tent. Before I could count to ten, the flap was thrust aside, and while he was not smiling, I saw the pleasure in his eyes.

  “There’s only one bastard who would think something like that,” Aulus Galens said, “so I knew it had to be you.”

  And with that, I was allowed into the praetorium.

  “What by Cerberus’ balls are you doing here in this mess?” Galens asked after we had greeted each other properly, which started with me saluting, then ending in an embrace.

  My old Optio, then my Centurion as Hastatus Posterior of the First Cohort, who I had known since childhood, was in his late fifties, and every year was etched in his weather-beaten, craggy features, but despite not laying eyes on him for years, I could see that this ordeal had aged him even more. As briefly as I could, I explained how I had come to be here back in Pannonia; when I m
entioned Dolabella’s name, his mouth twisted into a sneer, and just like Domitius, he had trouble reconciling that Tiberius’ man and I were working together, and willingly at that.

  “How did that happen?” he asked, as had Domitius.

  “It’s…complicated,” was all I could offer, and like my old close comrade, Galens was clearly unconvinced, though he did not press matters.

  There was an awkward silence, so I decided to fill it by asking, “So, how has it been here?” I pointed to the row of cots that lined the walls of the tent, while the desks had all been moved from their normal spots. “How long have you been cooped up in here?”

  “Almost three weeks,” he answered bitterly. “And it was pretty rough, at least at first. What they did to Rufus was just the beginning of it.”

  “Did they come after you?” I asked him, and he shot me a savage grin.

  “Oh, they tried,” he allowed, “but they only tried it once.”

  “How many men have been killed?”

  He shook his head, but I misread him, surprising me instead when he answered, “Believe it or not, nobody has been killed.” He paused, then added, “Yet, at least. Oh, there are a fair number of cracked skulls and gods know how many men have something broken, but otherwise, it’s been only fists and occasionally cudgels.”

  “Well,” I offered, “now that Drusus is here, it might be that nobody has to die.”

  Galens shook his head, and his tone was adamant as he said, “That’s not going to happen.” He pointed around at the other men, all of Centurion rank. “There has to be a reckoning for this, Pullus. Making us hide and cower in here like dogs?” His expression had hardened, but I sensed that, along with the bitterness and shame, there was a real sadness there, which he seemed to confirm when he added, “Unless we get rid of some of the worst offenders, we’ll never be able to command these men again.”

  “Percennius must be at the top of your list,” I commented, but at this, he looked directly at me, and my heart skipped a beat, somehow knowing what was coming.

  “Percennius,” Galens said scornfully, “is a puppet in a toga that he stole from somewhere. He doesn’t have the brains for this. And,” suddenly, he jabbed a finger in my chest, and I wondered if he had recalled how much I hated when someone did that, “I think you know that. In fact,” he added, “I think that’s why you’re really here, and why Dolabella brought you here.”

  In this moment, I was reminded that, despite the rough, vulgar exterior, my first Optio had a razor-sharp mind; no man who achieves the rank of Primus Pilus is a simpleton. And, I also realized, that if I was interpreting him correctly, Galens intended to kill Domitius; whether he did it himself or ordered it done did not really matter.

  For just an instant, I considered lying but quickly discarded it, choosing to admit instead, “You’re probably right. About Dolabella, anyway.” I paused for a moment, trying to think of something that might help this situation, my mind racing, then it suddenly came to me, and I asked Galens, “What about this list of demands? Do you think they’re unjust? Which ones do you disagree with?”

  This clearly caught Galens by surprise, and I saw the warring emotions playing across his features, while the silence drew out for several heartbeats.

  Finally, he replied, very grudgingly, “I don’t think there’s anything that’s actually unjust or wrong, Pullus. But,” he insisted, “they shouldn’t have gone about it the way they did! Here or,” he pointed at me again, but this time, I understood why, “in Germania. That’s just not the way Roman citizens do things!”

  “I agree,” I answered, “that this was probably not the best way to go about it.”

  “‘Probably’?” he echoed disbelievingly. “There’s no ‘probably’! It wasn’t right!”

  Rather than argue the point directly, I decided on another approach, asking him, “How long have the rankers been asking for these changes?”

  For the first time, Galens looked, if not uncertain, then seemingly understanding where I was heading.

  “A fair amount of time,” he admitted, again grudging every word.

  “And,” I pressed, “what has the answer been from the Princeps?”

  “That the time wasn’t right,” Galens said, sighing as he did so.

  Seeing him weaken, I was not about to let up; more than the original reason I had been brought here, once I learned that Galens knew Domitius was one of the true leaders of this mutiny, my most important mission became doing everything I could to protect my friend.

  “So,” I asked, rhetorically, “when is the right time, Galens? If not now, when Tiberius is still not secure as Imperator?”

  “But that’s not right!” Galens protested indignantly. “Hitting the man when he’s at his weakest, like this?” Shaking his head, he repeated stubbornly, “It’s not right.”

  “When else would they do it?” I pressed. “Given how many times they’ve been turned down, really, what choice did they have?”

  At this, Galens glared at me, clearly angry that I seemed to be taking the side of the mutineers, and I was prepared for another angry outburst.

  But then, without any warning, he let out an explosive breath, waved a hand in disgust, answering, “All right, all right. You made your point.” Shaking his head, he insisted, “But I don’t like it! And,” he lowered his voice, and this time, he made sure to look directly in my eyes as he said, “There are men in this Legion who need to disappear, Pullus. And nothing and nobody is going to stop us,” he jerked his head to indicate the loyal Centurions around us, “from setting our Legion to rights.”

  A lump formed in my throat, and I realized how much of a risk I was going to be running, yet that memory of my Avus’ account overpowered any idea of caution, causing me to say as casually as I could, “I understand, and I agree that needs to be done…as long as it’s not a Centurion with one eye that you’re going to…disappear.” Galens’ expression hardened, but I did not stop there, finishing quietly, “Because if that happens, Primus Pilus, I’m willing to sacrifice my life and my career to avenge that act.”

  He said nothing for a long, long moment, and while I returned his stare equally, there was no hostility in my gaze; no, there was just a sense of real sadness that matters had come to this.

  Finally, he gave a barely perceptible nod, but I was not satisfied with that, and I said as much. His expression softened, and he said, “Honestly, he’s one of the best Centurions in the Legion, and I know that he had more to do with making sure that the bloodshed has been kept to a minimum than anyone, even Clemens.” While this was encouraging, I said nothing and continued to stare at him, and he finally muttered, “Fine. This Centurion you’re speaking of has nothing to fear. Besides,” he shrugged, “he hadn’t been himself leading up to this. I suppose you know his woman died?”

  I nodded, but I was more curious about something else he had said, and I used the opening to ask him, “What about this Clemens? He’s not from the 8th?”

  Galens shook his head. “No, he’s from the 9th. Honestly, the 9th has been the most half-hearted about all this nonsense, but I put that down to the fact that they haven’t been in Pannonia that long.”

  I knew this, of course; they had been sent to Pannonia by the Princeps after the Pannonian rebellion and the Varus disaster, but I was not sure why Galens thought their relatively short tenure in the province had something to do with it, and I asked him as much.

  “You remember what that campaign was like, Pullus,” Galens answered, then for the first time, gave me a grin, and I was impressed he still had all of his teeth, minus those on the bottom that had been knocked out in a fight before I joined his Century. “I mean, it’s true you were off strutting around with young Germanicus and didn’t see any real fighting, but I’m sure you heard about how tough it was when you and Germanicus were lying on your couches eating lark’s tongues.”

  “Gerrae!” I replied, only part of my indignation feigned. “We had it just as tough as any of you!”
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br />   “You did,” Galens agreed, which threw me, something at which he was exceedingly good at doing, then after a pause, he added, “as long as you were here. But you weren’t here for that last year.” This I could not deny, and he correctly interpreted my silence to continue, “I’ll cross the river believing that it was the last year of that campaign that’s the real cause of what’s happening with this army. I don’t know about you boys on the Rhenus, but we were treated worse than dogs for the last year of that campaign. Oh,” he waved a hand, “I know why Tiberius did what he did. He was angry and frustrated. But he took it out on us just as much as he had us take it out on the natives.” His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace as he finished, “Well, this what he gets, I suppose.”

  I sat there, considering Galens’ words, and I did think about pointing out that Galens had essentially offered a defense of the actions of the mutineers, but I kept that to myself, not wanting to inadvertently cause his hostility to turn back onto the men, specifically Domitius.

  Instead, I asked carefully, “So, Primus Pilus, I have your word that nothing will happen to Domitius?”

  He shot me an irritated look, replying tersely, “I told you nothing would happen to him, didn’t I?”

  I tried not to let my relief show, but before I could say anything else, we heard a roar of voices from outside, yet the look Galens and I exchanged told me that he interpreted the tone the same way I did, which was one of anger and repudiation, not of celebration that Drusus had given them what they wanted. We both stood, yet before either of us could move, the flap was suddenly thrown open, and I saw by the light that it was almost sundown, but it was the sight of Drusus entering the tent, more stumbling than walking, that caused a thrill of alarm to pass through me. He was followed immediately by Dolabella, Lentulus, then both father and son Blaesus, but I counted the bodyguards, and only four entered the tent as well. Meanwhile, the noise was continuing outside, the anger still clear in their collective voices, and I wondered what Drusus had said, or had not said that had caused this reaction. This was what prompted me to move in the general direction of the Proconsul, but he had been given a chair and was completely surrounded by a combination of noblemen and his bodyguards, all of them competing to thrust a cup in his hand while demanding to know what had happened…in respectful terms, of course. Rather than try and shove my way through, I moved around the knot until I saw Dolabella, who at that moment was draining a cup himself, and when I moved to his side, I could smell that it was not water.