Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “What happened?” I asked him, but before he answered, he jerked his head in an indication to follow him away from the small crowd.

  Once we were a safe distance away, the spymaster said miserably, “He delayed as long as he could, but he finally told them that while he had been empowered by his father to make the decision, he didn’t feel comfortable doing that, and he’d have to take the demands back to Tiberius.”

  “Again?” I groaned, and he only nodded. Something came to me, and I asked, “How many times has Tiberius seen this list of demands?”

  “At least three times that I know about,” Dolabella admitted.

  “And have any of the demands changed?”

  “No,” Dolabella sighed. “They haven’t.”

  Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “I don’t blame them for being angry.”

  Prior to this, I would have never uttered such a thing in front of Dolabella, certain that he would dangle this over my head as a means to force my cooperation in whatever scheme he was carrying out for Tiberius. And, even in the moment, I acknowledged that I was running a risk, but our time together over the previous days had convinced me that this was a new man, which he seemed to confirm.

  “Neither do I,” he answered soberly. “But that doesn’t do us any good right now.”

  This was certainly true, and I asked him, “What did Percennius say?”

  “I think,” Dolabella gave me a grim smile, “that our actor just realized that he’s not the puppet master; he’s the puppet. But,” he added quickly, perhaps because of my clear consternation, “because of that mob outside. They turned on him just as quickly as they turned on Drusus. And,” he allowed, “he’s the one who told Drusus to get in the tent since this is protected by the agreement.”

  That, I thought, was a few moments ago. Now I was not so sure that the men I was listening to howling outside, separated by only a thickness of canvas and some words, were of a mind to abide by it. It was this thought that spurred me to do something that, strictly speaking, I had sworn not to do.

  “I’m going to go find Domitius,” I told Dolabella, “and find out just how much danger we’re in.”

  As soon as I said it, I cursed myself, and completely unsurprisingly, Dolabella did not miss it, turning to stare up at me, his one good eye piercing me, though his tone was neutral as he said, “That’s a good idea. Dangerous,” he added, “but a good idea. But,” he indicated the front flap, “how are you going to get past them?”

  “Going out the back,” I told him.

  “But there’s not a back entrance,” he protested. “The only opening is to the quaestorium, but there’s guards on the outer entrance from there too.”

  In answer, I just tapped the hilt of my gladius, saying quietly, “If they can cut their way in here quicker than Pan, then I can do the same to get out.”

  “I hope,” Dolabella sighed, “you know what you’re doing.”

  “So do I,” was all I could think to say.

  It was not difficult to slice through the thick canvas of the back wall of the praetorium, although it did mean I was forced to intrude into the area that are the private quarters of the commander, Blaesus Major in this case, but I did not tarry. What was difficult was trying to squeeze my bulk through a single slit without tearing it wider open and leaving a gaping hole that anyone walking by could see. Fortunately, every man that was out and about was in the forum on the opposite side, and I waited just long enough for the sun to finish its descent, then after carefully and slowly stepping through the slit, I stood outside the tent for a moment, examining my makeshift exit. As careful as I had been, I had inevitably torn the canvas horizontally, creating a sagging hole that certainly was not as wide as my body, but was undoubtedly noticeable. Since I had taken the precaution of blowing out the single lamp that had been lit in Blaesus’ private quarters, and with the growing darkness, fortunately, the hole was not something that was so obvious that even a drunken ranker would notice. Moving quickly, but not so much so that it would draw attention, I walked down the Via Quintana, the street that runs behind the praetorium, and while there were men wandering about, they all appeared to be heading somewhere. Some of them, I noticed, were fully armed; these men were moving at a trot in the direction of the Porta Praetoria, making me wonder if Sejanus, hearing the uproar inside the camp as he undoubtedly had, was even then preparing to send his Praetorians in an assault. That, I was certain, would turn these already angry men in the forum violent, and there was no possible outcome that I could think of that turned out well for anyone, particularly the mutineers. I suppose it should be no surprise that, despite my loathing of men like Percennius here, or Pusio back in my own Century, and my disbelief that their motives were based in anything but self-interest, my heart and sentiment was with the rest of the men of the ranks. Whether or not the method that had been selected by insurrection was a proper way of going about it was the only aspect about which I had reservations, yet I also recognized that the Legions had been formally submitting their list of complaints for more than four years and had been continuously rebuffed, being told it was not the right time. Only once as I made my way to Domitius’ tent did I draw attention by a small party of a half-dozen men, wearing just their tunics but carrying cudgels. Feeling their eyes on me, I ignored them as I strode by, and while I saw one man’s mouth open, nothing came out that might have created trouble. At the time, I told myself that they just did not want to tangle with a fully armored Centurion of my size, but when I thought about it later, it was just as likely that they thought I was part of the contingent of men manning the walls. I was slightly concerned that one of the older veterans I conceivably could have run into during my walk might recognize me, but that did not happen, and the growing darkness certainly helped, especially since whoever was running things clearly did not have sufficient organization or control to send out men to light the torches that are placed around camp. Reaching Domitius’ tent, I suddenly realized that he might not be inside, and as I thought about it, I believed it more likely than not that he was elsewhere given all that was taking place. The mutineers in the forum were still shouting, but it had lost much of its power, dying to a dull roar that was still unsettling, but had lost the raw edge of anger that had been present moments before. Nevertheless, I rapped the piece of wood, yet when Domitius’ clerk opened the flap, I was prepared for him to inform me that my friend was not present. Instead, he did not appear surprised to see me, and, taking a quick glance around to see if we were being observed, waved me inside.

  As soon as I did so, the clerk, who I did not recognize, confirmed my sense by saying, “The Centurion told me to expect you at any moment. He’s in his quarters,” he pointed, “and said you should go right in.”

  Naturally, I did as he directed, walking to the flap in the partition, thrusting it aside, and getting yet another shock; Domitius was not alone, but more than the presence of two other men, it was the identity of one of them that stopped me in my tracks.

  “Titus,” Domitius looked calm and completely unruffled, “have you met Primus Princeps Prior Clemens?”

  “Not formally,” I managed, stepping the rest of the way into Domitius’ quarters, “but I know who he is.”

  Clemens’ expression was likely akin to the one I was wearing; a combination of caution and not a little worry, but I suppose that, like me, he also trusted Domitius, and I would like to think that whatever hesitation on my part when he thrust out his arm was so short that he did not notice, or perhaps he was too polite to mention it. Whatever the case, I grasped his arm, and we shared a moment of grim humor as we both opened our mouths, then realized there were really no words or ritual greeting that covered this situation.

  “This,” Domitius indicated the other man, “is Primus Princeps Prior Quintus Justus Catonius of the 15th.”

  As I had with Clemens, I offered my arm to Catonius, whose expression mirrored that of the other Centurion, yet also like Clemens, he accepted my hand wi
thout any comment other than the muttered niceties we all use when greeting a stranger.

  With that done, I turned to Domitius and asked bluntly, “So what now?”

  “That,” he answered without any overt sign he was irritated by the manner in which I had asked the question, “is what we’re talking about now.” Domitius then turned to the other two and indicated me, explaining, “This is Quartus Princeps Prior Pullus of the 1st Legion. He…”

  “I know who he is,” Catonius interrupted, who was of about the same age as Galens. “I was on the Primus campaign with his grandfather my first year. He,” he was staring at me, but while it was not overtly hostile, it was far from friendly, “was a great man, your grandfather, the best man I’ve ever seen with a gladius, and that was when he was about my age now. But,” now he turned to Domitius, and his tone became challenging, “that doesn’t explain why he’s here right now.”

  Domitius opened his mouth to answer, but I beat him to it. “Because I spent my first decade with the 8th, and Proconsul Germanicus personally ordered me to come down here to observe and offer what help I could to the situation.”

  Now, strictly speaking, this was not quite the truth, yet neither was it a lie. Regardless, I was not surprised when Catonius looked doubtful, while Clemens, who had been silent, maintained a neutral expression that I found impossible to interpret.

  Seeing Catonius was still suspicious, I suppose that was what prompted Domitius to point out, “He was Germanicus’ Primus Pilus six years ago for the Legio Germanicus during the revolt here.”

  This clearly had an impact, and while I had not known the man long, Catonius’ expression relayed a sense of chagrin, which he confirmed when he admitted, “That’s right, I had forgotten about that.” Turning to me, he gave what I suppose was his smile as he offered, “Forgive me, Pullus. It’s just hard to know who to trust right now.”

  “I understand,” I answered honestly, but then there was a sudden increase in the noise outside, which caused me to return to the original topic, “but I think you have more important things to worry about right now.”

  The three of them nodded, then resumed their discussion where they had left it when I interrupted, while I moved slightly towards the corner, determined that I would do nothing but listen. Which, of course, meant that I did no such thing.

  It was not until later we learned that the sudden eruption of the noise that had remained at a dull roar before that moment was due to old Gnaeus Lentulus. Depending on who you asked, he was either caught trying to sneak out of the camp to inform Sejanus that Drusus was in dire peril and needed to be rescued, or, as I learned from Dolabella, he was angered by being forced to effectively cower inside the praetorium, had stood up and announced to all within earshot that he was too old for such nonsense, and that he was returning to Rome to live out however many days the gods had deemed he had left.

  “Apparently,” Dolabella had said this with a grin, “he was most concerned that his young wife was in danger of being corrupted. That,” he added, “is how he put it anyway. But from everything I’ve heard, young Lentula doesn’t need any help in that department, if you know what I mean.”

  While this was somewhat humorous, what was taking place while Domitius, Clemens, and Catonius were vociferously arguing about their next course of action, was anything but, because it almost cost Lentulus his life. No matter why he did it, what is inarguable is that he was caught before he could make good his exit from the camp, and was stoned by angry mutineers. Whatever his faults as a Legate may have been, and despite his age, Lentulus was a tough old bird, because he somehow made his way up the rampart, then threw himself over the wall, whereupon some of Sejanus’ Praetorians rushed forward, and using javelins to cover their rescue, dragged the badly cut and bleeding old man to safety. This prompted what all who had been present for the entire mutiny agreed was the tensest, most dangerous moment, when some of the mutineers, whipped on by Percennius and his lackeys, threatened to storm the praetorium, claiming that Lentulus’ escape was proof of bad faith on the part of Drusus and those who had remained loyal, like Galens and Asinius, who I had yet to see but had been resting in the quaestorium on our arrival, after standing watch the night before. It was only through the intercession of a handful of men from the 9th, all of whom worked for Clemens, who went among those mutineers clamoring for blood, convincing them that this would remove any chance they had of achieving any of their aims. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed, but it had been a close-run thing. Meanwhile, I had finally taken a stool to sit and listen for some time as the debate raged back and forth between Catonius, Domitius, and Clemens, as the Centurion from the 15th argued, with some justification, that the fact that Drusus had not been empowered to make any concessions on behalf of his father was proof that the new Imperator had no intention of ever dealing fairly with us. His idea was to take Drusus hostage and bargain with the Imperator for his son’s life, insisting that this would be the only way to achieve their aims. Domitius was just as vociferous in insisting that doing so would spell disaster, not just for their hopes of getting Tiberius to agree to their demands, but to them personally.

  “Don’t think that he won’t find out that Percennius and his bunch aren’t the real leaders of this,” my friend argued, “and when he does, we’re all dead men.”

  “I’m prepared to sacrifice my life if it means getting the men what they deserve,” Catonius shot back, and somewhat to my surprise, Clemens nodded his agreement; he had been almost completely silent during their back and forth, making me wonder if that by common consent, he represented the tiebreaker between the three of them, since it was quickly apparent that Domitius was the moderate, while Catonius was more of a hardliner.

  “I know you are,” Domitius answered, his tone directly contrasting Catonius’ heat, “but what about your family, Catonius? How old is your oldest son?”

  This caused the older man to close his eyes, take a breath, then answering with a sigh, “He’s twenty, you know that.” He opened his eyes, but while he glared at my friend, it was without rancor. “And my oldest daughter just married an Optio in the Third of the Fifth.”

  Domitius did not respond, at least to Catonius; instead, he shocked all of us, especially me, when he turned to me and asked quietly, “What do you think, Titus? Do you think Tiberius would be content with just getting rid of us if we do as Catonius wants?”

  Now it was my turn to glare at him, except there was a great deal of rancor in my gaze, because I knew why Domitius was asking me. No, I had never openly confessed my role as one of Tiberius’ men, those who performed his deeds that he had no wish to become public, when he removed those he considered dangerous to the Princeps when he was still alive, to Rome, or, yes I will admit, to himself personally. But my friend is a clever, clever man, and I had always suspected he had guessed that I provided some form of service to Tiberius, although, as I have mentioned, it had been quite some time since Dolabella had darkened my door with a task.

  If he read the anger in my face, he gave neither a sign nor did he relent in meeting my gaze, regarding me steadily until I finally admitted, “No, I don’t. I think he would consider you holding Drusus hostage as a personal attack on his dignitas. And,” I felt compelled to add, “he’d be right. There would be no way that everyone in Rome wouldn’t hear about how you took his son hostage to force him to agree to your demands. And the Head Count wouldn’t like the idea of their Imperator essentially being extorted any more than he would, so they’d have no problem with whatever steps he took to avenge the assault on his family.”

  Catonius had been listening, but his expression remained hard and implacable, although I noticed that a muscle in his jaw had begun twitching as I continued speaking, not that I knew the man well enough to determine if this was significant. Clemens was every bit as attentive, yet I noticed that his eyes kept darting over to Catonius, clearly trying to gauge what impact my words were having in bolstering Domitius’ argument.

  I fini
shed speaking, and there was a silence that stretched out for several heartbeats, and I was beginning to think that perhaps this would be enough, and more importantly, Catonius would not ask the obvious.

  Naturally, this meant that when he opened his mouth, it was to demand, “And how do you know so much about how Tiberius thinks, Pullus? I mean,” he indicated himself and the other two, “more than any man of the ranks who’s marched for him.” Misreading my expression, he did hold up a placating hand. “I mean no offense when I say that, Pullus. But this is too important a matter to base our decision on what you think Tiberius will do.”

  I felt the flush of blood running up my neck, my face turning hot, but I do not know if it was what Catonius said, or that I sensed Domitius’ remaining eye fixed on me, waiting for what came out of my mouth next. And, as the gods as my witness, I was not going to say anything that would expose myself to the censure and contempt of these men, especially since I felt certain that one or both of them would have no reason not to spread this around the army. Yes, they were the army of Pannonia, but there is a steady flow of traffic between their army and that of the Rhenus, so it might be a month, perhaps two before who and what Titus Porcinianus Pullus really was became known to my comrades in the 1st. Then, from where I can only surmise, an image flashed through my mind, of words on a scroll, written by my Avus, and I was reminded why I was truly here, to correct the one mistake that I was certain haunted the first Titus Pullus for the rest of his days.