by R. W. Peake
Which was what prompted Galens to grunt, then nudge Mancinas with an elbow as he pointed at one of the bodies, asking, “Isn’t that your man Vibulenus, who caused us so much trouble the first week?”
Mancinas confirmed that it was, which Galens, seeing my questioning expression, explained, “That cunnus almost got us all killed the first couple days of the revolt because he claimed that Blaesus had ordered his brother executed.”
“For what?” I asked, and Galens replied, “Well, Vibulenus claimed that his brother was actually one of your bunch up there on the Rhenus.” He thought a moment but had to turn to Mancinas, who was the one who said, “Supposedly he was an Optio in the Fourth of the Seventh of the 5th Alaudae.” Galens nodded his thanks to his counterpart, continuing, “Right, that was it. And supposedly, he’d been sent down by the men responsible for the trouble up there to confer with the mutineers here to coordinate their efforts, and when the Legate found out, he let the Legate in Mogontiacum know, and had the brother executed.”
I shook my head, immediately dismissing this. “I would have known about someone from the Army of the Rhenus coming down here. That never happened.”
Galens shot me an amused look, saying dryly, “Yes, we figured that out. Which is why he’s there now,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder since we had continued walking, “with Percennius.”
By this point, Drusus had stopped about fifty paces beyond the wall, raising an arm to signal where Sejanus and the mounted contingent of both the bodyguards who had remained outside the camp and the Praetorian cavalry were mounted and waiting. The manner in which they began moving, going immediately to the gallop, was sufficiently alarming that Catonius suddenly rounded on the Proconsul, and even over the noise of the onrushing horsemen, I could hear him.
“What’s happening, Proconsul?” he demanded, pointing at where the Praetorian Tribune was leading what looked to my eyes to be a cavalry charge. “I thought we had an agreement!”
“We do!” I heard Drusus, but he said something else, which was now drowned out by the sound of hooves.
“This is bad,” Galens muttered, but the only person moving of the group leaving the camp was Drusus, who was walking his mount forward, holding up his arms in a clear command to Sejanus and his men, making a patting gesture with both hands.
This seemed clear enough, but Sejanus did not slow down, at least immediately, and Catonius, Clemens, and Domitius suddenly reversed their progress with Drusus and began walking backward, keeping their attention on the oncoming riders. Before I gave it any thought, I quickened my own pace with the idea to provide protection for Domitius, since I was wearing my armor and was carrying my gladius. Fortunately, before I went a half-dozen steps, I saw Sejanus at last raise a fist, the sign to come to a halt, although by the time he drew up, he was close enough that Drusus was actually spattered with dirt from the Praetorian’s horse sliding to a stop. Even before the animal had come to a complete halt, Sejanus was out of the saddle, crossing the few feet to where Drusus had also come to a stop, offering the Proconsul a salute that, to my eyes, was almost as theatrical and flowery as one I would have expected from a man like the recently deceased Percennius.
“Proconsul!” The Tribune spoke more loudly than was necessary, since I could clearly hear him more than fifty paces away. “I’m happy to see you unharmed! Know that I ordered the sacrifice of a white bull for your safety!”
“Pluto’s cock,” my old Primus Pilus, who had caught up to me, muttered disgustedly, “can that man’s tongue get any farther up Drusus’ ass?” He turned to me and asked, “Who is that cunnus anyway?” I answered Galens, and the mention of Sejanus’ name evoked a reaction that informed me that we were of a like mind, although his only comment was a sour, “I’ve heard of the bastard.”
The glance he gave me, however, told me that he knew more than just the man’s name. Now that it did not appear as if Sejanus intended to run us all down, Catonius, Clemens, and Domitius had resumed their course but stopped several paces short of where Drusus and Sejanus were talking. Now the Praetorian’s voice was no longer audible, but judging from his demeanor, he was not happy about whatever it was that Drusus was telling him. His entire body seemed to radiate repudiation of Drusus’ words, which I assumed was the Proconsul’s explanation of the agreement he had struck with the mutineers, and in seeming confirmation, the Praetorian leaned over to look past Drusus where my friend and the other two Centurions were standing. I did not need to be closer, nor did I need to know Sejanus to see the poisonous, hateful glare he aimed towards them, and it made me wonder if Catonius would actually arrive in Rome intact. Regardless of this fear, my main concern was for Domitius, and it was him I kept my eyes on, somehow sensing that he might be inclined to do something that I would object to, like suddenly decide he needed to accompany Catonius. Thankfully for both our sakes, after a short conversation, Sejanus finally came to a rigid intente, offering a salute to Drusus, which he returned in a manner that informed those of us watching that it was over at last.
Chapter Ten
I spent only one more night in that camp, and frankly, despite my ambivalence about leaving Domitius behind, I was ready to return to my own Legion, if only to learn whether Germanicus had managed to quell the insurrection there. Given my reasons for this account, I must stress that matters were far from settled with the three Legions, and there was still an air of uncertainty and not a little discontent as a sizable number of rankers were unhappy that, essentially, nothing had changed. Around every fire, there were discussions, some of them minor disagreements among comrades, some of them more spirited, and more than a few where men came to blows. Thankfully, their battles were fought only with fists, but what was highly unusual was that the officers, Centurions and Optios alike, decided to allow these disputes to be settled in this manner. Frankly, I disagreed with the collective decision, made shortly after Drusus returned to the Praetorian camp, which had been constructed during the night before, though I did not say anything to Domitius. From my viewpoint, the chances of matters escalating between comrades was less of a concern than my fear that there would be some clash between men of different Legions, whose passions were already running high. Just from my relatively short time spent with them, it was clear that Galens’ assessment was correct that, of the three Legions, the 9th appeared to be the least upset at what so many of their counterparts in the 8th and 15th viewed as simply another tactic of delay with this next embassage to Tiberius. Whether their attitude was attributable to their short tenure in the province I do not know, but the men of the other two Legions, if I am any judge from the tenor of the snatches of conversation I heard as I made my way to Domitius’ tent, seemed to take this lack of passion as a personal insult for some reason. From my perspective, looking in from the outside and based on just a matter of two days of observation, the passive manner in which the Centurions from all three Legions were handling the still-roiling tensions of that day seemed to be based in their belief that the eclipse from the previous night was sufficiently fresh so that the rankers’ fear of the gods’ anger was much more powerful a deterrent to violence than their Centurions’ viti. And, given how matters turned out, the next morning, I was forced to grudgingly acknowledge that they knew their men better than I did. Truly, I was more concerned that this night would, in all likelihood, be the last I would likely spend with Titus Domitius, and I had decided that I would tell him of my conversation with Galens, although I was unsure about how I would broach the subject. He was clearly exhausted, but I think that he was as cognizant that this would, at the very minimum, be the last night before a period of separation that might last years, or more likely, we would never meet again.
He was still just in his tunic, but when he suggested I shed my armor and I demurred, he laughed, shaking his head, “Don’t worry, Titus. There’s not going to be trouble tonight. I think,” his humor did not vanish as much as it subtly changed, giving me a grim smile as he went on, “without men like Percenniu
s to stir them up, they’ll be content to bash each other and not do anything more. Not to mention that if they’re as tired as I am, they’ll have shot their bolt bashing Publius for not agreeing with them about whether it’s Mars who’s angry, or if it’s Jupiter himself.”
This did elicit a chuckle, since I had heard something almost identical to that very argument as I made my way through the camp about which one of the gods they had offended, and what it meant in terms of punishment. We lapsed into a silence then, both of us sipping from our cups of unwatered wine, which Domitius informed me was the last amphora that he had been saving for the end of this ordeal.
Realizing that there was no good way to go about it, as normal, I plunged ahead, telling Domitius, “In case you’re worried that Galens is going to harbor some hard feelings for your part in this, don’t be.”
As soon as the words left my mouth, I braced for any number of reactions, but not for the one I got, because he answered simply, “I’m not. I know you talked to him.”
I felt my jaw drop; it had not occurred to me that I would be the one who was surprised.
“How do you know that?” I asked, and he did not reply immediately, but even missing an eye, I caught the amused gleam in his good one that informed me he was having some fun at my expense, then he finally admitted, “Because Galens came and talked to me to tell me that I had nothing to worry about.” Then, his manner changed slightly, and I understood why when he added, “Not from the Primus Pilus or anyone connected with the Legion. As far as Tiberius goes?” He shrugged, and he looked away as he finished, “There’s nothing I can do about it, so I’m not going to waste time worrying about it.”
“No, there’s not anything you can do about it,” I agreed, and I decided to exact a little revenge of my own, pausing to take a deep swallow of wine, “but there might be something I can do about it. Actually,” I was more thinking aloud now, “I may have already done what needs to be done.”
Domitius had been moodily staring into his own cup, and his head came up sharply at that, his eye narrowed as he searched my face.
“Titus,” he warned, “I don’t want you doing something that’s going to get you in the cac with Tiberius for me.”
“I’m not,” I assured him. “I know you find it hard to believe, but Dolabella isn’t the same man you knew. Something’s changed for him, and I think he’s just trying to do as little damage to other men now as he can.”
I was not surprised that Domitius was skeptical, and being brutally honest with myself in that moment, I had nothing other than a feeling in my gut that the spymaster’s change of heart was sincere.
“Well,” Domitius said, clearly unconvinced, but equally apparent, unwilling to talk about it anymore, “whatever you can do, I appreciate it.”
Understanding his implicit message, I turned to safer topics, and we spent most of the evening reminiscing, until I saw his eyelid drooping to a point that I realized I only had a matter of moments to get out the other thing I had decided to say.
“There’s one other thing I wanted to tell you,” I began. “Since it’s unlikely we’re going to see each other for only the gods know how long.” This at least served to make his eye open wider, and he leaned forward, studying me intently, clearly sensing this was something important, at least to me. Searching for the words, I finally came up with, “I’ve been thinking about our grandfathers a lot lately.”
“So have I,” Domitius answered immediately, but before I could continue, he asked a question of his own. “Why do you think that is, Titus?”
Indeed, I had spent a fair amount of time wondering this myself, and while I could not say I was certain about it, I did feel I had a grasp of the basic reason, so I offered, “I think,” I spoke slowly, “that all of this,” I waved my hand around, “has something to do with it, but more than that, I think it’s because Augustus died.” Warming up to it, I went on, “Think of it, Titus. We’re in our forties, and we’ve lived our entire lives with Augustus playing a prominent role, starting with our grandfathers.”
Domitius considered this, then pointed out, “But remember, my grandfather fought for The Liberators, not for Augustus.”
“True,” I granted, “but he did it because Augustus was named Caesar’s heir, not Antonius, which started everything that led to the second civil war.”
He did not reply verbally, but he nodded in a manner that I knew from experience meant that he agreed with my assessment.
“So,” I went on, “that’s one reason that the death of Augustus puts us in a place none of us have ever been before. What,” I asked, rhetorically, “does Rome look like now that he’s gone?” The next part was more personal, but I was still fairly certain about it. “And, let’s be honest.” I grinned at him, pointing to his missing eye. “Not only are we not getting any younger, we’re getting whittled down bit by bit.”
As I hoped, this made my friend laugh, and he shot right back, “I didn’t get this,” he pointed to his eyepatch, “until a couple years ago. You,” now he indicated my scarred left arm, though the knotted tissue was now almost completely white, with tinges of pink, “started getting chopped up when you were a ranker! But,” the grin on his face remained in place, but there was a melancholy quality to it, “you’re right. We’re not getting any younger.”
I took a deep breath, then before I could stop myself, I went on, “But while those are important reasons, they’re not the most important one.”
When he did not say anything, just lifting an eyebrow, a habit that persisted to this moment despite the fact that it was the one over his missing eye, I knew he was not going to make matters easy for me. Consequently, I went on to explain my belief about Titus Pullus’ one real regret in his life, and from where I had learned it. Domitius was aware of the existence of my Avus’ scrolls, but I had never gone into any detail, and honestly, the only time I brought them up was when there was a piece of information in them that I thought relevant to whatever we were experiencing at that moment, whether it was because of circumstances, or we were traversing terrain over which he and his comrades had marched. I do not precisely know how long I talked, but I was gratified to see that Domitius no longer seemed sleepy, perched on the edge of his chair, listening with an intensity that was somewhat unsettling.
When I finished, he sat there, considering for several moments, then he said, “If I’m being honest, I’ve always wondered how your grandfather felt about what happened at Pharsalus. After all,” he pointed out, “I’ve only heard what my grandfather’s side was, through my father, and we never really talked about it. At least, not to this level of detail.”
This was certainly true; our conversations about this subject had been deliberately vague on my part, especially in the beginning when I did not know exactly how Domitius viewed matters that, in its own small way, had a profound impact on not just our respective families, but on the entire Republic, as it was known then.
Realizing there was not much more I could say on the matter, I simply answered, “Now we have.”
I ended up spending the night on a pallet in Domitius’ quarters, grumbling in a good-natured way about the quality of the accommodations, and I slept more easily that night than I would have thought, since I was still partially convinced that all of this effort to keep the peace would come to nothing, as angry men sought an outlet for being thwarted in their aims yet again. My last conscious thought was of how I hoped that my Avus would be proud of me. Perhaps we will find each other in the afterlife, and I can ask him.
There was one last surprise in store, and that was when we rose at the dawn call of the bucina, it was immediately followed by the call for all senior Centurions to assemble in the forum. Since I had no official role to play, I decided it was time to go seek out Dolabella and find out what my instructions were now that matters seemed to have been, if not resolved, then successfully delayed once more. Parting with Domitius, we promised to meet back at his quarters once we knew what our respective futures he
ld, and I made my way out of the camp, the gates now open and without more than the standard watch set on the walls. The same could not be said for the hasty camp prepared by Sejanus and his Praetorians, and I could not help feeling a glimmer of satisfaction when I saw just what the Praetorian version of a marching camp looked like. Clearly, these men had not been forced to dig a ditch and build a wall in some time, if they ever had now that there are men who enlist straight into the Praetorian Guard and do not come exclusively from the Legions. The rampart sagged in some places because the ditch was not as deep in that spot, which conversely meant there was not enough dirt to maintain a uniform height. They did have stakes placed, but otherwise, it bore closer resemblance to the kind of camp a Legion of tiros might have constructed without supervision, based on what little they knew of such matters. I was briefly detained at the gate there, which was of the earthen variety, as an Optio wearing a blue tunic sent a runner to the praetorium, either to ascertain my identity or whether I was to go there. The latter, it turned out, were my instructions, though it was not to attend to Drusus, but on behalf of Dolabella. Walking through the camp, I ignored the openly hostile stares of the Praetorian rankers; their antipathy to the Legions is well-known, and at least in my case, is certainly reciprocated. Inside the camp, I will admit, was another matter in terms of the manner in which it had been constructed, looking in every respect like a Roman marching camp, with its grid of streets and neat rows of tents. Speaking of the tents, while I was not at all surprised that they seemed to be newer and unexposed to the normal treatment by the elements, I did take notice, with some indignation, that their tents were clearly larger than those of the Legions. Not by much, I will grant; perhaps a foot longer and two feet wider, as well as a bit taller, but I personally found it offensive. I suppose my height had something to do with it, given how I had to bow my head in every part of the tent except for the center between the poles. The other thing I noticed was that some of the tasks that are normally performed by rankers as part of the morning routine were being attended to by slaves, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps that was why the construction of the camp’s exterior was so slipshod, not that it mattered. Dolabella was actually standing outside the tent, which was something of a relief, since I had no desire to be inside where Drusus and all of his party were, certain that there would be nothing but a lot of bickering.