Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  Which Dolabella inadvertently confirmed when he said by way of greeting, “I needed to get out of there, and you don’t want to be in there.”

  “That bad?” I asked, and he gave a grim nod, his features almost identical to Domitius’ in the reflection of the fatigue he was feeling.

  “Sejanus is…suggesting that by the Legions taking care of Percennius on their own, without orders, they’re not only demonstrating blatant disrespect, but the fact that they’re hiding something.”

  As he said this, I understood that he was not only correct, but I could easily envision someone like Drusus being swayed by this argument, but this raised a question in my mind.

  “Why is Sejanus doing this?” I asked. “What’s in it for him?”

  “That,” Dolabella admitted, his mouth twisting into a frustrated grimace, “is something I wish I knew. I’ve been thinking about it, and I can’t quite see what he’s up to. But,” he spat into the dirt, one of the most ancient and common methods of cursing a man, “whatever it is, it’s for the benefit of Sejanus and nobody else.”

  “I know that someone summoned all the Centurions to the praetorium in their camp,” I told him, mainly because I was hoping he had some inside knowledge as to why, but he only commented, “They’re probably being told the latest developments, or maybe they’re deciding how to conduct their business from this point forward.”

  As it turned out, this was close to what was actually happening, which I learned when I saw Galens, dressed in his full uniform, stride into the Praetorian camp. We had been walking from the forum, but seeing him approach, we stopped, both of us closely examining his expression as he neared, but while he looked sober, there was no sign of overt concern.

  Saluting him, I simply said, “Good morning, Primus Pilus.”

  Dolabella, however, was more concerned with the meaning of Galens’ presence, and after exchanging a brief nod, he asked bluntly, “What are you doing over here? Were you summoned?”

  If Galens did not care for the preemptive tone, he hid it well, and more importantly, he answered without hesitation, “I’m coming to let the Proconsul know that the 8th is leaving this camp and returning to Siscia to wait to hear from Tiberius.”

  This, to my mind at least, was welcome news, but Dolabella, being more attuned to what men did not say as much as what they did, instantly understood there was more to Galens’ words and asked, “What about the other two?”

  This caused Galens’ lips to compress into a thin line, which I had learned long before when he was my Optio that he was angry and struggling to remain composed.

  “You’ll have to ask them,” he told Dolabella, but when he began to resume his walk to the praetorium, Dolabella said, in a tone that was half-question, half-guess, “They’re staying here, aren’t they?”

  Galens did not stop walking, but he did say over his shoulder, “It looks that way.”

  Fortunately for all concerned, whatever argument Sejanus used to sway young Drusus that there was a more sinister reason for the handling of Percennius and the others was not sufficient to change the Proconsul’s mind. Once Galens informed him that only the 8th was returning to Siscia, a full watch passed as Drusus and his advisors bickered and debated about the best way in which to respond to the fact that the 9th and 15th were staying put. The ultimate result was that we spent another day there, although the official party going to Rome, consisting of Blaesus Minor, Catonius, and a man named Lucius Aponius, who was one of the gaggle of Tribunes and other minor nobles accompanying the Proconsul, left that day. There was a brief period where I thought I would finally be allowed to leave and return to Germania, but for reasons I never learned, Drusus ordered me to remain there, through Dolabella of course, despite the fact that my usefulness, such as it was, seemed to have come to an end. It was midday before the 8th finally left the camp, and since Domitius and I had said our goodbyes the night before, I spent more time with Galens and Asinius, along with the few remaining men I had served alongside in one capacity or another, chatting with them as they prepared to depart. The almost unanimous sentiment among these older men was they were just happy that it was over; what was far from unanimous was their outlook on whether this would finally be the time that Tiberius listened. I certainly did not take a vote, but my sense was that it seemed evenly split between men who thought that, now that the Legions had demonstrated their seriousness, Tiberius would recognize that and, while not granting all the concessions, would certainly agree to some of them. The other half viewed matters more pessimistically, yet rather than being angry, they appeared to be resigned to whatever fate awaited them. Ultimately, my sense was that these men were just tired of all the angry tension, with the constant threat of matters turning bloody, and perhaps most importantly, they just wanted to return to their families. Which, by regulation, they were not allowed to have, and I confess that the thought had crossed my mind that Tiberius might use this flaunting of a regulation that had been in place since Gaius Marius reorganized the Legions as a pretext for denying their demands. Whatever happened, in most ways, I was of a like mind with my former comrades of the 8th in that I just wanted to return to my own Legion, which I had come to think of as my home. Always there, lurking in the back of my mind, was a sort of envy of those comrades who had gone on to have families, which, if I allowed it, would cause me to wonder how different my life might have been if I had ever been able to shake the hold the numen of Giulia held over me. Whenever this happened, I would force myself to think of something else, and on this occasion, it was recalling the sadness of my friend Domitius at the loss of Petrilla, and how he could not bring himself to spend time with his children. Not surprisingly, this did not make me feel better, so I went and checked on Latobius, who I had ensured was properly stabled and cared for the first night. Once that was done, the 8th had finished packing up and was standing in the forum, ready to march away. Since I was in uniform, as were the men of the 8th, I saluted the Primus Pilus as I passed him by, and while he returned it, he also threw me a grin.

  “Try not to fall off that fucking horse, Pullus,” he called out.

  Laughing, I assured him that I would do my best, then walked down the column to essentially do the same with Appius Asinius, whose Century was next in the column, exchanging a few quiet words that ended with a clasping of arms. Finally, I got to where Domitius was standing, where we also exchanged a salute, but this time, we also embraced. Awkwardly, I would add, since we were both fully uniformed, and it caused us both to chuckle.

  “Try to write this time?” I asked him gently but with a tone that told him I was serious.

  He flushed, but he nodded and promised, “I will.”

  I was not through, however, adding, “And go see Domitilla and Titus as soon as you get back?”

  Domitius’ head shot up, and I saw a glimmer of anger, except it passed so quickly I might have imagined it, but there was no mistaking the pain in his eye.

  Taking a breath, he replied, “And I’ll do that as well.” After a pause, he looked up at me and asked grumpily, “Anything else you want me to do?”

  “Yes,” I answered, except this time I grinned. “Don’t lose that other eye. I don’t want to have to lead you around when we’re old men.”

  As I hoped, this made him laugh heartily, then with one last embrace, I walked away, and so far, I have not seen Titus Domitius again.

  I left at dawn the next morning, riding along with Drusus and his party, which naturally included his bodyguards, the Praetorian cavalry, his staff, and not surprisingly Sejanus, who left the Praetorian Cohorts under the command of another Tribune. Now that he no longer felt the need for protection, our party was entirely mounted and made good time, most of which I spent near the back of the rough formation, making myself as inconspicuous as possible. Dolabella alternated between spending time up near Drusus, then falling back to me, whereupon he would grumble about what he had overheard.

  “That bastard Sejanus never stops,” was one memorabl
e comment he made. “Even when he seems to be just gossiping about everyday things going on in Rome, it’s always about certain men.”

  I considered for a moment, yet I could not honestly find anything objectionable in this; after all, even rankers spent a fair amount of the time on the march chattering about the latest bit of scandal and gossip concerning our social betters.

  Nevertheless, I knew Dolabella was not just making a random comment, which prompted me to probe further, “Which ‘certain men’ are you talking about?” When he did not answer immediately, I amended slightly, “What do these ‘certain men’ have in common with each other?”

  This elicited a reaction, as he turned to look at me with a searching gaze, yet he answered readily enough, albeit with another question, “Are you asking what they appear to have in common with each other? Or what I think is really going on?”

  “Let’s skip to the second part,” I replied.

  He returned his attention forward, over his horse’s head, and while it was always hard to tell, I felt certain that with his good eye, Dolabella was staring at the back of the Praetorian Tribune.

  “I think,” he lowered his voice, “that these men have either run afoul of Sejanus in some fashion, or he views them as possible rivals.”

  “Rival for what?” I asked, curiously.

  The spymaster shook his head, hissing in frustration.

  “I wish I knew,” he answered honestly, and he turned to look at me again, and I could see how troubled he was, reminding me that Dolabella being unable to unravel some knotty mystery probably did not happen very often. “All I’m certain of is that he’s determined to get as close to Tiberius as he can and make himself seen as indispensable to the Imperator. But,” he finished bitterly, “I know it’s not because he’s loyal to Tiberius.”

  I made no reply, primarily because I did not know what to say. Frankly, I realized that at least part of Dolabella’s concern was for himself, but I could not fault him for that. Of all the things I knew and can say about Tiberius Dolabella is that, although he had certainly switched his allegiance from the aging Augustus to Tiberius, I am convinced that it had been done with, if not the outright consent of Augustus, then at least with a tacit but unmistakable sign to Dolabella to do so. My reasoning is straightforward; if Augustus had viewed Dolabella’s switching his allegiance to Tiberius as a betrayal, he would not have been riding next to me. Most importantly, and a reason for his longevity in his capacity as the man who dealt in Roman politics in the back alleys, tavernae, and whorehouses of the lower classes, Dolabella was unfailingly loyal to the man he served, which convinced me that not all of his concern about Sejanus was about his own skin. Traveling northeast, when we came to the road that was considered the “back passage” around Splonum, where the village of Clandate still stood, I experienced some trepidation about which route Drusus would take and had decided that if the Proconsul took that rougher but more direct route, I would be forced to continue on my own, taking the road that led through Splonum. Not that this route was without its own hazards, but given my history with the Maezaei and my actions in Clandate in the aftermath of Sextus’ death, I decided that the route through Splonum posed less risk to me, at least slightly. While it was true I had been in Splonum more recently with the Legio Germanicus, I had been part of an army, led by Germanicus, so even with my size, I was just one Roman among many who had partially destroyed their town, but the same could not be said about Clandate. Thanks to Fortuna, I did not have to make this choice, since Drusus continued straight and did not take the road branching off to the north. Being entirely mounted, we made better time than the 8th, so that despite the day’s head start, we could see them actually entering the gates of the camp, barely missing catching up with them. Now I had a second decision to make, and that was to entreat Dolabella to extract Drusus’ permission to leave this party and return to my Legion. I was determined to not only do this, but to do so immediately, pressing on and staying in Siscia only long enough to collect Titus and the girl Algaia, although I wondered if she had changed her mind about not returning to her people. Naturally, this put a fair amount of pressure on Dolabella to convince Drusus in a very short period of time, but while he was not optimistic, he assured me he would do his best.

  “I suppose that’s the least he owes you,” Dolabella commented as he left me, standing next to my horse and pack animal, and I wholeheartedly agreed.

  While Dolabella was busy with this, I went to the inn I had sent Titus and Algaia to stay in, wondering what I would find. It was true that it had only been a matter of three days, but I knew just how volatile and fleeting young love, or lust, could be, so I confess I was quite surprised when the pair emerged from the inn, having been sent for by the innkeeper’s slave. That they were holding hands, I was certain, was meant to send a clear signal to me, as if I needed it after seeing their almost identical expressions, a combination of nervousness and defiance.

  Rather than directly challenge either of them, I simply turned to the girl, and asked her quietly, “Are you sure about this?”

  To her credit, she did not hesitate, nodding her head and saying, “I am, Master.”

  Sighing, I answered, “First, I’m not your master. Second,” I paused, but it was mainly to tease the couple, then I grinned and said to her, “Don’t say I didn’t give you the chance. Once you get sick of him, you’re going to be up in Germania, a long way from here.” I was about to add, “Or Arelate,” but recalling what she had endured there at the hands of my brother, I felt certain it would be the last place she would want to go.

  “I would never get sick of him.” Algaia seemed almost angry, turning to look up at Diocles’ middle son, who just stood there looking like a moonstruck cow, gazing back at her in adoration.

  Sighing, I told them to go make preparations to depart, telling them to wait outside the camp gate for me to return.

  Going back into camp, I went straight for the forum, somewhat expecting Dolabella to be waiting, but he was not, nor did he show up for almost another third of a watch. Just when I was at the point where I told myself I would have to enter the Praetorium and approach Drusus myself, the door opened, and Dolabella emerged. Immediately studying his face, I suppose I noticed the small satchel he was carrying, but its importance did not become apparent right away. He was not smiling, but there was not an air about him that indicated to me he dreaded giving me bad news; it was as he was descending the steps I saw a tightly rolled scroll in his hand, which he extended to me once he drew near enough.

  “Here is your written pass,” he said, then turned it so I could see as he continued, “with Drusus’ personal seal on it.” He paused ever so briefly, but there was a hint of a smile on his face, prompting me to ask what he found humorous, and he answered readily enough, “I wasn’t sure I should tell you this, but I suppose it won’t do any harm. This,” he pointed to the scroll that I had now accepted, “is actually the second copy. The first one had an…error,” he finished, and now the grin was clearly visible, and somehow I just knew the cause.

  “He forgot my name, didn’t he?” I asked, and when he nodded, I was torn between indignation and relief, but when Dolabella burst out laughing, I could not help joining in, seeing the absurd humor of the situation.

  “I was so important to what he had to do that he couldn’t remember my name.” I shook my head, still a bit incredulous.

  “Actually, that’s not a bad thing,” Dolabella pointed out, his smile fading, “but aside from that mistake, he actually wrote something else.” He lifted the small satchel, handing it to me as well, explaining as he did so, “It seems that he wrote a rather…glowing report about your actions and behavior during this whole matter. It’s,” he indicated the leather bag, “in there, also under his seal. And,” he warned, somewhat humorously, but I could tell he was serious, “no, you’re not going to break the seal and read it.”

  Something did not make sense to me, and I suppose it was due to my suspicious nature, e
specially where it concerned the upper classes, that prompted me to ask, “Wait. He didn’t know my name for my travel order, but he wrote something good about me in this other scroll?”

  I got my answer before Dolabella actually spoke, in the manner in which he suddenly looked away past me towards the forum, mostly deserted by this point.

  “Well,” he finally admitted, “he might not have actually written it. But he did sign it. And,” Dolabella pointed to my travel orders, “his seal is on it just like your travel orders.”