by R. W. Peake
Oddly enough, there was something else going on that helped distract me, but in a good way, and that was watching Alex and Titus getting reacquainted. Once they had spent the night in Germanicus’ camp, Alex had returned to spending his nights in the Century office, while Titus was allowed to come and go, though he spent every night in Germanicus’ camp. My initial thought with Titus had been to find him a position as a clerk somewhere in the Legion, like Alex, except it quickly became apparent that Titus was not cut out to be a scribe. It was not due to a lack of intelligence as much as it was a paucity of interest in anything that kept him indoors and sitting at a desk, although I will also say that, once I saw his hand at letters, I understood that Titus as a clerk would have been a disaster. For the first days after our arrival, I was content to allow the brothers to spend time together, which meant that Alex was absent from the office probably more than he should have been, then I finally put an end to it by informing Titus that I was giving him a choice.
“If you want to be attached to the Legion, it will have to be as a laborer or handling stock,” I explained, but when his face lit up, I held up a hand, cautioning him, “Titus, that means that you’ll be working with mostly slaves.” When he shrugged and said this did not matter, I realized that he did not fully comprehend the import, and I added, “It also means that you’re going to be treated like the slaves are treated, at least to a certain degree.”
This seemed to get through to him, but I confess I was a little irritated when Titus looked to Alex for confirmation, which his older brother was quick to do, telling him simply, “You don’t want to do that, Titus.”
Although he accepted this, it was clear to see he was not happy about it, and he asked, “Then what else can I do?”
“I’ve thought about that,” I assured him, “and personally, I think it’s better that you’re not attached to the Legion. So…”
“But why?” Titus cut me off, his face reddening, clearly surprised, and if I was any judge, a little hurt. “If it’s good enough for Alex, why isn’t it good enough for me?”
Before I could reply, Alex spoke up, his voice quiet but also matter of fact, explaining, “Because of Mama, Titus.”
“What do you mean ‘because of Mama’?” Titus’ expression turned suspicious, and he asked accusingly, “Did Mama write you and tell you not to let me work with the Legion?”
“No,” Alex countered, rolling his eyes. “How could she have gotten a letter to me before you showed up? I didn’t even know you were coming.”
I could see that, while he did not like it, Titus recognized this as the truth, but he persisted, “Then why don’t you want me working with you, and if Mama didn’t write you, what does she have to do with it?”
“Because if she lost both of us,” Alex answered calmly, “it would kill her.”
Titus looked as if Alex had punched him in the stomach, his mouth dropping open, and it took him a couple of attempts before he managed, “What…what do you mean?”
Instead of answering, Alex looked up at me, which I took as the sign he was asking me to let Titus know the brutal truth, and I did not hesitate.
“What he means is that we’re almost certainly going on campaign this coming season,” I said. “And we’re finally going to be going after Arminius. It’s probably going to be the hardest fighting this Legion will ever see.”
I hoped this would be enough, but Titus, while he was not slow-witted, was completely inexperienced in the reality of life under the standard, having been too young to remember that much about his life in Siscia when Diocles had been alive and brought his family back with Sextus.
“So? What does that have to do with being a laborer or a clerk like Alex?”
“You remember what happened to Varus and his Legions?” Alex broke in, and when Titus nodded, he said, “How many of the noncombatants attached to the Legion do you think survived?”
There was a look of dawning recognition on Titus’ face, yet he still seemed reluctant to give in, which prompted me to add, “And how do you think they died, Titus? Do you think the Germans who slaughtered the men of three Legions in the most horrible manner you could imagine were merciful to the slaves and freedmen?” Before he could respond, I continued, determined to impress on Titus the possible fate that awaited him. “Remember, I was there at Caedicius’ camp, Titus. We found what was left of the bodies, and even though they were just bones by then, you could see they had been mutilated and defiled, and that was just a small portion of Varus’ army. Now,” I nodded to Alex, “your brother has been part of the Legion and he’s been on campaign, and he’s been through battle. If he’s telling you that you don’t want any part of this, if you’re not going to think about yourself, then think about your mother and your sisters and brother.”
Thankfully, this was enough, so that when I informed Titus that I would make arrangements for him to become an apprentice to one of the town’s civilian blacksmiths, which I had thought was a good compromise, he did not balk. It is certainly a physically challenging job, but it would keep Titus from being attached to the Legion, which had been Alex’s request to me. I will not say he was enthused at first, but he did not reject it outright; the next topic I just hoped went as smoothly.
“What about Algaia?” I asked Titus, and his face, which had returned to normal, became flushed again, except this time, he did not seem to be upset with me, but looked at Alex.
Who, I saw, was similarly flustered, and I got a sinking feeling in my stomach that I was not going to like what I heard next.
“What about her?” Titus responded in what I took as a challenging tone.
“What are her plans?” I asked, but to this, he just gave a shrug, making at least an attempt at indifference.
“How should I know?” he shot back, then in a confirmation of my growing suspicion, he pointed at Alex. “Why don’t you ask him? He knows more about her…plans than I do!”
Before I could stop myself, a groan came from my lips, and I glared at Alex, who initially tried to meet my eyes, then turned even redder than he had been a heartbeat before.
“Gods, boy, what did you do? It’s only been three days since they showed up!”
“Nothing!” Alex protested, but between his brother’s angry stare and my own examination of him, his shoulders slumped, and he mumbled, “I mean, I didn’t mean to do anything.”
Over the next few moments, the story came out, and by the time I had heard both sides, I was not sure whether I should laugh or cry, but I was certain of one thing; the true architect of this small crisis among the brothers was the Breuci girl. Ultimately, I think that Algaia, while certainly taken with young Titus, as he was with her, upon meeting his older brother, made a calculation that Alex presented the best opportunity for a better life between the two of them. And, initially, once this matter came to my attention, my reaction was one of anger towards the girl; until, that is, I recalled what she had been forced to endure at the hands of my brother. After all, I realized, the whole reason I had removed her from my brother’s household had been to offer her a better life, so how could I fault her for doing that very thing, even if it did mean that young Titus had to suffer a broken heart? Not to mention the guilt that his older brother felt, although it was not enough to dissuade him from forming a relationship with Algaia; as I write this, they are essentially man and wife. Of course, Titus did not view matters in this light, but I am happy to report that his broken heart was soon mended, aided in large part by the daughter of the smith to which he is now apprenticed. Perhaps the best part of all this is that it provided a diverting interlude before the final part of the crisis that was the mutiny of the Legions.
The delegation from Rome did not arrive for another four days, making it well into the last week of October, and it is sufficient to say that the tensions that had been dissipated enough to achieve an uneasy peace that allowed those who remained loyal the freedom of the camp during the day began rising again. There had been no overt acts of vi
olence after my return, something for which all of the officers were thankful, but we also all suspected this could not last forever, though I know we all hoped that it would. My Century was no different from any of the others; the men performed their routine duties that are necessary to exist in a marching camp just well enough that I was not forced to take steps to enforce discipline, but it was a far cry from what I had set as the standard. Unfortunately, the arrival of the delegation served to inflame the passions that had been smoldering, when, upon entering our camp from Germanicus’ small one to meet with the Propraetor, who was now spending his days in the praetorium of the larger camp, one of those men sent from Rome was recognized as Lucius Munatius Plancus, who had served as Consul just the year before. Since I was not outside of the headquarters tent at that moment, I cannot say exactly how events unfolded, but the version that was most repeated was that, when Plancus was recognized, one of the troublemakers loudly claimed that the only reason such a lofty personage as a former Consul would be sent from Rome was to revoke all the concessions that had been extracted from Germanicus. This obviously found a receptive audience, because from what I heard, the delegation was quickly surrounded by angry rankers, whereupon matters rapidly escalated from merely angry words to threats of violence against Plancus. Events worsened so quickly that Plancus and the delegation, numbering a dozen men, were forced to flee through the camp, dashing across the forum to the praetorium, with an angry mob of men from both Legions chasing them, furiously declaring their intentions to slaughter these men who, thanks to one of the mutineers essentially convincing his comrades this was the case, they were now convinced had come to strip them of all those concessions. Plancus was not a young man – when I saw the rest of the deputation, my guess is the youngest was in his late thirties – but despite his age, Plancus proved fleet of foot, making it into the praetorium, which was still mutually agreed to be sacrosanct. However, this time, the chasing mutineers did not stop at the front flap, instead choosing to continue their pursuit of Plancus, who was the focal point of their anger and hatred, bursting into the large outer office.
It was from this point forward that I can attest to what occurred, because I happened to be in the praetorium, along with a few dozen other Centurions and Optios from both Legions, to witness everything that happened, something I have never seen before, nor do I hope to ever witness anything like it again, because it shook all of us who were there to our core. We heard a commotion outside, of course, before Plancus came through the flap, which was thrown open for him by a quick-thinking provost standing guard, so our collective attention was turned to the entry. Which meant that we saw the mutineers who, rather than stopping at the spot a half-dozen paces from the entrance where a pair of posts had been driven into the ground that marked the boundary, as they had always done before, instead continued their pursuit, the men in the lead hurling themselves at the pair of provosts to be the first through the entrance, both of whom I was not surprised to see chose to duck out of the way, and honestly, I could not really blame them. Under other circumstances, I suppose it would be considered comical, given how four men tried to jam themselves through an entrance where only three normal-sized men might fit, creating something of a logjam. Equally unsurprising, given their state of what I think was hysterical fury at the thought they were about to lose all that they had gained, none of the four were willing to give way to the others, so for the span of a couple heartbeats, they were jammed together, shoulders pressed tightly against each other, snarling at the nearest man pinned next to them with a hatred that, to my eyes, looked every bit as potent as that which they were aiming towards Plancus. Frankly, I was surprised that the canvas did not rip, so it could not have been that long, because before either that happened or those of us nearest to the doorway could react, one of the men in the middle managed to wriggle free and lurched forward into the office. Speaking of the former Consul, he had taken a staggering step in our general direction, and while I had never seen the man before, the naked fear on his face was plain to see, his hands outstretched in a plea to us to help save him.
“What do we do?” I recognized Macer’s voice, not daring to turn my attention away from what was taking place no more than fifteen paces away.
Before anyone could respond, however, more of the mutineers poured into the tent, which spurred Plancus back into action. Panting from the exertion and, no doubt, fear, he resumed moving, and at first I was unsure of his intent, because he did not head directly towards the opposite side, where the flap that served as the door to Germanicus’ office was located. His eyes glanced about wildly, and just as the first man through the door was reaching to grab him, he darted to the side, directly for the small altar where, when the Legions are in camp, the standards are placed. There are actually two of these altars, on opposite sides of the outer office, for each Legion, and I do not know if it was by design, or just because he was slightly closer to it, but he lurched towards the standard of the 1st. The leading mutineer, who I recognized as a man of the 1st, although I could not place him any more specifically than that in the moment, managed to snatch the very edge of Plancus’ toga, which he had worn into the camp because of the official nature of his visit, giving a good yank on it. This did not stop Plancus; somehow, he managed to wriggle free of the heavy folds of white cloth, which I noticed was now spattered with mud, presumably from his dash across the camp, and in doing so, he went stumbling up to the altar in just his tunic.
Reaching out with both hands, Plancus grabbed the stout pole of the standard, and in a voice that betrayed his abject fear, screeched, “I claim sanctuary! I claim sanctuary under the eagle!”
This had absolutely no effect on his pursuers, the others having caught up to the first man, who had hurled the toga from him in disgust, but thankfully for Plancus, and probably every man in both Legions, Gnaeus Calpurnius, the Aquilifer of the 1st, who was both present in the building and happened to be standing next to the altar, literally leapt in between Plancus and the men who were about to tear him to pieces.
“Brothers!” Calpurnius bellowed. “Stop this madness! Don’t shame our Legion like this!”
Now, if by some act of the gods, all that was going on could have been stopped, with everyone frozen in place, and I had been asked if I thought Calpurnius’ words would have any effect, I would have declared absolutely not. And, I will also say that for one of the few times in my life, I would have been happy to be wrong, because this did indeed stop the men in their tracks. Not, it should be said, that it suddenly cooled their ardor for Plancus’ blood, but they managed to confine their actions to verbal threats as they surrounded Calpurnius and the visibly trembling former Consul, shaking their fists at the pair, declaring that this was not a cessation, but an interruption of their plans to murder Plancus. It is with a certain amount of shame that I say that I had done nothing other than stand, rooted to my spot, watching in gape-mouthed astonishment; all I can say in my defense is that I was far from alone. In truth, it was only Calpurnius who leapt into action, while everything I have just described took perhaps fifty heartbeats from the moment we heard the commotion to this one, which I suppose can be called an excuse for my inaction. Regardless of the reason, this was where matters stood when the flap to Germanicus’ office was thrust aside, and he emerged, clearly alarmed. Dividing my attention between Germanicus, the mutineers, and Calpurnius and Plancus, simply because I did not think this cessation of physical hostility would last, I saw the play of emotions crossing the Propraetor’s face as his eyes took in the scene. The sudden presence of Germanicus seemed to have almost as much of an impact on the mutineers clustered together around their former quarry as the actions of Calpurnius to stop them from fulfilling their dire promises, but his tone seemed equally helpful to his cause.
“What,” he did not have to raise his voice because his appearance had stopped the shouting instantly, “is the meaning of all this?”
Faced as they were by the presence of the man who, despite eve
rything that had taken place, all but a handful of men, proportionally speaking, still admired and respected, none of the mutineers seemed anxious to speak up. Although, I noticed, most of them turned their attention to the mutineer who had managed to divest Plancus of his toga, and finally, after glaring at his comrades, he was the man who responded.
Pointing a finger at Plancus, who was still cowering behind Calpurnius – I was close enough to see the tremor in it, which I found telling – the ranker said, “This man came here to break all the promises you made to us!”
The manner in which he said this, and the way he put it, made me think that he hoped that somehow Germanicus would share in the indignation. Despite the tension and gravity of this moment, I had to suppress a snort of disgust that this ranker would actually think this might work.
“Who told you that my promises were broken?” Germanicus asked, reasonably enough given the circumstances.
Now the mutineer did not look quite as certain; apparently, he was bright enough to understand where this might be heading, but he was not ready to capitulate just yet, answering stubbornly, “Nobody did, but we don’t need to be told, do we, boys?” He turned to his fellow mutineers for support, and while they gave it, there was a mumbled quality that indicated their hearts might not be in it as much as he might have hoped or needed. Turning back to Germanicus, he finished, “It’s obvious!”
Again, Germanicus maintained his calm demeanor, asking reasonably, “Obvious to whom?...” His voice trailed off in a manner that made it clear he wanted the mutineer to give his name, and he confirmed this by adding, “I’d rather not just address you by your rank, Gregarius. This,” he pointed in the direction of Plancus, “is too important a matter not to know who is representing you men.” Then, without any warning, his voice hardened, “You men who were about to do harm to an ambassador of ROME!” Germanicus did not bellow often, which made this even more effective, and he did not relent, continuing in the same tone if not quite the volume. “Men who are considered protected and untouchable by any civilized nation! Are you barbarians?” He paused a beat, then his voice softened, and there was what sounded like a plaintive note when he asked, “Is that what you’ve become? Barbarians? Savages who can’t be trusted to honor a convention that has been in place for centuries?”