by R. W. Peake
I was being completely sincere, which seemed to please him. We remained standing there in silence for a few heartbeats, then he finally said, “I’m just not sure what to do about my Century.” He was looking down the street as he spoke, but then he glanced over at me, and I read in his face the uncertainty and the anxiety that, if every man wearing a transverse crest past and present was honest enough to admit, we all experience at some point in our respective careers. Continuing, he made a point to look me in the eye as he stressed, “It’s not the whole Century, though. I don’t want you to think I’m worried about all of them. There’s just three,” he stopped, amending himself, “actually, four men who are causing almost all of the trouble, but they’ve managed to influence a half-dozen more into doing things they’ve never done before.”
“What kind of things?” I asked, more out of habit than anything, since I was certain I knew, and he confirmed it, replying, “Being slow to complete their daily duties, and they’re slow to respond to orders, both from me and from Gillo.”
“And you’ve figured out that beating them into a better frame of mind hasn’t worked,” I finished for him, and now he did not bother hiding his feelings, nodding unhappily. “Well,” I assured him, “you’re not the first man with a vitus to figure that out, and you won’t be the last. And,” I tried to imbue my voice with the sincerity I felt, “I’ve had the same issue in my Century.”
“You mean Pusio?” Volusenus asked, and something in my expression he must have found amusing because he burst out laughing. At first, I was not happy with his reaction, but despite myself, I joined in, agreeing, “Yes, that bastard.”
“He’s famous,” Volusenus commented, “and not just in the Fourth.”
“Thanks for reminding me of that.” I heard the sour note in my voice, but I could not help it. Returning to the larger problem, I told Volusenus, “I understand your frustration, Volusenus, I really do. But this isn’t the time to try and take care of the problems you’re having. Wait until tomorrow, and we’ll have a better idea how to proceed.”
“I know you’re right,” Volusenus sighed, “but it’s just hard knowing that if I just got rid of a few men, my Century would be better for it.”
His words reminded me of something I had heard my Avus say, and I told him, “My grandfather used to say that ninety percent of the problems a Centurion has in his Century are caused by ten percent of the men.”
Volusenus absorbed this, nodding his head thoughtfully, agreeing, “That sounds about right.”
Clapping him on the shoulder, I said lightly, but I was serious, “We both need to get ready for tomorrow. It’s going to be a big day.” Just as I said that, we heard a sudden clamor of voices several streets over, and there was no mistaking that whatever had caused the outburst, it was not because men were happy. This prompted me to amend, “But first, we have to get through the night.”
Between the disturbance and the setting sun, we turned and headed for the praetorium, yet despite this reminder that matters were far from settled and that it was likely to be a long night, for some reason, I felt absurdly pleased about this exchange, thinking that perhaps I had done something that Gaius Volusenus would remember later in his career. And, I thought with some humor, maybe he’ll be the old Centurion counseling the young one, and he’ll say, “I served with the grandson of Titus Pullus, and he taught me…” Then, I turned my mind towards the immediate future, and suddenly, I did not feel quite so good.
Chapter Eleven
That night proved to be every bit as long as I feared, made even more so because, adhering to the orders of the Primus Pilus, the officers stayed in their respective quarters, their instructions from Sacrovir being that only in the direst emergency were they to leave them, and if at all possible, not go out alone. Although none of the Centurions of the Fourth discussed doing so beforehand, I found out later that we all had essentially the same idea. In my case, it was to have Structus, my Signifer Gemellus, who had refused to declare himself with the mutineers, Pictor, the Sergeant of the Fifth Section, and a couple other rankers come to my quarters. Alex, Balio, who I had picked up in Ubiorum and brought with me, and Structus’ slave rounded out the company, which made for cramped conditions, but I was confident that any mutineer would think twice about making some sort of trouble outside the Century office, and they certainly would not try to storm it. Once this was done, we settled down to wait, each of us listening intently to the sounds of the night, while I would occasionally send Balio out to take a look around and report back. At least, that was how it started, until Alex realized what I was doing, whereupon he insisted that he and his fellow clerk alternate what, while not particularly hazardous, was not completely without danger. Along with this, every few moments, one of us would get up, open the flap just enough to stick our heads out, both to listen for any noises that would indicate something had occurred that might prove to be the figurative spark that would ignite a conflagration, but more than that, to sniff the air for any sign of a literal one. This, frankly, was my biggest concern, that either through outright malice or, just as likely, drunken exuberance, one of the men who loved to burn things would unleash the beast of fire. Even in a marching camp, especially when it had remained relatively dry for the previous few days, fire was always a concern under normal conditions.
At random intervals throughout the night, we would hear a sudden uproar, over and above the low-pitched but audible sound that occurs when thousands of men are talking loudly. While the Centurions of the Fourth all did essentially the same thing, as did most of the Centurions in the other Cohorts of the 1st, not every officer was so prudent, choosing instead to brazen it out, practically daring their men to incite some sort of violent action against their officers by insisting on walking about their area. In almost every case, this turned out to be a horrible idea, although we would not learn that until later, but it was only through the intervention of the gods that, somehow, none of these foolhardy men were killed. Beaten, some of them severely enough to be put into the hospital, but not killed, and I shudder to think what might have happened in that event. Despite being sure I would not sleep myself, I set watches to allow my fellow defenders to do so if they were able, yet somehow, I managed to doze off for perhaps two parts of a watch, being wakened by Alex shortly before dawn. Somewhat angry at myself for having fallen asleep at all, I tried not to take it out on Alex, asking him if he knew anything about the situation outside.
“I went out not long ago,” he informed me.
“And?” I asked.
“And,” he replied, “there are a lot of men out and about, but I didn’t see or hear any fighting, and there wasn’t anything on fire.”
I considered for a moment, then all I could think to say was, “I suppose that’s the best we can expect.”
The others were rousing themselves, and I sent Alex out into the outer office to inform them I would be with them shortly, then I sat on the edge of my cot, thinking about how we had come to a place where the idea that nobody was killed or injured, and nothing burned, would be considered good news. Crowding in on that thought was the recognition that, depending on what happened on this day, how unlikely it was that this would remain the case. I was certain that all of us who had remained loyal, if only outwardly, would be in great danger should the men hear what they were fearing, and as much as Germanicus was admired by most of the men, in their current state, not even he would be safe. This cheery line of thought was interrupted by the sound of the bucina signaling the official start of the day, and I got up, went out into the office, where the other men were waiting.
“Let’s go see what’s what,” was all I said, then before anyone could speak, I strode to the door, opened it, and walked out into the street.
Much to our surprise, from appearances it seemed that the sound of the horn blowing had somehow jolted the man from their unruly behavior, because we only caught glimpses of some men just as they were entering their quarters. It was true the Cohort stree
t was littered with debris; pieces of broken camp furniture seemed to be the most common, which I surmised was due to the men breaking off stool legs to use as clubs, but there were other items as well. Aside from this overt sign that the night had not passed in normal fashion, however, there was nothing else to indicate that there had been some sort of disturbance.
It was Structus who actually touched on the reason for this sudden onset of quiet and order, muttering to me, “I suppose even mutinous bastards get hungry. They’re probably all in their tents preparing for the morning meal.”
Even as he said this, smoke began rising from the fires on the surrounding streets, reminding us that we were hungry as well. Deciding against doing anything that might rupture this normal moment, I returned to my quarters, where Alex had already returned and was stoking the fire to heat up some porridge that was left over from the night before, our usual fare, although we did not have any bread left since none had been made the day before. By the time we were finished eating, the next signal sounded, this time the cornu, announcing that it was time for the men to assemble in their streets, forming up to march to the forum to receive the orders for the day. Certain that this would not take place, nevertheless, when I went outside, standing in front of their tents were the men of my Century, waiting for Structus to give them the order to form up, and my Century was far from alone. Glancing down the street in each direction, I could see that the men of the Fourth Cohort, mutineers and those who remained loyal alike, had decided to pretend as if this was a normal day, standing side by side in their usual spots as if nothing out of the ordinary was taking place. I certainly was not going to argue, although I felt as if I was in a dream, moving into my spot as I had done every day for years. Anyone who did not know what was going on would have seen this and thought there was nothing uncommon going on, and fairly quickly, it became apparent that the officers unanimously agreed to play along.
The formation that day was delayed by a third of a watch, which exacerbated the existing tensions, in rankers and officers alike, yet somehow the mutineers managed to behave themselves, although there was more than the normal amount of chatter. Since the camp was home to two Legions, it had naturally been built to accommodate both of them, including the forum, though it was still a bit cramped, requiring us to reduce our normal spacing between Centuries and Cohorts. On any other day, this would not matter all that much, aside from the customary hostility between Legions, which I would liken to having two fighting dogs caged next to each other where they can see, and most importantly, hear each other snarling and snapping. Muttered insults were often exchanged on those occasions, but that was all that it amounted to, at least to this point. Now, I was not particularly happy about the issue of proximity, thinking that, depending on which ranker chose to make an outburst in the event that the news from Rome was bad, matters could quickly get out of hand, simply because the men of one Legion saw their comrades in the other Legion were inclined to refuse accepting Tiberius’ decision. Not that any of the officers could do anything about it, which contributed to the tension I was feeling, and I was certain I was not alone among my fellow Centurions and Optios. Compounding matters, just as in Pannonia, we all knew that there were officers who were sympathetic to the demands made by the men, some of them secretly, others openly; I would put my sentiment in the former category. I suppose it sounds odd, but I had been much more open about my feelings when I had been in Pannonia, yet when I returned to my own Legion, I had become more circumspect about my sentiments. Now that this is in the past, albeit recently, I can acknowledge that my true motivation for keeping my feelings about the cause of the mutiny to myself was based on one simple reason; I did not want to be thought of or seen as being in any way sympathetic to men like Pusio and all the other troublemakers who had plagued the Legions for the previous five years. I must reiterate that, while I understand why he did so, the decision by the late Princeps to essentially take care of two of his problems in one action, by forcing the elements in Rome who were giving him the most trouble to enlist in the Legions, while it did plump up those Legions, all he did was transfer the underlying problem to those of us wearing the transverse crest, and to a lesser degree, the Legates. This, of course, has been the subject of much discussion among the officers, and I will concede the possibility of the point that those few Centurions who defended Augustus in this matter made, that in the wake of the Varus disaster, the Princeps’ actions in sending a few thousand men was the likely reason that Arminius and his confederation did not press the advantage and cross the Rhenus. While I and others, including my Pilus Prior, believed that Arminius’ inaction was due more to his own internal problems than the rapid mobilization of the surviving Legions, brought so quickly to full strength by the dilectus, neither could we dismiss the possibility that it was not that move by Augustus. After all, Augustus’ defenders argued, how could a German chief, hundreds of miles away, have any idea that the men filling the depleted ranks of the Legions were the dregs of Rome? This is certainly true, but neither can it be denied that, although the mutiny likely would have occurred, the presence of men like Pusio, here on the Rhenus, or Percennius in Pannonia, made matters worse by adding a level of contentiousness and volatility that was based in their own discontent and grievances. Now, as we stood at intente waiting for the appearance of Germanicus, I am certain the trepidation I felt was shared by all of the men, for one reason or another. The wait was certainly not as long as it seemed, but men were beginning to fidget, while I could hear snatches of whispered speculation between the rankers as the tension grew with every heartbeat.
Finally, the flap to the praetorium was thrust aside, and Germanicus strode out of the tent, followed by Caetronius, who I was certain would be playing the role of nothing but a mute witness to whatever it was Germanicus was about to tell us. Because of my familiarity with him, I studied Germanicus’ face intently as he walked the short distance to the rostrum, which was not made of turf like the one in Pannonia, nor was it made of crates and shields, but specially built for a marching camp, constructed in such a way that it can be broken down into pieces, thereby allowing for quick assembly should the need arise. He was wearing his battle armor, which I tried not to view as a bad omen; otherwise, I saw nothing in his demeanor that gave me an indication of what he was about to say. Despite the cold, I felt a trickle of sweat make its way down my back, while my heart started beating faster, as if I had just made some sort of sudden movement and was not just standing at intente. The tension, which I could literally feel radiating outward from the men of my Century did not help, and I became conscious of how tightly I was clutching my vitus, which led me to wonder if just that would be enough to impose order should the news be bad. Not surprisingly, there was none of the normal whispering that is the norm for formations once Germanicus emerged, a certain amount of which Centurions ignore, so he did not need to use his usual volume when addressing two Legions. Before he spoke, however, for some moments, he simply stood there, his paludamentum fluttering in the slight breeze that carried with it a promise of real winter, the kind of biting cold that made fingers numb and ears burn, his face impassive as his head moved slowly across the ranks. During this silence, my eyes naturally never left him, and I saw how much this ordeal had weighed on him, in the form of dark circles under his eyes, noticeable creases on what part of his forehead was visible under his helmet, but more than anything, it was the downturned mouth that was most striking to me. Usually, Germanicus’ normal expression was much more open and engaging, with a slight upward curve to his mouth that informed those around him that he liked smiling much more than frowning, which was directly the opposite from his adoptive father Tiberius, who always looked dour and as if he had some secret complaint that soured his expression.
Only when he was done with his examination, did Germanicus begin speaking, his tone flat, “Yesterday, a delegation, sent from Rome, led by lictors bearing the fasces garlanded in ivy that designated their status as official ambassador
s, sent by my father, and the father of the Legions, Imperator Tiberius Claudius Nero arrived here by way of Ubiorum…” He chose to pause then, and his expression suddenly hardened, which his voice matched as, for the first time, he raised his voice to a bellow. “And these men were attacked! By fellow Romans!” Pointing a finger, he swept it across the entirety of the formation of both Legions as he continued, “By you, the men of the 1st and 20th Legions!” Germanicus stopped again, letting the words hang in the air, and I knew it was my imagination, but they seemed to echo as if he was standing on the edge of a deep gorge, which I suppose is an appropriate way to think about it. More importantly, I saw the impact his charge, which was nothing but the truth, had on the men in the front ranks of the Centuries that formed the leading edge of the formation surrounding the rostrum. While no man within my range of vision broke from his intente, I saw heads turning towards a comrade next to them, and there was a low buzz as men muttered to each other. Wisely ignoring this, Germanicus’ voice became even more charged. “And the leader of that delegation, Lucius Munatius Plancus, was set upon by some of the men who are standing here before me, issuing such dire threats to his person that he was forced to flee into the praetorium!” He turned to face the First of the 1st, and again pointing a finger, said, “It was only through the heroism of the Aquilifer of the 1st, Gnaeus Calpurnius, who placed himself bodily between Plancus and those who violated the agreement that the praetorium was sacrosanct and would not be invaded by those of you who are involved in this…” For a moment, I was certain he had made a fatal blunder, yet he managed to stop himself, and instead of “mutiny” or “insurrection” settled on, “…matter! Whether you choose to believe it or not, you owe Gnaeus Calpurnius a debt, because if those men who violated the boundary of the praetorium, intent on doing Plancus harm, had actually done so, there would have been nothing I could do to stop our Imperator from ordering that justice be done! Ambassadors, from every civilized nation, have been recognized as inviolate, even during a war between different nations, so how is it that a Roman ambassador should fear for his safety from fellow Romans?” The rustling of whispers that had begun earlier had only intensified as Germanicus continued, and it was with a sense of grim satisfaction that I saw that, almost universally, the expression borne by the rankers directly across from me was, rightfully, one of shame. And, I was cautiously pleased to see, there seemed to be a growing anger there, but while I had no way of knowing with any certainty, I had the sense that it was not aimed at Germanicus, but at those men who had invaded the praetorium, bringing shame to every man in the ranks. Returning my attention to Germanicus, still standing motionless, I watched as he took this in, and I was sure that he detected he was making some sort of headway with most of the men. But, as we were all about to learn, he was far from through.