Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  Frankly, it was another shrewd maneuver; by confirming what we had long suspected, that this next season would finally see us embarking on the campaign for which every Roman had been clamoring, the chastisement of the German tribes and the destruction of Arminius personally, none of us were disposed to quibble about his decision to rush this disciplinary matter through a process that was abbreviated, to put it mildly.

  There was one sticking point, however, and it was Primus Pilus Neratius who raised it, asking over the noise as we whispered to each other about the coming campaign, “What about the Centurions and Optios, sir? Surely you don’t plan on lumping them together with the rankers.”

  This stopped our chatter, and we turned our attention to Germanicus, who clearly did not care for this question, but neither did he shrink from it.

  He did handle it in a more indirect manner, by turning back to Caetronius and asking, “What’s the total on Centurions and Optios?”

  “Twenty-four Centurions, thirty-eight Optios.”

  I suppose we were all aware that it was probable there were more Optios than Centurions, but once the actual number was known, I think this more than anything convinced Neratius not to pursue the matter any further. Sixty-two Tribunals, no matter how quickly they were conducted, would take weeks, and now that we knew about the coming campaign, the brutal truth was that we could not waste the time, especially when in most cases the guilt of these men was already established, and by their own comrades at that. However, I think we were also aware that it was within the realm of possibility that men of a Century would be more than happy to rid themselves of a Centurion or Optio they hated. This was raised by Neratius, and Sacrovir agreed with his counterpart, which engendered some discussion in which Germanicus encouraged the rest of us to participate. The point of contention in this area was the idea that a Centurion or Optio’s only crime might have been being excessively harsh, or simply unpopular, although personally I did not believe that even the most vindictive ranker would be willing to condemn their Centurion or Optio to death simply because they did not like the man, if only because his comrades would not allow it. This went on for some time, with Germanicus mostly listening as we bickered back and forth, with one faction being adamant that there should be a formal Tribunal, while another saying that there should a Tribunal for the Centurions, and one for the Optios. While I understood this was offered as a compromise, I was certain that this would prove more trouble than it was worth, simply because we would be in the same spot, where a guilty vote would be applied to all of the defendants, while one or more of them might be a victim of revenge.

  Finally, Germanicus raised a hand, and once it fell silent, said, “I think I might have a solution.”

  He proceeded to explain his idea, and by the time he was finished, I saw that most heads were nodding up and down, and mine was one of them. Once this was settled, the final count was tallied, and the method for how we would go about determining the guilt was settled, while the punishment would be carried out immediately. Despite agreeing that this was the proper course of action, I certainly did not relish the idea of carrying it out; when Germanicus pulled me aside, while I was not surprised, I was in an even grimmer frame of mind.

  “You’ve done this before,” he reminded me, “with Dodonis. Can I count on you now, Pullus?”

  “For all of them?” I gasped, but he shook his head, saying firmly, “No. Not all of them. But for your Cohort.”

  Understanding there was no real way to refuse, I agreed, then it was time to return to the forum and finally finish this horrible episode in our history.

  What Germanicus had come up with was to have the men of every Cohort judge their comrades, each of whom were dragged up onto the rostrum by Germanicus’ bodyguards, whereupon their guilt would be judged. For reasons that needed no explanation, Germanicus himself did not officiate, serving only as a witness; that was left to Caetronius as Legate, who stood at the front of the rostrum, flanked by the Primi Pili and with several German bodyguards. It was quite chaotic at first, then something of a system developed, where the Century to which the man belonged stood directly in front of the rostrum, but were flanked by the other Centuries of the Cohort, and there would be a brief debate about each Legionary by the men of the Century, while the other five Centuries then either agreed or disagreed with the decision. By the time a couple dozen men had been dispatched, it was decided that the respective Centurion would be the representative who relayed the decision, with the Centurions for the other five Centuries relaying the agreement, or disagreement, of his own Century. At first, without exception, there was no dissension about the fate of the accused ranker, some of whom stumbled numbly onto the rostrum under their own power, others being dragged, kicking, screaming, and struggling in front of their collective and combined prosecutor, judges, and jury. There might be a brief discussion, then the Centurion of the offender’s Century would utter a single word.

  “Condemno!”

  Whereupon the newly condemned man would be forced to kneel, and the man selected from that Cohort would use a spatha, supplied from the quaestorium, to behead the man. This, at least, was how it started; after one particularly gruesome execution, where the selected man, either through nerves or incompetence, took no less than four strokes to finish the job, while the ranker writhed in agony, his gurgling screams serving to silence the otherwise raucous crowd, it was then decided to have only men who had experience in such matters serve as executioners. Which, of course, meant that I participated earlier than Germanicus had indicated, since he had informed me that I would only be executing the men of the Fourth Cohort, and while it was not something I looked forward to for most of the condemned men, I believe the gods will understand there was one exception. Another issue had to be resolved, and that was the disposal of the bodies. For the first few executions, both the head and corpse of the executed man would be shoved off the rostrum, to land with a sodden, heavy thud on the hard-packed dirt of the forum directly in front of it. Naturally, after a few bodies, it began to create a problem, both because it pushed the judging Century farther away from the rostrum, and the stench of cac and piss that is always present at a scene of mass slaughter became overwhelming. After yet another halt for a discussion, the bodies were hauled away by slaves summoned for the purpose, while the heads were left, which still created quite a spectacle as they grew into a mound that threatened to reach the height of the rostrum. We had gone in reverse order, starting with the Tenth Cohort, which, surprising none of us, held a much higher proportion of the malcontents who were deemed worthy of execution, although only one Optio from the Cohort was among the accused. Before we left the praetorium to begin this final expiation of the sin of mutiny, we prevailed on Germanicus to make one other concession; while the guilt or innocence would be judged publicly, those Centurions and Optios who received a vote of condemno would not endure the final humiliation of having their heads joining the pile in front of the rostrum. None of us were surprised that this was not a popular decision, especially since some rankers were convinced that the condemned officers would not be executed, but Sacrovir and Neratius, in their role as Primus Pilus of each Legion, offered a solution that, if not pleasing to the men, at least appeased them, and most importantly convinced them that there was no plot to allow their officers to escape. Each Century who had a condemned Centurion or Optio would send their Signifer, Tesseraurius, and the Sergeants of each section to witness the execution in the praetorium, after the business in the forum was finished.

  While Germanicus had originally selected me to serve as executioner of the men of the Fourth Cohort, because of the bungling done early on, I ended up beheading men from the Sixth and Fifth before the men of my Cohort marched from their normal spot in the forum to array themselves in front of the rostrum, and my arm was already tired. Even with my daily work at the stakes and my status as Cohort weapons instructor, swinging a gladius with enough force to cleanly part a man’s head from the rest of his body takes
a toll, even with the extra weight provided by the spatha. My fatigue notwithstanding, as the moment approached that I would be executing men who, while I may not have known personally, I at least knew by sight, my heart began beating at a rate much higher than the exertion of the task required. I will confess that part of it was from the anticipation of seeing one Publius Atilius Pusio kneeling at my feet, but there was also a sense of shame that Philus was one of the accused, although I suspect Macer felt this more keenly as Pilus Prior. It was immediately after I had executed the condemned men of the Sixth Century, with Volusenus looking on with an impassive demeanor that did not betray his thoughts one way or another, when I was forced to ask for another spatha, the edge of the one in my hand having gone, that I had an idea. Catching the eye of Structus, who was standing in my place in front of my Century off to the side of the rostrum, waiting our turn, I beckoned to him during the period someone was hustling off to the quaestorium to retrieve another spatha.

  He came, albeit with a reluctance that was understandable, but all I told him was, “Send someone to find Alex, quickly.”

  Clearly surprised, he nonetheless obeyed immediately, so that by the time I had finished dispatching the men of the Fifth and Philus was being dragged up onto the rostrum for judgment, my nephew was standing at the base of the rostrum, off to the side. Using the disturbance caused by the presence of a Centurion being judged, I crouched down and told him what I needed, his reaction mirroring that of Structus, but like my Optio, he turned and ran off immediately. Returning my attention to the scene, I saw Philus, flanked on either side by a German, stood before the men of his Century, dressed only in his tunic, his baltea having been appropriated for the binding of his hands. Without any symbol of his office, Philus could have been any ranker, and like most of the condemned men I had witnessed, he was visibly shaking; otherwise, his face was set in an impassive mask, while he refused to look down at the men he had commanded. The debate, such as it was, lasted a bit longer than what had become usual, but not by that much; his Signifer spoke of overhearing Philus conferring with one of the troublemakers in his Century, where he promised to speak for the man should things go badly, which they had. By itself, this was not enough, but then Closus held up a wax tablet that had been discovered in a search of Philus’ quarters, which he presented to Macer. Scanning it quickly, I saw my Pilus Prior’s lips thin down into two bloodless lines, which I knew was a sign of his anger, but without a word, he walked up to the rostrum, handing the tablet upward to the Legate, who took it.

  Caetronius performed the same act as Macer, scanning the incised lines, but I was somewhat surprised when the Legate did not seem convinced, which was explained when he said, “Yes, the words are damning, but since I’ve never seen this man’s writing before, I can’t say one way or another if this is worthy of being condemned.”

  This, on its face, was certainly true, but I was still surprised, if only because we had already judged several Centurions and he had never intervened, although as I thought about it, I realized that this was the first Centurion whose guilt rested on a piece of correspondence. There was a further delay as a man was sent to summon the Century clerks, Macer ordering that both be brought since one of them belonged to Philus personally. Frankly, I did not think this was necessary, but this was based on my observation of Philus, who, on seeing Closus hold up the tablet, I saw close his eyes and his lips began moving in what I felt certain was a prayer. Whether it be for a miracle in the form of a reprieve, or him setting his books right with his household gods, I never asked, and he never said, but I apparently had been the only one watching Philus and not his Optio. The clerks arrived, and it was easy to tell which one belonged to Philus; it also betrayed what kind of master Philus had been to the man, because while I would not call it gleeful, his demeanor certainly did not communicate any hesitance or sorrow as he glanced down at the tablet, then confirmed it was in his master’s hand, which was corroborated by the other clerk. Perhaps if Philus had not resigned himself to his fate, he might have pointed out that his slave barely even glanced at the tablet, but he did not, and while Legate Caetronius lifted an eyebrow at this, he did not say anything about it. This was enough for the men of his Century, through Closus, to vote condemno, and Philus was summarily dragged off to be held with those other officers waiting their more private execution. Only Cornutus seemed disposed to argue the point, but he had barely escaped being accused himself, since he had been missing the night before, and I saw him open his mouth, then quickly shut it. Fortunately for him, Macer had accepted his explanation that he had been visiting a friend in one of the ad hoc guard Centuries in Germanicus’ camp, and once the uproar began, deemed it too dangerous to try and return to the main one. Vespillo, Volusenus, and I held a different view of the matter, but in this, we were not given a vote, so Cornutus is still with the Fourth Cohort as I write this.

  Finally, it was the turn of the Third Century, but Alex had not returned from his errand, and I resigned myself that I would be unable to carry out my intention. My Century had four men accused of being the chief instigators and agitators among their comrades; as far as I was concerned, there was one and only one man who was truly responsible for the misdeeds of the other three, and it was not just my hatred of Pusio that led me to believe this. These three men were veterans and had been members of the Century long before Pusio arrived, and none of them had given me any trouble, at least over and above the norm for rankers. Additionally, since I knew these men and their characters, I knew they were the kind who tended to follow the lead of other men, whether it be in their choice of wineshop, or how much complaining they should do about their time spent mucking out the stables. Nevertheless, I also understood that, while I held the nominal authority over my Century, in this moment, I was merely the instrument of the punishment as defined by my men, and I confess this did not set well in my gut. It was during the deliberation about the first accused man that I heard Alex call my name, and I turned to see that he had returned with the item I had requested. Bending down, I took it from him, and as I turned back to face the Century, the Legate saw what I held in my hand.

  The frown he wore warned me, and he said, “Centurion Pullus, what are you doing with that?”

  He was pointing to my gladius, and my mind raced, trying to come up with an explanation of why I was determined to use it and not the heavier spatha.

  What came out of my mouth was, “Because it holds an edge better than any of the blades I’ve used so far. And,” I thought to add, “I’ve been carrying this blade since I was a Gregarius, so I’m more comfortable using it.” Lowering my voice, I finished with, “I know these men must die, sir, but I don’t want them to suffer like some of the others did. My arm is getting tired, and I want to send them on their way across the river with as little pain as possible.”

  Caetronius studied my face for a long moment, then gave a curt nod, saying only, “Very well.”

  By the time our exchange was finished, the first of my men had been dragged onto the rostrum, and Vibius Galeo of the Tenth Section was quickly condemned. Galeo was one of those men I did not believe had been an active participant as much as he was swept along the current of mutiny created by men like Pusio, who I had quietly instructed Structus to put last. Although he had walked under his own power, it was only because he was being firmly held by the pair of Germans, and he was shaking uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back in his head from the fear of what was coming. It took an effort on my part to remain impassive as the Germans shoved him down onto the spot that was now covered with a combination of congealed blood and piss, giving off an odor that, while not overpowering, was certainly unpleasant.

  Before I could stop myself, I leaned down and placed a hand on Galeo’s shoulder, whispering in his ear, “I promise it’ll be quick, Galeo. It’ll be over before you know it, and then you can go find Fidenas and Rutilus across the river. You’ll be whoring and drinking for eternity!”

  I had hoped the mention of two of hi
s comrades who had died, one in battle and one from disease, and the prospect of being reunited with them in the afterlife would provide some comfort, but the look he gave me of pathetic gratitude was almost too much for me to bear.

  “R-really, Princeps Prior? You believe that? You believe they’re over there, across the river, waiting for me?”

  “No, I don’t believe that. I know that,” I answered firmly and without hesitation.

  He said nothing more, but he gave me a slight nod, then turned and bowed his head, both in prayer and to give me a better target, or so I suppose. And, thank the gods, I was good to my word, even with my gladius and not a spatha. The next two men, Gnaeus Falto of the Fourth Section and Trigeminus of the Fifth Section, I dispatched in a similar manner, although only with Falto did I behave as I had with Galeo, their heads added to the pile at the base of the rostrum that was now spread out a distance of about ten feet in every direction, with a height close to mine. Then it was Pusio’s turn, and if his was not the quickest condemno of all that I witnessed, it was among them, during which he showed none of his usual arrogance. Not lost on me, certainly, and judging from the reaction of the entire Cohort, was that he was the only man of the Fourth who could not walk up the steps under his own power, and in fact struggled mightily as he was dragged towards the rostrum. Finally, in exasperation, one of the Germans cuffed him on the head with enough force to daze him sufficiently that he at least stopped struggling, whereupon he was more or less carried onto the rostrum. Seeing that he was still groggy, I deliberately delayed, taking my time wiping my blade down with a rag that had been provided, to the point I could hear the men growing impatient. Reluctantly, I turned back to where Pusio was now kneeling, and at first, I thought he would refuse to look up at me, his head already bowed, his lips moving, which I bent down to hear, not believing that he would be praying.