Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “I need to take care of Ocelus,” he told his father.

  Although Porcinus understood and appreciated his son’s concern about the gray stallion, he assured Titus that Ocelus would be taken care of, but Titus refused to budge from his spot, pulling his hand from his father’s.

  “I’m not going in there until I take care of Ocelus,” he said quietly.

  Porcinus was prepared to lift his son, big as he might be, and carry him to be seen to, but Titus’ words stopped him.

  “He saved my life, Tata. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t saved me.”

  “I know. He’s a great horse.” Porcinus was trying to be patient, understanding at least how important it was to Titus. “But he’ll be fine.”

  Still, Titus remained rooted to the spot, shaking his head in a certain way that Porcinus had seen too many times. However, all the previous times had been about candied plums, or when he was supposed to be in bed.

  “No, Tata,” Titus repeated. “You don’t understand. Ocelus saved my life, and I have to take care of him. You’ve always taught me that you have to see to your men before anything else. Well.” Titus took a deep breath, looking up into his father’s eyes for the first time to make sure Porcinus could see how serious he was. “Ocelus is my responsibility. He’s a comrade just like Corvinus is to you, and he’s tired, and he’s hungry. I need to see to him before they look at me.”

  Porcinus fought the hard, sudden lump that formed in his throat, and as beside himself with worry as he was, he had never been prouder of his son than he was at that moment.

  “All right,” he finally spoke, his voice husky. “Let’s go take care of Ocelus.”

  If that had been the only battle Porcinus had to fight in those nerve-wracking days, it would have been enough. Unfortunately, he had already been through what would be the first of many clashes with his superior; at least, his newly appointed, permanent superior, in the form of Primus Pilus Quintus Barbatus.

  Barbatus had been waiting for them at Siscia. This was something of a surprise, if only because, after the debacle that was the First Cohort’s performance at the lake, all the Pili Priores had expected that Frontinus would be immediately relieved of his duties. But that hadn’t happened; in fact, nothing official had come from the praetorium about the poor performance of the largest and strongest Cohort of the Legion. The first several days of the march to Noricum were tense; as the army made camp every night, the Pili Priores of the 8th, minus Frontinus, who did his best to pretend nothing was happening, gathered together, again in Porcinus’ tent, as they speculated on what they viewed as an inevitability. However, when it didn’t happen, at least not in the timeframe they expected, the speculation grew more rampant and wilder by the day, at least in Porcinus’ opinion.

  It turned out to be Volusenus, the most disagreeable of the Pili Priores who, despite being banished from these impromptu gatherings, had come up with the prediction that was the closest to the most accurate.

  “It’s going to be someone Augustus picks. And trusts,” he had said sourly, this during a rest stop on the way back to Siscia. “Chances are, he’s going to be waiting for us in Siscia.”

  That, as it turned out, was exactly what happened, although at least in Porcinus’ case, he didn’t hear about it right away. In fact, he learned of it through Corvinus, who came barging into his office their first night back. That he didn’t observe the normal proprieties was something that Porcinus was about to admonish him for, but one look at his friend’s face told him that there was something important going on.

  “Have you heard?” Corvinus asked without any preamble, and without asking leave, he dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  “Come in,” Porcinus said mildly, eyeing the jug in Corvinus’ hand.

  It didn’t surprise him that Corvinus had wasted no time in finding something to drink; this first night back was the only time the men had been given to do with as they saw fit before they were to begin the process of making ready to go out again. And Legionaries wouldn’t have been worthy of that name if most of them didn’t immediately set off in search of their particular favorite when it came to some type of debauchery. That Corvinus was sitting here, even with wine, and not off with his men checking to see if there had been an arrival of new whores, told Porcinus whatever it was Corvinus had to impart was important.

  “No, I haven’t heard anything other than Lysander complaining about all this piling up.” Porcinus pointed at a pile of tablets disgustedly.

  “We have a new Primus Pilus,” Corvinus said, which, not surprisingly, caught Porcinus’ full attention.

  “We do? As in an officially appointed one?” Porcinus asked cautiously.

  Corvinus nodded as he swallowed his mouthful of wine before passing the jug to Porcinus, which the Pilus Prior waved off.

  “Trust me,” Corvinus said quietly. “You’re going to want that.”

  Taking the jug, Porcinus stared at Corvinus, but his friend refused to say anything until Porcinus had actually gone through the process of taking a swallow of wine.

  “There,” Porcinus said peevishly. “Now, out with it.”

  “Our new Primus Pilus is Quintus Barbatus.” Corvinus’ voice was still quiet, but if he expected an immediate reaction from Porcinus, he was to be disappointed.

  Porcinus frowned, but made no immediate comment. The name was familiar, yet he couldn’t place it immediately, which caused him to shake his head in frustration.

  “I take it I should know who it is by the way you’re acting,” he commented.

  In answer, Corvinus stood and said, “I’ll give you a hint.”

  He didn’t say anything more; instead, he made a show of first tapping the hilt of his sword, then drumming his fingers on it. It was the latter action that jarred Porcinus’ memory, but still, he wasn’t completely sure.

  “Wait,” he gasped. “You mean…that Barbatus? The one who went into the Senate building?”

  Corvinus nodded grimly, but asked, “Is there any other?”

  “I’m sure there are,” Porcinus shot back, nettled at his friend’s tone, then chuckled as he added ruefully, “Although I can’t think of any others.”

  Now that he knew, Porcinus sat back in his chair to consider this, but not before he grabbed the jug back from Corvinus, ignoring the man’s smug look.

  Thinking for a moment, he asked, “But I don’t remember what Legion he was with before this. Was he at least a Pilus Prior? If not, he had to be in the First Cohort somewhere.”

  Corvinus again shook his head, telling Porcinus, “Neither.”

  Porcinus was growing frustrated; he knew that his friend was at least partially toying with him, but he also was aware that he didn’t keep as close track of the movements of other Centurions as his friend did, and probably as he should have.

  “So are you going to keep me guessing?” he snapped.

  “He was in the Praetorian Guard,” Corvinus told him then, seeing his friend didn’t make an immediate association with this name, referred to them in the old manner. “The Brundisium Cohorts.”

  Hearing the old name, the original one given to them by the then-Triumvir Marcus Antonius, so called because that was where the original Cohorts had been raised, jarred Porcinus’ memory. He drew in a sharp breath as he made the association, and all that it implied, particularly when connected with the name Quintus Barbatus. Barbatus was a legend in the army; not, Porcinus thought, in the same league or for the same reason as his adoptive father. No, Quintus Barbatus’ reputation had very little connection with prowess in battle, or the kind of leadership that was so valuable on the battlefield. Although, Porcinus allowed grudgingly, doing what he had done did take a certain amount of courage. As Porcinus recalled it, Barbatus had been a Centurion, but in either the Ninth or Tenth Cohort, in one of the Legions that the man then known as Gaius Octavianus Caesar had raised, using what was rumored to be the war chest of his late adoptive father, Julius Caesar, for the funds. He di
d this to contest what he said was his rightful inheritance, which was controlled by Marcus Antonius. This was relatively early in the second civil war, when, after the Battle of Mutina saw Antonius’ defeat, the young Roman, who, even then, insisted on being called Caesar had chosen, instead of pursuing the fleeing Antonius, to march on Rome instead. Ostensibly doing so in the name of his men, it was, in all reality, nothing but a power grab, and it was Quintus Barbatus who had volunteered to represent the young Caesar’s interests in the Senate. Ignoring centuries of custom and tradition, he had appeared in the Curia, fully dressed in his uniform, and most importantly, fully armed. When an outraged Cicero had demanded by what right the young upstart, as he was viewed then, claimed the right to all that he demanded, Barbatus’ reply had been non-verbal, at least at first. What had been spread about the campfires of the Legions was that he performed the action that Corvinus had mimicked for Porcinus as his hint about the identity of the man. It hadn’t surprised any man under the standard that the old men of the Senate were thoroughly cowed, and quickly agreed to Octavian’s demands. As far as Porcinus could recall, Barbatus had dropped from sight; apparently, however, he had stayed close to his master. And if it was true that he was fresh from a Praetorian posting, which Porcinus had no reason to doubt, that meant Barbatus had spent most of his time in Rome. That in itself was meaningful; as relatively stable as Rome had been the previous several years, Porcinus knew how much of that stability was superficial. He only had to recall the ordeal of his father during Pullus' tribunal as part of the Marcus Primus affair. In one important way, Primus and Pullus had something in common; they had been made scapegoats, although in Primus’ case, his problems were compounded by his gross incompetence and greed. Whereas with Pullus, he was meant to be a symbol to other men of his station about the danger of aspiring to improve themselves, and how dimly a small but extremely powerful segment of the Roman elite viewed that very idea. Pullus had escaped, at the time seemingly unscathed, while Primus was executed, although it had become clear that Primus' greatest crime was one of association, particularly with a man named Lucius Murena, who had served as Primus’ defense at his trial. The reason Murena ran afoul of the man, who at that time was referred to as the Princeps, first among equals, which even then was a thinly disguised fiction after Actium, was because he had been implicated along with a man named Fannius Caepio in a plot to assassinate Augustus. Whether or not this was indeed the case, Porcinus had no way of knowing, but Porcinus was on the campaign to Thrace under Marcus Primus, and, in fact, had been his first campaign in the Centurionate, meaning he had witnessed what an enormous fool the man had been more closely than if he was still in the ranks. Enormous in every way imaginable, Porcinus chucked to himself as he thought back to those days. Primus had been enormously fat, and had to have the muscled cuirass that Legates wore specially made. Even now, a few years later, Porcinus had never since seen a muscled cuirass made with a potbelly big enough to cook a tent section’s porridge in.

  Finally, unable to recall anything useful about Barbatus, he shook his head in frustration, telling Corvinus, “Well, we’re going to find out soon enough what kind of Primus Pilus he is.”

  “That we are,” Corvinus agreed.

  It wasn’t very long after that when Lysander came to tell him the new Primus Pilus was calling an assembly of all Centurions at the beginning of the next watch.

  “He said that there’s no need for full uniform, that this is an informal meeting,” Lysander informed him.

  When it was time, Porcinus stood and picked up his vitus.

  “Let’s go find out what our lives are going to be like.”

  The first meeting of the Centurions of the 8th Legion and their new Primus Pilus was remarkable only in how unremarkable it was, at least in the beginning and considering what Barbatus had to say. Initially, he hit the right notes; he was proud to lead a Legion that even now was referred to as one of the Spanish Legions, despite the fact that relatively few men were actually from Hispania, and none were left from the first dilectus, held by the late Gnaeus Pompeius. He touched on some of the Legion’s most famous exploits, starting with the Gallic campaign. Most of his talk was spent on what he expected of the Legion, which were the usual things a Primus Pilus would; tight discipline above all, attention to detail, instant obedience to orders, all the normal expectations that Porcinus and the others were sure they were already providing. It wasn’t completely a waste of time, however, at least as far as Porcinus and few of the more observant among the Centurions were concerned. What was instructive to them wasn’t what Barbatus said, it was his appearance. Even now, the prevailing style of haircut in the Legions, at least here in Pannonia, was still closely shorn, a look that Titus Pullus would have recognized and approved of. This was especially true with the Centurions, a holdover from the days when Camp Prefect Pullus had bellowed at those he viewed as being too shaggy that hair might be the pride of a woman, it was the shame of a warrior. Pullus always wore his hair closely shorn, a remnant of his early days as a tirone when his head had proven to be too large to fit into a helmet with the felt liner in it. Naturally, his adopted son had followed the example set by his father, yet so had the other Centurions, not just of the 8th, but the 13th and the other Legions as well. The only exceptions were the constantly rotating set of fine young men from Rome, who had adopted the type of hairstyle that was favored by Augustus since he was a young boy, with hair well past the ears. Pullus always took great delight in reminding everyone that the Princeps’ reason for this had been to hide a rather unfortunate set of ears, which Pullus claimed looked like the handles on an amphora of wine the way they stuck out. Yet now, it appeared that this hirsute style had made it into the ranks, at least into the ranks of the Praetorian Guard, because Barbatus’ hair, iron gray as it was, was almost to his shoulders. However, it was slicked back so that the hair lay flat against his skull, giving the appearance of a closely shorn head. Was that…pomade in his hair, Porcinus wondered? If that were all, it would have been enough to get the men talking, with the Centurions leading the way. But he also wore more jewelry, in the form of rings, than any man of the Legions that Porcinus had ever seen, at least of the ranks. There were a few Tribunes who wore such finery, although very quickly, they discovered that not only was it something the men quietly sneered at, wearing rings in the field, on campaign in particular, was impractical. Most striking of all, at least to Porcinus, was in the singular lack of scars the man sported. As he surreptitiously examined Barbatus while the man droned on in a voice that had a nasal, whiny quality to it that was quickly wearing on his nerves, Porcinus couldn’t spot anything that might be thought of as a battle scar. He hadn’t worn his full uniform; as Porcinus had been informed, this was a more informal first meeting than a full inspection, and the man’s skin had that pink glow that was a sign of significant time spent in the baths. Although his tunic was the regulation soldier’s tunic, dyed red, it was easy to see that the cloth and the dye was of a much higher quality than was seen in the Legions. It was as Porcinus was examining Barbatus’ tunic that the Primus Pilus closed his remarks, and in doing so, gave the Centurions their first warning that there would be changes.

  “As I said, I’m proud to be here,” Barbatus said, but then there was a slight change in his demeanor as he seemed to make a point to look each man in the eye as he continued, “but I come from the Praetorian Guard, and our standards, especially in appearance, are much higher. And consider this fair warning; I will be expecting my Legion to meet the standards to which I’ve become accustomed, not the other way around.” Pausing a moment to let this sink in, he finished with, “That is why I’ll be holding a full inspection of the Legion, at the beginning of third watch tomorrow.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence, then it was quickly broken by an uproar of noise as a large number of Centurions voiced their protest. Porcinus wasn’t one of them, mainly because he thought enough of his comrades were making it clear that what Barbatus was dem
anding was not only unreasonable, it was contrary to what Tiberius had ordered.

  “Tacete!”

  This didn’t come from Barbatus, but from the man who had just been demoted back to his Second Century, much to his obvious relief, Frontinus. And while he may not have been considered fit to be Primus Pilus, he still was respected enough that the men quieted down quickly. Meanwhile, Barbatus stood, his face impassive, yet having made no attempt to establish order. Instead, he looked at Frontinus, who seemed to realize that since he had been the one calling for order, he was expected to speak for the group.

  “Sir,” Frontinus began, but Barbatus cut him short.

  “Primus Pilus, Pilus Posterior,” Barbatus said this quietly, but there was something in his voice that Porcinus could see others had noticed as well.

  Frontinus reddened, but his voice was steady. “Er, yes. My apologies. As I was going to say, Primus Pilus, the problem with what you’re ordering is that it would keep the men from performing the duties that the Legate has commanded in order for us to be ready to resume campaign at the end of the week.”

  Barbatus’ reaction was to appear puzzled, and it made Porcinus wonder if he had been so anxious to meet the Centurions that he hadn’t gotten a full briefing from Tiberius. That belief was quickly dispelled.

  “I’m not sure why you’re telling me something I already know, Pilus Posterior,” Barbatus replied, again with a calm demeanor. “I know exactly when we’re supposed to march, and we will be ready. But that doesn’t have anything to do with my inspection. That’s separate from what the men already have to do.”

  If Frontinus looked perplexed, he was only mirroring the feelings of almost all of the other Centurions. One exception was Porcinus, who was experiencing a sinking feeling in his stomach as he thought, I know where this is going. Unbidden, he was reminded of Marcus Primus again, and the disastrous and farcical attempt he had made to impose his authority by demanding a full inspection, under almost identical circumstances. Porcinus’ only hope was that Barbatus knew more about how to conduct an inspection than Primus had.