by R. W. Peake
Hirtius hurriedly finished with the “What would you have of him?” and we quieted down.
Caesar did not answer for a moment, and when he did, he spoke so softly that we could not hear, but instantly Caesar’s personal standard bearer dipped it down in front of Vercingetorix, forcing him to kiss it in a symbol of obeisance. Hirtius stepped forward, taking Vercingetorix’s sword from his outstretched hands, then handed it to Caesar, who immediately passed it to another member of his staff.
Standing from his chair, Caesar looked down at Vercingetorix, and announced in his oratorical voice, “Vercingetorix, king of all the Gauls,” his omission of Hirtius’ term was a clear rebuke, and I could see his aide’s face turn bright red, “you have risen in rebellion against Rome. Your rebellion failed, and under the rules of war, you and all of those who followed you into rebellion are now subject to disposition as we, the conquerors see fit. You, Vercingetorix, will accompany me to Rome, to be part of my triumph for the conquest of Gaul. As for your followers, I give your common soldiers, and any wives and children with them to my army, at the rate of one slave per Gregarius, to do with as they please, two for all Optios, and four for all Centurions. The remainder of the common people will be sold in a lot, with the money disbursed among myself and my fellow officers. The noblemen and their families will be allowed to return to their lands, but only after giving oaths of loyalty and surrendering of hostages. That is my judgment.”
Nodding to the two Centurions standing on either side of Vercingetorix, he finished, “Take him away to confinement.”
The two Centurions, both from the 8th, grabbed Vercingetorix roughly, pulling him to his feet, then proceeded to strip him of all his armor and his clothes, leaving him completely naked. Then, they placed a rope around his neck as a symbol of his bondage, leading him away to the jeers of the assembled army. Once he disappeared, an excited buzz swept through the formation, the import of what Caesar had just done hitting us. A slave is perhaps the single most valuable commodity that one can own, and would bring a lot of money, if their new owners decided to sell them. I would have two of them and I began to think excitedly about the possibilities. Would I sell both, or keep one for myself, as a status symbol? Of course, that meant that I must feed and clothe them, so perhaps that was not the best thing to do. I shook my head; it was all too much to take in at once. We were dismissed, and we headed back to our areas to talk about the sudden increase in our prospects.
With that piece of business out of the way, the next thing to be taken care of was filling the positions of Centurions, Optios, and the lesser ranks that were vacated because of death or serious wounds. It was with some trepidation that I waited to be informed who would be our new Pilus Prior, but nothing happened for some time, which in itself was extremely unusual. I thought that it must have to do with the fact that such a large number of Centurions and Optios were slain and that made deciding who was going to fill what spot more difficult, yet as the first day passed and announcements were made in other Cohorts, it became more and more of a puzzle. However, I was happy to learn that our new Primus Pilus was none other than Gaius Crastinus, replacing the slain Favonius. Despite this, still no word arrived of who our new Pilus Prior would be, and with the day dragging on, the speculation among the men of the Century became more urgent. Not once did I hear, nor did I myself consider my name as a possible candidate, so that when Primus Pilus Crastinus appeared and summoned me to follow him, I was completely confused about what was happening. Despite my best attempts, Crastinus, even in light our former relationship, refused to give me any kind of hint about what was going on, so the closer we got to the Praetorium, the more my heart raced as I tried to think of what reasons there could be to discipline me in some way. Again, despite being an Optio for a few years now, I still sometimes thought like a Gregarius, and that is always the first thing that goes through a ranker’s mind when they are summoned to stand tall before the general. By the time we reached the flap of the tent, I was as close to panic-stricken as I think I had ever been. Stone-faced, Crastinus stopped and with a jerk of his head, indicated that I should enter.
“You’re expected,” was the only thing he said as I passed, and it was all I could do to keep from fainting dead away.
Stepping inside, I immediately stopped, not only to let myself adjust to the dim light, but to compose myself. Then, approaching the orderly’s desk that stood guard outside the door into Caesar’s office, I saluted the bored looking Tribune.
“Optio Titus Pullus, First Century, Second Cohort of the 10th, reporting to Caesar as ordered,” I rapped out in what I hoped was my most official voice.
The Tribune was busy chewing on an apple, apparently thinking that the study of it was of the utmost importance as he studiously ignored me, fascinated by the piece of fruit. However, I had been in too long to be thrown by such tricks, knowing that this was the only way a pup like the boy in front of me could feel like he had any control over a wolf like me, so I stood impassively at intente, waiting him out. Once he determined that I was not going to fidget, he sighed, exasperated at being bested at his little game and got up, waving at me to wait. He stepped inside and I heard him announce me, then he reappeared, and said curtly, “Caesar will see you now.”
Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and stepped inside, unsure of what fate awaited me.
Caesar was seated at his desk, examining some papers in front of him. Nearby, sitting on the corner of a table was none other than Marcus Antonius, also chewing on an apple while he conversed idly with Labienus, who was sitting on the other side of the table with his feet propped on it. Hirtius was there as well, sitting at a smaller desk off to the side, along with the usual contingent of slaves and scribes busily scribbling away at the mountain of paperwork composing most of Caesar’s day. Ignoring them, I marched to Caesar, stopped and saluted, intoning the same salutation I offered the orderly outside. Unlike the Tribune, however, Caesar stopped writing to acknowledge my salute, then leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together with his index fingers against his chin as he looked at me, saying nothing. Whatever composure I had managed to gather was rapidly melting away, and I felt my knees beginning the faintest tremor, my mind racing with the portents of this meeting. Finally, Caesar spoke, in a neutral tone that told me that he was neither happy to see me, nor displeased. I was simply a matter of business, which was even more unsettling, since my contact with Caesar had always been an occasion for happiness and pride.
“Your Pilus Prior was killed in action, as you know.”
I was not sure what response was expected, so I merely nodded and responded, “Yes sir.”
“And we have yet to name a replacement. I’m sure you’ve noticed that almost every other Century and Cohort that needs a replacement has already been seen to, correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“So why do you suppose we have been waiting to name a replacement for your Century?”
I was flummoxed; I had no idea, and it indeed was the topic of speculation, yet I was not about to blurt out the various theories that my comrades had thrown out. “I….I really have no idea, Caesar,” was the best I could manage, a faint look of surprise coming across his face.
“Really?” his mouth quirked at the corners, as if he was fighting a smile, deepening my confusion, “You don’t know that there has been a huge debate raging about the suitability of one of the names being considered for the billet?”
Just the faintest hint of a dawning began to register in my brain, but I immediately put the thought out of my mind, dismissing it as hubris. There was no chance I was going to utter the name that popped in my head, so I decided to continue playing dumb, which fortunately was not very hard. In answer, I instead just shook my head this time, not verbally responding.
Caesar turned to Labienus, asking conversationally, “Labienus, would you care to utter that name?”
It was immediately clear that whoever it was, Labienus was against him, because his haw
kish face turned dark, his irritation clearly visible and I marveled at the impunity of such a thing in front of his commanding officer. However, as I was to learn, Caesar was not much for formality behind closed doors, actually encouraging his Legates, Tribunes and even senior Centurions to voice their opinion without fear of repercussion.
Finally, Labienus muttered the name, but so softly I could not hear it, evoking a hearty laugh from Antonius, who poked at Labienus with a finger, “Come on man. The boy can’t hear you.”
I bridled at that a bit, since he was no more than a year or two older than me, yet that was how officers viewed us. A raw Tribune no more than 25 regularly called a Gregarius twenty years older “boy”; at least the dumb ones did. Antonius was not dumb, he was just nobly born and apparently that gives you 20 extra years' experience the day you are born.
“Optio Pullus.”
You could have heard a gnat fart in the silence that followed, and there was a roaring in my ears as for a horrified moment I thought I was going to faint. Immediately following this was the stirring of anger; I was sure that these fine gentlemen decided to have some fun at my expense. Of course, why they would pick me out of the 35,000 people in the army to choose from was not something I put any thought into, all I was sure of was that I was the butt of their joke. My surprise was evident to all, yet only Caesar seemed able to tell what I suspected.
“No, he's not joking Pullus. I know that this is somewhat unusual, that normally if you were promoted to Centurionate rank that you would be made a Junior Centurion and serve in the Tenth Cohort, or perhaps the Ninth. But it's not unheard of, and given the high casualty rate among the Centurions, when we looked at a list of candidates, your name was at the top of the list.”
Before I could respond, Caesar added, “That’s not to say that everyone,” and he looked over at Labienus, who was still fuming, “agreed. But I saw what you did when Vercingetorix’s men tried to breach the wall. You fought like ten men, and that's what convinced me that I'm making the right choice.”
Because I was not sure what the proper response should be, the best I could manage was, “Thank you sir, I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not, or I'll never hear the end of it from Labienus,” Caesar replied mildly. He stood then, and offered his hand.
“Congratulations, Pilus Prior Pullus.”
Leaving the Praetorium in a daze, I found Crastinus standing there waiting for me, his earlier reserve gone, a broad smile on his leathery face.
He slapped me on the back, exclaiming, “Congratulations you big bastard.”
“You knew?”
“Of course I knew,” he shot back somewhat huffily, “I was asked my opinion on the matter. I saw the list of candidates they had drawn up.”
“And you thought I was the best one?” I asked half in astonishment, half in hope.
“Nah. I just figured that you couldn’t fuck it up any worse than the other cunni on the list.”
I had to laugh at that, but a pit was forming in my stomach. I was now the senior Centurion of the Second Cohort, and although I knew I was respected, having been in the army almost ten years, I was still only twenty-five. There were men much more senior than I who had just been passed over. The thought of their reaction dampened my enthusiasm like a sudden rainstorm, and Crastinus saw my glum face.
Growing serious, he said quietly, “I won’t lie, Pullus. It’s not going to be easy. This is going to piss a lot of the boys off, particularly the other men on the list. That’s one reason it was so hush-hush; I think Caesar always planned on picking you but didn’t want to create a storm of cac flying and get men riled up enough that he couldn’t promote you without it being a big problem. Now,” he mused, “he’s dodged a javelin by just doing it. You’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.”
“Thanks, I feel better already,” I replied sarcastically, drawing a barking laugh.
“I’m not here to provide sympathy boy. But I'll do what I can to help. Mostly though, it’s going to be up to you. You’re going to have to prove to everyone that you’re worthy of the promotion.”
We were walking to the quartermaster’s tent to draw the crest I would need to affix to my helmet, along with some of the other extra gear that the rank provides. The first the Century would know I was now their Pilus Prior would be when I showed up wearing the crest; I already carried a vitus, although that was later abolished for Optios. There would be a formal promotion ceremony, but that was done all at once, in front of the whole army. Before that happened, I first had to call a meeting of the Centurions of the Cohort, followed by a meeting of the Cohort itself. My mind was racing with all the things there were to do, so I missed what Crastinus said, prompting him to call me by name. I looked at him, and he shook his head in mock seriousness.
“Not a very good start, ignoring your Primus Pilus.”
“Sorry, Primus Pilus Crastinus,” I admit to a bit of apple-polishing in addressing him by his full rank, since I knew that he had not heard himself called by that much as of yet, and I could tell it pleased him.
“I was saying, for whatever it’s worth, I know you can do it Pullus. And I’ll help you any way I can.”
I looked at him in gratitude, then unbidden my mind raced back almost ten years before when I hated this man to the soles of his boots, marveling at how far I had come.
Approaching the Century area, the men were lounging by the fire, and they looked up as one of them automatically called out that senior Centurions were approaching. They all immediately popped up to stand at intente before any of them noticed that something was different, and I am sure their first thought was something like, “Here comes the new Pilus Prior. By the gods, he’s as big as Pullus.”
It was a few heartbeats after that before there was a registering of the fact that not only did the new Pilus Prior look like me, it was indeed me in the flesh. Even at their position of intente, I was heartened to see smiles creeping across the men’s face as they realized what it meant.
A knot in my throat started to form, then the Primus Pilus’ voice cracked out, stopping the moment. “What are you cunni smiling at like drooling idiots? Haven’t you ever seen a Pilus Prior before?”
He looked at me and said sternly, “I apologize Pilus Prior Pullus,” giving my new title and name a boost in volume so that everyone not in eyesight could hear the news, “your new command seems to be composed of imbeciles and lunatics. I don’t know who trained this lot, but they should be dismissed from the eagles immediately.”
Of course, this was all in jest, since it was Crastinus himself who trained this very Century and was our first Pilus Prior. Now they were on their fourth, and if I was not so happy it would have been a sobering thought. Only one was promoted, and he stood before us. One was forced to retire while the other died, not exactly reassuring odds. But there was a saying; if you wanted to live a long life, why did you join the Legions? Live hard, die young and leave a good looking corpse behind for cremation was how most of us looked at things. Very few of my comrades thought seriously about the future the way I did, and I have often wondered what role this played in my survival through so many battles. My side was aching, meaning I was still not quite up to doing anything strenuous, but I had survived yet again and I made a mental note to find some way to properly thank the gods with an appropriate offering. The Primus Pilus left me with the men, and immediately after I gave them the command to return to their prior attitudes, they came bounding to me, offering their congratulations. I wanted to think that most of them were sincere, but I was smart enough to know that a fair number of them were merely trying to grease the wheels in the event that they fell afoul of me at some point down the road. Just when I was about to get upset, I thought wryly, why should I, it’s exactly what I would have done, and I think one of the keys to my success in many areas was that I never lost sight of what it meant to be a Gregarius. During my career, I saw too many Centurions who underwent some sort of transformation, thinkin
g that suddenly because they were no longer in the ranks and had their own latrine, their cac did not smell the same as the rest of the men. The men whose reaction I was most anxious to gauge were of course my former tentmates, particularly Vibius, because I was now two ranks ahead of him. Then I realized with a sudden thrill that now that the spot of Optio was open I could appoint who I wanted, provided they were sufficiently senior, which Vibius certainly was, and of the appropriate rank, which he was as well. Just as suddenly, however, my stomach twisted as I was hit by the recognition that because I was already operating at a disadvantage, with the Centurions under me watching every move I made like a hawk, there was no real way I could make Vibius my Optio. It would not matter whether he was qualified or not, his promotion would cause jealousy, making it as close to guaranteed as possible that whispers of favoritism passed from one fire to another. I felt like I was dashed by cold water, even as I went through the motions of accepting the congratulations from the men, agonizing over how to tell Vibius. The fact that I had not even brought the subject up with him but was already worried about how he would react at being passed over shows how entrenched in my own viewpoint I was back in those days. It never occurred to me that perhaps Vibius did not want to be Optio; because of my own ambitions, I naturally assumed that others shared the same goals. Luckily, for both of us I think, once I did broach the subject with Vibius, he instantly threw up his hands in horror at the thought of being considered for Optio.