Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  It was only later, after it was over, that I had the first indication of how long our bout had taken.

  "If that didn't last at least a third of a watch, I won't touch another drop of wine for a month!"

  This was how Domitius put it to me as I lay sprawled on the ground, still panting like a dog on the hottest summer day of its life. But, although I heard him, my mind was still trying to understand what had just taken place. For, while I was the one lying prone at that moment, I had finally achieved my original aim in knocking Bestia's rudis from his hand, although it did not go spectacularly flying into the crowd again. Yet, I did not feel any of the satisfaction that I thought I would because I recognized the true reason I was able to achieve my victory. Putting it in its simplest form, I was able to knock Bestia's rudis from his grasp because he was older, and I was younger. Consequently, it was neither skill nor any stratagem that I had devised like my maneuver that splintered his first blade; instead, I simply wore him down. And in doing so, both of us lost; at least that was how it felt in the immediate moment. Not helping my feeling of disappointment was how I finally managed to dislodge Bestia's rudis from his grasp. As the moments dragged by after Tiburtinus resumed our bout, I freely admit that I was the one on the defensive for the most part. Bestia's breath was coming in huge, ragged gulps of air that I could clearly hear above our shouting comrades, and sweat was streaming down his face as he lunged, then followed up with a punch from his shield. What I had suspected to be the case was by this time clearly so; his attacks were slowing down to the point that I no longer needed the advantage that my rage usually brought. Although I never took my eyes off him as we shuffled around, I was acutely aware of the shouts of men who did not appreciate my mostly defensive movements.

  "What's the matter, Pullus? Is Bestia too much for you?"

  I heard that, and variations of it raining down on us; if Bestia heard them as well, he gave no sign. However, immediately after someone yelled that, I finally made an offensive move, except that I accidentally almost ended the bout right then because Bestia's block with his shield was too slow. I just managed to stop my thrust from hitting home directly under his breastbone, the blunted point of my rudis lightly grazing his hamata as he belatedly leaned backward. From the vantage point of the spectators, I am sure it looked as if he had managed to dodge my thrust, but even with our wicker faceguards obscuring our vision, I clearly saw that he at least understood I had pulled back on my thrust. A look of confusion swept across his features, but he answered by shooting his shield out at me as if following my rudis back towards me. It is a common maneuver, yet I blocked his shield with my own easily enough, and when he followed that up with another thrust of his own, I was ready for it. As Bestia's rudis shot toward me, I parried it with a sweeping backhand of my own, moving the wooden blade across my body, oriented perpendicularly to the ground with the grip just under my nose and the point facing the ground, finishing my movement with a violent twist of my wrist outward. Honestly, while I put my weight behind the parry, as I did all of them, it was not my intent that this would be the move that would accomplish my goal. Nevertheless, much to my surprise, there was the resounding cracking sound when two wooden blades collide, followed immediately by the blur of his rudis spinning towards the crowd, albeit without the velocity of the first time it happened. It is hard to describe the sudden silence that fell on the men surrounding us who, just an instant before, had been howling and shouting, most of them in support of Bestia. As for myself, I was so surprised and shocked that I almost forgot to follow up my parry by what is usually a third position thrust coming from the side. Almost, I said, but while Bestia still had his shield up in the right position, he barely moved it as the point of my rudis shot behind his shield and hit him, hard, in the ribs. The force of my thrust made him stagger to his right at least two steps, which in turn forced him to move his sword arm to counterbalance. This time, I did not hesitate, and I took a larger than normal step forward to use my own shield, this time offensively, knocking him flat onto his back, kicking his shield aside when he tried to pull it up over his body in a final desperate attempt to defend himself.

  "Do you yield?"

  I was not the one who actually uttered the question; I was suddenly aware that Tiburtinus was standing just to my shield side, and while his question was for Bestia, I was aware his hard gaze never left me; I suppose he was expecting me to do something similar to what I had done to Maxentius.

  Bestia, lying on his back with neither sword nor shield, his breath was coming in such gasps that all he could do was nod. That was enough for Tiburtinus, and as is our custom, he reached across to grab my sword arm, holding it aloft.

  "Gregarius Pullus is the winner of this bout!" he bellowed.

  Frankly, I was too distracted for it to register that while there were a fair number of men hissing or booing, there were more cheers than I had expected. In that moment, I was only focused on Bestia, who was still lying on his back with his knees drawn up, but who had closed his eyes, I suppose in shame. Because I did not actually hold any animosity towards Bestia, I stepped to his side, and I suppose my shadow across his face caused him to open his eyes. Offering my hand, I was about to say something, but realized I did not know what to say. Yet, instead of accepting my hand, in what is the normal gesture we make after a sparring bout to show that there is no ill will, Bestia turned his face away in a clear signal.

  "I don't want your help," he said bitterly, although it was still between breaths. "You got what you wanted, now leave me the fuck alone."

  I opened my mouth to protest, to say something that might help repair this rift, but then Tiburtinus, none too gently, shoved me in the direction of Domitius.

  "You won, Pullus," the Optio said harshly. "You don't need to rub it in."

  "I'm not," I protested, but it was clear that neither of them believed me.

  So I staggered back to Domitius, then collapsed on the ground, exhausted. And with yet one more man in my Century who had no love for me.

  The concerns of a Gregarius aside, the work of the Legions never ceases and, just like the seasons, is invariable. Autumns and winters are for construction, either new projects or repairs of existing roads and buildings, while spring is spent preparing for our real jobs and, this spring, the year after the death of Drusus, in the Consulships of Gaius Marcius Censorinus and Gaius Asinius Gallus, was no exception. In many ways, that flurry of activity helped keep tensions between Bestia and me to a minimum, but I was acutely aware that what had happened was not forgotten, by anyone, judging from the way conversations would suddenly stop when I returned to our hut. Only Domitius seemed unfazed by all that had occurred; still, despite our mutual desire to have a discussion about our respective grandfathers and their entwined history, we did not get the chance immediately after my bout with Bestia. However, there was an added sense of urgency to the activities as we prepared for campaign because word had filtered down to the rankers that, as had happened the previous year, the 8th had been asked for by name from the Legate commanding the Army of the Rhenus. The year before, that had been Nero Claudius Drusus, but of course, he had died under tragic and, as many men insisted, mysterious circumstances. In his place was his brother Tiberius, who had made it clear that he intended to follow through with his beloved brother's campaign to totally subdue the barbarian tribes on the other side of the Rhenus. Frankly, I had mixed feelings about returning to the vast and dark wilds across the Rhenus; while I had distinguished myself, the loss of Drusus put a taste in my mouth that soured whenever I thought about all that had occurred the season before. Certainly, I was not alone; before nightfall of the day, we first learned of our destination, and the name Camp Accursed was on the lips of every ranker who had been there the year before, which was most of us. Normally, I would have taken consolation in the fact that, since this was my second campaign, I was no longer on the lowest rung of the ranker ladder, the green tiro who the veterans view with a jaundiced eye, knowing that until
they are standing in the line, grasping the harness of the man in front of them as a horde of screaming barbarians came hurtling towards them, there is no way to tell who will stand and who will run. Of course, these were not normal circumstances because of my transfer to the First. However, while Bestia did everything he could to avoid me, and was copied in that attitude by Dentulus, Lutatius, Didius, and a couple others, I will say that Philo gave me a wider berth as well. Oh, he still had something to say, but it was always under his breath and, for the most part, was aimed at Caecina and Mela. Who, of course, thought whatever he was saying to be the epitome of wit, because they would burst out laughing, loudly enough so that there was no way I could pretend not to hear, and I am sure it was no coincidence that whenever I glanced in their direction, they were looking directly at me. Of the three, only Caecina seemed to be genuinely amused; in fact, he acted as if everything we did was one big joke, and as much as I came to despise the man, I will say that he did a good job of lightening our burden, at least in a manner of speaking, making humorous observations about some of the more onerous tasks that are the lot of the Gregarii.

  We were in the final stages of preparation for leaving Siscia to join Tiberius when one of the most anticipated and happy events in the daily life of a ranker occurred; we were given our mail. Although the postal system of Rome is, or should be, the envy of the world, made possible thanks to the strong backs and arms of the men of the Legions who build most of the roads of our vast Empire, delivery of mail to the Legions was haphazard, at least when I first enlisted. Gods know it has vastly improved since I was a tiro, and from what my father told me, along with reading my Avus' account, it was an exceedingly rare event for them. Still, we never knew when we would receive mail, which was exacerbated by the habit of the Legate in command of waiting until a certain amount of mail had accumulated over the weeks. And, as had happened to me the year before, the veterans immediately descended on the newest tiros, knowing as they did that those who had mothers and families invariably received all manner and variety of useful items. Also, on the day mail is distributed, most of the day ends up being a free day, and the fact that our Legate only gave the 8th their mail, just a matter of a couple of days before we left told me that he was, in essence, killing two birds with one stone. After the hectic activity that comes from making a Legion ready, it is a long-standing tradition that the men are allowed one day, and more importantly, one night off before we march off to our possible deaths. The difference is that on mail days, we are normally given the day off as men wander around the camp, both within their Legion area as well as the others', where men have close friends or kin with whom they want to share news. That is the reason, or excuse I used; as soon as I received my mail, I went back to my hut and read the letter from my father first. What was contained in it was such that I had to get up and leave, immediately.

  "Be sure you're back for evening formation," I heard Philo growl, but he could have been talking to any number of us, since men were drifting out of the hut, most of them holding either a round tube as I was, or more often, the thin pieces of sanded wood that the poorest among us use, paying a scribe to inscribe a message to their loved one.

  "Pullus, wait for me!"

  I turned to see Domitius trotting up.

  "Where are you going?" he asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and laughing. "Mind if I come along? Anything but staying in there with Philo and his boys. They never get any mail, and they act like it doesn't bother them, but I know it does. And you know Philo; if he's miserable…."

  "…We're all miserable," I finished for him; it was one of Philo's more common threats, and of all of them, I will say he did his absolute best to make good on that one.

  The mention of Philo's name ignited a flare of caution in me, and I was about to make an excuse to Domitius so that he would not accompany me to where I was headed. I do not know why, but on impulse, I changed my mind.

  "I don't mind," I told him. "But there's something you should know."

  "What? That you're just as anxious to get away from those bastards as I am?"

  That surprised me, because he was right; just not for the reason he thought.

  Instead of answering directly, I said carefully, "I'm heading over to the Fourth. I need to talk to someone there." I turned to resume walking in that direction, and as he pulled even with me, I told him, "And there's something you should know before we get there."

  "You said that already," he replied peevishly, but I was not irritated.

  "Well, I suppose it bears repeating," I said with a laugh that sounded hollow to my ears.

  Apparently, it did to Domitius as well, because I saw his head turn sharply to examine my face as we continued walking.

  "What? What is it I need to know?"

  I opened my mouth to explain, then thought better of it, instead just handing him the scroll from my father.

  "Read that, and you'll have an idea," I said.

  We had to slow as he read; he was literate, but he had not had a tutor like Diocles, so I forced myself to be patient as he worked out what my father had written. I knew the instant he reached the part that had sent me to the Fourth Cohort area because he came to a sudden stop while I continued for a couple paces. Turning around, I saw the blood drain from his face, and he almost dropped the scroll.

  "Is this…true?" he gasped. "How do you know it's…?"

  I cut him off, feeling a flicker of anger for the first time at his perceived, and I know, unintentional slight against my father.

  "If my father says it's true, it is!" I shot back, reaching out and snatching the scroll from his hands.

  As quickly as the blood had gone, it came flooding back, but while he continued standing there for a moment, mouth hanging open in shock, I continued striding in our original direction.

  "Wait! Pullus!" I ignored him, then heard his footsteps as he ran to catch up. Still, I did not stop, until he blurted out, "Titus! Please!"

  I believe it was the use of my praenomen that caused me to halt; to my recollection, that was the first time he had used the name that is only uttered by family and close friends.

  "I didn't mean I don't believe your father," he insisted, now that he had caught up. "It's just, it's just…."

  I slowed a bit, and I felt my resentment cooling, understanding that he did not mean to impugn my father, just that what he had written was so damning.

  "I know," I admitted, then thought to add, "And I know you didn't mean to dishonor my father. You're right, this is…."

  Like him, I could not summon the exact word or phrase that accurately described the perfidy and shame of the act of our Sergeant, related to me by my father.

  "Is it true?"

  We were standing in the private quarters of my former Pilus Prior and my father's best friend under the standard, Gnaeus Corvinus. I heard Domitius, who had been allowed in by the Cohort clerk and slave Lysander because he was with me, give an audible gasp at what was, under normal circumstances, a serious breach of discipline. But I had known Corvinus my whole life; moreover, because of the information contained in the scroll my father had sent, I was confident that such formalities would not be missed. I had given the Quartus Pilus Prior my father's letter, and I watched his face carefully as he read it. When his eyes reached the part I was sure contained the information that would interest him, he surprised me by his reaction. Actually, it was his lack of reaction; however, I had been around him as both a child and Gregarius enough to recognize the clenching of his jaw as the telltale sign he was struggling to maintain his composure. Looking up at me, he said nothing for several moments, but the message in his eyes confirmed that what my father had told me was, in fact, true.

  "Why is he here?"

  The question, as I am sure it was meant to, caught me off balance, yet I did not hesitate long; in fact, if I had, I am not sure I would have given the same answer. Fortunately, the years have proven that even sudden decisions, when based on a good instinct, can be good ones
.

  "Because I trust him," I told Corvinus, but he did not seem impressed, causing me to add, "Besides, he's in the same section. He has a right to know what he's dealing with when it comes to Philo."

  I looked back at Domitius, and we exchanged a glance that told me he was behind me in every sense.

  Turning back to Corvinus, I did not say anything; I had decided to follow his lead, and if Corvinus said he wanted Domitius to leave for our conversation, I would not argue. Corvinus leaned over to look past me at Domitius.

  "And how do you know you can trust him after such a short time?" he asked, but while his tone was mild, I knew he was serious.

  "Because of who he is," I replied.

  Naturally, Corvinus did not take my meaning, so I went on to explain the connection between Titus Domitius and me. As I thought it would, that got Corvinus' attention, and he sat up straighter in his chair.

  "Is that true, Gregarius?" he asked Domitius. "You're the grandson of his grandfather's best friend?"

  "I am," Domitius replied without hesitation.

  Corvinus looked unimpressed, which surprised me, but his reason for doubt surprised me even more, since I was unaware of how much he knew of my family history.