by R. W. Peake
We were both still laughing as we entered our hut.
Chapter 2
The campaign conducted by Tiberius the year after his brother died was one in name only, more farce than operation. Ultimately, the best that can be said for it, as far as the 8th was concerned, is that we got some exercise and knocked the flab we had accumulated over the winter off of our bodies. The truth is that we never faced an enemy across a battlefield, which was annoying enough itself, but it was why we never came to grips with any German tribe that we found galling, although I am sure not nearly as much as Tiberius did. For the cause of this nasty outbreak of peace was none other than our divine Augustus himself who, in his infinite wisdom, used Tiberius and the Legions under his command as merely a piece in the great game of tables he was playing with the tribes across the Rhenus. Just the act of the army crossing the great river was enough to have the various tribes send envoys, not to Tiberius, but all the way to Rome to seek an audience with Augustus, begging him for terms. The only tribe that did not send an envoy was the Sugambri, and Augustus' answer to the tribes was that there would be no peace with Rome unless the other tribes prevailed upon the Sugambri to send their own envoys.
Of course, we knew none of this at the time; instead, we were sitting idle at the base Drusus had created two years before on the German side of the Rhenus. All we did know was that there was a steady succession of dispatch riders coming in and out of camp, almost by the third of a watch. This was unusual enough to let us know that something was brewing that was not a normal part of a Roman campaign, yet the rumors that were sweeping the camp were too numerous and ludicrous to mention. The only rumor that did not reach my ears was one that resembled what was actually taking place. Then, one day, after we had been in place for almost a month, there was a formation called that was not part of our normal routine, in the middle of the day. When we were marched to the forum, we saw a rostra had been set up, and the buzzing as we all speculated about the possible meaning made it sound as if an enormous horde of flying insects had descended on the camp.
"I bet we're getting the order to march," I heard one of my comrades mutter; it sounded like Bestia.
There was a murmur of assent that was just quiet enough to avoid drawing the ire of Urso, standing three spots from me on the right, with only our Signifer Gnaeus Flaccus, a garrulous veteran from Picenum, I believe, and our Aquilifer, Aulus Capulo, who was a lean, quiet man whose features were very much like those of the wolf's head he wore in between us. Capulo did not talk much, while Flaccus never shut up, but I appreciated having them as a buffer between Urso and me, although even with their headdresses on, I could glance over both of their heads and see the Primus Pilus. When we were on the march, in column, Capulo and Flaccus marched in front of us, with Urso next to them, along with the Legion Corniceni and Bucinator, there being one per Century of the former, and only one per Legion of the latter, which meant I was able to relax a bit. But when we were in formations in the morning and evening, our Primus Pilus was not far away, so I did my best to keep from looking anywhere in his direction, even when we were given leave to relax from our position of intente. Ironically, I was not concerned about when we would be in our fighting formation; we both would be much too busy for there to be any tension.
Finally, the flaps of the Praetorium drew aside and out strode Tiberius, his paludamentum swirling behind him, although he was bareheaded, holding his helmet under his left arm as we are trained. Not surprisingly, the buzzing of our conversation stopped as we all waited to hear what our Legate had in store for us. Stepping up onto the rostra, he paused only long enough to sweep the entire army with his gaze, then began speaking, raising his voice to the level needed for at least the Centurions of the rearmost Cohorts to hear and relay his words back.
"The campaign," he began without any kind of greeting or introductory remarks, which at least gave us a hint that something was amiss, "is over. All the tribes of the German Confederation have submitted, including the Sugambri."
Only then did he pause, a good thing because the silence was shattered by gasps of surprise, along with scattered curses. I exchanged a glance with Flaccus to my right; his expression, I am sure, much like mine; we had marched here for nothing?
As if reading our minds, Tiberius, his face looking much like one of his statues, hard and unyielding, continued, "The Army of the Rhenus will return to Mogontiacum, while the 8th will return to Siscia and rejoin the Army of Pannonia. Centurions, you will be receiving your orders by the end of the day. That is all."
And, showing that he meant it, he spun about and stalked off the rostra, not faltering as the men of his army began shouting at his retreating back.
"What about our campaign bonus?"
"How are we supposed to get any loot if we don't go after those cunni?"
Those were the types of questions being hurled at Tiberius' retreating back as he made for the Praetorium, but while there is no doubt he heard these challenges, he did not deign to acknowledge them, quickly disappearing behind the swirling flaps of the tent.
The atmosphere in the camp that night was, if not mutinous, certainly enraged and unsettled.
"How the fuck are we supposed to make any money if we came all this way just to turn around?" Dentulus complained, no surprise in itself since he was always short of money because of his ineptitude at gambling.
"Fuck all if I know." For once, even the always-smiling Caecina was as disgruntled as the rest of the section. "But I know that I don't want to just turn around and go home empty-handed."
"None of us do." Bestia spat on the rough-hewn floor of the hut. "But it looks like that's exactly what we're going to do."
"You're right," a new voice interrupted and, recognizing the voice of our Optio, I turned my head as I lay on my bunk to hear what new information he had, if any. "And, in fact, we're leaving first thing tomorrow."
"Tomorrow!" This was, in effect, a chorus as many of my comrades exclaimed at once.
"But why?" To my ears, Mela's voice had a whining quality to it under normal circumstances, but now that he was actually whining, it was even worse. "Why can't we have a day to…"
"To do what?" Tiburtinus interrupted him, his tone turning harsh. "Get into a fucking brawl with the other Legions? You saw them; they're just as upset as we are. The Primus Pilus doesn't want that kind of trouble, so before it can happen, we're getting the fuck back to Siscia. And we leave at first light tomorrow! Is that understood?"
Just his tone told us, at least most of us, that there was only one acceptable answer, which we gave, even if it was half-heartedly at best. Clearly not caring about the quality of our agreement, Tiburtinus turned about to go inform the other sections of the Century, or at least so I assumed.
"If we didn't get the dirty end of the sponge on this, I don't know who did!" someone declared. "At least those other bastards have a half-day's march before they're back where there are whores and wine!"
"And a good dice game," I heard Dentulus mumble morosely.
I saw Domitius grin and we exchanged a glance, sharing in the amusement at a man who was so eager to be fleeced of the money he had not won on a campaign that never happened.
Our march back to Siscia was as uneventful as the march to the Rhenus, although I will say that for the first two or three days, the Legion was in a sullen mood. But such is the lot of the Gregarii; no one under the standard can afford to dwell on the various injustices that occur at the hands of the army, or theirs would be a gloomy existence indeed. Consequently, by about the third or fourth day, things were back to normal as men chattered about getting back home and reuniting with the objects of their affection, even if some of those affections were merely rented by the third of a watch. As always, there was much discussion about the charms of the various whores that had been shared by the men; one man arguing for the merits of one, singing songs of praise about her flexibility, while another man steadfastly supported another, claiming that her imaginativeness was a wonder
to behold. But along with such lighter topics, there was quite a bit of discussion and speculation about our aborted campaign, and what was the true cause, because none of us believed that it had been as straightforward as the Germans suddenly coming to their senses and realizing that resistance was futile. In every Century, and indeed in almost every section of a Roman Legion, is at least one man who is the acknowledged expert in deciphering the labyrinth that is our politics. Even now, under one ruler, as united as we are under the divine Augustus, there are undercurrents and eddies that can only be comprehended by someone who has made a habit of observing the political landscape of Rome. In the case of our section, we had such a man; in fact, we had two, but I was not about to open my mouth and divulge anything that could possibly be used against me. Because the fact is, thanks to my Avus, I know quite a bit of the kinds of duplicity and treachery that the upper classes of Rome are capable of committing against each other as they fight and claw for a spot on the ladder immediately below Augustus. It was that kind of activity that almost got my Avus executed, when he was brought before a Tribunal in the trial of Marcus Primus, who had been Praetor of Macedonia. And, despite the fact that as I write this it has been almost thirty years since that event, I will still never divulge what I know. Consequently, as we marched, I was content to let the other self-appointed expert opine on what was really going on in this matter with the Germans.
"Augustus used us, knowing that the Germans wouldn't want to face us again," Numerius Didius declared. He marched in the second row of our section column, third from the right, which put him in the last third of our rank when we were in our standard close formation in battle. He also marched next to Domitius, who could barely tolerate Didius, and I must admit that, despite the fact that as far as I could determine, they were not related, I was struck by the fact that a former nemesis of my Avus, going all the way back to the formation of the 10th Equestris under Caesar, in Hispania, was named Spurius Didius. Granted, it is a fairly common name, but I did find it amusing, especially given the fact that my Avus' close comrade and best friend, Vibius Domitius, had hated the original as well. Now, here we were, decades later; the scene was much the same, even if the names and faces were slightly different.
Unmindful of Domitius rolling his eyes next to him, Didius continued, "Look what we did to the Marcomanni last year! And then there were all the years before that, with Drusus! They just didn't want to face our iron again! I don't think the Princeps had any intention of sending us out there to actually fight. He just used us to scare them into giving up their hostages!"
For that was the one nugget of information we had managed to glean before we left; that in exchange for Augustus' assurance that he would not unleash us, he required hostages as surety for the good behavior of the German tribes. I confess that when Didius said that, it made sense to me, and when I glanced over my shoulder at Domitius, I could see that he was no less convinced, in spite of himself. The sight of him scowling as he muttered his agreement to Didius that this was likely was enough to bring a smile to my own face. These were the little ways in which the miles passed under the tromping boots of a Legion of Rome as we made our way back to Siscia.
As it would turn out, Didius was right and wrong at the same time, but only because of the actions of the divine Augustus, although we would not learn of the deed until after we had been back in Siscia for a couple of weeks. Once the tribes had delivered the required hostages, Tiberius was summoned from Mogontiacum and recalled to Rome. However, although the hostages were treated well for the most part—they were highborn sons and daughters of the German tribal nobility, and the one thing that is certain is that the upper classes always look out for each other, even when they are the enemy—there was one group that did not receive the same gentle treatment. In fact, they received the harshest treatment possible; they were executed, by order of Augustus. Those hostages were from the Sugambri tribe, and while it is hard for me to believe, I suppose it is in the realm of possibility that Augustus took this action, knowing it would make the Sugambri our most implacable enemy from that point onward. Not surprisingly, this event was the talk of Siscia, both in the camp and the town for several days. And, as we were about to discover shortly after we returned, once the news of the execution of the Sugambri hostages was known, it would cause us trouble throughout the region. At the time and as far as I was concerned, I barely noticed it because once it was clear we would not be marching against an enemy of Rome, Urso evidently decided it was time to indoctrinate me in what it meant to be his muscle. Even now, all these years later, however, I still find it hard to believe that the consequences he wrought with his, and our, actions were intended.
It was perhaps two weeks after we were back when Philo came to my bunk one evening. The fact that he ventured down to the far end of the hut was notable enough that I saw the others' heads turning to watch him as he approached where I was lying with a scroll in my hand, trying to read by the small lamp I had on the floor next to me. Fortunately, I saw him coming, so I swung my legs off the bunk and came to a sitting position, still holding the scroll.
"The rich boy's reading." Philo's laugh was mocking, but I was sure I saw in his eyes a look that I still believe was envy. "Isn't that sweet? Are you reading yourself to sleep?"
Ignoring the gibe, I simply asked, "What do you need, Philo?"
"That's Sergeant Philo," he snarled, but I did not reply, just continued looking at him, knowing that the fact that I did not need to tilt my head much, even sitting down, was disconcerting to him.
Seeing that I was not going to give in, he gritted his teeth for a moment, then continued, "Anyway, the Primus Pilus wants you for a…special detail, first thing tomorrow, after morning formation." He smiled then, but there was nothing remotely friendly about it. "Just be ready, in full uniform, harness, and shield."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned about, leaving me to call after him, "What for?"
Giving a harsh laugh over his shoulder, he only said, "You'll find out tomorrow, won't you?"
Sighing, I lay back on the bunk and tried to resume my reading, but any chance of concentration had disappeared with this visit from Philo. I spent the rest of the time before the lights were extinguished, trying to think of a possibly good reason why Urso would want me to wear my armor and carry my weapons; I didn't come up with anything remotely comforting.
Nevertheless, the next morning, even before the bucina sounded, I was up and dressed. Not lost on me was that, at the far end of the hut, Philo, Mela and Caecina were doing the same. While I tried to be as quiet as possible, they did not appear to be as concerned, so that when there were shouts of protest from some of our comrades, Philo snarled at them to shut their mouths. Since I had no real idea what to do once I was ready, I stood there, resigned to waiting for the others to come to my end of the hut since I was next to the door. As they filed past me, I could not help noticing that Philo did not meet my gaze, but while Caecina gave me a grin, that was nothing unusual and it gave me no comfort.
"Let's go," Philo muttered, yanking the door open, yet when he indicated I should exit first, I was struck by a sudden stab of fear.
Had he discovered that I had learned of his role in the murder of the Gregarius all those years ago? Clearly, my sudden wariness showed on my face; ironically, it was Caecina who calmed my fears.
"Pullus," he said cheerfully, "if we wanted to kill you, do you really think we'd have you put on your armor first? Not to mention that." He pointed down at my gladius hanging from my right hip.
Despite the topic, I found myself grinning at his levity; I always had to remind myself that, of these three, Caecina was the most dangerous, precisely because of this trait of his of seemingly making light of everything. Reassured, at least for the moment, I filed past the trio, choosing not to make an issue of Philo giving me a not-so-gentle shove out the door.
I do not know why, but I admit I was surprised when Philo, who I assumed was in command of our small detachment, m
ade us march as if we were performing an official duty like relieving the guard. Even more startling was when he gave the command to halt, not anywhere near the Primus Pilus' quarters, but at the next hut.
"Wait here," Philo ordered, then disappeared inside.
Again, it was before the official call to begin the day, but I caught a glimpse of flickering light inside the hut of the Second Section.
"Why are we stopping here?" I whispered; normally, I would not have deigned to ask either of my companions at that point, not trusting either of them, but my curiosity overrode my sense of caution.
"Because," Caecina began, but then was interrupted as the door opened. "You can see for yourself."
Filing out of the hut were two more men; even in the darkness barely lit by the torches maintained by the guard shift, I recognized one as the man Vetruvius to whom Domitius owed his twenty sesterces. Understanding flooded through me, and I had to suppress a groan as I thought, Domitius, what were you thinking, borrowing money from him?
Joining us, the pair of men fell in our small formation, whereupon we resumed making our way to meet the Primus Pilus. However, not without stopping before almost every section hut, with the exception of the last two in the First Century, and a half-dozen huts of the Second and Third. By the time we had clearly reached our full complement, not only did we have a bit more than three sections of men, Philo was no longer the highest ranking. We were joined by the Optio of the Second Century who, without any words being spoken between them, telling me that this had happened before, took over the command of this detachment, with Philo placing himself in the front rank. Right next to me, which I saw made neither of us happy; nor did I understand, since there were taller men who should have been. Only later did I learn his placement was no accident. The Optio, whose name I quickly learned was Gaius Cossus, was a tall, rangy man whose posture and demeanor reminded me of a starving wolf, which, as I would soon learn, was not far off the mark. Once it got light and I got a better look at him, that impression was only strengthened by the livid scar that ran down the left side of his face, slightly curving and stopping just under his lower lip. By the time we had gathered the fifty men and met the Primus Pilus, who was standing outside of his hut and also dressed in his full uniform, the bucina announcing the morning call had already sounded, and the camp was coming alive. Cossus rendered a salute, which ironically made me relax a bit, thinking that if this was something underhanded or off the books, as we say, he certainly would not be rendering a parade-ground salute. Although I was in the front rank, I could not hear what was said between the pair, except after a brief exchange Cossus saluted again, then turned about and marched to take his place at the rear of the small formation, while Urso walked up to us, stopping a few paces away. It was just growing light enough that I could see him smile, but it took a moment to realize he was looking straight at me.