Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  "Don't."

  "Don't what, Optio?" I only had to partially pretend to be surprised, because I had not expected that reaction.

  "You know what," he said just loudly enough so that only I could hear. I suppose my face reflected at least some of my desperation, because he partially relented. "At least, not here. Come and find me after the day is over."

  Nodding that I understood, I pivoted and returned to the spot I knew was mine when we were put into our formation, and waited for the others.

  Perhaps it would make matters seem more dramatic if I said that something noteworthy happened during that day, except that would not be true. In all respects, it was an average day when the Legion is not on campaign but it is campaign season. We spent the first half of the day training with our weapons; the second half, we marched a short distance out of the camp to take over the work repairing the aqueduct that is our main water supply. Returning, we held our evening formation, then were dismissed. The only slight change was that we were not allowed to go into town, although this was done every few days, I suppose just to remind us that our life's work was not the pursuit of a perfect state of drunkenness and finding the best whore the gods ever created by sampling each and every one plying her trade. Unfortunately, it did make having a clandestine conversation with Tiburtinus not only difficult, but practically impossible, since in a permanent camp, the Optio shares quarters with the Aquilifer, Signifer, and Tesseraurius. Consequently, I retired to the hut and pretended to be so absorbed in the book I was currently reading that Domitius did not even attempt to make conversation. In another sign that matters were unsettled was the fact that Philo made none of his usual remarks about the rich boy reading poetry. I had cause to think back to that night in the ensuing weeks, because it was the last peaceful one to come for some time.

  The next day at least started normally; we held our morning formation and the Century was marched back out to the aqueduct to resume work. Perhaps two parts of a watch later, however, there was a shout from one of us as we were taking a break. Seeing him pointing down the road back in the direction of camp, I followed his finger, immediately seeing the cloud of dust. This by itself was not unusual, but it only took a matter of a heartbeat or two to see how quickly the dust was spiraling into the air, telling us that at the very least a mounted man was galloping his horse. Still, not that uncommon, but I remember feeling a prickling of unease at the sight, and while the others resumed whatever they were doing, I continued standing there, staring.

  "Get back to work, Pullus," Tiburtinus commanded me, but before I could obey, I saw his eyes narrow as he looked over my shoulder, up the road. "What the…?"

  He did not finish, because we could now clearly hear the thrumming of the horse's hooves as the rider, whipping the poor beast, veered off the road, and headed directly for us. Suddenly yanking on the reins, which always makes a horseman wince, knowing how tender a horse's mouth is, the rider was even then leaping from the saddle, landing as the dirt flew in a spray around him.

  "Optio Tiburtinus!" the man gasped, not even bothering to render a salute, which I saw angered Tiburtinus, but before the Optio could make an issue of it, the courier was blurting out his message, "Your Primus Pilus orders you back to camp, at the double time!"

  Tiburtinus' lower jaw dropped in shock, the courier's lack of discipline forgotten.

  "Of course! Go back and tell him we're on the way!"

  Without hesitation, the man leapt back aboard his horse, which was still breathing heavily, but he shook his head.

  "I'm not heading back to camp. I have three other details to alert to come back." He wheeled his horse, already having kicked it in the ribs, and the horse leapt back to the gallop, but Tiburtinus shouted at him.

  "Wait! What's happening?"

  The courier barely turned his head to shout over his shoulder, and it was hard to hear between the distance and the pounding hooves. But heard it I did, and my heart dropped.

  "It's the Colapiani! They've risen up!"

  Oh, they had more than risen. When we entered the camp, it was a scene of chaos as men were dashing about, each of them with some important task given to them by their Centurion. In addition, there were groups of men being marched to the quaestorium by an Optio or Centurion, no doubt drawing rations or filling other critical supply needs. And above it all were the shouts of the Centurions, cursing men who were moving too slowly, lashing out at them with a vitus. While I had seen this type of activity before, in the days before we left on campaign, never had I seen the army in such a frenzy of preparation.

  When we were within sight of our Century's huts, Tiburtinus ordered us to continue on, panting that he was going to find the Primus Pilus. "I need to find out what's going on. Get your gear together as if we're marching today."

  "What about rations?" Flaccus asked, the Signifer of a Century often taking quasi-command of a Century, although the Tesseraurius is technically the next in line.

  "I'll find out!" Tiburtinus shouted without faltering stride. "Just make sure you bastards are ready!"

  Inside our hut, men were stumbling about, running into each other or otherwise impeding a comrade's progress, causing the air to fill with all manner of invective. It was precisely the kind of moment where a strong section Sergeant would take command and instill some order in the chaos. Philo, unfortunately, was not one of those types, knowing only how to lead by threats and intimidation. Consequently, his surly bluster and threats only added to the pandemonium, but for the first time, I was thankful for my spot next to the door. Seated on my bunk, all I had to do was reach underneath it, pull out my segmentata, helmet, and harness, quickly donning everything that was attached to my body. Then I pulled out my pack, quickly sorting through the items that were stored there to make sure I had enough thongs, that my firebox was full of tinder, and that my flint was still in one piece. Then I took out the key around my neck to unlock the strongbox that contained those possessions that are valuable, either in real terms or sentimental value. In my case, this meant my precious but small library, the sack of heavy, gold aurei that I did not let anyone, not even Domitius, know was in my possession, and resting on top, the scroll from my father that had first alerted me to who Publius Philo was and all that entailed. But that was not what I was looking for; thrusting those things aside, I saw it. It was the metal identity disk that, on an impulse, I had worn around my neck on my first campaign. Had it really been just a year ago? I suddenly wondered. So much had happened in such a short amount of time; I had been decorated by Drusus, who had died, and I had been ripped from the Fourth Cohort and the men I still thought of as my only real friends, with the exception of perhaps Domitius. I was surrounded by enemies, or at the least, men who might be enemies, and my Primus Pilus was directly responsible for what was happening. Yet, when I grabbed the disk and held it, feeling the cool metal in my hands, I felt better, more connected to my Avus. Despite all that had happened to me, I reminded myself that it was nothing compared to all that the first Titus Pullus had been through in his quest to elevate our family from the Head Count. As strange as it may seem, I found that comforting, and it helped me immensely. From that moment on, I wore his disk around my neck, and still do to this day, not just when I am on campaign. I am not normally a religious or superstitious man, yet I will board Charon's Boat convinced that wearing that disk served as a talisman with powerful…magic, for lack of a better term, whereby the numen of my Avus would always recognize what had once belonged to him. Consequently, because he wanted me to have it so much that he had made it a provision in his will, I trust he is always there to protect me. And, given all that transpired from that moment, I believe that with all my heart.

  Tiburtinus entered without knocking, which is always an Optio or Centurion's right, but something he had never done, at least since I had been in the Century. Because of where I was located, I was probably the first to notice his face and see how ashen it was. More than that, the fact that, instead of just issuing a set
of orders, he went staggering to the end of the two tables pushed together and practically collapsed on the bench told me that something truly horrible had happened. But before I could get to my feet, he was surrounded by my comrades, all of them shouting questions at him. In a way that I found even more disturbing, rather than bellowing for the others to shut their mouths, our Optio raised a hand in what I can only call a pleading gesture, asking rather than demanding silence. This was not lost on the rest of the section, because they fell silent even more quickly than if he had ordered them to do so. As loud as it had been just a heartbeat before, the silence came so quickly and was so profound that I heard the breathing of my comrades.

  "The Colapiani have risen up in rebellion." But then, realizing this was something we knew, he hurried on. "But it gets worse. They attacked The Quarry this morning."

  It is hard to describe exactly what the sound of suddenly indrawn breath is like, especially when it is done by more than a dozen men. For my part, I felt as if my bunk was suddenly falling from underneath me.

  When Tiburtinus did not immediately continue, I believe Dentulus was the one who asked, "How many survivors?"

  "None," Tiburtinus replied instantly, his voice flat. "Not one person."

  Without wanting to, my mind went back to two days before, when our detachment had marched through what was for all intents and purposes a Roman village, with at least three hundred people; only later did I learn that it was actually closer to five hundred. However, it was one occupant in particular that came leaping into my mind's eye. On our march through, as always happened, the inhabitants of The Quarry who were not actively cutting stone or otherwise involved, meaning the wives and children of the workers, stopped their daily chores to line the road. And as Roman citizens always do when the Legions march by they cheered us, waving and smiling, the bolder, or perhaps those women who worked in a professional capacity, blowing kisses or even baring their breasts. That was the reception we received in that village, but what I remembered most was a boy, perhaps ten years old, standing slightly apart from the others. He was holding a wooden sword, of course cut to his size, and I noticed his smile as he beamed from ear to ear as he watched us. When I drew abreast of him, our eyes met, and I gave him a wink.

  "You ready to march with us?" I teased him.

  "Yes!" His tone was so fierce, his scowl so endearing that I felt a lump in my throat as I thought of myself at that age.

  "Well, maybe when we come back, we'll bring you back to Siscia with us," I called over my shoulder.

  That was the last I saw of him, or thought of him, at least until that moment when Tiburtinus relayed the news. What have we done? I wondered. What has Urso done?

  Oblivious to my own torment, Tiburtinus was saying, "Not only did they slaughter everyone, but that cunnus of a chief; what's his name?"

  "Draxo," I answered without thinking.

  I saw Domitius' head shoot up from where he had been paying attention to Tiburtinus, feeling his scrutiny, but again, I did not dare look in his direction.

  "That's it." Tiburtinus nodded, either not catching or not caring where this information had come from. "Anyway, he had one of his bastard warriors come riding up to the camp walls, proud as you please, bringing what Draxo said is a message."

  Just the way he said it told me that there was something more to this than the simple relaying of a message.

  "What was the message?"

  Tiburtinus had lapsed back into a silence, staring at the table, but this jerked him back to the present.

  "Oh, yes. Well, it was the…style of the message that got everyone's attention." Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, he asked, "Does anyone remember Munacius? The stonecutter immunes?"

  I saw several heads nod, although I was not familiar with him, and I quickly learned why he was unknown to me.

  "Well, after he retired a couple years ago, he started his own business."

  "At The Quarry," I heard Marcus Glabrio, one of the oldest men in the Century, say.

  "Yes," agreed Tiburtinus bitterly. "At The Quarry. But he wasn't just the head of his business. Apparently, they had appointed him as a Duumvir. Turns out they had aspirations to receive a charter from the Princeps." The laugh he gave was laced with bitterness. "I'm guessing that's not a big concern anymore."

  Clearly as confused by the mention of this Munacius, Domitius was the one who asked, "So they sent Munacius to give us a message? Then they didn't kill everyone."

  "Oh, I'm sorry." Tiburtinus looked up at Domitius scornfully. "I wasn't clear. I should have said they sent part of Munacius. His head, to be exact. On the point of a spear."

  There was a silence as we digested this; I, for one, found it did not go down well at all.

  "What's the message?" I suppose it made sense that, of all of us, Caecina never lost sight of the larger question.

  Tiburtinus smiled then, or grimaced; I am not sure which.

  "Only that the Colapiani would not rest until The Bear was dead."

  I understood the meaning instantly, but it took a moment for the others to comprehend; after all, it had been some time since anyone had dared to refer to our Primus Pilus as "Urso." There was a ripple of gasps as, individually, each member of our section grasped the significance of the statement.

  "But why?" Numerius Quirinius was the one who asked the obvious question. "What has he done to the Colapiani?"

  For the first time Philo showed some signs of life, his big, scarred head raising up in a way that attracted the attention of a couple of others, Domitius being one of them. Clearly oblivious that he was drawing attention to himself, Philo's eyes closed and he muttered something under his breath. Caecina, as always, seated next to him, grabbed our Sergeant's arm hard enough that Philo winced. There was an exchange of whispers, but although I could not hear, I was sure I knew at least the sense of what Caecina was saying. Domitius, Bestia, and a couple of the others who had caught Philo's reaction, exchanged glances.

  "Philo, is there something you need to tell us?"

  The fact that it was Bestia who asked this meant that Philo's usual approach of threats and bluster meant nothing, and his scarred, battered face suddenly took on the look of a rat trapped into a corner.

  "N-no," he stammered, which only served to raise suspicions, and I found myself smiling grimly. "I just…I just knew Munacius, that's all. He was good man."

  "That's a lie," Bestia retorted calmly, his eyes never leaving Philo. "You were…gone when he was in our Century."

  That was the first time I had heard anyone confirm my father's claim that Philo had deserted, even if it was indirectly, and I found myself sitting up, leaning forward as I listened intently. It is not that I doubted my father, but hearing the truth confirmed had a powerful impact on me.

  "So?" Philo's tone was defensive. "That doesn't mean I didn't know him!"

  "Yes, it does," Tiburtinus turned to look at Philo. "Philo." His tone was quiet, but Tiburtinus was a hard, hard man in his own right and was not intimidated in the slightest by Philo; I remembered back to my reception by Philo and the Optio intervening. "What do you know? What do we," he indicated all of us, "need to know?"

  The silence hung over the assembled men like a sodden sagum, and I believe every man, except Philo perhaps, understood that our Sergeant had to be the next man who spoke if we had any chance of hearing something resembling the truth. Meanwhile, Philo's eyes were darting from face to face, looking for support, but there was none to be had; I believe this was the first real mistake I ever saw Caecina make, because, in his spot just off Philo's elbow, he had been leaning backward, and consequently, could not catch his eye without drawing attention. And, for whatever reason, I was not watching Philo, keeping my eye on Caecina, and in that moment, I saw who was the true leader of their little triumvirate. But he could not say, or do, anything that would not expose that fact; however, his glare at Philo's back was expressive enough. And Philo, now the object of scrutiny, could not withstand the pressure, collapsin
g underneath our collective gaze.

  "Fine," he finally choked out. "I'll tell you everything!"

  By the time Philo was through, while I was personally satisfied and feeling vindicated, it did not take me long to realize that, if anything, matters were even worse in a practical sense. The truth was simple; brutal, but simple. Whereas before we had been a Century in the First Cohort of the 8th Legion, now we were fractured, and whether it was beyond repair would remain to be seen. I think it is important that I be clear about one point. The truth is that the vast majority of the First Century of the First Cohort of the 8th Legion was loyal to Rome and to our divine Augustus. However, I cannot deny that there were men whose loyalty to Rome was suspect, at the very least. And Philo was one of them; whatever hold he had over the First Century was ended that day. More importantly, Urso's activities, which had been the subject of much speculation and rumor, were now exposed. Personally, I found this new state of affairs extremely satisfying; if I am being honest, I felt quite smug about the fact that my comrades now had their eyes opened about who and what our Primus Pilus really was. But if there is one thing that the gods do not tolerate, it is a mortal like me gloating about matters that they have arranged.