Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  "It's not like his eye suddenly became good again," I argued. "And you told me when I showed up that's why he was passed over for Philo."

  I admit that my tone was accusatory; I did not really think that Domitius had deliberately misled me, but my frame of mind was such that it had occurred to me.

  "I don't know why he was promoted," Domitius had insisted, and continued to do so no matter how I phrased the question.

  Once I was better and regained my full senses, I realized it was no accident that he had stopped coming to see me after two days of that kind of fruitless conversation. Regardless, when Tiburtinus showed up, I was determined to find out as much as I could from our Optio, reasoning that if anyone knew what was really going on, it would be him. Dragging a stool over, he sat down with a sigh, but while my wound was more or less covered again, he made no attempt to hide his feelings about the smell.

  "Pluto's cock, Pullus," he began, "your arm makes cac smell like roses."

  As I looked up at him, I could see that he was actually really uneasy, and my first thought was that he had as weak a stomach as I did, so I decided to have some fun at his expense.

  "You want to see the maggots at work?" I asked, but when I made as if I were going to unwrap my arm with my free hand, he leapt up so quickly, he knocked the stool over.

  "Are you mad?" he gasped, a horrified look on his face, and I realized this was the most animated I had seen the Optio during my time in the Century. "I don't want to see maggots crawling around in your flesh!"

  I knew it was cruel, but I could not help laughing. The gods repaid me by sending a spasm of pain up my arm at the movement. After a moment, Tiburtinus joined in, chuckling as he picked the stool back upright and resumed his seat.

  "Serves you right," he grumbled, "trying to make me look at that mess." The levity left his face as he stared at me intently. "But seriously, what does the butcher say?"

  I shrugged with my good shoulder, trying to sound as if I was unworried, replying, "That this should clean out all the dead flesh and stop the corruption."

  "But what then?" he asked me, but while his voice was quiet, his expression unsettled me.

  "What do you mean, what then?" I lied, understanding the meaning of his question, just not wanting to acknowledge it.

  He pointed down to my arm and said, "How much of that arm is going to be left?"

  I tried to answer, yet nothing came out of my mouth; finally, I just gave another shrug. He did not reply immediately, and we sat in silence for a moment. The truth was that I spent most of my waking day thinking about that very thing; the rest of the time, I had been pondering the subject that prompted me to break the quiet between us.

  "So how did Caecina get promoted as our Sergeant?"

  I had hoped to catch him off-guard, but I could see he was not surprised in the slightest.

  "I was wondering how long it would take you to ask," he admitted. Then, taking a quick look around, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and, although he did not whisper, he continued in a lower tone, "That's why I came to see you. To let you know what's going on."

  "I'm glad someone's willing to do that," I replied sourly.

  Tiburtinus shot me a hard look and shook his head. "Don't blame Domitius for not telling you," he said. "Because I told him not to."

  "Why?" I was puzzled by his admission.

  "Because you need to hear it coming from me," Tiburtinus explained. He paused for a moment, then went on, "As far as who promoted Caecina, all I'll say is that it wasn't me, and I didn't have any say on the matter."

  "Urso." I breathed the name as half-question, half-statement.

  Tiburtinus nodded.

  "Yes," he confirmed, "it was our Primus Pilus. Which, of course, is his right to do."

  In that he was absolutely correct; by the regulations, the Centurion in command of every Century makes promotions within his Century as he sees fit. However, long, long before I ever showed up, and from what I gather, even before my Avus marched with Divus Julius, promotions to the first rung of the promotion ladder, the Sergeant of each section, had actually been the domain of the Optio. Oh, I am sure over the decades or centuries, some Centurion had either disagreed with the Optio's choice, or had kept that prerogative for himself; I had just never heard of it. Lying on my cot as Tiburtinus informed me, I took this as just another reminder how fractured our Century really was. The loss of Philo may make our section hut cheerier, I thought, but really nothing has changed.

  Recalling our recently deceased but not lamented Sergeant, I was prompted to ask, "How was Philo killed?"

  Tiburtinus had been looking directly at me; suddenly, he turned his head, breaking eye contact as he gazed off somewhere else, and he did not answer immediately.

  I was about to repeat the question when he spoke in a flat tone, "I don't know exactly. Nobody seemed to see it happen."

  I considered that; I was not particularly surprised, yet there was one nagging thought rattling around in my head, and I could not stop myself from asking, "But Caecina stands next to him, and they were thick as day-old porridge. And they were close comrades, weren't they?"

  "Yes, they were," Tiburtinus agreed, then did not add anything to that.

  Close comrades hold each other's wills, among other functions. In the event of our death, the survivor becomes the executor, responsible for disbursing the bequests made in the deceased's last will. Naturally, a man tends to pick someone who is also a close personal friend, and in fact, while it is not a regulation it is a custom that when men go carousing, they do so in the company of their close comrade, where we watch each other's backs in the event of trouble with civilians or men from other Legions.

  "So he's Philo's close comrade, is Philo's shield man, but he doesn't know how Philo was killed?" I shook my head and finished, "That doesn't make any sense."

  Tiburtinus gave me a level look, his face expressionless, yet there was something in his eyes that gave me a hint.

  "You mean," I sucked in my breath, feeling a burst of a dizziness that was not due to my wound, "Caecina killed Philo?"

  Tiburtinus did not respond, giving me his answer in the way he held me in his unblinking gaze.

  "But…why?" I finally broke the silence, although I made sure I whispered.

  He leaned even closer, dropping his head as he studied the floor. Because of his position, I noticed for the first time the white line of a curving scar like a smile, on the back of his head just below the crown, and I wondered how he had gotten it. Despite being taller, I suppose I had never been this close to him, or when I had been, his helmet was on, and I made a mental note to ask about it.

  "I think," he said slowly, the volume of his voice matching mine, "that our Primus Pilus found out about Philo's side business. And that Philo hadn't been cutting him in on it."

  "That makes sense as far as why Philo is dead, but his close comrade, who I've seen with my own eyes hang around Philo like fleas do to a dog."

  "True," Tiburtinus granted, "but where you're making the mistake is who was the flea and who was the dog, really. Not as it appeared, but how it was in reality."

  I considered this, and I admit this was not the first time it had been mentioned to me this was the case, that it had been Caecina who was really the master of their little triumvirate. Even so, as I lay there thinking about it, there was still something that did not fit.

  "Let's say that's true," I granted. "If it is, then it would follow that whatever this side business with Philo was, Caecina was in on as well. So why wouldn't Urso make sure that Caecina paid too? Or Mela, for that matter?"

  "That," Tiburtinus admitted, heaving a heavy sigh, "is a good question, and one that I haven't been able to answer yet. All I have is guesswork at this point."

  "Which is?"

  "That Philo got greedy." Tiburtinus' answer came quickly, telling me that he had, indeed, been thinking about this a great deal. "And he started skimming from Caecina too. So he has this operation where he'
s not only going behind our Primus Pilus' back, but then he starts cheating Caecina." He shrugged, and added what sounded to me like an afterthought, "Maybe Caecina acted on his own and took his chance when he saw it. It was pretty messy there for a while. The front rank got separated for a bit when your section was the first line again. It could have happened then."

  "He didn't act on his own." I whispered this so softly that I had to repeat it before Tiburtinus heard me, and he gave me a sharp look.

  "How do you know?"

  I related the conversation that Urso had with me after I was wounded, although I left out the part about my father. The Optio listened intently; when I finished, he did not reply for a bit, mulling over this new information.

  "That," he finally said, "makes things more complicated, because it's clear that he did want Philo taken care of. But," he admitted, "that Caecina killed Philo is just an idea. I have no proof."

  "And Mela didn't see anything either?" I named the man who occupied the spot to Philo's left, the dead man's shield protecting Mela.

  "If he did, he's not talking," Tiburtinus said glumly.

  We sat together a few more moments, then suddenly, he stood up.

  "Well, I just wanted to check on you, and if I stay too long, it's going to raise questions about what we're talking about."

  Despite knowing what he said was true, I was still not happy to see him leave; it took his visit to realize I was lonely. That realization was what prompted me to call to him as he walked away.

  "Will you tell, er, ask Domitius to come see me? And tell him," I fumbled for a moment before blurting out, "that I'm sorry I snapped at him. And that…"

  "I'm not your messenger, Pullus," he shot back, but I saw the glimmer of a smile as he turned and walked out of sight.

  In some ways, all the turmoil going on in my Century was a blessing, because I spent more time thinking about all of that than I did about what was happening with my arm. That does not mean it did not occupy my thoughts, just that it was not all that I focused on. Besides, I understood that worrying about it as I lay there would be a fruitless exercise that would only frustrate and scare me. Over the years, I have learned that if I allow my mind to roam freely, it tends to head in a more pessimistic direction, and I must admit it was extremely difficult for me to rein in my imagination as I thought about all the conceivable bad things that were possibilities for my future. However, what might surprise any of my descendants who read this account, dying was actually not anything I seriously considered, and when I did, it was the lesser evil of the possible outcomes. What frightened me beyond words was the thought that the maggot treatment did not work, and I lost my arm. And thinking along those lines, the best I could hope for was that it was taken below the elbow. Growing up around the Legions, I had seen many men who had lost an arm; one of the bodyguards who accompanied my family on our first trip to Arelate when I retrieved Ocelus after my Avus died, Tiberius Libo, had just his right arm, and he was a formidable swordsman. I tried not to dwell on the thought that he had actually died when we were returning and the Latobici tribe, through whose lands we were traveling, had risen in revolt. Thinking of Libo made me sad, but it also reminded me of an important fact; the Latobici traditional territory was directly adjacent to those of the Colapiani, and the truth was that, prior to this uprising by Draxo, the Latobici had been one of the most recalcitrant tribes, rebelling no less than four different times since the uprising my family had been caught up in, just a full day's journey west of Siscia. How long would it be before the Latobici got word of the Colapiani uprising, and followed their example? I wondered. That, however, was of secondary concern; if I lost my arm, it would not really matter. Frankly, I was wallowing in self-pity, but there was one unexpected benefit to my ordeal; I got a glimpse of what it must have been like for my father in those days before his leg was amputated. For the first time in my life, I experienced how it must have felt for my father, Gaius Porcinianus Pullus, as he lay in the back of a wagon being brought back to Siscia to face an uncertain fate. While I do not care to dwell on it, since this is intended to be read by others who carry the blood of not only me, but my father and my Avus in their veins, I will talk about what was one of the most traumatic days of my life, the day the 8th returned to Siscia after crushing the rebellion of the Latobici, under the command of Tiberius.

  When you are a child of the Legions, you learn to live with certain facts, and one of those is that your father may not ever return home when he goes marching off to fight in the name of Rome. But, being a child, I do not really think it occurs to any of us this could actually happen. From what I have observed and remember from my own experience, a child whose father is a Legionary is convinced that their sire is immortal, that there is no force on earth the father cannot conquer, barely needing the help of his comrades in the ranks. And, for the child of a Centurion, a Pilus Prior at that, this belief is so deeply rooted within us that neither my brother Sextus, who was just old enough to understand what was happening, nor I even entertained the idea my father would come back harmed in any way. In fact, the day they marched out of Siscia also marked the first day where I deigned to allow Sextus, named for Sextus Scribonius, my father's first Pilus Prior when he was a Gregarius and my Avus' best and longest friend, and my sister Valeria, who is named for our paternal grandmother, to ride Ocelus. I was the one holding the reins, of course; Valeria sat in front of me, as I recall, and Sextus was behind, his little arms wrapped so tightly around my midsection I found it hard to breathe. Whenever the army marches – I once thought it was only in Siscia, but have now seen it here in Oppidum Ubiorum as well – the families of the men in the ranks, which by regulation, they are not allowed to have, line the streets to bid the Legions farewell and wish them success. I vividly remember that day, for a number of reasons, both because of what happened then, and in light of what occurred later. It is with some embarrassment that I admit I was incredibly selfish when I was a child. Being the firstborn, and a male at that, along with my massive size, all these things contributed to my self-belief that I was the most important member of my family. However, that day marked a point where I shared my most prized possession, my beautiful champion, the horse owned by my Avus, Ocelus. Up to that day, I had jealously guarded any contact with Ocelus who, even in his dotage, was a magnificent and powerful horse. But the occasion of our father marching to war must have stirred something in me, because I was the one who initiated the idea that Sextus and Valeria come with me, on Ocelus, to ride with our father as they marched away. If I close my eyes, I can see him, marching in his spot as Quartus Pilus Prior, tall, lean, and proud, throwing his children a wink as they marched past us.

  "Take care of them," he had told me, and there is no way to describe the pride I felt at that moment, and I swore that I would.

  That marked the last day I ever saw my father, whole and healthy, marching his Cohort off to war.

  Then, a few days later, one of my best friends from childhood, Quintus Pacuvius, whose father was one of my father's Centurions and who, much to my consternation, had been allowed to accompany the army because he was thirteen and I was still ten, came running up to me. The fact that he was even there told me that the army was back, and I remember the first bloom of joy I felt as he approached, before the sight of his face killed it immediately.

  "Titus," he gasped, having run all the way to where we lived in the town. "You need to come with me. Your father wants to see you."

  It is hard to describe the emotions that cascaded through me; the mention of my father told me that he was alive, yet at the same time, I was puzzled by his insistence I accompany him. Surely, I remember thinking, my father would be along shortly.

  My hesitance must have been clear, because he blurted, "He's been wounded. He's in a wagon and he asked me to bring you to him."

  He spun about and started to run back in the direction from which he came, but I was hot on his heels. Despite my yelled questions, Quintus refused to answer me and just
ran back in the direction of the camp. Entrance into a Legionary camp is strictly controlled; unless you are a child of the Legions, and especially if your father is a Centurion, as both Quintus and mine were, so the sentry waved us through. Quintus led me, not towards the area where the Fourth Cohort's quarters were located, but in the general direction of the Praetorium, and that was my first hint that all was not well. Nonetheless, a part of me held out hope we were just headed to the headquarters building and not the one next to it. Although it is in the same location as the building in which I found myself after the ambush, it was still a wooden structure then, with only one story. Except my father was not inside; he was still in one of the wagons transporting the wounded, so it was to one of these Quintus led me. I have a powerful memory of me standing outside that wagon as Quintus hopped up into it to tell my father that I was there, not wanting to move from that spot. So many thoughts and emotions were going through me in that moment that it is impossible for me to articulate which one was dominant. Somehow, though, I found the strength to hop up and into the wagon after Quintus jumped out, but I also remember how he refused to meet my eyes. I knew these wagons carried more than one wounded man, even when they were Centurions, so I was surprised to see my father was alone. That also marked the first moment I ever smelled the odor of corrupted flesh. In my father's case, it was his leg, but I have decided that it is one reason I have such a strong reaction when I enter a hospital, and why it was difficult for me to contain the terror I felt when my bandage was unwrapped and that stench reached my nostrils. My father was pale and feverish, meaning it took every fiber of my being not to turn around and bolt, nor to react to the sight before my eyes. And yet, after we greeted each other, despite my father's dire condition, his first thought was about me.

  When we were ambushed by the Latobici on our return to Siscia from Arelate, in the melee that ensued, I went for help on the back of Ocelus, and although I was chased, Ocelus and I managed to escape, but I was wounded in the process, taking an arrow in the shoulder. But while my wound was not life threatening, neither was it just a scratch, so my left arm was confined to a sling; the irony of that is not lost on me. Consequently, when my father saw me, despite his own leg being mangled and about to be amputated, his first question was to ask me about my arm. The truth was that I had discarded the sling, despite knowing it was a mistake no more than a full watch after I did so, although I was too stubborn to admit it. My father was not fooled, and I endured a tongue-lashing from him as he informed me in very clear terms that I was to put my arm back in that sling. This was bad enough, but when I reacted in the petulant manner of a child, my father, for the first time in my life, was not willing to indulge my childish fit of temper. Instead, he talked to me the same way he would have talked to one of the men under his command, snapping at me that he had no time for my childish nonsense. It was a sobering and important moment of my life, except that was only the first shock, not the only one. In clear, unequivocal terms, he explained to me how his leg had corrupted to the point it could not be saved, so in order to have any part of it below the knee left, he was giving the doctor his permission to amputate. He has always said this was the moment where I became a man, and he is correct. My father spoke to me as if I was an adult, and I responded accordingly. I think of that as the day I truly became a man, not when I donned the toga virilis. I was ten years old.