Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  "I hope that fucking bastard is flogged himself," Avitus said bitterly. "Not just for this either! He needs to be flayed because of what happened at The Quarry!"

  I wholeheartedly agreed; I also knew the chances of a patrician being punished in the same manner as those of us in the ranks were nonexistent. Only after Paullus was clear of the forum did the Legate step forward, raising his arms for silence; for a moment, I was afraid that the Legion was so worked up they would not quiet down, and in doing so would reinforce Paullus' position that we were an undisciplined mob. Thankfully, it did not take long at all.

  "Soldiers of the 8th," the Legate said in the only memorable statement he made that day, "there will be no punishment…"

  Although his mouth kept moving, this time, the roar was of approval. Finally realizing we did not really care what else he had to say, he glanced over at Urso, shrugged, then turned and walked away from us, heading back to the Praetorium and whatever was waiting for him with a Tribune who clearly did not know his place.

  One positive thing came from the scene with Paullus: the news that we were marching the next day was not the only thing we talked about. However, while we had escaped the drastic measure ordered by Paullus, he was not entirely unsuccessful in exacting revenge of some sort. Not long after we were dismissed to go make our preparations for marching, Tiburtinus came to our hut, and even from my new spot on the opposite end, his face was easy to read.

  "We won't be given the liberty of the town tonight," he told us, but when the chorus of protests started, he snarled at us to shut up. "That's why!" he raged. "The Legate has decided that although we don't deserve the punishment that…" He stopped himself, I suppose. "…Tribune demanded, our display this morning was deserving of some sort of action. So we're not allowed into Siscia! Now, shut your fucking mouths and get back to work!"

  Personally, I did not care, although I was in the minority, but the others, while not loud, still grumbled about it. I returned to my pack, but then Tiburtinus called my name and I crossed the hut. Before I reached him, he called Bestia as well.

  "Are you two ready to spar?"

  I was surprised, and a glance at Bestia told me he was no less so, but then his jaw clenched and he assured Tiburtinus, "I'm ready."

  Tiburtinus glanced at me, yet despite my misgivings, my pride spoke for me as I assured him I was as well.

  "Good," he said abruptly. "Get your sparring gear together and meet me at the stakes."

  Nigidius, whose bunk was opposite from my old spot heard this and called to the others that Bestia and I were about to spar. They reacted immediately, dropping whatever they were doing, but Tiburtinus held up a hand.

  "Who said anything about the rest of you?" he demanded. "This isn't a show for you to bet on! No, you continue getting ready."

  Telling us he would meet us at the stakes, he turned and left, leaving Bestia and me temporarily allied in our confusion.

  "Do you have any idea what that's about?" he asked me suspiciously, but I assured him I did not.

  He seemed to accept this, and we returned to our respective bunks to get the necessary items. Caecina seemed to be the most put out about not being able to watch; I suppose he had been looking forward to me being beaten bloody. And I cannot say I did not agree with his imagined assessment; I was going into this bout with the least amount of confidence I had experienced for many years. Nevertheless, I did not hesitate, and Bestia and I left the hut together to make our way to the stakes. Neither of us said a word, either to each other or to ourselves; at least, until we exited the camp and drew close to the stakes. As he had said he would be, Tiburtinus was there, but he was not alone. Standing next to him was Urso, both of them looking in our direction.

  Bestia muttered, "What's he doing here?"

  "I think," I said honestly, "he wants to see you beat the cac out of me."

  I sensed him turning to look at me in surprise, but I did not glance in his direction, choosing to keep my eyes on the pair waiting for us, trying to control my breathing as we neared. Reaching them, Urso said something to Tiburtinus that I could not hear but became clear when the Optio took first my helmet, then Bestia's, examining them to ensure the faceguards were securely fastened. Then, he tugged on the padded sleeves to make sure they were securely in place; if he saw me wince from the stab of pain when he did it to my left arm, he did not show it. Turning, he nodded to Urso, then the Optio pointed to the pile of rudii and a pair of training shields.

  "Pick your rudis," he commanded.

  I was acutely aware of the shaking that started at my knees and moved all the way up into my thighs, but I was determined to appear as close to normal as I could. Frankly, I was thankful for the padded sleeves; not only was it extra protection, it hid the still-raw scar on my arm. I cannot say why exactly, but the idea that this physical sign of weakness be hidden was important to me. Also, the presence of the faceguard was also a blessing, because it obscured the wince I know crossed my face when I picked up the shield. Do not mistake me; compared to the first day I resumed training, it was much, much easier to pick up and, as long as I kept my forearm perfectly aligned with my upper arm, moving the shield up and down felt almost exactly as it had before. However, it was when I canted the shield in either an inward or outward direction with my wrist that was still extraordinarily painful, and I was under no illusion that a man like Bestia would not notice that and ruthlessly exploit it. Having equipped ourselves, we moved to face each other where Tiburtinus was standing, having dug a line in the dirt with his foot as was his habit. Once we were in the proper spot, we both dropped into our accustomed positions, waiting for the signal from the Optio, who seemed content to wait a moment to let the tension build as we stared at each other over the tops of our shields.

  "Begin!"

  Aulus Bestia beat me, soundly, that day. He did not achieve a spectacular success; whereas I had tried and succeeded to knock his sword from his hand to demonstrate the superiority of the Vinician grip over the conventional, he was no less determined to knock my shield from my grasp. But, while he did not succeed at that, he still scored several blows that would have killed me. By the time Urso had deemed he had seen enough, my left arm ached abominably, and I felt a stickiness where one of Bestia's blows had opened the wound. My left side had taken two hard thrusts that, when I removed the segmentata, underpadding, and tunic, I saw had left quite significant bruises. Still, Bestia did not escape unmarked, and somewhat to my surprise, I found I was not nearly as upset with losing as I thought I would be. While we went at each other, I was acutely aware of Urso and Tiburtinus watching us, although neither of them said a word, other than Tiburtinus' order to begin and when calling out a killing blow, before stopping us altogether. Frankly, the overwhelming feeling that came over me when I heard Tiburtinus call it ended was relief I was still standing. We stood, side by side, and I suppose he was panting as well, but I could not have heard him over my own harsh breathing as my lungs tried to suck in enough air to keep me standing erect. The Optio and Primus Pilus conferred briefly, but when Tiburtinus answered Urso with a shrug, I felt a stab of concern I had not done quite enough to convince either of them I was ready to march. Then, Urso walked up and stood before us, holding his vitus behind his back as he surveyed the two of us. I am not sure how long the silence lasted, but it seemed to be at least a third of a watch before he finally spoke.

  "Go finish packing your gear. Then go get cleaned up," he said abruptly.

  Without waiting for a response, he stalked past us, heading back to camp, Tiburtinus following behind, not saying anything but giving me a raised eyebrow that, frankly, could have meant anything.

  Watching them walk away, I did not move, but I noticed that neither did Bestia.

  "What does that mean?" I wondered.

  "I think," Bestia said, his voice inflected in a way that did not tell me one way or another his feelings on the matter, "it means that you're marching with us."

  Without waiting for me to reply,
he started walking, following the pair as I hurried to catch up, taking a couple of long strides before we were side by side. As it had been when we walked out, there was complete silence between us, at least at first.

  "You're dropping your shield more than you used to," he said suddenly, but when I glanced at him, he refused to look in my direction. "And you still need to work on twisting the shield to catch those third position thrusts. I could have broken your ribs a half-dozen times because you were too slow."

  Under normal circumstances, I would have bristled at a statement like that, and in all probability, would have insisted we turn around and go back out to the stakes and start all over. At this moment, however, for some reason, I was not offended, probably because as harsh as it might have been, he was speaking the truth. Besides, I had a suspicion he had pulled back on at least three or four of his thrusts; perhaps not a half-dozen, but still, it was enough.

  "I noticed that," I replied, then surprised myself by adding, "and thank you for doing that. You didn't have any reason to, given our…history."

  Bestia looked at me for the first time and, when our eyes met, a shadow of a smile flickered across his face, then he looked away and shrugged.

  "We're going to need every sword we can get where we're headed." His tone was casual, but I knew the man well enough to hear the undercurrent of concern there.

  "It's really that bad?" I asked him.

  "Worse." His reply was instant. "It's the worst kind of place for men like us to fight," he continued, unconsciously echoing what Corvinus had told me just the night before. He glanced over again, but this time, he had an expression that I could not easily decipher. I understood why when he added, "You know, I was there. When your father was wounded, I mean. That whole campaign."

  I nodded, but when I asked him, "So when the man from the Fourth came to find Barbatus that day of the ambush, and he sent Philo back with Paperius, were you close enough to hear what Barbatus said?"

  When he did not answer immediately, I looked over at him, suddenly worried that perhaps I had made a serious error, but his frown was one of confusion, not worry.

  "I don't understand," he replied. "What are you talking about?"

  "Weren't you in the First?"

  He shook his head and said, "No, not back then. I was in the First of the Second, under Volusenus." The pain of that day was clear to hear as he continued, "It was the Second and Fourth that got ambushed that day. I wasn't in the First then."

  I considered this as we continued walking, forcing my mind back to the original topic of conversation, realizing that this was not the time or place to ask questions about something that had happened more than eight years before by that point. Besides, I was sure that I knew as much as I ever would about all that transpired that day.

  "So, I heard," I said as casually as I could, "that there's only a couple of places where we could build a camp big enough for the Legion."

  "If that," Bestia agreed. Thinking about it, he said, "In fact, I'm not going to be surprised if we don't split up into the first line Cohorts staying together, the second line and the third line, and spreading out." He shook his head. "Because that's really the only way we might be able to catch these bastards; one set of us driving them into the arms of another set. But, no matter how it works out," he finished dismally, "I'm afraid the hospital is going to be full again."

  We had reached the section hut, and we paused outside. I think both of us understood that, the moment we entered, men would be clamoring to know who had been the victor. Suddenly, I had an idea, one that I knew if I stopped to think about I would talk myself out of, so without hesitating, I opened the door and stepped in before Bestia could react. I saw his face darken, but the instant he stepped through behind me, I reached over with my left arm, and ignoring the stab of pain caused by the motion, grabbed his right wrist, and raised his arm in the air in the traditional sign of victory.

  "The victor!" I bellowed, but I was immediately drowned out by the shouts of others, all of whom seemed to be happy about my defeat.

  I cannot lie; while I was proud of myself for showing a spark of maturity in understanding my actions would do more to repair the rift with Bestia, it felt like I was being stabbed in the gut even as I smiled and pretended to be gracious in defeat. Only Domitius seemed to understand, giving me a small smile and inclining his head in salute, which to my surprise, made me feel better.

  Chapter 4

  The Legate was nowhere to be seen the next pre-dawn morning, yet like a recurring bad dream, we had our normal complement of Tribunes, including Paullus. However, somewhat to our surprise, he seemed content this time to let our Primus Pilus command the Legion, but I surreptitiously studied the Tribune's face as he sat on his chestnut stallion. His complexion was even more sallow, and his lower lip stuck out in a look of petulance that reminded me of the way my mother and father described me as a child when I did not get my way. And, I remember thinking, that’s probably not very far off the mark; he is a spoiled child, used to being indulged and getting everything he wants. However, I also noticed that unlike the last time, at least two other Tribunes dared to sit on either side of the broad stripe, and it did not take long to determine this was anything but voluntary on the part of Paullus. Whenever he turned his horse and moved it, they went with him, and when they turned at the right angle, I saw that the pair were Claudius and the other Tribune the Legate had charged with escorting Paullus away. I was not alone in my observation.

  "It looks like our broad stripe has earned himself a pair of babysitters," Avitus commented.

  "As long as they keep that bastard out of our hair, I'm fine with that." This came from the man on the other side of Avitus, Vibius Sido.

  There was a murmur of agreement from all of us who heard him say it, but then the orders were given to begin the march. This time, however, we managed to march out of the forum, through the Porta Praetoria, and head north without incident. And not long after that, a brief halt was sounded by the Primus Pilus, and the order given to unlash and uncover our shields, although we still would move in close order for a bit longer. As we were doing so, I heard the sound of a trotting horse, and I looked over my shoulder to see Paullus heading up the column. Judging from his face, I was sure we were going to be subjected to another scene.

  "By the gods," I heard Ventidius, who marched directly behind me when we were in column, groan at seeing the same thing, "hasn't that stupid bastard learned yet?"

  "Apparently not," someone else said, but before anything bad happened, I spotted a pair of Tribunes closing quickly, their horses at the canter.

  Paullus clearly heard them coming, because he took a quick glance over his shoulder, then went to the canter as well, which, of course, forced Claudius and the other Tribune to go to the gallop, so they caught up with Paullus just to the rear of my Century. I looked over to where Urso was standing a few feet away, but while he was staring back at the trio, arms folded, he did not say anything. Although I could hear the sound of them arguing, it was not until that night when we made camp that the exchange was relayed around the fire. And I am sure that, by the time it reached the ears of the First Section, it had been…embellished a bit. Nevertheless, I am confident the essence of the disagreement was the same as what was related to us.

  "I just want to find out why Canidius is wasting time!" Paullus had supposedly said, but the pair were unmoved.

  "You know that you're specifically forbidden from interfering in any way with the Legion!"

  Since the men who relayed this did not know their identities, I do not know if it was Claudius or the other Tribune who gave us this bit of cheery news.

  "Demanding to know what's going on isn't interfering!"

  Supposedly, Paullus had shouted this, but then one of his guards had grabbed the bridle of his horse and they had unceremoniously hauled him back to the middle of the column. Unlike our first encounter with the Tribune, this time, Urso had directed that the "command group" actually be locate
d all the way back to the exact middle of the column. I suppose he thought the longer distance would discourage Paullus from doing the kind of thing we were talking about, and I will say he did not show his face the rest of the day, or the part of the next before we reached the southern edge of the area where the rebels were supposedly located. As for me, at the end of the first day of the march, I was exhausted again. More importantly, I discovered a very discouraging but valuable fact; as much work as I had done with the shield, the kind of strength needed to hold your furca on your shoulder comes from completely different muscles, and it became clear that at least a part of those muscles had been cut away as well. One thing I had noticed when I held a shield that turned out to be even more pronounced with the furca was my inability to straighten out my fingers. Even now, all these years later, when I am not conscious of it, the fingers of my left hand curl inward to the point where it is almost a fist. However, while I can now open my hand when I think about it, that soon after my wound, I had to use my right hand to pry my fingers open. Which, as one might imagine, is somewhat awkward to do. I did my best to hide this from the rest of my comrades, but when we stopped to make camp, and the First drew the most hated task of digging the ditch, Urso called me aside and curtly informed me that I was to be his runner. A sign of my fatigue was that I was only too happy to comply with him, not arguing in the slightest. However, as bad as the first day was, the next morning was even worse and, for the first time, I felt a real stab of concern about what might happen if Draxo decided not to wait. Somehow, in the back of my mind, I had convinced myself that I would have enough time to march my way back into being completely fit for everything that might lie ahead. I know how foolish it sounds now, but despite being a veteran in terms of drawing and spilling blood, I was still not that experienced. At the time, however, I was too callow to see and understand this; all I knew at the time was that I had to find the strength inside me. When we arrived at the spot just south of the rebel sanctuary and I got a good look at the ground we would be entering, it was a daunting sight that caused my stomach to knot up. The level ground where our camp was to be built bore the scars of what I could see was more than one camp; by my guess, at least three previous times, either the 8th or one of the other Legions had taken advantage of the last spot large and level enough to suit our needs, and I would be lying if it did not cross my mind that one of those old camps was probably the one from which my father marched.