by R. W. Peake
Macerinus' face twisted into a bitter grimace, yet only now that I am in a similar position do I understand why he seemed so torn about what I recognized as fact; the men of the 8th were bent on avenging Urso in a way that not only slaked their thirst for blood but, in a way that only men under the standard could understand, honored our Primus Pilus. At the time and, even now, I am sure most of the rankers of the 8th held the Legate directly responsible for what is a tragic event for a Legion, the loss of their supreme commander. And by depriving the Legate of the gains from any sale, we would be doing homage to Urso, albeit in our own way. It is impossible to say exactly how much time passed as Macerinus pondered matters, his gaze shifting from over Corvinus' shoulder, then back over his own at the prisoners. From where I stood, it was clear to see that the captives somehow understood their fate was being debated. As it turned out, in effect, they gave Macerinus the answer when one of the prisoners who had been unbound, either on his own or more likely with help from one of his fellow captives, suddenly darted from the bunch.
"Prisoner escaping!"
At least this was what I believe someone shouted, except the last word was instantly drowned out by the full-throated roar of men who took this attempt as the pretext they needed to do what they had been demanding. As they collectively leaped forward, it is impossible to accurately convey the next few moments as our comrades from the other Cohorts came sweeping in from their respective spots, descending on the now-terrified prisoners. And they were right to be so; I suppose I could say I was merely swept along by the flood of anger and revenge, yet that is only a partial truth. While it is true I had no chance of standing my ground, even as large as I was, and I was propelled along with the rest of my comrades, nobody told me to draw my sword. And I never heard anyone utter a command to do so; none was needed, nor did they need to order me to use it. I am just as culpable as any man of the 8th Legion in what took place that night; perhaps even more so, considering that among all those I slew that night, two of them were Roman.
Even if the Legate had chosen to make an issue of the fact that the 8th returned without a single prisoner in chains, by the time the fire swept through that Varciani town that no longer exists, there was no evidence left behind of what we had done. Nor has there been any attempt by the Varciani to rebuild it in the intervening years. I suppose it could be argued they choose not to because the place is cursed, this idea quickly becoming a local legend, but I believe it has more to do with the fact that when this place was first founded, the Varciani had never faced the might of Rome, particularly in the form of our artillery. A town situated in that spot would always be vulnerable and ripe for the taking by us, which is why I believe this is the true reason all that is left there are ruins. The fact that we left behind piles of corpses, weltering in pools of their own blood, both combatant, civilian, and tragically, some of our own, simply added weight to the claim of a curse. Most crucially, all the bodies were incinerated, leaving behind nothing but charred bones and, in many cases, with the warriors' armor fused together from the intense heat, amid the ruins of what had been a thriving town.
Macerinus resumed control of the Legion, but not until after every human being who had been a member of the Varciani tribe and was in that town was slaughtered; at least, every one of them we found. Prior to this night, I had heard from men who were more veteran than I claim that actions such as this, where the enemy is annihilated, are never as thorough or all-encompassing in killing everyone as one might believe. We humans are hard to kill, but while I found it hard to credit then, given all that I saw and did that night, I have learned this is almost certainly the case. Regardless, there is only one segment of the Varciani population where I can unequivocally say I know escaped with their lives, because I am the one who ensured it was possible. Although I doubt they were the only ones, there were at least two stables tucked in the northeastern corner of the town, and as we were making preparations to evacuate, I found them. The fire had indeed continued its sweep around the inside perimeter of the wall, and even with the breeze, was inexorably making its way back north, consuming all of the buildings on the eastern side of the town. Consequently, I was attracted to the sounds of frightened neighing as the poor beasts penned inside these two low, wooden buildings began to panic at the smell of smoke. Being fair, Avitus did try to dissuade me, but in one gamble that paid off on this night, I reasoned that, given everything that had occurred over the last watch, a Gregarius dashing from his spot in the ranks for a brief period would escape any kind of punishment. In this at least, I was proven correct. Helping my cause was something I had heard from some of the men who had been sent out by our deceased Primus Pilus, about a smaller gate, more of a door actually, about midway along the eastern wall. Running there first, I saw that although it was in fact not a gate, it was a large double door that would just accommodate the height of an average horse. Moving quickly, I made my way by following along the wall, guided by the sounds of the animals thrashing about inside their stalls. I cannot say what I did was without any danger, but the risk was almost completely confined to the lashing hooves of horses that had lost their minds with fear. Despite the risk, I managed to free them although I cannot honestly say whether or not the two dozen or so horses actually found their way to freedom; I would like to think they did.
Thankfully, I managed to slide back into my spot just a matter of heartbeats before Macerinus ordered Varo to sound the call to march through the northern gate. The road from the northern gate was in many ways identical to the southern approach, snaking up the side of the slope, although the hill was not as high in this direction. It was tall enough that when I glanced over my shoulder after reaching the top, I could see the entire town; at least, if there had not been so much smoke, I could have viewed it in its entirety. What I saw was another of the images seared into my memory, of what had been just the day before a thriving, good-sized town, yet was now either a smoldering ruin all along the western side, or a blazing inferno to the east. And in the middle were piles of Varciani corpses, of which less than half were warriors. By the time I reached the top, those corpses around the outer edge of the irregular mass of bodies had started burning, and I could not help noticing the smoke produced by the corpses was distinctly different from that produced by the consumption of the wooden buildings. The chieftain's hall, the only building in the middle of the common area had been put to the torch as well, and the flames from that had found more fuel in some of the other bodies strewn nearby. With the grayish-white smoke from the buildings mingling with the black, greasy smoke of the smoldering dead, my last sight of that place would have fit perfectly with the deepest part of Hades. By the nature of our departure, the 8th was leaving a number of our own dead behind, men who had been consumed by the flames, like Bestia. Or, I reminded myself, like Caecina and Mela, both of whom had been listed as missing, presumed dead by our Optio who, for this period of time, was effectively running our Century since Macerinus already had his hands full running the Legion. What I can say is I do not believe it was lost on any man in the ranks that we had mutinied in everything but name, and considering all that has transpired since that day, not just with the 8th but with a number of Legions, I have often wondered if what happened with the 8th was just an early symptom of a larger disease. Even now, I do not know the answer to that question.
Since we left relatively early in the day, we came within sight of Siscia just as the sun was going down. All things considered, I still think it was an appropriate time. Macerinus called a halt, whereupon there was a rearrangement of our marching column, albeit a minor one in most ways; in another, more symbolic way, it was most profound. I cannot say with any authority where this tradition came from; I remember my father mentioning it when Primus Pilus Vettus, the man I most remember from my childhood, was felled in a freak occurrence that sometimes happens in battle, when a lone arrow managed to plummet from the sky at just the right angle to plunge into his body. The tradition is that the Centurions of th
e first grade, at least the remaining five, precede the Legion bearing their fallen Primus Pilus on a shield. His body is borne by the four lower grade Centurions while the Primus Pilus Posterior, Macerinus in this case, marches at the head of the procession. By the time these matters were arranged, it was growing dark, so Macerinus ordered those men of the first file who are the tallest among our comrades to bear torches that lit the way forward. Naturally, this took even more time, but I will say that from my viewpoint and that of my comrades, at least judging from their comments afterward, this made our entrance into Siscia even more dramatic. The final touch was Macerinus ordering the corniceni and bucinator to play the dirge that we use for funerals of state. This served two purposes, I believe: not only to honor Urso, whose body had been at least partially cleaned up to the extent he no longer had Draxo's axe protruding from his chest, but to alert the townspeople of our approach who, for the most part, had already retired for the night. Fronto and I were the first of the torchbearers, he on one side and me on the other, with the Centurions bearing Urso just behind us in the middle. Macerinus was aligned even with us and, thus arrayed, we marched solemnly into the town. I was struck by the memory of doing something similar just the year before when I had been one of the honor guard bearing Drusus' body into Mogontiacum over the last mile. Yet, while in some ways it was comparable, in other ways, the contrast was striking. When the first of the townspeople, drawn by the sound of the blaring horns, left their homes to see the cause for the commotion and started lining the street, their reaction to the sight of us was…interesting. Yes, there was some grief displayed when those citizens who understood the meaning of our procession informed those around them, but I was acutely aware that not every face wore a look of sadness. Do not mistake me; nobody was celebrating, but despite the poor lighting, I clearly saw some of the townspeople looking on with expressions of grim satisfaction, reminding me again that Urso had been preying on the people in the town in one way or another for some time. I remember thinking if they had only known that most of the men who were likely to know enough about his side business to keep it going were dead as well, they might actually have been less circumspect in their joy. That, I also understood, was of secondary importance to all the official actions that would be taking place because of Urso's death. And, in the back of my mind, I did idly wonder if Tiberius would play any role in the appointment of a new Primus Pilus, since he had clearly been responsible for the promotion of Publius Canidius. What actually transpired still serves as a reminder to me even now that, for any man who plans on making a career in the Legions where becoming a member of the Centurionate is a goal, they would be wise to pay close attention to all that is happening in Rome from a political standpoint. This was a lesson I was about to learn.
Chapter 7
By the time we marched out of Siscia on the way to our camp, the entire town had been roused and, for once, I was thankful that because of the hour, by the time the citizens had made it out of their homes and down onto the street, for the most part the leading element of the Legion had marched past. As sorrowful as the families of the fallen had been when we returned from the ambush, then the night action against the Colapiani, this time was by far the worst. While we had not officially been told the extent of our losses, all I had to do was glance about the First Century to see that we had been savaged; in effect, we had been decimated more than twice over. The rest of the Cohort was in similar condition, but in a change from what was normal, some of the higher numbered Cohorts had suffered significant casualties as well. In short, the 8th had been hurt, and badly at that, meaning our winter would be spent filling our depleted ranks. This is one of the advantages of being in the First, since every replacement we received would be a veteran. Not, however, that we would not have difficulties of our own, especially since we would have a new Primus Pilus as well. And I was acutely aware that it was well within the realm of possibility the incoming Primus Pilus would not want Asinius as his Optio. Demoting him was unlikely, but a transfer to elsewhere in the Legion, where an Optio slot had been vacated either by death or promotion was not out of the question. What, I wondered dismally, would I do then? While it was true my most immediate tormentor, Caecina, was no longer a threat, I could not dismiss the possibility that my troubles were not over. Despite not being subjected to the worst of the grief displayed by the families of fallen men, behind us we could hear the wailing cries of women and children who saw a strange face occupying their loved one's normal spot. Marching on, we left behind a trail of a different kind of devastation that, in its own way, had even more of an impact on our lives than the smoldering ruins of the Varciani town. Suddenly, women and children who had looked to a man in the ranks for protection and security were bereft of succor, and if some of the de facto wives started scrambling to find another benefactor with a haste that seemed, if not obscene, at least in poor taste, I would argue this is merely the reality of their lives. Nevertheless, we still had our own ordeal coming, starting when we marched into the forum in front of the Praetorium where the Legate, having been forewarned by a runner sent by Macerinus, was waiting, along with all of the Tribunes. None of them looked happy, although it was not late enough in the night for them to be asleep; my guess at the time was they had been engaged in whatever kind of debauchery the upper classes favor and did not appreciate being pulled away from their fun. Macerinus gave the torchbearers the command to light those that ring the forum, which we did before returning to our normal spots in the ranks. Consequently, I missed the beginning of the exchange between Macerinus and the Legate, although Avitus filled me in later.
While the Legate returned the salute of Macerinus, according to those who heard the exchange, he demanded, "What's the meaning of this…?"
Apparently, this was when the Legate realized he did not know the name of the second in command of one of his Legions, something that was not lost on any of the men in the ranks.
"Primus Pilus Posterior Aulus Macerinus, sir," Macerinus informed him, then added, "acting as de facto Primus Pilus." He turned to indicate where the other four rightfully enraged Centurions were standing, between us in the First Century and the command group, still with the burden of Urso's body on their shoulders.
This was when I returned, moving as unobtrusively as I suppose it is possible for someone my size to slip back into my spot. From behind the Legate, I saw Paullus lean over slightly to stare at me, and I suppose Fronto and the others, regarding us with open contempt, a look that at least I returned in full measure, daring him to make an issue of it. His black eye was fading but still noticeable, yet while he opened his mouth, for some reason, he suddenly seemed to think better of it; it was one of the few times I saw him act with a modicum of discretion and, frankly, wisdom. Naturally, this newfound sensibility was not destined to last long.
"Primus Pilus Canidius is dead?"
Despite the solemnity of the moment, when I heard someone from behind me murmur, "Oh, no. He was just tired and is taking a nap," it was all I could do to maintain my own composure.
Some of my comrades were not so successful and there was a ripple of snickers from behind me; this was actually more difficult to overcome than the actual comment. Any more opportunities for mirth were cut off when both the Primus Hastatus Prior and Posterior, the two Centurions at the rear of the quartet, looked over their shoulders to glare at us, my former Optio Galens one of them. Fortunately, we were either far enough removed that the Legate did not hear, or he chose to ignore it.
Oblivious to what was going on behind him, Macerinus had replied, "Yes, sir. I'm afraid that he is."
The Legate did not reply immediately, his brow furrowed in apparent thought as if he were trying to comprehend the news.
"I see," he finally responded, nodding his head in a way one might do when told that rain was expected. "Well, that is a tragedy, a great, great loss for Rome," he intoned, completely unconvincingly. "But," he continued, "be that as it may, I assume you've returned for a reason. And," a
t this point, he actually sidestepped to peer in the direction of the far end of the forum, but while the light was dim, I knew the rest of the Legion was clearly visible, "I can only assume that it's to replenish and refit, because I don't see any prisoners. Which," he returned his attention to Macerinus and his voice turned cold, "you were instructed to bring back, as proof that you had fulfilled your orders. And," he added menacingly, "to restore the honor and good name of the 8th Legion."
I am sure the pause was not long, but it seemed to last half the night before Macerinus replied, "Sir, while we've subdued the Varciani, and," he emphasized this, "slew Draxo who, as you informed us," I am fairly sure he was smearing a bit of honey on the turd, "was indeed acting with the Varciani, the savages resisted to the point where we had no choice but to put all of them to the sword."
The Legate did not reply immediately, although I saw him blink several times; the Tribunes were not as circumspect, and I saw them turn to each other and whisper. On our side of this small drama, the silence was total as those of us within earshot knew that whatever came out of the Legate's mouth next would most likely have a direct impact on our immediate futures.
Finally, he collected himself enough to gasp, "You did what? You…killed them? All of them? Women and children?"
"Yes, sir." Macerinus' tone was clipped, and I was sufficiently experienced to know that from this point forward, Macerinus would be playing the role of the Stupid Legionary to the hilt.
This meant that if the Legate wanted more information, it would only come by being dragged from Macerinus; this is one of the most potent weapons we rankers have when confronted by our military and social superiors. Most of them think that since, generally speaking, we are uneducated, it also means we lack intelligence. I vividly recall on this night a thought that I have had many times before and since that moment, wondering what the reaction would be from the Legate, or the Tribunes, for that matter, if they knew the biggest ranker standing in front of them could not only read and write in Latin but had a fair knowledge of Greek, both in written and oral form. This ability, as I have mentioned, is due to the tutelage of two men; Sextus Scribonius was the one who first taught me my letters, but it was Diocles who was most responsible for my familiarity with both Latin and Greek literature. But, most of all, it was the example set by my Avus that made me determined to learn as much as I could. Regardless of that fact, my literacy played no part in what took place that night; I merely offer it as an example of how often the upper classes misjudge those of us in the lower ranks. As I would come to learn, Macerinus was similarly educated, but he certainly was not doing anything to betray that fact as he stood there, dumbly, as the Legate's mouth kept opening and closing.