Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  Finally, he managed, "But…why? Are you saying that the women and children of the Varciani picked up weapons and resisted?" He snorted and shook his head. "I refuse to believe that."

  I am sure that Macerinus was acutely cognizant of how much danger he was in, because he seemed to consider his answer before replying, "No, sir. Some of them tried to pick up a weapon, it's true, but for the most part, they just resisted our attempts to bring them under control."

  "So you couldn't subdue a bunch of women and children?"

  While the words themselves were not surprising, that they came from one of the Tribunes, although it was Paullus who said it, was not. I saw a flicker of annoyance pass across the Legate's face but I imagine the question itself was relevant enough this was his only reaction and, consequently, he turned his attention back to Macerinus, regarding him with a raised eyebrow. Because he was standing with his back to us, I cannot say with any certainty; all I know was if I had been in his boots, I would have been drenched in sweat.

  "Sir, as you well know," Macerinus pointed out, "they're savages, practically wild animals." He shook his head and finished, "We lost enough men against their warriors, sir. I didn't want to lose any more because we were trying to bring some prisoners back."

  "Who gave that order?" the Legate asked, and I offered a prayer to the gods that Macerinus, towards whom I held nor do I currently bear any animosity, would have the presence of mind to nudge the facts of the fight around a bit to lay the blame on Urso.

  The fact he did no such thing showed me that he was at least made of the right metal that makes a Primus Pilus; if he was not as smart as he should have been is a question for others.

  "I did," he replied firmly and without hesitation. "It was by my order, and I take full responsibility for what we did. If we exceeded or disobeyed your orders, it's on my shoulders and nobody else's." Then, he remembered to add, "Sir."

  The Legate did not seem to have a retort for this, so he contented himself with glaring at Macerinus for a moment before unleashing a snort that could have been of disgust, then waved a hand in the general direction of the Legion.

  "Well," he said finally, "we'll get to the bottom of this one way or another. I smell something about this I don't like." Shaking his head, he finished, "But there will be time for that. You and the Legion are dismissed."

  Without another word, he wheeled about to stalk back into the Praetorium, while the Tribunes turned to follow, except for Paullus. Then Claudius, seeing the broad striper remain, I suppose was concerned enough the other man would make matters worse, because after going a few paces, he stopped as well, although at the moment, he seemed content to watch. Macerinus had just performed his own about-turn, and opened his mouth to dismiss us when he was interrupted by Paullus.

  "Wait," the Tribune commanded.

  Despite our collective loathing of this man, who we all held responsible for what had happened at The Quarry, we are nonetheless trained to obey, so Avitus and the others around me stiffened to intente, as did Macerinus. The only men who did not were the other Centurions bearing our Primus Pilus, if only because in doing so, they ran the risk of dropping the shield bearing him. The broad striper walked up to Macerinus, but honestly, he only gave the Centurion a passing glance, passing him by and only stopping when he was in front of Urso's bearers.

  "Lower the shield," Paullus ordered abruptly, his hands clasped behind his back. "I want to…pay my respects to Canidius."

  There was something in his tone, and his face, that caused me to shift uncomfortably, but I was not alone, heartened to see that none of the Centurions seemed disposed to do as he commanded. At least, not until Macerinus, who had turned about to keep his eye on Paullus, ordered them to do so.

  This was not lost on Paullus, although his eyes never left Urso's dangling legs as he snapped, "Centurion…whatever your name is! You're the acting Primus Pilus, are you not?"

  "Yes, Tribune." Macerinus was hard to understand because his teeth were clenched.

  "Then order these…men to do as their superior commands!"

  I saw Macerinus close his eyes as the knob on his throat bobbed up and down, but then he muttered, "Do as the Tribune says."

  This, of course, was not as easy as one might imagine, meaning there was a moment of hesitation as the Centurions coordinated their actions.

  "Hurry up, you imbeciles," Paullus snapped again. "It's freezing out here and I want to get back inside!"

  I confess I was so fixated on Paullus and what he was up to that I did not notice Claudius start moving; he just seemed to suddenly appear in my field of vision. As he had done at least once before that I had seen, the junior Tribune did not hesitate, grabbing Paullus by the arm, except this time, he was not gentle. Not surprisingly, Paullus took this even worse than the first time, whirling about with a hiss that, to me at least, sounded like a serpent about to strike which, I suppose, in a sense is appropriate. Even as dark as it was, there was no missing the broad striper's hand flashing out as he tried to slap Claudius, but the curly-haired Tribune either saw it coming or his reflexes were akin to mine, because he jerked his head back as Paullus struck nothing but air. The broad striper had put enough force into his attempt that when he missed, his momentum actually caused him to spin partly about. Now there was no way to stop the wave of contemptuous snickering that came from our ranks, but Macerinus did nothing to stop it; in fact, he did not even act as if he had heard, so intently was he staring at the scene being played out in front of us.

  "How dare you?" Paullus' tone reminded me of the shrieking women of the town just before we put them to the sword. "I've warned you about touching me, you..." I did not need the torchlight to see his lip curl in the sneer of disdain that seems to be part of the birthright of those Romans who happen to be born into a family one rung up the ladder than others.

  "Be careful what comes out of your mouth next, Paullus," Claudius interjected, indicating us with a nod. "Because if I beat you to death, do you think any of these men would lift a finger to stop me? Last time," he leaned closer to Paullus who, like all cowards, shrank back in naked fear, "I stopped because he," he pointed up to Urso's makeshift bier, "kept me from finishing you off that night. This time?" he made an elaborate shrug, "your only protector is dead. Which is why," his tone changed to one that, if not menacing, seemed intent on conveying a message to the broad striper, "you wanted to look on his face one last time, isn't it? To pay your respects to the man who saved your life?"

  Paullus continued glaring at Claudius, both of them oblivious to their rapt audience, but in the same way as Macerinus, I saw Paullus suddenly swallow hard.

  "Yes," he finally responded. "That's why. I wanted to…pay my respects to the Primus Pilus."

  Anyone with eyes could see Claudius was not buying what Paullus was selling, but it apparently met his requirements because he released his grip on Paullus' arm. Turning stiffly about, Paullus' face looked as waxen and dead as the masks of one of his ancestors, although by this time, the Centurions had complied and lowered the shield. Their bodies blocked my view of Urso's corpse, but I had seen it enough, so I kept my attention on Paullus, who moved a couple of steps so he could gaze down on the face of our former Primus Pilus. He did not say anything, but he did not need to; the twisted smile of satisfaction at seeing one of his enemies dead was eloquent enough.

  The next few days are so entwined together that, even with my memory, it is difficult for me to recall them in the proper order they occurred. Perhaps the only thing that was not surprising was spending the following day after our arrival preparing our dead for their trip in the boat. It was an especially bitter time for me not only because one of those was Lutatius, but I had to be the one to tell Domitius who, along with Didius had been released from the hospital to our hut, waiting our return. Naturally, he grieved heavily, because Lutatius had been his close comrade; I believe it was not until the next day or perhaps the day after before he approached me.

  "Now that Lutatius
is gone," he said, "I was wondering…?"

  He did not need to finish; it had been on my mind as well. I can understand that to an outsider with no experience with the Legions this might seem especially callous, that a man who has lost a close friend can go about the business of a replacement so quickly. This, unfortunately, is a fact of our existence; yes, it is true that between the time of year and the losses we had sustained it was highly unlikely we would be marching again that season, but the uncertainty of life in general, and one under the standard in particular, is such that we do not have the luxury of time.

  "I'd be honored," I assured him, although I cannot say it was without any reservation or hesitation, and I felt compelled to at least bring up the subject. "As long as you don't think that…" I trailed off, not sure how to phrase my concern, but in what I took to be a good sign, I did not need to go any farther.

  "You're worried we might be tempting the fates, given the history between our grandfathers?"

  I just nodded in reply, but somewhat to my relief, he did not crack a joke or make light of my fear.

  "I thought about that myself," he admitted soberly, then shrugged. "But, while we come from the same lines, we're different men. Aren't we?"

  In one of my rare moments of insight, at least back then, I sensed he was actually asking this as a real question, that he was looking for assurances that both of our concerns were, if not groundless, then not necessary.

  "We are," I replied firmly, hoping he did not catch my slight hesitation in answering; if he did, he did not give any indication.

  Thrusting out my arm, he grabbed it and we became close comrades from that moment on, the keepers of the other's will and the man who watched my back as I did the same to his. And I can say that of all the decisions I have made over the years that have caused me to regret making it, this is not one of them.

  The funeral of our Primus Pilus Publius Canidius was actually held the second day back in Siscia. As one might expect, it was more elaborate, befitting the status of a man who commanded a Legion of Rome. The fact that the Legate did not attend, nor did his second in command Paullus, did not go unnoticed; it was a mortal insult and was not one for which the men of the 8th, or the other two Legions, for that matter, had any forgiveness. Again, when I look back at moments like this, I cannot help wondering if there is not some sort of connection with these first signs of the growing gulf between the nobility and the class of men who fill the Legions and all that has come about since then. I find it impossible to believe that the Legates in command back in the days of my Avus, and even earlier in the career of my father, would have committed such an egregious error of protocol. As entertaining as the stories of nobles debauching themselves may be, and their licentious behavior that sees them hosting lavish parties where lark's tongues are served merely because of the expense involved, I, for one, find them a troubling sign. Do not mistake me; there has always been a huge gulf between our patricians and high-ranking plebeians, and the lower classes, but the one place it was not as noticeable was in the ranks of the army. Frankly, however, without the threat of a civil war or an invasion by a foreign power like Parthia, those men of the upper classes who are supposed to lead us in battle have grown soft. And over the years, I have come to the conclusion that peace is not a Roman's friend; we are at our best, and display our best qualities, on the battlefield. But the day we consigned Urso to the cleansing flames, this thought was more of a troubling feeling, nagging at the back of my mind. It is only in the intervening years I have been able to clarify my concerns into the words above.

  The other notable event on the second day was when we were visited by Asinius; the fact that Crito, the chief Legion clerk, was with him, carrying a stack of wax tablets, gave me a hint the moment I had been dreading was coming.

  "We need to finish up all the butcher's bill reporting," Asinius began, once he had seated himself at our table. "Only then can we get on with shifting men to fill the Century up."

  Sitting there at the opposite end of the table from the Optio, it was at moments like this where the scope of our losses came into sharpest relief. Gone from our table forever were Bestia, whose blackened bones are now scattered amongst those belonging to the Varciani, Colapiani, and those other poor Roman souls who were claimed by the fire. Dentulus, of course, had been killed earlier. Killed the same night as Dentulus had been Nigidius. Lutatius was the most personally painful loss; balancing this was the fact that the small triumvirate, composed of Philo, Caecina, and Mela was no more, with even the newest member Geta having fallen, although it was before Urso's death, so I cannot say he would have been there with Caecina and Mela at the end of their lives. He had always seemed to be the most half-hearted participant of the faction led by Caecina, and I would like to think that he would not have abandoned his comrades to accompany Caecina and Mela to perform what would turn out to be their last depravity. Those of us left were Avitus, Sido, Glabrio, and Didius, who had been left behind with Domitius, Quirinus, and Ventidius. And, of course, me. Eight of the sixteen were left, and of that eight, only Ventidius was unwounded, although none of the wounds on the rest of us were serious. Of course, if someone had asked me at the time, I suspect I would have given them an earful about the gash on my cheek. While it was not severe, at least relatively speaking, by the time I had it seen to, the blood in the wound had completely congealed and hardened, meaning it had to be scrubbed out by an unfortunate medicus before it could be stitched up, who received his own minor wounds in the form of the bruises I gave him. By the second day, the wound had started to itch, making for an extremely frustrating experience when I reached up to scratch, since that actually hurt more than it helped. All in all, it was a miserable experience, and yet, despite having quite a prominent scar running across my cheekbone, I have learned that, for reasons I cannot fathom but for which I am thankful, women seem to find it attractive. I suppose it is because it is a tangible symbol I am a warrior. Frankly, I do not care all that much why they do; I am just happy that this is the case.

  "Who saw Caecina and Mela last?"

  Asinius' blunt question jerked me from my examination of the faces around the table, but it should come as no surprise that I did not open my mouth. Instead, I glanced around at the others as they tried to recall.

  Finally, it was Avitus who spoke up, informing our Optio, "All I remember is seeing Caecina suddenly running by me, right after…"

  His voice trailed off, but there was no need for him to expand, because we understood he was referring to the moment that changed all of our lives, for better or worse. What I can say is that even in the moment, although I felt somewhat relieved my own personal dilemma had been resolved, I was still not sanguine that everything would work out well for us as a Century. In some ways, it was still too early for the rumors to fly about who would be replacing Urso, although this did not stop some men from offering their conjecture, which of course immediately took wing and flew through the Legion as practically a certainty.

  When nobody else spoke up, Asinius was forced to ask, "Anyone else? Did anyone see either of them after…after the Primus Pilus fell?"

  Heads shook all around, but although I was not surprised when the Optio turned his gaze on me, it did not make it any less unsettling.

  "Pullus? What about you? Did you see Caecina? Or Mela, for that matter?"

  Now, I make no apologies for the fact that I opened my mouth fully intent on uttering a lie, except I was saved from an unlikely source; at least, so it seemed at the time.

  "Nothing that I didn't see," Avitus spoke up. "Because he had just put paid to Draxo and was standing not more than two paces from me when Caecina took off."

  "Is that true, Pullus?"

  "Yes, Optio," I assured him, only slightly ashamed I was lying through my teeth to a man I respected a great deal. "And," I added hastily, "I saw the same thing Avitus did." Shrugging, I finished, trying to keep my tone bland and as if I was just relaying a slightly interesting bit of information. "That w
as the last time I saw them."

  The instant it came out of my mouth, I knew I had made a mistake, especially when dealing with a man as sharp as Asinius, and he did not hesitate.

  "Them?" he pounced. "I thought you just saw Caecina."

  Acutely conscious of the sudden feeling from the cold trickle of sweat rolling right down the middle of my back, it took quite a bit of my admittedly meager self-control to keep my tone nonchalant as I replied, "No, I meant just Caecina. I don't remember seeing Mela at all, at least not once the fighting started. He's down at the other end of the formation," I added helpfully.

  "I know where he stands," Asinius shot back, his irritation showing as he glared at me. Nobody spoke for several heartbeats before he gave a grunt, then looked back down at his tablet. "So you never saw him."

  "No, Optio," I answered, "and I apologize for the confusion."

  He did not seem to hear, instead continuing to peer down at the tablet, his lips pursed in concentration as he tapped his stylus on the table.