Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

  I am not sure what else he was going to say, because I decided to put an end to this fruitless conversation, and I did so by standing up and merely taking a step in Marcellus' direction, confident that my height and bulk—as diminished by age as they were—and just my experience in intimidating men who were much, much harder than Marcellus would be enough to still his tongue. I was correct.

  "I've listened to you, now you're going to listen to me," I spoke the words quietly, but I made sure they carried as much menace as I was capable of projecting, and I was pleased to see the color completely leave Marcellus' face, as he took a staggering step backward.

  In doing so, he bumped into his stool, which caused him to plop down onto it, but his eyes never left mine. Thankfully, I was too angry to be amused at the comical sight of his sudden demotion, as it were.

  "I. Will. Not. Be. In. Your. Festival." I bit each word off, staring down at Marcellus as I did.

  I suppose that, since I was not looking in his direction, this emboldened Glabro to squeak a protest.

  "But..." was as far as he got.

  "Tacete!" I roared, and not only did all three men visibly jump from their stools, I was sure I heard some of the scrolls in their pigeonholes rattle, which made me feel a bit better that as old and enfeebled as I may have been, I was still capable of creating a blast of such volume. "I'm not through speaking!"

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Diocles had just entered the room, carrying a tray with a small jug and four cups, but he immediately turned around and disappeared, without a word spoken. I had to fight a smile at the sight of him scurrying away, no doubt to warn the others that I was in full voice and that some item of furniture was in the last moments of remaining in an intact state, but I managed.

  "Look around you," I finally spoke again, and while I was not yelling, I put the vitus into my voice—as we used to say—that I had used to such good effect for so many years. Turning slightly away from them, I pointed. "Specifically, look right there."

  I was pointing to a small alcove in the far wall that is standard in every Roman villa, at least every one that I've been in. It was completely bare, and I could tell that at least one of the men understood its significance, because I heard him gasp, although he did so as my face was still turned away, so I do not know who it was.

  "Tell me what you see," I said.

  For a moment, none of them spoke, prompting me to raise my voice again in a demand that someone answer the question.

  "Nothing," Varro finally found his tongue. "There's nothing there."

  "That's right," I agreed. "And you know why?" Without waiting for an answer, I roared the words I had been longing to say, ever since this trio of fools trooped into my sanctuary, babbling about a religious festival. "Because I piss on the gods!"

  All three of them immediately made the sign to ward off evil, but I was completely undeterred.

  "I piss on the gods," I repeated, "I piss on their cruelty. I piss on their capriciousness and the way they use us mortals as their pets, for their own amusement. I want nothing to do with any beings who can be so cruel and uncaring!"

  None of them said a word, and I suppose their silence compelled me to actually offer an explanation, one that had been bottled up inside me for many, many years.

  "Let me tell you about my relationship with the gods," I began. "I prayed and made a sacrifice every day to Juno Lucina when I learned that my sister Livia was carrying her husband's child. Granted, the sacrifices weren't much; I was just a youngster, and we were very poor. But I did this every, single day. And yet, she died."

  I held up one finger.

  "I prayed and made sacrifices to both Concordia and Spes to find an answer and see the way to repairing my relationship with my best friend and longest companion, Vibius Domitius, who had been by my side since we were boys. We joined the Legions together; we fought together; we were part of the conquest of Gaul with Divus Julius, but in the first civil war, our paths diverged. I can't count the number of sacrifices I made and the prayers I offered for the gods to hear my plea that we reconcile our differences before one or both of us passed into the shade. But Vibius is dead now, and it's too late. In this life anyway."

  I held up another.

  "I had a family once; a wife, or at least a wife in everything but name," I amended, "and two children, a boy, named for my then-best friend. When I was in Africa and learned of the plague in Brundisium, I spent a small fortune making supplications to Aesculapias, Carna, Febris and even to the god Olloudius, who's worshiped by my woman's tribe, so that my family would be spared. They weren't."

  Holding up a third, I continued, "Every year, before a campaign, I would make offerings to Mars, Bellona, and Fortuna, asking them to spare as many of my men as possible. I knew that it was impossible to come out from a campaign unscathed. But in two of the last three campaigns as Primus Pilus of the 10th, I lost two entire Cohorts!"

  At the thought of the twin tragedies of losing Nasica's Tenth Cohort in Parthia and Metellus' Third Cohort during the Actium campaign, I felt a sudden catch in my throat as, without warning, the three men began shimmering in front of me. But I refused to shame myself in this manner, no matter how painful this was turning out to be.

  "Finally," I suddenly decided that my examples would stop there; there were, and are, other memories, but they are even now still too fresh and raw to touch upon. "I've watched you members of the upper class use the gods in your own way, as a method of controlling the lower classes, playing on their superstitions and fear. And while I've heard more patricians than I can easily recall tell the Head Count that what they do is for the good of Rome, I've only seen that to actually be the case with two men, and two men only." I shook my head. "No, I've earned the right to live the rest of my days as I see fit, and I want no congress with the gods. And," I finished quietly, "anyone, no matter their status or rank, who tries to force me to break my vow will find themselves with a kind of trouble that neither of us wants."

  "Are you threatening me?" Marcellus gasped, while the other two men were trying to make themselves as small as possible and were examining the mosaic on my floor with great interest.

  I did not blame them; it is an exceptionally fine mosaic, although I have a feeling that was not the true cause for their interest in what was under their feet.

  "Call it what you like," I replied to Marcellus. "But that was your intent when you came here, wasn't it? As you said yourself, these two," I indicated Glabro and Varro, "were wasting their time trying to reason with me. So you came with the intention of convincing me with some sort of threat, I imagine." I pretended to think about it. "Let me guess; at some point you were going to say something like, 'Augustus will hear about this'?"

  The startled look that flashed across his eyes told me what I needed to know, and I heaved a sigh, as I regarded him with a look that I suppose was equal parts contempt and pity.

  "Marcellus," I said tiredly, "I've been threatened by not only men, but by Cleopatra herself, a woman who was more dangerous than you in every way imaginable. You're just another empty toga, and this conversation is over."

  Looking down at the other two, I did feel some sympathy for them. In fact, I could not fault their motives. It was just that they had made a very poor choice in me.

  Yes, I am a wealthy man; I am an equestrian, and I retired at the highest rank available to a boy born on a dirt-poor farm in Baetica. In fact, I have achieved everything I set out to achieve, and I have seen and experienced things, both good and bad, that very few men have. But looking down at these men, with their expectations and demands, their petty jealousies and constant attempts to maneuver themselves into a better position in regard to one man, and one man only, it was impossible for me to think of all these positive things. Instead, I was consumed by disgust at and contempt for the idea of all the time spent, and, yes, all that I had lost fighting for men like these for forty-two years. In that moment, it was hard for me to even entertain the idea that all th
at I had accrued over the years—honors, status and riches—even came close to balancing against all that I lost.

  "Get out," I said.

  I do not know, if I did not say it loudly enough, but none of the men moved.

  "Get out of my home!"

  Now there was no mistaking that I was speaking loudly enough, as all three men literally jumped to their feet. I suppose they were helped by the distance I achieved when I kicked one of the empty stools across the room. The sight of them scurrying out of the room, in much the same way that Diocles had a few moments before, was quite gratifying. Watching them leave, I saw Marcellus pause at the doorway, turning about to give me a venomous look.

  Before he could open his mouth, I spoke for him, "Yes, I know. Augustus will hear of this."

  Snapping his mouth shut, he tried to make as dignified a retreat as a spineless, puffed-up, and self-important piece of cac can.

  And I am still waiting to hear from Augustus.

  (Note from Diocles: As I would learn later, Augustus obviously did hear about this, but fortunately, my master and friend Titus was never aware of this. But that is for later.)

  Chapter 1- Camp Prefect

  Although getting Scribonius and Balbus into the Evocati had required the permission of Octavian, the transfer of a lowly Optio from one Legion to another is a relatively simple matter that was extremely unlikely to come to the attention of Caesar, Agrippa, or any man of Legate rank. I had done it the first time, getting Gaius transferred from the 14th to the 10th, and it would be accomplished again by the same means, except this time it would cost more. The simple fact was that Gaius was a veteran now, and an Optio at that, making him more valuable than a tiro or gregarius. However, I was prepared to pay whatever it cost, while Gaius offered to contribute from his meager savings. Although I suspected that his eagerness to come along was due as much to his feelings for Iras as any attachment he had to me, I was not about to take umbrage at that. All that mattered to me was that he would be where I could continue to keep an eye on him. The truth was that I had a bad feeling about the prospects of the men of the 10th who were being sent to Syria. Albinus had promised to remain in contact to let me know what happened, and with the bulk of the Legion now gone, those remaining were in the process of packing, making ready to ship to Syria.

  I sent a message to Aulus Honorius Macrinus, the Primus Pilus of the 8th Legion, already in Pannonia, opening communication about securing Gaius a spot in the 8th. In my mind, the 8th was the best and only choice, being a Spanish Legion, despite the fact that it was unlikely that there would be many men left who had marched in Gaul. I knew of Macrinus by reputation, which was another reason I had thought of the 8th, since he was highly regarded by those who knew him. Agrippa did not spend much longer in camp, but I made no effort to see him again, and neither did he send for me. That was probably best for both of us, given that the last two times we had met, things had not gone well, particularly for me.

  All that was left for me to do before Scribonius, Balbus, Gaius, and I left for Pannonia was to wait for the birth of my child. Therefore, with no more duties to attend to, I resolved to spend the time with Miriam, no matter what harm befell me. The part of the camp that had belonged to the 10th was deserted, and I found myself at a complete loss without the routine of daily duties. Unfortunately, this did not help my frame of mind, which in turn did not help Miriam. It took a week before we settled into a new routine where I was actually present for most of the day. Continuing my daily exercises, I was finding that I actually had more time to devote to them now. Fortunately, Miriam and I worked through the difficulties created by the combination of my sudden availability and her discomfort to the point where once again we started enjoying each other’s company, if not in any physical way. We would spend full watches talking in much the same way that we had when we first met when I was looking for books in Damascus, and it was good to see her laugh again. Iras stopped glaring at me, meaning in turn that she and Gaius got along better, even if I was still not happy about their situation. I know that my actions and treatment of Miriam were very un-Roman, since most of the time the men separate themselves as much as is possible from a pregnant woman, but I was old enough and beyond caring what others like Scribonius and Balbus thought, at least about this.

  “What if it’s a girl?” Miriam asked me one evening, to which I answered with a shrug.

  “I know that I'm supposed to want a boy, and I do, but I wouldn't mind if it's a girl child. As long as she looks like her mother and not her father.”

  Miriam blushed prettily, but I could tell that she was pleased. Speaking truthfully, a large part of me did not want a boy because of my fear that he would be as large as I was, and while Gisela had been a well-built woman, with the type of wide hips that midwives say are perfect for delivering babies, Miriam was much more slender through the body. I would find myself waking up at night to stare at her figure, the big lump of her belly sticking up, offering a prayer to every god I could think of that she would not suffer the same fate as my mother. The services of a midwife had already been purchased, but still not satisfied, I sent Iras to the forum on the market day to ask the inevitable gathering of women there for recommendations for the best midwife available. It was not so much that I did not have faith in the woman we had; she had come recommended, or so I had been told, it was just that Nicopolis was growing on an almost daily basis, and I knew that it was possible if not likely that another midwife would arrive that may have been more qualified before Miriam’s time came. Of course, as with all things, there are rarely benefits without some corresponding disadvantage; Nicopolis’ very newness also meant that people did not know each other very well, while relatively few babies had been born to that point. Iras returned only to inform me that it appeared that the woman we had was the best available, at least from what she had been told by the women she had asked. I briefly considered finding a physician, of which there were a fair number, since they are mostly Greek to begin with and we were in the area, but I almost as quickly dismissed the notion. Childbirth is a woman’s affair and even in my limited experience with the matter, I could not ever remember seeing a male doctor attending a birth. With every option exhausted, I contented myself with continuing to send Iras to make daily offerings as the day approached.

  Perhaps a week before the birth I received a reply from Macrinus, who said that while he would be happy to add young Gaius to his ranks, at the moment there were no openings for Optio in any of the upper Cohorts. The only slot he had open was in the Tenth Cohort, which under the reforms of Octavian meant that the lowest quality men were being shuffled from the other Cohorts. Reading his words, I could not tell if this was a statement of simple fact or if it was an oblique attempt at extorting more money from me. Deciding that it would be wise to check with Gaius first, since I could not dismiss the possibility that he would opt for staying where he was at, even if it was in Syria, I asked him what he wanted to do and he did not hesitate.

  “I don’t care if it’s in the Tenth Cohort, as long as I can be where you're at,” he said, a little too quickly.

  I gave him a sidelong glance, not believing him. “You mean you want to be where Iras is,” I said.

  He blushed, giving a sheepish grin.“Her too,” he admitted.

  “You understand that the Legions are being reorganized, so they're putting the weaker men in the Tenth Cohort,” I warned him, which he just shrugged off.

  “It just means that I'll have to be a better leader,” was his reply, said with all the assurance that comes with youth, as if there was no doubt in his mind that he was up to the challenge.

  That was half the battle, I had to acknowledge, but just hoped that he was not underestimating the difficulty while overestimating his abilities. With that question answered, I decided to send a reply, asking what it would take to find a place for Gaius in one of the upper Cohorts. If Macrinus was soliciting a bribe, I believed that this would flush him out, telling me one way or the other
. There were also the other Legions in the Army of Pannonia, as it was being called, but I was not keen on sending Gaius to any of them, with the possible exception of the 11th or 15th. The 13th had a bad reputation for switching sides, depending on who was paying the most, while the 14th was still dogged by its ignominious fate when it had been wiped out not once, but twice. The 11th had been a solid, if unremarkable Legion in Gaul, except that had been long ago, and I did not know any men in the Centurionate, which held true for the 15th as well. Therefore, I decided to wait to see what kind of response I got from Macrinus before worrying about the next step. Everything had been done that could be done to that point, making everything else just waiting. Then, one day, when I was at the stakes with Scribonius and Balbus, Agis came sprinting up, his eyes wide with what I took to be equal parts excitement and fear.

  Without waiting for permission, he gasped out, “Master, Iras sent me. It is time!”

  I have said it many times. The gods are cruel, using mortal men as their playthings for their amusement. As much as they have given to me, they have also taken as much, if not more. For the second time in my life, they took from me that which was most dear. All of the prayers, all of the sacrifices meant nothing to them when compared to the opportunity to have a laugh at my expense. I do not know why in one way they have chosen to give me so much, while in another they have taken everything that makes life worthwhile. I do know that I plan on asking when I arrive in their world, but I will have a sword in my hand when I do. And from that day forward, I never uttered another prayer to the gods, nor did I make a sacrifice to them. I piss on the gods and their cruelty.

  For the second time, I witnessed the most horrible fate a man can endure, the loss of his family. Miriam died because of a massive hemorrhage, and before the baby could be saved, it suffocated. As he had with Gisela and his first family, my master decreed that neither he nor anyone around him would speak of Miriam or the baby, so I am writing this while he sleeps, because I know he would be very angry with me for speaking of it. It was not just Miriam that died that day; something in my master died as well, and he has never been the same from that day forward. Whereas he had been in a deep depression when Gisela and his children died, he had eventually recovered, but it is now 14 years since Miriam and the babe’s death, and he still has fits of melancholy where I fear that he will lose his mind, or his life. There have been moments where he seems to forget for an instant, and he will laugh, but as quickly as these moments happen, they are extinguished like a lamp snuffed out. It is as if he suddenly remembers the pain, and it chases all the joy from his soul. And he has been true to his word; he has never uttered the name of a god, nor has he made any offerings or sacrifices to them in all these years. At first, he forbade all the members of his household from worshiping their own gods, but after Scribonius talked to him, he relented. His only stipulation was that we not do so in his presence, so we keep the figures of our household gods out of his sight. The other change in my master was that he no longer talked of the desire to settle down. He became the Titus Pullus of old, a man with no softness in him, completely devoted to his career and to the army. I cannot say that he became cruel, but there was definitely a hardness about him that I had not seen in some time. It has been sad to watch a man who cut a part of himself away, but I know why he did so, for he would not have survived otherwise. As formidable a warrior as my master may have been, and still is, he is a mortal man, and we mortals are consigned to suffering through the travails of life. And in one respect, I will say that Titus Pullus, for as much as he was given, has suffered more than most men.