by R. W. Peake
“Tribune, I've given this much thought,” I began. “And I have to say that I'm not surprised that you planned to try and destroy me. After all, you did make a vow to do that very thing, didn’t you?”
Claudius gulped hard, but nodded in answer.
“But I also believe that under certain circumstances, men can change. And I believe that you are one of those lucky few men who were given the opportunity to change into a better man, and a better Roman.”
I leaned forward to pin him with my eyes, wanting to make sure I emphasized my next words.
“And I also believe that you have taken that opportunity, and that the change I have seen in you is genuine.”
His body sagged in relief as I continued.
“I think that I'd be doing Rome a great disservice in taking any action against you, and the truth is that I bear you no malice for what you thought you wanted to do before this new opportunity presented itself. Besides,” I grinned, “I burned the evidence so there’s not much I can do about it anyway even if I wanted to.”
Tears came to his eyes again, and I looked away to avoid making him feel shamed by his weakness.
“Thank you, Prefect.” Claudius’ voice was husky with emotion. “I swear to you that you will not regret this.”
“I hope not,” I said lightly.
Nevertheless, that was a real fear. As much as I did believe that Claudius had changed, I also had been scarred enough by the perfidy and capricious nature of patricians to know that I was still making a gamble.
“I won't let you down,” he said earnestly. “And know that when my time in the army is done, and I return to Rome and the cursus honorum, you'll always have a friend that you can rely on, for anything.”
“Thank you Tribune, I appreciate that.”
“No, Prefect. I'm the one who's appreciative, and not just for this.”
He smiled, standing to offer his hand, which I took, and he said, “Although I hate to admit it, I've learned a great deal from you, and from my time in the army. I'll never forget it.”
“See that you don’t.” I said it in a joking manner, but I was actually serious. “We men of the ranks need all the friends in high places we can get.”
With that, there was a knock on the door, Diocles returning bearing the wine, with a timing so perfect that I suspected he had been listening at the door, but I did not begrudge him that. If he were disappointed by my decision not to punish Claudius, he did not show it in any way. Claudius and I spent the next few moments chatting about the coming march. Finally, as soon as it was decent, I excused myself.
“Forgive me, Tribune, but I have one last piece of business to attend to,” I told him, and he nodded, his face grim.
“Good luck, Prefect. And watch your back,” he warned me, unknowingly echoing Scribonius’ words. “Natalis is desperate and there’s no telling what he might try.”
“Thank you,” I replied, touching the hilt of my sword. “But I think I'll be safe enough.”
As little as I feared Natalis, I still took two provosts with me to escort him to the docks, along with Scribonius. The men of the 13th had learned of Natalis’ dismissal, thanks to a few carefully placed words by Diocles on my behalf, and they were lining the Legion streets to watch their disgraced Primus Pilus. Despite not showing it, I was watching the faces of the men carefully, particularly the Centurions, which is why I had brought Scribonius with me. I believed that by giving the men the chance to see Natalis in this manner, I would get a good handle on how they viewed his dismissal. More importantly, I hoped that the relatively short notice would catch them by surprise, particularly the Centurions, making their reactions at the sight of him being marched out of the camp under escort more honest and would give me an idea of which Centurions were involved in Natalis’ scheme. It was certainly not a thorough or entirely accurate method, but I believed that it would at least give me a starting point in weeding out those Centurions who needed to go. I was determined to rebuild the 13th, turning it into a better Legion than it was now, and that started with the Centurions. There was nothing wrong with the men; in all of my years in the army, I had only seen on one or two occasions a dilectus that was composed of mostly worthless men, and I knew that even those could have been turned into marginally competent Legionaries if they had been pushed hard enough. Nothing I had seen of the men of the 13th suggested that they themselves were the problem; they were just poorly led.
Now, marching Natalis out of the camp, along with his personal slaves and baggage down the 13th’s main street, I saw that most of the men were trying unsuccessfully to hide their joy at the sight before them. I also noticed that there were a fair number of Centurions missing, at least if they were not attempting to blend in with their men. Despite the men being clad only in their tunics, I did not know of a Centurion who did not carry his vitus with him at all times. However, even if they did not, it was highly unlikely that the men would crowd around their Centurion the way they would a comrade. Even in a tightly packed crowd, a Centurion is always given a little extra space, and these were the things that I used to judge that a large number of Centurions were missing. This was not a good sign; if they had hated Natalis, or at the very least not agreed with what he had been doing, I was sure they would have been there to see his downfall. For his part, Natalis walked with his eyes straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the few men who called out to him, probably because most of them were not saying charitable things to him as he passed. I suppose I should have called for silence, but I decided to give the men this small measure of revenge on the man who had been squeezing them and taking their hard-earned money. Marching down the street, more and more men began yelling things at Natalis, and seeing that I did nothing to stop them, their words became steadily more hostile.
“It’s about time!”
“Hey, Natalis, who are you going to bend over and fuck now?”
“Goodbye, Primus Pilus! I’m glad to see the back of you!”
The apple had rotted, and when it was thrown and hit Natalis, it splattered into hundreds of tiny chunks, covering his upper chest and face. Luckily for whoever threw it, his aim was good and did not hit me, or I would have flogged the lot of them. However, that was where I had to draw the line, and I pointed at the area from which the fruit had come.
“Find out who did that and put him up on charges,” I snapped to one of the provosts, whereupon he immediately turned to push his way into the men, each of them stepping aside with sullen expressions.
“The next man who throws something will be flogged,” I commanded, and we had no more incidents the rest of the way out of camp.
Like I expected, none of the men were willing to point out who had thrown the apple, the provost returning to my side before we reached the gates. News of the sort like the dismissal of a Primus Pilus is big not just within the Legion, but the entire army, meaning the rest of the way out of the camp saw a similar gathering lining each street. Natalis’ humiliation was witnessed by the entire army, and I could see the struggle in his face while he tried to maintain his composure. His slaves looked similarly discomfited, and I must say that I felt a pang of sympathy for them. As Diocles will tell you, gentle reader, just like there is a structure of rank in the army where every man knows his place, the same is true for slaves, albeit unwritten. There is a hierarchy, both among slaves and freedmen, and being the slave of a Primus Pilus of a Legion carries a prestige with it, not to mention a more comfortable life, at least when compared to other slaves attached to the army. A Primus Pilus lives well, in every sense of the word, and unless the Primus Pilus is otherwise inclined, which I had never seen, his slaves live well also. Natalis’ slaves’ fortunes had plummeted along with their master’s, through no fault of their own, making their expressions suitably glum as they led the mules and small wagon with all of Natalis’ possessions. The baggage had been thoroughly searched, and Natalis’ sword had been taken at my order, which I was going to return to him by way of the ship’s captain
once they were at sea. The only ship I had been able to find that was leaving on the following tide was bound for Thapsus, carrying olive oil and other cargo, and it had cost a fair sum to book passage, but I wanted Natalis far away. Where he finally ended up, I did not care, provided it was nowhere near the 13th Legion. We walked out of the main gate, and I was beginning to regret my decision to walk and not ride Ocelus, except I knew that if Natalis made a break for it in the narrow streets of Thessalonica, I would be better off on foot. Natalis himself had not said a word to that point, but once we exited the camp, he turned to me. He sounded like he had resigned himself to his fate, only making me more cautious.
“I wasn’t lying about Claudius,” he said.
I do not know why, but I felt I owed him at least the truth.
“I know you weren’t,” I told him.
Natalis looked at me with a mixture of surprise and bitterness. “But I suppose nothing will happen to him.”
“What happens to Claudius is none of your affair,” I told him coldly, slightly nettled by his presumption that Claudius would go unpunished, even if it were true.
“Men like him are never punished,” he said bitterly.
“Not always,” I said. “Antonius got punished pretty severely.”
“Him.” Natalis was scornful, surprising me somewhat. Maybe he had a redeeming quality in him after all, I thought. “He was the biggest thief of them all.”
“And he’s dead now. That’s justice, isn’t it?”
“If you want to call it that. But how long did it take?”
That much was true, and we were silent for a bit while we continued walking.
“You’re keeping the money for yourself, aren’t you?” he asked suddenly.
“No.” I was more surprised than angry, because it had not occurred to me.
He gave a snort of disbelief.
“Pullus, you may fool some people, but you don’t fool me. You were a Primus Pilus. I know you made a tidy sum off your men. Maybe not the way I did, but in some way.”
I felt a cold lump of anger forming in me, my loathing for Natalis growing stronger and erasing any thought I had about his judgment of Antonius showing any kind of integrity.
“And you don’t fool me either, Natalis. You’re more crooked than a warped vitus, and you think everyone does what you do because that’s the only way you can live with yourself. You’re a piece of dog cac, and how you got to be Primus Pilus is beyond me.”
“I got there the same way you did,” he snarled, all attempts at winning me over or eliciting sympathy clearly gone. “I paid for the privilege.”
I almost stopped short, staring at him in disbelief. I was not so much of an innocent that I did not know that men purchased a position in the Centurionate from unscrupulous Legates, but I had never heard of it happening with the position of Primus Pilus.
“Unlike you, Natalis, I didn’t have to pay a single brass obol for my promotion,” I said, not without some pride. “I was appointed to that post by Gaius Julius Caesar himself.”
“Oh, you paid,” he sneered. “Maybe not money like I did, but you paid all the same. Nothing in this life is free, Pullus.”
That was true enough, and if I were to be fair, Natalis was right. Caesar had not made any money off of me, at least directly, yet he had a price for the position nonetheless, which was to be his man to death. It just turned out that his death came first, but it was a price I gladly paid, and would do it over again in the amount of time it takes to blink. Still, I was in no mood to be fair to Natalis.
“Like I said, Natalis, I'm as unlike you as it’s possible for a man to be. I earned my post by the point of my sword, and there are heaps of bodies that are nothing but bleached bones in every corner of this Republic and beyond to attest to that.”
“Oh, I know you’re good with a sword.” Natalis was dismissive. “But that doesn’t mean that much now.”
I knew I should not ask, but I was overcome with curiosity, so I did anyway.
“Who exactly did you purchase this post of Primus Pilus from? I would love to know what Legate was crooked enough to do that.”
Natalis did not answer right away, giving me a sidelong glance, a strange expression on his face.
“You really don’t know?” he asked finally.
I opened my mouth to answer him and assure him that I did not, but something stopped me. Perhaps it was the way his eyes were darting about as we walked, looking at the civilians standing watching us go by, clearly curious about what was happening since it was obviously out of the ordinary. Looking back, I believe that there was something so familiar in the way he was looking over his shoulder that it both warned and informed me at the same time. Without saying it, I knew exactly who he had bought his post from, and he was right and smart not to say anything out loud.
“Once you’re out to sea, the captain will restore to you your sword,” I deliberately changed the subject. However, now that I realized who he was referring to, I decided to give him a form of advice, albeit grim.“And if I were you, I would seriously consider using it to end your life.”
We had reached the wharf where the ship was docked, and I saw the ship’s master, a burly bearded man in a sun-bleached tunic standing on the quarterdeck roaring out orders. We stopped then, and I looked down at Natalis, his expression as bleak as his future. There were still one or two lingering questions in my mind, and I decided that it would not hurt to ask.
“So how long did you run this scheme? And how did you keep Crassus from spotting it? It wasn’t hard to see once you took a look at the absentee report and punishment list.”
I did not think he would answer, but then he gave a shrug like it no longer mattered, and that was certainly true.
“I bribed the clerks in the Praetorium to submit different numbers to the Legate,” he said indifferently, telling me that the Praetorium needed to be cleaned out as well. Then he added, “Of course, that was before your precious Tribune found out about it. Then I had to cut him in as well, but you already knew that, didn’t you?”
It was more of a statement than a question, and it was good that he was not paying particular attention to me, because I am sure the surprise showed on my face.
“Of course,” I said hastily, lying through my teeth. “He confessed everything.”
“Oh, is that why he’s not being punished?” Natalis asked bitterly. “Or is there more to it than that?”
He turned to give me a shrewd look, and I admit that it felt uncomfortable.
“Yes,” he said softly. “I see now. You’re too good to dirty your hands with money, so I suppose you might be telling the truth about not squeezing your men. It’s influence that is your money. You aren’t doing anything to Claudius so he'll owe you in the future. It’s good to have someone who owes you in high places.”
He gave a bitter laugh, with no trace of humor in it.
“I could use one of those right now.”
“Yes, you could. But you don’t have one,” I said evenly. The urge to twist the knife suddenly struck me, brought on by his accuracy in deducing why Claudius was escaping unscathed from this whole mess. “And one other thing you should know. That letter you were counting on so much?”
“What about it?” His expression was wary, and I thought grimly that he looked as tired of nasty surprises as I felt.
“It didn’t say what you thought it did. Essentially, it said the same thing as the first letter did, that there was no special relationship between you and Gaius Maecenas. You were fucked either way.”
I did not divulge the contents of the other part of it where Crassus and I had been implicated. I saw no need for Natalis to know that particular secret.
“That figures.”
His mouth twisted into a grimace, and he spat into the water between the dock and the ship.
“Fucking patrician scum. They always talk about us lower classes and how treacherous and untrustworthy we are, but they're even worse than us. At least we don’
t pretend to be anything but what we are.”
There was much truth in what Natalis was saying, and I would not waste breath disputing something with which I essentially agreed. Besides, I had one last thing on my mind.
“Other than the obvious reason, why did you kill Plancus? Like Claudius told me earlier, if you had been smart, you would have just destroyed the letter and then when he denounced you, you'd have that other letter from Claudius’ father.”
“That didn’t say what I thought it did,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but you didn’t know that at the time.”
“True,” he said grudgingly. “I'm not saying that I killed Plancus, understand?”
He looked up at me, the sly look back on his face, and I sighed, cursing my own curiosity and need to know.
“Natalis, I'm dismissing you from the Legion, and the truth is I want to be done with the whole mess. As long as you don’t run the 13th, that's really all I care about. What happened with Plancus can't be undone, and I didn't know the man, so I have no interest or reason to exact vengeance. You're about to get on a ship for a faraway port, and if you’re smart you'll either do as I say and fall on your sword, or you'll stay in Africa and just disappear. Otherwise, you could burst into flames on this very spot and I wouldn't piss on you to put you out.”
Hatred seemed to radiate from Natalis’ very body, giving me just a glimpse of the true nature of the man, his lips curling back for a moment before he caught himself. He had leaned forward, like he was preparing to spring at me, but he could easily see that I was prepared, my hand on the hilt of my sword and watching his face intently. Exhaling a long breath, he regained his composure, then gave a shrug.
“Plancus was a lot like you,” he said finally, squinting out to sea, refusing to look at me while he spoke. “He thought his cac didn’t stink, and that he was better than everyone else.”