Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

  “You mean he thought he was better than you,” I cut in, which he did not deny.

  “He thought he should be running the Legion, and that I wasn’t doing a good enough job, something that he never hesitated to point out,” he said bitterly.

  I suspected that it was more a case that Plancus by his very competence was setting an example of what a Centurion should be. In contrast, Natalis was sadly lacking, and he did not like being made to look what he was: incompetent. I decided to bite my tongue and just let Natalis continue to talk while his slaves continued to load his baggage aboard the ship.

  “But he found out differently, didn’t he?” he said abruptly, for it was not really a question. “He’s dead, and I’m alive.”

  That told me that he had no real intention of falling on his sword, not surprising me in the least. Men like Natalis will do anything to stay alive, no matter the cost to themselves or others.

  “I swore I’d piss on his corpse, and that’s exactly what I did,” he said vehemently, spitting into the water again.

  I looked at him in disgust, sorely tempted to take my sword and run him through, but that would have created more problems for me, so I did nothing. Seeing that his baggage was loaded and his slaves aboard, I gestured to the gangplank.

  “I don’t ever want to see you again, Natalis. If I do, I'll kill you myself,” I warned him.

  He glared at me but said nothing, abruptly turning and walking onto the ship. He did not look back again, but the provosts and I watched the ship shove off, moving slowly and weaving between the other ships in the harbor. Once I saw that the ship was clearly underway, I turned with the provosts, heading back to camp. I had one last task to begin to set the 13th Legion right again before we could begin the march. I also had much to think about concerning Tribune Claudius, because I believed Natalis.

  We were in the Praetorium, which had been stripped of everything that would go with us, leaving the bare bones of the headquarters for the next army to occupy it. Scribonius was there, along with Diocles, both anxious to hear that we had seen the last of Natalis.

  “What about the 13th now?” Diocles asked. “Who's going to be the Primus Pilus?”

  “Funny that you should bring that up,” I grinned. “Because I think I've found the perfect candidate.”

  Scribonius and Diocles glanced at each other, their curiosity aroused as I went on.

  “He’s very experienced, battle-tested, and is a great leader, with a good head on his shoulders. Most importantly, I trust him with my life.”

  I enjoyed watching their mystified looks gradually changing. Diocles turned and looked at Scribonius, whose eyes grew wide in what appeared to be horror.

  “Me?” he gasped. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Probably,” I laughed. “But you're still the new Primus Pilus of the 13th Legion.”

  “But I can’t,” he protested. “I’m an Evocatus, not on active duty. You can’t make me Primus Pilus.”

  “Yes I can,” I countered. “You’re the one who told me that I could, remember? Show me any regulation that forbids a Camp Prefect from naming an Evocatus as Primus Pilus.”

  Scribonius’ face turned red, his shock giving way to anger, but I still waited a bit before I let him off the hook.

  “That doesn’t mean that you can just decide that I'm going to be Primus Pilus, just because you want to,” he objected. “It’s not . . . right.”

  “That is the worst argument I think I’ve ever heard you make.” I laughed again. “But you can relax. I’m not planning on you becoming the permanent Primus Pilus. It’s just for the march to Siscia. At the end of it, I want you to give me your opinion on the Centurions of the First Cohort, or even the Second Cohort, regarding their fitness to be Primus Pilus. I also want you to observe the Centurions so we can get some idea which ones are the bad apples that need to be culled out.”

  Scribonius considered what I said, grumbling, “You could have said that in the beginning.”

  “It wouldn’t have been as much fun that way.” I grinned. The moment passed, then I turned serious.

  “There’s one other thing,” I told them. “Natalis told me something before he got on the ship that is troubling, to say the least.”

  “Which is?”

  I went on to explain what I had learned about Claudius, how the Tribune had demanded to be cut in on the money being made off the men of the 13th once he had discovered what was happening. When I had finished, I asked the pair what I should do. Diocles was looking very smug, clearly believing his judgment of the Tribune had been confirmed.

  “You already know what I think,” he said, shooting Scribonius a look that clearly communicated “I told you so.” Scribonius was unruffled, silently thinking it over before he spoke.

  “Do nothing,” he said finally, barely getting it out of his mouth before Diocles squawked in protest, and I was struck by the thought that this was familiar territory.

  “What? He lied! You can’t trust him, Master! What more proof do you need?”

  In fact, I had been leaning in the direction that Diocles wanted, but Scribonius’ answer intrigued me.

  “What do you mean?” I asked Scribonius.

  “If you punish the Tribune, you'll lose that friend in a high place that I think you of all people will need at some point.”

  “But he lied about his involvement in Natalis’ scheme,” I felt compelled to point out.

  “Did he?” Scribonius asked, eyebrow raised, looking at me. “Did you ever ask him directly what his involvement was in this scheme?”

  I thought hard about my talk with Claudius, and I realized that in my excitement about learning of the existence of a second letter, I had not even bothered to ask if he was involved.

  “No,” I was forced to admit. “I didn’t. But he should have told me.”

  “If you were in his place, would you?” he asked gently.

  Reluctantly, I shook my head, and I recognized that my friend was once again right.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “His secret stays safe with us.”

  I gave Diocles a stern look.

  “Is that understood?”

  He was clearly not happy, but he nodded his acceptance of my command. I did not worry about Scribonius.

  “Now that that’s settled, we need to get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow. Especially you, Primus Pilus.” I grinned at Scribonius, who gave me a vulgar sign in return.

  I had decided that I would wait until the last possible moment to announce to the 13th that Scribonius was their Primus Pilus. That way, I reasoned, those Centurions who had been in league with Natalis would have no time to organize any kind of protest or resistance to the move. The next morning dawned with clear skies and a gentle breeze blowing, perfect weather for marching, the men of the 14th and 15th in fine fettle, ready to begin heading back to Siscia. Matters were different with the 13th, standing around uncertainly, talking in small groups and looking more like a mob of barbarians than a Roman Legion. Their Centurions were as flustered as the men, explaining why the rankers were being allowed to wander around. As Scribonius and I approached, I saw his eyes taking in the sight, his jaw setting in what I knew was his determined look. We had drawn the proper uniform for Scribonius from stores, and I must say that he looked better wearing the transverse crest.

  “How does it feel to be carrying the vitus again?” I asked as we approached the 13th.

  “Not bad,” he admitted, nodding in the direction of the men. “But it looks like I have my work cut out for me.”

  “That’s why I picked you,” I told him. “Besides, I always wanted you to be a Primus Pilus like me.”

  He gave a short laugh.

  “That makes one of us. I just want to get this mob to Siscia in one piece.”

  “You know that I'll back you up on anything you decide,” I assured him.

  “I know. Let’s just hope I don’t need the help.”

  One of the Centurions finally turned from th
eir huddled conversation to see us approaching, then faced the men and bawled out the order to fall into formation and come to intente. Just like I suspected they would, the men responded in a half-hearted manner, moving just quickly enough to avoid being struck with the vitus, the Centurions operating in much the same manner.

  “This is worse than I thought,” Scribonius muttered, and I had to agree.

  The 13th was a veteran Legion, at least in terms of time served and campaigns, but they looked like a mob barely out of their time as Tirones. The confusion was somewhat understandable, since there was no Primus Pilus to make sure that everyone in the Legion was doing their jobs, yet I expected more from the Centurions and they were not showing me much. We stopped in front of the Legion, now assembled in parade formation, on a front of Cohorts, with each Century lined behind the First of each.

  “Report,” I barked out.

  There was no movement, and I glared at the Pilus Posterior of the First, standing in the second row, trying to look inconspicuous.

  “Pluto’s cock, he’s thick,” I muttered to Scribonius. Finally, the hapless man took the hint. He left his spot, marching towards us, the expression on his face showing that he was hoping that the earth would somehow swallow him up before he reached us.

  “Pilus Posterior Aulus Festus, reporting as ordered, Prefect.”

  He was fit-looking, a good size, but there was something about him, a weakness of the chin, or the way his eyes shifted about that gave me a suspicion that he was one of those that would be a problem. It made sense; he was Plancus’ replacement, which meant that Natalis had selected him, and I seriously doubted that he would have put another Plancus in place. We waited for this Festus to continue with the prescribed ritual for reporting that the Legion was all present or accounted for and ready to march, but he stood there, his eyes still looking everywhere but at us.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I finally growled at him, despite having to suppress a laugh because he looked very much like a deer that I had flushed from hiding by accident once, surprising us both.

  For a fleeting moment, I thought that he might turn to flee for his life, yet somehow he remained in his spot. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out, and I was about to roar at him when Scribonius spoke in a gentle tone.

  “Pilus Posterior Festus, I believe you heard your Primus Pilus say the words many times, didn’t you?”

  Festus gulped, yet somehow managed to nod.

  “And you remember what those words were, don’t you? After all, you heard them every day we were on the march.”

  His eyes roamed upward, as if peering into his skull to find the prescribed reply. Finally, his face lit up and he said, “The 13th Legion is all present and accounted for and is ready to march at your command, Prefect.”

  “At last,” I cried, applauding him, yet mocking him at the same time. “Festus speaks!”

  I sensed as much as saw Scribonius give me a furious sidelong glance, and he said, “Well done, Festus. I knew you could come through.”

  Festus was beaming with pleasure, and despite my irritation, I found myself smiling back. He seemed to be hopelessly out of his element, but perhaps he was not a bad sort, and maybe Scribonius could actually turn him into something.

  “Very well, Festus. Your report is received and acknowledged. Now resume your post. I have something to say to the men,” I told him.

  Festus saluted, then hurried back to his spot next to the Second of the First, while Scribonius and I stood silently, surveying the men before I began speaking.

  “Men of the 13th Legion,” I bellowed, pausing to allow my words to be carried back to the last row of Centuries. I had not called them “comrades,” or even “Legionaries,” because as far as I was concerned, they had done nothing to earn either approbation.

  “As you all know by now, your former Primus Pilus has been dismissed with dishonor from the 13th Legion, for crimes against the men he was entrusted with by Rome. That means you. What I can tell you is that Natalis will no longer prey on you, will no longer be sucking the blood from you as he had been.”

  Not surprisingly, the men gave a loud cheer over that news, but I was not through and I knew that some of them, wearing the transverse crests mostly, were not going to like what came next.

  “But he did not act alone,” I bellowed even louder, pleased to see the men in the front ranks jump a little. “There are men in the ranks of the 13th Legion who wear the transverse crest and carry the vitus who are not worthy of that office. While I do not know the identities of those men, I tell you today that starting on this day forward, every man, every Optio, and every Centurion is going to have to prove that they are worthy of their rank, whatever it may be. I cannot go back and change the past, but what I can do is ensure that from this point forward, the 13th Legion will be held to the same high standards and expectations that are demanded of a Legion of Rome. To that end, I have appointed Sextus Scribonius, formerly the Secundus Pilus Prior of the 10th Equestris, of Caesar’s 10th,” I emphasized, “and currently a member of the Evocati, as the interim Primus Pilus, for the duration of this march to Siscia.”

  I paused again, knowing that there would be a stirring at this news, and I was right, pausing to let the men mutter to each other.

  “During the march, he will be evaluating every one of the Centurions and Optios, as will I. I am going to be giving the 13th my particular attention.” I smiled broadly, except it was not a nice smile. “Every man’s job in this Legion is in danger of being lost, down to the last immunes and the man holding it being demoted . . . or worse. Only after we have returned to Siscia will each Centurion be told of his fate; whether he will stay in his post, or be sent back to the ranks. Or promoted,” I added meaningfully, because I did not want to have only a stick and not a carrot. I closed with, “And know this. Primus Pilus Scribonius’ word is law. Any man who tries to test him will rue the day he was ever born, I promise you that.”

  I turned to Scribonius, saying in a loud voice. “Primus Pilus, the 13th Legion is yours to command.”

  Scribonius gave me a perfect salute, which I returned before he turned to give his own address to the men of the 13th. I was not surprised when he was brief and to the point, without any of the menace that I salted my talk with, since that was not Scribonius’ style.

  “Today marks a new beginning for the 13th Legion.” Despite speaking loudly enough for his words to be relayed, they still had a quiet quality to them, especially when compared to my bluster.

  “As the Prefect said, the past cannot be changed, but as far as I am concerned, it is forgotten. I do not care what you did in the past; all I care is what you do now. Each one of you has a chance to prove that you are worthy of whatever position you hold within the Legion, or to show that you are worthy of advancement. The decision to do so is yours to take.”

  With that, he turned to salute me again, , announcing that the Legion was present, accounted for, and ready to march. With that, we could start the march to Siscia.

  As eventful as the few days preceding our march had been, the march itself was the exact opposite. We were blessed with fair weather, even for the time of year. Our progress was slow at first, like most early season marches are when there has not been enough physical training, and early on, the 13th suffered the most, with the most stragglers at the end of every day. However, the men began to respond to Scribonius much more quickly than I had thought they would, showing just how starved for good leadership they had been. That is not to say that there were not problems; at the end of each week, Scribonius and I would meet to discuss his observations, and very quickly the Centurions who had been one of Natalis’ minions became apparent by their actions, or lack thereof. When I use the term “minion,” I usually do not mean it in the literal sense, but this time is an exception. It turned out that many of Natalis’ Centurions shared his same proclivities, creating some tension with the men in those Centurions’ centuries.

  As Scribonius put it
one night, “You'd think that we somehow have a Legion full of Spartans.”

  There was not much we could do about this, other than make sure that these Centurions did not make unwanted advances to men in the ranks. Day after day, we made our slow progress across Greece, heading for the coast where we would turn north up into Dalmatia. Nearing the coast, we began to experience a change in the weather, with storms sweeping in off the ocean, although they did not last long, yet it was enough to make the ground soft, slowing the baggage train down. Entering Dalmatia, I recognized the possibility that some of the Dalmatian tribes might make mischief. Consequently, I forced the men to march in their armor at all times, with shields uncovered, unless it rained. Predictably, the men complained bitterly, clearly forgetting what had happened months before, but they obeyed, which is what matters. We took a few days to rest and make repairs from the wear and tear of the journey in Lissus, the men allowed to go into the city to enjoy themselves for a night. That turned out to be a mistake, because I was accosted by a delegation of very angry citizens demanding that reparations be made for the damage caused by the Legionaries. At first, I was willing to listen to them, and while I knew that some of these tales were exaggerated, even stripped down to the bare bones, it was apparent that the boys had been very bad indeed. But when they demanded a full talent for all the damages, my willingness to cooperate vanished, and I had them physically thrown from the Praetorium. As they left shouting all manner of vile things at me, I told them they should consider themselves lucky that I only gave my men a night, and if they were not careful, I would unleash my army to do with Lissus what they pleased. This shut them up instantly, and moments after they left, I had forgotten all about it.

  I was pleased at the progress Scribonius was making. Once again, it reminded me that there is more than one way to effectively lead men and make them better Legionaries. He rarely shouted, and I never saw him use the vitus, yet he was firm with the men, never hesitating to enforce the rules. And the men of the 13th responded, along with most of the Centurions, though not all of them were willing. By the end of the first month of the march, we had a good idea of which Centurions and Optios were salvageable and could end up being effective leaders, as well as those who were damaged beyond repair and would have to be moved out of the Legion in some way. Out of the bad bunch, some of them were old enough that they could be safely pensioned off, yet there were a few that had been like me and had achieved the Centurionate in their first enlistment. Fortunately, most of these men were in the lower Cohorts, making the impact of a change in leadership in those Cohorts have a less dramatic effect on the Legion as a whole. If these problems had occurred during my first enlistment or earlier in the years of the Republic, it would have been more haphazard, since the system of introducing men into the Centurionate into the lowest Cohorts was not nearly as formalized. With Octavian, as part of his reforms, he had demanded that this be stringently adhered to, and as the 13th had been one of his Legions, he had ensured that it followed this example. With one glaring exception, of course, which had been Natalis, and I was still exceedingly curious how such an obviously unfit candidate had been made Primus Pilus, especially by such a shrewd judge of character as Octavian.