by R. W. Peake
By the end of that first month, we had reached the southern edge of the Dinaric Alps, which serves as the inland barrier running north, separating the coastal strip from the interior of Dalmatia. We had the choice then of turning north to march over a pass and into the interior, where Siscia would be due north, or continuing up the coast until Siscia was directly to our east before turning to march through lower Pannonia. Although the first route was shorter, it was more rugged, but that is not why I chose the coastal route. The Dinaric Alps were still largely untamed, both the land and the people, and I did not want our baggage train to present a tempting target to some Dalmatian tribe. Therefore, we continued up the coast, prolonging the march, causing some grumbling around the fires at night. My other reason was that I wanted to give Scribonius more time with the 13th, except that was not something I could vocalize to the other Primi Pili. When I talked with Scribonius about it, I told him that it was all about the men and nothing else, but the real reason was that I saw how much Scribonius was enjoying himself, and I wanted to prolong the experience for him. I had always thought he would have made a great Primus Pilus, despite the fact that he insisted he had no desire for the position. I do not think he would admit it, but I believe that once he got the taste of what it was like to run a Legion, he found it very much to his liking, and had some regret that he had not done so. This is not to say that he did not have his share of headaches, that there were not days when I could see the frustration showing in his face and speech, but overall he was having one of the best times of his life. Scribonius also reinforced a lesson that I had learned from my second Second Pilus Prior, who had been killed at Alesia, that one does not have to be an effective leader by bellowing at the top of his lungs and thrashing men with the vitus at every opportunity. My first Pilus Prior Favonius, the man who was my once removed predecessor as Primus Pilus, Gaius Crastinus, had been more of this mold, although we learned that his bark was worse than his bite in most ways. That did not mean he could not and did not bite, but he chose his moments to do so, otherwise showing a gruff, somewhat standoffish exterior. I had modeled myself after Gaius Crastinus, who I considered, and still consider to this day, one of the greatest Legionaries that Rome has ever produced, yet that did not mean that I did not occasionally take a softer approach, usually at Scribonius’ gentle insistence. Men did their best for Scribonius because they did not want to let him down, not because they knew a beating or berating was coming if they did. That made it gratifying to watch the 13th transform itself into at least the semblance of a tough, competent Legion. I knew that just the weeks we had on the march would not be enough to complete the transformation, creating a problem for me that occupied much of my thoughts as Ocelus and I rode at the head of the army. Should I turn over the 13th to a new Primus Pilus immediately when we arrived in Siscia? Was there even a Legate there to make the selection? We were in another area where the duties of Prefect had not been spelled out clearly; did I, as Prefect, have the authority to select a permanent Primus Pilus? While I was sure that Scribonius would push me to take advantage of this lack of clarity, on this I was not willing to be pushed because of the sensitivity that the upper classes have to having their prerogatives eroded. They would view an upstart like me selecting a Primus Pilus as an affront to their authority, and that was trouble I did not need. But how could I prevent another disaster like Natalis being thrust upon a Legion? If that were to happen twice to the 13th, the effect would be devastating, and I was sure that they would be finished as a fighting Legion, suitable only for garrison duty away from any possible combat. This has always been the challenge faced by career Legionaries when there was not a Caesar in command, or an Agrippa for that matter, men who knew what was needed in a good Primus Pilus. Despite the fact that all Legates are essentially political appointees, as in all offices in a system like ours the abilities of each officeholder vary widely. Some patricians and upper-class plebians went about their mandatory exercises and training on the Campus Martius with a great deal of dedication, earnestly wanting to learn the profession of arms. Others showed scant interest; early on, we had heard that Octavian was one of these, preferring instead to have his nose buried in some scroll written by a dead Greek. However, Octavian was an exception as far as his military abilities went, because he was a competent commander despite his lack of interest. I believe it is a sign of his overall brilliance that he can still prove to be capable on the field of battle even when his heart is not in it. But for every Octavian, there is an incompetent, puffed-up, self-important toad who views the post of Primus Pilus as a candied plum to give to one of those lickspittle Centurions who start fawning over the man from the moment he shows up. These Legates are the most dangerous, not just to the Legion or Legions they command, but to anyone who thwarts them in their designs and schemes. All these things were part of my thinking on our nearing Siscia, the men becoming more excited with each passing day at the thought of being reunited with their families. Since I had no family to come home to, I could devote my time to examining every possibility that I could come up with concerning the 13th and what to do about it. If there was a Legate waiting for us, I would have to make a quick determination what sort he was. If he was in the same class as a Caesar, or Agrippa, then I could rest easy knowing that he would select a Primus Pilus based on what was best for Rome. On the other hand, if he was not, I had to do whatever I could to limit the damage he could do by presenting him with a set of candidates that would do their job competently at the very least and who had outstanding records. When presented alongside his personal choice, my hope was that their achievements and records would contrast so sharply with his political appointee that a blind man could see what the Legate was trying to do and, in order to avoid scrutiny, would opt for one of the more qualified candidates. If that failed, I would try to bribe the Legate to put a better candidate in the spot. That was my plan, but I would only know what to do when we arrived in Siscia and I got a sense of how things stood.
Siscia had grown while we were gone, yet it still had the raw, new look of a frontier town in a recently conquered land. Despite the absence of most of the army, the fact that it would be serving as the home base for most of the Army of Pannonia meant that men and women looking to make a quick and easy sesterce were already in place, waiting for the men to come marching through the gates. The growth of the town was not a surprise; what was a bit of a shock was the presence of the 8th Legion, returned from Rome after Crassus’ triumph, the Legate himself being in the process of his fall from grace. It was a good surprise, at least as far as I was concerned, because it meant that a certain Optio, or perhaps even a Centurion would be there, and once I realized that Gaius was in Siscia I became as excited as the men. We came marching into the town, the camp being located on the other side from our approach, to see the citizens and off-duty men of the 8th lining the streets, making it a bit like a small triumph when they greeted us with cheers and accolades. I was riding Ocelus, and for the occasion I had put the 13th in the vanguard position, the first time they had been allowed that privilege the whole march. I rode next to Scribonius who, in what had become his custom, was marching with his men as Primus Pilus instead of riding his horse as Evocatus. He had not ridden once on this march, and this may not sound like a big thing, but Scribonius was no longer a young man; also, his brush with death had weakened him a great deal, and the men loved him for making the effort. He was no longer on the verge of collapse at the end of every day’s march, but he had lost weight from his already spare frame. Still, he was in as good a mood as I was, each of us grinning at the other while little boys scampered beside the Legions, some of them calling to their fathers in the ranks. Women were waving and calling to their lovers, or future customers, some of them showing their wares to an appreciative audience.
“It’s not Rome, but it’s not bad,” Scribonius called to me over the noise of the crowd.
I agreed, my eyes scanning the crowd for the familiar faces of my nephew, or even Agis or
Iras. We marched through the town, since it was still not very big. Approaching the gates of the camp, we saw yet another crowd gathered around the entrance. This group was composed mostly of the men of the 8th, but there was a sprinkling of civilians and women gathered on either side as we entered. Just before we reached the gate, over the other cries of men calling to friends in the ranks, I heard a familiar voice.
“Uncle! Uncle Titus!”
I turned to see the tall, lean figure of my nephew, dressed in just his tunic and belt, but carrying a vitus, a broad smile on his handsome face as he waved to get my attention. I felt a lump form in my throat at the sight of him, thinking of how we had parted when he boarded ship for Rome, happy to see that he was clearly pleased to greet me. He had obviously received his promotion to Centurion that Macrinus had promised, making me even prouder. I got a bit of a shock, however, when my eyes naturally moved away from him, drawn to the next person in line. It was Iras, yet that was not the shock. What caught my eye was the clear bulge in her belly; Iras was visibly pregnant, not terribly far along, but enough to notice. I looked back at Gaius with a raised eyebrow, to which he responded with a deep blush. Calling to Scribonius, I pointed at the young couple, and he burst out laughing at the sight.
“Looks like she hooked him good now,” he commented.
“He didn’t waste any time,” I agreed, my eyes torn away from the young couple only reluctantly, once we reached the gates, where the duty Centurion was waiting.
He saluted, going through the formality of challenging us upon our approach, then recognized me as Prefect before waving us through. We had arrived in Siscia, and were home.
While the men got settled into their quarters, I made for the Praetorium, where there was a red pennant flying, a signal that we did indeed have a Legate, and he was in residence. I did not relish the idea of meeting this new Legate, but knew it had to be done and done quickly. Dismounting Ocelus, I entered the Praetorium to find it buzzing with activity, with clerks scurrying about while Tribunes sat or stood about trying to look important and busy. In other words, it was a normal day, yet I paused at the doorway nonetheless, trying to determine the underlying mood. I had learned that commanding officers by their very natures set a tone within a Praetorium, and if one is observant, it is possible to get an idea of what can be expected concerning the relationship with the Legate. Are the men working hard, yet seem to be worried while they go about their tasks, looking over their shoulders? Are conversations muted, short snatches of whispered comments, but the eyes dart about, looking for possible eavesdroppers? Do they look tired even when it’s early in the morning? These are the things that I had learned to look for, and standing there, I was cautiously pleased to see that these signs of tension seemed to be missing from the working men, and took to be a good sign. Only after I walked fully into the outer office did anyone stop to take notice of my presence, while the first man to approach me with a broad smile on his face was the Tribune Cornelius. I was happy to see that he had decided to stay with the army for at least another season. After we exchanged salutes, I clasped his arm as we exchanged greetings.
“How are things?” I asked him, to which he made a face.
“Eventful,” he replied, looking me in the eye with what I took to be a warning.
Intrigued, I wanted to ask more, but he gave a warning shake of his head.
“And we have a new Legate?”
He nodded; I could see by his expression that his concern did not seem to be a result of our new general. However, he said nothing more, and I swallowed my irritation, reminding myself that Cornelius was not the most intellectually gifted man I knew.
“Are you going to tell me who it is, or do I have to guess?”
He looked chagrined, replying quickly, “Ah, yes. Sorry about that. Our new Legate is Gaius Norbanus Flaccus. Do you know him?”
“Only by reputation,” I replied, keeping to myself that the reputation was not particularly covered in glory.
He and Saxa had commanded a blocking force against Marcus Brutus and Gaius Cassius, charged with holding a pass to block their line of march before the Battle of Philippi, yet had failed to do so, being betrayed by a local with knowledge of a goat track who led Brutus and his army around them.
“Well, he certainly seems to know a lot about you,” Cornelius replied.
He did not make it sound like it was a good thing.
“Is he in his office?”
Cornelius nodded, adding, “He’s chewing on one of the other Tribunes right now, though.”
He gave me the smile of a man who is just happy that misfortune is falling on someone else’s shoulders, then excused himself. I decided to wait until the victim of Norbanus’ wrath emerged from his office. A few moments later, he did, looking rather shaken. I crossed the outer office to knock on the door, waiting until I heard a muffled voice bark permission to enter. Opening the door, I stepped into the office and marched up to the desk, my eyes above the seated man, using the outer portion of my vision to take him in. He was about the same age that I was, with iron-gray hair cut very short in the military fashion, except that it was expensively barbered and oiled. He had a huge hooked nose, making him look a bit like a bird of prey, particularly the way he was hunched over, looking up at me through a pair of shaggy eyebrows. Completing the picture was a mouth that looked like a gash cut in his face, carved into a perpetual frown.
“Camp Prefect Titus Pullus, reporting that the 13th, 14th, and 15th Legion have arrived from their winter quarters in Thessalonica, sir,” I told Norbanus.
He returned my salute but stayed seated, looking me up and down, still frowning.
“About time,” he grunted, but said nothing else.
I remained standing, knowing the game that was being played, yet it still irritated me. My eyes remained fixed on the wall above his head while he pretended to read something. Finally, he put it down, leaned back in his chair to regard me silently, my anger growing by the moment.
“Caesar has told me much about you,” he said finally.
“Good, I hope.”
He gave a short bark that I took to be a laugh.
“Some of it,” he granted. “But he also said that you are headstrong and sometimes forget your place, and that you have ambitions to raise your station. Is that true?”
I shrugged, not seeing any point in denying something he already knew.
“Caesar has promised that if I serve for ten years as Prefect I'll be elevated to equestrian status under his sponsorship.”
“Yes, yes, he told me that. But you’re not there yet, so you need to keep that in mind and don’t get ideas above your station.”
“I'll try to keep that in mind, sir.” I had to make an effort to keep my tone neutral.
“Good,” he grunted, moving on to other matters. We spent the rest of the time discussing the state of the bulk of the army before I broached the subject of the 13th and the need for a new Primus Pilus. That certainly got his attention, and he asked, “Why? Did the other one die?”
“No,” I replied, trying to keep my tone even, acting like what I was telling him was nothing of great import, but my heart started beating faster nonetheless.
Scribonius and I had discussed this moment at length, both of us knowing that if there were to be any repercussions against me for overstepping my authority, it would start at this moment.
“He was relieved for cause and dismissed with dishonor from the Legion for extortion against his men.”
Norbanus peered at me from beneath his eyebrows, which I was beginning to learn moved up and down quite a bit in an indication of his mood. Now they were positively bobbing as he digested what I had said.
“Who relieved him?” he demanded. “Crassus told me nothing about this when I met with him before I left Rome.”
“I did,” I said, watching his face suddenly flush, his jaw dropping while his eyebrows began doing a dance.
“You? You?” he repeated. “By whose authority did you d
o such a thing? That is the duty of the Legate and the Legate alone.”
“That was true in the past,” I replied, using the argument that Scribonius and I had rehearsed. “But that was before the position of Camp Prefect. As I'm sure you know, Caesar created this rank to serve as second in command of the army, and since Marcus Crassus had already departed for Rome when the full extent of Natalis’ predations on the men was discovered, I had no other choice but to relieve him.”
“No doubt,” he retorted sarcastically. “Probably you waited until Crassus was gone before you settled some old score with Natalis. I know how you men in the ranks operate.”