by R. W. Peake
“Cicero is an old woman,” Pollio opined, a sentiment I agreed with, but I was surprised to see Caesar shake his head.
“Cicero is a brilliant orator and legal mind, but he's an insufferable snob, and it’s his snobbery that blinds him to what needs to be done,” Caesar said as he unenthusiastically dabbed some bread in oil. It had always surprised me to see how little Caesar ate, for all his energy. Shrugging, he continued, “Besides that, he's still angry with me over my actions in the Catiline affair. He feels that I should have backed him in that awful mess, but he overstepped his authority, and I had no choice.”
“At least he refuses to sit in the Senate. That’s a good thing,” Pollio said.
Before Caesar could answer, I saw Octavian shaking his head out of the corner of my eye, and so did Caesar.
Instead of answering Pollio himself, Caesar turned to Octavian. “I see that my nephew doesn't agree with this assessment, and I'd like to hear his reasons why he believes as he does.”
We looked at Octavian, who had turned bright red, but his voice was steady and cool as he spoke. “There are many in Rome that say Uncle wants to make himself king, or at the very least he's a tyrant who intends on absolute rule. Because of that, I believe he needs men of distinction like Cicero in the Senate who are known to oppose him and not be one of his creatures. That's the best way to quell talk about any aspirations he may have about being king.” He swallowed, looking at the rest of us through lowered lashes, and finished, “That's my opinion, anyway.”
I looked over at Caesar, who was positively beaming as he looked at his nephew in approval.
Slapping his hand on the table, he exclaimed, “My nephew has it exactly right! As much as I may dislike Cicero’s actions, I need him in the Senate, along with other men like him who aren't afraid to voice their dissent. I have no need to be king; being Caesar is enough.”
While I saw the sense in what Octavian and Caesar were saying, I cannot say that I agreed. I suppose I was too accustomed to the ways of the Legions to think that having someone constantly carping and criticizing your every action could be good in any way, but I was not about to venture my own opinion. The conversation moved to other matters, notably Caesar’s plans for some of the reforms he had determined must be accomplished if Rome were to survive. I very quickly found my attention wandering, so I have little recollection of what was said. While I was only faintly interested in politics, the one part of it that intrigued me at all was the human aspect, the relationships, and alliances that were forged as a result of political expediency. Matters of policy; how land was to be granted, how much a citizen should be taxed, rules for voting and the like were completely boring to me, so I contented myself with appearing to be interested while I gorged myself on the roast pork and beef as the others chattered away.
Finally, having solved all of Rome’s problems, Caesar turned his attention back to me. “Well, Pullus. Octavian and I are leaving in the morning. While I want you to devote all of your energies to getting the 10th trained up to the standard I expect, you must also take care of yourself until you're fully recovered. Agreed?”
I did not see how it was possible to do both things, but I also knew when Caesar was not looking for an honest answer, and this was one of those times, so I agreed.
Continuing, Caesar said, “I expect that it should take about four months to get the Legion trained to a point where you can be ready to march to Rome. I plan on leaving for Parthia shortly after the Ides of March so I need the 10th to be fully provisioned and ready to leave with me. You'll need to arrive in Rome no later than the beginning of March. I know I can count on you.”
“Yes, Caesar. We'll be there, ready to march. We may not be quite ready to fight, but we will be by the time we face the Parthians, I promise you that.”
Caesar smiled, turning to Octavian. “The key to success in the field, Nephew, is to find men like Pullus and let them do their jobs. The minute I laid eyes on him when he was all of 16, I knew that he was going to be one of the best Rome had to offer.”
He turned back to me, his smile even broader, as I felt my heart hammering in my chest.
“How did you know?” I gasped, and he threw back his head and laughed.
“I didn’t, until now anyway,” he responded, clearly pleased with himself.
The other two at the table looked bemused, glancing first at me then at Caesar. It was clear that Caesar had no plans on punishing me. As I thought about it, I realized that if he took any action against me, it would be as much of an embarrassment to him as it would be damaging to me, something his political enemies would use to make him seem gullible at best, and at worst, as being an accomplice in flaunting the ancient rules and customs of Rome.
“So, Pullus, how did you do it? It couldn't have been that hard to pass yourself off as the appropriate age because of your size, but you had to present proof of your age. I wouldn't like to think that the conquisitore took a bribe, though it’s been so many years ago there’s not much that can be done about it.”
I shook my head, saying, “There was no bribe, Caesar. My father lied for me.”
Caesar raised an eyebrow. “He must have loved you very much to do that.”
I was thankful that I did not have a mouthful of wine because it would have been all over Caesar at his last remark.
Now it was my turn to laugh. “Hardly. He just wanted to be rid of me and this was the easiest way to do it.”
Octavian asked, “Were you a younger son?”
I shook my head again. “No, I was the only son.”
When I did not say anymore, Octavian looked about to speak again, but he was stopped by a shake of Caesar’s head. I had no intention of going into any detail about the hatred my father and I held for each other, and I was suddenly struck by the thought that I did not even know if he was alive or dead. I assumed he still lived because I had not heard from Livia that he had died, but in truth, I did not know for sure. There was an awkward silence at the table, then Caesar spoke again, this time to Pollio, asking him about some details concerning Caesar’s planned departure in the morning. I breathed a silent sigh of relief that nobody had pressed the matter about my father, and I soon got bored with the conversation. Finally, the dinner was over, at least as far as Caesar was concerned, as he stood, the signal for us to make our farewells.
Caesar clasped my hand, his other hand on my shoulder as he said, “Good night and goodbye for now, Pullus. I hope your recovery continues well. I have no doubts that the men will be trained to my satisfaction when they arrive in Rome. I'll see you in a couple of months.”
I wish I could remember exactly what I said to Caesar that night, since it was the last time I ever spoke to him, but it was nothing memorable, and even more to my eternal shame, I never properly thanked him for his confidence in me, and for the rise in my fortunes that was due all to him. Diocles continues to admonish me because hindsight has perfect vision, but it really does not make me feel any better.
Chapter 10- Fall of a Titan
Just as it had started 16 years before, the 10th Legion was reborn in a fury of toil, sweat, and frenzied activity, every moment liberally spiced with the cursing of Centurions and Optios. The only difference was that now my comrades and I were doing the cursing, while using the vitus on the hapless boys who had thought that joining the Legions would be a huge adventure and a lot of fun. To be accurate, my Centurions were doing the bulk of the work, since I was still much too weak to put in a full day, even if most of what I did was supervise under the best of circumstances. I was very judicious in my expenditure of energy, making appearances at places and times where I thought my presence would have the most impact, always in full uniform, adopting Crastinus’ numen waving the invisible turd as my own. Now it was under my nose as I made my disgust at what I saw clear to the tiros shambling about trying to learn how to march and hold a weapon without stabbing themselves to death. To the rankers, I had to appear as if I were a son of Mars, not quite mortal but no
t a god either, something more than flesh and blood, a demigod who knew exactly what the youngsters were thinking at any given moment. I would suddenly appear while a Century was drilling, correcting a tiro with a poke of my vitus, or using my size to tower over some poor youngster. I had never been much for yelling, preferring to get my point across in other ways, but I had to be even more reserved than normal, because any outburst on my part caused my head to swim, and the worst thing that could happen was the sight of the Primus Pilus of the Legion keeling over in a dead faint. I am sure that the men knew that I had been wounded at Munda, but I gave strict instructions to my officers that the extent of my injuries remain a secret. The one factor in my favor was that I no longer had to worry about any challenges to my authority from any of the Centurions in the Legion, since they were all hand-picked by Caesar and me. Any man who I had even the faintest suspicion would pose a problem down the road either was passed over or sent to another Legion. Regardless, in the beginning, I could only manage to make three or four appearances a day, retiring to my tent after each to rest. The first week was the worst; by the time I would enter my tent, I would be shaking all over, my tunic as soaked as if I had gone for a swim in the river. It would be all I could do to remain standing long enough for Diocles and my body slave to remove my armor before I collapsed. My strength gradually returned, though I never took my health and vitality for granted again after that. I had always been robust and healthy, and in fact had never really been sick, other than a cold a time or two. In retrospect, I possessed the same impatience and barely concealed contempt for anyone I considered weaker than me that most men like me have, but this period of my life changed my outlook considerably. The training progressed in the same manner that it always had in the armies of Rome, though I found it interesting to experience the building of a Legion from the other side, as it were. However, I did institute some changes in the training regimen, but more importantly, and more unpopular were my reforms of hygiene and dietary practices. I put special emphasis on weapons training as, taking a page out of the manual as written by Gaius Crastinus, I selected weapons instructors personally, not confining my evaluation to men who were considered the proper rank, preferring to focus on ability to the exclusion of all else. This produced some grumbling, yet it was nothing compared to the howls of protest when I increased the ratio of meat to bread, particularly from the veterans salted into the ranks. I even got a visit from Vellusius, who was willing to risk incurring my wrath, gambling on his status as one of my original tentmates to avoid it.
He was right; I was more amused than anything, pretending to listen intently as he vehemently protested at the injustice of being forced to eat more meat. “We’re not wolves, we’re men. We need our bread,” he began, and I could not resist the urge to have a little fun at his expense.
“So you’re saying you would rather be a cow or sheep than a wolf?” I asked, stifling my grin at his obvious confusion.
“Cows? What do cows have anything to do with this? Besides, if you force us to eat cow for most of our meals, we might as well become one.”
He beamed at me triumphantly, sure that I would at the least be impressed with his logic.
Instead, I feigned puzzlement, replying, “First, I've ordered that you and the rest of the men eat more meat, I never said what kind. Second, the reason I ask if you would rather be a cow than a wolf is because cows eat grain. Bread is made from grain, so you're eating the same thing as a cow when you eat bread.”
Now he was completely flummoxed, and stammered, “I don’t see what that has to do with us eating meat.”
“Simply that if I were given the choice, I'd rather be a wolf, the beast that eats dumb animals like cows, than the beast that gets eaten.”
“So, you're trying to instill in us the animus of the wolf?” he asked doubtfully, and I decided then that I would let him off the hook, so I beamed at him.
“Exactly right, Vellusius. I knew that if anyone was smart enough to understand, it would be you.”
I rose, signaling that we were done, and he left, probably more confused than when he walked in, as Diocles gave me a mock scowl. “Master, you are a very evil man.”
“That I am,” I agreed.
The truth was that it had nothing to do with instilling any spirit of any kind in the men, and everything to do with their overall condition. It all came back to my newly found appreciation of my previous years of good health. As I thought about it, it seemed that I had always recovered more quickly from deprivation and exertions that lasted for long periods of time than the other men. If it had just been me, I would never have formed the belief that it had something to do with my diet, but the years in Gaul had shown me that men with similar eating habits as myself seemed to have the same recuperative abilities. Many a campfire discussion centered on the inexhaustible energy of the Germans in particular, who were renowned for their diet composed almost exclusively of meat of varying types, and how much effort it took to kill them. I did not, nor do I now believe that this was a coincidence, so when the 10th was reborn, I decided that it was the perfect time to put my ideas to work. While I had been Primus Pilus for several years by this point, the 10th had been composed of veterans, and I held no illusions about being able to force them to adhere to my new orders without a full-scale mutiny. With a Legion composed of about three-quarters young first-time enlistees, I saw this as my opportunity. Even so, there was quite a bit of resistance. The other change I instituted was not quite as radical, but in my mind was just as important, which was imposing stricter adherence to the need for frequent bathing. While it had always been army policy to provide baths at all but overnight marching camps, the enforcement of making men use the facilities was haphazard at best. Now I was insisting that during vigorous training cycles like we were undergoing at this point, all men would bathe daily, with exceptions made only for those who had guard shifts or were on the sick list. Vivid in my memory was the plague that swept through our winter camp that had claimed Remus those many years before. I remembered that Remus in particular was resistant to frequent bathing, and in fact would only do so when he was threatened with a beating by the rest of the tent. Finally, I ordered the Centurions to focus more on weapons drills than exercises such as forced marches, believing that with young men like the ones that now made up the 10th, the weeks we would be marching to Rome would knock them into better shape than anything we could do around the camp. My major concern was that these youngsters would be ready to fight when the opportunity came, and it was towards that end that I had the Centurions focus their energy.
~ ~ ~ ~
It is as at this point that it probably makes sense to name at least the Pili Priores of the 10th Legion for this second enlistment, along with the Centurions of the First Century. Of course, as I have already described, Scribonius was the Secundus Pilus Prior. The Third was led by Servius Metellus, who had been my Hastatus Prior, and suffice it to say that my initial impression of him as being a possible problem had been unfounded, though he was still as ugly as ever. The Fourth’s Pilus Prior was Vibius Nigidius, who had been the Pilus Posterior and had in fact been running the Cohort in everything but name. These Cohorts were traditionally the first line of battle, although in reality it changed depending on circumstances, except for the First Cohort, which was always first. This meant that the Centurions leading them had to be the strongest leaders and best fighters of the bunch, and I was happy with them all. The Fifth Cohort was commanded by Marcus Trebellius, who had been the Pilus Prior of the Ninth, where I felt his talent as a fighter was going to waste. The Sixth’s Pilus Prior was Servius Gellius, and he was the most junior of the Pili Priores, which did not sit well with some of the other Centurions, but next to Scribonius, I considered him one of the smartest men in the Legion. More importantly, he kept a cool head in battle. The Seventh had Titus Marcius leading it, a man only marginally less ugly than Metellus, but who was almost as good with a sword as I was. These Cohorts were the second line, and were al
most always called on when it was time to turn the battle in our favor, or on those rare occasions when the first line was hard pressed and needed support. The final three Cohorts were the last line, usually only used as reserves and in the hottest fighting. The last three Cohorts were also somewhat ironically the Cohorts most likely to be sent on independent duties, such as holding forts or towns or going on foraging parties. So, while the men were not necessarily expected to be the best fighters, their Centurions had the opportunity to come to the attention of the Primus Pilus and Legates commanding the army by showing initiative and sound decision-making. The Eighth was led by my former tutor and brother-in-law Cyclops, while the Ninth Cohort’s Pilus Prior was my old Pilus Posterior Marcus Glaxus. It had taken some persuasion on my part to get him to accept command of the Cohort, ultimately accepting my argument that it would give him a chance to shine that he did not otherwise have. Finally, the Tenth was led by Gnaeus Nasica and of all the Centurions, not just the Pili Priores, he was the biggest question in my mind, not because of any perceived weaknesses, but because I did not know him as well as I knew the other men. However, he had been highly recommended by a number of the other Centurions, including Scribonius, whose judgment I trusted implicitly.