by R. W. Peake
“As do I,” I replied evenly. “But I’m glad that we settled that question early on. Thank you very much for your insight, Pilus Posterior.” I managed to keep my face completely blank, but it was a struggle.
Before we were marched off to our respective winter camps, the army was assembled one last time, for the final decoration ceremony. My friends were correct; once again I was singled out for decoration, another set of phalarae, causing them to joke that it was lucky I was as big as I was or I would not have room for the decorations. I was one of 20 men of the 10th who were decorated, while there were probably a total of more than 200 decorations given out to the Legions and auxiliaries, particularly the cavalry, the German cavalry most especially. Awarding so many decorations meant that we were standing there for a very long time, and my legs were still very shaky because I was not totally recovered from my wound. In fact, I would never fully recover, at least in the sense that I was never again as limber in some ways, unable to twist my body like I was able to before it happened. Finally I went to the Legion doctors who told me that scars of this nature form a tough tissue with no flexibility that covers the torn muscle, and that I would just have to live with it. Therefore, I stood as still as I could as each Legion received their awards, then each eagle was garlanded with the traditional ivy as a sign of our triumph. Once all that was done, we hailed Caesar as imperator three times, and he was presented with the ivy crown as symbol of his status. I know that a few years later his thinning hair got to the point that he wore it all the time, but he still had enough hair then that he did not feel the need. He did wear it the rest of the day, then put it away.
In the wider world, while the rebellion was essentially crushed, there were still embers of resentment smoldering among the tribes. The 10th was indeed sent to Narbo, the farthest south of any of the Legions. Because of that, we experienced a quiet winter, and somewhat depressingly a quiet next year. The other Legions were not so lucky; before the end of that year Caesar was on the march again, first against the Bituriges, taking the 11th and 13th into the field. It was not much of a rebellion, Caesar realizing that it was more out of desperation than for any other reason because their lands had been ravaged, making them desperately short of food. It took little more than Caesar marching into their lands for the rebellion to collapse where, in order to keep the peace, Caesar did not exact any punitive punishment. Instead of the normal custom of taking hostages and allowing the Legions to enrich themselves by plunder, he paid the troops a bounty out of his own pocket of 200 sesterces per Gregarius, and 2,000 per Centurion as compensation, leaving the Bituriges unmolested. Less than a month later, the Carnutes did the same thing, so Caesar called for the 14th to join him, along with one of Pompey’s Legions that Pompey lent Caesar almost a year before that was in garrison and had not marched with us much, the 6th Legion. I would come to know the men of the 6th very well indeed, but that was still in my future. Caesar forced the Carnutes to flee from the town of Cenabum, as once again the Legions occupied the homes in the town, with the Carnutes forced to live off the land, hiding in the woods and foraging for food in the middle of winter, meaning it was not long before they submitted like the Bituriges. Then, just a couple of weeks later, it was the turn of the Bellovaci, except this was a larger threat than either the Bituriges or Carnutes presented, because the Bellovaci was one of the two tribes that held back from joining with Vercingetorix, so they did not suffer in the same manner as the other Gauls. Now, Caesar called the 7th, 8th and 9th, and despite the fact we knew it was only because we were so far away, this did not sit well with the Legion. We were accustomed to being the Legion that Caesar relied on and now sitting in camp far away, we could not help feeling like this was a slight on our honor. Consequently, I will believe to my dying day that this was when the seed was planted that blossomed a few years later, when the 10th mutinied during the civil war. The one benefit of all this activity was that I was proven right in my prediction, which quieted down Celer and Niger, if only for a bit.
This was the pattern for the next whole year; a local rebellion would flare up, and Caesar would go rushing off with first one group of Legions then another stamping it out. In almost every case he acted with his usual clemency, but only on one occasion did he make an example of the rebels and I believe that it was a sign of his frustration and growing anger at the intransigence of the Gallic tribes that he did so. It was at the town of Uxellodonum, and as you no doubt know, gentle reader, Caesar ordered the hands of the entire garrison chopped off then thrown in a pile outside the town walls as a sign to all of Gaul that Caesar’s patience and mercy had its limits. Meanwhile, the 10th sat in garrison throughout all of these small campaigns, and I have already mentioned what I believe the end result was, but it had an impact on a more personal level, in a number of ways. Professionally, the lack of opportunity for combat was problematic in asserting my authority over the Cohort, since it was on the battlefield that I truly felt in my element, and where I bowed my head to no man. Whenever I was fighting, I suffered no doubts, no hesitation, and never questioned myself about whether I was doing the right thing. Handling a Cohort in garrison presented a different set of challenges than commanding them in battle, but were just as difficult, perhaps more so, at least in their own way. Celer always looked for subtle ways to try to undermine my authority, usually focusing on things that emphasized my youth, which as I discovered seemed to be the main source of contention. My battle record during my time in the Legions was perhaps not the most notable in the entire army, yet I do not think it is hubris when I say that my name would be among those mentioned as contenders, so those Centurions giving me problems were wise enough not to comment on that aspect of my leadership, since above all things, rankers respect fighting ability. They instead concentrated on my overall life experience, or lack thereof, word of which filtered back to me through my friends.
“I have more gray hairs on my head than the days that Pullus has been shaving,” was one of the more memorable comments.
What they did not realize was that although it was irritating, it was equally as amusing to me, just as it was to Vibius, because we were the only two who knew that I was in fact only 26, not the 27 that was my official age. Still, these attempts were just one more thing I had to worry about, along with keeping my men out of trouble, a full-time occupation in itself. Legionaries are funny creatures; as much as we grumble about the constant marching, the back-breaking work of making a camp and the dangers posed in battle, we quickly become bored by peace, and Caesar’s army more than any other in Roman history, I believe, suffered most acutely from this malady. We were constantly in action for eight years, as a result losing our taste for a peaceful life. Although in some ways it was similar to when we were new Gregarii, young and full of energy, eager to show the outside world how tough we were, now it was a much more dangerous proposition. Before, it was as much boyish exuberance that fueled our confrontations with the civilians in the surrounding area; now it was simply that we were so inured to killing that it seemed to be just as suitable a solution to a dispute as settling things peacefully, or even with one’s fists. We had killed so much that now it held all the emotional impact on us of making a fire, or cooking a meal. In short, the ability to inflict violence on another man was simply a skill, in the same manner as being a carpenter, or being a good orator. Naturally, this attitude was a guaranteed way of causing problems with the civilians in the town, so that I found myself heading into Narbo every few days, carrying a purse heavy with coin, my mission to buy off an enraged father whose son was stabbed to death over a dicing dispute, or a family left destitute by the killing of the husband and father of the family. What I always found interesting was how quickly most people’s rage turned to calculation when they heard the jingle of the coins, to the point that within a few moments the weeping invariably stopped and the haggling began, with a man’s life reduced to a number of coins, the only point of contention now being the relative value that the life held to the inj
ured party. All of the money that I spent was my own, although it did not make much of a dent in my fortunes, since I decided to sell both of the slaves I was awarded. But not every situation could be salvaged with gold, and I will never forget the day that I heard Vibius call for me outside of my room. The tone of his voice immediately told me that something serious was afoot, so I did not bother to make myself look more official by belting my tunic the way I was supposed to, bidding him enter instead.
The look on his face was almost grief-stricken, and his voice choked as he said, “Titus, you’re needed in town. It’s Atilius. He’s in a lot of trouble.”
Vibius was not exaggerating, and I knew the moment I heard the circumstances that I did not possess enough gold to buy him out of trouble this time. The months of peace were hard on all of us, but were the most wearing on men like Atilius who required the absolute discipline of an army on campaign to keep him from falling into his old habits. Every day of peace eroded the hold the army had on Atilius, and while all of my old tentmates did whatever they could to keep him from destroying himself, after a time it became clear to them all that if a man is intent on doing something, no matter how stupid and dangerous it is, he will find a way to do it. And truthfully, one’s patience only goes so far when dealing with men like Atilius, at least it did in my case and I suspect I was not alone. Still, now that the inevitable had happened, we were all horrified and upset that it finally came to pass. This time, Atilius somehow convinced himself that a local girl was giving him signals of encouragement that any amorous advance he made would be welcome, then one night decided that the time was right, following her from the market where she bought bread for the evening meal, back to her home. If what he did was not bad enough, the fact that she belonged to the local nobility was more than enough to tip the scales and seal his fate. Waiting for dark, he climbed up to the second story, somehow picking the right window to crawl into the girl’s room. He was still in the room when I arrived, held there by three very angry men, the only other occupants being three bodies, the blood pooled and congealed around them. As angry as they were, these men knew that if they killed Atilius before alerting us and giving us the opportunity to administer justice on our own terms there would be a lot more deaths, and they would not be Romans. Stepping into the room, being brought there by Vibius and the rest of my old section, my nose wrinkled at the smell of death and I was struck by the fleeting thought that I was getting soft. There were three men, each of them holding a Gallic sword, but Atilius was not giving them any reason to worry that he would resist as he sat slumped on the floor a short distance away from the body of the girl lying on the pallet that had served as her bed. She had been pretty, and young, not looking a day over fifteen. Her face was pale, and there was a gaping hole under her chin where her throat was cut as she lay on her back, eyes staring wide up at the roof of her house. Her nightclothes were ripped open, so she was essentially naked and as I saw my men, Didius most overtly, gazing at her naked body, I felt a surge of anger.
“Cover her up, you Gallic bastards,” I spoke savagely, two of them blanching in fear, while the third man became visibly angry, his face turning red, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword as he took a step towards me. Immediately, my men drew their own weapons, surrounding me, pointing them at the angry Gaul, his hostility immediately deflating to become as obsequious as the other two.
“I apologize for my anger, Centurion,” he spoke in heavily accented Latin, “but the only reason we have not covered her up was because we wanted you to see the scene exactly as it was found.”
I was mollified by this response; it made sense, so not wanting to make things worse, I adopted a civil tone as well. “Very well. I have seen her, so please cover her up.”
My command was obeyed immediately, one of the men taking a blanket lying on the floor and covering her whole body. The other two bodies I was not concerned with; they were men and while wearing their nightclothes, were decently covered. They lay in a small heap, one on top of the other, and a quick examination told me that they were killed by what was clearly a Roman blade, both with thrusts to the chest. Satisfied, I turned to where Atilius was sitting, seemingly oblivious to the world around him, his knees drawn up with his arms wrapped around them, mumbling something unintelligible. Stepping towards him, I saw the sword sitting on the floor next to his hand, covered in blood, as was he, although a quick examination told me that none of it was his. Well, I thought to myself, he always could fight. That was never his problem. Moving closer, once my feet came within his view, his head slowly rose as he focused and recognized the Roman boots on my feet. Almost comically slow, his gaze traveled up my body, as if he was trying to take in exactly what was standing before him, but the moment his eyes got to my face he broke into a smile. Despite my anger and disgust I felt my heart twinge, watching as he pulled himself unsteadily to intente, and I could smell the wine emanating from every pore of his body, my nose again wrinkling from the sour smell.
“Pul….I mean, Pilus Prior Pullus, sir. It’s good to see you sir! There’s been some sort of misunderstanding, but now that you’re here, I know it'll be taken care of, and we can go home, right sir?”
I kept my face hard, except I did not want to put him on his guard, so I asked him in the same tone I would as if we were sitting around the fire. “First we have to find out what happened here, Atilius. Once we get that straightened out, then we’ll see what happens next.”
I knew I had to be careful not to give the Gallic men the impression that we were just going to escort Atilius back to camp then free him, and I felt their hard eyes on me as I talked to Atilius, measuring my intent.
“Sir, I didn’t do anything wrong,” protested Atilius, prompting growls of rage from the Gauls, along with gasps of disbelief from Atilius’ comrades.
Before I could say anything, Vibius burst out, “You didn’t do anything wrong? Atilius, look around you. This place looks like a butcher’s shop.”
“I was just defending myself,” Atilius exclaimed, his eyes never leaving my face, knowing that ultimately it was what I believed that would determine his fate. “Me and the young lady were having a nice quiet time, when those two,” for the first time, he looked away from me, indicating the two corpses with a contemptuous nod, “came busting in, waving their blades about and roaring their gibberish at me. I tried to explain, but then she started screaming like a numen with her ass on fire, and started clawing at me. See,” he pointed to his face, and indeed he did have scratches along his cheeks, not particularly deep but clear for all of us to see. I had to shake my head; he actually thought that pointing out the scratches that the girl inflicted on him was going to help him corroborate his story, not condemn him further.
“Atilius,” I tried to be patient with him, though it was difficult, “those scratches don’t help back up your story that you and the girl were having ‘a nice time’ as you put it. In fact, it does just the opposite.”
A glimmer of dawning crossed his face, but he was not going to cut his losses and keep his mouth shut. “You know how women are sir, especially these noble-born cunni,” the use of that word caused one of the men to howl in outrage and he took a step forward, the only way he was stopped was by the point of the sword Vellusius held to his chest. The Gaul glared at Atilius, then spat on the floor, muttering something about Roman dogs under his breath. This situation was growing worse by the moment and I knew I had to draw matters to a conclusion as quickly as I could.
Atilius, however, was oblivious as he continued. “They want to have a roll with us low-born trash because they’re just like all women, they love warriors, neh? But the moment those two kicked in the door, she had to pretend that I was doing something she didn’t want, but that ain’t true sir. She wanted me sir, that’s all there is to it. We’ve been seeing each other almost every day, and today in the market, she let me know she wanted some of ol’ Atilius and she couldn’t wait for it.”
That was the first glimmer of hope tha
t Atilius might have a chance to escape with his life, and I pounced on it. “Atilius, this is very important. Did anyone else see you two together talking in the market?”
For a moment, Atilius looked puzzled at my question, then just as quickly my hopes, and his, were dashed. “Talking sir? I wouldn’t say that we were talking. We didn’t exactly have a conversation, sir. She just let me know by…….you know how women are sir. It’s not what they say, it’s the way they look at you.”
There was a chorus of groans from his comrades; they knew then that Atilius was doomed, except he still seemed to be oblivious to his rapidly approaching demise. He responded to the reaction of his friends by protesting, “You boys know I’m right, you just don’t want to say so in front of the Pilus Prior. A woman doesn’t have to tell you she wants you for you to get the message, you boys know that.”
“Atilius, if what you say is true, why are her clothes ripped off?”
I watched him closely as I asked the question; seeing the flicker of guilt flash across his face, my heart hardened towards Atilius in that instant. If I were convinced that he honestly thought that he was invited into the girl’s room, no matter what transpired, while it might not have changed his fate, it would at the very least make me more sympathetic and more inclined to seek some sort of alternative to what would probably be his punishment. But in that moment I saw that Atilius knew that what he was doing was wrong, if not morally then at the least against the law, and my sympathy for him vanished like a drop of water thrown into a sizzling pan. Regardless, Atilius was stubborn, although I imagine that by this point he realized he was fighting for his life and was not about to give up without putting up some sort of defense.