by R. W. Peake
I was now wealthier than I ever dreamed possible, and because I had been frugal, I had more money than I could ever spend in a lifetime, so I decided that I would use my own funds to provide a bounty of 1,000 sesterces for immunes of the second grade, and 2,000 for those of the first grade. Trades like tanning are considered second grade immunes, while smiths are of the first grade. While using my own money would solve the problem, it did not make me particularly happy, even with General Pollio’s assurances that I would be reimbursed. I cannot deny that Caesar’s tardiness in giving the men the bounties that he had promised was in the back of my mind, but ultimately the 10th needed these men badly, and fortunately, these actions solved that problem, as within two weeks we filled the empty spots with skilled men. The only problem was that my funds had been depleted by more than half, and despite Pollio’s promise, I knew there was no real guarantee that I would ever see that money again. Fortunately, I was not only reimbursed, but Pollio ensured that I was repaid at ten percent simple interest. While I would like to think it was simply because of the regard in which I was held by General Pollio, by the time there were funds available for such matters, men like me had become very, very important to men like Pollio. But that is for later.
~ ~ ~ ~
As the day approached where we were scheduled to begin the march to Rome, the pace of training picked up, the men beginning to look more like Legionaries of Rome every day. I was almost back to normal, though my endurance was still not where I wanted it to be, while the wound in my chest had tightened into a knot of scar tissue that restricted my movement a bit, causing a dull ache at the end of the day or after a bout of hard activity. I had resumed my practice of a third of a watch of weapons training every day, stripping to the waist as I worked so that the youngsters could see the scars that I had earned over the years. I was definitely rusty, but before long the habits formed over the 20 years I had been training, starting when Vibius and I were barely in our teens with Cyclops as our teacher, came back. I must admit that it was a somewhat strange feeling to command the man who had introduced me to what it meant to be a Legionary, but Cyclops and I had talked about it, and he assured me that he did not have any problems with the arrangement. The one topic we did not talk about was Vibius, who I was sure I would never see again now that he had left the army, particularly since I decided that I would not be returning home to visit my sister and Phocas, mainly to avoid the possibility of running into him. While my anger towards him had cooled, it was still there, forming a hard knot in my soul that I did not want to rupture by coming face to face with him. The remaining time we spent in uniform after our confrontation at Pharsalus, we had the buffer of our separate ranks and the regulations of the army keeping either of us from spilling blood, although it would have been suicide for Vibius even to draw a weapon on a superior. If we were to come face to face now, neither of us would have that protection; I could easily imagine a situation similar to that time years before when Vibius and I had first come home on leave and we had taken our revenge on our childhood enemies Marcus and Aulus. It was Marcus and Aulus who had unwittingly introduced Vibius and me when we were boys and I came upon the two of them dumping Vibius headfirst into a bucket of cac. I had been a large boy, strong even for my size, so I thrashed the two of them easily, though Vibius had helped. After we had joined the Legions, we came home to visit for the first time, running into the two of them in the forum, where they had been up to their old tricks, except this time we were no longer boys; we were hardened soldiers. I still have some regrets about killing Marcus, and I believe the surprise at seeing the two of them contributed to my perhaps overwrought reaction. It was the memory of that day that was the basis of my decision not to go home before we began marching to Rome, although I was not about to give that as the reason when I wrote to my sister telling her that I would not be visiting. Instead, I fell back on the same excuses I had always used when I wrote to her, telling her that I would not be coming for a visit; that my job kept me much too busy. This time there was at least a grain of truth; breaking in a new Legion, especially one that was preparing to embark on a two-month march was a job that never stopped, as we were now little more than two weeks away from marching, although our destination had changed. Instead of marching to Rome, we would be marching to Narbo, where we would take ship to sail to Syria to meet Caesar and the rest of the army. The men had not been informed of this change, and I thanked the gods for the small blessing that the Legion was still too green to sniff out the news before we were ready to let them know. A long sea voyage is enough to make even veterans nervous, and we did not need to deal with a panicked bunch of youngsters while we were marching.
~ ~ ~ ~
There are moments that stay with a man, remaining as vivid as if whatever event being recalled happened just an instant before, no matter how many years and intervening memories have occurred in between. I was sitting at my desk, the Legion having arrived in Narbo, and was filling out ration reports the night before we were scheduled to board ships and start sailing, when Diocles entered my office, and he did not need to say a word for me to know that there was something terribly wrong.
“Master, you're summoned to General Pollio’s headquarters immediately,” his voice was choked with an emotion that I could not immediately identify, but the distress in it was plain to hear.
I looked at him in some alarm, my fingers tightening around my stylus as I tried to divine what was happening. “What is it?” I asked, more sharply than I should have, but his manner had triggered a sense of deep unease in me that was unsettling.
“I. . I. . can’t say for sure Master. I wasn't told anything specific, just that you needed to report immediately.”
I stood, signaling to him to bring me my armor, but he shook his head, saying, “The General’s messenger was very specific that you didn't need to worry about being in full uniform, that you just needed to get there as quickly as possible.”
My heart was hammering in my chest as I studied Diocles’ face for clues, yet he refused to meet my eyes, which alarmed me even further. “What do you know, Diocles? What have you heard?”
He shook his head, clearly miserable, then I saw a glint of tears in his eyes. “I don't know anything for sure, Master. I just. . I just overheard something, but I don’t know what it means exactly.”
“Then tell me what you overheard, Diocles. I'm not going to punish you.”
He looked up at me then, and I saw what I thought was a hint of anger in his eyes, but his tone was as formal and correct as always. “That wasn't my fear, Master. It’s just that I don't want to repeat something that causes you distress that turns out to be untrue, because what I heard was too horrible to even contemplate.” Seeing that I was not going to let it go, he finished, “It concerns Caesar. Something has happened, but I don't know what exactly, just that it wasn't good. Now you really must go to see the General.”
His words rang in my ears as I hurried to the headquarters building, my mind buzzing with the possibilities. I was one of the few people who knew about Caesar’s falling sickness, having been in his office when it struck one time, yet somehow I knew that whatever had happened had nothing to do with any illness. By the time I arrived at the headquarters, my stomach was churning, my sense of unease only intensifying when I was waved immediately into the building, then into Pollio’s office as well. Pollio was seated at his desk, but his face was hidden from me, his head in his hands, his eyes looking down at a piece of paper. He did not look up when I reported to him, and now I was sure that I was going to vomit all over his desk, such was my agitation. If only I had known that this was the best I would feel for some time.
“Caesar has been murdered.”
I stood there, sure that I had misheard him, even though another part of me knew that I had not, as I waited for him to say more.
The room suddenly started to lurch about. I realized that it was now going to be a race between whether I threw up or fainted, so without asking permission
, I staggered to a chair, sitting down heavily. “What exactly happened, sir?” I managed to ask.
He finally looked up. I could see his eyes were rimmed in red, and he looked suddenly old.
He was older than Caesar, though he had a vitality of a much younger man, but now all that life force seemed to have dissipated like smoke, and he spoke with a weariness that only comes when a man has lost all hope. “He was murdered,” Pollio repeated dully.
I waited for more, but he said nothing for several more moments. “Sir,” I prodded gently. “Can you tell me the details?”
Sighing, he indicated the letter in front of him. “He was assassinated in the Senate, the day before he was leaving for the Parthian expedition. He had some final details of business to go over with the Senate, and had called for a morning session. That was where his assassins struck.”
“Who did it?”
He looked down at the letter, reading off the names of those vile bastards, whose deeds mark them forever as the basest, most despicable men in the history of Rome, if not the world. “Publius Casca and his brother; Ligarius; Cimber; Decimus Brutus; Cinna; Gaius Cassius,” at this he looked up into my eyes, and through the pain and sadness I saw a great, burning anger, the same thing that I was sure was mirrored in my own expression, as he read the last name. “And Marcus Junius Brutus.”
I gasped. “Brutus? Brutus was one of them? Why everyone was sure that Caesar was his father!” I exclaimed. Without thinking, I blurted, “If I ever get the chance, I am going to kill that cocksucker.”
In theory, a man of my class had no business threatening violence against a patrician, but I was beyond caring, and besides, it elicited a ghost of a smile from Pollio. “You'll have to beat me to it, Pullus.”
“So what do we do now, sir?” I asked. Pollio sighed, then gave a shrug.
“I have no idea, Pullus. I have absolutely no idea.”
~ ~ ~ ~
I staggered out of the praetorium, not even noticing that the members of Pollio’s staff who were in the outer office looked much the same as I did. Pollio and I had discussed what we should do about the news, jointly deciding that I would break the news to the Centurions, since there was no way that this kind of thing would stay secret long enough to arrange for a more formal announcement. When I came back to my tent, Diocles was waiting, and one look at my face confirmed that what he had heard from the slaves was indeed true. He burst into tears, the sight of his anguish then triggering my own flood, so we sat there for several moments sobbing like babies.
Finally regaining a bit of composure, Diocles asked, “What does that mean, Master? What will happen to you?”
His question caught me completely by surprise, because I had not had time to consider anything other than trying to absorb this cataclysmic change. However, once the words hung in the air, the implication of them threatened to crowd everything else out of my brain. What exactly did this mean, I wondered? I sat there pondering Diocles’ question, my mind whirling with all the various possibilities. It was no secret whatsoever that I was Caesar’s man, so depending on who stepped into the vacuum of power that could be a dangerous thing for me. On the other hand, as I thought about it, I recognized that as high as I might have risen from the circumstances of my birth, I was still a small fish when compared to men like Pollio, who had to be considered an even greater threat to the assassins, should they come to power. What made me dangerous was my position in the army, and the influence I held over my Legion. I would have been a fool not to recognize that, for that reason alone, I could be perceived as a threat. Voicing my thoughts to Diocles, he listened intently, then was silent as he thought about the problem. I had learned to value Diocles’ counsel at times like this; his devious Greek mind thought in ways that were foreign to me, but were nonetheless helpful.
Finally, his face creased into a frown as some idea formed in his mind, then he said, “Perhaps there's a way to turn this to your advantage.”
I looked at him in dull surprise; I was still reeling from the news, and truth be known, feeling sorry for myself. “How?” I asked, without much hope, or interest for that matter.
“You're in control of a Legion of Rome,” he said quietly.
That got my attention.
I sat up straight as I thought about what he said, then I shook my head, “General Pollio commands the Legion, not me. I'm Primus Pilus, but I'm outranked.”
“The General does command, but you control the Legion, Master,” Diocles replied carefully, and despite myself I glanced around to make sure that we were alone.
What Diocles was saying might have been true, but at that moment, it was incredibly dangerous, as I was suddenly reminded of all those men who had just disappeared from around the fires; some of them were Centurions like me. Now I was getting irritated, because like all members of that pesky race, Diocles always seemed to speak in riddles at times when plain speaking is most useful.
The fact that he was taking precautions to protect me never occurred to me, and as usual, I gave my tongue free rein. “Stop circling about the subject like a vulture does a baby ewe,” I snapped. “Say what you're thinking, that's an order.”
Diocles’ face reddened, but his tone was even and respectful as he spoke his mind. “Like it or not Master, you're in control of the Legion. General Pollio may command it, but the men will follow you, and I suspect that you know this to be true. That means that you have power, and over the next days, weeks, or months, that means that you have value to those that need help in achieving their aims. All that I'm saying is that if you value your skin as much as I do, then it would behoove you to make sure that the players in this drama are reminded of that fact.”
I could see the merit in what he was saying, yet I was still unsure of where he was going.
Then, a horrible suspicion began to grow in me, and I looked at Diocles with new eyes. “Are you suggesting that if it looks like they're going to come out on top, that I should throw my lot in with the bastards who killed Caesar?”
I cannot express my relief at the sight of Diocles emphatically shaking his head. “No, Master, that's not what I'm suggesting. I know that you would rather fall on your sword than side with the men who murdered Caesar. All that I'm saying,” he suddenly fell to his knees in a dramatic gesture, something I had never seen him do before, “in fact, I'm begging, is that you not declare your intentions should you be approached by agents for the assassins who come to feel out what side you'll take. Let them think that they have you, or at the very least that you're open to listening to what they have to say, or I'm afraid that you'll meet with an accident of some sort.”
I gave a harsh, barking laugh, pointing at the scar on my chest. “In case you haven’t noticed, I take a lot of killing. I’m not worried about the likes of Brutus, or Cassius for that matter.”
“Well, you should be,” Diocles said flatly. “You may be hard to kill, but you're not immortal. And they are very, very rich men, and you've just seen that they'll stop at nothing. Do you think you’re better protected than Caesar?”
That caught me up short, I can tell you. I stared hard at Diocles, seeing him as if for the first time. We had talked about politics and the situation of the moment on several occasions, but he had never talked to me in this manner before. My respect for his shrewdness and ability to assess a situation in such a short amount of time went up immeasurably, because I knew that he was absolutely right. However, I do not think even Diocles knew just how right he would prove to be over the next months and years. It is with this knowledge that perhaps the fact that I recouped my outlay of cash for the immunes in such a relatively short time, and with interest, makes more sense.
~ ~ ~ ~
Taking a few more moments to compose myself, I dried my eyes then made attempts to cover up the signs that I had been crying, ordering Diocles to do the same before I sent him to summon the Centurions. While the tent of the Primus Pilus is large, cramming all 6 °Centurions into it meant that the men would have to s
tand shoulder to shoulder, packed together like dried fish in a barrel. So while Diocles was gone, I moved all the furniture out of the way to make room, using the time to think through all that Diocles had said. I had never been good at hiding my feelings, but I realized that if I valued my skin, I would have to put on the acting job of my career when the inevitable visitors came to feel me out about my loyalties. In the beginning at least, I could not openly declare my feelings towards either side, until I had a better idea which way the winds from Rome were blowing. Perhaps the hardest part would be to disguise my outrage and horror at what happened to Caesar, but I knew that it was essential that I appear to be essentially unmoved by Caesar’s assassination, viewing it as a political issue rather than a personal tragedy. By the time the first Centurions came filing in, my face was a mask and my emotions were stuffed away, and I was once again the Primus Pilus of the 10th, a hardened professional soldier of Rome, determined not to give the Centurions now arriving a clue as to what happened. Although I could tell that they knew something momentous had occurred, none of them gave any indication that they knew what had actually happened. Spotting Scribonius in the second group of men to enter, I waved him over to me. His face was a mix of confusion and concern as I beckoned for him to enter my private quarters, whispering that I would join him shortly. When Cyclops and Balbus arrived, I did the same for them. Without saying anything to the rest of the men, I entered my private quarters to face my three friends, pulling the leather flap that served as a door down to give us some privacy, keeping my voice low so that what I was about to tell them would not be overheard.