by R. W. Peake
~ ~ ~ ~
In our part of the world, on the other side of the mountains separating Hispania from Gaul and more importantly Rome, the men of the 10th were at least looking and acting like a Legion, though only the drawing and shedding of blood would determine if they were truly Legionaries. Pollio was off chasing Sextus Pompey around the hills, but much to our disgust and discomfort, Marcus Lepidus had returned, making a thorough nuisance of himself. The actions of this puffed-up piece of cac led to the first great crisis with the new 10th. Naturally, daily inspections became part of our routine, which meant that the punishment list was correspondingly long. At first, we managed to restrict the punishments to extra duties or monetary fines, although taking money from men who had yet to receive their first allotment of pay was an administrative nightmare that had every Centurion, or more accurately, their clerks cursing Marcus Lepidus. However, fairly quickly this was no longer enough for our general, as I found myself summoned to headquarters to face the little man, who looked even smaller seated behind the large desk of the commanding general. Standing before him, I wondered why Pollio, who was not that much larger than Lepidus, looked as if he belonged behind that desk while our current commanding general looked very much like a child who has sneaked into his father’s office and is playing at being paterfamilias.
“Primus Pilus, I have summoned you here in hopes that you can explain to me exactly why you are intent on disobeying me,” Lepidus began, trying to look severe, but only managing to look petulant.
Reacting more to the tone than the words, I immediately stiffened to intente, adopting the vacant stare and clipped tone of the perfectly correct Centurion addressing a superior who he loathed. “I'm sorry, General, but I confess that I'm at a loss as to the General’s meaning. Perhaps if the General could explain what he's referring to I could be more helpful.”
Lepidus gave a theatrical sigh as he rolled his eyes at one of his toadies who was standing next to the desk, smirking at me.
Despite knowing that this was all a huge game, I felt my stomach tighten in anger, yet things were about to get worse. “Such is my lot in life that I'm surrounded by imbeciles and idiots,” Lepidus said. I had to fight back a laugh at the sight of the toady’s face when he realized that Lepidus was referring to him just as much as me. “What I'm referring to, Primus Pilus,” Lepidus continued with exaggerated patience, “is after more than a week of inspections, I have yet to see one good flogging, despite having a list as long as you are tall of men who have been found in gross violation of the standards of the army of Rome.”
For a moment, I considered pointing out that a coat of varnish having a speck of dust on it was hardly a gross violation of anything, but I knew that it would do no good.
Besides, my mind was busy dealing with something else he had said, once again the evil numen that makes me say things that are better left unspoken taking over my tongue. “Sorry, sir, but I'm confused at your reference to a ‘good flogging’. I don’t think any man who's been flogged would refer to it as good. Sir.”
I heard a sharp cough. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the toady looking at the floor, clearly trying to suppress a laugh, and I thought that perhaps I had found an unlikely ally.
After all, Lepidus had called him either an imbecile or an idiot, I was not sure which. Lepidus, on the other hand, was not amused at all. “Perhaps if you took your duties a little more seriously instead of thinking of clever things to say, the men would not need as much of a flogging as they obviously do,” he snapped.
Now it was my turn to get angry. “If the General is unhappy with my performance, he's free to relieve me at his earliest convenience,” I said coolly.
“Don’t think I wouldn’t,” he shot back, but we both knew he was lying.
Perhaps it is boastful of me to say so, but my reputation in the army was such that if Lepidus tried to relieve me, it would bring about too many questions that he would not want to answer. Every governor is corrupt, but Lepidus was even more corrupt than most of the men sent by Rome. Despite his overall stupidity, he was smart enough to know that taking an action as drastic as relieving the Primus Pilus would draw unwanted attention. Further, he had to know that I could be counted on to point those asking the questions in the right direction. He sat there glaring at me as I stood staring at a point high above his head, neither of us saying a word for several moments.
Finally, Lepidus cleared his throat as he looked down at some papers on his desk. “Yes, well, I don't believe it needs to come to that anyway. All that needs to happen, Primus Pilus, is that some men are flogged. That's not too much to ask, is it?” he gave me a grimace that I supposed passed for his smile, and it was all I could do to keep from gaping at him in open amazement.
Then, something clicked in my head, as I understood what was really taking place. Marcus Lepidus wanted to see men flogged, not for any other reason than he got some sort of satisfaction from the sight.
“Very well, General, it will be as you command. I'll make sure that you'll see some. . good floggings, but I do have one request.”
Lepidus’ expression changed, and he sat back, his fingertips pressed together as he looked at me with unconcealed suspicion. “What is it?” he asked warily.
“Just that the floggings are done without the scourge, and just the lash.”
His look of disappointment confirmed my suspicions. While I had not thought it possible, my loathing for the man increased tenfold.
He frowned, shooting a glance at his toady, then opened his mouth, but I cut him off, suddenly inspired. “Excuse me, General, but it’s just that if we used the scourge, a fair number of the men punished would either die or be completely useless, and we're at a point in our training where it would be too much to expect to find a replacement and get them trained up to the proper level.”
Oh, he did not like that one bit, yet even men like Lepidus had their limits and could not be seen to hurt the readiness and training of a Legion for his own personal satisfaction. Because that is exactly what would be spread throughout the army, and if it was common knowledge in the army it would not take long for it to be known in Rome, where the climate was such that it would make things very dangerous for Lepidus.
Biting his lip, he gave a curt nod, saying only, “Very well. That is all.”
He dismissed me with a disgusted wave of his hand, not bothering to return my salute. I exited the office, trying to decide how I was going to get out of this mess.
~ ~ ~ ~
“He what?” Scribonius’ mouth dropped open in shock.
I just nodded, pointing to his cup of wine to indicate that he should take another drink.
“We can’t do that,” Balbus said, his expression mirroring that of Scribonius.
This time, I just shrugged, replying, “What choice do we have? By the book, any man written up more than twice for any offense, no matter how minor, is subject to being flogged. Besides that, by tradition and custom, whatever the Legate commanding a Legion decides is as close to law as one can get, and this Legate also happens to be the governor.” I shrugged. “At least he agreed for the men not to be scourged.”
Balbus snorted in disgust. “That was big of him. Let’s be sure and tell the boys who had a smudge on their buckle or their blacking smeared that at least they won’t be scourged. I’m sure that will make them feel better.”
“It should, because they’d probably be dead,” I shot back, stung by what I perceived as their lack of appreciation that I had gotten at least that much of a concession from Lepidus. Leaning forward, I said intently, “Look, you weren’t there. There was no changing his mind because this isn’t about discipline, it’s about that bastard getting some sort of sick satisfaction in seeing men striped bloody.”
Balbus looked at me in open disbelief, while Scribonius sat back, nodding thoughtfully. “I had heard that about Lepidus. Apparently, he's a huge fan of the arena, and owns a stable of gladiators himself. But his interests don’t stop there; s
upposedly he tortures his slaves for his own amusement.”
Balbus looked at Scribonius in surprise, but I had long ago learned that my friend was a fount of knowledge about the upper classes of Rome, and he had always been right before so I saw no reason to doubt him now.
“So what do we do?” Balbus asked.
Again, all I could do was shrug. “We obey orders. Tomorrow we set up the frame in the forum, and some poor bastard is going to get striped.”
~ ~ ~ ~
The next day, things went exactly as we had feared, except that it was even worse because there were a total of 20 men deemed by Lepidus to be worthy of flogging. There was an audible gasp every time as one after the other, the men under punishment were called to the front of the formation, name after name after name. I could feel the eyes of the Centurions boring into my back, but they had all been warned what was coming and cautioned against making any sort of display that would give Lepidus the excuse to have them punished as well. While I did not believe Lepidus would be stupid enough to try having a Centurion flogged, I was not willing to take the chance. So many men were selected that the punishment took the better part of the rest of the morning, with another problem presenting itself, though Lepidus offered the solution, thereby making things even worse. Each man was to receive ten lashes; with 20 men that was 200 lashes that somebody had to administer. Generally, a man from the punishment detail could inflict about 50 lashes before his arm gave out, and there were only two men per Legion, so for a brief moment I thought that either some of the men would escape flogging, or each man would only receive three or four lashes. Unfortunately, Lepidus had brought along a whole stable of men trained in the arts of torture and punishment, and he ordered these men to inflict the punishment. At the sight of the heavily muscled, scarred men striding forward to take their place by the frames, there was a low buzz of muttering that swept through the Cohort formations, and I could feel the hair on the back of my neck raise at the sound of a hugely angry Legion. As much as I understood and agreed, I could not allow this to continue, so I executed an about-face to glare at the men, none of whom could look me in the eye, and I was gratified to hear the noise come to a complete stop. Still, I felt the undercurrent of anger, worrying me that this was only the first day. Unless Lepidus realized what a huge mistake he was making, I was not sure that I could control the men, youngsters or not. I would be lying if I said that there was a part of me that did not want to control them, that would love to see them tear Lepidus into little pieces. That would not do my career any good, however, so I just had to hope that somehow the crisis that I was sure was coming could be averted.
~ ~ ~ ~
The punishment over, the men were marched back to their respective areas, while I scanned their faces as they marched past, my heart sinking at their expressions of open anger and disgust. Fueled by the veterans, who would no doubt be telling them that things had never been this way while marching for Caesar, or even for that bastard Labienus, the Centurions and I were sitting on top of a rapidly boiling pot. With that in mind, I called a meeting of all Centurions and Optios. Not wanting to have the type of discussion we needed to have in earshot of either the men or Lepidus’ minions, we met at the small theater in town, with guards at the entrances to make sure that nobody could eavesdrop.
“You all know why I called this meeting,” I began immediately, without any greeting. “We're dealing with a situation that frankly I'm at a loss how to deal with, and I'm looking for ideas on how we can contain things before the men revolt.”
I stopped, waiting for someone, anyone to speak up, but the silence was complete, the men looking about for someone else to go first. After several seconds, I looked to Scribonius in appeal, but he shook his head. I insisted, waving my hand in a beckoning gesture while pointing to the spot next to me with the other hand, and finally, with a sigh, he stepped forward. I had no idea what he was going to say, but my hope was that having Scribonius speak first would break the ice and get the other men talking.
“I don’t think there’s anything we can do, really.”
I looked at Scribonius in disbelief, furious that this was what came out of his mouth, yet he returned my gaze with a look that said, “You asked for this.”
However, it did get the other men talking, if only to howl in protest at the idea that we were helpless. “We run this Legion, not Lepidus,” someone shouted, and there was a roar of agreement.
I held up my hand, but it took a moment to get the men quiet. “Then how do we take back control of the Legion?” I asked.
“Make him realize that we’re the only thing keeping the men from tearing him to pieces,” I recognized the deep voice of Balbus, and I looked over to see him leaning against the wall, arms folded.
“How do we do that?” I countered, knowing that he had some idea already or he would not have said anything.
He shrugged, then studied his fingernails as he spoke. “I don’t think that approaching him directly would do any good. He’d just get his back up like most patricians, then we’d be worse off than before. Is there any among his toadies who he listens to, who has some influence with him?”
I gave it some thought. I had seen that he seemed to rely on one man in particular, one of his Tribunes whose birth was not so high as to threaten Lepidus yet high enough that Lepidus considered him worthy to be in the same room. I do not remember the man’s name, but it was his that I mentioned.
“Then I suggest that you approach him and have a word with him,” Balbus said.
“And what if that doesn’t work?” someone demanded. “What if it makes him angry? Then what?”
“Then,” Balbus said calmly, as if he were discussing the next day’s training schedule, “we kill him.”
The fact that nobody batted an eye or raised even the tiniest voice of protest, no matter how half-hearted, told more about our hatred of Lepidus than anything else could. With that, the meeting adjourned, and I went looking for the Tribune.
~ ~ ~ ~
He agreed to see me. When I asked that the ensuing conversation take place only between the two of us and that he dismiss even his slaves he did not seem particularly surprised, giving me my first hint that he had been expecting some sort of meeting. Once one of his body slaves poured us each a cup of wine, the slave departed to leave us sipping from our cups, neither speaking for a moment.
Then the Tribune broke the silence. “Well, Primus Pilus, I don't believe that this is a social call. What is it that you wish to discuss?”
As usual, I preferred the direct frontal assault. “We have a problem, Tribune,” I began, as he raised an eyebrow but said nothing, forcing me to continue. “It concerns the actions of General Lepidus and his excessive use of the lash on the men for minor offenses.”
The Tribune leaned forward to set the cup down, his face revealing nothing. Speaking very carefully, he replied, “I'm not sure what you mean, Primus Pilus. Nothing that the Governor,” he put special emphasis on Lepidus’ civilian administrative title, which outranked that of ordinary General, “has ordered is outside the regulations or the customs of the armies of Rome.”