by R. W. Peake
“Oh,” Volusenus muttered, “go piss on your boots.”
As he intended, this caused Pullus to roar with laughter, knowing that, before Volusenus had arrived as a paid man in the Fourth Cohort, he had never uttered what was one of Pullus’ favorite epithets, and Volusenus grinned at him.
Turning serious, Pullus returned to the subject. “You know, it might be a good idea to go out in town and buy one. I know that Scrofa apprenticed with a Gaul, and his blades are supposed to be some of the best that money can buy, at least up here in Germania.”
Decimus Scrofa was one of the smiths who had opened his shop in Ubiorum; the reason that Pullus knew about the quality of his work was due to the fact that Titus, Alex’s younger brother, was now an apprentice for the man. It was true he had not been working there long, but young Titus, Diocles’ youngest son, who had been named for the great Titus Pullus, had been extremely enthusiastic in singing Scrofa’s praises, and when Pullus asked around of the men who had purchased one of his blades, he was satisfied.
It was with this in mind that Pullus added, “I’ve thought about buying a spare from him. The only thing,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly, “is that it doesn’t seem right since I have my grandfather’s gladius.” When Volusenus gave him a quizzical glance, he gave a shrug as he explained, “It would be like I didn’t have enough faith in it and thought it would fail me at some point.”
While Volusenus was certainly aware of the history behind the gladius Pullus carried, he had long before sensed there was more to Pullus’ attachment for the blade than just the fact that his grandfather and father had wielded it. He suspected that it served as the last tangible reminder of Pullus’ grandfather that made it so special; he was unaware of the identity disk that Pullus wore around his neck at all times, and of the existence of the several scrolls that, in their own way, were even more important than the superbly crafted weapon that was the subject of their conversation.
Returning his mind to Pullus’ suggestion, Volusenus nodded and said thoughtfully, “I just may do that.”
“Well,” Pullus reminded him, “if you do, you need to do it fast. We’re going to be marching again, and soon.”
Volusenus knew this was the case, but he felt an impish urge to repay Pullus’ ribbing with some of his own, so that, with a straight face, he asked, “Is that what Germanicus told you?”
As he had hoped, this caused Pullus to groan and roll his eyes, muttering, “Not you too! If I had a fucking sestertius for every time someone has asked me about Germanicus and his plans, I’d be waving goodbye to all of you marching out the gate because I’d retire!”
“As if you’d know what to do with yourself.” Volusenus laughed at the idea of Titus Pullus not being in his spot, under the standard.
It was a conversation that would come back to haunt Volusenus, the thought coming to him, usually in the dead of night, that he had inadvertently sentenced the man he had yet to learn was his father to the fate that he had suffered. In the moment, however, it was just a humorous note that ended the conversation as both men headed to their quarters.
While it was true that this was an abbreviated offseason, there was still a sufficient amount of time for other events to occur, and one of them would end up having a profound impact on the men of the Fourth Cohort. And, as often happens with such matters, it came as a total surprise to the impacted men, and it began with Macer being summoned to the Primus Pilus’ quarters, something that Volusenus was aware of only because he was in the Cohort office dropping off his daily report. Not that it registered as anything important, either to Volusenus or to Macer, such summonses being an almost everyday occurrence since Sacrovir required regular updates on the state of the preparations each of his Cohorts were making to march. It was only because of what came about as a result of this meeting with Sacrovir that Volusenus had any reason to remember seeing Macer, snatching up his vitus, walk to the door behind Sacrovir’s body slave and follow him out.
“Let’s see what the Primus Pilus wants,” Macer said with a sigh that was so eloquent, it caused both Volusenus and Lucco, the Cohort’s chief clerk, to exchange a grin behind his back.
His business concluded, Volusenus returned to his own office, his thoughts already back to the one that had occupied his mind for the majority of the time, and that was whether or not to purchase the blade from Scrofa that he had tested, one of several. Somewhat to Pullus’ consternation, he had gone to the two other smiths in Ubiorum to look at their offerings, but had quickly realized that Pullus had been correct in his assessment of Scrofa’s work. And there was one that, while he would not say as much to Pullus, had attracted his eye, in a literal sense, because, like the great Titus Pullus’ gladius that he had purchased as a young Gregarius more than sixty years earlier in Gaul, it was darker than the others, and had a subtle but distinct pattern of whorls and wavy lines that Scrofa had assured him were not just for aesthetic purposes.
“This is lighter but stronger than a standard blade,” Scrofa had explained, but when Volusenus had pressed him for details on how that was accomplished, the smith had replied flatly, “I don’t give those secrets out to anyone, Centurion. At least, not yet. Maybe,” he had jerked his head in the direction of the youth who, while they had not spoken directly, Volusenus knew was the younger brother of Pullus’ clerk, “if this youngster turns out better than the other apprentices I’ve had, one day I’ll tell him. Until then,” he had finished with a shrug, “it stays with me.”
That had been a week earlier, and Volusenus had been in an agony of indecision, not because of any doubts about the quality of the blade; from the moment he picked it up, he recognized that this was a truly superb weapon, something that was worthy of being carried by a Tribune at the very least, especially if one judged it by the cost. Part of his reluctance was based in the fact that he did not actually have the cash money on hand; like many young Roman men of wealth, he was profligate in his spending, but he also knew that he could very quickly remedy that situation with a letter, sent by courier to Mogontiacum, where his mother Giulia was now living. However, therein lie part of the problem, knowing very well that, if it was ever learned that Volusenus had been reduced to asking his mother to send him funds, he would never hear the end of it, not only from Pullus, but from the rest of his fellow Centurions. There was another aspect, though, one that perhaps ran more deeply, that troubled Volusenus, and it was a sign of how, however unwittingly, he was like his real father, because he was afraid that by buying a blade that resembled the one belonging to Pullus, men like Vespillo would take great pleasure in pointing it out as an attempt to imitate the only other Centurion who matched Volusenus when it came to his stature and strength. Never far from his mind was the first day he had been introduced to Pullus, when Vespillo had laughingly commented that they could have been father and son; it would not be until much later that it all made sense to him that, in fact, this was nothing more than the truth. Still, it ran more deeply than that; even before Gnaeus Volusenus was aware of the existence of the grandson of the Prefect Titus Pullus, he had been concerned with the perception others held of him, inordinately so if his mother Giulia was to be believed. This was the real cause of his hesitance in making the purchase, and when he returned to his quarters, he shoved it to the back of his mind, telling himself that he did not have to make the decision in that moment. The men of every Legion had been given a half-day off from duties, which meant there was not much for Volusenus to do, and since he was not an avid reader, he was about to go out into town, when there was a knock on the door, then Krateros’ head appeared.
“Centurion, Lucco just left. He said the Pilus Prior is calling a meeting of all the Centurions in his office.”
“We just had one this morning,” Volusenus grumbled, but he was moving as he did so, grabbing his vitus; it never occurred to him that Macer’s own trip to the Primus Pilus could be connected with this summons.
When he arrived in Macer’s quarters, Pullus was already
there, and while nothing was said, Volusenus got the sense that he had been there for some time, but this was a secondary consideration when he saw the older Centurion’s face. His expression was one that Volusenus had never seen before, and was so unusual that for an instant, Volusenus thought that perhaps there had been another momentous event along the lines of the death of the Princeps, which the Roman world was still trying to adjust to despite it having occurred almost six months earlier. Before he could ask, however, both Vespillo and Structus arrived, dropping onto the row of stools in front of Macer’s desk, while Volusenus took his own accustomed spot, next to Pullus, who barely seemed to notice his young counterpart.
“What is it?” Volusenus whispered. “What’s going on? Why do you look like that?”
This seemed to jerk Pullus from whatever reverie he had been in, but he did not look over at Volusenus as he shook his head, saying nothing. Only then did Volusenus turn his examination to Macer, and the first thought was that the Pilus Prior could have been Pullus’ twin, if only because of their expressions. It’s like, he thought, they both got hit between the eyes and are stunned. And, as he was about to learn, this was very close to the truth in a figurative sense. Cornutus had just arrived, muttering an apology, dropping onto the lone remaining stool. Volusenus saw that he was not alone in sensing something important was happening, but Macer did not speak until Lucco had finished pouring each man a cup, notably not cutting it with water.
Only after the clerk left the room did Macer speak, and his voice was husky, but it did not seem to Volusenus that it was from shouting as he began, “I appreciate you coming so quickly, and this will be brief.” He gave a glimmer of a smile as he added, “I know that you all have plans that involve heavy drinking at the Dancing Faun.” The other Centurions chuckled softly, while a couple of Volusenus’ comrades nodded their agreement, but Macer seemed either unable or unwilling to continue, and to Volusenus’ sudden unease, he was certain he saw a gleam in his Pilus Prior’s eyes that reflected the flickering light from the nearest oil lamp. Is he about to cry? Volusenus thought, and now his stomach began to clench, thinking that it had to be truly disastrous news, indeed. That was why it took him a moment to decipher Macer’s next words, as he said, “I will no longer be commanding the Fourth Cohort, effective immediately.”
Volusenus’ reaction, or non-reaction, was shared by the others as the Centurions responded in a manner that conveyed a sense of deep shock, and for the span of a heartbeat, it was completely silent.
This was broken by Vespillo, and Volusenus immediately heard the undertone of what he was certain was hope as the Pilus Posterior asked, “What does this mean for the Cohort? And,” he added in an obvious afterthought, “may we ask why, Pilus Prior? Where are you going?”
While it was true that Volusenus had not been with the Cohort as long as the others, it was certainly enough time for him to recognize that Vespillo’s question was not based in anything other than self-interest, and he had been informed by Pullus how Vespillo had always resented Macer for usurping what Vespillo believed was his, the command of the Fourth Cohort.
If Macer was aware of the reason for Vespillo’s questions, he did not show it, although he did not hesitate to answer, “It means that you have a new Pilus Prior. Because,” now, he did pause, and Volusenus was certain that this was Macer’s way of paying Vespillo back for all the slights against his leadership of the Fourth although his face betrayed nothing, “I’ve been promoted to Secundus Pilus Prior.”
The reaction that this prompted was less restrained, as both Cornutus and Structus simultaneously offered their congratulations to Macer, and Volusenus quickly added his voice, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Pullus was still silent, as was Vespillo. The latter he understood; Vespillo was many things, but he was no fool, and he knew that just by the way Macer worded his announcement, Vespillo had received the message that, once again, he was being passed over.
It became clear that not only did Vespillo understand, he leaned over to look past Cornutus and Structus to fix Pullus with a stare that was filled with venom, although his tone was neutral as he asked, “It’s you, isn’t it, Pullus? You’re the new Pilus Prior?”
Pullus did not reply, at least immediately; instead, he heaved a sigh, keeping his gaze at some spot on the wall behind Macer, then he nodded.
It was left to Macer to tell Vespillo, “This was Sacrovir’s decision, Vespillo. He selected Pullus to take the Fourth.”
“And,” Vespillo’s bitterness was impossible to miss, “did he ask you for your opinion, Pilus Prior?”
“Yes,” Macer answered tersely; suddenly, Volusenus wanted to be anywhere but where he was.
“And?” Vespillo pressed, and now Volusenus had to suppress a groan at what he viewed as Vespillo’s obtuseness. “Who did you recommend? Pullus? Or,” his voice began to rise in pitch and volume, “the one Centurion who’s been in the Fourth longer than anyone else? And who’s been the Pilus Fucking Posterior for almost a decade?”
By the time Vespillo was finished, he had risen from his stool, and his body was rigid with fury, while Cornutus, who was directly next to him was leaning away from his counterpart, looking up at him with real concern.
Macer listened but otherwise made no indication that he felt threatened, and then answered in a deceptively mild voice, “I was asked who I thought the best man in the Legion, not just the Cohort but the entire Legion, to command the Fourth was.” He paused a heartbeat, but just as quietly, finished, “And I said that I thought Pullus was.”
Vespillo was obviously angry; that he had lost control of himself was made obvious to Volusenus when he sneered, “Of course you do! You and he have been closer than flies to cac since you showed up here! As,” he added, unnecessarily, in Volusenus’ view, “a paid man! So of course you think his cac doesn’t stink!”
For the first time, this seemed to rouse Pullus, but rather than say anything, Volusenus heard him heave another deep sigh, then, placing both hands on his knees, he pushed himself to his feet and turned to face Vespillo. Volusenus’ view was partially blocked by Pullus’ body, so he had to lean backward to have a clear view, and he was grimly amused to see how Vespillo suddenly seemed to realize how his intemperate words might be interpreted by Pullus.
Which was confirmed when Pullus asked, no more loudly than Macer had, “Are you saying that I’m not qualified to run this Cohort, Vespillo? Or,” he added, “any Cohort, for that matter?”
“N-no,” Vespillo’s ire and aggressive posturing had vanished, “I’m not saying that, Pullus! I’m…” He searched for something to say and finished lamely, “I’m just saying that I’m qualified too. That’s all.”
“Nobody said you weren’t,” Macer interjected, but while his tone was polite, Volusenus was certain it was taking an effort on Macer’s part. “In fact, you were the only other candidate that the Primus Pilus considered.”
“But he passed me over,” Vespillo muttered bitterly, “again.” Suddenly, without asking for permission to do so, Vespillo spun about, walked to the door, flung it open, and stalked out of Macer’s office.
Volusenus was not surprised in the least that Macer not only made no attempt to stop Vespillo, he did not even make an issue of the blatant disrespect, and his reason for doing so was made clear when he looked over at Pullus, and with a grin, said, “Now he’s your problem.”
The laughter was spontaneous, and it served to break Pullus out of his trance, as the remaining Centurions all stood to offer their congratulations. After clasping arms with Structus and Cornutus, Pullus turned to Volusenus, who had thought to make some sort of jest, but found to his surprise that there was a sudden lump in his throat.
“Congratulations, Pullus,” he said, and he was completely honest when he added, “I can’t think of a Pilus Prior I’d rather follow than you.”
“That’s nice to know,” Macer interjected, and while there was heavy sarcasm in his words, Volusenus could see he was more amused tha
n anything.
Nevertheless, Volusenus felt the blood rush to his face, but when he tried to protest, Macer waved him off, and he was inadvertently saved when Structus asked curiously, “What happened to Pilus Prior Culleo? He wasn’t in the post very long. Where’s he going?”
Macer’s smile faded, but he did not hesitate to reply, “I don’t know where he’s going, but I do know that he’s leaving the army.”
This was certainly unusual, but while Volusenus was certain that there was more to the story, Macer would say no more. After a round of toasts to Pullus, who looked more embarrassed than pleased, the meeting broke up and they left Macer to begin packing his belongings.
“Can I walk with you now that you’re a Pilus Prior?” Volusenus teased.
“How else will I keep an eye on you?” Pullus countered, and Volusenus had the sense that the older Centurion was slowly working through what had to have been quite a surprise.
Which prompted Volusenus to ask, “So you had no idea this was coming?”
“None,” Pullus promised, shaking his head. “I’m as surprised as anyone.”
“Not Vespillo.” Volusenus blurted this out, and it caused Pullus to chuckle and agree, “No, not Vespillo.”
“I wonder where he went?”
Pullus considered Volusenus’ question, then offered a guess. “Probably to find out if he can bribe his way into the spot.”
Volusenus looked over at Pullus in shock, and he gasped, “Gerrae! He doesn’t think that could possibly work, does he?”
The look Pullus gave him was one he would remember, what he thought was a combination of amusement and a little scorn, and he answered, “I don’t see why not. It’s worked before. Although,” he allowed before Volusenus could reply, “it wasn’t with the 1st, but I saw it happen back in Siscia.”