Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana Read online

  And it is his extraordinary life and accomplishments that have proven to be composed of both bad and good things to me, in equal proportion. I am not unaware that, in the Legions, my name has opened many doors, particularly in the area of promotion, yet I will also insist to my dying breath that following in the footsteps of a legend creates a burden that is unique; even when, as in my case, I possess the same physical qualities that he did in terms of my size and strength. But as I can attest now, beginning my fifteenth year under the standard, it takes much more than size and strength to make a Legionary who can not only climb the ranks but who can even approach matching the record of my Avus. And it is not without some sadness that I can admit, if only in these pages that will be read by my progeny, that although it has taken me some time to acknowledge it, I now know I will never hope to match his record of achievement, let alone surpass it. However, call it hubris perhaps, which, according to both of my parents, I have in an abundance that matches the man who I am trying to emulate, what I will also believe with equal fervor is that my falling short has as much to do with another part of the legacy left to the heirs of Titus Pullus. My father was the first to taste some of the bitter gall that is part of our lot, but I have had more sips from that particular cup than I would care to admit. Nevertheless, it serves to remind me that as much as things might appear on the surface to have changed in the Rome of my day when compared to that of my Avus, there is one aspect that not only remains the same, but I am convinced is eternal. And that, my dear as-yet-unborn descendants, is in how jealously those men of the upper classes of Rome guard their place on the ladder, and how bitterly they resist any of those they consider inferior who dare to climb up a rung or two on their own. That is the unfortunate part of the legacy left to my father, me, my brothers, and whoever follows me by the exploits of Titus Pullus.

  Since this is a continuation of the account that I started last winter, I will not go into the details, other than to reiterate it was my Avus who first brought my family to the attention of not just the upper classes, but the most important man in Rome, in the form of our beloved Augustus. And although my Avus believed that his exploits and all he had done for Rome would put my Avus in a good light to Augustus, this was not the case. As I have learned, once one becomes an object of interest to Augustus that scrutiny is not only penetrating, it extends to all members of that object's family and close friends. Consequently, I found myself ensnared in the machinations and maneuverings of ambitious men, almost from my first moment under the standard and was, and still am, viewed with suspicion by those for whom the politics of Rome are more than of a passing interest. For, as I was to learn very quickly, the competition and jostling for favors from those higher up the ladder that is an endemic part of Roman society is just as ruthless, perhaps even more so in many ways, among the members of the Head Count that comprise the Legions, as it is in the most luxurious villas in the city of Rome itself. This was especially true in the immediate aftermath of my first campaign, because it happened to coincide with what turned out to be the last campaign of a man who was widely considered to be a prime candidate to fill the caligae of our dear Augustus, whenever he shuffles off the world stage and takes his place alongside Divus Julius as a god. His name, as you undoubtedly know, was Nero Claudius Drusus and he was my first Legate, in command of an army composed of the 14th, 16th, and my own 8th Legion as we joined him in campaign, his fourth such against the various tribes we call the Germans. The gods, however, had another fate in mind for Drusus than contending for the curule chair of the Princeps, and I must say that it was a rather perverse one. Drusus was well loved by those who marched for him and I include myself in that number, but not just because he was the first to decorate me for my exploits in battle. He was, by all accounts, a brilliant military commander, although in honesty, I must say I did not see him at his finest in what would turn out to be his final campaign. Ostensibly, his aim was to defeat the remaining handful of German tribes who had yet to taste Roman iron, in the attempt to not so much subdue them as teach them the folly of crossing the Rhenus to raid those lands that had first been conquered by Divus Julius but are now thoroughly Romanized. I would be remiss if I did not point out that it was my Avus who was one of the hard men of the Legions under his command who made this conquest for Rome possible, and when I read his own account, which I am now emulating with my own record, however poorly, it was impossible to miss the pride that leapt up from his words that he had been so blessed. Subsequently, decades later, this campaign was to finish what Drusus had started some four seasons before. Our main goal was the subjugation of the Marcomanni; at least that was how it started, although like all campaigns, what is the original objective often ends up being one of several, depending on the reaction of the tribes through whose territory we marched. But, while we did face the Marcomanni and thrash them soundly, it was not until after fights with other tribes who were not content to allow us pass. What marks that campaign as notable is not just Drusus' death, but the manner in which it happened, along with all the signs, portents, and omens that attended the campaign before his demise, which only became clear in hindsight after the event occurred. Perhaps the bitterest blow, not just for Drusus but for those of us who admired him, was how he died, which was not by sword, spear or javelin, but by mud. Mud that caused his horse to slip and fall, breaking Drusus' leg, which at first did not seem to be that serious but which, quickly enough, became the thing that caused his demise. His condition became so bad that, although we were within two days' march of Mogontiacum, where there was presumably better care available, we could not move because that would have killed him outright. Instead, we had to stay in place long enough for the marching camp to gain a name, something I have never heard of happening before or since. Camp Cursed, or just the Accursed; any man who was in Drusus' army knew exactly what another was talking about just at the mention of the name.

  It was through Drusus' death that I became entwined, for longer than I like to admit and in a more involved way than I ever wanted, becoming just a piece on the board for the game played by my Primus Pilus. However, even now, I am puzzled about what Publius Canidius' ultimate goal was; whether he was accruing wealth for his own ascent up the ladder or if it was just for the monetary gain itself, while he was content to stay put in his spot within our hierarchy. Or, while it pains me to say it, given all the pain and loss that came about because of his actions, perhaps the goal was the game itself, played just because he loved it. As troubling as it is to think this way, as I grow older, I find myself becoming more convinced that this, in fact, is closer to the truth of the matter.

  Chapter 1

  My time in my original Century and Cohort, the First Century, Fourth Cohort of the 8th Legion, came to an end not long after Drusus' death. In retrospect, it should not have surprised me all that much, especially after what I had done to Maxentius, the Gregarius in my Cohort reputed to be the best man with a sword in not just our Century, but our entire Cohort. I understand now that we were destined to clash; there can only be one bull in a herd, and I have been one since childhood. At first, it was because of my size when compared to my boyhood friends, but as I grew and I began training for the Legions, my view of myself as one destined to be more than just a face in the ranks grew in commensurate fashion. By the time I arrived in Siscia to join the 8th, enlisting in the Cohort that had been led by my father as Quartus Pilus Prior, I had not only been trained by my father, whose own tutor had been my Avus, but I had been blooded as well. And, in the ensuing campaign – my first – I acquitted myself in such a manner that I came to the attention of Drusus. Consequently, I also drew the same from Maxentius, but whereas Drusus decorated me, Maxentius did his best to show the Cohort he was still the better man. As it turned out, he was not, but although there are acts I have committed that cause for sleepless nights, crippling Gaius Maxentius in a sparring session by shattering the elbow of his sword arm is not one of them. And, comparatively speaking, when I think of the acti
ons I took in this, my second campaign, I can say with utter sincerity that Gaius Maxentius is the least of my crimes, such as they are. Nevertheless, I cannot help thinking that some sort of divine punishment was meted out to me, because by doing as I did to Maxentius, I made myself vulnerable to be used by my first Primus Pilus, Publius Canidius, although I will always think of him by the name that he had earned from his first days as a Tirone, Urso, so named because he was covered in coarse, black fur like his namesake. The reason for my vulnerability was because Maxentius was more than just a good swordsman.

  Since I am lucky enough to have been allowed to read my Avus' story, given that privilege by my father on the day I became a man, I can say that the kind of creature Maxentius was is a relatively new development in the Legions. Although Titus Pullus never said so outright, surprising in itself, given his habit of not curbing his tongue, I surmise that the development of the kind of role Maxentius played came about as a result of the civil wars that racked Rome for so many years. And while I am an admirer of Divus Julius, who is still the greatest military commander Rome has ever produced, I am not as emotionally involved as my Avus was when it comes to the great man. From my observation, he was the Roman who first wielded the Legions of Rome as a purely political tool, although I know Lucius Cornelius Sulla could vie for that distinction as well. However, it was in what we call the second civil war, the great struggle between Augustus, when he was still Gaius Octavianus Caesar, and Marcus Antonius, where the Primi Pili of the Legions got their first real taste of the kind of power that comes from being, in essence, a kingmaker. Both sides of the struggle lavished gold, lands, and other enticements to men they otherwise would not have deigned to acknowledge, let alone court so assiduously, in their attempt to field an army that would prove victorious. Consequently, it became, if not commonplace, at least not unknown for the Primus Pilus of a Legion to simply switch sides based on the highest bid. This is something of a generalization; not all Primi Pili were so mercenary in their choices. From my Avus' account, for example, I can attest that the day he refused to let his beloved 10th Legion board the ships belonging to the Triumvir of the East, Marcus Antonius, on the morn of the Battle of Actium, was one that lingered with him for the rest of his life. It was not, however, because of the act itself, but its aftermath, and I believe this was when the seed of the enmity that Augustus held towards my Avus and the men of the 10th Equestris was planted, whereupon it blossomed and bore a poisonous fruit indeed. Although the men of the 10th were never given any choice in the matter, Augustus declared that Caesar's most favored and famous Legion had been disloyal in not "choosing" to follow him after the Battle of Philippi, when the victors divided the army between them. As my Avus maintained, I am sure to his dying day, none of the men of the Legions had been given any choice in the matter; instead, they had been summoned to the Praetorium and issued their orders. Yet, for reasons I still cannot fathom, from Augustus' viewpoint, the 10th had been disloyal by obeying their orders to march with Antonius, and as my Avus was to learn, Augustus never forgets a slight done to him or his dignitas. Consequently, as first my father, then I, learned, his punishment of my Avus as Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion at the time extended far beyond just my Avus. It is a consequence of Augustus' displeasure that rather than finding myself living a life of a wealthy equestrian with all the opportunities it provides, instead of purchasing my way into the Centurionate like other equestrians, I started as a lowly Tirone. Of course, now that I have the perspective that only time brings, I am extremely thankful I did so, especially after seeing other Centurions who purchased their posts and how they have performed. This is not to say that all such men are not effective leaders; just most of those I have seen.

  I bring this up to explain the circumstances in which I found myself, after my transfer from the First of the Fourth, into the First Century of the First Cohort. Not only that I was also brought into the First Section of the First Cohort, which, under any circumstances is considered a huge honor, particularly for a Gregarius as green as I was then and in the aftermath of my first campaign. It was true I had distinguished myself, but in besting Maxentius in a sparring session, while doing it in such a definitive and decisive way, it forced him to be cashiered from the Legion, even then, as full of myself as I was, I understood there were deeper underlying reasons for the move. This became especially clear to me after I learned that Maxentius had been one of Urso's men, and I do not mean in the sense that every man in the 8th was one of his men. No, Urso had used Maxentius for a variety of special tasks that he considered important, but the circumstances and scope of which he had no desire becoming known by that entity we call "the army," which means, of course, Augustus. Putting it plainly, I was now Urso's muscle, subsequently entering into a period of my life that still troubles me. Do not mistake me; I am not ashamed of my actions by any stretch, because I understood what would have happened to me if I refused his bidding. Nevertheless, knowing this is so does not help me sleep at night, as my mind still forces me to recall some of the things I did to my own comrades. And, as seems to be my habit even now, from my first moment in the First Section, I managed to draw the enmity of the Sergeant of my section, a man named Publius Philo, who had his own mysterious past. Looking back, perhaps the only good thing I can say is that at least it happened the first day when I reported, so I immediately knew where I stood.

  "So you're the big fucking hero," was the way Philo introduced himself to me when I showed up at the hut for the First Section.

  As anyone reading this undoubtedly knows, every Century of the First Cohort is double the size of every other. However, while each section hut is correspondingly larger, that is not true when on campaign. Although I was never told why this is so, my assumption has to do with the difficulty for a mule to carry a tent twice as large as normal. Naturally, this does not extend to the permanent buildings of a winter camp, and I cannot say that it was not without some trepidation that I showed up with all of my belongings, such as they were at the time, and able to fit all of them into my pack. Clearly, he had been warned I was coming, because Philo was standing outside the hut, and we stood there for a moment sizing each other up. At the time, he looked vaguely familiar; it was not until I wrote my father and informed him of the identity of my new Sergeant that I learned not only why I had seen him before but how much danger I was in from my first day. At the moment, however, I was vaguely aware of his familiarity, if only by type and not facial features. He had the dark, swarthy complexion of a man who always looked in need of a shave, even if he had the section slave perform the task moments before. Thickly built, he had a slightly jutting jaw that, along with a nose that had clearly been broken more than once, practically screamed his bellicose nature and that he was the type of leader who preferred to settle matters the simplest way, by brute force. Probably not surprisingly, this aspect of his character was the least troubling to me; only later would I learn enough about the man to despise him thoroughly. Still, even then, I was not afraid of Publius Philo, and when I look back at the moment, I suspect that he sensed this as well, which instantly put us at odds. For, as I was to learn, Philo only knew one way to lead the men of his section and that was by fear and fear alone. Also, as I learned firsthand, yet had discerned even before I joined the Legions when I read my Avus' account and talked to my father, leadership through fear has a very short lifespan of effectiveness. Unfortunately, at least from Philo's perspective, I suppose, I did not fear him in the slightest and while I would learn how dangerous he could be in many ways, he never scared me physically. Part of that, I freely admit, was because of a combination of my youth and size, although I like to think that, even then, there was something more to my attitude of indifference towards this part of Philo's character. Realizing he was actually expecting some sort of answer, I tried to disarm him with a humorous approach.

  "That's what they tell me," I replied cheerfully. "All I know is that I stuck the pointy end of my sword into some bastard and, suddenly, I
got decorated for it."

  My attempt, however clumsy, went completely unnoticed; at least that is my guess, judging from his reaction.

  "Well, we'll see just how much of a hero you are," he sneered. "Because this is the First Section of the First Century of the First fucking Cohort of the 8th Legion!"

  "At least I showed up in the right spot," I quipped.

  I suppose I was still making at least a half-hearted attempt to ease my way into my new section, but not only did it not work, it apparently enraged Philo enough that, without any warning, he lashed out with his big, scarred fist. Fortunately for me but not as much for Philo, he had sent a clear signal of his intentions, so despite being burdened with my pack, it did not take much effort to dodge his blow, although I felt the puff of air against my cheek. His swarthy face turned even darker as he pulled his fist back to launch another blow, except I was saved, at least for the moment.

  "Oy! Philo! What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

  The voice came from over my shoulder, but while I had had little to do with him to that point, I recognized it as belonging to the Optio of the First Century. More importantly, it was a man I knew from my childhood when he had been a Gregarius in my father's Cohort, although not his Century. His name was Gnaeus Tiburtinus, and, from that moment on, he would prove to be one of the few friendly faces that would surround me for most of my early time in the First Century. Being completely honest, I was surprised that Urso had promoted him to the post of second in command of the most important Century in not just a Cohort but the entire Legion. And in most cases, the Optio of the First of the First is also the first on the list for the Centurionate, except this turned out not to be the case for Tiburtinus, although I did not learn why for some time. But as I was to learn about Urso, he was a complex man, and despite never having this confirmed, my suspicion is that Urso not only promoted Tiburtinus, he valued and trusted him because, frankly, he was a good man. Or at least as good a man as a Legionary of Rome can be. In many ways, Tiburtinus reminded me of my father, although he did not resemble him physically in the slightest. In looks, he was more of a match for Urso, just not built quite as thickly. Now he was standing, hands on hips, glaring at Philo, whose fist hovered in midair for a moment as he met Tiburtinus' stare.