That night proved to be every bit as long as I feared, made even more so because, adhering to the orders of the Primus Pilus, the officers stayed in their respective quarters, their instructions from Sacrovir being that only in the direst emergency were they to leave them, and if at all possible, not go out alone. Although none of the Centurions of the Fourth discussed doing so beforehand, I found out later that we all had essentially the same idea. In my case, it was to have Structus, my Signifer Gemellus, who had refused to declare himself with the mutineers, Pictor, the Sergeant of the Fifth Section, and a couple other rankers come to my quarters. Alex, Balio, who I had picked up in Ubiorum and brought with me, and Structus’ slave rounded out the company, which made for cramped conditions, but I was confident that any mutineer would think twice about making some sort of trouble outside the Century office, and they certainly would not try to storm it. Once this was done, we settled down to wait, each of us listening intently to the sounds of the night, while I would occasionally send Balio out to take a look around and report back. At least, that was how it started, until Alex realized what I was doing, whereupon he insisted that he and his fellow clerk alternate what, while not particularly hazardous, was not completely without danger. Along with this, every few moments, one of us would get up, open the flap just enough to stick our heads out, both to listen for any noises that would indicate something had occurred that might prove to be the figurative spark that would ignite a conflagration, but more than that, to sniff the air for any sign of a literal one. This, frankly, was my biggest concern, that either through outright malice or, just as likely, drunken exuberance, one of the men who loved to burn things would unleash the beast of fire. Even in a marching camp, especially when it had remained relatively dry for the previous few days, fire was always a concern under normal conditions.
At random intervals throughout the night, we would hear a sudden uproar, over and above the low-pitched but audible sound that occurs when thousands of men are talking loudly. While the Centurions of the Fourth all did essentially the same thing, as did most of the Centurions in the other Cohorts of the 1st, not every officer was so prudent, choosing instead to brazen it out, practically daring their men to incite some sort of violent action against their officers by insisting on walking about their area. In almost every case, this turned out to be a horrible idea, although we would not learn that until later, but it was only through the intervention of the gods that, somehow, none of these foolhardy men were killed. Beaten, some of them severely enough to be put into the hospital, but not killed, and I shudder to think what might have happened in that event. Despite being sure I would not sleep myself, I set watches to allow my fellow defenders to do so if they were able, yet somehow, I managed to doze off for perhaps two parts of a watch, being wakened by Alex shortly before dawn. Somewhat angry at myself for having fallen asleep at all, I tried not to take it out on Alex, asking him if he knew anything about the situation outside.
“I went out not long ago,” he informed me.
“And?” I asked.
“And,” he replied, “there are a lot of men out and about, but I didn’t see or hear any fighting, and there wasn’t anything on fire.”
I considered for a moment, then all I could think to say was, “I suppose that’s the best we can expect.”
The others were rousing themselves, and I sent Alex out into the outer office to inform them I would be with them shortly, then I sat on the edge of my cot, thinking about how we had come to a place where the idea that nobody was killed or injured, and nothing burned, would be considered good news. Crowding in on that thought was the recognition that, depending on what happened on this day, how unlikely it was that this would remain the case. I was certain that all of us who had remained loyal, if only outwardly, would be in great danger should the men hear what they were fearing, and as much as Germanicus was admired by most of the men, in their current state, not even he would be safe. This cheery line of thought was interrupted by the sound of the bucina signaling the official start of the day, and I got up, went out into the office, where the other men were waiting.
“Let’s go see what’s what,” was all I said, then before anyone could speak, I strode to the door, opened it, and walked out into the street.
Much to our surprise, from appearances it seemed that the sound of the horn blowing had somehow jolted the man from their unruly behavior, because we only caught glimpses of some men just as they were entering their quarters. It was true the Cohort street was littered with debris; pieces of broken camp furniture seemed to be the most common, which I surmised was due to the men breaking off stool legs to use as clubs, but there were other items as well. Aside from this overt sign that the night had not passed in normal fashion, however, there was nothing else to indicate that there had been some sort of disturbance.
It was Structus who actually touched on the reason for this sudden onset of quiet and order, muttering to me, “I suppose even mutinous bastards get hungry. They’re probably all in their tents preparing for the morning meal.”
Even as he said this, smoke began rising from the fires on the surrounding streets, reminding us that we were hungry as well. Deciding against doing anything that might rupture this normal moment, I returned to my quarters, where Alex had already returned and was stoking the fire to heat up some porridge that was left over from the night before, our usual fare, although we did not have any bread left since none had been made the day before. By the time we were finished eating, the next signal sounded, this time the cornu, announcing that it was time for the men to assemble in their streets, forming up to march to the forum to receive the orders for the day. Certain that this would not take place, nevertheless, when I went outside, standing in front of their tents were the men of my Century, waiting for Structus to give them the order to form up, and my Century was far from alone. Glancing down the street in each direction, I could see that the men of the Fourth Cohort, mutineers and those who remained loyal alike, had decided to pretend as if this was a normal day, standing side by side in their usual spots as if nothing out of the ordinary was taking place. I certainly was not going to argue, although I felt as if I was in a dream, moving into my spot as I had done every day for years. Anyone who did not know what was going on would have seen this and thought there was nothing uncommon going on, and fairly quickly, it became apparent that the officers unanimously agreed to play along.
The formation that day was delayed by a third of a watch, which exacerbated the existing tensions, in rankers and officers alike, yet somehow the mutineers managed to behave themselves, although there was more than the normal amount of chatter. Since the camp was home to two Legions, it had naturally been built to accommodate both of them, including the forum, though it was still a bit cramped, requiring us to reduce our normal spacing between Centuries and Cohorts. On any other day, this would not matter all that much, aside from the customary hostility between Legions, which I would liken to having two fighting dogs caged next to each other where they can see, and most importantly, hear each other snarling and snapping. Muttered insults were often exchanged on those occasions, but that was all that it amounted to, at least to this point. Now, I was not particularly happy about the issue of proximity, thinking that, depending on which ranker chose to make an outburst in the event that the news from Rome was bad, matters could quickly get out of hand, simply because the men of one Legion saw their comrades in the other Legion were inclined to refuse accepting Tiberius’ decision. Not that any of the officers could do anything about it, which contributed to the tension I was feeling, and I was certain I was not alone among my fellow Centurions and Optios. Compounding matters, just as in Pannonia, we all knew that there were officers who were sympathetic to the demands made by the men, some of them secretly, others openly; I would put my sentiment in the former category. I suppose it sounds odd, but I had been much more open about my feelings when I had been in Pannonia, yet when I returned to my own Legion, I had become more circumspect about my sentiments. Now that this is in the past, albeit recently, I can acknowledge that my true motivation for keeping my feelings about the cause of the mutiny to myself was based on one simple reason; I did not want to be thought of or seen as being in any way sympathetic to men like Pusio and all the other troublemakers who had plagued the Legions for the previous five years. I must reiterate that, while I understand why he did so, the decision by the late Princeps to essentially take care of two of his problems in one action, by forcing the elements in Rome who were giving him the most trouble to enlist in the Legions, while it did plump up those Legions, all he did was transfer the underlying problem to those of us wearing the transverse crest, and to a lesser degree, the Legates. This, of course, has been the subject of much discussion among the officers, and I will concede the possibility of the point that those few Centurions who defended Augustus in this matter made, that in the wake of the Varus disaster, the Princeps’ actions in sending a few thousand men was the likely reason that Arminius and his confederation did not press the advantage and cross the Rhenus. While I and others, including my Pilus Prior, believed that Arminius’ inaction was due more to his own internal problems than the rapid mobilization of the surviving Legions, brought so quickly to full strength by the dilectus, neither could we dismiss the possibility that it was not that move by Augustus. After all, Augustus’ defenders argued, how could a German chief, hundreds of miles away, have any idea that the men filling the depleted ranks of the Legions were the dregs of Rome? This is certainly true, but neither can it be denied that, although the mutiny likely would have occurred, the presence of men like Pusio, here on the Rhenus, or Percennius in Pannonia, made matters worse by adding a level of contentiousness and volatility that was based in their own discontent and grievances. Now, as we stood at intente waiting for the appearance of Germanicus, I am certain the trepidation I felt was shared by all of the men, for one reason or another. The wait was certainly not as long as it seemed, but men were beginning to fidget, while I could hear snatches of whispered speculation between the rankers as the tension grew with every heartbeat.
Finally, the flap to the praetorium was thrust aside, and Germanicus strode out of the tent, followed by Caetronius, who I was certain would be playing the role of nothing but a mute witness to whatever it was Germanicus was about to tell us. Because of my familiarity with him, I studied Germanicus’ face intently as he walked the short distance to the rostrum, which was not made of turf like the one in Pannonia, nor was it made of crates and shields, but specially built for a marching camp, constructed in such a way that it can be broken down into pieces, thereby allowing for quick assembly should the need arise. He was wearing his battle armor, which I tried not to view as a bad omen; otherwise, I saw nothing in his demeanor that gave me an indication of what he was about to say. Despite the cold, I felt a trickle of sweat make its way down my back, while my heart started beating faster, as if I had just made some sort of sudden movement and was not just standing at intente. The tension, which I could literally feel radiating outward from the men of my Century did not help, and I became conscious of how tightly I was clutching my vitus, which led me to wonder if just that would be enough to impose order should the news be bad. Not surprisingly, there was none of the normal whispering that is the norm for formations once Germanicus emerged, a certain amount of which Centurions ignore, so he did not need to use his usual volume when addressing two Legions. Before he spoke, however, for some moments, he simply stood there, his paludamentum fluttering in the slight breeze that carried with it a promise of real winter, the kind of biting cold that made fingers numb and ears burn, his face impassive as his head moved slowly across the ranks. During this silence, my eyes naturally never left him, and I saw how much this ordeal had weighed on him, in the form of dark circles under his eyes, noticeable creases on what part of his forehead was visible under his helmet, but more than anything, it was the downturned mouth that was most striking to me. Usually, Germanicus’ normal expression was much more open and engaging, with a slight upward curve to his mouth that informed those around him that he liked smiling much more than frowning, which was directly the opposite from his adoptive father Tiberius, who always looked dour and as if he had some secret complaint that soured his expression.
Only when he was done with his examination, did Germanicus begin speaking, his tone flat, “Yesterday, a delegation, sent from Rome, led by lictors bearing the fasces garlanded in ivy that designated their status as official ambassadors, sent by my father, and the father of the Legions, Imperator Tiberius Claudius Nero arrived here by way of Ubiorum…” He chose to pause then, and his expression suddenly hardened, which his voice matched as, for the first time, he raised his voice to a bellow. “And these men were attacked! By fellow Romans!” Pointing a finger, he swept it across the entirety of the formation of both Legions as he continued, “By you, the men of the 1st and 20th Legions!” Germanicus stopped again, letting the words hang in the air, and I knew it was my imagination, but they seemed to echo as if he was standing on the edge of a deep gorge, which I suppose is an appropriate way to think about it. More importantly, I saw the impact his charge, which was nothing but the truth, had on the men in the front ranks of the Centuries that formed the leading edge of the formation surrounding the rostrum. While no man within my range of vision broke from his intente, I saw heads turning towards a comrade next to them, and there was a low buzz as men muttered to each other. Wisely ignoring this, Germanicus’ voice became even more charged. “And the leader of that delegation, Lucius Munatius Plancus, was set upon by some of the men who are standing here before me, issuing such dire threats to his person that he was forced to flee into the praetorium!” He turned to face the First of the 1st, and again pointing a finger, said, “It was only through the heroism of the Aquilifer of the 1st, Gnaeus Calpurnius, who placed himself bodily between Plancus and those who violated the agreement that the praetorium was sacrosanct and would not be invaded by those of you who are involved in this…” For a moment, I was certain he had made a fatal blunder, yet he managed to stop himself, and instead of “mutiny” or “insurrection” settled on, “…matter! Whether you choose to believe it or not, you owe Gnaeus Calpurnius a debt, because if those men who violated the boundary of the praetorium, intent on doing Plancus harm, had actually done so, there would have been nothing I could do to stop our Imperator from ordering that justice be done! Ambassadors, from every civilized nation, have been recognized as inviolate, even during a war between different nations, so how is it that a Roman ambassador should fear for his safety from fellow Romans?” The rustling of whispers that had begun earlier had only intensified as Germanicus continued, and it was with a sense of grim satisfaction that I saw that, almost universally, the expression borne by the rankers directly across from me was, rightfully, one of shame. And, I was cautiously pleased to see, there seemed to be a growing anger there, but while I had no way of knowing with any certainty, I had the sense that it was not aimed at Germanicus, but at those men who had invaded the praetorium, bringing shame to every man in the ranks. Returning my attention to Germanicus, still standing motionless, I watched as he took this in, and I was sure that he detected he was making some sort of headway with most of the men. But, as we were all about to learn, he was far from through.
“Because of the actions of these men,” he continued, “I have made the decision to send my wife, who as you all know is bearing another child, and my son Gaius, away from here immediately.” Now the quality of the noise changed, from the buzzing of men whispering to what was an unmistakable low-pitched moan.
Before he could continue, a voice from far back in the formation, somewhere in the Third Cohort of my Legion shouted, “Where are you sending them?”
I never asked Germanicus, but even in the moment, I had the suspicion that this was not simply a random question shouted by a distraught ranker, and I recalled from my Avus’ account how this was a favored tactic of not only Divus Julius, but the late Princeps. That Germanicus did not hesitate in responding was another sign, although the men themselves did not seem suspicious.
“I am sending them to stay with the Treveri,” he answered, and this unleashed a chorus of shouted protests.
“You’d trust barbarians over us?”
“We’d never harm your wife! We love her!”
“How could you send Caligula away from us? He’s our luck!”
This is just a sampling of the things that were shouted that I could make out, but it is representative of the sentiments being expressed by the majority of the rankers. At first, Germanicus made no attempt to quell this outburst, while I would say that my state of mind was more of bemusement than anything else, and when I glanced over at Vespillo, standing in his spot to my right, when our eyes met, he gave a small shrug that made me believe he was as mystified as I was. Many, if not most of these men had, just the night before, been ready to explode in rage, and a few of them had already attempted to beat Plancus to death, yet now they were all acting horrified that the Propraetor would believe his family was in danger because of them. Such is the nature of men when they are in large groups, I suppose; common sense is in short supply.
Finally, Germanicus raised his arms for silence, and it quieted down fairly quickly, allowing him to continue in what, to my ears, was a plaintive manner, “Why do you act so surprised? I love my family! The only things I love more are my father and Rome! But my father’s own maiestatas will protect him, and those other Legions who have remained steadfast will protect the Empire, but only I can protect my family! And,” his tone altered again, becoming charged with a throbbing intensity, “make no mistake! I would willingly sacrifice my family if it was in the cause of your glory, and in the course of protecting Rome, but I will not sacrifice them because of…this!” He gestured around him with both arms, and again, he avoided using the words that would accurately describe what was taking place, yet anyone with eyes could see that his meaning was not lost on his audience. For the first time, I felt a twinge of cautious optimism as I stood there, intently gauging the reaction of the men, because there was no mistaking the almost universal expression of shame that they were now displaying. Oh, there were still some men within my range of sight who looked sullen, or even angry, and I had to fight the urge to turn around and examine my own men to see who among them was unaffected by Germanicus’ words. I was successful, mainly because I saw Gemellus had no such qualms and had turned about to stare at our Century, while I made a mental note to ask him what he had seen.
When Germanicus resumed, only a couple of heartbeats later, his tone once more transformed, conveying a sense of true sadness in his words as he said, “I am no Divus Julius. Yes, I bear his name, but I do not deserve to do so. He stopped a mutiny,” I winced at his first use of the word, but by this point the men were spellbound and there was no sign of reaction, “when the men of his Legions refused to renew their oath of loyalty, and he did it with one single word.” When he paused then, I knew it was for dramatic effect, and while I was cognizant this was a ploy, I could also see that, even if men were aware of this, they did not care. “Quirites! That was all he said.” He snapped the fingers of one hand. “And the mutiny was over, just like that. Our beloved, departed Augustus,” he continued, “was able to stop another mutiny by the Legions at Actium with a single glance!” This time, instead of snapping, he shook his head in an exaggerated fashion, but I believe the sadness on his face was genuine. “But I have been unable to restore you to a state of unity and obedience to Rome, despite my best efforts. So, knowing this, I ask you; why did your comrades of the 5th and 21st stop me from ending myself when I wanted to? Why do they, and you revile me so much that you would force me to endure that shame, that I failed to bring you to order?”
Germanicus’ face had been turned from my view for most of this, as he slowly rotated his head while he talked so that he could be seen by all of us, but by the time he was looking in my direction, those of us close enough clearly saw the tears that now made his cheeks glitter in the weak sunlight. However, he was far from alone in those tears, and I confess that I was one of those men so affected by his words that my eyes were stinging, but neither I nor any of those who had remained loyal mattered. Thankfully, even with the distance of the open space of the forum directly in front of the rostrum, I could see the ranks of men across from me were similarly discomposed.
“Better that I would have died then than have to endure this shame!” Germanicus’ voice, while not raised any louder than it had been, seemed to cut through the air. “Better that I would have died and none of you punished so that you could have a Legate who would lead you on our sacred campaign to avenge Varus and his Legions!” Then, he confirmed a rumor that had been sweeping through camp. “Once the Belgae heard of all that has transpired here, they offered their warriors to help Rome vanquish the Germans, but gods forbid that they should have the honor and glory that is rightfully ours!” Lifting his arms to the heavens, Germanicus offered, “May the spirit of our divine Augustus, now residing in the heavens with the gods and his father Divus Julius, may the spirit of my own father by blood Drusus, be with these men who have marched for you, and turn their hearts back to the path of honor and glory. May they remove the stain of shame for their actions of these past weeks, and convert all of our discord and disagreements into the force we need to destroy our true enemies!” Holding this position for a few heartbeats longer, Germanicus lowered his arms and turned his attention away from the heavens back down to the earth, and to thousands of men who, if I am an example, scarcely dared to breathe as we stood, completely captivated by the words of our Propraetor. Scanning the formation, Germanicus nodded his head, saying, “I see before me changed faces and changed hearts. If you will allow the deputation to return unharmed to the Senate; if you will return your obedience to our Imperator, and your loyalty to myself and to my wife and family…” He stopped, and I saw his chest expand as he took a breath, which I understood immediately when he continued, “…and if you will set yourself apart from those among you who infected otherwise good men with this disease of disloyalty, that I will consider your repentance, and a guarantee of your loyalty!”
And with that, the mutiny of the Army of the Rhenus was finally, truly over; although, for a span of several heartbeats, when there was neither a sound or any movement, I, and I am sure most of the men of both Legions, did not know this as fact.
“AVE GERMANICUS!”
That shout was like the first dislodged rock of an avalanche, triggering an eruption of noise, issued by thousands of throats, not in anger and repudiation, but in what I am certain was the shared relief that, not only was the mutiny over, there was forgiveness on the part of Germanicus. And, just that quickly, the fate of men like Pusio was sealed, which most of them understood, because what caused the sudden disintegration of the formation of two Legions, as some men came rushing forward towards the rostrum, not as hostiles but as suppliants, was the actual movement by these ringleaders bolting from their spot in the ranks, understanding that their only hope lay in flight. It was a vain hope, because just as quickly, their former comrades, now understanding that their restoration to good standing with the Propraetor and Imperator was contingent upon the punishment of the relatively few men who had instigated this madness, were hot on the heels of the fleeing condemned men. What had been an ordered scene, with the Centuries standing in neat rows in their accustomed spots, instantly became chaotic, with men seeming to run in every possible different direction. I was moving just as quickly, spinning around, intent on making sure one of my men in particular did not escape. Unfortunately, I did not have the satisfaction of bringing Pusio to ground myself; that honor went to none other than Gnaeus Clustuminus, who had instantly left his spot in the formation and intercepted Pusio, who had also turned and taken the first step of his planned escape, with Clustuminus slamming into Pusio and knocking him to the ground. I only caught the tail end of this, as Clustuminus fell on top of Pusio, pinning him, and in doing so, Clustuminus restored my faith in him, and he returned to the top of my mental list as being worthy of promotion to Optio once Structus entered the Centurionate. I am not blind, nor was I then, to the thought that this was a calculated move on the part of the Sergeant; while he had not been openly consorting with the mutineers, neither had he disavowed them in any way, nor had he completely dissociated himself from them. And, I had instructed Gemellus on my departure, originally to find Germanicus, to keep an eye on Clustuminus, which on my return, my Signifer had reported that he had behaved in the same fashion that I had observed before I left, in the first day of the mutiny. Regardless of this recognition, I made the decision in that moment not to engage in any more suspicious thoughts about the motives of not just Clustuminus, but all of the men of my Century who had not declared themselves openly one way or another. Frankly, I was just tired of all of it and wanted matters to return to at least a semblance of normality as quickly as possible. Seeing that Clustuminus had apprehended Pusio, I turned my attention to the handful of other men who I considered to be actively involved in the mutiny and not just passive followers of men stronger than they were. I was happy to see that, like Clustuminus, other men had acted quickly, although some needed help in subduing their quarry, none of whom were cooperating, which was understandable. Similar scenes were taking place in every Century and Cohort in both Legions, and between this and the men who had rushed towards Germanicus, unanimously begging his forgiveness, it was quite chaotic, and so noisy it was almost impossible to be heard. Although my Century had managed to capture the malefactors without having to pursue them through the camp, that was not the case with everyone else, so there were small parties of men, sprinting after a single, or in one case that I saw, a trio of men who were desperately trying to make it to one of the gates. Meanwhile, Germanicus was still on the rostrum, but now he was bent over at the waist, shaking every upthrust hand men were offering in a sign of their repentance and renewed loyalty. Now that I was assured that Pusio and the others were not going anywhere, I thought of making my own way towards Germanicus, slightly concerned that he was putting himself in jeopardy, but then I caught sight of several of his bodyguards who had shoved their way through the crowd to the rostrum, trying to restore some semblance of order. Instead, I looked for Macer first, but I did not see him, although that could have been because of his height, and since Vespillo was closest to me, I made my way to him instead.
“Have you ever seen anything like this?” I did not shout, but it was close to one, and he shook his head.
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin to try and think of something that would compare,” he answered, then for a moment, we just surveyed the scene. “But someone needs to take command and get things under control before something bad happens.”
Even as he said this, over the riotous sounds, we both heard a short, sharp scream, and we turned to see, where the Second of the Second normally stood, a bloodied figure crawling frantically on all fours, towards the rostrum, followed by a half-dozen men, all of whom were aiming kicks at their prey.
“I guess he thinks Germanicus will show mercy,” Vespillo’s tone was grimly amused, but just as I was about to open my mouth to assure him that this would not happen, the Propraetor proved me wrong.
Because of his vantage point, he saw the injured ranker crawling towards him, and he snapped an order that prompted three of his bodyguards to shove through the crowd, all of whom had their backs turned to this scene, and hurry to surround the ranker. Naturally, our attention was drawn in this direction, so I did not see Germanicus give another order, but suddenly, a cornu sounded the call to assemble, the signal that he wanted to restore order. I did not react immediately, more interested in what was happening as the Germans got involved in a brief scuffle with the men surrounding the injured ranker, but the sound of the cornu, combined with this return to obedience they had just sworn to Germanicus, ensured that nothing more than a couple of shoves were exchanged. Returning to my spot, I checked to see that Pusio and the other men who their comrades had subdued were still under control, then took my spot. Gradually, order was restored, and Germanicus, remaining on the rostrum, waited patiently until we were in at least a semblance of formation, aside from the men who were now bound with their own baltea and forced to sit in the dirt of the forum, but in their accustomed spot, which made for yet another sight my eyes had never seen before.
Finally, he spoke again, but it was only to say, “All Centurions, attend to me in the praetorium. Your Optios will take command.”
Then, hopping down, he turned to stride into the praetorium ahead of us, and as he did, he was at the right angle for me to see the small smile on his lips. This was the moment I realized something; Germanicus had made no mention of the decision by Tiberius the delegation had brought with them from Rome, whatever it was. I confess, I was torn; part of me admired the guile of Germanicus for his brilliant maneuver on the rostrum, distracting the men from the real cause of the attack on Plancus and the unrest of the night before, but I was also greatly troubled by the adroit manner in which he had manipulated the situation to his advantage. Those were thoughts best kept to themselves, I decided during the short walk to the praetorium, and I still believe it was the right one.
“This,” Germanicus declared to the assembled Centurions, “is going to be done legally and in the proper manner.”
The “this” to which he was referring was the execution of the ringleaders, all but a handful of whom had been captured immediately. Most of those who managed to make it out of the forum had been rounded up, but there was still a half-dozen men who were hiding in the camp somewhere, the Centurions to which they belonged sending out search parties led by their Optios. Speaking of the Centurions, there should have been one hundred twenty of them in the praetorium; by my quick count, there were just a handful under a hundred. The other twenty-odd were absent because they were outside, sitting in the forum as prisoners, and to the eternal shame of the Fourth Cohort, one of them was Philus. He had been denounced by Closus, but while neither Macer nor Primus Pilus Sacrovir were disposed to take only the word of an Optio, his charge had been repeated by more than a dozen men of his Century, including the two men considered ringleaders. Nevertheless, I harbored reservations about whether this was enough to condemn the man, and I could see my Pilus Prior was of the same mind.
“However,” Germanicus continued, and he began pacing the floor, his head down in thought, which made it somewhat difficult to hear, “we can’t afford the time and expense of holding a formal Tribunal for each and every man.” He turned to Caetronius, who was standing slightly behind him, back towards the wall that was the boundary to Germanicus’ private office. “Do we have a complete tally yet?”
In turn, Caetronius walked over to the desk in front of the door to the office, where one of the Tribunes, along with two clerks, was consulting a pile of wax tablets, with one clerk incising what I presumed were figures into the tablet. As we watched, there was a brief whispered exchange, and while Caetronius’ back was to us, judging from the Tribune’s expression, I was certain I knew the answer.
Turning back around, the Legate’s mouth was turned down into a frown. “No, sir. Not as of yet.”
Germanicus did not seem surprised, nor was he irritated, asking only, “What’s the count so far, then?”
Glancing back over his shoulder, Caetronius got the answer and said flatly, “Six hundred and twenty-seven, sir.”
There was an audible gasp from all of us, but Germanicus remained impassive, though he did inquire, “How close do you think we are to completing the count?”
Instead of the Legate, who indicated to the Tribune he should answer, the young officer replied, “We only have two tablets left, sir. And,” he added, “each tablet is from the Pilus Prior of a Cohort.”
Germanicus considered for a moment, then he said in a tone that suggested he was thinking aloud, “That means it should be around seven hundred men altogether,” reminding me he had an astonishing head for figures, provided he was correct; as it turned out, the total turned out to be seven hundred and one men. Speaking more loudly, he repeated, “There is no way we can conduct a Tribunal for each and every man. Nor,” he added, obviously seeing and correctly interpreting the thought that certainly crossed my mind, “can we even take the time if we hold a Tribunal for each Century, or Cohort.” Shaking his head, he settled this question by informing us, “We need to conclude this as quickly as possible, because we need to begin preparing for the campaign that I know you all have assumed is coming.”
Frankly, it was another shrewd maneuver; by confirming what we had long suspected, that this next season would finally see us embarking on the campaign for which every Roman had been clamoring, the chastisement of the German tribes and the destruction of Arminius personally, none of us were disposed to quibble about his decision to rush this disciplinary matter through a process that was abbreviated, to put it mildly.
There was one sticking point, however, and it was Primus Pilus Neratius who raised it, asking over the noise as we whispered to each other about the coming campaign, “What about the Centurions and Optios, sir? Surely you don’t plan on lumping them together with the rankers.”
This stopped our chatter, and we turned our attention to Germanicus, who clearly did not care for this question, but neither did he shrink from it.
He did handle it in a more indirect manner, by turning back to Caetronius and asking, “What’s the total on Centurions and Optios?”
“Twenty-four Centurions, thirty-eight Optios.”
I suppose we were all aware that it was probable there were more Optios than Centurions, but once the actual number was known, I think this more than anything convinced Neratius not to pursue the matter any further. Sixty-two Tribunals, no matter how quickly they were conducted, would take weeks, and now that we knew about the coming campaign, the brutal truth was that we could not waste the time, especially when in most cases the guilt of these men was already established, and by their own comrades at that. However, I think we were also aware that it was within the realm of possibility that men of a Century would be more than happy to rid themselves of a Centurion or Optio they hated. This was raised by Neratius, and Sacrovir agreed with his counterpart, which engendered some discussion in which Germanicus encouraged the rest of us to participate. The point of contention in this area was the idea that a Centurion or Optio’s only crime might have been being excessively harsh, or simply unpopular, although personally I did not believe that even the most vindictive ranker would be willing to condemn their Centurion or Optio to death simply because they did not like the man, if only because his comrades would not allow it. This went on for some time, with Germanicus mostly listening as we bickered back and forth, with one faction being adamant that there should be a formal Tribunal, while another saying that there should a Tribunal for the Centurions, and one for the Optios. While I understood this was offered as a compromise, I was certain that this would prove more trouble than it was worth, simply because we would be in the same spot, where a guilty vote would be applied to all of the defendants, while one or more of them might be a victim of revenge.
Finally, Germanicus raised a hand, and once it fell silent, said, “I think I might have a solution.”
He proceeded to explain his idea, and by the time he was finished, I saw that most heads were nodding up and down, and mine was one of them. Once this was settled, the final count was tallied, and the method for how we would go about determining the guilt was settled, while the punishment would be carried out immediately. Despite agreeing that this was the proper course of action, I certainly did not relish the idea of carrying it out; when Germanicus pulled me aside, while I was not surprised, I was in an even grimmer frame of mind.
“You’ve done this before,” he reminded me, “with Dodonis. Can I count on you now, Pullus?”
“For all of them?” I gasped, but he shook his head, saying firmly, “No. Not all of them. But for your Cohort.”
Understanding there was no real way to refuse, I agreed, then it was time to return to the forum and finally finish this horrible episode in our history.
What Germanicus had come up with was to have the men of every Cohort judge their comrades, each of whom were dragged up onto the rostrum by Germanicus’ bodyguards, whereupon their guilt would be judged. For reasons that needed no explanation, Germanicus himself did not officiate, serving only as a witness; that was left to Caetronius as Legate, who stood at the front of the rostrum, flanked by the Primi Pili and with several German bodyguards. It was quite chaotic at first, then something of a system developed, where the Century to which the man belonged stood directly in front of the rostrum, but were flanked by the other Centuries of the Cohort, and there would be a brief debate about each Legionary by the men of the Century, while the other five Centuries then either agreed or disagreed with the decision. By the time a couple dozen men had been dispatched, it was decided that the respective Centurion would be the representative who relayed the decision, with the Centurions for the other five Centuries relaying the agreement, or disagreement, of his own Century. At first, without exception, there was no dissension about the fate of the accused ranker, some of whom stumbled numbly onto the rostrum under their own power, others being dragged, kicking, screaming, and struggling in front of their collective and combined prosecutor, judges, and jury. There might be a brief discussion, then the Centurion of the offender’s Century would utter a single word.
“Condemno!”
Whereupon the newly condemned man would be forced to kneel, and the man selected from that Cohort would use a spatha, supplied from the quaestorium, to behead the man. This, at least, was how it started; after one particularly gruesome execution, where the selected man, either through nerves or incompetence, took no less than four strokes to finish the job, while the ranker writhed in agony, his gurgling screams serving to silence the otherwise raucous crowd, it was then decided to have only men who had experience in such matters serve as executioners. Which, of course, meant that I participated earlier than Germanicus had indicated, since he had informed me that I would only be executing the men of the Fourth Cohort, and while it was not something I looked forward to for most of the condemned men, I believe the gods will understand there was one exception. Another issue had to be resolved, and that was the disposal of the bodies. For the first few executions, both the head and corpse of the executed man would be shoved off the rostrum, to land with a sodden, heavy thud on the hard-packed dirt of the forum directly in front of it. Naturally, after a few bodies, it began to create a problem, both because it pushed the judging Century farther away from the rostrum, and the stench of cac and piss that is always present at a scene of mass slaughter became overwhelming. After yet another halt for a discussion, the bodies were hauled away by slaves summoned for the purpose, while the heads were left, which still created quite a spectacle as they grew into a mound that threatened to reach the height of the rostrum. We had gone in reverse order, starting with the Tenth Cohort, which, surprising none of us, held a much higher proportion of the malcontents who were deemed worthy of execution, although only one Optio from the Cohort was among the accused. Before we left the praetorium to begin this final expiation of the sin of mutiny, we prevailed on Germanicus to make one other concession; while the guilt or innocence would be judged publicly, those Centurions and Optios who received a vote of condemno would not endure the final humiliation of having their heads joining the pile in front of the rostrum. None of us were surprised that this was not a popular decision, especially since some rankers were convinced that the condemned officers would not be executed, but Sacrovir and Neratius, in their role as Primus Pilus of each Legion, offered a solution that, if not pleasing to the men, at least appeased them, and most importantly convinced them that there was no plot to allow their officers to escape. Each Century who had a condemned Centurion or Optio would send their Signifer, Tesseraurius, and the Sergeants of each section to witness the execution in the praetorium, after the business in the forum was finished.
While Germanicus had originally selected me to serve as executioner of the men of the Fourth Cohort, because of the bungling done early on, I ended up beheading men from the Sixth and Fifth before the men of my Cohort marched from their normal spot in the forum to array themselves in front of the rostrum, and my arm was already tired. Even with my daily work at the stakes and my status as Cohort weapons instructor, swinging a gladius with enough force to cleanly part a man’s head from the rest of his body takes a toll, even with the extra weight provided by the spatha. My fatigue notwithstanding, as the moment approached that I would be executing men who, while I may not have known personally, I at least knew by sight, my heart began beating at a rate much higher than the exertion of the task required. I will confess that part of it was from the anticipation of seeing one Publius Atilius Pusio kneeling at my feet, but there was also a sense of shame that Philus was one of the accused, although I suspect Macer felt this more keenly as Pilus Prior. It was immediately after I had executed the condemned men of the Sixth Century, with Volusenus looking on with an impassive demeanor that did not betray his thoughts one way or another, when I was forced to ask for another spatha, the edge of the one in my hand having gone, that I had an idea. Catching the eye of Structus, who was standing in my place in front of my Century off to the side of the rostrum, waiting our turn, I beckoned to him during the period someone was hustling off to the quaestorium to retrieve another spatha.
He came, albeit with a reluctance that was understandable, but all I told him was, “Send someone to find Alex, quickly.”
Clearly surprised, he nonetheless obeyed immediately, so that by the time I had finished dispatching the men of the Fifth and Philus was being dragged up onto the rostrum for judgment, my nephew was standing at the base of the rostrum, off to the side. Using the disturbance caused by the presence of a Centurion being judged, I crouched down and told him what I needed, his reaction mirroring that of Structus, but like my Optio, he turned and ran off immediately. Returning my attention to the scene, I saw Philus, flanked on either side by a German, stood before the men of his Century, dressed only in his tunic, his baltea having been appropriated for the binding of his hands. Without any symbol of his office, Philus could have been any ranker, and like most of the condemned men I had witnessed, he was visibly shaking; otherwise, his face was set in an impassive mask, while he refused to look down at the men he had commanded. The debate, such as it was, lasted a bit longer than what had become usual, but not by that much; his Signifer spoke of overhearing Philus conferring with one of the troublemakers in his Century, where he promised to speak for the man should things go badly, which they had. By itself, this was not enough, but then Closus held up a wax tablet that had been discovered in a search of Philus’ quarters, which he presented to Macer. Scanning it quickly, I saw my Pilus Prior’s lips thin down into two bloodless lines, which I knew was a sign of his anger, but without a word, he walked up to the rostrum, handing the tablet upward to the Legate, who took it.
Caetronius performed the same act as Macer, scanning the incised lines, but I was somewhat surprised when the Legate did not seem convinced, which was explained when he said, “Yes, the words are damning, but since I’ve never seen this man’s writing before, I can’t say one way or another if this is worthy of being condemned.”
This, on its face, was certainly true, but I was still surprised, if only because we had already judged several Centurions and he had never intervened, although as I thought about it, I realized that this was the first Centurion whose guilt rested on a piece of correspondence. There was a further delay as a man was sent to summon the Century clerks, Macer ordering that both be brought since one of them belonged to Philus personally. Frankly, I did not think this was necessary, but this was based on my observation of Philus, who, on seeing Closus hold up the tablet, I saw close his eyes and his lips began moving in what I felt certain was a prayer. Whether it be for a miracle in the form of a reprieve, or him setting his books right with his household gods, I never asked, and he never said, but I apparently had been the only one watching Philus and not his Optio. The clerks arrived, and it was easy to tell which one belonged to Philus; it also betrayed what kind of master Philus had been to the man, because while I would not call it gleeful, his demeanor certainly did not communicate any hesitance or sorrow as he glanced down at the tablet, then confirmed it was in his master’s hand, which was corroborated by the other clerk. Perhaps if Philus had not resigned himself to his fate, he might have pointed out that his slave barely even glanced at the tablet, but he did not, and while Legate Caetronius lifted an eyebrow at this, he did not say anything about it. This was enough for the men of his Century, through Closus, to vote condemno, and Philus was summarily dragged off to be held with those other officers waiting their more private execution. Only Cornutus seemed disposed to argue the point, but he had barely escaped being accused himself, since he had been missing the night before, and I saw him open his mouth, then quickly shut it. Fortunately for him, Macer had accepted his explanation that he had been visiting a friend in one of the ad hoc guard Centuries in Germanicus’ camp, and once the uproar began, deemed it too dangerous to try and return to the main one. Vespillo, Volusenus, and I held a different view of the matter, but in this, we were not given a vote, so Cornutus is still with the Fourth Cohort as I write this.
Finally, it was the turn of the Third Century, but Alex had not returned from his errand, and I resigned myself that I would be unable to carry out my intention. My Century had four men accused of being the chief instigators and agitators among their comrades; as far as I was concerned, there was one and only one man who was truly responsible for the misdeeds of the other three, and it was not just my hatred of Pusio that led me to believe this. These three men were veterans and had been members of the Century long before Pusio arrived, and none of them had given me any trouble, at least over and above the norm for rankers. Additionally, since I knew these men and their characters, I knew they were the kind who tended to follow the lead of other men, whether it be in their choice of wineshop, or how much complaining they should do about their time spent mucking out the stables. Nevertheless, I also understood that, while I held the nominal authority over my Century, in this moment, I was merely the instrument of the punishment as defined by my men, and I confess this did not set well in my gut. It was during the deliberation about the first accused man that I heard Alex call my name, and I turned to see that he had returned with the item I had requested. Bending down, I took it from him, and as I turned back to face the Century, the Legate saw what I held in my hand.
The frown he wore warned me, and he said, “Centurion Pullus, what are you doing with that?”
He was pointing to my gladius, and my mind raced, trying to come up with an explanation of why I was determined to use it and not the heavier spatha.
What came out of my mouth was, “Because it holds an edge better than any of the blades I’ve used so far. And,” I thought to add, “I’ve been carrying this blade since I was a Gregarius, so I’m more comfortable using it.” Lowering my voice, I finished with, “I know these men must die, sir, but I don’t want them to suffer like some of the others did. My arm is getting tired, and I want to send them on their way across the river with as little pain as possible.”
Caetronius studied my face for a long moment, then gave a curt nod, saying only, “Very well.”
By the time our exchange was finished, the first of my men had been dragged onto the rostrum, and Vibius Galeo of the Tenth Section was quickly condemned. Galeo was one of those men I did not believe had been an active participant as much as he was swept along the current of mutiny created by men like Pusio, who I had quietly instructed Structus to put last. Although he had walked under his own power, it was only because he was being firmly held by the pair of Germans, and he was shaking uncontrollably, his eyes rolling back in his head from the fear of what was coming. It took an effort on my part to remain impassive as the Germans shoved him down onto the spot that was now covered with a combination of congealed blood and piss, giving off an odor that, while not overpowering, was certainly unpleasant.
Before I could stop myself, I leaned down and placed a hand on Galeo’s shoulder, whispering in his ear, “I promise it’ll be quick, Galeo. It’ll be over before you know it, and then you can go find Fidenas and Rutilus across the river. You’ll be whoring and drinking for eternity!”
I had hoped the mention of two of his comrades who had died, one in battle and one from disease, and the prospect of being reunited with them in the afterlife would provide some comfort, but the look he gave me of pathetic gratitude was almost too much for me to bear.
“R-really, Princeps Prior? You believe that? You believe they’re over there, across the river, waiting for me?”
“No, I don’t believe that. I know that,” I answered firmly and without hesitation.
He said nothing more, but he gave me a slight nod, then turned and bowed his head, both in prayer and to give me a better target, or so I suppose. And, thank the gods, I was good to my word, even with my gladius and not a spatha. The next two men, Gnaeus Falto of the Fourth Section and Trigeminus of the Fifth Section, I dispatched in a similar manner, although only with Falto did I behave as I had with Galeo, their heads added to the pile at the base of the rostrum that was now spread out a distance of about ten feet in every direction, with a height close to mine. Then it was Pusio’s turn, and if his was not the quickest condemno of all that I witnessed, it was among them, during which he showed none of his usual arrogance. Not lost on me, certainly, and judging from the reaction of the entire Cohort, was that he was the only man of the Fourth who could not walk up the steps under his own power, and in fact struggled mightily as he was dragged towards the rostrum. Finally, in exasperation, one of the Germans cuffed him on the head with enough force to daze him sufficiently that he at least stopped struggling, whereupon he was more or less carried onto the rostrum. Seeing that he was still groggy, I deliberately delayed, taking my time wiping my blade down with a rag that had been provided, to the point I could hear the men growing impatient. Reluctantly, I turned back to where Pusio was now kneeling, and at first, I thought he would refuse to look up at me, his head already bowed, his lips moving, which I bent down to hear, not believing that he would be praying.
He was not; instead, he was simply saying, “No, no, no, no…” over and over, and I felt not the slightest flicker of pity.
Instead, deep inside me, that beast that I think of as the dark twin of the divine fury that I inherited from my Avus, the one that unleashes a level of cruelty in me that enabled me to essentially torture Caecina the last few moments of his life, roused itself sufficiently that I bent down to speak in Pusio’s ear, just as I had with Galeo, except my message and my intent were quite different.
“Oh, yes,” I said, just loudly enough so that only he could hear. “You’re about to have your head chopped off. And,” I risked a glance over at Caetronius to ensure he was still out of earshot, “my arm is very tired. It may take me three, oh, maybe four tries before you’re actually dead.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I saw a dark stain blossom on Pusio’s tunic, the smell just a heartbeat behind, and he unleashed what can only be described as a howl of such an inhuman quality that the men nearest the rostrum either recoiled or made the sign against evil spirits.
“Centurion! What did you say to that man?”
Caetronius had to raise his voice to be heard, because Pusio continued his wailing, shaking his head wildly as I saw his arms suddenly bulge as he tried to break the bonds of his baltea.
“Only that I was going to be quick, and it would be over soon. Just like I told the other two of my men, sir,” I lied, not feeling the slightest twinge of guilt.
Caetronius grimaced, then simply said, “Well, get on with it! This man’s screeching is giving me a headache!”
Without knowing it, so gone with fear was he, Pusio actually aided me in my effort to make his death as painful as possible, because he would simply not stay still, and there was no way for the Germans to subdue him without putting themselves in the path of my gladius. Consequently, my first blow, which I made a show of using my entire strength but was really with only about half of it, struck him at the base of his neck, except at such an angle that it cut deeply into his body, aided by how much Pusio was leaning. My aim turned out to be true, because there was no spurt of blood from a severed vessel, and not surprisingly, his scream of terror and pain became even louder, making even me wince, not from any sense of pity but because of the volume, making it feel like someone was shoving an awl into both ears. In an unconscious reaction to the blow, he recoiled away from the direction in which it had come, placing him at an even more awkward angle, which suited my private purposes perfectly. Once more, I slashed down, but between his jerking movement, and the fact that I had deliberately aimed high, my blade sliced through the very top of his skull, sending his scalp and part of the bone flying in a spray of blood and what I assume was some brain matter. There was a roar of mingled alarm and disgust as the men in the front ranks were spattered with his gore, while the scalp and part of the skull struck one of the rankers on the shoulder; it would have hit him in the face if he had not dodged aside. Naturally, I followed the arc of the tumbling bit of scalp with my eyes, and Pusio was fortunate, because in doing so, my gaze met that of my Pilus Prior, who was staring directly at me, his mouth once more a bloodless slit. He was not spattered, for which I was thankful, but I saw he was not fooled in the slightest, and while he made no overt sign, I did not need one to understand that I had to finish Pusio earlier than I intended.
He had inadvertently helped himself because the force of the second blow had knocked him onto his side, and I suspect he was no longer really conscious, although I saw his eyes were open; more importantly, he was no longer moving, and I muttered under my breath, “You have no idea how lucky you are, you cunnus.”
My blade came down, and it was over, at least for Pusio. The Legate suddenly appeared in my vision, and I tore my attention away from Pusio’s face, his eyes still open, hoping that somehow, he still had a spark of life in him so that he could see me staring down at him.
“By the gods, Centurion!” Caetronius bellowed this, just inches from my face. “I thought you knew what you were doing!” He pointed down at my gladius, still shouting, “I thought you said that using your own blade would keep this from happening!”
Snapping to intente, I immediately fell back on the Stupid Legionary, saying, “Yes, sir. I have no excuse. I,” even as I said the words, I felt a twinge of reluctance at admitting weakness, even if it was a lie, “suppose my arm just gave out.”
He said nothing, just glared up at me for a moment, then turned away, dismissing me with a wave as he addressed one of the Germans. “Get another man up here. The Centurion here is done.”
Summarily dismissed, I did not hesitate in obeying, turning and striding across the rostrum, descending the stairs and walking to take my place with my Century. Ignoring the reaction of the men, I joined Structus, the only man whose eyes I met, and as I suspected, he gave an almost imperceptible nod, the only communication we have ever had about what I did to Pusio. My Pilus Prior, however, was another story, but while I felt his eyes on me, I avoided looking in his direction, even as we switched places with the Second Century, temporarily placing us next to the First. The rest of the executions of the men of the Fourth were conducted by one of the Germans, then finally, we were through. As the other Cohorts had done, we then marched away from the forum, returning to our area, where we were dismissed by the Pilus Prior. Despite somewhat expecting it, when I heard Macer call my name, I felt a pang of anxiety, wondering how much of an issue he was going to make, and how far I was willing to go to deny that I had intended to do as I did. Following him, we went to his quarters, but when I tried to speak, he held up a hand, shaking his head, though he did not say anything. Only when we were in his private quarters and the flap was closed, did he say anything, after taking his seat behind his desk, not at the table where we normally sat, telling me this was not a personal exchange, so in recognition of that, I chose to stand in front of his desk.
Sitting silently, he gazed down at it, seeming to frame his thoughts, before he finally looked up at me and said, “Pullus, while I know why you did what you did to Pusio, I won’t lie and say that it doesn’t give me some…concerns.”
When he did not continue, I took that as a sign I was expected to reply, but all I could think to ask was, “About what, exactly?”
“About whether you belong in my Cohort,” he answered, and while he spoke quietly, the words rocked me as much as if he had bellowed this at the top of his lungs.
“What?” I gasped, and it took an effort for me to remain immobile. “Why?”
“Why?” he echoed, not in an unbelieving manner, but as if he was asking himself the same question. After a moment, he said, “I’ve never seen you behave that way, not even towards the Germans, Pullus.” He gave me a look that seemed more sad than angry. “I thought I knew you, but apparently I don’t.”
How, I thought, am I supposed to respond to that? Macer and I had become friends, and close ones, but the only man who knew or suspected most of my secrets was Titus Domitius. Although we had never spoken openly about it, I was certain that, while he did not know the specifics, he was at least aware that I had been the one who had removed Caecina and Mela from our Century. Consequently, I was forced to realize in this moment that, no, Marcus Macer did not know me, at least the side of me that was capable of crippling Maxentius my first year, and slaughtering both Caecina and Mela in a manner that, if I am honest, was done with the same malevolent spirit as what I had just done to Pusio. In that instant, I had to decide how forthcoming to be with Macer, and if I was, whether it would help keep me in the Cohort, or whether it would harm my chances.
“I understand what you’re saying,” I spoke slowly, trying to form my thoughts as I went, “and I’ll confess that I do have a…side of me,” I settled on this way of putting it, “that you’ve never seen. I’m capable of doing things like what I did to Pusio, I won’t deny that. But,” I pointed out, “it takes something extraordinary for it to come out.”
“Well,” he nodded, “this certainly qualifies. And, hopefully, it’s over.” Taking a deep breath, I had to respect the fact that he met my gaze without flinching; nevertheless, his next words were like a dagger. “But I have some things to think about. I’ll let you know my decision in the morning.”
And with that, I was dismissed to walk, or perhaps stagger out of his quarters, my mind whirling with all the thoughts and worries that I had, finally, irreparably damaged my career. Somewhere along the way, perhaps starting at the very beginning with Vergorix, I had become accustomed to the idea that either my deeds, my name, or a combination of the two would shield me from my own actions as they pertained to my career. Needless to say, I was in a somber mood when I returned to my own quarters, and while I had every intention of informing Alex of what had taken place with Macer, I could not bring myself to do it, not wanting to ruin his state of mind. He was not happy, exactly, but he was clearly relieved, believing that the mutiny was finally over. Instead, I pretended that my conversation with Macer was inconsequential, although I could tell he did not fully believe me. Now that order had been restored, I felt safe sending both Alex and Balio out to run some errands that had been neglected, one of them going to Germanicus’ camp and checking on Latobius, while the other went to retrieve rations for the evening meal. The punishment was not over; the 20th Legion had yet to undergo this ordeal, which meant that, every few moments, there would be some sort of noise from the direction of the forum, especially in the beginning, before the toll of seeing men put to death, despite the justification, began to wear on the men, and I include the officers. The execution of the Centurions and Optios came last, which included Philus, Poplicola of the Sixth of the First, and Regillensus of the 20th, but for this, only the Pili Priores were present, along with the group from each Century mentioned earlier, and of course, there was no liberty of the camp that night. Even if there had been, I suspect that only the most foolhardy or, perhaps, desperate to learn of the fate of a friend or relative, would have left their tent. If I had been asked to describe the collective mood of at least my Century that night, I would probably have said that it matched what I saw in Alex, and in Pannonia; a sense of relief that it was over, tempered with caution that there might still be repercussions that reverberated for some time to come.
After a desultory meal, which I shared with my nephew, I retired for the night, deciding that it was a good time to read one of my Avus’ scrolls, and I do not believe it is surprising that I selected the scroll about Pharsalus. Despite my fatigue from not only the day but the night before spent in tense anticipation of trouble, sleep was long in coming, yet I must have dropped off because I awoke to the bucina call with the scroll, partially open, on my chest. Alex rose from behind the partition in his corner of my quarters, and we began the ritual of another day in the Legions, while I pretended that there was nothing hanging over my head. More than once I caught my nephew, his mouth open, clearly about to ask a question, and I was certain I knew what it would be about, yet something in my face must have quelled his impulse. This meant there was not our usual morning banter, and I think we both pretended our mutual reticence was due to the events from the day before. Then, the cornu sounded the initial assembly, and there was no postponing facing my Pilus Prior any longer. Donning my sagum, the mornings being cold now that it was almost November, I left my quarters, stepping out into the street, and only after I did so, then saw the neat rows of men of my Century, did I realize I had been holding my breath, anticipating that order had not been restored. And, perhaps most fittingly, there was a fresh blanket of snow, the first of the year, obscuring the churned mud of the street and the roofs of the tents. Calling the Century to assembly, we marched the short distance to the intersection of the Cohort street, where we were joined by the rest of the Cohort, the formation creating a fog that hovered just in front and above the men as they inhaled the cold air and expelled it, either in their breath or in their muttered conversations. Macer was in his normal spot, and he did not do anything out of the ordinary, which meant I was kept in suspense for the march to the forum. Naturally, the forum was also covered in a coating of snow, which I thought was oddly appropriate, masking as it did the scene of the violent end of more than seven hundred men. Their bodies had been hauled off by the camp slaves, then burned in a mass cremation the night of the executions, but while we did not know it at this moment, there had been a disagreement between Propraetor and Legate that, depending on which version one heard, either almost came to blows or at the very least resulted in voices raised to the point that the clerks, Tribunes, and both Primi Pili could hear through the canvas walls of Germanicus’ office. Whatever the truth of the matter was, what was known with any certainty was that Caetronius had insisted the heads of the mutineers should be displayed in the forum, as a reminder to the rest of the men the cost of mutiny. Germanicus, wisely in my view, refused to do so, insisting that the executions themselves had been enough of a warning to those disposed to incite another insurrection, also pointing out that they had removed the ringleaders of the mutiny, thereby eliminating the possibility of future trouble. Although I would not have gone quite that far in my certainty there was no likelihood of further trouble, I believe his logic was sound as far as it went. The end result was that, between the snow and Germanicus’ decision, there was no sign of anything that would indicate the day before had ended so violently, and I believe this pristine coat of snow did more to reduce the chances of further trouble than anything else Germanicus could have done. The only unusual note was that it was not Caetronius who made the morning appearance before handing matters over to the Primi Pili, but Germanicus himself. In another sign, he was not wearing armor, and had foregone his paludamentum for a sagum, although its quality was superior to mine and other Centurions, both in the cloth of the cloak and the fur that lined it. Additionally, he made no mention of the day before, simply reciting the words that are essentially a ritual for Legions in the winter, that the duties for the day would be decided by the Primi Pili.
However, he did surprise us by adding at the end, “I am ordering a meeting of all Centurions at the beginning of the second watch today, in the praetorium.” Then, turning to where Sacrovir and Neratius were standing, he told them, “Primi Pili, carry out your orders for the day.”
Waiting until Germanicus had returned to the relative warmth of the praetorium, first Neratius, then Sacrovir, mouthed the same words they always did for a day like this, then we were dismissed to begin the day. While some Pili Priores insisted that the men of their Cohort be marched off the forum back to their area, most simply dismissed their men and allowed them to make their way back on their own. Macer was of the latter sort, and once he gave the order, the Cohort, rankers and officers alike, broke up into smaller groups, walking across the forum, which had already lost that pristine, clean look from all the hobnailed soles of the men. I was walking, alone, towards our area when, from behind me, I heard Macer call my name, instantly sending my heart to a galloping rhythm that was more appropriate to breaking into an all-out sprint.
Of course, I slowed to allow him to reach my side, but rather than stop, he continued walking, and we did so side by side, both of us looking straight ahead, although I certainly kept glancing over out of the corner of my eye, but for several paces, Macer said nothing, until he broke the silence by saying, “I’ve thought about it, and I need you in this Cohort. You’re not going anywhere. And,” I sensed that he turned to look up at me, so I did the same, meeting his gaze, “we’re never going to speak about this again, nor will I have anything entered into your record. Do you agree to this?”
I assured him that I did, then he turned back to the scene ahead of us of men hurrying to their quarters to prepare for the day. For a moment, I did not think it was wise to say anything, given the circumstances.
So, of course, I said, “Thank you. I appreciate it and I won’t let you down.”
“You better not,” Macer said lightly, but I took him seriously.
“I won’t,” I assured him, then I changed the subject, asking him, “Any idea what Germanicus wants to tell us?”
I was encouraged by the manner in which Macer again turned to look at me with a grin, replying, “I was hoping you’d know, since you and Germanicus are so close.”
This made me laugh, and if it was heartier than perhaps it should have been, I would simply say it was as much from relief as the humor.
“Now that we’ve put this…unpleasantness behind us, it’s time to settle our business with Arminius once and for all.”
Germanicus was standing on the desk outside his office, with the remaining Centurions of both Legions standing around him, the Pili Priores arrayed in front, while those of us who were taller moved to the back. Which, of course, meant Volusenus and I were standing side by side on the last row, yet despite the distance, and the relatively dim lighting, it was easy for all to see how haggard Germanicus was, but I believe that I was one of the few who knew him well enough to see how forced his hearty tone sounded.
“Before I begin,” he said, “I wanted to let you know of the steps I’ve taken to bring the 5th and 21st back under the standard. I sent a message to Caecina, telling him what we did here, and ordering him to read my message to the Primi Pili and Aquiliferi of both Legions. I’m…” he paused as he thought of the correct word, which he uttered with a small smile on his lips that informed us it was anything but, “…suggesting that the Legate and Primi Pili take the same approach that stopped the mutiny here. I haven’t heard back yet, but I’m optimistic that the situation will be resolved in a similar manner as it was here.” When one reads the words, it does not properly express Germanicus’ mood, because he said this in a manner that, knowing him better than any of the other Centurions present, informed me that he was certain of the outcome; only later did we learn that he actually ordered Caecina to read Germanicus’ letter word for word, which essentially was a transcript of his speech to us. He stopped speaking for a moment, presumably to allow us to digest this, before he resumed. “We’re going to be busy this winter,” he continued, “both because there’s much to do to bring the men back to rights, but also because, and I think you will agree, an important factor in what occurred is that we didn’t keep the men busy enough. And,” his mouth turned down into a grimace, “I bear the responsibility for that.”
“We all do, sir.”
I could not see him, but I recognized Sacrovir’s voice, which was quickly joined by others, all of them adding their assent to the Primus Pilus. While I would not say he was pleased, Germanicus was clearly relieved that his Centurions were not willing for him to bear the responsibility for the mutiny of the Army of the Rhenus alone.
Once things were quiet again, Germanicus continued, “Whatever the cause, I’m determined that we put this behind us, and I know all of you will do the same with your Centuries. Now,” for the first time, he smiled, although it was a grim one, “that’s not to say we’re not going to work the men harder than they’ve ever been worked before, but since it’s for a good cause, I think they’ll turn to their tasks without more than the normal amount of complaint.” He paused for a moment, then asked a question that I do not believe he would have asked under normal circumstances, and again, I suspect I heard a note in his voice that few of the others present did. “Do you agree with that assessment?”
We assured him that we did, and thus assured, Germanicus began outlining his plan for the coming campaign in broad strokes, and the first surprise was that he was not going to wait until next spring. Instead, he was launching a limited punitive campaign against the Marsi, which he intended to begin as quickly as possible. As we all listened intently, I realized that this was clearly something he had been thinking about for some time, certain that he could not have come up with the level of detail this quickly. He spoke for perhaps a third of a watch, and by the time he was through and asked for questions, he had been so thorough that there were very, very few.
“Naturally, we’re going to be adding more details as we get closer to marching, but you should know that, now that I’ve finished the census in Gaul, I’m going to be with the army for the duration of not just this campaign, but the one coming up this spring. And,” he said, “if you have any ideas or concerns that I and my staff are missing something, please don’t hesitate to have your superior bring it up with me. Now,” he finished, “I also know I don’t need to tell you that our first order of business is filling the posts of the Centurions and Optios who…” his voice trailed off, but he clearly saw he had no need to remind us of their collective fate, and he continued, making a slight gesture with his hands, “…and I’d like those spots filled within the next two days. The sooner we can do that, the quicker we can get things back to normal and get to work.”
With that, we were dismissed, and as was customary, we returned to our respective areas with the Centurions from our Cohort. It was during our walk back that Macer pulled me aside, which was not unusual in itself, but clearly, Vespillo, Cornutus, and Volusenus sensed that this was about something out of the ordinary. If they had asked, I would have agreed with them, certain that, despite his claim that what had taken place with Pusio would never be mentioned again, he was having second thoughts, not that I could blame him. Happily, in more ways than one, I was completely wrong, although it did explain why the other three Centurions were clearly unhappy about being excluded, since they had a better idea of what was really going on than I did.
“Do you think Structus is ready for promotion?” Macer asked without preamble, catching me completely by surprise, which might have been his intent, because without thinking about it, I answered, “Absolutely.”
“So do I,” he agreed, then he hesitated for a moment, and I understood why when he went on, “which is why I’m putting him forward to the Primus Pilus to take over Philus’ Century.”
This brought me to an abrupt halt, not because I thought it was a bad idea, but that it was not the customary method, and my first thought was that it might actually hamper Structus’ chances of entering the Centurionate.
“Are you sure?” I asked, but then before he could respond, I felt it important to add, “It’s not because I don’t think he can handle it. I do, very strongly. But it’s just…”
“Unusual,” Macer finished for me, and I nodded. “Yes, it is,” he agreed, “but this is an unusual time, and Sacrovir has already let it be known he’s open to the idea of promoting eligible Optios into the Centurionate in their own Cohorts and not just shifting men who are already Centurions up and filling the third line Cohorts with new Centurions. He thinks that having men who may be inexperienced as Centurions but are familiar with the men of the Cohort is more important, especially after all that’s happened.” This made complete sense to me, and I said as much. “Good.” Macer sounded relieved, making me wonder whether he thought I might have objected, or if it was just one of many details that he had to attend to, which seemed to be confirmed as he asked, “And who do you have in mind for your Optio?”
“Clustuminus.” Again, I answered immediately, but this time, Macer did not nod, nor did he say anything. We had resumed walking, and the next several paces were covered in silence, until I could not take it anymore, asking, “Is there a problem with Clustuminus?”
Macer pursed his lips, not answering immediately, then he said, “I just recall wondering how involved he was with the mutiny.” He turned to look up at me and asked, “What do you think?”
There was no way I could deny that this had not been a concern for me, and I admitted, “I wondered the same thing. But,” I confess I was making this up as I went, since I had not had the time to sit down and gather my thoughts on the subject, “I think that he was like a lot of the men who agreed that we were owed these concessions by Tiberius. And,” I took a breath before I said, “I agree with the men who feel that way.”
This caused Macer to look up at me in surprise, exclaiming, “Gerrae! Really?”
“Yes, really,” I answered.
“But you never gave any indication that you felt that way,” Macer did not seem to actually be aiming that at me, speaking in more of a musing tone.
I did not know how to respond to that, so I did not try, and we both remained silent the rest of the way to our area.
Stopping at the Cohort tent, Macer started to enter, then turned and asked me, “Are you sure about Clustuminus?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation.
He did not say anything, just gave a nod, and I resumed walking to my own quarters, wondering what he would do about my Optio. I got my answer less than a third of a watch later, when Alex came to tell me that Lucco had just taken the warrant for Structus’ promotion to Quartus Hastatus Prior to the Legion office. And, before the end of the day, his promotion had been approved, prompting me to send the warrant for Clustuminus to Macer, which he did approve, but not until the next day. Just as Germanicus had decreed, all the empty spots for both Legions had been filled by the second day after the end of the mutiny, and the preparation for this short campaign against the Marsi began in earnest.
I do not know if the complete story of what happened with the 5th and 21st as it pertains to Germanicus’ letter to Caecina will ever be known, but ultimately, it is the result that matters, not the method. And, as with my Legion and the 20th, the ringleaders of the mutiny were turned on and executed by their own comrades, which was apparently a bit less organized and much bloodier than what had occurred with the 1st and 20th. All that mattered, at least to the Centurions, was that things had returned to a semblance of normality, and fairly quickly, the work of preparing for yet another winter campaign, like the one early in my time with the 1st under Tiberius, occupied every waking watch of men of all ranks, which served to keep the chatter about recent events to a minimum. And, with that, gentle reader, I must close, because I have much to do as the time to march rapidly approaches.