Chapter 7

By the time we marched out of Siscia on the way to our camp, the entire town had been roused and, for once, I was thankful that because of the hour, by the time the citizens had made it out of their homes and down onto the street, for the most part the leading element of the Legion had marched past. As sorrowful as the families of the fallen had been when we returned from the ambush, then the night action against the Colapiani, this time was by far the worst. While we had not officially been told the extent of our losses, all I had to do was glance about the First Century to see that we had been savaged; in effect, we had been decimated more than twice over. The rest of the Cohort was in similar condition, but in a change from what was normal, some of the higher numbered Cohorts had suffered significant casualties as well. In short, the 8^th had been hurt, and badly at that, meaning our winter would be spent filling our depleted ranks. This is one of the advantages of being in the First, since every replacement we received would be a veteran. Not, however, that we would not have difficulties of our own, especially since we would have a new Primus Pilus as well. And I was acutely aware that it was well within the realm of possibility the incoming Primus Pilus would not want Asinius as his Optio. Demoting him was unlikely, but a transfer to elsewhere in the Legion, where an Optio slot had been vacated either by death or promotion was not out of the question. What, I wondered dismally, would I do then? While it was true my most immediate tormentor, Caecina, was no longer a threat, I could not dismiss the possibility that my troubles were not over. Despite not being subjected to the worst of the grief displayed by the families of fallen men, behind us we could hear the wailing cries of women and children who saw a strange face occupying their loved one's normal spot. Marching on, we left behind a trail of a different kind of devastation that, in its own way, had even more of an impact on our lives than the smoldering ruins of the Varciani town. Suddenly, women and children who had looked to a man in the ranks for protection and security were bereft of succor, and if some of the de facto wives started scrambling to find another benefactor with a haste that seemed, if not obscene, at least in poor taste, I would argue this is merely the reality of their lives. Nevertheless, we still had our own ordeal coming, starting when we marched into the forum in front of the Praetorium where the Legate, having been forewarned by a runner sent by Macerinus, was waiting, along with all of the Tribunes. None of them looked happy, although it was not late enough in the night for them to be asleep; my guess at the time was they had been engaged in whatever kind of debauchery the upper classes favor and did not appreciate being pulled away from their fun. Macerinus gave the torchbearers the command to light those that ring the forum, which we did before returning to our normal spots in the ranks. Consequently, I missed the beginning of the exchange between Macerinus and the Legate, although Avitus filled me in later.

While the Legate returned the salute of Macerinus, according to those who heard the exchange, he demanded, "What's the meaning of this…?"

Apparently, this was when the Legate realized he did not know the name of the second in command of one of his Legions, something that was not lost on any of the men in the ranks.

"Primus Pilus Posterior Aulus Macerinus, sir," Macerinus informed him, then added, "acting as de facto Primus Pilus." He turned to indicate where the other four rightfully enraged Centurions were standing, between us in the First Century and the command group, still with the burden of Urso's body on their shoulders.

This was when I returned, moving as unobtrusively as I suppose it is possible for someone my size to slip back into my spot. From behind the Legate, I saw Paullus lean over slightly to stare at me, and I suppose Fronto and the others, regarding us with open contempt, a look that at least I returned in full measure, daring him to make an issue of it. His black eye was fading but still noticeable, yet while he opened his mouth, for some reason, he suddenly seemed to think better of it; it was one of the few times I saw him act with a modicum of discretion and, frankly, wisdom. Naturally, this newfound sensibility was not destined to last long.

"Primus Pilus Canidius is dead?"

Despite the solemnity of the moment, when I heard someone from behind me murmur, "Oh, no. He was just tired and is taking a nap," it was all I could do to maintain my own composure.

Some of my comrades were not so successful and there was a ripple of snickers from behind me; this was actually more difficult to overcome than the actual comment. Any more opportunities for mirth were cut off when both the Primus Hastatus Prior and Posterior, the two Centurions at the rear of the quartet, looked over their shoulders to glare at us, my former Optio Galens one of them. Fortunately, we were either far enough removed that the Legate did not hear, or he chose to ignore it.

Oblivious to what was going on behind him, Macerinus had replied, "Yes, sir. I'm afraid that he is."

The Legate did not reply immediately, his brow furrowed in apparent thought as if he were trying to comprehend the news.

"I see," he finally responded, nodding his head in a way one might do when told that rain was expected. "Well, that is a tragedy, a great, great loss for Rome," he intoned, completely unconvincingly. "But," he continued, "be that as it may, I assume you've returned for a reason. And," at this point, he actually sidestepped to peer in the direction of the far end of the forum, but while the light was dim, I knew the rest of the Legion was clearly visible, "I can only assume that it's to replenish and refit, because I don't see any prisoners. Which," he returned his attention to Macerinus and his voice turned cold, "you were instructed to bring back, as proof that you had fulfilled your orders. And," he added menacingly, "to restore the honor and good name of the 8^th Legion."

I am sure the pause was not long, but it seemed to last half the night before Macerinus replied, "Sir, while we've subdued the Varciani, and," he emphasized this, "slew Draxo who, as you informed us," I am fairly sure he was smearing a bit of honey on the turd, "was indeed acting with the Varciani, the savages resisted to the point where we had no choice but to put all of them to the sword."

The Legate did not reply immediately, although I saw him blink several times; the Tribunes were not as circumspect, and I saw them turn to each other and whisper. On our side of this small drama, the silence was total as those of us within earshot knew that whatever came out of the Legate's mouth next would most likely have a direct impact on our immediate futures.

Finally, he collected himself enough to gasp, "You did what? You…killed them? All of them? Women and children?"

"Yes, sir." Macerinus' tone was clipped, and I was sufficiently experienced to know that from this point forward, Macerinus would be playing the role of the Stupid Legionary to the hilt.

This meant that if the Legate wanted more information, it would only come by being dragged from Macerinus; this is one of the most potent weapons we rankers have when confronted by our military and social superiors. Most of them think that since, generally speaking, we are uneducated, it also means we lack intelligence. I vividly recall on this night a thought that I have had many times before and since that moment, wondering what the reaction would be from the Legate, or the Tribunes, for that matter, if they knew the biggest ranker standing in front of them could not only read and write in Latin but had a fair knowledge of Greek, both in written and oral form. This ability, as I have mentioned, is due to the tutelage of two men; Sextus Scribonius was the one who first taught me my letters, but it was Diocles who was most responsible for my familiarity with both Latin and Greek literature. But, most of all, it was the example set by my Avus that made me determined to learn as much as I could. Regardless of that fact, my literacy played no part in what took place that night; I merely offer it as an example of how often the upper classes misjudge those of us in the lower ranks. As I would come to learn, Macerinus was similarly educated, but he certainly was not doing anything to betray that fact as he stood there, dumbly, as the Legate's mouth kept opening and closing.

Finally, he managed, "But…why? Are you saying that the women and children of the Varciani picked up weapons and resisted?" He snorted and shook his head. "I refuse to believe that."

I am sure that Macerinus was acutely cognizant of how much danger he was in, because he seemed to consider his answer before replying, "No, sir. Some of them tried to pick up a weapon, it's true, but for the most part, they just resisted our attempts to bring them under control."

"So you couldn't subdue a bunch of women and children?"

While the words themselves were not surprising, that they came from one of the Tribunes, although it was Paullus who said it, was not. I saw a flicker of annoyance pass across the Legate's face but I imagine the question itself was relevant enough this was his only reaction and, consequently, he turned his attention back to Macerinus, regarding him with a raised eyebrow. Because he was standing with his back to us, I cannot say with any certainty; all I know was if I had been in his boots, I would have been drenched in sweat.

"Sir, as you well know," Macerinus pointed out, "they're savages, practically wild animals." He shook his head and finished, "We lost enough men against their warriors, sir. I didn't want to lose any more because we were trying to bring some prisoners back."

"Who gave that order?" the Legate asked, and I offered a prayer to the gods that Macerinus, towards whom I held nor do I currently bear any animosity, would have the presence of mind to nudge the facts of the fight around a bit to lay the blame on Urso.

The fact he did no such thing showed me that he was at least made of the right metal that makes a Primus Pilus; if he was not as smart as he should have been is a question for others.

"I did," he replied firmly and without hesitation. "It was by my order, and I take full responsibility for what we did. If we exceeded or disobeyed your orders, it's on my shoulders and nobody else's." Then, he remembered to add, "Sir."

The Legate did not seem to have a retort for this, so he contented himself with glaring at Macerinus for a moment before unleashing a snort that could have been of disgust, then waved a hand in the general direction of the Legion.

"Well," he said finally, "we'll get to the bottom of this one way or another. I smell something about this I don't like." Shaking his head, he finished, "But there will be time for that. You and the Legion are dismissed."

Without another word, he wheeled about to stalk back into the Praetorium, while the Tribunes turned to follow, except for Paullus. Then Claudius, seeing the broad striper remain, I suppose was concerned enough the other man would make matters worse, because after going a few paces, he stopped as well, although at the moment, he seemed content to watch. Macerinus had just performed his own about-turn, and opened his mouth to dismiss us when he was interrupted by Paullus.

"Wait," the Tribune commanded.

Despite our collective loathing of this man, who we all held responsible for what had happened at The Quarry, we are nonetheless trained to obey, so Avitus and the others around me stiffened to intente, as did Macerinus. The only men who did not were the other Centurions bearing our Primus Pilus, if only because in doing so, they ran the risk of dropping the shield bearing him. The broad striper walked up to Macerinus, but honestly, he only gave the Centurion a passing glance, passing him by and only stopping when he was in front of Urso's bearers.

"Lower the shield," Paullus ordered abruptly, his hands clasped behind his back. "I want to…pay my respects to Canidius."

There was something in his tone, and his face, that caused me to shift uncomfortably, but I was not alone, heartened to see that none of the Centurions seemed disposed to do as he commanded. At least, not until Macerinus, who had turned about to keep his eye on Paullus, ordered them to do so.

This was not lost on Paullus, although his eyes never left Urso's dangling legs as he snapped, "Centurion…whatever your name is! You're the acting Primus Pilus, are you not?"

"Yes, Tribune." Macerinus was hard to understand because his teeth were clenched.

"Then order these…men to do as their superior commands!"

I saw Macerinus close his eyes as the knob on his throat bobbed up and down, but then he muttered, "Do as the Tribune says."

This, of course, was not as easy as one might imagine, meaning there was a moment of hesitation as the Centurions coordinated their actions.

"Hurry up, you imbeciles," Paullus snapped again. "It's freezing out here and I want to get back inside!"

I confess I was so fixated on Paullus and what he was up to that I did not notice Claudius start moving; he just seemed to suddenly appear in my field of vision. As he had done at least once before that I had seen, the junior Tribune did not hesitate, grabbing Paullus by the arm, except this time, he was not gentle. Not surprisingly, Paullus took this even worse than the first time, whirling about with a hiss that, to me at least, sounded like a serpent about to strike which, I suppose, in a sense is appropriate. Even as dark as it was, there was no missing the broad striper's hand flashing out as he tried to slap Claudius, but the curly-haired Tribune either saw it coming or his reflexes were akin to mine, because he jerked his head back as Paullus struck nothing but air. The broad striper had put enough force into his attempt that when he missed, his momentum actually caused him to spin partly about. Now there was no way to stop the wave of contemptuous snickering that came from our ranks, but Macerinus did nothing to stop it; in fact, he did not even act as if he had heard, so intently was he staring at the scene being played out in front of us.

"How dare you?" Paullus' tone reminded me of the shrieking women of the town just before we put them to the sword. "I've warned you about touching me, you..." I did not need the torchlight to see his lip curl in the sneer of disdain that seems to be part of the birthright of those Romans who happen to be born into a family one rung up the ladder than others.

"Be careful what comes out of your mouth next, Paullus," Claudius interjected, indicating us with a nod. "Because if I beat you to death, do you think any of these men would lift a finger to stop me? Last time," he leaned closer to Paullus who, like all cowards, shrank back in naked fear, "I stopped because he," he pointed up to Urso's makeshift bier, "kept me from finishing you off that night. This time?" he made an elaborate shrug, "your only protector is dead. Which is why," his tone changed to one that, if not menacing, seemed intent on conveying a message to the broad striper, "you wanted to look on his face one last time, isn't it? To pay your respects to the man who saved your life?"

Paullus continued glaring at Claudius, both of them oblivious to their rapt audience, but in the same way as Macerinus, I saw Paullus suddenly swallow hard.

"Yes," he finally responded. "That's why. I wanted to…pay my respects to the Primus Pilus."

Anyone with eyes could see Claudius was not buying what Paullus was selling, but it apparently met his requirements because he released his grip on Paullus' arm. Turning stiffly about, Paullus' face looked as waxen and dead as the masks of one of his ancestors, although by this time, the Centurions had complied and lowered the shield. Their bodies blocked my view of Urso's corpse, but I had seen it enough, so I kept my attention on Paullus, who moved a couple of steps so he could gaze down on the face of our former Primus Pilus. He did not say anything, but he did not need to; the twisted smile of satisfaction at seeing one of his enemies dead was eloquent enough.

The next few days are so entwined together that, even with my memory, it is difficult for me to recall them in the proper order they occurred. Perhaps the only thing that was not surprising was spending the following day after our arrival preparing our dead for their trip in the boat. It was an especially bitter time for me not only because one of those was Lutatius, but I had to be the one to tell Domitius who, along with Didius had been released from the hospital to our hut, waiting our return. Naturally, he grieved heavily, because Lutatius had been his close comrade; I believe it was not until the next day or perhaps the day after before he approached me.

"Now that Lutatius is gone," he said, "I was wondering…?"

He did not need to finish; it had been on my mind as well. I can understand that to an outsider with no experience with the Legions this might seem especially callous, that a man who has lost a close friend can go about the business of a replacement so quickly. This, unfortunately, is a fact of our existence; yes, it is true that between the time of year and the losses we had sustained it was highly unlikely we would be marching again that season, but the uncertainty of life in general, and one under the standard in particular, is such that we do not have the luxury of time.

"I'd be honored," I assured him, although I cannot say it was without any reservation or hesitation, and I felt compelled to at least bring up the subject. "As long as you don't think that…" I trailed off, not sure how to phrase my concern, but in what I took to be a good sign, I did not need to go any farther.

"You're worried we might be tempting the fates, given the history between our grandfathers?"

I just nodded in reply, but somewhat to my relief, he did not crack a joke or make light of my fear.

"I thought about that myself," he admitted soberly, then shrugged. "But, while we come from the same lines, we're different men. Aren't we?"

In one of my rare moments of insight, at least back then, I sensed he was actually asking this as a real question, that he was looking for assurances that both of our concerns were, if not groundless, then not necessary.

"We are," I replied firmly, hoping he did not catch my slight hesitation in answering; if he did, he did not give any indication.

Thrusting out my arm, he grabbed it and we became close comrades from that moment on, the keepers of the other's will and the man who watched my back as I did the same to his. And I can say that of all the decisions I have made over the years that have caused me to regret making it, this is not one of them.

The funeral of our Primus Pilus Publius Canidius was actually held the second day back in Siscia. As one might expect, it was more elaborate, befitting the status of a man who commanded a Legion of Rome. The fact that the Legate did not attend, nor did his second in command Paullus, did not go unnoticed; it was a mortal insult and was not one for which the men of the 8^th, or the other two Legions, for that matter, had any forgiveness. Again, when I look back at moments like this, I cannot help wondering if there is not some sort of connection with these first signs of the growing gulf between the nobility and the class of men who fill the Legions and all that has come about since then. I find it impossible to believe that the Legates in command back in the days of my Avus, and even earlier in the career of my father, would have committed such an egregious error of protocol. As entertaining as the stories of nobles debauching themselves may be, and their licentious behavior that sees them hosting lavish parties where lark's tongues are served merely because of the expense involved, I, for one, find them a troubling sign. Do not mistake me; there has always been a huge gulf between our patricians and high-ranking plebeians, and the lower classes, but the one place it was not as noticeable was in the ranks of the army. Frankly, however, without the threat of a civil war or an invasion by a foreign power like Parthia, those men of the upper classes who are supposed to lead us in battle have grown soft. And over the years, I have come to the conclusion that peace is not a Roman's friend; we are at our best, and display our best qualities, on the battlefield. But the day we consigned Urso to the cleansing flames, this thought was more of a troubling feeling, nagging at the back of my mind. It is only in the intervening years I have been able to clarify my concerns into the words above.

The other notable event on the second day was when we were visited by Asinius; the fact that Crito, the chief Legion clerk, was with him, carrying a stack of wax tablets, gave me a hint the moment I had been dreading was coming.

"We need to finish up all the butcher's bill reporting," Asinius began, once he had seated himself at our table. "Only then can we get on with shifting men to fill the Century up."

Sitting there at the opposite end of the table from the Optio, it was at moments like this where the scope of our losses came into sharpest relief. Gone from our table forever were Bestia, whose blackened bones are now scattered amongst those belonging to the Varciani, Colapiani, and those other poor Roman souls who were claimed by the fire. Dentulus, of course, had been killed earlier. Killed the same night as Dentulus had been Nigidius. Lutatius was the most personally painful loss; balancing this was the fact that the small triumvirate, composed of Philo, Caecina, and Mela was no more, with even the newest member Geta having fallen, although it was before Urso's death, so I cannot say he would have been there with Caecina and Mela at the end of their lives. He had always seemed to be the most half-hearted participant of the faction led by Caecina, and I would like to think that he would not have abandoned his comrades to accompany Caecina and Mela to perform what would turn out to be their last depravity. Those of us left were Avitus, Sido, Glabrio, and Didius, who had been left behind with Domitius, Quirinus, and Ventidius. And, of course, me. Eight of the sixteen were left, and of that eight, only Ventidius was unwounded, although none of the wounds on the rest of us were serious. Of course, if someone had asked me at the time, I suspect I would have given them an earful about the gash on my cheek. While it was not severe, at least relatively speaking, by the time I had it seen to, the blood in the wound had completely congealed and hardened, meaning it had to be scrubbed out by an unfortunate medicus before it could be stitched up, who received his own minor wounds in the form of the bruises I gave him. By the second day, the wound had started to itch, making for an extremely frustrating experience when I reached up to scratch, since that actually hurt more than it helped. All in all, it was a miserable experience, and yet, despite having quite a prominent scar running across my cheekbone, I have learned that, for reasons I cannot fathom but for which I am thankful, women seem to find it attractive. I suppose it is because it is a tangible symbol I am a warrior. Frankly, I do not care all that much why they do; I am just happy that this is the case.

"Who saw Caecina and Mela last?"

Asinius' blunt question jerked me from my examination of the faces around the table, but it should come as no surprise that I did not open my mouth. Instead, I glanced around at the others as they tried to recall.

Finally, it was Avitus who spoke up, informing our Optio, "All I remember is seeing Caecina suddenly running by me, right after…"

His voice trailed off, but there was no need for him to expand, because we understood he was referring to the moment that changed all of our lives, for better or worse. What I can say is that even in the moment, although I felt somewhat relieved my own personal dilemma had been resolved, I was still not sanguine that everything would work out well for us as a Century. In some ways, it was still too early for the rumors to fly about who would be replacing Urso, although this did not stop some men from offering their conjecture, which of course immediately took wing and flew through the Legion as practically a certainty.

When nobody else spoke up, Asinius was forced to ask, "Anyone else? Did anyone see either of them after…after the Primus Pilus fell?"

Heads shook all around, but although I was not surprised when the Optio turned his gaze on me, it did not make it any less unsettling.

"Pullus? What about you? Did you see Caecina? Or Mela, for that matter?"

Now, I make no apologies for the fact that I opened my mouth fully intent on uttering a lie, except I was saved from an unlikely source; at least, so it seemed at the time.

"Nothing that I didn't see," Avitus spoke up. "Because he had just put paid to Draxo and was standing not more than two paces from me when Caecina took off."

"Is that true, Pullus?"

"Yes, Optio," I assured him, only slightly ashamed I was lying through my teeth to a man I respected a great deal. "And," I added hastily, "I saw the same thing Avitus did." Shrugging, I finished, trying to keep my tone bland and as if I was just relaying a slightly interesting bit of information. "That was the last time I saw them."

The instant it came out of my mouth, I knew I had made a mistake, especially when dealing with a man as sharp as Asinius, and he did not hesitate.

"Them?" he pounced. "I thought you just saw Caecina."

Acutely conscious of the sudden feeling from the cold trickle of sweat rolling right down the middle of my back, it took quite a bit of my admittedly meager self-control to keep my tone nonchalant as I replied, "No, I meant just Caecina. I don't remember seeing Mela at all, at least not once the fighting started. He's down at the other end of the formation," I added helpfully.

"I know where he stands," Asinius shot back, his irritation showing as he glared at me. Nobody spoke for several heartbeats before he gave a grunt, then looked back down at his tablet. "So you never saw him."

"No, Optio," I answered, "and I apologize for the confusion."

He did not seem to hear, instead continuing to peer down at the tablet, his lips pursed in concentration as he tapped his stylus on the table.

Finally, he made a sound that sounded like it was part hiss, part whistle as he tossed the stylus down disgustedly and said, "Well, I seriously doubt either of them decided to desert. They had too much to lose, and neither of them had ever done anything like that before. So," he shook his head, "they're dead."

"Don't you have to have some sort of proof?" Didius asked. "Otherwise, whatever back pay they have is supposed to be sent to their families?"

"That's true," Asinius granted, but then he pulled another tablet from the stack Crito had brought and consulted it. "But Caecina didn't have any next of kin listed." Suddenly, he frowned, but to me it seemed he was more puzzled than anything as he continued, "That's strange."

"What's strange?"

I do not remember who asked this, but I was just as curious.

Glancing up in irritation, Asinius did not seem disposed to answer at first, then he shrugged and answered, "It says here that a couple years ago, Caecina had gone to Titius," he named our Tesseraurius, "and informed him that he had modified his will."

This, as I would come to learn, was not unusual at all; as men die or friends fall out with each other, it is more unusual that a will remains inviolate than it is modified. Nevertheless, when Asinius uttered his next statement, I was as stunned as everyone else.

"He named the Primus Pilus as his inheritor." Asinius was, understandably, clearly bemused about this.

His confusion, however, did not last long and I saw his face suddenly clear.

"Ah," he said softly, barely audible over the babble of my comrades as they offered their comments and ideas about this piece of information. "I think I know why."

"Why?" Quirinus demanded, but Asinius just shook his head.

"It doesn't matter," he replied abruptly, then continued, "and it's none of your business, anyway."

"That's true," Domitius was the one who interjected, "but the Primus Pilus is dead too. So now who does it go to?"

Asinius shrugged and replied offhandedly, "Unless he named someone as a secondary inheritor, it goes to his family, but if they can't be located, then into the Century burial club account."

As far as it went, I knew that was true; being a child of the Legions means that one's mind is stuffed full of all manner of arcane knowledge concerning the army and how it operates. Even so, I did not offer confirmation, being more intent on this episode ending with no more questions asked. Seeing that Asinius was done with this line of inquiry, the others went on the attack.

"So what have you heard?"

The instant this came from Ventidius, I could have warned him that Asinius' sense of humor was, if not cruel, at least of the type that took some pleasure in tormenting others.

"Heard about what?" Asinius asked blandly. "About the schedule tomorrow?"

He looked down at a tablet, although I was certain he was not reading it.

"You know what I'm talking about," Ventidius shot back sourly.

"Oh, you mean about who'll be leading the 8^th and commanding this Century? Is that what you're asking about?"

"Yes," we all shouted, more or less in unison.

"Oh. Well, I haven't heard anything."

With that, he stood, ignoring the cascade of jeers from us for tormenting us in that way. However, before he opened the door, he beckoned to me.

"Pullus," he called out, "come with me."

I suddenly became aware of my heart pounding heavily enough I could hear it in my ears, but I stood and followed him outside nonetheless. As I did so, I was acutely aware the eyes of my comrades were on me, but unlike previous times, I felt no hostility in their gazes, which I must say made me feel much better.

Joining Asinius outside, he turned and told me, "You're the new Century weapons instructor."

Being frank, I had not even thought about it until he said it; only then did I remember Bestia had been the weapons instructor for the Century. However, he was not through.

"And," he added, "you're the new section Sergeant."

That froze my blood; I wish I could say my first emotion was a rush of pride or sense of accomplishment, but it was not.

"What?" I gasped. "Are you mad? I'm not senior enough to be Sergeant!"

Asinius stared at me, his features cold.

"You're whatever I say you are, Pullus," he snapped.

I cannot say this with any certainty, but I believe I looked so miserable that he felt enough sympathy to relent somewhat.

"Pullus," his voice was softer, "you're the best and obvious choice. At least," he amended, "among the other men of the section right now."

"What about Domitius?" I asked and I honestly believed this was a valid question and he was a viable candidate.

"He's not mean enough." Asinius shook his head. "Oh, I can see that everyone likes him, and he's got some leadership qualities. But," he poked his finger in my chest, "he's not hard enough. And especially when new men come into the section, they'd run right over him." Shaking his head, he continued, "But you? You'll break anyone in half if they cross you. Besides, like you keep reminding all of us, you're born for this."

I felt the rush of blood to my face, but it was as much due to my recognition that he was speaking the truth as it was the words themselves.

"I understand, Optio," I heard my voice say, "and I will obey."

"I know you will," he shot back, but then I saw a corner of one lip turn up, "because you don't have any choice."

Asinius returned back to the hut just long enough to inform the others of my promotion. Much to my surprise, none of my comrades looked upset, or surprised, for that matter. If anything, they seemed relieved; I believe it was Domitius who summed up the prevailing sentiment.

"Sergeants of the First Section, First Century of the First Cohort," he intoned with mock solemnity, "have a bad habit of dying."

Although the others roared with laughter, I cannot say I was particularly amused, mainly because it was true. After I received the congratulations of the others, I pulled Avitus aside, asking him to come outside with me.

"Why did you speak up like that?" I asked him bluntly once we were clear of the others.

I am somewhat ashamed that my state of mind meant it was more inclined to view Avitus' actions with suspicion, but considering all that I had witnessed during my time in the First, perhaps I can be forgiven. While my intention had been to catch Avitus off balance, I did not seem to succeed.

"Because," he shrugged, "nothing good would come from the Optio poking around in all that mess. Besides," he had been looking down the street, but now turned to look at me directly in the eyes, "whatever you did or didn't do doesn't matter, really. What does is that Caecina was dangerous to the section because he was…close to the Primus Pilus." Suddenly, he broke eye contact to resume his examination of the street, shrugging again as he finished, "Anything we said or did that he thought Urso would want to know, he'd use against us, mainly to make sure we looked in the other direction with all of the schemes he was running."

While I did not physically stagger, my mind was reeling as it peeled back the layers of Avitus' words like an onion, trying to find his real meaning.

"Wait," I gasped, "you don't mean that Caecina and Urso were…?"

Frankly, I could not finish, but I clearly did not need to, because he looked over at me once more, and while he did not speak, his eyes sent a message to me that, at least at that moment, seemed very clear.

Then, for the third time, he gave me a shrug and said simply, "Not that it matters one way or another. And if I'm being honest, that's not what made Caecina dangerous to the rest of us. So," he finished firmly, making it clear he would speak of it no more, "that's why I told the Optio you were there with me. Because ultimately, we're better off without him."

I cannot say what compelled me to ask, "And Mela?"

Avitus snorted in obvious derision, spitting onto the street as he answered, "What about him? That cunnus couldn't lace his fucking boots without Caecina's approval. No," he shook his head again, "Caecina was the key to it all, even when Philo was still alive."

That much I had learned, albeit after Philo's death and seeing firsthand who had been the true mind behind that gang. A silence descended on us; I suppose both of us were lost in our own thoughts, but then Avitus spoke again, surprising me considerably.

"The section's a mess right now, but we just need someone strong to follow." Suddenly, he reached out and put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it as he urged, "You can be that man, Pullus. You're our Sergeant now, and as long as you do the job the way we know you can, you'll have nothing to worry about from us."

Although I had believed this to be the case, having Avitus confirm my observation was crucial for my fragile confidence, but although it helped, I still had very strong reservations, which caused me to blurt out, "But I'm so young, and the men we're going to be getting to plump us out are going to be veterans themselves! And this was only my second campaign!"

If had expected a sympathetic ear, I picked the wrong man in whom to confide if I was looking for that; instead, he did not tell me what I wanted to hear, but what I needed.

"Stop whining!" he snapped. "Yes, you're young. And yes, this is only your second campaign. But," he reached out to poke a bony finger into my chest, "remember who you are! And remember, I've seen you in a fight and so have the rest of us who are left. You're the man who slew Draxo! And last year, you were decorated by Drusus himself for putting paid to that Chatti…" He paused as he tried to recall the name.

"Vergorix," I mumbled. "His name was Vergorix."

"Yes, him." He waved a hand in acknowledgement. "And you killed him." He pointed, first at my cheek, then down to my arm, which was still pink and raw although the swelling had gone down, and in its size and shape, the scar was basically identical in appearance as it is today. "Any man with eyes can see you've been in some hard fighting. But the most important thing you need to know is that the rest of us will stand with you against anyone who wants to challenge your authority." His face broke into a grin, but despite my emotional state at this declaration of loyalty, I felt my own smile forming in answer. "Besides, I have a feeling you'll be able to whip any cunnus who crosses you without our help."

When we returned to the hut, we were both laughing; my vision was a bit cloudy perhaps, but if anyone noticed, they did not mention it.

Despite this personal advancement in my career, there was still a pall hanging over the entire Legion that dampened my own excitement and pride in my unexpected promotion. The only thing we were informed about came perhaps a week after our return to Siscia, when just our Legion was summoned to the forum, whereupon we were curtly informed by the Legate that, while a permanent replacement for Urso had not been decided, Primus Pilus Posterior Macerinus was not a candidate. Even at intente, I know I was not alone in looking at Macerinus out of the corner of my eye, who was still standing in the spot of the Primus Pilus. From what I could tell, he had already been informed of this, because his face looked set in stone, although I thought I saw a slight twitch of his jaw muscle as he stared straight ahead. It was one of the shortest duration formations in which I have been involved, even until now, as the Legate's words still seemed to be hanging in the air when he spun about, whirling that damned paludamentum again as he stalked away. Not surprisingly, the instant Macerinus dismissed us, the buzzing of conversation began, but I saw he himself was one of the few who did not linger around the forum, walking at least as quickly as the Legate had in his attempt to escape. Since it was the first time we had been gathered as a Legion, I was hailed by Metellus, Bassus, and some of my other friends from the Fourth who clustered around me and congratulated me on my promotion. It was an intensely satisfying moment, and a memory I will always prize as my first friends in the Legion expressed their pleasure, which I believe was unfeigned, at my first promotion. Very quickly, my former section mates were joined by Vibius Tuditanus, his bright red hair that always stood straight up from his head no matter how hard he tried to slick it down announcing his approach long before he arrived. His freckled face which stayed more or less permanently reddened during the campaign season, was split by his gap-toothed grin and, like with the others, after clasping arms, we embraced.

Pointing to my face, he joked, "I never thought anything could improve your looks!"

"At least I don't always look like my hair's on fire," I retorted, and I was happy to see him laugh back at me; this had been a long-standing joke between us since we were tiros together.

Then someone poked me, hard, in the back, and I spun around to see Gnaeus Figulus, meaning the ritual of arm clasps and embrace was repeated. Of all the men clustered together in this moment, he was the one who knew me the longest, if not the best. Like me, he and another boy, Vibius Pacuvius, were sons of Centurions, but of the three of us, Pacuvius had opted not to follow in his father's footsteps, a decision for which Figulus had nothing but disdain. And, being honest, although I tried to defend Pacuvius' choice, understanding it had come as a result of his being allowed to accompany the Legion on what was my father's last campaign, meaning that, in fact, he had gotten a taste of what war was about and found it not to his liking, I actually shared Figulus' feelings. Standing together in the forum, we all chatted a few moments, the topic of my promotion lasting for just a few heartbeats before moving on to another subject, something I understood completely, as we shared the latest gossip and rumor about the upcoming major event in our lives.

"I wonder if Tiberius will choose the Primus Pilus like he did last time?"

The instant I uttered this question, I realized I had just blurted out something that was actually not common knowledge, and I was forced to spend the next few moments enlightening my friends about all that I had learned since I had joined them under the standard. However, I was not the only one with information that others did not possess.

Once I had finished, I believe it was Figulus who interjected, "I seriously doubt Tiberius will have any say in it." When asked why he thought this, he seemed surprised. "You haven't heard? Tiberius is in bad odor with the Princeps right now."

"Why?" someone asked.

Figulus shrugged but replied, "Who knows for sure? But what my father heard was that he's gotten tired of the Princeps showing his grandsons more favor than him."

"But that's understandable," Tuditanus pointed out. "After all, they're his grandsons, not his stepson."

"True," Figulus granted, then added, "but nobody has been as steadfast and loyal to the Princeps as Tiberius. He's always gotten the dirty end of the sponge and, even so, he's always done his duty to Rome."

There was certainly nothing objectionable in what Figulus said, yet I did wonder how much of what he had just uttered was his own opinion and how much belonged to his father, who was one of the First Grade Centurions in the 17^th Legion, stationed on the Rhenus. However, considering none of us had anything else to offer, after another few moments, we started drifting apart, heading back towards our respective areas. I suppose I was so lost in thought I did not really pay attention to the fact that I had actually wandered closer to the Praetorium than I normally would have; as a rule, we rankers give this building as wide a berth as possible.

"Gregarius Pullus!"

Truthfully, I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard someone call my name from the direction of the Praetorium, and consequently, I was filled with trepidation, composed of equal parts apprehension and sheepishness at my reaction when I turned to see who had called my name. Instantly, confusion was added to my emotions because the only man standing anywhere near the source of the call was someone I only knew by sight. Thankfully, my body overcame my mind's hesitation as I automatically approached and came to intente.

"Tribune Claudius?"

Clutching the scrap of parchment, on which the pass allowing me into town was written, by a Tribune who I only knew by name, I exited the camp wondering what lay in store for me. When he had surreptitiously thrust it into my hand as he pretended to inspect me, circling around my rigid body with a clear look of disdain, whispering the place and time I was to meet him, I came very close to refusing to accept it outright. It would have been simple enough; as he pretended to correct the placing of my clenched fist, he had stuffed the scrap into it, and I could have just tightened my grip to stop him. Thinking as quickly as I could, I tried to calculate what would be more costly; accepting the scrap and going to the meeting, or refusing it. Of course, I obeyed my impulse as I normally did and opened my fist just enough to allow him to shove it into my hand. It was shortly after dark when I left the camp, the duty Centurion, the Hastatus Prior of the Sixth as I recall, stood near a torch as he peered down at the pass, then handed it back to me with a grunt and a wave. Making my way through the streets I had known since I could walk, although finding the spot was easy enough, it was with a fair amount of caution and apprehension that I did so, since I had never actually been in the establishment chosen by Claudius. It was not the fact that it was a brothel that had kept me from crossing its threshold; it was that it was the most expensive in Siscia. While I could easily afford it, this was one of the places my father had specifically warned me about.

"A ranker showing up in that place?" he had admonished me. "That will get tongues wagging! If you're a Centurion," he shrugged, "that's one thing. But not as a Gregarius." I remember he actually wagged his finger at me, which made me laugh.

And to this point, I had obeyed his command, but now there I was, pausing outside. Taking a breath, I pounded on the door and, instantly, the small flap behind the iron grill opened, and an eye peered out at me.

"I'm…" Before I could supply my name, I was cut off.

"I know who you are." The voice had the gravelly quality that told me it had, at one point, bellowed orders to men like me. "You don't need to say it."

Then the heavy door was yanked open, and a short, thickset man with iron-gray hair and seamed face beckoned to me to enter. When he did, I saw he was missing a hand, although when my eyes went to his stump, he did not appear offended.

"You get used to it," was his only comment as he waved the stump in the general direction of the door beyond the small vestibule.

Walking through the open arched entryway, the murals decorating the walls in front of me sent a rush of heat to my face; I was still in many ways a callow, green boy, although I will say that a couple of the pictures provided fodder for my future leisurely pursuits. A woman who, despite being close to the doorman's age, was still an alluring beauty was standing there to greet me, and while her smile was warm and inviting, my father's admonition about always watching someone's eyes and not their facial expression allowed me to see the coldness there, behind the false friendly demeanor of the proprietor.

"Your host is awaiting you, Master." I must say her voice was a perfect complement to her outer appearance; husky but dripping with honey that seemed to promise delights a man could scarcely imagine.

Now that time has passed, I can laugh at how my body betrayed my interest, something she took notice of immediately. Reaching down, she grabbed at that most sensitive part, which she essentially used to lead me down the hallway.

Before pulling aside the curtain, she whispered to me, "After your meeting, come see me and we'll see what we can do about your…problem."

If it had not happened, I would never have believed I could have been blushing more than I already was, but my face became so hot I felt beads of sweat pop out on my forehead.

"I…I…don't have the money for a place like this," I managed to mumble finally.

"Who said anything about money?" She laughed but then she shoved me into the room.

Claudius had been lounging on a couch, while one of the women belonging to the house was draped across the back of the couch, tousling his long, curly hair. Ignoring her, he stood up as I entered, and, surprising me a great deal, he offered his arm.

"I see you've managed to impress Madame Eirene." He laughed. "That's quite an accomplishment."

Only force of habit saved both of us from embarrassment as I reached out, clasping his forearm as he did mine in the manner of equals, and I remember noticing his hands were a bit rougher than I had thought they would be. Then, he pointed to another couch placed directly across from his, with a small, low table between them.

"Please, Pullus, have a seat."

Despite phrasing it as a request, I was not sufficiently rattled to miss that, just by his tone, he made it clear it was anything but one. Like all nobility, he was a man accustomed to being obeyed, and I congratulated myself that I remembered this as I sat down. I did not recline, however, instead sitting on the edge of the couch with my hands on my knees and back straight as he curtly dismissed the girl with a wave of his hand. She complied, making a show of pouting, yet he was clearly not swayed although he blew her a kiss, grinning as she swayed out of the room.

"She is…flexible." He turned his grin at me, and despite the unsettling circumstances of this meeting, I had to laugh.

He offered me wine from the small jug on the low table, but while I knew it would be impolite to refuse, when he handed me my cup, I reached over and deliberately added water to it, cutting it by more than half. Rather than offending him, he laughed and raised his own cup in a mock salute.

"Wanting to keep a clear head, neh? Good thinking, Pullus."

Then, the smile and good humor vanished from his demeanor as if it had never been there, and he leaned back as he continued examining me. I was determined that, since he had been the one to arrange this meeting, he would be the one to speak first.

Finally, he either sensed this, or got bored by the silence, because he asked abruptly, "What do you know of the dealings between your family and mine?"

Despite trying to prepare myself for this possibility, as I am sure he was hoping, I was thrown off-balance.

"Not much," I finally answered, but I spoke slowly in order to form my words before they came out. "I know that one of your relatives served with my grandfather. And my father," I felt compelled to add, but although this was true, I was sure this was about my Avus and not him.

Once he realized I was finished, I saw a flash of what I interpreted as irritation, as he said, "Yes, well. That's the bare bones of it. But," now he leaned forward, matching my own posture as he looked at me intently, "what specifics do you know?" This I did not answer, and now there was no mistaking that he was annoyed, his lips thinning down as he frowned at me. Then he seemed to reach a decision, saying, "Pullus, I'm going to show you my dice. And believe me, I understand why you'd be cautious in your dealings with anyone named Claudius. But," the tone of his voice changed, becoming more intense as he continued, "your family has suffered at the hands of mine, and I want to show you that we Claudii are generally honorable men. And I'm determined to prove that to you. Now," he asked me again, "what do you know about the events that transpired between our families?"

For the second time in a relatively short period, I obeyed my first impulse. I told him everything I had learned from my Avus' account, how he had saved a member of the Claudius family who was serving as Tribune under Marcus Licinius Crassus, grandson of the contemporary of Divus Julius', a man whose name has been removed from all official records and, as far as I knew, had died in exile. I did not stop there, however, going on to relate how it had been another Claudius who, under pressure from the paterfamilias of the Claudii at the time, Appius Claudius Pulcher, had corroborated a fabricated charge that Titus Pullus, as Camp Prefect, had colluded with Marcus Primus' illegal invasion of Thrace. It was a crime for which Primus was the first patrician in some time to be executed under the Lex maiestatas, the most serious and heinous offense a Roman could commit. The perfidy of the Claudius family went further than a false statement under oath, however; despite making a solemn vow to my Avus to offer whatever aid or help my Avus might need, in his time of need, the Tribune whose life he had saved failed to do as he had promised. What I found remarkable when I read this, the last chapter of my Avus' account of his extraordinary career, was that he bore no real malice towards the Tribune who had failed so miserably in fulfilling his oath. I suppose it must be noted that the Tribune did, in fact, perform a small favor by filching a crucial scroll from the table of the prosecutor during my Avus' Tribunal on the Campus Martius, but from my viewpoint, it was much too little and too late. Once I finished, there was another silence as Claudius digested this, I suppose comparing it to his version of events.

"That," he finally acknowledged, "is a very accurate account, at least of what I know." Continuing, he added, "But my guess is that you're still wondering why we're sitting here now."

I did not reply verbally, but I did nod my head.

Taking a deep breath, he plunged in, "Because your grandfather saved my father's life when he served under Crassus. That," he added, "would be enough, but according to my mother, my father returned from that campaign a different man, a better man, and his failure during your grandfather's Tribunal haunted him. I know," his mouth twisted into a look I took to be equal parts bitterness and sorrow, "because he told me as much."

There is no way for me to discern whether it was his expression, or how he used the past tense; whatever it was, it did prompt me to ask, "Where's your father now? Back in Rome?"

"His ashes are," Claudius replied, but he paused long enough to take a swallow from his cup. Then he answered my next question with his gesture as he raised the cup in a bitter, heartbroken salute. "And this is why. Bacchus claimed his soul after the Tribunal." Pausing, he sighed, and his eyes took on a faraway look. "I worshiped him, you know. I was only about six when the Tribunal happened, and I was just twelve when he died. But he called me to his side when…" His voice trailed off, and the lamplight made the tears in his eyes shimmer.

Being completely honest, I suspect my vision was similarly clouded at this display of grief. I give thanks to the gods that my father still lives even now as I write this; this does not mean I have not experienced my own devastating loss, but it was in my future then.

Partially regaining his composure, Claudius continued, "As I was saying, when he was on his deathbed, he made me swear on Jupiter's black stone that, if the moment came when our family was in a position to help yours that I do everything I could to do so. That," he finished, "is why we're meeting tonight."

I considered this for some time, which he seemed content to allow, sipping again from his own cup. In my mind, while there were thousands of questions floating about, there was only one that continued to resurface amidst all the others; could I trust this nobleman? While it was true his story made sense, and it fit with everything I knew, it did not necessarily mean he could be trustworthy.

"Why now?" I finally asked him. "I mean, thank you, I suppose." He waved a dismissive hand at my gratitude, but I pressed on. "But couldn't you have approached me before now? Like, before we marched against the Colapiani the first time?"

"You mean when fucking Paullus almost got all of us killed?" His laugh was tinged with an anger that we shared. "I thought about it," he admitted, "but there was a lot going on."

"That's true," I granted.

It was somewhere at this point I made my decision; at least, that is how I remember it.

"So," I asked, "what now?"

He considered this for a moment, then replied, "Well, there's not much I can do right now. And," he added, "you don't seem to need any help from what I hear. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way."

I thanked him, but as I did, I resolved to get something out of this exchange now, prompting me to press, "So you can start helping me by telling me who our next Primus Pilus is going to be."

In truth, I was speaking mostly in jest, but instantly, his face clouded over, although it was the fact that his eyes suddenly started dancing around the room and looking everywhere but directly at me that gave me my first intimation of bad news.

"I don't know," he said, then added, "At least with any certainty. But," he admitted, "I've heard some talk, and it comes from reliable sources."

I waited, except he did not seem eager to continue.

"And?" I demanded. "What have you heard?"

Rather than answering me directly, instead, he asked, "What do you know about the situation in Rome?"

"I know that there's something going on between Tiberius and the Princeps," I replied; I admit I was absurdly proud I possessed even this scrap of information, even if I had just learned it a watch or so before.

"That's one way of putting it," he snorted. "Tiberius has a legitimate grievance, though. After all he's done for Rome, all the campaigns he's conducted, then to have his spot usurped for a couple of boys who haven't even donned the toga virilis?" He shook his head. "Honestly, I don't know how he's endured the slights and insults as long as he has. In fact," suddenly, he leaned forward as his voice dropped to a whisper, "I've heard rumors that he's considering leaving Rome altogether."

"Leaving Rome?" I asked, puzzled. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he explained patiently, "that he's always fancied himself as more of a scholar than a general. That was more Drusus' calling than his. So I've heard he's thinking about going to Athens. Or maybe Alexandria." Sitting back, he shrugged. "Either way, Tiberius is on the outs with the Princeps, and the grandsons…"

"Adopted grandsons," I pointed out, but Claudius gave a dismissive wave.

"You of all people should know that doesn't matter," he reminded me, but despite the fact that it stung, I was forced to recognize he was speaking the truth.

Once a Roman adopts, their progeny is considered to be theirs in entirety, and former blood ties no longer have any meaning. As I have learned, it is a peculiarly Roman trait, this view toward adoption, and is not shared by the other nations of the world; not that their opinion matters to us.

"So," I said slowly, "Tiberius isn't in the good graces of the Princeps. What does that mean?"

"It means," Claudius replied, "that the chances of Tiberius having any influence in choosing a man to fill your Primus Pilus slot is nonexistent. It will be up to the Princeps."

Considering this, I recognized that I had no idea how this was significant, and I said as much.

"What it also means," Claudius said grimly, "is whoever it is, you can be sure they don't belong to the Legion; they belong to Augustus."

I was forced to dodge my more inquisitive comrades about my whereabouts and how I managed to procure a pass into town at a time when most of the Legion was confined to base, but it quickly passed. There were enough things going on around us that my disappearance was nothing more than of fleeting interest, for which I was thankful. And I will admit I was no less concerned with those other matters than my comrades. Finally, perhaps four weeks after our return to Siscia, we were summoned by bucina to assemble in the forum. When we emerged from our huts early that morning, we were greeted by a thin crust of snow; it was still late October, meaning it was definitely earlier than normal. Seeing the white blanket, I was reminded of the period of freakishly cold weather we had experienced during our initial pursuit of the Varciani a full month before. Very quickly, our street became a slushy mess, the formerly pristine coat crushed beneath our boots as we made our way to the forum. Hovering above the mass of men moving down our street was the combined vapor cloud of our breath, and I reminded myself to invest in a fur-lined sagum this winter. Still, I was thankful for my socks, padded tunic, and bracae, although we are not allowed to wear the socks on our hands during formations. Rocking back and forth as we waited, the Legion struggled to stay warm, but ironically enough, at least I was sufficiently distracted by the reason we had been summoned that I did not really notice the cold all that much. Finally, the doors to the Praetorium opened and the Legate appeared with a Centurion by his side, followed by the Tribunes, including my new ally Claudius. Not surprisingly my eyes were riveted to the man walking beside the Legate, as I am sure were every other man's in the Legion, understanding there was only one reason we would be summoned to the forum. At first glance, in many ways, he resembled Urso in that he was about the same height, and while his chest was smaller, it was not by much. Once he got close enough, I examined his face, but honestly, I cannot say with any certainty the way I view him now was formed at that moment. He appeared to be in his forties, with a seamed, lined face and square jaw. In many ways, his appearance was unremarkable, except for the number of phalarae affixed to his mail, topped with a gold torq, similar in style if not size and workmanship as the one Urso had appropriated from me the year before. Had that really been just a year ago? I remember wondering, with quite some surprise. There was something else I noticed that, as I discovered a short time later, was noticed by my comrades as well. Unlike the rest of our Centurions and us rankers, his hair was very long, although it was pulled back flat against his skull, and had obviously been treated with some sort of ointment so that it gleamed. At the time, it rang a tiny bell in the back of my mind, but it would not be until later that I recalled the reason for it disturbing me. Returning my attention to the moment at hand, I watched as the pair came to a halt, still side by side. My first impression was not particularly positive; from where I stood, he seemed nothing more than a pale imitation of the man who had stood there before. Only later was I forced to recognize the truth, that men in the ranks are constantly measuring their new Centurion against the man who preceded them, and no matter his other failings, Publius Canidius had left some large boots behind. It would take quite a man to fill them.

"Men of the 8^th Legion," the Legate began speaking in what, to my ears at least, became more of a nasally whine every time he opened his mouth, "I bring good news!" He actually paused then, as if expecting us to burst out into a cheer, except he was met with a wall of stony silence, which clearly flustered him so that he stumbled on, "Yes…well, as I said, I bring you good news!"

"You said that already, idiot," I heard Fronto mutter from behind me and it was all I could do to keep from bursting out in laughter.

I was aided by the knowledge that I was in the front rank with nothing between the Legate and my presumably new Primus Pilus but air, so consequently, I did not want to start my time under his command with a flogging.

Oblivious to or uncaring about our impatience, the Legate droned on, "I, that is, the Princeps has seen fit to promote Gaius Sempronius Atticus into the post of Primus Pilus of the 8^th Legion!" At least that time, he did not expect us to burst out into a cheer because he did not pause. "He comes from his latest office in Rome." This caused a ripple of movement, accompanied by the buzz of muttered comments among men standing in the ranks as they offered a terse opinion on this news.

"A fucking Praetorian," Avitus groaned, albeit quietly. "Didn't they learn the last time what happens when you bring one of those lapdogs into a Legion?"

I suppose it was the mention of the personal guard of the Princeps that nudged the nagging thought from the back of my mind to the front as I recognized why I had been so struck by the length of the Centurion's hair. While it was true the last time I had seen a man of the Legions wearing his hair so long, I had been a child, one is unlikely to forget the man who, as I had learned, tried to kill one's father. Instantly, my groan joined the muted chorus of speculation and dismay as I thought, Another Barbatus?

Still either not noticing or ignoring our reaction, the Legate plowed ahead, "Primus Pilus Atticus has had a long and distinguished career, including time in both the old 2^nd and the 2^nd Legion Augusta, where he was the Secundus Pilus Prior. He is a veteran of the 2^nd's campaign in Cantabria, and he has been personally decorated by Augustus himself!"

"That explains a lot," Fronto muttered.

"I expect you to show Primus Pilus Atticus the same level of devotion and attention to duty that you showed your previous Primus Pilus," the Legate slogged on, but while it might have been my imagination, as I learned later, I was not the only one who noticed the slight lifting of the Legate's lip when he referred to Urso, even if it was not by name. "But," he gave us a hint of warning by the change in tone, "while you demonstrated your loyalty to your former Primus Pilus, your loyalty to Rome is what is in question!" There was no way he did not hear the low-pitched, guttural growl from men choking back their rage at this unfair and untrue accusation, yet he clearly chose to ignore this as he continued in the same harsh manner, "And know this, men of the 8^th! Our wise and benevolent Augustus is watching all of you! His eyes and ears are everywhere, and that is one reason why he has sent this Centurion, a man whose loyalty has been proven time and again, to supply the firm hand on this Legion that until now it has been missing!"

I believe that if he had stopped before his last statement, even though we would have showed our displeasure at this slur against us, it would have been in the form of the behavior we were displaying at that moment, which was nothing but the same muttered protest. But for the men of the 8^th, while they endured the insult to themselves, the Legate's accusation against Urso proved too much and the relatively low-pitched protest instantly became a full-throated, roaring repudiation of the Legate's words. I would point out as another example of the Legate's ineptitude and lack of connection to the men he supposedly commanded that he appeared to be the only one surprised at our display of anger. Men were shaking their fists, shouting at the top of their lungs, and, in doing so, offered up one last demonstration of loyalty to Publius Canidius, whose ashes were interred and resting in the small Legion temple. Clearly shaken, the Legate's composure dissolved and I saw him turn and say something to our new Primus Pilus, the only man who did not appear disturbed by our actions. I saw Atticus give him a curt nod, then pivot and salute the Legate, who fled the forum with a haste that under other circumstances would have been comical. For my part, I freely admit I was torn about how to behave. I had loathed Urso for so much of my time under his direct command, but now I could no longer summon the sense of outrage that had once come welling up just at the thought of the man. Ultimately, in what would turn out to be the last few weeks of his life, I had come to view him in a different light, recognizing that, in many ways, he was as much a minor piece in the great game of tables played by the upper classes of Rome against each other as my family had been, and still was. I must make it clear; I am not excusing Urso's actions when it came to his outside ventures. I find his peddling of armor and helmets particularly loathsome, yet I also recognize that ultimately, he paid for his crimes in the harshest manner possible. In fact, my memory of the night of his death was, and still is, so vivid and powerful that, until the moment I step into Charon's boat, I will believe Urso could have blocked Draxo's attack. Not easily perhaps, but I had seen enough of the Primus Pilus in action to know with a degree of certainty this was well within his abilities as a fighter. It is a question I plan on asking him when I see him again; if his last act, or non-act, was his way of atoning for all the death and destruction he had brought down on Pannonia in general, and his Legion in particular. Because of all the things I thought I knew about Urso but was proven wrong, the one belief about him that has never wavered is his love for his Legion. And it was because of this love, at least so I believe, that Publius Canidius did not try to defend himself from Draxo's axe, allowing himself to be struck down in an attempt to bring all the killing and dying to an end. Did he do so, knowing from the last glance he gave in my direction as I hurried to try and close the distance that he would be avenged? I would like to think so, but that is just another question I have for him later.

I must admit that Gaius Sempronius Atticus, in his first act as Primus Pilus, handled our display with aplomb and about as well as anyone could have, especially since one could argue we were demonstrating the very disloyalty of which the Legate had accused us. The manner in which he did it was by doing nothing. Instead of trying to assert his authority outright, Atticus demonstrated the kind of cool head that when I thought about it immediately afterward, I hoped was a good indication of his performance in battle. Standing there impassively with his vitus clutched in both hands behind his back, he allowed our rowdy demonstration to essentially die a natural death. As anyone who has been involved in a similar situation can attest, it is difficult to maintain a state of indignant outrage, especially when the object of that display is no longer present. Therefore, Atticus continued standing there, his face revealing nothing, effectively waiting us out by allowing us to expend the pent-up rage and hostility towards the Legate. Slowly, the noise died down as men shouted themselves hoarse, or like me, they recognized there was not much point in voicing our protest when the object of our scorn was no longer anywhere nearby. Finally, it grew quiet, at least quiet enough for Atticus to be heard if he had chosen to speak, yet he still stood there saying nothing while moving his head slowly across the ranks of the Legion, taking all of us into his gaze. By doing so, I learned an important lesson, one of many I would learn from Gaius Sempronius Atticus, and that is sometimes the best way to rivet the attention of rankers is by, in fact, doing nothing at all. Again, little by little, what noise there had been evaporated, as did all the fidgeting and movement, until the entire Legion was as motionless and rigidly at intente as I had ever seen it.

Only then did Atticus break the silence, yet while his voice certainly projected across the Legion, there was still a quiet quality to his voice as he simply said, "The Legion is dismissed! All Centurions and Optios attend to me at Legion headquarters."

The force of habit that comes from the twice daily formations asserted itself as each Centurion pivoted about and barked the command that released us to return to our area; in our case, the command came from Asinius, who had been standing in the spot that would now be occupied by Atticus. Instantly the noise resumed as men began talking about this major development in our lives, but they were drifting away from the forum as they did so. While I cannot say with any certainty, I know I was aware that considering all that had taken place over the last few weeks, it was in our interest to disperse and not give either the Legate or our new Primus Pilus anything more to add to his charge of disloyalty.

Since we were going in the same direction, Asinius and I walked together part of the way, and he told me, "Let me go see what our lives are going to be like." Glancing over at me, he said quietly, "As soon as I know anything, I'll come by and let you all know."

Understanding this was the best we could expect under the circumstances we parted ways, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

It was not until shortly before dark that Asinius rapped on our door twice, which we had learned was his own signal that not only identified who it was but gave us a couple of heartbeats to either stop doing or hiding whatever it was that might get us put on report. Tiburtinus had done the same thing and it was a practice I would go on to adopt when I was promoted; in these small ways, our junior officers build trust and inform the men they have not forgotten what it is to be a ranker. That evening, none of us were in any kind of compromising position; in fact, we were all seated at our long table, discussing and arguing about this new development. The instant Asinius entered, we naturally stopped talking and turned to face him, but although his facial expression was the same as always, giving nothing away, I had marched next to this man and I instantly saw he was drumming the fingers of his right hand against his leg. I had learned this was a telltale sign of an inner tension, so I at least had an instant of forewarning.

"Well," he began, but instead of his normal practice of declining our offer of a seat at the table and a cup of wine, he dropped onto the bench and allowed Didius to fill a cup. "That was…interesting."

Accepting the wine, he began drinking, leaving us almost quivering with anticipation; again because of my familiarity with the man, I saw a faint twinkle in his eye that told at least me that he was deliberately tormenting us.

"Go on," I growled. "Have your fun." Turning to the others, I pointed at his face and explained, "He's just fucking about with us. I know; I've seen that look before."

"Pullus," he protested, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm disappointed in you! I would think you know my character and that I'd never do anything like that!"

"That's why I said it," I shot back. "Because I do know you."

That brought a smile to his face and a ripple of muted laughter, except it was fleeting, our tension such that nothing could amuse us for long.

The smile fading, Asinius took a deep breath and began, "First, I want to let everyone know that, despite where he comes from, Atticus is no Barbatus. At least," he amended, "I didn't see any signs that he was. Aside from his hair, of course," he added, but then shrugged and finished, "but that's the fashion in Rome nowadays."

"Well," Ventidius allowed, "that's something. But," his tone was cautious, "what else is there about him?"

"I think," Asinius' voice turned grim, "that he might be a striper." He shook his head as he frowned into his cup. "At least, that’s my guess, although he didn't come out and say as much."

"Who does?" Didius interjected bitterly. "That's not the kind of thing a Centurion would tell his men right away, would they?"

"Not necessarily," Asinius replied. "I've seen cases where it's the first thing out of their mouths when they take over a new Century. And," he added, "Atticus didn't actually say he was. It just…feels that way to me." He took another long swallow from his cup, belching as he set it down, empty, and then said in an offhanded way, "Not that it matters to me anymore."

This arrested our attention, and I felt a shiver go up my spine as I realized that at least one of our fears might be true.

"What does that mean?" I asked, breaking the sudden silence.

Shrugging, Asinius said, "There are…complications, at least as far as me remaining Optio. It's likely that I'm going to be transferred." Suddenly, before we could press him, he stood up abruptly, saying, "Well, I've got to go tell the rest of the sections."

We all shouted at him to wait, but he did not, and when I saw him stumble slightly as he opened the door, I was sure it was not from the wine.

"Wait here," I commanded the others. "I'll find out what's going on."

Because I was at the opposite end of the hut, Asinius was several paces away, almost to the door of the next section's hut when I called to him to wait. He stopped, but it was easy to see he was reluctant to do so, and when he turned to face me, I was brought up short by the glitter of tears in his eyes.

"Asinius," I gasped, "what is it? What's wrong? Are you being demoted?"

That was the only reason I could think of for reducing this man to tears, so my confusion only deepened when he shook his head.

"No," he replied, his voice husky with whatever emotion he was feeling, "I'm not being demoted. I'm just being sent to another Cohort."

"But why?" I asked; there was only one reason I could think this was the case. "It's because he wants to bring in one of his own toadies, isn't it?" I demanded.

Yet, he surprised me when he shook his head and said, "No, that's not it. At least," he frowned down at the ground, "I don't think that's it."

"What is it, then?" Another idea occurred to me and while I had thought my first guess was the most likely, I recognized that this second alternative was, in all likelihood, the most probable. "Is it you're too junior? That you've only been our Optio for a couple months?"

I did not think it possible, yet my consternation only strengthened when he shook his head again, except this time he did so with a bitter laugh.

"No, that's not it either. That," he looked back up at me, "I could actually understand. I wouldn't like it, but I'd understand it." Seeing I was clearly at a loss, he explained, "Pullus, it's actually really simple. What other reason do you think Atticus would use?"

Only the gods know how long we stood there, my bewilderment at this seeming nonsensical reply slowly changing into a dawning realization, with the new feeling accompanied by a sudden lurching in my stomach that was so strong I was worried I might vomit on his boots.

"You don't mean," I heard myself gasp, "this is about money?"

That was exactly what it turned out to be. Essentially, Gaius Sempronius Atticus was auctioning off the post of Optio to the highest bidder, but not just to potential candidates within the 8^th Legion. Supposedly, or at least so he informed Asinius, one of his colleagues from the Praetorian Guard had offered up a sum that, simply put, was a staggering amount.

"Five thousand sesterces?" I did actually reel backward when Asinius informed me of the amount. "Pluto's thorny cock! How does he expect you to come up with that much money?"

"I don't think he does," Asinius said dryly. "Oh," his lip twisted into a bitter smile, "he's actually doing me a favor. At least, so he claims. He told me that although that's the other Praetorian's bid for the post, instead of beating it, if I match it, in recognition of my connection to the Legion, he'll award me the post."

"That's fucking nice of him," I snarled, spitting onto the street. We were silent a moment before I finally summoned up the nerve to ask, "So what are you going to do?"

Shrugging, he replied, "The only thing I can do. I'm going to take a transfer out of the Century." When he looked at me then, I admit his eyes were not the only ones with tears in them. "I'm really sorry, Pullus. If I could stay here I would, just to keep your big, clumsy ass out of trouble." Despite the circumstances, I had to laugh at this. "But I just don't have that kind of money."

I am fairly certain this was when the idea came to me, and the sheer scope and audacity of what I wanted to do actually took my breath away. Even so, I had a hard time fighting the sudden grin that came to my face, trying to rein in my surge of hopeful enthusiasm, the kind that only the very young seem to possess, when anything is possible.

Thinking rapidly, I asked Asinius, "How long do you have to gather the money?"

"Are you deaf?" he shot back. "I told you, I don't have the money, so it doesn't matter if I had a month, or a year! Especially now. In case you don't recall, this campaign season wasn't exactly lucrative."

"How much could you raise, total?" I pressed him.

He thought a moment, then shrugged. "I have a thousand in my Legion account. Some men owe me money, except," the bitter grin returned, "most of them are dead now. So I'm thinking it'll be hard to collect from them."

"You don't have their markers, do you?" I asked him and he at least had the grace to look embarrassed.

"No," he admitted.

Sighing, I stared down the street, but my mind was still churning away. A part of me wanted to cuff Asinius across the head, despite him outranking me. This was a topic we had discussed more than once back when he was my Sergeant and I noticed he had a bad habit of lending his comrades money. Unlike other men who loan out money but do it as a business by charging usurious rates of interest, Asinius never demanded more than the principal amount and rarely, if ever, required a marker from the men he loaned money to, thereby making it difficult to collect and that was when they were alive. Collecting from a dead man's estate without any marker, however, is impossible. While I did not ask, my guess was that, over his time under the standard, Appius Asinius had loaned out more than enough money to purchase his post. That, unfortunately, was a jug already broken.

"If you told Atticus you'll pay the money, how long would he give you to gather it?" I asked him again.

My Optio stared hard at me for a moment and, for a few heartbeats, I was afraid he would not answer, but finally, he relented, albeit grudgingly.

"He said he'd give me two weeks," he admitted, then stubbornly shook his head. "But it could be a month! Or a…"

Cutting him off, I told him, "You don't need a month. I'll guarantee you that you'll be able to pay what he's demanding."

That was when he seemed to understand where my mind had gone and, at least I hope, he reached out and grabbed my left arm without thinking, squeezing it hard. More specifically, he grabbed my left forearm, which sent a shock of pain up my arm that caused me to gasp and recoil. I think this actually helped my cause.

"By the gods, Pullus," he exclaimed, his face suffusing with alarm. "I'm sorry! I forgot!"

"That's all right," I muttered, rubbing my arm gingerly. Then I forced myself to grin at him and joke, "And now you fucking owe me for the pain you caused. Besides," I pointed out, "you were just whining about how you wouldn't be around to keep me out of trouble. Well, I'm making sure you get the chance."

He glared at me, except I could see that I had scored a major blow.

The silence dragged out, although as I had learned, I was determined not to speak, and finally, he muttered, "Fine. You win." Heaving a dramatic sigh, he said, "I'll go let him know that I'll pay."

"Good." I could not contain my elation. "Now, sign me a pass. I need to go into town."

"Tonight?" he asked in dismay. "It has to be tonight?"

"From this moment, every watch counts," I assured him.

Not long after that, I was striding out of the camp gates, headed into town.

Naturally, nothing underhanded is simple and straightforward and this transaction was no exception. When I knocked on the door of the plutocrat with whom most of my money, or my father's money, to be accurate, was deposited, he was not pleased at being disturbed. Or, more likely, he was unhappy I was showing up demanding my money; actually, I was demanding both my money and some of his. I had thought briefly of emptying my Legion account, but while I trusted Titius when it came to the money itself, as did the rest of my Century, I was not so sure about his ability to keep his mouth shut. This forced me to ask the plutocrat for a short term loan of my own but although he agreed, when he named the amount of interest he was charging I experienced my first pang of doubt about what I was doing. My father is neither miserly nor greedy; however, he is frugal, except it comes more from his desire to avoid attention from men like the Legate than any real love of money. While I am of a similar mind, compared to my father, I am a real spendthrift, yet despite my hesitation, it did not take long to talk myself into moving forward. My reasoning was straightforward and I still believe soundly based; by keeping Asinius in my Century, I was doing everything within my power to control my own destiny and keep myself safe, at least as safe as it is possible to be for a Gregarius in the First Cohort. Although it was true that I no longer faced an immediate threat from the likes of Philo or Caecina, my strong belief was that when our Century was plumped back up, as we say, not every new man would be coming from the Legion. After all, I reasoned with myself, where had Philo come from? Regardless, I decided to move forward, even with the outrageous amount the plutocrat was demanding in repayment, in only a month's time at that, with the interest accruing by the day after that. Once I explained what else I needed, he immediately offered to send a messenger that, as he claimed, would make Pegasus jealous. However, my mistrust was such that I demurred, insisting on handling that part myself. Judging from his clear displeasure, I congratulated myself on my shrewdness, convinced that the horse used by his rider would resemble Pegasus only in that it had four legs, and his rider was probably a drunken sot who would stop at every inn between Siscia and Arelate, his final destination. Anything, I was sure, to drag out the repayment of the money as long as he could manage. Crossing town, I sought out a man I knew acted as a courier, a former cavalryman named Decimus Silva who, despite his age, was as tough as boiled leather; more importantly, he had served with both my father and grandfather. Unlike the plutocrat, he was still up and about, and I found him at the tavern I knew he favored; most importantly, I did not have to wheedle and grovel.

"I'll leave at first light," was his only response, except when I reached for my coin purse, he waved it away. "You don't owe me a thing, Pullus. Gods know I owe your grandfather."

"At least let me pay for the expenses of the trip," I argued.

Finally, he relented, and I returned to camp feeling quite good about myself. When I stopped at Asinius' quarters, the door was opened by Capulo, but when I entered the Optio's private quarters, I could not keep my eyes from the empty bunk that had belonged to Flaccus.

Clearly seeing my gaze, Capulo's voice was hoarse as he said, "It's hard to get used to the quiet. Flaccus was such a talkative bastard that now it's just…strange."

I did not reply, but only because my throat had suddenly closed up. Asinius obviously heard us, because the door opened and he stood there, waving me inside. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw both Capulo and Titius staring at us, which prompted the Optio to give the kind of sigh better suited for the theater.

"Fine," he grumbled, waving at them. "You might as well hear this too."

When I saw Asinius' expression once we were all in his quarters, I was tempted to torment him, thinking if the roles were reversed, he would do the same. I did not, something I regret even now; I suppose I am just soft like that.

"It's taken care of," was all I said.

There was an explosion of sound that was impressive, even for such a small group of us, but seeing the genuine happiness of Capulo and Titius was the most eloquent demonstration that, no matter how it came about, Appius Asinius was a worthy successor to Tiburtinus and had become fully accepted as our Optio. Only Asinius did not seem exhilarated, although he was doing his best to smile and accept the hard slaps on his back with good grace.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I asked.

Sighing, Asinius said, "Now Atticus is saying he's reconsidered the amount of time he's giving me."

Before he could say anything more, though, I cut him off, assuring him, "That's not a problem anymore. I can have the money day after tomorrow."

His head shot up, but despite the fact the rest of us were grinning broadly, he still looked troubled. Not as hopeless as he had seemed a moment before perhaps, but he was still not reacting with the kind of joy or relief I thought appropriate.

"Now what?" I asked crossly. "You still look as if you swallowed a turd! I thought you'd be happy!"

"I am," he protested, but then shook his head. "I mean, I am, somewhat. It's just there's another…complication."

"What now?" I groaned, thinking that perhaps the gods did not want us to be successful.

"When I went to tell Atticus I agreed, he said that he gave me too much time to gather the money," he explained, but I waved this away.

"I know, you said that," I replied impatiently, "but I told you it doesn't matter."

"That's not all, though." Asinius looked thoroughly miserable. "The bastard told me he had just received word from my…competitor for the position," he used the word 'competitor' as an epithet, "and that he's raised his offer."

Suddenly, I felt the need for support, so I reached out and grabbed the edge of the table, trying to brace myself for the worst.

"How much more?"

"Another thousand sesterces," he told me.

The eyes of the others turned towards me except they misinterpreted when I sagged and leaned over onto the small table, thinking it was a sign of defeat.

"That," I smiled up at Asinius, "isn't a problem."

Once more, the small office shook with shouts of joy. Probably the most potent sign was when Asinius suddenly embraced me, kissing me on both cheeks. It was the first time in our association he had shown me such affection and it is a memory I will always treasure, the day I was able to repay my first Sergeant back for helping me stay alive to that point.

The other major event in the lives of the 8^th Legion was the process we call "plumping up," as men were shifted about and the promotions that had been delayed while we waited for our permanent Primus Pilus were made. At the same time, the Legion prepared to receive a new influx of tiros who were supposed to arrive before the end of the year. Frankly, this process has more of an impact on the Cohorts other than the First because we draw exclusively from within the Legion. And, in his own way, Appius Asinius repaid what only he viewed as a debt to me by using our new Primus Pilus' unfamiliarity with the Legion, bringing into the First Section of the First Cohort Servius Metellus, one of my old comrades in the Fourth, along with Lucius Vatinius, although I do not think even he would have answered to that name by this time, having been given the nickname Bovinus before I even joined for his habit of always chewing on a blade of grass. In the ways that mattered, both men were formidable fighters in their own right, and before I arrived, Bovinus had been considered the strongest man in the Fourth Cohort. As I had learned the year before, he earned that title honestly, giving me more than my share of bumps and bruises when we sparred. Despite the fact that the assimilation of new men into the First runs more smoothly, that does not mean it happens without obstacles along the way. Since this was my first such experience in the First, I did not learn until later that this time was even more strained and fraught with tension than normal. In hindsight, I can see how inevitable it would be this was the case, because as we suspected our new Primus Pilus had brought a half-dozen men with him. This was bad enough, except as I quickly discovered I was not going to be immune to the turmoil.

It started when Crito came to find me, which was unusual in itself, but while I did not have the same relationship with our Century and the Legion's chief clerk that I had with Lysander, I suppose I must have grown on him, because his agitation appeared genuine when he told me, "Primus Pilus Atticus summons you to meet with him immediately."

At the time, we were in our hut, shuffling our sleeping arrangements where, using my newly found power, I had insisted that, though I had the bunk at the end right next to the stove, the customary spot for the section Sergeant, I insisted that Domitius and Metellus share the twin bunks to my left, with Avitus and Ventidius in the bunks to the right. And as I quickly discovered it was something that Ventidius did not seem to appreciate all that much, despite the honor I was doing them. In my defense, as skimpy as it may have been, it was the best I could arrange, given my position one step up from the lowest rung of the ladder.

"I was comfortable in my spot," he protested, "and I finally have everything just right."

It was not until he said this I recalled that of all of us, Ventidius was the fussiest and most particular, never quite satisfied with the cleanliness of the rest of us, grumbling frequently, usually under his breath, about the likelihood the rest of us had, in fact, actually been raised in a pig sty. Being frank, if I had to do it all over again, I would have relented and let him keep his spot, but I was extremely insecure about my position. And as I was about to learn when I accompanied Crito, I had good cause to be worried.

The occasion of my first private meeting with the new Primus Pilus was memorable, even without what occurred during my audience with him and what I was forced to do afterward. Regardless of my feelings, I made sure that when I came to intente in front of his desk, snapping a salute and announcing myself in the prescribed manner, he could find no fault in anything I did. Being fair, he did not, nor did he behave as I expected by indulging in the game that I suppose is as old as the first army where ranks were assigned. Rather than ignore me while he pretended to read something – he actually did not even have the scroll opened at that point – he returned my salute. Then, in even more of a surprise, which only now do I recognize was his attempt to confuse me and get me off balance, he indicated the lone stool off to the side, pointing to where he wanted me to sit, directly across from him with the desk between us. I did as he directed and only then did he actually open the scroll that I was about to learn was the Legion's official record of my career, such as it was by that point.

"Gregarius Titus Porcinianus Pullus," he intoned as he held the scroll at arm's length, frowning at the tiny, cramped script that for all intents and purposes summed up my value to Rome.

I think this was when the first warning alarm went off in my mind, but despite it, I could not stop myself from pointing out, "I'm actually the Sergeant of the First Section now, Primus Pilus. It looks like the clerks haven't made the proper amendment."

"Oh, they did make the amendment," he replied, but while his tone was genial, the words he uttered next made me turn cold. "But I haven't endorsed it. And frankly," only then did he lower the scroll to look more closely at me, "I'm not inclined to do so."

I was dimly aware of a gasping sound, hardly audible to me because of a sudden roaring sound in my ears and, for a horrific instant, I was sure I would either faint, or even worse, cry. Thanks to the gods and the inner voice that asked what my father would think of such a display, I did not.

In fact, I was proud of myself that I managed to reply in what I believe was a cool tone, "May I ask why, Primus Pilus?"

"No," he shot back, but then I saw a glimmer of a smile and I recognized he was toying with me, and probably testing me at the same time.

"Very well." I managed to maintain the same tone. "I apologize for asking, Primus Pilus. It's just that I'd like to know what areas I'm deficient in so that I can correct them."

I saw that, despite himself, he was impressed, and he confirmed as much. "That's a commendable attitude, Pullus. And it shows me that you're indeed made of the right stuff for promotion." The flicker of hope I felt lasted only long enough for him to continue. "Be that as it may, I'm still not likely to endorse this promotion. I think a more…experienced man would be a better fit."

Over the years, I have been accused of possessing a pessimistic nature; in refutation, I would point to this event, because what I heard him say was enough to convince me that being demoted was not as much of a foregone conclusion as it may have seemed.

"Primus Pilus," I began, choosing my words carefully, "I'll admit that I'm young. But, although I've only participated in two campaigns, I'll put my record up against any man in the Legion over these past two years."

He did not reply immediately; instead, he seemed concerned with finding something contained in the scroll. Apparently finding it, I watched him read, then his eyes moved back as if he was re-reading the same passage.

"That," he finally said, "is certainly in your favor. At least," he waved the scroll, "according to this. It says you were decorated by Nero Claudius Drusus personally?"

"I was." I made no attempt to contain my pride. "It was one of the best moments of my life."

I was being completely honest and it still ranks highly when I look back on the notable moments of my career.

"I can imagine." He favored me with a slight smile as he leaned back in his chair, dropping the scroll on his desk. "I remember the first time I was decorated by Augustus himself."

There is no way to know what is inside the mind of another man, but at that moment, I was convinced he was sending me a message; the intervening years and all that happened after this moment have only reinforced my belief. To this day, I believe he was letting me know that as high an honor as it was to be singled out by Drusus, ultimately, there is only one man of Rome who counts, and that is the divine Augustus. Rather than try and argue the point or make some other comment, I inclined my head in recognition of his superiority when it came to the honors bestowed upon us. I must confess I still recall the thought that ran through my mind at that moment: You're an old man and I'm just getting started, I boasted. Thankfully, I managed to keep that challenge confined to the interior of my mind.

Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, he asked with what I believe was a deliberately offhand manner, "You and my Optio served together, true?"

"Yes, sir," I replied, wondering where he was headed.

"You know," his tone remained decidedly casual, but I felt certain it was contrived, "I had the same thought with your Optio. That there were more qualified men in the army than him."

I did not miss his reference to the army and not the Legion, nor do I believe that he intended for me to do so. Which, I quickly understood, made perfect sense considering the other candidate for the post was from the Praetorian Guard. Given all that I know now I would not be surprised in the slightest if it was somehow learned there had never been another candidate. At the time, I would simply argue it was nevertheless an entirely plausible situation, meaning I would be as unsurprised if there had in fact been another man in the Praetorians.

Unmindful of my internal musing he continued on, "But, as I found out, I was…mistaken as far as his qualifications. Once I reconsidered, I realized he's the best man for the job. He convinced me that this was the case." For the first time, he looked directly in my eyes, and his next words were as much a challenge as a question. "Can you convince me you're the best man for the job?"

Under normal circumstances, this was a moment where I would have tried not to be the one to break the silence, but I quickly realized I really had no choice. Nevertheless, I surprised even myself.

"How much?" I asked quietly.

I was rewarded by the recognition I had caught my Primus Pilus by surprise, his jaw dropping in shock that I had not continued speaking in the same circumspect manner. The fact that his eyes started darting about the room, as if looking for hidden ears, gave me a sense of satisfaction.

"Er…well." Suddenly, his earlier confidence and self-assurance were gone and it was all I could do to keep my lip from curling in contempt at this confirmation that my Primus Pilus was simply engaged in commerce. "I actually haven't given it much thought."

Liar, I thought, grimly amused.

Collecting himself, he finally blurted out, "I think two thousand sesterces would…convince me."

"Done," I replied instantly.

And in doing so, I exposed my family to danger; that, however, came later.

Once the respective statuses of Asinius and me had been secured, only then did the training begin in earnest. The fact that in my own personal case I could go to Titius to demand a thousand sesterces drawn from my account, which from outward appearances bankrupted me, actually worked in my favor. The fact that I had to return to the plutocrat for the other thousand was not something anyone else needed to know. My Avus first uttered this truth; there are very few secrets in a Century, Cohort, and Legion, and my situation was no exception. And I will always believe that, while I know it was not his intention, Atticus actually smoothed my path as a Sergeant who had yet to see his nineteenth birthday. Only on the training ground, acting in my role as weapons instructor, did I feel completely confident, with the watches of time spent under the harsh and critical eye of my father reaping the dividends when, one by one, I vanquished every one of my comrades of the First Century. Even, I take great joy in pointing out, those men who Atticus had brought with him.

Slowly but surely, the 8^th Legion healed, from within, as Legions always do. Even with our skepticism about the actual fighting quality of those men who Atticus brought with him, it became apparent that no matter what their other qualities, he at least brought men who could fight. Despite the fact that it pains me in some ways to admit this, the truth is that none of those Atticus thrust into the First Century were unable to give a good accounting for themselves once they held a sword and shield. The winter was as harsh as predicted and, most importantly, came earlier than normal. This made full-scale training of the Legion difficult and the Centurions and Optios were pushed to the limits of their abilities with the new batch of Tirones who arrived in dribs and drabs over the winter months. I cannot deny the weeks after the time both Asinius and I paid Atticus, as I waited for Silva to return with the actual money needed to repay the plutocrat, seemed to drag on much more slowly than normal; fortunately the confidence that comes with being young helped me cope. At least, I did so better than Asinius who, from all appearances towards the end of our vigil, stopped eating and sleeping altogether. Actually, I took it as a mark of Asinius' integrity that despite the fact the plutocrat delivered the agreed-upon sum to Atticus as promised two days after the Optio's agreement to the terms, he did not allow himself to relax until the sum the plutocrat demanded as repayment had arrived in Siscia. But despite his relief, I was presented with a whole new set of problems.

It began when, from all people, I was given a message from Lysander in the Fourth Cohort, summoning me to see him. Bemused, I hurried to the office of my former Cohort, yet my hopes for illumination were not answered; instead, all Lysander gave me was a cryptic message to procure a pass from Asinius then hurry to a place I knew very well in town. The fact that it was one of the few tavernae favored by my father only became significant after the fact. At the time, the instant the bucina sounded the end of the day, I hurried to Asinius' quarters, and although he was curious, he still wrote out my pass. It was just approaching sundown, the quality of the light signaling we were still in the grip of autumn, casting its particular golden hue on the muddy streets as I navigated my way through town. Arriving at the spot, I found myself hesitating outside the nondescript entrance into Mars' Lair, a place I knew from childhood when I would be sent here by my irate mother on those few occasions my father stayed out too late. Assailed by a sudden rush of memory, I lingered outside, looking up at the sign that had not changed at all and I believe I can be excused for my reluctance as I thought back to those days when I was somewhat smaller, even if it was not by that much. Remembering those rare moments of discord between the immovable object that was my father and the unstoppable force that was my mother, I was suddenly transported back to those days, finding myself hesitant about entering once more. Get hold of yourself, Titus, I commanded myself. You're a grown man now, and besides, the chances of your father making the journey from Arelate are about the same as you suddenly liking calf's brains. Squaring my shoulders, I still took a deep breath before I yanked open the door. It took an instant for my eyes to adjust to the dimness within, while I was clearly outlined there, standing in my tunic and belt.

"Titus!"

The fact that it was two voices echoing my name was confusing enough; the identity of those voices meant that, for an instant, I thought I might actually faint dead away.

"Sextus? Diocles?" I heard a stranger's voice that sounded like mine call out. "What by Cerberus' hairy balls are you doing here?"

There are moments in every man's life that are treasured memories. Just as certainly, there are those that are bittersweet in nature, colored by everything that occurs after the initial event, and begins with the foretaste of honey but then thrusts the bitter taste of ash into our mouths when we think about it. Even now, I cannot truly say exactly how I feel about that meeting.

"Sextus?" I gasped, forgetting I was repeating myself, but then I quickly turned my gaze on the other man, more diminutive in stature, yet who to this day remains a giant in my eyes and one of the most influential people of my life. "Diocles? What are you doing here?"

I was only vaguely aware I was babbling the same question, yet before I got an answer, at least verbally, the two had run up to me and I cannot exactly say how long we hugged each other, although I will freely acknowledge I was crying.

Turning my attention to Diocles first, I demanded, "Where's Birgit? And your children?"

Although he blushed, the Greek did not hesitate in replying, "They're less than a day behind us, with Gallus."

While that answered my immediate question, it did not mean I was any less confused, prompting me to ask, "But why? Why are you here? Don't tell me you brought your family all this way just to visit!"

"Is that out of the realm of possibility?" Diocles' tone was stout in his defense, but I was sure there was more to it. "Maybe I thought a change of scenery would be good for them!"

"That's true," I acknowledged and I must say I was absurdly pleased to see I had clearly caught him out. "But is that why you're here? Just for a change of scenery?"

Staring up at me, even in the dimmer lighting of the tavern, I did not miss his blush. Still, his voice did not waver as he replied, "No, there's more to it than that. You need me." Then he indicated my younger brother. "You need us."

Over the years of a man's life, at least in my case, I often think back to moments where, if the gods had granted me the chance to relive them and act differently, I would have gladly done so, and this was one of them. Unfortunately for all of us, I was still a proud, bumptious boy, even if it was in a man's body; that is really the only defense I can offer.

"That's not so," I snapped, glaring at Diocles first before turning my attention to my younger brother, experiencing my first stab of unease when I realized that although I was looking down at him as I always had, it was not by as much as it had been in the past. "Everything's fine! I have things under control!"

It will be to his eternal credit that Diocles did not simply turn about and stalk away, taking his wife Birgit and their four children with him. But this man, despite being in his sixties, had served Titus Pullus before he had been my tutor, which meant he was accustomed to the bluster and threats of insecure, overgrown boys. Truthfully, my claim to the contrary notwithstanding, I needed him now more than ever, despite the fact I would never admit it. Therefore, he stood there, staring up at me with his direct gaze, one that when I had been his pupil had struck fear into me as I tried to conjugate some Greek word, or solve some thorny problem of mathematics. However, it was never the fear of punishment I felt but that I would let him down or disappoint him in some way.

"Well," he responded quietly, "that does my heart good to hear it. But who knows?" He gave an elaborate shrug. "You might need us at some point in the future." His face split into a grin as he looked up at me, poking a finger in my chest as he added, "And you are your Avus' grandson, so it's a certainty you're going to do or say something that gets you in trouble."

Even I could not disagree with that and the taberna filled with our laughter as we embraced again.

"What," I pointed my finger at my younger brother, although I was addressing Diocles, "is he doing here?"

Although we were still seated at a table in the tavern, after I arrived, Diocles had insisted we move to a table in a far corner where we could have more privacy.

Before Diocles could open his mouth, Sextus protested, "You don't have to ask him! I'm sitting right here!"

"All right," I retorted, "you tell me why you're here." A sudden thought struck me and I felt my stomach do a twist. "Please tell me you didn't sneak off," I groaned, "and that Mama and Tata don't know where you're at!"

"Actually," Diocles interjected, and I did not miss his hand reaching out to grasp Sextus' forearm to stop him from answering, "it was your father's idea that Sextus come with me. He needed a…change of scenery. Just like I did." He grinned.

When I think about it now, of all the signs informing me that Diocles was now truly an old man in his sixties, it was the sight of his hand, covered in the light brown spots that are unique to the elderly, that had the most impact on me. His hair had already gone completely white, although that had happened even before I left, yet as I thought about it, I could not recall ever seeing his hands showing these significant marks that proclaimed that our Greek was nearing the end of his own story, one that even then I understood was no less remarkable than that of the man he served, even if it was in a different way.

Turning my attention to my younger brother, I noticed the telltale sign I had learned when we were younger that indicated trouble. Unlike the rest of the children of Gaius and Iras Porcinianus Pullus, when Sextus was embarrassed or flustered, it was only his ears that turned red rather than his entire face. Even in the dim light of the tavern there was no missing his bright pink ears; his refusal to meet my gaze was mere confirmation.

"What," I asked him, my tone severe, "did you do?"

"Nothing," he objected, but when he did lift his head to try and look me in the eyes, it quickly dropped and he mumbled, "At least, nothing much."

"It appears," Diocles informed me, "that your brother has developed a bit of a…reputation around Arelate."

"A reputation?" I was bewildered. "A reputation for what? He's still a child!"

"I'm about to turn sixteen," he shot back, and for the first time, I experienced a glimmer of what it must have been like dealing with me at that age.

Following hot on the heels of that thought was another one: Has it really changed that much?

Before Sextus could continue, Diocles cut in, "Which means you're still fifteen. And," I must admit his severe tone as he fixed Sextus with his stare brought back my own memories of past transgressions, "that's too young to be carousing about in a drunken stupor."

"Drunk?" I was shocked, to put it mildly. "You're getting drunk? Already?"

Suddenly, my sibling was not quite as defiant, becoming particularly interested in a small puddle of spilled wine on the table.

"Only a couple of times," he mumbled, his only other response a sullen shrug.

"'A couple of times'?" Diocles' echoed incredulously. "You stayed drunk for almost a week the last time!"

My brother looked back up and gave us both a grin as he replied, "True, but since I was never sober that week, it only counts as one time!"

Despite my shock, I found myself bursting out in laughter, prompting a scowl from Diocles, although I could see he was fighting his own urge to join in.

"Don't encourage him, Titus," he sighed. "This is serious." Waving a hand in disgust at Sextus, he continued, "And this is why it's happened. He has your mother wrapped around his finger, and your father…" Suddenly, his expression turned, if not sad, then melancholy. "Well, your father has other things on his mind."

"Yes," Sextus' good humor instantly evaporated; the scowl that replaced his smile was also one with which I was familiar, mainly because, according to my mother, he had copied it from me when we were children, "he's so busy worrying about you he doesn't have time for the rest of us!"

"Sextus," Diocles sighed again, but although he was addressing my brother, I felt his eyes on me, "that's not true. Exactly," he amended, which caused me to shift uncomfortably as he continued, "but while it's partially true he's been worried about your brother, that's just a part of it. He's worried about your entire family. And," Diocles suddenly thrust a finger at Sextus, his voice returning to its harsh tone, "you know why. Your behavior has drawn a lot of attention in Arelate, and it's the kind of attention your family doesn't need."

Whereas a moment before I was sure I had a grasp of the situation, I suddenly was unsure about the direction this conversation seemed to be headed.

"Wait," I objected, "how does Sextus getting drunk a…" I admit that when I glanced over at Sextus, I could not stifle a grin, "…couple of times mean that our father is worried about drawing attention?"

There was no immediate response, but I did not miss the look the pair exchanged.

Finally, Diocles asked quietly, "Do you want to tell your brother, or should I?"

Like quicksilver, my younger brother's expression had gone from sullen defiance, to laughing, and now back to staring down at the table with that scowl on his face, so when he shrugged and said nothing, I looked to Diocles for an explanation.

Shaking his head, Diocles explained, "Your brother's revels with Bacchus are just part of the story. It seems that young Master Sextus has fallen in love with the gladiatorial games."

"And why shouldn't I?" Sextus suddenly interjected, his tone clearly defensive. "We own the…"

Before he could finish the sentence, I reached out and clamped down, hard, on his arm, his yelp of surprised pain stopping him from blurting out something that none of my family would want widely known.

"We," I bit off each word, "Don't. Talk. About. That."

Sextus glared at me, but it was a look I returned, so that after a moment, as had always happened before when we were growing up, he was the one to lower his eyes, his shoulders suddenly slumping.

"Fine," he muttered.

Turning back to Diocles, I asked him, "I still don't understand. So he likes watching blood in the sand."

"He was doing more than watching," the Greek replied quietly. "He was wagering on the outcome."

"Because I know what I'm doing!" Sextus exclaimed, his defiance coming back once more.

I must admit his constant change in attitude was something I had quite forgotten; of all my siblings, Sextus' temperament was such that his wild fluctuations between extremes became something we accepted was just part of him. Whenever he became interested in something, he adopted whatever it was with unbridled enthusiasm, immersing himself completely in all the trappings of his newfound passion; unfortunately, while his ardor about the subject was intense, it was never long lasting. The room we shared growing up was littered with the odds and ends of his various pursuits and all of them had been discarded as he moved from one interest to another, much like the way a bee buzzes from one type of flower to the next, never staying long at any one type. It drove my mother to distraction, although my father was more indulgent, at least in this quirk of his. Obviously, since I left, it had not changed much; from what Diocles was telling me, however, matters had actually become worse.

"You do," Diocles granted, which surprised me since I had assumed the source of the difficulty was the opposite. "But that's the problem."

"I don't see how it's a problem," Sextus retorted. "It's not like I'm using Tata's money for my…fun."

I confess that, at that moment, I could see Sextus' point, and I looked to Diocles for an explanation; as usual, he was able to provide it.

"It's a problem," Diocles explained patiently, except he was actually addressing me; later, I learned this was a conversation with which Sextus was intimately familiar since he had heard it so many times, "that stems from two causes. The first is that, a boy," as he clearly expected my brother opened his mouth to protest before I just gave his arm another squeeze, causing it to snap shut, "who's winning as much as Sextus has been winning on his wagers is bound to draw attention. Specifically, it doesn't take much intelligence to determine that this youngster somehow has inside information…"

"Which I do," Sextus boasted.

"From Vulso," I sighed, to which Sextus nodded proudly.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, suddenly seeing where Diocles was headed, and most importantly, why it was such a concern. Maximus Vulso was the lanista of the ludus in Arelate, and even before my father began tutoring me, the one-eyed former gladiator had indulged my fervent desire to learn the art of combat. Even now, I am grateful to him because, before I learned how to fight like a man of the Legions, I was tutored in how to fight like a gladiator, which meant I was familiar with every dirty trick available. It was not without cost, however; I can never think of Vulso without the image of the broken, battered body of the dwarf Spartacus following closely behind.

"So," I said grimly, "you've been using his inside information to bet on the bouts."

"Yes," there was no mistaking the pride in Sextus' voice, "and, Titus, you wouldn't believe how much money I've won!"

"Which," Diocles interjected, "is only part of the problem."

Suddenly, I did not feel well, wondering as I did, how much worse could it be? I quickly learned.

"The other difficulty," Diocles continued, "is that young Master here is…generous. To a fault," he finished ominously.

Now I could not stifle a groan as I dropped my head into my arms, shaking it in dismay.

"What?" Sextus had returned to the defensive, but I could tell just by his tone he knew exactly why both Diocles and I were upset. "So I'm generous to my friends! Is there anything wrong with that?"

"Your friends?" I scoffed, lifting my head to resume glaring at Sextus. "It's just your friends you're being generous to? Is that what you're saying?"

"So I'm just a friendly sort of person and I have a lot of them," he protested. "There's no crime in that!"

"Name them," I countered suddenly.

Sextus' expression turned wary, whereupon he played for time by asking, "What? What do you mean 'name them'?"

"Just what I said." I refused to be thrown off the scent. "Name these friends." Using his own tactic, I shrugged and finished, "After all, I'd know them too, wouldn't I? I mean, I lived there as well."

The silence drew out for several heartbeats before my brother finally shifted in his seat as he mumbled, "You wouldn't know them."

"Oh?" I asked, affecting a look of surprise that was designed to be transparently false, "Really? I wouldn't? You mean you've made so many friends since I've been gone I wouldn't know any of them?"

"You know one or two of them," he insisted stubbornly, but when he offered two names, I suspect the moment they passed his lips he knew he had made a fatal blunder.

"Those two?" Now I made no attempt to hide my scorn. "Those mentulae? Sextus," despite my best intentions, I could feel my composure slipping as my anger, my real anger that posed such a danger to everyone and everything around me, started rousing itself, uncoiling in my gut like a huge serpent, "how many fucking times did I warn you to stay away from them? They're nothing but trouble, and they'd just as soon slit your throat as look at you!"

"You don't know them!" Sextus shot back, and my detached observer saw he was now at least as angry as I was. "You barely even talked to them because you think you're so much better than they are!"

"I am better than they are!" I pointed my finger right in his face. "And so are you!"

"No, I'm not!" Sextus suddenly stood up, shouting now, and I saw Diocles give an alarmed look around the tavern. "I'm no better than they are and," now he pointed his own finger right back at me, "neither are you! Just because we have mon…"

My younger brother was unconscious before he hit the floor, and I had rarely felt as guilty and ashamed as I did at that moment, staring dumbly down at my fist and the reddened knuckles.

"That," Diocles said dryly as he leaned over to check on my brother, having seen this scene before, "is certainly one way to shut him up. I just hope you didn't kill him."

I carried my unconscious brother over my shoulder, following Diocles to the apartment he had rented for his family, but before we left, I tossed a handful of coins to the proprietor of Mars' Lair.

"Try and forget whatever you saw or heard." I attempted to give him a carefree grin. "It's just a family reunion."

Much to my relief, he laughed and offered, "I know how you feel. If I saw my brother again, I'd stab him in the eye."

Maybe all families are like this, I mused as I followed the Greek to his new lodgings. It was spacious, with several rooms, but sparsely furnished, although Diocles assured me the wagon bearing Birgit and his children carried more than enough furniture that it would become a home in no time. The one salutary effect of my brother's unconsciousness was that it allowed Diocles and me to talk freely and without interruption.

"As I was saying," he began, "before you punched your brother in the face," I admit the way he said it made me laugh, "is that young Master Sextus was not only winning too much and too frequently. It was what he was doing with his winnings that got the wrong people asking the wrong questions." He shook his head, looking down at my brother laid out supine on the single threadbare dining couch, but there was no mistaking the fondness in my former tutor's gaze. "He's a good boy, Titus, and he has a good heart. But," he looked over at me and shrugged, "he just doesn't seem to take matters seriously."

"That's always been one of his problems," I agreed.

In any family, I believe there are certain characters who fulfill a role for the rest of the household, and in mine, Sextus was the one who could always make us laugh, either with his antics or his wit. But, as Diocles had observed, my brother lacked whatever it is inside a man that gives him the steadfastness and commitment to see a thing through to the end. Honestly, my feeling at the time was that it was the kind of thing he would outgrow; yet, even then, I understood only time would tell if I was correct.

Thinking of something else, I asked Diocles, "All right, I see why my father sent him with you. But how long is he going to be here?"

When I think back, I believe it was because of Diocles' slight hesitation that it gave me an instant to prepare myself.

"Your father has decided that Sextus will stay here until he turns seventeen," Diocles began, but when he paused again, that was when I truly understood.

"Until he enlists," I muttered. Diocles answered with a nod. Thinking of something, I said, "But is that what Sextus wants? Before I left, he told me he didn't want to join the Legions."

"I changed my mind." Whirling about, we saw Sextus had come to a sitting position, although he was holding his jaw, which had swollen up quite a bit, and glaring up at me as he added, "I'd forgotten how hard you hit."

At least I believe that was what he said; his speech was somewhat garbled.

"It was for your own good," I told him, although I was not surprised when he gave a snort and shook his head.

""It doesn't feel like it," he mumbled, but then he surprised me, and I believe Diocles, when he admitted, "But you're right. I got angry and I was running my mouth about things I shouldn't have."

Despite the fact I truly believed I had done the right thing, the relief I felt at Sextus' words was intense. Sensing my brother needed a few more moments to compose himself, I returned my attention back to Diocles.

"That explains why he's here," I told him. "But what about you? And Birgit?"

His casual shrug was supremely unconvincing as he repeated what he had said the first time. "I decided we could do with a change of scenery."

"Liar," I retorted, but without any reproach. "Remember, I've been both places. I can't imagine that Birgit was happy at the idea of coming back to Siscia after Arelate."

Now he was the one blushing, although he admitted, "That's true. But," he looked up at me, "she's as devoted to your family as I am. And she understood this was where we're needed the most."

The sudden rush of emotion I felt manifested itself in me by my bursting into tears at a simple declaration of devotion by this man who had started as a slave to my Avus, then had become so much, much more. I cannot remember exactly when it happened, but I became aware he was clasping me in his arms, making me realize I had fallen to my knees, since this was the only way he could have done so. It was not more than a few heartbeats after that when I felt Sextus by my side, joining us in this quiet, private moment of reunion. For the first time since I arrived in Siscia as a tiro, I felt safe, surrounded by my family who I knew loved me well. As one would expect, it is another moment I cherish in my memory, even with everything that occurred afterward.

Since my pass was not for overnight, I had to return to camp, but before I did, Diocles turned to Sextus.

"Didn't you bring something for your brother?"

Sextus slapped his forehead, exclaiming, "By the gods, yes! How could I have forgotten?"

"Because I knocked you silly," I told him, but the obscene gesture he made was one we had started exchanging when we were children and, as always, it made us both laugh.

He excused himself and walked into the other room and I heard him rummaging about, but Diocles refused to meet my curious gaze, mumbling something about me having to wait. Then Sextus reappeared, carrying a parcel wrapped in leather and bound with thongs. Once he got back into the light, my mind identified the shape of the package, and my heart suddenly started pounding, while at the same time, my mind admonished me it was undoubtedly not what I thought it might be. Except, it was exactly what I thought it was.

"As you know," Sextus began, although his jaw was now so swollen it was hard to make him out, "when you left, Tata said that once you were promoted to Optio, he'd give you this. But then when he was re-reading Avus' account, which," he gave me a mock glare, "I still haven't been allowed to read, by the way, he noticed something he had missed." As he was talking, he was unwrapping the parcel and I noticed his hands were shaking, although no more or less than my entire body at that moment. "Our Avus didn't have this made when he was promoted. He was actually still a Gregarius. And he was the weapons instructor of his Century. So," with a flourish, he removed the final layer of leather, exposing the dark, gleaming blade of a sword that, despite being fifty years old at that time, is still the finest weapon on which I have ever laid eyes. "He decided to give it to you now instead of waiting. Besides," he flashed me a misshapen grin and pointed to my arm, "judging from that, you need all the extra help you can get."

Then he proffered me the sword, forged by a weapon smith in Gaul and carried against Rome's enemies by both my Avus and my father. It was in its sheath, and I experienced a twinge of sadness, understanding that there was no way I could use this particular one because it had been made for my Avus when he became Camp Prefect. The workmanship and quality of just the sheath alone represented probably two years' pay for a Gregarius; what was important, however, was what it protected, and I moved the blade to examine it in the lamplight. The metal of a Gallic sword is darker than a normal Spanish sword and there is a perceivable grain to the blade, consisting of whorls and wavy lines. There is no way I can accurately describe the emotion running through me when I gripped the sword, it having a larger, thicker handle than normal, and feeling how it perfectly matched my hand; I had never felt so connected to Titus Pullus as I did in that moment, holding his sword that fit as if it had been made for me. Running my thumb along it, I winced but gave a delighted laugh at the same time as the razor edge sliced into the fleshy pad, a thin line of blood appearing instantly.

"Well, I don't have to worry about sharpening it yet," I joked, before sucking the blood from my thumb.

I am only slightly ashamed to admit that after this, I was anxious to return to camp, for no other reason than I wanted to show my comrades what was a gift beyond measure. In particular, I was eager to show Titus Domitius, understanding that, in many ways, he had a similar connection to this blade as I did; in some ways, perhaps even stronger. If my Avus had not wielded this blade with a level of skill that even now, more than ten years since his retirement as Camp Prefect men still talked about in hushed whispers, my family certainly would not have a villa in Arelate; nor would they have what even I will admit is a good problem to have, with more money than is expected of a member of the Head Count. Even with all of that, however, I knew that if it were not for this sword, Titus Domitius would not have existed, since the blade in my hand and wielded by my grandfather by adoption had saved the life of his grandfather by blood on numerous occasions. An act which my Avus would have been the first to acknowledge, Vibius Domitius had reciprocated several times as well; this is what men of the Legions, and close comrades in particular, do for each other. Although Diocles took my sudden departure in stride, my younger brother was clearly upset, but I promised him that it was temporary.

"You're going to be sick of me by the time I'm through with you," I promised him, but while I had a smile on my face, at the same time, I was deadly serious. I must also admit I thrust my chest out slightly as I drew myself to my full height and reminded him, "Remember, I'm now the weapons instructor for the First of the First. When it's time for you to enlist, nobody is going to be able to tell you're a tiro." Thinking of something, I added hastily, "At least on the training ground. Marching and making camp?" I just shrugged and while the grin I gave was not necessarily evil, it was such that I saw a shadow of concern flit across his face. "That's a different story."

Before I left, however, Diocles produced something from the satchel he carried slung over his shoulder, handing me a small scroll.

"It's from your father," he told me but he looked at my brother as he said, "And your father entrusted it to me because we both know what a snoop your brother is. He knew by the time you got it, Sextus would have it memorized."

Although Sextus protested, one did not have to know him very well to see it was half-hearted, as he gave the two of us a sheepish grin, misshapen as it was by the swelling on his face. Embracing one last time before I left, I promised I would return as soon as I could to see Birgit and their children, who I view as my nephews and nieces. They might not have been so by virtue of their blood, but the bond shared between my family and that of Diocles was formed from something much, much stronger than that. I barely remember making my way back to camp, and if someone had told me I was actually levitating off the ground, I would have believed them.

Titus Domitius was as impressed with the Gallic sword as I thought he would be, and the pair of us experienced a moment together as we both sat on my bunk, staring down at the sword in my lap.

Fingering the hilt, he murmured, "You know something, Titus?" I looked over at him, and I will always remember the expression on his face as he regarded me soberly. "You've got some huge boots to fill." I was about to assure him I was well aware of that, but he continued, "If I'm being honest, I wouldn't be in your place for all the money in the Temple of Saturn." He shook his head and while he spoke softly, I could easily hear the intensity behind his words. "Men are already jealous of you. And when they see that," he indicated the sword, "it's going to remind them who you're connected to, and they're going to be watching and waiting for the right moment when you stumble, just so they can be there to give you a shove."

The fact I did not immediately bristle at this suggestion that I might actually do that very thing, and instead considered his words carefully before I replied, is another moment where the man I am today can point and say this was one of my first steps along the path that has led me here.

"You're right," I finally replied and, frankly, I was as surprised as Domitius appeared to be at this admission. "And thank you for reminding me about that."

A silence fell between us, then he finally broke it by reminding me, "You know you can count on me, don't you? To watch your back, I mean?"

"I do," I assured him. "And…thank you, Titus. I can't tell you how much that means to me."

He seemed more embarrassed than anything, and he quickly looked away, but I saw a sheen to his eyes that made me feel happy and awkward in equal measure, especially since I felt the sting in my own.

"Maybe," he spoke suddenly, still looking down the length of the hut were our comrades were settling down for the night, "this is the way it's meant to be." He turned to look at me and finished, "Maybe we're just following the path that our grandfathers laid out for us."

To this day, I believe that Titus Domitius was speaking the truth.

Before I retired at the end of what had been an eventful day, I unrolled the scroll Diocles had handed to me, understanding its importance by virtue of the fact that my father's missive was not on a tablet but the more expensive, and more permanent, scroll. Swallowing down the lump in my throat at the sight of my father's script, I offered a prayer of thanks he at least had adopted the practice of my Avus, who had in fact copied it from Divus Julius, of putting a dot above the last word of every sentence; even with that aid, my father's handwriting is so cramped and close together it is difficult to discern one word from another. In many ways, it was a completely unremarkable letter; at least, so it would appear to anyone not familiar with my family and our mutual history together. By using seemingly obscure references to events that only had meaning to me, my family, and Diocles, my father expressed his concern for my brother and his behavior, admonishing me to keep an eye on him during this time he was waiting to enlist. He also reminded me to remain vigilant on my own behalf as well, and expressed his hope that the Gallic sword would be enough to protect me from my enemies, while at the same time pointing out that my new sword would be useless against those foes who were wearing the same uniform I did. And yet, it was his reference to the episode when I had ridden for help and been wounded, spending a painful, shivering, and ultimately terrifying night in a shallow cave with only Ocelus as my companion and protector that caused me the most pain. Not because of the memory it invoked in me, however, but from my father's account of what the ordeal was like for him, the torment of not knowing if his family was alive and the fear he felt, based on his intimate knowledge of the horrible things one man can inflict on another. All of this he mentioned for the first time in that letter and this was what caused his words to begin shimmering and dancing in front of me. As I tried to keep my composure, I realized that until this letter, we had never talked about this event and all the consequences that rippled outward from it. Even now, I still can easily remember the vivid image of my father's face when he came to visit me in the hospital in Siscia to tell me that I had, in fact, been in time, running into a cavalry patrol that managed to reach my family before the Latobici band could descend on them. That night, lying in my bunk, the memory was even fresher because of its proximity to the original event, and consequently, more painful to relive. Finishing the letter, I was only dimly aware at the time that this was the first time my father had ever talked to me about matters of a personal and intimate nature, reaching out through his words to express what it means to be a paterfamilias and the terrifying love a father has for his children. Not surprisingly, it took me some time to fall asleep, and when I awoke the next morning, it was with some chagrin as my comrades teased me about how I was still clutching the scroll from my father.

This was my world as the old year ended and the year of the Consulship of Tiberius Claudius Nero, his second, and Gnaeus Calpurnius Piso began. There was quite a bit of activity during those winter months as the 8^th Legion brought itself back to strength and the new replacements were trained to at least the point where the veterans were reasonably sure the tiros presented more of a danger to the enemy than to themselves, or most importantly, to us. Probably the most notable, and definitely the happiest, event for the entire Army of Pannonia was the rotation of the Legate back to Rome. Competing for the honor of most joyous occasion was that he took Paullus with him and if the rumors were to be believed, the broad striper was not returning in a state even remotely resembling one of glory. Best of all, at least as far as I was concerned, was that of the Tribunes who remained behind for at least another season, Claudius was the most senior, becoming the Tribunis Laticlavus in Paullus' stead. However, although it provided some comfort knowing I had the promise of a highborn Roman to provide what help he could, I was determined that, for the foreseeable future, I would avoid getting into the kind of trouble where I would need his aid. With every passing week, we rankers at least began getting more familiar with our new Primus Pilus, if not more comfortable, but some of us were cautiously pleased to see that, aside from his initial burst of greed in auctioning off some of the leadership posts, he did not seem to be all that intent on either resurrecting or replacing Urso's old business ventures. Within our Century, we were happy to see Titius take over as Signifer, replacing Flaccus, while we elected Fronto as Tesseraurius, which is the only post in a Century put to a vote. Once the Legate departed in late December, Tribune Claudius, left in temporary command as the new Legate traveled to Siscia, lifted the restriction of the 8^th Legion regarding the liberty of the town. Those men with families, at least those willing to pay for the privilege, once more began spending their nights in Siscia, but while I did not go that far, I definitely began spending every spare moment in town.

In many ways, it was the most pleasant winter during my time under the standard, at least to this point. Although I had never given it much thought before, being surrounded by people who love you creates a sense of peace and contentment that, while not necessarily conducive to our profession, is refreshing if nothing else. I find myself chuckling now as I relate that my happiness was not universally shared; just as I had promised, Sextus became heartily sick of me, and I took a great deal of amusement in the stories both Diocles and Birgit told of his reaction whenever he heard my heavy tread ascending the stairs up to their apartment. The most memorable moment came one day when Diocles and Birgit were absent and Sextus had tried to bribe their children with candied plums if they convinced Uncle Titus that Uncle Sextus had gone out as well. As it went, it was a good plan; his mistake was not in the tactic, but in thinking that baby Scribonia, who was just toddling around, was too young to be bought. He quickly found out differently; although the other children, the oldest Alexandros, the second-oldest Gisela, and the third child who bore my name, although I knew even then it was for my Avus and not me, honored their bargain, young Scribonia did not hesitate in leading me directly into Sextus' room, pulling aside the cover that had been cunningly draped so that it hung down to the floor. Hiding under it was my brother, who glared at his toddling betrayer, his ears, or at least one of them, even redder than normal because I opted to use it as a handle to retrieve him from his refuge. By the end of that day, one sore ear was the least of his concerns; I had to help him limp back to the apartment, whereupon Birgit immediately descended and started cooing and fussing over him as if he were her own. The fact that they were separated by only about ten years in age was something of which I knew Sextus was acutely aware, and my sense at the time was that one source of frustration for my brother was that she did not view him in the same light. Truthfully, she only had eyes for Diocles; despite their difference in age, his diminutive size when compared to the Pullus family, and his seemingly meek exterior, Birgit saw Diocles in the same way that my Avus, my father, and I viewed him – as a giant in his own right. On the other hand, while Diocles seemed to accept the fact that Sextus was smitten with his wife with a somewhat annoyed indulgence, I did not miss those times when he thought I was not looking as he eyed the pair together as Sextus helped her with some task. Frankly, I understood; it had been impossible to get Sextus to lift a finger to do our daily chores, of which Diocles undoubtedly remembered, so seeing him hustling about carrying pails of water and helping her wring out clothes was a disturbing sight, even to me. Still, I did not worry about it overmuch, and fortunately, as Sextus became reacquainted with Siscia – we had left when he was just short of eight years old – he found other maidens who were more attainable. Actually, that is something of an understatement, and by the next spring, I had been forced to visit the homes of two different men whose daughters had succumbed to the charms of my brother. Fortunately, when Diocles and Sextus had come to Siscia, sewn into the lining of the Greek's cloak was not only enough to pay off the plutocrat two days short of the time when I would have been forced to pay almost double what I borrowed, something he was extremely unhappy about, it was more than enough to assuage the outrage of the fathers.

Before six months had passed, I started counting the days until the time Sextus could enlist; from my viewpoint, he needed to be subjected to the untender mercies of an Optio and Centurion to knock the last of what I viewed then as his youthful exuberance and lack of discipline from him. The gods know that my whacking him about, something I did often and both on the training ground and off it, did not seem to make much of a difference in his attitude. Of all the things I can say about Sextus Porcinianus Pullus is that, in his own way, he was every bit as tough as I am, or my father and Avus, for that matter. He could absorb a beating better than anyone I ever saw, but it quickly became a source of frustration and concern for me that it did not seem to alter his philosophy that life was one big festival, and laughter was always the best way to handle a situation and get himself out of trouble. And yet I can see now that, albeit in a different way, I was as negligent and indulgent with my younger brother as my parents, or Diocles and Birgit, and I have often wondered if I could have done something different with him. But I cannot write of that, not yet.

When I look back on that year, I admit it is with more than a little bitterness, with one phrase continually coming back to mind: "All is quiet in Pannonia." But while I know that as far as the citizens of Rome who do not live there were concerned, this was the state of things because of their complete trust in Augustus, I cannot help feeling bitter about it. For those of us in the Legions who were in Pannonia, none of us would describe matters there as "quiet"; not only are there urns, inscribed with the names of the Romans who fell, but only the gods know how many bones are scattered about the province as well, both Roman and Pannonian. Specifically, I think of Flaccus and Lutatius, men I considered friends; yet, I remember Publius Canidius more than anyone else, for all that he was and what he was not. Even now, I cannot say I understand the man any better than I did when I saw him sacrifice himself to a Colapiani chieftain's axe, a completely selfless act performed by a man who, in the eyeblink before I would have insisted to my dying breath was in fact the opposite, one who only cared about advancing his own fortunes, no matter who got hurt in the process. One day, I hope to understand him better; he deserves at least that much.

However, that is all I am writing now. Another winter has come and gone, the bucina call has sounded for the Centurions to assemble, and this day is when we learn what lies ahead of us in the coming campaign season. In order for me to perform my duties to the best of my abilities, I must lock away the memories from my past, when I proudly watched my brother follow what is now a tradition of service to Rome, even if it is from within the ranks of the lowborn Head Count. And, as so often is the case, there can be no joy without sadness, no triumph without failure, nothing gained without loss. Of all the things I learned from Titus Pullus, this is perhaps the most important.