Marching With Caesar - Civil War (91 page)

He looked me in the eyes, sending me a very clear but unspoken message. You can try to drop me in the
cac
all you want, but I will still come out smelling as if I had just come from the baths instead, his eyes told me as they danced with silent laughter.

“Do you agree with my assessment, Primus Pilus?” he asked with only slightly mocking deference.

Despite myself, I could not help but give a rueful smile as I acknowledged defeat. “Yes, Caesar. I agree.”

With that settled, we moved on to the question of Optios, finishing the entire task shortly before dawn.

~ ~ ~ ~

With the question of who fit where on Caesar’s great board, now came the hard part, which of course fell squarely on my shoulders, and that was telling the Centurions and Optios of their respective fates. Some of them would be ecstatic, some would be pleased, some would be indifferent, but it was the last category of men who would be unhappy that I was worried about the most. I do not know if it worked out that way by accident or not, but as I examined the list of names of the men who Caesar, Pollio, and I suspected would be the most disaffected by their posting, with not a little dismay I saw that many, if not most of them, were men who had not actually signed their re-enlistment papers yet. These were the men who had adopted a wait and see approach, which told me that there was a strong possibility that a fair number of them might opt for life on a farm rather than a posting that was not to their liking. Compounding the problem was that if a good number of the men actually did take the option to retire, that meant that we would have to look outside the Legion for eligible candidates for those spots, as we had already run through every possibility in the 10th to fill the empty spots. This was not all that unusual, but no Primus Pilus likes breaking in a Centurion from another Legion, for a variety of reasons. Every Legion is run a little differently, according to the tastes and whims of the Primus Pilus. I had a very specific way that I ran the 10th, and along with overseeing the training of the new
tirones
, I would have to make sure that the new Centurions were broken in as quickly as possible. However, if all of the men were from within the 10th to begin with, I would not have to worry about teaching them how I ran my Legion. If I had the added headache of worrying about Centurions who did not know how I ran things, my life would be that much harder. It was with this in mind that I went to the camp priests to offer up a white kid goat to be sacrificed to help ensure that this possibility did not come to pass. I am not particularly religious, but I figured at that point that it could not hurt.

After thinking about it, I decided that I would talk to the man I was most worried about first, and that was Scribonius. I was in my now-accustomed spot in bed, although I was sitting up with my feet on the floor when he was announced by Diocles, and he came in, helmet under his arm in the prescribed manner. Waving him to a seat at the table, I got up from the bed to sit next to him, pushing an amphora of wine in his direction.

He nodded his acceptance, then Diocles poured him a cup, of which he took a sip, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he swallowed. “This is Falernian,” he observed. “Which means that you’re trying to soften me up for something. I bet I can guess what it is.”

I bit back a curse; Scribonius had always been smarter than I was, and had seen right through my attempt to set a lighter atmosphere. “Fine,” I snapped, angry at both him and myself. “Since you don’t want to enjoy the wine, I'll come right out with it.”

Even as I spoke, I could hear my inner voice screaming at me that I needed to curb my tongue and soften my tone. This was not starting out well at all.

I paused to collect myself, then plunged in. “Scribonius, I want you to know how much I value not just your service, but your friendship, which is why making this decision has been extremely hard.”

Setting his cup down, he leaned back. “Go on,” he said coolly, clearly determined not to make this easy on me.

“Ultimately, I have to do what’s best for Rome, and for the Legion. I want you to know that it has nothing to do with your record of service, or my opinion of you . . .”

“By the gods, Titus. Are you trying to make this more painful for both of us?” Scribonius interrupted. Before I could say anything, he finished, “Just spit it out.”

“I’m leaving you where you are,” I blurted out.

For several heartbeats, he sat there with a blank look on his face, and I was struck by the idea that he did not take my meaning. “I mean, you’re going to continue to be Pilus Prior of the Second.”

Finally nodding, he did not speak, but reached for his wine cup, taking a deep swallow. As he lifted his cup to his mouth, I could see that his hands were shaking, and I was stricken with guilt, thinking that he was taking it even harder than I had thought he would. Then, he began making a choking sound, and now truly alarmed, I stood to pound him on the back, while signaling for Diocles to come offer aid. Before I could do anything however, his mouthful of wine went spewing across the table, as the choking sound changed into something completely different, though it took me a moment to realize. Scribonius was laughing, not just laughing, but guffawing harder than I ever remembered him doing before. Convinced now that he had gone completely insane, I looked to Diocles in alarm, who could only give a helpless shrug as we watched my best friend shaking and gasping for breath.

Finally, he gulped in enough air to speak. “That’s the bad news? That I’m going to remain Pilus Prior?”

“Yes,” I said cautiously, growing more confused by the moment. “I wanted to promote you to First Cohort like you deserve, but you’re too valuable to the Legion where you are.” Understanding was slowly dawning on me, and I asked, “You mean you’re not upset?”

Scribonius looked at me in open astonishment, then threw his head back and laughed again. "By the gods, no. In fact, I was worried that you were going to do exactly that, promote me to the First. That would have been the bad news!”

I sat down heavily, pulling the wine to me and pouring my own cup full to the brim, thinking that I would never understand the way men’s minds worked.

~ ~ ~ ~

I wish all of the interviews had as pleasant an outcome as the one with Scribonius, but that was not to be. Of the dozen Centurions who we suspected would be upset, our instincts were correct on every one of them, and out of the dozen, seven of them opted to retire to the land promised to them by Caesar rather than take what they saw as a demotion.

As one of them said angrily, “Why don’t you just bust me back to the ranks and make me start over? That’s practically what you're doing anyway!”

Then he stormed out of my office, trailing a string of oaths behind him. I had to go back to Caesar to report that we now had seven more spots to fill, a fact that made him none too happy, since it meant that he would have to postpone his departure until we found suitable replacements. Fortunately, he did not take his ire out on me, choosing some choice invective for the now-retiring seven men. Of course, while he was disappointed, he had also prepared for this eventuality, and I was presented with a list of candidates that Caesar’s staff had prepared and told that interviews would begin the next morning. Some of the names I was familiar with, if only by reputation, and I had to admit, however grudgingly, that if all I had heard about these men were true, then Caesar had picked very well indeed. I decided that I would reserve judgment on that question until the next day.

~ ~ ~ ~

The candidates for the seven slots were all sitting or standing in the outer office of the
Praetorium
when I walked in. I had taken the litter but had stopped the slaves two streets away from the headquarters so I could be seen walking up. I was not willing to be seen in the litter by Centurions I did not know, whether it incurred Caesar’s wrath or not, but he was busy inside and did not notice. There were 20 men waiting, and I nodded to them as I walked past to enter Caesar’s office without being announced. Caesar and Pollio were standing in a corner, talking intensely in low voices, while Octavian sat in his accustomed spot, pretending not to be listening as carefully as he could get away with. I could see by Caesar’s face that whatever Pollio was telling him was not welcome news, so I assumed it had to do with events in Rome, which were still unsettled as the city waited for Caesar’s return. Once finished with their conversation, Caesar signaled for us to begin, then we called in the first candidate, a Centurion from the Sixth Cohort of the 15th as I recall. The day dragged on and on, but by nightfall we had talked to every man, and had made our final decisions. Thirteen men were disappointed, while we found the seven that we thought would best fit into the 10th Legion. It probably will not surprise you when I reveal that the identity of one of them was none other than my old tutor and brother-in-law Cyclops, who was going to become the Pilus Prior of the Eighth Cohort.

Since the business was concluded fairly early, Caesar turned to me and asked, “As this is my last night here, Pullus, I was wondering if you'd like to join Octavian and me for a light dinner tonight? It will be nothing special, soldier’s fare, but I hope you would find the company an enticement.”

Of course, I agreed, and the time was set for a third of a watch later.

~ ~ ~ ~

The dinner was as intimate as promised, with only Caesar, Octavian, and Pollio, and the fare was as described, though the quality of the bread and oil was of a much better grade, while there was more meat than was normal, which Caesar explained as we sat down. “I know that you're more partial to meat than most men, Pullus, so I took the liberty of having some prepared. Besides,” he added. “You need to build your strength for the coming trial of getting the 10th trained up to standard.”

I was touched, even though I knew that Caesar’s motivation was not selfless or just for my benefit. The fact that he knew I liked meat more than most men was just another example of Caesar’s difference; I could no more imagine a Labienus, or even Marcus Antonius paying attention to what a Centurion ate than I could see them sprouting wings and flying. Besides, he was absolutely correct, I would need every bit of my strength for the ordeal that lay ahead of me. Centurions are expected to lead from the front, in everything. While I would not go through the physical training, the thirds of a watch I would put in, expected to be everywhere at once, would tax my strength, even if I were fully recovered. As it was, I had progressed to a point where I could stand on my feet for perhaps a third of a watch at a time before I had to rest, while the periods of time I spent recovering were growing shorter, but I still had a long way to go. As we ate, the talk naturally turned towards politics, which I listened to with some interest, though I had nothing to contribute. The main topic was Cicero’s tract about Cato, which Caesar was still angry about, and he announced plans to write an “Anti-Cato” in response to Cicero.

“Cicero is an old woman,” Pollio opined, a sentiment I agreed with, but I was surprised to see Caesar shake his head.

“Cicero is a brilliant orator and legal mind, but he's an insufferable snob, and it’s his snobbery that blinds him to what needs to be done,” Caesar said as he unenthusiastically dabbed some bread in oil. It had always surprised me to see how little Caesar ate, for all his energy. Shrugging, he continued, “Besides that, he's still angry with me over my actions in the Catiline affair. He feels that I should have backed him in that awful mess, but he overstepped his authority, and I had no choice.”

“At least he refuses to sit in the Senate. That’s a good thing,” Pollio said.

Before Caesar could answer, I saw Octavian shaking his head out of the corner of my eye, and so did Caesar.

Instead of answering Pollio himself, Caesar turned to Octavian. “I see that my nephew doesn't agree with this assessment, and I'd like to hear his reasons why he believes as he does.”

We looked at Octavian, who had turned bright red, but his voice was steady and cool as he spoke. “There are many in Rome that say Uncle wants to make himself king, or at the very least he's a tyrant who intends on absolute rule. Because of that, I believe he needs men of distinction like Cicero in the Senate who are known to oppose him and not be one of his creatures. That's the best way to quell talk about any aspirations he may have about being king.” He swallowed, looking at the rest of us through lowered lashes, and finished, “That's my opinion, anyway.”

I looked over at Caesar, who was positively beaming as he looked at his nephew in approval.

Slapping his hand on the table, he exclaimed, “My nephew has it exactly right! As much as I may dislike Cicero’s actions, I need him in the Senate, along with other men like him who aren't afraid to voice their dissent. I have no need to be king; being Caesar is enough.”

While I saw the sense in what Octavian and Caesar were saying, I cannot say that I agreed. I suppose I was too accustomed to the ways of the Legions to think that having someone constantly carping and criticizing your every action could be good in any way, but I was not about to venture my own opinion. The conversation moved to other matters, notably Caesar’s plans for some of the reforms he had determined must be accomplished if Rome were to survive. I very quickly found my attention wandering, so I have little recollection of what was said. While I was only faintly interested in politics, the one part of it that intrigued me at all was the human aspect, the relationships, and alliances that were forged as a result of political expediency. Matters of policy; how land was to be granted, how much a citizen should be taxed, rules for voting and the like were completely boring to me, so I contented myself with appearing to be interested while I gorged myself on the roast pork and beef as the others chattered away.