Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 61
I must admit that I was not sure that this was the entire truth, but it was one that I was willing to accept without much examination, and I was relieved to see that this was what both Aurelia and Scribonius believed. Accordingly, I did not see that it would do any of us any good to probe this more deeply.
"Well," I said. "In that case, let's eat."
Even with the circumstances looming in my very near future, this was one of the most pleasant evenings of my life, ranking with the banquet on the Nile, the evening with Miriam in Damascus, and the night where Sextus Scribonius finally revealed his past. Aurelia was witty and charming; she and Scribonius were so clearly in love that it gave me a pang of such sharp, sweet pain, reminding me of Miriam and me that I found my eyes filling with tears. Perhaps most pleasing, at least to me, was seeing the two of them so happy, although I will admit that telling her of some of her love's more humorous escapades was not a bad feeling either. There was much laughter and, as the night progressed and the wine flowed, there were some tears as well.
At some point, I was moved to ask Scribonius, "So all those times that you had 'other business' to attend to, am I correct in assuming that this lovely woman was the 'other business'?"
Much to my pleased surprise, this prompted trilling, musical laughter from Aurelia herself as she looked over at my friend who, in contrast, was blushing deeply.
Finally, he managed a response, muttering, "I suppose you could say that."
"Then how in the name of the gods did you manage to get your brother out of the way?" I asked, genuinely curious.
Despite himself, Scribonius gave me a grin.
"Well, I just mentioned that I had read some of the reports from the managers of our father's estates in Campania, and I was sure that they were skimming some of the profits from our accounts. My brother's always been, shall we say, very focused on money. It wasn't more than a day after I mentioned this that he left Rome to find out for himself if he was being cheated."
I roared with laughter, both at the idea of my friend being so underhanded and knowing in what low regard he held his brother, happy that he was able to score this victory.
Raising my cup in salute, I told the both of them, "I can't think of a couple that deserves their chance at happiness more than the two of you. Especially if it's at the expense of your brother."
I was pleased to see that they both accepted my toast in the spirit in which it was meant. The rest of the night passed in a similar manner, as Scribonius and I competed in an attempt to outdo each other with tales of the other, each of us trying to impress Aurelia. Diocles, bless him, was relegated to being little more than furniture, sitting and listening as the two of us went back and forth, boasting and informing on each other, forced to listen to stories that he had heard hundreds of times before. The food was excellent, the company even better, and I found that for a brief period of time, I forgot the fact that I was just a few watches away from learning my fate. Normally, dinners such as these last the entire night, but because of what was taking place the next day, I was forced to excuse myself earlier than I would have liked. I needed some sleep and it would take time to don my uniform, perhaps for the last time.
Leaving the villa, I kissed Aurelia's hand again, telling her, "If all goes well, perhaps we'll meet again."
"I will make a sacrifice at dawn to make it so," she told me, and I did not doubt her in the slightest.
"You have a good man there." I looked over at my friend, who was occupied studying the furniture. "And I can only wish that somehow you could be together."
"Why," she replied, "we are. And always will be. No matter where our physical bodies are, Sextus and I will never be separated."
I did not know what to say, so I said nothing to her. Scribonius assured me that he would be at the Campus the next morning, and we arranged for him to come to my quarters and accompany me to the Tribunal, which would be held in the Praetorium. With that, we parted, and even more so on the way back, I was in no mood to talk.
Not surprisingly, despite my best attempts, I got very little sleep, and was up well before dawn. Even so, Diocles had roused himself before me, going over my uniform and decorations one last time. My muscled cuirass gleamed even more brightly than normal and, in curiosity, I asked Diocles what he had done.
He grinned and said, "I used a light coating of oil on it after I polished it. I want those Tribunes to see what a real soldier of Rome looks like, at least once in their lives."
As I donned the harness that held my phalarae, I saw they had been given the same treatment, along with my torq, and the arm rings as well. But the most impressive touch, at least so I thought, was the grass crown that he had woven, placing it around the brow ridge underneath the crest. The fact that the first time I won it was for saving the life of Sextus Scribonius, in our battle against the Helvetii, made it even more meaningful. Looking at myself in the polished brass disc, I did not believe that I had ever looked this good, or imposing. The only thing missing, I thought, was a vitus, and it reminded me that this was a topic that I had planned on bringing up with Octavian, on the need for a Camp Prefect to have some symbol of his office when he was not wearing his full uniform. Suddenly, that did not seem very important. With a last look, I turned and left our quarters, my helmet in my hand, only donning it after we were outside. Because of my height, even in my quarters, the crest of my helmet would brush the ceiling and the white crest would get filthy. I mention this because, now that I can look back, I recognize that this was such an unimportant detail, considering what I was about to face, but in that moment, it seemed to be extremely important that there not be a smudge on my crest. Or any other part of my uniform, for that matter. Diocles began walking behind me, until I stopped and pointed to the ground next to my side.
"Enough," I told him, using my tone that meant that it was an order. "You deserve to be by my side, not behind me."
Together, as equals, we walked to the Praetorium where the Tribunal was to be held. Because a Tribunal is a military matter, it is relatively easy for those in command to ensure that there is no audience, but it came as a huge shock to me that, when we approached the building, by this point a multi-story structure made with brick and mortar, I saw a sizable crowd of men gathered outside the building. I looked over at Diocles, who immediately started to stare off at a man riding a horse nearby.
"What's this?" I demanded.
Still without meeting my eyes, my scribe replied, "Master Scribonius might have let some of the veterans that live outside Rome know that you were facing trial today."
"He might have?" I asked sarcastically. "That was thoughtful of him."
"Yes, it was." Only then did Diocles turn to look me in the eye, saying the words quietly but with such force that I immediately felt ashamed that I was not showing the proper gratitude.
"You're right," I relented, "and I hope I get the chance to thank him."
"Oh, you will." Diocles pointed in the direction of the crowd.
I could not pick out my friend, at least until we drew closer and I saw him standing there, in the same drab cloak, but this time with the hood down. Inwardly, I winced at his hubris, especially here on the Campus, where his identity was in even more jeopardy if he was recognized. Regardless, I immediately held my hand out as I reached him, clasping his forearm as we stared into each other's eyes.
"You look like cac from the bottom of my boot," I told him, which was true enough; I doubt he had gotten any sleep either, although it was for entirely different reasons.
"Have you looked in a mirror?" he retorted, smiling a smile that was all the more meaningful when I saw the teeth, both upper and lower, that he was missing.
"I'm glad you're here," I told him quietly.
"Where else would I be?" He just gave a shrug and looked over his shoulder at the men who were standing there, talking in low tones. "I thought it might cheer you up to see that there are some men who are willing to show up to let Rome know that an injustice is being done."
Looking past him, I felt a huge lump rise in my throat at the sight of what, to any other observer, would be a group of old, worn-out men, most of them shabbily dressed, not one of them without gray hair. Most of them wore their hair short, like me, although not to the extreme that I did, a vestige of that day long ago when my head, so much bigger than my comrades’, barely fit into a helmet without a felt liner. Scanning the faces, my heart, which was already beating a harder, faster rhythm than normal, picked up the pace when I spotted some familiar faces, all of them smiling their gap-toothed pleasure at seeing an old comrade who recognized them in turn.
"Glabius?" I asked one wizened, walnut-brown scrap of a man who, if you placed them side by side, could have been mistaken for an old pair of caligae. "Is that really you?"
"Yes it is, Prefect." The man, who had been one of the wide-eyed youths that was part of the original dilectus of the 10th Legion forty years before in Hispania, beamed up at me. "It's good to see you again, sir." Then his face darkened, and he spat on the ground before he finished with, "But it's a fucking disgrace what they're trying to do to you."
"Thank you, Glabius." I clasped his shoulder, worried that if the tears were threatening to form so quickly at meeting this first old comrade, I would be a complete wreck by the time I got into the building. "And I appreciate the sentiment. But," I warned him, "don't do anything stupid." I shook a finger at him as he scowled at the ground and mumbled something.
This was the way I made my way through the crowd of men, each of them seemingly eager to clasp arms with me and remind me of some episode during our entwined pasts, most of them which I am happy to say I remembered. Looking back on it now, it was perhaps one of the most moving moments of my life, if only because it was so unexpected. These were men with whom I shared a bond that cannot be expressed in words, and to whom Rome owed a great deal. I understand that most citizens look at Legionaries as being greedy, crude, and little better than criminals, and while there is some truth in that characterization, what my fellow civilians either ignore or overlook are the conditions these men were forced to endure, for years. I am not even speaking of the harsh discipline; consider that while on campaign, every night on the march we constructed a camp with ditches, wall, and palisade. We spent half of every year outside, in the rain, snow, baking heat, and biting cold, fighting the elements as much as we battled the enemies of Rome. Yes, we are paid well, and for the most part we are fed well, especially when compared to the vast majority of our fellow citizens, but as I looked around at these men, I saw a large number of them missing a body part of some sort. For some, it was just a digit or two; others were missing an arm, or leg. In fact, there was one man who was on crutches and hung at the back of the crowd, almost as if he was trying to hide himself. But crutches or no, even with the passing of time and all that it does to a man, there was something in the way that he carried himself, just the way he hopped about that caught my attention. I was not alone; in fact, it was Scribonius who let out a gasp, although he just beat me by a heartbeat.
"Didius?"
It was, in fact, Spurius Didius, who I had been thinking about just days before, wondering if he was still alive. He was, but in the years since I had seen him, time had not been kind to him. I suppose losing a leg had something to do with it, but I will say that when I pushed my way past the other men to offer him my arm, his grip was still strong. Of all the men in my Century, only Spurius Didius approached me in strength. This, and a few other differences, had put us on a collision course that lasted for many, many years. However, there is something to be said for surviving the hardest fighting any army of Rome has ever seen and its ability to rub off the hard edges of enmity. I daresay that by the time of his wound that resulted in the loss of his leg we had reached at the very least an uneasy truce. It was through my intercession with Caesar that got Didius his full pension and bonus, despite the fact that he had lost his leg in the last days of the civil war with Caesar, just a month before the end of the first enlistment of the 10th Legion.
"Achilles," I said, with a broad smile on my face.
For a moment, I thought I had blundered in bringing up the nickname that he had earned during our first campaign in Hispania, when he had taken himself out of the action after stepping on a nail. It had been one of the Mallius brothers who had bestowed upon him the name, although I no longer remember whether it was Romulus or Remus, both of them now dead more years than they had been alive. But a grin broke out on Didius' face as he grabbed at my outstretched arm, balancing on his crutches.
"By the gods, I haven't heard that name in years," he exclaimed, his voice carrying the rasp of a man who spends much of his time indoors, in smoky inns. "I had forgotten about that!"
He glanced down at his remaining leg, and when he looked back up, although he still wore a smile, I could see the pain behind it.
"But if I'm not mistaken, it was the leg that's gone that was the one with the bad heel." I knew Didius' grimace was his version of a grin, and I laughed more heartily than his jest probably deserved.
By this point, Scribonius had joined us and, for a brief moment, it was as if there were no other men about, and it was just the three of us, surrounded by the ghosts of those who had formed our first tent section. Without warning, I was transported back to the pre-dawn darkness of the morning that Vibius and I had shown up to join the Legion, sitting in the dark and listening to the others around us talk about what was ahead for us. It had been Didius who boasted about how many men he would kill, while Scribonius' voice had been the one warning us that what we were about to face was going to be harder than anything we had ever attempted in our young lives. Looking at the other two, it was easy to see their thoughts were running along parallel paths, and we said nothing, just smiling at each other as we enjoyed this moment of silent brotherhood.
Finally, I broke the silence, "Didius, I can't tell you how much seeing you means, especially right now."
My former rival looked down at the ground, obviously embarrassed.
"Pullus, I've always hated your guts," he said, his eyes still downcast, "or at least I thought I did. But one thing only having one leg does for a man, and that is make him think about how he came to this point in his road. You didn't have to do what you did with Caesar and helping me get my pension, especially after all that I did to fight your authority."
Scribonius turned to look at me, his eyebrow arching in a way that said more than any words.
"You were a rock in my boot," I acknowledged, but still with a smile, "but I'll say that I got used to you and having you around reminded me of all we've been through together. And," I thought to add, "you were always a tough bastard. That alone was worth going to talk to Caesar."
I could tell this pleased him, but it was close enough to the truth that I did not feel I was playing him false. Besides, I thought, compared to what I've been through with the upper classes, the kind of things that Didius did to undermine me were so minor that it was hard to remember why it angered me in the first place. Scribonius and Didius exchanged pleasantries as I was approached by another man that I had served with, and I was reminded of the fact that for a brief period of time, Scribonius and Didius had been close comrades, forced into it by circumstances. Because he stood next to me when we were in formation, and Didius was on the other side of him, Scribonius had approached me about being his close comrade, but of course Vibius and I had already chosen each other, both of us sure that we would be friends for life. Yet, a part of my mind reflected even as I talked to other men, here we were now, standing together one last time, and he was risking everything to be here alongside me.
"Prefect!"
I turned to see young Tribune Piso approaching, followed by one of his slaves, carrying a number of items that I supposed were materials related to the coming ordeal. Piso snapped at the men standing in the way with the authority that comes from being lucky enough to be born into one of the ancient families of Rome, and I felt a twinge of anger at his treatment of these men. They were here, after all, to show their support of me, and I began to take a step in Piso's direction to admonish him for his behavior when I felt a hand grab my arm.
"Titus, he doesn't know why they're here," Scribonius told me quietly, instantly understanding the situation and my likely reaction. "As far as he knows, they're just here to beg for more money."
I relented, but it still angered me. Somehow, I managed to keep that from showing when he reached us.
"Salve, Prefect," Piso said, completely oblivious that he had done anything that might upset me, offering his hand. "Are you ready to be exonerated?"
"Tribune, I normally don't ascribe to the idea that there are stupid questions, but I'm afraid I have to say that one qualifies."
He laughed, and I was not sure whether that boded well or ill for my prospects. Piso turned to Scribonius, who I had only introduced as a friend visiting from Alexandria, giving him the name Asinius Fronto on the fly, and essentially continued the fiction that Scribonius had created in his letter about being a book dealer.
"Fronto, I'm afraid that you're going to have to wait outside with this rabble." Piso's lip curled up in distaste as he swept his arm to encompass the small crowd.
Before Scribonius could do or say anything to save me from myself, I crossed the couple of steps separating the Tribune and me, grabbing his elbow and squeezing it, hard. He gave a yelp of pain, and he turned to me, his eyes wide with alarm, and more pleasingly to me, more than a little fear.
"This rabble you're referring to are all men that I've served with," I told him quietly, but with a menace to my tone that I reserved for special occasions such as this when I needed to emphasize a point, "and you need to respect the fact that they've served under the standard longer than you've been alive. Do you understand me, Tribune?"
