“Titus,” he said once we walked away to chat in private, “I've got no desire to be an Optio. This is as far as I want to go. I’ve got a little more than six more years to go, and then I’m going home to start my life. This isn’t my career like it is yours. I may have thought so at one time, but I know that although I love the army, I’ll be ready to go home when my time is up.”
There was no way to adequately express my relief at his resolution of this one dilemma, yet I still faced others ahead of me, and we both knew it. I have sometimes thought that the main reason Vibius said he did not want to become Optio is to help spare me at least one of the trials that lay ahead.
My meeting with the other Centurions did not start auspiciously, since I was late to my own conference, although I do not remember the reason for my tardiness. The five other Centurions were gathered in my tent, all of them rising to intente as I entered, startling me. My reaction caused a couple of smirks, and my heart sank at this sign that I was already making a hash of things. It is probably a good idea now to give the names, along with the Centuries they commanded, of the first Cohort I was to command. Gaius Domitius Celer was the Pilus Posterior of the Second Century; a squat, ugly little man with a nose broken so many times it was just a misshapen lump protruding from his face. Normally, he would have been the leading candidate for the position I now held, but Celer possessed a tendency to drink a bit too much, and I guessed that this was the main reason he was passed over. He clearly did not see it that way and would prove to be the most obstinate of the Centurions in the Cohort when it came to accepting my authority gracefully. Titus Flavius Priscus was the Princeps Prior, leader of the Third Century. Priscus was a good man, even if just to look at him he did not present the sight of what one would think of as a Legionary, let alone a Centurion, but this was deceiving. He was of average height, several inches shorter than I, of medium build, with plain regular features and a strong jaw that slightly jutted out his only distinguishing characteristic. The Centurion in charge of the Fourth Century was Princeps Posterior Marcus Arrius Niger, a dark swarthy Capuan who got his start in Pompey’s army and was a crony of Celer’s, to the point where he mimicked the other’s attitude in everything, including how he viewed me. He bore a long scar down the length of his arm that he earned in our battle with the Nervii, but he was a brave enough man and a decent leader. Marcus Julius Longus was the Hastatus Prior, the Centurion in charge of the Fifth Century, and was a man to watch because of his apparent fondness for finding reasons to punish his men. There were plenty enough men like Longus in the Legions who completely forgot what it was like to be a Gregarius and therefore decided to rule by fear. While I have no problem with using fear in itself, there had long been whispers that Longus was using these punishments to enrich himself. Once I got settled in and reviewed the Cohort diary, in which every activity and punishment is recorded every day, I was struck by the fact that, despite leading the Cohort in writing his men up, the rate of those accused of charges serious enough to earn some sort of corporal punishment, like a flogging, was the lowest in the Cohort. The vast majority of the infractions for which he wrote his Legionaries up were of the variety that called for monetary fines and it was this I found disturbing, although discovering the problem would have to wait for a while. First, I had to get the idea in their head that I was leading the Cohort, whether they liked it or not. Finally, there was Marcus Antonius Crispus, the Hastatus Posterior, Centurion of the Sixth and final Century. At that time I did not know much about him; what I did know amounted to the mutterings of his men that I overheard. He was the oldest of all of us, and I believe he had either accepted or resigned himself to the idea that this was as high as he would go and no higher. Here they all were, standing before me, technically subordinates to me, but I could already tell that there were a couple of them who were going to pose a problem. Clearing my throat, I began by offering them some wine, an offer which they all accepted. Zeno, who was actually more experienced in matters of this type than I was had already prepared for this meeting, presenting a tray with six cups. In his will, Pulcher left me a number of amphorae of Falernian wine, though at the time I did know why, but I suspect now that he had a hunch that I would be his replacement. Because I had no real interest in wine, he probably figured that I would not worry about using it in a profligate manner. In fact it was Zeno who casually informed them that what they were being offered was Falernian, and I saw a number of different reactions, ranging from surprise on the face of Priscus, a hint of anger that was in a clear struggle with desire on the face of Celer, to a look of concern on the face of Niger, who kept glancing at Celer to gauge what reaction he should be having. Unfortunately, Celer was torn between the idea of refusing the drink, which I suspected was part of the plan he hatched with Niger, thereby drawing a clear line of battle, yet was taunted by the spirit of Bacchus that resides in every wine lover’s soul, and in the end Bacchus won. Giving Niger a slight shrug, he licked his lips thirstily as he reached for the cup. Once their cups were charged, I offered a salute.
“To the Tenth, and to the best Cohort in the Legion, led by the best Centurions. Second Cohort!”
“Second Cohort!”
They echoed my toast, and we all tossed back the cup of wine.
“Congratulations on your promotion, Pilus Prior,” said Longus, in a tone and manner that oozed insincerity. However, I made no comment, choosing to accept his words at face value for which I thanked him politely. Now that the formalities were out of the way, I motioned for the Centurions to take a seat on the stools. Since Pulcher held many meetings in his tent, there were more than enough stools to go around, and I took one, although I faced them. They sat, hands on knees, none of them speaking, all waiting to hear how I would approach this. The truth was that despite agonizing over it, I still had no idea what would come out of my mouth; the only thing I could control at this point was the manner in which I spoke, so I tried to remain as calm and unemotional as I could.
“Gentlemen,” I began, “thank you for your kind wishes. I'm extraordinarily proud and more importantly, humbled by the trust that Caesar has placed in me.”
These were not idle words; I wanted to introduce Caesar’s name as quickly as possible, to reinforce the point that it was he who promoted me and nobody else.
“I can only hope that I live up to the high honor he's given me, but with you helping me, I know that the Second Cohort will acquit themselves with as much glory and devotion to duty as we have in the past. I look to the example you've already set, and I'll do my utmost to meet that standard.”