This was the pattern for the next whole year; a local rebellion would flare up, and Caesar would go rushing off with first one group of Legions then another stamping it out. In almost every case he acted with his usual clemency, but only on one occasion did he make an example of the rebels and I believe that it was a sign of his frustration and growing anger at the intransigence of the Gallic tribes that he did so. It was at the town of Uxellodonum, and as you no doubt know, gentle reader, Caesar ordered the hands of the entire garrison chopped off then thrown in a pile outside the town walls as a sign to all of Gaul that Caesar’s patience and mercy had its limits. Meanwhile, the 10th sat in garrison throughout all of these small campaigns, and I have already mentioned what I believe the end result was, but it had an impact on a more personal level, in a number of ways. Professionally, the lack of opportunity for combat was problematic in asserting my authority over the Cohort, since it was on the battlefield that I truly felt in my element, and where I bowed my head to no man. Whenever I was fighting, I suffered no doubts, no hesitation, and never questioned myself about whether I was doing the right thing. Handling a Cohort in garrison presented a different set of challenges than commanding them in battle, but were just as difficult, perhaps more so, at least in their own way. Celer always looked for subtle ways to try to undermine my authority, usually focusing on things that emphasized my youth, which as I discovered seemed to be the main source of contention. My battle record during my time in the Legions was perhaps not the most notable in the entire army, yet I do not think it is hubris when I say that my name would be among those mentioned as contenders, so those Centurions giving me problems were wise enough not to comment on that aspect of my leadership, since above all things, rankers respect fighting ability. They instead concentrated on my overall life experience, or lack thereof, word of which filtered back to me through my friends.
“I have more gray hairs on my head than the days that Pullus has been shaving,” was one of the more memorable comments.
What they did not realize was that although it was irritating, it was equally as amusing to me, just as it was to Vibius, because we were the only two who knew that I was in fact only 26, not the 27 that was my official age. Still, these attempts were just one more thing I had to worry about, along with keeping my men out of trouble, a full-time occupation in itself. Legionaries are funny creatures; as much as we grumble about the constant marching, the back-breaking work of making a camp and the dangers posed in battle, we quickly become bored by peace, and Caesar’s army more than any other in Roman history, I believe, suffered most acutely from this malady. We were constantly in action for eight years, as a result losing our taste for a peaceful life. Although in some ways it was similar to when we were new Gregarii, young and full of energy, eager to show the outside world how tough we were, now it was a much more dangerous proposition. Before, it was as much boyish exuberance that fueled our confrontations with the civilians in the surrounding area; now it was simply that we were so inured to killing that it seemed to be just as suitable a solution to a dispute as settling things peacefully, or even with one’s fists. We had killed so much that now it held all the emotional impact on us of making a fire, or cooking a meal. In short, the ability to inflict violence on another man was simply a skill, in the same manner as being a carpenter, or being a good orator. Naturally, this attitude was a guaranteed way of causing problems with the civilians in the town, so that I found myself heading into Narbo every few days, carrying a purse heavy with coin, my mission to buy off an enraged father whose son was stabbed to death over a dicing dispute, or a family left destitute by the killing of the husband and father of the family. What I always found interesting was how quickly most people’s rage turned to calculation when they heard the jingle of the coins, to the point that within a few moments the weeping invariably stopped and the haggling began, with a man’s life reduced to a number of coins, the only point of contention now being the relative value that the life held to the injured party. All of the money that I spent was my own, although it did not make much of a dent in my fortunes, since I decided to sell both of the slaves I was awarded. But not every situation could be salvaged with gold, and I will never forget the day that I heard Vibius call for me outside of my room. The tone of his voice immediately told me that something serious was afoot, so I did not bother to make myself look more official by belting my tunic the way I was supposed to, bidding him enter instead.
The look on his face was almost grief-stricken, and his voice choked as he said, “Titus, you’re needed in town. It’s Atilius. He’s in a lot of trouble.”
Vibius was not exaggerating, and I knew the moment I heard the circumstances that I did not possess enough gold to buy him out of trouble this time. The months of peace were hard on all of us, but were the most wearing on men like Atilius who required the absolute discipline of an army on campaign to keep him from falling into his old habits. Every day of peace eroded the hold the army had on Atilius, and while all of my old tentmates did whatever they could to keep him from destroying himself, after a time it became clear to them all that if a man is intent on doing something, no matter how stupid and dangerous it is, he will find a way to do it. And truthfully, one’s patience only goes so far when dealing with men like Atilius, at least it did in my case and I suspect I was not alone. Still, now that the inevitable had happened, we were all horrified and upset that it finally came to pass. This time, Atilius somehow convinced himself that a local girl was giving him signals of encouragement that any amorous advance he made would be welcome, then one night decided that the time was right, following her from the market where she bought bread for the evening meal, back to her home. If what he did was not bad enough, the fact that she belonged to the local nobility was more than enough to tip the scales and seal his fate. Waiting for dark, he climbed up to the second story, somehow picking the right window to crawl into the girl’s room. He was still in the room when I arrived, held there by three very angry men, the only other occupants being three bodies, the blood pooled and congealed around them. As angry as they were, these men knew that if they killed Atilius before alerting us and giving us the opportunity to administer justice on our own terms there would be a lot more deaths, and they would not be Romans. Stepping into the room, being brought there by Vibius and the rest of my old section, my nose wrinkled at the smell of death and I was struck by the fleeting thought that I was getting soft. There were three men, each of them holding a Gallic sword, but Atilius was not giving them any reason to worry that he would resist as he sat slumped on the floor a short distance away from the body of the girl lying on the pallet that had served as her bed. She had been pretty, and young, not looking a day over fifteen. Her face was pale, and there was a gaping hole under her chin where her throat was cut as she lay on her back, eyes staring wide up at the roof of her house. Her nightclothes were ripped open, so she was essentially naked and as I saw my men, Didius most overtly, gazing at her naked body, I felt a surge of anger.
“Cover her up, you Gallic bastards,” I spoke savagely, two of them blanching in fear, while the third man became visibly angry, his face turning red, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword as he took a step towards me. Immediately, my men drew their own weapons, surrounding me, pointing them at the angry Gaul, his hostility immediately deflating to become as obsequious as the other two.