Praxus shook his head at that. “Not really. I remember how young Macro was when he was promoted to centurion. I think he was only twenty-nine or thirty. If I were to place a wager on it, I would bet that you see the centurionate at an even younger age than he. did. Normally one has to be at least thirty to even be considered for the promotion; However, we all know there are exceptions to every rule. Augustus set quite the precedent when he was given the consul’s chair at nineteen, sixteen years shy of the minimum age requirement.”
Artorius started laughing and then sobered when he saw Praxus’ face showed that he was serious. “Are you kidding me?” he asked, perplexed. “I don’t think the rules the senatorial class chooses to apply to itself are relevant to mere plebs like us. You’ve got to remember, Macro got accelerated to centurion after that corruption scandal that came to light after Tiberius was recalled to Rome. If I remember right, more than twenty centurions in the legion were discharged in disgrace.”
“Twenty-seven, actually,” Praxus replied. “And no, you wouldn’t remember, because you weren’t even in the army yet!”
“All the same,” Artorius continued, “the point I’m making is that I would have to go from a junior section leader to centurion within six years, and I don’t see a mass number of vacancies coming open like that. It would also mean having to bypass the principal ranks of tesserarius and signifier.”
“Vitruvius did it,” Praxus replied with a shrug. “He was selected for optio when he was still a decanus, and he only held the optionate for three years.”
“Yes, but he had plenty of years as a section leader before that,” Artorius replied. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate your vote of confidence. It took me five years to become a section leader, which I admit is no small feat. However, unless there’s another big shake-up of some sort, I imagine I’ll be at least the same age Macro was, if not older, before I rise to centurion.”
“You make your own destiny, Artorius,” Praxus clapped him again on his shoulder. “Take care of your men, prove yourself to be the leader that Macro, Vitruvius, and Statorius know you are, and your path will show itself to you.”
Julius Sacrovir sat at a small table in a dark corner of the nearly empty tavern, brooding over the injustice he had to endure. His family had long ago inherited the franchise of Roman citizenship during Julius Caesar’s dictatorship, despite their Gallic ancestry. His was a noble family of great wealth and status in the province who had adopted the name Julius, as did many other noble Gallic families, much to his distaste. It was sickening to him that they should take the name of a man who had brought so much suffering and hardship to Gaul. Hundreds of thousands had been murdered during Caesar’s nine year campaign. His wars of conquest had never carried the endorsement of the Senate and had been entirely of his own making.
It had been almost seventy-two years since Alesia fell, ending the Gallic wars. Caesar’s nemesis, Vercingetorix, had surrendered in hopes of saving his people. Instead, those that weren’t butchered were sold into slavery. As a way of showing his admiration for his worthy adversary, Caesar had Vercingetorix imprisoned for six years, all the while treating him as a royal guest. At the end of that time, he was paraded in Caesar’s long-awaited triumph and then ritualistically strangled for the amusement of the mob.
Sacrovir’s grandfather had fought at Alesia and had vehemently protested Vercingetorix’s surrender. The Averni and Aedui, to which Sacrovir’s family belonged, were spared by Caesar in order to secure alliances with those two tribes. With so many of the noble families decimated, they and other pardoned nobles were able to exponentially increase their land, wealth, and power. Greed drove them, and greed made them sell out completely to Caesar and to Rome.
In secret, Sacrovir celebrated the Ides of March, the date when Caesar was murdered. He loathed the Julio-Claudians that had spawned out of Caesar’s heirs. His successor, Octavian, had married into the powerful Claudian family and created a dynastic monarchy as Emperor Caesar Augustus. The current occupant of the imperial throne was about as un-Caesar as a man could be. While Julius Caesar died because he had wanted to become Emperor, and Augustus had realized that dream through politics and civil war, Tiberius was the most reluctant ruler Sacrovir had ever heard of. In tactics and war, he had been one of the most feared commanders Rome had ever unleashed. His service record was impeccable; never tasting defeat in battle and every campaign won. Even the great Julius Caesar had been beaten on occasion; his army repelled by the Gauls at Gergovia.
Tiberius’ weakness lay in his reluctance to assume ultimate power, and the Senate had goaded him into accepting the mantle of Augustus. Although all had wished for a return to the Republic, they were terrified of Tiberius, afraid that he was not genuine in his reluctance. Sacrovir smiled at the thought. Tiberius was the reluctant Emperor who oversaw a Senate that was weak and impotent. Sacrovir knew he need not worry about Tiberius’ skill in battle, for he would be unable to take to the field in the event of a rebellion. His best field commanders were now of no concern. Caecina Severus had started to succumb to the effects of age and decades of campaign. And Germanicus…Germanicus was of no concern anymore. The timing was perfect.
Anger and disgrace sowed the seeds of rebellion in Sacrovir, for in spite of his nobility he was prohibited from membership in the Roman Senate, as were all non-Latins, regardless of birth or social status. The ignominy was hard to swallow. He was granted all the other privileges of the Roman nobility, and had to pay the same taxes as well. The Emperor was said to be sympathetic to the cause of nobles from around the Empire trying to stand for senatorial membership, however the so-called pure Roman nobility had created such outcry that Tiberius let the issue drop. They were meek like mice any time he asked them to make a decision regarding rule and administration of the Empire, and yet they became like a pack of rabid dogs when their social order was threatened. This grievous insult was one of Sacrovir’s prime reasons for wishing to lead an uprising of the Gallic nobles. His personal reasons, though, were much darker. His soul seethed with a lust for revenge against the Roman legionaries who had humiliated and cost him so much.
Across from Sacrovir sat Julius Florus. Florus was another Gallic nobleman, whose family had attained Roman citizenship years before and had also adopted the name of the hated dictator. He, too, felt aggrieved that he was prohibited from standing for senatorial membership. Since this rejection, he had become disaffected by Roman rule in Gaul. He was also heavily in debt from the demands of his lifestyle, as well as some bad investments, and was now facing poverty. When Sacrovir had first come to him with the possibility of raising a rebellion, he was immediately aroused by the possibility. In his youth he had dreamed of martial glory, and in his most private thoughts he knew this ambition involved defeating the seemingly invincible legions of Rome. His Roman citizenship was meaningless to him, and he would rather have lived as a lord of Gaul than a pseudo-noble of Rome. If he could put a sword through the moneylenders at the same time, then so much the better!
“I hoped you would have chosen a place a little less public,” Florus seemed uncomfortable, looking around at the few patrons in the tavern. Most were local farmers and shop owners, though there was the occasional well-dressed merchant from Rome.
Sacrovir waved a hand dismissively. “When we have rallied more to our cause, I will concern myself with secrecy. But for right now, I assure you we are in friendly territory. You see that man behind the bar?” He pointed to where a surely-looking fellow stood wiping down the bar top with a greasy rag. He was older, bald, with just a trace of gray stubble on his face, and a belly that protruded and rubbed against the wood. “What of him?” Florus asked, looking over his shoulder.