Final campaign, p.66
Final Campaign, page 66
part #7 of Marching With Caesar Series
"I think he still is," Scribonius said with a laugh. "Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen a slower Tribune, not even Doughboy."
This brought a laugh from me, but probably not surprisingly, I was not in a truly humorous mood. However, neither was I morose; I was more contemplative than anything, and the mention of Sulpicianus prompted my thoughts to turn to what was still bothering me.
"I agree," I finally spoke. "But I have to wonder how someone like Sulpicianus ended up as the prosecutor."
"The gods are still looking after you," Diocles replied, prompting a glower from me at the mention of this aspect of my life upon which my back is still turned.
My scribe was not intimidated in the least, especially when compared to the look the Senior Tribune had on his face earlier that day.
"Or someone else," Scribonius pointed out, quietly, instantly going to the heart of the matter that was turning over in my mind.
"Or, someone else," I agreed. After a moment's thought, I added, "But why would Agrippa want to help me?"
"Besides the obvious reason that you're Titus Pullus, hero of Rome?" Scribonius teased me before turning serious. "I've been thinking about that, and the truth is, I don't know why he would," he admitted.
I must say I was torn when he said this; while I was still mystified, a part of me agreed with his assessment, and I would have liked to hear a solid, tangible reason for what appeared to be Agrippa's actions, albeit behind the scenes.
"Maybe things between him and Augustus aren't as smooth as they're supposed to be," Diocles pointed out.
This was certainly a possibility, and given what we knew at that point, it seemed the most likely. But before we could pursue this line of thought any further, there was a knocking at the door. I cannot lie; the sound not only startled me, it caused a spate of cold, dank fear sweat to suddenly slick my skin. Just looking at my two companions, I could see they were thinking similar thoughts. Nevertheless, Diocles stood up and moved to the door.
"I'll see who's coming at this time of night." His voice was remarkably calm.
Crossing the room, Diocles paused for only a moment before yanking it open. His body blocked my view of the visitor, which made what Diocles said doubly shocking since I had no chance to prepare.
"Tribune Claudius." My Greek's tone was correct and formal, but I could detect the anger lying just underneath. "This is quite a surprise."
I must give Claudius his due; he did not appear the least bit intimidated as Diocles grudgingly stepped aside to allow him to enter. Coming to my feet, I made an effort to be as formally polite as the situation dictated.
"Salve, Claudius." As civil as I might have been, I could not keep the coolness from my voice.
If he noticed, he did not betray his feelings.
"Salve Prefect," he returned the greeting. "And I imagine you're wondering why I'm here, under these circumstances."
"That I am," I agreed.
In response, he did not give a reply, but did reach behind him, causing me to flinch as I bemoaned that I had not thought to wear at least my dagger. However, it was not a weapon that he produced, but a scroll, which he held out towards me.
"I believe that you might want this," he said calmly. "If only to destroy it."
At first, I did not comprehend his meaning, but Scribonius clearly did, because he uttered a gasped curse, then laughed heartily. Nevertheless, perhaps out of reflex, I took the offered scroll. Only when I looked down and unrolled it did I understand the significance of this gift.
"This is the scroll Sulpicianus couldn't find," I gasped.
"Yes, it is." For the first time, Claudius showed a glimmer of emotion, smiling faintly.
"But how...?" I found it hard to concentrate on what I wanted to ask Claudius as my mind tried to understand the full import of his act. Finally, I gathered enough of myself to ask, "More importantly, why?"
"It was all I could think to do, given the circumstances," the younger man replied, suddenly interested in the floor. "When I heard Scribonius offering to give his testimony, while Sulpicianus was busy trying to overhear what you were all saying, I just slipped the scroll into a fold of my toga." Only then did he look back up to meet my gaze. "As to why? Because I owe you a debt, and I know that while this doesn't repay it fully, it's the best I can do."
I think that perhaps I was the only man in the room that truly understood the price young Claudius paid for making this statement.
"I thank you, Claudius," I told him, and I was being sincere.
"I just wish it was more." Claudius seemed to mean it.
"It's enough," I told him, then reached out to clasp him by the shoulder to encourage him to look me in the eye. "And I mean that it's enough, for everything."
Suddenly, Claudius' eyes began shimmering, and he blinked rapidly, while I looked over to Scribonius, sitting silently at the table. One look at his face told me that he thought I had let Claudius off too cheaply, but I felt confident I was making the right decision.
"Thank you, Prefect." Claudius' voice was hoarse with emotion. "I can't tell you what that means to me."
"It should mean a lot," I joked. "After all, your father is trying to get me killed."
My tone was such that even Claudius had to laugh, which was my intent. Pointing to the fourth chair at the table, I asked him to sit.
"There may be some more help you can give me," I said as I sat next to him.
"If I can," he agreed, but he had a cautious look as he glanced from me to Scribonius, who still had not said a word.
Diocles had rejoined us so that all four of us were seated at the table, with Claudius looking from one to the other.
"Do you have any idea what's going on?" I asked him bluntly.
"What do you mean?" Claudius looked around again, but seemed to avoid my gaze in particular.
"You know what I mean." I was not willing to dance about this; I had experienced enough of this already. "Is Agrippa helping me in any way he can without drawing the wrath of Augustus?"
Claudius did not answer immediately, which was understandable.
Finally, he nodded his head. "Yes. At least, I think so, anyway."
"Any idea why?" Scribonius asked this question.
Claudius seemed to consider his response for a moment, before answering, "I've heard rumors that relations have become...strained between the two. From what's being said, Agrippa doesn't agree with many of Augustus' policies, particularly concerning the Legions."
"Do you know anything specific?" I asked, but he shook his head in reply.
"Even if they are strained, that still doesn't necessarily explain why Agrippa is helping you specifically," Diocles observed.
"Maybe," Scribonius said thoughtfully, "it's for a simple reason, one that we're just overlooking as we try to figure out all the politics involved."
"Oh?" I turned to look at my friend. "And what might that be?"
"Maybe," Scribonius raised his cup to me, "he's doing what's right, simply because it's the right thing to do."
I will admit that this had never occurred to me. And I have resigned myself to the reality that I never will. Perhaps when I meet Agrippa in Elysium, I can ask him.
I was accompanied the next morning by Scribonius and Diocles, as again I had donned my full uniform to hear my fate. Conversation was desultory, and that is being kind, each of us immersed in our own thoughts as we retraced the same route we had taken the day before. Although the scenery was the same, it seemed different to me somehow; the colors worn by the people hurrying about the Campus, the sounds of their chatter louder, and the whole atmosphere pulsed with a life that I had either never noticed, or appreciated before. This, I am sure, was due to my belief that the likelihood of my being found guilty was close to a certainty, despite the help Agrippa had given me. Claudius had not stayed very long, but the information he imparted, while valuable, had done nothing to assuage my conviction that Octavian's will in this matter would hold sway. What troubled me then, and still does, is why a man I believe I had served faithfully and well would hold enough hard feelings towards me that he would allow Claudius' father to pursue this prosecution. Surely, I reasoned to myself, if Octavian did not at least in part wish for my downfall he would hardly be swayed by someone who was not nearly as powerful as he was. After all, his status as Princeps, first among equals, was no longer in question; therefore, he hardly needed to appease the wishes of others for political gain. Unless, of course, he desired it to be the case as well. That was the nagging thought that refused to leave my head as we approached the Praetorium.
Just as the day before, what looked to me to be the same men were gathered outside, with one major difference. Someone among them had convinced what those nobles inside waiting to pronounce my fate would refer to as rabble to stand, in what can only be described as a formation made of two parts on either side by the entrance into the Praetorium. And every man among them was standing at the perfect position of intente, the two groups facing each other and standing silently, staring straight ahead. My legs seemed to freeze in place, and I stood there, unable to move, or speak for that matter, as I felt a hard lump form in my chest. Scribonius and Diocles were in a similar condition, and I do not know how long we would have remained there if there was not a sudden movement from the rear rank of the small formation to the left of the walkway. Hopping towards me was Spurius Didius, handling his crutches with the ease that comes from long, hard practice. Stopping in front of me, he brought himself as close to intente as a man can get in his condition, rendering me a salute. Although this was not the first time I had been saluted by Spurius Didius, I had always been acutely aware that he had only rendered this acknowledgement of my authority because it was required of him. He was not my most bitter rival, perhaps, but he was the oldest, and one of the very few still living. That day, outside the Praetorium on the Campus Martius, I saw Spurius Didius render a salute that came from his own free will, and of all the moments of my career, this is one that is among the most treasured memories.
"Prefect," he announced, "we may no longer march under the standard, but we're all Legionaries of Rome, and every one of us is proud to say that we marched with you, in the ranks, as one of us."
I will not shame the memory of Spurius Didius by saying that there were tears in his eyes as he spoke, but that is only because my own vision was clouded for some reason at that moment that made it impossible for me to see clearly. I returned his salute, and if not as perfect, it was at least as heartfelt as the one that had been offered. Then, in a complete breach of military discipline, I stepped forward to embrace my longest enemy, kissing him on both cheeks. I will say that it was somewhat awkward, if only because of the crutches, but I could think of no better way to express myself at that moment since I could not trust myself to speak.
"May the gods protect you, Titus Pullus," he whispered, his gaunt, lined face, weathered and beaten, showing the emotion I was feeling.
"And you, Spurius Didius," I finally managed, abjuring for the moment my vow not to invoke the favor of the gods, telling myself that this was one breach I could excuse.
Stepping away from him, it was then that I noticed something else, and this was extraordinarily alarming, even if it was flattering. Every man, at least all that I could see as I looked down the even and perfectly aligned ranks, was armed in some way. Most of them appeared to be carrying cudgels, but I saw at least one sword, something that is strictly forbidden unless it is being used in some official exercise or capacity.
"Didius," I gasped. "Why are the men armed?"
For the briefest instant, I saw a flash of the old Didius, a sly, crafty look flitting across his face as he glanced over his shoulder.
He gave an elaborate shrug and replied, "Oh, that? The boys have heard there might be some trouble. One of the Aventine gangs is at war with the Quirinal bunch. They're just being prepared is all."
"Ah," I muttered. "Well, we wouldn't want them to fall victim to the gangs, would we? I mean, after all they've been through, it would be a shame if some cunnus civilian bandit managed to do what the Gauls couldn't, neh?"
Didius gave me a grin almost completely bereft of teeth.
"Exactly my thoughts, Pullus! Not after everything we've been through! After all, hurting one of us is the same as hurting all of us, isn't it?"
Although I cannot say what is in another man's mind, I am sure that Didius was talking about more than the Aventine gangs. For a brief moment, I considered ordering him to have the men disarm, but dismissed it. After all, I told myself, they are not under the standard anymore. They are citizens, and I have no authority to order civilians to do anything. Such are the fictions we tell ourselves at times, I suppose. Resuming my progress to the Praetorium, I slowed long enough for Scribonius to reach my side.
"Did you know about any of this?" I shot him a sidelong glance, my suspicion confirmed by the way he made a point not to look anywhere in my direction.
"About the first part?" he said finally. "Yes. The second?" He shook his head, looking troubled. "That I didn't know about. Why didn't you tell them to get rid of them?"
I thought for a moment as we continued walking.
"I suppose a part of me would be happy if they let these bastards know that there are limits to how they can use us to their own ends," was all I could think to say.
"That's understandable," Scribonius agreed. Then, he looked over and gave me a grin. "Not very smart, perhaps. But understandable. And I've never known you to take the smart way when the hard one is just sitting there waiting for you."
Our laughter echoed off the brick of the Praetorium as we entered the building to learn what my future held. Or if I had one at all.
Tribune Piso was already waiting for us, rising from our table as I entered.
"Prefect." Although he gave me a smile, I could see that it was forced, making me think he had heard something already. Fortunately, it was just a case of nerves. "The Tribunes haven't arrived yet. So there's nothing to do but wait."
How wonderful, I thought sourly, my absolute favorite thing to do, wait for anything, particularly when it is important, at least to me. Sitting down, I studied the Tribune out of the corner of my eye, trying to determine if he had any hint of what was coming, but aside from looking nervous, he gave me no sign that he would be any less surprised, one way or the other, than I would be. Surprising me considerably, especially as time went by, was the absence of Tribune Sulpicianus, who never did show up. Neither, for that matter, did Lentulus, nor Lucullus, but the latter did not surprise me at all. Not nearly as odd as I found the absence of the prosecutor, but concerning the other two, Piso was as mystified as I was. Nobody talked; there just did not seem to be any point in it, and we had exhausted every innocuous topic, like weather, the chariot races, and the results of the last gladiatorial games, long before. The silence was only broken when I growled at Piso to stop the infernal drumming of his fingers on the table, which he did with a mumbled apology and a guilty look. I do not know exactly how much time passed, but it was at least two parts of a watch before I heard a sound emanating from the direction of the private office. A moment later, the door opened, and the figure of the Senior Tribune emerged, wearing his toga and carrying a set of scrolls. Following immediately behind were the other three Tribunes, and I studied the faces of each of them, looking for clues. Despite myself, I felt the first glimmering of what could be called hope by the look on the face of the Senior Tribune's face, who now looked as if he had consumed a whole lemon tree. Otherwise, there was no sign found in the faces of the others, who moved behind the table to take their seats. Only then did the Senior Tribune wave us to be seated, after we had come to intente at their entrance. Trying to ignore the shaking of my legs was difficult, and frankly, I was thankful that I could sit down, if even for a moment. The Senior Tribune bowed his head, looking down at the scroll he had brought, unrolled in front of him, his lips moving as he presumably read the words on it. Or, I was struck by the thought, he might be praying. But for what? Lifting his head, he looked over to the Tribune to his right, who was wearing that same expression of disdain that had been on his face the entire day before. No words passed between them, but the glare the Senior Tribune gave his compatriot needed no explanation, yet the other man did not flinch in the slightest. Finally, the Senior Tribune cleared his throat.
"Prefect Pullus, please stand to hear the decision of the Tribunal."
At first I did not move; not because of any disrespect, but because his voice was almost unrecognizable, a rough, croaking sound that told me that the deliberations must have been quite spirited. It took Piso nudging me in the ribs as he rose as well to let me know what was expected, and I came to my feet, hoping that the trembling in my legs was unnoticeable by anyone other than me.
The Senior Tribune cleared his throat again, before he began, "After careful deliberations, and after the auspices were taken and the omens read, it is the decision of this Tribunal, not unanimous, I must add," this time there was no mistaking the glare he gave, but this time it was to the men on either side, equally, "that you are exonerated of the charge against you of being complicit in waging an unauthorized campaign against Thrace, while under the command of then-Praetor Marcus Primus. There will be no adverse entry into your record, and you are free to go back to your posting in Siscia at your earliest convenience."
Suddenly, the floor under my feet seemed in danger of tilting, and without thought, I grabbed the edge of the table as a rush of blood to my head brought on a dizziness that caught me completely by surprise. I was only dimly aware of the whoops and shouts of the men around me, but I felt someone pounding me on the back; I assume it was Scribonius, as I tried to comprehend what I had just heard. Clearly, this celebration was too much for the Senior Tribune, who pounded on the table with his hand, shouting for silence, something that struck me as being absurdly funny, and I broke out into a roar of laughter. Whatever it was that gripped me was clearly contagious, because despite the continued warnings from the Senior Tribune, Piso, Scribonius, and Diocles quickly joined me in a conflagration that I imagine was equal parts mirth and hysterical relief. Finally, the Senior Tribune uttered an oath in disgust, stood up, and without another word, stalked out of the room, followed shortly by the other members of the Tribunal. Before the haughty Tribune left, he caught my eye, giving me a smile that, for the first time, showed any hint of warmth. Then, without saying a word, he exited as well, leaving just me, Piso, and my two dearest friends. The departure of the others was apparently some internal signal to me, because that was when my composure broke down, and the tears came pouring forth, while my legs finally gave way and I collapsed back into my seat. I was barely aware of the arms of my friends, and I assume Piso as well, who in that moment became a comrade to me. In fact, we still communicate regularly, although the last time I saw him in the flesh was in that room.
