I had to suppress a wince as he spoke; when it was described so nakedly it certainly made it more unseemly, at least to my ears, but he had summed it up in just a few sentences, and I said as much.
Suddenly inspired, I asked him, “So what would you do in my place, Caesar?” There, I thought, see how you like it.
He did not bat an eye, nor did he hesitate, answering evenly, “Well, I think it’s obvious, isn’t it? You have to put him, or I suspect in this matter, keep him where he'll serve Rome the best, and I believe that's exactly where he is.”
He looked me in the eyes, sending me a very clear but unspoken message. You can try to drop me in the cac all you want, but I will still come out smelling as if I had just come from the baths instead, his eyes told me as they danced with silent laughter.
“Do you agree with my assessment, Primus Pilus?” he asked with only slightly mocking deference.
Despite myself, I could not help but give a rueful smile as I acknowledged defeat. “Yes, Caesar. I agree.”
With that settled, we moved on to the question of Optios, finishing the entire task shortly before dawn.
~ ~ ~ ~
With the question of who fit where on Caesar’s great board, now came the hard part, which of course fell squarely on my shoulders, and that was telling the Centurions and Optios of their respective fates. Some of them would be ecstatic, some would be pleased, some would be indifferent, but it was the last category of men who would be unhappy that I was worried about the most. I do not know if it worked out that way by accident or not, but as I examined the list of names of the men who Caesar, Pollio, and I suspected would be the most disaffected by their posting, with not a little dismay I saw that many, if not most of them, were men who had not actually signed their re-enlistment papers yet. These were the men who had adopted a wait and see approach, which told me that there was a strong possibility that a fair number of them might opt for life on a farm rather than a posting that was not to their liking. Compounding the problem was that if a good number of the men actually did take the option to retire, that meant that we would have to look outside the Legion for eligible candidates for those spots, as we had already run through every possibility in the 10th to fill the empty spots. This was not all that unusual, but no Primus Pilus likes breaking in a Centurion from another Legion, for a variety of reasons. Every Legion is run a little differently, according to the tastes and whims of the Primus Pilus. I had a very specific way that I ran the 10th, and along with overseeing the training of the new tirones, I would have to make sure that the new Centurions were broken in as quickly as possible. However, if all of the men were from within the 10th to begin with, I would not have to worry about teaching them how I ran my Legion. If I had the added headache of worrying about Centurions who did not know how I ran things, my life would be that much harder. It was with this in mind that I went to the camp priests to offer up a white kid goat to be sacrificed to help ensure that this possibility did not come to pass. I am not particularly religious, but I figured at that point that it could not hurt.
After thinking about it, I decided that I would talk to the man I was most worried about first, and that was Scribonius. I was in my now-accustomed spot in bed, although I was sitting up with my feet on the floor when he was announced by Diocles, and he came in, helmet under his arm in the prescribed manner. Waving him to a seat at the table, I got up from the bed to sit next to him, pushing an amphora of wine in his direction.
He nodded his acceptance, then Diocles poured him a cup, of which he took a sip, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he swallowed. “This is Falernian,” he observed. “Which means that you’re trying to soften me up for something. I bet I can guess what it is.”
I bit back a curse; Scribonius had always been smarter than I was, and had seen right through my attempt to set a lighter atmosphere. “Fine,” I snapped, angry at both him and myself. “Since you don’t want to enjoy the wine, I'll come right out with it.”
Even as I spoke, I could hear my inner voice screaming at me that I needed to curb my tongue and soften my tone. This was not starting out well at all.
I paused to collect myself, then plunged in. “Scribonius, I want you to know how much I value not just your service, but your friendship, which is why making this decision has been extremely hard.”
Setting his cup down, he leaned back. “Go on,” he said coolly, clearly determined not to make this easy on me.
“Ultimately, I have to do what’s best for Rome, and for the Legion. I want you to know that it has nothing to do with your record of service, or my opinion of you. .”
“By the gods, Titus. Are you trying to make this more painful for both of us?” Scribonius interrupted. Before I could say anything, he finished, “Just spit it out.”
“I’m leaving you where you are,” I blurted out.
For several heartbeats, he sat there with a blank look on his face, and I was struck by the idea that he did not take my meaning. “I mean, you’re going to continue to be Pilus Prior of the Second.”
Finally nodding, he did not speak, but reached for his wine cup, taking a deep swallow. As he lifted his cup to his mouth, I could see that his hands were shaking, and I was stricken with guilt, thinking that he was taking it even harder than I had thought he would. Then, he began making a choking sound, and now truly alarmed, I stood to pound him on the back, while signaling for Diocles to come offer aid. Before I could do anything however, his mouthful of wine went spewing across the table, as the choking sound changed into something completely different, though it took me a moment to realize. Scribonius was laughing, not just laughing, but guffawing harder than I ever remembered him doing before. Convinced now that he had gone completely insane, I looked to Diocles in alarm, who could only give a helpless shrug as we watched my best friend shaking and gasping for breath.
Finally, he gulped in enough air to speak. “That’s the bad news? That I’m going to remain Pilus Prior?”
“Yes,” I said cautiously, growing more confused by the moment. “I wanted to promote you to First Cohort like you deserve, but you’re too valuable to the Legion where you are.” Understanding was slowly dawning on me, and I asked, “You mean you’re not upset?”
Scribonius looked at me in open astonishment, then threw his head back and laughed again. "By the gods, no. In fact, I was worried that you were going to do exactly that, promote me to the First. That would have been the bad news!”
I sat down heavily, pulling the wine to me and pouring my own cup full to the brim, thinking that I would never understand the way men’s minds worked.
~ ~ ~ ~
I wish all of the interviews had as pleasant an outcome as the one with Scribonius, but that was not to be. Of the dozen Centurions who we suspected would be upset, our instincts were correct on every one of them, and out of the dozen, seven of them opted to retire to the land promised to them by Caesar rather than take what they saw as a demotion.
As one of them said angrily, “Why don’t you just bust me back to the ranks and make me start over? That’s practically what you're doing anyway!”
Then he stormed out of my office, trailing a string of oaths behind him. I had to go back to Caesar to report that we now had seven more spots to fill, a fact that made him none too happy, since it meant that he would have to postpone his departure until we found suitable replacements. Fortunately, he did not take his ire out on me, choosing some choice invective for the now-retiring seven men. Of course, while he was disappointed, he had also prepared for this eventuality, and I was presented with a list of candidates that Caesar’s staff had prepared and told that interviews would begin the next morning. Some of the names I was familiar with, if only by reputation, and I had to admit, however grudgingly, that if all I had heard about these men were true, then Caesar had picked very well indeed. I decided that I would reserve judgment on that question until the next day.