I looked at him in dull surprise; I was still reeling from the news, and truth be known, feeling sorry for myself. “How?” I asked, without much hope, or interest for that matter.
“You're in control of a Legion of Rome,” he said quietly.
That got my attention.
I sat up straight as I thought about what he said, then I shook my head, “General Pollio commands the Legion, not me. I'm Primus Pilus, but I'm outranked.”
“The General does command, but you control the Legion, Master,” Diocles replied carefully, and despite myself I glanced around to make sure that we were alone.
What Diocles was saying might have been true, but at that moment, it was incredibly dangerous, as I was suddenly reminded of all those men who had just disappeared from around the fires; some of them were Centurions like me. Now I was getting irritated, because like all members of that pesky race, Diocles always seemed to speak in riddles at times when plain speaking is most useful.
The fact that he was taking precautions to protect me never occurred to me, and as usual, I gave my tongue free rein. “Stop circling about the subject like a vulture does a baby ewe,” I snapped. “Say what you're thinking, that's an order.”
Diocles’ face reddened, but his tone was even and respectful as he spoke his mind. “Like it or not Master, you're in control of the Legion. General Pollio may command it, but the men will follow you, and I suspect that you know this to be true. That means that you have power, and over the next days, weeks, or months, that means that you have value to those that need help in achieving their aims. All that I'm saying is that if you value your skin as much as I do, then it would behoove you to make sure that the players in this drama are reminded of that fact.”
I could see the merit in what he was saying, yet I was still unsure of where he was going.
Then, a horrible suspicion began to grow in me, and I looked at Diocles with new eyes. “Are you suggesting that if it looks like they're going to come out on top, that I should throw my lot in with the bastards who killed Caesar?”
I cannot express my relief at the sight of Diocles emphatically shaking his head. “No, Master, that's not what I'm suggesting. I know that you would rather fall on your sword than side with the men who murdered Caesar. All that I'm saying,” he suddenly fell to his knees in a dramatic gesture, something I had never seen him do before, “in fact, I'm begging, is that you not declare your intentions should you be approached by agents for the assassins who come to feel out what side you'll take. Let them think that they have you, or at the very least that you're open to listening to what they have to say, or I'm afraid that you'll meet with an accident of some sort.”
I gave a harsh, barking laugh, pointing at the scar on my chest. “In case you haven’t noticed, I take a lot of killing. I’m not worried about the likes of Brutus, or Cassius for that matter.”
“Well, you should be,” Diocles said flatly. “You may be hard to kill, but you're not immortal. And they are very, very rich men, and you've just seen that they'll stop at nothing. Do you think you’re better protected than Caesar?”
That caught me up short, I can tell you. I stared hard at Diocles, seeing him as if for the first time. We had talked about politics and the situation of the moment on several occasions, but he had never talked to me in this manner before. My respect for his shrewdness and ability to assess a situation in such a short amount of time went up immeasurably, because I knew that he was absolutely right. However, I do not think even Diocles knew just how right he would prove to be over the next months and years. It is with this knowledge that perhaps the fact that I recouped my outlay of cash for the immunes in such a relatively short time, and with interest, makes more sense.
~ ~ ~ ~
Taking a few more moments to compose myself, I dried my eyes then made attempts to cover up the signs that I had been crying, ordering Diocles to do the same before I sent him to summon the Centurions. While the tent of the Primus Pilus is large, cramming all 6 °Centurions into it meant that the men would have to stand shoulder to shoulder, packed together like dried fish in a barrel. So while Diocles was gone, I moved all the furniture out of the way to make room, using the time to think through all that Diocles had said. I had never been good at hiding my feelings, but I realized that if I valued my skin, I would have to put on the acting job of my career when the inevitable visitors came to feel me out about my loyalties. In the beginning at least, I could not openly declare my feelings towards either side, until I had a better idea which way the winds from Rome were blowing. Perhaps the hardest part would be to disguise my outrage and horror at what happened to Caesar, but I knew that it was essential that I appear to be essentially unmoved by Caesar’s assassination, viewing it as a political issue rather than a personal tragedy. By the time the first Centurions came filing in, my face was a mask and my emotions were stuffed away, and I was once again the Primus Pilus of the 10th, a hardened professional soldier of Rome, determined not to give the Centurions now arriving a clue as to what happened. Although I could tell that they knew something momentous had occurred, none of them gave any indication that they knew what had actually happened. Spotting Scribonius in the second group of men to enter, I waved him over to me. His face was a mix of confusion and concern as I beckoned for him to enter my private quarters, whispering that I would join him shortly. When Cyclops and Balbus arrived, I did the same for them. Without saying anything to the rest of the men, I entered my private quarters to face my three friends, pulling the leather flap that served as a door down to give us some privacy, keeping my voice low so that what I was about to tell them would not be overheard.
“I'm about to tell you why I've called this meeting,” I whispered. “But before I do, I need to prepare you so that you don't give any kind of outburst that would alert the rest of the men before I'm ready to tell them. So brace yourselves.” I waited for each of them to nod that they understood, then I told them, making my voice as emotionless as possible. “Caesar has been assassinated by a group of Senators.”
As I watched their reaction, it struck me that this was probably what I had looked like when Pollio told me. To their credit, they did not give any kind of outcry, though Scribonius drew a sharp breath that probably sounded louder than it was, but still caused me to look over my shoulder nervously, forgetting that I had pulled the flap closed.
“When did this happen?” Balbus whispered.
“On the Ides of March,” I replied.
“Two weeks ago,” Scribonius said thoughtfully, his tone causing the rest of us to look at him carefully, as we all respected his ability to see things that the rest of us missed. “A lot has happened in the intervening time, no doubt. There’s really no telling what's transpired and who’s in power. Do you have any information about that?”
I shook my head. “The dispatch that Pollio received was apparently written no more than a few thirds of a watch after the murder.”
Scribonius looked at me sharply at my use of the term. “Murder? That’s a little strong, isn’t it? I would think assassination is a more appropriate term,” he said.
For a brief moment, my anger flared white-hot, my hand involuntarily reaching for my sword.
Then I looked at his face, realizing that he had divined the same danger that Diocles had. I let out a slow breath, nodding carefully. “Yes, you're correct, Scribonius. I spoke in haste, and in error. Caesar was assassinated, not murdered.”
With that settled, I gave my friends time to compose themselves, then they followed me out to face the Centurions of the 10th Legion.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Caesar is dead. He was assassinated by members of the Senate on the Ides of March, the day before he was to depart for Syria.”