“That’s a lie,” spat one of the men on the other side who did not wear any insignia of rank but seemed to be in charge. One thing I was sure of was that he did not outrank Scribonius, or he would have immediately taken charge and used his authority to send our men packing empty-handed, whether it was right or not.
“And who the fuck are you?” I stepped towards him, my suspicions immediately confirmed when he shrank back and instinctively drew himself to intente.
“Optio Lucius Vetruvius, First Century, Fifth Cohort, 9th Legion, Pilus Prior.”
I paused, looking him up and down, making sure that the sneer on my face was easily seen by everyone. “So Vetruvius, you’re saying my Centurion is a liar, neh?”
Once I repeated it back to him, the full import of his words hit him, and he licked his lips nervously before replying, “I. . I. . didn't say that exactly, Pilus Prior. .”
Before he could finish, I cut in, “That’s exactly what you said, Optio. You said that Secundus Hastatus Prior Scribonius,” I deliberately used his full rank, “is a liar. That’s a very serious charge, Optio. Do you have any proof to substantiate that charge?”
As I expected, he began to splutter, his face turning bright red. “I. . I. . apologize Hastatus Prior. I didn’t mean any offense. Forgive my rudeness; it’s the wine talking.” He tried a grin, but it was met with stony silence, both of us staring at him impassively, and he gulped as he struggled to find words. “I simply meant to say that there was a misunderstanding. We’ve been assigned this street by the provosts, and by rights, this street is ours. Right, boys?”
He turned over his shoulder, and the murmured assent of his comrades seemed to stiffen his backbone a bit. He turned to me with a defiant expression on his face.
“Really?” I asked as if I were actually interested in what he had to say, because I had already seen what I needed, and he nodded his head.
“Yes, sir. It’s just that your boys seem to have gotten here by mistake, but there’s no harm done. All we ask is that we be allowed to finish the street. Right, boys?” he repeated, and I was not surprised that his men thought this a grand idea.
I pursed my lips as I pretended to think about it. “Well, that certainly seems fair,” I began, and I saw Vetruvius’ face light up, Scribonius’ correspondingly flushing at the idea that I was going to side with the enemy, as it were.
The men of the 9th began clapping each other on the back and smacking their lips in anticipation of what lay in wait behind the closed doors of the houses lining the street. It was in what was obviously the wealthy section of the city, Caesar rewarding the 10th with the choicest areas to loot, and I could see the gleam in the men’s eyes as they silently congratulated each other. Suppressing a smile, I remember thinking to myself, Titus you are not a very nice man.
Then I spoke. “But. .”
The change of expression on their faces would have done Mercury proud, so swift was the transformation, their looks going from quiet exultation to wary suspicion.
Seeing that I held their undivided attention, I continued, “There are one or two problems with that. If you would notice,” I pointed back over the head of the Optio, so that he and the rest of his men craned their necks to follow my finger, “as you can clearly see, the provosts marked this street for the exclusive use of the Fifth Century, Second Cohort of the 10th Legion. You know,” I couldn’t resist adding, “Caesar’s favorites.”
And just as I had seen it, chalked high up on the side of the house that resided at the corner of the street, was the number of the Century, Cohort, and Legion that the provosts had designated for the exclusive use of Scribonius’ Century. I must confess I took rather too much pleasure in the crestfallen looks of the boys of the 9th, and I could have let it go there, but I could not resist, such was my desire absolutely to crush anyone who resisted me back in those days.
“So you can see, Optio, you’re the ones who are mistaken. But if the mark of the provosts isn’t enough for you, then there’s this.” I leaned forward, lowering my voice, but I knew that every man could hear me. “You're of the 9th, the Legion who turned on Caesar. Do you really think that you deserve such ripe pickings as these?” I gestured with my vitus at the surrounding houses. “And if your treachery wasn’t bad enough, you’re the bastards who turned tail and ran like rabbits at Dyrrhachium and forced us to abandon several months’ worth of work.”
I saw that my words had scored a direct hit, wounding Vetruvius, along with his comrades to the very core. His face turned bright red, his eyes narrowing as he clenched his fists.
I looked down at them and sneered, “Oh, so you do have some backbone after all? That’s good to see. Too bad you only turn it on your comrades and not the enemy.”
As quickly as it had come, the fight fled from him and he visibly sagged. His body communicated a defeat that his pride could not allow him to utter. The men around him all watched, ready to follow his lead, but he slowly raised his head, his eyes dull, and I saw in them the pain, making me feel a sharp twinge of regret. I did not realize how true my words must have sounded to him, and when I saw his hurt, I suddenly took no joy in vanquishing this man, on this night, but it would have been unthinkable for me to make an apology in any form, especially in front of the men. Therefore, I merely pointed them back to the end of the street, and with a curt command, Vetruvius and his men trooped away, leaving us the victors. Vetruvius lingered long enough to make sure that none of his men stayed behind to cause any trouble, and seeing him standing separate, I stepped away from the rest of my own men to walk a way down the street before calling his name. At first, I did not think he heard, or if he did, he would not obey, but the habits of a lifetime of obedience are hard to break, and with obvious reluctance he came to stand before me, stopping to stand at intente, his back to me as he stood rigidly, waiting to hear what I had to say.
I leaned closer to him and said quietly, so that only he could hear, “Vetruvius, you know you were in the wrong, don’t you?”
He did not reply for a moment, then said in the tone that I recognized all of us use when addressing a superior that we loathe, “As you say, Pilus Prior.”
“But you think I went too far casting slurs on the 9th, don’t you?”
The silence was longer this time, and I could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he struggled to think through the fog induced by too much wine, searching for the right answer.
Finally, he chose honesty over discretion and looked directly at me when he said, “Yes, Pilus Prior.”
Our eyes met for a moment, and I saw not only defiance, but the pain in his eyes, before he looked away.
“You’re right,” I said so that only he could hear, “I did go too far and for that I apologize, Optio Vetruvius.”
I do not know who was more surprised at my words, he or I, because I had not planned on saying any such thing, but I suppose I saw in him something of myself, despite the undeniable fact that he was a few years older than me.
Before he could say anything, I continued, “You’re a good leader of men, Vetruvius, I can see that in the way the men look to you. But you need to learn to pick your battles, understand? In this case, you picked the wrong battle, with the wrong Centurion. But that doesn’t mean you’re not a good leader, Vetruvius.” He stood for a moment, not saying a word, only nodding thoughtfully. Finally, I stepped away, then snapped in my parade ground voice, “Very well. Dismissed. And make sure you pay attention to the provosts’ markings in the future, Optio.”
“Yes, Pilus Prior,” he said, giving me a salute, which I like to think was more than just a bare formality.