by R. W. Peake
“Thank the gods for Arminius,” Pullus commented to Saloninus, the pair standing there observing, amused but alert, both of them knowing that it would not take much for matters to escalate.
Saloninus looked up at his new Centurion in surprise; he was still getting to know Pullus, and he asked, “Why by Pluto’s balls would you say that, Centurion?”
Pullus laughed, pointing with his vitus as he explained, “Because if it wasn’t for that bastard, what do you suppose our boys and the boys in the 21st would be doing right now? Remember what happened between us and the 15th?”
That, Saloninus understood immediately, was nothing more than the truth, and he acknowledged as much; still, he thought it was something strange for a Centurion to say. And, the Optio actually glanced up at Pullus again as if the Centurion could divine his thoughts, remembering that Vespillo had been very specific with his former Optio.
“If that bastard farts and it doesn’t smell right, I want to know about it,” Vespillo had told him, and Saloninus, feeling that he had no choice in the matter, had agreed to do so.
The problem was that, even in the short period of time Pullus had been in command of the Second, Aulus Saloninus had grown to like the Centurion; more importantly, the Optio instantly saw that he was a good, even great leader, at least potentially. While it was true that Saloninus had been Vespillo’s Optio for the longest period of time, he was not Vespillo’s first, or even second to hold that post during the Centurion’s long tenure in command of the Second Century. He was acutely aware that this made him suspect in the eyes of many, if not all of the men of the Cohort, both in the ranks and with the officers, but Saloninus was not as crooked as a warped vitus, as the saying went; he was simply a supremely pragmatic man. One who, within days of becoming the third man to be promoted to Optio by Vespillo in a short period of time, with neither of his predecessors having fallen in battle or succumbing to illness, Saloninus determined what Vespillo needed from his Optio, and while it would have surprised the other officers of the Fourth, it was not a willingness to look the other way, or even help Vespillo in the various activities he was suspected of doing. What Saloninus discerned, although he could not really put a finger on how he had done so, was that Vespillo desperately wanted a friend, someone in whom he could confide, and Saloninus had become that man for his Centurion, though not by choice as much by necessity. The problem, at least as far as Saloninus was concerned, was that Numerius Vespillo was a thoroughly unlikable, miserable man, yet somehow, he had managed to never betray his true feelings to the Centurion. Which, the Optio thought unhappily as he stood with Pullus, was why he was in the position that he was in currently, and it was one that bothered him more with every passing day, since his exposure to Gnaeus Pullus increased his regard for the young Centurion. He was just about to turn and blurt out what Vespillo had demanded of him, when the men of the 21st, having finished their task, went marching by to resume their spot as the vanguard, passed by the Fourth Cohort, and a ranker on the outermost file closest to their own Century called out, then when he saw the men of the Second were paying attention, grabbed his crotch. This proved to be too much for Lucius Carbo, a man of the Fifth Section and one of the inveterate brawlers of the Second Century, but fortunately for everyone, Saloninus had seen the 21st’s ranker’s action and had turned his attention directly on the man he considered the most likely to break ranks. From Pullus’ perspective, his Optio suddenly leapt across his front, while Saloninus’ arm was already moving, thrusting his cut-down turfcutter handle down in between Carbo’s legs after the man had dropped his pack and broken ranks to lunge at the offending ranker in the other Legion. Carbo went sprawling face first into the dirt, which served the purpose of uniting the men of both Legions who saw it as they all erupted in guffaws, and as anyone with any experience knew, the men laughing the hardest were Carbo’s own companions.
The ranker scrambled to his feet quickly enough, although there was blood dripping off his chin from where he had scraped it on the ground, but as soon as he was vertical, Saloninus resumed his thrashing, bellowing, “Get back in the fucking ranks, Carbo, or by the gods, you’ll be striped bloody!”
Pullus was more bemused than anything, and was content to watch his Optio hand out the kind of unofficial punishment that was a staple of life under the standard, where a ranker’s body was the only thing bearing marks, and not his official record.
“You need to keep your eye on Carbo,” Saloninus muttered, breathing hard from his thrashing of the recalcitrant ranker who sullenly returned to his spot and picked up his pack.
To Pullus, Carbo’s limp was exaggerated, but he also recognized the possibility that it might not be, and he made a mental note to follow Saloninus’ advice.
“Is he one of our brawlers?” Pullus asked, getting his answer when Saloninus snorted in amused disgust, confirming, “Our number one, although I’d put Herennius a close second.” He paused to think, then added, “And Claudius is probably third.”
“Are they any good at it?”
This prompted Saloninus to turn from his glaring at the Century, daring a man to do anything as the 21st continued marching past, to examine Pullus’ face carefully.
“Why do you ask?” Saloninus asked curiously, but Pullus shrugged and answered in what to the Optio sounded like an evasive tone, “I was just wondering.”
The three columns converged on the spot chosen by Germanicus, on the banks of the Amisia, almost due west of the Teutoberg, with the Propraetor and his four Legions reaching the designated location first, while Caecina’s army arrived the next day, and Stertinius’ column the third day. For the first time, Pullus, along with every other man, got a sense of the staggering scale of this force, consisting of eight Legions, forty Cohorts of auxiliaries, a cavalry force numbering almost ten thousand men, and the massive amount of equipment and small army of slaves and freedmen necessary to support it all. It also marked the first time that Gaesorix and his Batavians were reunited with the bulk of the army, and that night, Pullus was in his quarters when Alex entered from the outer office.
“Prefect Batavius is here to see you, Centurion,” Alex informed him, and while his first reaction was one of puzzlement, Pullus beckoned to let him enter.
It was when the Batavian pushed aside the flap and his customary grin was nowhere in evidence that Pullus realized that he had not spoken to his father’s good friend since his death, so he stood up, uncertain how to behave.
“Centurion Volusenus,” Gaesorix began, his expression grave as he strode to reach across the desk, offering his arm, “while I heard about Pilus Prior Pullus’ death only a couple of weeks ago, I wanted to come and offer my condolences. It’s a loss to the Cohort, no doubt.”
More out of habit, Pullus accepted the man’s arm, clasping it as he nodded his thanks, at something of a loss about how to proceed.
“Please,” he gestured to one of the stools, “have a seat. May I offer you some…?”
He was not through before Alex reappeared, carrying a tray with two small jugs and cups, and it made both of them chuckle softly while they waited as Alex poured an amount of wine in each cup, then lifted the water jug. When all he got in the form of an answer were raised eyebrows, this caused some real laughter as Gaesorix accepted his cup, Pullus following suit, but then, certain he knew what was coming, indicated for Alex to fill a cup for himself, and he saw the clerk flush with pleasure at being included.
Raising the cup, Gaesorix’s smile vanished again as he toasted, “To Titus Pullus. A good Roman, a great Centurion, and…” now, his lips did curve upward, “…for a man of the infantry, not the worst horseman I’ve ever seen.”
Pullus made the instant decision on how to handle this moment by repeating, “To Titus Pullus…” then, after a brief pause, he added, “…my father.”
Although it was not his intention to do so, this caused Gaesorix to choke on his mouthful of wine, his eyes going wide as he wiped his mouth.
“Gerrae!” th
e Batavian exclaimed, then he did laugh, long and hard. Wiping a tear away, he said, “So, he finally went and did it, did he? Then I must apologize for how I addressed you when I entered, Centurion.” He looked down into his cup, then added, “You know, we talked about it once, but I was not sure he would do it.”
“Why not?” Pullus asked, slightly nettled at this indication his father might have had some sort of quandary.
The grin faded from the Batavian’s seamed face, which was framed by the braids that, despite his Romanization, the Prefect still wore in homage to his heritage, and he explained, “He was worried that it would create…problems for you.”
“Problems?” Pullus frowned, although he suspected he knew why, which was confirmed when Gaesorix said, “He knew that once he adopted you formally, it would confirm what some men had suspected, and open the eyes of others that this was not just a de jure adoption but one of blood. And then,” he shrugged, but while he looked uncomfortable, he continued, “men would be saying things about your mother.”
Hearing it put so plainly gave Pullus some pause, though he did not hold it against Gaesorix for speaking the truth, and he knew that his father had trusted the Batavian, second only to Marcus Macer among his contemporaries.
When Pullus did not say anything, Gaesorix glanced over at Alex, who had remained in the office, but he did not get any hint, so he was prompted to ask hesitantly, “So, has…anything happened? Have the men said anything?”
“Not to my face,” Pullus replied, then added grimly, “At least not yet.”
“He was most worried about the Tribunes or someone who outranked you.” Gaesorix was regarding the contents of his cup when he said this, so he missed the look of rueful amusement that Pullus exchanged with Alex.
“Yes, that’s been pointed out to me,” Pullus replied dryly. “But I think we have a plan in place to forestall that, hopefully.”
Looking up at him, the Batavian studied Pullus’ face for a moment, and while he was smiling, his tone was serious. “Do I want to know what that plan is?”
“Probably not.” Pullus grinned back, and Gaesorix laughed, then raised his cup again.
“Well,” he said, then drained his cup before standing up, “I am afraid I can’t stay any longer, but I wanted to come to pay my respects to your father.” For the first time, Gaesorix’s gaze swept Pullus’ quarters, stopping at the rack holding Pullus’ armor and harness. “Ah,” he said with satisfaction as he pointed at the scabbarded gladius, “and he gave you his grandfather’s blade.” Turning to Pullus, he allowed, “While I prefer the spatha, I have to say, if I had the chance to carry that instead, I would have to think about it.”
“It is,” Pullus agreed as he walked over to it and fingered the worn handle, “a beautiful weapon.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to sell it?” Gaesorix asked suddenly, but as scathing as the look Pullus gave him was, he laughed. “I didn’t think so.”
Pullus walked Gaesorix out into the outer office, and just before he stepped outside, the Batavian looked up at him, and Pullus saw what he was certain was a glint of tears, but Gaesorix’s voice was steady as he said quietly, “Your father was a good friend of mine, which means that you’re a good friend of mine. If there’s anything you need, you can count on me…Centurion Pullus.”
Pullus wanted to say something, anything, but the lump in his throat precluded it, so he had to satisfy himself with a nod, which Gaesorix seemed to understand, pushing the flap aside and leaving the tent.
“He’s a good friend to have, Gnaeus,” Alex said quietly.
Only slightly recovered, his voice sounded strange to him as Pullus agreed, “I know. I just hope I won’t need him.”
With the army now combined, it stayed in place for two more days, but the word quickly spread that the reason for it was that, unknown to most of the men, Germanicus had gathered together a number of survivors from the Varus disaster, who he was relying upon to lead the army to the site of Varus’ last camp. These men had been effectively exiled from all of Italia by Divus Augustus in those panicked days immediately after the massacre had occurred, and it had taken a fair effort on the part of the Propraetor to find some of them. Not surprisingly, none had been anxious to advertise what many Romans still considered to be actions worthy of shame, most of them settling down in small settlements scattered along the west bank of the Rhenus, while many moved all the way to Gaul. Although nothing official had been said, Alex had learned from his network of friends in the praetorium that Germanicus was offering what could essentially be called a full pardon, with a lifting of the ban on returning to Italia, in exchange for their help in locating the area where Varus had led his three Legions to their doom.
“I think,” Alex told Pullus, “that there’s more going on than meets the eye with this.”
“Oh? How so?” Pullus asked, though not with much interest since he was still consuming his meal.
“Think about it,” Alex began. “Why would Germanicus care about finding the spot?”
Pullus stopped from popping a piece of bread into his mouth and stared at Alex, echoing incredulously, “Why would he care? Because it’s the spot where Varus and those poor bastards following him fell, that’s why!” Pointing the crust at him, Pullus reminded Alex, “We’re still missing three eagles, remember. And I remember hearing some talk right after it happened that some of the survivors said the Aquiliferi buried them somewhere during the fight.”
“I heard that too,” Alex agreed, “but apparently, you haven’t heard about Stertinius.”
“Stertinius?” Pullus shook his head. “What does he have to do with this?”
“Just that one of his auxiliaries found one of them, buried under the hearth of a hut in a Bructeri village when they were on their way here,” Alex informed him, sounding, at least to Pullus, somewhat smug about it. “That means there’s only one still missing.”
“When did you hear this?” Pullus demanded, knowing that his clerk was not the kind to make a joke at such moments, but wondering why he had not heard this earlier.
“Just today,” Alex assured him. “Actually, not long ago.” Returning to the larger subject, he pressed, “So, the likelihood is that the other eagle is still with the Cherusci or one of the other tribes allied to Arminius.” Pullus did not reply, but Alex could see by his expression that he accepted the reasoning, so he continued, “If that’s the case, why would Germanicus care to take this entire army to that spot, all these years later? Any remains have been scattered by the animals, so there’s not much reason to try and inter whatever bones are left.”
Pullus considered this, signaling his acceptance by asking, “What do you think he’s up to then?”
“Remember what we heard after the disaster? About how Arminius had prepared all these defenses, and how they were designed to drive Varus and his men into really boggy ground?” Pullus nodded thoughtfully, and Alex continued, “I think Germanicus is heading there because he wants to draw Arminius into battle, and he’s making it seem like he’s making the same mistake that Varus made. But,” Alex finished with a grim smile, “Germanicus isn’t Varus.”
Pullus said nothing for a long moment, thinking about what Alex had said, yet while his instinct told him that his clerk was correct, he was unable to picture how Germanicus would be able to use prepared fortifications, especially those that had presumably been neglected for almost seven years.
Finally, he gave a shrug, saying simply, “While I’m sure you’re right, ultimately, it doesn’t matter. We’re going to have to trust Germanicus that he knows what he’s about.” Turning to more practical matters, he asked with a grin, “Have any of your little birds in the praetorium sung a song about whether Germanicus has found what we’re looking for?”
“No,” Alex admitted. “Not yet.”
“Then, until that happens, we need to worry about what we can control,” Pullus said crisply. Finishing the bread, he wiped the crumbs from his hand then extended his ha
nd as he said, “Show me today’s report.”
Naturally, Alex complied, taking the wax tablet from where he had tucked it inside his tunic, grinning as he told Pullus, “Happy to, Centurion. It seems that Lucius Carbo has been wandering outside his area.”
“Pluto’s cock,” Pullus groaned. Shaking his head, he said, “Let me guess. He was heading for the 21st?”
“No, he wasn’t heading there,” Alex replied, but then he grinned. “He actually made it there and was caught by the Optio of the Fourth of the Sixth of the 21st.”
“And,” Pullus concluded wearily, “that’s the Century with the bastard who waved his cock at Carbo, yes?”
“Yes,” Alex confirmed.
Then, for the next several moments, they occupied themselves with the mundane and never-ending tasks of a Centurion of Rome, temporarily forgetting that there was a fight looming.
It was the next day when a group of riders came pounding into the camp, heading straight for the praetorium, and while they were all mounted, anyone with eyes could have seen that four of these men were uncomfortable on horseback. More rapidly than the uninitiated would believe, the news that the site of the Varus disaster had been located shot through the camp, so that less than a third of a watch after their arrival, men were arguing about where it might be, and what was about to happen. Before another third of a watch had passed, runners were sent out from the praetorium to summon the Primi Pili of four Legions, and it was not long after that every Centurion of those four Legions knew about the meeting and its purpose, which meant it did not last long.
