Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  “Return to your Century, Pullus,” Vespillo said, the rare moment of amity between them clearly over. “I’ll talk to the Legate myself.”

  Pullus saluted, but in a slight insult, did not wait for Vespillo to return it, gambling that the Pilus Prior would be too distracted, and as he turned, he caught Gemellus’ eye, grinning at the Signifer who, he could tell, had seen and understood, although Gemellus only winked. When he returned to his Century, Pullus briefly explained the cause for the halt, not surprised in the slightest that the word had filtered back from the First Century to the Second, which meant that the news was undoubtedly making its way through the Cohort column. After a brief exchange with Vespillo, Caecina turned his attention to the line of underbrush, urging his horse forward, while the other horsemen seemed content to hang back. Whether it was because of its rider’s tension or the horse sensed that just beyond the brush was a place of death, it was impossible to tell, but what was clear was that its sudden rearing caught Caecina by surprise, although he managed to remain in the saddle. It did serve to convince him to wheel the animal around and come back at a brisk trot. Pullus watched as he made several gestures, but he was too far away to hear, but a half-dozen men, two Tribunes and the rest of Caecina’s bodyguard, detached themselves and turned back in his direction, going immediately to the gallop.

  “Well,” Pullus commented to Tetarfenus as the men went thundering past, “I think we’ve got our answer.”

  Fortunately for the men of the Fourth and the rest of Caecina’s men, Germanicus had decided to leave his part of the army and travel up the newly constructed roadway, so the Cohort was not left standing in place, swatting at the bugs, cursing and, inevitably, speculating about what they now knew was barely more than a quarter-mile away for as long as they might have. Caecina and the remainder of his party returned back down the column, while Vespillo called the Centurions and Optios to inform them of the cause for the delay, quickly learning that he was wasting his breath. In another sign of how badly shaken he was, Vespillo did not respond in his normal manner of issuing threats or making cutting comments, although he did not allow the men to sit down or relax, aside from grounding their packs and leaning on their shields, which was standard practice.

  While it was not with the intention of doing so, Pullus did manage to create a bit of consternation when, more from boredom than anything else, he asked, “Pilus Prior, can I take a couple sections of men and go take a look at what’s up there?”

  “No, you can’t!” Vespillo snapped. “We’re going to wait for the Propraetor, and I don’t want you going over there and…stirring things up.”

  Pullus did not argue, but when Vespillo turned his attention away, he glanced over at Structus and Gillo with a raised eyebrow, both of whom expressed their feelings nonverbally, the former by rolling his eyes and the latter giving Pullus a grin. Once they were dismissed, they returned to their Centuries to wait, and before long, Pullus gave up trying to keep the men from talking to each other, his only order that they do so quietly. The sun had begun its downward arc, though there was still quite a bit of daylight left when, from further down the column, a shout drew their attention, but while the mounted party was too far away for Pullus to discern faces, he was certain that it was Germanicus, who was coming at a canter. As the party drew nearer, the sheen of sweat on the Propraetor’s horse, a magnificent black animal, told the tale of a hasty progress, but it was the grim expression on Germanicus’ face that Pullus would have cause to remember. The Propraetor, who was now followed by Caecina, Stertinius, and what Pullus assumed was almost every Tribune, did give Pullus a grim nod as he passed, but while he stood at intente, the Centurion did not feel it appropriate to salute despite being acknowledged. It took several heartbeats for the entire party to pass by, and Pullus thought that at least Germanicus was protected by what was a good sized party of men. Perhaps that was why he barely slowed when he reached the line of underbrush, although to Pullus, it was fairly obvious that not every man accompanying the Propraetor shared his enthusiasm. They did not have to wait much longer; perhaps a hundred heartbeats after they disappeared, Tribune Gaetulicus returned to the column, speaking with Vespillo, and even with the distance, Pullus could see how pale the Tribune was. He was already turning his horse to return to Germanicus when Cornicen Poplicola sounded the call to resume the advance, and the column began moving.

  Before they had covered a half-dozen paces, Pullus was acutely aware of the heavy silence, the only sound the tramping of caligae, creaking of leather, and the clinking sound as metal bits rubbed together. He felt his heart beginning to hammer at a rate far higher than the exertion of marching would require, while he suddenly thought that perhaps Vespillo’s fear was not as foolish as it seemed. The ranker Petronius turned out to be correct; it was almost exactly four hundred paces of thick forest, although as Pullus had promised, the passage of more than a hundred horses had at least pressed down the vegetation, before they entered a large cleared area. What Pullus saw first was the turf wall, or what remained of it, since sections of it had collapsed, and he wondered if that was because of the ravages of time, or if they marked spots where Arminius and his warriors had breached it. One of the other Tribunes was sitting on his horse, seemingly waiting for their arrival, which was confirmed when he leaned down, said something to Vespillo, then turned and moved at a walk that paralleled the ruined wall. The Pilus Prior gave the appropriate order to make his Century turn to follow the Tribune, and Pullus followed suit, it becoming clear that they were being positioned out of the way so that the rest of the column could enter the clearing. Somewhat surprisingly, Vespillo gave the order that required the men to stay in their spot but allowed them to drop their packs and take a seat on the ground, correctly guessing what Germanicus intended. For the next third of a watch, the rest of the four Legions under Caecina’s command entered the clearing, where Tribunes were waiting to lead them to a side of the camp, until the entirety of Caecina’s force was surrounding the remains of the camp on all four sides. Shortly after the 5th, which was the last Legion, marched past, just as filthy from their day of labor as the 20th and 21st, the cornu attached to Caecina’s command group sounded the call for the Primi Pili, while the other officers gathered in small groups, talking quietly and speculating on what was happening.

  “I think,” this came from Licinius, which was somewhat surprising since, as the newest addition to the Cohort, he was usually quiet in such moments, “that we’re going to be spending the night right here, while Germanicus sends for the rest of the army.”

  “Gerrae!” Vespillo scoffed, but to Pullus, he was certain he detected a note of uncertainty in the Pilus Prior’s voice as he argued, “There’s not enough room to build a camp here, not without using part of…that,” Vespillo did not even point, just indicated the ruined wall, and there was no doubt that the Pilus Prior was, if not shaken from being here, at the least disturbed, “…and I don’t see Germanicus doing that.”

  “No, I don’t think he will, Pilus Prior,” Licinius seemingly agreed, then pointed out, “but I think he has some sort of ceremony in mind, and he’s not likely to do it without the entire army.”

  As Pullus listened, he realized that he agreed with Licinius, although he had no intention of speaking up, but he did not need to, because Gillo did so. “I think Licinius is right, Pilus Prior.”

  Vespillo glared at Pullus’ former Optio, but while his tone was grudging, he did allow, “He may be, but how is that going to work, eh?” When nobody offered their idea, he gave his cackling laugh. “See? It’s all fine to say that we’re going to be sitting out here in the open all night, but that’s going to make us vulnerable, isn’t it? If I was Arminius, I’d see us sitting out here without any ditches or walls, and I’d be licking my chops and thinking that this was my chance.”

  “That,” Pullus surprised himself by interjecting quietly, “may be exactly what Germanicus wants, Pilus Prior.”

  This renewed the debate among the C
enturions of the Fourth, but they were far from alone; conversations of this nature were taking place within every Legion currently present. Nothing was settled when, finally, someone called out that Sacrovir was trotting back in their direction, and within a few heartbeats after reaching the eagle, the Cornicen of the 1st sounded the call for Pili Priores. Vespillo complied, muttering under his breath about how foolish an idea it was if Germanicus was indeed thinking to lure Arminius into battle like that idiot Pullus suggested, who was certain that it was no accident that the Pilus Prior was saying this loudly enough for him to hear. It predictably stirred a feeling of anger, but what surprised Pullus more was the subtle but unmistakable surge of pity he felt for Vespillo, and he wondered if the Pilus Prior had ever experienced a day of happiness in his life.

  The meeting with the Primus Pilus did not take long, and even before Vespillo reached them, Pullus and his comrades saw the sour expression on his face, and Structus turned to Licinius with a grin. “Oh, you’re about to be very unhappy.”

  “Why?” Licinius asked suspiciously, but before Structus could answer, Gillo said cheerfully, “Because you’re right. We’re staying here.”

  “But why would he be…?”

  Before he could finish, Vespillo had closed within earshot, and he shot Licinius a furious look, informing them with a heavy sarcasm, “Your fellow Centurion Licinius here was correct. Maybe,” he looked at Licinius with his customary sneer, “you should start a side business as an oracle.”

  Before he could say more, Pullus interjected, despite knowing it was a bad idea, “What are our orders, Pilus Prior?”

  For an instant, Pullus was certain that Vespillo would turn his attention on him, but he confined himself to a furious look as he said flatly, “We’re going to stretch out here. One fire for every two sections, charcoal only, just long enough to cook. And,” he finished sourly, “we’re going to be on half-strength alert.” Pullus managed to stifle a groan, though neither Cornutus nor Gillo were as successful, but again, Vespillo surprisingly said nothing about it, other than to add, “At least we’re not the other half of the army. They,” now when he gave his version of a smile, the others shared it, “are going to be marching by torchlight to get here for whatever the Propraetor has planned.”

  “Any idea what that is, Pilus Prior?” Cornutus asked, but Vespillo shook his head.

  “Only that it’s going to begin at dawn tomorrow.”

  With their instructions, the Centurions dispersed to their Centuries, none of them, including Pullus, relishing the idea of informing their men they would be spending a night, out in the open, just next to a ruined camp that Pullus knew most of the men thought was cursed, while an army under the command of the German who had wrought that destruction was lurking nearby. What was an even unhappier thought, at least to Pullus, was the idea that, despite doing this intentionally, Germanicus might have been making a huge error in his judgment, because it would be his men, and all the other men of the Legions present, who would pay for it.

  The night passed, nervously but uneventfully, and the only blood drawn was from the various bloodsucking vermin that were attracted to what had to have been a feast of historic proportions. While the Propraetor had deemed that there would be a minimal number of fires, not wanting the glow of thousands that could be seen for miles, he finally relented in allowing small fires burning green wood to be lit, although the resulting smoke did little good. In every way it was a miserable night, yet somehow, Pullus managed to snatch some sleep during the watch his Cohort was not standing guard, as did Alex, who had curled up a short distance away from his Centurion. Demetrios, along with all the other junior clerks, was banished to spend the night with their counterparts and the slaves, given the responsibility of tending to the hundreds of animals that were part of the Legion’s baggage train. Shortly before dawn, a growing noise roused those men who were trying to sleep, and it did not take long for the word that the rest of the army had arrived to sweep through the ranks. The fact that they did not enter the clearing was a matter of some speculation, until someone involved in the conversation pointed out there was simply not enough room.

  While this certainly explained things to a degree, it did prompt Alex to wonder, “If the entire army can’t fit inside this clearing, they certainly can’t fit inside the camp. It was only made for three Legions, not eight.”

  Pullus considered this, sitting on a folding stool that Alex had brought from his baggage, realizing that, as he usually did, the clerk had discerned the problem, although all he could think to say was, “I suppose Germanicus has thought of that. Besides,” he finished a last bite of cheese, then stood and stretched, “whatever is happening is supposed to happen at sunrise. And,” he turned to glance up at the eastern treetops where some clouds were visibly pink, “he better let us know what it is soon.”

  The cornu command that summoned all Centurions to the standard sounded at that moment, and the pair exchanged a grin.

  “Obviously, Germanicus heard you, Centurion.” Alex laughed as Pullus snatched up his vitus, pausing to adjust his armor, which he had been wearing all night and was beginning to chafe, before heading for the Legion eagle.

  Very quickly, Pullus and the other Centurions learned that Germanicus had indeed thought of the difficulty posed by the presence of so many men.

  “All Centurions, Optios, and Signiferi,” Sacrovir informed them, “will attend the ceremony. As far as the rankers,” he explained, “the Propraetor wants any man who had a relative marching for one of the Legions, and for any Century that doesn’t have someone like that, then the Tesseraurius will represent the Century along with its other officers. And,” he finished, “we enter the camp in a third part of a watch. So, time to get busy!”

  Like most of the Centurions, Pullus chose to take Sacrovir literally, moving at a brisk trot back to his Century, whereupon he called both Saloninus and Tetarfenus to him, explaining what was needed then asking, “Do we have any men who had someone marching with Varus?”

  They both had to think for a moment, then Saloninus spoke, but it was to ask Tetarfenus, “What about Plancus? Didn’t his brother march with the 18th?”

  The Signifer nodded, then added, “And Carbo’s cousin, I believe, but he was with the 17th, I think.”

  “Carbo?” Pullus asked warily. “You mean Carbo?”

  The manner in which he said the name caused both men to chuckle, but it was Saloninus who confirmed, “Unfortunately, yes, Centurion. Our Century brawler had a cousin, and as I remember, they were quite close.” The Optio paused to think, then nodded as he recalled, “They actually grew up together in the same house. The cousin was a bit older, and Carbo looked up to him like a big brother.”

  “Pluto’s balls,” Pullus groaned. “All right,” he muttered, then pointed at the Optio, “he’s coming, but you make sure he knows that if he so much as twitches in a way I don’t like, I’m going to break him in half.”

  “Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” Tetarfenus put in, although he was secretly amused. “I don’t think he wants to kill anyone in the 21st anymore. He’s angry with Mela right now because he’s certain that Mela filched his wine ration.”

  “Ah,” Pullus said, somewhat chagrined that he had forgotten about this, “right. I remember now. So,” he grinned at the other two, “as long as he’s not standing near Mela, we should be fine, is that what you’re telling me?”

  Saloninus agreed with a laugh, then the trio walked over to their Century to begin the process. Very quickly, groups of men of varying sizes were gathered in front of their Centuries, then each Pilus Prior led the assembled men of his Cohort over to the Legion eagle where Sacrovir was waiting to get them arranged for the entrance into Varus’ camp. Pullus saw Germanicus, who looked haggard and as tired as Pullus felt, but his demeanor and manner in which he dealt with his subordinates was as energetic as always, if a bit subdued. As they stood there, they were joined, first by the men of the 5th, 20th, and 21st, but once the men of th
e 2nd, 14th, 15th, and 16th arrived, the Tribunes were charged with arranging them in numerical order, which placed Pullus’ Legion immediately behind Germanicus and his party. On foot, dressed in his armor, and accompanied by a small army of priests, along with a number of sacrificial animals, Germanicus led the procession into Varus’ camp. It was eerily silent, and while he did his best to appear impassive, Pullus was fervently wishing he was anywhere other than where he was at this moment, and he could see that he was far from alone. Tetarfenus, holding the stout ash pole of the Century standard, was a ghostly white, looking as if he might faint, while Saloninus looked only marginally better. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Carbo and Plancus walking side by side, the former ranker not displaying any sign of his normal truculence, while the latter appeared close to tears. It was once they navigated the dirt gate and entered the confines of the camp that a low moan rose from more than one throat, and Pullus’ attention was evenly divided between the sight of hundreds, no, thousands of bones scattered on the ground, all the way to the opposite wall, and even worse, the skulls that had been nailed to the dozens of trees that were located inside the walls, another sign that Varus had been forced to this extreme, since it was inconceivable under normal circumstances that a Legate would allow any trees to mar the regular arrangement of a Roman camp. Somewhat oddly, this was the moment when Pullus realized that the turf walls were much lower than the standard height, to the point that because of his height, he could actually see over it in several spots to where the men of the 21st who were not involved in what was about to take place were now standing in formation, although they were not at intente. Which, he thought, makes sense since this was where Varus had his last stand and there was not enough time to create a proper defense. In turn, this caused him to examine the ground around him, wondering if any of the bones, most of them now partially buried by an accumulation of soil and leaves, had once been part of the Legate. Even with the reduced numbers, there were what Pullus estimated a bit more than a thousand men, and as he waited for them to file in, he observed the faces of the rest of the contingent that was streaming into the camp. To his eye, they all looked uneasy, but he thought he could discern those men who, like Carbo and Plancus, had some sort of personal connection, both by their demeanors and the way they were looking at the bones around them, and he was certain they were wondering if they belonged to someone they had once been connected to by blood. It was eerily silent, but he ascribed this to the fact that this was a highly unusual ceremony; indeed, he had no idea what would be taking place, and he knew he was far from alone. Finally, the entirety of those men selected for this moment were arrayed, in line and with their backs to the wall and the dirt gate through which they had entered, while Germanicus, flanked by the priests and augurs, who also stood slightly behind the Propraetor, was facing them.