by R. W. Peake
Saloninus answered readily, “Not nearly as bad as it could have been, sir. But surely you know that’s due more to you.” Before Pullus could react, he continued, “We have two dead; Donatus of the Third Section and Brigantius of the Fourth. We have a total of five wounded, two litter cases.” For the first time, Saloninus’ expression changed, giving Pullus a forewarning as his Optio went on, with unfeigned sadness, “One of them isn’t expected to make it to sundown…and sir, it’s Carbo, I’m afraid.”
Pullus could not stifle a groan; despite Carbo’s wild streak, his warranted reputation for making trouble out in the town, and the fact that Pullus had not been in command of the Second for long, the Centurion knew how popular Carbo was, and in fact, he had grown fond of the man himself in a short period of time.
“Pluto’s cock,” Pullus muttered. “How?”
“Spear through the guts,” Saloninus answered. Heaving a sigh, Pullus indicated for Saloninus to continue, and he ran through the rest of the list. “The three walking wounded won’t be out of commission long, fortunately—they just need to be stitched up—and the litter case is just because he took a wound to the thigh and can’t walk right now.”
As Saloninus was talking, although Pullus was listening, he was also taking in the scene around him, getting a better idea of the overall situation as he did so. The men of the 14th who had been in the orbis were still in roughly the same spot they had been, less than a hundred meters away from where the 1st and those Cherusci who faced them had collided, marked by a rough line of bodies that extended more than three hundred paces to the right of where Pullus and his Optio were standing, and a bit more than that to the left, because the Fifth and Sixth Cohorts had been part of the first line.
Once Saloninus stopped, Pullus finally looked at the men of his Century, then behind them, where the Fifth Century was standing, directly behind his men, still fifty paces away, prompting Pullus to ask, “Did we not rotate through even once?”
“You really don’t know?” Saloninus asked, sounding worried for the first time, and he stepped closer to Pullus, looking up at him with a frown. “Centurion, did you get hit in the head?”
This startled Pullus to the point that it moved him to actually check himself, even going as far as pulling off his helmet after a probing examination with his fingers did not cause him any pain, nor did he feel any wetness from blood, but his helmet bore no dents or gouges, appearing exactly the same as it had when he strapped it on.
“No, apparently not,” he finally mumbled, and when he looked at Saloninus, he saw the worry in his Optio’s eyes. Trying to sound unworried, he said briskly, “Well, it doesn’t really matter now, does it? I’m fine, and we beat these cunni, didn’t we?” Before Saloninus could reply, Pullus took another, more careful look around, but this time, he was searching for someone specific. Not seeing him, Pullus asked, “Where’s the Propraetor?”
“He took the other Legions in pursuit,” Saloninus answered readily enough, but despite his Centurion’s assurances, he was growing more worried that Pullus seemed to be so unaware of the larger situation as well as Pullus’ actions that the Optio was certain would get his Centurion decorated. Correcting himself, he added, “Not every Legion. The 5th and 20th are still back there with the baggage train. It’s the 2nd and the rest who are with him now.”
Pullus stared off in the direction he assumed Germanicus had gone in pursuit of the Cherusci, then, realizing there was nothing he could do, he turned and walked to where most of his men were still moving among the fallen, looting the dead and sending those who were still alive to the afterlife, spending a moment with each of his men, asking them how they had fared, listening to their own tales of the small fights that, when it came down to it, were far more important to that ranker than the larger battle because they had a direct effect on whether they saw another sunrise, and making jokes of what they told him. It was something he had not bothered doing when he had first entered the Centurionate, but his father had done it with his Third Century, then when he had been made Pilus Prior, while he did not make it mandatory, all the Centurions save for Vespillo followed his example. As far as the current Pilus Prior, Pullus gave a cursory glance to the spot where he should have been; not seeing him, he gave Vespillo no more thought for the moment. Before he had spoken to more than a half-dozen of his own men, Pullus was aware that they were behaving differently towards him, although he did not press any of them for a reason, knowing that he would find out in due course. Finally, there was a cornu call from the First’s Cornicen, and it was immediately answered, but from the far side of the battlefield, and Pullus, along with everyone else, turned to see that Germanicus was returning. All other activity stopped, the rankers looting the dead straightening up, shading their eyes as they tried to discern the outcome of the second phase of the battle, each of them aware to one degree or another that, if Germanicus and the rest of the army were able to finish Arminius, either by slaying him outright or crushing the rest of his force, they would be marching home with their standards wrapped in the ivy of victory. They got their answer well before the Propraetor, who was riding at the head of the 2nd Legion marching in column, reached them, just by looking at the collective demeanor of the 2nd’s First Cohort.
By this time, Pullus and the other Centurions of the Fourth had gathered together, even Vespillo, who had returned from talking with Sacrovir, and they stood watching; once the 2nd drew close enough, it was Vespillo who, for once, spoke for all of them as he said bitterly, “They don’t look like they finished those fucking savages off for good.”
There were murmurs of agreement, and once the returning men were within two hundred paces, something else became apparent, which Structus noticed first, pointing as he asked, “Are those bastards covered in mud?”
“It looks that way,” Pullus agreed, then guessed, “I think that Arminius must have gotten away by using a stretch of bog.”
That, as they would learn, was the bare bones of it, although it would be expressed in more complete, and increasingly angry terms in the near future.
Chapter Three
Just as Pullus surmised, Arminius, while suffering a setback, had not been defeated, much to the collective dismay of the army. Upon Germanicus’ return, he ordered that a camp be constructed on the spot, but going against tradition, while he exempted the 1st and 2nd, who had done the brunt of the fighting and the ensuing pursuit, he forced the 14th to participate in the work, despite the fact that they had lost their Primus Pilus. This would be the only official punishment of the 14th for their failure to stand their ground, with the exception of, as Pullus had guessed, a total of twenty Centuries from most of the Cohorts. Much of the credit for their resistance was given to the Legion Aquilifer Camerinus, who actually fought his way through the massive confusion to join the Second, Third, and Fifth Century of the First Cohort that was part of the Legion that made a stand, and while he had been wounded, he would survive to continue carrying the Legion standard, while the First Century, almost all of whom had fled when their Primus Pilus fell, would bear that shame at least until they redeemed themselves, whenever that might have been in the future. The presence of the eagle, as often happened, instilled enough fighting spirit in the men who stood their ground that, despite the disorganization and havoc caused by the cavalry fleeing through their midst and shattering their cohesion, they managed to withstand Arminius’ men’s best attempt to capture another precious eagle standard. As far as the Cherusci chieftain was concerned, while he was present, according to the information obtained from the handful of prisoners who were kept alive specifically for that purpose, he was never in any serious jeopardy. Ultimately, for both sides, it was a frustrating stalemate, neither Romans nor Germans achieving a decisive victory, while neither suffered a significant defeat. The period of time Pullus and the 1st spent guarding the part of the army constructing the camp dragged slowly, but it was still before sunset when, at last, the 1st and 2nd were summoned inside the turf walls. As far
as Pullus was concerned, all he really cared about was getting the filth scraped off of him; he was still unsure exactly how he had become covered in so much blood that was not his, then he would get some food, followed by collapsing onto his cot. He also knew that this was a wish that was not going to be happening, at least any time soon, although he did resolve that he would get cleaned up before he performed all the other duties that a Centurion of Rome was expected to perform in the aftermath of a fight. This, of course, would be done with Alex’s help, but it was this thought that led him to recall all that had transpired with Gaesorix, triggering a stab of guilt and making him feel a bit selfish in the process. None of this was betrayed by his demeanor as he marched his Century, behind the First, directly to the same spot they occupied in every marching camp. Once Vespillo had issued the appropriate permission, Pullus dismissed his men, then beckoned to Saloninus.
“I’m going to the hospital,” he told Saloninus, who initially misunderstood, nodding sympathetically as he said, “I’m sure that if Carbo is still alive, he’d appreciate you visiting him, sir.” Fortunately, Saloninus interpreted the look of guilt that flashed across Pullus’ face, and he added smoothly, “As will the Prefect, I’m sure. And that’s probably where you can find Alex.”
Returning Saloninus’ salute, Pullus uttered the formal orders that transferred command to his Optio, then turned and began walking in the direction of the forum, but he made it only a few steps when he heard his name called. He was surprised to see Fabricius, not as much because it was unusual for Vespillo’s Optio to be speaking to him, but it was the furtive manner in which he seemed to just materialize from between two section tents that gave Pullus the strong impression the First Century’s Optio had been waiting, apparently for him.
“Yes, Fabricius?” Pullus’ tone was polite, but while he felt impatient to hurry to the hospital, he was also intrigued.
“Pilus Posterior,” it was Fabricius’ use of his formal title that gave him a presentiment this was something potentially important, “are you heading to the hospital?” When Pullus nodded, somewhat bemused, the Optio asked, “May I walk with you?”
Pullus assented, but then the Optio said nothing for several moments as they strode side by side towards the center of the camp. Not breaking the silence, Pullus noticed, until they were well clear of the Fourth Cohort’s area, when Fabricius turned to look up at him, his tone urgent.
“I just wanted to warn you that the Pilus Prior is considering making trouble for you.”
Startled, Pullus glanced at the Optio, but instantly determined that Fabricius was serious; besides, they had always had a cordial relationship, and he knew that his father had trusted the man.
Still, he could not help sounding doubtful as he asked, “But for what? What did I do that he could find fault with?”
Now it was Fabricius’ turn to look startled.
“Centurion,” he asked cautiously, “do you really not know what I’m talking about?”
“No!” Pullus cried, unable to keep the frustration from his tone. “Saloninus said I did something, but I have no idea what it is!”
Now Fabricius looked at him with what appeared to be genuine sympathy, but his words did not provide much comfort.
“Well, you need to ask Saloninus or someone else who saw it that you trust, because as far as I’m concerned, you should be decorated for it, not have a reprimand entered into your record.”
This caused Pullus to come to a stop, barely noticing they had reached the edge of the forum, and he demanded, “What do you mean, Fabricius? What’s the Pilus Prior planning, and why is he planning it?”
“Because he hates you, Centurion,” Fabricius answered quietly but with no hesitation. Shrugging, he admitted, “As far as why, I can’t say with any certainty, but I have my suspicions. But that doesn’t really matter right now, does it? What does is that I’m warning you.”
“But how can I defend myself if I don’t know what it’s about?”
Pullus felt so frustrated and angry that he had to restrain himself from grabbing Fabricius by the shoulders, but he retained enough self-possession to know that not only would this be unjust, it would be counterproductive, and while he had no idea of what was happening, he was aware that he would need every ally he could get.
“I suggest that you talk to Saloninus, Tetarfenus, and a couple of the Sergeants of your sections that you trust,” Fabricius answered. “They can give you a better idea than I can because they were closer to what happened.”
Pullus considered this for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll do that. And,” he said it hesitantly, but with true feeling, “thank you, Fabricius.”
Fabricius inclined his head, then he surprised Pullus by saying, “I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do, Centurion, but that’s not the only reason.” He paused, then seemed to decide something, adding quietly, “I promised your father that I would help you any way I could, if…well,” he shrugged, “…what happened to him actually did happen.”
Since he did not know what to say, Pullus did not try, but he did offer his arm, which Fabricius took.
Then he said awkwardly, “We need to get to the hospital.” His face turned grim. “I’m told one of my boys isn’t going to live the night.”
“I won’t keep you any longer,” Fabricius answered, but then he turned away, back in the direction of the 1st’s part of the camp.
“I thought you had some men in the hospital,” Pullus called to him, but Fabricius shook his head.
“No,” he called over his shoulder. “We only had a couple minor wounds that the medici stitched and bandaged already.” Suddenly, he stopped, turned back around, and added, “Thanks to you, Centurion.”
Pullus watched the Optio begin his walk back, then resumed his own, his head swimming from what he had just learned.
He found Gaesorix easily enough; because of his rank, he was in the most exclusive part of a field hospital, a small enclosure where only the most senior officers—first grade Centurions, Tribunes, Legates, and Prefects—were treated. And, as he suspected, Alex was sitting next to the cot, staring down at the Batavian, who Pullus saw was unconscious, and even in the guttering lamplight, wore the deathly pallor of a man who has lost massive amounts of blood.
Alex, sensing someone’s presence, looked up at Pullus; seeing him brought the clerk to his feet, but Pullus put a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder, pushing Alex back down as he asked quietly, “How is he?”
“Not good,” Alex admitted grimly. “But,” he looked up at Pullus, who could read the hope there in Alex’s eyes as the clerk said, “the Propraetor sent his personal physician to examine him, and he said the fact that he’s not dead already is a good sign.”
“He’s a tough man,” Pullus agreed, somewhat noncommittally, not being optimistic but equally unwilling to express his doubts to Alex. “If anyone can live through a wound like that, it’s the Prefect.”
“Would you two stop talking so much? I’m trying to sleep.”
It was barely a whisper, and Gaesorix’s eyes were still closed, but when Pullus and Alex looked down at him, they saw the corner of one lip curved upward.
“Pluto’s balls, Prefect,” Pullus gasped. “Are you trying to scare us so badly we end up next to you?”
Now Gaesorix did open one eye, but even this seemed to take a great effort, yet somehow, he managed, “Maybe I want company.”
“Maybe,” Alex retorted, sounding to Pullus much like his mother Giulia when she scolded him for something he had done, “you should save your strength by not trying to be funny.”
Almost as if the Batavian had read Pullus’ mind, he murmured, “Yes, Mama.”
He closed his eye then, lapsing back into silence, but because of the low moans and cries to the gods or mothers that carried through the hanging partitions, Pullus had to watch Gaesorix’s chest closely for the span of several heartbeats before he was satisfied that he still was breathing. Touching Alex on the sho
ulder, he gestured the clerk to follow him out into the larger tent.
“I have to go to Charon’s Boat next,” Pullus told him, forgetting that Alex had not been present to tend to the wounded of his own Century and would have no cause to know the identities of any of them.
“Who is it?” Alex asked, reminding Pullus of this fact.
“Carbo.”
Alex closed his eyes, his lips moving in a prayer, then before Pullus could bring it up, he assured him, “I’ll go with you, then go back to our area. You,” for the first time, Alex seemed to notice Pullus’ begrimed state, and even in the dim light, the clerk knew that most of it was not dirt but blood, “need to get cleaned up. I assume none of that is yours?” When Pullus shook his head, rather than being relieved, Alex asked accusingly, “What did you do, Gnaeus? How did you get that much blood on you?”
“I wish I knew,” Pullus replied honestly, and there was a catch in his voice that told Alex more than from any question he could have asked, so he did not press the point.
“Let’s go,” he said instead, leading Pullus across the large tent that was full to capacity to the opposite side, where another series of hanging canvas panels partitioned off another section.
This was Charon’s Boat, the place where men whose lives could be measured in watches, at most, were consigned, a place of suffering that was on a level that very few men could fathom, at least of those still among the living. Unlike the larger tent, which was, while not brightly lit, was certainly lit well enough for the medici and physicians to perform their work, Charon’s Boat only had one lamp, at the entrance, but it sat on a stool so that whoever entered could pick it up to use to find the man for whom they were looking without excessively disturbing the other occupants. This was what Pullus did, finding Carbo three cots down from the entrance, his midsection wrapped in a sodden bandage, but it was the manner in which it bulged outward that Pullus noticed so that, as far as his form, the ranker looked like a pregnant woman. He had heard of physicians who had managed to stuff a man’s intestines back into their body, and those men had supposedly lived, but Pullus refused to believe that this was anything other than camp talk. More than the sight, it was the smell that informed Pullus that this man was doomed, the smell of cac from the sliced bowel that had contained the last meal Carbo would ever eat that had now oozed out into his intestinal cavity. Crouching down, Pullus had to get disturbingly close to determine whether the ranker was still alive, but as with Gaesorix, he saw the chest rise and hold for a moment, then drop down.
