by R. W. Peake
“One of the cavalry patrols disappeared.”
Alex, having just returned from the praetorium, told Pullus this as he served the Centurion his evening meal, but he was far from through, explaining, “And the patrols that came back all had some sort of contact with the Germans.”
“Cherusci?” Pullus asked, but his relief when Alex shook his head was short-lived.
“Not just Cherusci, apparently,” Alex replied. “Supposedly someone saw Bructeri colors as well.”
Pullus cursed softly, although he was not particularly surprised. This was not good news, but the truth was that he was more concerned with the fact that, once the wooden panels that made up his floor had been laid down, before much time had passed, an inch of foul-smelling water had oozed up through the spaces between the partitions. There was a dampness in the air that, coupled with the foul-smelling water, had actually reduced his appetite to the point he only picked at his meal. Finally, he shoved the bowl away from him, threw the remainder of his castra paneris into it in disgust, which happened to coincide with the sudden sound of a cornu from the direction of the praetorium. Not only was it an unusual time for any kind of call, the notes played at this moment brought Pullus to his feet, while Alex walked over to the wooden stand holding his Centurion’s armor. They exchanged few words, both of them working with a practiced ease, with no waste motion, that saw him wearing his armor, carrying his helmet in one hand and vitus in the other as he strode out into the Cohort street in a matter of heartbeats after the horn sounded.
“What’s going on?” Pullus called to Licinius, who was the nearest officer, but the other Centurion shook his head, obviously as unaware of the cause as he was.
Turning his attention to more immediate matters, Pullus was pleased that he only had to threaten to use his vitus on his men as they streamed out of their tents, all of them similarly attired but carrying their shields. Very quickly, Pullus’ Century, along with the rest of the Fourth Cohort, was formed up; not happily, but Pullus did not do anything to quell the muttering, mainly because he shared their disgruntlement. It was bad enough that there was standing water in every tent, but almost as soon as they were erected, the strip of ground that served as the Cohort street along which their shelters were arranged on either side had become a morass of churned mud, and even as he stood there, he could feel himself sinking deeper into the muck. Forming up as they did meant that the time the men had spent painstakingly scraping off their feet and calves had been wasted, and depending on the cause for the summons to arms, they also faced the prospect of no sleep. Certain that it would do no good, Pullus walked down the street to where Vespillo was standing, hands on hips and looking in the direction of the praetorium, the area for the First Cohort also being in that direction, but to his surprise, when he asked the Pilus Prior if he knew anything, Vespillo did not bite his head off, merely giving a curt response that he did not. For the span of a heartbeat, Pullus debated the wisdom of suggesting that Vespillo go find Sacrovir, but quickly dismissed it. As it happened, Vespillo did not need to do as much; out of the darkness, the figure of a running man materialized, the splashing sound of his footfall announcing his coming at almost the same instant as Pullus saw him. Since he had not yet returned to his Century, Pullus was near enough to hear about not only the overall situation, but the orders Sacrovir was issuing.
“The sentries on the western wall are under attack,” the runner managed to get out between panted breaths. “Right now, it’s only shot from slings, along with some arrows, but the Legate wants everyone on alert in the event that the savages try to storm the walls. We’re to stand ready and wait for the command.”
While Pullus was certainly happy that Caecina was taking such a precaution, he could not drive away the memory of those low walls, less than half their normal height, that the Germans would have to scale.
As required, Vespillo repeated the orders from the runner, who had regained enough breath to continue on his way, and he quickly disappeared around the corner, presumably heading to the Fifth Cohort.
To Pullus’ surprise, Vespillo called to him, and without any of his usual sarcasm or invective, ordered, “Pilus Posterior Pullus, go let the other Centurions know.”
Despite his mild disbelief that his Pilus Prior would issue such an order without adding some sort of biting comment, Pullus saluted, turned, and began at a trot down to where Licinius was standing. Before he had covered a dozen paces, he could feel that his legs up to his knees were wet and, undoubtedly, muddy, but he ignored it as he relayed the orders to Licinius.
Before he could move on to Cornutus, Licinius asked in a low tone the men could not hear, “What do you think, Pullus? What’s happening?”
“I think,” Pullus answered honestly, “that we’re going to be standing out here for a while. These bastards aren’t going to attack at night, even with the walls as low as they are. They’re just trying to wear us down by making us nervous.”
And, as they would all learn, this was exactly what the commander of the German warriors was doing. It was not until midnight that the cornu sounded the command that released the men, but for the men of the First through Fifth Cohort of the 1st, all this meant was that it was time for them to make their way to their assigned spot on the wall, where they would be standing watch until dawn. Nobody wearing the white stripe of an Optio or the transverse crest of a Centurion was surprised at the reaction of their men to this development, if only because the truth was that they wholeheartedly agreed; Fortuna had pissed all over them.
The result of the German harassment was made clear the next morning, in the form of a handful of casualties and men who were near the end of their collective tethers, irritable from the combination of sleep deprivation and the filth that covered them, sometimes a matter of heartbeats after they had their section slaves scrape them relatively clean. Even a simple trip to the latrines meant that their feet and ankles would be covered in mud, and that was if they were fortunate. Facing them as the sun rose was the prospect of another day of the same, literally toiling foot by foot as they repaired the neglected sections of roadway. This day it was the 1st who was arrayed on either side of the long column, and very quickly, the prospect of at least not being forced to labor in the mud was not nearly as distasteful as the alternative.
It began soon after the work resumed, signaled by the sharp, cracking sound of a stone striking a shield, followed by the shout, “Slingers!”
Despite the warning emanating from further down the line in the area of the Second Cohort, Pullus and his fellow officers shouted the command to raise their shields into defensive positions, which proved to be a timely one, as before a span of ten heartbeats had passed, the first volley of stones came streaking towards them with a speed the eye could only track if it was looking in the correct spot, right where the slinger was positioned, higher up the slope of the hill that paralleled the roadway. Because of the thick underbrush, the muted, natural colors of German attire, and their expertise in using every bit of concealment, this proved impossible. In the first volley alone, Pullus heard the distinct buzzing sound that reminded him of a large bee as a stone zipped past his head, and while he flinched, it was with the recognition that it would have been too late if the slingers’ aim had been true.
“Centurion! Centurion Pullus!”
Pullus responded to Tetarfenus’ call, but without moving his head, his eyes on the heavy underbrush in front of him, searching desperately for any sign of the enemy.
“What is it?”
“You need to get a shield, or you need to get behind us!”
He knew this was not just prudent advice, it was really the only thing to do, yet for some reason, he was reluctant to move, thinking that it might be seen as cowardice, although he did crouch slightly and turn his body to present a smaller target. Then a stone landed short, gouging a hole in the ground a foot in front of Pullus, creating a spray of muddy water that he felt splattering his lower legs, which proved to be enough incentiv
e for Pullus to move. He did so slowly, backing up and sidestepping slightly to get closer to his Century to take advantage of the protection of the upraised shields, while the air filled with sharp cracking sounds as a stone missile hit a shield, or by the metallic, slightly ringing sound when it struck the boss, or worse, a man’s helmet. Before he reached the rear rank of his Century, from somewhere roughly in the middle of his men, there was an almost simultaneous sound of a deeper-pitched thudding sound and something between a scream and a groan, but it was the sight of a shield that dropped out of sight from the otherwise unbroken ceiling of protection that those men in the inner files of the Century held over their heads that posed the greatest danger. Fortunately, the man behind the wounded ranker reacted immediately, but even as he stepped forward to plug the hole, with each man behind him shifting up one spot, the unseen slingers sent their missiles towards that gap, signaled by several stones striking wood and metal, although there were no shouts of pain, just alarm and a round of curses. By the time Pullus moved behind the Century, the wounded man had been dragged from the middle of the formation, where Pullus found him sitting up, clutching his right shoulder, cursing with the kind of monotone that told him his man was still in the stage where the shock of being injured was keeping the pain at bay.
Crouching down, Pullus had to raise his voice over the racket. “Oy, Longinus, let go and let me check it.” The ranker did as he was told, and Pullus saw that, while the missile had not penetrated the man’s armor, he could see that his clavicle was broken, so with as much heartiness as he could muster under the circumstances, he told Longinus, “Well, you fortunate bastard. That looks like a month of light duty, easy.”
As he hoped, this made Longinus smile, although it could easily have been a wince as the pain began setting in.
“Really, Centurion?” Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, and he asked suspiciously, “You’re not just teasing me, are you? You sure it’s not just a bruise?”
“No.” Pullus laughed, temporarily forgetting that a few dozen paces away, there were Germans trying to kill them all. “I’m not. It’s broken. Although,” he moved his right hand as if he was about to put it on Longinus’ injured shoulder, “if you want me to make sure that it’s good and broken…”
“No, Centurion!” Longinus shook his head, but it was the unconscious jerk away from Pullus that wrenched a groan from his lips and made Pullus feel guilty, although he expressed it by growling, “Don’t move, idiot. I wasn’t serious.”
Deciding to risk it, Pullus stood erect, knowing that even behind his Century, his height made him a target, but he wanted to get a sense of the overall situation. He saw that behind the other Centuries, there were wounded men like Longinus, although he could see at a glance that one of Licinius’ men was likely dead, if only because none of his comrades were paying any attention to him. The working party was still involved with their tasks, although even in the short amount of time Pullus paid to them, he saw men glancing anxiously over their shoulders, which was a completely understandable reaction. Nevertheless, it still angered him, seeing it as a lack of faith in his men and his Cohort, which prompted him to return his attention to Longinus.
“Stay here, right behind us,” he ordered the man, “and you’ll be safe. Now,” he reached over Longinus to pick up the ranker’s discarded shield, “I’m borrowing your shield.” Longinus opened his mouth, but Pullus cut him off, saying abruptly, “And if it gets ruined, I won’t dock you the pay. It will come from my own purse.”
Without waiting for an answer, Pullus returned to the front, fully crouching this time, taking as much of an advantage as he could with Longinus’ shield, not for the first time cursing his size, and by the time he reached his spot next to Tetarfenus, his protection had been struck no less than five times. Naturally, the closer he got, the harder the impact, and just as he reached Tetarfenus and the front rank, it felt as if a horse had kicked the top of his shield, but he barely noticed it because he was certain that the same hoof struck his helmet just above the iron brow ridge. From his perspective, it was as if someone kicked a fire, sending thousands of sparks into the air, but inside his head, and he felt himself staggering backward, stunned and disoriented. By the time he felt a hand clamp around his left bicep, his vision was only beginning to clear, and he was shocked when he saw that the man who had stopped his backward movement was Camerinus, the Sergeant of his Third Section, who happened to be the younger brother of the 14th’s Aquilifer.
“Easy, Centurion!” Camerinus had to shout to be heard over the continuous racket, but even so, Pullus heard what seemed to be real concern in the man’s voice as he asked, “Are you all right, sir? You took a nasty knock there!” He pointed up at Pullus’ head, prompting the Centurion to reach up with his right hand, but as he did so, he unconsciously lowered his shield, prompting Camerinus to bellow, “Don’t drop your shield, you stupid cunnus! Do you want to die?”
This had the desired effect, Pullus jerking his shield back up; whether or not the impact from the stone that struck it as he did so would have been fatal he would never know, nor would he ever be able to determine whether his reaction to Camerinus’ outburst was because of his addled brains, but without warning, Pullus began roaring with laughter, forgetting to check his helmet to point at Camerinus.
“You should see your face! You look like you swallowed a turd!”
Even in the moment, Pullus knew this was not exactly accurate; Camerinus’ expression was one of horror that he knew was caused by the ranker’s realization that he had just called his commander both “stupid” and a “cunnus,” which normally would not have amused him at all. This was different, somehow, and his obvious humor proved infectious, because very quickly, not only Camerinus, but the men around him who had heard were roaring with laughter. That none of them forgot or was distracted enough to lower their arms from their position, and they continued to be lashed by stone after stone only meant that this would be a story told from one campfire to the next, the day that Pilus Posterior Pullus laughed at the Germans trying to kill him. By the time the circumstances of what had actually happened were altered to this point and Pullus heard this version, he was not inclined to correct it.
The barrage ceased shortly thereafter, the only sign that the Germans had been there was the movement of the underbrush as they vanished deeper into the forest, the assumption being that they had simply run out of ammunition. Work had not ceased, which meant that as soon as it was deemed safe to do so, the 1st was relieved, which as far as both men and officers were concerned, was not a moment too soon, and as they slogged back to the repaired roadway, men spent their time shaking their left arms, trying to get blood flowing back into muscles that had been locked in one position for far longer than they were accustomed to doing. Once the march resumed, the army advanced a bit more than a mile when they negotiated a gentle curve of the roadway as it followed the contour of the valley, and once more came to a dead stop. This time, it would take almost a third of a watch before Pullus and the rest of the 1st learned why, Vespillo returning from a meeting with the Primus Pilus.
“Those fucking barbarians have diverted several streams,” Vespillo began, but while his voice sounded calm enough, Pullus noticed the tremor in his Pilus Prior’s vitus hand. “There are sections of the roadway that the scouts had already covered, and they were fine, but now they’re underwater.” This was met by muttered curses, but Pullus noticed that they all kept their voices low-pitched so that their men could not hear, giving each of them the ability to break the news in their own fashion, but then Vespillo continued, “The Legate has decided we’re going to have to make camp again, or at least as much of one as we can manage, but we’re going to be protecting that submerged part, and we’re going to be working on it without rest until it’s sturdy enough to support the baggage train.”
Whatever resolve they had in hiding their feelings evaporated in the time it took the Pilus Prior to say this, and Pullus was as voluble and demonstrative in his i
nvective as his counterparts.
“Shut your mouths! Now!”
The fact that Vespillo shouted this was not remarkable; it was the shrill, almost panicked note in his voice that, while it had the desired effect, caused his five Centurions and the six Optios to stare at him, open-mouthed. Over his shoulder, Pullus could hear the sudden buzzing of the men of the First, and he was certain that his Century was reacting in much the same manner. Vespillo stood, both hands clutching his vitus with enough force that Pullus heard a slight cracking, but it was the Pilus Prior’s eyes, which were moving wildly from one man’s face to another that communicated the fact that Vespillo was at the very edge of his reason, and worse, his sanity, at least as far as Pullus was concerned. None of them spoke, most of them suddenly studying the ground in what was a combination of concern and embarrassment, each of them knowing that there would be repercussions stemming from this, if only with the men of their Century who, rightly, would be concerned about the possibility of their Pilus Prior going mad. At the same time, as the silence dragged on, there was a silent battle of wills as Pullus, Licinius, and Fabricius in particular, tried to glare at Cornutus, sending him a silent message that he clearly did not want to receive, despite the fact that, of all of them, he was the closest thing to a friend Vespillo had left in the Cohort.
