Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “We have received reports,” Arruntius began, and while he spoke in a ringing tone, I had heard the man often enough to know that he was shaken, “that we believe are reliable, that the Praetor, Quintus Varus, and his army,” I could see him swallow hard as he paused for an instant, “have been destroyed.”

  It had been quiet before; if I did not witness it myself, I would have sworn it would have been impossible for it to go even quieter, and I believe it was because every man in the 1st Legion, for a brief moment, stopped breathing. That silence probably only lasted the span of a heartbeat, then the air exploded in a sound unlike anything I had ever heard, a sort of collective moan rising from the throats of thousands of men before the shouting began.

  “No! That’s impossible!”

  “How?”

  “When?”

  “How do you know?”

  These things and many more exploded from the ranks, yet despite not giving the men leave to move from their position, when rankers began shifting about, turning to their friends next to them, waving their arms about, and generally behaving in a manner unworthy of a Legion of Rome, no Centurion stopped them, and I included myself. Despite having just a bit more warning and knowing what was coming, I suppose hearing it again and seeing the reaction of the men under my command still caught me off guard to the point I stood there dumbly, doing nothing more than watch as my Century degenerated into little better than a mob of angry, scared men. I did glance over to Macer, but he was as nonplussed as I was, although he must have sensed my eyes on him, because he turned to meet my eyes, giving only a shrug as he used his head to indicate Crescens, who was standing next to the rostra as the Legate held his hands out in a plea for silence. So uproarious was it that I saw our Primus Pilus’ mouth open, and it was clear that he was bellowing something at the top of his lungs, but being in the Fourth Cohort, I could not hear a word he was saying from where we were standing. The pair exchanged a look, then I saw the Legate jabbing his finger at the men who, I must admit, were near to rioting, but it was Crescens’ reaction that was most telling, as he raised his hands in a helpless gesture that spoke more eloquently than whatever came out of his mouth, I am sure. Then, the Legate wheeled about, turning his back on the recalcitrant Legion, hopped off the rostrum and stalked away, and I was suddenly reminded of another moment, back when I was still a Gregarius and the Legate then had accused Urso of a number of crimes that turned out to be nothing more than an extortion attempt, albeit a successful one. The one difference, besides the identity of the Legate, was that the Legion Arruntius was leaving behind was not angry, as the men of the 8th had been, but, frankly, scared out of their collective wits. And, I must admit, that while I had never before given much thought to the fact that Ubiorum was a one Legion camp at the time, with the bulk of the Army of the Rhenus stationed at Mogontiacum during the winter, that thought was foremost in my mind then. This was also the first moment I also recall being struck by the realization; did the Army of the Rhenus still exist if it just consisted of us? Before I could go down this path in my mind, Crescens hopped up on the rostrum, beckoning to his Cornicen as he did so. Carrying his heavy horn, the man trotted over, listened to the Primus Pilus, nodded since he could not render a salute, then began blowing the notes that, under normal circumstances, would have been sufficient to instantly stop the commotion of the men. While I did not keep exact count, I know that it took more than three blasts of the horn, so that by the time the men finally calmed down, the Cornicen’s face was the color of a plum.

  Finally, it was quiet enough for Crescens to be heard, and he at least sounded somewhat like himself as he ordered, “Pili Priores, report to me in my quarters immediately! Centurions, march your Centuries back to your area, then dismiss them.” He paused a moment, then added, “And all but those with duties are restricted to their section huts until further notice!”

  He did not bother finishing the normal ritual with an exchange of salutes, hopping down and stalking away, except to his quarters and not the Praetorium. Turning about, I began shouting our orders, my voice mixed with all of the other Centurions doing the same thing, and in the final mark of what had been an unprecedented assembly, we officers quickly realized that there was a practical problem with Crescens’ orders to dismiss the men. The normal procedure for an assembly then dismissal of a Legion is that some men are dismissed in the forum, then are allowed to move to wherever they are ordered to go on their own, while some Centurions march their men back in formation. Commanding all Centurions to conduct the Centuries back to their respective areas, as a unit, meant that it took a certain amount of space to maneuver, and very quickly, the forum became a jumble of Centuries being marched into each other, since no instructions had been given about the manner in which we were to accomplish this. Under any other circumstances, I would have found it amusing, even as I marched my own Century into the flank of the Second Century, but I recall this as just another example of how shaken an entire Legion had become. Perhaps the only positive thing that can be said for this debacle was that no Centurions came to blows as they argued about who had the right of way on passage to their area. Otherwise, what should have taken no more than a count of five hundred to dismiss the men to return to their areas and have them do so took perhaps a sixth part of a watch before I returned to my own quarters to wait. Alex was there, waiting with a cup of wine, but when he handed it to me, I took a sniff, then shook my head.

  “It’s watered, just like always,” he assured me, and I realized he had misunderstood why I had demurred.

  Thrusting the cup back at him, I ordered, “Pour it out. Then refill it. No water.”

  Naturally, he did as I told him, then I also realized that I did not feel like drinking alone, so I waited until he filled his own cup before I took the first sip, which quickly turned into a swallow, ending in a drained cup. Without saying anything, Alex stood and walked over to me, bringing the amphora with him, refilling it.

  Returning to his own seat, only then did he speak, asking quietly, “That bad, Uncle Titus?”

  “That bad, Nepos,” I assured him. “That bad.”

  Before I go into what happened with the 1st Legion in the aftermath of what is the worst military disaster in our recent history, and one of the worst going all the way back to Cannae, although I am certain that those who read this will know about what is called the Varus Disaster, I think there may be some value in relaying what was known immediately after the actual event, and more importantly, how we reacted. Despite what we had been told, that all three Legions – the 17th, 18th, and 19th, along with the six Cohorts of auxiliaries and two alae of cavalry – were lost, this simply was so unbelievable that I do not know many men who accepted this, at least right away. And, it must be said, I was among those who simply refused to believe that this was even within the realm of possibility. There was no nation capable of destroying an army consisting of a bit less than eighteen thousand men, of which some fourteen thousand of them were men of the Legions, even the German tribes, if only for the reason that they hated each other almost as much as they hated Rome, and no single tribe was strong enough to inflict such damage. As we would all learn, that word “almost” was an important distinction, but that would not become evident until several days after the disaster. What we knew on the day Arruntius announced the news was that it had been an extremely busy campaign season for everyone but us in the 1st, where it was more or less the same mundanity that, to this point at least, made me somewhat contemptuous about how hazardous duty on the Rhenus supposedly was. Certainly, I had been involved with Tiberius’ campaign during my first year with the Legion, and there had been numerous skirmishes and even a few battles over the previous time, but considering that this was the fourth and final year of the revolt in Pannonia, almost exactly a year after I had returned from my time with the Legio Germanicus, as it was now called, I did not view Germania and the Germans with much trepidation. But then, Publius Quinctilis Varus had been named Praetor, and in a somew
hat unusual move for men of that rank, had insisted on taking military command.

  As we quickly heard, Varus was no Saturninus, his predecessor as Praetor, but not only because he was unduly harsh in his treatment of the tribes that inhabit the area east of the Rhenus and north of Ubiorum. The Tencteri, Sugambri, Tubantes, Bructeri, and even the Marsi – all of these tribes experienced the iron and lash – but as bad as that was, it was his repetition of essentially the same mistake that had been made in Pannonia that was partially responsible for the rebellion there, the levying of a tax that amounted to double the previous sum demanded by Rome. At the beginning of the season, we in Ubiorum quickly heard that Varus had been sending detachments out, and while the official version was that he was doing so to provide security for smaller villages that could not defend themselves from roving warbands coming from the east, near or even across the Visurgis, word of what was really happening inevitably reached our ears. Initially, I will confess that none of us put much credence in what one or two itinerant traders were saying in the wineshops outside camp, but after a month or so, when these rumors persisted, and more importantly, became more detailed, we started paying attention.

  “Varus is letting his men run wild,” was how I heard it on one of the relatively rare occasions Macer and I went out into town for a cup of wine, some gambling, and other fleshly pursuits. We were seated at a table, just beginning our evening, when we heard this blurted out, and we both turned to examine the man who had said it. He was bearded, and his tunic, cut in the longer, German style, had seen better days, but it was his Latin that informed us he was either born in Italia, Umbria if I was any judge, or had lived there from childhood, making it likely he was a Roman citizen. That he was attired as a barbarian and was wearing a full beard, and not the neatly trimmed version that was only beginning to become popular among the fashionable set, was not surprising; any Roman who ventured on the eastern side of the Rhenus either had to be marching with comrades, and well-armed ones at that, or if they were alone, their best chances lay in blending in with the natives and drawing as little attention to themselves as possible.

  “What do you mean by that?” Macer asked the man, his tone cold, but if the trader, for that was my assumption, was intimidated, he did not show it.

  “What I mean,” he countered, calmly but firmly, “is that the Praetor is trying to impose his will on a half-dozen tribes, and in the process, has given his men license to rape, flog, and kill anyone who resists.”

  Macer gave me a troubled glance, and it was right that he should look to me, since I had spent the previous season essentially doing that same thing in Pannonia, except it was at the height of the Batonian Revolt, and it was common knowledge to every tribe and province under Rome’s rule that this was how rebels were treated. The German tribes, however, were not in revolt, at least at that point.

  Whether the trader divined our thoughts, or it was a natural conclusion to make, I have no way of knowing, but he voiced what was inside my head when he added, “He’s treating those tribes as if they’re a settled Senatorial province and have been under Roman rule for years.” Shaking his head, he concluded, “They’re not taking it well.”

  “I should think not,” Macer replied dryly, but now he addressed me, asking, “What do you think, Titus?”

  I considered for a moment; this was perhaps only the third or fourth time that we had even discussed Varus, the first shortly after my return when Macer had informed me he was the new Praetor. All we had known about him at the time was that he had been posted to Syria previously, and most importantly to anyone familiar with Roman politics, was a close and trusted friend of the Princeps. Despite what little we knew, nothing I had heard to this point indicated he was made of the kind of stuff that would make him such an oppressive governor. And, while it was technically true that Rome had annexed the lands east of the Rhenus and west of the Visurgis, making Varus the lawful governor of that territory, one did not have to be a veteran of the Rhenus to know that what was true in theory back in Rome bore very little resemblance to the reality.

  Feeling the eyes of not just Macer but the trader and now the half-dozen or so men within earshot, instead of answering, I asked the trader, “Do you have any idea who’s advising him to do this?” When he looked confused, I clarified, “I mean, did he get these orders from Rome? Or is someone giving him the idea that this is the best way to handle the Germans?”

  The man’s face cleared, and he nodded as he answered, “Actually, I’ve heard he’s being advised by someone who knows the tribes better than any Roman, because he’s a German.” His face creased into a frown as he tried to think of the name, then came up with, “He’s a Cherusci, at least I think he is.” He had no way of knowing, but with the mention of that tribe, I already knew the answer as he supplied the name for everyone else to hear. “His name is Arminius.”

  From this initial conversation, over the ensuing weeks, more information of this sort made its way back to Ubiorum, and there was such consistency in these bits and pieces of news that we soon accepted that, at the very least, Varus was laying an extraordinarily heavy hand on the Germanic tribes. One difficulty in this account is trying not to color this description with all that we learned later, particularly concerning Arminius and his role in what was taking place. I had seen him once, shortly after my assignment with the 1st, and all I really remembered at the time was hearing that he was going back to Rome to learn our ways, particularly in the area of military matters. Since then, I might have heard his name mentioned once or twice, but only in the context of how he was acting as a Tribune; honestly, I did not even know his Germanic name until much later, and I suppose it is sufficient to say that we all thought he had become thoroughly Romanized. Not until relatively late in the campaign season did we start experiencing any effects of Varus’ actions to the north, when a delegation of Usipetes appeared at the floating bridge at Ubiorum. When they were ushered into Arruntius’ presence, they made both a complaint and a request for aid, something that, if I had known about, I would have urged them not to do in the same meeting, waiting to present one, then the other at a later time. They told Arruntius that their villages in the northern portion of their territory, which abutted the Sugambri lands, had become overrun with fleeing Sugambri who were trying to escape the depredations of Varus and his Legions. Perhaps if they had taken a different approach and not combined this complaint, which was essentially a demand that Arruntius do something to stop a man who was his superior, maybe the Legate would have at the very least roused the 1st to go and investigate. And, if we had, perhaps some or all of us would have noticed something when visiting these Usipetes villages that were now unwilling hosts to a different tribe, one that under normal circumstances they would never have had anything to do with, at least in peaceful terms. Not until later did we find out that, while what the Usipetes told Arruntius was true, there had been an influx of Sugambri, it was the fact that they were exclusively composed of terrified women, children, and the elderly that might have alerted us that something larger was afoot. However, since Arruntius heard them out, then refused to do anything more than offer a curt dismissal, not only of their persons in his presence, but their pleas for Roman intervention, none of us had the opportunity to notice that there were no Sugambri fighting men present in these Usipetes villages. Again, when one is looking back, after some sort of cataclysmic event has occurred, only then are the signs so easily seen that would have warned us all of what was to come, which means that the other aspect of that season, how relatively quiet it was for the 1st, only became significant after the proverbial dust was settled.

  The other puzzling aspect in the immediate aftermath was exactly how the catastrophe had occurred, but with this, at least, we would not be in the dark for long. Four days after Arruntius’ announcement, I happened to be near the Porta Praetoria and heard the bucina sounding the call that tells us of a party approaching the camp. Any other time, this would have been routine, but nerves were so o
n edge, and there was such an air of anxiety enveloping the entire Legion, I found myself walking quickly towards the gate. I was more than curious, and I could tell just by the body posture of the men standing on the rampart standing watch that this was not a routine matter. Stopping, I waited for the Centurion on duty to determine the identity of the unseen party, which happened quickly, and he gave the order to open the gates. Because of where I was standing, I did not actually see the group until they passed through and into the camp, and while my eyes took in the dozen men on foot, it was the sight of one of the mounted men escorting them that gladdened my heart, to the point I completely forgot myself and the dignity of my rank.

  Before I had any conscious thought, while I was not quite running across the open ground, I was moving rapidly, and I thought my smile would split my face as I called out to Gaesorix, “You look like cac!”

  For one of the few times in our association, now going back a few years, the Batavian Decurion did not return my smile with one of his own, instead only saying wearily, “I feel like it.”

  At first, I thought he would pass by, but then he pulled aside, calling over his shoulder to the troopers with him to continue on towards the Praetorium, and as they did so, it gave me the chance to examine the men on foot. My initial impression had been that they were prisoners, despite the fact that none of them were bound in any way, and I had been so focused on seeing my friend that I had not really given them more than a glance. The pleased surprise I had experienced a moment before when seeing Gaesorix turned into a combination of shock, and I confess, a shiver of fear at the sight of the dozen men, each of them still covered in what appeared to be a mixture of grime and blood. As we learned later, one reason I had not immediately identified them as Legionaries was because, whether they did so on their own or as part of a group decision, they had covered their red Legionary’s tunics with mud in order to blend in with their background, along with applying it to their exposed skin. However, it was their manner that had misled me, as not one man among them glanced in either direction, simply plodding straight ahead, following the horsemen leading the way, and I recognized these were men simply at the end of their collective tethers, their minds long before surrendering and allowing whatever it is inside a man that drives him forward in an attempt to survive take control of them.