by R. W. Peake
It is so difficult to recall the exact sequence of these smaller moments when compared to the backdrop of the larger situation. Therefore, I cannot say with any confidence when Macer summoned me to his quarters, other than to say it was after we learned of the confederation that Arminius had managed to put together. When I got to his quarters, he waved me to a seat, and without a word offered me a cup that I saw was already full. This was not all that unusual; that it was unwatered at this time of day and given all that was taking place most certainly was, and as I sat down and took a sip, I studied his face intently.
He seemed to consider how to begin, then asked, “Have you noticed anything…unusual about the Primus Pilus?”
I did not take his meaning immediately, so I thought about it, then finally shook my head, saying, “Not really.”
“Well, I have,” he replied. “It just seemed to me that he wasn’t quite as…worried about the avalanche of cac that’s heading our way.”
He paused then, and I suspect he did so to allow me to catch up, because when put this way, it suddenly seemed very clear, and I recalled that feeling I had had when he held the meeting about what we had learned about the composition of the force that we were certain would be arriving on the opposite bank of the Rhenus.
“That,” I agreed slowly, “is true, now that you mention it.”
I looked at him sharply, studying his face for a clue, before I realized he was deliberately tormenting me, something that he did with a frequency that was, frankly, annoying.
Finally, he took pity on me at least partially, asking, “Did you hear about Prefect Caedicius?”
Obviously, I had not, since all I could think to say was, “Only that he’s down at Mogontiacum. Why?”
“Because he wasn’t at Mogontiacum,” Macer answered. “Varus summoned him about a month before they broke camp at Vetera.”
Suddenly, it all made more sense to me, although I still was not quite convinced that I was understanding completely. Part of this was due to the fact that any man who attains the post of Camp Prefect, beginning with my Avus and the other men who were the first in the post that had been formally adopted by the Princeps, are already legends in the Legions. And, while I would not put Lucius Caedicius in the same class as Titus Pullus, his reputation was formidable.
“So he was slaughtered with Varus?”
I gasped, sitting back in my chair, my shock such that the cup almost slipped from my grasp, but my confusion returned when Macer shook his head.
“No,” my Pilus Prior answered, then went on, “he didn’t fall with Varus. We just got word of this, but apparently, Caedicius managed to gather some men together, and they cut their way out of the trap. They headed for Aliso. Do you remember hearing about that place?”
It took me a heartbeat, then I recalled, or thought I did. “That was a temporary camp Varus built earlier this summer, right?”
“That’s the one.” Macer nodded. “But while we don’t know for sure exactly why, Varus had ordered it left intact.”
“Probably they planned on using it when they came back this way,” I mused, but Macer was not convinced.
“Remember when they built it,” he pointed out. “This was at the beginning of the summer, before they started chasing those rebels.”
“That didn’t exist,” I retorted, then added, “although they didn’t know that.”
We sat in silence for a moment, I think each of us trying to come up with a reason why Varus would have created a camp, then ignored the standard practice of destroying that one, but Macer was the one who correctly pointed out, “Actually, it doesn’t matter why. What does is that Caedicius and some men managed to make it to Aliso. Which is one reason why the Germans haven’t shown up. They’ve been trying to take that camp so they wouldn’t have Romans in their rear when they headed for us. They’re holding out now but are completely surrounded.”
This was not altogether surprising, but I did ask, “Then how did we find out?”
“Gaesorix and his turma captured a scout for Arminius,” Macer answered. “I just happened to be at the Praetorium when I heard about it.”
I was certainly interested in hearing more about Caedicius and whoever was with him, but I interrupted, “Wait. There are scouts on this side of the Rhenus?”
Macer shook his head.
“No, he took his men across the Rhenus to try and find other survivors, but they found a scouting party instead.”
While I was not particularly happy that a man who had become a good friend was venturing across the one barrier to what we now knew was a huge army, that he was now safely back with us allowed me to return my attention to the other news.
“So, if Caedicius and his bunch aren’t dead by now, they probably will be in the not too distant future,” I mused, to which Macer shrugged and said, “I’d assume so. I can’t imagine him surrendering, especially knowing what happened to the men who did.”
I considered for a moment, then asked, “So, are you thinking that Crescens is going to be promoted to Camp Prefect should things happen the way we think and Caedicius is killed?” A thought occurred to me. “Have you heard something already?”
“No.” Macer shook his head. “I haven’t heard anything. But he was expecting to get the post for the Army of Pannonia that your old Primus Pilus got instead, and it’s not much secret that he was next on the list of all the candidates in either our army or the one in Pannonia.”
All I could really think to say was, “I suppose he might get the posting after all. Just not until after all this is over.”
More days passed, turning into another week, then two, as everyone attached to the 1st Legion in any fashion waited for the inevitable. By the time a month passed, we had learned about the stand of Caedicius, and there was some talk of trying to mount a relief force, but orders came from Mogontiacum that we were to do no such thing, as word was relayed that Tiberius was hurrying from Pannonia. It became evident that Caedicius and his men were proving to be a serious threat to Arminius’ plans, and their stalwart defense bought us enough time for Tiberius to arrive, bringing with him a mixed force, composed of some Cohorts from the 13th and 15th, along with a few Cohorts of auxiliaries. Very quickly, he took command from Asprenas, who, it must be said, had behaved in a prudent manner, keeping a cool head at a time I can only imagine he was being urged to all manner of rash actions. Naturally, it is impossible to separate rumor from fact, but we heard that leading citizens of Mogontiacum demanded that he alternately either cross the Rhenus to “teach the barbarian scum a lesson,” with one Legion against a foe that had destroyed an army of three Legions, since they would never stand for sending both the 5th and 21st and leaving Mogontiacum completely undefended, or more believably to me, that he evacuate Mogontiacum and provide the 5th Alaudae as little more than security for the convoy loaded down with the combined wealth and portable property of the merchants fleeing to safety. Fortunately for all of us, Asprenas did neither, so that when Tiberius arrived, he was able to turn over essentially whole and untested defenses. Confluentes, which had grown from a trading post to a small fort normally manned by no more than a Century of auxiliaries, was reinforced with a Cohort, as was Rigomagus, while the auxiliary camp at Bonna was reinforced as well, but with a Cohort from the 15th.
No more than a full week after Tiberius’ arrival, every post between Mogontiacum to where we were up in Ubiorum had been reinforced with fresh men; fresh, at least, in the sense of being new to the province and the situation. Tiberius had been forced to bring men who, just weeks before, had finally quelled the last sparks of the rebellion in Pannonia that had started almost four years before. During the period of time Tiberius spent at Mogontiacum, we began hearing about the panic that had infected the citizens of the city of Rome and how they were demanding that Augustus do something to prevent the Germans from suddenly appearing in the Forum. Frankly, this was silly in the extreme, but apparently, the feeling was quite real, and it prompted Augustus to call anoth
er dilectus, similar to the one that had created the Legio Germanicus. There was only one problem: nobody answered the call, or at least not in sufficient numbers to fill out more than a Cohort or two. Only later would the consequences of the Princeps’ decision to essentially force citizens who had no interest or desire to serve in the Legions to do so come back to haunt all of us. Not that this was of more than passing interest at the time, especially once we were summoned to the Praetorium, where Crescens was waiting for us, having taken the place of Arruntius as the senior commander, who never came back to Ubiorum.
“We’ve received orders from Tiberius,” he informed us, for the first time since this all began looking and behaving like the Primus Pilus we all knew. “Three Cohorts from the 13th are marching here, while the Second, Third, Fourth, and Fifth Cohorts are going to be marching north.”
While I would not characterize it as an outburst, there was certainly a reaction, and Macer leaned towards me to whisper, “By the gods, I hope he’s not expecting us to go all the way up to Vetera.”
This was my fear as well, but fortunately, this was not to be the case, at least for us in the Fourth.
“You’re going to Novaesium and relieve the auxiliary Cohorts there.” Crescens paused for just a moment, then he continued, “They will be marching north to Vetera and rebuild the camp there. Once that’s done, the Fifth Cohort will join them there.”
Not surprisingly, all eyes turned to Gnaeus Clepsina, but only those of us who knew him well could see beneath his normal, stolid exterior to where the dismay was expressed in the set of his jaw.
“How much time do we have to prepare our boys?”
This came from the Secundus Pilus Prior, Lucius Sentius, who would be serving as the senior Centurion in command of the detachment, though we all naturally were interested.
“Unfortunately,” Crescens took a quick glance at the tablet in his hand, “not as long as you’d like. Tiberius orders that you have to be ready to march at dawn, day after tomorrow.”
The chorus of groans and soft curses was by no means universal, confined only to those of us who would be leaving Ubiorum, but this was far from the only concern, which was instantly brought up by Clepsina.
“Primus Pilus,” to my eyes, Clepsina actually appeared as if he had not already heard all the bad news, which I understood when he asked, “where are the Cohorts from the 13th going to be quartered?”
Crescens appeared surprised, answering immediately, “Why, they’ll stay in your area and those of the other Cohorts going with you.”
I know this would seem to be an obvious matter, but when the chorus of groans erupted, my voice was among them. Since Sentius would be our de facto commander, naturally we looked directly to him, and while he certainly looked unhappy, it was impossible to know whether it was because he was being put on the spot or he shared our concern.
Either way, he did reward our confidence by raising his hand, but Crescens held up his own, anticipating the objection by saying, “You’re just going to have to have your men put the valuables they’re not taking into your Century strongboxes and leave them here. We’ll put them in the Quaestorium.”
“Primus Pilus,” Sentius started to object, but the Primus Pilus’ eyebrows, which were now as iron gray as the hair on his head, plunged down towards each other, a sign every one of his Centurions knew portended an eruption of his temper, which, while not often seen, was sufficiently intimidating that none of us wanted to rouse it.
“Sentius, do you really want to waste valuable time trying to make sure your men don’t lose some of their trinkets and plunder? If we can’t put enough men in place to at least spot when Arminius and his bunch come for us, will it really matter?”
That Crescens did not raise his voice actually had a more sobering effect than if he had bellowed at the top of his lungs, and speaking for myself, it reminded me just how grave the overall situation was, and that in the grand scheme of things, having some of our light-fingered comrades from another Legion relieve men of those possessions that would not easily fit into their packs was low in terms of priorities. With this matter settled, even if it was not to our collective satisfaction, we were dismissed to tend to our Centuries.
“This,” Macer commented to the five of us, his Centurions, “isn’t going to be fun, but let’s at least beat Sentius and those other bastards to the punch. If we do,” he promised, “we’ll give the men tomorrow night off so they can get some drinking and whoring in.”
This prompted a barking laugh from Macula, the Hastatus Posterior, who pointed out, “There’s only a dozen whores left in town, Pilus Prior. And they aren’t the pick of the litter, if you get my meaning.”
“That’s true,” Macer admitted, while the rest of us chuckled, then he grinned at us and said, “So the boys will just have to learn not to be so picky. Besides,” his smile vanished, and his words had the same effect as he reminded us, “considering where we’re going and what’s ahead, they’re going to want some good memories to keep them warm.”
Even as he said this, snowflakes began drifting down in the first snow of the coming winter.
Although the turn in weather made matters more difficult in many ways, it was one of the only times I ever saw men, of every rank, thankful for it. This is not to say it was not always easy to keep in mind that this was a blessing from the gods; as is usual for first snowfalls, the temperature did not stay low enough to keep it from melting, which meant that when we left Ubiorum, before the first watch, our feet and lower legs were covered in mud. This was certainly an inconvenience, but the practical problem it caused was in the slowing of our progress, with more stops than normal because one of the wagons would bog down. Fairly quickly, Sentius ordered the rotation of Centuries marching drag behind the baggage, since these are the unfortunates who are responsible for freeing those wagons from their sticky bondage. And, of course, it was not long before my Century found ourselves at the rear, but apart from the inevitability of men slipping and falling as they heaved or pushed one or more wagons out of the mud, which was always met with laughter from their comrades, it was being motionless and vulnerable that was the most trying. Since my Third Century was not rotated to the rear until we were more than ten miles from Ubiorum, it was not far from our minds that, while it would have been difficult, it was not inconceivable that a force from Arminius’ confederation could have crossed the Rhenus in the stretch in between Ubiorum and Novaesium to our rear. And, as Varus and his Legions had discovered, a Roman army is at its most vulnerable on the march, especially when surrounded by the kind of thick forest that is a feature of both sides of the Rhenus. While it was true that, by this point in time, towards the end of the year where the suffect Consuls were Marcus Pupilius Mutilus and Quintus Poppaeus Secundus, much of the western bank along the Rhenus had been cleared and was now populated by small homesteads, there were still stretches of land where our side looked exactly like the eastern bank. Essentially, Rome had transformed the landscape in a swathe around each settlement of just a couple miles, which in turn surrounded an armed camp like Ubiorum, or a fort like Novaesium was at that time. By the time my Century took its turn, we were in the area between civilized patches, which meant that, whenever we stopped and a section of men were involved in extricating a wagon, the other nine sections were standing, with grounded packs and shields unlashed, although I allowed them to remain covered.
“Pullus, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you don’t trust me and my men.”
It was perhaps our fourth or fifth time to stop when Gaesorix, who had been splitting his time between his advance guard and the other half of his command at the rear, said this to me, grinning down at me from horseback.
“I know how drunk you got last night,” I countered, “so is it any wonder?”
My Batavian friend just laughed, shaking his head as he went trotting back to the front, but the sight of him reminded me to take advantage of this unscheduled stop. Telling Structus to take over, I turned and wen
t in the same direction as Gaesorix, heading up the column to where Alex was standing, next to his horse Lightning, but I was not there to check on him. Latobius had clearly smelled me coming, because even as I stepped around the lead wagon to where the Century and Cohort slaves and mules were located, he had his head turned and his ears pricked forward.
“I never could sneak up on you,” I complained.
“Not as long as you’re carrying an apple,” Alex scoffed, and almost as if this was his cue, Latobius thrust his neck out as his nostrils flared, unerringly locating the fruit in the bag I carried slung across my shoulder.
Knowing from experience that if I did not produce his treat, my horse would take it upon himself to retrieve it on his own, I laughed as I pushed his head aside to pull it out, and as always, I experienced a small, quiet thrill at the feel of his soft nose against my palm as he snatched up the apple, evoking memories of another horse and another time.
While my animal munched contentedly, I asked Alex how he was faring, and he shrugged, saying simply, “I’m bored, but otherwise, I’m fine.”
“You know that being bored is a good thing, right?”
“Yes,” he sighed, “I know. But,” he lowered his voice, “you don’t have to sit and listen to those two squabbling.”
He indicated with his head to where Lucco, the Cohort clerk and Alex’s best friend, was riding next to the clerk for the Second Century, Demas, and even in the brief time I paid attention, I heard what was the continuation of their long-running debate about which chariot racing team was superior, the Whites or the Greens.
Grinning at my nephew, I just said, “Better you than me.”
After giving Latobius another pat, but not another apple, despite his insistent tugging at my bag, I walked back just in time to see Trigeminus and Centho, the latter man the one who had gotten his arm broken by my former Centurion Macer, from my Fifth Section, fall face-first into the muck when the wagon suddenly lurched free. Naturally, this was met with much mirth from their comrades, and equally understandably, neither man appreciated it, but when Trigeminus launched a kick at the nearest man, I had to step in, although I was careful to use my vitus to keep my distance, having learned it is a ranker’s trick in such moments to try and spatter their Centurion with the filth covering them.
