Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “I think when we get to the Marsi lands, he’s going to set us loose,” Vespillo offered one night when we were meeting in Macer’s tent. “We all know they were part of Arminius’ bunch.”

  “But so were the Sugambri,” Philus objected, which was true enough. “So why are we not doing anything now?”

  “We aren’t ‘not doing anything’,” Macer said. “We’re torching their villages.”

  “Yes, but you know what I mean,” Philus persisted. “These cunni owe a blood debt, and it’s almost been two years since Varus.”

  Frankly, I had nothing much to contribute, except my fellow Centurions did not think so, all of them assuming that, since I had served with Germanicus, I possessed some sort of inside information, but aside from that conversation on the day of his arrival, we had exchanged hardly a word. If these men had known that, while I served under Germanicus, I actually worked for Tiberius, I can only imagine what their reaction would have been.

  Of course, this meant that Cornutus turned to me with a raised eyebrow, which I had learned meant he was about to ask a question, but hoped whoever it was aimed at would divine his meaning just from that expression, he being a man who hated any kind of controversy or awkward situation.

  When I refused to acknowledge his silent plea, he heaved a sigh, then asked, “Well, Pullus? What does Germanicus say?”

  “Say?” I replied. “About what?”

  “Pluto’s balls.” Vespillo was the one who growled this, snapping irritably, “You know what! What’s Tiberius waiting for? Surely he said something to you. You were his Primus Pilus for, what, a year?”

  “Close enough,” I admitted, yet even if I had actually talked to Germanicus, I would not have divulged whatever he might have told me, not as much because I did not want to betray his confidence, although that was certainly a consideration, but if I did so, the questions would never stop. “But he hasn’t told me anything, because we haven’t talked since the day he arrived.”

  “Then,” Cornutus said hopefully, “maybe you could go to the praetorium on some errand, and while you’re there…”

  “I’m not doing that,” I cut him off, and I used the same tone I did with rankers when I added, “and don’t ask me again.”

  This, also not surprisingly, created an awkward silence, then Macer said mildly, “It doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re going to do whatever we’re ordered to do, one way or another.”

  This was certainly the truth, and nobody argued with this, which I am sure had more to do with it being our Pilus Prior who spoke than Cornutus or Vespillo actually being satisfied. Over the course of the next few days, we continued our slow movement, stopping at every village whose location was known to us beforehand, or that was found by our cavalry, burning the buildings, fouling the wells, and searching for their stores of grain. Because of this, our progress eastward was minimal, as we moved along a more northerly/southerly axis, scouring Tencteri, then Sugambri lands as we inched eastward. The only casualties we inflicted were tribespeople too elderly or infirm to flee, and while we put them to the gladius, I will say there was some bickering about whether we were inadvertently doing the barbarians a favor by ridding them of a burden. Nevertheless, we carried out our orders, while tension began to mount as we all waited for what we felt sure was inevitable, none of us believing that tribes that were part of Arminius’ confederation, as these two were, would not prevail upon him to at least attempt to stop us from our depredations. Given our meandering progress, it was not until the end of April when, one night in camp, Alex came to inform me that I had a visitor, whereupon he led Gaesorix into my private quarters. It had been weeks since we had spoken in more than a passing manner, but the first few moments after he dropped into the chair I offered were silent as he – moodily, from my observation – sipped from the watered wine I offered.

  Finally, I felt compelled to observe, “You look tired.”

  This prompted a weary smile, and I cannot say why, but this was the first time I thought of Gaesorix as being older than I was, despite knowing that he was, by perhaps a decade. Normally, he did not look his age, but to my eyes, if anything, he looked even older than his forty-odd years.

  “I am tired,” he admitted. “We’ve been in the saddle nonstop since we crossed the river, and I’ve worn out two of my best horses. They’re going to need at least another four or five days before they’re sound again.” The Batavian chuckled tiredly as he added, “Too bad there’s not a way for their riders to do the same thing. But that’s not why I came to see you.”

  Something in his tone caught my attention and signaled this being more than just a friendly chat, so I was somewhat cautious as I replied, “Oh? If it wasn’t for the wine and the joy of my company, that might hurt my feelings.”

  “While I normally applaud you for your taste in wine, this,” he held up the cup and made an exaggerated grimace, “isn’t your finest offering. As far as your company,” for the first time, he flashed the grin that was more what I was accustomed to, “let’s just say it’s better than talking to myself.” Becoming serious, he paused for a moment, and I had the sense he was considering how to proceed, which only made me more alert that I was not likely to like what was coming. Finally, he said, “We found something today, and when I reported to Tiberius, he said that’s where we’re headed tomorrow.”

  While my first reaction was to think Gaesorix and his Batavians had come across the first village belonging to the Tubantes, since we were close to the boundary between their tribe and the Tencteri, I knew how unlikely it was that my friend would be warning me about what was a routine matter.

  “So? What did you find?”

  “Caedicius’ camp,” he replied quietly, then said nothing more.

  Suddenly, I understood why Gaesorix had come to see me, and I confess it warmed me that he would do so, particularly given how our friendship had started, and at that moment, I recalled how I had taken an instant disliking to the man when he had teased me about my perceived lack of horsemanship. It still ranks as one of the worst misjudgments about a man I have made, but this was neither the time nor the place for any kind of mawkish confession on my part; at least, this was what I told myself. Besides, most of my mind was grappling with the momentous news that Gaesorix had just imparted to me, and more importantly, the ramifications from it.

  I broke the silence, asking, “How bad is it?”

  “Worse,” Gaesorix answered, still in the same quiet tone, “than you can imagine, Titus. Worse than you can imagine.”

  My Batavian friend was not exaggerating, and I know this because, as the Fates decreed, the Fourth of the 1st was the vanguard of that day’s march, meaning that we were the first to arrive at the camp occupied by the survivors of the initial ambush led by Camp Prefect Caedicius. Even worse, from a personal leadership standpoint, it was my Century’s turn as the advance Century, although I did get a bit of warning when Gaesorix sent Cassicos back to warn me that we were less than a mile from the spot. Gaesorix’s Optio was one of the toughest men I have ever met; any man who can survive a partial flaying must have some real iron in his soul, and while he was not a friend the same way Gaesorix was, we had a warm relationship and a bond formed by the fact that I was one of the men who had rescued him from the Varciani, who were in the process of finishing the job they were doing on him. Like Gaesorix, Cassicos was normally cheerful, but when he came trotting up, his face looked as if it had been carved from stone, and I was struck by the thought that this was the second time he had viewed whatever was waiting for us, yet he was still shaken by it. He drew me aside several paces to issue his warning.

  “It’s just on the other side of these trees,” he told me in a low voice, then echoed his Decurion as he warned me, “and it is bad, Pullus. Very bad. I would say you need to prepare your men, but,” he shook his head, “I do not know how you would do it.”

  With a wave, he turned his horse and went trotting back up the track we were following, yet while I did no
t doubt that trying to warn the men about what was coming would be close to futile, I decided that I should do something. Ordering Centumalus to sound the halt, I silently began counting as I waited for the inevitable Tribune, sent galloping ahead by Tiberius to determine the cause, while I went walking back towards Macer, who was behind us, as I did.

  Reaching my Pilus Prior, I indicated that we should step away from the column, then told him in a low voice, “We’re about to reach Caedicius’ camp. Gaesorix sent Cassicos back to warn us.”

  Macer listened, then regarded me with a frown, asking, “All right. But why did you order us to stop? You know that…”

  He did not finish, because his warning was not needed, the sound of drumming hooves cutting him off as we both turned to see one of the Tribunes, his straight back and haughty expression perfectly in place, come cantering up to us, and I believe the way he curbed his horse so that we were sprayed with dirt clods as the animal skidded to a halt was no accident.

  “The Legate wants to know what the delay is about,” he demanded peremptorily.

  Although I was the one who ordered it, it was Macer who spoke, informing the Tribune, “I called the halt because we’ve been informed we’re very close to the site of Caedicius’ camp.”

  My hope that the Tribune would grasp the significance of what this meant vanished when he shrugged and answered, “So? Why does that warrant stopping the entire army?”

  Since we never spoke of it, I can only assume that, despite Macer not immediately grasping the significance of my command, in the intervening moments, he had realized that what awaited us was something that warranted some sort of warning to the men, given that he replied calmly, “Because we’re about to see the handiwork of Arminius and his warriors, and I doubt any of us are going to like it, Tribune.”

  Now the Tribune did not look quite as arrogant, and he shifted in his saddle as he considered Macer’s words.

  Then, to my surprise, he suddenly nodded, and said, “I’ll inform the Legate that this was a necessary halt and explain why.”

  We thought to salute, but he had already turned and gone to the canter, leaving us standing, slightly mystified, prompting Macer to comment, “Maybe this Tribune isn’t one of the useless ones.” Before I could answer, he returned his attention to me and said quietly, “Go talk to your Century, and I’ll have the rest talk to theirs. Let me know when you’re ready to resume.”

  Walking back to my men, all of whom had grounded their packs and were looking back at me expectantly, I tried to come up with the right way to warn them, but then Structus stopped me, his face twisted into a scowl that I knew meant he was angry about something.

  “They already know that it’s Caedicius’ camp up ahead,” he informed me shortly.

  I cannot say I was altogether surprised, but I had thought I was careful with Cassicos, walking several paces away from the column to converse with him, so I asked my Optio, “Did they overhear me?”

  Structus shrugged, saying, “Honestly, I don’t know how they figured it out. But,” he glowered in the direction of the middle of the Century, “I can tell you who the clever bastard was who let everyone know.”

  Sighing, I said, “Pusio.”

  My Optio nodded in confirmation, but I had neither the time nor the inclination to devote any energy in dealing with the ranker who had become the rock in my caliga, other than to begin, “So, thanks to Gregarius Pusio and his big mouth, I’m guessing you already know what we’re about to see. The camp where Camp Prefect Caedicius and the boys who survived the ambush is just up ahead, and Decurion Batavius has warned me that what we’re about to see won’t be pretty.” I stopped then, realizing that there was really no way to know how bad it would be until we saw it with our own eyes, so I finished somewhat lamely, “So pick up your packs and make yourselves ready for whatever it is that’s waiting for us.”

  I nodded to Centumalus, who hefted his cornu, then blew the notes to resume the march.

  I believe it was within a matter of a dozen heartbeats that I realized there was absolutely nothing that could have prepared us for what we saw when we reached the camp that had not been demolished by Varus, and Caedicius had selected for what would turn out to be the last stand of the remnants of three Legions. The camp itself was relatively intact, although once we were able to inspect all four sides, we saw three places where the dirt wall had been breached. The palisade stakes were missing, but that was hardly surprising, and I doubted whether they had ever been there in the first place; given all that we knew about the panic and confusion that accompanied the slaughter of three Legions and their Legate, the fact that Caedicius managed to rally men and make it to this spot was an impressive feat in itself. Not until a few months afterward did we hear that Caedicius and no more than three or four Cohorts worth of survivors managed to stave off Arminius’ warriors until sometime in November, before a combination of casualties, weakness brought on by starvation and consistent pressure finally made the Prefect and his command succumb. Not until the next summer did we learn that, in fact, there were survivors of this last battle of the Varus disaster, and we knew this because word came from Rome that German nobles had sent emissaries to the families of some of these men, demanding a ransom. As far as I know, there were only a handful of families with the means to pay the Germans’ demands, but just like those men who survived the initial onslaught and made it back to safety, they were banned from ever returning to Italia by the Princeps. Those who fell with Caedicius we “met,” after a fashion, in the form of a triple row of skulls that had once been severed heads impaled on spears that were embedded in the ground, the first thing we saw when we entered the clearing surrounding the camp, arrayed a distance of perhaps fifty paces across. The only mercy, albeit a small one, was that the carrion birds and scavenging animals had picked the flesh from the skulls, although there were some with leathery scalps and tufts of hair remaining. However, it was Macer who noticed something when, without me giving the command, my Century came crashing to a halt, which Macer either anticipated or reacted to very quickly, because he had his Century move to our flank and align with us, followed by the Second on the other side.

  When I walked over to him, he pointed at the skulls and said quietly, “Pullus, those fucking savages made sure that those skulls were back where they started, and they probably did it within the last day or so.” Puzzled, I asked him how he drew that conclusion. “Because over the last eighteen months, once all the flesh either rotted or was eaten away, there’s no way every one of those skulls stayed in place on those spear shafts.”

  The instant he said it, I not only knew he was right, but I experienced a sudden stab of alarm, and while I kept my voice down, I could hear the urgency as I said to Macer, “You know, we can’t see inside that camp. It’s possible that they’re waiting for us.”

  Macer considered this, though not for very long, quickly giving me a curt nod, then, turning to Centumalus, the closest Cornicen, ordered him to sound the call for the nearest senior officer to come to our position. Understandably, this command is not used very often, which means that Macer was taking a bit of a risk; it also meant that within a matter of a handful of heartbeats, we were alerted that an officer was approaching. Looking back in the direction of the column, I spotted the white crest of Sacrovir, coming at the trot, but he was barely out of the trees when, from behind him, Tiberius, Germanicus, and what seemed to be both of their contingent of bodyguards came thundering past our Primus Pilus on their mounts. Very quickly, we were surrounded by horsemen, their animals dancing about in response to the nervous energy exuding from the men, both those of us on foot and those on their backs, but it was Tiberius who mattered, and it was to him Macer offered his salute.

  Tiberius returned it, but before Macer could say anything, the Legate demanded, “What is it, Pilus Prior Macer?” Then, for the first time, he seemed to notice what had ostensibly caused us to stop, and for one of the few times I was in his presence, Tiberius visibly blanched, hi
s normally thin lips almost disappearing at the sight of the rows of skulls. When he spoke again, his voice had suddenly turned hoarse, and he swore in a manner that would have done any ranker proud. Tearing his attention away, he stared down at Macer. “Is this why you summoned me? So I could see this?”

  “No, sir,” Macer answered immediately, “that’s not why. Princeps Prior Pullus noticed that someone must have been here recently to make sure that all of the skulls were still set on top of those spear shafts.” I opened my mouth to argue, but before I could say anything, he continued, “Then he pointed out that it’s possible that they’re inside Caedicius’ camp, waiting for us. I’m asking if you want us to go ahead and enter the camp now, or if we should wait to bring the rest of the Legion up to surround it.”

  Tiberius did not hesitate in answering, “The latter, of course!” Turning to where Sacrovir had just come up at the trot, he ordered our Primus Pilus, “I want the 1st shaken out to surround this camp on all four sides before anyone goes in it.” Returning his attention to the dirt walls, he frowned, saying, “I honestly don’t think they’re in there, but it’s exactly the kind of thing that cunning bastard Arminius would at least consider trying.”