by R. W. Peake
He returned my salute, except then he extended his arm, which I clasped, as he said, “You’re as large as ever, I see, Pullus!” Then, Germanicus made an exaggerated gesture by pointing to my hair which, while still short, was in desperate need of a trim, hooting, “What’s that I see? Gray hair?”
Matching his bantering tone, and counting on our previous relationship, I countered, “It comes from being sent all over the place by Legates who don’t know what they’re doing.”
As I hoped, this made him laugh, and he answered, “Well, I hope I do a better job of it.” Suddenly, the humor vanished from his face, and he turned sober as he asked in a quiet tone that only I could hear, “How are the men? Are they ready to march? And,” his voice dropped even lower, “will they fight?”
This I felt confident about, assuring him, “When we’re formed up and ready to get stuck in against those Germans, I promise you, they’ll fight.”
“Good!” he exclaimed, then in a manner that indicated he was confiding in me, he almost whispered, “This should be a fairly easy matter, Pullus. True, it’s a sizable force, about three thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry, but it shouldn’t pose a problem. But,” his face set in the same kind of grim lines I had seen when marching with him in Pannonia, “I intend to move faster than they’re expecting so that we can trap them on this side of the Rhenus.”
This was fine with me, and I said as much. I also asked, “Any information on what tribes are involved?”
Germanicus did not answer immediately, giving me a sidelong glance, the grin returning, “Is that your way of asking if Arminius is leading them?”
I had to laugh, admitting, “You caught me.”
“No,” Germanicus answered my unspoken question, “it’s not Arminius. In fact, there aren’t any Cherusci. At least, Batavius hasn’t seen any. My guess is that this wasn’t authorized by Arminius, because from what our spies tell us, he’s still too busy fighting with the other tribes. So far, it seems to be only Tencteri and Sugambri.”
This was instructive, not only because of the identity, but it also told me roughly where this incursion was, but to be sure, I queried, “Does that mean they’re between us and Vetera?”
“So far.” Germanicus nodded. “Although by the time we’re ready to march, it’s possible they could bypass Vetera and head north.”
The manner in which he said this told me that he was actually asking a question, something that I had become accustomed to when I served under him, so I considered for a moment.
“Maybe,” I made no attempt to hide my doubt, “except then when they crossed back over the river, they’d either have to come back south to use that spot near Gelduba, where the trading post is located. Otherwise, anyplace north of Vetera, the current is too strong.”
Germanicus considered this for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “So you think they’re just heading west? Deeper into our part of Germania?”
His forehead wrinkled up as, or so I imagined, he tried to envision the map inside his head of what lay to the west, but when he did not come up with the location I was thinking about, I supplied it for him.
“There’s that village on the Mosa,” I said, “where the bridge is.”
His face cleared, and he nodded. “Ah, that’s right. What’s it called?”
That, I must confess, took me a moment to recall, but it came to me. “The locals named it Blariacum, I believe. And,” I added, “the Mosa is the boundary for the Aduatuci.”
“Who,” Germanicus replied with a dawning recognition, “have been warring with the Sugambri since Rome was a village.” I did not feel the need to respond verbally, although he said, “Thank you for reminding me, Pullus. We,” he kept his voice low, “are going to head for Blariacum. You can tell your men that you heard it directly from me.”
We parted then, both of us returning to our respective business. I was happy that Gaesorix and his ala of Batavians would be involved in some manner, gathering from Germanicus’ mention of my friend that he was currently out in the countryside, watching this band of Germans. He and his men, all hardened veterans, were much too experienced and wily to allow a warband of this size to slip past them. All we had to do was march out and allow Gaesorix’s men to guide us to the Germans. Then, at least some of our problems would be solved with a sharp, bloody action. And, if I was afforded the opportunity, I planned on using the chaos of a battle to remove one of my biggest headaches from the ranks, something that I once swore I would never do again, not just because I did not want to follow the example set by my first Primus Pilus, Urso, when he ridded himself of Philo, but because of my slaying of Caecina and Mela the night Urso was slain. More than anything else I have related, this should serve as the most potent sign of the true state of affairs in the Legions of the Rhenus, because I knew I was not alone.
Chapter Four
The 1st and 20th Legions, each leaving behind the third line Cohorts, marched out of Ubiorum with Germanicus leading us. Normally, as in before the Varus disaster, a warband of thirty-five hundred Germans would have only warranted the dispatch of a single Legion, but none of us were unhappy about the overwhelming force that Germanicus was leading. At that time, the 5th and 21st were still in Mogontiacum, while Vetera had been rebuilt and was now manned by the 2nd Augusta, and five Cohorts of the 14th, while the other half was at Novaesium. Although the 2nd and 14th were closer to the German incursion, Germanicus had ordered that they stay put, the idea being that, being the most likely Legions to respond and hence under observation, their inactivity would lull whoever was leading the warband into thinking that we Romans were still cringing behind the safety of our walls, cowed by the might of the German tribes. And, despite our initial skepticism, Germanicus’ gambit worked perfectly, because we clearly caught the warband by surprise. Following the road that leads west from Ubiorum that connects to Atuatuca, we made camp the first night outside the settlement of Iuliacum, which was built on the site of a town that had once belonged to the Eburones, before they had been extirpated by Divus Julius and his Legions, with men like my Avus. As my Century worked on their part of making the camp, I found my mind wandering, wondering if I was perhaps standing on ground that had been trod by the original Titus Pullus. The villagers, numbering perhaps three or four hundred, composed of what appeared to be an equal mixture of Romans and a motley collection of native tribes, viewed our appearance with what, to my eye, looked to be composed of equal parts relief and a fair amount of worry. Men with wives and daughters were, quite rightly, the most obviously concerned, and honestly, it was somewhat amusing to watch them form a sort of picket line between the town, which had no wall, and the two Legions. Germanicus was not blind to this, calling the Centurions together to issue stern instructions to keep an eye on our men and make sure that none of them tried to make a nocturnal visit.
“As of today,” he reminded us, “we are on campaign, so make sure your boys know that they’ll be punished accordingly if they try to sneak out of camp tonight.”
We all assured him that we would be vigilant; the thought that crossed my mind was that Germanicus should have been as worried about his Centurions and Optios as he was the rankers, and while I did not do so, nor as far as I know any other Centurion in the Cohort, I have little doubt that there were men wearing transverse crests prowling about the two muddy streets of the village that night in search of wine, a woman, or more likely, both. Regardless, when we broke camp the next morning, there was no delegation of angry villagers with defiled daughters or missing wives, although there was not much chance of the latter, given the lack of a tail we had on this march. It was another consequence of the Varus disaster; the normal contingent of camp followers that have been a feature of a Roman army on the march for as long as Romans have been marching was missing, and had been since the unfortunate civilians accompanying Varus were either slaughtered along with the Legions, or taken as slaves. Still, it was not inconceivable that an errant wife or a wayward daughter was secreted awa
y in one of the wagons, but this did not appear to be the case, since we left Iuliacum behind without incident.
Heading due north, Germanicus had ordered the 1st to lead the way since we had been second the day before, and with the Third Cohort serving as vanguard, followed by the First, with the Fourth following behind them. Because we were nearing the last known position of the Germans, Germanicus had ordered the baggage trains for both Legions to be combined, with a Cohort of the 20th trailing behind it, including our section mules. This meant Alex, Lucco, the rest of the clerks, and the section slaves were all congregated with the baggage train as well, and while I did not seriously worry that they were in danger, it was conceivable that a party from the main warband might try a hit and run raid on the slower moving wagons and mules. Shortly after the midday break, there was a shout from farther up the column warning us that a small group of riders were approaching. A matter of heartbeats later, they became visible as they negotiated the slight bend in the road, and I instantly recognized that Cassicos was leading another half-dozen of Gaesorix’s troopers.
Seeing me, he veered his mount to draw alongside me, wearing a grin on his battered features that was informative by itself, which he confirmed by saying in his accented Latin, “We found them, Pullus.” The smile faded somewhat as he continued soberly, “They’ve made a camp about three miles south of Blariacum, and the Decurion is certain they plan on attacking it.” He leaned slightly to peer farther down the column and asked me, “Where is the Legate?”
“He’s behind the Sixth, which is just behind us,” I informed him, and with a wave, he resumed his progress, followed by the other Batavians, all of whom either gave me a grin or a wave.
Considering how our acquaintance had begun, when my desire to reach Siscia after I had been detached by Tiberius to serve with Germanicus had led us into an ambush that cost several men their lives, I was, and am thankful that these hard-bitten cavalrymen had been as forgiving as they proved to be. Not long after that, the Cornicen attached to Germanicus sounded the signal for a halt, followed immediately by the signal for the Centurions of both Legions to attend to the Legate. I waited for Macer and Cornutus, whose Century was leading, and we walked together back to join the other officers. Germanicus stayed mounted, and I could see from his demeanor that he was impatient to begin sharing the news, and presumably what he intended to do about it.
“The cavalry has located the Germans,” he began even as I saw there were still Centurions from the 20th coming at the trot from their spots. “And Decurion Batavius thinks that they are about to attack Blariacum, which is about three miles north of where they are camped. He said they appear to be settling in for the rest of the day and aren’t making any preparations to attack immediately. His guess is they are going to move in the night and fall on the town at dawn.” He paused, waiting long enough for the rest of the tardy Centurions to arrive, whereupon he got to the meat of the matter. “We’re going to hit them before they do it. Here’s how.”
For the span of several moments, he outlined this plan that he had clearly just come up with, and I can say I was probably one of the only, if not the lone man who was not surprised at the audacity and scope of what he had in mind. It would require a level of coordination, although it was not nearly as intricate a plan as the one for Raetinium, or Splonum for that matter, but more crucially, it would mean moving, and doing it quickly, both to cover the distance, then to begin the execution. Once he was finished, to that end, his normal willingness to patiently answer questions from his officers was nowhere in evidence, only entertaining one from the Primus Pilus of the 20th, Lucius Neratius, while ignoring Sacrovir’s raised hand. Well within a sixth part of a watch, the first five Cohorts of the 1st had grounded their packs, leaving the Sixth and Seventh, taking only what rations they could squirrel away inside their tunics, a canteen, and of course their javelins. There was a brief discussion about taking entrenching tools, with each man in a section carrying one of them, but Germanicus finally decided against it.
“We’re not going to be settling down long enough to need any kind of breastworks or a ditch,” he said, “and I don’t want the men carrying any extra weight. We,” he gave us a smile that was tinged with a hardness that I had only rarely seen from him, “are going to move like Divus Julius’ Legions did.”
And, as we all quickly learned, he was true to his word.
While Germanicus’ plan was audacious, I observed how much he had matured in the years since the Batonian Revolt, as it is now called, when he had been thrust into a position of immense responsibility for a youth of his age. There was no hesitation this time, no sidelong glances towards his subordinate Legate, in rank but not age, one Quintus Poppaeus Secundus, who had also served as Consul in the year of the Varus disaster, although as a Suffect. All we knew about him on his arrival several months before Germanicus had been appointed as governor was he had been a co-sponsor of the Lex Papia Poppaea, which was a source of great amusement to us in the ranks, since it was designed to curb the rampant adultery that was taking place in the upper classes in Rome. This practically guaranteed he would be the object of much snickering and ridicule, behind his back, naturally, so I am compelled to admit that Secundus never really stood a chance of gaining our respect. Militarily speaking, he was a completely unknown quantity since this was the first time a force larger than a Cohort had marched, and now Germanicus was in command. Regardless, it became clear fairly quickly that Germanicus was no longer the wide-eyed youth, but was now a battle-tested commander, one who had finished a term as Consul, at that. For his part, Secundus seemed resigned to playing a minor role, although anyone with eyes could see he was not particularly happy about it. Like the great general he had invoked when giving his orders, Germanicus chose to march on foot, leading his horse, which he occasionally mounted to gallop up and down the column, exhorting us to keep up what was by any measure a crushing pace. Even unencumbered as I was without a shield or javelins, I was sweating freely, and my breathing precluded all but short, usually sharp, words, aimed at the men of the Century, particularly Pusio, who was obviously struggling more than his comrades. And, I took notice, not one of the other men of his section offered him any encouragement, or, as other men in other sections were doing for their struggling comrades, helping by carrying his shield for a short distance to let him catch his breath. This, more than any other thing, was a potent sign that Pusio was neither liked nor respected by the men around him at moments such as this, which fueled my determination to remove him from my Century at the first opportunity. Germanicus did not signal a stop at the normal interval, pushing on for another third of a watch longer before finally allowing us to stop for a brief rest. My tunic under my armor was soaked so thoroughly that as I stood there with Structus and Gemellus, drops of sweat fell from the hem, darkening the ground around my feet. Germanicus’ face gleamed with perspiration as we gathered around him for our final instructions, which he was only able to give after catching his own breath, which made me feel quite a bit better about my own plight, given how much older I was than him.
“I’m going to lead the 1st,” he began, “while Secundus is going to stay here with the 20th.” Again, he did not offer the other nobleman even so much as a glance, but he did turn his head to indicate Neratius, a thickset man from one of the Hispania provinces originally, who had one milky eye like my former nemesis Caecina, with iron gray hair that he wore long and tied behind his head. For his part, Neratius seemed more put out than Secundus, but Germanicus apparently chose to ignore his sour expression as he continued, “According to the scouts, we’re less than three miles away from the German camp.” Suddenly, he squatted down and began drawing in the dirt to explain his plan, drawing a thin line that he explained was the Mosa, which was a few miles to our west, then marked an “X” immediately next to it, saying, “This is Blariacum. The road we’re on gradually curves west,” he drew a line that began parallel to the river but curved to meet the first line at the town, “but
we’re not going to follow it much longer, because it will bring us too close to the German camp, and if they have any scouts of their own out and about, the surprise will be ruined. So,” Germanicus announced flatly, “we’re going to use a track that splits off and heads due north until we’re directly east of Blariacum. Then we’re going to march cross country.” As he continued, he drew a straight vertical line that branched off his line marking the road, then when it was directly to the right of the “X,” made a perpendicular line that he drew so that it was just below the “X.” “This is going to add about three extra miles, maybe more,” he admitted, “but we have to be in place before it gets dark. Decurion Batavius informed me that there is a thick forest about a mile south of Blariacum that runs almost up to the riverbank. South of that forest the ground is open, and the Germans will have to cross this open area to get to the town.” Stopping, he looked up at us, ringed around him, and he caught my eye, offering a quick grin as he spoke directly to me, “I bet that Pullus can tell you what I’m thinking.”
