Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “The German cavalry came back!”

  I do not know who shouted this, but naturally, we all turned to the east to see that this was the case, but they had been met by the Third and Fifth Cohort. Later, we learned that it was Clepsina, the Quintus Pilus Prior who took the initiative to turn eastward instead of facing the German infantry, a decision that Germanicus lauded afterward. It was during the consolidation, as each Cohort arranged itself, this time in the more normal double line of Centuries, but facing south, with the belief that we would be following in pursuit, that we first noticed something.

  “Where’s the Sixth Century?”

  It was Structus who asked this, trotting up from his spot at the rear of the formation, and although I had to move a bit to see, it was not because I doubted him, just that it was so unusual. Before I could comment, Macer came trotting past, and while he did not say to do so, since Vespillo was right behind him, I followed.

  Heading straight for Philus and the Fifth Century, Macer did not bother with formalities, snapping, “Where the fuck is Sixth Century?”

  Philus’ answer was clearly unsatisfactory, shrugging as he said, “I’m not sure, Pilus Prior. I was busy with my own Century.”

  The answer came from his Optio, Publius Closus, which made sense since he was on the side closest to Volusenus’ Century, but what he said was alarming.

  “Centurion Volusenus led them after the Germans,” he told us, then after a slight hesitation, amended, “Or, maybe I should say that the Centurion went after the Germans, and his Century followed.”

  Before Macer could reply, we heard the sound of approaching horses, turning to see that Germanicus, followed by his staff, was trotting in our direction, prompting a groan from Macer.

  Turning to me, he spoke in a low tone, “What should I tell him?”

  Frankly, this surprised me, mainly since I had no more of an idea than he, and I told him as much, which he did not like at all, grumbling, “Why did I bother asking?”

  By then, Germanicus had ridden up, and we all offered a salute, but while he returned it, his eyes were on the empty ground where the Sixth should have been; not that it was hard to miss, especially once the Fifth Cohort had assembled next to us, which I would liken to how a row of teeth appears when one is missing.

  Germanicus, clearly puzzled, asked Macer mildly, “Pilus Prior Macer. Are you missing something?”

  “Er,” Macer stammered. “Yes, sir. It seems that Hastatus Posterior Volusenus has gone off in pursuit of the Germans, sir.”

  Germanicus stiffened, his eyes narrowing as he tried to place our new Centurion, asking, “Volusenus? He’s new, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir,” Macer replied, then after a hesitation that, if I was not the only one who noticed, was probably the only one who understood why, added, “He’s a paid man, sir.”

  Turning to look south, using the advantage of being on horseback, Germanicus squinted for a moment, then said, “I see them. At least, I see the tail end of them. They’re entering those woods.” Macer and I exchanged an alarmed glance, but before we could say anything, Germanicus ordered us abruptly, “He’s part of your Cohort, Pilus Prior. You need to take the rest of the Fourth and go after him.”

  Saluting, Macer paused as he thought for a moment before turning to me and saying, “The way we’re formed up, it makes sense if your Century leads the way. The Second will follow,” he told Vespillo, “then we’ll be behind them. The Fourth and Fifth fall in behind us.”

  He did not even wait for me to acknowledge the order, trotting back to his Century. Thankfully, the men all heard, so they had already hoisted their shields, although I rued that I had not thought to have them retrieve the one javelin they had not thrown, although in a wooded area, they were of limited value. Shouting the orders, rather than perform a wheel maneuver that would place the front rank facing the forest, instead I had the men simply face to the left, which made for a slightly wider formation of ten men, rather than the normal eight. More crucially is that it placed men in a situation with which they were unaccustomed, the man to their right protecting their weak side unfamiliar to them in case there was a fight. Nevertheless, they did not hesitate in stepping off, following me and Gemellus, which was not surprising, knowing that almost every man had a friend in the ranks of the Sixth, a man they had gotten drunk with, whored with, and gambled with, so none of us wanted to lose any of those friends. From the spot where we had formed up, about a half-mile from the forest where we had been hiding, it was perhaps a mile and a half to the edge of the forest to the south, so I did not think it prudent to go to the double quick so early. Germanicus, with his Tribunes and bodyguard, went galloping ahead, but if thickly wooded ground is bad for the Legions, it is worse for cavalry, no matter for whom they march, so I did not expect them to penetrate the dense undergrowth that lay thickly between the trees. Nevertheless, Germanicus led his ad hoc force right up to the edge of the woods, but he did not elicit any kind of reaction, either in the form of resistance or by a signal from our missing Century. Finally, when we got to what I judged to be perhaps five hundred paces away, I gave the order to pick up the pace closing the distance to the line of trees, where Germanicus and his cavalry had drawn up, although I saw the Legate actually urge his horse forward into the forest. Despite being occupied with my own job, I winced at this, although several of his bodyguard kicked their mounts to go plunging after him, but as foolhardy as Germanicus was, I suppose it could be argued that I was no less so, because I did not slow the Century down, crashing into the heavy undergrowth. However, within a dozen paces, I called the halt, only because the trees were arranged in such a manner that a neat row of men, especially ten men wide, could not penetrate any farther than that. Cursing, I called a halt, although it was as much to catch my breath as my recognition that it would be impossible to march through this mess.

  “Spread out, five sections in a line, the other five behind the first by a half-dozen paces,” I ordered, and while the men complied, I was examining the ground.

  Germanicus came trotting up, and he pointed me in the right direction, aided by his higher vantage point.

  “There’s a line of bodies heading that way.” He indicated a southeasterly direction, which made sense, given that was away from the river and would give the fleeing Germans more time to maneuver.

  Saluting, I led my now-formed men in that direction, finding the first German corpse in a matter of a few paces, although only his feet were visible from under a thicket of tangled vines and plants, reminding me how often dying men resemble animals, spending the last of their energy crawling to some private place to spend their final moments. Between the trampled down vegetation, the blood trails, and the scattering of bodies, we followed the Sixth Century, finding them about a half-mile deep into the forest. It was one of the men at the end farthest from me who spotted them first; my vision was obscured by the vegetation, and we altered our direction slightly. My first thought was to approach cautiously, but I quickly realized that there were no sounds of fighting, which would have carried farther than our line of sight, and within a few paces, I spotted them as well. They were in what could only be charitably called a formation; to my eye, it appeared more like they were clustered around something. Or, I thought with a stab of alarm, someone, and before I had the thought to do so, I broke out into a run. Not a trot, but a full-out run, crashing through the brush with the same force and as much grace as a bear fleeing hunters, a most unseemly display on my part, but in the moment, I did not care. In my mind, there could only be one reason a Century of Legionaries would be standing there, completely disorganized, and when I got closer and saw they were surrounding a large tree, and all looking downward at something at its base, I was certain that I would find Volusenus there; or more accurately, his corpse.

  I was right, in a sense, but while he was there, he was not a corpse, although he was literally covered in blood, and he was not supine on the ground, instead sitting upright with his back against the
trunk. As arresting as the sight of him may have been, my attention was drawn away by what was surrounding him, what I counted was more than a dozen corpses, spread out in a rough semicircle, with Volusenus and the tree the base.

  “We found him like that.”

  Gillo’s voice jerked my attention away from my examination of this scene, and I looked over at the Optio, asking him sharply, “What do you mean you ‘found him like that’?”

  “I mean they,” Gillo pointed to the bodies, “were already there. And the Centurion,” his voice lowered, and I heard something in his voice that I was only able to place later, “was sitting there, like he is now.”

  Turning back to Volusenus, this was the first moment I examined him closely, but he seemed oblivious to our presence, sitting with his knees drawn up, his arms around his knees…and a gladius that was literally caked in blood and bits of gore for its entire length, the ichor dripping from it still in his hand. I could see he was conscious, yet to this point, he had not made one move or indicated in any way he was aware of the presence of not just his Century, but me, even after I crouched down next to him. A quick visual examination showed that, aside from a long but superficial cut running down the outside of his left forearm, none of the blood appeared to be his.

  “Volusenus?”

  I used a low tone, similar to that when I talked to Latobius, but only after I called his name twice more did he respond, turning his head slowly to look at me, his eyes dull and vacant, at least until he seemed to recognize me. This prompted a reaction, his expression changing first, but then he began to try and rise to his feet, except that his legs could not seem to support him, which I probably understood better than anyone else, given our size. Thankfully, my own considerable bulk blocked the view of his failed attempt from his men, and I put a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder to push him back down.

  “Not until you’re ready,” I told him quietly, to which he gave a perfunctory nod. “So,” I asked him with what I hoped was a light tone, “what happened?”

  I cannot say what I was expecting, but it was not the look of confusion that flashed across his face, then, following my gaze, he turned and seemed to see the strewn bodies arrayed around him for the first time, because he let out a quiet gasp.

  Looking at me, I could instantly see that the shock he was showing was unfeigned, and he whispered, “I don’t know.”

  “Princeps Prior Pullus?” The voice of Volusenus’ Signifer Macerinus caused me to turn about to see that he had moved a bit closer than the rest of the Century. “Is Centurion Volusenus all right? Is he wounded?”

  “No,” I assured him, and the manner in which not just Macerinus but the rest of his Century reacted told me that Volusenus had at last managed to win the loyalty and affection of his men, despite his haughty ways and inexperience.

  Maybe, I thought, there’s hope for him yet. Returning my attention to Volusenus, I saw that he had gathered himself, and with some surreptitious help on my part, came to his feet. He took several deep breaths as he collected his wits, then gave me a curt nod, stepped around me, and resumed command of his Century. By this time, most of the Cohort had arrived, so that we were able to march out of the forest, intact, where Germanicus and the other four Cohorts waited, whereupon Germanicus promptly ordered us to turn about and go back into the forest to pursue the Germans.

  It was not until the next night before I had the chance to spend more time with Volusenus, inviting him to my quarters back in our now-consolidated camp a few miles from Blariacum. The campaign, such as it was, was over; just as Germanicus had planned, the fleeing remnants of the warband ran directly into the five Cohorts of the 20th, who had moved into position just south of the expanse of woods into which we chased the Germans. Our victory was complete, and although there are always men who manage to escape, if there were more than two or three hundred of those out of the entire combined force, I would have been surprised. Not that we killed all of the rest; there were a bit more than a thousand prisoners, who Germanicus had informed us would be sold into slavery. Because they were warriors, this was still a death sentence, albeit delayed to one extent or another, since the fittest among this lot would be sent to a ludus somewhere, destined to use their skills in the sand, for the entertainment of Romans. I must confess that these men elicited a feeling of some sympathy in me, to which I attributed my time in Arelate spent with Vulso, who was as almost important a tutor in fighting as my own father, teaching me in the skills of the arena that, more than once, have kept me alive. Once you get to know someone, even gladiators, as men, it is difficult to view them as little better than animals whose sole purpose is to bleed and die for our entertainment. At least, this is the case for me, although a secondary consideration is that I can understand how bitter a draught it must be for a warrior to suffer defeat and captivity, but kept alive only for the amusement of those who are responsible for your condition. It was the lot of the others, however, that was, in every way imaginable, the worst fate, because these men were destined for places like the silver mines of Hispania, where it was said that a healthy, strong man might survive for a year, before being literally worked to death. Not, I will also confess, that I spent much time thinking about the fate of men who, if they had had the chance, would have slit my throat at the first opportunity. Now that it was over, we were waiting for orders from Germanicus, with the expectation being that we marched back to Ubiorum so that Germanicus could resume his duties as Praetor and continue his work on the census he was taking of the entirety of Gaul. Whatever was in our future, the mood in the camp was celebratory, and it was in that spirit I sent Alex to extend an invitation to Volusenus to share the evening meal with me in my private quarters. He accepted readily enough, appearing at the exact time, wearing a freshly laundered tunic that, even now, was still a deeper red that practically shouted its quality, and I congratulated myself for choosing one of equal hue and not one of my faded ones. I had decided beforehand that I would not broach the topic I had in mind during the meal, and we ate companionably enough, chatting about the previous few days, while I assiduously avoided the day before. When we were finished, I waited for Alex to clear everything away, then with my own hand, poured a couple cups of wine after sending Alex on a pre-agreed, non-existent errand, digging into my stock of Falernian, something that Volusenus immediately noticed.

  “Princeps Prior,” he said this genially enough, but I sensed there was more than a bit of irony in the manner in which he lifted his cup, “I salute you on your choice of wine.”

  Before I could think better of it, I answered, “Well, I just wanted to offer you something you probably drank every day.”

  As soon as it was out, I inwardly cringed, worried that this would prick his touchy pride, but to my faint surprise, he actually laughed and raised his cup in salute.

  “I’ll admit it, I’ve missed this,” he replied, then after a pause, he added, “and yes, we did have this every day. Even for our posca.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh since it is more common to use the worst quality wine, the spices added to it hiding that fact, and I returned his salute with my own cup. The next moments were silent, then I decided that it was time to broach the subject for which I had invited him to this meal.

  “So,” I asked abruptly, “what happened yesterday?”

  I do not know why, but his lack of surprise actually served to unnerve me more than he was by the question, clearly expecting it by the manner in which he set his cup down, his face betraying nothing. However, he did not speak for a span of some time.

  “I don’t know,” he finally replied, his eyes meeting mine unwaveringly. “Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.”

  “And,” I tried to sound casual, “what do you remember?”

  He considered my question, and the manner in which he did so indicated he had given this much thought; I believe this was the first moment where I had the faintest glimmering of recognition.

  “Not much,” he finally an
swered soberly. “The last thing I do clearly remember was seeing the Germans running for the woods. And,” he shrugged, “I just followed them.”

  “You did more than ‘just follow them,’” I retorted, yet without any rancor or rebuke.

  “That,” he acknowledged with what I took to be a grimace, “is true.” Pausing, he continued, “Honestly, the only thing I really remember is how angry I was.”

  This caught my attention, and before I could stop myself, I found I was sitting on the edge of my stool, listening intently, something that Volusenus clearly noticed, his brow furrowing at my sudden interest, yet he did not visibly react when I asked him, “Why were you so angry? They,” I pointed out, “hadn’t actually slaughtered the people of Blariacum, and they only raided some farms and a couple villages.” Pausing, I asked, “How many casualties did your Century take?”

  “Only a handful,” he admitted, “and none of them were killed.”

  “So?” I pressed, only dimly understanding that this was as important to me as it was to him at this point. “Did one of them get you?” I indicated the bandage on his arm. “Is that when you got that?”