by R. W. Peake
Urso gave the men the rest of the day and into the night to enjoy what comes with the sacking of a town, although there was one act he performed that was not popular at all. Finding a fair quantity of the fermented honey drink called mead, which I had experienced the effects of in Germania the year before, Urso put an armed guard on the building where it was stored. It was mildly curious; the tribes of Pannonia were not known to brew this themselves, but the assumption was this was just part of a trade. However, it ended up in this town there were a number of men unhappy with this news, although they made no attempt to figure out how to get access to it. The wine, on the other hand, was allowed to flow, except the number of thirsty men far outstripped the supply. What this meant was that unless men were willing to trade the trinkets and valuables they had found stuffed under a stone in the hearth, the most likely spot, or buried under the dirt floor, they could not get staggering drunk. Of course, it would not be a Legion of Rome if there were not a fair number of such men, but I believe there was another factor that kept men in check. Not lost on any of us was the knowledge that, somewhere out there, Varciani warriors could be heading back to their lands at that very moment.
"The only thing worse than facing a bunch of howling savages is facing a bunch of howling savages when you're hung over," was how Lutatius put it that night.
While everyone laughed, there was truth in what he said, and we all knew it.
"Pullus, why are you so quiet? I barely saw you after you went over the wall," Caecina asked me.
I looked up from staring into the fire, suspicious about why he was asking me, and I got my answer when, seeing I was not inclined to reply, added, "You didn't get squeamish, did you?"
As I am sure he hoped, both Mela and Geta snickered at this, but although I opened my mouth to say something, Avitus came to my defense.
"No, he was busy carrying out the Primus Pilus' orders and getting rid of some prisoners."
"That was you?" Caecina's surprise, I believe, was unfeigned and I did not miss him exchanging a glance with Mela. "We heard some big bastard just walked up and started slaughtering prisoners before the guards could stop him."
"It wasn't like that," I shot back, the anger blossoming suddenly. "The Primus Pilus," I pointed an accusing finger at him, "your Primus Pilus, ordered me to execute a bunch of old men and women because he didn't want to lug them around. And I did what I was ordered." I should have stopped, but before I could catch myself, I added, "Where were you? Raping a twelve-year-old?"
I had not said it to be funny, but my comrades erupted in a roar of laughter, and even in the firelight, I could clearly see Caecina flush as he shot me a furious look.
We did not tarry at this village; I never did learn its name, or if it even had one, but when we left the next morning, accompanying us were about two hundred people, all that was left from the town who were considered to be worthy of sale by the Primus Pilus. This, I admit, puzzled me. The Legate had been very specific that, should he decide not to release these Varciani and sell them into slavery instead, despite it being the custom, we would not receive a sestertius of the proceeds of the sale. From my viewpoint, it did not profit the Primus Pilus in any way to take prisoners; not only was there the idea that anything gained would go into the purse of the Legate, this kind of human cargo requires supervision, and more importantly, food and water. Fortunately, at least as far as we were concerned, thanks to the abnormal weather, the Varciani of this village had performed their harvest earlier than normal, enabling us to restock our own supplies. Those crops still waiting to be reaped we fired the next day, leaving a sky full of smoke and ruin behind us as we continued. And, unfortunately for the Varciani, because of the thorough nature of we Romans, we had a good idea of where the various Varciani settlements were located; the only matter open to question was how long it would take for their warbands to come hurrying back to protect their lands, their crops, and most importantly, their families. Marching away from this first town, my frame of mind was unlike anything I had ever experienced to that point: a mixture of anger, resentment, confusion, and perhaps more than anything else, guilt. As I sit here, looking down at these words once more, I am struggling for a way to adequately describe the circumstances and atmosphere those of us who march under the standard face and are surrounded by on a daily basis. If I had expressed anything resembling remorse for what I had done, not only would I have been mercilessly mocked for being soft. Because of all that had happened to the Primus Pilus, the direct results of which found us in our current set of circumstances, I could easily imagine someone like Caecina would have pounced on my attitude as a sign of disloyalty. Anything that might be construed as sympathy for a tribe that, after all, was in open rebellion, would at the very least put me at odds with my comrades. While this thought did not trouble me overmuch when it came to just Caecina, I had seen and heard enough to recognize that, in this at least, he was far from alone. In fact, the actions of the Legate had accomplished something I had previously thought impossible; it made our Primus Pilus a sympathetic character, one for whom every man wanted to do anything within their power to support. And, being brutally honest, I cannot say that despite how I felt about Urso and his activities, a large part of me was not of a similar or same mind. Buried deep inside me, a resentment I had only occasionally glimpsed in myself was beginning to thrust itself into my conscious mind more often, so that it was impossible for me not to draw some parallels between what was happening to the Primus Pilus of our Legion and what had happened to my Avus, and, by extension, my family. Now, with the passing of time, my passions have cooled, and there is a part of me that cringes when I think I once dared to compare Titus Pullus to Publius Canidius, or Urso, as I thought of him. My Avus never stooped to the lengths that Urso had in order to advance his own fortunes, and while in some superficial ways, Urso was as devoted to his men as my Avus, he also used them as agents and as a source of cash for his personal gain and advancement. The man I will always think of as the real Titus Pullus, the man upon whom I can only hope to build a legacy worthy of his example, never took advantage of his men, nor did he ever view them as a means to an end, a way in which he could make money. In all fairness, I will say that by the time I enlisted in the 8th, Urso had stopped squeezing his men through the use of the punishment list, which is by far the most convenient, and abused, method of using those under one’s command as a source of income. Nevertheless, I heard so many stories from so many different men that I find it hard to credit they all could have been lying. And, just because he no longer engaged in this practice, it does not excuse him in any way for his actions when he did.
Yet, in those days, as we continued marching through Varciani territory, laying waste to every farm and village we found, I had convinced myself that, in the ways that counted, my Primus Pilus was suffering the same fate at the hands of a member of the upper classes as Titus Pullus. Like my Avus, I told myself, he was used as a piece in the game, and in the case of Urso it was just to remove the Legate's chestnuts from the proverbial fire, an even baser reason than the one that had almost caused the downfall of my Avus. A fire, I reminded myself, caused by his dalliance with another man's wife. Consequently, while I could not share the same fervor of some of my comrades for the destruction we were wreaking on any Varciani we came upon, I did just as much as everyone else, with a grim determination, if not enthusiasm.
On the fourth day after we sacked the first village, we were marching in a northerly direction, and in doing so, we crossed the trail of our own march when we had been pursuing the Varciani eastward. The irony was not lost on any of us.
"Well, I guess it's better than going in circles," was how Lutatius put it the night we found our own trail, and although this prompted a laugh, it was not without a bitter edge.
As it happened, that evening, the First Cohort had the guard duty, but I was not at the Porta Praetoria when the bucina sounded the call signaling a rider approached. Despite knowing the only reason for hearing this c
all, we could not abandon our posts to go run and find out what was, in all likelihood, an important message. Naturally, that made the rest of our time go even more slowly, but as soon as we were relieved, we went rushing back to our area, confident that the Primus Pilus would be coming by to alert us to the new information. And that belief was rewarded because we were not even finished with our evening meal when Urso appeared, his face giving away nothing.
"The cavalry has located what the Decurion assures me is the main body of the Varciani," he began. "He's convinced they've reunited almost all of the warbands that split up, and they're headed this direction. Apparently," he favored us with a grim smile, "they're trying to catch up with us before we get where we're headed next."
And where we were marching was the Varciani equivalent of Topulcava, the seat of the Varciani king, located at the base of another system of ridges. Once I had determined our actual direction of march and our destination, I realized it was perhaps four or five miles farther north of the point when Urso had received another dispatch and changed our direction. We could have saved more than a week if we had just continued marching north, yet I bring this up not to censure Urso, but to illustrate the frustrating nature of what Pannonia was like, and still is, even to this day. Chasing numen was essentially what we did, marching from one place to another, always one step behind, or it seemed to be that way. But now, for the first time, it appeared as if we were the ones ahead of the enemy, and there is much to be said for the advantage that comes from arriving first on a piece of ground and being able to choose how to use it to your best advantage. We knew the Varciani would be desperate to try and stop us from not only reaching the main town of their tribe, but firing the farmland that surrounded it. If they did not, and the coming winter proved to be as early and as hard as it appeared it would be, they faced the prospect of starvation finishing off those Varciani we did not kill. Breaking camp, for the first time, the Primus Pilus ordered us to just pull up stakes and not take the time to fill the ditches in, although we did burn the towers. As we were sleeping, the immunes of the woodworking shop had been hard at work, knocking together a few dozen ladders, although when I heard this, I thought it was just a precaution. While nothing was said, at least in our earshot, the assumption was that, although a Legion travels quickly, a warband of barbarians in their own lands and racing to save their homes would at least be able to match our pace. If they had gotten in even an extra watch of marching, it was possible they could catch us before we got to this Varciani town. Since I had never been there, I asked Avitus and the others, but only Bestia could remember much about the place, having marched nearby a few seasons before.
"We didn't even enter the town," he told us as we marched, Urso setting such a cracking pace the only way conversation was possible was because the land was still flat, although we could see the hills just ahead. "It's actually tucked out of sight from the main road, in a little bowl surrounded by those hills."
"That doesn't sound like a very smart place for a town," I remarked. "What's to stop anyone from taking the hills around them and cutting them off?"
"That's easier said," Bestia had replied. "They have a tower on the hill that screens the town from the main road to the south and another one on the opposite hill on the far side. At least, that was what we were told; we couldn't see it from where we were. But they can spot anyone coming from a long way off. And," he added, "they supposedly have a stout wall, although it's not too high for ladders."
"That doesn't sound good for us," Avitus commented. "They're going to see us coming too."
"Maybe," Sido put in, "but that's not going to stop us. Besides, I doubt many men were left behind to defend the town."
That, we all knew was probably true. Frankly, I was more concerned at the moment keeping my footing and trying to avoid the deposits left by the mules, cursing the fates that for the first time put us in the rear of the column. It was not punishment, at least that was what Asinius, who was now marching in the spot normally occupied by the Primus Pilus, kept reminding us. Our placement at the rear of the column was because it was the spot deemed most likely to be attacked by pursuing Varciani. While we understood this, it is hard to feel honored with such a responsibility while scraping the cac from your boots and feet, and in between the conversations about the overall situation and what lay ahead was a steady round of cursing. In one respect, it could not have been much worse, because rather than leading the other Centuries of the Cohort, we of the First were actually the very tail end of the column, meaning even our own mules had been brought ahead of us, but Asinius had gone even further by insisting that the rearmost rank be rotated regularly, in much the same way as we perform shift reliefs during a fight. Despite not particularly liking it, we all understood, especially once we performed the task of trying to march backward, keeping watch on the horizon for any telltale sign that our pursuers were closing. Not surprisingly, some men suffered even further indignity by getting tangled up with their own feet as they tried to turn one way or another while keeping pace with the march, although more often than not, the victim would claim their tumble was not due to their own clumsiness but to the inattention of comrades around them who caused them to fall. Regardless of who was at fault, the result was the same, and it seemed that whenever a man did go crashing to the ground, their fall was invariably softened by virtue of a particularly fragrant and fresh pile of dung left behind by one of the mules. Somehow, while I managed to avoid tripping in this manner, although I came close on more than one occasion, my comrades were not as lucky, as both Lutatius and Glabrio ended up on the filthy ground. Happenings of this nature are always considered amusing diversions, at least by those who are not among the unfortunate. However, when thinking back on this occasion, it is hard to recall anything amusing, because I cannot help wondering if, during one of these distracting interludes, our attention was diverted long enough that we missed something that might have changed the chain of events that followed. Frankly, it is something I have banished to a corner of my mind for some time; reliving the moment now brings the same fragments of my recollections whose meaning so frustrated me in the months following the event itself. There are just not enough pieces for me to have a full understanding of how everything that took place came to pass, so it still ranks as one of the mysteries that I suppose I will carry with me into the afterlife, seeking the answers. Perhaps there are certain moments and events that actually have no explanation because they are arranged by the gods for their own amusement. I do not know what troubles me more, the idea there are things I will never know, or that moments that have such a tremendous impact on men's lives are simply inflicted on us because the gods are bored and in need of a diversion. Whatever the cause, despite our best efforts, we somehow missed the fact that a substantial number of Varciani had managed to close to within less than a full watch's march behind us.
Word rippled down, passed from one Century to another, usually by the Optio in his place at the rear of each one, who would pause long enough to inform the Centurion of the following Century, meaning that by the time it reached us in the rear, the strange sound of the Varciani horn that sounded the warning of our approach had come and gone a few hundred heartbeats before. The important piece of information, at least to us, relayed back to us from where Urso, along with Capulo, was located at the head of the column, was the order to fall out and begin working.
"Pluto's cock, I hate this cac," Avitus groaned. "One of the reasons I joined the Legions was because I hate anything to do with farming!"
"At least we're not going to be harvesting them," I pointed out, but he was unmoved.
"We might as well be," he grumbled.
"Quit complaining." I laughed. "Burning isn't the same as harvesting."
For those were our orders. We had reached the most outlying fields of the Varciani, and although many of the strips of cultivated land had already been worked, those fields yet to be harvested were to be put to the torch. Moving quickly, the men designa
ted to start the fire pulled out their tinderboxes, while the rest of us roved about the immediate area, looking for anything that could be used as a torch. Seeing nothing available, Asinius commanded that those charged with the actual burning use their javelins, wrapping the strips of linen that we all carry for any number of purposes and soaking them in oil before touching it to several spots in the fields as a torch. I was not directly involved; our Century was facing back down the road, and this is a moment I believe is the most likely where our chance to be forewarned was lost. Quickly, the fields caught flame, but this day, the wind was coming from the north, meaning that before much time passed, we were enveloped in the dark, swirling smoke caused by the stalks of grain that were not yet completely dried out. Not only did the smoke drift south, as it eddied and whirled around us as we stood guard, the coughing, choking and blurred vision began.
