by James Mace
“It is only proper that you be the one to deliver this to Germanicus,” he said.
Macro nodded and took the eagle. A surge of emotions swept through him. It was as if the lost souls of the Nineteenth were suddenly alive again. They lived through this symbol of their prestige and valor. Macro immediately suppressed his feelings and looked sternly at his men.
“Alright, nobody told you to stop what you were doing. It’s been thirty minutes, now form it up at the double.”
He smiled to himself as the century rapidly fell in, every soldier struggling to carry what he had plundered along with kit. Macro clutched the standard even harder and closed his eyes. Redemption was his at last.
Germanicus stood on the command deck of his flagship. Though his men were riding a euphoric high from their victory, he felt uneasy. The wind was cold and was picking up. The waters were rough and choppy.
“We waited too long to return home,” he mused.
“Beg your pardon, sir?” the sailing master asked.
Germanicus shook his head. “Nothing, just talking to myself.” The old sailor frowned and nodded. “Always rough seas, this time of year.” His eyes then grew wide as he looked into the distance. He immediately forgot about his commander and started running about, shouting orders to frantic sailors. Germanicus gazed into the distance and nearly panicked. The churning clouds were black and racing towards them, as if they had a mind of their own. Lightning could be seen flashing, highlighting foaming waves large enough to swallow the entire fleet.
As soldiers came up from below deck, Germanicus raced to the front of the ship. Some soldiers started to panic, unfamiliar as many of them were with an ocean gale. Others rushed about to help the sailors, unaware that their good intentions only inhibited the seamen from doing their job.
“Neptune, have mercy,” Germanicus whispered as he clung to the railing with one hand and wrapped his other in a mooring rope. “Hold on!”
Chapter XXV: The Bittersweet Aftermath of War
***
Artorius lay on his bunk back at the fortress. As good as the bathhouse had felt, and as good as it would feel later to go have a spot of wine and perhaps get his hands on a tasty harlot, for the moment it was enough just to relax on his own bed. His body still ached, yet he was completely content. Rumor had it the old warrior he had slain was none other than Arminius’ own uncle, Ingiomerus. Unfortunately, the Cherusci war chief himself had somehow escaped. It mattered not. The Germanic tribes were broken. Their warriors lay dead without as much as a grave. Their people had been scattered and left without hope. It would be a long time before they even considered contesting the might of Rome again. Artorius was certain that such a thing would not occur again in his lifetime. For the first time in many years, he felt at peace. He felt, at last, the souls of his brother and mother had been given justice. His quest, his reason for joining the army was done.
“Just so you know, we’ve got a full kit inspection tomorrow morning,” Praxus said as he walked through the barracks.
Artorius sighed. Of course his equipment was immaculate and maintained; it was just a hassle was all. It meant life was returning to normal around the fortress, whatever normal meant. Artorius had never really experienced what one would consider normal life around an army fortress. The day he joined they had been preparing for war. Now they would be preparing for the return to Rome to celebrate their triumph; that is, as soon as the rest of the army arrived from their seaborne journey. Rumors ran rampant that calamity had struck the fleet, great storms blowing the ships about, scattering all to the four winds.
“Has anyone heard any more concerning Germanicus and the rest of the army?” he asked, sitting upright on his bunk.
“I was walking along, minding my own business, when I saw some dispatch riders heading over to headquarters in a big hurry,” Decimus answered. “So I wandered over and heard a bit about how Germanicus was finally on his way back and had just reached the Batavi isles.”
Artorius shot him a perplexed look. “Decimus, how is it that you always ‘happen to just be around’ whenever something important happens?” Decimus grinned and shrugged. “It’s a talent, I guess.”
Magnus, meanwhile, was working frantically on some popped rivets on his body armor.
While the lorica segmentata was ideally suited for close combat and could absorb most arrow and weapon strikes, it was extremely high maintenance.
“Damn it, these brass fittings are a pain in the backside,” Magnus cursed as a rivet slipped out of his pliers and fell onto the ground.
Artorius laughed sarcastically. “If you’d use your shield instead of your body to block enemy blows, you wouldn’t have to work on your armor so much.” Magnus picked up a rivet and threw it at him.
Praxus rolled his eyes and walked over to Magnus’ bunk. “Here, let me help me you with that” Praxus had some of the surest hands when it came to working with small parts and soon had Magnus’ armor put back together. “Just don’t think I’m going to make a habit of this,” he laughed as he threw the cuirass at the Norseman.
Germanicus sat trembling as Severus handed him a goblet of wine. The commanding general looked haggard, was unshaven, and in desperate need of a bath. “No sooner do we reach open sea, but a storm unlike any I’ve ever seen in my lifetime comes upon us like the wrath of Neptune. The entire fleet was scattered. Those poor bastards on the barge rafts were swept out of sight in moments. Our men were of little help to the mariners, seeing as how none knew a damn thing about handling of a ship or of ocean storms. When the seas finally stopped churning and we reached land, my ship was completely alone.” He took a long draught of wine before continuing.
“Eventually, the shattered vessels with but few rowers, or clothing spread as sails, some towed by the more powerful, returned. We speedily repaired them, sent them to search the islands. Many more of our men were recovered this way. The Angrivarii had even restored to us several that they had ransomed from the inland tribes, in an effort to show their new found fidelity. Some vessels had been carried to Britain and were sent back by the petty chiefs. Every one, as he returned from some far-distant region, told of wonders, of violent hurricanes, and unknown birds, of monsters of the sea, of forms half-human, half beast-like, things they had really seen or in their terror believed.” 1 His eyes were distant as he relayed everything to Severus.
“I received your dispatches concerning this,” the older general replied, taking a seat across from Germanicus, “but why the added delays? You made no mention of any pending action against the tribes in the area.”
“It wasn’t until after I sent the dispatch riders that I decided to strike against the Chatti. They had not been as brutally ravaged as most of the tribes who fought at Idistaviso, so I sought to launch a preemptive strike against them, lest they become overzealous when news of our folly reached them. We attacked them with increased energy, advanced into the country, laying it waste and utterly ruining a foe who dared not encounter us, or else instantly defeating those who resisted. We learned from prisoners that the barbarians were never more panic-stricken. They declared us to be invincible, rising superior to all calamities; for having thrown away a fleet, having lost our arms, and after strewing the shores with the carcasses of horses and of men, we had rushed to the attack with the same courage, with equal spirit, and, seemingly, with augmented numbers. 2 This was of course nonsense. Our numbers only seemed augmented because the vast majority of our men survived their harrowing ordeals and managed to regroup with the main body once more.
“Our men were overjoyed by the spoils of this fresh mini-campaign, as it eased the blows of the calamities we had endured since sailing up the Ems River. The added bounty that I paid them out of my own pockets in recompense to their losses eased their suffering as well.”
Severus refilled Germanicus’ goblet as he sat back and absorbed everything he had heard.
“And now,” Germanicus said after a lengthy pause, “we must plan afresh as to how we
will finish things for good next year. The barbarians have been sorely whipped and have felt the full wrath of our vengeance. I think the next campaign will be rather bloodless; rather it will show the barbarians that we can and will strike at them at our leisure. There has been talk of negotiations amongst the surviving war chiefs for a lasting peace with Rome. I think one last campaign will seal that.”
“There won’t be any last campaign, at least not for us,” Severus replied.
Germanicus nearly choked on his wine, and he glared at his second.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, his temper rising.
Severus very calmly handed a scroll over to Germanicus. “Only that this letter, and others, came via the Imperial Post while you were away. It bears the Emperor’s response to your proposed campaign.”
Germanicus looked resigned as he read the words of his uncle and adoptive father.
From the Emperor, Tiberius Claudius Nero Caesar, etc.
To Germanicus Caesar, Commanding General, Army of the Rhine, etc. greetings,
I must first and foremost congratulate you on your triumph over the traitor Arminius, and to send my deepest condolences to your men on the losses they have suffered, both during and after the campaign.
I fully understand your desire to continue in the war against the tribes of Germania, yet it is my opinion that you have had enough of success, enough of disaster. You have fought victorious battles on a great scale; yet you should also remember those losses which the winds and waves have inflicted, and which, though due to no fault of yourself, were still grievous and shocking.
Remember, I had myself been sent nine times by Augustus into Germania, and have done more by policy than by arms. By this means the submission of the Sugambri had been secured, and the Suevi with their king Maroboduus had been forced into peace. The Cherusci too and the other insurgent tribes, since the vengeance of Rome has been satisfied, might be left to their internal feuds. 3
You are therefore ordered to return to Rome once preparations for a transfer of authority have been made. You will arrive no later than the first of May to celebrate your much-deserved triumph, in addition to your second Consulship.
Germanicus set the parchment down and drained his goblet. He sat back, closed his eyes, and ran a hand across his forehead.
“Well Severus, my old friend and mentor, it looks like you may at last be getting your long-awaited retirement.”
To the family of Quintus Antoninus,
It is with deepest regret and sadness that I send word concerning the death of your son, who died in battle against the Cherusci. He was a brave and honorable soldier who fought valiantly to the last. Though his time in the Army was short, he made a huge impact on those who knew him. I know that no words of mine can bring him back; however, I want you to know that all of us who served with him share in your grief and that he will be missed.
With sincerest respect and condolences,
Platorius Macro, Centurion
Macro set his quill down and leaned back in his chair. This was the last of three letters he had finished writing. Three families of men within his century would soon be mourning the loss of their sons, brothers, or fathers. One of his slain soldiers had had a ‘wife’ and three children. Yet since Roman law forbade soldiers below the rank of centurion from officially marrying, the man’s ‘widow’ would inherit nothing. He could only hope the soldier’s other surviving kin would look after the woman he had loved and the children he left behind.
The last letter troubled him. Legionary Antoninus was only eighteen years old and had been a soldier for just over a year and a half. While the death of a Roman soldier was always tragic, the loss of one so young sat hard with the centurion. He always thought carefully about how he would word his letters. Would he tell them the brutal truth that Antoninus was dead because he could not get over the enemy rampart fast enough and had been stabbed in the throat as a consequence? No, he would stick with simply telling them their son died valiantly fighting the hated Cherusci. That, at least, was not a lie.
“Never an easy task,” Proculus said as he walked in. He knew right away what the younger centurion had been doing. He had to write five such letters over the course of the campaign. “May I sit?” he asked. It was an unnecessary question, but one asked out of courtesy.
Macro waved the cohort commander to a chair.
“Last year I had to write two of these letters after our battle against the Marsi. I hoped to delay having to do any more of these for as long as possible,” Macro said once Proculus sat down. “Of course, once you take command of a century it becomes an inevitable and never-ending task, doesn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so,” Proculus replied. “Macro, I’ve held the centurionate for ten years, three as pilus prior. I had to write my first such letter just two months after I took command. And you know what? It has never gotten any easier.”
“Your words are encouraging,” Macro said with a slight scowl. He glanced at the letters and then set them down. “As much as I try and play the tyrant, these men mean everything to me. Unlike many, I rose through the ranks within the same century. Most of the time, you’re lucky if you get to even stay in the same cohort once you are promoted past optio. Many of these men I’ve known and worked with for nearly seven years. A part of me dies every time one of them does.”
Proculus sat back, his fingers intertwined. “I know this doesn’t help, but consider Calvinus, Commander of the Fifth Cohort.”
“Yes, I know him,” Macro replied with a nod.
“He had to write over seventy of these letters once. Imagine how much of him died that day,” Proculus announced.
Macro leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “I know,” he replied. “One of my men lost his brother under Calvinus’ command. Not that he was at fault. I think it is a credit to Calvinus that he managed to get those whom he did out of that cursed place. My own centurion did not survive to write his letters.”
Proculus looked down for a second. He was surprised to see that Macro was not quite so troubled when the subject of Teutoburger Wald surfaced. Before then it was something he had always avoided discussing with his subordinate centurion.
“Does it still haunt you?” Proculus finally asked.
“Does what still haunt me?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. You know what I’m talking about,” Proculus replied.
“Of course it does,” Macro answered. “I swear the spirits of the lost never leave me. But at least now, especially after my men found the Eagle of the Nineteenth, I can at last live in peace with them.”
Chapter XXVI: Return to Rome
Camp of the Twentieth Legion, five miles outside of Rome
May, 17 A.D.
***
It would take several weeks to make the journey from the Rhine frontier all the way down into Rome herself. The army passed quickly out of Germania and through Gaul. Progress was made easy by the quality of the paved roads; roads which Artorius noted had been built on the backs of their predecessors in the legions. He also noticed an immediate change once they had reached the southernmost portion of the Alps and passed into Italy. The cold wetness of the Rhine was replaced by the warm and invigorating climate of the Mediterranean. In spite of being in friendly territory, Severus still insisted upon the troops setting up the standard marching camp, complete with ditch and palisade, every night. Every evening the camp was crowded with locals, mostly curious citizens anxious to set eyes on the famed legions who had smashed the barbarian giants into oblivion.
One evening Artorius and Magnus were standing outside their tent when they saw Centurion Macro inspecting the covered loads on several carts.
“Macro’s certainly anxious about his baggage carts,” Artorius observed.
“I noticed,” Magnus replied. “What’s strange is he packed a lot more than the other centurions. A bit unusual for him, don’t you think?”
“Not only that, but he’s also intent on keeping whatever it
is hidden from view. I noticed that he never takes anything off those particular carts, yet he makes certain they are placed right next to his tent every night. And every morning he checks everything to make sure they haven’t been disturbed. Come to think of it, I believe he acquired those carts when we were in Gaul.”
“I think maybe our centurion’s gone a bit mental,” Magnus said, shaking his head as he wandered off.
Artorius grunted at the remark and went back inside his tent.
As the Army of the Rhine grew closer to Rome, there was a noticeable increase in traffic. Farmers and merchants from the outlying areas drove great wagonloads of goods with which to feed and provide comfort for the city’s inhabitants. Late one afternoon, the men of the Second Century crested a hill and gazed at a breathtaking sight. Though still approximately five miles away, Rome stood out in stark contrast to the surrounding hills. The men could just make out the Temple of Jupiter on Capitoline Hill, the Basilica Julia, the Roman Forum, the Theater of Marcellus next to the River Tiber and, of course, the Circus Maximus. The sun at their backs cast an almost divine glow upon the city below which stretched for miles.
“Now then, there’s something you don’t see every day,” Gavius said in a low voice.
“Ever been to the Eternal City?” Magnus asked.
Gavius could only shake his head.
“Neither have I,” Magnus replied, awestruck.
“There She is, men.” Camillus pointed, “The one bastion of freedom, order, and civilization in the world.”
“Alright, let’s keep moving,” Macro ordered. “We’ve still got work to do before dark.”
