Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  Turning, Germanicus smiled broadly, although he returned the salute the pair offered, then said, “Princeps Prior Pullus! I see you’ve brought the only man you have anything in common with to keep you company!”

  “I did, sir,” Pullus replied genially. “I’ve gotten accustomed to having him around to remind me what it’s like to be young.”

  Laughing, Germanicus snapped his fingers, and despite his air of conviviality, Volusenus noticed how quickly the dark-skinned slave practically sprinted across the room, grabbing two camp stools that, in one motion, he set down in front of the desk. When Germanicus asked if either man cared for refreshment, Volusenus decided on the fly to follow Pullus’ lead, who demurred.

  “Actually, sir, I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve talked to Decurion Batavius. He had dinner with me, and he mentioned that his men have managed to identify at least two tribes of that bunch who are looking to stop us on the way home.”

  Germanicus looked puzzled, which was explained when he said, “Surely you know that Batavius included that in his report.”

  From Volusenus’ viewpoint, this caught Pullus, if not completely off-guard, then seemingly embarrassed; at the time, Volusenus had no idea why, and Pullus mumbled, “Ah, of course you’re right, sir. I forgot.”

  Germanicus gave him an absent nod, but the mention of the subject had clearly worked him into a state of indignation, going on, “I know about the Bructeri, that was to be expected. But the Usipetes?” The last trace of humor vanished from Germanicus’ face, his handsome, regular features twisting into a bitter scowl. “They’re a bunch of ungrateful savages! The Divine Augustus gave them the lands they’re living on now! They have no excuse for joining in with the rest of them.” Then, catching himself, he gave a self-conscious laugh, the smile returning to his face as he turned back to Pullus, “So, Titus Pullus forgot that our Decurion would be sure to mention that in his report. Is this what I have to look forward to when I get old?”

  Despite this being his first time in Germanicus’ presence under these circumstances, Volusenus could see the easy rapport the older Centurion enjoyed with Germanicus, and he felt a stab of envy, along with feeling somewhat out of place.

  “That’s not the worst part,” Pullus countered. “You’re going to have aches in places that you didn’t know you had.”

  “Gods, then don’t let me make old bones.” Germanicus laughed. Then, he turned his attention to Volusenus, who felt a jolt of energy when their eyes met, and the thought that flew into Volusenus’ mind was his wish that his parents could see him at this moment. Germanicus asked, “So, Hastatus Posterior…Volusenus, yes?” At Volusenus’ nod, Germanicus pointed at Pullus, and while the tone was still of a bantering nature, Volusenus sensed that it was not a question he asked lightly, “Have you learned much from Pullus here?”

  “More than I ever thought possible…” Volusenus blurted out, instantly mortified at the eager tone he heard in his own voice. “…sir.”

  “Oh?” Germanicus cocked his head, eyeing Volusenus quizzically. “Like what?”

  Volusenus sensed that this was still part of Germanicus’ attempt to make Pullus squirm in embarrassment, which the young Centurion could see was successful, but he answered honestly, “That there’s more to being a good Centurion than being able to beat your men to a pulp. That as much as I may have trained on the Campus Martius in Mediolanum, it wasn’t enough.” Now that he had begun, Volusenus could not seem to stop himself. “And that I was relying too much on being stronger and bigger than my enemies.” Slightly embarrassed to admit as much, he added, “As much as that helped on the Campus, out here, there are more Germans my…” he glanced over at Pullus as he corrected, “…our size than I’d ever run into in my life.”

  “They are big, aren’t they?” Germanicus agreed with a nod, but then he turned to Pullus, and if his goal was to catch him off guard, Volusenus’ thought was that he did a splendid job of it, asking, “And, what have you learned from Volusenus, Pullus? Anything?”

  Pullus’ expression transformed, looking so acutely uncomfortable that Volusenus had to stifle a grin at the sight, and the young Centurion was certain that Pullus would conjure up some flippant response; he was completely unprepared for Pullus to turn to regard him thoughtfully, then say softly, “He reminds me of what it’s like to be so different than all of your comrades, how they’re always looking at you, and you know that they’re thinking, ‘If only I was that big, and that strong, my life would be so much easier.’ And,” he turned his gaze away from Volusenus towards Germanicus, finishing with a grin, “what a tremendous pain in the balls I must have been at that age.”

  Despite himself, Volusenus joined in the laughter from not just Germanicus and Pullus, but from the rest of the men in the room, and while he did not like being the subject of any kind of ridicule, no matter how mild, Volusenus realized that Pullus was speaking about himself just as much as he was about Volusenus.

  “I didn’t know you when you were Volusenus’ age,” Germanicus broke in, “but given how much trouble you caused me when you were my Primus Pilus, I can only imagine.”

  “If I had had a Legate who knew which end of the gladius to hold,” Pullus countered, “I wouldn’t have had to make so much.” It was only the tone, and the smiles on the men’s faces that made Volusenus certain that this was part of their normal banter, yet it still made him uncomfortable. Then, Germanicus included him by turning back and asking him, while pointing to Pullus, “Have you ever met his horse, Latobius?”

  “By the gods,” Pullus groaned, “not this again.”

  Getting into the spirit of the moment, Volusenus answered cheerfully, “I’ve been introduced, sir, but that’s all. Nobody’s allowed to touch his horse.”

  “That’s not true!” Pullus said indignantly, then gave a grin as he added, “You can touch him. But riding him?”

  Germanicus made a show of rolling his eyes; still addressing Volusenus, he said, “I’m sure you’ve already heard all the stories about why Pullus here has such an affinity for horses. It all stems from that horse his grandfather rode….” Turning to Pullus, Germanicus asked, “What was his name again?”

  “Ocelus,” Pullus replied, except there was a catch in his voice that made Volusenus aware that there was something deeper there, and he glanced at the older Centurion out of the corner of his eye, getting the sense that the mention of the first Titus Pullus’ horse was a melancholy topic.

  Apparently, Germanicus sensed this as well, because he changed the subject. “Yes, well. As much as I enjoy our chats, Pullus, I’m afraid that I still have much to do.” Standing up, he offered his arm to Pullus, which did not surprise Volusenus; that he turned and behaved the same with him did, to the point where he almost committed a huge error of protocol. Fortunately, he recovered quickly enough to thrust his arm out and clasp that of Germanicus.

  “I’m going to keep an eye on you, Centurion,” Germanicus said matter-of-factly, and Volusenus felt a flush of pleasure.

  “Hopefully, I won’t do anything to disappoint you, sir,” Volusenus responded truthfully.

  Then, the pair left the presence of the Propraetor, neither of them saying anything while they were still in the praetorium.

  It was not until they were walking across the forum when Volusenus turned and asked Pullus bluntly, “Why did you bring me with you?”

  Instead of answering immediately, Pullus gave an evasive shrug, but Volusenus noticed he did not look in his direction as he finally responded, “I just thought you’d be interested in meeting Germanicus. That’s all.”

  Volusenus was undeterred, again demanding, “But why?”

  Surprisingly, this seemed to irritate Pullus, who shot back, “Does it really matter why? Would you like me to go back to him and tell him to forget the two of you ever met?”

  When put like that, Volusenus saw how ridiculous a proposition that was, and he felt a twinge of chagrin at his ungrateful attitude,
so he decided to change the subject.

  “You know, I remember hearing stories about your grandfather’s horse, but honestly, I just thought they were made up.”

  “Oh?” Pullus’ eyebrow lifted as he glanced over at him. “What stories?”

  “How he killed twenty men on his own,” Volusenus answered, “and that he was the largest horse that ever lived. Things like that.”

  Volusenus was prepared for Pullus to dismiss these as fabrications, certain that the things he had heard from old veterans who had settled in Mediolanum were simply campfire tales; he was quite surprised when Pullus shrugged and replied, “It wasn’t that many, but he did kill two men when the Legion my Avus was marching with was ambushed. And, he was big. He had to be to carry my Avus. But,” he shrugged again, “as far as being the biggest horse who ever lived, I have no idea.”

  Intrigued, Volusenus wanted to know more about this extraordinary animal, asking Pullus, “Did your grandfather tell you about that ambush?”

  In yet another moment that only made sense later, Pullus answered cryptically, “In a manner of speaking, yes.” Then, before Volusenus could press him, the older Centurion said quietly but firmly, “And that’s all I’m going to talk about Ocelus now. Besides,” at this, he grinned, “I’m an old man who needs his rest.”

  By this point in their conversation, the pair had returned to their Cohort area and were standing outside Volusenus’ tent. Clasping arms, they bade each other good night, and as Volusenus watched Pullus walk away, he reminded himself to ask Pullus more about the horse Ocelus and his grandfather. Unfortunately, events were about to transpire that made him forget, so it would not be until months later before the subject of Ocelus returned to his mind, and then it was too late. Or, so he believed.

  At almost the exact spot predicted by the rankers, the temporary coalition of the Bructeri, the Usipetes, and what turned out to be the third tribe of the Tubantes, made their attempt to punish the Romans for their incursion across the Rhenus. Before entering the part of the forest the veterans had described, the formation was required to cross a tributary of the Lupia. As such crossings went, it was not particularly difficult; the width was no more than twenty paces, while the depth was up to the waist of most men since the ice was not thick enough to support so much weight. Nevertheless, it put men in a vulnerable position as they waded across, but to Volusenus’ surprise, there was no attempt to take advantage of this disruption. With their order of march, the Sixth Century was actually next to the Third Cohort on this day, with the 1st being the vanguard, so once the order to halt was given to protect the rest of the army, Volusenus went trotting over to Pullus.

  “Shouldn’t they be attacking us here? We’re more vulnerable crossing this river,” Volusenus asked Pullus.

  Without taking his eyes off the area to their front, Pullus shook his head, answering, “They know we’re expecting them right now. Besides,” he pointed ahead of the pair, “see how much undergrowth and deadfalls are ahead?” Volusenus did, and said as much, and Pullus continued, “My guess is they’re going to wait until the last possible moment, and this stretch is about six miles, so it’ll be at least another watch.” Then, he glanced up at the sky, where the sun was a slightly shiny silver disc obscured by the cloud cover. “No doubt we’ll make camp just on the other side.”

  With this explanation, Volusenus returned to his spot as the progress continued, shaking his legs to try and drive the cold out of them as they waited. Once fully across, with every step, the army pushed deeper into the forest, and before they were more than a half-mile deep into it, the men around Volusenus had ceased their normal chatter, the only noise the crunching sound of hobnails on the snowy ground, punctuated by occasional shouts that sounded a momentary halt, which was followed by the sounds of the cornu, as the Cohorts of the 1st who were positioned on the flanks of the vanguard were forced to send men ahead to chop down trees. Initially, the men of the Fourth were cheered by the thought that, being placed roughly in the middle of the leading edge of the vanguard, it meant that they were following the track through the forest. Until, that is, Pilus Prior Macer had pointed out that the tradeoff for a relatively unimpeded passage was the likelihood that, if there indeed was an attack, they would be the focal point. As Macer intended, this made the men even more alert, though it was not without a fair amount of grumbling, but now even that was gone as the army penetrated more deeply into the forest.

  When the attack came, despite every man of the army expecting it, the instant it actually started was still startling, at least to Volusenus. It began with a hail of missiles, launched from what, to Volusenus’ eye, appeared to be nothing but an expanse of grayish-brown and white. While it could not be considered quiet—the hobnailed soles of thousands of men, along with the clanking of equipment, and the harsh breathing of so many lungs created noise—it did not really compare to the explosion of sound as, in the eyeblink after the launching of their missiles, the Germans broke from their cover, roaring their war cries, running directly at the marching Romans. As far as Volusenus was concerned, it was only through the intervention of the gods, who caused him to just happen to be looking in the exact spot from which a javelin seemed to materialize from thin air, heading directly for him. Afterward, when he went through all that had taken place, Volusenus realized he had given no conscious thought about what to do; somehow, before his mind could comprehend it, as if of its own free will, he felt his upper body lean to the right, sensing more than seeing the German version of the javelin go slashing past him by no more than a hand’s breadth away from his body. He had no time to revel in this close escape, as what to his relatively inexperienced eye appeared to be several hundred howling Germans came bursting into view, from a space that would not seem to provide enough concealment for that many men.

  “Shields up! Ready javelins!”

  Volusenus’ verbal command was shouted more or less simultaneously by the Centurions of the front rank, and the men did not hesitate, dropping their furcae and packs to unsling their shield from where it was strapped; most men who marched on the outermost file on the left preferred to attach theirs so that it protected their left side, while most of the others had it strapped to their backs. Very quickly on his arrival, Volusenus had learned that this was one of those things that most Centurions allowed their men to decide on their own, the only criteria being that they all were able to bring their shields to bear at a speed that satisfied their Centurions. This time was no different, in that there was no discernible difference in speed before every man in the leading rank had their shields up.

  “Release!”

  Just as with the order to raise shields, Volusenus’ verbal command roughly coincided with those of his counterparts along the leading rank, and to the naked eye, it appeared that the onrushing Germans essentially ran directly into the wave of javelins, the impact seeming as if the hand of an invisible giant swept along the front of the attackers. As usual, it served to disrupt their headlong rush, as men either collapsed or were staggered, while those who managed to block the missile headed for them with their shield were faced with the unpalatable act of discarding it. Regardless, these Germans also knew that they must close with their hated foes to have any chance of prevailing, and in their eagerness to do so, those men who were felled in the first volley were trampled underfoot, so that those who might have sustained a minor wound were still killed in all likelihood or at least put out of further action, by their own comrades. Volusenus opened his mouth to shout the command to ready the next volley, but in the eyeblink of time that he had, he realized that the Germans were too close, putting his men in a vulnerable position just when the oncoming warriors would be within spear reach.

  “Drop javelins! Draw gladius!”

  In the moment, it was impossible for him to tell whether his own command came shortly before he heard the Pilus Prior shout the same order, but it was close. He already had drawn his blade and was therefore prepared for the instant when a German roughl
y his own size picked him as his target, raising a large, double-bladed axe above his head in the favored method of attack for this weapon. If Volusenus was carrying a shield, it would have been a straightforward matter of raising it, parallel to the ground to catch the blow, while looking for an opening for a thrust past the defenses of the foe. But since he did not have a shield, he used a trick Pullus had shown him, so that rather than trying to either dodge to the side, or leap backward, Volusenus took a step forward.

  “It will hurt,” Pullus had warned him, “and if you weren’t my size, I’d never advise you to do it, but between your height and the meat on your shoulders, you should come away with nothing more than a bruise.”

  Pullus’ words certainly were not in the conscious part of his brain, but he did exactly that, although when the shaft slammed down on the double layer of mail protecting his shoulder, he felt certain it was broken, the pain was so intense. This idea was dispelled when, without thought or hesitation, he was able to reach up with his left hand and grasp the axe’s shaft, but rather than trying to yank it from the warrior’s grasp, he pulled down on it to pin the weapon on his shoulder at the precise instant the warrior tried to recover the weapon for another blow. Because of the Centurion’s strength, the lack of movement caused the German to drop his shield slightly as he gave another tremendous yank; more accurately, he began his second attempt, but the point of Volusenus’ gladius punched into the man’s mouth, skimming over the top of the German’s shield and dropping him instantly. Even as the man’s shield dropped from nerveless fingers, the axe sliding harmlessly to the ground, Volusenus dropped his vitus and snatched up the shield, momentarily fumbling with the unfamiliar shape and weight as he spun it about to grasp the handle, then within a heartbeat, discarded it because it was too clumsy and retrieved the twisted vine stick. This was the first moment he could take to assess how his Century was performing, and a quick glance told him that, although the front rank had been shoved backward a couple of paces, they were holding firm against the onslaught, and there were already several bodies at their feet. To this point, none of his men had been wounded, but he could see that the front rank was beginning to tire, and he reached for the whistle around his neck, put it to his lips, and blew a long blast. Even in the frenzy of the moment that was an inherent part of the beginning of a fight, Volusenus still felt an intense stab of pride at the manner in which his men responded to the whistle command, shoving their foe backward, or in two cases that Volusenus saw, managing to inflict a wound, then almost in the same motion, step to their right, while the men of the second rank stepped forward.