Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  Nodding, Volusenus spoke slowly as he tried to think of the best way to put it, “Yes, it is. But not just for the reason you might think. He is…” he frowned as he tried to put it into words, “…different than Pilus Prior Macer. Not,” he held up a hand, “that Macer wasn’t a good Pilus Prior, because he was. There’s just something about how he leads the Cohort that’s…nastier, I suppose.”

  “Nastier?” she echoed, slightly unsettled by the word. “What does that mean?”

  “Well,” he told her earnestly, “if you ever saw him fight, you’d know what I mean. Pullus is truly in a class by himself. And,” he added without thought, “he’s made me much, much better.”

  “Better at what?” Giulia asked, intrigued now.

  “Everything,” he replied instantly. “Naturally, his work with the gladius is unparalleled. Did you know,” she watched as his face transformed, reminding her of the eager little boy who would rush home to tell her of some exploit by his favorite gladiator that he had seen at the games his father had taken him to, “that he’s never been defeated in sparring? Not once?”

  “He must be very fierce,” she said, trying to decide what she wanted to do more, laugh or cry.

  “He is,” he agreed, completely oblivious to her state. “And that’s what he’s done for the Cohort. That,” he concluded, “is what I mean by the men being ‘nastier.’ There’s a…fury,” he settled on, “that he’s given us. Although,” he shrugged, “I have no idea how. I just know that it’s there.”

  Giulia occupied herself by taking a sip from her cup, her mind reeling as she thought through the implications of what she was considering. And, when she set her cup down, she had every intention of telling her son the truth.

  But then, Gnaeus hesitated in such a noticeable and familiar way, she looked at him sharply, shoving this aside to ask, “Gnaeus? What is it?”

  Taking a breath, her son began, “There is one thing I wanted to talk to you about, Mama. And it concerns Pilus Prior Pullus.” When he looked up at her, she braced herself, but she was completely unprepared to hear him say, “I owe him money. A fair amount of money.” When her expression changed, he misunderstood, and he hurriedly assured her, “It’s not anything bad, Mama. I don’t owe him a gambling debt or anything. It’s for a gladius.”

  “A gladius?” Giulia echoed, but she also felt a sense of relief, thinking that it could not possibly be a large amount for a gladius, although she was still puzzled, and asked, “Don’t the Legions supply you with weapons?”

  “They do,” he agreed, then scoffed, “if you could call them that. And that’s why I bought this gladius, because I had an…accident with the one I had been carrying.”

  “Accident?” Giulia was not fooled, recognizing his tone. “Is this the kind of ‘accident’ a mother shouldn’t know about?”

  “Yes,” he answered firmly. “But I was without a weapon when I needed one, and as you can imagine, I don’t want that to happen again. So Pullus convinced me to invest in a good blade. And,” he added, “that’s what it is, Mama. It’s an investment, in my life.”

  “That makes sense,” she admitted, then gave him a smile. “So, how much did this gladius cost, and why did you need his help to buy it?”

  Just as she had recognized his tone, she read the look of guilt that flashed across his face as he mumbled, “I haven’t managed my money as well as I should, for one thing. And,” he paused, something that she instantly understood when he finished, “the blade costs five thousand sesterces.”

  For a moment, his mother was too stunned to speak, then she said in a choked voice, “Five thousand sesterces???”

  “I know,” he held up a placating hand, something that, had he remembered, his mother absolutely loathed, “that sounds like a lot of money, Mama.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a lot of money,” she said tartly. “It is a lot of money.”

  “And,” he asked her quietly, “if it saves my life, is it worth it?”

  “Of course it is,” she snapped, nettled not at her son but at herself for falling so neatly into what she now saw as his trap. Regardless of this, she felt compelled to point out, “But surely there are gladii that cost a thousand sesterces that would do the same thing!”

  He laughed at this, then decided to take a slightly different approach. “It’s something that Pilus Prior Pullus convinced me to do, Mama. And it’s because he carries his grandfather’s gladius…”

  “Yes,” she said without thinking. “I know.”

  The instant the words were out, she was certain she had committed a fatal blunder, and when she glanced up at her son, he was staring at her, looking completely confused.

  “How,” he asked bewilderedly, “could you possibly know that, Mama?”

  Pullus had often told her that one thing he loved about her was her quick mind, something that she had dismissed as the kind of flattery someone tells their lover, but this time, it saved her, or this was how she saw it.

  “You seem to forget where I grew up,” she pointed out, hoping that her words did not ring as false to her son as they did in her own ears. “Titus Pullus was the most famous man from the Legions in my day, and his gladius and his horse were only slightly less famous.”

  “Ocelus,” Volusenus supplied the name of the gray horse automatically, but he was still frowning. “But how would you know that the Pilus Prior carried it?”

  “Who else would?” she countered, then decided to say nothing else.

  Volusenus said nothing for a span of several heartbeats, then shrugged, mumbling, “I suppose that’s true. Anyway,” he went on, “that gladius kept the first Titus Pullus alive, and the Pilus Prior’s father and now the Pilus Prior alive for years.”

  Before he could say anything more, Giulia reached out to place a gentle hand on her son’s arm, struck by the memory that she had done the same thing, at the same table with Gnaeus’ father just a few days earlier. Somehow, she managed to keep the emotions that were flooding through her from her voice, chiding her son, “Gnaeus. Did you really think I wouldn’t give you the money if you didn’t have it?”

  “No,” he admitted, looking somewhat embarrassed, “I knew you would. It’s just that the Pilus Prior actually paid Scrofa. That’s the smith who made the blade,” he explained, “and I don’t like being in debt to him. Not,” he assured her, “because of him or anything he’s said. In fact, I happen to know that he has more than enough money.”

  By this point in the conversation, Giulia was at a state where her initial thought about whether to laugh or cry seemed to be a permanent condition, but she pretended to be puzzled by what Gnaeus had said, “How do you know that? Oh,” she added, “I know that Centurions are paid better than their men, but that is still quite a sum.”

  Volusenus gave her a grin, and dropped his voice in the kind of conspiratorial tone he often used with her when he imparted some great boyhood secret. “Actually, I happen to know that the Pullus family is quite wealthy. In fact,” to Giulia, he sounded quite pleased with himself, “I know exactly how much his family is worth, right at this very moment.”

  Oh, Titus, Giulia thought as she struggled to retain her composure; what are you doing telling Gnaeus this kind of thing? In this, she was truly torn, because while she actually understood what his father was doing, what Titus had not yet learned about their son was that Gnaeus was terrible at keeping secrets. So bad was he at it that it was one of the few times she and Quintus had shared humorous moments as they realized that neither of them could surprise the other if Gnaeus had any knowledge of whatever it was beforehand.

  It was with this in mind that she said in what she hoped was a light tone, “I can’t imagine that your Pilus Prior would look kindly on you spreading his secrets, Gnaeus.”

  She was rewarded by the sudden look of, if not outright worry, then concern, and he admitted, “You’re right, Mama. But,” he pointed out, “I’ve only told you.”

  “And,” she replied, not lightly, “you need to
make sure it stays that way, Gnaeus.”

  “It will,” he assured her.

  “Well,” she sighed, “is it all right if we go to see Herennius tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely,” he assured her, and fairly quickly, they moved on to other topics.

  At least outwardly, Giulia was keeping up with him, reminded how quickly her son tended to move from one subject to another, attacking each and every one with an intensity and focus that she had first noticed when he was perhaps four years old, serving as the first time she understood that Gnaeus shared more with his father than just his size.

  Despite telling himself that Giulia would not tell Volusenus the truth, when the day arrived that Volusenus was due back in Ubiorum, Pullus rose early, simply because he had been unable to sleep. His mood had not been helped by Macer; ever since his friend had learned the truth about his paternity to Volusenus, he had not been shy about letting his feelings be known on the subject of whether he should tell Pullus’ son. And, when Volusenus returned and reported in as prescribed by the regulations, Pullus was in his office, waiting for this moment. Despite the door being closed, he recognized Volusenus’ voice, and he braced himself for the knock and ensuing confrontation, but there was nothing in the muffled tone that hinted to Pullus his son was agitated or angry about something. While the knock did come, and Pullus bade entry, the expression on his son’s face told Pullus what he needed to know, and he was suddenly battered by conflicting emotions; disappointment, and a fair amount of anger at Giulia that was competing with the relief he felt that there would be no confrontation. If anything, he thought, he looks happy, or at least relieved.

  He got his answer when, after exchanging salutes and Volusenus intoning the official words announcing his return, with a grin, he extended a leather bag, bulging with coin as he said, “It was sooner than I expected, Pilus Prior, but I have your money.”

  The smile Pullus offered Volusenus felt forced, but his son did not seem to notice, and he tried to sound jocular as he said, “I hope it wasn’t too painful asking your mother for the money.”

  “Oh, it was,” Volusenus replied wryly, grimacing in an exaggerated fashion that elicited a chuckle from Pullus. “Try explaining to a woman why a gladius costs five thousand sesterces. Although,” he finished casually, “you actually helped, in a manner of speaking.”

  The sudden clenching of Pullus’ stomach was so noticeable that he had to stifle the wince, and he tried to match his son’s tone as he asked, “Oh? How did I help?”

  “Honestly,” Volusenus turned his head and nodded in the direction of the wooden rack that held the armor and baltea of the Roman Centurion, “it was your own gladius that did it.” Returning his attention to Pullus, he asked, “Do you recall me mentioning that she grew up in Siscia like you did?”

  Pullus pretended to think, careful not to overdo it, and he nodded as he answered, “Yes, now that you mention it, I do.”

  “Well,” Volusenus continued, “she saw your grandfather, and had heard about the gladius that he carried that he had made in Gaul years before. And,” while he did not alter his tone noticeably, Pullus was certain that he heard the pride there, “she correctly assumed that you’re carrying it now.”

  “She sounds,” Pullus’ voice sounded strange in his ears, “like she is an intelligent woman.” Then, unable to resist, and also to change the subject, he grinned up at Volusenus as he joked, “Too bad it got lost somewhere.”

  Volusenus laughed, but there was a dutiful quality to it, and Pullus took the opportunity to end the exchange. “But, I thank you for repaying me, Gnaeus. Not,” he added, “that I was worried about you not doing so. Now,” he abruptly changed to the tone that told Volusenus that he was speaking as the Pilus Prior, “I’m sure you want to get with your Century. Gillo’s done a good enough job of handling them, but they’ve slacked off a bit since you were gone. Although,” he allowed, “that’s to be expected when the Centurion leaves. The same thing happened to the First.” Glancing down at his desk, he rummaged through a stack of tablets, then finding the one he wanted, glanced at it. “Yes, here it is. Right now, they’re out at the javelin range.”

  Volusenus correctly interpreted the shift, so he brought himself to intente, saluted, and left the office, leaving Pullus to stare at his retreating back, awash with conflicting emotions. His head told him that Giulia was right, that this was not the right time to tell Volusenus the truth, but neither could he shake the feeling that if he did not do so now, he would not have another chance. Shaking his head in an attempt to dispel the morbid direction his mind was going, Pullus returned his attention to the important task of ensuring that his Cohort had their allotted supply of chickpeas and lentils. As mundane as it seemed, every experienced Centurion knew that contained within the figures etched into the wax tablet was the secret to Rome’s success; indeed, he thought ruefully, in some ways it’s more important than our training. Rome’s Legions were the best fed army in the known world, and it was tied to more than just keeping the men happy. Those chickpeas, lentils, and most importantly of all, the wheat to make the castra paneris, was the fuel that enabled the Legions to vanquish their enemies, build the roads, and complete all the other projects that normally occupied a substantial part of the winter months. And, he thought grimly, if half of what I’ve heard about Germanicus’ plan is true, we’re going to need every kernel and grain. Soon enough, he was absorbed in his work, the nagging thoughts about Volusenus forgotten.

  It was the second week of March when, at last, the preparations for the long-awaited punitive campaign against Arminius and his confederation of tribes were completed. However, it started with the Chatti tribe, and it was not until the night before they left Ubiorum that the 1st learned that Germanicus was dividing the army into two columns. The first column, consisting of four Legions and five thousand auxiliaries, made up by men from the Cugneri, Treveri, and Ubii tribes, were placed under the command of Aulus Caecina Severus, although he was referred to by his nomen of Caecina and not his cognomen. Their mission, which would depart from Vetera, was essentially a repetition of Germanicus’ abbreviated winter campaign, taking almost an identical route along the Lupia, but whereas Germanicus and the Legions he led during the winter had as their primary task to punish the Marsi, razing their villages and destroying their food caches, Caecina had slightly different instructions. Since Germanicus considered the Marsi to still be crippled from that punitive expedition, Caecina’s presence was more about intimidation, and to convince the neighboring tribe to the north, the Cherusci, that they were the Roman objective, which would be the logical choice since Arminius was a Cherusci. While logical, it was not quite the time for the Cherusci to face Roman vengeance; that would be the second phase of this campaign. Instead, Germanicus’ purpose was to force both the Marsi and Cherusci to remain in a defensive position that allowed his portion of the army, consisting of four Legions and twice as many auxiliaries, to assault the Chatti.

  “We,” Sacrovir announced to the assembled Centurions the night before their departure, “are going to be going with Germanicus, not Caecina. Apparently,” he said this with obvious pride, but Volusenus did not miss the fact that as he said this, Sacrovir glanced over at the new Quartus Pilus Prior, “Germanicus has specifically requested us to be part of his column, while the 20th is going up to Vetera.”

  Not surprisingly, this was met with approval from the Centurions, but out of the corner of his eye, Volusenus saw that Pullus looked anything but happy about this.

  He was about to ask Pullus why, but Sacrovir continued, “We’re going to be doing things a little differently this time, at least as far as our move to Mogontiacum. We’ll be marching, but,” he hesitated for a fraction, “our heavy baggage is going to be transported by river, including the wagons.” This elicited a reaction, although it was obviously not as spirited as Sacrovir expected, but that was because, as with so many things that happened with the army, most of the Centurions had already been informed of this, t
hanks to the small army of clerks like Alex.

  Nevertheless, there was always one man who, for whatever reason, had not been forewarned by their clerk, and while he could not see him, Volusenus recognized the voice of the Sextus Princeps Posterior as he asked, “Why are we doing that, Primus Pilus?”

  Volusenus expected Sacrovir to be irritated, but if Volusenus was any judge, he seemed pleased to be asked, and it made him wonder if this had been Sacrovir’s own idea and not something relayed from Germanicus.

  “Because now that the thaw has happened, there’s still that section of road between Confluentes and Mogontiacum that hasn’t been finished, and with all the supplies moving back and forth, I’ve been told that the road is a real mess,” Sacrovir explained. “So,” he went on, “I made the decision that it’s better for the men if they don’t have to spend their time getting covered in muck getting the wagons out of the mud.” He glanced down at something, and for the first time, Volusenus saw that he was holding a tablet, which he consulted before he added, “According to what I’ve been told is that, given the current at this time of year, the baggage will arrive two days after we do in Mogontiacum.”

  “Will the men be given leave?” Volusenus did not recognize the voice, but he was as interested as anyone in the answer.

  “If Germanicus allows it,” Sacrovir affirmed, “then yes, we’ll give them at least a night out in the town.”

  That this was met with cheers by the officers was another reminder that, no matter how long they had been in the Centurionate, they were rankers at heart.