Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  From Pullus’ perspective, he suspected that part of the cause was that, on this campaign, he was feeling the effects of his age more keenly than he had before, and as he had read in his grandfather’s account, for a man carrying the name Titus Pullus, the idea that his body could fail him in any way was almost beyond conception. Both grandfather and grandson had long been accustomed to their size, strength, and all the abilities that came with it. What made matters difficult was that, like most people, they also had the memory of what they had been able to do just a year or two previously. Standing for an entire day, for example, as he and most of the Cohort had done, had never left him feeling this drained before, although he was honest with himself and admitted that it was only by a matter of degree; he had never noticed that he was fatigued at all three or four years earlier. But, he also admitted to himself, it was more than that, and at first he had assumed that, for whatever reason, this situation with Giulia and their son was what weighed so heavily on him, but over the previous weeks, he had begun to suspect that this was not the cause. Whatever it was, he had shocked himself because, for the first time, he had actually begun to think of what a life outside the Legions might look like for him. Initially, he had ascribed this change of heart to the discovery that Giulia was alive, and that Volusenus was his son, yet just in the previous couple of weeks, he had begun to wonder about even that. Reaching the hospital interrupted his thoughts, and he paused a moment before entering, mentally preparing to present himself in the manner he had learned from his grandfather and father, the caring Centurion who was concerned for his men when they were wounded. He was thankful that, as such things went, arrow wounds were among the most minor, unless they happened to sever a vessel or lodge in bone, which could easily become corrupt and lead to either an amputation or an excruciating, lingering death.

  Entering, he paused to let his eyes adjust, and he saw that, as promised, Germanicus had sent his personal physician to treat Ovidius, the most seriously wounded ranker, who had taken an arrow in the face, the iron point puncturing the man’s cheekbone and exiting the back of his neck. Somehow, the point did not sever the large vessel on the right side of his neck, nor did it lodge in his brain, but while it did not touch the spinal column, when Pullus had come to check on the man immediately after he had been dragged from the raft, he saw that the wooden shaft was right next to it. About four inches of arrow was protruding from the back, the rest of it sticking up at an angle from the ranker’s face, providing a graphic picture of the angle from which the arrow plunged down. While nothing had been said by his comrades, Pullus had assumed that the ranker had either become tired or he had gotten careless, allowing his shield to move a matter of a couple inches, which was all it took. Now he was sitting up while the physician examined him, aided by two medici, and Pullus decided to save this man for last, going to the other wounded men who were clustered together. The hospital was not completely empty of patients—it never was—although most of those confined were sick from one of the camp illnesses that were a constant trial for the Legions, but there had been very few battle casualties to this point, so Pullus’ voice sounded unnaturally loud as he alternated between teasing and chiding each of the men, making the same jokes that he had learned were old only to him because he had uttered them so often.

  Only when he was done with the other wounded men did he return to where the physician, with the aid of two medici who were now holding Ovidius down on his side, was very carefully using a fine-toothed bronze saw to cut the shaft, just behind the iron tip. Pullus was careful to approach slowly, and he maneuvered so that he could not be seen by the wounded man, knowing that rankers had a tendency to react involuntarily to the presence of their Centurion, the impulse to rise to one’s feet and come to intente so ingrained that it was their second nature to do so. And, Pullus remembered, he had actually been in that position once, immediately after he had suffered the horrific wound to his left arm during the ambush at a place called The Quarry, during his second year under the standard and soon after his transfer from the Fourth Cohort of his original Legion, the 8th, to the First, under the command of Pullus’ father’s former Princeps Posterior Publius Canidius, although Pullus would always think of him by the nickname Urso. It had been Urso himself who had pushed Pullus back to the ground because, despite the medicus attending him being in the process of examining his wound, he had seen his Primus Pilus approaching. Stopping a pace away, Pullus watched in morbid fascination as, once the physician was finished sawing through the shaft, he moved around to Ovidius’ other side, facing him.

  “Gregarius,” the physician had a heavy accent, but he was clearly understandable, and his tone was apologetic as he explained, “I am about to extract the arrow, but I am afraid that we are going to have to do things a bit differently. Normally, I would have you bite down on the gag, but unfortunately, that would cause the muscles of your jaw to tense, and that is not good. Instead, I am going have you try to relax your jaw and neck as much as you possibly can. Do you understand?” Before Ovidius could reply, the physician, clearly alarmed at what he had just said, added hurriedly, “Wait! Do not try to speak, and I apologize. Just blink twice if you understand.”

  Since Pullus was on the other side, he did not see, but obviously, Ovidius had given the correct response in the proper manner, because the physician nodded. Then, giving a glance to the two medici, one of them draped himself over Ovidius’ legs, while the other grasped Ovidius’ exposed shoulder, albeit awkwardly since they had not been able to take the man’s armor off, and Pullus saw the physician take a deep breath. Reaching out, he carefully wrapped his fingers around the shaft at a spot just an inch away from Ovidius’ shattered cheekbone, paused a heartbeat, then in one smooth motion, withdrew the shaft. What followed happened very quickly, and Pullus’ view was still obscured because of his position and the medicus responsible for holding Ovidius’ upper body. He heard Ovidius groan, except that it almost immediately changed to a gagging sound, as if his mouth had suddenly filled with liquid, but it was the sudden spew of blood that burst forth from Ovidius’ mouth to spatter all over the physician’s heavy leather apron that, to Pullus and his comrades, was identical to that used by butchers, which engendered the nickname men used for the medical staff. The sight and sound of Ovidius gagging caused Pullus to move around to the opposite side, worried that the wounded man might choke, but neither the physician nor the medici made any move to help Ovidius.

  “We must allow the blood that was trapped behind his cheekbone to drain out, or it will pool there and become corrupt,” the physician explained, and even before Pullus reached the physician’s side, Ovidius had stopped gagging, the blood now slowed to a dribble that pooled on the dirt floor of the hospital.

  Another reason Pullus had not been eager to come around to this side was because facial wounds were not only gruesome, but there were men who insisted that becoming disfigured, even in battle, was a mark of disfavor by the gods. He certainly did not ascribe to it, but there was still a residual effect that made him reluctant to move over to where he could see Ovidius’ face; nevertheless, he took a breath, then fixed his expression, intent on not reacting to what he might see. Even with his preparation, he had to stop himself from drawing in a breath, which was even more important because Ovidius was not only conscious, but his eyes had been drawn by the movement of his Pilus Prior stepping into his range of vision.

  For a brief moment, Pullus said nothing, then he found his voice, saying gruffly, “If you ask me, that Chatti bastard did you a favor, Ovidius. You’re not nearly as ugly as you were.”

  What issued from Ovidius was unlike anything Pullus had ever heard, a combination of chuckle, groan, and with the return of that gurgling sound that quickly transformed into a bout of coughing.

  “Pluto’s balls, Ovidius,” Pullus gasped, dropping down on his knees, inadvertently landing in Ovidius’ blood. “I’m sorry!” Ovidius was unable to respond verbally, so he shook his head, which not surprisingly wren
ched another groan from him, and now Pullus put his hand on Ovidius’ shoulder, patting it awkwardly, but when the wounded man tried to open his mouth, Pullus said sternly, “No. Don’t try to talk. Again, I apologize.” He paused, trying to think of what to say, only ending up with, “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”

  When Ovidius shook his head, Pullus felt guilty and relieved in equal parts; it had been difficult for him to maintain his demeanor at the sight of a man who had one side of his face collapsed, where, instead of the protruding of his right cheekbone, there was now a sunken crater, the skin already bluish-black from the bleeding just underneath the surface. What was even worse, Pullus was certain that Ovidius could read the truth in Pullus’ expression, the tears that, somehow, he had managed to avoid shedding now rolling down his ruined face at what he saw in his Pilus Prior’s eyes.

  Standing, Pullus concluded awkwardly, “I’ll let your section know I’ve seen you, and I’m sure they’ll be along shortly.”

  This time, Ovidius tried to say something, but the swelling was such that nothing intelligible came from him, and Pullus, not knowing what else to do, nodded sympathetically then turned to walk away, making a subtle gesture to the physician to follow him.

  “Will he ever be able to march again?” Pullus asked bluntly.

  The physician was obviously not surprised at the question, answering readily, “If the gods are kind and everything heals cleanly, yes, Pilus Prior, he will be able to march. Now,” he shrugged, “how he will manage to eat solid food remains to be seen. Right now, we can keep him alive on broth until the swelling goes down. But,” he finished by warning, “if that wound corrupts, there will be swelling, and if it is severe enough, it will cut off his air and he will strangle.”

  None of what he heard surprised Pullus; over his two decades, he had seen all manner of wounds, and while this one was more gruesome than most, there were enough men in similar circumstances over his time for him to know that what the physician was really saying was the odds were essentially even that Ovidius would die, and even if he lived, he faced a long, trying ordeal. From the brutally objective perspective of the Pilus Prior of a Cohort, Pullus mentally discarded Ovidius as an active member of his Century and Pullus’ Cohort for the foreseeable future. Thanking the physician, Pullus left the hospital, returning to his Cohort area, stopping at Ovidius’ tent, and while he did not lie, exactly, neither did he mention his conversation with the physician.

  “He’s a tough bastard, Pilus Prior,” Ovidius’ close comrade said, “and he’ll be back with us before you know it!”

  Perhaps this was said with bit of false bravado, but when his comrades all added their voice, Pullus knew that their support was meant as much for the close comrade as it was for the thought that Ovidius would survive.

  “That’s good to hear,” Pullus knew he was expected to say something, and he was being honest when he finished, “and Ovidius is blessed by Fortuna to have the comrades in his section behind him, and that will help him heal faster.”

  With that, he was finally done with his immediate tasks and returned to his own quarters, where Alex, who had been alerted that the Cohort had returned, was waiting to help Pullus out of his armor, the first step in the process. Pullus’ fatigue was obvious, and Alex knew from experience that when his de facto uncle was in this state, it was unwise to ask him many questions, so he confined himself to simply asking about the casualties.

  “Two dead,” Pullus said wearily as he bent over at the waist to allow Alex to slide the hamata off. His voice was muffled as he continued, “And one of Structus’ boys was wounded in the thigh and somehow went into the river. He’s missing,” the hamata slid off his body and he stood erect as Alex walked over to the wooden stand to drop the armor over it as Pullus admitted, “but he’s undoubtedly dead. Other than that,” he shrugged, and Alex heard the flat, toneless quality that told him Pullus was physically and emotionally drained, “we have seven wounded, one seriously.”

  “I heard about the Ovidius from Vespillo’s Century,” Alex said, and despite himself, he grimaced at the idea of the wound. “He took an arrow in the face?”

  Pullus nodded, not answering immediately, but he knew Alex as well as Alex knew him, and he understood that his nephew and chief clerk was doing his part to help Pullus deal with the aftermath of a battle. Although, he thought, not for the first time, this won’t even make it into the Legion diary, so I actually haven’t led my Cohort in battle yet. Despite this understanding of the severity of what would barely qualify as a skirmish, Pullus was once more reminded that for the men like Ovidius, and the comrades of the dead men, this day would be etched in their minds for the rest of their days, even more so than any future major battle, provided they all survived it. That was the nature of the Legions, and Pullus supposed, of men in general; the historical importance of something was measured in their minds by how much impact it had on them personally, and losing a friend or suffering a debilitating wound marked this day as impactful as Germanicus’ father’s victories against the Germans, or Divus Augustus’ defeat of Marcus Antonius at Actium.

  Once Pullus had shed his armor, his greaves had been unstrapped, and his padded undertunic peeled off, sodden with his sweat, Alex asked, “Food or scraping first?”

  Pullus considered for a moment, then decided, “Scraping.”

  As he removed his tunic, Alex went to the small box that contained the bathing supplies that were an integral part of a Roman’s life, no matter whether they marched under the standard or not, withdrawing the strigil and the flask of oil that, while it was mostly olive oil, had also been infused with a number of herbs and the essence of other oils, which required Alex to shake vigorously. This concoction was one of Pullus’ secrets; at least, so he, and to a lesser degree, Alex, believed, and it had been developed, mostly by trial and error, yet despite Alex’s mild skepticism, he could not dismiss the evidence his eyes presented, because after vigorously rubbing the oil all over Pullus’ body, as always, his skin began to almost glow a vibrant pink, the sign that blood was rushing to the surface of his skin. And, as it always did, it caused Pullus to shiver slightly, not from cold but from the sensation caused by that sudden flush, along with a tingling feeling in his extremities. Kneading the oiled muscles with a skill that came from long practice, Alex was also careful, knowing where to tread lightly, like the scar tissue on Pullus’ left arm and the slightly puckered hole in his side, the first wound that he had received under the standard, though it was not his first wound. That, as Alex knew, was on his back, just under his left shoulder blade, courtesy of a Latobici arrow when Pullus was ten years old, and he was careful with that one as well. Neither of them spoke, which was also a practice they had developed after a battle or a trying day, allowing Pullus’ mind to empty without the distraction of conversation, and Alex was rewarded with the sound of Pullus’ breathing slowing, becoming more regular. While he remained standing, arms slightly extended out from his body, Pullus’ eyes were closed, welcoming the feeling of relaxation that slowly suffused his body, which in turn allowed his mind to empty from all of the myriad and unending worries of a Pilus Prior after his Cohort has seen action. Once Alex was done rubbing the infused oil into Pullus’ skin, he took the strigil and, with quick, practiced movements, scraped the oil from Pullus’ body, taking the dirt with it.

  Only once did Pullus break the silence, grunting, “I wish we had a caldarium.”

  “Not until we get back to Ubiorum,” Alex replied briskly; this was a recurring complaint by Pullus, and his answer was always the same.

  Indeed, Alex suspected that Pullus’ comment was more out of habit than anything else, and in a continuation of their established routine, once Alex was through, he left Pullus’ private quarters as part of the next step in the ritual. This had changed recently; not in substance, but in the identity of the participants. When Pullus had been promoted, while he brought Alex with him, he had left Alex’s counterpart Balio behind to provid
e Licinius with an experienced clerk, while Macer had taken Alex’s best friend Lucco with him to the Second Cohort. The second clerk was, like many of the class of scribes and clerks who were so important to the Legions, a Greek, but he had been born into that condition as one of the slaves belonging to a wealthy Roman merchant who had fallen on hard times and had sold him to the army. His name was Demetrios, and he was even younger than Alex, although, as Pullus was forced to remind himself, Alex was no longer a youngster but a man in his prime whose thirtieth birthday was not that far off. Initially, he had clashed with Alex, believing for reasons that Pullus would never learn that he should have been considered the chief clerk, meaning the preparation of the Pilus Prior’s meals was beneath him. By this point, however, Alex had asserted his authority in a manner that meant that, when Alex emerged from Pullus’ private quarters, Demetrios got up and went hurrying out to retrieve Pullus’ evening meal where it had been cooking on the charcoal fire outside the tent, without a word being said. From Alex’s perspective, it was not only important but a point of pride that he had settled this small power struggle himself without Pullus being aware that there was any friction in the first place. That Pullus chose to allow him to believe he was unaware of what had taken place, which Gemellus had informed him about since the Signifer had been passing the stables in Ubiorum, shortly before the Legion had departed, and seen Alex administering what was in effect a savage beating of Demetrios, was something about which Alex would remain unaware. Ultimately, what mattered, both to Alex and to Pullus was that, by the time the Legion marched with Germanicus, the hierarchy had been firmly established, and it was within a matter of heartbeats that Demetrios returned, holding a steaming bowl of soldier’s porridge in one hand, and an entire loaf of castris panera in the other, holding it in a manner that enabled him to place two small hard cheeses and a hunk of pork on top of it. Without a word being said, Demetrios transferred his burden to Alex, who, for what he was certain was the thousandth time, found himself shaking his head at the sight of the amount of food it took to satisfy his uncle. Pullus had settled behind his desk, where he usually took his meals, and Alex placed the bowl and bread on it. Pullus, as was his habit, gave a grunting sound that Alex knew was his way of saying thanks, but he was already pushing the flap aside to return to the outer office on the way to retrieve his own meal. By the time he returned, as he knew would be the case, Pullus had already consumed most of the porridge and half of the bread, which prompted Alex to shake his head again, although he wore a half-smile on his face.