Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  Laughing, he teased Macerinus, “It’s not my fault the gods loved me so much they made me tall enough to keep my balls from getting wet.”

  Macerinus’ response was nothing more than a grunt, but the march had resumed, and so did the routine that came with it, the temporary excitement of crossing a river quickly forgotten by everyone, except those who had to endure the taunting from their comrades for being clumsy enough to fall in the mud. It was, in every respect, a normal day on the march.

  Much to the disappointment of the Fourth Cohort, the only habitations that lay in their path were three small farms, although one had four huts, including a building that passed for a stable. And, to nobody’s surprise, the inhabitants were nowhere to be found, so that after a quick but thorough search, everything was put to the torch. There were two large cleared fields that had been plowed, but it was not the responsibility of the advance Cohort to despoil those; that job was left to the rest of the vanguard Legion, so once everything was fully ablaze, Pullus ordered the march to resume. At regular intervals, they would be met by groups of horsemen, sometimes as few as a half-dozen but never just a single rider, who gave Pullus information about what lay immediately ahead. Because they were now paralleling this part of the river, which changed from its north/south direction to more east/west, small detours were required to avoid leading the army into boggy spots that were a feature of land along a river. It was impossible to know, but Pullus’ estimate was that it added close to two miles to the actual march, and he was beginning to fret that Germanicus would deem the progress too slow. And, when they made their midday stop, his fears seemed confirmed when a shout from Volusenus alerted him that a party was approaching from behind them. Turning, he immediately saw that it was the Legate himself, along with bodyguards and a couple of Tribunes, including Gaetulicus, who were moving at the trot in his direction. Pullus waited until the Legate was within about fifteen paces before he called his men to intente while offering his salute, which Germanicus returned before sliding off his horse. As he strode towards Pullus, he turned to the standing men, making a gesture that indicated they could break from their position of intente and take a seat on the ground if they chose, then turned his attention on Pullus.

  “Pilus Prior Pullus,” Germanicus spoke loudly, telling Pullus this was meant for his men’s ears as much as for himself, “I see you and your boys have been very thorough!”

  “Sir?” Pullus asked, momentarily confused.

  “It’s just that the Fourth picked those farms so clean that nobody else found a kernel of grain.” Germanicus smiled then, and Pullus relaxed, understanding what was happening now.

  “You should have known my boys wouldn’t leave anything behind, sir,” Pullus’ voice was raised to match Germanicus’, and while he did not glance in their direction, he did not need to, seeing the broad grins on the men within the corner of his vision.

  With this exchange out of the way, Germanicus made a subtle but unmistakable gesture as he walked a short distance away, and for a moment, Pullus worried that he heard the groans and muttered curses from the men within earshot.

  Germanicus had his back turned towards them, so only Pullus saw his broad grin as the Legate said quietly, “No need for them to hear this. Besides,” he chuckled, “they’ll know soon enough.” Turning serious, he continued, “We’re about five miles away from my father’s old camp, which means we should be there about a watch before dark. If,” he added, superfluously in Pullus’ opinion, “the Chatti don’t have other ideas.”

  “Has Gaesorix’s boys seen any sign of them?” Pullus asked, prompting an oath from Germanicus before he replied, “Oh, they’ve found a lot of signs. Apparently, they’re paralleling us, a warband on each side of us. My guess is they’re waiting to see where we’re heading. Although,” he admitted, “I imagine they have a really good idea, since they know I’m leading this army.”

  It was, Pullus admitted to himself, something that had crossed his mind, and it was why he had alluded to Germanicus’ father to his Centurions, although he was not about to say this openly.

  Instead, he chose a more neutral path, commenting, “That only means they’re going to find out one way or another today.” He paused for a moment, then decided he might as well ask, “Do you really think they’re going to come after us once we’re in your father’s camp?”

  Germanicus did not answer at first, choosing to turn and stare off in an easterly direction; finally, he admitted, “Honestly, Pullus, I don’t know. Oh,” he waved a hand in the general direction of the column, “I know everyone thinks this is only about my father.” He suddenly gave Pullus a sidelong glance, smiling slightly as he chided, “Even you, Pullus. Admit it.”

  “Well,” Pullus acknowledged, feeling awkward about it, “the thought may have crossed my mind.”

  Germanicus snorted softly, saying with mild sarcasm, “Put like a true patrician, Pullus.” Before Pullus could reply, he sighed and continued, “But there’s some truth in that, no doubt. Honestly,” he shook his head, “I’m not sure myself why it’s so important to me. But what I do know is that we have to do something to get these savages angry enough to throw caution to the winds and come after us.”

  This, Pullus knew, was an important consideration; whether it would work or not, this was something Pullus questioned, but he also understood why Germanicus was willing to try it, because ultimately, this season was not about the Chatti, it was about Arminius. And, he recognized, the sooner we deal with the Chatti the better.

  This recognition was what prompted him to assure Germanicus, “I think you’re doing the right thing, sir. The sooner we put paid to these bastards, the sooner we can gut that cunnus Arminius.”

  As Pullus intended, this seemed to help Germanicus’ doubts. Suddenly, the Legate’s demeanor subtly but unmistakably changed, becoming brisk, the signal to Pullus that this moment of intimacy between two comrades was over.

  “Yes, well,” Germanicus turned and began heading for his horse, whose reins were being held by Gaetulicus, “time to resume the march, Pullus.”

  “Yes, sir,” Pullus called out, already moving towards the Century as well. “You heard the Legate! On your feet!”

  By the time Germanicus vaulted into the saddle, the men of the First were all standing and picking up their packs, the other Centuries following suit in a rippling movement down the column.

  Waiting just long enough for Signiferi, starting with Macerinus in the rear, to thrust their standards in the air, Pullus turned back to the east, filled his lungs, and bellowed the command to resume the march.

  The army reached Drusus’ old camp without any further excitement, not even coming across any more farms or homesteads. And, while Pullus had expected as much, the sight of the old camp, with sections of the turf walls having tumbled down to partially fill the ditches, which themselves were choked with weeds and bushes, unleashed a string of curses, not just by him but from all the men.

  “It might as well not be built at all,” Volusenus grumbled after the Centurions had gathered to survey the ruins as they waited for the rest of the Legion to arrive.

  “What are you complaining for?” Structus laughed. “It’s not like you’re going to be cleaning any of that out if we get that duty.”

  “I know,” Volusenus protested, “but I have to listen to all the complaining. Just like you do.”

  “Legionaries were given the right to complain by Mars and Bellona,” Cornutus intoned an oft-repeated utterance, usually offered up by Legionaries who faced the prospect of a smack with a vitus for doing so.

  “Then Mars and Bellona can get their asses down here and listen to them,” Volusenus muttered, which prompted enough laughter that it drew Pullus’ attention.

  “If you don’t have anything better to do than stand around and giggle like a bunch of girls,” he called out, “I can certainly find something for you.”

  This had the desired effect, each man returning to their Centuries as the Cohort waited for
the rest of the army to arrive, the rest of the 1st quickly reaching the spot where Pullus had arrayed his Cohort, placing them in a spot where the other Cohorts of the first line could form up to their right, while placing the Fourth far enough in front of the river to allow the remainder to array themselves without standing on the riverbank. Like the veterans they were, the men of the Fourth were sprawled out on the ground, although in their formation, using their packs as pillows or bolsters, some of them catching up on sleep while others resumed what was essentially a dice game with no beginning that anyone remembered or an end that anyone could foresee. Rather than risk another chastisement, Volusenus chose to stand with Gillo and Macerinus, talking quietly as they watched their comrades arrive. Experience told them that perhaps a third of a watch would pass before the work on the camp would begin, once enough of the army was present to divide the labor. As always, wagering was brisk about what task the 1st would draw, and as always, Volusenus watched with amusement, knowing that men based their bets on their own outlook, the optimistic, normally cheerful rankers always choosing the easiest duty, standing guard, or the second most desirable, setting the picket stakes once the wall was completed. Those men who were dour by nature, looking for the rat turd in the pot of honey as the saying went, placed their money on the prospect that they would find themselves digging a ditch, or chopping wood for the towers and, if they would be in place long enough, the gates. On this day, the pessimists won, Pullus returning from his meeting with Sacrovir to curtly announce the Fourth had drawn cleaning out the ditch.

  “At least we don’t have to do much digging,” he had offered, but Volusenus and the rest of them heard the half-hearted tone, all of them knowing this would make no difference to the men doing the work.

  Unfortunately, Volusenus and his fellow officers learned very quickly that, in this, the men were justified in their belief that cleaning out the ditch would not be any less onerous than digging it, and in fact, it was universally agreed that this time it was worse than just digging. Disguised by the presence of so much vegetation was about two feet of stagnant, foul-smelling water, which was bad enough, but the mud underneath the water was even viler. It was probably in the span of a couple hundred heartbeats that a section of men discovered at least one reason for the pervasive stench, stumbling on the carcass of some small animal who had presumably tumbled in and been unable to extricate itself from the sticky, clinging mud. Adding to the normal sounds of work, men began retching, and even for Volusenus and the other officers who were standing up on level ground, the foulness of the air caused them to pull their neckerchiefs up to cover their noses. It was a thoroughly miserable experience, and before much longer, Sacrovir went and found Germanicus, prevailing on him to relent in his command that the ditch needed to be returned to its original state, clear of any kind of obstructions, with only that vegetation that might provide cover for a man being yanked out by the roots. By the time the men assigned to the ditch were finished, the walls had been repaired, the tents raised, and the guard Legion was already in the process of preparing its evening meal where the filthy, thoroughly exhausted, and highly disgruntled Legionaries of the 1st marched past.

  What happened next was, perhaps, inevitable, and in fact was not at all unusual, as the men of the 15th began to jeer and mock their comrades who had drawn what the men called the dirty end of the sponge, paying particular attention to the collective odor emanating from them as they marched past. And, if Pullus’ men had not been so filthy and certain that they would never get the stench of all that foul mud off them, they probably would have marched by with only verbal punches thrown. Instead, it was a man from Vespillo’s Century who, dropping his pack, immediately launched himself at his nearest tormentor, but while he was the first, it was only by a matter of a heartbeat, and it quickly involved more than just the Second Century. It happened so quickly with the Sixth that, for the span of a couple heartbeats, Volusenus could only seem to stand there in open-mouthed shock, but then he was moving, his vitus raised as he aimed for one of his men from his First Section, a stocky veteran named Aulus Atilius, although he was universally known as Pulcher in one of those cruel jokes. Part of the reason for his nickname was because of the nose that had been broken so many times that it seemed to be squashed flat against his face, and he lived up to his reputation as a brawler by instantly flattening a tall, lanky Gregarius from the 15th who had the misfortune of being the closest target for Pulcher’s wrath. Initially, Volusenus only had Pulcher as his target, following the unwritten rule that a Centurion only apply his vitus to men who belonged to him, or at least his Cohort unless it was unavoidable in order to quell some sort of urgent issue. He managed to land one blow across the back of Pulcher’s legs, the preferred spot, which did serve to cause the ranker to yelp in pain, at least temporarily stopping him from throwing another punch. The blow that struck Volusenus came from his right rear quarter, catching him by complete surprise, and it was only his size and strength that kept him on his feet; as it was, he staggered several feet before regaining his balance. Whirling around, any thought about being a Centurion, or the idea that a Centurion did not strike a ranker not within his chain of command vanished. Suddenly consumed with rage, he dropped his vitus, both hands balling into fists, certain that the ranker of the 15th who had struck him was the one who was nearest to him and looking wildly about as his own comrades scrambled to get away from him.

  “Centurion! I…”

  The man began to, presumably, plead his case, but he got no further, Volusenus grabbing a fistful of tunic in his left hand, and with an ease that nobody who saw it would forget, jerked the man up so that his feet were several inches off the ground. Shaking him once, then another time, Volusenus’ face was contorted in rage, except in the eyeblink after he drew back his fist, intent on smashing it into the now-terrified ranker’s face, it was caught from behind just as he launched it. The fact that his fist did not move forward more than a few inches instantly warned Volusenus of whom had caught it, so when he turned his head to see Pullus standing there, his right hand clamped firmly around Volusenus’ forearm, he was not particularly surprised. Pullus’ expression was another matter, hard and implacable, but Volusenus saw in the older man’s eyes what he interpreted as a look of real concern there.

  Regardless, his voice was harsh and unyielding, as was his demeanor as he barked, “That’s enough, Centurion!” Softening his tone just a fraction, he added, “I think you’ve made your point, so you can put this cunnus down.”

  As he returned to his senses, Volusenus only then realized he was essentially holding a full-grown man off the ground, and in the back of his mind, he knew that by his doing so, it would become a topic of conversation among those who saw it, at least for this night, and the thought did not displease him. Still, it was with a certain amount of chagrin that he released his grasp, the ranker’s feet barely touching ground before he began backpedaling away in the direction of his comrades. All of whom, Volusenus saw, clearly wanted to be somewhere else. Meanwhile, Volusenus only became gradually aware that, at least with his Century, his men had stopped brawling with the men of the 15th.

  “Who’s your Centurion?” Pullus demanded of the ranker, but now that he was within the relative safety of his section mates, this seemed to stir the man’s indignation.

  “He,” the ranker pointed at Volusenus, “put hands on me! And he’s not even from the 15th! That’s not right!”

  “And what did you do before that?” Pullus asked in a calm enough voice, but Volusenus was not sure when Pullus had appeared. “What did you do that might cause Hastatus Posterior Volusenus here to put his hands on you?”

  “I…I accidentally bumped into him,” the ranker began.

  “Accidentally?” Volusenus asked, more incredulous than angry. “The only way you could have moved me was to throw yourself at me, and there’s no way it was accidental!”

  This quickly proved to be the clinching argument, as Pullus agreed, “Looking at the two o
f you makes it clear that the Centurion here is telling the truth.” Pointing his vitus directly at the man, Pullus said coldly, “And assaulting a Centurion is punishable by death. They do teach you that sort of the thing in the 15th, don’t they Gregarius?”

  For an instant, to Volusenus, it seemed as if the ranker was disposed to argue, but then he took a glance over his shoulder at his comrades, all of whom looked pointedly away from him.

  His shoulders suddenly slumped, and he replied sullenly, “Yes, we know the regulations as well as anyone.”

  “As well as anyone what, Gregarius?” Pullus demanded, but once more, the ranker seemed determined to resist adding the proper courtesy, which lasted long enough for Pullus to take a single step in the man’s direction.

  “As well as anyone…Centurion,” the ranker muttered.

  Volusenus saw that Pullus was not satisfied, but they were hailed by two Centurions and a pair of Optios who were trotting in their direction, which seemed to signal to Pullus the time to pursue this matter was over.

  Turning to Volusenus, Pullus said formally, “Hastatus Posterior, march your Century to their area. The tents are up and the slaves are ready to scrape the muck off your boys.” In a softer voice, he told Volusenus, “I’ll handle this. And,” he added, “we’ll talk about this later.”

  Saluting, Volusenus moved to his spot, and he was relieved to see that Gillo had gotten the Century under control, including Pulcher, who was limping, which cheered Volusenus slightly. Only once did he glance over his shoulder to see Pullus standing there with the pair of Centurions, and he grinned at the sight of the Pilus Prior using his height and size in a manner that worked with everyone but Volusenus himself, towering over the pair and moving closely enough that both men were leaning back slightly. It was a tactic that, as Volusenus well knew, was extremely effective, and one he used on almost a daily basis. Not, he thought with some humor, with other Centurions, though.