by R. W. Peake
He was slightly encouraged that Germanicus did not immediately dismiss this as too risky, but the Legate was clearly unconvinced, asking Pullus, “Why do you think that’s the best way?”
“Because,” Pullus replied immediately; he was certain he was on more secure footing with this, “I know you’re not going to want to wait to attack.”
Germanicus grinned at this. “You know me too well, Pullus. But,” the smile vanished, “yes, I want to strike as quickly as possible.” Noticing Pullus’ expression, he asked, “You don’t agree?”
“It’s not that I don’t agree, sir,” Pullus replied. “I’m just wondering whether we should let Arminius and his bunch put some more miles between us and them. Because,” he pointed out, “if we hit tonight, we’ll still have to get back to the Rhenus. And,” he added, “as fast as we’re moving, let’s not fool ourselves. The Germans can move faster.” He finished by shrugging. “I just don’t know that we want to have those bastards snapping at our heels for the last thirty miles back to Ubiorum.”
Germanicus considered this; he instantly knew that Pullus was correct to worry about it, and there was a high probability that this might very well come to pass, and he would be forced to fight a rearguard action.
After a span of some heartbeats, he finally said, “I understand your concern, Pullus, and it’s a valid one. But,” he shook his head to emphasize, “I’m not willing to wait for tomorrow night. Especially when we don’t know with any certainty that whoever Arminius has left in command there has been ordered to wait where they are now. They’re just as likely to break camp and continue moving in this direction, and then what?”
Pullus listened intently, and as Germanicus had with him, he did understand the Legate’s reasoning, but when Germanicus finished, he immediately pounced, “Why is that such a bad thing, sir?” When he saw Germanicus did not follow him, he explained, “What if we set up an ambush and wait for them to walk into it?”
Germanicus stared down at Pullus, not in a disbelieving manner, but because he instantly recognized this was an idea with some merit that deserved consideration.
“That,” he said slowly, “is something to think about, Pullus. But we can do that thinking once we stop. Either way, I think we need to go closer.”
Even if Pullus had been disposed to argue the point, he had heard Germanicus use this tone before and knew that it meant the Legate’s mind was made up, so he simply saluted, then Germanicus went trotting back to his spot, also knowing that Germanicus would not follow his advice about an ambush. A moment later, the march resumed, and Pullus ignored the inquisitive stares from his men, although it was more difficult with Gemellus, if only because of proximity, and not much better with Aulus Poplicola, the Cohort Cornicen, but he managed to avoid eye contact. It was not until they had marched another mile, and it was getting close to their normal stopping time before Pullus informed them that they would be marching longer than expected.
“That must mean we’re close,” Gemellus commented. When Pullus said nothing, he actually turned his head to scan the trees and underbrush lining the track before the Signifer added, “And it means we’re probably going to attack tonight. Is that the way of it, Pilus Prior?”
When Pullus looked at Gemellus, it was with a mixture of amusement and irritation as he growled, “You’re too fucking clever for your own good sometimes, you know that, Gemellus?”
Long accustomed to his Centurion’s bark, Gemellus grinned and was completely unrepentant, retorting, “I wouldn’t be a very good Signifer if I wasn’t, would I, Pilus Prior?”
“That’s true,” Pullus granted, and he decided that it would not hurt for the men to know, and he told Gemellus, “I know you’re dying to tell the boys, so go ahead.”
And, as Pullus expected, this occupied the collective attention of his First Century, which was quickly passed back to the Second when a man fell out to relieve himself, which was the most common method rankers used to pass information when they were marching in a column. It was only after it was too late that Pullus realized that, since Germanicus had not called a meeting of the Pili Priores, Sacrovir would most likely be learning of what the Legate had decided from one of the men of the Sixth Century. Which, Pullus knew, would irritate the Primus Pilus, so he resigned himself to hearing about it when they finally stopped.
That stop came shortly before sundown, where Germanicus’ scouts had found a series of connected fallow fields that were hidden from the track by a stand of trees, but the word was quickly passed that there would not be a camp constructed that night. Following immediately behind that, but barely in time, Germanicus stopped his Corniceni from relaying that order in the normal manner.
“According to Batavius, we’re a bit more than four miles away from where the Germans made camp after Arminius left,” Germanicus informed the Pili Priores as their Centurions and Optios took charge of settling the Legion down in the field. “I don’t think they’ll be able to get past the screen Batavius set up, but I don’t want to take a chance that they might get close enough to hear our horns.”
“Does this mean that we’re going to be attacking tonight?” Sacrovir asked immediately.
This caused Germanicus to frown at the Primus Pilus, clearly irritated at the man, although Pullus could not tell if it was the question itself or the tone in which Sacrovir had used, and he partially blamed himself for this tension.
However, Germanicus’ own tone was, if not cordial, then at least not overtly hostile, answering, “Actually, Sacrovir, that’s what we’re about to talk about.” Pausing a heartbeat to scan the faces around him, he went on, “Originally, that’s what I intended to do, especially now that we’ve learned about Arminius.”
“What about Arminius?” This came from Gallus, whose Eighth Cohort had been marching drag and therefore separated from the rest of the column, although with only mules and no wagons as the baggage train, it was not as onerous, but now Germanicus looked directly at Sacrovir, who suddenly became uncomfortable.
“Apparently, the Primus Pilus neglected to send a runner back to you, Gallus,” Germanicus said, although he was looking at Sacrovir, “or maybe it just slipped his mind after he was told.”
As far as Pullus was concerned, he could not have cared less whether Gallus had been informed by Sacrovir; what mattered to him was that now Sacrovir had other things to worry about besides Germanicus showing him favor.
This hope did not last long, because once Germanicus was through catching Gallus up about Arminius and a significant amount of his force’s absence, Germanicus continued, “As I said, I was originally thinking that, yes, we would attack tonight. But then,” Pullus got an instant’s warning because the Legate turned and indicated him with one hand, “Pullus offered a suggestion that I think deserves serious consideration.”
Pullus saw Sacrovir’s head turning out of the corner of his eye, and he felt the man’s eyes on him, although he could not tell whether it was hostile.
He got his answer when it was Sacrovir who spoke, his voice taut, “Oh, is that so? Sir, if you don’t mind, I would love to hear what Pilus Prior Pullus suggested to you. Since,” he finished acidly, “this will be the first I’m hearing about it.”
Ignoring Germanicus’ apologetic glance, Pullus answered readily enough, explaining the idea about lying in wait for the moment when the remaining Cherusci resumed their march and striking then while they were moving. The others listened attentively enough, but Pullus was most concerned with Sacrovir, yet to his mild disbelief, and a bit of anger, it was Macer who spoke up first.
“How do we know that they’re not going to wait for Arminius to come back?”
It was certainly a reasonable and sensible question, but it surprised Pullus nonetheless, although it was more because of who had asked it.
He tried to keep from sounding defensive, answering honestly, “We don’t, not really. But it’s clear that Arminius is planning on making some sort of offensive move, or he wouldn’t have marched this
far out of Cherusci territory.”
“Maybe he was planning on coming to help the Chatti,” Clepsina suggested, but while this was also sensible on its face, this Pullus felt more confident about, shaking his head.
“This is too far north for him to be doing that,” he argued. Turning to Gaesorix, who had been standing silently, watching with what Pullus knew was his usual amusement at the sight of Romans bickering, he asked his friend, “Have you seen any indication that they intend to turn south? Is there a track that runs in that direction between where we are right now and where they’re camped?”
Gaesorix shook his head, answering immediately, “No, there’s not, and no, nothing they’ve done would indicate they plan on changing from moving in this direction, not that that means much since they’re better at moving cross country than we are. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “they do have wagons. So, no,” he shook his head as he finished, “I do not think they are going to be turning to go help the Chatti.”
“Besides which, they’re too late,” Germanicus interjected, which was also accepted as truth; whether it was because the others agreed or that it was the Legate who said it, Pullus could not tell.
Seeing this, Pullus glanced at Germanicus, who nodded for him to continue. “So we believe they’re going to continue in this direction. But,” he hurried on, seeing more than one man’s mouth opening, “that’s not a certainty, and it’s just as likely that they’re going to stop and wait for Arminius to return.”
“Which means,” Macer pointed out, “that if and when they do resume, it’s only going to be when Arminius gets back, with all those men.”
The words were still hanging in the air when Pullus realized that Macer was indeed correct, and he was torn; part of him was irritated to have his suggestion dismissed, but he was also happy that it was Macer, who was his closest friend in the Legion. Still, he also saw that the question about whether to wait or attack had been answered, which Germanicus confirmed.
“It sounds like our best plan is to attack tonight. Does everyone agree?” In a ragged unison, the Pili Priores nodded, and Pullus ignored the look of satisfaction Sacrovir was giving him. With this settled, Germanicus continued, “Now that we’ve decided, we need to talk about how we’re going to accomplish what we came here for. And,” he added meaningfully, “doing it in a way that’s quick, clean, and gets as few of your men hurt as possible.”
Not unexpectedly, that conversation took much longer, starting with Gaesorix, with input from Cassicos, squatting in the dirt and sketching out the layout of the German camp, but finally, after a third of a watch, only then were the Pili Priores released to go to where their Cohorts were already cooking their evening meal.
“The next time you have an idea, Pullus,” Sacrovir’s voice came from behind him, and Pullus was thankful that between that and the growing darkness, the Primus Pilus could not see Pullus rolling his eyes, “how about you come to your Primus Pilus first?”
Pullus’ first inclination, as it usually was, was to argue by pointing out that the circumstances had precluded that from happening, given that the Legate had asked him for his immediate response.
Instead, he simply answered, “Yes, Primus Pilus. I apologize, and I’ll make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”
It was impossible to know who was more surprised, Sacrovir, who had expected his normally combative Pilus Prior to argue the point, mainly because he actually knew he was being unfair but needed to vent his irritation, or Pullus for not behaving as he normally did since he could not really articulate why he was behaving in this passive manner.
“Ah,” Sacrovir managed, trying to disguise his mild shock. “Well, that’s good then. Now,” his tone changed back to that of a Primus Pilus issuing an order, “go see to your men. We’ve got a big night ahead of us.”
“That we do, Primus Pilus,” Pullus answered, slightly disgusted with himself.
With Alex missing, it had fallen to Gemellus and Poplicola to bear the responsibility for feeding their Centurion, and as they had learned to their detriment the first night, they made sure to prepare enough to essentially feed themselves, Pullus, and one extra man, which their Centurion also consumed. The 1st was arrayed in a manner that was recognizable to any man in the Legion; the spacing was the same, and the Cohorts were in their normal spots around an imaginary praetorium, although there was not room in the field for the forum. Otherwise, sections were seated around a charcoal fire since it produced little smoke and adequate heat for meals, men wandering around to talk to their comrades in other sections and Centuries, although there was not much of this between Cohorts, which was normal. Pullus had made his first set of rounds while Gemellus and Poplicola prepared the meal, but he had decided to wait until after everyone was fed before relaying the orders that were part of the plan for the Fourth Cohort in the coming raid. As always, he ate rapidly, while Fabricius, Gemellus, and Poplicola learned very quickly that he was unwilling to share anything with them about what lay in their immediate future. Once he was done, he stood, and, relying on his height and the fact that he knew that every one of his officers had been looking in his direction, watching for the signal, simply raised an arm. Immediately, the Centurions and Optios of the Fourth came to him, but like the other Pili Priores, Pullus discovered there was a practical problem; while the field was large enough to accommodate the entire Legion, there was no room left over so that he could move them out of hearing. Biting back a curse, he decided that he would just have to relay their orders where those rankers within earshot could hear.
“I know you bastards already know that we’re attacking tonight,” he began, rewarded by grins, which he ignored. “We move at midnight. The Legate’s plan calls for us to move slowly, so he’s planning on more than a watch to get us into position.” Suddenly he squatted down, grabbing a stick off the ground, and began sketching in the dirt, his officers following his example, but as always, hierarchy was important, the Centurions kneeling, while the Optios stood and looked over their shoulders. “Gaesorix’s men have sketched out their camp, and this is what it looks like.” Pointing to a spot a few inches away, he explained, “This is where we are, and the direction we’ll be coming from. Now,” he pointed to a series of squares he had drawn, “Segestes and his family have always been held in the middle of the camp, but more importantly, they don’t sleep in tents; they’re kept in five wagons. They have more wagons, but they’re off over here.” He pointed to a spot on the opposite side of the drawing from the direction the Legion would be approaching. “So the five wagons mark where Segestes and his family are located.”
“And,” Volusenus spoke up, “who’s going to get that job?”
Pullus glanced up at him, his first instinct to respond scornfully, but the fact that it was his son who asked what was, at the very least, a naïve question prompted him to answer simply, “The First. They’ve got the numbers.”
“Like Sacrovir would ever let anyone else get the glory,” Vespillo muttered, but this time, Pullus was not inclined to either argue the point or chastise his Pilus Posterior.
Instead, he simply ignored it, continuing by pointing to a spot along the edge of the symbols he had used to denote the encampment.
“We’re going to be coming into the camp from the south side. Our job is to be ready to support the First if they run into trouble. And,” now he grinned at them, “to make sure that if they have trouble, it doesn’t come from the south. The Fifth will be on our side as well, but east of us. We’re going to be aligned with the part of the camp where Segestes’ family is.” His expression hardened, and he warned, “And, if the First does have trouble, it’s going to be because of the Second or the fucking Third, not us. Is that understood?”
As he expected, each of them gave Pullus their assurance that they would not let him down, and he felt a tightness in his chest as he tried not to look too long at his son, a part of him aching at how young he was, and, as Pullus had realized once he learned the truth, the parts
of his mother that showed in him. So obvious were they now, Pullus often wondered how he had missed them, but only because of Macer was he aware of their own marked similarities, aside from their size and musculature. Satisfied that they were aware of their responsibilities, Pullus stood and dismissed them to inform their Centuries, giving Volusenus a nod and slight smile as he walked past. Moving from one fire to the next, Pullus made sure he did not linger, urging the men to finish their meals, forego their normal game of dice or tables, and get as much rest as they could. By the time he was through circulating through every Century, most of the men who he visited first had followed his advice, and since he went in numerical order, he ended with the Sixth. Here he did linger, dropping down to his haunches next to Volusenus, who had spread out his sagum and was still finishing his meal.
Neither man spoke for a long moment, as Volusenus chewed his mouthful, eyeing Pullus with frank curiosity until finally, he swallowed and asked, “Yes, Pilus Prior?”
Pullus shook his head, “Nothing. I’m just stopping for a bit.”
Volusenus grinned at him.
“Yes, I understand that older people need more rest.”
Pullus grabbed his crotch, retorting, “Youngster, I can still march your cock into the dirt.”
“Why, Pilus Prior,” Volusenus countered, widening his eyes in mock surprise, “I thought you knew. My cock already does drag the dirt, so it’s used to it.”
Pullus laughed, hard, essentially conceding Volusenus the honors in this exchange. Wiping a tear, he was still chuckling as he said, “That’s good to know. I’ll keep it in mind.” Growing serious, he lowered his voice, “So your boys are ready for this?”
While he was unaware of it, Volusenus experienced the exact same urge his father had fought down not long before with Sacrovir, forcing himself to refrain from offering a retort that Pullus might construe as combative.
