by R. W. Peake
As he stood waiting for what came next, it occurred to Volusenus that there might have been a deeper underlying reason why the Third was seemingly given the easiest assignment of those Cohorts assaulting the camp, that Germanicus recognized the inadequacies of the Pilus Prior and was doing what he could to compensate for it, not that it mattered in the moment. Finally, Structus’ Century began moving, towards the edge of the clearing, without any verbal or auditory command given, so Volusenus naturally followed suit. None of the Centuries attempted to march in step, nor did the Centurions or Optios make any attempt to ensure their alignment as if they were on the forum, knowing that it would not matter until they were out of these woods. Stepping out into the relative light of a predawn morning five days before the Kalends of Junius, Volusenus almost stopped short at what met his eyes, yet somehow he managed to keep moving to the spot where he would place his Century with the Fifth to his right. In the mark of a truly veteran Centurion and Pilus Prior, Pullus had actually taken the time before they left their camp to instruct his Centurions on the slightly unusual manner in which he wanted to have his Cohort align when they changed from their single file, and now it paid off. Instead of being on the right end of the Century, Macerinus was actually standing on the left side of the formation, while the men of the first two sections aligned behind him, with the other four files forming off of them. What this meant was that, once they reached their designated spot out into the open, all Macerinus had to do was pivot to his left, with the other ranks following suit, placing them in the proper orientation to begin their part of the assault.
The sight that greeted Volusenus and the rest of the Cohort was daunting; it was one thing to be told the size of the force, but it was another one entirely to see all of the tents, which barely qualified as such to his Roman eyes, with far more of them being simply crude shelters that were little more than a tarp stretched out between one of the trees that were interspersed throughout the area. What he realized immediately was that what Germans considered a clearing of a sufficient size to make a camp and what Romans considered were two vastly different things; more crucially, he saw that there were enough trees, along with smaller plants and shrubs that would make keeping the normal intervals between men in each rank next to impossible, and that was not even taking into account the tents and shelters. Regardless of the difficulty, Volusenus recognized that there was nothing to be done about it, and instead of dwelling on this, he took a few steps forward so that he could see down the long line of all six Centuries. It was certainly lighter, but Pullus was barely visible, although he could make out the Pilus Prior raising one arm, prompting Volusenus to return the gesture. Now that they were out in the open, every heartbeat of time that passed waiting for the signal to begin the attack increased the chances that an early rising German would emerge from one of the tents or rise up from the ground from their sleeping spot and see a line of armored Romans. The fact that there were no sentries Volusenus took as a good sign, recognizing that the Batavians had lived up to their word that they would remove them, although he had no way of knowing if this was the case all the way around the camp. Volusenus’ palms had grown as sweaty as his mouth went dry, a process that his body underwent and one to which he had become somewhat accustomed, and he was struck by the fleeting idea that he needed to ask Pullus if this ever went away. He reflexively looked over his left shoulder at his men, watching just long enough to see several of them wiping their palms on their tunics, while others were openly fidgeting, some of them by tapping their foot, others by clenching and unclenching their hands from around the javelin that they would presumably be hurling soon. Naturally, this was where his attention was when, from his left front where he assumed the First Cohort was now in position, the sudden blast of a cornu sounded, although within less than a heartbeat, it was drowned out by the roar of the First Cohort. Startled, Volusenus hesitated, not long, but just long enough that his command to his own Century to begin moving forward came when the Fifth was a couple of paces ahead, forcing him to trot a few steps to catch up. He glanced down the line, trying to discern if Pullus had noticed, but the Pilus Prior was looking straight ahead, and Volusenus understood why because the first shout of alarm came from the direction of the camp. When he jerked his head back towards it, he immediately spotted a figure suddenly emerging from one of the tents nearest to them. Unlike the First, the Fourth Cohort had not issued their own blast of sound either by cornu or verbally, but again, this was by design and another thing that Pullus had altered for his own Cohort.
“They’re going to see us, no doubt,” he had explained, “but if we let the First make all the noise at the very beginning, it should draw those bastards’ attention in that direction at first, and that can only help us.”
To Volusenus, it seemed as if this was the case, because when the first man had suddenly appeared within his vision, stepping out of one of the tents, he did not even glance in their direction, his attention focused on the western edge of the camp to his left front. Although it was still not fully light, and they were now about three hundred paces away, he was certain they were visible, yet with every step, as more men appeared, either rising off the ground from under their makeshift shelters or emerging from one of the true tents, the attention of those Cherusci was universally on what they obviously thought was the only threat. Even with his eyes riveted on the growing number of figures, Volusenus did notice something that explained why there was a wider swathe of relatively open ground on this side. Dotting the ground, although in no discernible pattern, there were a few hundred black circles of dead fires, and the grass was beaten down in a manner that told him this had been where the portion of the army that left with Arminius had camped before they had departed. Despite knowing it was inevitable, when the first shout in their direction finally came, Volusenus cursed under his breath, but he was happy that it was actually farther down the line of Centuries, in front of Cornutus’ Fourth by the sound of it. It was probably no more than a heartbeat after that, however, when he spotted one of the men who seemed to be in the process of deciding what to do about the attack of the First finally give a glance over his shoulder. They were now close enough for Volusenus to see it, and despite what was about to happen, a laugh bubbled up out of him at the manner in which the Cherusci gave what was an obviously casual glance over his shoulder, had already started to return his attention back to the middle of the camp, then suddenly jerk back around. His shout of alarm was also audible, but this was the moment when, at last, Pullus gave the order for his Cohort to announce their presence, telling Volusenus that, while it seemed to have been separated by a span of several heartbeats, it was probably no more than two from the first cry of whoever raised the alarm off to his right.
It began with a sudden blast of the horn by Poplicola, which each Cornicen, including Ambustus, immediately answered, but it was the roaring of his men and those of the Fifth that almost drowned out Volusenus as he bellowed, “All right, boys, they know we’re here! Follow me!”
Then he was running in as straight a line as he could manage, weaving back and forth between the few trees, his gladius drawn, held high, and out from his body, barely noticing that within a few strides, he had pulled out ahead of not just his own Century, but the Fifth, and as he would be chastised by his Pilus Prior for later, the rest of the Cohort. His men were now shouting at the top of their lungs, some of them issuing taunts or promises of what was to come, but most were unintelligible, although the noise was so palpable that Volusenus felt as if it was an invisible but powerful force driving him towards the Cherusci. For their part, it appeared to Volusenus as if most of the warriors were now at least on their feet, but they were still clearly disoriented and horribly disorganized, trying to create a semblance of a line with the last tents and shelters no more than a couple paces behind them.
“Prepare javelins!”
Volusenus actually risked turning away so that he could be sure to be heard; this was when he realized how far ahead he
was, subsequently shortening his stride and slowing down, but thankfully, he could see by the manner in which the men started raising their javelins they had heard him. Throwing a javelin on the run, or even at a quick marching pace, inevitably meant that it would not be as accurate, but even before Pullus had become Pilus Prior, he had used his influence with Macer to have the former commander devote more time than normal to what was an arcane but important skill of throwing from the run. The tradeoff for the decrease in accuracy was timing the throw so that the arrival of the Legionaries as they slammed into the defenders was within an eyeblink after the missiles impacted, and it meant that a near miss served almost the exact same purpose as a hit when it came to distracting their foes’ attention. Pullus had left it up to each Century whether they used just one or both javelins, and this was one of the moments where Gnaeus Volusenus’ burning desire for distinction by being first to engage with the enemy formed his decision.
“One volley, then the blade!” he roared, already gasping for breath from the effort, but he paused to take a gulp of air before ordering, “Release!”
As volleys went, even Volusenus would admit that it was not his Century’s best, because he had made the mental calculation of the range based on his position, not on his men. Being ahead of the formation meant that the javelins arcing through the air did not enter his vision until perhaps less than a full heartbeat before he was going to smash into the Cherusci he had selected as his target. What this meant in a practical sense was that he was completely surprised when a javelin that fell short came falling from the sky to bury itself in the dirt barely one stride’s length in front of him, the shaft pointing back at an angle that, if he continued straight ahead, it would strike him in the chest. Somehow, even when he tried to recall it later, he could not do so, he managed to veer around the javelin, although he was forced to break his stride and alter his speed to do so, which had an unexpected but favorable result. The Cherusci Volusenus had selected as his target from among what could only charitably be called a line that at that moment was just two men deep at best, naturally the largest German among this first line of defenders, had seen and understood what the giant Roman intended. In fact, his counter to Volusenus’ rush would have at the very least put the Roman in great jeopardy, because rather than trying to thrust his heavy war spear directly at the Centurion, he had deliberately aimed lower at a spot where he visualized Volusenus’ legs would be, the intention being to tangle his feet and cause him to stumble forward where the man to his left would have been in a perfect position to use his own spear to thrust down into Volusenus’ back. Instead, because of the errant javelin, Volusenus was not in the spot the Cherusci had aimed for, the point of his spear hitting nothing but dirt, leaving the Cherusci with only his shield to protect him.
Again, without any planning, Volusenus suddenly found himself turned perpendicular to the Cherusci, with the momentum created by his bulk carrying him past his intended foe. Instead of fighting that momentum, he used it to get past the Cherusci warrior’s shield, although it placed him in a certain amount of jeopardy and forced him to rely on just the power of his arm to thrust the point of his gladius into his enemy’s body, just below and a bit behind the German’s armpit. It was not a mortal blow, but it was enough to cause the man to stagger in the opposite direction, bellowing with pain and, most importantly, removing him as an effective combatant for the moment. By the time Volusenus slid to a stop, his right arm was across his body, and while he did not give any indication that he was aware of the Cherusci rushing up to attack him from his seemingly unprotected side, he twisted his body as he swung his right arm, which was still fully extended in a massively powerful backhanded slash. The consequence of him not turning his head enough so that he was then forced to rely on his peripheral vision was that, instead of either slashing the man’s throat or completely decapitating him as he came rushing forward, his blade struck the side of the man’s head just above the ear, creating a violent shock that made his arm numb. And, if he had not been convinced by Pullus to alter the manner in which he gripped his gladius and to purchase a five-thousand-sesterces blade, in all likelihood, even with as powerful a grip as Volusenus had naturally, his blade would have been ripped from his grasp and remained embedded in the dying man’s skull as he recoiled from the blow, or at least as bad, snapped. However, while it was preferable to maintain possession of one’s weapon, having it firmly lodged in the bone of a man’s skull meant that, even with his strength, the weight of a dying man falling in the opposite direction jerked him even more off balance. He was saved by the arrival of Macerinus, who had reversed his standard and, using it as a lance, drove it right into the chest of a third Cherusci who thought he would take advantage of the opportunity to slay a hated Centurion. Volusenus was only dimly aware of the terrific noise created by the rest of his Century slamming into the thin line of Cherusci, but the shrill screams as men were either struck by one of the javelins that did not fall short or by a well-aimed first thrust informed him that, as he intended, their assault was devastating. With his feet under him now, he immediately took stock of the situation, and he was pleased to see that the Cherusci were already reeling, with several of them even retreating back into the camp. While he did not keep a count in his mind, his estimate was that no more than a hundred heartbeats elapsed before every one of those Cherusci who had chosen to stand and try to stop his Century were now dead. Stepping around one of the tents, he looked down the line to his right, and to his consternation, he saw that at least two Centuries had already advanced more deeply into the camp, and naturally, one of them was the First.
Cursing bitterly, he wheeled about to face his men, many of whom were now searching the bodies of the dead, bellowing, “You lazy bastards better start moving!” Pointing his gladius at the backs of the Germans fleeing from their direct front, he ordered, “First four ranks go after those cunni! Last rank, start searching the tents! We don’t want any of these savages in our rear!”
Mentioning this spurred Volusenus to turn his attention to the tent that had been obscuring his vision, and he walked to the flap, which was down so that he could not see inside. He tried to listen for some sort of sounds from within, but it was too noisy now between the shouting and screams of both friend and foe. Taking a breath, he used his vitus to shove the flap aside, then stepped into it, slightly crouched and his gladius drawn back in a first position, bracing himself for a screaming warrior who had been hiding away to come rushing at him. This did not happen, but it was actually his sense of smell that was affected first, as he reflexively coughed at the sour stench of smoke and unwashed bodies, while it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the relative darkness, dimly making out what he sensed more than saw were three dark shapes, although they were huddled so closely together he was not even certain what he was seeing. It took perhaps a heartbeat for his mind to catch up and recognize that there were indeed three people, on their haunches and pushing against the leather of the far side of the tent so that it bulged outward. It was their relative size that made him unconsciously relax slightly, and he straightened up from his crouch, which in turn caused the figure in the middle to let out a gasping moan, communicating a fear that needed no translation. Volusenus found it impossible to determine the woman’s age; her face was filthy and partially obscured by hair hanging down in front of part of her face, but he estimated that neither of the two children she was clutching in each arm was older than eight or nine.
Aside from the woman’s initial outburst, the interior of the tent was comparatively quiet, partially muffling the sounds of what Volusenus could tell was more a slaughter than a battle. And, he thought uneasily, judging from the manner in which the sounds were changing, feminine cries and the screams of terrified children suddenly added to the general noise, his men were facing the same dilemma that he was. Both Sacrovir and Pullus had been explicit in their orders; nobody who was not a member of Segestes’ family could be allowed to escape, and Volusenus understood what
this meant. When he took a deep breath, he heard the shakiness, yet he still pulled his arm back, which the woman immediately understood, because for the first time she let go of her children, not to attack Volusenus, but to implore him. Falling forward onto her knees, she held her arms out, and while Volusenus could not understand the words, he had no trouble interpreting her intent, because without hesitating she pulled the filthy dress over her head, throwing it down next to her, exposing her naked body. Now that she had been moved to action, the woman had not been silent, speaking rapidly in the tongue that, to Volusenus’ Roman ear, sounded guttural and more like a series of grunts, and she shuffled forward on her knees, her arms spread wide, exposing her nakedness. Gnaeus Volusenus had been under the standard several years by this point, and while he had never participated in the rape that seemed to be accepted as part of what came from defeat at Rome’s hands, he had certainly seen his men take native women against their will. That was what he found so confusing, that this woman, who he assumed to be a Cherusci and not belonging to any of the group of emissaries or hostages from the other tribes, and certainly not a woman of any importance given her spot here on the outer edge of the camp, was obviously offering her body in exchange for sparing her children, and he presumed, herself. He knew what he had to do, and he knew that with every heartbeat that passed when he was not out leading his Century, he was failing his men and his Pilus Prior. Besides, he told himself, I’ve been given orders, and those orders were clear, so he steeled himself, drawing his arm back as he told himself that he was fully prepared to go through with it when, from behind the woman, for the first time, one of the children spoke. Despite his inability to understand the words, he did not need a translator to know what the child, who he guessed was a girl from the voice, was asking her mother. The woman’s eyes never left his, and while he saw what he was certain was fear in them, there was also what he took to be hope as she replied to her child. Volusenus, suddenly besieged by so many conflicting emotions, felt as if he had frozen in place; his arm was still pulled back so that the point of his blade was just a foot in front of his face, and he could see the tip of it quivering even more than what he considered normal for the circumstances. She’s telling her children that they’ll be all right, he thought numbly, even when she knows that’s probably a lie; she doesn’t want them to be scared about what’s going to happen.
