by R. W. Peake
“Double Centuries!” Volusenus exclaimed, momentarily forgetting himself, and it was loud enough that Ambustus winced, his eyes shooting over to the men, which was sufficient to cause Volusenus to drop his voice. “But the Pilus Prior told us that Germanicus specifically wanted us in a single line to stop anyone from getting away!”
“And,” Ambustus replied, “my friend told me that he overheard his Optio and Centurion arguing about it, but that for some reason, Maluginensis either forgot to tell them or he changed the Primus Pilus’ order.”
Volusenus swore under his breath.
“I don’t see him going against the Primus Pilus,” he said after a moment. “So I think that it’s more likely that he forgot.” This was the moment Volusenus recalled something else. “And the edge of the camp on that side was barely a hundred paces from the edge of the forest, so they didn’t have to cover as much open ground.”
“Actually,” Ambustus countered, “according to my friend, that’s something the Batavians got wrong.”
“Oh? How so?” Macerinus asked.
“It was only a hundred paces along the western side of the camp, but at the opposite end, it wasn’t more than seventy-five.”
“That’s even worse,” Volusenus groaned, then turned his attention back to the larger issue. “So what are you saying, Ambustus?”
“I’m not saying anything,” the Cornicen protested, glancing up at Volusenus with obvious concern, and Volusenus put a hand on his shoulder, assuring him, “I know you’re not, you’re just relaying what you heard. And,” he thought to add, mainly because it was the truth, “I know you. You wouldn’t be telling me this unless you were certain it was important.”
Reassured, Ambustus answered the original question, telling Volusenus, “The boys in the Third think that at least a few hundred of those Cherusci warriors managed to get past them, and at least as many women and children.” He paused, then admitted, “Actually, they think it’s probably more.”
“Even if it’s just one, if that one gets to Arminius, we’re fucked,” Macerinus spoke up, his tone reflecting that bitter reality. “If it was a few hundred…” His voice trailed off, although there was no need to finish.
This was not something Volusenus could dispute, but he also felt a surge of intense relief at how unlikely it was that it would be a woman and two small children who would be able to slip past Gaesorix and his cavalry when there were possibly several hundred Cherusci warriors and other civilians loose. Almost as quickly as that hit him, however, it was followed by the recognition that, no matter how he found out, Arminius was going to be bound to reverse his course and come after them. Marobduus was certainly a concern, but there was no situation that Volusenus could think of where the escape of Segestes was not potentially more devastating to the Cherusci chieftain than the mischief being caused by an old man of another tribe. That was when Volusenus remembered; Arminius was not only going to be coming after his father-in-law, but his pregnant wife. Suddenly, their slow pace seemed even slower, and like the men in the ranks, when Volusenus returned to his spot in the ranks along with Macerinus and Ambustus, he spent the rest of the time marching glancing at the sun, then over his shoulder.
Chapter Eight
The camp they made that night was one in name only, with the only tents broken out being used to house the Cherusci women and children, including two specifically for Segestes and his immediate family. Pullus had initially been impressed but not all that surprised by the demeanor and behavior of the natives; that they were all highborn, he supposed, had something to do with it. They had seemed to recover from the shock of the surprise attack, and the only sign of their agitation had been when their fate was being decided, although he had been told by Macer that when they had been loaded into the wagons, there was a disturbance because Sacrovir had stationed men next to each one, deciding what pieces of baggage could go and which could not. He had been vaguely cognizant that something was going on, except he had been too absorbed in cleaning himself off as best he could while suffering through the inevitable lethargy and malaise that always followed one of his fits. This time, for whatever reason, it had been harder to shake, but he ascribed this to the fact that it had caught him by surprise, and as he scrounged about the tents and shelters that had not yet been put to the torch looking for water and a relatively clean cloth with which to wash himself, he tried to recall the last time it had happened to him, but was unable to readily recall. It took a vigorous amount of scrubbing to get his skin clean, and he tried to ignore the bits of matter that had managed to stick to him, telling himself that it was not the brains of a dead man. Cleaning his gladius was straightforward, but it occupied him just long enough that by the time he was finished, the cornu had called the assembly.
Marching immediately behind the wagons with the First Century meant that he could hear the occupants, and while there had initially been sobs in feminine tones and the cries of children as they left behind those civilians Segestes had deemed not in danger from Arminius, it settled down fairly quickly so that, by the time they returned to the marshaling area, it was silent in the wagons for the most part. Rousing them from their conveyances to answer calls of nature had reanimated them somewhat, but once more, it quickly died down. Pullus understood Germanicus’ decision to put to the gladius those Cherusci who remained and were not warriors, and he thought it was wise of the Propraetor to have Gaesorix and his cavalry do it only after the column was safely away, but he also knew that it was going to enrage the German leader and his men, many of whom would have kin lying in those piles amid the ruin of the camp. It was only after the Legion was reunited and had resumed the march that Gaesorix appeared, trotting back up the column from the rear, but while he had not said anything to his friend this time, Pullus did not need him to in order to read the Batavian’s expression, understanding that Germanicus’ orders had been carried out, and there were now a few hundred dead noncombatants, along with those fallen warriors who had vainly tried to defend them left to greet Arminius whenever he should return. Pullus had been certain that those members of Segestes’ party would have recognized this as a reality, but once they had settled down and seemingly accepted their fate, they had been surprisingly docile. Maybe, he had thought, the divisions in the Cherusci tribe are deeper than we know, and these people are more relieved than upset that those poor bastards back there got the chop.
Now that they were settled for the night, and the Fourth Cohort had been assigned the area immediately next to the forum, placing his men adjacent to the Cherusci, Pullus reached a different conclusion, that these people had been in shock, and only now was the reality of their situation beginning to sink in. And, he thought grimly as he sat next to the charcoal fire that Gemellus and Poplicola had made for him, they’ve probably realized that enough of their men got away that at least some of them are likely to find Arminius, and now they’re sitting there trying to figure out the odds of them living to even see the Rhenus, let alone get across it. Regardless of the cause, the sound of weeping that the walls of the tents only muffled were proving to be wearing on his nerves and did not help him in his task, which would have been onerous no matter what the circumstances. In his lap was his hamata, and he was using a stiff boar’s bristle brush that he had snatched up from one of the Cherusci shelters. He was occupying himself by trying to scrub out the caked gore from in between the links. Initially, he had seriously considered assigning one of the men on the mental list every Centurion carried inside his head who was deserving of punishment for one reason or another, but whose offense did not rise to being worthy of mention in the Century diary. He discarded the notion, thinking that perhaps this would serve as a reminder to him of what happened when the thing he thought of as the beast that resided deep within him was roused. I was so sure, he thought morosely as he applied extra pressure to the brush to get out a particularly stubborn, and grisly, piece of the Cherusci out, that I could control this when I was younger. And, he admitted, he had used it i
n this manner, calling on it during moments where he had been certain that, if he had not, either he or one of his comrades would die; however, the sudden appearance of the beast earlier that day had come as an unsettling surprise. So absorbed was he in these thoughts that he did not hear the footfall of someone approaching. It was only when a shadow fell over his work that he looked up with a frown.
“You’re standing in my light,” he growled, even before he recognized who it was, but Volusenus moved quickly nonetheless, mumbling an apology.
Pullus eyed him for a moment, then returned his attention to his task without saying anything, leaving Volusenus at a loss, yet rather than leave, he squatted down next to his Pilus Prior, commenting, “You know you could have gotten a ranker to do that.”
Pullus offered a grunted agreement, then after a moment, he replied, “I know, but it was beginning to stink, and I suppose I didn’t want to put one of the boys off their feed.” Only then did he look over at Volusenus, his expression unreadable as he asked, “And what brings you to see me, young Centurion?”
Encouraged slightly by the playful title that Pullus sometimes still used with him, Volusenus decided that he should at least try to offer Pullus some sort of…something, except he did not really know where to begin, so he finally just asked bluntly, “What happened today?” He waited, but not only did Pullus not answer, seemingly absorbed in scrubbing furiously at the part of the hamata he was working on, he did not look away from it, and without planning to, Volusenus blurted, “You said was it the same kind of thing that happened to me, and that you said happened to you as well, remember?”
Pullus’ arm stopped moving, albeit slowly, yet he still did not look at Volusenus, preferring to stare into the fire, then he finally replied dryly, “Yes, I remember. I may be old, but I can recall conversations we had just a couple watches ago.” As he intended, this caused Volusenus to shift uncomfortably, but when the younger man opened his mouth, presumably to offer some sort of excuse, Pullus saw it out of the corner of his eye and cut him off. “But yes, it was something like that, I suppose.” Then, nodding deliberately, he added, “No, not something like that. Exactly like that.”
Now he did turn to look at Volusenus, and the younger Centurion would not have needed to know Pullus as well as he did to see the troubled look in his eyes.
Realizing that he had not thought this through well at all, Volusenus struggled to think of something to say, only coming up with, “Well, at least you killed the cunnus.”
Pullus looked startled for an instant, then he gave a short laugh, nodding as he agreed, “Yes, at least I killed the cunnus.” The smile faded, and he returned his attention to the armor.
“Do you think that Arminius is going to catch us?” As Volusenus asked this, he told himself that this was really why he had come to seek Pullus out, but he knew he was lying to himself. Not, he thought, that I’m not interested in what he thinks.
Pullus did not hesitate, saying flatly, “Yes. I don’t think he is; I know he is.” For the first time, he turned his attention away from his lap or the fire, looking over at the tents pitched next to the wagons. Nodding his head in their direction, he continued, “We’re not going to move fast enough, not with them.”
“‘Them’?” Volusenus echoed. “What do you mean, the wagons or the people?”
“Both,” Pullus replied. The sigh he gave was expressive in itself, and he returned his attention back to the armor as he added, “And when Arminius gets back and sees what we did to those poor bastards we left behind…” His voice trailed off.
Volusenus physically started, surprised; this was the first he had heard of Germanicus’ order, and he exclaimed, “What? Germanicus had those people we left behind killed?” Shaking his head, he said, “That doesn’t seem right.”
The younger man’s tone caused Pullus to look back at him, his brow furrowing at Volusenus’ troubled expression, but his tone held no censure as he argued, “Gnaeus, I understand why you’d feel that way, but Germanicus really had no choice. If he had let them stay alive, there’s no telling how quickly they would have found Arminius.”
Volusenus was not swayed in the slightest, which he demonstrated when he shot back, “As opposed to all those bastards that Maluginensis let slip past him?”
“Where did you hear that?” Pullus asked sharply, the brush and armor forgotten as he glared at Volusenus.
“Does it matter?” Volusenus countered, not flinching from Pullus’ hard stare, challenging him. “It’s true, isn’t it?” When Pullus did not reply immediately, he pointed out, “The gods know we didn’t kill anywhere near our share of what was supposed to be at least two thousand warriors.”
After another heartbeat, Pullus let out a breath, slumping slightly as he acknowledged, “You’re right about how few men we killed and what happened with Maluginensis. Although,” his expression returned to its hard set, “I could demand that you tell me, as your Pilus Prior.”
“You could,” Volusenus agreed, “but you won’t, because you know that I’d never be trusted by my men again. Besides,” he gave a bitter laugh, “if you don’t know by now, I suppose I need to break it to you that every fucking man in this Legion has heard about it by now.”
Pullus knew the truth when he heard it, so he did not argue the point any further, but rather than continue to talk about the failure of the Tertius Pilus Prior, without planning on it, Pullus returned to the original subject that Volusenus had broached.
“Gnaeus,” he began, the use of his praenomen alerting Volusenus that they had moved on to something else, “you asked me about what happened. And,” he took a deep breath, “as I said, you’re right, that it’s…whatever it is that apparently afflicts both of us.” Naturally, Volusenus was paying close attention, but now Pullus was stuck on how to proceed, not knowing why he felt such a need to discuss this matter. Finally, he began, “When I was about your age, maybe a little younger, I thought I had figured out a way where I could control this…” Again, he faltered for a word, but when Volusenus offered quietly, “I think of it as a beast,” it elicited in Pullus a sudden welling of relief, that the only person besides his Avus who was afflicted thought of this thing within them in the same way. Nodding, Pullus said emphatically, “Yes! That’s it! That’s how I think of it too. Anyway,” he forced his mind back to what he wanted to say, “like I said, when I was your age, I figured out a way where I could summon it whenever I needed it.” Seeing Volusenus suddenly looking keenly at him, he cautioned, “I should say, I thought I could. And,” he allowed, “at first, it worked. But then,” suddenly, Pullus’ throat tightened, and he heard the small voice inside his head shrieking at him to stop now and leave those memories alone, but he forced himself to continue, “something happened.”
Volusenus held up a hand, sensing Pullus’ turmoil, assuring him, “You already told me about that, Pilus Prior. About after your brother died and how you put that building to the torch.”
In fact, Pullus had forgotten about that conversation, although it had happened not long before, but he shook his head.
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about another time.”
Under other circumstances, Pullus would have been amused about the way in which the various emotions that ran through Volusenus were so clearly displayed in his face, reminding him of his first Optio in the First Century of the First Cohort of the 8th Legion, Tiburtinus, who had constantly reminded him that his face was too easy to read. Not now, however, and he decided to wait for Volusenus to speak next, telling himself that if Volusenus expressed no curiosity, he would leave it alone.
Still, he was not surprised when, after a span of a few heartbeats, Volusenus asked cautiously, “What other time?”
Then, for the first time in his life, at least aloud, Titus Porcinianus Pullus talked about the night that his first Primus Pilus, Publius Canidius, had led an assault on a Varciani town, a town that no longer existed and whose inhabitants were slaughtered to the last pers
on; how he, still a lowly Gregarius, slew Draxo, the Colapiani chieftain who was the original rebel and who had come to the town and the Varciani’s aid for the express purpose of slaying the Roman Primus Pilus whose nickname was Urso. Sparing neither Volusenus nor himself with any detail, Pullus talked about those days, and how he had been unwillingly drawn into Urso’s scheme to sell surplus Roman armor and helmets, and how he had been the inadvertent cause of Draxo’s rebellion when, on Urso’s orders, he had broken the arm of a Colapiani mother who had tried to keep her son from being involuntarily enlisted in the auxiliaries. Volusenus was listening with rapt attention, forgetting his aching knees, not wanting to shift position from his squat, afraid that it would break whatever this spell was that had come over his Pilus Prior. As eager as he was, however, he also experienced a distinct stirring of an unease that he could not identify but nor could he deny was there, yet somehow, he sensed that this was important, for both of them, although he had no idea why this was so. Pullus’ voice had become almost monotone, and while it took a moment for Volusenus to place it, he realized that it was the kind of tone a Centurion would use when offering a report, yet, rather than detract from what Pullus was saying, it had even more of an impact on him, as Pullus matter-of-factly described the murders of two Roman Legionaries, one of whom was then-Gregarius Pullus’ Sergeant. It had taken place that night, in the Varciani town, as it went up in flames and the 8th Legion fought for its life, the Varciani warriors making one last, desperate attempt to free the townspeople who had been captured when Urso led his Legion over the walls. Pullus left out no detail, explaining to Volusenus the underlying causes for the animosity between himself and the one-eyed Sergeant Gaius Caecina and one of his toadies, a ranker named Decimus Mela. The only time when Pullus became emotional, and even then, it was not obvious to anyone who did not know him, was when the Pilus Prior described his discovery of the rape and murder of the young Varciani girl he had attempted to save, not once but twice. Volusenus lost track of the time, while Pullus, his gaze never shifting from the sullen glow of the charcoal fire, continued describing how he gelded Mela then severed the large vessel on the inside of his thigh so that he bled to death, followed by his torture of Caecina, blinding him in the last moments of the man’s life, while taunting the Sergeant about his coming demise, all because Caecina had seen that the Varciani girl meant something to Pullus. This, Pullus explained, was why Caecina had spirited her from the crowd of prisoners, taken her to an empty house, and raped her before cutting her throat. Nor did he leave out any detail, like how he had come upon Mela raping the young girl after she was already dead, which was the only thing that prompted a sound from Volusenus, and that was a gasp of shock, and horror.
