Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  The manner in which Volusenus inserted himself back into the fight was to shove his way past his own men, without any acknowledgement or even an attempt to not just throw them aside, though he did pause just long enough to allow one of his men in the first rank to counter a spear thrust by catching it on his shield, then using what most enemies of Rome considered a purely defensive weapon, punched forward with the shield as if it was a beast of prey tracking its quarry to its lair, catching the Cherusci completely by surprise as he recovered his spear, taking the blow from the raised iron boss of the Legionary’s shield fully in the face. Even if the crunching sound of the warrior’s nose and cheekbone giving way had been audible, the manner in which the man collapsed told Volusenus that it was a mortal blow, although even if it had not been, he would not have hesitated to essentially thrust himself into the front rank of the howling Cherusci who were trying to keep his men at bay. Separated by a thickness of what he estimated to be at least four or five men, Volusenus’ blade thrust and cut at any German who stood in his way as he snarled unintelligibly, his eyes alight with the kind of fire that more religious men would have ascribed to the kind of flames that greeted those consigned to the depths of the underworld. Within a matter of no more than four or five heartbeats, his gladius was covered in the blood and bits of flesh of no less than four Cherusci, yet even in his fury, Volusenus was dismayed to see that he did not seem to be getting any closer to Pullus, who he could now at least view from the waist up. And, from what he could see, he sensed that Pullus was in real trouble, which served to raise the fury of his own assault. From his viewpoint, just as Pullus had described it, the Cherusci facing him seemed to be moving in slow motion, at least compared to his own movement, enabling him to see his foe’s thrust coming at him with enough time to actually decide the best way to counter it. To everyone else, his gladius was a blur, and perhaps if they had been on the training ground, Pullus would have chastised Volusenus because he was not paying attention to his form, making him vulnerable to counterattacks, but even if the men facing him had any concern other than escaping the onslaught, it would not have mattered. He was an instrument of death, reveling in the fire that seemed to have made its way into his blood, even as a part of him now accepted that, as with any such terrible gift the gods bestowed and as the Pilus Prior had reminded him just the night before, there would be a reckoning at some point in the future, yet in this moment, he did not care, perfectly content to accept whatever repayment the gods would demand. Afterward, as he was trying to absorb everything that was transpiring in this instant, he was forced to confront a fact that made him so uncomfortable that he never spoke of it, to anyone. Stripped down to its essence, Gnaeus Volusenus, while he was hacking and slashing in an attempt to carve a bloody path to his Pilus Prior, was barely cognizant of Pullus; he was killing men who were foolish enough to try and stop him simply because that was what he was meant to do, and their insistence on trying to stop him only heightened his rage. In the quiet moments of reflection that would inevitably come later, he would be honest enough with himself to know that this recognition troubled him, although that would only come to him over time. Now, he was Mars personified, a bringer of destruction, and he was no more than a half-dozen paces away from Titus Pullus, yet the problem remained that there were Cherusci in between them, some of them still intent only on cutting down the Pilus Prior, while the rest had finally recognized that the only other Roman who was not just a Centurion but the same approximate size and ferocity of the man they were trying to kill had managed to close the gap.

  What Volusenus neither knew nor cared about was that his Optio, seeing the Centurion charging into the midst of the Cherusci and cutting a bloody path, had thought quickly, sending men to support Volusenus so that, as he chopped down their foes and took another step closer to Pullus, his men were behind him to ensure that their Centurion did not put himself in the same situation as the Pilus Prior by becoming surrounded. A Cherusci, clearly a noble because of the well-oiled mail, the helmet chased with gold and his shield faced with a sheet of bronze, had been trying to get to Pullus but, seeing Volusenus, apparently decided to turn his attention on the younger Roman. From Volusenus’ perspective, he had just dispatched the last Cherusci facing him and was about to fall on the rear of those warriors trying to kill Pullus when the man stepped into his path. Perhaps if Volusenus had not been in the grips of his frenzy, the Cherusci’s maneuver, where even as he was placing himself in the Roman’s path his long gladius was also moving, not from the more customary overhead blow but from a three-quarters angle, which meant that there were two motions to attract his foe’s eye, might have worked. That this arrogant Roman had disdained using a shield, and in fact was not even holding that vine stick every foe of Rome recognized as readily as the transverse crest, made it doubly frustrating for the Cherusci, because the Centurion, his eyes not even flickering towards the forged iron hurtling in his direction, merely bent over at the waist, not much but just enough that the tip and about a foot of the Cherusci’s gladius passed harmlessly over his back. For the briefest instant, the Cherusci was in an awkward position, his right arm now across his body and in front of his large, circular shield. This was not at all unusual; every warrior, no matter their style of fighting, spent as much time training on what to do when they missed as they did for striking their enemies, and in his mind, he recovered as quickly as he ever had, yet in the eyeblink of time he had left to live, he learned it was not rapidly enough. It did not help that, because of the awkward position of his foe, who was still bent over at the waist, the bulk of the Roman’s body shielded the Centurion’s gladius from his view for the beginning of the thrust that shot out from its own unusual angle. Volusenus simultaneously straightened up and took a step forward on his right foot as he swept his blade up from below his waist, the point striking the Cherusci unerringly, just underneath his jawline on the right side, the warrior’s throat momentarily exposed because he missed his one and only chance to strike Volusenus. Dead on his feet, the Cherusci’s eyes had gone wide with the kind of shock and surprise that, even in his relatively brief time under the standard, Volusenus had seen on the faces of both foes and comrades, while the warrior’s heart was pumping hard enough that, despite being an arm’s length away, the Roman felt the warm, sticky spray of his vanquished enemy’s blood on his face and arm, something that he normally would be revulsed by, but in this moment, reveled in the feeling. Tottering for another fraction of a heartbeat, the Cherusci’s legs finally gave way, and he collapsed to his knees before toppling facedown, but Volusenus was already lifting his leg to step over the corpse when a huge, collective roar came from the throats of the Cherusci who were in a position to see Volusenus’ victory. It was a sound that, while unintelligible, both because there was no unity to it, and these men were shouting in their own tongue, clearly conveyed a sense of anguish, shock…and rage, telling Volusenus and the other Romans that he had just slain someone of some importance.

  Despite his state of mind and how little of this event he would recall later, Volusenus vividly remembered the thought that came to him; I wonder if that’s Arminius? He would learn soon enough that it was not, but no matter how important this Cherusci might have been, it would never erase the bitter taste of what was now less than a couple heartbeats from happening. He had not been the only one startled by the response to this Cherusci’s death; while there were two more Germans in between himself and Pullus, the man facing Volusenus was a head shorter, while the warrior facing Pullus was crouched down, giving Volusenus an unobstructed view of his Pilus Prior at the very instant the shout was raised, so he saw Pullus’ reaction, his head turning towards him, either sensing or somehow knowing that the cause for the Cherusci reaction lay at Volusenus’ feet. It was the first time Volusenus saw Pullus in more than profile since he had rejoined the fight, and he saw the blood streaming down the right side of Pullus’ face, completely obscuring the skin, except for the area around his right eye, which Volusenus ass
umed was due to Pullus wiping the ichor away, although it was impossible to see where the actual wound was located. Yet, even with his face partially obscured, Volusenus saw the expression of surprise on Pullus’ face, which he assumed was because of the reaction of the Cherusci to the death of the noble lying at his feet. The real reason was altogether different, but as much as Volusenus had cause to regret that day, he would never learn the truth, that the cause of Pullus’ surprise was seeing Volusenus; in this, at least, the gods were merciful because he would never know. They were not so kind, however, to shield Volusenus from seeing the thrust from the first Cherusci who saw and took advantage of the older Roman’s eyeblink of inattention, and it was made even worse for Volusenus because of his heightened senses, so that he saw the iron point moving across the space between the warrior and Pullus with what seemed to be a perceptible slowness. In his mind, there was time for him to shout a warning, yet Volusenus’ mouth was just opening when he saw, with agonizing clarity, the iron point strike the chain mail protecting Pullus’ chest, creating tiny but clearly visible sparks as it penetrated into the Pilus Prior’s body…and just kept going until the entire iron point was invisible. This time, Pullus did not shout or roar with pain as Volusenus had heard shortly before; if he made a noise, it was not audible, but to Volusenus, he looked more puzzled than anything, his head dropping as he gazed down at the wooden shaft that seemed to have sprouted from his chest. Volusenus was completely oblivious to the sound of his own voice, an inarticulate bellow of shock and despair, nor did he even register that he closed the distance to reach Pullus with nothing more than two thrusts of his gladius, the first catching the last Cherusci opposite him in the face, and the second slicing into the lower back of warrior that had been facing Pullus.

  The Cherusci who had at last managed to strike the older Centurion, seeing how quickly and easily two of his own comrades were dispatched by the Roman who was a younger version of the stricken man, did not even try to maximize the damage, simply withdrawing his spear from the Centurion’s chest, releasing a gout of blood that flowed down the front of Pullus’ mail. Pullus remained standing for another heartbeat, and Volusenus’ attention was torn between helping him and the need to slaughter the Cherusci who looked more surprised than triumphant that he had managed to inflict a wound on the Centurion. Then, Pullus staggered back a step, and without thinking, Volusenus rushed to his side, grabbing Pullus by the arm, yet as strong as the younger man was, the sheer bulk of his Pilus Prior falling backward proved too much. Faced with the choice of letting Pullus fall heavily to the ground and remaining in a posture where he could defend both himself and his Pilus Prior or guiding Pullus to the ground at least somewhat gently, Volusenus chose the latter, thereby exposing himself to attack, doing so without thinking. Fortunately for him, his Optio, Signifer, and several of his men who had trailed behind him, taking advantage of the bloody path Volusenus had carved in his attempt to get to their Pilus Prior, came rushing forward, surrounding the pair.

  “We’ve got you, Centurion!” Macerinus shouted as he simultaneously used his standard as a weapon, thrusting the iron point into the shield of a Cherusci who was getting too close for comfort. “Get the Pilus Prior out of here!”

  Pullus was conscious, and was in fact trying to push himself back up off the ground, but Volusenus shoved him back, none too gently, snapping, “Lie still, Pullus! I’m going to pick you up and I can’t do it with you squirming around!”

  Even as the words came out, a part of Volusenus winced at the idea he was speaking to his superior in this manner; the fact that Pullus’ only response was a weak nod shook him to his core, but he forced the sudden surge of fear at Pullus’ meek acceptance of his command back into a cupboard in his mind.

  “I’m sorry, this is going to hurt,” he muttered, completely oblivious now to the surrounding danger and focused only on getting Pullus up and over his shoulder.

  Volusenus squatted down, grabbing Pullus by the arms, in one motion pulling the older man up to his feet, then before he could collapse back down to the ground, thrust his shoulder into Pullus’ midsection. Pullus gasped in pain, but it was the raspy, gurgling quality to the sound that Volusenus distinctly heard and tried to ignore. Only then did Volusenus even bother to take in the situation at a glance, although it was only to determine the best path to take to get his burden to safety, but he immediately saw that Gillo had done a superb job. With about two sections’ worth of men, his Optio had formed a protective barrier of men, not quite an orbis because the rest of the Century was in position and, along with the Fifth and the now-arrived Fourth Centuries, had moved into a position to block the track to keep the Cherusci from falling on the rest of the column. In effect, a pocket had been formed, allowing Volusenus to carry Pullus to the relative safety of the area beyond his and the other two Centuries, with the only impediment being the bodies of dead and wounded, both Cherusci and Roman. Even with the noise of the fighting, Volusenus heard Pullus’ groan with every step he took, while the blood that was still pouring from the Pilus Prior’s wound was now covering Volusenus’ neck as well, but it was the looks on the faces of the rankers, none of whom needed to be ordered to step aside, that shook Volusenus to his core. Their expressions of wide-eyed disbelief, and a fear that he knew was about more than just this battle was something that would stay with him for the rest of his days, but it was something he had to disregard. He did not stop moving once he got past the rearmost ranks of his Century, searching for the Fourth Cohort standard, thinking to place Pullus on the ground there, but one of his legs, which had already been shaking under the strain, almost collapsed, and he realized this spot would have to do. The men of the Third Century had at least been turned around and Licinius was marching them at the quick pace, but the sight of Volusenus, with Pullus slung over his shoulder caused the entire Century, without any command given by the Princeps Prior, to come to a stop, and once again, the young Centurion was confronted by the expressions of shock and disbelief that he had seen on his own men’s faces. Ignoring the fact that he was essentially keeping the rest of his Cohort from engaging in this fight that, while he was barely paying attention, he could hear was still going on but was clearly slackening in its intensity, only he knew the effort it took for him to squat and deposit Pullus on the ground with a gentleness that was in sharp juxtaposition to what was taking place.