Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  It was only after Alex provided an immediate answer that Pullus realized he should not have been surprised, given his clerk’s familiarity with the Cohort.

  “He’s a good man,” Alex told him, “but something happened during the mutiny that soured Vespillo on him. In fact, I’d heard from Eumenes that Vespillo was thinking about demoting him.”

  The mention of the junior clerk of the Second prompted Pullus to ask about his whereabouts, and Alex gave a humorless laugh as he said, “I have no idea, actually. He wasn’t here when I came by this morning. Both he and Demas are gone.”

  “Gone?” Pullus was bewildered, and understandably so, suggesting, “Maybe he went on an errand that’s taking longer than expected.”

  Alex shook his head, “No, he’s gone.” As proof, he led Pullus out into the outer office, then pointed to the far corner across from the outer door. “That’s where the junior clerk sleeps. Notice anything?”

  Pullus did, understanding immediately that Eumenes had been taken by Vespillo, presumably to serve in the First Century. There were certainly no regulations forbidding it, but it was so against custom to not leave one clerk who knew the running of a particular Century that, when he thought about it, Pullus could not recall ever even hearing about it happening.

  “Well, how are you at handling a Century all by yourself?”

  It was all Pullus could think to ask, but before Alex could respond, there was a knock, and if he had been more religious, Pullus would have ascribed this to an act by the gods, because when Alex opened it, standing there, holding a sack that contained all his worldly possessions, was Demetrios. While he was not particularly effusive in greeting his fellow clerk, Alex nonetheless welcomed him, and it was from him they learned more about what was going on and, in something of an ominous manner, that the new Pilus Prior had definite plans to make some form of changes.

  “He didn’t even tell me himself,” Demetrios told them bitterly. “He had that cunnus Demas tell me that I was being thrown out.” He looked not at Alex but at Pullus, as he said indignantly, “Me! I’ve been the Cohort clerk since Pilus Prior Macer first moved up!”

  Pullus had to smother the grin brought on by the way in which Alex, standing slightly behind Demetrios, was scowling at him, and he did want to sound sympathetic when he said, “We’re happy to have you here, Demetrios. Your experience will be very valuable.”

  Unfortunately, his words inadvertently created the first of what would be many small crises that were part and parcel of these moves, because Demetrios, interpreting Pullus’ words quite differently than he intended, wasted no time, striding over to the desk occupied by the senior clerk, which was placed between the outer door and the door to the Centurion’s private quarters.

  Pointing down at the objects placed on the desk by Alex, Demetrios looked over at him and there was no mistaking the triumph in his voice as he said with a politeness that was as exaggerated as it was false, “Alexandros, would you please be kind enough to move your things to your desk?”

  “What?” Alex’s features flushed, but when he looked over at Pullus, he saw that the Centurion was no less surprised.

  “Demetrios,” Pullus interjected, and when the clerk looked at him, any vestige of sympathy, or even warmth was gone, “you’re not the senior clerk of the Second Century. Alexandros is, and will remain in that capacity as long as he wishes to, and I see fit. Is that understood?”

  Any other clerk, particularly one who was a slave, would have recognized that this was an argument they would not win, but Demetrios did not see it in this light, arguing until Pullus lost his patience.

  Striding the two paces separating them, Pullus slapped the errant clerk, not all that hard; certainly nowhere near as hard as he could have, but it was sufficient to rock the clerk’s head back and split his lip. Pullus snarled, “Go sit at your fucking desk now…slave. This is the last fucking time you’re going to argue, either with me or,” he turned and indicated Alex, who, somewhat surprisingly to Pullus, did not appear as satisfied as he would have thought, “with Alex. He is your superior in every way, and don’t you ever forget it again, or I’ll have you scourged.”

  Any spark of defiance was gone, and Demetrios was clearly terrified, so he hastily did as he was commanded, leaving Pullus to glare at his back as the clerk began unloading the contents of the sack. Seeing this actually did more to quell Pullus’ anger, at least towards Demetrios, although he was fairly disgusted with himself, thinking, what a tough man you are, slapping a slave who’d be flayed if he lifted a finger to defend himself. Regardless, Pullus was not willing to show any sort of remorse, choosing instead to jerk his head to Alex in a silent command to follow him, then stalked into his private quarters. Alex followed behind him, and when Pullus motioned for him to do so, shut the door, while Pullus stared moodily down at the desk.

  He broke the silence by saying softly, “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “No,” Alex replied immediately, “you shouldn’t have.”

  Pullus looked up in surprise, but Alex returned his gaze evenly, though he said nothing more, and while he glared for a heartbeat, he relented by grumbling, “All right, all right. I’ll apologize to him.”

  “No.” Alex shook his head. “Don’t do that either.” Confusion was added to Pullus’ surprise, but he was curious and asked Alex to explain, and he did not hesitate. “Demetrios was a problem for me from the moment I showed up, and your father had me handle it on my own. He’s got ideas far above his station because, from what I’ve heard, he was born a slave into the house of a wealthy Roman and they apparently were lenient masters. But,” he gave a grimace, unhappy about having to admit this, “he does know our business, and he’s got one of the best hands at letters I’ve ever seen.”

  Feeling a sudden urge, Pullus asked mischievously, “Even better than yours?”

  Alex scowled at him, but only for a brief moment, then chuckled as he admitted, “Yes, even better than mine.”

  “So you don’t want me to apologize,” Pullus reminded Alex, “but you haven’t actually said why.”

  “Because he deserved to be punished,” Alex replied immediately, then added, “just not like that. And if you apologize, before you can count to a hundred, he’ll have spread it all through the Cohort that you’re soft.”

  He did not like hearing it put this way, but Pullus also realized that what Alex had described was the most likely outcome.

  “At least we have two clerks,” Pullus muttered, then gave Alex a grin, “even if they do hate each other.”

  “You,” Alex laughed, “have no idea.”

  Pullus was about to bring up the subject that he knew was inevitable, and the talk by Gillo had bolstered his recognition of the fact, but before he could do so, a cornu call sounded, muffled but clearly audible, and they listened to the series of notes and the pattern of them, recognizing what it meant immediately.

  Standing up, Pullus said, “Let me go find out what the Pilus Prior wants.”

  “We’re going to march,” Alex said, with an assurance that caused Pullus to regard him with a raised eyebrow as he asked, “Is this your guess? Or do you know something?”

  Alex grinned up at him as Pullus walked past him, “That’s for me to know, Centurion. If you learn all of my secrets right away, what fun would that be?”

  Pullus laughed, then he was gone, pointedly ignoring Demetrios, who had settled at the second desk and was dabbing his lip with a rag, while Alex returned to the outer office, where he did not ignore Demetrios, giving him his own smile of triumph.

  “We’re marching tomorrow,” Vespillo announced within a matter of heartbeats of the other five Centurions arriving in the office of the Pilus Prior.

  What caught Pullus completely by surprise was the sudden wave of sadness as he entered Vespillo’s private office. Despite the personal effects and various pieces of furniture that had belonged to his father being gone and, as far as he knew, packed away by Alex, he realized he still thought
of this as Pullus’ office, and it felt very much like Vespillo was an interloper. As far as the new Pilus Prior was concerned, he was in what passed for an ebullient mood, which consisted of a grimace that passed for his version of a smile, and a clumsy, heavy-handed attempt at making a joke with each of his Centurions. What Pullus noticed was that everything Vespillo thought was humorous regarding his subordinates was usually built around something that the others knew were of a sensitive nature, but he was grimly pleased when it became his turn, the Pilus Prior made the same tired joke about his size and not about his relationship to his predecessor.

  The announcement that they were marching was no surprise; what followed next was almost shocking in nature, as Vespillo continued, “But we’re not marching with Germanicus.”

  This naturally was met with exclamations of disbelief and protest, which Vespillo allowed for a moment.

  It was Cornutus who spoke up over the others and asked, “If we’re not going with Germanicus but we’re marching, where are we going?”

  Vespillo’s answer changed everything for Pullus, the Pilus Prior replying, “We’re going to Mogontiacum because we’re going to be part of Caecina’s column for the second part of the Propraetor’s plan.”

  What had been a small uproar before became even larger, as Licinius talked excitedly to Structus, who in turn was trying to make a point to Cornutus, while Vespillo was telling Pullus’ former Optio that not all meetings were like this. Only Pullus was silent, suddenly absorbed in so many thoughts that the fact that they were seemingly being punished by Germanicus by being relegated to what was instantly viewed as a secondary role barely registered. Maybe, he thought, oblivious to the chatter, we’ll only be in Mogontiacum long enough to resupply and we won’t be given time to go out into town, yet somehow, he was certain this was a forlorn hope. Equally as unlikely, he knew, was the fact that the 1st Legion arriving in Mogontiacum would go unnoticed, and as angry as he was with his mother at the moment, he also understood how devastated she would be if what had happened to her lover and his father happened to him, before they had a chance to see each other. It was, he thought miserably, a right fucking mess to be in.

  “Centurion Pullus!”

  The fact that Vespillo bellowed this was Pullus’ first indication that he must have called him more than once, and when he jerked his head up to look at Vespillo, the glare he was giving Pullus confirmed it.

  “Nice to see that you’re done counting your money or whatever you were doing,” Vespillo’s lacerating sarcasm immediately caused whatever it was inside Pullus to shift, but he made sure to keep his face blank as the Pilus Prior continued, “I realize that you’ve threatened to thrash your men if they don’t address you properly, and I do apologize for calling you by the wrong name the first time, but I did correct myself. Hopefully,” he gave Pullus a sneering smile, “I haven’t earned myself a beating from you…Pullus. Now,” the smile vanished, “I need the morning report, but,” Vespillo sat back so that he could look down at his desk, pretending to be surprised as he moved his head back and forth across the surface, “I don’t see anything here that looks like a morning report from my Pilus Posterior.” He picked up one of a small stack of tablets, opening it with an exaggerated flourish as he continued, “Maybe this is it.” Perusing, or pretending to, the contents, he tossed it aside, “No, it’s not. Or, perhaps it’s this one…”

  This time, when he picked up the tablet, Pullus, understanding the game, said quietly, “It won’t be that one either, Pilus Prior, because I haven’t completed it.”

  There was no mistaking the small chortle of triumph the Pilus Prior gave as he pointed to the pile. “But the other Centurions have theirs turned in already. Why not yours?”

  “Perhaps it’s because they haven’t moved to a different Century like I have,” Pullus replied evenly, but it was with a fair amount of effort.

  “But Gillo is a new Centurion,” Vespillo insisted, and to Pullus, it appeared as if the man was thoroughly enjoying himself, “and he somehow managed to have his report on time.”

  It was Pullus’ instinct to continue arguing, thinking that it would be fairly simple to refute this by pointing out that Gillo might have switched roles, but not only was it in the same Century, Krateros remained behind, and as anyone with any time under the standard knew, those reports were almost entirely created by the small army of clerks who made the Legion run.

  And yet, he was certain that this was exactly what Vespillo wanted, so he forced himself to sound contrite as he said, “You’re absolutely right, Pilus Prior. I have no excuse, and I humbly beg your apology. And, it won’t happen again.”

  Vespillo’s reaction confirmed Pullus’ suspicions, because he looked anything but happy, and indeed seemed to be at a loss about how to respond, finally settling on muttering, “Yes, well, see that it doesn’t.” Whatever good humor Vespillo had been experiencing seemed to have evaporated, and he suddenly stood up, scowling as he dismissed the Centurions, snapping, “You have your orders. Now get out of my sight.”

  Nothing was said, although Structus gave Pullus a glance, but he waited until they were out on the street before he turned to the large Centurion, but it was to offer his arm as he said, “I’ve never had a chance to say that I grieve with you, and to congratulate you.”

  “Thank you,” Pullus accepted the arm, remembering how Structus had been his father’s Optio, but he was curious, “but why are you congratulating me? For my promotion? Or being adopted by the Pilus Prior?”

  “Both,” Structus replied, but then before he said anything more, he began walking down the street, with Pullus hurrying to catch up. Only after glancing over his shoulder, Structus said in a low voice, “It’s clear that Vespillo thinks you’re a rock in his caliga; any idea why?”

  Pullus had certainly given this some thought, yet he could only shrug and say honestly, “I have no idea, Aulus. I really don’t.” A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he looked down at his counterpart, asking, “Why, do you?”

  Structus did not look surprised, but nor did he look happy at the question, though he answered readily enough, “I have my suspicions, but nothing more than that.”

  He fell silent, prompting Pullus to demand, “Well? Are you going to tell me or do you like watching me sweat trying to guess?”

  Structus grinned up at him, admitting cheerfully, “I admit that’s a pleasing thought.” The grin faded as he continued, “But no, I’ll tell you. I think that he’s worried about you commanding the Second Century.”

  This puzzled Pullus, and he shook his head dismissively. “I don’t see that as being likely, Aulus. There’s no reason for him to be worried.”

  “There is,” Structus countered immediately, “if there are secrets in his Century that he’s worried about getting out. But,” he added, “it’s more than that. Yes, he’d be worried no matter who took over, but the fact that it’s you probably will have him up nights.”

  “I’m lost,” Pullus confessed; they had stopped in the street, waving the other Centurions past, all of whom gave them curious glances but said nothing. “Why would the fact that it’s me worry him more?”

  “Because, Gnaeus,” Structus replied, quietly but with a sense of certainty that worried Pullus, “you’re a Pullus now, and that name means something. Especially,” he finished pointedly, “to Germanicus.”

  As soon as Structus uttered the words, Pullus realized that his father’s former Optio was almost certainly right, giving him the first glimpse of what came from carrying this name that was not necessarily something positive.

  “So what should I do?” he asked miserably, but while he was expecting something tangible, he was disappointed to hear Structus answer honestly, “Other than watch your back, Gnaeus, I have no idea.”

  “You’re a big help,” he grumbled, though with no real rancor.

  They parted, each heading for their Century to tell them it was time to start packing up.

  “It isn’t a punishment by Germa
nicus,” Alex informed Pullus that night as they consumed the evening meal the clerk had prepared. “It’s to give the Legion the chance to get some of the men from the Third healed up, and this was the only way that he could do it without delaying the entire operation.”

  Pullus considered this as he chewed, recognizing, somewhat grudgingly, that this made more sense than the idea that the Propraetor was sending the 1st away in disgrace. The mention of the Third Cohort, however, reminded Pullus that he had sent Alex on his own version of a scouting mission to the Praetorium.

  “What about the Third?” he asked. “Have you heard anything about what the plans are?”

  “Not much,” Alex admitted. “Other than the fact that Germanicus is going to let Caecina handle it.”

  Pullus was unsure how to feel about this; certainly, he was familiar with Aulus Caecina Severus as Legate to the same degree as any officer. He was undoubtedly stern, bordering on harsh when it came to matters of discipline, yet not to the point where he would do something as drastic as decimating the Cohort, especially after it had already suffered so brutally, even if it was their own fault. Clearly, something had to be done, although there had been some speculation among the officers that, perhaps, the death of Maluginensis and the ignominious way his body had been cremated as a simple Gregarius, without anything approaching the ceremony and honor that his father had received two days earlier had somehow expiated the stain on the honor of the Cohort.

  Finally, he only said with a shrug, “We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.”

  They continued to eat in silence, but Pullus had the sense there was something on Alex’s mind, over and above what they had just been discussing.

  Although he was vaguely aware that his father had this trait, Pullus had no real idea how what he did next would shake Alex profoundly, because it was so eerily identical to Titus Pullus, and it began when Pullus put down his spoon and asked bluntly, “What is it?”