by R. W. Peake
Pullus, mystified, asked, “What are you apologizing for? You didn’t say anything; that bas…the Pilus Prior did.”
Macer shot him a warning glare, but he saw that it was unnecessary.
He was silent for a heartbeat, then explained, “I’m apologizing because I promised Alex that I’d talk to Vespillo, but I had an emergency with the Third Century, and after that, it slipped my mind.”
“Alex?” Pullus frowned in confusion. “What’s he got to do with this?”
Before Macer could reply, the flap of the praetorium was thrust aside, and Caecina, still in his armor like his officers, strode through the opening, followed by the complement of Tribunes, all twenty-four of them, six for each Legion and most of whom had as little to do with the Centurions as possible, an arrangement that perfectly suited the Centurions.
“I’ll explain after we’re done here,” Macer said, then they both watched as Caecina ascended the steps to the rostrum.
“Centurions!” he began, his voice at a lower volume than he would need if he were addressing the entire army. “I have called you here to let you know what our specific mission is, and what you can expect to be facing once we cross the Lupia tomorrow.” Suddenly, he held up an admonishing hand, and continued, “Now, I am not deaf. I know that many of you disagree with my decision not to cross the river today.” Like most men trained in oratory, his head was moving as he scanned the two hundred forty Centurions, and it was just coincidence that he was looking in the direction of the 1st, yet it still made Pullus feel somewhat uncomfortable. “However, the reason for this is not what some of you may believe it to be, that it was because I wanted the river as a line of defense.” Caecina paused to shake his head, trying, to Pullus’ eye, to appear as if he was injured by this, then he continued, “The truth is that timing is important to the success of this endeavor, because while you all know that Lucius Stertinius is leading his men into the same lands where we are heading from the west, what I am telling you now is that the Propraetor has decided that his attack from the north will not be by crossing the river at Vetera as originally planned.” The Legate did not appear surprised that this created a buzz among the Centurions, who muttered their thoughts to their comrades, but when he raised his hand, they fell instantly silent, which allowed Caecina to continue, “Instead, he is conducting an amphibious assault by sailing with his army using the canal made by his father that leads into the Lacus Flavus, then sailing across the Lacus to reach the mouth of the Amisia. He will be leading his army south along the river while we are marching north, and the auxiliaries of Stertinius will be approaching from the west. It has taken some time to gather a fleet capable of transporting the Propraetor’s part of the army, and I received a dispatch yesterday that that fleet sailed three days ago. Germanicus’ orders are to give his men five days, four to travel the distance, then a fifth to land and organize.” He paused again, except this time, it was not because the Centurions were making any kind of noise; they were all listening intently, understanding that they were about to learn the details of what would be expected of them and their men. Instead, he actually consulted the wax tablet that had been tucked into his sash, scanning the lines to refresh his memory. Raising his head, he continued, “This is not being done with any secrecy; in fact, it’s part of the plan formulated by the Propraetor. He wants Arminius and his barbarian scum to know that, at last, Rome has come for them, and from more than one direction!” This did elicit a reaction in the form of a spontaneous roar of approval, and Pullus’ voice was joined with his comrades. Once the clamor died, Caecina went on, “I made the decision to stop for the day earlier than normal, not because I wanted the Lupia as a barrier, but to allow for a bit of extra time for Germanicus and his troops to land and get organized. We,” his voice rose in volume now, and he raised both hands, one of them formed into a fist, which he smashed into his other hand as he declared, “are going to crush anyone who chooses to stand and fight us, starting with the Bructeri!” Once more, the Centurions began bellowing their collective promise, while Caecina lifted his hands to the heavens as he shouted to be heard. “I swear this before Mars, Bellona, and Jupiter Optimus Maximus! We will avenge Varus!”
With this, and with the tumult continuing, Caecina spun about with enough force that it made his paludamentum flare out behind him, and Pullus experienced a stab of unexpected pain when, unbidden, the memory that it had been his father who had first pointed this out to him, that this was done for effect by men of Caecina’s status, leapt into his mind. The Legate’s return into the headquarters tent was the signal to disperse, prompting the men to begin drifting back to their Legions, talking about what they had just learned from Caecina, with debates among small groups immediately erupting about the wisdom of Germanicus’ bold maneuver. However, while Pullus was as interested as any other Centurion, he was more concerned with continuing the conversation with Macer, who had stopped to talk with Sacrovir, and he drifted a few paces away so that the Primus Pilus could not accuse him of trying to overhear whatever the pair were discussing. He did not look in their direction, choosing to wave off Gillo when his former Optio beckoned to him to join their comrades on the walk back to their area, but he could see that, even as the Primus Pilus talked to Macer, Sacrovir’s eyes were on Pullus, which was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling. Finally, Macer saluted, then walked over to him, and his delay meant that the Centurions of the Second Cohort had moved along as well, leaving the two of them relatively alone.
“I don’t suppose you’d tell me what you two were talking about.” Pullus said this jokingly, but he was surprised when Macer did not immediately demur or make a barbed comment about Centurions who needed to mind their own business.
Instead, he replied, “Normally, I wouldn’t, but it was about you, and he didn’t swear me to secrecy, so I suppose I can tell you.” Pullus did not know how to respond, so he said nothing, causing Macer to cast an amused glance up at him, although he only said, “He was asking how I thought you were holding up with all these new changes to your life.”
Pullus’ first reaction was a disbelieving snort. “What?” he scoffed. “The Primus Pilus is worried about me? Why?”
“Because he’s not blind, and he’s not stupid, Gnaeus,” Macer answered quietly. “He’s heard that Vespillo is riding you harder than the others. And,” at this, he seemed to hesitate, “he’s not unsympathetic to your situation about your adoption.”
Pullus slowed, and his voice went cold as he stared down at Macer, whose head, as it had with his father, came up to his shoulder.
“My… ‘situation’? What do you mean by that?”
To his credit, Macer did not flinch, nor did he hesitate in his reply. “I think you know what I mean, Gnaeus. Remember,” he reminded Pullus, “your father was my best friend. We didn’t have many secrets.”
Pullus felt the flush, while his ears felt especially hot, and he was unaware that this was a trait he shared with his deceased uncle Sextus, but the cause was from the sense of shame that prompted him to say, “You’re right, Pilus Prior. I apologize.” Sighing, he admitted, “I suppose that Vespillo’s just made me especially touchy about it. But,” he turned back to regard Macer evenly, “that doesn’t explain why Sacrovir is so interested. I thought he hated my father.”
Macer waved his hand, assuring Pullus, “No need to apologize, Gnaeus.” He paused, mainly because three Centurions, walking more quickly than the pair, were passing by within earshot, before he continued, “As far as Sacrovir, I don’t think he hated your father at all. I think he was intimidated by him, but,” he chuckled, “who wasn’t? No,” he shook his head, “I think that he knew that, if the gods were just, your father would have been in his posting and not him. And,” he added, “I think that’s what bothered him about your father. He knew he didn’t measure up when compared to Titus Pullus. But,” Macer held his hands up in a helpless gesture, “none of us did…except for you.”
This brought Pullus to a stop, and he stared do
wn at Macer, searching the man’s face in the fading light, but there was no sign of anything other than sincere concern in the Pilus Prior’s face, and it ignited in Pullus a decidedly queer feeling.
“What are you saying, Pilus Prior?” he asked, but Macer gave him a scornfully amused look, and he countered, “I think you know exactly what I’m saying.” Taking a quick glance around, Macer nevertheless lowered his voice as he went on, “The one thing that your father lacked was a powerful patron who was willing to stick his neck out for him when it was needed.”
“But what about…” Pullus mimicked Macer’s action of a couple heartbeats before, looking around before he continued, “…Tiberius? I thought my father…worked for him,” he finished uncomfortably.
“He did,” Macer replied, then amended, “At least, that’s what I believe. Your father never said a word about it, and it was one of the few secrets between us, but I saw enough to be fairly certain. But,” Macer lowered his voice even further, “Tiberius isn’t, or wasn’t the type of patron who would be willing to take any kind of risk, especially when Divus Augustus was alive. And, I don’t know if you’re aware of your family, your real family’s problems with Divus Augustus, but while I don’t condone it, I can see why Tiberius would have been cautious.”
“I know a little bit,” Pullus admitted, “but no details. Only that Prefect Pullus was elevated to my…” Suddenly, he felt a stab of something that might have been regret that caused him to add a word in mid-sentence. “…former status as an Equestrian, but that it didn’t transfer to my grandfather, and I know that Augustus had something to do with it, but that’s all.”
“That’s about what I know,” Macer admitted. “But what’s important is that this is why Tiberius didn’t do anything to help your father’s career.” Suddenly, Macer became more animated, pointing at Pullus as he said, “But Tiberius isn’t Germanicus. And you have Germanicus as a patron.”
Pullus stared at Macer, dumbfounded, and he demanded, “How do you know this?”
“Because your father told me that he intended to talk to Germanicus about you,” Macer replied calmly.
Not surprisingly, Pullus had no idea how to respond to this, at least for the span of several heartbeats; finally, he managed to say miserably, “Well, even if he did, the Pilus Prior is doing his best to make sure that it won’t matter.”
“Which,” Macer’s face was grim, “is why I’m going to be talking to Vespillo.”
“Do you think it will do any good?”
Pullus tried not to sound anxious, but Macer was not fooled, and he gave Pullus a reassuring smile, “Remember, he was my Pilus Posterior for a long time. Trust me, Gnaeus, I know how to handle Numerius Vespillo.”
The pair parted when they reached the Second Cohort area, his counterparts in the Fourth having gone ahead, leaving Pullus to walk on, alone with his thoughts, something that he actually treasured at this moment. There is, he mused, so much to think about, but he was acutely aware that he could not allow the distraction created by his personal situation to interfere with his duties, especially with a Century of men with whom he was still relatively unfamiliar. Everything that was so important to him personally, he understood, had nothing to do with his job of making sure that his men acquitted themselves in a manner befitting a Legion of Rome in general, and the 1st in particular, in whatever was to come. Nor did it play a role in what was, while secondary, still vitally important, and that was to do whatever he could do to bring as many of his men back across the Rhenus as he could. His mind was occupied with these thoughts to such an extent that it was not until he was almost even with the Pilus Prior’s tent that he noticed that, while Vespillo was mostly unseen, he could see that the Pilus Prior was standing just inside his tent, peering through the gap in the flaps, and despite the fact that Pullus could only clearly see one eye, while the rest of his face was in shadow, he recognized that it belonged to the Pilus Prior. This was disturbing enough; it was the expression in that eye that was so unsettling, a look of such malevolent hatred that it ignited a queer sensation in Pullus’ stomach, but now that he had glanced in that direction and their eyes had met, he refused to look away, nor did he stop walking, and he waited for Vespillo to either emerge or call his name, but within a couple of paces, the moment was over. Am I going to have to spend my time trying to keep my men from being killed while watching my back at the same time? he wondered. The hostility in the Pilus Prior’s gaze was certainly unsettling, but by the time he reached his own tent, Gnaeus Pullus had done his best to put that in a compartment of his mind so that his attention was focused on what really mattered, the men of the Second Century; he owed his father that much.
Whatever worries Gnaeus Pullus, who was just becoming accustomed to his new name, had about his Pilus Prior Numerius Vespillo, they were shoved to the back of his mind when the army broke camp and crossed the Lupia, officially entering Bructeri lands. This move occurred two days after Caecina’s meeting with the Centurions, whereupon his part of the army began carrying out their part of a three-pronged assault planned by Germanicus, the objective of which was the final defeat of Arminius and his confederation of tribes. The initial task assigned to Caecina’s force was to march through the lands of the Bructeri, with the dual purpose of laying waste to their lands, and to subjugate the people. However, despite the belief of the entire army that some sort of confrontation was imminent, the first of the Bructeri villages they came across were not only deserted, but the fleeing tribespeople had chosen to torch their homes rather than leave them.
“I don’t know about you, boys,” Pullus had called out to his Century when they approached the second village and saw several columns of smoke streaming into the sky, “but I’m happy these Bructeri cunni are making our jobs easier!”
The men cheered, not with much enthusiasm, but Pullus knew why, since the fact that the Bructeri were doing it on their own meant that any chance of finding valuables was seriously diminished. Nevertheless, there was one advantage, because it made matters easier for Caecina to follow the fleeing Bructeri, and fairly quickly, it became clear that their retreat was taking them to the northwest. And, as Pullus quickly learned, what lay in that direction was the Teutoberg. This quickly became the dominant topic of conversation, albeit in muttered snatches of conversation, conducted in a tone low enough to avoid feeling the vitus across the back of the legs or on the arms, the only vulnerable spots for armored Legionaries on the march. As understandable as it was that this would be what the men were concerned with, like the other Centurions, Pullus was also aware that it would not profit any of them to allow those men who seemed to thrive on spreading fear by recalling the lurid details of Varus’ demise to continue unabated. To that end, he concentrated his efforts on listening carefully and leaving his normal spot to essentially move around the formation as they marched, trying to catch such men, which meant, within moments, he was huffing and puffing from the effort of trotting around his Century. He was at a further disadvantage; if it had been the Sixth, he would have simply gone to each of the men he knew shared this habit, and with a few preemptive whacks with the vitus, would have nipped the problem in the bud. With this new Century, however, he was not sufficiently familiar with the rankers, although he had already gotten a pretty good idea of who were shirkers or malingerers, but he still had not identified the doomsayers. He suspected that this attempt to catch someone was a forlorn hope; just by virtue of his size, it was next to impossible for him to surprise anyone with his presence, so despite his best efforts, he only caught snatches of whispered conversations that he felt certain were about the perils of the Teutoberg but could not prove. At least, he thought with a sense of sour amusement after he gave up and trotted back to his spot in the column, it passed the time. Shortly before midday, the army arrived at a Bructeri village that, while deserted of its inhabitants like the others, it was obvious that their flight had been hastier, the evidence of this in the form of smoke rising from the holes of several huts, along with
discarded implements out in the two large fields that bordered the village from the side that Caecina’s army was approaching. The 1st was not marching drag, but they were third in the column, which meant that by the time they arrived, the village had been stripped clean, with every one of the usual hiding spots searched, while the fortunate men who arrived first used their javelins or their gladii to pull apart the hearthstones, scattering the embers in those huts where the fire was still going, unearthing the small bags of coins or jewelry normally secreted in such locations. What it meant in a practical sense was that when Pullus led his Century through the village, using the churned mud strip that passed for a street, several of the huts were already ablaze, the heat from them causing men to recoil as they passed by. It would be up to the 5th, marching drag that day, to finish torching the village, while the 20th had been given the task of despoiling the two fields on the southern side of the village. Since the 21st had the vanguard, they not only had the chance to ransack the village, they were given the job of doing the same to the fields on the northern side.
“Looks like everyone but us has some work to do, boys!” Pullus called out, although all he was saying was a variation of the same sort of thing the other Centurions of the 1st were telling their own Centuries.
It was a small thing, as every Centurion knew, but the idea of their comrades performing some sort of labors while they got to stand there watching never failed to improve the mood of men under the standard. Inevitably, it meant that as the 1st waited for the 21st and 20th to finish the job of uprooting the crops that were fully grown and within a few weeks of being ready for harvest, bundle them up, then carry them into the village to throw into one of the burning huts, they passed the time by shouting invective at men they knew, at least by sight. Equally inevitable were the men of the 21st responding with jeers of their own, but the more potent power to insult lay with the men who held up leather pouches that, presumably, had been located somewhere in the village not long before. As far as Pullus and most of the Centurions were concerned, if this meant their minds were off the Teutoberg, it was worth all the shouting and threats that were being thrown back and forth.