by R. W. Peake
Thrusting his arms into the air, Germanicus began by speaking in loud, ringing tones, “My comrades! We are here, in the last camp of Publius Quintilius Varus and the brave Roman men he led, and I do not have to remind you of what happened here. No,” his voice modulated slightly, conveying a sense of sadness, “I can see it reflected in your faces that there is no need to relive what occurred, the loss that each of us have suffered. Some,” he added, “more than others, which is why those of you who were connected by the ties of blood to one of our comrades who fell here are present. We are here to honor their memory, and to do what should have been done six years ago.” He lowered his arms, then with one hand, indicated with a sweeping gesture the bones that were in the immediate area as he continued, “We are going to gather what remains of our comrades, and your relations, inter them, and do them the honor that they deserve.” At this, he turned his head and said something to one of the priests, who bowed, then went striding off in the direction of the assembled men to exit the gate through which they had arrived, while Germanicus resumed. “We will begin by sacrificing one of the sacred bulls as an offering to the gods so that they accept our comrades into the afterlife. Then,” to Pullus what occurred was less a deliberate pause by Germanicus and more of a hesitation, as if he was still considering whether to say it or not, but he understood why when the Propraetor carried on, “we are going to gather the bones of our beloved comrades and treat them with the respect and reverence that is long past due for them.” Partially turning, he pointed to the center of the ruined camp, and he raised his voice “We will construct a tumulus that will serve as a monument to these bones, all that remains of men who fought and died for Rome, men whom each of us are bound to, some of you by blood, and all of us by the honor that comes from all that we do in the name of the Princeps, whether it was Divus Augustus or my own father, Tiberius.”
He stopped speaking, and Pullus assumed it was because of the small disturbance caused by the appearance of the large bull, entering the camp led by a priest carrying the short-handled bronze axe that, despite having a blade, Pullus knew would be used to stun the bull, which was jet black in color, the color favored by the gods of the underworld. Thrust into the priest’s belt was the razor-sharp bronze knife that would actually end the life of the animal, which was being docile enough, although the two slaves on either side of it, each with a hand on its halter, looked nervous, and Pullus supposed that could be because of the setting as much as the concern that the drugs that had made the bull behave so meekly might wear off. All eyes were on the small procession, the bull being followed by the augur, carrying the ceremonial bowl that would catch the first flow of blood from the animal when its throat was slit. Like any Roman in general, and men of the Legions in particular, Gnaeus Pullus had long before lost count of how many sacrifices he had been present to witness, but it had never been under circumstances like this. Consequently, he had difficulty from not nervously shifting from one foot to another as the moment approached, and a quick glance at Tetarfenus on one side and Saloninus on the other told him he was not alone in his anxiety, which did not help very much. The chief priest began intoning the ritual prayer, his arms lifted in the same posture that Germanicus had used to begin his speech, but Pullus kept his eye on the bull, who was beginning to show signs that he might be coming out of his stupor, its huge head moving slowly back and forth. It was barely noticeable at first, with only the arms of the two slaves clutching the halter moving, but as the prayer droned on, their torsos began swaying in opposing rhythms as the bull became more vigorous in what, Pullus was certain, was an attempt to clear the fog enveloping it from the drugs.
“Pluto’s balls,” Tetarfenus whispered, “this bastard better get on with it, or this is not going to end well.”
Before Pullus could reply, either to hush his Signifer or agree with him, the chief priest ended the prayer, yet did it in such an abrupt manner that the Centurion was certain the man was as aware of an impending disaster as any of the witnesses. The priest beckoned to his counterpart holding the axe, who did not hesitate, stepping smoothly into the spot directly in front of the bull and in its blind spot the instant it was vacated by the priest taking one pace to the side. It happened so quickly that Pullus barely saw the blunt, flat end of the axe strike the bull squarely in the middle of its broad forehead, but there was no missing the effect, all four legs suddenly collapsing from underneath the massive weight of its body, dropping it to its knees. Pullus’ attention was on the bull, so he missed the second priest, handing the axe to the chief priest, draw the bronze knife, and with a speed and certainty that could only come from long practice, step forward and slice the bull’s throat, seemingly in one motion. This was the moment for the third man, holding the bowl, who with equal skill leapt forward and caught the sudden, massive flow of bright red blood, filling the bowl before stepping back and allowing the flow to continue in great spurts as the bull’s heart pumped what was left of its lifeblood onto the ground. Turning towards Germanicus slowly and carefully, both to avoid sloshing the contents of the bowl and in keeping with the gravity of the moment, he held it out to the Propraetor, who took it with equal solemnity, then raised the bowl up towards the sky.
“To the gods above, and the gods below,” he intoned, “we offer this sacrifice in expiation for allowing the shades of the men who fell here, through vile treachery, to cross the river Styx and seek eternal peace, to rest in honor with their ancestors!”
Once the ceremony was over, the work of gathering the bones began, but it was quickly decided that only those men who had lost a relative would be involved in this; that it was because several of the officers balked was something that Pullus would have cause to remember some time later, although it never occurred to him that this would have a deleterious effect on Germanicus as well, and from a much more important source than his officers. If he had been asked, Pullus would have admitted that he felt slightly ridiculous supervising his two men Plancus and Carbo, and he could tell that Saloninus felt much the same. However, he was even more uncomfortable because of the obvious anguish that the men gathering the bones were feeling, and while Carbo would never know it, the sight of his truculent ranker weeping as he wondered aloud whether or not the long thigh bone that was partially buried and he unearthed actually belonged to his cousin, who Pullus learned was named Numerius Carbo, meant that Pullus would always view his Carbo in a slightly different manner. Not that Pullus would have acknowledged it, but deep within him, he also recognized that the recent loss of his father and all that it meant played a large role in the sympathy he felt for Carbo, and Plancus, although the latter ranker did not appear to be as distraught as the former, despite the fact that it was actually Plancus’ brother who had fallen. Slowly and thoroughly, the remnants of the last survivors of three Legions and their officers were gathered up, but as he watched, it sent Pullus’ mind in another direction as he wondered about the thousands of Varus’ other men who had fallen long before this last attempt to stave off destruction. Early on, a question arose, as it was determined that, while a fair number of the piles of bones belonged to men, not all of them did, and there was a brief discussion whether or not to carry everything to the center of the camp, or whether it should be reserved for just the men and not the numerous horses, mules, and other animals. To Pullus, this seemed a rather easy and straightforward question, until he happened to be near enough to see that there were bones that were not intact, leaving just shards or remnants that were extremely difficult to identify as far as from what kind of creature it came. Finally, Germanicus made the decision that only those bones that could be easily identified as human would be taken to the steadily growing pile. As this work continued, the officers congregated, splitting their time between being available to the men doing the work for whatever reason and talking quietly in small groups. Before too much time passed, Pullus drifted over to where Macer was standing, feeling more comfortable with his former Pilus Prior than with Vespillo, who Pullus coul
d feel glaring at him as he walked up to Macer, although Vespillo said nothing about it.
“Notice anything?” Macer asked immediately, but, after a careful look around, Pullus shook his head. “There aren’t many skulls, are there? I mean, there aren’t nearly enough for the number of other bones.”
As soon as Macer said it, Pullus realized it was true, and he scanned the area, looking at each tree in his range of vision, but most of the skulls had already been removed. Even so, he quickly thought about it and was certain that Macer was right; there were not nearly enough skulls for the amount of bones contained within the walls of Varus’ camp.
“Where do you think the rest of them are?” Pullus asked, tacitly accepting Macer’s observation. Thinking of something, he added, “I remember hearing about Caedicius’ camp and how most of the skulls were arranged outside it, but there wasn’t any sign of that here.”
“No,” Macer agreed, “there wasn’t.” Shaking his head, he admitted, “I have no idea where they are, but what I do know is that we’re not going to like whenever we find out what happened to them.” Before Pullus could respond, Macer changed the subject by asking, “How are things going with Vespillo?” Pullus grimaced, which caused Macer to chuckle. “That bad?”
Nodding, Pullus replied unhappily, “There doesn’t seem to be any way to please the man, Pilus Prior, and it’s not just with me. Although,” he added with some bitterness, “I get the brunt of it.”
Macer did not answer immediately, seemingly absorbed in watching three of his men bent over, using their hands to remove dirt from around a pile of bones as they tried to determine whether they belonged to one of their comrades or the livestock.
Finally, he said, “I know it’s hard to believe, Gnaeus, but I don’t think this is about you as much as it may seem. I think that, deep down, Vespillo doesn’t think he’s worthy of leading the Fourth.”
The instant Pullus heard Macer’s words and his mind absorbed them, he realized that this was, in all likelihood, the answer, and once more he felt a stab of pity for his Pilus Prior. Following hard on the heels was a sense of disgust for himself as he thought, why should you feel sorry for that bastard? He hates you, and he’s tried to make your life miserable.
Outwardly, Pullus heard himself saying, “I suppose that makes sense, but it doesn’t really help things any, does it?”
“No,” Macer agreed, “it doesn’t. And, I wish I could help you, Gnaeus, I really do. And,” he added hastily, “not just you. I can see that the others are miserable at well.” Suddenly, he grinned up at Pullus, “But you need to look at it this way. At least you’re not the Third.”
Despite himself, Pullus heard the chuckle that escaped his lips, but there was still a residual of bitterness in his voice as he retorted, “That’s as it may be, but all I care about is the Fourth.”
Macer nodded, but he said elliptically, “As you should, but things may be changing soon.”
Naturally, this grabbed Pullus’ attention, and he looked at Macer sharply, demanding, “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” Macer answered, too quickly. “Forget I said anything.”
“How can I do that?” Pullus asked incredulously. “You said it, so you should at least tell me what you mean!”
In response, Macer looked around cautiously, but Atartinus, who Pullus had known well since he had been the Fourth Cohort’s Signifer before Macer took him to the Second, was involved in a conversation with a ranker and clearly not listening.
“It means,” Macer spoke at a barely audible tone, “that Sacrovir is looking for any reason to relieve Vespillo. But,” now Macer looked directly at him as he said flatly, “you knew that already, didn’t you?”
“No!” Pullus protested. “Why would I?”
“Because Sacrovir wants you to tell him about anything Vespillo does that’s…a problem.” Macer’s gaze did not waver as he said this. “Isn’t that true?”
“But I didn’t know that’s…”
Macer raised a hand, cutting him off.
“Gnaeus, don’t take me for a fool. You know very well that if the Primus Pilus wants you to spy on your Pilus Prior, it’s to help him make a case to have him removed.”
Pullus said nothing to this, understanding that this was true, yet, despite wanting Vespillo removed, or barring that, at least not making his life miserable, he did not feel right about being a possible cause for that removal because of something he told their Primus Pilus. Realizing there was nothing he could do about it in the moment, Pullus thanked Macer and returned to his Cohort.
The tumulus was completed, the first square of sod laid by Germanicus’ own hand, and he had also helped gather bones, although only at the beginning, in more of a ceremonial gesture. None of them knew at the time, but all the men present, including Pullus, would have cause to remember this because of the manner in which Tiberius reacted to this seemingly simple and heartfelt gesture. That, however, was in the future; by the time the bones were gathered and the construction of the earthen barrow enclosing them was finished, there was barely a watch of daylight left, but as the men inside Varus’ camp were occupied, Germanicus had sent out patrols, scouting for another site large enough to construct a camp that could protect the entire army. A spot a little more than a mile away was located, and by the time the men involved in the interment were done, there was just enough daylight for the officers to return to their Legions, march them to the new campsite and begin construction. Once the men were settled in and the evening routine began, the Centurions were summoned to Sacrovir’s quarters, where they found the Primus Pilus outside his tent waiting.
“Tomorrow,” he began, his expression grim, “we begin the real business of bringing Arminius to heel. And to do that, we’re going deeper into the Teutoberg.”
This statement was met with almost complete silence, telling the Primus Pilus that this was expected, and if his Centurions were not looking forward to the prospect of facing the Cherusci chieftain and whatever tribes marched with him, they clearly understood what was coming, and if anything, seemed resigned to it.
“We’re marching second tomorrow, behind the 14th,” Sacrovir continued. “But the Propraetor has decided to consolidate the cavalry, save for turmae to serve as flank and rearguards to lead the way, in force.”
Finished, Sacrovir asked for questions, and when none came, he dismissed the Centurions to return to their respective areas, and despite not really wanting to, Pullus walked with his counterparts in the Fourth.
“The one question I have,” Cornutus spoke up, “is how long is Germanicus going to have us chasing these bastards?”
“As long as it takes, I suppose,” Licinius offered, but Pullus was barely listening, watching Vespillo with some surprise, certain that the Pilus Prior would have pounced on Cornutus for asking such a question.
“So why didn’t you ask him, Cornutus?” Structus asked in a teasing tone, but Cornutus had a ready reply, grinning at the other Centurion.
“Because he’d say the same thing as Licinius did. I’m not an idiot.”
This evoked laughter from five of the party, but Vespillo did not even seem to notice, walking with his head down as he seemed more concerned with tripping than the fact that his Centurions were enjoying a lighthearted moment, something that he normally could not seem to abide. For his part, Pullus chose to remain silent, although he did enjoy this moment of bantering between his comrades, and he realized how much he had missed what had been a staple of their time together when Macer, then his father, had commanded the Cohort.
The night passed uneventfully, the morning routine was accomplished, the men consuming whatever remained of their evening meal as the section slaves reversed the process, striking the tents they had erected as the camp was being constructed. This was followed by the toppling of the turf walls back into the ditch, but instead of burning the towers, Germanicus, not wanting to make it any easier for Arminius to find his force from the smoke it would create, ordered them topp
led as well but otherwise left intact. Because of the size of the army, the forum was used for two Legions at a time, meaning the 14th and 1st would not have the opportunity to snatch a bit more sleep, this being the almost universal response to the inevitably long wait for those men consigned to marching farther back in the column. The most potent sign that Germanicus had some expectation that this day would be different was his command that the section slaves and their mules carrying the tent, picket stakes, and other items like the section grinder be consigned to the larger baggage train. This did not sit well with Alex, but while Pullus pretended to be sympathetic, he also was secretly relieved that his clerk would be out of harm’s way, although he was indifferent to the idea that the other clerk Demetrios was similarly safe. And, from his observation, the junior clerk was anything but upset at the prospect of being with the rest of the baggage train, although in this Pullus did not really blame him. As he watched Alex walking away, Pullus mused on the relatively rapid change in their relationship, and for what would be the first but far from the last time, he wondered if those scrolls that he had left with his mother that contained the account of the man he was still trying to accept was his great-grandfather might give him some insight. How, he wondered, did the first Titus Pullus, and the Greek slave he snatched out of a pen at Pharsalus to help with his uniform transform their original relationship to the point where now that Greek’s son aroused such a protective feeling in him? Before he returned his attention to more pressing matters, he was ruefully amused at the thought that, if Gnaeus Volusenianus Pullus could go back in time to tell the young Gnaeus Claudius Volusenus that he would come to feel this way about a freedman clerk, exactly what his past self would have to say about it? Undoubtedly, the haughty young equestrian who arrived at Ubiorum, certain that just the combination of his prodigious size and strength, along with his earnest belief that his exercises on the Campus Martius of Mediolanum would have been sufficient to win the immediate respect of his peers, would have laughed at the idea that a lofty personage such as he was, relatively speaking, could ever hold some clerk in such high regard. We truly live in an age of wonders was his last, self-mocking thought.