by R. W. Peake
Pullus grimaced at the way Alex had phrased it, though he was force to admit, “Well, it wasn’t put exactly that way. But,” he sighed, “essentially, yes.”
What Pullus noticed immediately was that Alex did not look in the least bit surprised, but when his clerk shook his head, he felt compelled to offer, “You didn’t hear what he said about me! And my father. And Macer.”
“Actually,” Alex replied, “I did. From the same person who told me about what you said. Which,” his voice changed, using the kind of disapproving tone Pullus associated with his mother, “I understand. Why you said it, I mean. But,” he shook his head, “that doesn’t mean it was wise.”
“I know,” Pullus admitted. “I knew it the instant I said it.”
“Too bad you didn’t know it the instant before you said it,” Alex shot back tartly, yet despite the glare Pullus gave him, there was no real heat in it, the Centurion knowing not only that it was true, but that it was coming from a place of loyalty and concern.
“So,” Pullus asked, more to change the subject, “who told you? Probably Menander,” he guessed, naming the new junior clerk of the First Century.
Alex shook his head but did not seem disposed to say anything, prompting Pullus to stare at him until he relented, “Fine, I’ll tell you.” He lowered his voice a fraction, reminding Pullus of Demetrios and his bad habit of eavesdropping. “It was Demas.”
“Demas!” Pullus exclaimed, then winced when Alex hissed a warning at him, and in a whisper, he said, “Sorry! I should have kept my voice down. It’s just so…surprising. Demas has been Vespillo’s slave for years, and we know why he took Demas to the First with him. He’s always been loyal.”
The look Alex gave him was a mixture of scorn and amusement.
“If you officers ever knew what your slaves really thought,” he assured Pullus, “you’d never sleep soundly again. No,” he shook his head, “Demas loathes Vespillo. He always has, but he’s also good at keeping that hidden from the Pilus Prior.”
“Not just the Pilus Prior,” Pullus pointed out, looking uneasy. “He certainly fooled me. I thought he would be loyal to Vespillo to the death.”
“Oh, he’s loyal enough. To a point,” Alex replied. “But Demas says that he thinks Vespillo has gone off his head, that he’s so eaten up with hatred for everyone he thinks has cheated him that he’s dangerous to anyone he views as a threat.”
Pullus considered this, and while it went against his grain to acknowledge that he was concerned about a threat posed by another man, he was forced to admit, “That’s probably what’s happened, because the gods know that I thought he might actually try something with me last night.”
“I doubt that,” Alex replied, his voice firm and without any hesitation. “I mean,” he amended, “not like that. He’s dangerous to you, but not with a gladius. Nobody,” Alex assured Pullus, “is a threat to you that way.”
As Alex was certain that it would, this clearly pleased Pullus, and when the clerk left the Centurion and returned to the outer office, he was grinning, but also felt the prick of tears as he thought, That’s for you, Uncle Titus. After all, he’s his father’s son.
Once more, the 1st, 5th, 20th, and 21st were under the command of Caecina, while the other four Legions returned to the mouth of the Amisia, where the fleet was waiting for them. The auxiliaries and the cavalry were combined, and placed under the command of Stertinius; Pedo’s time as a Prefect of cavalry was over, and he would quickly vanish from the Rhenus, returning to Rome to write his poetry. Gaesorix was originally placed in one of the wagons that would be returning with Germanicus, but at Alex’s suggestion, and with his help through his contacts in the praetorium, the Batavian was loaded into one of the wagons designated for the transport of the 1st’s wounded. Going further, Pullus excused Alex from part of his duties so that he could stay with the Prefect, who was recovering, slowly but surely. Unsurprisingly, this did not sit well with Demetrios, but he only voiced his complaint to Pullus once, the Centurion not needing to do anything more than fix him with a hard stare. From outward appearances, the Fourth Cohort went about its business of preparing for the march home in a manner no different than any other time, but there was an atmosphere of tension that, although it originated with the officers, was soon transmitted to the men. Pullus became aware of this by their behavior, how they would suddenly stop talking while he strode past or perhaps stopped to talk to them, and while this was not all that unusual, since rankers were never eager to share information that might get them in trouble, there was something distinctly different this time, yet somewhat unusually, he decided not to press the matter. The day came that the camp was destroyed, although this time, the towers and everything else made of wood was destroyed by fire, and the huge Roman army split into three parts again. Caecina selected the 1st to march behind the baggage train the first day, which meant the officers of the Fourth spent a good part of the day’s march alternating between reminding the men that it meant they would not be required to build the camp, which was no different than the other Cohorts. What was dissimilar was that there was still a mood in the Cohort that could not seem to be dispelled, while Vespillo in particular seemed to take this as a personal affront that Pullus and the other officers assumed was why he was using his vitus so liberally with the First Century. At the first rest break of the day, once their own Centuries were settled down, every Centurion but Vespillo spent their time standing together, watching as their Pilus Prior stalked up and down the ranks of his sprawled men, all of whom were dividing their time between trying to eat or drink something and keeping a wary eye out for their Centurion.
“You know,” Structus spoke up, his eyes never leaving Vespillo, “watching him reminds me of something your father taught me.”
“Oh?” Pullus did the same as Structus, keeping his gaze on the Pilus Prior. “And what was that?”
“That trying to beat a man into a better frame of mind is a waste of time.” He paused, then said dryly, “Although I was never sure why. It seems perfectly reasonable to me that whacking Publius’ ass might cheer him up. I mean,” he added with a straight face, “it always cheers me up when I do it.”
This elicited some chuckling, which was loud enough that it caused Vespillo to whirl about, eyeing them suspiciously and prompting them to become interested in the ground around them, reminding Pullus of those occasions when he and some of his friends had been caught by their tutor in some misdeed. He was about to mention this, but caught himself, remembering the other times he had brought something up from his childhood that was so vastly different from those of his comrades that they only stared blankly at him.
Instead, he changed the subject by asking, “Do any of you know when we reach those bridges that Ahenobarbus built?”
“Tomorrow,” Cornutus answered. “Probably after midday.”
“Will that be enough time to get across them?” Pullus asked, but he was unprepared for the reaction he got from all but Licinius, who looked as interested as he was in the answer.
“We’re not going to make it all the way across in one day, no matter how early we get there,” Cornutus’ tone was such that it told Pullus this was almost undoubtedly the truth.
He had learned during his time in the Cohort that Cornutus, while possessing what could be called a gloomy frame of mind, also did not like making unequivocal statements when there was even a possibility that he could be wrong. The fact that he sounded so adamant now informed Pullus more than the words themselves, and he signaled his acceptance with his next question.
“How many days will it take, then? Any idea?”
Cornutus considered, but for this, he glanced at Structus and Gillo; it was the latter who said, “It all depends on what kind of shape that roadway’s in. Like we said, it was made entirely of wood; wooden piers, wooden frame, and planks for the roadbed.” He shrugged as he finished, “As far as I know, nobody has been sent out there to repair it since it was built. I know we didn’t. Maybe the boys i
n Vetera did at some point.”
“No.” Cornutus shook his head. “We’d have heard about it if they had, especially once the word got out that’s how Caecina is taking us.”
“So,” Pullus summed up, “it sounds like we could be stuck there for two days, or maybe more.”
“The way this campaign has gone,” Cornutus replied, returning to his normal state, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re in that fucking swamp for a week.”
The cornu sounded the call ending the break, and the Centurions returned to their men, bawling at them to get on their feet, pick up their packs, and shut their fucking mouths; all in all, it was a normal resumption of a day’s march on campaign. Only the men of Vespillo’s Century would have argued that there was anything normal about it, although none of them would have been willing to voice that, not with the Pilus Prior in the mood he was in that day.
“Fucked. We’re all fucked. That’s all there is to it.”
As dire as the words were, they had been delivered in a flat monotone, recited more as a simple recognition of the reality than anything else; that this was the verdict rendered by Cornutus was one thing, but Pullus could see by the demeanor of his fellow Centurions that they were in complete, albeit silent agreement with their counterpart.
The reason they did not voice that agreement became apparent immediately, when Vespillo snarled, “Cornutus, shut your fucking mouth. It’s bad enough that the men are going to be whining about it, I don’t need one of my Centurions acting like a fucking woman about it too.”
Like the others, Pullus remained silent, except that in this, he was at least somewhat torn, because he agreed with Vespillo’s sentiment, just not in how he had delivered it, especially in front of the rest of them. With this piece of business settled for the moment, Pullus returned his attention to what had caused Cornutus’ bleak assessment of the situation. The 1st was leading the way on this day, and while it was not the Fourth in the vanguard, they were third in the column behind the Second and Seventh, placing them close enough that, when the halt was sounded, they could walk forward to see what awaited them. Stopping on the brow of a low hill, the well-worn track they had been following led down it to what, to Pullus’ eye, was a vast stretch of ground that could only be called swampland, the proof in the form of pools of glimmering water, of varying sizes and separated by patches of ground that gleamed slightly from the moisture in it, stretching as far as the eye could see. Bisecting the swamp was what looked like a dirty white line that began no more than two hundred paces from the bottom of the hill upon which Pullus and his comrades were standing. It was a bit too far away for him to make out the individual planks that had been planed flat and laid atop the trimmed logs that served as the framework, but time and the elements had done their work, the wood turning the color of bone that was only marred by what, from the color, Pullus guessed were clumps of moss. It was also obvious that the roadway had seen use; there were two darker lines roughly equidistant from each edge that he knew were made by wagons. Other than that, it was impossible to tell the condition, although even as they were watching, a party of horsemen had descended the hill and were just reaching the beginning of the roadway.
“They’re checking it to see if it’s rotted,” Gillo guessed, which was accepted by Pullus, and the others, although Vespillo shot Gillo an irritated look that Pullus assumed was caused by Vespillo’s intention of making this observation himself.
Fortunately, the Pilus Prior confined himself to just that, and soon enough, he had returned his attention to the dozen horsemen who were now about two hundred paces out onto the roadway. For the first time, Pullus actually took the time to examine the mounted party, and he saw the black plumes on the helmets of two of the men, but he could tell that neither of them was Caecina. Probably whoever the Praefectus Fabrorum is, he thought, although he could not recall who it was; not that it mattered to him or his men. If there was work to be done and the Legate decided that it was the 1st, or more likely three of the Legions doing the work, they would do it, and that was really all that mattered. As the rest of his comrades continued watching as the party moved, slowly, farther out onto the roadway, Pullus turned his attention to the ground around him, noticing that the hill upon which they were standing actually curved around to his right until it paralleled the roadway, also to the horizon as far as he could see. The difference was in the vegetation; because the soil wasn’t soaked or underwater, the slope of the ridge was heavily forested, along with the same kind of undergrowth that was the bane of their existence. This prompted him to wonder about the opposite flank, so he made his way to the other side of the column, cursing softly at what he saw once he could see clearly. While it was not part of the same ridgeline and there was an expanse where the ground remained flat, Pullus saw that about a half-mile ahead, the ground rose up, with a ridge that, while not as high as the one bounding their right flank, extended off into the distance, which meant for the foreseeable future, they would be in a swampy valley surrounded by higher ground. Cornutus, he thought dismally, is right; we’re fucked.
The march resumed after the scouting party returned, reporting that the two miles of the roadway they had traversed was in serviceable condition, which was true enough; it was the third mile when, once more, the march halted. This time, it was because they were confronted by a stretch of roadway where, for whatever reason, the roadbed had collapsed into the muck, while several of the piers were canted at an angle that suggested that either they were unable to support the weight of a conveyance that was simply too heavy or rot had set in. What the reason was ultimately did not matter to the men; what did was who Caecina was going to select to perform the work, and in this, the 1st’s fortune ran out. While the 5th arrayed in a line of Cohorts, five to a side, with the 21st consigned to guarding the part of the column that contained the baggage train, the other two Legions were put to work. The Fourth was sent to the slope on the right flank to cut down trees for the piers and framework, which required them to cross more than three hundred paces of boggy ground, so that by the time they reached the slope, most of the men were covered in thick, stinking mud up to their knees. There was one exception, the largest and heaviest of the Cohort sinking even more deeply into the muck, something that cheered his men immensely. Pullus’ natural reaction would have been to respond to the obvious glee of his men that their Centurion was at least marginally more miserable than they were with a few swipes of his vitus. Yet, without warning, just as he was picking out his first victim, a voice inside his head that sounded much like Titus Pullus pointed out that, if he chose to laugh with his men, especially if it was at himself, it would not only strengthen his bond with the men of the Second, who were still getting used to him, it would undoubtedly infuriate Vespillo to see it. And, as he quickly learned, there was another reward, in the form of the startled looks of his men as he responded with a cheerfulness that he hoped did not sound false, although judging from their reaction and the hearty laughter that his self-mockery brought about, it did not seem so. The fact that Vespillo rotated every Century but his between working and standing guard informed him that the Pilus Prior had noticed, yet despite his fear the men would be angered by this and blame him, they seemed to take a perverse pride in being forced to swing their axes, without letup, until the required complement of lumber had been cut.
Because of the condition of the level ground, the work of trimming and sawing the logs that would form the piers, along with using adzes to make planks of the proper thickness to replace the roadbed had to be performed on sloping ground, which contributed to the amount of time it took to finish. This enraged Vespillo, although Pullus was standing closely enough to see that when Sacrovir and the Tribune who was serving as the Praefectus Fabrorum came to check on the progress, neither seemed angry, clearly understanding that the delay was inevitable. Once the work was done, there was further difficulty because the mules and oxen that were designated to haul the finished lumber became so bogged down that they were re
turned to the intact portion of the roadway. Finally, after some experimentation, sledges were fashioned that were broad enough to spread their weight so they did not become hopelessly mired, which were then pulled by teams of men who struggled through the mire so that, by the time their task was completed, the fact they had gotten mud up their knees earlier in the day was the least of their concerns. Even the officers got involved; at least, some of them, and the fact that one of them was Pullus, who behaved with an exaggerated air of unhappiness as he tossed his vitus on top of the load of planks before plunging into the muck to apply his considerable strength so obviously aggrieved Vespillo that it almost made Pullus not mind the filth that covered him, since it was inevitable that once the sledge was freed, he and the other men pushing it fell forward into the mire. Almost, he thought ruefully as he retrieved and used his vitus to flick the larger clumps of mud that clung to his legs and arms; it was almost worth it. The pace of the work was slowed by the conditions, and as the sun sank, it became increasingly obvious that Cornutus’ estimate that it would take two days to traverse what Pullus had learned was about fifteen miles was probably woefully low.
Along with the four Legions, there was a complement of cavalry amounting to less than three turmae, and Caecina had sent them out scouting for a spot where the ground was firm enough for the army to build a camp. They returned with the news that there was nothing suitable close enough where the army would not be required to leave the baggage train behind because the ground was too soft to support it. The consequence was that the camp had to be constructed on ground that was not only soggier than normal, the western wall of the camp was positioned less than a hundred paces from the beginning of the slope of the ridge that paralleled the roadway, well within range of any missile troops that the Cherusci every man was certain were lurking nearby could field. The roadway itself was located within the boundary of the camp, but closer to the eastern side. Ideally, the roadway would have been used as the Via Praetoria, aligned with the Porta Praetoria and Porta Decumana, but if they had done so, an even larger portion of the army would have had standing water in their tents. Even so, the conditions were far from ideal, and very quickly, Caecina was forced to make a decision about the depth of the ditch, for the simple reason that it was filling with water faster than the men could dig. The consequence was a wall that was not only much, much lower than what the men were accustomed to, it was extremely unstable because of the high moisture content, which prompted Caecina to call for an alert level of fifty percent throughout the night, and, as Pullus learned, this was not just a precaution.