by R. W. Peake
Finally, he rolled his eyes in submission, and asked quietly, “Pilus Prior, what are your orders?”
“My orders? What are my orders?” Vespillo repeated, no longer sounding agitated, but obviously puzzled. “I just gave them to you, Cornutus.” He laughed then, but while it had its normal cackling quality, it still sounded false to Pullus’ ear, and Vespillo chided, “Surely you haven’t forgotten them already! Have these Germans got you that shaken up, eh?”
This, Pullus was certain, would be too much for Cornutus to bear, but his counterpart surprised him by not appearing upset at all, saying with a smile, “As you say, Pilus Prior. Still,” he sounded almost gentle, “I apologize, but can you repeat them?”
Vespillo’s expression transformed, but while it was only a flash before he composed himself, Pullus was certain that the look communicated Vespillo’s realization that he had not given the orders in the first place.
“Yes, well,” he spoke briskly, then turned and pointed with his vitus, where they could see the Third Cohort, following the Second, who was behind the First, marching away, “we’re supposed to set up there.”
“Ditch and wall, Pilus Prior?” Pullus asked.
“How well did that work last night?” Vespillo sneered, and when he laughed, it sounded more like the man Pullus knew and loathed. “But, of course, Pullus, let’s waste our time doing the same thing.”
Pullus did not reply, which clearly disappointed Vespillo, who then issued a surly dismissal, whereupon the officers returned to their Centuries. The slight delay caused by Vespillo’s outburst meant that there was a gap between the Fourth and the Third, something that Sacrovir noticed, prompting the Primus Pilus to issue a sarcastic greeting, welcoming the Fourth to join them. Normally, this would have upset Pullus, and to one degree or another, the other Centurions, but this time, it gave him some grim satisfaction since he was close enough to see Vespillo’s face turn bright red. Then, the preparations to defend the men who would be doing the work took all of his attention.
Chapter Four
It was a camp in name only; a more accurate description would be a makeshift defensive position, where anything and everything available was used to create the equivalent of a breastwork, without any kind entrenchments being dug. Every working party that was sent out was guarded by at least twice as many men in the party, and their first task was to return the diverted streams to their original course, and it was with one of these parties the first attacks began. It was in the area where Caecina had positioned the 5th, the sound of the fight just barely audible across the small valley where the 1st was standing. It made for a tense atmosphere, but from Pullus’ perspective, it helped keep the men alert, yet even so, he and the other Centurions began rotating their men since, unless and until they were assailed by missiles again, only the men on the front rank were required to keep their shields up. They were aligned in a single line of Centuries, necessary because of the amount of coverage that was needed for the working parties, who were performing what labors they could as they waited for the flow of water to be returned to its natural state. It certainly would not make the ground dry, but while it was a matter of degree, it meant the difference between trying to work in knee-deep water once a man’s weight sank him into the soft mud and water that was barely mid-calf, and to the men doing the work, that was a crucial difference. While it began with the 5th, it was not much longer after the initial attack that the cornu sounded, first with the 20th, followed by the same with the 1st, but down where the third line Cohorts were located. This was close enough to hear, while Pullus, and the other Centurions all the way down the long line, stepped out in front of their Centuries so that they could get an idea about what was occurring. Although it was impossible to make out detail, what was immediately obvious was that the Cherusci were no longer content to try and inflict casualties from afar and using the undergrowth for cover. Instead, Pullus sensed from the movement in front of the leading rank that Germans had emerged from the forest to assail his comrades, and even as he watched, he saw warriors sprinting out into the open from the cover of the slope to hurl themselves bodily at their foes.
“Stand steady, boys! Eyes open and to your front!” Pullus called out. “They may have started with those soft bastards in the Eighth,” he was guessing this was the engaged Cohort, “but I’d wager they’ll be visiting us any moment!”
While it was a logical assumption, the expected assault against the Fourth Cohort never materialized, nor were any of the first line Cohorts ever attacked. Certainly, it was a blessing that this was the case, but Pullus nonetheless felt a bit disappointed as darkness began to fall. Every one of the four Legions endured an assault, but it was quickly determined that none of these attacks were anything more than probes, an attempt to determine how prepared the Romans were to repel them. Most importantly from Pullus’ perspective, and it was one that was shared by the other Centurions, was the effect these tactics were having on morale. From his observations, not just of his own Century but the rest of the Cohort and the men of the Third Cohort who were positioned to their right, the men were nearing the end of their endurance, both physically and mentally. They had gotten next to no sleep the night before, and there was little prospect for it during this approaching night. As he thought about it, Pullus silently, and very grudgingly, saluted whoever was commanding these Cherusci, because he was a cunning, devious bastard who clearly had a keen insight into exactly the kind of pressure to apply against his enemy. He could read it in the faces of his men; there was a vacant, hollow-eyed expression that bespoke their physical fatigue, but it was the sudden, jerky movements when, from some other part of the makeshift camp, a cornu sounded the call signaling an attack, how their eyes darted about, and, somewhat surprisingly, their very smell that was most telling, because it was the rank odor of men who were about to go into battle. The truth, Pullus realized, was that if his Century and Cohort had to endure much more, he held little faith that they would be able to withstand a true, concerted attack from their enemy.
It was just before sunset that the last Cherusci assault faded away, the warriors retreating back up the slope and into the protective cover of the forests covering them; Pullus’ ears told him that this last probe had been in the area of the 20th, and for the first time that day, there was relative silence, save for the shouted commands of the immunes who had been charged with what was, after all, the main objective and who had never ceased working. Once it grew dark enough that the men were not obvious targets, only then were they allowed to lower their shields, although they were required to remain in their formation but given leave to sit on the ground. Very quickly, the air filled with cursing as those men who were too impatient or tired simply dropped to the ground, immediately becoming soaked from the trapped moisture under their feet. Saloninus was forced to wade almost literally into the midst of the Century, using the cut down turf cutter handle that was most Optios’ favored substitute for the vitus, laying into several men who were quarreling over what was apparently the only spot of ground that was dry, at least in a relative sense. Vespillo disappeared into the gloom, heading for the Legion eagle, while torches were lit that enabled the men behind them to continue working. Pullus stared in a northerly direction, back in the direction of the baggage train, and there was just enough light to make out the regular, dark shapes of the wagons containing the wounded, and being brutally pragmatic, the more valuable supplies that would keep this army fed on its return march. He wondered where Alex was, although he felt confident that, if Pullus left his spot and went in search of him, he could be found in the wagon with Gaesorix. Naturally, he did no such thing, knowing that if he did so, Vespillo would not only have an excuse to discipline him, there would be no excuse he could offer that would justify it. Turning his attention, both physically and mentally, away from the baggage train, he stood and moodily watched his men, most of whom were now trying to consume whatever part of their rations they had managed to squirrel away, either in their packs,
or as most veterans did, secreted within their rolled sagum, which most of them were now using as a makeshift ground cloth. The sight of his men eating made him hungry; following hard on the heels of that was his reconsidering going to find Alex, yet he did no such thing. This was not terribly hard to resist, but not as easy was the idea that popped into his mind of dispatching one of his men to go find the clerk, and while he managed to convince himself this was not a good idea, it was more difficult. Resigning himself to feeling hungry, he tried to look at it optimistically, knowing how hard it was for him to fall asleep on an empty stomach, but with limited success. He was walking down the ranks of his Century when Vespillo appeared out of the gloom, calling out to Pullus to attend to him and pass the word down to the other Centuries. Saloninus heard this and told Pullus he would go to Licinius, freeing Pullus to reach Vespillo’s side first, which also meant that he was alone with the Pilus Prior.
Surprising him once more, Vespillo did not bother to offer a biting comment, beginning instead by muttering, “We were fortunate today, but I don’t know how long that’s going to last.” Suddenly, he looked up at Pullus with an expression that was unfamiliar to the younger Centurion; it was the anxiety in the Pilus Prior’s voice that was impossible to mistake as he asked Pullus, “How are your men doing? I mean,” Vespillo shot a furtive glance over his shoulder to where the men of the First were arrayed just like the Second and the other Centuries, “how are they bearing up, mentally? I know they’re tired…” He gave a humorless chuckle, “…gods know that I am.”
Suspecting some sort of trap, Pullus hesitated, then decided that he would be honest, replying, “I’m worried about them, Pilus Prior. I think it’s going to be a rough night.”
Pullus’ immediate thought was that he had erred, Vespillo shooting him a furious look, but instead, the Pilus Prior let out an explosive breath, then admitted, “I agree, Pullus. And I’m worried as well.”
Licinius arrived then, but Vespillo did not ask the Centurion the same question, nor the others. Instead, once they were gathered together, he began, “The Legate has decided that tomorrow, we’re going to go into quadratum, and,” his face turned grim, “we’re not going to stop marching until we’re well away from this fucking bog. So, tonight, he’s ordered that we remain on watch, but he’s also breaking out the entire complement of scorpions, which are the only things that won’t sink into this muck. We,” he turned and pointed to the darker expanse of the forested slope directly to their front, “are going to be the leading edge of the quadratum, while the 5th and 21st are going to be on the flanks, close enough to both ridges to keep those Cherusci bastards dispersed because of the underbrush so that they can’t mass to try and break through our lines.” This was an eminently sensible decision, and it also reminded at least Pullus that Caecina had forty years of experience with the Legions. Heads nodded as Vespillo continued, “According to scouts, this section of bad ground doesn’t last much longer, and that this elevated roadway is actually in decent shape just a couple of miles ahead, so we’re going to need to slog for that distance, then the baggage train should be fine. Are there any questions?” When none of them offered anything, he finished, “That’s it, then. For now, anyway. Go to your Centuries and get ready to move into position. It’s going to be a long night.”
Although it was wearing, once the Legions were arranged in the quadratum, at first it seemed the night passed uneventfully, save for the spectacle of what the men insisted were at least a thousand fires up on the slopes of both ridges, spread far enough that they overlapped the entire army position by at least two furlongs on both ends. Shortly before dawn, Pullus was dozing, when there was some sort of disturbance that caused Tetarfenus to kick his feet to awaken him.
“Something’s happening, sir,” Tetarfenus told him as he came to his feet, the Signifer pointing, not in the direction that the 1st was facing, or even at the nearest ridge, but back behind them. “Can you hear it?”
Pullus listened for a moment, then nodded, forgetting it was dark. Other men had come to their feet, but when they began muttering to each other, Pullus snapped at them to be quiet so that he could hear. Something, he realized, was obviously going on, but it was clearly not because the Germans had launched an attack; this was not the sound of fighting, yet it was something that was distinctly out of place for the time, when all should have been still.
It was actually Tetarfenus who guessed correctly, although they would not know it for another watch. “It sounds like…moving. Like men are moving.”
Pullus’ initial reaction was to dismiss this, saying flatly, “We’d know if the Legate ordered any of the other Legions to move.”
What Tetarfenus said next seemed even more unlikely, suggesting, “Maybe the Legate didn’t order it.”
“Gerrae!” Pullus scoffed, though with just a tinge of doubt. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
They stood, listening and straining to see in the darkness, then after a period of time, the movement seemed to fade away, and not long after that, the men settled back down, although Pullus was unable to fall asleep, so he rolled up his sagum, then spent the rest of the time restlessly moving along the ranks of his Century, stopping to talk quietly to Licinius, then wandering farther down to do the same with Gillo, feeling more comfortable with his old Optio. The sky was just beginning to turn pink when, from the middle of the quadratum came the sudden blaring of the cornu where Caecina and his command group were located, bringing everyone still lying down to their feet. It was not the call to warn of an attack, but it was as Pullus and the others were peering back in that direction that, because of the growing light, they saw what had caused the disturbance. More accurately, it was the absence of two Legions that explained both the cornu call and the mysterious noises earlier in the night.
Running over to Pullus, Vespillo stood next to him, and for one of the few times they were in complete accord, although it was the Pilus Prior who gasped, “Where are the 5th and 21st?”
That, Pullus thought, is a very good question, but since he had no idea either, he said nothing. Their discovery of the absence occurred a matter of heartbeats before their respective Centuries, along with the rest of the Cohort, so they did not have long before there was an uproar that made normal speech impossible, and it took little experience to hear the growing panic in the voices of their men.
“Get to your Century!” Vespillo ordered. “Try to get them calmed down!”
He did not wait for Pullus to acknowledge the order; his men were in the same state as their comrades in the Second, and the rest of the 1st, as it became clear that, because of their position as the leading edge of a quadratum, the absence of half of the square put them in an extremely perilous decision. Even worse, it exposed the baggage train to attack, and it gave whoever was commanding the Cherusci a number of choices once they became aware of the situation. Which, Pullus was certain, they already knew.
Over the next third of a watch, as the sun fully rose and the exact degree of the dire predicament that faced Caecina’s army became clear, Pullus and every Centurion of the 1st Legion faced one of the greatest leadership challenges of their career. It was not just that fully half of the army had deserted their posts; the 5th had been on the right flank, and the 21st on the left, which had placed them closest to the forested slopes on either side. While it was never officially confirmed, the assumption that, before long became a hardened belief, was that it was their proximity to the forest that had caused their mutual decision, although later, both Primi Pili swore that they had not conferred with each other. Why the Germans did not immediately take advantage of this potentially disastrous action was learned very quickly when it got light enough to see, where barely four hundred paces to the south, the army’s direction of travel, what had been the white line of the raised roadway, which scouts had confirmed was in good repair, was now completely submerged in muddy water that made it impossible to see it.
“At least we know why we don’t have those sava
ges swarming over our baggage train,” Structus commented, a grim smile on his face as they stood surveying what lay ahead.
“But where are the 5th and 21st?” Cornutus asked; however, although they were looking in the right direction, they would not learn the truth for some time, but it was Gillo who guessed correctly.
“Isn’t all of this supposed to end just a couple miles ahead? I’d wager that’s where they are,” he offered.
Pullus saw the sense of this, murmuring his agreement, but he was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation because he could not stop himself from glancing over his shoulder, waiting for the sight of Germans bursting out from cover to fall on the baggage train. Where, he worried, Alex is, along with our wounded, like Gaesorix, although he was just one of several dozen, but it was his clerk, who he had already begun to think of as part of his family that he was most concerned about, and finally, he could not stand it any longer.
Glancing over to where Vespillo was once again consulting with the Primus Pilus, Pullus muttered to Saloninus, “I’m going to run to the baggage train to check on Alex and the Prefect. If the Pilus Prior comes back, tell him…”
“I’ll tell him that you’ve gone to empty your bowels,” Saloninus assured him. “Because gods know I need to.”
Pullus grinned, thanking him, then, rather than breaking into a run immediately, walked with a forced casualness away from his Century, then past the Fifth Cohort, directly behind his Fourth, before breaking into almost a run, using the bodies of his comrades to screen his movement from Vespillo and Sacrovir. The thought crossed his mind that the sight of him running towards the baggage train might draw the attention of one of the Legate’s bodyguards, so he kept part of his attention on the large knot of mounted men who had moved to a spot just behind the First Cohort. He did see a head turn in his direction, and for an instant, he thought his fears might be realized because the mounted man, who he saw was in fact a bodyguard, turned his horse in such a way that he could go to the gallop on a course to intercept Pullus, but that was all he did, obviously satisfied that Pullus was not a German wearing a slain Centurion’s garb. Reaching the first of the wagons, it was easy for Pullus to find those carrying the wounded from the smell, a combination of vomit, piss, cac, and worst of all, corrupting flesh of those men whose wounds had gone bad, either because the medicus or physician had failed to get every scrap of tunic or piece of leather or iron out of it, or the gods simply had decided this man’s time was up and his last watches should be spent in agony. It was a prospect that struck fear in every man’s heart, no matter their rank, and Pullus was no exception, yet he forced himself to lift the flap of the first such wagon, then the second before, as he expected, he found Alex, sitting on the hard bench while three figures were suspended by a hammock that was fastened to two vertical poles attached to the bed of the wagon. By the manner in which he jerked, Pullus knew that Alex had been dozing, but when he came to a crouch to move to the rear, then dropped out of the wagon, his eyes were alert, and obviously concerned.