Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  Before Alex could react to this change in the situation, several more Cherusci arrived, except that they did not pause, instead splashing towards the opposite end of the baggage train, and he began to relax, slightly, feeling that the most immediate danger had passed as the last of them disappeared from his view. Then, there was another cornu call, and he did not need to see to know that it was from much closer than the one that a part of his mind had noticed, but it was the reaction to this that gave him the opportunity for which he was looking. Not that it seemed this way at first, because, as quickly as they had vanished, the Cherusci warriors that had just passed came back at a run, but instead of moving past his wagon again, he saw them veering off of the raised roadway, dropping down to the lower ground and the deeper water to the point he could now see them entirely. In appearance, it was the usual motley collection of Germans; a mixture of young and older, and while they could not be called uniform, those men not wearing armor had tunics containing the colors that identified them as Cherusci. Their weapons, and their shields, were as varied, but none of this concerned Alex in the moment, and as he continued watching, he saw them rushing to form a crude line perpendicular to the roadway, up near the head of the baggage train. The leading edge, formed with the boldest and most experienced warriors, was located out of Alex’s sight, towards the head of the column, but he could see the men who would form the German equivalent of a Roman Century’s rear ranks, although they were not in any discernible order, simply milling about as they waited for what was coming. These men were closer, but Alex’s estimate was that they were still at least four full wagon lengths farther up the column from his own.

  He did not see it happening, but he clearly heard the huge roar of men’s voices, instantly followed by a cacophony of noise, including the unusual sound of water splashing, something that would remain vividly in the memories of the men who survived this battle, on both sides, and he correctly interpreted it as his Legion finally arriving from their spot leading the quadratum to come slamming into their foes. Such was his focus on this that, when he felt the wagon rock slightly and he turned his head towards the back, he only caught the sight of a single, sodden leg before it vanished, the dripping water cascading down the only sign that he was not seeing things. He began moving even as he heard the muffled shout, recognizing Considius’ voice, but despite moving as quickly as he could, there was a shrill scream just as he reached the back of the wagon. Risking a quick glance around, he saw that, while there were other Cherusci rummaging through wagons, and by the sound of it, dispatching the wounded they found inside this group of them, none were facing in his direction at this moment. Knowing this was all the hesitation he could afford, he took a deep breath as he pushed himself up into the wagon, using his head to thrust aside the flap, despite knowing it was an incredibly foolish thing to do. It would not be until later that he offered the gods an appreciative prayer; in the eyeblink of time that he had, he saw that the Cherusci warrior, not wearing mail but a boiled leather cuirass, with his bracae still dripping, had his back turned to the opening, and while it would not have taken much for him to turn around, he could not do so because he was occupied in a mostly silent struggle with Gaesorix. The Batavian, growling with a feral intensity and despite his weakened state, had hold of the Cherusci’s right arm with his own right hand, straining with all of his strength, trying to keep the point of the dagger the Cherusci was holding, with his left hand on top of it, from driving into his chest. Alex took all of this in, along with the pool of blood underneath the hammock of the lowest man, another Centurion, but from the 20th, and Considius’ eyes staring sightlessly up at Gaesorix’s hammock, which was swaying wildly from the struggle, but he was nonetheless moving. Taking a step forward, his arm was thrusting as he did so, remembering to hold the blade parallel to the ground and to twist his hips as he thrust the point of the borrowed gladius directly into the Cherusci’s right kidney, driving the blade deeply into the man’s body, the man breaking the relative silence with a scream so piercing that, even in the moment, Alex gasped in pain. The warrior straightened up, clearly forgetting that it was impossible to stand erect, smashing his head against the wooden top of the wagon with such force that, despite his ringing ears, Alex heard the cracking sound, wondering if it was the man’s head or the wood.

  Instantly releasing the dagger, which dropped onto Gaesorix’s chest, the German tried to reach back in a vain attempt claw at the blade still embedded in his body, and while doing so, he turned his head to stare at his attacker with horrified eyes that clearly communicated that he knew he was dying. Alex experienced a jolt of…something, as he saw that this warrior was one in name only, probably no more than seventeen, if that, still cleanshaven, with lank, dirty brown hair that had been braided. It was Gaesorix who made the next sound, but it was something that Alex did not understand, although he assumed it was some sort of curse, because it caused the youth to turn his head back to the Batavian, blood now streaming down his young face, but while his mouth worked, the only thing that came from the Cherusci was a gasping moan, and he made no attempt to stop Gaesorix from thrusting the discarded dagger up and into the youth’s throat at the spot where his neck and jaw met. When he collapsed, it was so suddenly that it yanked the gladius from Alex’s grasp as the body fell sideways against the opposite side of the wagon, while Alex stood staring dumbly at the boy he had just killed.

  “I’m going to have to tell Gnaeus that you didn’t use the Vinician like you’re supposed to.” It was such an odd thing to say that, as Gaesorix intended, it snapped Alex out of his stupor, and he looked over at the Batavian, his mouth moving in much the same way as the Cherusci he had just slain. Before anything came out, Gaesorix spoke gently, “Alex, pull the gladius out of him, and the dagger. I suspect,” his raspy voice turned dry, “you’re going to need them again.” Watching as Alex did as he had directed, Gaesorix took the moment to recover his breath and surreptitiously check the bandage that was obscured from view by the blanket that Alex had provided him. His face gave nothing away, and he had dropped the blanket by the time Alex withdrew both blades, the wet, sucking sound that he had heard more times than he could count as part of his duties as a medicus almost making him retch this time now that he was the man responsible for it. When the clerk turned around, Gaesorix’s face was hard and matched his tone as he said harshly, “And I told you not to do anything stupid, didn’t I?”

  If he expected Alex to be repentant, he was disappointed, because Alex shot back, “You need to shut up now so that I can get us both out of here.”

  “Are you mad?” Gaesorix gasped, then jerked a thumb in the direction of what, even muffled by the wooden sides of the wagon, they could hear was a fierce battle. “How do you expect to get away now?”

  “That’s exactly why we’re going to get away,” Alex answered confidently, although he certainly did not feel that way. He bent down, first to check that both Considius and the other Centurion were dead, then straightened slightly and looked down at Gaesorix, asking quietly, “Do you trust me, Prefect?”

  “Of course,” Gaesorix answered without hesitation, but he reached out and grabbed Alex by the arm, saying, “but I don’t want you getting killed for me, Alex! If that happened, I’d spend the afterlife looking over my shoulder for your uncle!”

  This made Alex laugh, but he took advantage of Gaesorix’s outstretched arm to reverse the grip, grasping it firmly as he began pulling the Batavian out of the hammock.

  “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen.”

  Telling himself that he was really too weak to stop him, Gaesorix allowed himself to be moved, but within a span of a half-dozen heartbeats, the pain was so overwhelming that, with a groan, he fainted, going limp. Which, Alex discovered, made things easier in one way, but harder in another. Lifting the Prefect over his shoulder, he tried to ignore the shaking in his legs, telling himself that he would find the strength, energy, and the courage to get away. He began their escape by moving the flap
slightly, peering out. Seeing that those Cherusci not engaged with the 1st had continued moving down the baggage train, he threw up a prayer, then with as much care as he could manage, he dropped to the ground, silently asking Gaesorix for forgiveness when he landed and heard the soft groan. Pausing just long enough to determine that he had not been spotted and to snatch the hilt of the gladius with his free hand, Alex stepped from around the back of the wagon and began moving, towards the head of the column, and if the gods were good, safety.

  Not until their withdrawal was complete did Pullus and his fellow officers learn that the purpose of the advance was to extract Caecina, the command group, and as many of those drivers, clerks, medici, and slaves who could manage to reach a larger, armed group. Once the Legate made it to the safety provided by the First of the 1st, he issued the command to withdraw. Thanks to the baggage train and the plunder it offered, the 20th was able to essentially march past without harassment with their own complement of refugees with them, and consequently unscathed, reaching the 1st and the remnants of the command group, who retreated back to the patch of more solid ground.

  “What’s the butcher’s bill?” Pullus asked Saloninus, then before the Optio answered, he added, “I saw Balbus get it, and I know we lost another one, but I couldn’t see his face because…” He stopped, the memory of the Cherusci using one of his men as a way to keep his feet dry cutting off the words, but Saloninus answered, “That was Silanus,” naming a man of the Second section. “He took a spear through the eye. As far as wounded, we’ve got three, one of them a leg wound, but while he can walk, he needs help. The other two are fine and are already bandaged up.”

  “Who’s our leg wound?”

  “Merenda,” Saloninus replied, which caused a reaction from Pullus, who did not care for the fact that he had to ask since, while he had learned every man’s name, he was still trying to determine the connections between them.

  “Wasn’t he Silanus’ close comrade?”

  The Optio nodded, confirming, “Yes, he was. I haven’t gotten the full story, but it sounds like when Silanus went down, Merenda tried to reach him and got a nasty gash for his trouble.”

  Understanding there was nothing to be done in the moment, Pullus simply nodded, turning to look over in Vespillo’s direction, musing, “I wonder what’s next?”

  “I hope we get our fucking baggage back,” was Saloninus’ answer, the bitterness in his voice reminding Pullus that his Optio had been one of the most actively involved in stripping the settlements they came across whenever the Fourth was fortunate enough to reach one first, and he wondered just how much was in his Optio’s strongbox locked in the wagon that was assigned to Optios, Tesseraurii, Signiferi, and Corniceni of the Cohort.

  This, they quickly learned, was not in Caecina’s plans, when Pullus and his fellow Centurions were summoned to meet with Vespillo.

  “We’re making camp here,” Vespillo informed them, prompting a small chorus of groans and muffled curses, which, unusually, the Pilus Prior ignored. He continued, “We’re short of tools to dig a ditch and make a wall, so we’re going to have to share. But,” the Pilus Prior’s face twisted into a sneer, and for once, it was a sentiment shared by Pullus and the others, “the good news is that the 5th and 21st have decided to bless us with their presence. They’re marching back here from wherever the fuck they ran off to.”

  “They better not come near my boys,” Gillo declared, which was met with a chorus of agreement, Pullus included.

  “All right, shut your mouths.” Vespillo said this, but with no heat, telling his Centurions he agreed, at least in spirit. “But we’re going to get working on the camp immediately.”

  Once dismissed, Pullus and the other officers went to their Centuries, and as Pullus explained it, “Since we’re one of the only ones who didn’t abandon their tools, we’re going to have to share them to build this camp.”

  Work, as Caecina commanded, began immediately, although five Cohorts of the 1st were exempted from working, standing guard instead, and the Fourth was one of them, but to Pullus’ surprise, his men did not seem particularly appreciative. He quickly learned why; because of their position, they could see the Cherusci swarming over the baggage train now that they were no longer engaged, watching all but those valuables they had left behind in Ubiorum vanishing into the pouches of the Cherusci. Pullus briefly considered pointing out that, unlike the 20th, who had been forced to drop their packs, they were at least better off in that sense, but he quickly discarded the idea, certain it would make things worse. Arrayed as they were, in a line of single Centuries, standing directly between the baggage train and where men were sharing tools to dig a ditch and wall, they could only watch helplessly when one of the noncombatants would be flushed from their hiding spot, and there would be a sudden flurry of movement as the warriors nearest to their quarry surrounded the unfortunate and hacked them into bloody pieces of meat. By this point, the standing water covering the roadway now had a pinkish tinge to it that was impossible to ignore, while corpses were strewn in between the wagons, equally mixed between animals and human, and it was seeing the latter that caused Pullus the most anxiety. He had been surprised and cautiously optimistic when he saw the large number of noncombatants who had managed to escape and were now huddled together roughly in the middle of what would become the camp, but when Alex had not appeared from that group to tell him he was safe, his hopes began fading. Finally, he could not stand it any longer, and he summoned Saloninus.

  “I’m going to go talk to Pilus Prior Macer, so you’re in command,” he said, but while he could see by Saloninus’ expression the Optio knew what was on his mind, the Optio was wise enough not to say anything, other than a brisk acknowledgement of his Centurion’s order.

  Taking care to move behind the Century, not wanting Vespillo to see him wandering along the front of the formation, Pullus made his way to the First of the Second, finding Macer with a bandaged left forearm, and like Pullus himself, spattered with a mixture of drying mud and blood.

  “What happened to you?” Pullus pointed to the wound.

  Macer grimaced, giving Pullus a mock glare as he muttered, “Thanks for reminding me, Gnaeus. I’d forgotten about it until you mentioned it.” He glanced down at it, a sizable red spot showing through the bandage, the rest of which looked as dirty as the rest of him, telling Pullus it had happened some time before. “I got stuck with a spear right when we hit those cunni.” Looking up at Pullus, he shrugged and said lightly, “The medicus says it’ll need to be stitched up.” His expression changed, and he studied Pullus’ expression, then asked quietly, “So you haven’t seen him either?”

  Pullus shook his head, feeling miserable for not being able to give Macer better news.

  “No.” He sighed, then he did turn and tried to examine the surviving clerks and slaves, none of whom were allowed to work on constructing the camp, but he was too far away to make out any faces. “I don’t know, Pilus Prior. I just…don’t know.”

  “Alex,” Macer’s voice was quietly pitched so only Pullus could hear, “is a very intelligent and very resourceful lad.” Suddenly, he laughed, but there was a melancholy note to it as he admitted, “It’s funny, I know. He’s almost thirty, but I still think of him as the youngster who showed up with your father when he transferred into the Legion.”

  Pullus said nothing, mainly because, despite the distance, they could hear a sudden uproar of voices, and they both turned their attention to see a figure emerge from behind the leading wagon that was still tilting off the edge of the roadway, carrying another man over his shoulder. Behind him, more than a hundred paces away, about a dozen Cherusci were splashing along in furious pursuit.