Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  “That poor bastard,” Macer said grimly, “is fucked.”

  The words were still hanging in the air when Pullus suddenly stiffened, and while he was not sure why he knew it since they were still too far away to see facial features, he pointed and gasped, “That’s Alex!”

  Macer instantly comprehended Pullus was right, and he lagged behind Pullus only because he paused long enough to shout over his shoulder, “First Section, follow me!”

  Then he was sprinting in a desperate attempt to catch up to Pullus, but he was hopelessly outmatched, and he shouted, “Gnaeus! Slow down! Wait for us!”

  Pullus did not give any indication he heard, not shortening his stride at all, although he did unthinkingly drop his vitus. The distance between them did not seem to close, yet Pullus could now see that it was indeed Alex, his mouth hanging open as he gasped for breath as he half-staggered, half-ran, Gaesorix’s head bobbing limply every time one of Alex’s feet struck the ground in a burst of muddy water. There was no doubt that the pursuing Cherusci were closing with Alex, yet it seemed to Pullus that he was not, and this feeling was exacerbated when he reached the edge of the flooded area because, since he did not slow his pace, he created a fantastic spray that obscured his vision for an eyeblink as he began struggling against the extra resistance from the mud and water. Then, when he was trying to navigate around the corpse of a man dressed in a clerk’s tunic, Alex tripped, and Pullus was only able to watch helplessly as Diocles’ son desperately tried to regain his balance by wind-milling his free arm for a couple of steps, dropping the gladius he was holding in it before, finally, he was unable to maintain his equilibrium and went sprawling face first into the filthy water. Gaesorix came flying in Pullus’ direction, his body limp, actually landing on his side just a couple paces in front of Pullus, subsequently dousing the Centurion, although Pullus managed to anticipate it, ducking his head and closing his eyes, or he would have been hit full in the face by a substance that was not quite solid, but certainly not only liquid. He opened his eyes, having been in mid-stride when he shut them, yet somehow, Pullus managed to hurdle Gaesorix’s body, a part of his mind noticing that, while his face was only partially visible, the Batavian’s nose was at least out of the water.

  By this point, Alex had come to his hands and knees, head hanging, with mud covering every inch of his body and filthy water going everywhere when he shook his head to clear it, just as Pullus reached him, then roughly grabbed him around the waist, yanking him to his feet as he snarled, “Go get Gaesorix and keep going!”

  “But…” Alex got no farther, because Pullus shoved him with enough force that he almost lost his balance again, while the Centurion stood, facing the onrushing Cherusci, alone and with only his gladius.

  “Pullus! Fall back! We’re almost there!”

  He heard Macer’s shout, except that it had no effect, because at the same moment, that thing inside Gnaeus Pullus came alive, not slowly this time, but roaring up out of his gut with such force that he felt as if he was propelled by a ballista, aimed at those Cherusci who had proven to be the fleetest of foot, leading his comrades and holding a long gladius aloft over his head, his eyes wild with fury. In an odd moment of clarity, Pullus noticed that this man had a tattoo that covered half his face, and he had two long strings of spittle that extended like fine spun silver several inches from either corner of his mouth. Even with the impediment of the soft ground and water that was above the ankles, Pullus did not alter his speed, his own gladius pulled back but slightly away from his body, in a modified first position. Anticipating that his foe would come to a stop, the Cherusci slowed as he prepared to execute the massive downward blow favored by barbarian tribes, except that Pullus did not break his stride, nor slow at all, using his bulk and strength to slam bodily into the warrior, who was wearing only tunic and bracae, and while he carried a shield, he had not moved it in front of his body, at least in time to stop what, in the last heartbeats of his life, he recognized was a huge, muscular, and very angry Roman. Pullus, on the other hand, since he knew what he intended to do, had extended his left arm straight out, locking his elbow, and with unerring accuracy drove the palm of his hand into the Cherusci’s chin, snapping the man’s head back with enough force that he was rendered instantly unconscious, rebounding away from Pullus with enough force to lift his feet from the ground to land with a tremendous watery impact on his back. Pullus ignored him, and without breaking stride, hurdled his body, counting on Macer and the men following closely behind him to dispatch this Cherusci, while he was now completely focused on the pair of men immediately behind this first warrior, both carrying the long war spear, although only one had a shield, while his counterpart was wearing a leather vest with overlapping iron rings sewn to it. He heard someone bellowing, oblivious to the fact that it was him, yet rather than continue straight ahead, he suddenly veered to his right, and in doing so, he blocked the second man’s ability to thrust his weapon at him while Pullus dealt with the first Cherusci, who did try to come to a stop and twist his body around to bring his long spear to bear. It was a moment where the shorter blade of the Roman gladius was more advantageous, and it helped that Pullus had the kind of power that enabled him to actually leave his feet, which was the only way he could change his facing while still having enough strength to execute a thrust at his enemy. This would have been difficult on dry ground; the fact that Pullus was able to do so in ankle-deep water was something that Macer and the men with him who saw it would be talking about for weeks to come. Essentially, he went hurtling past his foe, who was moving in the opposite direction, yet somehow, he was able to unerringly send the point of his gladius into the soft, fleshy part immediately under the warrior’s jawline, sending the man to the afterlife before the Cherusci actually had any idea of what was happening. The instant Pullus’ feet returned to the ground, it sent up a sheet of opaque, filthy water that, while it was certainly unplanned, caused the warrior immediately behind these two men to instinctively flinch, swerving in the opposite direction and sending him careening to the far edge of the roadway, where he stepped off the edge, falling into the deeper water with a cry of alarm.

  “Pullus! We’ve got him! Fall back!”

  For the first time, Pullus felt a stab of fear, understanding that the trio of Cherusci just a half-dozen paces away would reach him within a heartbeat and that there was another warrior behind him. In that eyeblink of time, Gnaeus Pullus made a decision to trust Marcus Macer and that the men with him would handle any threat from his rear, so that with a bellow of such intense rage it surprised even himself, he rushed at the three oncoming Cherusci. It would have been impossible to know who was more surprised; the warriors who, without any attempt to put up a fight turned and fled, or Pullus, who watched as these German warriors, the men of Arminius, went dashing away from a lone Roman Centurion. Pullus did not try to pursue, cognizant that there was still a potential threat to his rear, but when he spun around, he saw that this second warrior was now prone and facedown in the muddy water like his comrade. Macer and his section had formed a line of defense, while the Cherusci who had lost his footing joined his fleeing comrades. Beyond Macer’s section, Pullus could see that two of the Pilus Prior’s men had taken Gaesorix up between them, while another was helping Alex so that, after a glance over his shoulder, Pullus hurried to join them. There was no further attempt by the Cherusci to stop them, although Pullus and Macer walked backwards the last few dozen paces, practically daring the remaining Germans to pursue them. Those men who had scrambled out of the way when Pullus threatened them, along with their comrades, gathered together to hurl insults and challenges, in camp Latin, to the withdrawing Romans, but none of them made any move in that direction. Reaching the men who were at the rear of the small group, Pullus rejoined Macer, who glanced over at him with an expression that Pullus could not really interpret.

  “You,” Macer said, not as an accusation but as a simple matter of fact, “are fucking mad.”

  He did not kno
w whether this was the Pilus Prior’s intent, but it caused Pullus to laugh, though it did not last long because his eye was caught by the sight of Gaesorix’s limp form, suspended between the two rankers. The truth was that, while he did care about the Batavian, Pullus’ first concern was for Alex, who, he saw, was being helped by another ranker as they returned to the Roman lines. Reaching the drier ground, the waiting men who had remained in their formation were cheering loudly, shaking their fists at the thwarted Cherusci, while Pullus accepted the congratulations of the men who had come with Macer. Macer was to Pullus’ left, while two of Macer’s men, both of them carrying shields, flanked the pair as he and the Pilus Prior backpedaled to the security of the Roman line, keeping their eyes on the Cherusci, who wisely stopped just out of javelin range. Not until they were clearly out of danger did Pullus fully come out of his state of rage, although he was no less angry, and he turned about to stalk over to where Alex was on his knees, panting for breath, while the pair of rankers dragged Gaesorix, his body completely limp in a manner that suggested that, if he was not dead yet, he was perilously close.

  “What were you thinking?” Pullus could barely wait to reach his clerk, who looked up at him dumbly.

  “I dropped your gladius,” was Alex’s mumbled reply, but Pullus was adamant, snapping, “I don’t give a brass obol about that fucking thing! Besides, I can see where it is. We’ll get it later. What were you thinking, risking your life to help save the Prefect?”

  Only then did Alex look up at him dully, and his words completely smothered Pullus’ anger.

  “I was thinking,” he managed between gasps, “that I was doing what your father would have done.”

  Since he did not know how to respond, Pullus did not try, choosing to stride over to where Gaesorix had been laid on the ground, his upturned face drawn and gray, while one of Macer’s men knelt over him, bending over so that he could hear the Batavian’s breathing.

  “He’s alive,” the ranker said as he straightened up, “but I don’t know how.” He pointed down to the Batavian’s midriff, which was tightly bound, and the filth could not obscure the bright red stain that had soaked through to the surface. “His wound has obviously opened.”

  Macer had just walked over to the unconscious Batavian, and Pullus deferred to his senior, who said briskly, “Right. You two carry him over…” Macer looked up, surveyed the scene before him, then pointed to where a small cluster of men were seated on the ground in a circle, “…to where Germanicus’ physician is.” Turning to Pullus, he added superfluously, “He must have managed to get away somehow.”

  Ignoring his first urge to offer a biting comment about the Pilus Prior stating the obvious, Pullus instead turned back to Alex, who was just climbing to his feet, staggering as he did so and causing Pullus to reach out and grab his arm.

  Pitching his voice so that only he could hear it, Pullus said, “You gave me a scare, Alex. A right good scare.”

  He expected some sort of flippant reply, but Alex was still shaken, so he answered honestly, “I don’t know what I was thinking, Centurion. I really don’t.”

  The fact that he had the presence of mind to refer to him by his rank told Pullus that Alex had sufficiently recovered his wits, but he still felt a sense of shame to the point that he told the clerk, “You were honoring my father, that’s what. He wouldn’t have ever left Gaesorix behind. Or,” he thought to add, “any other man.” Then, he gave Alex a gentle shove, and while his voice was not raised, there was no mistaking that he was giving an order. “Go join the other clerks now. Once the camp is finished, we’ll talk then.”

  Knowing better than to argue, Alex nodded and walked away as Macer joined Pullus to watch him.

  “I hope that it wasn’t for nothing,” Macer said.

  “So do I,” Pullus answered honestly, then said, “I need to get back to my Century.”

  They parted, and it was only as Pullus trotted back to the Fourth that he was struck by the possibility that Vespillo had seen him rushing away from the Roman lines to save a lowly clerk and a wounded cavalryman who, even if he was a Prefect, was a barbarian in the eyes of Rome. Somewhat surprisingly, he realized he was indifferent to the prospect that his Pilus Prior would use this as a pretext to punish him. Frankly, he thought, the chances of getting out of this alive are so low that if he even remembers this, I’ll take my chances. If Vespillo did notice or wanted to make an issue of it, he said nothing as Pullus returned to his Century. The sun was beginning to dip when the cornu sent the signal recalling the men who had stood guard, but when Pullus and the other men saw what would be their only defense against a Cherusci assault, there was an air of despondency that was impossible to miss or to misinterpret as anything other than what it was, the fatalism of men who were certain that they would not live beyond tomorrow.

  Chapter Five

  The sun set on an army that was both exhausted and demoralized. On the part of the 1st and 20th, it was a case of both, while the 5th and 21st, returning back to their comrades, were simply the latter, and it was a mark of the fatigue on the part of the two Legions who had remained with the baggage train that their arrival was greeted by not much more than some half-hearted jeers and insults.

  “I doubt that this will last long,” Saloninus commented as he joined Pullus after attending to the men of the Century, but his Centurion just grunted in a manner that could be either agreement or not.

  In its layout, it was the exact same camp as the one that had been constructed every day since Caecina’s part of the army began their march to Vetera, but that was where the similarity ended. All of the tents, including the praetorium, quaestorium, and the tents of the Tribunes were back with the baggage train, which had captivated the attention of the Cherusci for the time being. As darkness closed in, Arminius’ army used the massive quantities of flammable materials available to them to create roaring fires that they built in the beds of some of the wagons, which were consumed in the conflagration. It provided enough light for the men to watch as their enemies cavorted around each fire, and for those close enough, they could see their enemy celebrating by holding up the severed heads that might have belonged to the comrades who were missing as they performed the kind of rituals that provided the fodder for every Legionary’s nightmare. The fact was that the 1st was shielded from that view, not that they gave any thought to this blessing as they huddled around the fires that had to serve each Century, rather than the usual fire for every section.

  The sight of the camp without any tents was one that would stay with Pullus for the rest of his days, but there was a certain comfort in the fact that his Cohort was located in the same spot relative to where Caecina was even then conferring with the Primi Pili, Pili Priores, and the surviving noble officers. What was not comforting, in the slightest, was the fact that, save for what rations men had managed to salvage, either by being wrapped in their sagum or in the cloth sack that some men carried tied to their baltea, there was nothing to eat. And, Pullus thought dismally, if they were forced to abandon their baggage train, there would be nothing to eat the rest of the way to the Rhenus, which he had been told was more than twenty miles distant. It might have been on the far side of the moon as far as he, and truth be known, all of the men of Caecina’s army were concerned, a quite distressing thought that he was forced to shove from his mind. As it turned dark, Pullus listened to the low murmur of his men, and he could hear the dispirited tone in their voices, yet he was at a loss what to do about it, but he did not even consider going to Vespillo for counsel, also dismissing the idea of seeking out Macer, certain that he would be too busy with his own Cohort. Deciding that there was really not much to be done until he received his orders, Pullus wandered over to the fire, which Saloninus was in charge of monitoring, making sure that each section stayed just long enough to heat whatever rations they had, although without a grinder and a section pot, the men were reduced to using their individual bowls to heat whatever they had scrounged from their comrades who had been
carrying their section’s rations. Lingering just outside the circle of firelight, Pullus took the time to examine his men, and what he saw he did not care for, noting the hanging heads, the eyes that continually shifted over in the direction of where the celebrating Cherusci were, almost undoubtedly doing their best to make as much noise as possible. Adding insult to the injury, one of the Cherusci found a cornu and began blowing it, not with any recognizable pattern or any attempt to sound notes but just blowing it over and over, which quickly frayed nerves among the ranks. Only after his men were finished did Pullus even go near the fire, where Saloninus, Tetarfenus, the Cornicen, and Tesseraurius were squatting, pooling their own meager resources for their meal.

  Sensing his approach, Saloninus looked up, and while his tone was polite, Pullus was not fooled when his Optio asked, “Do you want some, Pilus Posterior?”

  “No,” Pullus lied, waving a hand. “I’m fine.”

  Even this proved more difficult than he anticipated, because his mouth was filled with saliva, so after a brief conversation, Pullus excused himself. The men of his Century, as he expected, were gathered together in a circle by section, as if there was a fire they could gather around, and he spent a moment at each one, listening much and saying little, although he answered their questions. Once he was finished, only then did he head towards where his own tent would be, and he was surprised to see a figure, sitting on the ground with his head bowed, and since his spot was so far away from the fire, it was impossible for Pullus to see exactly what this person was doing. Nevertheless, he walked over, then stopped a couple paces away, recognizing Alex. Without preamble, his clerk thrust out his hand, holding something in his hand.

  “Here’s some bread,” he said simply. “It’s all I could find, but it will have to do.”