Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  “Turn! Turn to the side, you bastards! Now!”

  It could not have worked better, and this was yet one more event in this battle that men insisted was a sign that the gods had decreed this day would belong to Rome; in the moment, Pullus was just relieved that nobody tripped, although the men of the 5th did suddenly slow to a brisk walk as they passed through their lines. Unlike the previous night, this time, there was the usual display of high spirits, with the men of the 5th boasting that they had just left a few for the boys of the 1st, with Pullus’ men mockingly complaining they had left too many.

  “All right, shut your mouths!” Pullus shouted, but he was grinning as he did so, thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, old Aulus Caecina knew these men better than one would think.

  The cornu resuming the advance sounded even as the last stragglers were clearing the rear ranks, and any humor or lightheartedness vanished, especially at the sight of those men clad in red tunics lying in the dirt between the two forces. Certainly, Pullus thought, they’ll come at us now! But the Cherusci still seemed content to wait, now less than two hundred paces away, although many of them had begun banging their spears against their shields, while warriors darted out to bare their backside, and other men bellowed challenges and insults. What Pullus and his Centurions had not been told was that, by prior arrangement, once the 5th was withdrawn, the Legate had transferred control of what happened next to the Primi Pili, which the officers learned when, in a ragged unison, the command to halt again was sounded by the three Corniceni of each Primus Pilus. For Pullus, this meant off to his right, and like his men and the rest of the Legion, they crashed to a halt, now about forty paces away from the waiting Cherusci.

  “Jupiter Optimus Maximus, protect this Legion, soldiers all!”

  This startled Pullus; it was the first time he had ever heard the Legionary’s prayer, and while he recognized the voice as coming from his Century, he could not immediately place to whom it belonged. Not that this mattered in the moment, and the cornu sounded again.

  “Ready javelins!” Pullus and the other Centurions shouted the command in response to the horn call, but then Pullus added, “Remember what we’re going to do, boys! I want you to hold yours for a few beats!”

  Even if his men responded, he could not have heard, because the cornu sounded and the notes had not finished sounding when every Centurion but one bellowed, “Release!” Then, pausing a heartbeat, Pullus joined in with, “Porro!”

  Thus freed, for the first time, Roman voices added to the din, with Pullus and his men joining their comrades in the headlong rush, while for once, Pullus was more concerned about something other than being the first to reach his enemy.

  “Release!”

  He was certain he had never shouted as loudly, and even over the other noise, he heard the grunts of more than thirty of his men hurling their javelins, which he sensed more than saw streaking over his head and past him, but he definitely saw the impact, the missiles plunging down into the mass of greenish-brown-clad men when he and his front rank were no more than five paces away, and when moving at a dead run, those five paces are gone in an eyeblink. It was a perfectly timed attack, and it was one that, even in the heat of the moment, Pullus decided he would use again when the circumstances warranted it. Outwardly, there was no hesitation whatsoever, as he brought his gladius down from a second position that was even higher than normal, plunging it into the face of a bearded Cherusci warrior who had managed to block the javelin aimed at him with his shield, but was now struggling with the awkward situation created by the bent shaft of the javelin that dragged his protection down and away from him. This Cherusci did not really see the blur of the dark-grained blade that killed him, and Pullus did not spare him a second glance, already preparing for the thrust the warrior behind his first victim was aiming at his chest. Using the momentum of his recovery from his first thrust, Pullus knocked the spear aside so that it passed over his right shoulder. Because of the orientation of his blade after this, it would have made sense for Pullus to take a step backward, as it did for the Cherusci, both of them needing the space to recover their offensive weapon. This warrior was carrying a shield, but Pullus had noticed that it was a Legionary’s shield, emblazoned with the symbol of the 5th, which told Pullus he had just picked it up. Gambling that this also meant he was still unfamiliar with the weight and balance, while the Cherusci made a shuffling step backward, Pullus did the opposite, keeping the distance between them the same, bringing the pommel of his gladius with the pointed spike on the end down towards the Cherusci’s head. The warrior reacted in time, but as Pullus guessed, he miscalculated how quickly he could move with a heavier shield, so that in the fraction of an eyeblink before he could have blocked it, the iron end and the hardwood pommel smashed the man fully in the noise in an explosion of blood. Screaming in pain, the Cherusci instinctively dropped both shield and spear to clutch his face, joining his comrade in death a heartbeat later. Pullus knew that this was the moment when he needed to take a pace back, both physically and mentally, and return to his role in directing his men, but he could not seem to force himself to do so, and the result was that he continued to thrust, cut, and hack his way through their foes, reveling in the feeling of controlled power. He was in full possession of his faculties this time, yet even so, there was an abandon in him that he had never really experienced before, and even as he was parrying a Cherusci trying to bash his brains out with a large double-bladed axe, he realized that he was happier than he had ever been. If he died today, he could think of worse fates than perishing while doing something that, he now fully accepted, he was born to do; it was in his blood, his sinews, his muscles, and in his soul. He was a Pullus, fully and completely.

  The sun was just above the trees on the western horizon when Gnaeus Pullus and his fellow Romans finally stopped, too exhausted to initiate any kind of pursuit, content to watch their enemy rushing past the ruined baggage train, slogging through the muddy water to escape from the thrashing they had suffered, none of them even giving what had been such a tempting prize a day earlier a second glance. Arminius had been forced to flee, while his lieutenant Inguiomerus suffered a wound to his leg just as he was turning to follow the Cherusci chieftain, although he managed to get away as well. Pullus, along with most of his comrades, was exhausted, unaware that he had added to his reputation in the eyes of not just the men of his Century, but with the men of the Fourth Cohort, and the 1st Legion. From his perspective, he had done well and had not been seriously challenged by any Cherusci, but apart from that, he really had no idea he had done anything noteworthy. His Century had done well, he knew that, but it was not without cost; Saloninus had taken a spear thrust to his right eye, but fortunately, while he would lose an eye, he was alive, while Tetarfenus was hobbled by a slashing wound to the front of his left leg. His Tesseraurius Herennius was dead, also from a slashing wound, but this one was to the throat, as well as three other men, and he had a half-dozen wounded, two of them litter cases, who he was now worried about how they would be transporting these men without enough wagons. That, however, was not his problem; that was for Primi Pili and Legates, and at the moment, he was more focused on putting one foot in front of the other, which was made more difficult by the bodies lying in heaps that required some effort to step over. His men, along with the rest of the army, were moving among the dead and wounded as always, searching for valuables and, in some ways just as important, trophies of battle, like teeth, ears, or some other body part that men would wave around out in the tavernae in order to impress their friends and, more often, the whores of Ubiorum or Mogontiacum. There was an added element to what was a ritual in itself, when some men, searching their slain enemies, found valuables that they had thought lost forever but were now retrieved, although this would become a bone of contention very quickly, as ownership was disputed between comrades. Pullus was partially yanked from his semi-stupor when he saw men gathered in a small circle, but it was the manner in which they were looking
down that sent a stab of alarm through him, and he also noticed that it was in the area of the Fourth Century. He was still a few paces away when Sevilla, the Fourth’s Optio moved aside, and he saw the figure of Lucius Cornutus, lying face up to the growing darkness, eyes wide open but sightless, with a gaping hole in his chest.

  “He didn’t see it coming,” his Signifer said sadly. “He had just sounded the relief, and then Verbennius went down, and he tried to help him up.”

  Pullus did not say anything, mainly because he had no idea what to say; certainly, he was not as close to Cornutus as he was with Structus, and of course, Gillo, but he was one of theirs, a Centurion of the Fourth, and he felt a heaviness in his heart as he thought about what it would be like without his presence. This was the moment Vespillo arrived; Pullus heard his choked cry, and was surprised when the Pilus Prior dropped to his knees next to Cornutus’ body, but while he was not sure what to expect coming out of Vespillo’s mouth, he was not alone in being shocked when the Pilus Prior spoke.

  “We were close comrades, once.” Vespillo’s voice was barely recognizable, but when Pullus looked in surprise at the other men, he saw they were as stunned as he was at this revelation. Either not seeing or not caring the impact his words had, the Pilus Prior continued, “We were part of the same dilectus, and we came to the 1st at the same time. He was from Apulia, and I’m from Campania.” He laughed softly. “We always used to talk about how we should hate each other, but we never did. At least…” His voice suddenly trailed off, because he began sobbing, and Pullus exchanged looks with Gillo, and Structus, both of whom had been standing there, but neither of them seemed inclined to say anything. Or, Pullus thought disgustedly, do anything, and despite a part of himself screaming at him that he would regret it, Pullus crouched down next to Vespillo, putting a gentle hand on the Pilus Prior’s shoulder, as he continued, “…before I decided I should be Pilus Prior.” Suddenly, Vespillo reached out and grabbed Pullus’ hand, squeezing it so hard that Pullus was certain that the other man had taken offense that he had touched him, but he said nothing more. Pullus heard him take a deep breath, then suddenly Vespillo stood, wiped his eyes, then turned to Sevilla, becoming the Pilus Prior once more as he said, “You’re in command, Sevilla.”

  Then, without another word, he turned and strode away.

  “Well,” Structus broke the silence, “I’ll be fucked. I had no idea.” He addressed the others, asking, “Did any of you?”

  Nobody did, certainly not Pullus, and while he felt somewhat badly about it, he said, “I’m going to go back to my boys.”

  When he strode away, Pullus tried to tell himself that the tears in his eyes had nothing to do with the grief Vespillo had shown, but he knew he was lying to himself.

  The army that resumed its march the next day was one in name only. While it was true that they were victorious and had sent Arminius fleeing, there was a pall hanging over Caecina’s Legions that was impossible to ignore. Because of their headlong retreat, the Cherusci gave the Romans the opportunity to salvage whatever they could from the baggage train, and while it was true that the slaughter of noncombatants was immense, it was not complete by any means. Similarly, there were hundreds of dead animals, but again, the Cherusci had not been thorough, having discovered the supplies of wine that fueled their celebration through the night and, consequently, had spared men, animals, and more importantly, wagons. There were not enough to transport all of the wounded, which included Gaesorix, who was clinging to life, so some of the surviving mules were put into service, with sagum slung between a pair of animals. Some supplies had been recovered, but there were not enough rations to feed the entire army, and what did remain were distributed among the men’s packs, save for the 20th, who had discarded theirs the day before, although a fair number of them were recovered, minus the contents, at least those items that men held most valuable. Despite these handicaps, Caecina set a brisk pace, one that under other conditions the men would have complained about, but for a variety of reasons, they were as anxious to reach the Rhenus as their Legate. Pullus learned that his estimate of twenty miles had been a few miles short, and the pace was brisk, but it was accepted by every man in the army that they were going to continue marching until they reached the Rhenus. It was one of the few marches, not just for Pullus, but for men who had been with the Legions longer, where there was no need for the officers to encourage men, either with words or their viti, every man understanding that they had to be willing to exert the last bit of energy left in their bodies if they wanted to live to see their home of Ubiorum, or Mogontiacum, where there were whores, wine, the simple pleasures of gambling, and for a substantial portion of the army, their families waiting for them.

  Shortly before sundown, the word filtered back down the column that the portion of the mounted contingent leading the way had arrived at the riverbank, although there were no cheers, nor even much comment from the men. The 1st was the third Legion in the column, just ahead of the baggage train, with the Fourth the penultimate Cohort, so when they marched across the newly constructed bridge, Germanicus’ wife Agrippina had been standing there for at least two parts of a watch, at least by Pullus’ estimate. He had seen her before, but only from a distance, yet she was standing there as if she had just arrived, smiling a radiant smile, with her female attendants arrayed behind her, thanking the men as they marched past, all of whom behaved as if they were shy, bashful boys in the presence of the woman they knew was Germanicus’ wife.

  “May Fortuna bless you and your brave men,” she called out when Pullus marched past, her eyes naturally drawn to one of the largest Romans under the standard, and certainly the largest wearing the transverse crest of a Centurion, and when Pullus dared to look in her direction, he felt the heat coming to his face.

  Her voice was actually slightly hoarse, as if she had been talking for some time, and while this was all that she said, Pullus could not shake the feeling that she had recognized him, but before he had marched another dozen paces, he had convinced himself that this was nonsense and that it had been his size and nothing more. The people of the small settlement that had sprung up around Vetera, which had only relatively recently become a permanent camp, were all out to see Caecina and his Legions march past. It was not until they passed through the open gates of the camp that Pullus finally relaxed, feeling a sudden rush of emotion at the thought that he had managed to bring his Century through the trial of this campaign, particularly the last portion of it. When he glanced over at Tetarfenus, who had been dogged in his assurance that, despite his wound, he could keep up and had done so, he saw the tears in his Signifer’s eyes that told him he was not alone in this feeling that they had prevailed through a trial that marked this campaign as different. As dissimilar as it may have been, it did not mean that the traditional method of dismissing the Legions would be foregone, and Sacrovir led the Legion onto the forum, where the 5th, who had been given the honor of vanguard Legion, and the 21st was already arrayed in formation, leading the 1st to its spot, while the wagons and mules transporting the wounded headed directly for the hospital building next to the Praetorium, and the rest of the shrunken baggage train headed for the area of the camp their Legion had been assigned.

  As Pullus waited for the 20th, he took the time to survey his men, viewing them with a pride that would have been impossible for him to describe. They were uniformly filthy, many of them sporting equally dirty bandages on some part of their body, including Saloninus, whose ruined eye was obscured with a bandage, but he was standing there, in his spot as Optio, and Pullus wondered what his chances were of being named to replace Cornutus. Certainly, he thought, Saloninus is qualified, but that decision was up to the Pilus Prior, and thinking of him made Pullus turn his attention to Vespillo, standing in his spot, his eyes straight ahead. Something, Pullus was certain, had happened to the Pilus Prior, although he did allow for the possibility that a few days’ rest would see a return of the normal surly, harsh, and caustic Vespillo, but for a re
ason he could not identify, he did not really believe that. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the Legate’s new Cornicen sounding the call to intente, and the resounding cracking sound of thousands of hobnailed soles slamming together was such that it created a slight echo as the noise bounced off the buildings surrounding the forum. For the first time since they reached their spot, Pullus turned his attention to the Legate, and he saw that the man had dismounted, while the same kind of portable rostrum that was used in Ubiorum had been dragged out from the Praetorium, which Caecina mounted. He was dressed in the attire of a Roman Legate, and there was a slight breeze that lifted his paludamentum, but even from his spot, Pullus could see the stains and how the lower hem was caked with mud. The Legate’s muscled cuirass did not have its normal sheen because it was badly tarnished, although what Pullus noticed were the dents in it, and he wondered how they had gotten there. Like his paludamentum, the black feathers of his crest ruffled in the breeze, but the helmet was in the same condition as the cuirass, with the exception that there were no dents in it. The silence was profound, and Pullus did not sense the normal impatience of men who were about to receive their final dismissal; whether that was because of their fatigue or they understood that this was not the normal end to a normal campaign, he had no way of knowing. Caecina slowly rotated his head, from his right to his left, scanning the ranks of the men, still not saying a word, and only after he had done this and returned to look straight ahead, did he thrust one hand into the air in the manner used by men of his rank to announce they intended to speak.