by R. W. Peake
“Soldiers of the Army of the Rhenus!” Naturally, he spoke loudly so he could be heard, but there was a raspy quality to his voice that Pullus had never heard the previous occasions the Legate had spoken. “We have returned from a difficult campaign.” He paused, then he actually shouted, “But…it was a victorious campaign! We,” he raised his other arm and made a sweeping gesture as he corrected, “no, you have done what has not been done in the last six years! You have forced Arminius from the field of battle! You, you loyal men of Rome, defeated that barbarian and made him flee for his life!” Whether he intended it or not, Caecina was interrupted with a sudden roar, from thousands of men, Pullus among them, all of them acknowledging their Legate’s words in the only way they could. Fists were thrust into the air, the demonstration continuing for several heartbeats before Caecina raised his hands again, patting the air in the signal for quiet, which took a bit more time to achieve. Once it was quiet again, he continued, and there was a sad quality to his voice as Caecina acknowledged, “But it was at a great cost, I cannot deny that. And, while we mourn those of our comrades who fell, we also need to remember those who, through no fault of their own, were cut down as well. As Legate, this responsibility is mine, and,” his tone altered, becoming, if not harsh then certainly severe, “while I will not belabor the matter now, we all know why their deaths should be on the conscience of some of you.” As quickly as it had come, the air of triumph vanished, as two Legions collectively glared at the other two, whose men refused to look in their direction, and it did make Pullus wonder what the repercussions of what had occurred with the baggage train would be for the Primi Pili of the 5th and 21st. He also knew that Caecina was correct; this was not the moment for more recrimination than what the Legate had just said, which was confirmed by Caecina himself, “But we will speak no more of that right now. No,” he shook his head in an exaggerated manner, “now is the time for your Legate to thank you, for prevailing against one of the most insidious, loathsome, and cowardly enemies that has ever confronted Rome!” There was another cheer at this, albeit less enthusiastic, which Caecina seemed to recognize and interpret correctly, because he said, “There will be time for more of the accolades that you have earned, but I am an old man who needs his rest.” There were some chuckles at this, though not many. “And,” he finished, “I am certain that you are tired as well, and it is time for you to take a well-deserved respite.” Pausing, Pullus saw Caecina take in a lungful of air to bellow, “Primi Pili, dismiss your Legions at your discretion!” Then, without waiting, Caecina spun about, descended the rostrum and strode to the Praetorium…and it was over, finally.
They had been back in Vetera a bit more than a week when Alex knocked on the door to Pullus’ private quarters. Swinging his legs off the cot, Pullus set the scroll he had been reading down, calling for the clerk to enter.
“Well?” Pullus demanded.
He was not in a particularly good mood, but Alex ignored his tone, informing him, “A runner came. The Primus Pilus wants to see you.”
“Me?” Pullus was surprised, and somewhat apprehensive, which prompted him to ask, “Did the runner say why?”
Alex shook his head.
“No, just that Sacrovir wants you to attend to him.”
Heaving a sigh, Pullus stood up while Alex walked to the wooden frame and took his baltea from it. Turning around, Pullus had already raised his arms, and Alex quickly wrapped the baltea, cinched it, then adjusted it so that it was in its proper position. Snatching up the vitus leaning against the wall next to the door, Pullus walked out into the outer office, where the other clerk suddenly dipped his head to pretend that he had not stopped working on the tablet lying open in front of him.
“You’re going to have to do better than that to fool the Centurion, Eumenis,” Alex said severely, and the clerk, who was in his late teens, blushed.
Pullus tried not to grin, but he indicated that Alex should follow him outside.
Once they were out on the Cohort street, Pullus asked, “How is he working out?”
“Actually,” Alex replied, his tone thoughtful, “I think he may work out well. He’s cleverer than Demetrios, but he doesn’t realize it. And he does seem eager to learn.”
Pullus was studying Alex’s face as he was saying this, and he did not miss the cloud that crossed his clerk’s face at the mention of the dead junior clerk, and he felt compelled to assure Alex, “It wasn’t your fault, Alex. You have no reason to feel guilty about what happened to Demetrios, or any of the others. It was their time, it’s that simple.”
“I suppose so,” Alex replied, but Pullus was certain he heard doubt there. However, before he could say anything, Alex said, “You don’t want to keep the Primus Pilus waiting.”
“I know.” Pullus sighed, and as he turned in that direction, he fretted, “I just wish I knew what this was about.”
“Maybe,” Alex offered, “you’re going to get decorated. Or,” he added lightly, “promoted.”
This made Pullus laugh, and as he walked away, he scoffed, “Gerrae! Stop talking nonsense.”
Alex said nothing, but as he turned to go back into the Century office, he wore a knowing smile, and when he entered the office, he told Eumenis, “You need to start packing. We’re going to be moving.”
“How are things going?” Sacrovir asked, then clarified, “with your new clerk, I mean?”
It was uncomfortable enough that Sacrovir had not only not made Pullus wait, but when he entered the Primus Pilus’ private quarters and marched to his desk, Sacrovir had returned the salute then immediately led Pullus to the small table where they were now sitting.
Wondering why a Primus Pilus was concerned with a junior clerk, Pullus essentially repeated Alex’s judgment. Why Sacrovir seemed interested was at least partially explained by his reaction.
“Well,” Sacrovir grimaced, “then you’re one of the fortunate ones.” He gave a vague wave in the direction of his desk as he explained, “I’ve got a fucking stack of complaints from Centurions in every Cohort who swear that the clerks they’ve been sent are next to illiterate. Or,” he added with a heavy chuckle, “they’re even more light-fingered than the rankers. Either way,” Sacrovir shook his head as he lifted his cup to his lips, “it’s just one more fucking headache.”
Pullus, more out of politeness than thirst, did as Sacrovir, taking a swallow of the wine that the Primus Pilus had gently but firmly insisted not be watered, which was another reason why he was both confused and nervous.
Setting the cup down, Pullus decided it would not hurt to ask, “Has the Pilus Prior told you what he intends to do about our Fourth Century? It was Cornutus’,” Pullus reminded Sacrovir, thinking that the fate of one Centurion out of sixty in a Cohort he did not command might have slipped his mind.
“I know who the Fourth of the Fourth belonged to,” Sacrovir answered dryly. He had his cup in two hands, and he looked over it as he said, “And to answer your question, no, the Pilus Prior hasn’t told me a thing.”
This seemed odd to Pullus, although it was certainly true that the change that had come over Vespillo in the last days of the campaign was not only still there, but if anything, had intensified to the point that the Pilus Prior seemed indifferent about the running of his Cohort. Pullus had expected this to blow over, but they had been home a week and he showed no signs of returning to even a semblance of his former self.
Sacrovir intruded on his thoughts by asking, “Who do you think the Pilus Prior should pick? Should he go outside the Cohort? Or promote one of the Optios?”
It was only later that Pullus realized that Sacrovir’s choice of words was meaningful, but in the moment, he considered this to be either a test of some sort on the part of the Primus Pilus or he was simply making idle conversation.
Nevertheless, Pullus did consider the questions, if only because he had already given it some thought as he tried to determine what Vespillo might do.
“We’ve promoted from within for the last two s
lots with Structus and Gillo.” Suddenly aware of how this might be construed, he added hastily, “And, please don’t mistake me, Primus Pilus. Both of them are outstanding Centurions, sir. And,” he allowed, “I know that Fabricius certainly has the seniority, and I think he’d make a fine Centurion.”
What Pullus did not say, although he did not know why in the moment, was that Fabricius had been running the First Century even more than the Optio of a First Century was expected to since their Centurion also ran the Cohort.
Sacrovir took another sip, but his eyes never left Pullus, and he asked, “If you went outside the Cohort, who do you think the Pilus Prior might consider? Any ideas?”
“Primus Pilus,” Pullus shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “while I’m happy to answer your questions, and I appreciate that you’re asking me, isn’t this something you should be asking the Pilus Prior?”
“It is.” Sacrovir nodded, then said nothing for several heartbeats, while his eyes never left Pullus. Finally, he said softly, “Which is what I’m doing right now…Pilus Prior Pullus.”
The gods had decreed that this would be the moment where Pullus had just taken a sip from his cup, which he just barely managed to avoid spewing out all over the Primus Pilus, thereby ensuring the shortest promotion in the history of the Legions. Instead, it made him choke, and he went into such a coughing fit that it alarmed Sacrovir, who leapt to his feet and started pounding Pullus on the back.
“Pluto’s cock, Pullus!” Sacrovir exclaimed, “I didn’t mean to choke you!”
Pullus finally recovered enough to gasp, “I’m sorry, Primus Pilus. You just caught me by surprise.”
“I’ll admit that I did want to surprise you,” Sacrovir said ruefully, dropping back into his chair, “but I didn’t think I’d almost kill you doing it.”
Despite himself, Pullus had to laugh at this, but it did not last long, and he asked soberly, “What does this mean, sir? I mean,” he added, “for Pilus Prior Vespillo.”
“Why do you care, Pullus?” Sacrovir asked, though not in a harsh manner; to Pullus, he seemed interested in hearing his answer. When Pullus did not reply immediately, he added, “I’m not blind, Pullus. I know that, while Vespillo was a surly bastard and never treated his Centurions particularly well, he treated you worst of all.”
It was, Pullus thought suddenly, a good question. He had every reason to hate Vespillo, and yet, while he still could not deny that he held a strong dislike for the man, it no longer rose to the level of hatred.
How he would describe that he had no idea, so he simply shrugged and replied, “I can’t honestly say why, Primus Pilus. Besides,” he pointed out, “does it really matter?”
“No,” Sacrovir acknowledged, “not really. But,” he got up and walked over to his desk, and picked up a scroll, returning to place it on the table as he said, “as far as why you’re the Pilus Prior, it’s because of that.” He pointed to the scroll, and for a moment, Pullus was certain he understood what it meant, that this was the work of Germanicus. This belief lasted only as long as it took Sacrovir to say, “Numerius Vespillo has decided to retire, effective immediately. And, while he acknowledges that it’s my decision ultimately, he strongly recommended that I consider you to replace him.”
Pullus was stunned, so much so that he could not think of anything to say, and he sat back in his chair, but when he reached for his cup, he saw that it was empty, which caused Sacrovir to chuckle softly as he reached for the amphora.
“You look like you could use a refill…Pilus Prior.”
That night, when he was reviewing the events of the day, Pullus could not recall his walk back to the Cohort area, just what awaited him when he got there. He had been worried that he might cross paths with Vespillo and had no idea what he would say if he did, but Sacrovir informed him that Citizen Vespillo had, as regulations commanded, departed the camp at dawn. When Pullus asked the Primus Pilus where Vespillo intended to go, Sacrovir had refused to answer.
“One of his requests is that I don’t divulge his whereabouts,” Sacrovir told him. Then, he shrugged as he added, “I suppose he doesn’t want anyone’s pity, or questions about why he did it, for that matter.”
When Pullus returned to his quarters and entered, he was greeted by the sight of crates and leather bags used to carry clothes, already piled up next to the door.
“You knew, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” Alex answered, with what to Pullus sounded like an obscene amount of cheerfulness and satisfaction. “What good would I be if I didn’t know what’s happening in your Cohort…Pilus Prior?”
The transfer of his belongings to the quarters of the Pilus Prior, which had already been cleaned out and betrayed no sign that it had been occupied by Vespillo, did not take long, and Pullus was struck by the fact that he had just done this a few weeks earlier, and it had been Vespillo’s quarters he took. In what would be his first decision as Pilus Prior, Pullus brought both Alex and the new clerk Eumenis with him, Demas having been the property of Vespillo, and he sent the second clerk Menander to the Second Century, all of which had been done at Alex’s suggestion.
“The Second will need someone who knows how to run a Century,” he explained. “And since Eumenis is so green, he’s not qualified.”
“But that means you’d be handling all the Cohort business on your own until he learns,” Pullus argued.
“What?” Alex scoffed. “You don’t think I can’t handle it?”
“No,” Pullus admitted, understanding this was the truth. “I know you can.”
With this settled, the next business was assembling the Centurions and Optios, but when he saw their demeanor as they entered his private quarters, it prompted him to complain, somewhat in jest, “So, was I the last bastard to know?”
“Yes,” was the more or less unanimous response, prompting laughter.
Alex had prepared accordingly, procuring a better vintage than normal, and once the cups were charged, Pullus stood, holding his out in salute as he said, “To the Fourth. And,” he added, “to Numerius Vespillo. May he find the rest and peace he seeks.”
“To the Fourth!” They all echoed this, but when they did not appear disposed to repeat the blessing for Vespillo, Pullus glared at them until they mumbled a half-hearted, “To Vespillo.”
The next third of a watch was taken up by the newly promoted Pilus Prior going through the same kind of briefing he had been part of more times than he could count, yet this time was profoundly different, and by the time he had accepted the congratulations of each of the others and seen them out, his head was swimming, only partially from the wine. He welcomed the distraction of the routine of the evening meal, which he shared with Alex in companionable silence. Once they were through, Alex cleaned up, leaving Pullus sitting behind his desk, deep in thought.
Finally, he called for Alex, who was in the outer office, and when he entered, Pullus asked, “How many sheets of parchment do we have?”
Alex answered readily enough, but he looked slightly confused as he did so. “A few, although I’m not sure exactly how many. Maybe five or six?”
“That will do for a start,” Pullus mused. “Go get them and bring your pen and ink.”
When Alex returned, Pullus was no longer at his desk, standing in the center of the room, and he pointed at the desk in a silent command. While he complied, Alex was clearly mystified, but he arranged the inkwell and the quills, then placed one of the parchment sheets in front of him, looking up at Pullus.
“Write this down,” Pullus said, then began pacing back and forth, looking at the floor. After a span of heartbeats, he began, “While I was not born with it, I am offering this account in my real name of Gnaeus Volusenianus Pullus, and with this account, I am both carrying on and honoring the memory of my great-grandfather, Titus Pomponius Pullus, and my father Titus Porcinianus Pullus.” For several moments, there was only the sound of a pen scratching, but out of the corner of his eye, Pullus saw Alex lift his head in a signal to c
ontinue. “And,” he had to concentrate on keeping his tone flat and matter-of-fact, “in keeping with that tradition, I am dictating this account to the son of Prefect Pullus’ scribe and friend Diocles, just as my great-grandfather did. In this way, both I and Alexandros Pullus seek to honor the memory of these great men.”
Only then did he look over at Alex, both of them barely seeing the other because of the tears in their eyes.
“Well?” Pullus asked gruffly.
“It’s a good beginning,” Alex answered quietly. “A very good beginning.”
Part II
Chapter Six
While I am doing this in honor of them, I have also decided to depart from the practice of my father and great-grandfather in regard to this account. Camp Prefect Titus Pullus waited until he retired to dictate his account to the father of my own scribe and friend Alexandros Pullus, and my father, Titus Porcinianus Pullus, chose to write his own account but did not start it until he was in his thirties. When possible, I intend to add to this account once a particular campaign season is over. Not only will it help to pass the winter watches, the events will be fresher in my memory, and where my memory might fail, I will have Alexandros, who I will refer to as Alex, to correct any errors or remind of things I have forgotten.
This was the plan, at least; the fact is that what is written above is all we managed to create last year on our return to Ubiorum under the command of Aulus Caecina Severus, and while it is now the end of the campaign season, I began this account during the winter of the year of the Consulships of Drusus Julius Caesar, and the Suffect Consulship of Gaius Norbanus Flaccus. However, it is now the Ides of December, in the year of the Suffect Consulships of Gaius Vibius Rufus and Gaius Pomponius Graecinas, almost exactly a year later. The intervening events that have delayed my clerk and me from this task began almost within watches of our starting it, when at last, the part of the army that was under the command our Propraetor Germanicus Julius Caesar, when Caecina led the other four Legions from our combined encampment east of the Rhenus, finally returned from their voyage by sea. Caecina’s part of the army included my own 1st Legion, and we returned by the route known as the Long Bridges, which proved to be quite an ordeal. The events during that return march led to inevitable recriminations against the 5th and 21st, and justifiably so, by my own 1st and the men of the 20th. Once we were back in Vetera, Caecina, being the most senior between himself and the other man of Legate rank, Lucius Stertinius, once he and his forty Cohorts of auxiliaries arrived, wisely forbade men from leaving the camp and going out into the town. More telling was his decision that we would each be restricted to our own area of the camp, although this was compounded by the addition of Germanicus and the 2nd,14th, 15th, and 16th, particularly when we inevitably learned of the ordeal the men of the first two Legions I mentioned had undergone. Unlike ourselves, however, the depletion of their ranks, which was immediately obvious as we watched them enter the camp, was not due to German blades or missiles, but from the elements. It took a few watches for the story to circulate among the Legion and Cohort streets, but as usually happened, thanks to Alex, I learned more quickly than most, so I called a meeting of the Cohort, only my second such as Pilus Prior, mainly to inform them of what Alex had gleaned, but also to welcome the newest Centurion to our Cohort.