Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  I turned to Alex, hoping that he at least would understand my concern, but he seemed more amused than anything else; I suspect that it was because he had been saying essentially the same thing.

  “He makes a good argument, Gnaeus,” was what he said, and despite glaring at him for a long moment, he never wavered in returning it.

  I knew that this was not only a sound argument, but it was a winning one, although I could not bring myself to admit as much right in the moment, so instead, I grumbled, “You two sound like my mother.”

  “Who is a very, very wise woman,” Macer agreed, lifting his cup again, grinning at me as he did so, and naturally, Alex joined in the fun, the pair clinking their cups together in salute to their victory.

  “Oh, go piss on your boots, the both of you,” I grumbled. Then, albeit through slightly clenched teeth, I said, “If everything happens that has to happen does, then I’ll talk to Germanicus and get his advice. Now,” I raised my cup to signal Turbo, “you’re interrupting my drinking time. We’re about to be freezing our asses off in some forest, so I need to get warmed up before we go out there.”

  “That,” Macer laughed, “makes absolutely no sense, but I like your thinking.”

  Wrapped in our sagum, with those men who could afford them wearing their thicker winter tunic and bracae, the Legion departed Ubiorum, as the men of the 20th marched out of camp at the same time, but in the opposite direction, heading down to the riverbank to begin construction of what would become a shipyard. And, as always happened in such events, they were more than happy to let us know that they would be enjoying the comfort of our snug huts and a night in the town, while our men warned them to keep from wandering over into our area because they knew what thieving bastards the men of the 20th were. All in all, it was a normal day. Because of the roads that have improved dramatically even during my relatively short period of time here on the Rhenus, we made good time, even with the short winter day. And, just as Sacrovir had informed us, there was enough daylight left to at least begin the process of felling trees, which the advance party of Immunes, who had left a day earlier, had already marked with paint in two different colors. White paint signified trees that would be used for the decking, and red for those trees that stood perfectly straight and tall that would be used as masts. With the usual efficiency that marks a Roman Legion, we had been assigned our respective tasks even before we departed Ubiorum, and our Cohort was one of those designated to fell the trees, and we worked until dark, then marched the short distance to where our camp had been located, with the Primus Pilus’ tent serving as the praetorium. The lack of ditch and wall meant that most Centurions let their men make their way back to where the tents stood, with the slaves having already started the fires in front of each, and it was a most unmilitary, and un-Roman, sight watching our rankers meander along.

  “I wonder if Sacrovir made a mistake,” Structus mused as I walked with him and Fabricius behind the men.

  “What makes you say that?” Fabricius asked, although I was as curious as he was.

  “Because without that ditch and wall, it’s going to be too fucking easy for some of these bastards to go wandering off looking for wine. And,” he added with dark humor, “women.”

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” I protested, but he pointed off in the distance, where for the first time I noticed several lights, far too many for a single farmhouse, but not large enough for a town or even village.

  “If we see that,” he countered, “you can be sure they see it.”

  “Pluto’s cock, Structus,” Fabricius said, clearly unhappy. “You’d find a fly turd in a pot of honey. Now I’m going to have to keep an eye on every idiot in my Century who’s likely to go slinking off.”

  “Just trying to help a new Centurion out,” Structus answered cheerfully.

  Once he brought it up, I was of a similar mind to Fabricius, and in an odd moment, I made a mental note to tell the Pilus Prior; fortunately, I kept that inside my head, since I was the Pilus Prior, a fact to which I was still growing accustomed. And, even better, if any of the men of the Fourth had that urge to creep out of the camp after the call to retire, they managed to stifle it, although the same could not be said for two of the other Cohorts. Both the Third, which was still rebuilding and was still viewed as suspect by the rest of us, and the Seventh Cohorts had men who succumbed to the lure of those lights. In the case of the Third, it was actually the new Pilus Prior, Tiberius Pompilius, who had replaced the disgraced and dead Maluginensis, who came out looking better than Pilus Prior Cinna, because Pompilius caught the pair, naturally close comrades, before they actually left the camp. While I never heard it confirmed by Pompilius, the word around the fires was that Pompilius had positioned himself behind a tent on the outer edge of the camp, in expectation of the very thing that happened. Cinna, however, had to endure the embarrassment of three of his men being reported missing from the morning formation, although it was literally by a matter of heartbeats, as the three miscreants came dashing across the open ground in a desperate attempt to make it in time. Unfortunately for them, close does not count in the Legions, and they quickly learned a flogging was in their future, albeit only after we returned to Ubiorum. After breaking our fast, we returned to our work, and somewhat unusually, Sacrovir did not rotate the Cohorts, which is a standard way to ensure that no Cohort can complain of unfair treatment when they are stuck with the most onerous tasks. This meant that we resumed chopping, but while normally when I use the word “we,” it is in a figurative sense, in this case, I mean it literally. I got the idea when I stood there with Saloninus where, despite our fur-lined sagum, heavy tunics and bracae, and fur lined socks, we were both shivering as we watched our men strip themselves down to just tunics, yet did not appear cold at all.

  “Those bastards are the lucky ones,” my Optio grumbled. “We have to stand here making sure they don’t slack off, but this is one of those times where nobody will, or they’d freeze to death.”

  This was what inspired me, and without saying anything to him, I strode over to where there was a pile of spare axes, picking one up, then surveyed the area before I found a tree with white paint on it.

  “What are you doing, Pullus?”

  I turned and grinned at Structus, who was standing with his Optio, Manius Columella and had been promoted from within the Second, although he had not been my first choice, but I had followed Macer’s advice and left it up to Structus.

  “I’m going to go get warmed up,” I told my Pilus Posterior, but I was unprepared for him to laugh.

  “Let’s go watch,” I heard him tell Columella. “This should be interesting.”

  At first, I had no idea why he would think me participating in the manual labor of chopping a tree would provide some form of entertainment…until I was standing in front of that tree and realizing that I had never swung an axe in my life. It was something that, back when I thought of my father as my enemy, Titus Pullus loved to point out to me how I had no real basis for understanding the men under my care and their concerns because I had never turned a spade of dirt or performed any of the myriad physical tasks that are an inherent part of the life of a man from the ranks. And, while I certainly did not ascribe to this belief when it was me, over time, I have come to accept, somewhat grudgingly, that this is an appropriate complaint about those of us who are referred to as paid men. The fact that I am now a Pilus Prior I will not apologize to anyone for, because I earned that distinction by my actions in battle, yet as I stood there, holding an axe instead of a vitus, I felt quite acutely this lack in my background. Naturally, now that my pride was involved, there was no way I was about to change my mind, so I shrugged out of my sagum, hefted the blade, then picked the spot where I wanted it to strike. The best I can say is that I did strike the tree exactly where I intended; the fact that I hit the trunk at the wrong angle meant that, rather than take a deep bite out of the wood, the iron head bounced off and back at me with an alarming speed, and in reflex, I
flinched. And, not surprisingly, Structus, Columella, Saloninus, and every man who had stopped to watch thought this was one of the most amusing things they had ever seen, and whatever vestige of cold I was feeling was flushed away by the rushing of blood to my face. It took some effort for me not to snarl at those who were laughing; instead, I took my anger out on the tree, and I was grimly pleased to hear the laughter die down as I became more comfortable. I suspect the fact that the tree came down with no more than ten blows of the axe had more to do with quelling the mirth, and I immediately moved towards the next one. It proved to be quite an informative moment for me. I discovered that our eyes had not deceived us; by the second tree, I had completely forgotten about being cold. Even more surprising was that I discovered I actually enjoyed swinging an axe immensely, both as exercise and as a way to demonstrate that my strength was not just applicable on the battlefield. The biggest shock, however, came the next morning, when I learned that swinging an axe used muscles that I did not even know I had, meaning that it took quite a bit of effort, and a fair amount of massage by Alex in the privacy of my quarters, to appear in front of the men as if everything was normal. Thankfully, once I moved around a bit, I loosened up, and our work was essentially done, save for loading the wagons, which was accomplished within a third of a watch after we began the day. Our return march was slower because of the heavily laden wagons, of course, but since we did not have to worry about making camp, we marched through the day and arrived back in Ubiorum shortly after dark. I know it should not have been surprising, but even in the gloom, it was impossible to miss the amount of work that had been done by the 20th, and while they were not completely finished, they were close to it. Two days after our return, all was deemed ready to begin the work of building part of the fleet that Germanicus had ordered built to carry Rome into the heart of Cherusci territory, and finally finish Arminius. Germanicus might have ordered it, but he had departed from Ubiorum the day after my return, which was a complete coincidence, being sent by Tiberius on a diplomatic mission, and it was unclear whether he would be back in time for the campaign, leaving us in Ubiorum under the command of Caecina.

  The construction of the ships that we were charged with building took two full months, and it was during this period that I began reading my great-grandfather’s account. If I had to do it all over again, I would reverse the order in which I read the scrolls by my great-grandfather and father, if only because it would have put my father’s story in a more understandable light. Before I got through the first one, I also had a much better idea of what a truly remarkable man Titus Pomponius Pullus was, and I could almost feel his ambition burning through the parchment; perhaps most importantly, I learned why that ambition was there. In an odd way, it made me appreciate Quintus Volusenus, the man who I had thought of as my father until a few months earlier even more, thanks to the actions of the Prefect’s father Lucius Pullus. Reading about the Gallic campaign, not from the perspective of Divus Julius, but from one of the men who, as my great-grandfather said, served as the strong right arms of Rome, was particularly enlightening, and I used, and still use, specific moments from his account to help run my Cohort.

  “You need to make sure you let the men know that all this work is going to pay off later, because they’re not getting soft and flabby in the winter,” I explained one night during a meeting of the Centurions and Optios.

  I was not at all surprised when several of them expressed their doubt about how this would help, since there was quite a bit of grumbling going on at the time, but I related the story of the fleet built by the men of Caesar’s army for their second campaign in Britannia, and whether it was the words themselves, or that they came from the Prefect, I saw that it made an impression.

  “Where did you hear that story?”

  That this question came from Calpurnius, who was new to the Cohort, made me somewhat hesitant to answer; I still had not made up my mind whether or not he was trustworthy, or whether he had been placed here by Sacrovir to spy on me, and I also remembered Alex’s warning about him.

  Consequently, I answered somewhat cautiously and dishonestly, “I heard it indirectly from Pilus Prior Pullus, but I’m not sure where he heard it from.”

  I saw Structus exchange a glance with Gillo, and I knew that Structus was at least aware of the scrolls, but in the moment, I could not recall whether I had said anything to Gillo about them.

  “It’s just that I’ve heard so much about him,” Calpurnius explained, “it’s hard to know what’s fact and what’s not.”

  This was a perfectly reasonable thing to say, but I did not particularly care for his tone, although I managed to refrain from saying anything about it. I will say it did not assuage my suspicions about the man. And, as far as I could tell, he relayed this information to his Century, although it might have been Sevilla who did it. While it certainly did not stop the grumbling, it was more muted than it had been, which I suppose was the best I could expect. I also found it informative, watching the ships being built. As one might expect, despite men with experience supervising the construction, the Legionaries were novices and provided little more than raw labor, which meant that on two separate occasions, a ship had to essentially be torn apart and rebuilt because a measurement was wrong, and while I found it hard to believe that just one error like this would require starting over, I was assured that this was the case.

  “If the width of the keel is off by this much,” the Tribune Gaetulicus, who was still with the army and was still acting as Praefectus Fabrorum, held up two fingers perhaps an inch or inch and a half apart, “it changes the entire balance of the ship, and can make it easier to capsize. And,” he finished grimly, “that’s bad for the men aboard that ship, since this is a transport.”

  It certainly made sense when it was explained, and the fact that a lofty personage such as the Tribune would deign to explain such to me, even a Pilus Prior, I am certain was due to the regard the Tribune held for my father. And, being honest, as Tribunes went, Gaetulicus was not only a decent enough sort, he was extremely competent at his job, although in this case, he did not possess any shipbuilding skills. What he did have was the ability to organize, and I knew that Germanicus thought highly of him. All one had to do was watch how quickly things came together and the work began to understand the truth of this.

  Despite these minor setbacks, it was only a matter of a week or two before men learned their roles and things began running smoothly, especially since, as with the wood cutting, duties were not rotated, so that men became proficient with a specific task. The air was filled with the sound of hammers, the smell of raw wood and the pitch used to seal the seams competing for the strongest odor, while those of us carrying a vitus were left to prowl among our men. Not every man in the Cohort was involved in the building process. Those that were not were alternated between making preparations for the coming campaign, like the armorer and weapon Immunes ensuring that all armor was in good repair, while the stock of javelins was replenished. Those woodworkers with the particular skill of making and repairing shields were kept on this task, but despite all this work, the other job of the Legions continued apace as well. The last section of road between Ubiorum and Vetera was finally completed to Roman standards, which meant that the days of men pushing wagons out of ruts after heavy rains or when the snows melted were over. While none of us ever left Ubiorum, I have no doubt that the other Legions were similarly occupied; either the 2nd or the 14th working to the north of Vetera was busy with the roads while the other Legion constructed their part of the fleet, while down in Confluentes, the 15th and 16th were doing the same, but also finally finishing the last stretch of road between Confluentes and Ubiorum that had not been paved. Only in Mogontiacum was there no need for improving the roads, so the 5th and 21st were totally committed to building the rest of the seven hundred ships that would be added to the existing three hundred. The weather did not cooperate, but it could have been much, much worse; while it got cold enough to freeze the
riverbanks, it did not extend out into the river, and it became a daily chore for men to chop away and clear the section along the shipyard. Day by day, the Legions worked, and of course, as they worked, men talked, and I include the officers.

  “He’s doing it so that we don’t have to march so fucking far,” was how Structus put it one day as we stood huddled together because of a particularly bitter wind. “And with our baggage train, passing through all those bogs.”

  He did not say it, but he did not need to, and I could see that the others were of a like mind, thinking of the Long Bridges, and the near-catastrophe that ultimately led to my promotion, not that I had any thought about that while it was going on.

  “I heard,” this came from Licinius, “that he plans on setting up a series of outposts, maybe along the Lupia, and we’re going to be moving the supplies brought up the Amisia by the fleet from one to the next so that the wagons will only have to travel a day to get to the next one.”

  Although this made sense, I was somewhat skeptical, only because of my faith in Alex, and he had made no mention of this, but I said nothing about it. Otherwise, if it was not informative, it was certainly a way to pass the time. On this particular day, we had cause for more discussion, this time about one of the ships that, now with its hull laid and completed, was sufficiently formed for us to see there was something unusual about it.

  “The front and back are the same,” Saloninus was the one to point this out, and one glance told us he was speaking truly.

  “That’s not the front,” Licinius sniffed. “That’s the bow, and that,” he shifted his finger to point at the opposite end, “is the stern.”