Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

“How do you know?” Saloninus demanded. “They look exactly the same!”

  And, even with just one eye, my Optio was absolutely correct, because not only were both ends of this boat identically shaped, as we watched, a pair of men attached what I at least knew was used to steer the ship, first at one end, then the other.

  Licinius could only shrug, admitting, “I just know that the front is the bow and the rear is the stern. But which one is which on that ship? I have no idea.”

  As this debate was taking place, I scanned the area, looking for one man in particular, and once I found him, I approached Gaetulicus, saluting him then asking simply, “What on Gaia’s Earth is that?”

  He laughed but answered readily enough, “That’s a design that Germanicus says he found in the Tabularium in Rome when he was younger. It’s supposedly a design by Divus Julius that he wanted to use for Britannia, except it wasn’t able to withstand the open seas. But since we’re going to be hugging the coast, then traveling upriver, Germanicus feels that this is perfect for crossing the river, because all that has to happen is the men reverse their stroke, while the shipmaster runs to the other rudder.”

  This impressed me because I instantly saw the utility, and it serves as another example of the genius of a god who was once a man, and I suppose that it was a natural progression of my thoughts that I asked, “A thousand ships will take a lot of slaves. When are they expected to arrive, and where are you getting them from?”

  It was only because I was looking at Gaetulicus when I asked him that I saw the reaction, as his head suddenly swiveled and he stared at me, yet despite understanding that I had said something that caused his response, I had no idea what it was.

  That is, until he asked, “Where did you hear that we’re going to be using slaves as the crews?”

  “Nowhere,” I answered, somewhat startled. “I just assumed that was the case.”

  His expression altered, but it was closing his eyes and the soft groan that gave me a sign.

  “Vol…Pullus,” he corrected himself almost immediately, and he turned red, so I pretended not to notice, “do you think that the other officers and the men think that these ships are going to be crewed by slaves?”

  Although it was true that we had never discussed it, I felt certain that I was far from alone in my assumption, and I told him as much.

  “That,” he muttered, “is not good. Not good at all.” Suddenly, he looked anxious, asking me, “How do you think the men will take it?”

  Frankly, I still had not really caught up, so I asked, “Take what?”

  “That they’re going to be manning the oars of the fleet, of course!”

  As I quickly learned, I was far from alone in my assumption that the fleet would not be manned by the men of the Legions.

  “We’re not fucking slaves!”

  “I’m not sitting on a bench rowing! They can flog me, but I won’t do it!”

  I could continue with the things I heard within the Cohort, but those two comments that I overheard summarize a mood that was shared by far more men than just the Fourth. Although the discontent did not impact the pace of construction, it made for a very nervous time for the officers, and I for one wished that Germanicus had been present and not Caecina. We certainly respected the man, who was by far the oldest among the men who would be acting as Legates, but he considered himself a Roman of the “old style,” which meant that he believed in the value of flogging men into a better frame of mind, as my father liked to put it. This viewpoint would have been more understandable a few years earlier, and perhaps it will come back into fashion again, but it should be remembered that we were still less than two years removed from the mutiny of the Legions, yet this did not seem to make any difference to Caecina. I suspect that there was a definite connection between his inflexibility and his age, and for a period of a week or so, rumors ran rampant that he was intending to make an example of those Legionaries who were the most vocal in their insistence that they would not perform a job that is most often relegated to slaves, although men who had grown up in port towns or on one of the main rivers said that merchant ships often used freedmen as crew. Fortunately for everyone, Caecina included, another man of Legate rank either intervened or persuaded the older man to turn a deaf ear and allow the Centurions to handle their men. The hero of the moment was none other than Gaius Silius, one of the men who served as one of Germanicus’ staff a decade earlier in the Batonian Revolt, when my father served the Propraetor as his de facto Primus Pilus. Having recently finished my father’s account, I knew he thought highly of Silius, and he proved himself adept when it came to handling Caecina, although I never heard the details of how he managed. Certainly it could not be said that the men became excited at the prospect, but between a combination of silver to the right men in the ranks and the vitus when some men proved resistant to the softer persuasion, as the date approached, there was an air of resignation that at least part of this campaign would be spent sitting on a bench. It was not just the idea that they would be performing a job normally reserved for slaves, however; no Roman of the Legions is fond of the sea, and I include myself in that number, and the reason I know that the reluctance was based in fear of drowning or being consumed by the monsters of the deep that we all know are out there is because I felt the same way. Nevertheless, wearing the crest of Centurion meant that I had to scoff at those men who were sufficiently disturbed to risk the jeers and taunts of their comrades to admit them openly, pretending that I was not every bit as concerned.

  There was a period in late Januarius where work had to be halted because of the weather, but that did not stop our training, and it also marked a change in my own circumstances, when I decided that I would become the chief weapons instructor for not just my Century, but the entire Cohort. I must give Alex credit for planting the idea in my head, and since Januarius is when we hold our lustration ceremony, I decided that it was an appropriate time for a change. However, I did not actually demote the men who were serving as their Century’s instructors; instead, we developed a system whereby they were rotated among the Centuries, rather than continuously training with the same men over and over, for the simple reason that it is more challenging for the men to face someone different during the sparring sessions against their instructor, than to face the same man over and over. Additionally, I would only spar with those men who had faced the five other instructors, and while the reason I gave for this was that it would expose them to the subtly different style that every man has that is unique to them, it was also because I wanted to make a statement to the men of my Cohort.

  “It will be a final test for them to face you,” was how Alex had put it. “And it will keep you sharper because you’re doing the same thing in facing different men than just the First.”

  It was during that lull in the construction that I began this practice, and it did not take long for the spirit of competition that is inherent in any man under the standard to burn even more brightly, with much wagering going on. I also discovered that facing every man in the Cohort meant that I retired each evening sorer than I had ever been, and mornings were brutally hard as I hobbled around my quarters like a man twice my age. Fortunately, between Alex and his magic potion that he still refuses to divulge the recipe to me that he used to rub into my muscles, I managed to exit my quarters looking none the worse for wear to do it all over again the next day. Most importantly, however, was that I was never defeated by any man in my Cohort, although it was my victory over Calpurnius that I savored the most. I would not have normally faced another Centurion, but I had learned he refused to use the Vinician grip and had not been forcing the new replacements we received to use it; one bout in the square, where I sent his rudis flying out of his hand, solved that problem, although it did not endear Calpurnius to me, and I am certain he felt the same way. All that mattered, however, was that he obeyed, and that my Cohort was ready to fight when the time came.

  The fleet was finally completed, and we were treated to t
he spectacle of seeing the ships that had been constructed upstream come down the Rhenus, but as diverting as this was, there was more interest in trying to find out which of the Legions would be selected by Germanicus to be both passengers and crew, since there was no way that even a thousand ships could transport eight Legions and their baggage. Meanwhile, preparations continued, as we split our time between training, with the focus shifting to Century and Cohort drills, and ensuring that all of our equipment was in good condition. And, since this was my first campaign as Pilus Prior, it meant that sleep was in short supply, but although I seem to need less sleep than my counterparts, I began feeling the strain, which meant that my temper was correspondingly short. Fortunately for me, Alex had been my father’s clerk for the beginning of a campaign season, but it was Titus Fabricius who proved to be another valuable ally in helping me from feeling completely overwhelmed, thanks to his time as Optio of the First Century. What did not help was my newly instituted practice of facing every man in the Cohort, something that I learned within a week, and it forced me to realize that it had been my pride as much as my desire to make my mark on the Cohort that had put me in this position. Perhaps the only positive thing, personally speaking, was that it was just the general fatigue that comes from facing twenty men a day and not because I was being tested, although a few men did force me to concentrate and use all of the skills that I am still trying to fully appreciate. Even before my father’s death, I had adopted his practice of working the stakes a third of a watch a day whenever possible, but that is not the same thing as facing men who are doing their best to smack you with their rudis, and it was not long before I began every morning barely able to lift my arms above my head, although thanks to Alex and his potion, the contents of which he refuses to divulge even to me, after a good rubdown and scraping, only he and Eumenis knew that their Centurion was hobbling about like a man twice his age. During this period, days tend to run together, and despite the lengthening time of daylight, there is never enough of it to satisfy the officers of every rank, and with a Legate like Caecina, it was even worse, partially because his patience ran out, and he decided that enough time had elapsed since the mutiny to reinstitute discipline to a level that he thought necessary. I do not believe that he was one of those men of the upper classes who like to see the blood of their inferiors flowing freely, although I knew more than one officer who firmly believed that he was of that ilk. Not that it mattered; what did was that we were required to spend part of our time in the forum to witness punishment being administered to men whose infractions had been deemed worthy of being strapped to the punishment frame and receiving lashes. The fact that, even if their offense called for a certain number of lashes with the scourge, Caecina suspended those in a signal that he was unwilling to cripple men so soon before a campaign was something that I am certain the miscreants appreciated, though perhaps not as much as Caecina would have liked. Normally, only the men of the Cohort to which the offender belongs is required to stand in formation in the forum and witness the punishment, but the Legate had commanded the entire Legion to which the man, or usually men, belonged be required to attend. And, at first, I felt good that the Fourth’s transgressions were not serious, so they did not have to watch one of their comrades be subjected to the lash, but it was Macer who disabused me of that idea.

  “Haven’t you noticed that none of the first line Cohorts have had any men punished?” The fact is that, until he mentioned it, I had not, and I asked Macer why, although in my case it was because there had not been an infraction worthy of such a punishment. “Because the Primus Pilus is burying any report that might get a man flogged,” he explained. Before he continued, he took a quick glance around, but I had already noticed nobody was close enough to overhear, so I thought this was a bit excessive. Until, that is, he said, “And right now, just about any kind of offense is getting men striped, Gnaeus. Those last two men from the Eighth that were just strung up? One of them had a bad varnish job, and the other was caught taking a loaf out into town.”

  “Gerrae!” I stared at him in disbelief, but Macer returned it without blinking, and he was certainly not the kind to exaggerate.

  “Have Alex ask around,” was all he said. “That’s what I had Lucco do, and he came back within a third of a watch and confirmed it.”

  “Has that old man lost his mind?”

  I had not intended to say this loudly enough to get noticed, but I realized I had by Macer’s reaction, as he turned sharply to look around before hissing, “Keep your voice down! Are you mad?”

  “Not as mad as Caecina,” I retorted, except that it was in a much quieter tone as before, but I was still troubled. “Did Lucco find out why he’s doing this?”

  Macer shook his head.

  “No,” he admitted, “but the best guess is that he’s been itching to go back to his old ways before the…you know.”

  Even in that moment, it struck me as odd that Macer was so reluctant to use the proper term for the insurrection of the Legions, but I do not want to portray him as unusual; indeed, I seemed to be one of the few exceptions who was willing to call what took place what it was, a mutiny.

  I did not bring this up, simply nodding. Then, I asked, “Do you know if Neratius is doing the same with the 20th?”

  He did not, and then we had returned to our Legion area, both of us wondering how long it would be before the Legate noticed that men belonging to the first four Cohorts were missing from being striped. Fortunately, we never learned, because once again, the Germans did not behave as we expected them to.

  As I recall, it was late the next morning after my conversation with Macer that Alex burst into my office, panting and bearing an expression that I had learned meant he had important news.

  “I was dropping off the morning report when a courier came in,” he began once he caught his breath, “so I stopped to talk to Lysander for a moment. Not long, but long enough for me to hear what’s happened. Drusus’ Camp is under attack!”

  There was no need for him to expand on what he meant using that term; it had been an objective of Germanicus’ to rebuild the camp that his father Drusus had constructed two decades earlier on the Werra River the year before, but more than that, it was where the incident happened that became one of those camp fables that Calpurnius mentioned, except it was about me. Not that I am complaining, it must be said, and it had proven quite valuable in my future interactions. Consequently, men from other Legions tended to give me a wide berth, while my men basked in the reflected glow of having a Centurion rivaling Hercules commanding them, and it made running the Century a great deal easier. None of which mattered, of course, in the moment, and I showed my trust in Alex by calling the Centurions to my quarters.

  “Get your men ready to march.”

  This was how I opened the meeting, then went on to explain what Alex had learned, and while the heads of four of them were moving in the correct direction, naturally, it was Calpurnius who asked, “How can you be certain, Pilus Prior? Have you spoken to Germanicus privately or something?”

  He tried to make it sound like an innocent question, something that I flatly rejected, certain that he had a deeper, and darker motive.

  Nevertheless, I answered honestly, “No, I haven’t, Calpurnius. But a courier came today with the message that his father’s camp that we rebuilt last season and the garrison of auxiliaries we left behind is under assault. I,” I shrugged, “just want to be prepared.”

  This, at least in my mind, should have been enough, but he persisted, “So, you don’t have any specific information that we’re going to be marching…”

  “Pluto’s cock! Shut your mouth, Calpurnius! The Pilus Prior has given us an order, and we’re wasting time sitting here listening to you question him!”

  That this came from Structus clearly surprised Calpurnius, but I was at least similarly affected, and I know this because my mouth had dropped open in the same way as Calpurnius’, who stared at Structus in astonishment, I supposed at the
rebuke by a fellow Centurion. Finally, he snapped it shut, then muttered what might have been an apology, and I decided that my officers were sufficiently informed, and I dismissed them. As they filed out, Structus made sure that he was the last man out, and just before he exited the office, he turned around to face me.

  “You need to watch your back, Pilus Prior,” he said softly enough that I could barely hear him, but I did understand the warning, and I appreciated it.

  “I will, Aulus,” I assured him.

  He did not say anything else, simply giving a nod, then pulled the door shut behind him, leaving me trying to understand what Calpurnius was up to; after a few moments, I shoved it from my mind, calling to Alex to summon Saloninus. I was determined that the Fourth would be prepared to march as quickly as I could manage, and it would not do for my own Century to be the laggards.

  As happened more often than not, Alex had been correct; word arrived that the Propraetor would be leading six Legions on a march east across the Rhenus, with the intention of reaching his father’s camp in time to relieve it. We learned this in the form of Germanicus himself, leading his staff and bodyguards through the gates of Ubiorum at a brisk trot, and within a third of a watch, orders had been issued, which meant that the 20th and several Cohorts of the 1st were suddenly scrambling to make ready to march. In stark contrast, and to the glee of the men of the Cohorts like the Fourth whose Centurions had gotten ahead of what is always a frenzied period of time, while their comrades were working through the watches, our boys were out in Ubiorum, and that includes their Centurions, with one notable exception.

  “Calpurnius doesn’t want to show his face in here, not now, anyway,” Gillo opined, but while I made no comment, I was pleased to see the others agree.

  We were seated at our usual table at The Dancing Faun, and as always in the nights before a march, the atmosphere was even more raucous than usual, meaning we had to raise our voices to be heard.