Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  “Have you heard which Legions are going to be stuck on those boats?” Licinius asked me, but all I could tell him was, “Just that it’s not us.”

  “That’s all that matters.” Structus laughed. “Especially once we heard what happened to those poor bastards in the 2nd and 14th when they were trying to come home last year.”

  This was certainly true; despite not sharing a camp with either Legion, there was no way that we did not hear of the travails of the unfortunate souls who had been swept off course during a storm, and depending on which version one heard, it added days or weeks to their return, and if the rumors were true, they suffered more losses to the sea than to Arminius. While it was true that I was confident that such misfortune was unlikely to strike twice in a row, I shared the relief of my Centurions when I was informed by the Primus Pilus that we would be marching with Germanicus to the Drusus Camp.

  Not all of the news was good, however, which I learned from Macer, who had entered the taverna shortly before, one of the few men from other Cohorts who was given the liberty of the place. Even if I had not owned the taverna, he would have been welcomed; he had been the Pilus Prior of the Fourth for several years and had not been the Secundus Pilus Prior for all that long.

  Dropping down into the chair I pushed out for him, I could see by his face that something was amiss; I learned what it was when he said gloomily, “I’ve just heard. It’s official.” He took a swallow of wine, grimacing at the rawness, and it was enough to make his voice slightly hoarse, “Gaesorix won’t be marching with us. Or,” he amended, “riding with us. Whichever.”

  I cannot say this was entirely unexpected, but it was disappointing, nonetheless. His wounds had been severe, and his recovery slow, yet while I never mentioned it to him during my visits to him in his quarters, the truth is that I was, and am, certain that his age was a factor. My father had initially believed Gaesorix to be ten years older than he was; he was only seven, but that made him fifty, and the bulk of that half-century had been spent in the saddle, out in the elements in all types of weather. More than that, however, was that I had noticed what I perceived to be his relative indifference to the idea of recovering to the point where he could resume command of his Batavians, and in most ways, this was the most potent sign that his days in the saddle were done. We all absorbed this for a moment, but I suppose it made sense that Macer and I seemed the most affected by the news. Next to the Secundus Pilus Prior and his friend Titus Domitius, who was down in Siscia, Gaesorix had been my father’s closest friend, and I had been a guest at more meals than I could readily count with my father when he was the other guest, and I had come to like the man immensely.

  “Any word on who will replace him?” I asked Macer, and he nodded.

  I braced myself to hear the name Albinovanus Pedo, the poet who fancied himself a cavalry commander, and I made no attempt to hide my relief when he shook his head at my mention of the man’s name.

  “It’s another Batavian,” he said, squinting as he tried to recall the name, finally snapping his fingers and exclaiming, “Chariovalda! That’s it. Chariovalda.”

  In the moment, I did not think much of the fact that, for reasons I could not recall, the name sounded familiar, although that would be rectified before the night was out.

  “He’s supposedly one of their princes,” Macer continued, “and he’s been serving in Gaul before this.”

  “Well,” I raised my cup, “at least it’s not Pedo.”

  This elicited a chorus of agreement, and my Centurions and Macer all raised their cups as well in approval of that sentiment. Otherwise, the night passed in a manner befitting men about to march, although I signaled to Turbo to announce he was closing earlier than normal as I had warned him, which was greeted by the usual shouts of dismay and disapproval. They did not stop altogether when I stood up and was joined quickly by the other Centurions, as I tapped my vitus with one hand and scanned the room looking for outright disobedience, but I allowed the grumbling, worried only that they obeyed. I followed behind the men as they filed out, although I was forced to take a swipe or two at men who lingered for one last squeeze of one of the whore’s breasts, none of whom were helping matters with their counterfeit wailing. It was such a histrionic display that, while I was irritated, I was almost equally amused, and I had to extricate myself from the clutches of one of the women, who called herself Juno, one of the most common names whores give themselves, but who, by her accent, was originally from the Usipetes, or maybe even Sugambri.

  “Don’t go, Pullus! You haven’t come to see me in days, and I’ve missed you!”

  I grinned at her, but while I was gentle, I was firm in taking her hands holding my waist and lifted her from her kneeling position, where she was pretending to be about to do something that, had she done it, would have made me stay longer than I should have.

  “No, meum mel,” I laughed, “you miss my silver, not me.”

  “That’s not true! I…”

  I have no idea what she said after that because I slammed the door shut, joining Structus, who had been waiting for me, while the other Centurions and Optios were arrayed across the street in much the same way we align when we are conducting a sweep through a barbarian village.

  “You know their tears are real,” Structus insisted, then echoed what I had just told Juno, “but it’s for what’s in our purses and not under our tunics.”

  This made me laugh, and I countered, “Well, at least they still miss us. That’s more than you can say for the rest of this fucking town.”

  As I was preparing to retire for the night, Alex came in and asked me, “Do you remember who this Chariovalda is?”

  “I know it sounded familiar, but I can’t recall exactly,” I replied.

  “He’s the prince of the Batavii who ended up marrying the woman Gaesorix loved,” he explained. “I remember hearing Gaesorix talking about it with Uncle Titus.”

  He had not even finished speaking before I remembered, and I slapped myself on the forehead because I had forgotten.

  “Of course! He talked about it that night when they both got drunker than Bacchus. How could I forget?”

  “‘They’?” Alex asked, clearly amused. “Don’t you mean ‘we’? Because as I recall, Uncle Titus had to ask me to help get you to your quarters, and it wasn’t because of the ague.”

  He was absolutely right, of course, but I drew myself up and said with mock gravity, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. That sounds like behavior completely unbecoming to a Centurion of Rome. Surely you have me mistaken for someone else.”

  “As if,” he snorted, “there’s anyone else your size in this army.” Suddenly, his smile faded, and his expression became stricken as he finished sadly, “At least now.”

  I could not think of anything to say, so I reached out and clasped his shoulder and simply nodded; I think we both knew that, while this was not the first time that a seemingly unrelated moment reminded both of us of the loss of Titus Pullus, we shared the conviction that it would not be the last. We both retired shortly after that, and I spent a few moments reflecting on how something that was now months in the past could still create such an unexpected and sharp stab of pain; I fell asleep wondering if it would be like this for the rest of my days.

  While it was not a surprise that Germanicus set a fast pace when we marched up to Vetera to rejoin the rest of the army, it did not make it any less of a trial for the men of all ranks the first two days. The fact that our baggage train was much smaller than normal helped, but even with the knowledge that our supplies would be coming with the fleet, which would be repeating the course it used the year before, sailing up the Amisia, it was still the normal rough few days. There was one material change to our plan, which we learned at the midday stop on the second day after we crossed the Rhenus, although it took us in the 1st longer to learn about it, since Fortuna had chosen this day to have us marching behind the baggage train. And, as abbreviated as it may have been, the droppings of
the gods only know how many animals were such that, no matter how lively a man stepped, there was no way to avoid getting one’s feet covered in filth, and the officers were no exception. Honestly, we had no idea that anything had occurred; my first indication was when I saw Alex, sitting on Thunder, waiting by the side of the column.

  “Coming to check on me?” I called out, grinning at him, but when I got close enough to see his face, I understood that something was afoot.

  Following him a few paces away from the column, out of long habit and practice, Alex turned Thunder so that his back was to the men, which also told me that I needed to control my expression when I heard whatever this news was.

  “We’re going to be making a deviation from our line of march,” he said in a low voice. “A detachment of riders came and informed the Propraetor that there’s trouble at Caedicius’ Camp.”

  Just the mention of the place caused an involuntary shudder, but if Alex noticed, he made no sign.

  “Trouble?” I asked. “What kind of trouble?”

  “I’m not sure. Lysander told me, and he said he didn’t know exactly, only that Germanicus is going to be taking the left fork in the track a couple miles from here that takes us there first.”

  Thanking him, I bade him return to his spot, then I rejoined the Cohort, temporarily ignoring the sidelong look from Gemellus as I tried to determine what this could mean. “Trouble” was a frustratingly vague term, although I did not blame Alex for this, knowing he had told me as much as he knew. More than the lack of knowledge of what awaited us, it was the destination that worried me, because it was an accepted article of faith that, despite having been repaired and manned by two Cohorts of auxiliaries, the camp that the dead Prefect Caedicius and the survivors of the ambush of Varus held out against Arminius for weeks was cursed, second only to the camp where Varus made his last stand, although this remained unoccupied. I cannot say that it was in my conscious mind that, once we deviated our line of march, if we continued along the same line from Caedicius’ camp on our march eastward following the Lupia, it would take us to Varus’, but it must have been. In the moment, however, I endured the silent questioning from my Signifer as long as I could.

  Finally, I sighed and told him, “Fine, Gemellus. I can see you’re dying to know. We,” I turned to look at him to gauge his reaction, “are heading to Caedicius’ Camp first. The auxiliaries there are under siege, and the Legate has apparently decided that we’re going to relieve them.”

  “Pluto’s cock,” I do not think he wanted me to hear him mutter this, but I did not say anything. Because of his headdress, he always had to turn his head more than the rest of us, and it always gave me the feeling he was looking over his shoulder and behind me, as if someone was sneaking up on me. “Pilus Prior,” he adopted the tone that told me he was acting in his capacity as Signifer, “do I have your permission to let the men know?”

  “Go ahead.” I sighed. “There’s no point in keeping it a secret. Once we take the left fork in the road, they’ll figure it out, and I’d rather have them knowing beforehand.”

  This was not just to keep my men informed; my hope was that I would receive some credit for letting them know, and I was certain that it would at least occupy their minds and keep them alert as we approached the camp. And, within a furlong, all the chattering had ceased, as men began scanning the underbrush on either side of the column, just as I had hoped would happen. We were not the rearguard—that fell to the Eighth—but we were only two Cohorts removed from the tail end, and as every man who had been on campaign last year knew, it was our baggage train that was always considered the most vulnerable and would undoubtedly be the target of any attack by the Germans, whether they were part of Arminius’ confederation or not. When it was our turn to take the left hand track, my best estimate was that the head of the column was no more than three or four miles from Caedicius’ Camp. With an army of six Legions, and with us at the end of the column, the chances that we would be rushing into battle were minimal, but while I wanted to put faith in my comrades, both in the other Legions and the cavalry screening our march that they would be able to spot any attempt by the Germans surrounding the camp to slip away and attack the baggage train, it did not stop me from ordering my men to unlash their shields, although I allowed them to keep the covers on. This would cause me some grief in the near future with my Primus Pilus, but at least I would not be alone; Macer, Clepsina, Pompilius of the Third, and Mucianus of the Sixth all independently arrived at the same conclusion. We did not march much longer before, from the head of the column, the cornu call sounded and was relayed down the line, calling the halt, which prompted me to give the order to ground packs and half the Cohort face to the left, the other half to the right, although I allowed them to lean on their shields instead of hold them ready. Being so far removed from where the decisions are being made in an army of six Legions is quite frustrating, because it elicits such a feeling of helplessness, and it is a guaranteed way to raise the anxiety level among the rankers. This is a blade that cuts in both directions; it helps the Centurions and Optios in keeping the men alert, but more than once a twitchy Gregarius has seen a bush move and raised the alarm, only to find that it was a hare, or his imagination. The consequence is usually a tongue-lashing from the Primus Pilus, except that it is never aimed at the idiot who started the commotion, but the man wearing the transverse crest; this is one of the things that none of your predecessors bother to tell you when you enter the Centurionate. And, when you are a paid man like me, you do not have the benefit of experience in seeing it happen to someone else first, which meant that I relentlessly patrolled the entire Cohort to keep such an event from happening. Finally, there was a shouted warning from Saloninus, who I had placed up at the head of the First to serve as a lookout; naturally, I was at the opposite end of the Cohort, so I had to trot up the column, and I arrived just in time for one of the Tribunes to arrive at the Cohort standard. He was new to the army, and I had yet to learn his name, but he was clearly impressed with himself, sitting so erectly in his saddle that I had to fight the urge to laugh at the thought that there was a javelin shaft attached to the seat and shoved up his ass.

  “The Propraetor sent me,” he began; unnecessarily in my view, and I had to bite off my retort, but he quickly got to the important part of the message. “The German scum have fled before us, and the siege has been lifted. The army will resume the march because the Propraetor is determined to catch these cowards.” He nudged his horse, heading for the Cohorts behind us, so he called over his shoulder, “The command will sound shortly.”

  He was correct about that, at least, but frankly, I was almost certain that Germanicus’ resumption of the march had less to do with the idea of pursuing the Germans and more to do with the simple fact that, unless there had been substantial changes at Caedicius’ Camp, there was simply not enough of a cleared area to enable an army our size to camp. Even with a pared down baggage train, the only way our army could have managed to keep pace with a German army was if we were as unencumbered as the 1st had been when we went to rescue Segestes. Naturally, the instant this crossed my mind, I experienced yet another moment similar to the one Alex and I had shared the night before our departure, remembering that it had been on that march that my father had fallen, saving my life. Perhaps the only positive thing I can say is that I had at least learned how to disguise my thoughts so that I no longer engendered sudden, inquiring looks from Gemellus or Poplicola anymore, although I am certain that, if Alex or even Macer had been present in the moment, they would have sensed my thoughts. Thankfully, the signal to resume the march sounded, and I quickly occupied myself with other matters. When we marched past the camp, the rampart was lined with cheering auxiliaries, although by this point, they had grown a bit hoarse and were perhaps not quite as enthusiastic about expressing their gratitude to their saviors. I had not been with the Legion in the year following the Varus disaster, but I had heard it often enough from people I trusted that, whereas
before, men of the Legions barely tolerated auxiliaries, what both the Legions and the auxiliaries endured over that winter had done more to reduce that antipathy than anything else that could have happened. This is not to say that the men of the Fourth were overly demonstrative as we marched by, but they at least did not call out insults, although there was a fair amount of taunting about how we had rescued them, which to my ears was essentially the same mostly good-natured exchange they might share with the 5th or one of the other Legions. There was still a watch of daylight left, and as I suspected, when we did call a halt, it was not because we caught the fleeing Germans, but we had found a clearing of sufficient size to hold so many men and animals. The work had already begun as we followed the baggage train into the clearing, and we were instantly put to work, but given the relatively easy duty of placing the picket stakes on the rampart that was still being constructed. This inevitably meant there was time for men to relax for a bit, while I went wandering in search of someone who might know what was happening. Before I could leave the area, however, the cornu sounded the call for all the Pili Priores of the 1st to attend to the Primus Pilus, which I assumed was simply for the formality of assigning which Cohort got which section of the rampart. Fortunately, I saw before I reached the small cluster of my counterparts that there was obviously something else on Sacrovir’s mind by virtue of his expression, and the manner in which he was glaring at Macer and Clepsina. He clearly saw me coming, because his glare switched to me, and I had to fight the urge to slow down, knowing that it would do no good, but he returned my salute readily enough. I was not the last to arrive, but it was only a few heartbeats longer before Gallus of the Eighth and Camerinus completed the complement.

  Sacrovir wasted no time, demanding, “Which of you gave the order to unsling shields when we diverted to Caedicius’ Camp?”

  The fact that none of us answered immediately was not due to any hesitance to accept responsibility, but from confusion, simply because we had all acted independently. This time, however, no amount of glaring at Macer convinced him to speak for the rest of us, and it was more because of my own impatient nature than any desire to set an example that led me to breaking the silence.