Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  Speaking of Germanicus, I only occasionally caught a glimpse of the Propraetor from time to time, and it was always as he was entering or leaving the praetorium, although in the interest of accuracy, if I did see him it was only the top of his head, and I only knew it was him because of his distinctive black-crested helmet since he was always surrounded by a gaggle of other men, evenly distributed between scribes and Tribunes, with at least one bodyguard trailing behind. Honestly, there was not much to do besides wait, which is always wearing, but even more so when the event for which we were waiting was so potentially momentous. To pass the time, several of the Pili Priores, including me, had their Cohorts work on a variety of movement drills, and the only reason I was not roundly hated was because each of the first line Cohorts spent time in the cleared area outside the ditch doing the same thing. We could not spar because we do not take that equipment on campaign, but we could sharpen our skills in moving from column to line, forming testudo, and alternately reducing our widening our front. Since there was not enough room for every Cohort from six Legions, a schedule was created, which was made necessary when men of the Third of the 5th and First of the 2nd almost came to blows over who had the right of possession of the ground outside the camp. Matters were not helped when Stertinius and his auxiliaries arrived, and the camp was subsequently enlarged again, taking up the open area we had been using. Not surprisingly, every day of delay increased the tension until, finally, the arrival of the supplies that day created a diversion, and in that mysterious manner in which every man somehow distinguishes between a routine alert from the bucina that signals the arrival of a small party and two Legions and the rest of our baggage train, the Via Praetoria was packed with men lining both sides, shouting at their comrades in the two Legions, hurling mocking insults about their tardiness, which were returned with just as much spirit.

  The Centurions were not immune to the lure of something that broke the mundane routine, and I was standing with Structus, Gillo, and Licinius just behind the crowd when I thought to ask, “How do these bastards know this fast that it’s the baggage train?”

  Structus answered first, offering, “Probably one of the men of the guard Cohort sneaks off and tells one of his friends in another Cohort.”

  This made sense, at least superficially, but it was Gillo who pointed out, “That would work for one or two Cohorts, and in the same area of the camp, but,” he pointed in the direction of the far side of the Via Praetoria, where men of both the 5th and 15th were mingling together, just as the men from our 1st and the 2nd were, “unless he’s fucking Mercury, there’s no way one man could spread the word that fast.”

  Structus did not like this, I could tell, yet neither did he argue, and after a few more comments, it was decided that, for the moment at least, this would remain one of the many small, unsolved mysteries for men under the standard.

  “All that matters,” Licinius put it best, “is that now that we’re all together, we can get back to business.”

  No more than a watch later, Sacrovir summoned us to his tent to inform us that we were breaking camp and beginning our move to the east, searching for Arminius. And, it was two days after that, as we were heading east, that the perfidy of the German tribes once again played a role in events.

  This time, it was the Angrivarii tribe; what made their revolt unusual was that they had previously renounced their alliance with Arminius, and in truth, had become one of the more docile tribes, at least to that point. Part of the reason for their not featuring in the troubles posed by Arminius’ confederation was no doubt due to the fact that they are farther to the north, not far away from the coast of the northern sea. This made the decision of their chieftain all the more baffling, and while we never really learned why they did so, what mattered was that they were located on our northern flank, and as we penetrated farther east, were in a position to move southward and cut off our lifeline to the Amisia, where part of the fleet was still in the process of returning to the Rhenus for more supplies. To counter this, Germanicus once more relied on Stertinius, who took half of the auxiliaries, and about half the cavalry, marching north to confront the recalcitrant tribe. The rest of the army continued our march eastward, heading in the general direction of the Visurgis when, late on the first day after Stertinius left, the column was suddenly halted, and because we were the Legion just ahead of the command group, I at least got an idea why when I saw four riders coming down the column at a canter. I immediately recognized them as Batavians, and before I had time to think about it, I raised my vitus in greeting as they approached, which had become the customary manner in which I greeted Gaesorix whenever the Prefect passed by. Perhaps the only thing that I can say in my defense is that I at least did not call out the usual insult about barbarians and their taste in horseflesh, or their love of ugly women as I normally did, but the glare I got from the man I assumed was Chariovalda was enough to make me feel foolish, especially as he held it when he passed by me. I did feel slightly better when one of the other men, who I recognized as one of Gaesorix’s Decurions, gave me a wave and a grin, but it also reminded me that, while Gaesorix was no longer with us, at least he was not dead like Cassicos, who had sacrificed himself to save the Prefect Pedo the year before and who, thankfully, had returned to Rome.

  “At least I’m not the only one who forgot that Gaesorix wasn’t with us.” I spun around to see that Macer, who was actually marching just ahead of us as part of the rotation, had walked up as I was watching the Batavians move on down the column towards Germanicus. He grinned up at me and added, “But at least I didn’t wave like an idiot like someone I know.”

  I heard Gemellus, Poplicola, and a few other men at least try to muffle their snickering, but they were unsuccessful, so I fell back on the epithet I had learned from my father. Fortunately, any further attempt to extract some fun at my expense was ended by a shouted warning from farther down the column, and this time it was not just the Batavians, but Germanicus, Silius, Caecina, the gaggle of Tribunes and their bodyguards moving at close to a gallop towards the front of the column, where the 2nd had vanguard. So much of our time on the march is spent in this manner; sudden stops, followed by endless speculation on the reason, then a resumption of the march, and rarely if ever does any man who is not part of the vanguard, or within earshot of the command group ever know why. This day seemed to be no different, although when we did resume the march, we almost immediately turned north, in a direction paralleling the Visurgis. However, we learned why about a third of a watch later when, once again, we were called to a halt, then a series cornu calls sounded, the first being to ground our packs. Within a matter of heartbeats, the entire army was in a frenzy of activity, where mounted Tribunes began leading different parts of the army into a position that, while we had no idea why, we at least could tell was because contact with the enemy was expected. We followed the 2nd moving away from the main column, whereupon the command was given to shake out from column to line, and I believe that I, along with the other Pili Priores who did so, can be forgiven as we loudly reminded our men that there was a reason we had forced them to practice this maneuver, which meant that it was accomplished very rapidly.

  The activity was not confined to us; as we were moving, another Tribune appeared from farther down the column, moving his horse at a quick walk, while several Cohorts of auxiliaries followed behind at a brisk trot. There was some consternation when it became apparent that they were actually being placed in a line ahead of us, provided that we were still going to be heading east, the direction we were facing again. All we knew with any certainty at this point was that somewhere ahead of us was the Visurgis, which meant that it did not take men long to deduce that we had, at the very least, found an enemy force, and they were most likely on the other side of the river. There is no doubt that all of us in Germanicus’ army moved as rapidly as we could, and from my vantage point, with a minimum of mistakes, but changing an army that was now eight Legions strong, along with some twenty thousand
auxiliaries, another five thousand auxiliary skirmishers that were divided between archers from the Gallic tribes, javelineers from Raetia, and slingers from Greece, along with two Praetorian Cohorts that had been sent by the Imperator, and the cavalry, from a marching column more than a mile long into a formation for battle took at least another third of a watch. The sun was not close to setting, but I was certain it had to be a concern for Germanicus, who was moving at the gallop, back and forth from one point to another, until finally, there was a brief pause in all of the rushing about. Thanks to my height, I could see a bit more than everyone else, yet as I had learned long before, it also made me one of the most popular men in the army, as anyone and everyone within earshot kept asking me what I saw, which was not all that much, but was certainly more than men a foot shorter than I was. Even so, I could only get a sense of our deployment by the tops of the standards, and I decided to take a gamble by calling the Centurions of my Cohort to attend to me. I did so with an eye on Germanicus, who had now moved to a spot just in front of the line of skirmishers, but he seemed busy conferring with Silius, Caecina, and some other men, including the Batavian, who was indeed Chariovalda, and who would be playing a prominent role in a very short amount of time.

  “We’re the first line of Legions,” I explained quickly, then pointed ahead of us, “but you can see that he’s put some of the auxiliaries in front of us, and the skirmishers in front of them. Behind us is the cavalry on either end of what’s the fourth line, along with the Praetorian Cohorts and some other infantry. Then behind them are the other four Legions. What’s behind them?” I could only shrug and admit, “I have no idea.”

  The expression on Structus’ face was identical to the other four Centurions’, which I assumed was the same as mine, but his voice was flat and matter-of-fact as he said, “The only reason that Germanicus would shake out the entire army like this is because Arminius is across that river. Anything else, he’d leave at least the auxiliaries guarding the baggage train.”

  Our conversation was cut off then by the sound of the cornu, but it was coming from where Germanicus and his party were located, giving the warning command, and my Centurions had to sprint to their spots in time for the second one to resume the march, this time on line and in the direction of the river. We still could not see it because of the trees, but I quickly became occupied with checking the alignment of my Century and Cohort with the rest of my Legion to my right, and the First of the 2nd, which was next to Licinius’ Third in the first line. Just ahead of us were the auxiliaries, and it was just as I caught a glimpse of a silvery glint that I knew was sunlight on water that the line of missile troops went moving forward at a trot, flanked on either side by cavalry.

  “All right, boys! Look alive! We’re getting close!”

  I knew it was my voice, but it felt like as if someone else was shouting the words, and my eyes were now fastened on what lay ahead as it became more visible. What I noticed first was that the ground gently sloped downward towards the river, which is very common, and that it appeared as if there were about two hundred paces of relatively clear ground, with just a few scattered trees and bushes that would only provide a minor hindrance. The first indication of what awaited us, at least as far as I was concerned, came when I caught the glint of sunlight on metal, but it was on the other side of the river. Gradually, with every step, the scene grew more distinct, and it took a fair amount of effort on my part not to falter a step, nor to make any sign that I was dismayed by the sight of what we could now see was a German host, and while they were certainly not arrayed with anything near the order and precision that we were exhibiting even as we moved, it was still a daunting sight, spreading across my line of sight. I saw the skirmishers emerge into the brighter sunlight, followed by the auxiliaries, but just when our line hit the edge of the more heavily forested area, the cornu sounded the command to halt, which we naturally obeyed. For one of the few times in my experience, I did not hear much muttering behind me after we stopped, but I was too intent on watching what was taking place in front of us to even check on my men. Just before the cornu had sounded, I saw that a mounted German detached himself from the cluster of horsemen who were just in front of what appeared to be a single long and deeply packed line of warriors, although we were too far away to make out details beyond that. Their version of our standards were visible, but just barely and only because they jutted above the heads of the barbarians, although I was more interested in what I could now see was a lone horseman approaching the riverbank. Like their standard bearers, he was holding a long pole, but it was the white scrap of fabric attached to the end, signaling that whoever commanded this host ostensibly wanted to talk. Just from the size of the force beyond the river, I felt certain that it had to be Arminius in overall command, but I highly doubted that he would be the man to come within range of our archers. Germanicus and his command group were just out of bow range, sitting on their horses as the lone German rider approached, leading his mount into the river so that its front legs were in the water. It was impossible to hear what was said; I could not even hear a noise, so like the rest of us, I was forced to try and guess what was taking place between our commander and whoever that German was. So intent was I that I did not notice that Structus had walked over, and I actually jerked a bit in surprise at his voice.

  “It looks like that bastard wants to talk first,” he said conversationally, and I gave him a sidelong glance to see that he was staring towards the river; if he had seen my reaction, he was wise enough not to betray it.

  “It seems so,” I agreed, both of us watching as the German gestured back to where Germanicus and his party’s counterparts were waiting.

  At first, I did not think it had gone well, given how the German so abruptly jerked the head of his horse around and went cantering up the gentle slope, then I was reminded of something my father had said more than once, about how cruelly Germans treated their animals. While I was certainly not as fond of riding as he had been, I had immediately become attached to Latobius, something that I have never admitted until just now. Still, I was surprised at the stab of anger I felt when I saw it happen, which was only exacerbated by the manner in which the animal’s head was jerked back when the rider reached the others and drew up.

  I was watching the Germans, but it turned out that Structus had been keeping his eye on Germanicus’ group, because he suddenly nudged me as he pointed and said, “Look! Who’s that? It’s not Germanicus.”

  Turning my attention, I saw that Structus was right; a rider had detached himself from our Propraetor’s group, and it was definitely not Germanicus. He was wearing a cuirass, but his cloak was actually black, and while he wore a Roman helmet, with the crest of a Tribune and not a Legate, I could not think of anyone under Germanicus who he would entrust with whatever was about to take place. Before we could make any more comment, I did catch a shouted command drift across to us, but it was not followed with a cornu call. What the order was became apparent when our first line of archers and missile troops turned and moved at a quick trot back in our direction.

  “He’s pulling them out of range,” I commented, rather obviously, I realized.

  “So,” Structus grunted, “we talk first. But I still don’t know who it is doing the talking for us, because I don’t recognize the bas…Tribune. Do you, Pilus Prior?”

  “No.” For the first time, I turned and looked down at him with a grin. “I don’t know who the bastard is either.”

  “Maybe,” Gemellus spoke up, and this time both Structus and I started a bit, “it’s the brother of Arminius we heard was with us.”

  The moment my Signifer said it, I was certain that he was correct, or at the very least, it was the most likely option.

  “What was his name?” Structus asked, giving me the impression that he agreed. “I know he had a Romanized version, but I can’t remember what it is.”

  “Flavus,” I finally remembered. “His name is Flavus.”

  “So that,” Stru
ctus pointed with his vitus, aiming it at another lone German rider, but clearly not the man with the truce flag, who was walking his horse calmly towards the river’s edge, “must be Arminius.”

  Structus was right, as was Gemellus; for the next third of a watch, the armies of Germanicus and Arminius were witnesses to what, so far, is one of the strangest things I have ever seen under the standard. Since we could not hear anything, at the time, all we could go by were the various gesticulations and hand waving that took place between the two, but what we could clearly see was that there was no love lost between the two men. No order was given by the Primus Pilus, but it quickly became clear that he had no objection when, one by one, the Centurions allowed their men to either lean on their shields, or sit down on the ground, although most chose to stay leaning so that they could see better. And, it did not take long before the men began amusing themselves by supplying the dialogue as they imagined it between the two Germans; just as inevitably, the tone of this imaginary conversation almost immediately turned lurid. I was about to snap at the man; in my Century, it was Figulus of the Second Section, who was considered the Century wit, but not only could I see that it amused the men a great deal, I remembered something that I had read not long before, from the Prefect’s account, about a similar moment that took place between the youngster who would become Divus Augustus, and Marcus Antonius, when they bickered about matters on an island in the middle of a river, while the armies of both men watched.

  Consequently, I just said, “All right, Figulus. Keep it down. We don’t want to have one of the Legates down there come riding back up here to find out what’s so funny.”

  “I understand, Pilus Prior,” he assured me, and when he resumed his imaginary conversation, it was in a quieter voice.

  I will also say that it was both entertaining and diverting, as Figulus at least attempted to talk with the kind of accent we hear from those who natively speak one of the German dialects, changing his voice for each man. He also did a fine job of coming up with something that at least matched the intensity of the finger pointing, arm waving, and fist shaking between the pair, the exchange becoming more heated by the moment. Their mounts clearly felt the anger and tension of their riders, because both animals had begun dancing about, and there was more than one moment where I thought either of them would come charging across the river at the other. For my part, I was trying to memorize what Arminius looked like from this distance, trying to recall if I had seen him at the Long Bridges, and if the gods would bless me to put us near each other whenever the fighting started. However, even as I did this, the thought that kept running through my mind was about Gaius and Septimus Pullus, and how Septimus had been essentially forced to kill Gaius, something that I was still, and in many ways still am, trying to grapple with, probably because I have no siblings. As diverting as Figulus was, men began fidgeting, and I was one of them, choosing to split my time between watching and walking down the first and second line of Centuries in my Cohort. Because Pomponius’ Third Cohort was to our right, I did not risk walking all the way over to Macer, nor did he come in my direction, so I contented myself with a short chat with the men of the Cohort. It was when I was talking to Gillo that something happened, but when I came running back to my spot, I was too late to see that Flavus and his brother had ended their conversation, or argument as it turned out.