Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  Instead, he said, “Primus Pilus Sacrovir wants you to continue pressing in this direction. He’s bringing the First Cohort and,” he turned to indicate a spot a hundred paces distant, “we’re going to shake out starting there.” Returning his attention back to me, he finished, “The Primus Pilus suggests it would be better to wait for the First to get into position before you resume.”

  Before I could respond, he stiffened to intente and saluted, which I returned, despite my complete bemusement, and he did not hesitate to turn and move at a brisk trot back to the First Cohort, leaving me trying to determine exactly what I had just heard. Perhaps, if whoever reads this later has served or is serving under the standard, my confusion does not require explanation, and they will know what word was causing my current state. Never before, and so far, never since have I ever received an order from a superior where the word “suggest” was used, and I was left trying to untangle what it meant. I was also acutely aware that with every heartbeat I stood there, the advantage that had been created by my Cohort was evaporating. Surely, I reasoned, trying to ignore the stares of my Optio and the other Centurions who were back in their spots in front of their Centuries and staring down the line at me, Sacrovir is as aware as I am that if I wait for the First, it will give the Cherusci time to get organized. Was he trying to cover himself in the event this did not work out? Or even worse, was he counting on me to press forward so that he could then use that as a pretext for disciplining me?

  “Pluto’s cock, I’m fucked either way.”

  “Sir? What did you say?”

  Saloninus’ voice jerked me out of whatever state I was in, and judging from the scene before me, I saw that it was actually a matter of only a couple of heartbeats, but before I could talk myself out of it, I turned to Poplicola and ordered, “Sound warning call.” The Cornicen did not hesitate, and even before the notes that alerted that I was relaying my order to the entire Cohort, I added, “Prepare to assault.”

  To his credit, Poplicola did not hesitate, but it was the lack of surprise on the features of my men that actually made me feel better about what I was doing, because they clearly knew what was coming. Raising my gladius, I whispered a prayer to Fortuna that I was not doing exactly what Sacrovir wanted, or if it was, it was not because he wanted to destroy me, but understood that time was of the essence.

  Holding it aloft just long enough to check and see that the faces of all five of my Centurions were turned and watching me, I swept it down, bellowing, “Porro!”

  I was drowned out even before I finished, but most importantly, I actually had trouble staying ahead of my men as they went running directly at our waiting foes.

  Once the fighting was over, as often happens, the arguments began, among men of all ranks, about when the decisive turning point of that day came, but I am not exaggerating when I say that, while there were disagreements about the precise moment, the consensus was that it was the Fourth Cohort of the 1st who made it happen. As I learned that night, the point of contention appeared to be whether it was our changing our orientation so that we could advance and threaten the flank of what had become the main German effort around Arminius, or this final charge that essentially forced enough of the Cherusci around their chieftain to divert their attention to this new threat. In the moment, I had nothing more than a vague sense that this was the right thing to do, but more importantly, it put me closer to Arminius, although, despite still being on horseback, I could not catch more than a glimpse of him as his fellow nobles shifted their horses about as they slashed and thrust downward at the raised shields of what I could now see was composed exclusively of the 5th. There were significantly less of the Cherusci by this point, and they had only managed to move perhaps another dozen paces deeper into the ranks of the 5th, but first we had to cut a path to the Cherusci chieftain in order to fulfill my ambition. I cannot really describe what the Cherusci did as an orbis, at least not in the Roman sense, but they did manage to form a rough line a few men deep whose backs were turned towards those comrades who were still supporting Arminius. It was not until later that I learned I should have been concerned about the situation on the side opposite from the Fourth, and specifically, where the auxiliaries of the Chauci tribe were located. However, none of this was known to me in the moment, which meant that I still harbored hopes that, somehow, I could get close enough to Arminius to finish this once and for all.

  When the men of my First and the rest of the Cohort slammed into the Cherusci for what would be the final assault, this time, I was content to allow Saloninus take my spot, partially as recompense for the loss of his eye, which he had borne without complaint or bitterness, but I knew it made him carry a deep, abiding hatred in his soul for the Germans who had effectively stopped him from attaining higher rank because of his disfigurement. The other reason was purely selfish; I wanted to save my energy in the event that the opportunity I was hoping for actually came. Consequently, I was content to watch, with my whistle in my mouth, blowing the relief at more frequent intervals now that the men had already exerted themselves. Our casualties had been lighter than I expected; aside from Nigidius, the First only had three more men dead, with eleven more wounded seriously enough to be out of the fight out of the seventy-two effectives who started the day. The one difficulty posed by my decision was that there was no way for our wounded to either carry themselves or be carried off the field by the stretcher bearers because there was still fighting going on behind us, where the Tenth Cohort was now engaged, and while it was not a huge risk, it was not one I was willing to take, so our wounded were huddled behind us, binding their own and their comrades’ wounds the best they could. It was not all that much longer before the First Cohort came rushing down the shallow slope, slamming into the Cherusci to our right, but even with their size, they did not cover a wide enough front to completely seal off Arminius; again, this was something that would not become known until later. It was somewhere shortly after the First arrived that Arminius disappeared from my sight, although I did not see the precise instant it occurred, and this would engender another lively debate, with the men of the First Century of the Second Cohort of the 5th claiming they unhorsed him, while their comrades in the Second Century disputed this, saying that he had dismounted of his own volition. However it happened, somehow it worked to his advantage because at some point, as we ground our enemies down, slowly reducing the fighting room of the Cherusci, Arminius made his escape, and it was through the ranks of one of the last remaining auxiliary formations of the Chauci, who had been on the other side of the 5th, in between that Legion and the 2nd, who made up the last of the four Legions of the front line. All I knew, and my men knew, was that we suddenly realized that the men facing us had been reduced to a line no more than two men deep, and they were essentially back to back with the Cherusci who were trying to keep the First Cohort from overwhelming them. There was a space of sorts within the arc of this semicircular formation, but there was not any green of the ground showing because it served the same purpose as the rear of our lines, where our wounded are dragged, or if they are able to do it themselves, drag themselves. Nevertheless, I felt a nagging suspicion that something was not right, but since there were still a couple of thousand men putting up a fight, it was impossible for any of us on the opposite side to see that there were Cherusci escaping. Calling it fighting would be a bit of an overstatement; the one positive that can be said about this stage of the fight was that our enemies were every bit as exhausted as we were, and if it had not been such a deadly business, it could have been a source of amusement watching as men bashed at each other in a manner that is not dissimilar to drunken men brawling outside a taverna, except with weapons.

  I was certainly tired, but I spent my time during this part of the battle trying to provide help with my gladius, letting Saloninus act in my capacity of sounding the relief. Rather than engage in a personal battle again, I contented myself with coming to the assistance of one my men, although whenever possible, I simp
ly distracted his opponent to enable him to make the kill, having learned the hard way that men take great pride in being able to finish off their own man. The teamwork for which the Legions are famous only goes so far, and it has as much as bragging rights afterward as anything. Alternately shoving my way through the ranks to get to one end of the Century or the other, even the idea of time became nonexistent, until finally, to my utter but exhausted surprise, there were no more Cherusci to slay. Seemingly one moment the air was filled with the ringing of metal on metal, the deeper thudding sound as a blade or spear struck a shield, but the one thing I did notice through the fog that was settling on my mind was that, when the inevitable scream of pain came, it was followed by something in the Cherusci tongue, whether it be a final curse hurled at the Legionary who vanquished them, or a plea to one of their gods. This is not to say that we went unscathed; the First Century suffered one more death and three more wounded, but when compared to the sight before us, I found it difficult to complain. Only gradually did I become aware that, while the sound of fighting had disappeared where we were, there were other parts of the field where there was still a struggle going on, and I suspect I looked drunk as I weaved my way through my men, many of whom were now on their knees, panting from the exertion and the sudden letdown that comes after a hard fight. Moving to a spot where I could get a better sense of the larger situation, I actually saw what I could see by the colors they were wearing was a band of a couple hundred Cherusci, stumbling up the slope towards the heavier forest. For the span of perhaps three or four heartbeats, I considered ordering Poplicola to sound the alert in preparation to go off in pursuit, but thankfully, I was saved from that decision by the sight of a full Cohort moving at a trot in their direction. Honestly, I seriously doubt that I would have done so, if only because I barely had the energy to turn in the Cornicen’s direction. Perhaps the biggest shock was when, slowly realizing that the quality of the light was different, I glanced up at where I thought the sun would be, only to find that it was almost a handspan lower. It did make me feel slightly better to know that we had been engaged to one degree or another for more than two full watches, and while the fight was not completely over, the Fourth Cohort had done its part. Now, I thought, I find out how badly I fucked myself, and I didn’t even get to Arminius. This realization caused me to return my attention to the area of our fight, and I saw that neither Germanicus nor his contingent were anywhere to be seen. There were still some horses standing, huddled together as they tend to do when frightened, but none of them bore their riders, and it dawned on me that the reason they were not moving was because they could not do so; they were almost completely hemmed in by the corpses of their riders and an almost equal number of dead animals. Men wearing our uniform, but with the distinctive feathers attached to their helmets marking them as men of the 5th Alaudae, had begun moving around the field, which reminded me to do the same.

  “Sound the release from formation, full Cohort,” I told Poplicola, and in another mark of how fatigued the Cohort was, there was not the normal sudden dash to reach the bodies that seemed to promise the highest chances for plunder.

  Nevertheless, our men joined the Alaudae in first dispatching the Cherusci wounded, then searching their bodies for valuables and mementoes, sometimes in the form of ears but usually just a necklace made of bear claws, or something that would make good fodder for a story during the long winter nights in the huts or out in town. Once I was satisfied that my Cohort would not be cheated of their share of loot, I had Poplicola sound the call for the Centurions to gather, and while I waited, I considered sitting down but realized that if I did, I might not be able to stand back up without help. Naturally, Structus arrived first, limping slightly, but he immediately assured me that it was nothing serious.

  “I was hopping over a bastard I just put paid to, and I pulled a fucking muscle,” he grumbled, and his disgust with himself made me laugh. “Go ahead and laugh now, Pilus Prior. Just wait until you’re old and decrepit, and we’ll see who’s laughing then.”

  His words were so reminiscent of something my father would have said that it caused a sudden tightening in my throat, but then Licinius arrived, along with Calpurnius, and I occupied myself with giving them a quick visual examination. The Princeps Prior bore a superficial cut down his left arm, but the blood had already dried, while, to my eyes at least, Calpurnius looked suspiciously fresh. Before I could make any determination about why this was the case, Fabricius arrived, with Gillo just behind him, and my view of my former Optio was blocked by the Hastatus Prior. Like Structus, Gillo was limping, but in his case, it was because his thigh was wrapped in a blood-soaked neckerchief that, just from the way he was moving, it was obvious it had been pulled as tightly as possible to stop the flow.

  “How bad is it?” I asked him, and while he answered readily enough, I saw a pallor underneath the grime and sweat that was concerning.

  “It could be worse,” he tried to sound unconcerned, but I know I was not fooled, and I could see neither of his counterparts were either.

  “Mus!” I called for the Tesseraurius, but that was when I learned the identity of one of the last wounded of my Century.

  “Pilus Prior,” Saloninus was the one to inform me. “Mus went down. Nothing,” he held up a hand, undoubtedly because he saw the look of alarm, “serious. In fact, it’s a leg wound like Gillo’s, but he can’t be your runner.”

  I did not want to pull anyone else from the chance to enrich themselves, so it fell to Poplicola to hurry to the rear, the real rear of what had become a terribly confused area, to bring our complement of medici and stretcher bearers, including Alex to begin the process of tending our wounded, which included Gillo.

  “Do you need to sit down?” I asked him, but as I suspected, he gave a quick shake of his head.

  “If I do, I won’t be getting back up,” he assured me, unknowingly echoing my own fear, and I was not wounded, which I was about to learn was not immediately clear to the others.

  “What about you?” Structus pointed, but in the general direction of my lower chest and stomach, and that was the first time I noticed that my hamata was caked in blood.

  It took a moment for me to remember what it came from, and I assured Structus, “It’s not mine. I cut a bastard’s arm off.” Then, before anyone could say anything else, I returned to the business of the Legions, asking for the butcher’s bill. Once I heard each of them give their figures, I could only stare at them. “Did I hear that correctly? We only have twenty-seven dead and thirty-eight wounded, and of the wounded, only eight are litter cases?” One by one, they assured me that I had heard correctly, and I said as much to myself as to them, “How is that possible?”

  “Because Fortuna loves us.” Fabricius laughed.

  “That bitch doesn’t like me very much,” Gillo muttered, then pointed at me. “No, she loves him, and we’re just the recipients of it.” Suddenly, he gave a grin, or it might have been a grimace as he added, “Most of us anyway.”

  Before we could go any farther down this road, trying to understand how we could have done all that we had done, there was a cornu call, coming from where we could see our eagle, and it was the summons for all the Pili Priores.

  “I think,” I tried to sound calm, “I’m going to be finding out just how much Fortuna loves me after all.”

  “Quartus Pilus Prior Pullus,” Sacrovir’s use of my full rank warned me to be prepared for this to go badly, “would you care to explain why you moved your Cohort in a wheel maneuver? I know,” his voice turned grim, “I didn’t order it. Did you perhaps receive orders from the Propraetor that I’m unaware of?”

  Unsure whether he was baiting me or if it was an honest question, I saw no point in prolonging whatever might be coming, and I replied, “No, Primus Pilus. I didn’t get any kind of separate order.”

  His face remained expressionless, yet while I cannot say that his tone was warm, or even cordial, I did not sense any real anger or hostility there, although I
also allowed how this could be wishful thinking on my part. Macer was standing next to me, so I could not even glance over to get an idea what his thoughts on the matter were, and Sacrovir had wasted no time after receiving our Cohorts’ butcher’s bills.

  “So,” his voice stayed even, “you took it upon yourself to place your Cohort in jeopardy, without any kind of order from any superior above you. Am I understanding this correctly?”

  While I did not care for the way he had characterized matters, neither could I deny what he was saying was the unvarnished truth.

  “Yes, Primus Pilus,” I tried to match his tone, although I was certain I had not done so. “You are understanding it correctly.”

  He opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was never came out because we were interrupted by the sound of a horse coming at the canter, while those of us turned towards him looked over our shoulders to see that it was a Tribune, and it took a moment to recall his name, which was Marcus Nonius Asprenas. I knew he was a close friend with Gaetulicus, but more than that, I knew that he was the man who accompanied my father to find Germanicus two years before, and he clearly knew me, because while he addressed Sacrovir, his eyes never left my face. Or, I thought suddenly, he’s making the connection about who I am.

  “The Propraetor requires the presence of your Quartus Pilus Prior.” His tone was curt, although it is always impossible to tell with Tribunes whether it was because he was expressing the anger he thought Germanicus bore towards me, or he was just a Tribune with a vitus up his ass.

  My initial instinct, of course, was to begin moving, but while I do not know why I did so, it turned out to be a good thing, because instead, I looked at Sacrovir.

  He seemed to notice this, giving a barely perceptible nod, but he addressed the Tribune. “May I ask what this is concerning, Tribune Asprenas?”