Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  “Is that any of your business, Primus Pilus?” Asprenas snapped, and I heard Macer take a sharp breath, while Clepsina, who was on the other side of Sacrovir, suddenly stared at the ground.

  “When it’s one of my Pili Priores, and we’re in the midst of a battle where I haven’t received any other orders from a man of either Legate rank or the Propraetor himself, then yes, it is my business, Tribune.”

  Sacrovir did not yell this, but there was no mistaking the iron there, in the voice of a man who had commanded this Legion for a bit more than a decade, and who had cowed more Tribunes than he could count.

  “I…I don’t know why, exactly, Primus Pilus Sacrovir.” The change in Asprenas was immediate, and I heard Macer cough quietly in an attempt to stifle his snicker. “I was just told that I needed to bring the Pilus Prior with me.”

  Sacrovir did not reply immediately, choosing instead to stare up at the Tribune for a long moment before, with a curt nod, he addressed me, “Go with him, Pullus.” I saluted, but he waited until I had turned to go with the Tribune before calling out, “Then come and report to me immediately afterward. Understood?”

  I assured him that it was and began following the Tribune, who at least kept his mount to a walk, although once we were a safe distance away, he drew up so that I could walk abreast of him. I felt his eyes on me, although I kept staring straight ahead, but he finally broke the silence.

  “You know,” he spoke in a conversational tone, without any of the haughtiness he had displayed just a moment earlier, “I grieved when I heard about your father, Pilus Prior Pullus. He was a good man, a true Roman.”

  If he wanted to catch me off guard, he did a splendid job, because I found myself staring up at him, but there was nothing in his demeanor that suggested there was an ulterior motive.

  Obviously mistaking my reaction for something else, he added, “You may not know this, but he and I were sent to find the Propraetor during the…well, you know.”

  “Yes, I remember him mentioning it,” I responded, debating about whether to expand on that, but I did not. Then, without thought and surprising myself, I added, “He actually spoke highly of you, Tribune Asprenas.”

  While I do not believe he had been fishing for some sort of compliment, I could see this pleased him a great deal, and he turned a bit red as he replied, “Yes, well, as I said, the feeling was mutual. Although,” he suddenly smiled, and actually chuckled when he added, “it didn’t start out that way. But that was quite a journey, and we got to know each other.” Suddenly, he switched topics slightly, asking, “What about his horse? Latobius, wasn’t it?”

  “I have him,” I told him.

  “That is quite a horse. Almost,” he reached down and patted his horse on the neck, grinning down at me, “as good as Diomedes here.” Asprenas paused then, but while it was subtle, I noticed the change in tone as he asked casually, “Have you ever thought of selling him? I mean,” he added hastily, “I don’t know if you’re a horseman or not. They do require quite a bit of care and attention.”

  I did not fault him for trying, but while I smiled up at him, I said as firmly as I could without being rude, “While I appreciate the offer, Tribune, I’ve become attached to him. He’s going to stay with me as long as he’s alive.”

  He looked disappointed, but he took my rebuff with good grace, and this ended our conversation, which was good because navigating the battlefield quickly proved to be a challenge. Because of the time it took to finally reach Germanicus, I experienced two distinct and opposing feelings; the first was an intense sense of pride, not in myself, at least to the degree I would have thought I would feel, but in the men of the Fourth Cohort. The reason was that, once I moved away from our spot on the battlefield, and up what to the eye appeared to be a barely perceptible slope, it was when I glanced over my shoulder to see the entire field spread out before me that I realized what we had done. No matter what happens, I remember thinking, they’ll never be able to take away the fact that it was the Fourth of the 1st who changed the course of this fight. Unfortunately, that was a feeling not destined to last before it was crowded out by the reality that, no matter what my men had accomplished, I had gone against express orders, and as well as it may have turned out, there was no denying that I could have gotten my Cohort chopped to pieces. Another way in which I determined that the grade of the slope was deceiving was when I became short of breath, but perhaps the most unusual aspect of this journey was that there was still fighting taking place, albeit with one or two Centuries surrounding smaller groups of Germans, both Cherusci and a smattering of men from the other tribes. As unusual as this was, it was nothing compared to what we were about to see, and for a moment, both the Tribune and I were virtual twins of each other, him drawing up and me coming to a stop to gawk at what, to our eyes, looked very much like a hunting party, or parties, surrounding several trees. I recognized them easily enough as our auxiliary archers, but because of the thick foliage now that it was summer, it was impossible for either of us to see what was causing them to stare upwards, their bows either partially or fully drawn, with their arrows pointing skyward.

  “Are they…hunting?”

  It was certainly a reasonable question, but before I could offer my guess, we received our answer when, in one motion, three of the archers at the base of the nearest tree, with a precision that was impressive, drew and loosed within less than an eyeblink of each other. There was a sudden noise, except that it was not the squawk of a bird or some tree-climbing animal, but it was the body that dropped into view, bouncing off several of the branches on the way down that would have caused serious injury if the man was not dead already that provided the explanation. One of his comrades, although in a different tree, soon joined the first dead man on the ground, except that he was still alive on the way down, his shriek of pain cut short when he hit the dirt underneath the tree. Now that we had determined what they were doing, Asprenas resumed his progress, then came to a spot at the edge of the forest at the top of the slope. Within its confines, we could hear shouts and the occasional clash of metal, the sign that, while we had driven them from the field, Germanicus was not content to call it a day and regroup. I was about to ask the Tribune why he had stopped, but he kicked his horse, veering off from the direction we had been heading slightly, and I realized that he had been trying to spot the Propraetor. We found him about two hundred paces inside the thicker part of the forest, while about another hundred paces beyond him and his staff and bodyguards, I caught sight of what appeared to be at least three Centuries, the sounds of fighting from that direction informing me as to what was happening.

  With my heart in my throat, I stood just behind Asprenas, who nudged his horse into the group of horsemen to reach Germanicus’ side to inform him that he had carried out his duty and brought me to the Propraetor. Germanicus said something to Asprenas, then turned to resume talking to one of the Legates, my view of him blocked so that I could only determine it was a man of Legate rank. Oddly enough, Germanicus’ action actually helped settle my nerves; it was only later that it was pointed out to me I should have found it disturbing, but in the moment, the little game that Romans of the upper classes like to play with their social and military inferiors made me feel better. That Germanicus rarely, if ever, indulged himself in that manner with everyone else was something I had forgotten in the moment, so I stood there, at intente, trying to maintain that blank expression that, as a Centurion, I had seen more times than I could count from the various men under my command. Since I was staring at an undefined point in space, it was the movement that caught my eye as Germanicus at last turned his horse in my direction, the dozens of other horsemen who were always around him moving aside. I was already at intente, but I stiffened even more, and the salute I offered was done with enough force that I could feel the ache in my arm from all the work with the gladius I had done that day. He returned the salute readily enough, though he did not say anything, but I felt his eyes on me, and the sweat ran anew d
own my back and my temples.

  Finally, he spoke in a conversational tone, “Would you care to tell me what happened, Pilus Prior Pullus?”

  I did as he ordered, offering up the kind of after action report Pilus Prior Macer had taught me to give, which, I realized as I was talking, could pose a problem, because such things do not allow the speaker to explain the rationale behind his decisions. Consequently, by the time I was through, I was having a hard time trying to think of a reason Germanicus would not scourge me, or worse, rather than any idea this might prove to be a positive thing. Once I finished, he sat there for a long moment, until I could not maintain my discipline any longer, and against my will, I felt my eyes shift up and over to his face. While he was regarding me with a stern expression, it did not appear hostile, or even angry.

  “Do you remember the eulogy I gave for your father?” If he said this to throw me off balance, he did a marvelous job of it, but I answered readily enough that I did indeed recall it. “And,” he continued, “do you remember me talking about how my father, my real father conferred his first award for bravery?”

  “Yes, sir,” I assured him. “For slaying a sub-king of the Chatti.”

  “Vergorix.” Germanicus nodded. He paused for just a moment, then asked, “But do you know the entire story? About the events that led to your father earning his first set of phalarae and Vergorix’s torq and arm rings?”

  I felt my mouth open, fully intending to answer immediately that, since I had read my father’s personal account, I in fact did know the entire story, yet the words never came out of my mouth. Honestly, I cannot say why with any certainty, other than for some reason, all the admonitions and warnings I had both heard from my father firsthand and had read in his account about the danger of trusting a man of the upper class too much leapt into my mind, and I felt my head shake.

  If I hesitated, or in some way offered a clue to Germanicus that my thoughts were running in this vein, he gave no sign, and he explained, “He disobeyed orders. Specifically, he was ordered to move to the rear as part of the relief, but instead, he chose to move forward. Granted,” he shrugged, “he was only a tiro at the time, so he was just risking himself and not an entire Cohort. But,” his voice hardened, “I feel certain that you see the parallels, don’t you, Pullus?” Even if I had wanted to, I could not argue this, and I did not get the sense he was expecting a verbal answer, just an acknowledgment, which I gave with another nod. This obviously satisfied him, because he continued, “Since you didn’t know about that part, I think it’s safe to assume you don’t know about what my father said to him afterward.” Again, I did not offer a response, and at first I thought I had angered him, because he nudged his horse, a magnificent, coal-black stallion, to ride up alongside me, right where he could tower over me and only slightly lean so that his face was directly above mine. And now, there was no mistaking the iron there as he said quietly, “Your actions with the Fourth shifted this battle. I know it, every man in this army knows it, and I’m certain that you know it. But, if you ever disobey an order issued by your Primus Pilus, one of the Legates, or me, I will forget all about the service your father gave to me, and what you’ve done for Rome today. Is that understood?” It was hard for me to swallow the sudden rock that seemed to have materialized, but I assured him that I did. Then, just that quickly, he grinned down at me and said, “You are your father’s son, Pullus. If anyone had any doubt before today, it’s gone now. And,” he surprised me so much I almost fell over as he leaned over farther so that he could offer his arm, “I want to thank you sincerely for what you and the Fourth did today, but I’m not going to mention you in the official account I send back to Rome.” Before I could say anything one way or another, he finished, “Think of it as your punishment. The Imperator may not know what you’ve done for us, but I will. And I won’t forget it.” Releasing my arm, he sat up and said briskly, “Very well. Return to your Cohort. Primus Pilus Sacrovir and the other Primi Pili of the first line should have received their orders by now.”

  Then, he turned and trotted back to his party, leaving me wondering if what had just taken place was a good thing for me, or a bad thing. I am still unsure.

  “I thought you’d gone fucking mad,” was how Structus put it that night, back in the camp, where the after-battle routine was well underway. “When I heard that command and saw you waving your gladius in the air, I thought, ‘Aulus old son, your Pilus Prior has lost his fucking wits.”

  I gave him a mock glare as I demanded, “Then why did you follow me?”

  “Why?” Structus raised an eyebrow as if I had asked a glaringly stupid question. “Because I’m every bit as mad as you are. Besides,” he shrugged, then as he lifted his cup to his lips he added, “I didn’t have anything better to do at the moment.”

  As I am certain he intended, the other Centurions of my Cohort roared with laughter, and I include myself. Certainly, a large reason for our good spirits was that, relatively speaking, we had accomplished a great deal with what can only be considered surprisingly light losses, although as that crossed my mind, I thought of Nigidius, and I reminded myself to make an offering in his name and honor. More than that, however, was that, as grudging as it may have been, the other Legions, and the other Cohorts of the 1st, had acknowledged that our maneuver had broken what promised to be a long and bloody deadlock. The only sour note was hearing that Arminius had escaped, although we were still a few watches away from learning the specifics of what took place. There was already a rumor that Arminius had been wounded in his attempt to reach Germanicus, and that the Angrivarii chieftain Inguiomerus had been spotted as well, but had also escaped. The Legions of the second line did not bear the brunt of the fighting, but they had been tasked with the messy and dangerous business of pursuing the shattered remnants of Arminius’ army, and they had not returned to the camp until a third of a watch before sunset. When that was factored in, this battle had lasted most of the day, starting shortly after dawn with the appearance of the German skirmishers outside the camp, and we spent some time discussing the wisdom, or lack thereof, of Arminius’ strategy.

  It was Fabricius who pointed out, “That cunnus obviously wanted a fight, but why?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, curious.

  “Because he picked the kind of ground that favors us, not them,” he answered, and the moment I heard him say it, I understood that he was correct, which I tacitly made clear by wondering aloud, “So why did he do that? Every other time, he’s managed to get us onto ground that favors them, like the Long Bridges.”

  The reminder of that battle still elicited strong reactions from the others since we had lost Cornutus, and sustained heavy casualties, but more importantly, the memory of the swampy ground and the assault on our baggage train was still fresh in everyone’s minds.

  “Maybe Arminius did it because of his men,” Calpurnius suggested. “They might have been pressuring him to take us on no matter what kind of ground it was.”

  We considered this; frankly, I was a bit surprised that Calpurnius offered this up, but I saw that this was not immediately dismissed by the others.

  “We know that these savages are a handful to lead,” Gillo commented. “Maybe they didn’t like the thought of Arminius not having enough faith in them to stand their ground no matter what it’s like.”

  After a few more moments of discussion about this topic, the subject shifted to what came next, but on this, I had nothing to offer yet. This was not destined to last much longer, because the cornu sounded the command summoning all Pili Priores to attend to Sacrovir in his tent.

  “Let me go find out what our future holds,” I told them. “Go ahead and wait here.” As I walked out into the outer portion of my tent, I instructed Alex in a loud tone of voice, “Give these greedy bastards one more cup and no more. I don’t want to come back to a bunch of drunks.”

  Alex returned the wink I gave him, assuring me at the same volume that he would ensure my command was carried out, and I
exited the tent to a chorus of complaint, and with a broad smile on my face.

  What was planned for the next day was a celebration of our victory, where we were marched in our formation out of the camp, whereupon the men were turned loose to finish the job of scavenging anything of value from the thousands of corpses, all of them German, our own dead having been removed the day before, with the auxiliaries dealing with theirs in the custom of their particular tribe. Our dead were going to be consigned to the flames as is our practice, but before that happened, Germanicus had the men gather up all of the arms, shields, and whatever armor their noble warriors were wearing. Naturally, we officers did not do any of the work, and as I watched the pile slowly grow, I realized it seemed familiar, except that I could not recall ever seeing this before. Finally, after thinking about it for a bit, I recalled that I had read about Germanicus’ father Drusus doing the same thing after his victory over the Marcomanni in what was my father’s first campaign and would turn out to be his father’s last, from my father’s account. Once this monument was completed, the corpses dragged into several piles and left to rot for the birds, beasts, and maggots, we performed the traditional salutation that the Legions of Rome offer their victorious commander in the field. This time, however, just before the moment, we were summoned by Sacrovir, who in turn had just returned from a meeting of the Primi Pili with Germanicus and the other Legates.

  “We’re going to hail Tiberius as Imperator, not Germanicus,” he announced, but with the kind of tone that told me he was unhappy about it.

  “But it wasn’t Tiberius’ victory!”

  Sacrovir wheeled on Pomponius, snapping, “Don’t you think I know that? Don’t you think that the other Primi Pili and I made that argument? This is coming from Germanicus himself. His name is not to be mentioned. Is that understood?” He turned away from the Tertius Pilus Prior to look at each of us in turn, as he finished, “If any of your men disobey and shout Germanicus’ name, they’re not going to be striped. You are.”