by R. W. Peake
With that gloomy admonition, we were dismissed, and as I usually did, I made sure to walk with Macer.
“What do you suppose that was about?”
Macer did not respond to my question immediately, but he gave me a sidelong glance. Finally, he said quietly, “I think you know what it was about.” Before I could respond, he asked, “Am I correct in assuming that you’ve read your father’s scrolls?” When I nodded, he continued, “Then you know your father performed…services for Tiberius before he became Imperator.”
“Yes,” I admitted, but I did feel compelled to defend him by pointing out, “but he was essentially forced into it by Dolabella.”
“He was,” Macer acknowledged, “but that’s not why I brought it up.” Now he did turn to look at me, slowing his pace so that we could finish the conversation. “I brought it up to remind you that Tiberius isn’t a…forgiving man.”
I tried to assure him that I was aware of this, at least as much as a man could be without having any kind of firsthand knowledge. Tiberius had commanded the Legions of the Rhenus before my time, but even if I had not read the account from Titus Porcinianus Pullus, I had heard enough stories from other men about how Tiberius could be harsh in his dealings. Not, I would add, unfair; if anything, he was scrupulously fair in his discipline, and I knew the men who had served under him respected Tiberius a great deal. However, those same men not only respected Germanicus, but they loved him in a way that had apparently always eluded his adoptive father. It is impossible to know whether that plays a role in Tiberius’ suspicion of Germanicus, and if it does, to what extent, but ultimately what mattered was that, when thousands of voices were raised in salutation on that field, it was the name of the Imperator who received the credit for this victory. I could not help wondering at the time how Germanicus felt about this, but in the end, it did not matter; what did was that while we were performing these tasks, our Propraetor had sent his exploratores out, searching for whatever remained of the German host. Later that day after the battle, as Fortuna would have it, the Fourth was standing guard along the Porta Praetoria wall when a small detachment of riders came towards the camp at a gallop, and after ascertaining their identities, they were allowed in, whereupon their commander headed straight for the praetorium. In outward appearance, this was a regular occurrence; mounted men were always coming and going, some of them couriers, and others detachments like this who had finished their task of scouting a certain area. Over time, I learned that some men had developed a finely tuned instinct whenever the return of one of these parties was routine, and when it was not, and it was Gemellus who approached me, gesturing to follow him a short distance away from the men standing watch near us.
“Pilus Prior, if I were you, I’d go send Alex to the praetorium,” he said softly, but there was an urgency to his tone that I had learned not to ignore. “I think those boys who just came in found something.”
I freely acknowledge that there would have been a time in the past where I would have rejected the suggestion of my Signifer, back when it was Macerinus and I was the Hastatus Posterior, not because of who he was, but because of who I was back then. Fortunately, those days are long past, so I did not hesitate, summoning the man I was using as a runner since Mus was still in the hospital, sending him to my quarters to fetch Alex, who arrived immediately. I repeated what Gemellus had said but needed to say nothing more; with a nod, he disappeared down the Via Praetoria, heading for the headquarters tent, leaving me to pretend that the men were not watching every move I made as they essentially did what I was trying to do with Alex. Alex was not gone long, and even before he reached me, I could see he was trying to suppress his excitement, but instead of letting him come up to the rampart, I trotted down the ramp, grinning at the muttered curses I heard from the men who had been hoping to overhear our conversation.
“They’ve found Arminius, and they know what he intends,” Alex began. “He’s using the river and an old dirt wall that marks the boundary between Cherusci and Angrivarii lands.”
I tried to think of the spot, but realized that, although I had heard of it, I had never been there.
“Any idea of the size of their army this time?”
Alex shook his head. “From what little I heard, they seem to be gathering back together.”
“When do we march?”
Alex began to answer, but the cornu sounded from the praetorium, with the signal that summoned the Primi Pili, and his face split into a grin.
“Does that answer your question?”
One reason I and every other Centurion, particularly Pili Priores, try to get as much information as we can through whatever sources we have is to give us a chance to get ahead of the inevitable flurry of controlled chaos that is a Legion preparing to march after staying in one spot for a period of time. Unfortunately for my Cohort, our time as the guard Cohort meant that we had to wait until we were relieved to begin the process, which meant that there was liberal use of the viti and Optios’ handles as we attempted to catch up to the rest of the Legion. All I was concerned about was that it would not be the Fourth of the 1st to delay our march, which was why I not only allowed but encouraged my officers to treat the men relatively harshly for something that was beyond our control. And, while we were the last Cohort of the 1st ready, we were not the last Cohort of all of the army, but ultimately what mattered was that, before the sun was midway through the sky, we left the camp behind, heading for the spot where Arminius and his men were waiting. We had become accustomed to Germanicus’ style; when he made a decision to move, he did not hesitate, and when we marched, it was with a rapidity that was missing from the other Legates. One concern I had, and I knew the other Centurions who were aware of it shared it as well, was that Sacrovir had been informed that, depending on what we found when we reached the spot the Germans were waiting, Germanicus intended to turn over the command of the Legions to the one Legate who had yet to lead us in battle, Lucius Seius Tubero. We knew virtually nothing about Tubero, save for one rather troubling fact; despite the different names, he was supposedly the brother or half-brother of Praetorian Prefect Sejanus, who was already an extremely powerful man. This seemed to be confirmed because Tubero had arrived with the two Praetorian Cohorts, who had been used sparingly by Germanicus by this point in time, and for whom our men held little love, although that contempt was returned in full measure by the Praetorians. I will say one thing about the Praetorians; my size would not have been as much of an oddity with them as it is in the Legions, but I shared the disdain the rankers held for them. One slightly unusual note of the march was that we did not bother with destroying the camp, and if this was calculated by Germanicus to send the message to the men that he intended for this to be the final battle against the Cherusci and Angrivarii, it certainly worked as he intended. There was almost no chatter, none of the normal banter and taunts between Cohorts and Centuries, just a column of grimly determined men. Our wounded had been loaded onto the wagons, but in another sign that this day would be different, the auxiliaries were consigned to their more normal task of guarding the baggage train, while the eight Legions led the column. Of course, we were not marching blind; Stertinius and Aemilius were commanding a screening force on either flank, while a couple of turmae rode ahead, just in case Arminius attempted to repeat his tactic that had been so effective with Varus.
There was no need to tell the men to keep the noise down; there was no chatter, nothing but the sound of Legions marching, the rhythmic tramping of hobnailed feet the dominant sound, each of us knowing that we would be going into battle again, twice in as many days. We had adjusted for our losses in every Century of the Fourth, as relatively light as they were to this point, as had the rest of the Legion. The 5th had suffered the heaviest losses, and it was assumed by the rest of us they would be in reserve, both because of the casualties, and because they had been placed at the end of the column of Legions, just ahead of the first auxiliary Cohorts and the baggage train. Knowing battle was coming
was bad enough, but the fact we had no idea when we would be facing it created even more tension, and my mind was occupied with so many things, most of them concerned with the various details that I would have to remember when it came to commanding the Cohort. I suppose that it would seem to be something that would not dominate my thoughts given that we had just fought the day before, yet I was worried that I would forget today all the things I had remembered just the day before. And, at the same time, I was wondering if my father, grandfather, and the Prefect had the same worries at moments such as this. Somewhat oddly, the idea that they did settled my nerves, but I would still catch myself reaching over to touch the hilt of the gladius they had all carried, and that did even more to calm me. Perhaps the fact that it is a tangible thing, and that, while I had come to the realization about how much I had to learn to be a leader of the quality as my first Pilus Prior and my second in my father, when it comes to the straightforward matter of killing another man with a gladius, or by any means for that matter, the only man I have ever feared in that way is dead, and while I know he had not taught me everything, he had imparted enough to give me that confidence. And, with the favor of the gods, I thought, today I, and the men of my Cohort and Legion, will put them to use one final time.
One of the first things that I learned when we drew closely enough to actually see the Germans and the ground that they were occupying was that hearing they were using the wall that had been built by the Angrivarii to keep the Cherusci out, and seeing it crowded with thousands of Germans were two different things. As had occurred the day before, the Germans were content to allow us to march out onto what was a stretch of level ground, beyond which was a ditch and behind that there was a line of warriors that appeared to be three men deep. Behind them began a gentle slope up to the wall, except this time, the Visurgis served as our left flank, while beyond the wall was a hill, where a second group of Germans was arrayed in their version of a formation. Off to our right, there was a boundary in the form of a line of forest also on rising ground, where the thick underbrush and densely packed trees were not quite as much of an obstacle as the river, and we would learn fairly quickly that there were even more Germans in them, including a force of cavalry. We had left our packs with the baggage train, which was still heavily guarded, and it became apparent that today would be a day for the Legions, confirmed when we were shaken out into a double line, except this day, we were in the second line of Legions. This caused a mixed reaction; some of the men made no attempt to hide their relief, which created some bickering amongst comrades who were disappointed, or even angry at what they saw as a perceived slight. I was torn, since I understood how the former group felt, but in my heart, I was with the latter, wishing that we were in what I had to come to see as our natural place in the first line. While the auxiliary infantry stayed with the baggage train, once again, Germanicus ordered the deployment of our missile troops, who approached the waiting Germans, stopping where the ground began sloping upward to the wall. Once more, the slingers were arrayed in front of the archers, and we stood waiting for them to expend their supply of missiles, but sling bullets move more quickly than the eye can track, although I could see the thin, blurring black lines of arrows streaking up into the sky, then plunging down into what we could see was an unbroken wall and roof of shields. We were too far away to hear what kind of damage was being done, and before long, men began to relax slightly, resuming their quiet conversations. I walked over to Structus since he was the nearest officer, wanting the company of a comrade, and he was the closest friend I had in the Legion, although I suppose that most might assume that it is Marcus Macer. Structus, however, had been my father’s Optio, and when he was promoted into the Centurionate, we became close.
“Do you think we’ll see any hot work?” he asked me as we stood there watching our missile troops trying to kill as many Germans as they could. “Or will we be like the boys yesterday and spend our time running around and killing the stragglers?”
I laughed at this and pointed to where what appeared to be well more than ten thousand Germans were still waiting, “They did a horrible job of it, then. Look how many of them are still left.”
“Maybe that’s why Germanicus chose them to lead the way.”
I am not particularly superstitious, but the fact that it was that moment that Germanicus ordered his Cornicen to sound the call that signaled the missile troops to withdraw, and they came streaming back through the ranks of the first line, seemed to be in direct response to our conversation.
“Mars and Fortuna,” I offered my arm, which he accepted as he repeated the abbreviated version of the traditional blessing we offer each other, and before I returned to Gemellus’ side, the cornu sounded the second order for the Legions of the first line to advance.
The assault on the Angrivarian wall had begun in earnest, and we were relegated to being bystanders; that, at least, was what we believed at the time.
Immediately after the Centuries and Cohorts of the first line began moving, they contracted into testudo formations in anticipation of the Germans returning the favor with their own missile troops. Being consigned to the status of spectators was simultaneously interesting and frustrating, and I tried to ignore the murmured conversations behind me as we all watched the first volley of missiles soar into the sky, just above the treeline on the top of the hill behind the wall before dropping down onto the upraised shields of the leading Centuries. Since we had not moved from our original position, we did not hear the inevitable racket that comes from iron heads striking wood, or worse, but we could see the effects quite well, particularly with the Centuries who had already reached the ditch that, as we would learn ourselves, was one in name only, being barely waist high, meaning that it did not take long for the leading Centuries to negotiate it, briefly break out of their testudo and drive the first line of Germans back up the gradual but noticeable slope up to the wall, where they joined their comrades, though not without leaving a fair number of their own number behind, leaving the Centuries to contract back into their original formation. With every volley of arrows, visually, there would be a ripple in the unbroken lines of shields when one of the missiles managed to find enough space between them to plunge into the body of one of our men that resulted in either a momentary bobble before the man holding the shield recovered, or the shield would essentially vanish from sight as the ranker holding it fell to the ground, either because he was seriously wounded or he was dead. This presents the most dangerous moment for the men in that testudo immediately around the stricken man, and it is why we train so relentlessly in maintaining the cohesion and integrity of the formation so that this moment of vulnerability is fleeting. Inevitably, those men who were too seriously wounded to stay with their Century were left behind by their advancing comrades, while the leading line was already halfway up the slope, which was about three hundred paces by my estimate. While the casualties were relatively light to this point and seemed to be evenly distributed among the Cohorts, it is always a sobering sight to see the bodies of comrades, although it was good to see that most of them were able to drag their shields over their bodies to protect themselves from some opportunistic archer who saw a vulnerable enemy and launched a missile in a high arc over the heads of his advancing comrades. The medici of the attacking Legions passed through our lines to rush onto the field to begin tending the wounded, yet another thing that sets Rome apart in waging war, and I watched as they began doing their job. I was yanked back to the assault when the cornu sounded, not from where Germanicus was located with his group in the space in between our second line and the originating point of the first line, but with the small knot of men immediately behind the first line Legions, which I assumed was Tubero, giving the command to halt. Although it might seem odd, this was the correct command to give at the time, because their alignment had become ragged as every Century had been forced to pause momentarily during their initial advance to readjust the testudo. By doing so, it allowed the Centuries and Cohor
ts to realign, so that when they began their final assault, they would be hitting all of the Germans at the same time, but most importantly, they broke out of their individual testudi and opened ranks back up. It took perhaps fifty heartbeats for the realignment and opening to take place, and naturally, the instant our men were in their more open formation, the Germans hurled their throwing spears and loosed whatever arrows they had left.
“They need to get about twenty paces closer to be in range.”
It was the first time Gemellus had spoken, but I only nodded in response, because he was right, and we all watched as the men advanced under a hail of missiles, which inevitably struck men down, but then they reached the spot where the Germans were within range of our own javelins. All along the half-mile-wide line, thousands of our weighted missiles were hurled at the shields that were serving as a makeshift parapet to protect the enemy, and in a distinctly different yet similar way, we could see the sudden disappearance of shields that had been struck, saving their owner but now rendered useless because of the bending of our javelins, forcing the man holding it to discard it. I also found it somewhat interesting to watch, because unlike the Legions, Germans use shields of all shapes and sizes, but more importantly, they are multiple colors, and it was not all that common that two identical shields were side by side. This made it easier to see the damage we were inflicting, which was augmented by the second volley, followed by the blowing of multiple cornu and shouts raised by thousands of voices, creating a noise that for the first time reached our ears as they began their attack on the wall.
“Now we wait,” I muttered to myself.