Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  “I heard about Structus.” I had approached in our manner by reaching Tetarfenus first, who waited for the right moment to tap Columella on the hip, and when he leaned back, these were my first words. I realized that I had erred, because when an officer does that, he expects to hear his Signifer, not his Pilus Prior, or perhaps it was the croaking quality of my voice, but the Optio whirled about in surprise. Thankfully, for both of us, none of the surrounded Germans tried to take advantage, enabling me to continue, “I ran into Alex. He told me it’s bad, so you’re in command of the Second, Optio Columella.”

  This may seem a strange thing to say, since it was obvious, but this is one of those things that we Romans do, even in the heat of a moment such as this, formally transferring the command to the next man in the rank structure; I saw this was not lost on Columella, who stiffened and rendered a salute, and I noticed that his gladius was bloody to the hilt.

  “The Second won’t let you down, Pilus Prior,” he assured me, although there was no need.

  Turning our attention to the situation at hand, my best estimate was that there were still about thirty Germans standing, while the middle of their orbis was packed with bodies to a degree that they had crushed all the shrubbery and covered the ground completely. Some of them were moving, some were still, but to my eye, it appeared as if there were as many Germans down as were still standing.

  “Pilus Prior,” Columella interrupted my examination to ask, “what do we do if they surrender?”

  I did not hesitate.

  “Put them to the gladius,” I said firmly, thinking of my friend Aulus Structus, wondering if he would live long enough for me to speak to him again, and if he did, whether that was a good thing or not. “No prisoners.”

  I saw the grim satisfaction on the Optio’s face, and exchanging another salute, I left the Second, but instead of returning to my Century, I made my way to Licinius and the Third, hoping that I would not be getting more bad news.

  As far as the Fourth Cohort of the 1st Legion was concerned, the last part of what is now known as the Battle of the Angrivarian Wall ended anticlimactically, and I just happened to be standing next to my former Optio Gillo and his Sixth Century when the cornu command ordering the halt of our current activities came drifting across from our right. By the time I reached the Sixth, we had pushed even more deeply into the forest, cresting the backbone of the hill that ran parallel to our lines some time earlier, putting us on the downhill side. In fact, when I was with Calpurnius’ Fourth, we reached the beginning of a stretch of boggy ground, but thanks to the gods, the will and spirit of the Cherusci and Angrivarii warriors had been broken, because there is no telling how much of a cost they could have exacted forcing us to wade into that muck, weighed down as we are compared to them. Now, standing next to Gillo, we turned in the direction of the cornu call, which of course was repeated by each Century Cornicen from its point of origination, far down the line.

  It was when Ambustus’ replacement, Numerius Cartufenus, a ranker from the Fifth Section who, as was the Cornicen’s duty, Ambustus had taught in the event that he fell, lifted his horn to relay the call that I thought to ask Gillo, “Do you have any idea who’s off to our left?”

  “I only caught a couple of glimpses,” he replied with a shrug, “and I know it’s the 2nd, but I have no idea which Cohort.”

  This offhand comment probably summed up one aspect of this last battle better than anything I can offer, because once we entered that forest, we had no idea of the larger situation, down to who was on our left flank.

  Gillo had just offered this when, once more from the right, there came another sound, but this time, it was not a cornu call or the noise caused by combat; no, this time, it was the roaring of thousands of men, and we had no need to be close enough to know that, once more, the army of Germanicus Julius Caesar was declaring our victory in the traditional manner.

  “I hope he remembers to make sure they salute Tiberius again,” I muttered to Gillo, who did not say anything, but only nodded soberly.

  Suddenly, I was at a loss, and before I could stop myself, my chest tightened, and I felt a sudden welling of tears as the import of this moment hit me. The only thing that saved me from shaming myself in front of Gillo, Macerinus, and the men of the Sixth was that we were all similarly affected.

  “Is it really over?” Gillo murmured, and when I looked at him to answer, I could not summon any words, the thought of not just Aulus Structus, but Titus Porcinianus Pullus, Lucius Cornutus, Marcus Ambustus, Sextus Nigidius, and so many other men lost over the previous two years overwhelming both of us, his eyes as filled with tears as mine.

  Finally, I composed myself enough to say gruffly, “Well, I better get back to the First and find out what’s next.”

  I returned Gillo’s salute, then made my way back, and as I passed back through my Centuries, the mood of the men in each were identically subdued, all of them trying to fathom that this was finally and truly over. It has to be, I thought, as I was moving around a half-dozen corpses, all German; they can’t have more than five thousand men left in total, and now they’re scattered all over the gods know where. Oh, I felt certain that there would be no returning to Ubiorum yet; we would have to make a final demonstration of our might, probably by destroying more villages and rounding up the remaining warriors. It was just before I reached my Century that I was stopped in my tracks by a sudden thought. The manner in which this fight ended, signaled by that cornu call, had to mean that it was stopped because Arminius had been found and either killed or captured. I confess that my initial emotion at this thought was one of profound, bitter disappointment; I had made a vow that I would be the man to either slay the Cherusci or to capture him, both in honor of my father, and to honor the memory of my great-grandfather the Prefect, whose deeds and exploits are still talked about today, making the Pullus name known to the men of the Legions. Fortunately, it was a vow I had never uttered publicly, and am only confessing in this account for the future generations bearing our name, but it is hard to describe just how disappointed I was by this thought. Consequently, when I heard the truth of the matter, frankly, I did not know how to feel, but that was still in the future. Returning to find Saloninus supervising the looting of the last Germans to fall at our hands, he appeared to be the only man who was not in something of a daze, and as I stood watching him unobserved, I decided then and there that I would do what I could to ensure that he entered the Centurionate, no matter how many centuries of tradition stood in my way. Based on sheer competence, he should have been wearing the transverse crest already, but although I had toyed with the idea of pushing for him earlier, I had not been secure enough in my position as the new Pilus Prior to feel confident enough to do so. My thoughts were interrupted by another cornu call, again from off to our right where I knew Germanicus was located, and now that I was close enough to hear the notes clearly, I did not really need to do anything myself, the men quickly forming up based on where Gemellus moved with his standard, facing back in the direction of the wall, in preparation to return back to the clearing.

  Since it was impossible to really tell if the entire Cohort was assembled and facing in the proper direction, I counted to a hundred before ordering Poplicola to blow the command to march, whereupon we headed out of the forest. I use the word march only in the loosest sense; the same trees and underbrush that had impeded our progress were still there, but now there were corpses underfoot as well, usually in small groups, although singly and in two’s and three’s. They had all been searched, and those who had been alive when this happened were made clear by the manner in which they all had their throats slit. I was just thankful that Alex, the medici, and stretcher bearers had taken our dead and wounded already so that we did not have to stumble on them. We saw the lighter sky ahead of us, but it still took longer than normal to emerge from the forest, where we were met by the sight of thousands of corpses, the birds already descending to grab the choicest morsels from the dead. We arrived to f
ind that the Second and Third Cohorts had gotten back before us, but I was surprised to see that the second and third line Cohorts were not present; it was only later that we learned they had been ordered into the forest as well, anchoring our right flank. The sun was just above the trees, and over the next sixth part of a watch, we saw the other Legions return back to the large open area.

  “Take command,” I told Licinius. “I’m going to find out what happened with Structus.”

  I went trotting down the hill, heading for the spot where we had originally been formed up, since that is where we take our wounded once a battle is completely over, to the point from which we started, but I did not make it halfway before I ran into Alex again, returning from carrying the last of our wounded from where they had deposited them at the edge of the forest when we were still fighting. He did not need me to ask, shaking his head when I was still a dozen paces away, so I stopped to wait for him to reach me, and I could see how tired he was, although I am certain it was not all fatigue.

  “He died a little while ago, before we moved him from up there,” he told me quietly. Then, he took a quick glance around and added softly, “I paid the chief medicus to give him an extra dose of poppy syrup, Gnaeus. He went peacefully. At least,” he added quickly, “as peacefully as I could make it.”

  I did not say anything, but I did reach out, squeeze his shoulder, and give him a nod of thanks, knowing that Structus would have wanted that, and would have done the same for me. I turned and began walking back with him when Paterculus blew the signal for all Pili Priores, prompting a groan from my lips.

  “Pluto’s cock,” I muttered, angry with myself. “He’s going to want the butcher’s bill, and I haven’t…”

  Before I could finish, Alex reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and produced a tablet, saying simply, “I already talked to the other Centurions. All you need to do is add in the First’s and you should be fine.”

  For the second time, I could only nod my gratitude, then I turned and went trotting over to where the Legion eagle was planted.

  I was the last to arrive since I had the farthest to go, but Sacrovir made no comment about it; I assumed that he had seen where I was headed, which was confirmed when, before saying anything else, he asked me quietly, “What’s the condition of Pilus Posterior Structus?”

  Even if my throat had not been bruised, it would have hurt to reply, “He’s dead, Primus Pilus. But,” I felt it important to add, “he died peacefully. My clerk made sure that he was given extra poppy syrup.”

  Sacrovir and I certainly did not have any kind of close relationship, but I could see that his grief was genuine, although he quickly turned to other matters, asking me, “Since we’re talking about your Cohort, what’s your butcher’s bill?”

  Opening the tablet, I offered a silent prayer of thanks, reminding myself to do something nice for Alex as I gave the numbers, trying to pretend this was not the first time seeing them, because they were dismaying, to say the least. We had gotten away with light casualties just the day before, but the gods had seen fit to balance the tables on this day; fully more than forty percent of my Cohort was out of action, although probably half of these men would return to duty at some point. The fact that Sacrovir did not seem a bit surprised gave me a hint of what to expect, and as I listened to Macer giving his report next, his face gray with fatigue, I realized we had been badly hurt today, and when it came to the Second Cohort, my Fourth had actually fared better. Fitting, perhaps, given that this was the final battle, but it made it no less painful or sobering to those of us wearing the transverse crest. One by one, each Pilus Prior related their losses to the Primus Pilus, who was in turn etching the figures into his own tablet, which he would be giving to Germanicus in all likelihood, although it might have been to Tubero, since he was in technical command. The thought of the Legate made me look around, but I could not see any sign of him, although it was growing dark.

  Once Sacrovir was done, he snapped the tablet shut, and announced, “March your men to their gear, then we’ll go to camp.”

  This elicited some groans, the thought of having to march all the way back to the camp we had vacated next not appealing in the slightest, but in a happy turn of events, we learned we had misheard him.

  “This is a new camp and it’s already built,” he informed us, rousing a muted cheer, which he ignored as he explained, “Germanicus ordered the 5th to go start on camp about a watch ago, so they should be almost finished.” Suddenly, his battered features split into a grin as he said, “In fact, I think we might want to take our time getting back to our gear. We wouldn’t want to get there and find out those lazy bastards aren’t done.”

  It was a humorous moment, but it was also one I remember; it is certainly a small thing, but these are the ways that Centurions have to remind their men, and themselves, that they are rankers at heart, and it is considered a right bestowed to us by the gods to figure out ways to avoid work. For the only time so far, our Primus Pilus was perfectly content that we were the last Legion off the field, and our delight was made manifest when we learned that the 16th had been pressed into service to help their comrades in the 5th to finish the camp for the night.

  “It was a fucking mess.”

  It was later that night, and I had gone to visit Macer, mainly because I had seen how affected he had been by the state of his Cohort, although it was only after I had visited every section who had lost a man, then gone to the quaestorium to visit my wounded in the hospital. I had found him in a gloomy mood, but the amphora of wine I brought seemed to help, at least in the sense that it made him willing to talk.

  He took a sip before continuing, “Somehow, we ended up nearer to the Praetorians than Pompilius and the Third Cohort, but I think it was because Germanicus was chasing a big bunch of those Cherusci bastards, and they cut across the front of the Third to get away, and ended up finding this small hill.”

  “A hill?” I asked, not understanding.

  “It was more like a big bump, three, maybe four hundred paces around at the base, but it wasn’t the fucking hill that was the problem. It was surrounded by boggy ground.” He suddenly shuddered, adding vehemently, “I hate that stuff.”

  His mention of the bog reminded me that we had encountered similar ground as well, although there had not been any kind of irregularity in terms of the terrain.

  “They made it to that hill, but Germanicus and the Praetorians were right behind them, and he decided not to wait for us to link up with his two Cohorts.” He suddenly glanced down at his cup, giving me the impression he was not willing to look me in the eye as he offered a careful criticism, “I think he had his blood up, and maybe if he had waited for us to get better organized, he wouldn’t have gotten knocked back the first time.”

  “The first time?” I echoed. “How many times did you end up assaulting that hill?”

  “Four,” Macer replied flatly, and now he did look up at me. I saw anger, but I saw sadness too as he explained, “The first time, it was just with the Praetorians, and they got bloodied pretty good. That was when Germanicus sent a runner to find me, and he ordered me to assault next, without waiting for his men to regroup.”

  I realized I was in a precarious position, yet I did not feel unjustified in pointing out, “He probably didn’t want the Germans to have a chance to catch their breath.”

  To my relief, Macer nodded in agreement. “No, and I understood that. But we had the same problem the Praetorians did, and that was that we got bogged down. What made it worse was that while it was muddy, it wasn’t all that bad, until we got about thirty paces away from the base of the hill, then we started sinking down, really fast and really deeply.”

  “How deep was it?”

  In answer, he reached down and held his hand just below his knee, and I whistled as I thought about how difficult that must have been.

  “We couldn’t move quickly enough to get under their missiles, so by the time we got close enough to close with them, mo
st of the boys had their shields struck at least four or five times. And the Germans had the advantage of the higher ground, so we got pushed back as well.” He took another sip, and I noticed he had returned his attention to his cup, making me wonder if worse was coming. “Finally, Pompilius found us, following the noise, and once he got the Third up, we were able to encircle the hill completely so that we could force the bastards to spread out more and thin them out. But,” his face twisted into a grimace, “they still pushed us back again.”

  He stopped then, reaching over to refill his cup while I waited with growing impatience, but then when he took another sip, I realized that he was deliberately tormenting me, and I demanded, “Well? What happened?”

  “What happened?” He regarded me blandly, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch just before he said, “Why, we all died, of course. You’re talking to my shade.”

  Whether he was amused by his own words, or it was the expression on my face I do not know, but he began roaring with laughter, which I confess was nice to hear, although I still felt compelled to grumble, “Oh, go piss on your boots.” I waited for him to stop laughing, and as he was wiping his eyes, I asked, “Well? What really happened?”

  “What happened,” he had become serious again, saying soberly, “was Germanicus. He took off his helmet so everyone could see him, and then went charging back towards the hill without waiting on anyone else. Naturally,” Macer shrugged, “we weren’t about to let him go by himself, but those Praetorians were in a fucking panic, since they were sent here by Tiberius specifically to protect him.”