Avenging Varus Part II

by R. W. Peake

  “I can only imagine,” I agreed, thinking how I would feel if I was a Centurion of Praetorians and saw the man that I was charged personally by the Imperator to protect go dashing towards a waiting band of German warriors all by himself.

  “The only reason they caught up to him was because that boggy section had become so churned up it was impossible for him to get to the hill ahead of the rest of us.”

  “Did you see him?” I asked, but Macer shook his head.

  “I was about halfway around on the other side, but some of the boys in my Sixth saw it happen. And,” he finished, “all that matters is that he didn’t get himself killed, and we put paid to those bastards.”

  This made me think of something else, and I asked him, “Do you think there will be any prisoners?”

  “I doubt it.” He shook his head. “I think that Germanicus is going to put them all to the sword. Although,” he added in a thoughtful tone, “I did hear that both Arminius and Inguiomerus got away again.”

  “Gods, he’s a slippery cunnus,” I said aloud; inwardly, I felt a flare of hope that perhaps I would still have a chance.

  I am still waiting, but there was more adventure in my future that meant worrying about Arminius was shoved to the back of my mind, but that is for later.

  It was not until the next morning that we were marched back onto the field, arrayed in our same dispositions as the day before, save for the amount of space in between our lines, whereupon Germanicus sent us out to the battlefield to gather up all of the arms, shields, and armor in the same manner as we had done earlier to create a monument to the victory. Once more, I found myself watching my men, trying to ignore the throbbing in my hand, which required some stitches that I had Alex put in since he had recently acquired that skill, and my throat was still painful; he informed me that it was badly bruised, which meant I kept finding myself reaching up to touch it. More than anything else, however, my mind was occupied with what would come later that evening, when we consigned our comrades who had perished to the flames in order to release their souls to leave their fleshly confines. As the men worked to create the monument commemorating our victory, the slaves and freedmen of the army were busily constructing the pyres outside the camp, which was less than a half-mile away from the battlefield, preparing for this somber event. What I found hard to believe was that we would be consigning those comrades who fell in the battle before this one, and I had to continually remind myself that it had occurred just two days before, not the week or more that it seemed. Most of all, I was thinking of Aulus Structus, although not just as my friend and fellow Centurion and the personal loss that came from his death, but in cold yet practical terms as the Quartus Pilus Prior, as I ran through the mental list that I had learned every Pilus Prior must keep of men who are worthy of promotion. This was what I was occupied with when Germanicus pronounced his satisfaction with the size and construction of the monument, which from my vantage point, measured about twenty paces on each side at its base, and stood about fifteen feet high, culminating with one German war spear, thrusting into the air, upon which was affixed a helmet that had undoubtedly belonged to one of their nobility, and I suppose it is possible that it had belonged to Arminius himself.

  By this point, everyone had learned that both Arminius and Inguiomerus had escaped yet again, and while we were all relieved and confident that the war was now over, it would be a lie to say that their escape did not cast a pall over the collective mood of the army. Nevertheless, once the monument was finished, the camp priests and augurs performed their rituals to consecrate the ground where so many of us fell, then Germanicus offered his oration; when we hailed Tiberius as Imperator three times after he finished, there was enough enthusiasm in our collective voices that it did not ring falsely to my ears. When Germanicus spoke, I confess I was not only too far away to hear him clearly, at least without concentrating all of my attention on him, I was preoccupied with the matters I just mentioned. Finally, we were dismissed to return to the camp to finish the preparations for our dead, but I was sufficiently curious to wander over to the monument to read the legend that had been carved in a flat sheet of wood that was affixed to posts and stood at the base of the monument. I was accompanied by Saloninus, Gemellus, and a few of the men from the entire Cohort, although I saw men from the other Cohorts drifting in the same direction. The legend read, “The army of Tiberius Caesar, after subduing the nations between the Rhenus and Albis, consecrate this memorial to Mars, Jupiter Optimus Maximus, and Augustus.”

  “Smart,” Saloninus grunted, softly enough so that only I could hear. When I glanced over at him with a raised eyebrow, he added, “Smart of him not to put his name anywhere on this thing.”

  That was true, and I certainly agreed, yet it still made me uncomfortable hearing my Optio say it aloud, particularly given my plans for him. Satisfied, we returned to the camp, spending the rest of the day preparing for that evening. Shortly before the mass funeral rites were to be performed, all Pili Priores were summoned to attend to the Primus Pilus, and when I left my tent, I was carrying the wax tablet containing the names of the men who I wanted to promote into the various empty slots in the Cohort. While Structus was the only Centurion I had lost; Fabricius had suffered a serious but not life-threatening or career-ending wound to his arm, Licinius’ Optio Columella had lost his right arm above the elbow, while Calpurnius’ Signifer had fallen, but while my tablet contained the names of the men I wanted to replace them, in truth the only name I had anything to do with was Saloninus. For the others, I accepted the recommendations of my Centurions, which is the customary method since they know the men of their Centuries better than even the Pilus Prior. This was not true when it came to the Sixth Century in my case, or the Second, although I had not commanded the Second all that long, but I trusted all but Calpurnius implicitly, and my suspicions about him had nothing to do with his abilities to assess the qualities of his men for the various posts within his Century.

  However, shortly after I arrived, when I broached the subject with Sacrovir, he waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, explaining, “The Propraetor has ordered that we set that aside for now. The campaign is over, and we’re going home immediately, so we’ll sort that out when we get back.”

  Not surprisingly, this roused a cheer from all nine Pili Priores that was sufficient to shake the canvas walls of his quarters, but completely by accident, my eyes had never left Sacrovir’s face, and I saw that he did not share our happiness at the prospect of returning to Ubiorum.

  We learned why when, once we quieted down, he informed us, “The Propraetor has also decided that part of the army will be marching overland, and part of it will be returning by ship. And,” his mouth twisted into a grimace, although whether it was because he had to be the one to tell us, or whether it was the content of the news itself was impossible to say, “I’ll give you three guesses who’s going by ship this time, but you’ll only need one.”

  There was a silence then, although I did not get the sense from my comrades that they were all that surprised, and it was the Septimus Pilus Prior Cinna who summed it up perfectly when he said bitterly, “That’s one thing you have to love about the Legions; Fortuna makes sure she pisses on all of us at one time or another.”

  “Maybe,” Regulus of the Tenth interjected hopefully, “it will be a short voyage. We’re heading back early enough in the year to avoid the winter storms.”

  “May Jupiter Optimus Maximus make it so,” I recognized Clepsina’s voice, although he was seemingly saying it more to himself, but what was more surprising was that it was the Quintus Pilus Prior, since he is not a religious man.

  “I’m sure it will be fine,” Macer said confidently, but when I glanced at him since we were sitting together, I could see the worry there, and it was a concern I shared.

  It bears repeating here that we Romans are not a seafaring people, and while I had become inured to traveling by ship, it was not something I enjoyed in the slightest. And, if I had known w
hat awaited me, and how many more months it would be before I, along with many others, would actually see Ubiorum, I cannot say that I would not have deserted that night.

  That, however, is for later. Now, my Cohort is waiting for me, Alex is exhausted, and I am still adjusting to being a member of the Pullus family, and all that that means to the men who march for Rome.