by R. W. Peake
“We found them about ten miles upriver from here.” Gaesorix’s voice jerked me from my fixation on what I had now deduced were some survivors from Varus’ column. When I turned to look up at him, I saw how drawn his face was, and he was weaving in the saddle as he continued, “I’ve got detachments out still searching for more survivors.”
“Who are these men from?” I asked, and such was his fatigue, he only gave me a blank stare, and I added, “Which Legion?”
“Oh,” he frowned, “they’re from all three, but I don’t remember which ones are which.”
The procession had continued past us, and Gaesorix turned his horse to catch up with them, prompting me to call out as he trotted away, “Come round to my quarters when you’re done. I’ll have Alex cook something up and we can have a cup. Or two.”
He gave a weary wave of his hand, and I headed for my quarters to let Alex know we would be having company.
“Honestly, none of them talked much.”
Gaesorix was seated next to my stove, legs stretched out, holding a cup of wine after consuming two bowls of the soldier’s porridge that Alex had hurriedly prepared. I could see my Batavian friend was struggling to stay awake, and I told myself to hold back on my questioning of him, but I believe I can be forgiven that I did not, since this was more than just a matter of idle curiosity.
“What,” I asked with a patience I did not feel, “did they say?”
He answered immediately, “That it was a trap from the outset. That that bastard Arminius planned the whole thing, and Varus was a fucking fool.”
This was the first I had heard personally of Arminius’ role, and it actually took me a moment for my mind to make the association.
“Arminius?” I repeated the name. “I thought he was…”
“He’s a Cherusci.” Gaesorix suddenly became animated, and when he leaned forward to spit on the floor, I suppose my warning glare caused him to change his aim, aiming instead for the stove, where the phlegm hit and sizzled for an instant. “Which means he’s a faithless, gutless, cocksucking cunnus!” Honestly, there were several other epithets used, but since they were in his native tongue, I do not know the specific terms, and I finally had to raise a hand to cut him off.
“Yes,” I chided wryly. “I think I get the sense of what you’re trying to say.”
He looked chagrined, then gave me a grin that was more familiar than his previous countenance, but it vanished as he continued, “Anyway, from what little bit I got from them, they had just left Vetera, heading here to take ship down to Mogontiacum. Two of those survivors were part of the vanguard that first day, and they said that some of the German scouts that Varus used came from the east and said that there was an uprising in Tubantes territory.”
“German scouts?” This did not make sense to me, but I assumed that Gaesorix was only passing on mistaken information. “You mean that were part of one of the alae?”
To my surprise, he shook his head. “No. I know because that’s what I thought, and I asked them.” He turned to give me a direct look, which was explained by his words. “Arminius convinced Varus to use some of his fellow tribesmen as a separate scouting arm for the army. He persuaded Varus that using native troops on their own would be better than having them attached to our cavalry, because they would be able to move about more freely and wouldn’t draw suspicion.” Giving a bitter laugh, Gaesorix raised his cup in a mock salute. “Well, Arminius was right about that part, just not about who should have been suspicious.” He paused to take a swallow, then continued, “Anyway, apparently, Varus took the bait, because that’s what it was. There was no uprising by the Tubantes, at least not quite yet. From some of the other survivors, what I pieced together is that when they marched into the Tubantes’ land, the village that was supposed to be where the uprising started was deserted, and the scouts told Varus they had fled farther east.”
It did not take long for me to summon the mental map of the area in my head, and only an instant longer for me to remember what lay east of the Tubantes territory.
“They lured him towards the Teutoberg.” I breathed the name, to which Gaesorix gave a grim nod.
“That’s not the worst part,” the Batavian assured me. “The one thing every one of those men said was that the route the scouts led Varus on was prepared beforehand.”
I did not understand the meaning of this, so I asked him what he meant.
Gaesorix looked slightly uncomfortable, and his frown deepened as he admitted, “Actually, I’m not sure. I mean,” he added, “I know what they told me, but it just doesn’t make sense.” When it was clear he still was not eager to talk, I actually had to reach out with my foot to nudge him, prompting a sigh. “All right! I’ll tell you, but I just don’t see how it’s possible. They said that the Germans had prepared a position that they drove Varus and his army towards, where they were penned up like pigs and slaughtered.”
At the time, this was hard to believe, but even in the moment, I recall thinking that I, and most of my comrades, had found it impossible to believe that three Legions could be exterminated, yet it was becoming increasingly clear that this was the case. And, as we all would learn, it would only get worse.
Starting that day, four days after the announcement of the disaster, over the course of the next week, survivors trickled in to Ubiorum, almost always in groups of at least four and usually under escort by the cavalry patrols that worked nonstop, although sometimes just one or two men would show up at the gate, unaccompanied. And, as more survivors showed up, a more complete story of what had taken place began to take shape; if anything, it was worse than the initial reports. It was not until two weeks after we received word before we went two straight days without some survivors showing up, then there was a stretch of three more days where a lone man arrived on the first day, and pairs of men the next two. After that, no man from Varus’ Legions ever showed up, and when the final tally was made, far less than five hundred men from the entire force actually made it to Ubiorum. This is not to say that more men did not survive the initial onslaught, but from what we could determine, most of those who managed to make their escape at some point in what we learned was a multi-day battle almost to a man slipped away in either the first day or the next. If they had not managed to slip through the ring of iron, wood, and flesh by what turned out to be the last day of the slaughter, as far as I know, not one man still alive on the final day ever made it to safety. It should come as no surprise that things were tense, and Arruntius was undoubtedly correct to order the Legion on half alert, starting the day the news arrived. Regardless of it being the right decision, having half a Legion standing guard at all times means that in a matter of two or three days, it suffers from the combination of sleep deprivation and the toll constant vigilance takes on men.
Speaking of the Legate, as I recall, it was no more than two days after this that he received a summons from the senior Legate remaining on the Rhenus frontier, Lucius Asprenas, who was not only with the 21st in Mogontiacum, but was also the nephew of the slain Praetor. While Gaesorix was the ranking Decurion, he was still out searching for survivors, so the Legate took the remaining ala of cavalry as an escort, along with a Cohort of auxiliaries that had been ordered down from their camp a day’s march north of Ubiorum, at a place called Novaesium. It had been constructed more than twenty years before but had fallen into disrepair until Varus’ aggressive expansion of the forts along the Rhenus. Instead of splitting one or two Cohorts off from the 1st, five Cohorts of auxiliaries had been holding it, most of them from Gaul. With the reduction of that force by one Cohort, there was a strong feeling among the officers that Novaesium was the most likely to be attacked next, simply because it was an easier target. If there was any bright side whatsoever, it was in the knowledge that, when Varus began his movement to Mogontiacum, he had ordered the ditches filled in and the towers burned at Vetera, so when it was time to take the offensive, we would not be forced to storm a Roman camp. That this would not be happening
before the next season was in some ways also comforting, but at the same time, we all understood that the Germans knew this as well, which contributed to the conviction that we would be under attack before we were reinforced. Working parties were tasked with strengthening the defenses of the camp, while the male occupants of the town outside our walls did one of two things; they either attached themselves to the column led by Arruntius back to Mogontiacum, which consisted of a large proportion of Legionaries’ women and children, or they did what they could to create a makeshift barrier that could be manned by the townspeople who remained. Before he departed, the Legate gave strict orders that none of the civilians be allowed inside our camp, one which was destined to last only as long as it took for us to be sure he was well on his way. Simply put, the population who chose to stay in Ubiorum was composed of a large proportion of women and children who were tied to the Legion that, even if it was not recognized by Rome, was by a bond that is stronger than allegiance to the city in whose name we march, fight, and die. This did not mean that two of the Tribunes who had been left behind did not attempt to stop this from happening; Crescens, however, understanding how raw men’s nerves were already, convinced them that the men with families were under enough pressure without having to worry that, once the expected hordes of Germans arrived at our walls, their women and children would be slaughtered. If the rumors were true, his argument also composed of pointing out that, should the Germans behave as we expected, and we managed to repel them but at the expense of the families of those men who had them, the likelihood of the man who forbade us from sheltering them was probably not long for this world.
Between standing watch, then being turned to some sort of physical labor as we tried to make the camp as impregnable as we could, it did not take long before men were exhausted to the point that, even if the Germans had shown up across the Rhenus, we would have been unable to put up much of a fight. With every passing day, the tensions rose and our readiness declined, as first a week, then another passed without any sign of what we had learned was a confederation of tribes that we were all sure were heading our way. During that time, the information provided by the survivors, a handful of whom had made it to safety only to die a day or so later, continued to fill in the picture of what had taken place. Perhaps the best thing that can be said is that Publius Quinctilis Varus dying with his men was a better fate than he deserved, because once we knew enough to get a relatively clear idea of what had taken place, the man would have been scourged and crucified, his friendship with the Princeps notwithstanding. Nothing could have saved the man, if only for his blatant stupidity in ignoring the signs that every survivor whose account I heard claimed were so obvious a blind man should have read them. More than one of his senior officers, including at least one of Legate rank, one Numonius Vala, tried to convince him that he was being falsely played by Arminius, but it was when we heard that none other than Segestes, the brother of Arminius’ father Segimerus, made multiple attempts to persuade Varus that his nephew was not to be trusted that men stopped having any sympathy or tender feelings for Varus. Not only had he refused to heed the warnings from Segestes, we also learned that he had not even deigned to send out scouts, although when I heard this, I confess I wondered if it would have mattered, since he seemed to have put all of his faith in the Germans Arminius had convinced him to use. However it happened, once we heard the survivors’ description of the terrain, not a man among those of us who had marched with Tiberius just a few years before needed to be told where Arminius had lured Varus and his army.
“That cunning bastard Arminius managed to draw the entire army into the Teutoberg.” Crescens relayed this information at a meeting of the Centurions and Optios, held in the Praetorium in an attempt to have some sort of control over the word spreading before we were ready to deal with the inevitable backlash. “And,” he continued grimly, “to a specific part of it.” Pausing, he added, “I’ll let you work out where that would be on your own. What’s important is that the ground was clearly prepared beforehand.” Glancing down at a wax tablet for reference, he went on, “The Germans created a line of entrenchments, and as hard as it may be to believe, there was a stretch of wooden wall as well. The only dry ground was the narrow strip Varus and his men were on, and it was too narrow for them to open their formation. They didn’t bother fortifying the opposite side of the track because it’s all bog.”
Stopping then, the Primus Pilus seemed content to allow us to whisper amongst ourselves for the next few moments, and the exchange Macer and I had was typical.
“There’s only one place like that,” Macer mused, then allowed, “At least, from what I’ve heard. What about you?”
I was reasonably certain we were thinking of the same place, but I did consider for a moment as I searched my memory for any other place in that dense, practically impenetrable tract of land for another spot that would provide the same conditions that Crescens had just described.
Finally, I shook my head and agreed, “No, I think you’re right.” Just to make sure, I added, “You’re thinking of that strip on the northern edge of the forest?”
Macer nodded, and was about to add something when Crescens, apparently deciding that he had allowed us to speculate long enough, cleared his throat and said irritably, “Yes, all right. I can see most of you know exactly where I’m talking about. Now, let’s talk about what this means.”
Not surprisingly, the last of the whispered conversations instantly ceased, since this would be the preface to the discussion of our immediate future. However, for a moment, it seemed as if our Primus Pilus had either lost his train of thought or he had not actually thought matters through, and he sat there staring down at the tablet in front of him, the silence becoming so oppressive that I imagined I could feel it palpably lying across my shoulders.
Finally, he resumed, but it was to ask a question. “Can anyone here recall a time when these barbarian tribes ever carried out something as complex a plan as this had to be?” Before any of us could answer, he added another question. “And actually built something like a wooden wall and rampart?”
I almost raised my hand, because my first thought was about my time just the year before in Pannonia, with the Legio Germanicus, and how the rebelling tribes not only adopted our tactics, but had begun copying our techniques for siege warfare and the like.
Fortunately, I stopped myself, so that it was actually the Quintus Pilus Posterior, Vibius Licinius, who offered, “Don’t those tribes in Pannonia steal our ways?”
Crescens’ reply was openly scornful. “That’s true, Licinius, but the last I checked, none of those tribes have managed to escape from Tiberius to invade Germania and make mischief. I don’t care about what some barbarians are doing somewhere else. I’m talking about the tribes up here.”
I did not know Licinius that well, but I certainly bore him no grudge; however, the primary emotion I was feeling at that moment was gratitude that he was the one who exposed himself to Crescens’ ire and not me. I also recall very clearly admonishing myself, Titus, you dodged the bolt on that one. Make sure you don’t go and ruin it by opening your mouth.
Whereupon, before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Primus Pilus, do we know which tribes are part of…whatever this is?”
I suppose the gods were looking at me kindly that day, because this not only did not seem to irritate Crescens, he actually nodded his head in approval.
Then he ruined the moment by pointing at me, but while addressing Licinius, “Now that is the right question to ask, Licinius! Pullus asked the most important question, so try to keep that in mind next time you want to open your mouth.”
I managed to contain my groan inside my body, but it was no less real because it was silent, as I thought, Thank you so much, Primus Pilus. Now I have someone else who hates me. For a brief instant, I did harbor the hope that Licinius would not focus his ire on me, but while I kept my eyes on Crescens, I felt the eyes of the Pilus Posterior boring into me.
It did not help matters when Macer murmured loudly enough for only me to hear, “Good job, Titus. If looks could kill, you’d be dead on the floor.”
Fortunately, Crescens either did not hear or chose to ignore this, running his finger down the wax tablet as he said, “Obviously, the Cherusci, since Arminius is the man behind all of this, and the Marsi, Chatti, Chauci, Sicambri.” He stopped then, and I thought he was finished, but I understood why he paused when he added a final name. “And the Bructeri.”
If someone unfamiliar with Germania beyond the Rhenus had been present, I suspect they would have been surprised at the collective sudden intake of breath, muttered curses, and whispered exchanges at the mention of the Bructeri. However, to all of us who served in this province, the mention of the Bructeri when combined in a statement about the Cherusci, and with no mention of how they were fighting each other, was so singularly unusual that it made our reaction not only understandable, but the proper one.
“So,” the Primus Pilus Posterior Tiberius Sacrovir spoke up, “if this Arminius was able to bring the Bructeri to his standard, and given what we know of how carefully they prepared this whole trap…we’re fucked.”
That certainly seemed to sum matters up nicely, and I would offer this as an example that proves the gravity of the situation that Crescens did not even bother to reprimand Sacrovir for this gloomy assessment. What was not known to any of us at the time was that our Primus Pilus had other matters on his mind that made this seemingly desperate situation not quite as dire for him; indeed, he had just been handed a promotion.