by R. W. Peake
It was left to Centumalus to send an entire Legion into motion, while we in the Fourth were consigned to standing there, staring at the grinning, empty-eyed skulls of men that, even if we had not known them, wore our uniform, making them our comrades. Tiberius, Germanicus, and the gaggle of junior officers went on a scouting tour around the perimeter of the camp, and when they began moving away, Germanicus caught my eye and threw me a wink.
“Good job, Pullus,” he muttered as he went past me, which did not have the effect I suspect he was aiming for, because I turned to confront Macer.
“Why did you give me credit for picking up that the Germans had just been here arranging this?” I gestured towards the skulls. “That was you!”
Shrugging, he said, “What matters is the possibility that there’s an ambush in the offing, and you’re the one who figured it out. Trying to explain to Tiberius which of us did what and said what; I just decided it would be a waste of time.”
When he put it in this way, it made sense, but I was still suspicious, certain that this was not the only reason my Pilus Prior and friend had for doing as he had done, although before I could make more of an issue of it, there came the sound of several cornu, as each Cohort signaled they were in position surrounding the camp. Also, by this point, Tiberius and his party had made their circuit around the camp, and came trotting up to where we were still standing.
“Since this camp only has two gates, I think it’s best if you and your first three Centuries go,” he pointed to the southern side of the camp – we had approached from the western side – and ordered, “through the breach the Germans made on the southern side of the camp. It’s just around the corner there. Enter the camp, and have your Cornicen sound the call if it’s all clear.”
There was nothing for Macer to do but salute, then give the command for his Century to begin marching, while I followed him since the Second Century was on our left. When we marched away, the last three Centuries simply moved forward so that the ring around the camp was unbroken. As Tiberius had said, the place where the Germans had managed to breach the wall, pulling it down and filling in the ditch, was just about thirty paces from the corner of the western and southern walls. The men of the Ninth Cohort were standing directly across from the breach, but this was a time when there was none of the usual jeering banter back and forth between men of different Cohorts, and I suspect it was because, just like there was a display on the western wall, for the first time we saw that the Germans had completely encompassed all four sides of the camp with the grisly display of their victory. And, I immediately noticed, just like the rows with which we had been confronted, whoever had preceded us had ensured that every skull was perched atop the shafts buried in the dirt. Later, we learned that the Germans had done this on all four sides of the camp, arranging the shafts with a precision that, although I never heard confirmation, I am certain was no accident but was a mockery of the Roman love of order and regularity. It was when we entered the camp, however, when we realized that the skulls were just a hint of the horrors to come. Confined within the dirt walls of the camp were piles of bones, the remains of men who had been stripped down to their tunics, all of which had been reduced to rags by the elements that weakly fluttered in the slight breeze. It quickly became apparent that the heads had been removed and were those on display around the camp, since there were relatively few skulls lying in the dirt. Naturally, the Germans had stripped the dead of anything useful, leaving behind the detritus and debris of what had once been several hundred Legionaries, and none of the Centurions had to issue any orders for the men to remain quiet as we examined the site of Caedicius’ last stand. I did hold out a faint hope that, perhaps, Caedicius’ remains would be distinguishable from the piles of moldering bones, but we never found anything that would positively prove that the Camp Prefect had been singled out in death for any kind of special treatment. Arranged in neat rows that bespoke of the manner in which Caedicius had managed to enforce at least a semblance of order, were squares of black, scorched earth and small piles of charred wood and ash, the remnants of the tents that were part of the reason the defenders managed to hold out for so long, somewhat sheltered from the elements. As I mentioned, we already had learned from survivors that Varus had constructed this camp on the march to his doom as he pressed eastward, but instead of destroying it, had left it not only intact, leaving behind some men who had been struck by a bloody flux and a Century to guard them, the remains of these men I assume were mixed in with those brought to this place by the Camp Prefect. Strewn about everywhere were scraps of leather from the baltea of the slain, snapped javelin shafts, although every piece of iron had been salvaged by the victors, but it was the sight in what had been the forum of the camp that was most unsettling. In a grisly imitation of the neatness shown in the skulls, the forum contained what had once been four rows of headless skeletons, although it was difficult to tell because animals had scattered them as they feasted on the flesh that had encased the bones.
“They must have brought the survivors here and beheaded them, one after another.” Macer’s voice was a combination of tightly controlled anger, and if I was any judge, sadness, which was explained when he said, “I can’t even imagine what it must have been like, waiting for your turn.”
While I could not argue this, I also felt the need to point to the row of six crosses that had been sunk into the ground where the praetorium had once been, underneath each of which were piles of bones, and significantly, had skulls near each one of them.
“At least these weren’t crucified like those poor bastards,” I told Macer. Struck by a thought, I mused, “I wonder if the Prefect is one of them?”
“Maybe,” Macer shrugged, “but only the gods know now.”
Later, that night when we made camp a short distance away, there was quite a bit of argument about one aspect of the camp, and that was the smell in the air. Some men insisted that the camp stank of death, while others scoffed at this, saying that the parts of a man that corrupt and provide the stench had long since either been consumed or rotted away. Personally, I was in the former school of thought; I was certain I could smell that distinctive odor of human remains that every soldier who has seen battle knows. It was certainly faint, and I suppose it is possible that, just as with eyesight, some men have keener senses of smell than others, but I did not ask any of my fellow Centurions whether they had caught the scent of mortality like I had. One fortunate thing occurred to the Fourth; since we had been the first ones into the camp, we were excused from the grisly task of collecting the remains of the defenders, standing guard instead as the others worked. In what I considered to be both a shrewd and impactful decision, Tiberius ordered that, before the cleanup began, every man from all four Legions be marched into the camp so that they could see for themselves this evidence of what is certainly the worst military defeat in our collective lifetimes. And, I will say that, at the time, I was certain that we would never see anything this horrible and sobering again.
Regarding the remains, it was decided that, rather than taking the time and making the effort to cremate the bones in our manner, they were to be interred in the ground. And, while I do not fault Tiberius for making the expedient decision to use the ditch surrounding the camp as a mass grave, I also can understand why there were a fair number of men who grumbled at this. Not, I would add, to the point where it consisted of anything more than muttered conversations around the fire, but given all that was to transpire with the Legions, I have wondered from time to time whether or not this was just one more small perceived insult added to the list of issues that created what was to come. At the time, however, it was simply another thing about which soldiers like to complain, and it was overshadowed by another, more potent concern, the lack of any kind of resistance by the Germans. From Caedicius’ camp, we marched east, along the Lupia (Lippe) River, but only for a day, torching one village, which as with the others, was deserted. This put us on the western edge of Bructeri lands, and we all
expected that we would be visiting the same destructive punishment on them as we had on the Tubantes, which was why when Macer summoned us to his quarters after a meeting of the Pili Priores, we were in for a huge surprise.
“We’re crossing the Lupia, and heading south,” Macer informed us. “But,” he hesitated, and we understood why when he finished, “we’re heading back home.”
There was a brief silence, then we all burst out, although we were essentially asking the same question: why?
“The Legate has decided that it’s pretty clear that Arminius has no intention of trying to stop us,” Macer explained, while I studied his demeanor carefully, trying to determine where his sentiments lay in this matter, “and while we’ve made it a hard winter for the Tubantes and the Marsi, we haven’t managed to inflict the kind of casualties we were hoping for.”
This was certainly true, as far as it went, particularly where it concerned our inability to capture or kill any able-bodied tribespeople; personally, I was I shared the sentiment of those men who had been complaining that we were inadvertently doing the Germans a favor because those few people we did put to the gladius were uniformly old and incapacitated in some way, and had been left behind by their own people when they fled into the forest. Still, this did not sit well, and I was not alone, but we also all understood that, ultimately, our feelings did not matter. We would be expected to relay the orders as if we wholeheartedly agreed with them, so aside from some muttered comments, which Macer ignored, we were dismissed to return to our Centuries to alert them about the coming day. In itself, this was not a particularly important moment, but I do believe that, in the same way as Tiberius’ decision concerning the remains of Caedicius’ men, this was another incident that was added to the list of grievances that the rankers were accruing against the Legate, the Princeps, and Rome.
We crossed the pontoon bridge back to Ubiorum, and while I did not speak with Centurions from the other three Legions, just judging from the demeanor of the rankers, the entire army was of a like mind, that we had not come close to avenging Varus’ Legions. The disgruntlement was not only plain to see, it was quite disconcerting, but not because the men were being vocal or physically demonstrating their displeasure. Instead, it was in the form of an almost total silence, one so pervasive that the only sounds were the rhythmic thudding of hobnails on the hard-packed surface of the unpaved road, the jingle of metal, and the creaking of leather. There was no buzzing of conversation, yet beyond that, there was not even an occasional comment or a cough; frankly, it was a bit unnerving, but it was the manner in which the men were staring straight ahead, not even glancing in my direction as I made my usual occasional circuit around the Century as we marched, and when we stopped for the rest period, the men obediently grounded their packs and sat on the ground, yet still remained silent, although I could overhear an occasional whisper. I joined Macer and the other Centurions and Optios, walking a safe distance away to discuss matters.
It was a sign that Macer was as disturbed as I, and judging by the others’ expressions, our counterparts, when he blurted out, “You’ve all been in longer than I have. Have any of you seen them act like this?”
Under normal circumstances, our Pilus Prior, who had purchased his posting, was loath to mention his relative lack of experience, although by this point, he had more than proved himself, and with only one exception, had been accepted by the rest of us as being worthy of the post of leading a first line Cohort. That he led with his inexperience was almost as telling as the question itself, and we all were quick to assure him that, no, none of us had ever seen them behaving in this manner.
“I’ve seen men angry, and I’ve seen them disappointed, but nothing like this,” Vespillo said, and I took this as yet another sign of how unusual this situation was, because the Pilus Posterior rarely missed an opportunity to needle Macer about his lack of experience, so when the Pilus Prior himself brought it up, the fact that Vespillo ignored the opening was telling in itself. Shaking his head, he finished, “I don’t even know how I would describe this.”
The rest of us more or less agreed with Vespillo’s assessment, but it was Cornutus who offered what would turn out to be a futile hope, although at the time we shared it. “I think that once we get back to where the whores and wine are, they’ll get over whatever this is.”
The cornu sounded the call to resume the march, and we returned to our posts. As I moved to my spot next to Gemellus, my Signifer was completely absorbed in tying the thong to his headdress, which was not unusual, but when he made sure to turn his body in such a way that there was no way our eyes would meet, I knew this was no accident. A Signifer is one of the most important men in a Century, for one obvious reason, but also because he serves an important function for his Centurion, acting as something like a weather vane that tells him which way the proverbial wind is blowing in his command. That Gemellus was going out of his way to avoid being put in a position where I might actually demand to know what was happening with the rankers in my Century was just one more troubling sign, and I spent the remainder of the march trying to think of what could be behind this sullen silence. Thankfully, once we were across the Rhenus, Tiberius dismissed the men and gave them the liberty of the town, and at the time I wondered if this was because of his recognition that the army was in a state of mind that meant further demands could lead to some sort of trouble. Whatever his reasoning, I was not alone in welcoming this tiny gesture, and while it did not return the men to their normal behavior, I think that ultimately, it was impossible for the men to remain in this sullen state when the prospect for drunken debauchery was beckoning. Unfortunately, this did not extend to the officers, simply because of the problem that Ubiorum did not normally house four Legions, although we had expanded to accommodate three. More crucially, the supply of whores and wine was not sufficient to handle the excess either, resulting in inevitable brawls when a dispute broke out. Truly, I do not think any of us got much sleep the next two nights, summoned to mediate some disagreement, or more commonly, break up a fight. I am afraid that I took out my resultant foul mood on Alex, which was especially problematic since I was relying on him to act as my eyes and ears among the rankers, trying to get a better idea of exactly what was going on. By the time Tiberius ordered the town closed to the army, I had an even dozen men on the punishment list, which was not that much higher than normal, but three of them had been deemed worthy of being flogged, though thankfully, not with the scourge. A ranker in Vespillo’s Century, however, had been involved in a brawl where a man from the 14th was killed by a dagger thrust into his eye, but since he had not been the man wielding the dagger, he escaped with his life, barely, being given fifty lashes, of which the last ten were with the scourge. The murderer was from the Fifth of the Third Cohort, and both the 1st and the 14th were paraded to watch the man’s comrades beat him to death, something that, even for those who have witnessed it before, is still hard to watch. Then, a day short of two weeks after we returned, Tiberius and Germanicus departed for Rome. For most of the men, it would be almost two more years before they would see either of them again. That, however, was not to be my own fate.
With the end of what can only be charitably called a campaign, the other two Legions actually returned to what from that point forward would be their normal home of Vetera, while the 1st and 20th resumed life in garrison, and fairly quickly, things seemed to return to normal. It is only with the clarity that comes after an event that I, and my fellow Centurions, now know was simply a lull before the impending storm that would descend upon us. In the larger world, word came that Arminius still had his hands full trying to remain as the effective ruler of the confederation of German tribes, and I know I was not alone in being thankful for the other tribal leaders keeping him occupied. It was not that I no longer wanted to avenge the lost Legions, but like with all such things, time tends to cool the ardor. And, as I was forced to acknowledge, only to myself, I was not getting any younger. Gone were the days when I arose eve
ry morning after a day’s march without feeling any lingering effects, and I had begun to notice that my knees in particular seemed to bother me, to which I ascribe the restriction caused by the scar tissue from the burns I suffered when I marched for Germanicus. If I am being honest, as I have sworn to do in the same way as my Avus in his own account, I tend to wake in a foul mood now, and the best thing I can say is that I do try very hard not to take out my sour disposition on Alex. He had grown into his full manhood, and while he was taller than his father Diocles, he was still much shorter than I was, with the same kind of slender build as his father, but in one of those quirks of fate that I have given up trying to understand, while he has hair as black as a crow’s wing, like Diocles did, he inherited his mother’s startling blue eyes, which, as he learned, were quite an attraction to the ladies. In fact, he was carrying on what he thought was a secret affair with a young maiden, and not just any average ranker’s child either. His love, for that is what she was, was the daughter of an equestrian merchant, one Lucius Salvius Poppaeus, though he went by Salvius, the man who supplied us with both grain and olive oil. Poppaea, the young woman, was quite lovely, and it would be a lie if I said I did not notice her beauty, but more than anything, seeing them together proved to be quite painful, reminding me of a young Gregarius who fell in love with the only daughter of a merchant in Siscia. Perhaps I can be forgiven, but I was less than encouraging when Alex broached the subject of pursuing something more than a brief liaison with Poppaea, which I did under the guise of the inherent problems in our society of any kind of lasting attachment between people of different classes. That was certainly a consideration, but it was not the main reason I discouraged it; I am afraid that my own past clouded my view of this young couple’s prospects for happiness. Unfortunately, Alex actually heeded my advice, though I was happy about it at the time.