by R. W. Peake
He had come in behind me, but I had not noticed his presence until he gave a sharp, barking laugh, then exclaimed, “By the gods, Pullus! If I didn’t know better, I’d say our new Hastatus Posterior could be your son!”
I spun about, so I missed Volusenus leaping to his feet to cross the distance, so his voice was immediately behind me as he snapped, “I can assure you that the Centurion and I aren’t related! I’m the son of Quintus Claudius Volusenus, not this…”
Now I reversed myself, and for the first time, Volusenus and I were face to face, and I confess I did not like what I saw; Alex had been right, this man was a bit taller than I was and his chest was every bit as broad as mine. Being forced to look up, even if it was only a matter of an inch or so, was a distinctly unsettling feeling, but I was also pleased to see that he was clearly uneasy as well; I suppose the scars on my face, arms, and knees might have played a part in that.
“Not this what?” I asked quietly enough, but Macer knew me well enough to understand that my mild tone was deceptive.
“Have a seat, Volusenus. And you, Pullus,” Macer did not raise his voice, but it was no less a command, and naturally I complied, though I chose to glare at Vespillo, who tried unsuccessfully to look repentant for his role in the tension.
By the time Volusenus and I were seated, the rest of the Centurions had arrived, and the next few moments were occupied with everyone getting settled, while Lucco filled and distributed cups of wine. Once he saw we were taken care of, Macer began speaking.
“This is just an informal meeting now that we are back to our full complement of Centurions. As you can see,” Macer indicated Volusenus, who at that moment, was staring at the floor, “Hastatus Posterior Volusenus has purchased the posting.” At the sound of his name, the youngster, who I guessed to be around twenty years old, lifted his head, his chin tilted to the proper degree that I always associate with a member of the classes above the Head Count, but I also noticed that he studiously avoided looking in my direction. Macer continued, “Why don’t you tell us something about yourself, Volusenus?”
I had not thought it possible, but Volusenus proved me wrong by tilting his nose at an even higher degree as he spoke, with a diction and pacing that, when I do not think about it, is a part of my speech as well, which bespeaks of a private tutor, saying stiffly, “I am the son of Quintus Claudius Volusenus, and I was born in Aquileia, although my family moved to Mediolanum when I was very young. He is a very important man in Mediolanum, and has served there as one of the duumviri on two separate occasions.”
“What’s his business?” Cornutus asked, to which Volusenus replied with obvious pride, “He has several business interests, so it’s impossible to say exactly what he does.”
The smile he offered was, I supposed, to be somewhat self-deprecating, but if this was his intent, it had the opposite effect, as Philus groaned, “Pluto’s balls; another rich boy?”
Volusenus stiffened at this, and before Macer could interject, he shot back, “I can assure you, Centurion, that my father’s wealth has nothing to do with my qualifications to be in the Centurionate!”
“Oh?” Vespillo’s tone was dry, and his eye swept the rest of us as he said, “So the Princeps just heard about this young version of Mars himself and waived the fee?”
The youngster’s face reddened, and he admitted, “No, I’m not saying that. Everything was done properly, I can assure you. But,” he insisted, and as he did, I noticed that he subtly but unmistakably thrust his chest out, pulling the new tunic tightly across his chest, “I’ve been performing the exercises on the Campus Martius of Mediolanum starting even earlier than normal, because of my size.” For the first time since our initial encounter, he looked directly at me, and his tone turned belligerent as he finished, “And I know that I can acquit myself quite well…against anyone in this Cohort.”
I am certain that the mood in the room changed in that instant, but I was barely aware of it, ignoring Macer’s warning glare as I stood, and once more, moved closer to Volusenus.
“Anytime,” my voice was steady, and I made an effort to imbue my speaking with a cool, almost bored tone, “you think you’re ready, Volusenus, I’m easy to find.”
“That’s enough,” Macer snapped. “There will be plenty of time for sparring. First,” he turned to Volusenus, and his voice was harsh, “you need to take command of your Century and prove that you know what you’re doing.” With this said, he returned his attention to the rest of us, his tone every bit as unyielding as he commanded, “And I expect the rest of you to do your part making sure Hastatus Posterior Volusenus is worthy of marching with us in the Fourth Cohort. And,” he warned, “if he doesn’t, I am holding each of you equally responsible.”
That I was the last man he looked in the eye as he finished might have been a coincidence, but I did not believe so.
As loath as I am to admit it, Volusenus did a creditable job assuming command of the Sixth Century, although like every new Centurion, he was a bit lost when it came to the record keeping required by the Princeps, which I learned through Alex, who was friends with the Sixth’s clerk Krateros. For the rankers of the Sixth, however, there was another benefit, which I learned from Macer.
“I don’t know what the new boy said to Gillo,” Macer told me one evening, about a month after Volusenus’ appearance, “but the word is that his Optio is minding his manners.” As proof, he waved a tablet in the air. “This is the lightest punishment list from the Sixth in months.”
While Macer seemed pleased, I was not willing to credit the young Centurion with this development, and I dismissed it by saying, “That’s probably because Volusenus is trying to win the favor of his boys by rescinding whatever punishment Gillo is handing out.”
“I thought that as well,” Macer answered with a shake of his head, “but I asked one of my little birds in the Sixth, and he swears on the black stone that Gillo has suddenly become a model Optio.”
“One of your ‘little birds’?” I asked dryly, “You mean a ‘little bird’ who wears a wolf headdress?”
Macer’s face reddened slightly, and he sighed. “How did you know?”
“That the Signifer is your source for information?” I laughed. “Because I was under the standard before I was under the standard, that’s how.”
Macer instantly understood my meaning, that I had been around the Legions my entire life, hence I knew that a shrewd Pilus Prior cultivated the man who is considered the steadiest, most reliable man in a Century. A man selected to be Signifer has to be made of iron when it comes to nerve and willingness to stand in place, not moving until he is ordered to do so, and while I only knew the Sixth’s Signifer, Vibius Macerinus by reputation, it was what I would expect of a man in his post.
“Anyway,” he grumbled, “I don’t think it’s because Volusenus is cozying up to the men.” When I did not make any reply, Macer took the moment to take a swallow from his cup, but I sensed there was something else on his mind. It was when I noticed him seemingly occupied with setting the cup carefully back on his desk while keeping his eyes fixed on it that I had a presentiment this would be something I would not like. “You know, Titus,” he said with a casualness that I could hear was forced, “I know Vespillo was just trying to stir things up like always, but I have to say,” only then did he raise his head to look at me, “you and Volusenus do resemble each other.”
“We’re both big.” Even this acknowledgment seemed to stick in my throat, but Macer shook his head.
“I mean, besides the obvious,” he said. “There’s just…something in the way he carries himself.”
“So,” I tried to make a joke of it, “what are you trying to say? That I’m an arrogant bastard like him?”
Macer laughed, but he was unwilling to let it go, insisting, “No, it’s more than that.” I suppose he read my expression, because, suddenly, he gave a shrug and finished awkwardly, “I don’t know. There’s just…”
“Yes,” I cut him off, trying t
o keep my growing anger under control, “there’s something about him. But,” I swallowed hard, caught by surprise at how painful it was to say, “while I did have a child, about twenty years ago, he died. And,” I finished bitterly, “so did his mother. In childbirth.”
“Ah,” Macer looked embarrassed, and he admitted, “that’s right. I forgot. What was her name again?”
“Giulia,” I barely whispered her name. “Her name was Giulia.”
I left shortly after that, and Macer never again brought up the topic of this supposed resemblance between me and the new Centurion.
The rest of the year of Germanicus’ Consulship passed in a routine manner for us, with regular patrols across the Rhenus, rarely deeper than a day’s march east, and always with at least a Cohort and, even more importantly, two turmae of cavalry, who formed a protective screen around us to serve as an early warning of any German force. And, despite not suffering any major losses, there were at least a dozen minor skirmishes, usually starting in the form of an ambush, perpetrated by small bands of warriors, and the Fourth and my Century were not immune. The air of tension, dread, and readiness that seemed to permeate the very air we breathed in the aftermath of Varus’ defeat had certainly eased, if only because it is so exhausting to try and maintain a state of alertness for such a long period of time. Nevertheless, every one of us in the Centurionate was determined that we would not be caught unaware like our dead counterparts of the three perished Legions, which was what led to the first clash between Volusenus and me. It was the Fourth’s turn to march, and we were in Sugambri territory, perhaps twenty miles east of the river, nearing the end of the day’s progress, reaching the base of what is gently sloping ground that climbs eastward. Heavily forested, there is a natural track that follows along a small river that feeds into the Rhenus, with the first few miles from the Rhenus having been improved by us over the years, but by the point where the ground noticeably tilts upward, it was back to that narrow, rutted road that is most common in Germania. While it was not Macer’s intent to do so, it was the turn of the Sixth to be the advance Century, while my Third was immediately behind them in the column, and I honestly do not recall whether Macer, or any of us for that matter, warned Volusenus that this stretch of ground was particularly dangerous, having been used many times as a good ambush spot by the Germans. At the time, I suppose that I, and the other Centurions, assumed that Gillo would warn Volusenus that this was the case, proving once again how dangerous assumptions can be in the business of the Legions. As was our standard practice, there was a wider gap between the leading rank of my Century and the rear rank of the Sixth, which has been done long before I was ever under the standard and, frankly, was one of the myriad things that none of us ever thought to question. Once I did think about it, I supposed it was some Legate’s idea to dangle a lone Century out as bait with the appearance of a larger gap between the leading element and the rest of the column, and like so many things we Romans do, we just kept doing it. Regardless of how it developed, that day the Sixth was leading the way, and following the course of the river, had completely disappeared around a bend when, with nothing more than one warning shout from the ranker in my First Section who marched on the outer file, a gnarled veteran named Gnaeus Clustuminus, who was also the section Sergeant, we were ambushed. He paid for his alertness by taking a javelin in the thigh, part of a hail of missiles that came streaking out from the thick undergrowth just a dozen paces away, but he was luckier than two of my boys. We were in our armor, naturally, and wearing our helmets, but the men had their shields covered and wore them slung on their backs in our normal fashion. Because of the curvature of the shield, it does provide some protection, but in a situation such as the one we were facing then, the only way to bring this protection fully to bear is to either unsling the shield, which takes too long, or literally turn away from the attack in order to present the entire shield to the missiles. Not surprisingly, this latter move was not what most of the men on the outer file did, which was why several of them were struck. Being where I was, I had to rely on Structus, marching at the rear opposite side, and I heard him bellowing over the shouts and cries of pain from Clustuminus and the others struck.
“Close up! Shields out, you bastards!”
While Structus was handling what was now the front rank, as without any orders from me, the rest of the Century not under direct attack dropped their packs, unslung their shields, and pivoted to their left to face this ambush, I ordered Centumalus to sound the alarm for the entire Cohort. Since my view was blocked by the ranks of the Century, I had yet to actually see any attackers, but even before Centumalus began blowing the notes, I was moving at a run to reach the outermost file to the left, which was now the front rank. Clustuminus was down, but his section mate, who an instant before had been to his right and was now the man behind him, had managed to step over his comrade and unsling his shield, while the wounded man had dragged his own protection over his body so that only his lower legs protruded, as he was trying to drag himself backward using just his right arm. Beyond them, I caught a glimpse of movement in the trees, just a flashing sense of a figure in greenish brown, but it was the blurred streaking missile that came slashing out of the underbrush that, thankfully, I saw heading my way. Twisting my body, I felt the disturbed air as it narrowly missed me, while my sudden movement caused my feet to tangle with each other, and I stumbled forward, bent over at the waist as I tried to avoid from falling flat on my face. I sensed more than actually saw the second javelin that went streaking inches over my back, although I somehow managed to recover my balance and pull myself erect. By the time I did, my momentum had brought me next to where Clustuminus was lying, protected by his fellow section member Publius Tetarfenus, who had one short throwing spear stuck in his shield, which he was holding in front of him but slightly lower than normal to give his wounded comrade extra protection. Aside from that first glimpse, all I saw of the attackers were their fleeing backs as they went dashing through the heavy underbrush, quickly vanishing and leaving only the sounds of their retreat as they ran deeper into the forest.
Clustuminus’ wound was serious but not life-threatening, the iron head penetrating through the outer part of his thigh without severing a vessel. Quintus Florus, however, was not so lucky, the Sergeant of my Fourth Section taking a javelin through the lung, dying shortly after being struck, while a man in the Eighth Section lived only a matter of a watch longer. Three more men had been struck, but their wounds, confined to their upper extremities, were relatively minor, and they could still march, albeit without their packs. Our casualties were not confined to the Legionaries; two of the section slaves, who naturally were unarmored, were slain, along with a mule. Alex was unhurt, and in fact, he and the three other slaves trained as medici were moving forward even as the last javelins were still flying. My natural inclination was to send at least five sections, half the Century, in pursuit, but I had been under the standard too long to give in, knowing this was likely exactly what these attackers wanted. I did set up a defensive line, and first Vespillo, who was following my Century, then Macer, whose First was behind Vespillo, came running up to me, just as, at last, the rear ranks of the Sixth Century reappeared from around the bend up ahead. At least, I assumed it was the rear ranks, but then I spotted their standard, the first indication that partially explained why they were so late arriving.
“Did he make them reverse their formation?” Macer asked, but although this was a valid question, I had other matters on my mind, and without thinking, I headed directly for Volusenus, who was next to his Signifer.
I cannot say what my state of mind was when I began walking towards the youngster, but within a matter of a few paces, my rage was growing so rapidly that even if I had been inclined to do so, I doubt I could have kept it under control.
“How the fuck did this happen?” I bellowed when I was still a half-dozen paces away. “How did you miss that many fucking Germans?”
While Volusenus’ face betra
yed not only being startled, I was gratified to see what I knew was fear there, although he did stand his ground as he replied stiffly, “I don’t know what you mean, Princeps Prior Pullus!”
Pointing in the direction of the woods, I demanded, “How far out did you have your flanking guards?”
The answer was in his expression, but before I could make more of an issue of it, Macer had arrived, and he adroitly placed himself between me and Volusenus, yet doing it in a way that it seemed as if he was only addressing the other Centurion instead of keeping us separated.
“Hastatus Posterior Volusenus,” compared to my tone, Macer’s voice was gentle, “did you have a flank guard?”
“Yes, Pilus Prior,” Volusenus answered immediately, then he hesitated. “At least,” he added awkwardly, “I did.”
“You did?” I blurted out. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“That’s enough, Pullus!” Macer turned and snapped at me, but when he turned back to Volusenus, he essentially repeated my question, though it was done more politely. “What exactly does that mean, Volusenus?”
“Well,” now there was no way to mistake the discomfort of Volusenus, “I made sure the men out on the flank guard were relieved every third of a watch, just like you commanded.” He swallowed hard, then admitted, “And while I brought the last set in during our last rest stop, I must have forgotten…”
“You stupid cunnus!” I raged, but even when Macer whirled on me, clearly furious, I was beyond caring as I pointed back to where the comrades of my casualties were performing the tasks that are part of our training when a man falls. “Look at what your forgetfulness cost my Century! I’ve got one dead Legionary, and another who will probably be dead before the next sunrise! All because you don’t know how to do your fucking job!”