Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  There was one positive effect with what had happened to Volusenus; he no longer had any issues with his men instantly obeying his orders, something that, while he was loath to admit it before this event, had been an issue for Volusenus. From his first day, he had known that he would be operating at a handicap, showing up as what men under the standard referred to as a “paid man” because his father had purchased a spot in the Centurionate for him. That Quintus Volusenus was not his father was a fact about which he had been unaware; only in retrospect, after learning the truth, did Volusenus fully appreciate why the man he thought of as his father was so willing to offer the substantial sum to place him into the Legion. It not only removed the responsibility for someone who was not his blood from Quintus’ shoulders; the truth was that the money had not really been his but was part of the largesse bestowed on him by his mother’s father to marry her. For the rest of his days, Volusenus would consider it a good thing that Quintus had died not long after Volusenus had joined the Legions; the emotions he felt about him were so turbulent and tangled, and he knew himself well enough to understand that it was likely there would have been some sort of dramatic, and most likely violent, confrontation, despite Volusenus’ best intentions. Regardless of the actual truth, in the aftermath of Volusenus’ actions, things changed for the young Centurion, and not just with his Century.

  He had debated with himself about talking to Titus Pullus, but he had been spared making a decision, because the night after the incident, Pullus’ clerk Alex, who Volusenus had been told was Pullus’ nephew, showed up in Volusenus’ quarters to invite him to dine with Pullus. From his first day, when Pilus Prior Macer had introduced Volusenus to the other Centurions in the First of the Fourth, there had been something between Pullus and him, a tension that neither man really understood but knew was there. And, if Volusenus had been disposed to ask Pullus, he would have learned that the older man was of a like mind, at least initially, that they were unaccustomed to the idea that there was another man whose size and strength rivaled their own. Volusenus had always been the largest in any group, whether it be the children of other Equestrians who shared the same tutor or on the Campus Martius of Mediolanum when performing the military exercises that were expected of every Roman man of the Equestrian and higher orders. Truly, the pair had clashed from their first meeting, and Volusenus was at least honest enough with himself to privately acknowledge that he had been the instigator in most of those incidents.

  It had all started with a chance remark by Numerius Vespillo, the Quartus Pilus Posterior, who had actually uttered what turned out to be the truth, but as a joke, that Pullus could have been Volusenus’ father, something that at the time Volusenus had not found funny in the slightest. Nevertheless, it had not been his intention to insult Pullus within a matter of heartbeats after they first met, but as often happened, his temper had gotten the best of him, and from that first clash, a tone had been set between the two. If this was the only difficulty Volusenus had faced, it would be enough, but he had made matters worse for himself because of his own insecurity, acutely aware that he was a paid man. As with matters with Pullus, it was only in hindsight, and maturity, that Volusenus recognized that most of his problems had been of his own creation. The situation with Pullus came to a head when, in a fit of temper, fueled by what Volusenus quickly learned was overconfidence, he challenged the older Centurion to a sparring match, witnessed only by their fellow Centurions. The beating Volusenus had received had been thorough, both in the physical sense and in how humiliated he felt afterward; it was not until much, much later, when he and Pullus had become close, that he learned that Pullus had been secretly impressed with Volusenus’ skill. That same night, Volusenus had appeared in Pullus’ quarters, swallowing his massive pride to ask Pullus to help train him, and while nothing was ever said between the two about it, Pullus knew better than anyone what it took for the younger man to show up. This had marked the beginning of the change between the pair, so that by the time of Volusenus’ fit, the young Centurion would not have gone to anyone else about what had happened to him. That was when he had learned that he was not alone, and once Volusenus learned the truth of his father’s identity, he would look back and realize that this was also the first moment where something that had been lurking somewhere in the back of his mind had first thrust itself into his consciousness, that there was a deeper connection to Titus Pullus than just his size. At the time, it had been easy to shove that thought aside, mainly because Volusenus refused to give it any credence since to do so would mean that his mother had been unfaithful to the man he thought of as his father. It was something that, frankly, he felt a little foolish about later, that it had never occurred to him that Giulia might have lain with Titus Pullus before she even met Quintus Volusenus, although that was not much better in Roman society. Oh, he was well aware that such things happened; he had heard all manner of gossip about other women of his social status growing up in Mediolanum. Only when he thought about it later did he recall that, whenever such matters were mentioned, it was always his father who brought it up, and it was in front of his mother. Who, he recalled, would always remain silent.

  The revolt of the Rhenus Legions had been a trying ordeal for any man wearing the transverse crest of a Centurion or white stripe of an Optio, but for a relatively inexperienced man like Volusenus, it had also been extremely confusing. Almost despite himself, he quickly realized that his sympathies were more aligned with the men of his Century than of the new Imperator Tiberius, but he also understood that he could not let his personal feelings in the matter show, for a number of reasons. Some of these were obvious; if he sided with the men, while it might make Volusenus more popular with his Century, it would mark him as, at the very least, a Centurion who was more concerned with being liked by his men. Even worse, and more likely, by doing so, Volusenus would essentially be defying Tiberius and the authority of the Senate. Although the latter was clearly the more dangerous in the long term, what Volusenus and the other officers saw was that appearing to wholeheartedly side with Tiberius was every bit as hazardous, not to just a man’s career, but to his life. During the period where the Legions were in open rebellion, there had been several Centurions and Optios who, for one reason or another, had been deemed by the rankers to be worthy of punishment, all of it brutal and some of it turning deadly, although with the latter, it was more a case of the flogging going too far, not that it was premeditated. Volusenus was acutely aware of his status as a paid man, although he felt reasonably confident that he had proven himself to his men, and he certainly did not have a reputation for being a “striper,” nor did he ever use his men for financial gain. Nevertheless, it was a nervous time, but it was even more so for Volusenus because Pullus had been sent back to his original posting in Pannonia to aid Tiberius’ natural son Drusus in quelling that uprising, and it was during this period when Volusenus realized how much he had come to rely on the older Centurion for guidance. Once he learned the truth, it was always impossible for Volusenus to untangle his emotions when he thought back to that time, less than a year before his life was saved by his father, his real father, yet somehow, he had managed to weather the upheaval without Pullus being there. And, probably most importantly, once Pullus had returned to the 1st, and Volusenus had proposed the idea of simply removing the troublemakers from their Century by the simplest means available, ordering their arrest for some charge, Pullus had stopped Volusenus from what he recognized fairly quickly would have been a disastrous move. Fortunately, for all parties, Germanicus had given a performance worthy of the stage, almost singlehandedly ending the rebellion of the Rhenus Legions with a single speech. And, in doing so, Germanicus cemented his status as the Roman nobleman who was not only respected, but was loved by the men of the Legions, and as years passed, Volusenus observed something that Pullus had once mentioned to him, how Tiberius was respected by the men of the Legions, but not loved, and he often wondered how much this reality figured in the events that were to c
ome.

  The mutiny had collapsed in a last spasm of bloodletting and retribution, not by Germanicus, but by the men themselves, in an attempt to show they were willing to expiate their disloyalty by punishing the men who had been the most vocal and the most vigorous in agitating their comrades. It had been a brutal business, as one by one, each Cohort served as the jury for every accused man, who was dragged up onto the rostrum in the forum of the camp, whereupon their guilt or innocence was pronounced by acclamation. Volusenus had not been surprised that the majority of the accused were immediately pronounced guilty, although there were cases in other Cohorts, and in the other Legion present, the 20th, where it was determined a man was innocent and had been accused by one of his comrades to settle an old score. When it was the turn of the Fourth Cohort, to nobody’s surprise but the man himself, Pullus had been deemed to be the best qualified to perform the executions, which he had performed without incident, until it was the time for a Gregarius from his own Century. Publius Atilius Pusio was a relative newcomer to the Third Century, Fourth Cohort, but in that short period of time, he had proven to be the worst of those men who were now being judged. Part of the second emergency dilectus after the Varus disaster, the deceased Princeps had been forced to scrape the bottom of the barrel of the slums of Rome, along with the most recalcitrant of those men he considered troublemakers among the Equestrian order. Pusio had been one of the latter; that he was relatively well educated meant that his demagoguery was more effective, and Volusenus knew that Pusio had been a rock in Pullus’ caliga ever since his arrival in the aftermath of the Varus disaster.

  On the day the revolt ended, when it was the turn of the Fourth Cohort to pass judgment on those men who were deemed most responsible, although Pusio’s condemnation could not be characterized as the swiftest, there was no hesitation on the part of his former comrades in declaring his guilt. And, in that moment, Volusenus, along with the other men of the Fourth Cohort, had witnessed a side of Titus Pullus that was not only disquieting, but once Volusenus learned the truth of his paternity, explained from where the darkness within himself came. Prior to Pusio, Pullus had dispatched each and every mutineer with a dispassionate efficiency, his massive strength and flawless technique at least providing a merciful end to their lives. Not, however, with Pusio; claiming that his arm was fatigued, Titus Pullus had ensured that Pusio’s end was as painful and horrific as he could make it. Despite knowing that the troublemaker deserved to die, Volusenus was shaken by the manner in which Pullus had prolonged the man’s agony, seemingly missing his mark and only partially severing the man’s head, and he was certain that it had not been a mistake. More importantly, Marcus Macer, the Quartus Pilus Prior and both Pullus and Volusenus’ direct superior, was not fooled either, and while Volusenus never learned the specifics, it was an open secret that Macer was considering dismissing Pullus from his post, although Volusenus had no idea how Macer would have gone about doing something like that. Fortunately for Pullus, and the Cohort, after a couple of tense watches, Macer decided that taking further action was unnecessary, yet Volusenus had a hard time erasing the image of Pusio, still alive, at least in the sense of his eyes being open and making some sort of noise, having the top of his head sliced off, exposing the man’s brains to the watching Legionaries.

  While the mutiny was over, and the troublemakers removed, Germanicus was not content to let the men settle in for winter, intent on taking them on a campaign across the Rhenus. Wisely, however, he kept the scope of the campaign limited, both in duration and its target, which was the Marsi tribe whose lands ran along a strip, with the Rhenus as its western boundary, and the Rura and Lupia Rivers as the southern and northern, respectively. By doing so, Germanicus ensured that the men would be kept too busy preparing for the campaign to spend loitering, discussing what had just transpired in the weeks before, and possibly reopening recently closed wounds. This was Volusenus’ second campaign, although he was constantly reminded by his fellow Centurions that this was unlike a normal campaign, both because of the circumstances and the season. Winter campaigns were extremely rare, but they were not unheard of; every one of the other officers of the Fourth Cohort had been with the Legion the last time it had happened, when Tiberius had led them across the Rhenus. Pullus had been an Optio then, and Marcus Macer his Centurion, in command of the Third Century, and while it was far from Pullus’ first campaign, it had been his first with the Legion. It was not until shortly before Pullus’ death that Volusenus had learned the cause of his father’s transfer from the 8th Legion, but when Pullus had told him about the circumstances and his actions that led to him being sent to the Army of the Rhenus, it had been in the context of the trait both men shared, the one that had led Volusenus into a headlong, singlehanded pursuit of fleeing Germans. A little more than a week after the end of the mutiny, Germanicus led his army across the pontoon bridge in a heavy snow at Vetera, the camp that had been the home of Varus’ doomed Legions, and was now the permanent home of the 2nd and 14th Legions. Although it would have made sense for these two Legions to accompany Germanicus and the rest of the army, they were the only two Legions that had not mutinied, and their reward was to not be forced to endure the elements during the harsh Germania winter.

  As campaigns went, it was not much to speak of in a straightforward sense, but it accomplished Germanicus’ ostensible goal of chastising the Marsi for their role as one of the tribes aligned with Arminius. The consensus among the officers, at least of the 1st, was that Germanicus’ real objective had been to give the men the opportunity to vent their frustrations on people other than fellow Romans. While the conception of this campaign was not unique, the execution of it was something that neither Volusenus nor any other man of the Legion would experience again. The logistics that were required in order to attain the goal of the campaign were daunting; creating what was essentially a long, relatively unbroken line of Roman iron in the twenty-mile stretch between the two rivers that bounded Marsi lands meant that just the maneuvering into position took three days in total. Dividing the army, each Legion marched in a modified agmentum quadratum, with the Legion baggage in between two lines of Cohorts, with those Cohorts that would be marching on each side instead placed in one of the two long lines, with the 1st being the northernmost, using the Lupia as their left flank. In between each Legion, Germanicus placed Cohorts of auxiliaries, essentially creating two long lines of men. Only then did the “march” begin, although the four Legions only covered ten miles in a day twice; otherwise, it was between five and eight miles, and fairly quickly, it settled into a monotonous routine. Rather than allowing a Cohort that came across a village or some sort of resistance to lag behind as they destroyed the dwellings, ravaged the small fields surrounding them, and chased down the few Marsi who had not managed to flee, the signal by cornu would ripple across the entire formation from north to south, requiring the other Cohorts of the Legion involved and the other three Legions to come to a halt. It was tedious to say the least, and the bitter cold did not help matters as men would be forced to stand motionless but still on the alert, stamping their feet, blowing their hands, and muttering to their comrades about the stupidity of their officers.

  Early on, Macer had expressed the concerns of Tiberius Sacrovir, the Primus Pilus, that men who were not only forced into idleness, but were now cold and miserable, might quickly revive the complaints that were seemingly settled with the end of the mutiny. That made eminent sense to Volusenus, and he could tell by the reaction of the more experienced officers that they were of a like mind; happily, the complaints voiced by the men were exclusively focused on their current plight. In terms of combat, it was confined to random ambushes by small bands of Marsi warriors, who would suddenly appear from a particularly thick patch of underbrush, hurl their short throwing spears, and occasionally engaging the Romans closely enough to draw their gladii and axes. There would be a brief period of excitement, if only for the Century whose position was under attack, then invariably, before the Cen
turies on either side of the targeted one could swing down onto the flanks of the Marsi warband, the Germans would disappear, dissolving into the forests from which they had appeared. One thing that shocked Volusenus was how, even in the grip of winter, after the leaves of all the deciduous plant life had shed themselves, just how thick the undergrowth and cover still was; the only material difference to Volusenus’ eyes was that instead of the greens and browns, the world surrounding them seemed to be grayish-white, with the snow blanketing the branches of the evergreens and piling up in the innumerable deadfalls that made the German forests so much of a hazard to the Roman Legions. When he mentioned this to Pullus, the older Centurion had assured him that he had experienced the same feeling the first time he had marched in winter, assuming as Volusenus did before crossing the Rhenus that there would be virtually no ground cover, at least of a nature sufficient to conceal large bodies of Marsi warriors.