by R. W. Peake
Unknown to Volusenus, it was during this campaign that Pullus and Macer held a conversation, which took place as they were waiting for the rest of the army to finish crossing the pontoon bridge across the Rhenus the first day.
As the two Centurions were watching, Macer suddenly turned to Pullus and asked, “What’s going on now between you and Volusenus? I thought you two were getting along.”
Startled, which was Macer’s intent, Pullus protested, “Nothing’s going on! We’ve just been busy, that’s all.”
As their friendship developed, Marcus Macer had learned that, if he remained patient, by his very nature, Titus Pullus would usually divulge whatever was troubling him, which happened then, as he muttered, “Fine. It’s just that I learned something recently that makes matters…complicated between us.”
“Does this have anything to do with his mother showing up in Ubiorum?” Macer asked nonchalantly.
This caused Pullus to break his attention away from the men and turn to stare down at him, incredulous that he had noticed anything unusual.
“What makes you say that?” Pullus did try to imbue his tone so that it would register nothing more than offhand curiosity, but the look Macer gave him was almost as informative as his words as he replied, “Because I’ve got eyes, Titus. Besides,” he added, though he did not need to, “you’ve never complained of a headache before. At least,” Macer flashed a grin that, even in Pullus’ suddenly agitated state, he returned, “before we go into town. Afterward is another story.” His grin faded, and he continued searching Pullus’ face, making the large Centurion acutely uncomfortable. “So what was it about Volusenus’ mother that has made you act so strangely?”
Deciding that a partial truth was better than attempting an outright lie, Pullus admitted the only part he was willing to, telling Macer, “I just recognized her from my time in Siscia, that’s all.”
When he said nothing more, Macer did not immediately reply or press any further, and Pullus was beginning to think he might have gotten away with this; he was just returning his attention to the men, when he heard Macer gasp. Naturally, this caused Pullus to jerk his head back around to see Macer standing there, with his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide with shock at what was, as Pullus was about to learn, the partial truth that he had just guessed.
“By the gods, Titus!” Macer kept his voice low, but his tone was such that Pullus felt certain it would draw attention from other men, particularly Volusenus, who was not that far away. “Did you have an affair with his mother back then?” Pullus’ expression clearly gave the answer, but Macer’s reaction was actually lacerating to Pullus’ soul, because he laughed, then punched Pullus in the arm as he exclaimed, “Why, you sly old dog!”
Pullus did not return his smile, and he could not even bring himself to look at him, choosing to return his attention back to the men, determined to keep it there this time. When Pullus thought about it later, he realized that he could have forestalled what was about to take place by simply playing along, smiling, and making some sort of comment that Macer would have found, if not humorous, then at least that it affirmed his guess. But Pullus did not because he could not bring himself to do so, and he heard Macer’s laugh fade, though his attention stayed on Pullus, which he continued to ignore. The silence drew out to the point where the predominant sound was the crunching footsteps of their men walking around, and once more, Pullus’ discomfort caused him to react, although he managed not to say anything as he reluctantly turned back to look down at Macer. However, his friend was no longer looking in Pullus’ direction; instead, he was gazing over to where Volusenus and Pullus’ former Optio, Structus, were engaged in conversation, and in that moment, to Pullus it seemed to take forever for Macer’s head to turn back to him, his eyes even wider than before.
“Bona Dea,” Macer gasped, the first time Pullus had ever heard him invoke the great mother goddess. “Of course! Why didn’t I see this before?”
“See what?” Pullus asked, but even to his own ears, he heard how lame it sounded.
Shaking his head, Macer answered, “Don’t play the idiot, Titus. It doesn’t suit you.” He looked back over at Volusenus again; fortunately, his back was turned to the pair, and without taking his eyes off him, Macer asked, “Does Volusenus know?”
“No,” Pullus answered sharply, “and he’s not going to find out! Not from me, and certainly not from you!”
This prompted Macer to turn back to stare at Pullus incredulously, but the other man made sure to pin Macer with a look that the Pilus Prior certainly understood, although he had only seen it aimed at other men until this moment.
“But, Titus, he has a right to know who his father is, surely!”
Just as he had shown Pullus in the past, Marcus Macer had a knack for getting right to the heart of a given problem, and this proved no exception, if only because in this matter, Pullus agreed wholeheartedly. Regardless of his personal feelings, however, Pullus had promised Giulia, and while he was not willing to break that promise, neither was he eager to admit this was the reason, even to his friend.
Nevertheless, Pullus could not think of what else to say, other than, “I made a promise to his mother that I would let her tell him, but in her own time.”
Not surprisingly, this did not impress Macer, who shot back, “First, that was a stupid promise to make, and nobody would blame you for breaking it. He,” Macer indicated Volusenus, who Pullus was beginning to eye nervously, hoping the young Centurion would not turn around and see the two of them engaged in what he would instantly discern was an intense conversation about him, “is the one who matters, Titus. He deserves to know.”
Pullus did not reply immediately, partially because, in his heart, he agreed with his friend; however, there was another aspect to this situation, which Pullus pointed out by asking, “How do you think he’s going to react, learning that the man he thought of his entire life as his father isn’t, and that his mother lied to him? And,” Pullus pressed on before Macer could answer, “how do you think it would affect him as far as performing his duties on this campaign?” When he said this, Pullus did turn back to look Macer in the eye, and he was cautiously pleased to see that this was making an impression, so Pullus did not let up, “We’re on the other side of the Rhenus, Marcus, and if I know Germanicus, we’re going to stay out here until we draw some barbarian blood. Do you really want two of your Centurions distracted by something that ultimately has nothing to do with why we’re out here?”
As Pullus hoped, this made an impact on Macer, his mouth turning down into a frown that Pullus knew from experience meant he was deep in thought, the silence stretching for a span of heartbeats.
Finally, Macer heaved a sigh and admitted, “That’s true, Titus, and no, I can see how that would distract Volusenus at the worst possible time. But,” he insisted, “he does have a right to know, as soon as we get back from this campaign.”
Despite this, all Pullus would do was promise to think about it, but while Macer looked disposed to argue, the cornu call sounded the signal that, at last, the entire army was across the bridge, whereupon the pair parted and went to their Centuries, bellowing at them to form up for the march, with Volusenus following suit, unaware that there was one more person now who was aware of the truth, while he remained ignorant.
Only once was Volusenus’ Century involved in what was the most serious battle in the 1st’s area near the river, when a party of Marsi, numbering perhaps fifty in strength, used a gully that normally drained runoff that, in its sinuous course, was running parallel to the river located just a couple miles to the north. As far as Volusenus knew, in the aftermath, there had been no determination of exactly how such a sizable group of Marsi managed to remain hidden in the bottom of the gully, allowing the Sixth of the Fourth, Volusenus’ Century, whose right flank was aligned with the gully, with the First of the Fifth on the opposite side, to march past them, the section serving as the advance guard missing them entirely. The attack itself was also con
ducted with a level of coordination that, prior to the Varus disaster, Romans had insisted was beyond the capacity of Germans, when a much larger force, numbering perhaps three hundred Marsi, came bursting out of the underbrush, directly ahead of the last three Centuries of the Fourth Cohort. From Volusenus’ perspective, they had just been forced to cross the gully where it curved back north to the river, and had moved perhaps a half mile farther, with the gully, choked with deadfalls and partially filled with snow, now parallel to their march, when the attack began. Suddenly, the section of men he, like every other Century, had placed fifty paces ahead of the main body, more or less simultaneously shouted their own warning; this was the quietest moment for some time after that. His eyes drawn to that spot by the shouts, Volusenus had been talking to his Signifer Macerinus when he suddenly turned his attention just in time to see one of his own, a man from the Sixth Section, whose turn it was to be advance guard, topple to the ground with the shaft of a javelin protruding from his chest. Just beyond the body, however, was of more immediate concern, as Marsi warriors, in accordance with their habit, seemed to materialize out of the forest ahead.
“Keep moving! Close formation! Ready javelins!” Volusenus’ shouted command was instantly obeyed; only later would he experience a sense of satisfaction that he had reacted not only immediately, but with the best possible decision. In the moment, once he saw his Century respond, while the surviving members of the advance section, following their training, did not try to stand and fight but had come backpedaling as quickly as they could manage while keeping their shields in front of them, Volusenus bellowed, “Release!”
The missiles went streaking into the Marsi directly across from Volusenus’ Century, and while Volusenus had noticed that their enemy was spread across a front that meant the Fourth and Fifth Centuries, commanded by Cornutus and Pullus’ former Optio Structus respectively, would be engaged as well, that was all the thought he gave to it.
In the eyeblink after the javelins of his Century slashed downward into the onrushing Marsi, all of them running as quickly as a man could manage over ground so broken and littered with the debris of branches, small dead trees, and protruding rocks, Volusenus realized there was not time for a second volley, and he shouted, “Drop ‘em, boys! Straight to the gladius!” Waiting perhaps a normal heartbeat, during which he drew his own, Volusenus bellowed the order, “Porro!”
As expected, his men did not hesitate, answering his cry with their own, for the first time matching the intensity of the attacking Germans who had broken the silence in their normal method of invoking their gods, calling on their ancestors, or promising to take every Roman head currently attached to Roman bodies. From before his time under the standard, Volusenus had had it drilled into him that it was always crucial to answer a charging attack with a countercharge rather than remaining motionless, and despite what was about to happen, it was still the proper thing to do. This did not make him feel better afterward, since by doing so, he and his Century went rushing past the hidden force of Marsi in the gully, who came clambering out, intent on falling onto the rear of the Sixth.
Under normal circumstances, such a maneuver would have worked, albeit to a limited degree; there was no way a force of less than four hundred Marsi would be able to do more than give a Legion a bloody nose. Fortunately for Volusenus and the men of his Sixth, Germanicus had foreseen something like this happening, and to that end, had ordered that every Cohort leading the way be trailed no more than two hundred paces behind by the second line Cohorts, just for an eventuality such as this. What it meant in a practical sense for Volusenus and his men was that, within a matter of heartbeats of their colliding with the oncoming Marsi, there was a sudden addition to the din of battle, but from behind them. Thankfully, Volusenus did not respond immediately because he was engaged with a particularly skilled Marsi warrior, clearly one of the tribal nobility, as evidenced by the cloak made of bearskin and a mail coat that draped down to the man’s knees. Older than Volusenus, with a plaited beard that was as black as the bearskin but streaked with silver, he was of roughly the same size as the Centurion, although as Volusenus had quickly learned, this was more the norm with Germans than the exception. More problematic was the skill with which his opponent wielded the long, heavy Gallic-style gladius, and the young Centurion had indeed just managed to twist his body to the side to avoid a sweeping downward blow that, if it had landed, would have undoubtedly cleaved him down to mid-torso, when the tumult behind them began. It was not that Volusenus did not hear whatever it was, and a part of his mind recognized that it in all likelihood it meant an attack, but he managed to keep his focus on his opponent, if only because the Marsi recovered from his miss more quickly than Volusenus would have thought possible, given the heft of the blade and the power behind the blow. That the warrior recovered, perhaps not as quickly as if it had been the short Roman gladius, but close to it, did more to keep Volusenus’ focus on where it needed to be, because even as he launched his own attack, a traditional first position thrust that took advantage of his opponent’s height, the German made another of his own, this time coming from above his shield. For a second time, the Marsi missed a killing or debilitating blow, except this time, it was not due to Volusenus attempting to dodge, but because the Roman was performing his own attack in the prescribed manner, with the twisting of his hips once more turning his torso at just the right time. He did not escape completely unscathed, feeling a white-hot, burning pain along the front of his left upper arm as the edge of the German’s blade went slicing through his sagum, but while he hissed in pain, he was pleased to see that his own thrust was only partially blocked when in mid-thrust, the German managed to drop his shield just a bit, striking Volusenus’ blade and driving it downward. The point of Volusenus’ gladius didn’t strike where he had intended, just above the man’s cock, but it was almost as good, punching through the lower part of his foe’s mail vest, stabbing into the man’s inner thigh just above the knee. Not surprisingly, the German let out a bellow of pain, which quickly turned into something else when, as Volusenus recovered his blade, it seemed to be followed by a spray of blood that spurted out of the rent in the mail shirt with such force that Volusenus felt it spatter his face. Any idea of continuing the fight was gone within a heartbeat, the Marsi collapsing onto the ground, dropping his shield and gladius to frantically attempt to stem the flow from the severed vessel. So intent was he on this that he never saw the thrust that Volusenus aimed down into the gap between the German’s armor and the back of his helmet, the Roman feeling a flicker of regret that it had ended so quickly, and that his foe could not look into his eyes as Volusenus ended his life.
Since he had been absorbed in his own battle, this was Volusenus’ first opportunity to actually perform his duty, taking a slight step back and towards the lip of the gully, just a pace away, to prevent any Marsi from coming around on his weak side. Giving his front rank the quickest of glances, he turned towards the rear, his height giving him the ability to look across his formation to where Gillo, his Optio, had ordered the rearmost two sections to turn about and face whatever this threat was behind them. It took perhaps another half-dozen heartbeats for Volusenus to see then interpret what his eyes took in, which enabled him to give Gillo a wave, point in the direction of the second Marsi force, then return his attention to the front. And, by the time he had done so, the Centuries trailing behind the Fourth Cohort had moved up through the baggage train and shattered the Marsi attack with two volleys of javelins, forcing the Marsi who had been hidden in the gully to return to it as refuge, albeit a temporary one. Since the First of the Fifth was not involved because of the gully separating them from Volusenus’ Century, their Centurion, Gnaeus Clepsina, simply had his men make a facing movement to the left, placing them above the surviving Marsi who were fleeing like rats from a surging flood, back towards the east and the relatively safety of the main force, pelting them with javelins. Before Volusenus had blown his whistle twice to sound the relief, the
attack was over, the ground littered with Marsi dead and wounded, while Volusenus’ Century had suffered three casualties, although the only death had been the man of the advance section who had warned of the ambush, at the cost of his life. Volusenus was still new to the aftermath of a fight, at least one where he retained his wits, which he found quite unsettling; how things went from the noise, fury, and fear of fighting for one’s life to the sudden, relative quiet, where the panting and moans of the wounded are the predominant sound, men are standing motionless as they catch their breath, returning from the frenzied state necessary to survive, and beginning to comprehend that they have lived to see another day, all of this happening almost as quickly as the attack itself.
The Cohort Cornicen had relayed the signal to halt, which was passed from one Cohort to the next, to allow the men of the three Centuries to tend to the various details that are required of a Roman Legion after a battle. This was performed with the usual efficiency, with the medici already moving through the ranks, the dead Marsi quickly searched, and the wounded Marsi just as rapidly dispatched, then searched, within heartbeats of the last body falling. Volusenus immediately moved to the rear of the Century to confer with Gillo, who simply pointed at the bodies of the Marsi who thought to surprise the Romans, only to end up being surprised themselves, and he noticed that all of them had at least one javelin shaft protruding from their bodies, roughly equally divided between men who had been struck down from behind, and those who had at least managed to turn about in response to their own surprise, sprung by the Romans of the second line. Men from the trailing Century, as was their due, were the ones moving among this group, performing the identical functions as the men of Volusenus’ Century, stripping anything of value from the fallen. The only point of contention came when some of the men from the Sixth of the Ninth, the Century trailing the First of the Fifth, hopped down into the gully to loot the dead Marsi from the surprise force, which the First of the Fifth, with some justification, insisted belonged to them. For a span of time, it appeared that there might be another battle, as matters grew heated between the Centuries, with Clepsina trying to use his status as a Pilus Prior to intimidate the Nones Hastatus Posterior, Numerius Flaccus, into yielding. Not only did this not work, from where Volusenus was standing, slightly dumbfounded, it seemed clear to him that this enraged Flaccus even further, making him even more intransigent, so that finally, a runner was summoned by Clepsina, with the intention of sending and asking for a resolution from the Primus Pilus, more than two miles away to the north nearer to the river. Only then did Flaccus relent, clearly understanding the likelihood that the Primus Pilus overruling a Pilus Prior was low in the extreme; probably, and most importantly, Sacrovir would be livid to have to cover the distance over such a trivial matter, and Flaccus was acutely aware that he would end up on the losing side in more ways than one. In its simplest term, the Centurion had to choose between enduring the ire of the men of his Century or the enmity of the Quintus Pilus Prior and, worst of all, that of the Primus Pilus, so he made the wise choice, unpalatable as it may have been. It was later that night, when the version of a marching camp was made before Volusenus had a chance to reflect on what was essentially his first battle where he was not simply carrying out orders from his Pilus Prior, or Primus Pilus. Over the course of their progress, a habit developed that saw the Centurions of the Fourth Cohort gather in Macer’s tent, the ostensible goal to discuss the day’s events, and what was expected the next day. Fairly quickly, given the lack of any excitement, this meeting evolved into the chance for the Centurions to talk freely, without the worry of eager ears overhearing. Naturally, the talk that night was on the ambush earlier in the day.