by R. W. Peake
“I was certain Flaccus would be stupid enough to make Clepsina go through with sending for the Primus Pilus,” Vespillo opened the conversation.
“You could see he wanted to,” Macer agreed.
Seated in a circle around the Pilus Prior’s desk, each man held a cup of watered wine that had also been heated, with some spices added, yet even in the short time span of time it took for Lucco to offer each Centurion a cup, the curling vapors of steam rising from each one had vanished. Naturally, Macer’s private quarters were being heated with a charcoal brazier, but it was still cold enough that none of the Centurions had doffed their sagum, although Volusenus’ now had a rent in it from the Marsi warrior. His arm had been quickly stitched and bound, the medicus who had done it assuring him that it was not a serious wound, yet he was surprised at how much it still hurt, though he would never say a word about it.
It was Pullus who, given his status as Macer’s friend, always seemed the most comfortable in Macer’s private quarters, offering, “Do you think Flaccus would have even considered sending for the Primus Pilus before…”
His voice trailed off, but there was no need for him to expand, each of them instantly understanding.
After a brief silence, Macer sighed. “Probably not. But let’s be honest. We’re all skittish right now, and not just us, the men are as well. Remember how we all talked about how nobody, no matter how long they’ve been under the standard,” Macer raised his cup and tipped it in Pullus’ direction with a grin, “officially or unofficially, had ever seen anything like this before? Well,” he shrugged as he finished, “that means nobody has seen anything like what comes after something like this.”
“That’s a big help,” Pullus grumbled, prompting some chuckles from the others.
There was a companionable silence then, each man lost in their thoughts as they sipped their rapidly cooling beverage, then Macer cleared his throat, which Volusenus had learned was a precursor to the Pilus Prior changing the subject to something that, if not possibly delicate, was at least interesting. However, the young Centurion was completely unprepared for what came next.
“Volusenus,” he began, “I want to commend you on the manner in which you handled your Century in the ambush.” Volusenus felt a flush rising up his neck, except that Macer was not through, his voice changing slightly, but noticeably enough for Volusenus to have a presentiment he would not like what came next. “However, I have to ask; how did you manage to miss fifty Marsi warriors hiding in that gully?”
The quiet that had been so companionable a moment before suddenly became oppressive, at least to Volusenus, and although he was staring intently into his cup, he felt the eyes of the five other men on him. And, as it tended to happen, he felt the anger uncoiling in his gut at the worst possible moment. This time, however, there was a material difference; his anger was not directed towards Macer, but at himself, because he knew that the criticism was a valid one. Prior to this, Volusenus’ response would have been to lash out, within acceptable bounds, and try to shift the blame onto someone other than himself. Time and experience, and, Volusenus acknowledged to himself, the influence of Titus Pullus had tempered his natural sensitivity to any perceived slight or question about his abilities.
Consequently, his only response was, “I have no excuse, Pilus Prior.”
While Macer never gave any indication, then or later, Volusenus had the strong sense that he had just passed some sort of test, which was only strengthened when, just before he responded, Macer glanced over at Pullus.
“Well,” Macer said lightly, “we’ve all fucked up in one way or another. But,” he did look directly at Volusenus then, “I appreciate your candor, Volusenus. And that’s all we’ll say about it.”
Then, the moment was over, and it was only when he was alone that Volusenus tried to discern what not only Macer’s words meant, but the manner in which his fellow Centurions immediately returned to other matters, without any of them making a comment or indicating in any way that they thought that Volusenus was getting off lightly. Only in retrospect would Volusenus realize that it was this moment that marked his complete and utter acceptance into the fold of the Centurions of the Fourth Cohort. It would be a moment that he would treasure as the years went by, and its import became more meaningful.
Finally, after three weeks of this grindingly slow advance, Germanicus deemed that they had accomplished their goal of punishing the Marsi in a manner that, if they survived the rest of the winter, would be remembered for generations. It was at a place called Aliso, west of the Visurgis and named because it was the site of an old camp constructed by Tiberius on the headwaters of the Aliso River, where Germanicus summoned the Legions back together in preparation for the return march west. To Volusenus’ surprise, the officers and men of the Fourth clearly knew about the spot, and naturally, he went to Pullus.
“We made a camp there when we were marching in Tiberius’ winter campaign,” Pullus explained. “There’s been talk for years about manning it with auxiliaries because of its location near the Visurgis.” He grinned at Volusenus, teasing, “Because as bad as the tribes on this side of the Visurgis are, they’re a shade compared to those savages over there.”
Volusenus laughed dutifully, although he had already heard stories about the wild tribes east of the Visurgis, so he was inclined to believe that there was something to the tales.
“You don’t think he’s going to leave some Cohorts behind, do you?” Volusenus tried to sound casual, but he was still relieved when Pullus shook his head.
“There’s no way that Germanicus would do that,” Pullus assured him, but then thought to add, “Now, a Cohort or two of auxiliaries?” He finished with a shrug, “That’s another thing entirely.”
As it happened, this was exactly what happened, although not without the help of the Legions, who Germanicus charged with repairing the camp, which had fallen into a state of serious disrepair. Four days were spent on this; it was now into the middle of December, the land firmly in the grip of winter, and even with the work, the men were becoming increasingly restive, anxious to return back to the comforts of the camps on the west bank of the Rhenus. Surprisingly to Volusenus, Pullus seemed one of those most eager to get back to Ubiorum; it would be months before Volusenus learned the cause of Pullus’ desire to return to the Roman world, since it was not in Ubiorum where his heart’s desire resided, but in Mogontiacum. In the aftermath of what was to come, Gnaeus Volusenus spent a great deal of time wrestling with the thought that, if he had somehow known the truth, what that would have changed as far as Pullus’ destiny, but deep within himself, he was honest with himself. If he had known that Pullus was his father, and the reason the older Centurion was so intent on returning to the Rhenus was because of his mother Giulia, it was likely, indeed almost certainly, that Volusenus would have done something rash and made a bad situation worse. There would have been no sparring match this time, and Volusenus would have done his best to kill Pullus, something that, again being honest with himself, he knew was beyond his capabilities, even with his improvement from having been trained by the man himself. What he was most thankful for regarding his ignorance, again only with hindsight, was that, albeit unknowingly, Volusenus would have forced on Pullus a terrible choice, defending himself or protecting his son by letting Volusenus kill him. Given what lay in the future, for the remainder of his days, Volusenus thanked his household gods that, when the moment came for Pullus to sacrifice himself protecting his son, it was not at the son’s hands but an enemy’s.
Their progress west was faster, though not by that much; certainly, it was not swift enough for most of the men, but Germanicus had ordered that the army march in the agmentum quadratum, this time with one large one, with a Legion forming each side of the box and the baggage for the entire army in the middle. Not much of the terrain was open enough where a formation essentially a half-mile wide could march unimpeded, so there were frequent stops for working parties to move forward and fell the trees
in the path while clearing out enough of the deadfalls and underbrush to enable men to continue on without serious obstruction. As the Romans made their lumbering progress, the cavalry scouts attached to the army were returning with more and more reports that, finally, other tribes aside from the Marsi were marshaling and moving in a manner that suggested a coalescing of forces to the west. Because Pullus had a close friendship with one of the Decurions, Gaesorix Batavius, who he knew from his time in Pannonia, the Centurions of the Fourth received more information than anyone save Germanicus and the Primi Pili, which each man doled out to his Century as they saw fit. Following Pullus’ lead, Volusenus chose a moderate approach, letting the rankers know the bare bones of matters, that there appeared to be warbands from at least three tribes who had been spotted moving in a westerly direction, intent on getting ahead of Germanicus and his army. Just as Pullus predicted, this actually served to keep the men focused, while at the same time, provided opportunities for them to debate whether or not the Germans had already chosen a spot to make an attempt to stop the Romans, or they would pick a location based on the circumstances of the moment. That this was even under discussion, Volusenus knew, stemmed from the rude shock the Romans had received in the aftermath of the Varus disaster, when the few survivors who returned all reported that the site of the ambush had been carefully prepared beforehand, something that heretofore no Roman would have believed possible of Germans. From Volusenus’ perspective, it was actually quite informative, eavesdropping on the conversations of men whose formal education might have been close to nonexistent, but who collectively possessed centuries of knowledge about warfare. Before much time had passed, a consensus had developed that the most likely spot was a particularly thick band of forest that ran along a north/south axis, where a tributary to the Lupia crossed the Romans’ path at an oblique angle. Normally, this would have just been considered soldiers’ gossip by the Legate, hardly worthy of consideration, but Germanicus was no ordinary Legate. They had made camp for the night, and Volusenus was conducting his round of stopping at each fire, chatting with his men and generally making his presence felt when, immediately upon finishing with the last section, he was heading for his own tent and heard someone say his name. While the call came out of the darkness, Volusenus immediately recognized Pullus’ voice, and he paused to wait as the Centurion materialized from where he had been standing between tents. While it made no sense, for some reason, Volusenus had the impression that Pullus had been waiting for him, yet his greeting was pleasant and innocuous enough.
“Are you done for the evening?” Pullus asked. When Volusenus informed him that he was, Pullus seemed to consider something for a moment, then, what seemed to Volusenus to be on impulse, said, “Care to walk to the praetorium with me?”
Truthfully, Volusenus did not, but Pullus had never extended this kind of invitation before, so his desire to relax was outweighed by his curiosity, and the two strolled down the Cohort street, chatting about inconsequential things.
It was not until they were crossing the forum before Pullus casually mentioned, “Actually, I’m going to see Germanicus. I need to tell him something that I’ve learned from Gaesorix. I’ll introduce you to him.”
Volusenus froze in mid-stride, staring at Pullus, certain that for some reason he could not immediately divine, Pullus was teasing him, but after a moment’s scrutiny, he came to the conclusion that Pullus was serious.
“Why would you do that?” Volusenus blurted out, yet, rather than offending Pullus, the older man actually grinned and replied cheerfully, “Just for the look you’ve got on your face now.” Shrugging, he said offhandedly, “He’s actually asked about you, given we’re…similar.”
Volusenus was unconvinced, yet he was sufficiently intrigued to be in such close proximity to the man who was not just Legate and Propraetor, but already a legend among the men of the Legions. The fact that he was considered to be no lower than second in line for succession, behind Tiberius’ natural son Drusus, made the prospect appealing and terrifying in equal measure. He had certainly been in physically close proximity to Germanicus, and he recalled with pleasure the day that Germanicus, just a few years older than Volusenus himself, had not only returned the salute Volusenus offered, but actually recalled his name. At the time, he had assumed that it was only because he was easy to remember for his size, but as he walked to the forum with Pullus, his mind mulled over the idea that there might have been more to it. Sometime later, he would understand that none of this was an accident, that the man who had recently discovered that Volusenus was his son was doing what he could to help that son’s own career; then, it had been nothing more than a nagging, undefined thought. The men standing at the praetorium flap, members of the provosts, saluted the two Centurions, then the pair entered into the large outer room, which as always, even at this time of day shortly before the call to retire, was bustling with activity. Without breaking stride, Pullus headed for the small desk, behind which sat the duty Tribune, his attention wholly on a scroll.
“Watch and learn,” Pullus muttered, alerting his companion that something unusual was about to happen.
The salute that Pullus offered could not be faulted; regardless of the courtesy, the Tribune pointedly kept his attention on the scroll. Volusenus opened his mouth to let the Tribune know they were standing there but caught a warning glare from Pullus and refrained.
Instead, Pullus leaned over slightly, using his height to get a peek at the scroll, then said more loudly than needed, “Tribune, I must compliment you on your tastes.” Pointing down at the scroll, Pullus turned to inform Volusenus, “Tribune Gaetulicus has excellent tastes in literature, Volusenus. He’s reading the poetry of Catullus…with illustrations!”
As Pullus intended, any pretense the Tribune had of being too absorbed in some sort of official document was destroyed; Catullus was famous for his erotic poems, and while Volusenus did not catch a glimpse, he surmised that the illustrations were of a nature that matched the written contents. Somewhat to Volusenus’ surprise, the Tribune did not reply in the manner the younger Centurion would have expected; rather than angry at being embarrassed, he seemed more chagrined, and his tone reflected it, “Yes, Centurion Pullus?”
“Tribune, we’re here to request an audience with the Propraetor,” Pullus’ use of Germanicus’ highest office was calculated on his part, and Volusenus could see that it had an impact on the Tribune.
“Concerning?” Gaetulicus asked, but instead of answering directly, Pullus replied, “I believe if you tell him it’s me, he’ll see us.”
This did not seem to surprise Gaetulicus, although he did heave a sigh to let the pair know he felt put upon, and he got up and said curtly, “Wait here.”
Walking to the heavy leather partition, Pullus waited just long enough to be out of earshot as he muttered, “Where would we go?”
Gaetulicus had just disappeared after two sharp raps on the square of wood that was attached to the partition, so Volusenus felt safe enough to chuckle softly at Pullus’ comment. They did not have to wait long, Gaetulicus reappearing to motion them in, and with his heart suddenly pounding heavily under his tunic, Volusenus followed Pullus into the private office. Unsure what to expect, Volusenus’ first impression of the inner world of Germanicus was how relaxed the half-dozen men, evenly divided between clerks and slaves, seemed to be in the presence of one of the most powerful men in Rome. Even more unsettling was when Germanicus, having just had something whispered into his ear by a dark-skinned man of perhaps forty years, roared with laughter, then slapped the man on the back. In turn, the man, grinning broadly, walked to the other side of the room to finish what, to Volusenus’ eyes, appeared to be serving up Germanicus’ evening meal on a small table, although Germanicus did not get up from his desk. It was not the exchange that unsettled Volusenus as much as the bronze placard hanging about the man’s neck, clearly denoting his status as a slave, yet there he was, making his master laugh as if they were sitting in a taverna, two
friends sharing a cup. He could not devote any more attention to this strange sight because another man, this one without a placard but dressed in the tunic that denoted his status as a freedman, alerted Germanicus to the presence of the two Centurions.