by R. W. Peake
“It looks like Germanicus wants us to have his new toy,” he commented to Structus, who gave a noncommittal grunt that did not indicate his thoughts one way or another.
Two of the men were each carrying a manuballista, while their comrades had large sacks slung across their shoulders that Pullus correctly assumed contained the ammunition for these new weapons. Like Volusenus, while Pullus had been impressed with the power of these new devices, he had seen the same thing that his son had, that they were wildly inaccurate, although he was also willing to give the benefit of the doubt, thinking that the Immunes who used them would get more accurate with practice.
Reaching Pullus, when they made to put their weapons down to salute, he waved at them. “No need for that. But,” he pointed to the two ammunition bearers, “I hope you’re not planning on having these men with you on the raft.”
He saw by the pair’s reaction that this was exactly what they had expected, and after an exchange of glances, one of them, a grizzled veteran with a long, thin scar running down the side of his face, said, “Actually, Pilus Prior, we need these men to help us.” Seeing Pullus’ expression and recognizing it, he hurriedly assured him, “It’s because once these things are cocked, there’s no way for us to reach down and pick up a bolt and put it in the channel.” Suddenly, he thrust his manuballista in Pullus’ direction, saying, “Here, see for yourself how heavy it is. Nobody’s strong enough.”
If the Immunes realized his error immediately, nobody watching would know, but without a word, Pullus took the weapon. The fact that the Immunes had been forced to use both hands to hold it out and Pullus grabbed it and, with seemingly little effort, held it one hand was guaranteed to draw everyone’s attention.
Still holding the weapon in this manner, Pullus turned to one of the ammunition bearers, asking politely, “Will you hand me a bolt, Gregarius?”
Hastily opening the sack, the Legionary did as Pullus requested, handing the large Centurion the bolt, who took it and, still without seeming to exert himself, lifted the bolt into a spot just above the weapon, closed one eye to align it, dropped it into place, then without a word, he handed it back to the Immunes.
By this point, the man knew he was being toyed with, but while he did not particularly appreciate being the butt of this kind of joke, he was also sufficiently impressed and fearful enough of Pullus that he managed a respectful tone as he said, “Well, Pilus Prior, I guess I should have said that nobody but you is strong enough to do it.”
Pullus knew fully well that he was embarrassing this man, although this was not really his intent, and that he was indulging himself in a manner unbecoming a Centurion, yet, even now, after all these years, he could never seem to resist the chance to display the kind of massive strength that had made his grandfather the legend that he was, and had made himself famous as well, albeit to a lesser degree, something that Pullus was acutely aware of and was his greatest disappointment.
That was why he surprised even himself when, without thinking, he replied, “Actually…” He stopped, which the Immunes correctly interpreted, supplying, “Gregarius Immunes First Class Servius Manius, Pilus Prior.” Nodding, Pullus continued, “Thank you, Manius. Anyway, as I was about to say, I’m not the only one.” Then he turned and scanned the line of Centuries, spotted Volusenus, and bellowed, “Hastatus Posterior Volusenus, attend to your Pilus Prior!”
Naturally, Volusenus complied, trotting over with a quizzical expression on his face. He had been watching Pullus’ display from his spot in front of the Sixth, and in the time it took him to reach Pullus, he got an idea of what Pullus wanted, meaning that he had to struggle to keep a grin from his face.
“Yes, Pilus Prior?” He saluted as expected, trying to keep his tone neutral and not betray he knew there was something afoot.
Pointing to the man next to Manius, Pullus ordered him, “Give your weapon to Centurion Volusenus.”
The man did, and like Manius, had to do it with both hands, his face turning slightly red from the exertion of thrusting his arms out supporting the weight of the weapon. Just as Pullus had done, Volusenus snatched it with one hand, and without being told, turned to the man who had opened the bag containing the bolts. And, just as Pullus had, he held the weapon with one hand, except that when he dropped the bolt down, it missed the channel and bounced off, although he managed to grab it before it fell to the ground. On his second attempt, he placed the bolt in the groove, grinning broadly at Pullus.
Manius was now thoroughly embarrassed, but he was also angry, and before he could stop himself, he snapped, “So there are two men in this fucking army who can hold that thing with one hand, but us mortals need two.”
Pullus, rather than being angered, suddenly looked slightly chagrined, and he spoke in a mollifying tone, “You’re right, Manius. We’re probably the only two men who can do this, and I apologize for making fun of it.” Whether this assuaged Manius or not, this was as far as Pullus would bend, and his manner returned to normal as he said crisply, “But you’re still not going to take those two onto the rafts with you.” Before Manius could protest, he explained, “We’re going to need every shield we can get to protect you, and one less shield makes that more difficult.”
When Pullus put it this way, Manius not only understood, he agreed, although he did think to himself, Why didn’t you just say that in the first place instead of showing off? However, this was not reflected in his demeanor as he nodded in agreement.
“How hard is it to place the bolt?” Structus spoke for the first time.
“It’s not that it’s hard,” Manius said defensively. “It’s just that it’s hard for one man to do. Except,” he muttered this last part, “for these two.”
“So one of the Immunes can do it for you,” Pullus interjected. “That way, we won’t have to lose two men holding a shield since you’re going to be replacing one of them.”
“Will Gaetulicus agree?” Volusenus asked, a good question.
“Let’s go find out,” Pullus said, approaching the Tribune, who was standing flanked by two rankers, who Pullus discovered were the leaders of the working group, both men listening intently to whatever Gaetulicus was saying.
At first, Gaetulicus demurred, but Pullus correctly sensed it was more a matter of form than from any real conviction, so he patiently explained why he thought it was better to lose a man for the span of a few heartbeats who could instantly return to their task than it was to have a man drop his shield, pick up a bolt, and drop it into the channel, especially since there could only be seven men holding shields now instead of eight in order to allow the artillerymen on both rafts. And, as Volusenus watched with an amusement he did not show, if Pullus perhaps laid it on a bit thick about the difficulty faced by his men, what mattered was that it worked. With this settled, the men of Structus’ First and Second Section got on, save for the two who were replaced by Manius and his partner, each of them getting on a raft. This time, Structus arbitrarily chose the two, who endured the jeers and curses of their comrades who were now on the raft. It took some effort to shove the raft out away from the riverbank, until Pullus and Volusenus added their strength to the task. There was some excitement when a pair of Structus’ men made the mistake of moving suddenly and at the same time, tipping the raft precipitously and causing the rock-filled basket to slide in their direction. For the span of a half-dozen heartbeats, Pullus was certain that the raft would tip over and dump everyone into the water, which, although there was no chance of drowning this close to the riverbank, would not only be embarrassing, but many rankers would see as a bad omen. Thankfully, the Immunes in charge of the raft kept a cool head, ordering two other men to move to the opposite side, the only damage being the occupants of the raft getting their feet wet. Using long poles, the two rafts were pushed farther out in the river, the downstream raft tethered to the structure that kept them from drifting away from it, while the men on the other raft had the opposite problem, and the result was that the upstream raft was briefl
y wedged for a brief period against the horizontal roadway supports that were no more than a foot above the water. While all this was going on, Pullus and the rest of the Fourth divided their attention between watching the working party and the underbrush on the opposite side, the Chatti having been forced into hiding once the scorpions were deployed. Gaetulicus had ordered four of the scorpions to loose their bolts, not because he spotted an enemy, but to demonstrate to them that they were still within range even when they retreated into the heavy undergrowth. While Pullus was not sanguine this would do any good, there had been at least two shouts of alarm, but none that denoted a man in pain, prompting the Pilus Prior to given Gaetulicus a mental nod of recognition. Outwardly, he was as bored as his men, but his eyes never strayed from moving between the working parties and the forest.
When the attack came, in the form of a sudden volley of arrows that came arcing up into the air seemingly out of nowhere, it was a matter of sheer luck that nobody was hit, although the logs of both rafts sprouted quivering shafts as if conjured out of thin air. Whether it was because of Fortuna’s protection or skill, to Pullus and his men, it did not matter, because the next volley was met by raised shields, the hollow report of iron heads punching into the layered wood barrier provided by Structus’ men temporarily dominating the sounds. The men on the very edge of the raft held the shields just a bit higher than normal, which meant their lower legs were exposed, while the men in the second row raised theirs up above their comrades’ heads and placed the bottom edge of their shield on the top edge of the men in the first row but tilting them backward. It was within this shelter that the Immunes continued working, while the rest of the Fourth Cohort watched from their spot a safe distance away. This time, Gaetulicus did not need to give the order, and the distinct crack of the scorpions added to the noise as arrows plunged from the sky to punch into the shields. With every passing heartbeat, Pullus, and everyone else present knew that the collective fortunes of the men on the rafts would run out, but knowing it was inevitable and seeing it happen proved to be two different things. One of Structus’ men on the front rank of the upstream raft paid the price for being forced to hold his shield higher than normal, as a shaft slashed down to punch into his thigh, and while his reaction was understandable, he created even more danger for not just himself but his comrades when, with a sharp cry of pain, he dropped his shield, which struck the edge of the raft then slid off into the water, so that he could grab at the wound with both hands. What occurred next was a subject of much debate, with one group of men believing that the wounded ranker temporarily lost his senses, while another group believed he did it on purpose, deliberately sacrificing his own life by dropping into the water, his armor taking him under immediately before any of his comrades could react. He did make one desperate attempt to grab for the edge of the raft, but the weight of the iron armor protecting him was, ironically and tragically, the cause of his doom. His body would not be found until the next day, more than a mile downstream, but in the moment, what mattered was that his comrade behind him reacted instantly, stepping forward to fill the gap in the line of shields before the Chatti archers could shift their aim.
Arrows continued to fly, yet the men on the rafts stood there, huddled behind their shields while the Immunes worked feverishly, somehow managing to drop the baskets into the correct spot. To retrieve the rafts, cables had been attached, and Pullus sent teams of men from the idle Centuries to grab them and pull them back to the riverbank, hauling them out of range of the hidden Chatti archers. The scorpions had kept up a steady barrage of their own bolts, and there had been a couple screams of agony, but from Pullus’ perspective, they had done practically nothing to suppress the Chatti’s missiles and protect his men. Once the rafts were secured, the Legionaries of Structus’ Century scrambled off, those from the downstream raft who were obviously unaware of their comrade’s fate complaining bitterly about the arrows that studded their shields, not only because it weakened them but the cost to replace them was going to be deducted from their pay, a practice that had been going on for decades but was still understandably reviled by the rankers. The men whose comrade was missing were in a decidedly different frame of mind, and there was a brief quarrel between the two sections as they integrated back into Structus’ Century that required both the Centurion and the Optio to break up, but it was the men from the downstream raft learning about their comrade that actually settled things down. Meanwhile, Gaetulicus and his Immunes were moving on to the next phase, which required help from Pullus’ men, muscling the large trimmed logs that would serve as the pilings for the bridge, while men from Cornutus’ Century, who had drawn the second shortest straw, made their preparations to go out on the rafts. This was the way of the Legions when they were given a task such as this, moving slowly, doggedly, but relentlessly, absorbing the punishment as they constructed the means by which Germanicus and his army could continue their destruction of the Chatti.
As Gaetulicus promised, the sun was still a couple fingers’ width above the trees when the bridge reached a point that, while not all the way across the river, was close enough to enable the Romans to drop into water that was waist deep. While Pullus predictably led the way across the newly laid planks that decked the bridge, the Fourth Cohort was followed by the Third and Fifth, but equally predictable was the fact that Pullus did not wait for them to form up along the riverbank on either side. Holding a shield that he had sent Alex to retrieve from the quaestorium, Pullus did not even wait for his own Cohort to fully fall into a line of Centuries, leaving Volusenus and his men scrambling to catch up as the Fourth went plunging into the underbrush. Pullus and the rest of the Cohort were disappointed but not surprised that, after loosing only two more desultory volleys, the Chatti melted back into the forest, giving the Romans nothing more than a frustrating glimpse of their backs as they fled. Far too experienced to continue the pursuit, there was a moment when the Pili Priores of the three Cohorts debated among themselves about whether they had the numbers to press the issue, with Clepsina of the Fifth Cohort urging that they follow the Chatti in the hope that the warriors who had escaped from Mattium were camped nearby. It was a tempting proposition, Pullus openly admitted, but while his losses had been light—two more men had been killed along with the drowned ranker from Structus’ Century—he also felt certain that Germanicus would not countenance such an aggressive action. Not surprisingly, both Maluginensis and Clepsina, acutely aware of Pullus’ special relationship with their Legate, deferred to his judgment, and the three Cohorts remained a short distance from the riverbank while Gaetulicus’ crew, now free from Chatti harassment, rapidly completed the rest of the bridge. The Cohorts withdrew, the Fourth going first, the smell of raw wood filling their nostrils as the men marched back across the Adrana to return to camp. Waiting for them on the riverbank was Germanicus, who had ridden out to observe the last part of the work, and after returning Pullus’ salute, he beckoned the Pilus Prior to come to his side.
“Well?” Germanicus asked, his expression sober. “I heard you took some losses?”
“Two dead, seven wounded, but only one of the wounded is going to be out of things for any length of time,” Pullus answered, his voice reflecting his pride and his fatigue in equal measure. “But we have a man missing. He took an arrow in the thigh, but,” he sighed, “he went into the river in his armor, so I’m certain he’s dead. If he was just swept away, he would have shown up by now.”
“I’ll say a prayer for the dead,” Germanicus said, “and I’ll make sure my personal physician attends to…?”
“Ovidius,” Pullus correctly interpreted his commander’s tone, “of the Second Century.”
“Ovidius,” Germanicus continued, “and I’ll send a turma downstream to find your man.”
“Thank you, sir,” Pullus replied, then in a subtle message of his own, stepped back and offered a salute. “May I return to my Cohort?”
“Of course,” Germanicus agreed, returning the salute and unfaz
ed by what some other nobleman might take as disrespect.
Pullus turned and trotted off, rejoining his Century just as they reached the Porta Praetoria, while the other two Cohorts followed behind them, each dispersing to their area. For the men of the sections who were now missing a comrade, their duties were not yet done, and as he always did, Pullus made sure that he visited each tent to give his men the coin that they would place in their dead comrade’s mouth, a custom that he had brought with him from the Third Century and now did for the entire Cohort. With the section from Structus’ Century, since the man was still only considered missing and his body had not been found, he decided to read the mood of the section; he was not surprised to see that the man’s comrades had yet to accept the likelihood that he had died, so the coin remained in his purse.
When he left the tent, the section Sergeant followed him out, walking with Pullus a short distance away before saying quietly, “Thank you for doing that, Pilus Prior. We all know that Percennius is dead, but Regillensus isn’t ready to accept it yet.”
Regillensus, Pullus knew, was Percennius’ close comrade, but he said nothing, just offered the Sergeant a pat on the shoulder, then turned and headed for his next stop, the hospital. More than anything, he wanted some time to himself, so he walked slowly towards the forum, his demeanor such that those men of his Cohort who were out in their street understood that approaching him would be a bad idea. Even Volusenus, who had just emerged from his tent after discarding his armor took a step in his direction, then recognized the look on Pullus’ face, and rather than create an awkward situation, turned back and reentered his tent as if he had forgotten something. Once inside, he stood peering through the crack in the flap as the Pilus Prior walked by, studying him carefully. He looks tired, Volusenus thought, but also knew it was more than that, although he could not really define it; if he had known that Pullus was not only aware he was displaying this air but could not pinpoint the cause for it either, Volusenus would have been even more unsettled.