by R. W. Peake
“What? I was hungry!” Pullus protested, but in a manner that befitted a long-running dialogue that the pair had been conducting for many years.
“I think,” Alex replied, dropping onto the edge of Pullus’ cot, his normal spot when he consumed his own meal, “it would be easier to talk about the times you’re not hungry. In fact,” he cocked his head and asked teasingly, “can you even remember the last time you were full?”
Pullus considered, or pretended to, then answered with a triumphant grin, “Yes, I can.” He paused for comedic effect before saying, “I was twelve.”
Alex laughed, then the pair resumed eating, but in a silence that bespoke a familiarity and comfort that only comes from many watches of time spent together.
Alex broke the silence by musing, “I wonder if Titus has made up his mind yet.”
Pullus paused in his shoving of a piece of bread drenched in olive oil into his mouth, thinking for a moment before he shrugged. “There’s no telling with him. But,” his tone became sober, “it’s no small thing he’s considering, Alex. Going out on his own this soon?”
“I know.” Alex sighed. Like Pullus, he stopped eating to add, “But, he’s truly gifted, Uncle Titus. And he says that he’s learned everything he can from Scrofa.”
Pullus nodded, not because he was humoring Alex, but he had seen some of the work his younger brother, who had been named in honor of the first Titus Pullus, had created, and he completely agreed, although he did have some misgivings.
“The one thing I would suggest,” he said to Alex, “is that if he does this, he needs to consider relocating. Ubiorum has grown, no doubt, but it’s still a small town in the ways that count.”
“I told him that,” Alex exclaimed, more loudly than needed, but his frustration was not aimed at Pullus. “But then there’s Drusilla, and he’s afraid that if he forces her to choose between him or her father, he’ll lose her.”
This, Pullus knew, was also a consideration, but he felt compelled to point out, “If she’s the kind of girl who would choose her father over him, is she really worth worrying about?”
“And,” Alex sighed, “I told him that as well.” Shaking his head, he finished his last bite, then as he chewed, he mumbled, “It’s his life, I suppose. So he’s going to make his own decisions.”
“Yes, it is, and he is,” Pullus agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t worry about him.”
With that, Pullus finished his own meal, leaned back in his chair, and belched as Alex got up and picked up the bowl, pausing long enough to wipe the crumbs off Pullus’ desk, grumbling under his breath as he did so, and this, as much of a ritual as the bath and the meal, helped settle Pullus’ mind and revive his spirit. Now that the bridge was finished, they would be marching the next morning, and only the gods knew what lay in wait for the men of Germanicus’ army.
As expected, Germanicus led his men across the newly constructed bridge, pressing deeper into Chatti lands, while their warriors fell back on the familiar tactics of quick, hit-and-run ambushes, where they appeared as numeni from the heavy underbrush, hurled their short throwing spears, launched a dozen or so arrows, and only occasionally lingered long enough to clash with the Legionaries under attack. The daily march was subjected to a series of sudden stops, where most of the time the bulk of the army was aware of the reason for it only because the Corniceni in the area of the column where the ambush was sprung sounded the notes that signaled an attack. Sometimes, the assault would occur within earshot, or even within sight, farther up or back along the column, the reaction of those not under direct threat always the same, turning in that direction, with the men on the outside files suddenly becoming the most popular men in their Century as their comrades demanded to know what they saw taking place. And, occasionally, those who had witnessed the surprise attack the day before, or even earlier that same day, would find themselves suddenly assailed, forced on the defensive but without the opportunity to pursue their attackers once the Chatti expended their supply of missiles. It was maddeningly frustrating, but it was also a situation with which the men marching for Germanicus were all too familiar. Shortly after midday, scouts returned with the location of another Chatti village, which the leading elements reached about a third of a watch later, so by the time the 1st arrived, it being their day to march at the rear, only smoldering heaps of debris that had once been the buildings were left. The stopping point for the day was reached shortly afterward, the camp quickly and expertly constructed, but even before the men were finished with their assigned tasks, the bucina sounded from the praetorium, summoning all Pili Priores.
Pullus was standing with the other five Centurions of the Cohort when the distinctively different sound of the horn used in camp drifted across, interrupting him in his own instructions, and he finished with, “Let me go find out what this is all about. I’ll send Alex to your tents to come to my quarters when I get back.
While it was slightly unusual that Germanicus spoke with all the Pili Priores at one time, it was certainly not unheard of, so none of the Centurions thought much of it, and when, shortly after they finished their evening meal, they were sent for by Pullus, although they certainly speculated about what they were about to be told, it was in a desultory fashion. The only man who did not participate was Vespillo, but this was not unusual; indeed, it would have been easier for Volusenus to count the number of times the Pilus Posterior had uttered more than a few words since the incident at Mattium. It did not particularly help the atmosphere of conviviality among the officers of the Fourth Cohort, but Volusenus had quickly determined that there were benefits in Vespillo’s silence, and he could tell his counterparts felt the same way. When they filed into Pullus’ office, Alex holding the flap open, the customary five stools were in front of Pullus’ desk, and Alex began immediately to pour wine into six cups. Once they were settled, there was a brief exchange about the day’s march, offered in between sips of watered wine, which Volusenus took as a sign that what Pullus was about to impart was not momentous in nature.
Finally, Pullus addressed the subject of the meeting, telling the others, “Germanicus has decided to change things up a bit. Tomorrow, we’re going to be changing direction and heading due east.”
He paused to take a sip, mainly to allow his Centurions to consult the mental map each of them carried in their heads of the area, but it was actually Vespillo who, surprisingly, offered up his guess, “Are we headed for his father’s old camp?”
Pullus offered Vespillo a smile, raising his cup in a salute that, at least to Volusenus’ eyes, was sincere and not mocking.
“Vespillo is right,” he confirmed, but when he said nothing else, Volusenus felt compelled to ask, somewhat crossly, “It’s nice that you two know, but could you explain to some of us who aren’t that wise exactly where that is? And,” he thought to add, “why we’re heading there?”
Pullus, rather than being irritated, grinned at Volusenus, but he answered readily enough. “If you’d be patient, youngster, I’d tell you. As far as where that is,” he paused again, the grin fading as he tried to calculate the distance, finally offering, “my best guess is that it’s about fifteen miles from here, almost due east. There’s a hill just to the north of a bend in a river, I think it’s called the Werra, and Germanicus’ father Drusus built a camp there that he and his army used as a base of operations.”
“Was this when you marched with Drusus, Pilus Prior?” Structus asked this, surprising Volusenus; he had not been aware that Pullus ever marched with Germanicus’ father.
Pullus shook his head, answering, “No, this was before the 8th was sent to march with him. I think,” he frowned, a habit he had developed when trying to summon memories, “it was about three years before that.”
Before he could stop himself, Volusenus blurted out, “Pluto’s balls, Pilus Prior. I knew you were old, but…”
He did not finish, only because his counterparts began roaring with laughter, even Vespillo who, seemingly, tempor
arily forgot his antipathy towards the recipient of Volusenus’ jab. Pullus tried his best to appear as if he was upset, glowering at Volusenus for perhaps a heartbeat before joining in, and the six men enjoyed this moment for a few more heartbeats before Pullus finally got a word in, using his favorite epithet.
“Oh,” he growled, but wiping a tear from his mirth as he did, “go piss on your boots, you young pup.” The laughter died out, allowing Pullus to continue, “But yes, it was about three years before that, and Drusus set the camp up as a base of operations. And now, Germanicus is leading us there. We’re going to rebuild the camp.”
“To what purpose, Pilus Prior?” Cornutus asked, and for the first time, Pullus seemed to hesitate, although he did answer, “He thinks that if we remain in place for a few days but then send at least a Legion out into the area to keep doing what we’ve been doing, it will compel the Chatti to try something.”
A silence settled on the party, each Centurion absorbing this in their own way; in Volusenus’ case, he sipped from his cup as he thought it through, finally offering, “So he’s going to use a Legion as bait and hope that the Chatti snap at it?”
“That’s the plan,” Pullus agreed. Then he stared down into his cup, the frown returning. A heartbeat passed before he continued, in more of a musing tone than as if he was imparting information, “Honestly, I think this is more about resurrecting something his father built than for any real purpose. But,” his head came up, and he made sure to look at each of them as he spoke, “that’s just my speculation, and it doesn’t need to go any farther than here. Is that understood?”
It was not lost on Volusenus that Pullus had ended by staring directly at Vespillo, but they all murmured their agreement and promised that this last part would not be divulged. This was how Volusenus took it, at least, but since Vespillo was sitting at the opposite end of the row of stools, it was impossible for him to see the Pilus Posterior’s demeanor. With that, Pullus stood, the rest following suit, some of them hastily swallowing the last of their watered wine, then placed their cup on the small table next to the flap as they filed out, each of them thanking their Pilus Prior as they left. Since Volusenus was the last man out, over his shoulder, he gave Pullus a quick glance, but the older man was standing, head bowed as if he was studying something on his desk, except that the desk was bare of anything. There was nothing obviously wrong, Volusenus knew; Pili Priores had a lot on their minds, but Volusenus nonetheless felt a stirring of unease.
Whatever concerns Volusenus may have had about Pullus were quickly forgotten in the hectic activities that came with an army breaking camp, especially when it was the turn of the 1st to be the vanguard Legion, and the Fourth had been selected by Sacrovir to serve as the advance Cohort, which created an air of anticipation over and above the norm. For the rankers, being the advance Cohort meant there was a prospect of not just some sort of action, but more importantly, the chance for enrichment since they would be the first to enter a Chatti village or town. Individually, particularly the experienced men, they knew that this was more a matter of chance, and the reality was that it was just as likely that all they would encounter would be at best a lone hut, or perhaps two, but when the men assembled in their Century formations, any sense of reality was swept away. And, as Volusenus had learned, it was at the behest of those few men whose imaginations were such that their talk of the possible untold riches overwhelmed the good sense of the men who knew better. As Volusenus marched beside his Century, listening to the men chattering excitedly about what might lie just a mile or two ahead, he could only shake his head, which caught Macerinus’ eye.
“It happens every time,” the Signifer commented wryly. “Before we’ve gone a stadium, three or four men running their mouths make the rest of these idiots forget the reality that we’re just as likely to find cac as we are a fortune.”
Volusenus laughed, replying, “At least it gives them something to talk about.”
“Oh, it does,” Macerinus agreed. “At least, for the first mile, until the Pilus Prior comes back here and starts whacking these bastards for talking when they should be watching and listening.”
Although this could have been taken as a reprimand from his Signifer, Volusenus knew that Macerinus was simply reminding him of the truth.
“All right,” Volusenus called out. “That’s enough talk, you bastards! Shut your mouths and keep your eyes open.”
As he commanded, a silence descended over his Century, the tramping of hobnailed soles and creaking of leather becoming the predominant sound as the Fourth settled into the routine that was part of the army on campaign. The first obstacle came in form of the river, where they found a turma of cavalry waiting for them to show them a spot they could ford, prompting the first stop of the day. And, inevitably, the silence was disrupted, this time by men muttering about the prospect of plunging into water that, since it was still spring, meant the water would be freezing, something that the Centurions ignored as long as the noise did not get above a certain level. Equally certain, Volusenus knew and was quickly confirmed for him, was wagering on just how deep the water would be, with particular attention being paid to whether or not the water would reach a spot that was of universal concern for men marching under the standard, and frankly, for men everywhere.
“None of you cunni better be wagering your rations,” he said in an almost conversational tone, but he was watching his Century carefully, and as he suspected, some of the men suddenly seemed interested in something on the ground, or their mouths quickly shut.
It’s always the same men, he thought with some disgust, but at least it makes my job easier. The movement resumed, with the First plunging into the river, but because of their spot and the thick forest on either side of the narrow track they were using, it was impossible for Volusenus to look ahead to see how wide or how deep the river was, meaning that his men were at even more of a disadvantage. One by one, each Century reached the riverbank, but being the last one also meant that the riverbank on both sides was churned, slippery mud, and despite Volusenus and Gillo calling out warnings to that effect, men lost their footing as they tried to negotiate the downward slope. The level of disturbance and chaos increased with every Century, and it was small comfort to Volusenus knowing that by the time the rest of the army used this ford, the conditions would be far worse. It began with the Third Section, when a man in the middle of the rank lost his footing and landed on his ass, but it was his pack that caused the bigger issue, the opposite end of the furca flipping backward as the man’s pack hit the ground, smacking the man in the Fourth Section immediately behind the unfortunate ranker squarely in the face, breaking his nose. Before Volusenus could have counted to three, the middle of his Century was a jumbled mess of men who either lost their own footing when they were forced to move more quickly than carefully on the slippery mud or were jostled by one of their comrades. Cursing roundly, Volusenus moved into the mess, grabbing first one ranker then another, using his strength and size to try and restore at least a semblance of order. The first two ranks of his Century were already in the water, but several of them stopped to turn and gawk at their comrades, some of them shouting in alarm at the sight of a close friend sliding down the mud embankment or laughing at a close friend sliding down the mud embankment. In short, it was a mess.
“Go to Macerinus!” Volusenus bellowed, pointing to his Signifer who, as was the practice, had been the first across so that he could plant his standard, which served as the reference point to form up on the opposite side. “Don’t just stand there gawking, you idiots!”
Thankfully, the men in the river obeyed, and after a span of several more heartbeats, the rest of the Century was plunging into the water, although one man had to be helped because instead of holding his pack, that hand was clutching his nose as he tried to stop the bleeding. Volusenus snatched up the man’s load, cursing in disgust, some of which was aimed at Gillo, who in his judgment had been slow to get involved to sort the mess out. It was understanda
ble to a degree; more than once, Volusenus had felt one of his feet sliding, and he had come perilously close to landing in the muck himself, but blessed Fortuna had kept him from suffering that indignity. Still, that was what Optios were for, at least that was how Volusenus saw it, and he reminded himself to have a talk with Gillo about it once they made camp.
Once the Sixth was across, which Volusenus had Macerinus signal by thrusting the standard high in the air three times, the Fourth resumed, and it prompted Volusenus to comment to his Signifer, “At least we were the first across. It’s going to be a lot worse for those bastards in the 5th.”
“If you say so,” Macerinus grumbled, but the cause for his discontent was made clear when he pointed at Volusenus, saying accusingly, “but you didn’t have your balls shrivel up like raisins. By Dis, that water was cold!”
It was one of those moments when Volusenus, like Pullus, was reminded of a fact that he had long since taken for granted, and he was actually somewhat surprised when he glanced down and saw that only the bottom few inches of his tunic were wet.