by R. W. Peake
Volusenus did not care for the manner in which the Primus Pilus said this, but he saw it was a shade compared to Pullus, whose weathered features suddenly flushed, yet somehow, his voice managed to sound as if he was unbothered by Sacrovir’s words as he replied evenly, “Hopefully, it won’t come to that, Primus Pilus.”
To Volusenus’ eye, Sacrovir seemed slightly disappointed that Pullus had not reacted more strongly, and the Primus Pilus stood, saying only, “I hope not as well.” Returning their salute, he stood watching as the pair took two steps back, then executed their about turn, but just before they began to march out, Sacrovir called out, “And you two try not to hurt any more Centurions from other Legions, neh?”
Neither of them replied, but both were grinning broadly as they left the office.
The small dramas of brawling Legions notwithstanding, the men of the army quickly became bored and restive as they waited for what came next. It seemed that every day, a new rumor would filter through the Legion streets about when they would be departing, although where they were headed was agreed upon by all those who took part in the speculation. Pullus and Volusenus enjoyed the fruits of their labors in The Dancing Faun, in the form of being invited to every single taverna that served the Cohorts of the 1st Legion, where they were plied with drink, the only requirement being the retelling of what became known as the Slaughter at The Dancing Faun, at least by the men of the 1st. The men of the 15th called it something else entirely, but only on those rare occasions when it was ever mentioned. By the third or fourth telling, the two had developed their tale so that it was more of a performance than a simple retelling, where they would alternate back and forth, but somewhat unusually, what Pullus described was what he saw Volusenus do, while Volusenus did the same for Pullus. And, as tended to happen in such matters, certain aspects were embellished, while the scope of the beating became worse, and various humorous bits were added, so that by the time they had told their tale for the fifth time, it had become universally agreed that it was one of the best stories these men had heard in many years. This was not the only time the two spent together; Volusenus had no idea why, but Pullus had begun inviting him to share the evening meal with him every night, and while this had certainly happened before, it was not every single night. Not that Volusenus was inclined to argue; not only was Pullus his Pilus Prior, he found that he thoroughly enjoyed spending time with the older Centurion. Seemingly with every meal, he discovered how he shared something with Pullus, some insight or a common attitude towards all manner of things, but more than anything, he realized they shared the same sense of humor, preferring to look at things in a caustic, almost morbid way that emphasized some of the absurdities of their shared life under the standard. What Volusenus quickly discerned as well was that Pullus was attempting to share and impart the knowledge he had gleaned, not just from his own time in the Legions, but from his illustrious grandfather and his father. Gradually, Volusenus also noticed how remarkably well informed Pullus was about his grandfather, to a degree of detail that he felt certain his Pilus Prior would not have gleaned just by sitting at the family table listening, especially because Volusenus knew that Pullus was only ten when his grandfather died, and that the Prefect had relocated to Arelate almost three years earlier. More than once, Volusenus was struck by the thought as he listened to Pullus that it was as almost as if the Prefect had written something down, but he quickly dismissed that as preposterous given what he knew about the first and greatest Titus Pullus. That he would be learning how erroneous his assessment of the Prefect was would cause him more than one sleepless night as he worried that he had betrayed this to his father, his real father.
Not every moment of this interlude in Ubiorum was pleasant, as Pullus discovered when a man he recognized as one of Germanicus’ clerks appeared in his office.
“The Legate asks you to attend to him as soon as you’re able,” he told Pullus, which was a slightly unusual phrasing.
Regardless of how it was put, Pullus interpreted it as an order, so he immediately grabbed his vitus and walked to the Praetorium with the clerk, yet despite his best attempts, the man was either unable or unwilling to tell Pullus the reason for the summons. His concern was not tamped down by the expression on Germanicus’ face, but as he marched to the Legate’s desk, he did take notice of a man standing off by himself, not exactly in a corner, but to Pullus’ eye, he was doing his best to look unobtrusive. The fact that he was wearing a light cloak was one thing; it was the insignia pinned to it that told Pullus that this man was one of the Imperial couriers, but then he was standing in front of Germanicus, so he offered his salute, which the Legate returned, though without rising from his seat.
“This won’t take long, Pullus,” he began, and his expression was grave. “But I wanted you to hear this from me and not from someone else.”
Pullus’ concern immediately bloomed into alarm, and while a part of him understood how ludicrous it was, he could not help blurting out, “What is it, sir? Did something happen to my family?”
He got his answer by the startled look Germanicus gave him, and he held up a hand as he said, “No, Pullus! No!” Shaking his head, he added, “But I can see why you would think that, given how I put it. No, Pullus, this has nothing to do with your family. But it does have something to do with someone we both know.”
Pullus’ relief was so intense that it took him a heartbeat to grasp the meaning of the last sentence Germanicus uttered, but he could not think of who Germanicus might mean.
“Who’s that, sir?”
Germanicus did not reply immediately, but his eyes darted over to where the courier was standing; once he saw the man did not seem to be paying attention because he was involved in a conversation with one of the clerks, only then did he reply, “It’s about Tiberius Dolabella.”
“Dolabella?” Pullus asked, actually more bewildered than he had been a moment earlier. “What about him?”
“He’s dead,” Germanicus replied flatly.
Pullus felt as if he suffered a body blow, and without thinking, he actually took a slight step backward, awash with conflicting emotions, in the form of a series of memories, as a part of his mind recognized that there had been a time up until recently that he would have rejoiced at the news of Tiberius Dolabella’s death.
Germanicus had said nothing more, giving Pullus the impression he was waiting for him to ask, so he did. “How did it happen? And when?”
Now Germanicus’ face hardened, and while his voice was seemingly devoid of emotion, Pullus was certain he heard the undercurrent of, if not anger, then at least tension.
“He was arrested, tried, and executed for plotting against the Imperator,” he began, but Pullus’ gasp of shock cut him off.
“Gerrae!” he exclaimed, forgetting he was speaking to his commander. “That’s a load of cac! Dolabella may have been a lot of things, but he would never plot against Tiberius!” Suddenly, Pullus experienced a stab in his gut that was almost physical in nature, certain that he knew the answer before he asked, “And who was his accuser?”
Germanicus’ grim smile indicated to Pullus that the Legate suspected he knew the answer, “Prefect Sejanus.”
“That fucking son of a whore,” Pullus swore without thinking, and Germanicus hissed a warning, his eyes cutting to where the Imperial courier was standing there, but Pullus was too incensed to heed the Legate as he continued to rage, “I should have gutted that cocksucking, treacherous bastard when I had the…”
“Pullus!”
Germanicus had come to his feet, reminding Pullus that, when he chose to, Germanicus could bellow in a manner that would do credit to any Centurion.
The Legate was glaring at him, but while his tone returned to normal, there was no warmth in it, warning Pullus, “That will be enough about the Prefect, Pullus. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.” Pullus tried to sound contrite, but he was still seething with anger, and his jaw was clenched as he uttered the ritual, “I under
stand and will obey. Sir.”
Nodding, Germanicus dropped back into his seat, his expression also softening somewhat as he said, “That being said, I do understand why you’re upset, Pullus. As I recall, you two had become…close last year, when…” Now Germanicus looked uncomfortable, reminding Pullus how everyone involved with what had taken place the year before was still reluctant to use the word “mutiny,” and he settled on, “…everything happened.”
Pullus was both touched and slightly concerned that Germanicus was aware that this was, in fact, the case; after almost two decades of antipathy between himself and first Augustus’ then Tiberius’ spymaster, the time they spent together during the mutinies by the Rhenus and Pannonian Legions had changed their mutual distrust. More than anything else, it was the act of kindness Dolabella conferred on Pullus in allowing him to spend extra time in Arelate, although it ran more deeply than that. Nevertheless, Pullus was surprised at the sudden sense of grief he experienced, and he struggled to maintain his composure.
“Do you know the specific charge, sir?” Pullus asked, but Germanicus shook his head, saying, “No, Pullus, I’m afraid not. And does it matter?”
“Not really,” Pullus agreed. Then he thought of something, asking Germanicus, “Excuse me, sir, but you said that it was Prefect Sejanus?” When Germanicus nodded, Pullus frowned, “I thought he was a Tribune.”
“He was,” Germanicus answered, assuming a neutral expression, “but he was just promoted by my father the Imperator.”
Then, there was nothing more to say, and Germanicus dismissed him, but just as he reached the door, the Legate called to him.
“Pullus,” his expression seemed sincere to Pullus, “I am truly sorry about Dolabella. He was a…” Suddenly, he stopped, looking embarrassed at the thought of using the word “good,” and he settled on, “…loyal servant of Rome.”
And that, Pullus thought as he left the office, was perhaps the best way to sum up the life of Tiberius Dolabella.
It was a few days later when Alex came bursting into Pullus’ private office, breathless and wearing an expression that Pullus immediately recognized, prompting him to drop his stylus.
“When I was at the Praetorium dropping off the daily report, I saw some men come in,” he began. “Two of them I recognized as being Gaesorix’s men, but there were some Germans with them.” He paused before blurting out what was actually the crucial part of the news. “And they were wearing Cherusci colors!”
Pullus shot to his feet, but while he was about to demand whether Alex was certain, he managed to stop himself; Alex would not have imparted this unless he was sure.
Instead, he asked quickly, “How long ago?”
“Just now,” Alex answered, then flushed slightly when he realized what Pullus was referring to, assuring him, “I didn’t go see Algaia, I came straight here.”
“I didn’t say you did,” Pullus protested, but he saw Alex was not fooled, so he offered his nephew a grin. As Pullus was moving towards the door, he told him, “I’m going to be out for a bit, trying to find out what this is about. Go find the other Centurions, but if anyone else comes looking for me…” but Alex cut him off, using what was Pullus’ standard reason for being missing, “I know, you’re out at the stakes.”
Offering a wave, Pullus hurried out into the street, then stopped for a moment, looking in the direction of the Praetorium. If this was something big, he knew, there would be more traffic as the word spread with a rapidity that always dismayed Legates like Germanicus, but at that moment, he did not see any other men running down the street, so he began walking towards the Legion headquarters, which was in the direction of the forum. He stopped at the Second Cohort’s office, and without knocking, entered the outer office, whereupon Lucco looked up, then nodded as he crossed to the inner door. Rapping twice, he entered to find Macer lying on his bunk, reading a scroll.
“Is that the one you borrowed from me?” Pullus asked.
Macer nodded as he swung his legs back onto the floor, but before he could say anything, Pullus told him about Alex’s news, his friend’s expression essentially mirroring Pullus’ when he had learned.
“The Cherusci?” Macer asked, rubbing his chin when Pullus nodded, then said thoughtfully, “I wonder why. I mean,” he glanced up at his friend, “it’s not very fucking likely that Arminius is sending emissaries to negotiate a truce. Is it?”
Pullus did not hesitate, replying, “I seriously doubt it, even though we did hurt the Chatti, and the Marsi haven’t recovered from the beating we gave them last winter. Yes, they’re important to him, but not nearly as important as some of the other tribes.”
The pair were silent for a moment, then Macer stood and walked over to pick up his vitus.
“I think I might stretch my legs,” he said with a grin, which Pullus returned, asking with mock seriousness, “Anyplace you’re heading in particular?”
“Oh, I might wander over in the neighborhood of the forum,” Macer answered.
“In that case, I think I’ll come with you. And,” he added with a laugh as he followed Macer out, “if we walk slow enough, by the time we get there, we’ll run into Publius telling us everything.”
Although they did not learn the truth before they reached the forum, they did not have to stay long before they saw Sacrovir come striding out of the Praetorium, and the expression on his face told them that there was, at the very least, something important happening. The Primus Pilus spotted them and headed in their direction, and by the time he reached the pair, they had been joined by more than a dozen other Centurions from the 1st.
“I’m not going to tell you everything here,” Sacrovir began, then turned to address the majority of the Centurions, “but I’ll be calling a meeting of the Pili Priores immediately, then they’ll tell you once I’m done.”
“What can you tell us?” Macer asked, and Sacrovir was not irritated by the question; in fact, to Pullus, he appeared to be eager to share something, and he took a quick glance around before he lowered his voice. “What I will tell you is this. One of those Cherusci is Segimundus.”
He said nothing more, mainly because Pullus, Macer, and a couple other Centurions present began talking at once, but Volusenus, who had been warned by Alex as Pullus had instructed him and had just arrived, had no idea why this name evoked such a reaction.
“What the fuck is that traitorous bastard doing here?” Pullus demanded, but Sacrovir did not answer, at least immediately.
Instead, he took a quick glance around again, then said, “We’re going to have a meeting in my office as soon as I get back there and have Paterculus sound the call, then I’ll tell you what’s going on.”
He hurried away, leaving the gathered men to speculate about what was happening.
“I thought Segimundus was with Arminius,” Maluginensis said, having arrived in time to hear the name.
“He was,” Pullus answered, frowning at Sacrovir’s back as he hurried away, although he was not angry at the Primus Pilus. “So I wonder why he came walking in here? He had to know that Germanicus would throw him in chains the moment he set foot in camp.”
“Unless,” Macer put in, “Germanicus already knew he was coming and had arranged for a safe passage for him.”
This Pullus realized, was most likely the case, yet he could not think of a circumstance where the Legate would be willing to forgive a man who had been aligned with Arminius during the time when he had lured Varus and the three Legions to their collective doom.
Finally, he could only think to say, “Hopefully, Sacrovir will be able to tell us what the fuck is going on.”
“Segestes sent his brother Segimundus to Germanicus to ask for help,” Sacrovir began, addressing the Pili Priores in his quarters. “I’m guessing you’ve all heard how things are going between him and Arminius.”
“But aren’t Segestes and Arminius related?” Lucius Regulus, the Decimus Pilus Prior, asked this question, but while Pullus and Macer exchanged an amused glance, t
hey said nothing, allowing Sacrovir to answer.
With a patience that was clearly exaggerated, Sacrovir explained, “Yes, they are, Regulus, just like the they were the last time you asked this, but it’s by marriage. Arminius is married to Segestes’ daughter. And,” he offered a grim smile, “there’s no love lost between father and son-in-law. In fact,” at this, he glanced down at the wax tablet on his desk with the notes he had taken during his meeting with Germanicus, “Segimundus told Germanicus that there have been three attempts on his brother’s life in the last month alone.”
Before Sacrovir could continue, he was interrupted by Tiberius Cinna, the Septimus Pilus Prior. “Why should we care about a couple of fucking barbarians killing each other?”
This time, Sacrovir was either unable or chose not to control his ire, snapping at Cinna, “Because Segestes is the only fucking German who warned us what Arminius was up to, or have you forgotten that? Just because Varus was too pigheaded to listen doesn’t change the fact that Segestes did his best to warn him! He was named a Friend and Ally of Rome by Divus Augustus, and Tiberius extended that status for another five years. Now,” his tone turned caustic, “may I continue, Pilus Prior Cinna?”
“Er, yes, Primus Pilus,” Cinna mumbled, dropping his gaze to examine his feet, but Sacrovir was apparently satisfied with his chastisement, returned his attention to the tablet.
“As I was saying, Segestes asked Germanicus for help for himself and his family. And,” now he looked up, and his expression gave Pullus the barest hint of what to expect, which was also formed by his familiarity with Germanicus, “the Legate has decided to answer his call. So,” Sacrovir took a deep breath, let it out, then informed them, “Germanicus is leading us on a fast march into Cherusci territory to rescue them.”