by R. W. Peake
“We’re going to be in armor, and shields uncovered from this point forward,” Sacrovir informed the Pili Priores when they made their next rest stop after taking the turn.
“Any word from the cavalry?” Macer asked, but Sacrovir could only shake his head.
“Not yet. The Legate says that we’ll meet the main body by the end of the day today, though.”
When they resumed, it was not long before they entered the western edge of Marsi territory, and, without any order to that effect being given, a silence descended on the column. Pullus was leading his Fourth, who were placed three Cohorts from the rear, and he only became gradually aware that the normal chatter had died down. He discovered why just as they were rounding a gentle bend in the road, but despite the different season, he recognized the landmarks, so that when the remains of what had been a Marsi village that had been among the first that the army had destroyed just the winter before during Germanicus’ punitive campaign, he understood the cause. That they were now marching again on what was essentially an extension of the same campaign, as part of Germanicus’ grand strategy to finally bring Arminius to bear and destroy the threat he and his confederation posed did not make the sight any less sobering, and it served as a reminder to Pullus that, as hardened as he and the men who marched for Rome may have been, for the most part, they were not monsters. They might plunge their gladius into the bodies of women, old people and, yes, sometimes children; they might put the torch to the homes and farms of their enemies, but Pullus knew very well that they did not do these things without any remorse. Granted, it might come later; while it was never spoken of among men, he knew that he was not alone in suffering from dreams that jerked him awake, drenched in sweat and with a pounding heart. The silence was eerie, the only noise the tromping of hobnailed soles, and Pullus noticed that nobody’s head turned to examine the charred remains of what had been a village of perhaps thirty buildings, but this was just the beginning. For the rest of that day, they passed by ruins of farmhouses, other small villages, and fields with the skeletal remains of the livestock they had slaughtered as part of their punishment of the Marsi. What they did not see were any signs of Marsi, of any age or gender, but even more unusually, Pullus, and a fair number of the other veterans who had learned that even when they did not see Germans but understood they were there, watching the Romans, did not have that sense. It was as if, Pullus thought uneasily, the Marsi had vanished, leaving only the grim remains of their life before Germanicus and his army had swept through.
“It’s starting to make me really nervous,” was how Fabricius expressed it to Pullus during one of the rest stops.
“Why?” Pullus asked, mainly because he suspected he knew the answer.
“Usually, I can tell those bastards are lurking out there.” Fabricius waved in the direction of the heavy underbrush that lined the track they were following. “But not today.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Pullus countered.
“Maybe,” Fabricius replied, but he sounded doubtful. Shaking his head, he went on, “But it also may mean that they’re somewhere ahead of us, all gathered in a big bunch, just waiting for us. And,” he finished meaningfully, “that’s before we get to wherever those Cherusci cunni are waiting, and we’re only one fucking Legion.”
Pullus knew he should say something to assure his Optio, but even as he did, he heard the hollow ring to his words.
Slapping Fabricius on the back, he spoke more loudly than necessary. “Stop being such an old woman, Fabricius! These Marsi savages are still hiding in the holes we sent them running to a few months ago. They won’t bother us.”
That they did not do so was just as surprising to Pullus, despite his claim, as it was to the others, though none of them complained. And, as expected, shortly after camp was made, Gaesorix arrived with the bulk of his cavalry, leaving several turmae out in the field. What greeted the Batavian and his men was a camp that was more familiar to men of the cavalry than those who marched for the Legions. There was no large praetorium tent; Germanicus’ headquarters was using a tent that was the same size as that of a Primus Pilus, while the Primus Pilus’ tent was correspondingly smaller, using that belonging to a Pilus Prior. Pullus’ tent, along with the other Pili Priores’, was nothing but a simple ranker’s tent, but they were still better off than the men, who were forced to make do with their sagum.
“He didn’t want any tents at all at first,” Pullus explained to Gaesorix later that night. “But then Sacrovir pointed out that if the weather turns bad and we take casualties, we’re going to need some way to shelter them.” He shrugged as he handed Gaesorix a cup that contained more water than wine, grinning at the grimace on his friend’s face. “Personally, I think Sacrovir didn’t want to be sleeping rough like the men. And then some of the other Centurions made a stink about it, so…” He waved his cup at the canvas around them, “…here we are.” Pointing down at the rough pallet at the far end of the tent, he joked, “So now I’m forced to live like I’m in the fucking cavalry.”
“You Legionaries have it so fucking soft,” Gaesorix scoffed. “This will do you good.”
There was a moment’s silence as they both sipped from their cups, and as he did so, Gaesorix glanced around the interior of the tent. While he would never say it aloud to his friend, he had to admit that he had never seen Pullus, or any officer of the Legions, making do with such sparse furnishings. Two stools, a small folding desk where he assumed Pullus took his meal, which he thought with amusement, he has to prepare for himself. Pullus was watching him, and he correctly divined the Batavian’s thoughts.
“Don’t worry,” he broke the silence, grinning as he did so, “I’ve got one of the men making my porridge and bread.”
“Like I said,” Gaesorix shook his head with mock sadness, “soft. So soft.”
Now that there had been some banter, Pullus decided it was time, and he asked his friend, “So, I know you’ve already told Germanicus, and he’s going to tell Sacrovir, and Sacrovir is going to tell us.”
“So why don’t I just tell you now?” Gaesorix interjected dryly.
“Exactly!” Pullus exclaimed, and this time, he smiled so broadly that all of his teeth showed.
The sight of them prompted Gaesorix to grumble, “Pluto’s cock, Titus. How is that you still have all your teeth?” He pointed to the side of his jaw, and for the first time, Pullus noticed that it was slightly swollen. “I just lost one of my back teeth a couple days ago.”
“I’m younger than you, for one thing,” Pullus pointed out, not feeling the slightest bit guilty, then he added mischievously, “Besides, you know the gods love me more than they do you.”
“Don’t remind me.” Gaesorix scowled at him, but it was false; he was a naturally cheerful person, and he was not adept at pretending otherwise.
Pullus, however, was not put off, and he repeated, “So, what did you tell Germanicus? Any idea where Arminius is?”
There was nothing lighthearted in the Batavian’s manner now, and he leaned over to set the cup on the desk before he answered soberly, “Yes, we know where he is. We’ve located them. They’re about forty miles almost due east of here.”
He fell silent then, and Pullus correctly recognized that this time Gaesorix was not doing it to tease him.
“How bad is it?” Pullus asked quietly.
“It’s not good,” Gaesorix acknowledged. Taking a deep breath, he shifted his gaze from the dirt at his feet to look Pullus in the eye. “They’re in their kind of marching camp, but we watched them for five days as they headed in this direction. They’re only making about ten miles a day, but that’s not because they’re not in a hurry. Arminius is stopping early so that they can construct a camp that they can defend.” He paused a moment to allow Pullus to absorb this before he continued, “And they’re watching Segestes and his family like hawks. They’re not in chains, but when they’re on the march, they’re surrounded. Arminius has his wife, who,” Gaesorix thought to add, “is
pregnant, and about a couple dozen other people, mostly children, but we’ve seen a couple of old people, riding in wagons. They only have a dozen of those, and most of their tents and supplies are being carried by oxen.”
Pullus sat listening, his demeanor growing soberer as Gaesorix talked, and when the Batavian paused to pick up his cup, he asked, “When you say a camp they can defend, what do you mean?” He suddenly looked alarmed, and when he continued, it was with the tone of a man expecting to hear the worst but hoping for better. “Please don’t tell me that they’re digging ditches and walls.”
He got his answer from the manner in which Gaesorix did not answer but looked him directly in the eye, prompting Pullus to swear softly.
Gaesorix lifted a hand, making a placating gesture as he said, “It’s not quite that bad, Titus. Yes, they’re digging a ditch and using the spoil to make a wall, but it’s nowhere near what we build. The most it will do is slightly slow anyone attacking down and delay them. There’s no need for ladders, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Indeed, this was exactly what Pullus had thought about the instant the Batavian had offered this information, and he relaxed slightly.
Which Gaesorix saw, so he felt compelled to warn, “There’s more, Titus.”
“More?” Pullus asked warily, but just by Gaesorix’s expression, he knew it would be bad, muttering, “Fuck me. So?”
“He has more than seven thousand warriors with him,” Gaesorix did not hesitate, “and what we estimate to be a bit more than a thousand women and children with them.”
“Fuck me,” Pullus repeated, having run out of ways to express his dismay. Thinking for a moment, he asked, “How many different tribes? Could you tell?”
“Actually,” Gaesorix answered, “that might be considered good news as well. We only saw a scattering of men wearing colors other than the Cherusci, but our best estimate is that there’s no more than a hundred men from three other tribes.” This puzzled Pullus, and he said as much. Gaesorix, however, had thought about it as well, and he offered his explanation. “I think these men are emissaries from the other tribes in the confederation, or maybe they’re with Arminius as observers. Or,” he concluded, “maybe they’re hostages from the other tribes.”
“Observers?” Pullus asked skeptically, thinking that it was the latter explanation that was most likely.
“Spies,” Gaesorix amended. “I think they’re there to keep an eye on Arminius.”
Pullus considered this, but while it made sense in a superficial way, he was still bothered by something.
“Do you have any idea what tribes these…emissaries belong to?” Before Gaesorix could answer, he clarified, “Did any of those men wear Marsi colors? Or Chatti?”
“We saw Bructeri, Semnones, and Tubantes, but not those two.”
“What about Marcomanni?” Pullus asked, but again, Gaesorix shook his head, replying, “Old Marobduus still refuses to acknowledge Arminius as the leader of the tribes.”
The pair lapsed into a silence, both consumed with their own thoughts, but as it normally happened, Pullus was the first to break it, speaking in a musing tone, “We’re one Legion, and we’re facing almost as many warriors, who are building a stronger camp than normal. We’re going to have to penetrate their defenses, push to the middle of their camp to snatch Segestes…”
“And his family,” Gaesorix interjected, but it was more to incite his friend, which clearly worked, as Pullus glared at him, growling, “Of course, we can’t forget his family.” He took a breath, then went on, “As I said, we’re going to have to cut our way through the gods know how many Cherusci, get to Segestes and his family,” he ignored Gaesorix’s grin, “then cut our way back out.” Pullus pointed at his friend. “And then, you and your boys are going to have to keep those cunni off our backs long enough to let us get away.” Sighing, he finished, “Am I missing anything?”
“No, that sounds about right,” Gaesorix allowed, and now his grin faded as the scope of what this effort would entail sank in.
“I don’t know about you,” Pullus stood up, making an elaborate show of yawning and stretching, “I need to get some sleep.”
For once, Gaesorix did not poke fun at his friend, if only because he was as apprehensive as he knew Pullus was. Bidding each other a restful night, the Batavian slipped out of the tent, while Pullus dropped back onto his stool, staring off into space for a bit longer.
“Fuck me.”
When the march resumed the next morning, the collective mood of the Legion was one that Pullus had not seen very often. The sense of anticipation created by an impending action was not unusual, but it was tempered by an apprehension that, by the time they had been on the march for a third of a watch, Pullus had heard enough as the men talked to have an idea why this was the case.
“Part of it,” he explained to his Centurions and Optios, gathering them just out of earshot of the rankers sprawled out on the ground, “is just normal nerves. But it’s the idea that we’re going to possibly be facing Arminius himself that has gotten some of the men more nervous than usual.”
“What do we do about it?” Cornutus asked. “Because I’m hearing the same kind of thing with my boys.”
The others muttered their assent, while Pullus considered what was a reasonable question.
Unfortunately, all he could come up with was, “Make an offering to your gods that for some reason that bastard’s not around when there’s just us to face him.”
Later, everyone would agree that they had held the same thought when Pullus had said it, that he was offering up a wish and nothing more, but even so, the more religious among them would also claim that the gods had heard Pullus’ plea, because this was exactly what happened. Shortly before Germanicus sounded the halt the third day of the march, a party of horsemen came galloping up from the east. It was just by chance that the Fourth’s spot on the day’s march was actually behind the command group, so that Pullus was in a perfect spot to see that the cavalrymen were led by Cassicos, who noticed Pullus standing there and gave him a wave as he drew up next to Germanicus. The Legate’s Cornicen immediately sounded the call to halt, but there was no way for Pullus to overhear unless he wandered forward several dozen paces, so he did not even try. It had come late to him, and he still struggled with it, but he had learned the value of patience, especially since more times than he could count, he immediately regretted his curiosity, so at this moment, he accepted that he would find out later. As it happened, later turned out to be a matter of heartbeats, because Germanicus, after listening to Cassicos’ report, nudged his horse out of the column and looked directly at Pullus, beckoning to him. Trotting up, Pullus studied Germanicus’ face, and he could see the air of suppressed excitement in the Legate’s face as he nudged his mount a few paces away from the others, indicating that Pullus should follow.
Positioning himself so that his back was to the others, which placed Pullus facing them, Germanicus began, “First, I don’t want you to react to what I’m about to tell you, is that all right?”
While he appreciated Germanicus posing it as a request, Pullus was not fooled, and he assured Germanicus he would not betray whatever he was about to hear; unfortunately, the instant Germanicus spoke, he realized this was easier said than done.
“Arminius has left this bunch and taken all of his cavalry and around four thousand of his infantry with him, heading back east.”
Somehow, Pullus managed to maintain the same expression, but his voice betrayed his interest, “Why? And how do you know?”
“I’ll answer your second question first.” Germanicus smiled down at him, then jerked his head back in the direction where Cassicos and the other Batavians were waiting, “We’ve been watching their camp, as I’m guessing your friend Batavius told you.” Pullus flushed, thinking ruefully that, of course Germanicus would know this, although he merely nodded confirmation, and Germanicus continued, “So we saw Arminius leave. But we managed to capture two prisoners, and after
some…questioning, they told us why he left in such a hurry.” Now Germanicus gave Pullus a broad grin as he informed him, “Turns out that old Marobduus has decided to make mischief while Arminius is so far out of his own territory.”
Pullus stared up at Germanicus, knowing that the Legate would not joke about such a matter, but still unwilling to believe that Fortuna could have been so kind.
“How far away are we?” Pullus asked, and this served to wipe the smile off Germanicus’ face, but he did not hesitate to answer, “A bit more than ten miles.” He glanced up at the sun, gauging how much time, his brow furrowing as he thought aloud, “I was about a third of a watch from sounding the halt to make camp, but that will put us about seven or eight miles away. I’d like to get closer so that when we move on their camp, we won’t have to spend a watch on the move before we get there.” He dropped his attention to Pullus and asked, “What do you think, Pullus?”
Pullus shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable, and without thinking about it, he glanced to his left, back where the First Cohort, who was following the Fourth on this day, was standing and waiting like the rest of the Legion. The distance was well more than a hundred paces, but he clearly saw Sacrovir standing there, naturally looking in their direction.
Germanicus saw and correctly interpreted this, assuring Pullus with a grin, “Don’t worry. Even if I do what you suggest, I’m going to take credit for it. I thought you learned that from when you were my Primus Pilus?”
This made Pullus chuckle, but he was also relieved, and thus appeased, he said, “I think we should march until it gets dark. And then,” he hesitated, unsure how Germanicus would take this, “not bother with the ditch and wall. Or,” he added, “putting up the tents.”