by R. W. Peake
Instead, he kept his tone neutral as he assured Pullus, “They are, Pilus Prior. And,” he added meaningfully, “so am I.”
“Oh,” Pullus replied quickly, so much so that Volusenus was certain he was lying, “I wasn’t thinking about you.” When Volusenus did not reply, Pullus hesitated, and he pretended to be examining the men of the Sixth as they were in the process of bedding down before he said, “This might be…tricky, Gnaeus.”
Volusenus, who had been pretending to do the same thing as Pullus, turned to look at him, asking with some surprise, “Oh? How so?” Before Pullus could respond, he added, “I know that we’re going to have to move quickly, but the fact that Arminius is gone is a good thing, neh?”
“It is,” Pullus agreed, then went on, “but it’s not just that. You know what we have to do, don’t you?”
Now he did stare directly at Volusenus, and it made the younger man shift uncomfortably because, even in the growing darkness, he saw the intense expression on Pullus’ face, telling him that there was something significant in this conversation but not yet grasping what it was, causing him to answer cautiously, “I think so, Pilus Prior. We’re going to have to make sure that none of the warriors who are left behind can stop the First from grabbing Segestes and his family or running off to go find Arminius.”
The instant he said it, he could see by Pullus’ expression that he had offered the answer his Pilus Prior expected; he also could see that Pullus found it lacking in some way, and he wondered why.
He quickly learned why when Pullus said quietly, “Not just the warriors, Gnaeus. We can’t let anyone escape that camp to get word to Arminius.”
Now Volusenus understood, and he felt his stomach clench in an unconscious rebellion at the thought of slaughtering women and children.
“But there won’t be any women and children there, other than Segestes’ family,” Volusenus protested, but he heard the uncertainty in his voice, which prompted him to add hopefully, “will there?”
For a heartbeat or two, Pullus considered lying or not mentioning what Gaesorix had told him, but decided against it, dropping his voice even more as he said, “The cavalry estimates there are more than a thousand women and children, Gnaeus. They had seven thousand infantry, so that would be their families, but four thousand of those and all of the cavalry have gone with Arminius.”
Volusenus considered this, his just-consumed meal suddenly feeling like a ball of lead in his stomach.
“How…hard is it?” His voice dropped to a whisper, part of himself hating the other part that made him sound so weak. “I mean, killing them? Germanicus stopped us before we had to do it at Mattium.”
“It’s not easy,” Pullus replied honestly. Suddenly, he dropped his gaze to study the ground between his feet, his voice suddenly becoming hoarse as he continued, “I’ve done it, more than once, but there was only one time where it wasn’t hard for me to do it.”
Despite his queasiness from the topic, Volusenus’ curiosity got the better of him as he asked, “And what made it different that time?”
Pullus looked up, startled, giving Volusenus the impression he was unaware that he had said this aloud, but answered, “It was after my brother was killed. We were sent out on a punitive raid, which you know is our official policy.” When Volusenus nodded, he continued, “We came up on this Maezaei village. They,” he elaborated when he saw Volusenus’ blank expression, “are one of the Pannonian tribes, and some warriors from their tribe were responsible for the ambush that killed my brother.” Pullus suddenly looked away as he continued, “So, when I had the chance, I killed anyone and everyone I could find. There was a boy who was tending their flock of goats, and I cut his throat so he couldn’t give a warning. ” He shook his head, the memory of the moment coming back so strongly that his voice became husky. “But I didn’t just put them to the gladius. Some of them had run into this building that they used to store their tools for mining. My Primus Pilus had given us strict orders not to fire any of the buildings because this village…” Pullus frowned as he tried to think of the name, finally coming up with it, “…Clandate, it was called, was just five miles away from their tribal capital in Splonum. But,” he sighed, “I was…angry, so I violated the orders I was given, and had some of the boys put it to the torch with the people still inside.”
Volusenus was listening in rapt and somewhat uncomfortable fascination, chastising himself for his curiosity and impelling Pullus to talk about something that obviously forced him to relive unpleasant memories.
When Pullus said nothing more, even as he told himself that he had no business doing so, he heard himself ask, “And? What happened?”
He was completely unprepared for Pullus to laugh, even if it was laced with bitterness and, to Volusenus’ ear, anguish, but he answered readily enough, “What happened was that I started another rebellion and got a lot more people killed. And,” now he did look up and at Volusenus, “it got me transferred here.”
Volusenus was unsure of what he should say, so he uttered the first thing that popped into his head. “That must have been hard, having to leave Siscia and the Legion you and your father served in.”
“It was,” Pullus seemingly agreed, but then he added something that surprised Volusenus considerably, “but now I know that the gods were actually doing me a favor.” Suddenly, he stood and grinned down at Volusenus as he said teasingly, “Because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet you.”
This made Volusenus laugh, and he responded with the same joking tone his Pilus Prior had just adopted, calling out to his retreating back, “And you should be honored, Pilus Prior.”
“Oh,” Pullus said over his shoulder, “I am.”
Volusenus watched Pullus walking away, still chuckling, marveling at how much he had hated the man when he first arrived. But, he thought with amusement, it’s no less than he hated me. And now, here he is making jokes about how lucky he is to be with me. Gradually, however, the humor of the moment faded as the original subject came back to Volusenus, and before long, he was consumed with thoughts about the prospect of thrusting his blade into the body of a woman. Or, even worse, he thought with dread, a child.
When the 1st moved out, precisely at the beginning of the midnight watch, Germanicus left behind the 9th and 10th Cohort, along with what little baggage they had carried with them. As the plan was being developed, the Legate had decided that he was going to position three Cohorts— the Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth—in a line just a half-mile beyond the eastern, far edge of the German camp to act as the first screen to stop any fleeing tribespeople, with the cavalry farther east, while the First was charged with escorting Segestes and his family to immediate safety while being protected by the other Cohorts. The three blocking Cohorts would be led by cavalrymen who had already scouted a route that took them around the encampment a safe distance away. Since this would take the most time, Germanicus had ordered that the actual attack not start until just before dawn; he preferred to strike even earlier, but to do so would require the three blocking Cohorts to move through the darkness at a pace that would inevitably create more noise and thereby raise the risk of discovery. Over the previous days of observation, nothing that Gaesorix and his men had reported gave any indication that the Cherusci would be placing sentries farther out from the safety of their camp than normal, but that had been before Arminius’ sudden departure. While he did not think it likely, Germanicus was unwilling to discount the possibility that the remaining Germans would be more vigilant, including sending men out to man outposts that would give them advance warning. As far as hasty plans went, Germanicus was trying to be as thorough as possible, but even under better conditions, there were always things that a commander either missed, or even worse, for which they forgot to account. This was inevitable, although it did not make it any easier to deal with, for any commander but particularly for Germanicus. Because they had the farthest to go, the three blocking Cohorts led the march, with the First bringing up the rear,
every man carrying both javelins and uncovered shields, while at least one man from each section carried an empty sack, which every wise Centurion and Optio ignored.
Led by the men who had been tasked with observing the Germans on their march, they followed what was a bit more than a trail but not as wide as the track that, if they had remained on it, would have taken them directly to the German camp. This route ran parallel of the main track, but about a half-mile to the north, and after the first mile, it narrowed down to a point where the entire column had to break down by single files, further slowing the progress. The Fourth Cohort was immediately behind the Eighth Cohort, and the darkness required much less spacing between men than normal, and more than once, Pullus crashed into whoever was the unfortunate man who brought up the rear of the Eighth, who he assumed was from the Tenth Section of the Sixth Century. Germanicus had issued orders for complete silence, although it was impossible to move without some noise, and there was the inevitable sharp cracking of a stick that a man stepped on, or the snapping of a low hanging branch from small shrubs and trees, but otherwise, Pullus was pleased with how the men were complying. It was the third time when Pullus did not see the ranker ahead of him stop suddenly that he actually sent him stumbling off into the underbrush, creating what he was sure was a horrendous racket that could be heard for several hundred paces. Thanks to the gloom, none of the men who hissed or hurled whispered curses at Pullus did so knowing it was not only a Centurion, but a Pilus Prior, and the largest, most formidable one at that, although he sheepishly accepted the chastisement, resolving to run the risk of losing sight of the tail man in the darkness by dropping back. He was far from alone in suffering the indignity of some sort of stumble, so that punctuating the rhythmic tromping of caligae came either identical or similar sounds. Their progress was slow but steady, and by Pullus’ estimate, they had covered three of the four miles in about a watch, while Germanicus had given the three Cohorts another third of a watch to circle around the encampment. He learned they had reached the correct spot when the last man of the Sixth of the Eighth suddenly turned right, at a spot where there were a pair of dismounted men standing, their horses merely larger black shapes in the night.
“This is where your Cohort stops, Pilus Prior.” Pullus did not know the trooper’s name, but recognized the voice and had seen him enough to know that he was a Duplicarius, the cavalry’s equivalent of an Optio, of one of the Batavian turmae.
Pullus answered with a grunt, already turning and holding his arm out in the event that Gemellus stumbled into him, but his Signifer had already stopped. It was from further back in the column that the noise of someone colliding into a comrade came, and who by, the sounds of it, then stumbled off into the underbrush with the kind of crashing that Pullus could only hope was not heard by some nearby German sentry. He was aware that as the assaulting Cohorts were marching in column, Gaesorix had shaken his troopers out in a long line on either side of the Legion, perpendicular and slightly ahead of the approaching Legion column, searching for any threat to their discovery. The Legate’s decision to employ the cavalry in this method had engendered what was the only disagreement to the plan that they had come up with not long before, with several Pili Priores certain that mounted men in a forested area would create enough noise on their own that it would cause more trouble than it was worth. And, somewhat unusually, it had actually been Pullus who had provided the clinching argument in favor of this, and he had based his support in two simple but relevant facts. The first was based in his familiarity with and trust he held in the Batavians, with Pullus reminding the other Centurions that he had been serving with Gaesorix’s men longer than any of them since the Batavians had originally been posted to Pannonia, just as Pullus had. It was the second fact that, while not as important, served as a reminder to his fellow Centurions that he was actually an expert rider himself and had long before learned that horses were capable of moving through heavy underbrush with far more stealth than a man, provided that they were not bunched together. Since this was not the case; they were stationed about ten paces apart to form a line that stretched almost a mile on either side, the objecting Centurions had accepted this precaution, some of them grudgingly.
Now, as Pullus stood there counting to five hundred as Germanicus had instructed, he was interrupted by a thin but audible shout off to his left, although judging by the sound, a fair distance away. He was not the only man who heard it, as most of the men strung out behind him pivoted to stare, uselessly, off into the darkness, each of them trying to determine the meaning of what they had just heard and waiting for some other noise. The Duplicarius whispered something to the other trooper, who immediately vaulted into the saddle, and in unknowing confirmation of Pullus’ claim, quickly disappeared in the darkness with just the barest whisper of sound from vegetation brushing the flanks of the animal. As all veterans knew, this was the worst part of any impending action, no matter what it was, waiting for whatever came next, not knowing what it might be but only that it was about to happen. The darkness merely exacerbated the tension, and Pullus was no less prone to that feeling than any of his men, and he strained his eyes, trying to determine the meaning of the cry despite knowing it did absolutely no good trying to use his sight. He was just beginning to relax when, from a slightly different spot, and more troublingly, one that placed it closer to where the Cherusci were camped, another shout sounded, except this one was more akin to a scream.
“Pilus Prior, have you reached five hundred yet?”
The whisper from the Duplicarius startled Pullus, but more importantly, he realized with some horror that he had stopped counting when he had heard the first shout, but he was saved from mortal embarrassment at the very least by his Signifer.
“I’m at four hundred,” Pullus heard and recognized Gemellus’ voice from just behind him, and he was happy that it was too dark for either the Duplicarius or the Signifer see him sag with relief.
Immediately picking up the count, it still proved difficult for Pullus to concentrate as he and the men on down the column who were close enough to have heard the two different shouts still waited for something else to happen, all of them dreading what it meant.
Somehow, he managed, and to his relief, there did not seem to be any more disturbance over in that direction, so he muttered, “Let’s go.”
Without waiting, he turned and headed down the track that the first three Cohorts had taken, but when he reached a spot where there was another pair of troopers, he resumed his original direction by turning back to the left. Like every other officer and most of the men, Pullus was aware that they were essentially placing their entire trust in Gaesorix and his cavalrymen to guide them to their respective positions, but perhaps with only the exception of Germanicus, Pullus trusted his Batavian friend implicitly, certain that Gaesorix’s men would not fail, simply because their Prefect would not allow it. Nevertheless, it was only when he saw a slight but distinct lightening just ahead that Pullus felt confident they had reached their position. More crucially, he also realized that the reason this clearing was more visible was because the sky was already lightening, although this was the time of year where it did not ever become completely dark, not like it was in the dead of winter. Now, he thought, comes the hard part.
Volusenus was frustrated by the feeling of helplessness he was experiencing, although he was aware that it was mostly because, being stretched out into one long line of men moving in single file, he was so far removed from the Cohort commander. And, while he did not know it, he had suffered the same indignity as Pullus, stumbling into the ranker of Structus’ Century, more than once. Once it was his time to make the right turn, after standing in place for what seemed much longer than a count of five hundred, the trooper who had gone off to determine the cause of the noise was back, and since Volusenus had been too far back in the column to hear, he was thankfully unaware that anything had occurred that might have betrayed what his Legion was up to. Reaching the second pair of men, it was not m
uch longer after that the column halted, and he assumed this meant that they had reached the spot they were supposed to wait for the signal to begin the attack. Gillo came from his spot in the rear, whispering to Volusenus that, as the plan called for, the Second Cohort following just behind his Century had turned in the opposite direction at the first intersection, heading for their own position on the far side of the camp from their line of march, essentially placing themselves on the eastern side of the camp in the same manner as the Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth, just hard up to the edge of the campsite. From Volusenus’ perspective, and one that was shared by most of his counterparts, of all of them, the Third Cohort had drawn the best spot; according to the scouts, for whatever reason, the Cherusci had made their camp in such a manner that there was only about a hundred paces of open ground along the northern edge before the thicker forest, compared to almost four hundred on the southern side. He was about to learn that it had not been a matter of poor planning by the Germans, though in that moment, all that mattered to him was that his Cohort managed to go from a long single line to the ordered row of Centuries, two sections to a rank for a formation five ranks deep instead of the normal single section ten ranks deep to provide more coverage because of the size of the encampment, which was what came next. Finally, a runner arrived, Volusenus recognizing the man as belonging to the Tenth Section of Pullus’ Century and the ranker he used for such purposes.
Saluting, which Volusenus felt slightly ridiculous returning given what was happening, the man whispered, “The Pilus Prior says that it’s time to shake out.”
Nodding his understanding, he turned to Macerinus as the runner returned back up the column, pointing to the spot where he wanted his Signifer to stand. It would not be easy, nor would the formation be forum-perfect because of the trees and smaller brush that created gaps in the ranks that, frankly, drove him to distraction, but he was relieved to see that the Fifth was faring no better, and although he could not see past them, he was certain the same was true for all of them. Only when they went out into the open would they have a chance to realign into their normal spacing, and by the time the Fourth was arrayed into what was now a column of full Centuries, there was no mistaking that the sky had become lighter. Now, he thought, we wait and hope that nobody fucks this up. Unlike Pullus, Volusenus did not have as much trust in the Batavians simply because he had not worked with them as much as Pullus had, but he trusted his Pilus Prior, and if Pullus said they could count on Gaesorix, that was good enough for him. If he had been asked, he would have acknowledged that his concern was less about the cavalry than the other Cohorts, or more specifically, one Cohort in particular, the Third under Maluginensis. From Volusenus’ observation, the Tertius Pilus Prior was barely competent to command a third line Cohort, and would have only been average as a Century commander rather than a Pilus Prior of the first line, yet despite being as subtle as he could be, he was unable to glean anything more than the fact he was not alone in this assessment. Why Maluginensis was in that position was another matter entirely, and the first time he had broached it with Pullus was the last, and he did not have any more luck with any of the other, more senior men, of any rank; the most he learned was that something had occurred with Maluginensis that had negatively impacted his ability to perform his duties.