by R. W. Peake
Once Saloninus arrived, Pullus felt obliged to have him give his report as well, but the moment the Optio finished, Pullus opened his mouth again, intent on enforcing on his Centurions the need to be vigilant and ready for trouble on this day, not the next. But, just as he did so, the cornu sounded the signal to resume, and within a matter of heartbeats, his Centurions had returned to their Centuries, shouting and shoving men they deemed moving too slowly. Reluctantly, Pullus turned and moved towards his Century, but Fabricius, as any good Optio of a First Century did, was already doing the same, enabling Pullus to simply step into his spot next to Gemellus. He was deeply troubled, although it did not reflect in his face, and he chided himself that he was becoming too cautious for his own good and that he would feel foolish when he awoke the next morning after spending the rest of this day and night worried about something that was so unlikely to happen. The second cornu call sounded, and within a few paces, Pullus’ mind had moved on to other things; more specifically, it was focused on the decision he had made just the night before. As he had watched Volusenus walking away, Pullus had decided that, as soon as they returned to Ubiorum, he would risk Giulia’s wrath and tell their son the truth. The very thought created such a decidedly queer feeling inside, down where those twin beasts resided, but it was nothing like the dread that he always carried that one, or even worse, both of those beasts would be roused. No, while every bit as intense, it was lighter in nature, and Pullus occupied his mind as his feet moved in rhythm with his comrades, trying to identify the feeling. Finally, he realized where he had experienced something similar, and more importantly, when he had shared it; this was how he had felt during those wonderful and confusing two months of his life, when he would walk to Diocles’ apartment, wondering if Giulia would be there that day, a sense of almost painful anticipation, yet tempered by a worry that, as he always tried to forget, had come to fruition, when Giulia’s mother had discovered their affair. The irony brought on by the commonality in these two separate yet related moments was not lost on him, and it was with rueful amusement that the cause of this unsettling, confusing feeling was Giulia. She’s always been there, even when she wasn’t, he thought, but now I’m going to do what I think is right, and if she can’t forgive me for that, I’ll have to live with it. But at least my son will know who his father is.
It was a watch later when, from behind them, there were shouts experienced men knew signaled that someone was approaching but that it was not a threat, and Pullus turned to see that, just beyond the Sixth of the Third, a pair of riders was approaching. In itself, this was not unusual; riders were always coming and going, giving whoever was in command the latest information. These riders, however, were coming at a gallop, both of them whipping their mounts, which, as they drew closer, Pullus could see were close to blown, their mouths caked in white rime, their coats glistening with sweat as they pounded up Pullus’ side of the column. He recognized both riders as two of Gaesorix’s most trusted men who had been riding with their commander since Pullus met them in Pannonia, and while neither of them shouted anything to him as they went thundering by, there was no need, Pullus instantly knowing there was only one reason for this behavior. Without saying a word, he broke into a run, following behind the two riders, cursing the Fates for putting his Cohort directly in front of the Third, almost at the very end of the column. Cinna’s Seventh was directly in front of the Fourth, and he fell in next to Pullus, where they were joined by each Pili Priori whose Cohorts were marching behind the command group as they went trotting past. Only Maluginensis was not present, but by the time Pullus and the others arrived, Germanicus had already received the couriers’ report, his face ashen.
“Arminius is almost on us.” He sounded calm enough, but Pullus heard the vibrating tension, and worse, alarm in Germanicus’ voice. “Gaesorix is trying to delay them now, but their cavalry has already engaged him. And,” he took a deep breath, “his guess is that Arminius is just using the cavalry to keep his men tied up so that their infantry can slip by and catch up to us.”
“How many warriors on foot?” Macer asked, but Germanicus could only offer a grim shake of the head as he admitted, “Gaesorix doesn’t know because he hasn’t seen them.”
“They’re probably swinging around out of sight,” Clepsina offered, and Pullus added his agreement, thinking this likely.
“How close?” Sacrovir asked, but rather than answer directly, Germanicus turned to one of the Batavians, both of whom had dismounted and were tending to their animals, calling him over.
After Germanicus repeated the question, the trooper shifted uncomfortably, stroking his long mustache as he considered, then offered, “No more than three miles away when the Prefect sent us, so they’re closer now. How much?” He shrugged, and Pullus had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping at the man for acting in what he considered a disrespectful manner. “It is impossible to say. But,” he finished grimly, “they’re coming.”
For the first time, Germanicus noticed that someone was missing, and he demanded, “Where is Pilus Prior Maluginensis?” When nobody answered, he looked directly at Pullus with a scowl. “You didn’t see him?”
“I did, sir,” Pullus answered honestly. “I turned around when I heard the riders coming, and I saw him then.”
“And you didn’t think to tell him to come with you?” Germanicus snapped, but before Pullus could offer a defense, he held up a hand. “My apologies, Pullus. It’s not your fault that he’s incompetent.” He considered for a moment, then said decisively, “All right. We resume the march. Return to your Cohorts and wait for further orders. I,” he turned his horse and kicked him into motion, “will go to the Pilus Prior.”
Then he was gone and, despite knowing the urgency, Pullus cursed under his breath since he was still puffing from the effort of running up the column, and now he had to run back down.
Fortunately, he was not alone, Cinna groaning, “Fuck me. All this running back and forth isn’t good for an old man like me.”
“Old?” Pullus scoffed, but he was already moving, going to a trot in a couple of steps as he said, “You’re younger than I am.”
“Not by that much,” Cinna protested, matching Pullus’ stride, at least at first until, taking advantage of his longer stride, Pullus pulled away, leaving his counterpart to shout between gasps, “Nobody likes a showoff, Pullus!”
Pullus did not bother turning around so that Cinna could see his grin, mainly because he was concerned that by doing so, he would tempt the gods to punish him for his hubris by making his feet tangle up. He chose to ignore the shouted queries of the men of the other Cohorts as he passed by, and when he returned to where his Century was waiting, he had to bend over at the waist for a moment before he could gasp to Poplicola to sound the cornu call for the other Centurions.
“There’s no need, Pilus Prior,” Gemellus assured him, pointing down the column, where Vespillo and Saloninus were already within a few paces, with Licinius not far behind them.
Straightening up, Pullus could see the others, with Volusenus coming from his spot at the rear, but having already caught up with Structus. As he waited, Pullus moved a bit farther away, not far enough away that the men could not hear, but so he could see where Germanicus, his horse dancing about from the tension of its rider, was even then pointing down into Maluginensis’ face, who was standing at a rigid intente. Any other time, seeing this would have given Pullus a great deal of satisfaction, especially in the aftermath of his fellow Pilus Prior’s failure that, as far as he was concerned, was the reason they were about to have Arminius for company. At this moment, however, he was more worried about whether the Third was up to the challenge of whatever it was Germanicus had in mind. Volusenus and Structus arrived, drawing his attention away from that, and he did not waste any time, nor did he try to lower his voice, understanding that the men would be learning within heartbeats of this meeting.
“Arminius has caught up with us,” he began grimly, and he took some encourage
ment in the manner in which his Centurions took the news, showing no surprise at all.
He briefly described the situation as he knew it, and just as he finished, they all heard Germanicus cantering up, but when they all came to intente, he made an impatient gesture as he drew up. But, instead of addressing all of them, he gestured for Pullus to follow him, then trotted several paces away, and Pullus noticed that the Propraetor positioned himself so that his back was turned to the column.
“I’ve informed Maluginensis of the situation,” he began without preamble, his face set and his words sounding as if they were being bitten off, “and that he and the Third are going to be responsible for delaying Arminius until the rest of us can get away.”
Pullus stared up at Germanicus, unsure of the exact meaning, but he also saw the Propraetor’s expression, so it was with a sinking sensation in his gut as he asked cautiously, “What exactly does that mean, sir? How long are they expected to delay them?”
Germanicus was looking off into the distance, and he did not turn his gaze on Pullus, although he answered immediately, “As long as it takes, Pullus.” Suddenly, as if he had just remembered something, he looked down at Pullus and explained, “I didn’t tell anyone but Sacrovir, but I’m telling you now. The reason I chose this route is because I thought that it was likely that we’d be caught. That it would be this quickly,” he admitted grimly, “is where I made my mistake. But there’s a spot that I’m thinking of that’s about five miles ahead.”
“Are you talking about the cut?” Pullus interrupted quietly, and rather than getting angry or irritated, Germanicus looked at him gratefully, nodding, “Yes, that’s the place.”
“Five miles?” Pullus repeated, then rubbed his chin. After a heartbeat of silence, he shook his head and said flatly, “I’m sorry sir, I don’t think it’s five. I think it’s farther.”
Germanicus was about to dispute this, but he reminded himself that Pullus was extremely experienced, and he trusted the Centurion more than any other man from the ranks he knew, so instead, he simply asked, “How far do you think it is?”
Pullus stepped around Germanicus’ horse, looking around at their surroundings, then returned to his former spot.
“At least seven, I think,” he told Germanicus, then pointed to a lightning-scarred tree, its bark stripped, leaving a bone-white trunk that stood out starkly, explaining, “I remember that tree. Actually,” his voice became worried, “it might be closer to eight.” Before Germanicus could say anything, Pullus looked up at him, his gaze not wavering as he asked, “Sir, are you sure that the Third is going to be up to the job? Maybe,” now he did hesitate, fully understanding what he was about to suggest, “we should switch places.”
Germanicus had guessed that this would be Pullus’ reaction, so he was prepared for it, and he did not hesitate, although he lied when he said, “We don’t have time. In fact,” he moved the reins to turn his horse’s head back up the column, “we’re wasting time now. No, Pullus,” he finished, not unkindly, but his voice was firm, “it’s the Third’s turn to redeem themselves and help the Legion.” He kicked his horse, and as he began moving, he finished, “We’re in this spot because Maluginensis fucked up. Let him fix it. Or,” since he did not turn his head, Pullus barely heard Germanicus finish, “let him die in the attempt.”
He was gone then, and Pullus returned to the Centurions, who looked at him expectantly, but he said nothing until, finally, Cornutus demanded, “Well? What are our orders?”
“Our orders,” Pullus snapped, “are to get back on the move.” Then he made a decision to do something he rarely ever did, lying to his Centurions. “There’s a spot up ahead on this track that will put us in a strong position, and we’re going to try and get there.”
“How far is it?” Volusenus asked.
Pullus made sure that he looked his son in the eye, nor did he hesitate to lie, “A bit more than three miles. So,” he looked away from Volusenus, “if we get there…”
The blast from the cornu up ahead cut him off, and in a conditioned reaction, the Centurions of the Fourth turned and went at a brisk trot back to their spots, while Pullus watched them going. He did not feel good about lying to his Centurions; doing so to the rankers was something else entirely, and every Centurion and Optio had done it to one degree or another for the simple reason that sometimes it was better they not know what lay ahead. This, however, was one of the few times he felt it was better to keep his Centurions in the dark because, while they were officers, they were also men, and if they felt as discouraged as he did about what was likely to happen over the next watch, this would be communicated to their rankers. He tried to tell himself that the Third would rise to the occasion, that the men of the Cohort were as ashamed of their Pilus Prior’s actions the day before as the rest of the Legion was angry now that the word had passed through the ranks, but he did not believe it. Maluginensis had been a competent Pilus Prior at one time, but the mutiny had changed all of that, and while Pullus, along with his counterparts, had seen the change, none of them knew why the revolt had wrought such a transformation in the man. Not, he mentally shrugged the thought away, that it matters now. A heartbeat later, the Legion was moving again, and now matters were in the hands of the gods, and to a certain extent, Maluginensis.
Germanicus did not often second guess his own decisions, but even as he was riding away from Pullus, he began doing so, because in his heart, he knew that Pullus was correct. In order to give the Legion the best chance of either repelling Arminius or holding him off until the other Legions arrived per his orders to Gaetulicus, Germanicus should have done what Pullus suggested. Ideally, the best choice would have been the First Cohort simply because of their numbers, but because he had thought they had an extra day, Germanicus had placed the First in the vanguard. He had not been exaggerating about not having any time to waste, but swapping the Third for the Fourth was the fastest option available, yet he had not done so. Reaching his spot with the command group, he nodded to the Cornicen to sound the call to resume, and within a matter of heartbeats, they were moving, but Germanicus did not stay put. Ordering his bodyguard to follow him, he went to the front of the column at a canter, reaching the Fifth of the First, which Sacrovir had placed as the advance guard.
“We need to pick up the pace,” he informed the Primus Hastatus Prior, “so I’m going to set it and you’re going to keep up.”
He did not return the man’s salute, having already moved ahead, reaching the advance section, whereupon he dismounted, handed his reins to one of his bodyguards, and joined the rankers. None of whom were particularly happy that the Propraetor was in their midst, but they immediately matched the new pace Germanicus set, although they were all cursing under their breath as they did so. It was not a trot, but it was close; even men with longer legs, like Pullus and Volusenus, would have felt the strain of keeping up, and very quickly, all talking ceased among the ranks, every man needing to use their breath for something more important than talking. This, more than anything the Centurions could have said to their men, informed the rankers of the seriousness of their situation, their general not being the type to indulge in such behavior as some Legates did when they were trying to stamp their authority and demonstrate the power they held over their Legions. Germanicus was not immune to feeling the strain, and soon his face was glistening from the perspiration, yet he kept up the pace for what he estimated was a mile before, finally, raising his hand for the bodyguard to bring his horse. Panting from the exertion, he managed to vault into the saddle, but it was without his normal ease, another sign to the men who saw it that they were in a dire situation.
“Keep that pace up, Sergeant,” was all he managed as the section continued, while he remained in place, waiting as the First of the First arrived.
Waving Sacrovir to him, he had regained his wind enough to inform him of the situation, but when he told the Primus Pilus about his orders to the Third, Sacrovir interjected breathlessly, “Wouldn’t it be better to
swap out the Fourth for the Third?”
“No,” Germanicus snapped angrily. “It wouldn’t be better, Primus Pilus.” He took a breath, presumably to collect himself, then continued more calmly, “You have your orders, Primus Pilus. Do you understand them?”
Sacrovir was inclined to argue, but one look at Germanicus’ expression convinced him that the best course was to simply stiffen and answer, “I understand, sir, and the Legion will obey.”
“I know you will, Sacrovir.” Germanicus’ tone had softened, but before Sacrovir could say anything more, he was gone, moving at a canter back down the column.
The delay had not been long, but when Sacrovir turned and saw how far ahead his Century already was, he cursed Arminius, Germanicus, and the gods as he broke into a run to catch up, not casting a glance over his shoulder, resigning himself to the idea that the Third Cohort was about to be sacrificed. Maybe, he thought, that’s for the best. He had realized the day before that he had allowed the situation with Maluginensis go on too long, and now his inaction was indirectly responsible for their current situation. If he’s smart, Sacrovir thought morosely, Maluginensis will get himself killed.