Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  “Wh…wha…?” Volusenus heard Licinius’ voice, but he was in neither the frame of mind nor would he have been capable of offering an articulate explanation, so all he offered was a shake of his head, although his gaze never left Pullus’ face, whose eyes were closed.

  He sensed the presence of others standing next to him, but none of the onlookers offered any help, which infuriated Volusenus, prompting him to bellow, “Someone go get a medicus, now!”

  This caused several reactions, but it was Pullus opening his eyes that Volusenus saw, and despite knowing the likelihood that the hole in the Pilus Prior’s chest was a mortal wound, his body went momentarily limp with relief, and without thinking, he murmured, “Blessed Bellona, thank you…”

  Volusenus learned Pullus had heard him, in the form of a gurgling, raspy sound that he could only tell was an attempt at a laugh by the way Pullus’ eyes turned down at the corners, but it was the bloody froth on his lips that made him feel foolish for even thinking that Pullus would survive.

  “I doubt,” Pullus’ voice was barely audible, and Volusenus bent closer, trying to remain impassive as Pullus whispered, “Bellona heard you, boy.”

  Only then did Volusenus become aware that there was someone else present, and he glanced up to see Gemellus, the Signifer having dropped to his knees on the other side of Pullus’ body. It was the tears in the man’s eyes that ruptured Volusenus’ own composure, his vision suddenly blurring, so he jerked in surprise at the touch of Pullus’ hand on his arm; it was still warm, but it was also sticky with his blood. Every fiber of his being screamed at Volusenus to avoid looking directly into Pullus’ eyes, certain that the Pilus Prior would read the truth in his own expression, and he realized that he had managed to keep from doing so to that point, just glancing down at him immediately after he had placed him on the ground then looking everywhere but into his eyes.

  Now there was no way to avoid it, yet when he did so, he was unprepared to see what, while it might have been a grimace, Volusenus felt certain was a smile, but this was a shade compared to his confusion when Pullus whispered, “Tell your…mother…that…” He suddenly spasmed, his back arching, the most violent movement he had made to that point, and Volusenus saw his eyes go wide, then he coughed, a bloody, frothy spume spraying in a fine mist that Volusenus was close enough to feel spatter his face. His grip, which under even normal circumstances made whatever it was encompassing feel as if it was bound by iron, tightened so much on Volusenus’ arm that he winced in pain, although he managed to keep from crying out, afraid that in doing so he might miss what he now understood would be his Pilus Prior’s last words. Pullus’ mouth worked, once, twice, then finally, he managed, “….that I’m…sorry…”

  “Sorry?” Volusenus gasped, shaking his head emphatically. “Why should you be sorry, Pilus Prior? You saved my life! You…”

  He could not finish, his throat suddenly feeling as if Pullus’ grip had transferred to his neck, choking off the words that he felt he should be speaking, not caring how it might be perceived by the others around him. This thought made him aware of something else; Pullus’ grasp of his arm was gone, and he looked down in dull surprise to see that the Pilus Prior’s hand had fallen and was now resting on the ground. The huge chest rose once more, but when Pullus exhaled, this time there was no mistaking the rattling sound that all experienced warriors recognized, although it was to the slow widening of the black part of Pullus’ eyes that Volusenus’ attention was fixed, barely aware that he and Gemellus had been surrounded by the men of the Fourth Cohort, all of them stunned at seeing something that, when the sun had risen that morning, they would have sworn was impossible; Titus Pullus had fallen.

  Chapter Nine

  It was only the sound of pounding hooves that penetrated the fog in Volusenus’ mind as he knelt, staring dumbly down at Pullus’ upturned face, partly covered in blood that Volusenus still did not know from where it came, and he looked up without much interest. At least, at first; as he watched the cavalry, led by the Prefect Batavius, who understandably did not even cast a glance in the direction of a knot of men surrounding a fallen comrade, go thundering past, Volusenus turned his head to watch, but his view was blocked by the men standing around him and Pullus. It was when he turned his attention back to the fallen Centurion, trying to force himself to concentrate on what to do next, that his eye was caught by another party of horsemen, although they were coming at the canter. Part of his mind did register the din coming from behind him as the Batavians slammed into the Cherusci, adding a new layer of sound that was distinctly different from what had become nothing but background noise of a battle past its opening stage, with shrill screams of both men and animal, but it was what his eyes took in that did more to rouse him from this sudden lethargy. More specifically, it was his recognition of one of the approaching riders that prompted him to rise to his feet, the habit of obedience such that he did it without any thought. Perhaps if Germanicus, his attention drawn to the small crowd of men standing in a rough circle and, more puzzlingly, seemingly oblivious that no more than a hundred paces further down the track their comrades were still fighting, had just continued on, things might have turned out differently. He did not, however. Instead, he slowed his horse, his personal bodyguards and staff matching his pace, prompting him to snap an order at the bodyguards to continue, presumably directing them to assist the Batavians in shattering what was now clearly a failed assault, although he was still too far away for Volusenus to hear him say as much. The fact that they returned to the canter and went riding past him he took as confirmation, and he gave them only a passing glance, his attention on the Propraetor, who had put on his helmet, with its black, feathered crest. Because his eyes were on Germanicus as he approached, Volusenus was able to read the array of expressions on the noble’s face as he drew closer. At first, he appeared to be angered at the sight of idle men, but then he must have caught a glimpse of the prone figure on the ground, around which these men were standing, which caused his handsome face to take on a puzzled expression. Then, when he got close enough and Volusenus guessed that he spotted not only the transverse crest, but that it was red instead of black, the look of alarm was one that, despite his growing anger, Volusenus could not deny was genuine. Leaping from his horse, Germanicus made no attempt to appear unworried or unruffled in the mold of Roman men like his adoptive father, the Imperator Tiberius, and while it was not quite a run, it was close as he dashed the last few paces.

  “What…How…?”

  This was all that Germanicus managed, and Volusenus was struck with the morbidly amusing thought, there’s a lot of that going around, recalling that Licinius had behaved in essentially an identical manner just a matter of a hundred heartbeats earlier. Without so much as a glance at the other men, Germanicus dropped to his knees beside Pullus, and Volusenus was in position to see the Propraetor’s eyes as they went to the rent in the mail and the resulting hole, where, now that Pullus’ heart had stopped beating, Volusenus could see that the blood was already congealing, then move to Pullus’ face, experiencing a sense of shame when it was Germanicus, who, with a gentle touch, was the man to close Titus Pullus’ eyes.

  When he thought about it later, Volusenus supposed that this was what triggered his outburst, although it was ostensibly because Germanicus asked quietly, “What happened?”

  “What happened?” Volusenus heard his own voice, knowing that it should be Vespillo speaking since he had arrived moments earlier, but he could not stop himself. “What happened is that you put the worst fucking Cohort out as bait, and they fell apart, that’s what!”

  Germanicus did not rise from where he was kneeling next to Pullus’ body, and indeed, he did not seem to notice Volusenus’ tone, asking simply, “I mean, with the Pilus Prior. How did he fall?”

  “Because of me.” Volusenus, again, let this come out of his mouth without thinking, tasting the bitterness of the words. “He died because of me.”

  Germanicus stood then, looking u
p at Volusenus, and he braced himself for some sort of reprimand from the Propraetor, but what he got was quite different.

  “Hastatus Posterior Volusenus,” Germanicus began formally enough that Volusenus was certain that his career was about to be harmed, but he was completely unprepared for what came next. “You’re right. I made a mistake in having the Third Cohort march at the rear even after I was certain that Arminius would attack, and for that, I ask your forgiveness.” Germanicus did not wait for an answer, and Volusenus correctly guessed that it was not expected, turning to gaze down on Pullus with what every man present would swear on the black stone was unfeigned sorrow, and which would become part of the story that would grow into legend, almost within watches. “And, no matter how much damage we inflicted on these barbarians today, the cost was too high. I,” he shook his head, correcting himself, “we have suffered a loss that will be impossible to replace. Pilus Prior Pullus was…” Suddenly, Germanicus stopped, his head dropped, and for a moment Volusenus, along with the other men present, thought he would be unable to continue. Then, he took a deep breath, and when he raised his head, he was once more the Propraetor Germanicus Julius Caesar, and his voice was strong as he finished, “…the best Centurion of Rome that I have ever had the pleasure to command. And now,” at this, he spun about and walked purposefully to his horse, “we’re going to finish what he started.”

  Despite the collapse of the Third Cohort, and the resulting casualties that were inevitable when one side lost their nerve and fled for their lives, Arminius’ attempt to stop Germanicus from spiriting Segestes, and more importantly to the Cherusci chieftain, his pregnant wife Thusnelda, failed. Even with this success, the column that marched across the pontoon bridge at Ubiorum shortly before dark the next day was not in a celebratory mood; truthfully, when the small crowd that had gathered on the opposite bank of the Rhenus saw the Legion crossing the river, it was accepted as a virtual certainty that the raid had failed just by their collective demeanor. Only later would the word spread that, riding in the wagons that had not been part of the departing column, were the faithful Cherusci ally, his family, and those other tribespeople that Segestes had argued were indispensable. What was most distressing to the small army of unofficial wives, their children, and some of the other onlookers was the sight of so many mules that had been relieved of their normal cargo to carry another, more tragic one, although there was one notable exception. Wrapped in a sagum so that the identity was unknown by the onlookers, there was one body that had been placed on top of one of the wagons, serving as a makeshift bier, a body much larger than most Romans. However, the fact that it was not with the other wagons and was led by a Cohort of the 1st Legion gave the keen-eyed and experienced observers a hint about the identity of the corpse.

  For Gnaeus Volusenus, as fragmented as the memory of the fight, the rest of the march back to Ubiorum was not much better, while the mood of the Fourth Cohort was so somber that it was the quietest march that any man, no matter their rank or length of service, ever recalled. If anything, the collective sense was one of disbelief; the very idea that Titus Pullus, the grandson of the legendary Prefect, could have been vanquished in battle was so outlandish that, even after multiple watches spent digesting this seeming impossibility, most of the men could not fathom it. This was the cause of the one matter of disagreement that, over the ensuing days, would gather momentum, and that was Germanicus’ decision to use the Third Cohort to march in the rear and his purpose in doing so. Germanicus had been speaking truly when he said that this had been a costly victory, because Pullus was not the only Pilus Prior to fall; the circumstances surrounding Maluginensis’ death, however, were far more mysterious. None of his men in the First Century could, or would, offer a clear account of the moment when their Pilus Prior fell, or how it had occurred, and it did not take long for the tavernae and brothels to become the centers of the various schools of thought about his fate. Not surprisingly, the theories were many and varied widely, and it became clear very quickly that men of the same Cohort tended to hold the same or very similar views, with one notable exception. The men of the Fourth barely registered the fact that another Cohort had lost their own Pilus Prior, and for Volusenus in particular, what transpired almost from the moment his feet touched the riverbank on the Ubiorum side, was so vast in scope, with such a huge impact on his life, that he often thought about it as something akin to a second name day; the major difference was that, even years later, the memory of those days was always tinged with grief. He barely remembered the march, other than it was conducted at the same fast pace, which was why they made it to the Rhenus a day earlier than originally planned, nor did he remember anything of the night following the battle, but when he was told that they only stopped for a full watch before continuing, that at least explained it partially. When he thought about it later, Volusenus was unsure whether this was a good or a bad thing; certainly, it meant that he did not have time to adjust, at least somewhat, to the idea of a world without the Pilus Prior. Even a night’s length of time in which to grieve and begin to accept what had happened might have made a difference, because from Volusenus’ perspective, he was about to commit yet another blunder that, in its own way, was worse than his blatant disrespect of Germanicus. When Volusenus spotted Pullus’ clerk Alexandros, who he thought of as Alex because that was how Pullus always referred to him, his first reaction was relief that, because he was marching with his Century at the end of the Cohort, the task of giving him the news about the man Volusenus knew Alex thought of as his uncle would fall to someone else. He was disabused of that belief when Alex, pushing through a small throng of women and children who were greeting their paterfamilias, rushed up to Volusenus, making no attempt to hide how he was almost frantic with worry.

  “Hastatus Posterior Volusenus,” Alex fell in beside the Centurion, “where is he? Is he in one of the wagons? How badly wounded is he? Nobody will tell me anything!”

  Of course they didn’t, Volusenus thought sourly, because they’re fucking cowards, but, while his anger was not directed at Alex, before he could stop himself, he answered harshly, “He’s dead, Alex.”

  As soon as the words were out, Volusenus regretted it and he opened his mouth intending to say more, but Alex had come to a dead stop, standing completely still, looking as pale as Volusenus had ever seen him. Despite knowing he was technically not allowed to do so, he still stepped away from the Century, Macerinus giving him a sympathetic look, while Ambustus whispered something that he could not hear but assumed it was something in a similar vein. It was the men who, marching past the young clerk, did not behave in the manner in which they might have been expected, mocking or jeering Alex for his obvious grief that, from Volusenus’ viewpoint, exacerbated the harshness of his own words. All of the men on the outer file said something to him, and several of them reached out and offered the clerk a pat, somewhat awkwardly, but Volusenus waited until Gillo marched by at the rear, telling the Optio to take his place at the front. It was unusual, certainly, but the Optio did not hesitate, and as Volusenus watched him trotting up the side of the column, neither he nor Alex said anything. The Fifth was next, but Clepsina took in the situation with a glance and said nothing, while Volusenus led Alex a short distance away from the crowd, ignoring the looks they were getting from the families of the men of the 1st, some of them obviously curious about this unusual sight, but it was in the eyes of the wives that Volusenus saw the look of understanding and sympathy, which made things even worse.

  “What happened?”

  Alex was actually around Volusenus’ age, but between the size difference and his fresh-faced features, it meant that those who did not know him constantly underestimated his age, and it triggered an unusual feeling in Volusenus. An only child, he had never had a younger sibling, and this sudden rush of what he could only identify as a need to do what he could to protect Alex, along with his residual regret for how he had been so abrupt in essentially turning the clerk’s world upside down, was wh
at prompted him to explain, omitting the graphic details, the circumstances of Pullus’ death.

  Alex listened silently, his face tight, and in the dimming light, Volusenus could see that his color had not returned, but when Volusenus finished, he was silent for a moment, then asked, “Did he say anything?”

  Volusenus shook his head, answering honestly, “Not much, Alex.” He suddenly remembered Pullus’ attempt at a joke when he overheard Volusenus offering his thanks to the goddess of war, but quickly decided this was not the time, although he did offer, more as an afterthought, “The only thing he said was for me to tell my mother he was sorry. But that didn’t make any sense.”

  As absorbed as he was in his own thoughts, Volusenus missed the sudden change in Alex’s demeanor, nor was he aware that he was staring at Volusenus with an intense expression. If he had, Volusenus might have at least guessed that Alex was expecting this revelation to mean something to him, but his mind was occupied with the one piece of information he had not divulged to Alex, that he had been the ultimate cause of Pullus’ death. He was about to do so when he glanced over and saw that the Tenth Cohort was marching past.