Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  “I…thank you, Krateros,” he managed, and he was at least rewarded by the look of surprise on the clerk’s face as he said the words. He reached down and patted Krateros on the shoulder, an awkward gesture, yet he felt sufficiently moved to add, “And I also want to thank you for the lengths you’ve gone to in order to get me ready for today.”

  “It’s my duty,” Krateros replied simply, but if there was bitterness there, it was either more muted than normal or Volusenus chose to ignore it, only agreeing, “Yes, I know it is, and you’ve done it well. But you went over and above that for me today, and I do appreciate it.” Before Krateros could respond, Volusenus stepped around him, walked to the door that led to the outer office, and opened it. Crossing the few paces to the outer door, he took a breath, squared his shoulders, then in a barely audible voice, said, more to himself than to the clerk, “Let’s get this over and done with.”

  Then he stepped outside into the larger world of the Fourth Cohort area, announcing to the men something that, while many of them would go on to claim to have suspected as much, none had actually been serious enough to place a wager, the surest sign of a man’s certainty. It was with a bit of wry amusement that this recognition crossed Volusenus’ mind, which was quickly followed by the thought of the amount of regret and moaning that would inevitably be uttered in the tavernae by those who claimed to have harbored these suspicions…and had not used it to make money. Some things, he recalled Pullus telling him once, will never change, and the fact that Legionaries would bet on anything was one of those.

  Chapter Ten

  The pyre had been prepared overnight, and a small two-wheeled cart was the conveyance used to transport Titus Porcinianus Pullus’ body from his quarters to the forum, which had been placed so that it would lead the Cohort. It was pushed by three men instead of the usual two, and instead of randomly selected slaves, the three men were Lucco, Balio, and Demetrios, all of them having served Pullus during his time in the Fourth Cohort, and from somewhere, black mourning attire that also announced their respective status had been obtained for them to wear. Walking behind them, again in accordance with custom, was Alex, who, since he was not a Roman citizen, was wearing a black tunic while draped in a pallium, also black, that announced Alex’s heritage, since this was traditionally Greek , as was the other, younger man next to him who Volusenus recognized as Titus. It was the identity of the girl who was the third member of the party that Volusenus did not know, although he could see that she was attached to Alex in some way, and he realized with a start of surprise how little he knew about the freedmen Pullus family. He had been presented with a quandary immediately, forced to choose between standing, out of uniform, in his proper spot with the Sixth Century, or joining Alex and his brother behind the cart, knowing that his being togate could conceivably create a problem, especially now that Vespillo was acting Pilus Prior, at least for the time being. Yet, as awkward as it felt when he considered the option of falling in with his Century, he felt equally out of place walking behind the cart; after a moment’s indecision, he strode over to his spot in the formation, for the most part ignoring the stares and murmurs from the rankers, recognizing they would be learning at least the bare bones of the truth quickly enough.

  Macerinus, however, was another story, and he felt the eyes of his Signifer on him, which for some reason made him acutely aware of how itchy the heavy wool of the toga was where it contacted his skin, which partially accounted for his irritable growl. “What are you staring at, Macerinus?”

  “Nothing, Centurion,” Macerinus replied, too quickly, which prompted Volusenus to turn his head to look down at his Signifer, and he was impressed that Macerinus did not immediately break eye contact, although he did after a long heartbeat, but it was not until his eyes were straight ahead that he added, “I just don’t know how I missed it.”

  Despite himself, Volusenus chuckled, which clearly surprised Macerinus, and when he looked back towards the Centurion, Volusenus said, “It’s just I’ve been hearing that a bit lately.”

  Macerinus smiled uncertainly, then before anything more could be said, they were alerted by movement from their front, and Volusenus saw Vespillo striding towards him, his sallow features twisted into a confused frown. Volusenus did not know for sure why Vespillo was heading in his direction, although he felt reasonably confident that he could guess, and he braced himself for whatever might be coming. It was as Vespillo drew within a dozen paces that Volusenus saw the acting Pilus Prior’s stride falter, although it was his expression that was most telling as it transformed from irritation at one of his Centurions not being properly attired, followed by confusion as his mind presumably ran through the reasons for the breach. Then, just before Vespillo reached him, he came to a sudden stop, his jaw dropping as, just as Macerinus had, Numerius Vespillo realized why Volusenus was togate.

  His first response was, appropriately, a gasp of shock, followed by, “Juno’s cunnus, of course!” Slapping his forehead, Vespillo then made the mistake of giving a short, barking laugh, compounded by his triumphant tone as he pointed, with his vitus, directly at Volusenus, hooting, “Ha! I was right! Remember your first day? Do you remember when I said that you two could be father and son?”

  Volusenus was unaware how he did so; all he knew was that he was suddenly standing inches from Vespillo, fixing him with a cold stare, the menace of which was accentuated by their respective height differences, as even with his helmet on, the crest of it was at the level of Volusenus’ nose.

  Somehow, he managed to speak softly enough so that only the two of them could hear, but there was no way Vespillo could misinterpret the underlying promise as Volusenus said, “You need to be very careful what comes out of your mouth next, Centurion. You may be the acting Pilus Prior, but do you really think that would protect you if you insult my father’s memory? Today, of all days?”

  To his credit, Vespillo did not make an issue of either the implied or explicit nature of the threat, somehow managing a perfunctory nod, then raising his voice, replied, “Yes, very well, then. Return to your post, Hastatus Posterior Volusenus.”

  Since he was not in uniform, Volusenus did not salute, both men turning about and walking away from each other, and Volusenus stepped back into his spot in the formation. Once Vespillo was back with the First Century, he had Poplicola sound the call to begin the dirge, the other Corniceni joining in a note later, and with a slow, ponderous grace, the Fourth Cohort began the march to the forum. For Volusenus, the sight of the pyre was what hit him with what he thought was perilously close to the force of a blow from his father during one of their sparring sessions, and he heard the gasp escape his lips, although he ignored it when Macerinus glanced over at him.

  For Alex, that moment did not come until, with the cart next to the pyre, he, Titus, and Volusenus, moving from his spot by his Century, worked together to lift the plank bearing Pullus’ body up and onto the pyre. As he normally was, Alex was honest with himself, knowing that it was almost entirely due to Volusenus, whose strength was what lifted the considerable weight of Pullus’ body onto the bier, although his brother had definitely put on muscle from his trade as a smith. Then it was Germanicus’ turn to play a role, followed by the camp priests, walking over to the pyre to ascend the built-in ladder that, like everything else that was part of it, would be consumed by flames. Doing so with overplayed, elaborate gestures that Alex knew were meant to be seen by the men surrounding the pyre in the form of the Fourth Cohort, who had been arrayed on three sides of the pyre, two Centuries to a side and standing in perfect alignment amidst a silence that was even more complete than normal, the Propraetor extracted a coin from the purse attached to his red sash. Holding it aloft, he tilted his head towards the sky, the movement causing the black feathers to ruffle in the breeze, his lips moving in a prayer before slowly bending over and with a gentleness that only those closest could see, carefully pried open Pullus’ mouth, then placed what Alex saw was not the normal denarius, or sestertius,
for poorer Romans, but a gold aureus in between the teeth before closing his uncle’s mouth on it. Slowly, and carefully, since it was not unknown for someone to slip, Germanicus descended back to the ground, taking two steps back before turning and striding to the rostrum that had been assembled and was in place, though not in its customary location since that would have placed it too close to the pyre. As Germanicus climbed the rostrum, the priests made their ritual circuits around the pyre, one of them liberally dousing the wood in the scented oils that, along with being an offering to the gods, acted as an accelerant. The small jug of wine and loaf of bread was already on the plank, secured between Pullus’ arm and his body, while Alex, Titus, and Volusenus walked to where the girl, who Volusenus learned was named Algaia, was standing a safe distance away. She was also dressed in black, not a Roman stola, but Volusenus did not recognize the style, being unfamiliar with the Breuci of Pannonia, although what mattered was that she did have a shawl that she had draped over her head, while Alex and Titus had done the same, using their pallium to cover their heads. A mourning toga such as Volusenus was wearing had an extra fold, and he reached back and pulled it up to cover his head, then in rough accord with the priests, he and the other familial mourners lifted their arms, palms upward and with eyes closed as the prayer for the dead was intoned. Once the chief priest was finished, he rejoined the rest of the holy party who were standing in front of the rostrum, directly below Germanicus, but before turning about to face the pyre, he gave a deep bow to the Propraetor, the signal for Germanicus to begin his oration. He had been standing, watching impassively, the breeze that was a feature of the early morning stirring his paludamentum, and while Volusenus could not know with any certainty, the fact that the very top of the orb of the sun peeked over the trees, bathing part of the forum in early morning sunshine seemed to him to be a sign from the gods, although neither did he rule out careful planning.

  “My Legionaries of the Fourth Cohort of the 1st Legion!” Germanicus’ voice, as it had been trained to do, carried out in ringing tones that, to Volusenus, seemed a bit excessive for just a Cohort.

  When he whispered this observation, not aimed at anyone in particular, he got a nudge in the ribs from Alex, not in censure, but to inform him of something that Volusenus had missed.

  “Look behind us,” Alex whispered, and when Volusenus did, he gasped in surprise.

  Arrayed behind them, all along the edge of the forum that bordered the area belonging to the 1st, was a solid crowd of men, but while they were not in a true formation, he could not miss that there was an organization to it, because standing in a line in front were men who were all carrying the viti, and Volusenus saw among the faces, all of whom he recognized, men like Clepsina, who gave him a grave nod. Standing next to him was Macer, and Volusenus saw how drawn his features were, informing the young Centurion that he and Alex had not been alone in not finding any solace in slumber. This, he thought, is something Pullus would appreciate; as quickly as the thought came, he chided himself. No, this is something my father would appreciate. After exchanging a nod with Macer, Volusenus turned back to Germanicus, and he discerned that the pause in the Propraetor’s speech had not been because of his rudeness in turning away as he had feared, but because from his higher vantage point, Germanicus had seen the men drifting down the Porta Praetoria, heading in their direction. More importantly, the Propraetor understood why they were doing so, although it would only be afterward that it would become known that the other Legions present in the camp had sent representatives, and they were standing on the far side of the forum, screened from the view of the mourning party by the Fifth and Sixth Centuries of the Cohort.

  “I have little doubt that by this point in time,” Germanicus finally continued, “that every one of you is at least aware that Quartus Pilus Prior Pullus and I have a relationship that extends beyond our time together here in Ubiorum. And a good number of you may know that it is because he served me, with great honor and distinction, as the Primus Pilus of what became known as Legio Germanicus, during the Batonian Revolt.” So far, Volusenus thought, Germanicus was hitting the right notes, which he could see in the faces of the men standing in their ranks, although he was slightly put out that he could not see his own Century, which was blocked by the pyre, the Centurion in him wanting to make sure his men showed the proper respect. “What you may not,” Germanicus stopped, holding up a hand in a way that clearly conveyed he was correcting himself, “no, what I know you do not know is how Titus Porcinianus Pullus came to be in that role, serving Rome during what was a very serious matter.” He paused to slowly scan the ranks, and while it seemed natural to do so, somehow, Volusenus was certain that when he resumed, it was only because he was looking directly at where Volusenus and the others were standing and that this was no accident as he continued, “It was my adoptive father, our glorious Imperator Tiberius, who recommended the Pilus Prior, because he had served under my father Drusus with great distinction when my father was leading the armies of the Rhenus. Indeed, the Pilus Prior so distinguished himself in what was his first campaign as a raw Tirone, when he slew a sub-chieftain of the Chatti named Vergorix in single combat, that he was decorated personally for that feat by my father, on the battlefield.” And, as Germanicus had known, this was clearly new information to most of the men, judging from the slight stirring in the ranks; certainly, it was to Volusenus. “As is usually the case with our wise Imperator, and my father, his judgment was perfect, and I was blessed by the gods to have the Pilus Prior at my side,” Germanicus continued. While he had not been speaking long, Volusenus was so awash in waves of emotions that were buffeting him that it made it difficult for him to concentrate, and when he glanced over at Alex, he saw that Pullus’ nephew was no less affected, even if the reasons for it were somewhat different. “We faced many trials together, and as I was reminded last night by his nephew,” Germanicus raised his hand, gesturing in their direction, “he not only saved my life, but I saved his. Which is what comrades do for each other, is it not?” It was posed as a question, perhaps, but there was no doubt of the answer, which reached the level of a verbal agreement in the form of murmurs from the ranks surrounding the pyre, with men nodding their heads as well, technically a breach, but one that no officer would ever punish. Hearing and seeing their accord, Germanicus went on, “And of all that can be said of the Pilus Prior, that he was a true comrade, whose great strength was only matched by his courage, perhaps this is the greatest accolade I can offer him.” This time when he paused, Volusenus got the sense that it was not planned, that something unexpected had happened, which seemed confirmed when the Propraetor suddenly bowed his head. They were not close enough to see whether there were tears, but when he lifted his head again, Volusenus thought he saw a glint of reflected light on the man’s cheek that he did not remember seeing, but Germanicus’ voice was as strong as ever. “But he was more than that, to me. He was also a guide, and a mentor for a youngster who was as green as grass.” His lips curved upward, and the smile was audible in his tone as he used the term that rankers often applied to the Tribunes and other young nobles who arrived from Rome, and there were some muted chuckles. “Most importantly, he not only kept me alive, he kept me from making mistakes that would have cost the lives of men just like you, and whenever it is my turn to cross the river, I know that one of the first men I will be looking for to whom I’m not related by blood will be Titus Pullus, to thank him properly for all that he did, and I will ask him once more to be my guide.” If Germanicus had either begun or was continuing to cry, Volusenus could not have said, because his own vision was so clouded, and he heard Alex trying to muffle his own sob. Without looking over, Volusenus reached out and, after some groping, found Alex’s shoulder and squeezed it, and he felt Alex’s hand touch his, clasping it tightly for a moment.

  Germanicus finished, “The only thing I know with any certainty is that Pilus Prior Pullus fought for Rome with as much fortitude, skill, and courage as any man I have met under t
he standard, and in this, he upheld the tradition that was set for him, and for all of us who fight for Rome, by his grandfather and one of the greatest Legionaries of our beloved Rome since the times of Dentatus, Titus Pomponius Pullus, one of the first Camp Prefects, awarded that post by none other than Divus Augustus.” Germanicus, as had been his habit during every speech he gave, had been moving his head slowly back and forth, making sure to at least appear to look every onlooker in the eye, but this time, Volusenus had no doubt whatsoever that it was no accident the Propraetor was looking directly at him as he finished, “Now all that remains to be seen is if there is a man among you who is worthy and capable of filling his caligae.” Thrusting his arms up suddenly, he cried out, “May Jupiter Optimus Maximus make it so, and may he receive our comrade, Quartus Pilus Prior Titus Porcinianus Pullus!”

  Dropping his arms, for the first time, he looked directly down to where the chief priest was waiting, giving only a nod, and the party of priests, using brands that had been placed in the brazier next to the rostrum, walked around the pyre, touching the wood at a number of points. Faster than Volusenus would have thought possible, the flames leapt up into the sky as if they were truly trying to escape the earth’s grasp, quickly obscuring all but the outline of Pullus’ body, for which he offered a silent prayer of thanks of his own. It did not matter that it was an important part of a ritual; watching a corpse burn was something that Volusenus had avoided whenever possible, and this time, it was even more of a trying experience, despite his attempt to remain impassive as he witnessed the body of the man he had learned less than three watches earlier was his father being consumed by the flames. Once the blaze was fully involved, it created enough noise, a dull, roaring sound, punctuated by cracks, pops, and hisses that helped mask the sounds of sobbing as those most affected by the death of this man said their final goodbyes. Despite being every bit as grief-stricken as Alex and Titus, Volusenus was also acutely aware that, for him, there was another momentous event looming, and he wondered when it would happen.