Marching With Caesar-Avenging Varus Part I

by R. W. Peake

  Volusenus was listening, yet while he was certain there was some sort of trap or surprise that Vespillo was hoping to spring, he could not deny the sense of what Vespillo was saying, but all he was willing to do was repeat the same single-word response.

  “Yes.”

  Vespillo paused for a moment, then asked abruptly, “What do you know of Pullus’ connection to Tiberius?”

  “Tiberius?” Volusenus frowned. “You mean…Tiberius?”

  “Yes,” Vespillo answered patiently, “our Imperator.”

  “I know that when he transferred to the 1st, Tiberius was the Legate commanding the Rhenus.”

  “That’s true,” Vespillo granted. “But,” his voice dropped almost to a whisper, and Volusenus was certain he was as aware of the likelihood of Demas eavesdropping as Volusenus, “there’s more to it than that. Much, much more.”

  Volusenus’ eyes had never left Vespillo’s face, yet he could not find anything in it that gave him a sign one way or another whether this was the truth, and he demanded suspiciously, “Why are you telling me this? What do you care?”

  “Because,” Vespillo did not hesitate, “I care about the Fourth Cohort. I’ve always loved the Cohort. And doesn’t it make sense that every Centurion in this Cohort is happy?” He did offer a twisted smile as he added, “I mean, as happy as it’s possible for men like us to be.”

  Volusenus felt as if every fiber of his being was screaming at him to ignore Vespillo’s words, that he was lying, yet somehow, he sensed that, as far as he was capable, Numerius Vespillo was being honest, at least when it came to the Cohort.

  Finally, he asked grudgingly, “So what are you suggesting? Who should I talk to about this supposed relationship to Tiberius?” A thought occurred to him then, and he added, “Besides, let’s say you’re telling the truth. If anything, that would be a reason for me to tie myself to the Pullus name if he has some sort of connection to the Imperator.”

  “That,” Vespillo countered, “depends on what that connection was for. As far as who you should talk to,” he gave an elaborate shrug, though he did not fool Volusenus, who heard the bitterness there, “I’d start with his close comrade, the Secundus Pilus Prior.” He fell silent, yet no matter how hard Volusenus glared at him, he said nothing further, and finally, Volusenus relaxed his body, no longer pressing against the desk.

  “Well,” he said as he turned about and resumed his exit from the room, “I suppose I should talk to the Primus Pilus first.”

  Just as had occurred with Vespillo, Volusenus was immediately shown into the office of the Primus Pilus, which was correspondingly larger, with better quality furnishings than any other officer of the Legion. Unlike Vespillo, however, Sacrovir did seem intent on playing the small game of ignoring Volusenus for a span of time that was impossible to measure, perusing, or at least pretending to, a scroll, although the Primus Pilus was holding it up so that Volusenus was unable to tell what was on it, even for someone as tall as he was.

  Finally, he either finished or grew bored, tossing the scroll down on the desk, except in further contrast to Vespillo’s treatment, Sacrovir stood and moved from behind his desk, and surprising Volusenus considerably, offered his arm as he said, “First, Volusenus, I wanted to express my condolences to you on the loss of the Pilus Prior. We may not have seen eye to eye on everything, but he was a brave man and an outstanding Centurion of Rome.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Volusenus accepted the offer of both arm and sympathy, answering honestly, “It’s been quite a shock.”

  “I can imagine,” Sacrovir said as he led Volusenus to the small table, and somewhat to his surprise, the Primus Pilus did not call for the clerk that the younger Centurion had spied in a corner of the office, seated at a desk with his back to them. Reaching for the amphora and two cups atop a cupboard against the wall, Sacrovir brought them to the table, gesturing for Volusenus to sit. Sacrovir finished filling Volusenus’ cup, then his own, lifting it as he said somberly, “To Titus Pullus. May his journey to Elysium be uneventful, and he finds the peace that he deserves.”

  While he was slightly troubled by the words, understanding how they could be viewed in a couple different ways, Volusenus nevertheless raised his cup and touched Sacrovir’s, and once more, they both drained them then slammed them down.

  “So,” Sacrovir began immediately, “what did Vespillo tell you about your promotion?”

  While he did not like saying it much, Volusenus answered honestly, “That it wasn’t his idea.”

  “And whose idea did he say it was?” Sacrovir asked, eyeing Volusenus without a discernible expression, making him even more uncomfortable, yet the younger man did not hesitate, “He said it was yours, Primus Pilus.”

  The only reaction Volusenus could detect was a slight tightening of Sacrovir’s jaw, but as quickly as Volusenus had answered, he replied, “He’s wrong, Volusenus.”

  While he knew it was impossible for the effects of a full cup of wine to hit him so rapidly, the dizziness that Volusenus experienced seemed almost palpable, but he made no attempt to hide his confusion, shaking his head as if to clear it.

  “I don’t understand, Primus Pilus. Are you saying that Vespillo was lying?”

  “No,” Sacrovir shook his head, “that’s not what I’m saying.” Hesitating for a heartbeat, he added carefully, “Although I don’t know with any real certainty; after all,” he chuckled suddenly, though not with much humor, “any Centurion worth his salt has his own sources of information inside the Praetorium, so I suppose it’s in the realm of possibility. But,” he shook his head again, this time in a more definitive manner, “I don’t think that’s what’s going on. I think he made an honest assumption that this was my decision, but it wasn’t.”

  “Then,” Volusenus asked, his stomach suddenly lurching, “do you know whose decision it is?”

  “Yes,” Sacrovir replied, but then remained silent for a stretch of time, during which Volusenus decided he needed to do the same. Finally, clearly exasperated, Sacrovir asked bluntly, “If it wasn’t me, Volusenus, who would be powerful enough to promote you? Not,” he suddenly held up a hand, “that I didn’t agree with it. I do think you’re ready for the post of Pilus Posterior. If I hadn’t,” he pointed at Volusenus as if to emphasize, “you wouldn’t be in that position, I don’t care who it is ordering it. But, as it happens, I think it’s an excellent idea, and will be a big help to the Fourth Cohort.”

  Germanicus, Volusenus thought, but did not say the name aloud; he’s the only one who could make this happen. Technically, he knew that any of the Tribunes had the authority, but none of them would dare, while the Camp Prefect was in Mogontiacum and there was no way he had even heard of Germanicus’ return with Segestes, although it was possible that he was aware they had embarked on the mission. It was the thought of Mogontiacum that hit him with all the force of a blow, directly to the pit of his stomach, and he felt a rush of shame that this was the first moment he had actually thought about his mother in anything other than anger, realizing that if she heard about the 1st’s involvement with the raid to rescue Segestes, she would be worried until she heard from her son.

  Shoving this aside for the moment, Volusenus forced himself to concentrate on the moment at hand, saying, “I appreciate your confidence, Primus Pilus. But,” he looked Sacrovir in the eye, “what does being a ‘big help’ mean, exactly?”

  To his credit, Sacrovir did not hesitate, confirming Volusenus’ sudden suspicion by replying, “Vespillo. I want you to keep an eye on him for me.”

  Despite feeling somewhat vindicated, the predominant sensation was perilously akin to nausea.

  “What does that mean?” he asked Sacrovir, studying the man’s face intently, though without much hope.

  “I think you know,” Sacrovir countered, and as Volusenus had suspected, he remained expressionless. Then, he made a slight movement with his head as he allowed, “But in the event that it’s unclear, you know that Vespillo was passed over for this current
post twice.” When Volusenus nodded, he continued, “The problem is that when you look at his record, it’s spotless, and he’s won several awards for valor and distinction.”

  He did not say it aloud, but Volusenus silently acknowledged that this was true; Vespillo’s problems were not because of a lack of courage or fighting ability, and as he thought about it, he also saw Sacrovir’s larger point, although he fervently hoped that he would not be forced to articulate this.

  It was a hope that lasted just long enough for Sacrovir to ask, “Do you think Vespillo is fit to run the Fourth Cohort, Volusenus?”

  “No,” he blurted out before he could stop himself, mortifying Volusenus, but rather than proving to be some sort of loyalty test, Sacrovir gave a grim nod of approval.

  “Neither do I,” Sacrovir assured him. “But he also has friends in…high places.” Perhaps it was the manner in which Sacrovir cocked his head, but it was enough that Volusenus was not surprised when Sacrovir added, “Just like you.” Not sure what was expected, Volusenus said nothing, which did not appear to bother Sacrovir, and he explained, “I’m sure you know we’re not going to be here long, although we haven’t gotten our orders yet, but if I had to guess, we’re going to continue here under Germanicus’ command. It makes sense, since this is our home.”

  It did make sense, although as they would soon be learning, it still did not make Sacrovir’s guess accurate, but he quickly moved on, explaining in some detail what he was expecting from Volusenus. By the time he was through, while Volusenus was enlightened to a certain degree, at least knowing that, for whatever reason, the Propraetor wanted him to be second in command of the Cohort. The why and how of it was beyond him, which was troubling. What surprised him somewhat was that he was more bothered by this than the thought of essentially being a spy for Sacrovir, watching Vespillo to make some sort of error that could justify his removal. It was not until he was almost back to his quarters when the thought crossed his mind; what would happen if Sacrovir did relieve Vespillo? The thought leapt unbidden into his mind, and with such force that it wrenched an audible gasp, although there was nobody within earshot, of one possibility stemming from these new developments. Could I be a Pilus Prior in the near future? he wondered.

  It was shortly after dark when the knock came, and Volusenus rose from his cot, although this time, he had not fallen asleep. Krateros had lit the lamps, but when he walked into the outer office, the clerk was gone, so he strode to the door, opening it to see that Alex, Titus, and once again, Algaia standing there.

  “Vandalois said the ashes are cool enough…” Alex took a quick glance in either direction, “…Gnaeus. Do you still want to help?”

  This was something that Volusenus had been wrestling with, almost from the moment he had agreed to be there, but he felt his head nodding. Telling them to wait, he hurried back to his quarters, grabbed his vitus, then returned to join them. They walked in silence, and Volusenus noticed that Alex was carrying an urn that he recognized as being one of those that accompanied the Roman army on campaigns that were meant to last longer than what they had just done with Segestes. The sight of it under Alex’s arm struck Volusenus harder than he expected, but he said nothing about it. When they reached the site in the forum, the slave Volusenus recognized as Vandalois was still standing there, along with three other slaves, arranged so that they were essentially standing guard at the heap of ash, and he did wonder if they had been required to stand there for the entire day. It was not a thought that troubled him all that much, since this was the lot of a Roman slave, but he did think to reach down and pat his baltea, where his coin purse was tucked away, judging how much was in it by the feel, deciding in the moment that he would reward them. It was one of the other slaves who saw them coming first, and he alerted Vandalois, who snapped something that sent the other two slaves trotting away, but before Volusenus could wonder why, they returned with torches to light the area better.

  “I’ve…never done this before.”

  The words felt strange coming out of his mouth, but he was relieved to see that neither of the other three had either. Alex, who seemed to have taken charge of this part of it, walked to Vandalois, and after a muttered exchange, beckoned to them.

  “His ashes,” Alex pointed down at the center of what was a rough rectangle of black and gray, “are going to be in the middle.”

  Nobody moved, then without thinking, Volusenus walked over and squatted down, careful not to place his feet anywhere near the area Alex had outlined with his finger.

  Looking up, he said more sharply than he intended, “Bring those torches closer.”

  The two slaves moved quickly, and with the added light, Volusenus saw what he recognized as small bits of bone, although they were black and charred, spread in a pattern that essentially identified where Pullus’ body had lain. The sight brought a rush of emotion so intense that, before he could stop himself, he heard a choked sob and knew that it was from him, but it was the sudden touch on his shoulder that made him jerk.

  It was Alex, whose eyes were shining, but then he extended the urn, his voice barely recognizable as he said, “I think it’s the son’s duty to collect his father’s ashes.”

  Cursing the shaking of his hand, certain that the slaves would be quick to spread the tale of a Centurion of Rome behaving like a grieving woman, Volusenus did take the urn, setting it on the ground and prying the stopper from the mouth. Taking a breath, he closed his eyes to pray, then realized he had no idea whether there was a specific prayer for gathering the ashes, so he reached down and, picking the first spot where he could see those small, charred pieces of bone protruding from it, scooped them up, and found they were still almost hot to the touch. Working in silence, he was only aware of the presence of others by the soft sounds of sobbing, but while he could tell there was more than one of them doing so, he was unaware that he was doing it himself. Moving slowly, his thighs began to ache, but he refused to kneel, fearful that by doing so he would somehow desecrate this rite. As he did so, he realized that he had never stayed for this part of the funeral rites for his own men, and he felt a sense of shame, remembering that it was something his father had always done, going back out to the cremation site to pay silent tribute as the comrades of the slain man finished the final task of sending him on his way. While he could never recall making the decision to do so, from this day forward, as long as he wore the transverse crest, Gnaeus Volusenus was always there for his men, almost always in the darkness or at best fading light.

  “He was so big, I wonder if one of these will be enough.”

  Even as the words came out, he recognized his own voice, and Volusenus gasped in horror, certain that if he had not offended the gods, he had certainly insulted Alex, and probably Titus, although he was most concerned with his father’s clerk and friend. Which meant he was completely unprepared for, after a brief silence, the sound of Alex bursting out laughing, and he was immediately joined by not just Titus and Algaia, but the slaves. Whether it was the words themselves or how he said it, he never asked, but as any ranker learns, laughter is not only contagious, it is most likely to strike at the worst possible time, resulting in the four of them, standing huddled together, laughing with the kind of pent-up energy that was a feature of any stressful moment.

  “He was pretty fucking big,” Titus managed, then took a step away to examine Volusenus in the flickering light, and while he was still smiling, it was with tears that he said, “I think you might be taller, Gnaeus.”

  “I think I am,” Volusenus replied, but his mind was more on the queer but pleasant sensation that, mingled with a feeling of grief that had steadily grown inside him, seemed to suffuse every part of his being. Is this what it’s like to have a family?

  Recovering his composure somewhat, Volusenus squatted back down and was quickly finished, relieved that there was just enough room in the urn, which he carefully sealed. From here, the urn would be inscribed with the name, rank, Century, Cohort, and Legion of the deceas
ed, and sometimes the date, but that was usually done when there were several urns that would be consigned to the dead man’s Cohort wagons and they had to be kept straight. Volusenus regarded the urn for a moment, surrounded by the other three, and he saw by the torchlight that his hands were filthy, but while it did occur to him that it was the remains of Titus Pullus covering his hands, for some reason, he was not repulsed by it. Without a word, he handed Alex the urn, although it was only to extract his coin purse, shaking out a handful of coins, barely noticing the amount of money he was holding.

  Walking to where Vandalois was standing, who watched him approach with a level of uncertainty that normally would have amused Volusenus, he held out his hand and said, “This is for your work today. I want you to share it…equally.” He did harden his voice a bit, albeit unconsciously.

  “Th-thank you, Centurion,” Vandalois appeared to be anything but grateful; if anything, he seemed suspicious to Volusenus, which he indirectly explained, “but we’re not allowed to accept money for doing our…job.”

  There was no way to miss the bitterness in the slave’s voice, but more because he did not feel like replacing the coins, Volusenus said quietly, “I won’t say anything if you won’t.”

  It was not lost on Volusenus that the slave instantly looked not at him, but at Alex, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alex give a slight nod; only then did he reach out and accept the coins.

  “Thank you, Centurion,” the slave repeated, but he made no move to do anything, and Volusenus continued to stare at him.

  After a long moment, Vandalois did at last walk over to the other three slaves and sullenly dropped a few coins into each man’s palm, none of whom looked hesitant at all, and Volusenus felt somewhat vindicated, thinking that he had spotted Vandalois’ real concern, that he had to share in the bounty.

  Once he was satisfied, Volusenus turned, took the urn back from Alex, then said casually, “I’ve made up my mind about what I’m going to do.”