Chapter One

The punitive winter campaign that Germanicus Julius Caesar conducted in the aftermath of the mutiny of the Rhenus Legions against the Marsi had been largely successful, at least in its real aim of providing the disgruntled rankers of the Legions an outlet for their rage and frustration. That it also resulted in the enrichment of those men, in the form of plunder and the proceeds from the captive Marsi who were sold into slavery, all of which Germanicus turned over to the ranks, probably did more to assuage the men than the actual outlet of battle. This, at least, was the opinion of the Centurions of the Fourth Cohort, 1^st Legion, in which Gnaeus Volusenus served as Hastatus Posterior, commanding the Sixth Century, a post for which his father had provided the sum that the Princeps required for purchase to members of the Equestrian Order. It was not the first action that Volusenus had seen; the year before what he, and every other Roman alive during that period, would think of as the year that Augustus died, for the rest of their collective lives, he had marched on a short campaign, also led by Germanicus, against a combined force of Sugambri and Tencteri, numbering some five thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry. As such things went, it was not much of a campaign, but to Gnaeus Volusenus, it was noteworthy not only because it saw him blooded, but for the first time in his life, he experienced something that was both frightening, and to a degree he would never articulate to anyone, save one man, empowering. The event that triggered it was the one and only battle that was the culmination of Germanicus’ maneuvering elements of his two Legions into what was an elaborate ambush of the raiding German warband that was intent on attacking the prosperous trading town of Blariacum, located twenty miles west of the Rhenus, on the banks of the Mosa River. To Volusenus’ more experienced counterparts, like Pullus, it was an elaborate plan, and experience had taught them that the more complicated such a plan was, the higher the chances of it failing, yet this time, it had gone off without any complications, save one, in the form of Gnaeus Volusenus essentially losing his senses.

Even after he had sat and talked about it with Pullus, Volusenus was never able to completely piece together events after a certain point. As battles went, it had not been much of one, but it was Volusenus’ first, which is always memorable; what he did when the Sugambri and Tencteri broke and began fleeing the battlefield had been when whatever he had done took place. He knew about the aftermath, and he did recall the moment when, seeing the backs of the barbarians fleeing the field, something inside him, which he was only dimly aware was lurking there, finally came bursting out of him. Just the sight of these men running for their lives enraged him, although he had no idea why, because his rational mind understood that it was better for his Century and the rest of the Legion in the sense that his men would not be facing further harm. Regardless of this truth, before he could recall making a conscious decision to do so, Volusenus was racing after the fleeing enemy, not as a Centurion leading his Century in accordance with the orders of his Pilus Prior, who was Marcus Junius Macer at the time, but as a man who had lost all sense of control. Only after talking with Pullus did he recall that much, the sense of overwhelming anger that these savages who had thought they could raid Roman territory with impunity did not have the wherewithal to stand and fight, but instead ran like the cowards they were. He could recall reaching the edge of the forest into which the barbarians ran; then, his next conscious recollection was sitting with his back against the base of a tree, every inch of his exposed skin covered in blood, and feeling an almost crushing fatigue that was far and above what would be expected by running the distance he had apparently covered. He was found by his Signifer Vibius Macerinus, although he had not been the only man to follow Volusenus, who Volusenus first noticed standing a few feet away, wondering why he was there and panting as he held the pole of the standard like he needed to use it to support himself. Volusenus had thought it odd in the moment that Macerinus had not seemed to be paying much attention to him, but at the pile of bodies that were somehow strewn around the tree, which Volusenus only slowly connected to himself in some way. Indeed, his first question to his Signifer, who had been joined by other men from the Century by this point, also panting from the exertion and seemingly as disconcerted as their standard bearer, was whether or not Macerinus had been the slayer of the barbarians. This was the moment he was informed that neither Macerinus nor any of the men were responsible, and that the dozen barbarians spread in a rough semicircle around the tree were already dead when they spotted Volusenus after being drawn to the sounds of shouting and screaming during the search for their Centurion. That in itself was unsettling; when Volusenus actually examined these men he had supposedly slain, he saw that they had not just been killed with a thrust. In almost every case, these warriors were suffering multiple wounds, and several of them were dismembered in some manner, not any of which Volusenus remembered doing.

There was one positive effect with what had happened to Volusenus; he no longer had any issues with his men instantly obeying his orders, something that, while he was loath to admit it before this event, had been an issue for Volusenus. From his first day, he had known that he would be operating at a handicap, showing up as what men under the standard referred to as a “paid man” because his father had purchased a spot in the Centurionate for him. That Quintus Volusenus was not his father was a fact about which he had been unaware; only in retrospect, after learning the truth, did Volusenus fully appreciate why the man he thought of as his father was so willing to offer the substantial sum to place him into the Legion. It not only removed the responsibility for someone who was not his blood from Quintus’ shoulders; the truth was that the money had not really been his but was part of the largesse bestowed on him by his mother’s father to marry her. For the rest of his days, Volusenus would consider it a good thing that Quintus had died not long after Volusenus had joined the Legions; the emotions he felt about him were so turbulent and tangled, and he knew himself well enough to understand that it was likely there would have been some sort of dramatic, and most likely violent, confrontation, despite Volusenus’ best intentions. Regardless of the actual truth, in the aftermath of Volusenus’ actions, things changed for the young Centurion, and not just with his Century.

He had debated with himself about talking to Titus Pullus, but he had been spared making a decision, because the night after the incident, Pullus’ clerk Alex, who Volusenus had been told was Pullus’ nephew, showed up in Volusenus’ quarters to invite him to dine with Pullus. From his first day, when Pilus Prior Macer had introduced Volusenus to the other Centurions in the First of the Fourth, there had been something between Pullus and him, a tension that neither man really understood but knew was there. And, if Volusenus had been disposed to ask Pullus, he would have learned that the older man was of a like mind, at least initially, that they were unaccustomed to the idea that there was another man whose size and strength rivaled their own. Volusenus had always been the largest in any group, whether it be the children of other Equestrians who shared the same tutor or on the Campus Martius of Mediolanum when performing the military exercises that were expected of every Roman man of the Equestrian and higher orders. Truly, the pair had clashed from their first meeting, and Volusenus was at least honest enough with himself to privately acknowledge that he had been the instigator in most of those incidents.

It had all started with a chance remark by Numerius Vespillo, the Quartus Pilus Posterior, who had actually uttered what turned out to be the truth, but as a joke, that Pullus could have been Volusenus’ father, something that at the time Volusenus had not found funny in the slightest. Nevertheless, it had not been his intention to insult Pullus within a matter of heartbeats after they first met, but as often happened, his temper had gotten the best of him, and from that first clash, a tone had been set between the two. If this was the only difficulty Volusenus had faced, it would be enough, but he had made matters worse for himself because of his own insecurity, acutely aware that he was a paid man. As with matters with Pullus, it was only in hindsight, and maturity, that Volusenus recognized that most of his problems had been of his own creation. The situation with Pullus came to a head when, in a fit of temper, fueled by what Volusenus quickly learned was overconfidence, he challenged the older Centurion to a sparring match, witnessed only by their fellow Centurions. The beating Volusenus had received had been thorough, both in the physical sense and in how humiliated he felt afterward; it was not until much, much later, when he and Pullus had become close, that he learned that Pullus had been secretly impressed with Volusenus’ skill. That same night, Volusenus had appeared in Pullus’ quarters, swallowing his massive pride to ask Pullus to help train him, and while nothing was ever said between the two about it, Pullus knew better than anyone what it took for the younger man to show up. This had marked the beginning of the change between the pair, so that by the time of Volusenus’ fit, the young Centurion would not have gone to anyone else about what had happened to him. That was when he had learned that he was not alone, and once Volusenus learned the truth of his father’s identity, he would look back and realize that this was also the first moment where something that had been lurking somewhere in the back of his mind had first thrust itself into his consciousness, that there was a deeper connection to Titus Pullus than just his size. At the time, it had been easy to shove that thought aside, mainly because Volusenus refused to give it any credence since to do so would mean that his mother had been unfaithful to the man he thought of as his father. It was something that, frankly, he felt a little foolish about later, that it had never occurred to him that Giulia might have lain with Titus Pullus before she even met Quintus Volusenus, although that was not much better in Roman society. Oh, he was well aware that such things happened; he had heard all manner of gossip about other women of his social status growing up in Mediolanum. Only when he thought about it later did he recall that, whenever such matters were mentioned, it was always his father who brought it up, and it was in front of his mother. Who, he recalled, would always remain silent.

The revolt of the Rhenus Legions had been a trying ordeal for any man wearing the transverse crest of a Centurion or white stripe of an Optio, but for a relatively inexperienced man like Volusenus, it had also been extremely confusing. Almost despite himself, he quickly realized that his sympathies were more aligned with the men of his Century than of the new Imperator Tiberius, but he also understood that he could not let his personal feelings in the matter show, for a number of reasons. Some of these were obvious; if he sided with the men, while it might make Volusenus more popular with his Century, it would mark him as, at the very least, a Centurion who was more concerned with being liked by his men. Even worse, and more likely, by doing so, Volusenus would essentially be defying Tiberius and the authority of the Senate. Although the latter was clearly the more dangerous in the long term, what Volusenus and the other officers saw was that appearing to wholeheartedly side with Tiberius was every bit as hazardous, not to just a man’s career, but to his life. During the period where the Legions were in open rebellion, there had been several Centurions and Optios who, for one reason or another, had been deemed by the rankers to be worthy of punishment, all of it brutal and some of it turning deadly, although with the latter, it was more a case of the flogging going too far, not that it was premeditated. Volusenus was acutely aware of his status as a paid man, although he felt reasonably confident that he had proven himself to his men, and he certainly did not have a reputation for being a “striper,” nor did he ever use his men for financial gain. Nevertheless, it was a nervous time, but it was even more so for Volusenus because Pullus had been sent back to his original posting in Pannonia to aid Tiberius’ natural son Drusus in quelling that uprising, and it was during this period when Volusenus realized how much he had come to rely on the older Centurion for guidance. Once he learned the truth, it was always impossible for Volusenus to untangle his emotions when he thought back to that time, less than a year before his life was saved by his father, his real father, yet somehow, he had managed to weather the upheaval without Pullus being there. And, probably most importantly, once Pullus had returned to the 1^st, and Volusenus had proposed the idea of simply removing the troublemakers from their Century by the simplest means available, ordering their arrest for some charge, Pullus had stopped Volusenus from what he recognized fairly quickly would have been a disastrous move. Fortunately, for all parties, Germanicus had given a performance worthy of the stage, almost singlehandedly ending the rebellion of the Rhenus Legions with a single speech. And, in doing so, Germanicus cemented his status as the Roman nobleman who was not only respected, but was loved by the men of the Legions, and as years passed, Volusenus observed something that Pullus had once mentioned to him, how Tiberius was respected by the men of the Legions, but not loved, and he often wondered how much this reality figured in the events that were to come.

The mutiny had collapsed in a last spasm of bloodletting and retribution, not by Germanicus, but by the men themselves, in an attempt to show they were willing to expiate their disloyalty by punishing the men who had been the most vocal and the most vigorous in agitating their comrades. It had been a brutal business, as one by one, each Cohort served as the jury for every accused man, who was dragged up onto the rostrum in the forum of the camp, whereupon their guilt or innocence was pronounced by acclamation. Volusenus had not been surprised that the majority of the accused were immediately pronounced guilty, although there were cases in other Cohorts, and in the other Legion present, the 20^th, where it was determined a man was innocent and had been accused by one of his comrades to settle an old score. When it was the turn of the Fourth Cohort, to nobody’s surprise but the man himself, Pullus had been deemed to be the best qualified to perform the executions, which he had performed without incident, until it was the time for a Gregarius from his own Century. Publius Atilius Pusio was a relative newcomer to the Third Century, Fourth Cohort, but in that short period of time, he had proven to be the worst of those men who were now being judged. Part of the second emergency dilectus after the Varus disaster, the deceased Princeps had been forced to scrape the bottom of the barrel of the slums of Rome, along with the most recalcitrant of those men he considered troublemakers among the Equestrian order. Pusio had been one of the latter; that he was relatively well educated meant that his demagoguery was more effective, and Volusenus knew that Pusio had been a rock in Pullus’ caliga ever since his arrival in the aftermath of the Varus disaster.

On the day the revolt ended, when it was the turn of the Fourth Cohort to pass judgment on those men who were deemed most responsible, although Pusio’s condemnation could not be characterized as the swiftest, there was no hesitation on the part of his former comrades in declaring his guilt. And, in that moment, Volusenus, along with the other men of the Fourth Cohort, had witnessed a side of Titus Pullus that was not only disquieting, but once Volusenus learned the truth of his paternity, explained from where the darkness within himself came. Prior to Pusio, Pullus had dispatched each and every mutineer with a dispassionate efficiency, his massive strength and flawless technique at least providing a merciful end to their lives. Not, however, with Pusio; claiming that his arm was fatigued, Titus Pullus had ensured that Pusio’s end was as painful and horrific as he could make it. Despite knowing that the troublemaker deserved to die, Volusenus was shaken by the manner in which Pullus had prolonged the man’s agony, seemingly missing his mark and only partially severing the man’s head, and he was certain that it had not been a mistake. More importantly, Marcus Macer, the Quartus Pilus Prior and both Pullus and Volusenus’ direct superior, was not fooled either, and while Volusenus never learned the specifics, it was an open secret that Macer was considering dismissing Pullus from his post, although Volusenus had no idea how Macer would have gone about doing something like that. Fortunately for Pullus, and the Cohort, after a couple of tense watches, Macer decided that taking further action was unnecessary, yet Volusenus had a hard time erasing the image of Pusio, still alive, at least in the sense of his eyes being open and making some sort of noise, having the top of his head sliced off, exposing the man’s brains to the watching Legionaries.

While the mutiny was over, and the troublemakers removed, Germanicus was not content to let the men settle in for winter, intent on taking them on a campaign across the Rhenus. Wisely, however, he kept the scope of the campaign limited, both in duration and its target, which was the Marsi tribe whose lands ran along a strip, with the Rhenus as its western boundary, and the Rura and Lupia Rivers as the southern and northern, respectively. By doing so, Germanicus ensured that the men would be kept too busy preparing for the campaign to spend loitering, discussing what had just transpired in the weeks before, and possibly reopening recently closed wounds. This was Volusenus’ second campaign, although he was constantly reminded by his fellow Centurions that this was unlike a normal campaign, both because of the circumstances and the season. Winter campaigns were extremely rare, but they were not unheard of; every one of the other officers of the Fourth Cohort had been with the Legion the last time it had happened, when Tiberius had led them across the Rhenus. Pullus had been an Optio then, and Marcus Macer his Centurion, in command of the Third Century, and while it was far from Pullus’ first campaign, it had been his first with the Legion. It was not until shortly before Pullus’ death that Volusenus had learned the cause of his father’s transfer from the 8^th Legion, but when Pullus had told him about the circumstances and his actions that led to him being sent to the Army of the Rhenus, it had been in the context of the trait both men shared, the one that had led Volusenus into a headlong, singlehanded pursuit of fleeing Germans. A little more than a week after the end of the mutiny, Germanicus led his army across the pontoon bridge in a heavy snow at Vetera, the camp that had been the home of Varus’ doomed Legions, and was now the permanent home of the 2^nd and 14^th Legions. Although it would have made sense for these two Legions to accompany Germanicus and the rest of the army, they were the only two Legions that had not mutinied, and their reward was to not be forced to endure the elements during the harsh Germania winter.

As campaigns went, it was not much to speak of in a straightforward sense, but it accomplished Germanicus’ ostensible goal of chastising the Marsi for their role as one of the tribes aligned with Arminius. The consensus among the officers, at least of the 1^st, was that Germanicus’ real objective had been to give the men the opportunity to vent their frustrations on people other than fellow Romans. While the conception of this campaign was not unique, the execution of it was something that neither Volusenus nor any other man of the Legion would experience again. The logistics that were required in order to attain the goal of the campaign were daunting; creating what was essentially a long, relatively unbroken line of Roman iron in the twenty-mile stretch between the two rivers that bounded Marsi lands meant that just the maneuvering into position took three days in total. Dividing the army, each Legion marched in a modified agmentum quadratum, with the Legion baggage in between two lines of Cohorts, with those Cohorts that would be marching on each side instead placed in one of the two long lines, with the 1^st being the northernmost, using the Lupia as their left flank. In between each Legion, Germanicus placed Cohorts of auxiliaries, essentially creating two long lines of men. Only then did the “march” begin, although the four Legions only covered ten miles in a day twice; otherwise, it was between five and eight miles, and fairly quickly, it settled into a monotonous routine. Rather than allowing a Cohort that came across a village or some sort of resistance to lag behind as they destroyed the dwellings, ravaged the small fields surrounding them, and chased down the few Marsi who had not managed to flee, the signal by cornu would ripple across the entire formation from north to south, requiring the other Cohorts of the Legion involved and the other three Legions to come to a halt. It was tedious to say the least, and the bitter cold did not help matters as men would be forced to stand motionless but still on the alert, stamping their feet, blowing their hands, and muttering to their comrades about the stupidity of their officers.

Early on, Macer had expressed the concerns of Tiberius Sacrovir, the Primus Pilus, that men who were not only forced into idleness, but were now cold and miserable, might quickly revive the complaints that were seemingly settled with the end of the mutiny. That made eminent sense to Volusenus, and he could tell by the reaction of the more experienced officers that they were of a like mind; happily, the complaints voiced by the men were exclusively focused on their current plight. In terms of combat, it was confined to random ambushes by small bands of Marsi warriors, who would suddenly appear from a particularly thick patch of underbrush, hurl their short throwing spears, and occasionally engaging the Romans closely enough to draw their gladii and axes. There would be a brief period of excitement, if only for the Century whose position was under attack, then invariably, before the Centuries on either side of the targeted one could swing down onto the flanks of the Marsi warband, the Germans would disappear, dissolving into the forests from which they had appeared. One thing that shocked Volusenus was how, even in the grip of winter, after the leaves of all the deciduous plant life had shed themselves, just how thick the undergrowth and cover still was; the only material difference to Volusenus’ eyes was that instead of the greens and browns, the world surrounding them seemed to be grayish-white, with the snow blanketing the branches of the evergreens and piling up in the innumerable deadfalls that made the German forests so much of a hazard to the Roman Legions. When he mentioned this to Pullus, the older Centurion had assured him that he had experienced the same feeling the first time he had marched in winter, assuming as Volusenus did before crossing the Rhenus that there would be virtually no ground cover, at least of a nature sufficient to conceal large bodies of Marsi warriors.

Unknown to Volusenus, it was during this campaign that Pullus and Macer held a conversation, which took place as they were waiting for the rest of the army to finish crossing the pontoon bridge across the Rhenus the first day.

As the two Centurions were watching, Macer suddenly turned to Pullus and asked, “What’s going on now between you and Volusenus? I thought you two were getting along.”

Startled, which was Macer’s intent, Pullus protested, “Nothing’s going on! We’ve just been busy, that’s all.”

As their friendship developed, Marcus Macer had learned that, if he remained patient, by his very nature, Titus Pullus would usually divulge whatever was troubling him, which happened then, as he muttered, “Fine. It’s just that I learned something recently that makes matters…complicated between us.”

“Does this have anything to do with his mother showing up in Ubiorum?” Macer asked nonchalantly.

This caused Pullus to break his attention away from the men and turn to stare down at him, incredulous that he had noticed anything unusual.

“What makes you say that?” Pullus did try to imbue his tone so that it would register nothing more than offhand curiosity, but the look Macer gave him was almost as informative as his words as he replied, “Because I’ve got eyes, Titus. Besides,” he added, though he did not need to, “you’ve never complained of a headache before. At least,” Macer flashed a grin that, even in Pullus’ suddenly agitated state, he returned, “before we go into town. Afterward is another story.” His grin faded, and he continued searching Pullus’ face, making the large Centurion acutely uncomfortable. “So what was it about Volusenus’ mother that has made you act so strangely?”

Deciding that a partial truth was better than attempting an outright lie, Pullus admitted the only part he was willing to, telling Macer, “I just recognized her from my time in Siscia, that’s all.”

When he said nothing more, Macer did not immediately reply or press any further, and Pullus was beginning to think he might have gotten away with this; he was just returning his attention to the men, when he heard Macer gasp. Naturally, this caused Pullus to jerk his head back around to see Macer standing there, with his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide with shock at what was, as Pullus was about to learn, the partial truth that he had just guessed.

“By the gods, Titus!” Macer kept his voice low, but his tone was such that Pullus felt certain it would draw attention from other men, particularly Volusenus, who was not that far away. “Did you have an affair with his mother back then?” Pullus’ expression clearly gave the answer, but Macer’s reaction was actually lacerating to Pullus’ soul, because he laughed, then punched Pullus in the arm as he exclaimed, “Why, you sly old dog!”

Pullus did not return his smile, and he could not even bring himself to look at him, choosing to return his attention back to the men, determined to keep it there this time. When Pullus thought about it later, he realized that he could have forestalled what was about to take place by simply playing along, smiling, and making some sort of comment that Macer would have found, if not humorous, then at least that it affirmed his guess. But Pullus did not because he could not bring himself to do so, and he heard Macer’s laugh fade, though his attention stayed on Pullus, which he continued to ignore. The silence drew out to the point where the predominant sound was the crunching footsteps of their men walking around, and once more, Pullus’ discomfort caused him to react, although he managed not to say anything as he reluctantly turned back to look down at Macer. However, his friend was no longer looking in Pullus’ direction; instead, he was gazing over to where Volusenus and Pullus’ former Optio, Structus, were engaged in conversation, and in that moment, to Pullus it seemed to take forever for Macer’s head to turn back to him, his eyes even wider than before.

“Bona Dea,” Macer gasped, the first time Pullus had ever heard him invoke the great mother goddess. “Of course! Why didn’t I see this before?”

“See what?” Pullus asked, but even to his own ears, he heard how lame it sounded.

Shaking his head, Macer answered, “Don’t play the idiot, Titus. It doesn’t suit you.” He looked back over at Volusenus again; fortunately, his back was turned to the pair, and without taking his eyes off him, Macer asked, “Does Volusenus know?”

“No,” Pullus answered sharply, “and he’s not going to find out! Not from me, and certainly not from you!”

This prompted Macer to turn back to stare at Pullus incredulously, but the other man made sure to pin Macer with a look that the Pilus Prior certainly understood, although he had only seen it aimed at other men until this moment.

“But, Titus, he has a right to know who his father is, surely!”

Just as he had shown Pullus in the past, Marcus Macer had a knack for getting right to the heart of a given problem, and this proved no exception, if only because in this matter, Pullus agreed wholeheartedly. Regardless of his personal feelings, however, Pullus had promised Giulia, and while he was not willing to break that promise, neither was he eager to admit this was the reason, even to his friend.

Nevertheless, Pullus could not think of what else to say, other than, “I made a promise to his mother that I would let her tell him, but in her own time.”

Not surprisingly, this did not impress Macer, who shot back, “First, that was a stupid promise to make, and nobody would blame you for breaking it. He,” Macer indicated Volusenus, who Pullus was beginning to eye nervously, hoping the young Centurion would not turn around and see the two of them engaged in what he would instantly discern was an intense conversation about him, “is the one who matters, Titus. He deserves to know.”

Pullus did not reply immediately, partially because, in his heart, he agreed with his friend; however, there was another aspect to this situation, which Pullus pointed out by asking, “How do you think he’s going to react, learning that the man he thought of his entire life as his father isn’t, and that his mother lied to him? And,” Pullus pressed on before Macer could answer, “how do you think it would affect him as far as performing his duties on this campaign?” When he said this, Pullus did turn back to look Macer in the eye, and he was cautiously pleased to see that this was making an impression, so Pullus did not let up, “We’re on the other side of the Rhenus, Marcus, and if I know Germanicus, we’re going to stay out here until we draw some barbarian blood. Do you really want two of your Centurions distracted by something that ultimately has nothing to do with why we’re out here?”

As Pullus hoped, this made an impact on Macer, his mouth turning down into a frown that Pullus knew from experience meant he was deep in thought, the silence stretching for a span of heartbeats.

Finally, Macer heaved a sigh and admitted, “That’s true, Titus, and no, I can see how that would distract Volusenus at the worst possible time. But,” he insisted, “he does have a right to know, as soon as we get back from this campaign.”

Despite this, all Pullus would do was promise to think about it, but while Macer looked disposed to argue, the cornu call sounded the signal that, at last, the entire army was across the bridge, whereupon the pair parted and went to their Centuries, bellowing at them to form up for the march, with Volusenus following suit, unaware that there was one more person now who was aware of the truth, while he remained ignorant.

Only once was Volusenus’ Century involved in what was the most serious battle in the 1^st’s area near the river, when a party of Marsi, numbering perhaps fifty in strength, used a gully that normally drained runoff that, in its sinuous course, was running parallel to the river located just a couple miles to the north. As far as Volusenus knew, in the aftermath, there had been no determination of exactly how such a sizable group of Marsi managed to remain hidden in the bottom of the gully, allowing the Sixth of the Fourth, Volusenus’ Century, whose right flank was aligned with the gully, with the First of the Fifth on the opposite side, to march past them, the section serving as the advance guard missing them entirely. The attack itself was also conducted with a level of coordination that, prior to the Varus disaster, Romans had insisted was beyond the capacity of Germans, when a much larger force, numbering perhaps three hundred Marsi, came bursting out of the underbrush, directly ahead of the last three Centuries of the Fourth Cohort. From Volusenus’ perspective, they had just been forced to cross the gully where it curved back north to the river, and had moved perhaps a half mile farther, with the gully, choked with deadfalls and partially filled with snow, now parallel to their march, when the attack began. Suddenly, the section of men he, like every other Century, had placed fifty paces ahead of the main body, more or less simultaneously shouted their own warning; this was the quietest moment for some time after that. His eyes drawn to that spot by the shouts, Volusenus had been talking to his Signifer Macerinus when he suddenly turned his attention just in time to see one of his own, a man from the Sixth Section, whose turn it was to be advance guard, topple to the ground with the shaft of a javelin protruding from his chest. Just beyond the body, however, was of more immediate concern, as Marsi warriors, in accordance with their habit, seemed to materialize out of the forest ahead.

“Keep moving! Close formation! Ready javelins!” Volusenus’ shouted command was instantly obeyed; only later would he experience a sense of satisfaction that he had reacted not only immediately, but with the best possible decision. In the moment, once he saw his Century respond, while the surviving members of the advance section, following their training, did not try to stand and fight but had come backpedaling as quickly as they could manage while keeping their shields in front of them, Volusenus bellowed, “Release!”

The missiles went streaking into the Marsi directly across from Volusenus’ Century, and while Volusenus had noticed that their enemy was spread across a front that meant the Fourth and Fifth Centuries, commanded by Cornutus and Pullus’ former Optio Structus respectively, would be engaged as well, that was all the thought he gave to it.

In the eyeblink after the javelins of his Century slashed downward into the onrushing Marsi, all of them running as quickly as a man could manage over ground so broken and littered with the debris of branches, small dead trees, and protruding rocks, Volusenus realized there was not time for a second volley, and he shouted, “Drop ‘em, boys! Straight to the gladius!” Waiting perhaps a normal heartbeat, during which he drew his own, Volusenus bellowed the order, “Porro!”

As expected, his men did not hesitate, answering his cry with their own, for the first time matching the intensity of the attacking Germans who had broken the silence in their normal method of invoking their gods, calling on their ancestors, or promising to take every Roman head currently attached to Roman bodies. From before his time under the standard, Volusenus had had it drilled into him that it was always crucial to answer a charging attack with a countercharge rather than remaining motionless, and despite what was about to happen, it was still the proper thing to do. This did not make him feel better afterward, since by doing so, he and his Century went rushing past the hidden force of Marsi in the gully, who came clambering out, intent on falling onto the rear of the Sixth.

Under normal circumstances, such a maneuver would have worked, albeit to a limited degree; there was no way a force of less than four hundred Marsi would be able to do more than give a Legion a bloody nose. Fortunately for Volusenus and the men of his Sixth, Germanicus had foreseen something like this happening, and to that end, had ordered that every Cohort leading the way be trailed no more than two hundred paces behind by the second line Cohorts, just for an eventuality such as this. What it meant in a practical sense for Volusenus and his men was that, within a matter of heartbeats of their colliding with the oncoming Marsi, there was a sudden addition to the din of battle, but from behind them. Thankfully, Volusenus did not respond immediately because he was engaged with a particularly skilled Marsi warrior, clearly one of the tribal nobility, as evidenced by the cloak made of bearskin and a mail coat that draped down to the man’s knees. Older than Volusenus, with a plaited beard that was as black as the bearskin but streaked with silver, he was of roughly the same size as the Centurion, although as Volusenus had quickly learned, this was more the norm with Germans than the exception. More problematic was the skill with which his opponent wielded the long, heavy Gallic-style gladius, and the young Centurion had indeed just managed to twist his body to the side to avoid a sweeping downward blow that, if it had landed, would have undoubtedly cleaved him down to mid-torso, when the tumult behind them began. It was not that Volusenus did not hear whatever it was, and a part of his mind recognized that it in all likelihood it meant an attack, but he managed to keep his focus on his opponent, if only because the Marsi recovered from his miss more quickly than Volusenus would have thought possible, given the heft of the blade and the power behind the blow. That the warrior recovered, perhaps not as quickly as if it had been the short Roman gladius, but close to it, did more to keep Volusenus’ focus on where it needed to be, because even as he launched his own attack, a traditional first position thrust that took advantage of his opponent’s height, the German made another of his own, this time coming from above his shield. For a second time, the Marsi missed a killing or debilitating blow, except this time, it was not due to Volusenus attempting to dodge, but because the Roman was performing his own attack in the prescribed manner, with the twisting of his hips once more turning his torso at just the right time. He did not escape completely unscathed, feeling a white-hot, burning pain along the front of his left upper arm as the edge of the German’s blade went slicing through his sagum, but while he hissed in pain, he was pleased to see that his own thrust was only partially blocked when in mid-thrust, the German managed to drop his shield just a bit, striking Volusenus’ blade and driving it downward. The point of Volusenus’ gladius didn’t strike where he had intended, just above the man’s cock, but it was almost as good, punching through the lower part of his foe’s mail vest, stabbing into the man’s inner thigh just above the knee. Not surprisingly, the German let out a bellow of pain, which quickly turned into something else when, as Volusenus recovered his blade, it seemed to be followed by a spray of blood that spurted out of the rent in the mail shirt with such force that Volusenus felt it spatter his face. Any idea of continuing the fight was gone within a heartbeat, the Marsi collapsing onto the ground, dropping his shield and gladius to frantically attempt to stem the flow from the severed vessel. So intent was he on this that he never saw the thrust that Volusenus aimed down into the gap between the German’s armor and the back of his helmet, the Roman feeling a flicker of regret that it had ended so quickly, and that his foe could not look into his eyes as Volusenus ended his life.

Since he had been absorbed in his own battle, this was Volusenus’ first opportunity to actually perform his duty, taking a slight step back and towards the lip of the gully, just a pace away, to prevent any Marsi from coming around on his weak side. Giving his front rank the quickest of glances, he turned towards the rear, his height giving him the ability to look across his formation to where Gillo, his Optio, had ordered the rearmost two sections to turn about and face whatever this threat was behind them. It took perhaps another half-dozen heartbeats for Volusenus to see then interpret what his eyes took in, which enabled him to give Gillo a wave, point in the direction of the second Marsi force, then return his attention to the front. And, by the time he had done so, the Centuries trailing behind the Fourth Cohort had moved up through the baggage train and shattered the Marsi attack with two volleys of javelins, forcing the Marsi who had been hidden in the gully to return to it as refuge, albeit a temporary one. Since the First of the Fifth was not involved because of the gully separating them from Volusenus’ Century, their Centurion, Gnaeus Clepsina, simply had his men make a facing movement to the left, placing them above the surviving Marsi who were fleeing like rats from a surging flood, back towards the east and the relatively safety of the main force, pelting them with javelins. Before Volusenus had blown his whistle twice to sound the relief, the attack was over, the ground littered with Marsi dead and wounded, while Volusenus’ Century had suffered three casualties, although the only death had been the man of the advance section who had warned of the ambush, at the cost of his life. Volusenus was still new to the aftermath of a fight, at least one where he retained his wits, which he found quite unsettling; how things went from the noise, fury, and fear of fighting for one’s life to the sudden, relative quiet, where the panting and moans of the wounded are the predominant sound, men are standing motionless as they catch their breath, returning from the frenzied state necessary to survive, and beginning to comprehend that they have lived to see another day, all of this happening almost as quickly as the attack itself.

The Cohort Cornicen had relayed the signal to halt, which was passed from one Cohort to the next, to allow the men of the three Centuries to tend to the various details that are required of a Roman Legion after a battle. This was performed with the usual efficiency, with the medici already moving through the ranks, the dead Marsi quickly searched, and the wounded Marsi just as rapidly dispatched, then searched, within heartbeats of the last body falling. Volusenus immediately moved to the rear of the Century to confer with Gillo, who simply pointed at the bodies of the Marsi who thought to surprise the Romans, only to end up being surprised themselves, and he noticed that all of them had at least one javelin shaft protruding from their bodies, roughly equally divided between men who had been struck down from behind, and those who had at least managed to turn about in response to their own surprise, sprung by the Romans of the second line. Men from the trailing Century, as was their due, were the ones moving among this group, performing the identical functions as the men of Volusenus’ Century, stripping anything of value from the fallen. The only point of contention came when some of the men from the Sixth of the Ninth, the Century trailing the First of the Fifth, hopped down into the gully to loot the dead Marsi from the surprise force, which the First of the Fifth, with some justification, insisted belonged to them. For a span of time, it appeared that there might be another battle, as matters grew heated between the Centuries, with Clepsina trying to use his status as a Pilus Prior to intimidate the Nones Hastatus Posterior, Numerius Flaccus, into yielding. Not only did this not work, from where Volusenus was standing, slightly dumbfounded, it seemed clear to him that this enraged Flaccus even further, making him even more intransigent, so that finally, a runner was summoned by Clepsina, with the intention of sending and asking for a resolution from the Primus Pilus, more than two miles away to the north nearer to the river. Only then did Flaccus relent, clearly understanding the likelihood that the Primus Pilus overruling a Pilus Prior was low in the extreme; probably, and most importantly, Sacrovir would be livid to have to cover the distance over such a trivial matter, and Flaccus was acutely aware that he would end up on the losing side in more ways than one. In its simplest term, the Centurion had to choose between enduring the ire of the men of his Century or the enmity of the Quintus Pilus Prior and, worst of all, that of the Primus Pilus, so he made the wise choice, unpalatable as it may have been. It was later that night, when the version of a marching camp was made before Volusenus had a chance to reflect on what was essentially his first battle where he was not simply carrying out orders from his Pilus Prior, or Primus Pilus. Over the course of their progress, a habit developed that saw the Centurions of the Fourth Cohort gather in Macer’s tent, the ostensible goal to discuss the day’s events, and what was expected the next day. Fairly quickly, given the lack of any excitement, this meeting evolved into the chance for the Centurions to talk freely, without the worry of eager ears overhearing. Naturally, the talk that night was on the ambush earlier in the day.

“I was certain Flaccus would be stupid enough to make Clepsina go through with sending for the Primus Pilus,” Vespillo opened the conversation.

“You could see he wanted to,” Macer agreed.

Seated in a circle around the Pilus Prior’s desk, each man held a cup of watered wine that had also been heated, with some spices added, yet even in the short time span of time it took for Lucco to offer each Centurion a cup, the curling vapors of steam rising from each one had vanished. Naturally, Macer’s private quarters were being heated with a charcoal brazier, but it was still cold enough that none of the Centurions had doffed their sagum, although Volusenus’ now had a rent in it from the Marsi warrior. His arm had been quickly stitched and bound, the medicus who had done it assuring him that it was not a serious wound, yet he was surprised at how much it still hurt, though he would never say a word about it.

It was Pullus who, given his status as Macer’s friend, always seemed the most comfortable in Macer’s private quarters, offering, “Do you think Flaccus would have even considered sending for the Primus Pilus before…”

His voice trailed off, but there was no need for him to expand, each of them instantly understanding.

After a brief silence, Macer sighed. “Probably not. But let’s be honest. We’re all skittish right now, and not just us, the men are as well. Remember how we all talked about how nobody, no matter how long they’ve been under the standard,” Macer raised his cup and tipped it in Pullus’ direction with a grin, “officially or unofficially, had ever seen anything like this before? Well,” he shrugged as he finished, “that means nobody has seen anything like what comes after something like this.”

“That’s a big help,” Pullus grumbled, prompting some chuckles from the others.

There was a companionable silence then, each man lost in their thoughts as they sipped their rapidly cooling beverage, then Macer cleared his throat, which Volusenus had learned was a precursor to the Pilus Prior changing the subject to something that, if not possibly delicate, was at least interesting. However, the young Centurion was completely unprepared for what came next.

“Volusenus,” he began, “I want to commend you on the manner in which you handled your Century in the ambush.” Volusenus felt a flush rising up his neck, except that Macer was not through, his voice changing slightly, but noticeably enough for Volusenus to have a presentiment he would not like what came next. “However, I have to ask; how did you manage to miss fifty Marsi warriors hiding in that gully?”

The quiet that had been so companionable a moment before suddenly became oppressive, at least to Volusenus, and although he was staring intently into his cup, he felt the eyes of the five other men on him. And, as it tended to happen, he felt the anger uncoiling in his gut at the worst possible moment. This time, however, there was a material difference; his anger was not directed towards Macer, but at himself, because he knew that the criticism was a valid one. Prior to this, Volusenus’ response would have been to lash out, within acceptable bounds, and try to shift the blame onto someone other than himself. Time and experience, and, Volusenus acknowledged to himself, the influence of Titus Pullus had tempered his natural sensitivity to any perceived slight or question about his abilities.

Consequently, his only response was, “I have no excuse, Pilus Prior.”

While Macer never gave any indication, then or later, Volusenus had the strong sense that he had just passed some sort of test, which was only strengthened when, just before he responded, Macer glanced over at Pullus.

“Well,” Macer said lightly, “we’ve all fucked up in one way or another. But,” he did look directly at Volusenus then, “I appreciate your candor, Volusenus. And that’s all we’ll say about it.”

Then, the moment was over, and it was only when he was alone that Volusenus tried to discern what not only Macer’s words meant, but the manner in which his fellow Centurions immediately returned to other matters, without any of them making a comment or indicating in any way that they thought that Volusenus was getting off lightly. Only in retrospect would Volusenus realize that it was this moment that marked his complete and utter acceptance into the fold of the Centurions of the Fourth Cohort. It would be a moment that he would treasure as the years went by, and its import became more meaningful.

Finally, after three weeks of this grindingly slow advance, Germanicus deemed that they had accomplished their goal of punishing the Marsi in a manner that, if they survived the rest of the winter, would be remembered for generations. It was at a place called Aliso, west of the Visurgis and named because it was the site of an old camp constructed by Tiberius on the headwaters of the Aliso River, where Germanicus summoned the Legions back together in preparation for the return march west. To Volusenus’ surprise, the officers and men of the Fourth clearly knew about the spot, and naturally, he went to Pullus.

“We made a camp there when we were marching in Tiberius’ winter campaign,” Pullus explained. “There’s been talk for years about manning it with auxiliaries because of its location near the Visurgis.” He grinned at Volusenus, teasing, “Because as bad as the tribes on this side of the Visurgis are, they’re a shade compared to those savages over there.”

Volusenus laughed dutifully, although he had already heard stories about the wild tribes east of the Visurgis, so he was inclined to believe that there was something to the tales.

“You don’t think he’s going to leave some Cohorts behind, do you?” Volusenus tried to sound casual, but he was still relieved when Pullus shook his head.

“There’s no way that Germanicus would do that,” Pullus assured him, but then thought to add, “Now, a Cohort or two of auxiliaries?” He finished with a shrug, “That’s another thing entirely.”

As it happened, this was exactly what happened, although not without the help of the Legions, who Germanicus charged with repairing the camp, which had fallen into a state of serious disrepair. Four days were spent on this; it was now into the middle of December, the land firmly in the grip of winter, and even with the work, the men were becoming increasingly restive, anxious to return back to the comforts of the camps on the west bank of the Rhenus. Surprisingly to Volusenus, Pullus seemed one of those most eager to get back to Ubiorum; it would be months before Volusenus learned the cause of Pullus’ desire to return to the Roman world, since it was not in Ubiorum where his heart’s desire resided, but in Mogontiacum. In the aftermath of what was to come, Gnaeus Volusenus spent a great deal of time wrestling with the thought that, if he had somehow known the truth, what that would have changed as far as Pullus’ destiny, but deep within himself, he was honest with himself. If he had known that Pullus was his father, and the reason the older Centurion was so intent on returning to the Rhenus was because of his mother Giulia, it was likely, indeed almost certainly, that Volusenus would have done something rash and made a bad situation worse. There would have been no sparring match this time, and Volusenus would have done his best to kill Pullus, something that, again being honest with himself, he knew was beyond his capabilities, even with his improvement from having been trained by the man himself. What he was most thankful for regarding his ignorance, again only with hindsight, was that, albeit unknowingly, Volusenus would have forced on Pullus a terrible choice, defending himself or protecting his son by letting Volusenus kill him. Given what lay in the future, for the remainder of his days, Volusenus thanked his household gods that, when the moment came for Pullus to sacrifice himself protecting his son, it was not at the son’s hands but an enemy’s.

Their progress west was faster, though not by that much; certainly, it was not swift enough for most of the men, but Germanicus had ordered that the army march in the agmentum quadratum, this time with one large one, with a Legion forming each side of the box and the baggage for the entire army in the middle. Not much of the terrain was open enough where a formation essentially a half-mile wide could march unimpeded, so there were frequent stops for working parties to move forward and fell the trees in the path while clearing out enough of the deadfalls and underbrush to enable men to continue on without serious obstruction. As the Romans made their lumbering progress, the cavalry scouts attached to the army were returning with more and more reports that, finally, other tribes aside from the Marsi were marshaling and moving in a manner that suggested a coalescing of forces to the west. Because Pullus had a close friendship with one of the Decurions, Gaesorix Batavius, who he knew from his time in Pannonia, the Centurions of the Fourth received more information than anyone save Germanicus and the Primi Pili, which each man doled out to his Century as they saw fit. Following Pullus’ lead, Volusenus chose a moderate approach, letting the rankers know the bare bones of matters, that there appeared to be warbands from at least three tribes who had been spotted moving in a westerly direction, intent on getting ahead of Germanicus and his army. Just as Pullus predicted, this actually served to keep the men focused, while at the same time, provided opportunities for them to debate whether or not the Germans had already chosen a spot to make an attempt to stop the Romans, or they would pick a location based on the circumstances of the moment. That this was even under discussion, Volusenus knew, stemmed from the rude shock the Romans had received in the aftermath of the Varus disaster, when the few survivors who returned all reported that the site of the ambush had been carefully prepared beforehand, something that heretofore no Roman would have believed possible of Germans. From Volusenus’ perspective, it was actually quite informative, eavesdropping on the conversations of men whose formal education might have been close to nonexistent, but who collectively possessed centuries of knowledge about warfare. Before much time had passed, a consensus had developed that the most likely spot was a particularly thick band of forest that ran along a north/south axis, where a tributary to the Lupia crossed the Romans’ path at an oblique angle. Normally, this would have just been considered soldiers’ gossip by the Legate, hardly worthy of consideration, but Germanicus was no ordinary Legate. They had made camp for the night, and Volusenus was conducting his round of stopping at each fire, chatting with his men and generally making his presence felt when, immediately upon finishing with the last section, he was heading for his own tent and heard someone say his name. While the call came out of the darkness, Volusenus immediately recognized Pullus’ voice, and he paused to wait as the Centurion materialized from where he had been standing between tents. While it made no sense, for some reason, Volusenus had the impression that Pullus had been waiting for him, yet his greeting was pleasant and innocuous enough.

“Are you done for the evening?” Pullus asked. When Volusenus informed him that he was, Pullus seemed to consider something for a moment, then, what seemed to Volusenus to be on impulse, said, “Care to walk to the praetorium with me?”

Truthfully, Volusenus did not, but Pullus had never extended this kind of invitation before, so his desire to relax was outweighed by his curiosity, and the two strolled down the Cohort street, chatting about inconsequential things.

It was not until they were crossing the forum before Pullus casually mentioned, “Actually, I’m going to see Germanicus. I need to tell him something that I’ve learned from Gaesorix. I’ll introduce you to him.”

Volusenus froze in mid-stride, staring at Pullus, certain that for some reason he could not immediately divine, Pullus was teasing him, but after a moment’s scrutiny, he came to the conclusion that Pullus was serious.

“Why would you do that?” Volusenus blurted out, yet, rather than offending Pullus, the older man actually grinned and replied cheerfully, “Just for the look you’ve got on your face now.” Shrugging, he said offhandedly, “He’s actually asked about you, given we’re…similar.”

Volusenus was unconvinced, yet he was sufficiently intrigued to be in such close proximity to the man who was not just Legate and Propraetor, but already a legend among the men of the Legions. The fact that he was considered to be no lower than second in line for succession, behind Tiberius’ natural son Drusus, made the prospect appealing and terrifying in equal measure. He had certainly been in physically close proximity to Germanicus, and he recalled with pleasure the day that Germanicus, just a few years older than Volusenus himself, had not only returned the salute Volusenus offered, but actually recalled his name. At the time, he had assumed that it was only because he was easy to remember for his size, but as he walked to the forum with Pullus, his mind mulled over the idea that there might have been more to it. Sometime later, he would understand that none of this was an accident, that the man who had recently discovered that Volusenus was his son was doing what he could to help that son’s own career; then, it had been nothing more than a nagging, undefined thought. The men standing at the praetorium flap, members of the provosts, saluted the two Centurions, then the pair entered into the large outer room, which as always, even at this time of day shortly before the call to retire, was bustling with activity. Without breaking stride, Pullus headed for the small desk, behind which sat the duty Tribune, his attention wholly on a scroll.

“Watch and learn,” Pullus muttered, alerting his companion that something unusual was about to happen.

The salute that Pullus offered could not be faulted; regardless of the courtesy, the Tribune pointedly kept his attention on the scroll. Volusenus opened his mouth to let the Tribune know they were standing there but caught a warning glare from Pullus and refrained.

Instead, Pullus leaned over slightly, using his height to get a peek at the scroll, then said more loudly than needed, “Tribune, I must compliment you on your tastes.” Pointing down at the scroll, Pullus turned to inform Volusenus, “Tribune Gaetulicus has excellent tastes in literature, Volusenus. He’s reading the poetry of Catullus…with illustrations!”

As Pullus intended, any pretense the Tribune had of being too absorbed in some sort of official document was destroyed; Catullus was famous for his erotic poems, and while Volusenus did not catch a glimpse, he surmised that the illustrations were of a nature that matched the written contents. Somewhat to Volusenus’ surprise, the Tribune did not reply in the manner the younger Centurion would have expected; rather than angry at being embarrassed, he seemed more chagrined, and his tone reflected it, “Yes, Centurion Pullus?”

“Tribune, we’re here to request an audience with the Propraetor,” Pullus’ use of Germanicus’ highest office was calculated on his part, and Volusenus could see that it had an impact on the Tribune.

“Concerning?” Gaetulicus asked, but instead of answering directly, Pullus replied, “I believe if you tell him it’s me, he’ll see us.”

This did not seem to surprise Gaetulicus, although he did heave a sigh to let the pair know he felt put upon, and he got up and said curtly, “Wait here.”

Walking to the heavy leather partition, Pullus waited just long enough to be out of earshot as he muttered, “Where would we go?”

Gaetulicus had just disappeared after two sharp raps on the square of wood that was attached to the partition, so Volusenus felt safe enough to chuckle softly at Pullus’ comment. They did not have to wait long, Gaetulicus reappearing to motion them in, and with his heart suddenly pounding heavily under his tunic, Volusenus followed Pullus into the private office. Unsure what to expect, Volusenus’ first impression of the inner world of Germanicus was how relaxed the half-dozen men, evenly divided between clerks and slaves, seemed to be in the presence of one of the most powerful men in Rome. Even more unsettling was when Germanicus, having just had something whispered into his ear by a dark-skinned man of perhaps forty years, roared with laughter, then slapped the man on the back. In turn, the man, grinning broadly, walked to the other side of the room to finish what, to Volusenus’ eyes, appeared to be serving up Germanicus’ evening meal on a small table, although Germanicus did not get up from his desk. It was not the exchange that unsettled Volusenus as much as the bronze placard hanging about the man’s neck, clearly denoting his status as a slave, yet there he was, making his master laugh as if they were sitting in a taverna, two friends sharing a cup. He could not devote any more attention to this strange sight because another man, this one without a placard but dressed in the tunic that denoted his status as a freedman, alerted Germanicus to the presence of the two Centurions.

Turning, Germanicus smiled broadly, although he returned the salute the pair offered, then said, “Princeps Prior Pullus! I see you’ve brought the only man you have anything in common with to keep you company!”

“I did, sir,” Pullus replied genially. “I’ve gotten accustomed to having him around to remind me what it’s like to be young.”

Laughing, Germanicus snapped his fingers, and despite his air of conviviality, Volusenus noticed how quickly the dark-skinned slave practically sprinted across the room, grabbing two camp stools that, in one motion, he set down in front of the desk. When Germanicus asked if either man cared for refreshment, Volusenus decided on the fly to follow Pullus’ lead, who demurred.

“Actually, sir, I won’t take much of your time. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve talked to Decurion Batavius. He had dinner with me, and he mentioned that his men have managed to identify at least two tribes of that bunch who are looking to stop us on the way home.”

Germanicus looked puzzled, which was explained when he said, “Surely you know that Batavius included that in his report.”

From Volusenus’ viewpoint, this caught Pullus, if not completely off-guard, then seemingly embarrassed; at the time, Volusenus had no idea why, and Pullus mumbled, “Ah, of course you’re right, sir. I forgot.”

Germanicus gave him an absent nod, but the mention of the subject had clearly worked him into a state of indignation, going on, “I know about the Bructeri, that was to be expected. But the Usipetes?” The last trace of humor vanished from Germanicus’ face, his handsome, regular features twisting into a bitter scowl. “They’re a bunch of ungrateful savages! The Divine Augustus gave them the lands they’re living on now! They have no excuse for joining in with the rest of them.” Then, catching himself, he gave a self-conscious laugh, the smile returning to his face as he turned back to Pullus, “So, Titus Pullus forgot that our Decurion would be sure to mention that in his report. Is this what I have to look forward to when I get old?”

Despite this being his first time in Germanicus’ presence under these circumstances, Volusenus could see the easy rapport the older Centurion enjoyed with Germanicus, and he felt a stab of envy, along with feeling somewhat out of place.

“That’s not the worst part,” Pullus countered. “You’re going to have aches in places that you didn’t know you had.”

“Gods, then don’t let me make old bones.” Germanicus laughed. Then, he turned his attention to Volusenus, who felt a jolt of energy when their eyes met, and the thought that flew into Volusenus’ mind was his wish that his parents could see him at this moment. Germanicus asked, “So, Hastatus Posterior…Volusenus, yes?” At Volusenus’ nod, Germanicus pointed at Pullus, and while the tone was still of a bantering nature, Volusenus sensed that it was not a question he asked lightly, “Have you learned much from Pullus here?”

“More than I ever thought possible…” Volusenus blurted out, instantly mortified at the eager tone he heard in his own voice. “…sir.”

“Oh?” Germanicus cocked his head, eyeing Volusenus quizzically. “Like what?”

Volusenus sensed that this was still part of Germanicus’ attempt to make Pullus squirm in embarrassment, which the young Centurion could see was successful, but he answered honestly, “That there’s more to being a good Centurion than being able to beat your men to a pulp. That as much as I may have trained on the Campus Martius in Mediolanum, it wasn’t enough.” Now that he had begun, Volusenus could not seem to stop himself. “And that I was relying too much on being stronger and bigger than my enemies.” Slightly embarrassed to admit as much, he added, “As much as that helped on the Campus, out here, there are more Germans my…” he glanced over at Pullus as he corrected, “…our size than I’d ever run into in my life.”

“They are big, aren’t they?” Germanicus agreed with a nod, but then he turned to Pullus, and if his goal was to catch him off guard, Volusenus’ thought was that he did a splendid job of it, asking, “And, what have you learned from Volusenus, Pullus? Anything?”

Pullus’ expression transformed, looking so acutely uncomfortable that Volusenus had to stifle a grin at the sight, and the young Centurion was certain that Pullus would conjure up some flippant response; he was completely unprepared for Pullus to turn to regard him thoughtfully, then say softly, “He reminds me of what it’s like to be so different than all of your comrades, how they’re always looking at you, and you know that they’re thinking, ‘If only I was that big, and that strong, my life would be so much easier.’ And,” he turned his gaze away from Volusenus towards Germanicus, finishing with a grin, “what a tremendous pain in the balls I must have been at that age.”

Despite himself, Volusenus joined in the laughter from not just Germanicus and Pullus, but from the rest of the men in the room, and while he did not like being the subject of any kind of ridicule, no matter how mild, Volusenus realized that Pullus was speaking about himself just as much as he was about Volusenus.

“I didn’t know you when you were Volusenus’ age,” Germanicus broke in, “but given how much trouble you caused me when you were my Primus Pilus, I can only imagine.”

“If I had had a Legate who knew which end of the gladius to hold,” Pullus countered, “I wouldn’t have had to make so much.” It was only the tone, and the smiles on the men’s faces that made Volusenus certain that this was part of their normal banter, yet it still made him uncomfortable. Then, Germanicus included him by turning back and asking him, while pointing to Pullus, “Have you ever met his horse, Latobius?”

“By the gods,” Pullus groaned, “not this again.”

Getting into the spirit of the moment, Volusenus answered cheerfully, “I’ve been introduced, sir, but that’s all. Nobody’s allowed to touch his horse.”

“That’s not true!” Pullus said indignantly, then gave a grin as he added, “You can touch him. But riding him?”

Germanicus made a show of rolling his eyes; still addressing Volusenus, he said, “I’m sure you’ve already heard all the stories about why Pullus here has such an affinity for horses. It all stems from that horse his grandfather rode….” Turning to Pullus, Germanicus asked, “What was his name again?”

“Ocelus,” Pullus replied, except there was a catch in his voice that made Volusenus aware that there was something deeper there, and he glanced at the older Centurion out of the corner of his eye, getting the sense that the mention of the first Titus Pullus’ horse was a melancholy topic.

Apparently, Germanicus sensed this as well, because he changed the subject. “Yes, well. As much as I enjoy our chats, Pullus, I’m afraid that I still have much to do.” Standing up, he offered his arm to Pullus, which did not surprise Volusenus; that he turned and behaved the same with him did, to the point where he almost committed a huge error of protocol. Fortunately, he recovered quickly enough to thrust his arm out and clasp that of Germanicus.

“I’m going to keep an eye on you, Centurion,” Germanicus said matter-of-factly, and Volusenus felt a flush of pleasure.

“Hopefully, I won’t do anything to disappoint you, sir,” Volusenus responded truthfully.

Then, the pair left the presence of the Propraetor, neither of them saying anything while they were still in the praetorium.

It was not until they were walking across the forum when Volusenus turned and asked Pullus bluntly, “Why did you bring me with you?”

Instead of answering immediately, Pullus gave an evasive shrug, but Volusenus noticed he did not look in his direction as he finally responded, “I just thought you’d be interested in meeting Germanicus. That’s all.”

Volusenus was undeterred, again demanding, “But why?”

Surprisingly, this seemed to irritate Pullus, who shot back, “Does it really matter why? Would you like me to go back to him and tell him to forget the two of you ever met?”

When put like that, Volusenus saw how ridiculous a proposition that was, and he felt a twinge of chagrin at his ungrateful attitude, so he decided to change the subject.

“You know, I remember hearing stories about your grandfather’s horse, but honestly, I just thought they were made up.”

“Oh?” Pullus’ eyebrow lifted as he glanced over at him. “What stories?”

“How he killed twenty men on his own,” Volusenus answered, “and that he was the largest horse that ever lived. Things like that.”

Volusenus was prepared for Pullus to dismiss these as fabrications, certain that the things he had heard from old veterans who had settled in Mediolanum were simply campfire tales; he was quite surprised when Pullus shrugged and replied, “It wasn’t that many, but he did kill two men when the Legion my Avus was marching with was ambushed. And, he was big. He had to be to carry my Avus. But,” he shrugged again, “as far as being the biggest horse who ever lived, I have no idea.”

Intrigued, Volusenus wanted to know more about this extraordinary animal, asking Pullus, “Did your grandfather tell you about that ambush?”

In yet another moment that only made sense later, Pullus answered cryptically, “In a manner of speaking, yes.” Then, before Volusenus could press him, the older Centurion said quietly but firmly, “And that’s all I’m going to talk about Ocelus now. Besides,” at this, he grinned, “I’m an old man who needs his rest.”

By this point in their conversation, the pair had returned to their Cohort area and were standing outside Volusenus’ tent. Clasping arms, they bade each other good night, and as Volusenus watched Pullus walk away, he reminded himself to ask Pullus more about the horse Ocelus and his grandfather. Unfortunately, events were about to transpire that made him forget, so it would not be until months later before the subject of Ocelus returned to his mind, and then it was too late. Or, so he believed.

At almost the exact spot predicted by the rankers, the temporary coalition of the Bructeri, the Usipetes, and what turned out to be the third tribe of the Tubantes, made their attempt to punish the Romans for their incursion across the Rhenus. Before entering the part of the forest the veterans had described, the formation was required to cross a tributary of the Lupia. As such crossings went, it was not particularly difficult; the width was no more than twenty paces, while the depth was up to the waist of most men since the ice was not thick enough to support so much weight. Nevertheless, it put men in a vulnerable position as they waded across, but to Volusenus’ surprise, there was no attempt to take advantage of this disruption. With their order of march, the Sixth Century was actually next to the Third Cohort on this day, with the 1^st being the vanguard, so once the order to halt was given to protect the rest of the army, Volusenus went trotting over to Pullus.

“Shouldn’t they be attacking us here? We’re more vulnerable crossing this river,” Volusenus asked Pullus.

Without taking his eyes off the area to their front, Pullus shook his head, answering, “They know we’re expecting them right now. Besides,” he pointed ahead of the pair, “see how much undergrowth and deadfalls are ahead?” Volusenus did, and said as much, and Pullus continued, “My guess is they’re going to wait until the last possible moment, and this stretch is about six miles, so it’ll be at least another watch.” Then, he glanced up at the sky, where the sun was a slightly shiny silver disc obscured by the cloud cover. “No doubt we’ll make camp just on the other side.”

With this explanation, Volusenus returned to his spot as the progress continued, shaking his legs to try and drive the cold out of them as they waited. Once fully across, with every step, the army pushed deeper into the forest, and before they were more than a half-mile deep into it, the men around Volusenus had ceased their normal chatter, the only noise the crunching sound of hobnails on the snowy ground, punctuated by occasional shouts that sounded a momentary halt, which was followed by the sounds of the cornu, as the Cohorts of the 1^st who were positioned on the flanks of the vanguard were forced to send men ahead to chop down trees. Initially, the men of the Fourth were cheered by the thought that, being placed roughly in the middle of the leading edge of the vanguard, it meant that they were following the track through the forest. Until, that is, Pilus Prior Macer had pointed out that the tradeoff for a relatively unimpeded passage was the likelihood that, if there indeed was an attack, they would be the focal point. As Macer intended, this made the men even more alert, though it was not without a fair amount of grumbling, but now even that was gone as the army penetrated more deeply into the forest.

When the attack came, despite every man of the army expecting it, the instant it actually started was still startling, at least to Volusenus. It began with a hail of missiles, launched from what, to Volusenus’ eye, appeared to be nothing but an expanse of grayish-brown and white. While it could not be considered quiet—the hobnailed soles of thousands of men, along with the clanking of equipment, and the harsh breathing of so many lungs created noise—it did not really compare to the explosion of sound as, in the eyeblink after the launching of their missiles, the Germans broke from their cover, roaring their war cries, running directly at the marching Romans. As far as Volusenus was concerned, it was only through the intervention of the gods, who caused him to just happen to be looking in the exact spot from which a javelin seemed to materialize from thin air, heading directly for him. Afterward, when he went through all that had taken place, Volusenus realized he had given no conscious thought about what to do; somehow, before his mind could comprehend it, as if of its own free will, he felt his upper body lean to the right, sensing more than seeing the German version of the javelin go slashing past him by no more than a hand’s breadth away from his body. He had no time to revel in this close escape, as what to his relatively inexperienced eye appeared to be several hundred howling Germans came bursting into view, from a space that would not seem to provide enough concealment for that many men.

“Shields up! Ready javelins!”

Volusenus’ verbal command was shouted more or less simultaneously by the Centurions of the front rank, and the men did not hesitate, dropping their furcae and packs to unsling their shield from where it was strapped; most men who marched on the outermost file on the left preferred to attach theirs so that it protected their left side, while most of the others had it strapped to their backs. Very quickly on his arrival, Volusenus had learned that this was one of those things that most Centurions allowed their men to decide on their own, the only criteria being that they all were able to bring their shields to bear at a speed that satisfied their Centurions. This time was no different, in that there was no discernible difference in speed before every man in the leading rank had their shields up.

“Release!”

Just as with the order to raise shields, Volusenus’ verbal command roughly coincided with those of his counterparts along the leading rank, and to the naked eye, it appeared that the onrushing Germans essentially ran directly into the wave of javelins, the impact seeming as if the hand of an invisible giant swept along the front of the attackers. As usual, it served to disrupt their headlong rush, as men either collapsed or were staggered, while those who managed to block the missile headed for them with their shield were faced with the unpalatable act of discarding it. Regardless, these Germans also knew that they must close with their hated foes to have any chance of prevailing, and in their eagerness to do so, those men who were felled in the first volley were trampled underfoot, so that those who might have sustained a minor wound were still killed in all likelihood or at least put out of further action, by their own comrades. Volusenus opened his mouth to shout the command to ready the next volley, but in the eyeblink of time that he had, he realized that the Germans were too close, putting his men in a vulnerable position just when the oncoming warriors would be within spear reach.

“Drop javelins! Draw gladius!”

In the moment, it was impossible for him to tell whether his own command came shortly before he heard the Pilus Prior shout the same order, but it was close. He already had drawn his blade and was therefore prepared for the instant when a German roughly his own size picked him as his target, raising a large, double-bladed axe above his head in the favored method of attack for this weapon. If Volusenus was carrying a shield, it would have been a straightforward matter of raising it, parallel to the ground to catch the blow, while looking for an opening for a thrust past the defenses of the foe. But since he did not have a shield, he used a trick Pullus had shown him, so that rather than trying to either dodge to the side, or leap backward, Volusenus took a step forward.

“It will hurt,” Pullus had warned him, “and if you weren’t my size, I’d never advise you to do it, but between your height and the meat on your shoulders, you should come away with nothing more than a bruise.”

Pullus’ words certainly were not in the conscious part of his brain, but he did exactly that, although when the shaft slammed down on the double layer of mail protecting his shoulder, he felt certain it was broken, the pain was so intense. This idea was dispelled when, without thought or hesitation, he was able to reach up with his left hand and grasp the axe’s shaft, but rather than trying to yank it from the warrior’s grasp, he pulled down on it to pin the weapon on his shoulder at the precise instant the warrior tried to recover the weapon for another blow. Because of the Centurion’s strength, the lack of movement caused the German to drop his shield slightly as he gave another tremendous yank; more accurately, he began his second attempt, but the point of Volusenus’ gladius punched into the man’s mouth, skimming over the top of the German’s shield and dropping him instantly. Even as the man’s shield dropped from nerveless fingers, the axe sliding harmlessly to the ground, Volusenus dropped his vitus and snatched up the shield, momentarily fumbling with the unfamiliar shape and weight as he spun it about to grasp the handle, then within a heartbeat, discarded it because it was too clumsy and retrieved the twisted vine stick. This was the first moment he could take to assess how his Century was performing, and a quick glance told him that, although the front rank had been shoved backward a couple of paces, they were holding firm against the onslaught, and there were already several bodies at their feet. To this point, none of his men had been wounded, but he could see that the front rank was beginning to tire, and he reached for the whistle around his neck, put it to his lips, and blew a long blast. Even in the frenzy of the moment that was an inherent part of the beginning of a fight, Volusenus still felt an intense stab of pride at the manner in which his men responded to the whistle command, shoving their foe backward, or in two cases that Volusenus saw, managing to inflict a wound, then almost in the same motion, step to their right, while the men of the second rank stepped forward.

Confined to a world that measured the width of his Century, Volusenus quickly lost himself in the rhythm of fighting in the Roman manner, where the only thing that mattered was gauging the precise instant when his men needed relief. He was protected by the left flank of the First Century of the Third Cohort, enabling him to act as Centurion and not as a ranker, but now that his blade had gotten wet, Volusenus was finding it difficult to remain in his spot, slightly behind the front rank. Within the span of perhaps three hundred heartbeats, however, Volusenus noticed something he considered odd; after the initial onslaught, the Germans had not been particularly frenzied in their attack, which was decidedly unusual. It’s as if, he thought to himself, they’re more interested in keeping us in place rather than trying to inflict real damage. Naturally, for the men doing the actual fighting, this was not a distinction that they would have recognized; all they knew was that a stinking barbarian was trying to kill them, and they were trying to stop it from happening by ending their foe. However, after the span of another fifty heartbeats, Volusenus was convinced that the Germans were not nearly as intent on shattering the Roman lines as they were keeping them in place. Part of this feeling was certainly from what had occurred during their eastward advance when the small party of Marsi had used the gully for cover, but there was not anything within Volusenus’ range of vision that would serve the same purpose, yet he understood that just because he could not see anything, that did not mean it was not there.

Immediately after sounding the relief again and feeling that the situation with his Century was under control for the moment, Volusenus backed up a few paces to a spot behind his Century, looking in both directions in an attempt to get a sense of how the battle was going in terms of casualties, and whether there was a spot that might be hiding a surprise force. He was pleased to see that there was only one man lying on the ground behind his Century, and he was already being tended to by a medicus, although he could see that he was clutching his stomach with hands covered in his own blood, some of which had spattered onto the dirty, churned snow. Not seeing anything in the way of concealment that might be used by the enemy, Volusenus inwardly scoffed at the feeling, telling himself, you’re not experienced enough to rely on something like that, and he began making his way back to the front when his suspicions were in fact confirmed as, from behind him, back in the direction of what was the bottom of the quadratum, the sound of several cornu drifted across the distance, and while they were faint because of the distance and the noise of the fighting to the front, Volusenus could pick out the series of notes that signaled an attack by an enemy force. When the calls came, he had made it midway back to the front, but he stopped and spun around, staring intently towards the rear, even as he chided himself that not only was the distance to where the 20^th was taking up the rear too great, the wagons, mules, and slaves of the baggage train obscured his view. He only paused a handful of heartbeats, then realizing that it was impossible to discern anything, either visually or through sound because of the noise of the fighting a few paces away, Volusenus returned to the front, just in time to see a man from the Fourth Section, now the front rank of the fighting, take a staggering step backward as he dropped his gladius to clutch at the wound in his thigh, although he managed to keep his shield up in front of him.

His opponent, eager to press his advantage, took a step into the space between the two lines in an attempt to close the distance to administer another blow with the heavy war spear that Volusenus saw was his primary weapon. Before the thought even entered his mind, he let out a bellow of rage that, while not done intentionally, caused the German warrior to hesitate just a fraction of a heartbeat as he took in the sight of the huge Roman charging at him, without a shield, with Volusenus’ gladius held at shoulder level and pulled back so the point was just in front of the Centurion’s face. Instantly determining that this was the more proximate threat, the German began to pivot to face Volusenus, his own shield in position for the thrust that he expected, one that never came, at least from the direction he expected. It was not that Volusenus did not start, or at least seem to start his thrust, the point of his blade shooting towards the German from an angle that was created by the Roman’s superior height, and it certainly fooled his foe, who brought his shield up higher than normal to block what turned out to be a feint. Consequently, he was completely unprepared for the blow from what, in his initial glance, the German had dismissed as nothing but a long stick in the Roman’s left hand, but as he quickly learned, when the end of that stick was thrust into one’s midsection with the kind of power that Volusenus was capable of creating, even a mail shirt was not enough protection to keep the breath from leaving his body in an explosive gasp. More importantly, in a completely understandable but fatal reflexive reaction, he began to double over, and although he recognized the mistake immediately by trying to lift his shield back into a position to protect his upper body, he was too late. With the speed of a striking viper, Volusenus’ blade plunged at a slightly downward angle, although he did err slightly with his aim, the flat of his blade skipping along the metal strip at the top of the German’s shield and deflecting upward slightly so that the point did not strike the man in the hollow created by his clavicle as Volusenus intended. Instead, his thrust hit the German directly in the jaw just below his ear, and the tremendous force generated by the Roman’s massive body and strength shattered the thick bone, the point continuing until it burst out the other side at roughly the same spot, immediately putting Volusenus into mortal peril. The sound the stricken German made as his mouth filled with blood, teeth, and bits of bone was barely audible over the other noise, but it was when the warrior reeled to his right in reaction to the thrust that Volusenus realized that he could not withdraw his blade, the sheer weight of the German toppling over forcing him to choose between holding onto his blade and being jerked forward, away from the relative safety of the other men of his Century, or surrendering his gladius.

Without any discernible hesitation, the Centurion chose the prudent course, but as he quickly learned, now that all he had to defend himself was his vitus, the warrior who had been immediately behind his vanquished foe did not hesitate. This man was armed with a spear as well, although his armor was a cuirass of boiled leather with iron rings attached to it, while the shield he held in front of him was round, with several chips and gouges. It was the spear that concerned Volusenus, the German thrusting it out in front of him as he leapt over his supine comrade, who was thrashing about and futilely clawing at the iron blade embedded in the side of his face. The hilt was tantalizingly close to Volusenus, but the Roman knew if he lunged for it, he would meet the spearpoint of the onrushing warrior, while his only defense was his vitus, which he held out in front of his body, trying to anticipate when the German would make a thrust in earnest; he did not have long to wait. However, when the blow came, it was from a completely unexpected direction, when from his right rear, something slammed into him with enough force that, despite his size, it sent him staggering to his left in a manner eerily similar to the German at his feet who had just stopped his thrashing, finally succumbing to the inevitable. Volusenus did not see as much as sense what took place next, partially because his view was obscured by what he determined was the back side of a shield, a Roman shield, and he was more concerned with keeping his balance, forced to drop his vitus to thrust his arm out to stop himself from completely losing his feet. It was his ears that proved more informative, hearing the hollow, cracking sound as the iron spear point struck the shield that he was only vaguely aware had been shoved in front of him. Stumbling another couple of steps, Volusenus managed to regain his balance just in time to watch as his savior, after absorbing the blow with his shield, responded with a thrust of his own, one that sent the second warrior recoiling backward and dropping his shield, howling with pain as blood spurted from his left bicep. But, before the Legionary, who Volusenus now recognized as a man from his Seventh Section, could press his advantage, the Centurion reached out, grabbed the back of his harness, and while he did not yank the man back, he kept him from advancing.

The ranker glanced over his shoulder, and snarled, “What do you think you’re doing, you stupid cunnus?”

Volusenus, rather than being angered, had to suppress a grin at the expression on the man’s face when he realized that he had just cursed his Centurion, and there was no censure in his tone as he had to shout to be heard, “Just keeping you from making the same mistake I was about to make, Tullus. That’s why you had to save my bacon. Now,” he altered his tone so that the ranker would recognize it was an order, “get back in your spot. I’m fine now.”

Sheepishly, Tullus moved backward, and Volusenus noted with approval that he still kept his shield up and his eyes on the enemy, and he heard Tullus mutter an apology as he passed.

“You just earned yourself a month of no duties, Tullus,” Volusenus commented to him as the ranker returned to his spot and grabbed the harness of the man ahead of him, and not surprisingly, this earned the Centurion a grin.

Returning his attention to the fighting, Volusenus saw that the man in the front rank of Tullus’ file was busy defending himself from a German whose idea of offense seemed to be confined to flailing wildly with a long gladius, which he brought down again and again on the Legionary’s shield, who was content to absorb the blows as he waited for his opportunity. For his part, Volusenus had been reduced to nothing more than his bone whistle as his only weapon; his discarded vitus was lying on the churned, muddy ground, and like his gladius, was just out of reach. Returning to his primary duty, he placed the whistle in his lips, watched as the man in Tullus’ file in the front rank, seeing his opportunity when his opponent was forced to pause for breath, launched a lightning-quick thrust that the German was unable to block cleanly with his shield, catching a slicing blow to his leg just above the kneecap and on the inside of his thigh. The sudden spray of brilliant scarlet signaled that the large vessel that every warrior knew about had been severed, and it caused the German to let out a shrill scream, any idea of combat instantly forgotten because of the simple imperative of trying to stay alive for a few heartbeats longer. Using this as his signal, Volusenus blew the signal for a shift relief, once more watching with approval as his men performed the maneuver with the efficiency of a machine, and Volusenus was suddenly struck by the thought, certainly not original, that this was exactly what his Century was, a machine that brought death and destruction to Rome’s enemies.

Once he was satisfied that the relief had been performed, he began backing away again, ostensibly to go to the rear to retrieve a gladius, but also to try and determine what was happening behind him and his Legion. Only later would he learn that he was far from alone in being concerned; every one of his fellow Centurions would recount at least one attempt by them to find out what was occurring with the 20^th, and it served as another example of the concern that bordered on an obsession by rankers to know more about their overall situation than what lay immediately in front of them. He was unhappy to see that the lone ranker had now been joined by two other men, but their wounds appeared to be relatively minor, both of them sitting up and talking to the medici. Seeing that one of them had made it to the rear with his gladius, Volusenus was in the process of retrieving it when, starting from the left end of the line of engaged Centuries, there came a sudden roar of voices that cut through the other noise of the fighting. Before Volusenus could determine what it might mean, the call was picked up by the other Centuries, but it was when the men at the front of his own began shouting that gave him an indication of the cause. Snatching up the gladius, he moved at the trot back to the front of his Century in just enough time to see the remnants of the German force fleeing back into the grayish-white background of the underbrush, leaving behind what was later estimated to be more than half their original numbers. As he was reaching the front rank, he heard a cornu call from the direction of the First Cohort, and he was just in time to stop his men from breaking formation to go in pursuit.

“You heard the order!” he bellowed, and since he did not have his vitus, he was forced to use his borrowed gladius to point at the two men at the opposite end of the formation who had broken ranks, their blood up and clearly intending on pursuing the fleeing enemy. “Get back in the ranks, both of you, or by the gods, I’ll flog you myself!”

Even as the words left his mouth, Volusenus experienced a stab of uneasiness, the memory of the mutiny still fresh in his mind, but to his relief, neither of the men appeared angry or resentful, their heads hanging as they went trotting back to their spots. And, with that, the battle was over for the men of the 1^st, except that now that it was comparatively quiet, the sounds of the fighting to their rear quickly occupied the attention of every man in the front line of the quadratum, and despite no order being given to that effect, every man in every Century turned about to stare east, back in the direction from which they had come, trying to determine what was happening.

Germanicus’ precautions had borne fruit, in the form of the utter defeat of the confederation of the three tribes who had essentially risked everything on one decisive battle. With almost laughingly light casualties overall, Germanicus’ army sent the Germans reeling back east, and even before the army returned to its camps, the confederation of Usipetes, Tubantes, and Bructeri tribes who had temporarily set aside their differences had disintegrated, with the usual recriminations and accusations between the three tribes that the long-dead Arverni chieftain Vercingetorix would have recognized. It was a resounding victory, but as Volusenus and his fellow Centurions witnessed firsthand, while this would have normally put the men in a celebratory mood, the reaction this time was much more muted.

It was not until they were returned to Ubiorum and the comfort of their winter quarters that Macer, during a meeting with his Centurions, touched on the likely cause for the dampened enthusiasm, pointing out, “They know that this was actually the beginning of the campaign against Arminius and not just the end of last year.”

Even if he had not agreed with his Pilus Prior’s assessment, Volusenus immediately saw the heads of his fellow Centurions nodding up and down, and the conversation followed from Macer’s comment, occupying most of the meeting before Macer dismissed them.

On their way back to their respective quarters, Pullus lingered for a moment, waiting for Volusenus, something that had become such a habit that nobody took notice anymore. As they walked back along the snow-covered street, the only sound for a few heartbeats was their crunching footsteps as they packed down the snow that had been steadily falling since earlier in the day.

Pullus broke the silence by asking, “Did you finally find a gladius that you like?”

Volusenus’ answer came in the form of a grimace, then, realizing that Pullus expected more, he said, “No, not yet. Every one of the ones that Serranus gave me doesn’t feel right.” Glancing over at the older Centurion, Volusenus asked, “So how many blades have you snapped after they got stuck?”

“Not many,” Pullus replied, but while this caused a flicker of pleasure in Volusenus at the idea that he might actually be stronger than the older Centurion, it lasted only as long as it took for Pullus to add, “but that’s because I’ve been carrying my grandfather’s gladius since my brother brought it with him when he moved back to Siscia. Before that?” He shrugged. “I can think of at least two. Although,” now he looked over at Volusenus and grinned, “it wasn’t because I tried to stab a man through the middle of his skull.”

“I told you that was an accident,” Volusenus protested, partly nettled but mostly amused, since this had been a running joke, not only between the two but with the other Centurions of the Fourth. “I didn’t aim for the bastard’s head, it just happened that way!”

“So you say,” Pullus teased, “but I think you just thought you were the only man strong enough to do it.”

“You’ve never done it,” Volusenus retorted, then realized his error almost immediately as Pullus countered, “And I’ve never snapped my blade trying to get it out of a man’s head either, because I knew better than to do it in the first place.”

“Oh,” Volusenus muttered, “go piss on your boots.”

As he intended, this caused Pullus to roar with laughter, knowing that, before Volusenus had arrived as a paid man in the Fourth Cohort, he had never uttered what was one of Pullus’ favorite epithets, and Volusenus grinned at him.

Turning serious, Pullus returned to the subject. “You know, it might be a good idea to go out in town and buy one. I know that Scrofa apprenticed with a Gaul, and his blades are supposed to be some of the best that money can buy, at least up here in Germania.”

Decimus Scrofa was one of the smiths who had opened his shop in Ubiorum; the reason that Pullus knew about the quality of his work was due to the fact that Titus, Alex’s younger brother, was now an apprentice for the man. It was true he had not been working there long, but young Titus, Diocles’ youngest son, who had been named for the great Titus Pullus, had been extremely enthusiastic in singing Scrofa’s praises, and when Pullus asked around of the men who had purchased one of his blades, he was satisfied.

It was with this in mind that Pullus added, “I’ve thought about buying a spare from him. The only thing,” he admitted, somewhat sheepishly, “is that it doesn’t seem right since I have my grandfather’s gladius.” When Volusenus gave him a quizzical glance, he gave a shrug as he explained, “It would be like I didn’t have enough faith in it and thought it would fail me at some point.”

While Volusenus was certainly aware of the history behind the gladius Pullus carried, he had long before sensed there was more to Pullus’ attachment for the blade than just the fact that his grandfather and father had wielded it. He suspected that it served as the last tangible reminder of Pullus’ grandfather that made it so special; he was unaware of the identity disk that Pullus wore around his neck at all times, and of the existence of the several scrolls that, in their own way, were even more important than the superbly crafted weapon that was the subject of their conversation.

Returning his mind to Pullus’ suggestion, Volusenus nodded and said thoughtfully, “I just may do that.”

“Well,” Pullus reminded him, “if you do, you need to do it fast. We’re going to be marching again, and soon.”

Volusenus knew this was the case, but he felt an impish urge to repay Pullus’ ribbing with some of his own, so that, with a straight face, he asked, “Is that what Germanicus told you?”

As he had hoped, this caused Pullus to groan and roll his eyes, muttering, “Not you too! If I had a fucking sestertius for every time someone has asked me about Germanicus and his plans, I’d be waving goodbye to all of you marching out the gate because I’d retire!”

“As if you’d know what to do with yourself.” Volusenus laughed at the idea of Titus Pullus not being in his spot, under the standard.

It was a conversation that would come back to haunt Volusenus, the thought coming to him, usually in the dead of night, that he had inadvertently sentenced the man he had yet to learn was his father to the fate that he had suffered. In the moment, however, it was just a humorous note that ended the conversation as both men headed to their quarters.

While it was true that this was an abbreviated offseason, there was still a sufficient amount of time for other events to occur, and one of them would end up having a profound impact on the men of the Fourth Cohort. And, as often happens with such matters, it came as a total surprise to the impacted men, and it began with Macer being summoned to the Primus Pilus’ quarters, something that Volusenus was aware of only because he was in the Cohort office dropping off his daily report. Not that it registered as anything important, either to Volusenus or to Macer, such summonses being an almost everyday occurrence since Sacrovir required regular updates on the state of the preparations each of his Cohorts were making to march. It was only because of what came about as a result of this meeting with Sacrovir that Volusenus had any reason to remember seeing Macer, snatching up his vitus, walk to the door behind Sacrovir’s body slave and follow him out.

“Let’s see what the Primus Pilus wants,” Macer said with a sigh that was so eloquent, it caused both Volusenus and Lucco, the Cohort’s chief clerk, to exchange a grin behind his back.

His business concluded, Volusenus returned to his own office, his thoughts already back to the one that had occupied his mind for the majority of the time, and that was whether or not to purchase the blade from Scrofa that he had tested, one of several. Somewhat to Pullus’ consternation, he had gone to the two other smiths in Ubiorum to look at their offerings, but had quickly realized that Pullus had been correct in his assessment of Scrofa’s work. And there was one that, while he would not say as much to Pullus, had attracted his eye, in a literal sense, because, like the great Titus Pullus’ gladius that he had purchased as a young Gregarius more than sixty years earlier in Gaul, it was darker than the others, and had a subtle but distinct pattern of whorls and wavy lines that Scrofa had assured him were not just for aesthetic purposes.

“This is lighter but stronger than a standard blade,” Scrofa had explained, but when Volusenus had pressed him for details on how that was accomplished, the smith had replied flatly, “I don’t give those secrets out to anyone, Centurion. At least, not yet. Maybe,” he had jerked his head in the direction of the youth who, while they had not spoken directly, Volusenus knew was the younger brother of Pullus’ clerk, “if this youngster turns out better than the other apprentices I’ve had, one day I’ll tell him. Until then,” he had finished with a shrug, “it stays with me.”

That had been a week earlier, and Volusenus had been in an agony of indecision, not because of any doubts about the quality of the blade; from the moment he picked it up, he recognized that this was a truly superb weapon, something that was worthy of being carried by a Tribune at the very least, especially if one judged it by the cost. Part of his reluctance was based in the fact that he did not actually have the cash money on hand; like many young Roman men of wealth, he was profligate in his spending, but he also knew that he could very quickly remedy that situation with a letter, sent by courier to Mogontiacum, where his mother Giulia was now living. However, therein lie part of the problem, knowing very well that, if it was ever learned that Volusenus had been reduced to asking his mother to send him funds, he would never hear the end of it, not only from Pullus, but from the rest of his fellow Centurions. There was another aspect, though, one that perhaps ran more deeply, that troubled Volusenus, and it was a sign of how, however unwittingly, he was like his real father, because he was afraid that by buying a blade that resembled the one belonging to Pullus, men like Vespillo would take great pleasure in pointing it out as an attempt to imitate the only other Centurion who matched Volusenus when it came to his stature and strength. Never far from his mind was the first day he had been introduced to Pullus, when Vespillo had laughingly commented that they could have been father and son; it would not be until much later that it all made sense to him that, in fact, this was nothing more than the truth. Still, it ran more deeply than that; even before Gnaeus Volusenus was aware of the existence of the grandson of the Prefect Titus Pullus, he had been concerned with the perception others held of him, inordinately so if his mother Giulia was to be believed. This was the real cause of his hesitance in making the purchase, and when he returned to his quarters, he shoved it to the back of his mind, telling himself that he did not have to make the decision in that moment. The men of every Legion had been given a half-day off from duties, which meant there was not much for Volusenus to do, and since he was not an avid reader, he was about to go out into town, when there was a knock on the door, then Krateros’ head appeared.

“Centurion, Lucco just left. He said the Pilus Prior is calling a meeting of all the Centurions in his office.”

“We just had one this morning,” Volusenus grumbled, but he was moving as he did so, grabbing his vitus; it never occurred to him that Macer’s own trip to the Primus Pilus could be connected with this summons.

When he arrived in Macer’s quarters, Pullus was already there, and while nothing was said, Volusenus got the sense that he had been there for some time, but this was a secondary consideration when he saw the older Centurion’s face. His expression was one that Volusenus had never seen before, and was so unusual that for an instant, Volusenus thought that perhaps there had been another momentous event along the lines of the death of the Princeps, which the Roman world was still trying to adjust to despite it having occurred almost six months earlier. Before he could ask, however, both Vespillo and Structus arrived, dropping onto the row of stools in front of Macer’s desk, while Volusenus took his own accustomed spot, next to Pullus, who barely seemed to notice his young counterpart.

“What is it?” Volusenus whispered. “What’s going on? Why do you look like that?”

This seemed to jerk Pullus from whatever reverie he had been in, but he did not look over at Volusenus as he shook his head, saying nothing. Only then did Volusenus turn his examination to Macer, and the first thought was that the Pilus Prior could have been Pullus’ twin, if only because of their expressions. It’s like, he thought, they both got hit between the eyes and are stunned. And, as he was about to learn, this was very close to the truth in a figurative sense. Cornutus had just arrived, muttering an apology, dropping onto the lone remaining stool. Volusenus saw that he was not alone in sensing something important was happening, but Macer did not speak until Lucco had finished pouring each man a cup, notably not cutting it with water.

Only after the clerk left the room did Macer speak, and his voice was husky, but it did not seem to Volusenus that it was from shouting as he began, “I appreciate you coming so quickly, and this will be brief.” He gave a glimmer of a smile as he added, “I know that you all have plans that involve heavy drinking at the Dancing Faun.” The other Centurions chuckled softly, while a couple of Volusenus’ comrades nodded their agreement, but Macer seemed either unable or unwilling to continue, and to Volusenus’ sudden unease, he was certain he saw a gleam in his Pilus Prior’s eyes that reflected the flickering light from the nearest oil lamp. Is he about to cry? Volusenus thought, and now his stomach began to clench, thinking that it had to be truly disastrous news, indeed. That was why it took him a moment to decipher Macer’s next words, as he said, “I will no longer be commanding the Fourth Cohort, effective immediately.”

Volusenus’ reaction, or non-reaction, was shared by the others as the Centurions responded in a manner that conveyed a sense of deep shock, and for the span of a heartbeat, it was completely silent.

This was broken by Vespillo, and Volusenus immediately heard the undertone of what he was certain was hope as the Pilus Posterior asked, “What does this mean for the Cohort? And,” he added in an obvious afterthought, “may we ask why, Pilus Prior? Where are you going?”

While it was true that Volusenus had not been with the Cohort as long as the others, it was certainly enough time for him to recognize that Vespillo’s question was not based in anything other than self-interest, and he had been informed by Pullus how Vespillo had always resented Macer for usurping what Vespillo believed was his, the command of the Fourth Cohort.

If Macer was aware of the reason for Vespillo’s questions, he did not show it, although he did not hesitate to answer, “It means that you have a new Pilus Prior. Because,” now, he did pause, and Volusenus was certain that this was Macer’s way of paying Vespillo back for all the slights against his leadership of the Fourth although his face betrayed nothing, “I’ve been promoted to Secundus Pilus Prior.”

The reaction that this prompted was less restrained, as both Cornutus and Structus simultaneously offered their congratulations to Macer, and Volusenus quickly added his voice, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Pullus was still silent, as was Vespillo. The latter he understood; Vespillo was many things, but he was no fool, and he knew that just by the way Macer worded his announcement, Vespillo had received the message that, once again, he was being passed over.

It became clear that not only did Vespillo understand, he leaned over to look past Cornutus and Structus to fix Pullus with a stare that was filled with venom, although his tone was neutral as he asked, “It’s you, isn’t it, Pullus? You’re the new Pilus Prior?”

Pullus did not reply, at least immediately; instead, he heaved a sigh, keeping his gaze at some spot on the wall behind Macer, then he nodded.

It was left to Macer to tell Vespillo, “This was Sacrovir’s decision, Vespillo. He selected Pullus to take the Fourth.”

“And,” Vespillo’s bitterness was impossible to miss, “did he ask you for your opinion, Pilus Prior?”

“Yes,” Macer answered tersely; suddenly, Volusenus wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

“And?” Vespillo pressed, and now Volusenus had to suppress a groan at what he viewed as Vespillo’s obtuseness. “Who did you recommend? Pullus? Or,” his voice began to rise in pitch and volume, “the one Centurion who’s been in the Fourth longer than anyone else? And who’s been the Pilus Fucking Posterior for almost a decade?”

By the time Vespillo was finished, he had risen from his stool, and his body was rigid with fury, while Cornutus, who was directly next to him was leaning away from his counterpart, looking up at him with real concern.

Macer listened but otherwise made no indication that he felt threatened, and then answered in a deceptively mild voice, “I was asked who I thought the best man in the Legion, not just the Cohort but the entire Legion, to command the Fourth was.” He paused a heartbeat, but just as quietly, finished, “And I said that I thought Pullus was.”

Vespillo was obviously angry; that he had lost control of himself was made obvious to Volusenus when he sneered, “Of course you do! You and he have been closer than flies to cac since you showed up here! As,” he added, unnecessarily, in Volusenus’ view, “a paid man! So of course you think his cac doesn’t stink!”

For the first time, this seemed to rouse Pullus, but rather than say anything, Volusenus heard him heave another deep sigh, then, placing both hands on his knees, he pushed himself to his feet and turned to face Vespillo. Volusenus’ view was partially blocked by Pullus’ body, so he had to lean backward to have a clear view, and he was grimly amused to see how Vespillo suddenly seemed to realize how his intemperate words might be interpreted by Pullus.

Which was confirmed when Pullus asked, no more loudly than Macer had, “Are you saying that I’m not qualified to run this Cohort, Vespillo? Or,” he added, “any Cohort, for that matter?”

“N-no,” Vespillo’s ire and aggressive posturing had vanished, “I’m not saying that, Pullus! I’m…” He searched for something to say and finished lamely, “I’m just saying that I’m qualified too. That’s all.”

“Nobody said you weren’t,” Macer interjected, but while his tone was polite, Volusenus was certain it was taking an effort on Macer’s part. “In fact, you were the only other candidate that the Primus Pilus considered.”

“But he passed me over,” Vespillo muttered bitterly, “again.” Suddenly, without asking for permission to do so, Vespillo spun about, walked to the door, flung it open, and stalked out of Macer’s office.

Volusenus was not surprised in the least that Macer not only made no attempt to stop Vespillo, he did not even make an issue of the blatant disrespect, and his reason for doing so was made clear when he looked over at Pullus, and with a grin, said, “Now he’s your problem.”

The laughter was spontaneous, and it served to break Pullus out of his trance, as the remaining Centurions all stood to offer their congratulations. After clasping arms with Structus and Cornutus, Pullus turned to Volusenus, who had thought to make some sort of jest, but found to his surprise that there was a sudden lump in his throat.

“Congratulations, Pullus,” he said, and he was completely honest when he added, “I can’t think of a Pilus Prior I’d rather follow than you.”

“That’s nice to know,” Macer interjected, and while there was heavy sarcasm in his words, Volusenus could see he was more amused than anything.

Nevertheless, Volusenus felt the blood rush to his face, but when he tried to protest, Macer waved him off, and he was inadvertently saved when Structus asked curiously, “What happened to Pilus Prior Culleo? He wasn’t in the post very long. Where’s he going?”

Macer’s smile faded, but he did not hesitate to reply, “I don’t know where he’s going, but I do know that he’s leaving the army.”

This was certainly unusual, but while Volusenus was certain that there was more to the story, Macer would say no more. After a round of toasts to Pullus, who looked more embarrassed than pleased, the meeting broke up and they left Macer to begin packing his belongings.

“Can I walk with you now that you’re a Pilus Prior?” Volusenus teased.

“How else will I keep an eye on you?” Pullus countered, and Volusenus had the sense that the older Centurion was slowly working through what had to have been quite a surprise.

Which prompted Volusenus to ask, “So you had no idea this was coming?”

“None,” Pullus promised, shaking his head. “I’m as surprised as anyone.”

“Not Vespillo.” Volusenus blurted this out, and it caused Pullus to chuckle and agree, “No, not Vespillo.”

“I wonder where he went?”

Pullus considered Volusenus’ question, then offered a guess. “Probably to find out if he can bribe his way into the spot.”

Volusenus looked over at Pullus in shock, and he gasped, “Gerrae! He doesn’t think that could possibly work, does he?”

The look Pullus gave him was one he would remember, what he thought was a combination of amusement and a little scorn, and he answered, “I don’t see why not. It’s worked before. Although,” he allowed before Volusenus could reply, “it wasn’t with the 1^st, but I saw it happen back in Siscia.”

He could not articulate why, but Volusenus was suddenly worried, and he heard the note of anxiety as he asked Pullus, “You don’t think he could do it now, do you?”

Pullus shrugged, saying only, “I don’t think so. But if he does, he does.”

This was such a singularly unusual thing for Pullus to say in Volusenus’ view, that he came to an abrupt stop, staring at the older Centurion in incredulity, asking, “Doesn’t that worry you?” Pullus opened his mouth, but Volusenus had worked himself up into a state of real anger and cut him off, saying hotly, “If he tried, I’d have something to say about it!”

Pullus said nothing, and it was yet another moment that only made sense to Volusenus later, because the look he gave Volusenus was one of such intensity, and with an emotion that Volusenus could not identify, that it made the younger man nervous.

“I…appreciate that, Gnaeus.” Pullus using his praenomen had been relatively rare to this point, so it was another reason for Volusenus to remember the moment later. Then, he gave an abrupt shake of his head, and he smiled as he added, “But I don’t think it will come to that.”

“Well, if it does, know that I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” Volusenus assured him. “If the Primus Pilus named you Pilus Prior, that’s all that matters.”

They had reached Pullus’ quarters, and they stopped, Pullus repeating, “Thank you, Gnaeus. Now,” he took a deep breath, and for the first time, Volusenus saw what he was certain was a look of excitement in Pullus’ eyes as he said, “I need to go pack up.”

“You mean, you need to have Alex pack up.” Volusenus laughed, which Pullus returned.

With a wave, he entered his quarters, and Volusenus resumed walking towards his own quarters, his mind racing with the meaning of the night’s developments, all thought of going into town gone. He could not really say why, but he was aware that he was every bit as excited as Pullus was, and while not as happy, it was close.