Chapter Four

Pullus had spent a largely sleepless night, waiting for the summons from Germanicus, especially after Alex informed him that Vespillo had been seen heading in the direction of the praetorium.

When Pullus expressed his worry about this, Alex had pointed out, “The quaestorium is right next to it, so he could be going to the hospital.”

Pullus had been disbelieving, but when the watches crawled by with no runner appearing, this seemed to be the case. Only when Krateros had come to tell Alex that Volusenus, along with the other Centurions, had been summoned to the praetorium, and more importantly, by whom, Pullus resigned himself to an unpleasant audience with Germanicus, or with Sacrovir at the very least. However, the night passed, no word came, and when Pullus awoke, he was even more confused. Then Sacrovir had called for the normal morning meeting of the Pili Priores, and he entered the Primus Pilus’ office with Macer convinced that there would be a reckoning of some sort. When Sacrovir dismissed the others but ordered Pullus to stay back, he braced himself for what he now viewed as inevitable.

And, at first, his fears seemed confirmed when Sacrovir, leaning back in his chair, regarded Pullus with a decidedly cool gaze before he began, “So it seems I missed some excitement with your Cohort yesterday, Pullus. Would you care to tell me about it?”

Pullus had rehearsed what he would say, but that had been to Germanicus, and he calculated that telling Sacrovir that he had been incensed by Vespillo’s slur against Germanicus would not get the same reception from his Primus Pilus.

Consequently, Pullus decided on a modified version of the truth, but he made a subtle change he hoped would help his cause, saying, “It was right after you gave us our orders. When I returned to the Cohort to relay them, Vespillo openly disparaged them. And,” he gave a shrug, “I took exception to it.”

“Yes,” Sacrovir replied dryly, “obviously, you did. But,” his tone sharpened, and he gave Pullus the kind of look that was designed to remind his Centurion who he was, “when you say he ‘disparaged’ them, what does that mean? You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Pullus groaned inwardly, recognizing that Sacrovir was not going to let this lie, and he explained, “Vespillo said that if we hadn’t been worried about the women, children, and old people, their warriors wouldn’t have gotten away.”

Sacrovir did not seem surprised, nodding his head as he said, “So it wasn’t my orders he disparaged, it was Germanicus’.” Pullus did not reply verbally but nodded his head, suddenly deciding to look down at his caligae, while Sacrovir stared at him for a long moment. Finally, the Primus Pilus heaved a sigh before he continued, “Pullus, I understand your loyalty to Germanicus, and why you feel compelled to defend him after serving as his Primus Pilus.” Suddenly, something seemed to occur to Sacrovir, and while his tone had been, if not cordial, at least not hostile, that changed as he asked, “Are you licking Germanicus’ ass hoping that he’ll name you Primus Pilus at some point in the future?” Pullus’ initial reaction was one of shock, his head coming up sharply to look Sacrovir in the eye, but it was barely a heartbeat later that his expression hardened, and while he did not make any overt move that could be considered aggressive, Sacrovir shifted uncomfortably in his chair nonetheless, suddenly and acutely aware that he had roused Pullus’ anger, and he raised a hand in a mollifying gesture, “I apologize, Pullus. I spoke…hastily, without thinking about how it might sound to you.” Despite knowing what needed to be done, it was still difficult for a Primus Pilus to make this sort of concession to a subordinate, but he forced himself to finish, “I know you better than that. I know that it has nothing to do with what I just said.”

Pullus had not uttered a word, but he continued to stare at Sacrovir for an interminably long span before his massive chest dropped as he exhaled, and he said evenly, “There’s no need to apologize, Primus Pilus. You have the right to ask any question you want of me. But,” he finished pointedly, “no, that’s not why I felt compelled to deal with Vespillo…the way I did.”

Sacrovir was thankful that Pullus had mentioned Vespillo’s name, because not only was it safer ground, he was certain that what he was about to say, while not exactly pleasing Pullus, would at least give him some hope.

“Back to Vespillo,” Sacrovir moved on. “I wanted to tell you I’ve made a decision about your Pilus Posterior.”

Now it was Pullus who was shifting about on his stool, and his tone was wary as he asked, “Oh? What decision is that, sir?”

“I’ve decided that I’m moving him out of the Fourth Cohort,” Sacrovir replied. Then, prompted by the sudden change in Pullus’ demeanor, he held up a hand, “Not,” he cautioned, “immediately. That would cause too much of a disruption in the operation of your Cohort, and in whatever Cohort I decide to put him in. But once this campaign is over and we’re back in winter quarters, I’ll be moving him.”

This clearly disappointed Pullus, but he also nodded in understanding as he said, “That makes sense, sir. In the middle of a campaign isn’t a good time for something like that.” His brow furrowed as something occurred to him, and he asked Sacrovir, “Does Vespillo know this?”

“No.” Sacrovir shook his head. “And,” he said in a tone Pullus recognized, “he’s not going to until we’re back in Ubiorum and this business is finished.” While he felt certain that he had made his point, Sacrovir still felt compelled to say, “Is that understood?” Pullus nodded but said nothing, which prompted Sacrovir to fill the silence to add, “Honestly, Pullus, this has been coming for some time. I was aware of all the things he was doing to undermine Macer, but while I knew he wouldn’t like my decision to promote you to Pilus Prior, I had hoped that he’d be professional enough to accept it. And,” while it was not to flatter Pullus, he still felt compelled to finish, “to recognize that you’re the better Centurion, and one of my best in the entire Legion.”

If this was a few years earlier, hearing this kind of thing would have gratified Pullus; he was now at an age to recognize his own flaws and, knowing that his vanity and pride in his reputation was a fundamental and glaring one, he had learned to caution himself in such moments not to let it distract him. Nevertheless, it still was always nice to hear praise, especially from a superior, even if it did not have the same impact anymore.

However, when Pullus thanked Sacrovir, the Primus Pilus waved it off, saying shortly, “Don’t thank me for stating the obvious, Pullus.” For the first time since Pullus arrived, one corner of his mouth curved upward in what Pullus had learned was his version of a smile as he finished, “But don’t let it go to your head. It’s big enough as it is.”

Pullus laughed dutifully, but Sacrovir was already standing, and after an exchange of salutes, Pullus exited the office, leaving the Primus Pilus to drop back into his seat and moodily stare off into the distance. Although the matter with Vespillo had certainly been the main reason for making Pullus stay behind, it was not the only one, and he realized that what Macer had said about Pullus being…off in some way was the truth. Regardless of the cause, which Sacrovir did not know because Macer had only divulged the truth to Germanicus, as Primus Pilus, he had fifty-eight other Centurions, sixty Optios, and several thousand men to worry about, so he could not spend more time than he already had on the travails of Titus Pullus, no matter how valuable he was to the Legion.

The next morning, Germanicus’ army went to work building a bridge across the Adrana. While it was not nearly the width or depth of the Rhenus, only men Pullus and Volusenus’ height could cross it without swimming, and then the water would come up to their neck. The current was not particularly swift, but on the day following the razing of Mattium, Germanicus had sent his cavalry out, scouring the area in both directions along the river, looking for boats that could be used to create a pontoon bridge. While he was not particularly surprised that the Chatti had managed to secure all the watercraft and either destroyed or brought them to the opposite side of the river, Germanicus was still disappointed. In simple terms, while it did not pose an engineering challenge like Divus Julius’ bridge across the Rhenus a half-century earlier, it was still not an insignificant undertaking, and it would take more time to build than a simple pontoon bridge. The one blessing was that there was no lack of raw materials, the forest just south of the camp providing the needed timber, and the predominant sound starting shortly after dawn was the ringing of axes as men of the 5^th were given the task of felling trees. Although nothing was said officially, the word that spread through the camp like wildfire was that the selection of the Alaudae was not random, that it was considered a punishment, but nobody seemed to know what their transgression had been. Otherwise, while each of the other two Legions provided a Cohort as security, the rest of the men were given the day to loaf as the engineering Immunes, under the direction of Germanicus Praefectus Fabrorum, none other than the Tribune Gaetulicus, prepared the near bank for the future bridge. Nobody was surprised when the alert was sounded that denoted that the enemy had been sighted, in the form of a handful of Chatti who, with understandable caution, emerged from the undergrowth a hundred paces from the opposite riverbank to observe what their foes were doing. Equally unsurprising was that this roused some of the idling men, and they made their way through the ruins of the town to catch a glimpse of the barbarians, and as usually happened, what ensued was an exchange of taunts, jeers, and promises that grew increasingly lurid, none of which either side understood, aside from the camp Latin phrases that the Chatti knew, or the German curses the Legionaries knew, and, of course, the lewd gestures.

More out of boredom than anything, Pullus, Volusenus, and Structus had strolled out of the camp, where they were now standing together, arms crossed, watching the exchange with a combination of amusement and disgust, summed up by Volusenus, who commented, “Why do they even bother? It’s not like they understand each other.”

Even as he said this, an equally inevitable event occurred, when one of the Chatti turned about and pulled up his tunic to bare his backside, pulling apart his cheeks, and Structus nudged Volusenus as he laughed. “I’m betting they understand that.”

Volusenus chuckled, but he missed Pullus’ sidelong glance that was equally amused, except it was for a different reason, which he explained, “My father told me how his first Pilus Prior used to say the same thing all the time.”

It was Structus who, by virtue of his longer tenure under the standard, was more familiar with the history of the Legions, and Pullus’ former Optio said, “Wait, I’m trying to remember.” He paused briefly, then snapped his fingers, “Your father got started in the Equestrians, right?” Pullus nodded, and Structus thought some more, “And, he was in the…?”

“Second Cohort,” Pullus supplied, curious to see just how much Structus knew, who nodded as he continued, “Right, Second Cohort. And the Pilus Prior was…wait, don’t tell me. He retired and was an Evocatus, but he was your grandfather’s best friend.” When nothing came, Pullus opened his mouth to supply it, when Structus crowed, “Scribonius! That’s it, isn’t it? Quintus Scribonius?”

“Sextus,” Pullus corrected, “but yes. Sextus Scribonius. He was my father’s Pilus Prior, and like you say, my grandfather’s best friend. Or,” he amended, while Structus and Volusenus, who was avidly attentive and curious to know more, listened intently, “one of them, anyway.”

Structus frowned, muttering more to himself, “Why did I think his name was Quintus?”

“Because,” Pullus explained, “there was a third friend, and his name was Quintus, Quintus Balbus.”

This clearly made Structus feel better, and in something of an attempt to show off his knowledge to Volusenus, who he liked well enough but had become slightly jealous of now that he had grown close to Pullus, he informed Volusenus, “Quintus Balbus was in the 10^th too, and he became Evocatus so that he and Scribonius could continue serving with Prefect Pullus.”

Now both father and his unwitting son were equally impressed, and they exchanged a glance over Structus’ head, Pullus grinning at Volusenus, but he addressed his old Optio, “I must say, Structus, you know almost as much about my grandfather as I do.”

“Ha!” Structus laughed, but it was obvious he was pleased. “I doubt that, Pilus Prior. Still,” he shrugged and said modestly, “Besides, there are a fair number of the boys who know more than I do, but they’re all older than me.”

“Did you ever see my grandfather?” Pullus asked curiously, but his guess was confirmed when Structus shook his head.

“No, he died a couple years before I was born,” Structus answered.

Volusenus saw that this had an impact on Pullus, although the older man did not say anything, choosing to return his attention back to the river, where the exchange between Roman and Chatti had now devolved into little more than a contest to see who could expose themselves in the most vulgar manner possible, prompting a snort of disgust from Pullus.

“I wish one of these fucking idiots got an arrow in their ass,” he muttered but was turning to walk away as he said it. “That way, they’d stop acting like idiots.”

While he had not indicated they should follow him, both Structus and Volusenus turned to walk with him, as Structus commented, “Yes, they would…for a day. Then Publius would offer up a wager to do it again and some idiot would take him up on it. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “maybe if one of them got an arrow through their cock and balls, that might do it.”

“Oh, it would,” Volusenus surprised himself by speaking, but he could not suppress the grin as he finished, “It would work for two days instead of just one.”

As he hoped, this made both Structus and Pullus laugh, and they made their way back to the camp; each of them would have cause to remember this conversation.

By nightfall, the pilings for the first two sets of piers had been laid by employing what had become the Roman standard of using the large wicker baskets, filling them with rocks and dropping them into the water, where they sat on the riverbottom and served as the supports for the wooden pilings. The framing elements of the bridge were fastened to the pilings, although the laying of the deck planks had yet to be done, but one did not need to be an expert to know what it was being built. That this had all been accomplished under the watchful eyes of the Chatti had, at first, created an air of tense watchfulness, along with the display of taunting, but by the end of the day, both sides had become bored with each other, the novelty of screaming insults having expired before the sun was midway through the sky. When the next day dawned, it was the turn of the Fourth of the 1^st to stand watch, but as soon as Pullus was informed by Sacrovir that, not only were they going to be responsible for the area around the bridge, that Gaetulicus had promised Germanicus that the bridge would be across the river by sunset, he understood that there would not be much standing around with the only adversary being boredom. His meeting with the Centurions and Optios was short, every one of them knowing the instant they entered his quarters that this would not be a routine day.

“We’re going to rotate the duty of protecting the Immunes doing the work,” he explained after he had filled them in on the bare details. “I talked to Gaetulicus and he said that they should be ready to drop the piers for the pilings midriver by the beginning of third watch. And,” he said grimly, “that will be within range of their archers.” Glancing down at the tablet on which he had taken his notes, he added, “Germanicus has ordered every scorpion to be deployed on the riverbank, so that will help make those cunni keep their heads down, but you’ve all seen how thick the underbrush is, so they’re going to have a lot of cover.” Snapping the tablet shut, he concluded, “This is the dirty end of the sponge, but Germanicus chose us because he trusts us.”

His eyes went directly to Vespillo, who had rejoined the Century, but whether it was because his jaw was still too swollen or he had learned from his error, what mattered to Pullus was that the Pilus Posterior uttered not a peep, choosing instead to stare at his feet.

It was actually Gillo, who was walking out with Titus Fabricius, who had remained as the First Century’s Optio when Macer was promoted and been replaced by Pullus, who Volusenus overheard muttering, “Germanicus trusts Pullus, but that means we have to pay for it.”

Volusenus waited until they were out of the tent and Fabricius had walked the short distance to the First’s row of tents before he reached out from behind and grabbed Gillo’s arm, causing the Optio to yelp in surprise and not a little pain.

“I thought,” Volusenus spoke quietly, but Gillo correctly interpreted the tone as the warning that it was, “we had reached an understanding, Gillo. I thought you would know better by now than to say something stupid that would reflect on me. And,” he added menacingly, “especially when it’s disloyal to the Pilus Prior, and to the Legate.”

While it was true that, on Volusenus’ arrival as a green Centurion, and a paid man at that, Numerius Gillo had been running the Century as his own personal bank account, extorting his men through threats of punishment, that was not the only challenge Volusenus had faced, because it was also true that, at first, Gillo had been openly contemptuous of Volusenus, despite his massive size and strength. As the Optio quickly learned, it was a mistake he swore he would never make again, after Volusenus beat him almost as badly as Pullus would beat Volusenus not long afterward.

“I’m sorry, Centurion.” Gillo could adopt an obsequious tone and manner, and he used it to maximum effect now. “I won’t do it again. I swear on the black stone!”

“See that you don’t,” Volusenus growled. Then, in a completely conversational tone, he continued, “Get the men formed up, Gillo. Like the Pilus Prior says, today’s going to be a big day.”

Gillo saluted but said nothing, and whether the wince as he did so was feigned or not, it still made Volusenus happy to see it.

For all of his faults, especially his taste for pornography, Volusenus thought with some amusement, Gaetulicus clearly knew his business, because it was almost exactly noon when the two large wicker baskets that would be placed in the middle of the river were dragged down to the riverbank. Since there had been no boats available, Gaetulicus had ordered the construction of two large rafts, made of logs lashed together and perfectly square, and of a sufficient size that a dozen men could stand on it, along with the materials that would be needed for the work. Eight of those men on each raft would be from the Fourth, whose only job was to provide a screen of shields to protect the four Immunes as they muscled the baskets off the raft and lowered them into the water using ropes in order to place them exactly where they were supposed to go on the riverbottom. However, in a democratic but completely unmilitary manner, Pullus had left it to Fortuna in deciding whose Century would be the first out on the rafts, drawing straws, and it was Structus who drew the short one, which was met by the normal grumbling from the losers. Pullus granted one small favor, allowing the Fifth to leave their javelins behind; even if the Chatti braved the scorpions and rushed to the river’s edge, they would be just out of javelin range, but the one thing that the Fourth had faith in, men and officers alike, was the power of the scorpions. Then, just before the first two sections of the Fifth Century took their spots on their respective rafts, there was a shout from the direction of the camp. Pullus, who was standing with Structus, while the other Centuries were arrayed in a formation facing the river, turned to see four men trotting in their direction, but it was what two of them were carrying that caught his eye.

“It looks like Germanicus wants us to have his new toy,” he commented to Structus, who gave a noncommittal grunt that did not indicate his thoughts one way or another.

Two of the men were each carrying a manuballista, while their comrades had large sacks slung across their shoulders that Pullus correctly assumed contained the ammunition for these new weapons. Like Volusenus, while Pullus had been impressed with the power of these new devices, he had seen the same thing that his son had, that they were wildly inaccurate, although he was also willing to give the benefit of the doubt, thinking that the Immunes who used them would get more accurate with practice.

Reaching Pullus, when they made to put their weapons down to salute, he waved at them. “No need for that. But,” he pointed to the two ammunition bearers, “I hope you’re not planning on having these men with you on the raft.”

He saw by the pair’s reaction that this was exactly what they had expected, and after an exchange of glances, one of them, a grizzled veteran with a long, thin scar running down the side of his face, said, “Actually, Pilus Prior, we need these men to help us.” Seeing Pullus’ expression and recognizing it, he hurriedly assured him, “It’s because once these things are cocked, there’s no way for us to reach down and pick up a bolt and put it in the channel.” Suddenly, he thrust his manuballista in Pullus’ direction, saying, “Here, see for yourself how heavy it is. Nobody’s strong enough.”

If the Immunes realized his error immediately, nobody watching would know, but without a word, Pullus took the weapon. The fact that the Immunes had been forced to use both hands to hold it out and Pullus grabbed it and, with seemingly little effort, held it one hand was guaranteed to draw everyone’s attention.

Still holding the weapon in this manner, Pullus turned to one of the ammunition bearers, asking politely, “Will you hand me a bolt, Gregarius?”

Hastily opening the sack, the Legionary did as Pullus requested, handing the large Centurion the bolt, who took it and, still without seeming to exert himself, lifted the bolt into a spot just above the weapon, closed one eye to align it, dropped it into place, then without a word, he handed it back to the Immunes.

By this point, the man knew he was being toyed with, but while he did not particularly appreciate being the butt of this kind of joke, he was also sufficiently impressed and fearful enough of Pullus that he managed a respectful tone as he said, “Well, Pilus Prior, I guess I should have said that nobody but you is strong enough to do it.”

Pullus knew fully well that he was embarrassing this man, although this was not really his intent, and that he was indulging himself in a manner unbecoming a Centurion, yet, even now, after all these years, he could never seem to resist the chance to display the kind of massive strength that had made his grandfather the legend that he was, and had made himself famous as well, albeit to a lesser degree, something that Pullus was acutely aware of and was his greatest disappointment.

That was why he surprised even himself when, without thinking, he replied, “Actually…” He stopped, which the Immunes correctly interpreted, supplying, “Gregarius Immunes First Class Servius Manius, Pilus Prior.” Nodding, Pullus continued, “Thank you, Manius. Anyway, as I was about to say, I’m not the only one.” Then he turned and scanned the line of Centuries, spotted Volusenus, and bellowed, “Hastatus Posterior Volusenus, attend to your Pilus Prior!”

Naturally, Volusenus complied, trotting over with a quizzical expression on his face. He had been watching Pullus’ display from his spot in front of the Sixth, and in the time it took him to reach Pullus, he got an idea of what Pullus wanted, meaning that he had to struggle to keep a grin from his face.

“Yes, Pilus Prior?” He saluted as expected, trying to keep his tone neutral and not betray he knew there was something afoot.

Pointing to the man next to Manius, Pullus ordered him, “Give your weapon to Centurion Volusenus.”

The man did, and like Manius, had to do it with both hands, his face turning slightly red from the exertion of thrusting his arms out supporting the weight of the weapon. Just as Pullus had done, Volusenus snatched it with one hand, and without being told, turned to the man who had opened the bag containing the bolts. And, just as Pullus had, he held the weapon with one hand, except that when he dropped the bolt down, it missed the channel and bounced off, although he managed to grab it before it fell to the ground. On his second attempt, he placed the bolt in the groove, grinning broadly at Pullus.

Manius was now thoroughly embarrassed, but he was also angry, and before he could stop himself, he snapped, “So there are two men in this fucking army who can hold that thing with one hand, but us mortals need two.”

Pullus, rather than being angered, suddenly looked slightly chagrined, and he spoke in a mollifying tone, “You’re right, Manius. We’re probably the only two men who can do this, and I apologize for making fun of it.” Whether this assuaged Manius or not, this was as far as Pullus would bend, and his manner returned to normal as he said crisply, “But you’re still not going to take those two onto the rafts with you.” Before Manius could protest, he explained, “We’re going to need every shield we can get to protect you, and one less shield makes that more difficult.”

When Pullus put it this way, Manius not only understood, he agreed, although he did think to himself, Why didn’t you just say that in the first place instead of showing off? However, this was not reflected in his demeanor as he nodded in agreement.

“How hard is it to place the bolt?” Structus spoke for the first time.

“It’s not that it’s hard,” Manius said defensively. “It’s just that it’s hard for one man to do. Except,” he muttered this last part, “for these two.”

“So one of the Immunes can do it for you,” Pullus interjected. “That way, we won’t have to lose two men holding a shield since you’re going to be replacing one of them.”

“Will Gaetulicus agree?” Volusenus asked, a good question.

“Let’s go find out,” Pullus said, approaching the Tribune, who was standing flanked by two rankers, who Pullus discovered were the leaders of the working group, both men listening intently to whatever Gaetulicus was saying.

At first, Gaetulicus demurred, but Pullus correctly sensed it was more a matter of form than from any real conviction, so he patiently explained why he thought it was better to lose a man for the span of a few heartbeats who could instantly return to their task than it was to have a man drop his shield, pick up a bolt, and drop it into the channel, especially since there could only be seven men holding shields now instead of eight in order to allow the artillerymen on both rafts. And, as Volusenus watched with an amusement he did not show, if Pullus perhaps laid it on a bit thick about the difficulty faced by his men, what mattered was that it worked. With this settled, the men of Structus’ First and Second Section got on, save for the two who were replaced by Manius and his partner, each of them getting on a raft. This time, Structus arbitrarily chose the two, who endured the jeers and curses of their comrades who were now on the raft. It took some effort to shove the raft out away from the riverbank, until Pullus and Volusenus added their strength to the task. There was some excitement when a pair of Structus’ men made the mistake of moving suddenly and at the same time, tipping the raft precipitously and causing the rock-filled basket to slide in their direction. For the span of a half-dozen heartbeats, Pullus was certain that the raft would tip over and dump everyone into the water, which, although there was no chance of drowning this close to the riverbank, would not only be embarrassing, but many rankers would see as a bad omen. Thankfully, the Immunes in charge of the raft kept a cool head, ordering two other men to move to the opposite side, the only damage being the occupants of the raft getting their feet wet. Using long poles, the two rafts were pushed farther out in the river, the downstream raft tethered to the structure that kept them from drifting away from it, while the men on the other raft had the opposite problem, and the result was that the upstream raft was briefly wedged for a brief period against the horizontal roadway supports that were no more than a foot above the water. While all this was going on, Pullus and the rest of the Fourth divided their attention between watching the working party and the underbrush on the opposite side, the Chatti having been forced into hiding once the scorpions were deployed. Gaetulicus had ordered four of the scorpions to loose their bolts, not because he spotted an enemy, but to demonstrate to them that they were still within range even when they retreated into the heavy undergrowth. While Pullus was not sanguine this would do any good, there had been at least two shouts of alarm, but none that denoted a man in pain, prompting the Pilus Prior to given Gaetulicus a mental nod of recognition. Outwardly, he was as bored as his men, but his eyes never strayed from moving between the working parties and the forest.

When the attack came, in the form of a sudden volley of arrows that came arcing up into the air seemingly out of nowhere, it was a matter of sheer luck that nobody was hit, although the logs of both rafts sprouted quivering shafts as if conjured out of thin air. Whether it was because of Fortuna’s protection or skill, to Pullus and his men, it did not matter, because the next volley was met by raised shields, the hollow report of iron heads punching into the layered wood barrier provided by Structus’ men temporarily dominating the sounds. The men on the very edge of the raft held the shields just a bit higher than normal, which meant their lower legs were exposed, while the men in the second row raised theirs up above their comrades’ heads and placed the bottom edge of their shield on the top edge of the men in the first row but tilting them backward. It was within this shelter that the Immunes continued working, while the rest of the Fourth Cohort watched from their spot a safe distance away. This time, Gaetulicus did not need to give the order, and the distinct crack of the scorpions added to the noise as arrows plunged from the sky to punch into the shields. With every passing heartbeat, Pullus, and everyone else present knew that the collective fortunes of the men on the rafts would run out, but knowing it was inevitable and seeing it happen proved to be two different things. One of Structus’ men on the front rank of the upstream raft paid the price for being forced to hold his shield higher than normal, as a shaft slashed down to punch into his thigh, and while his reaction was understandable, he created even more danger for not just himself but his comrades when, with a sharp cry of pain, he dropped his shield, which struck the edge of the raft then slid off into the water, so that he could grab at the wound with both hands. What occurred next was a subject of much debate, with one group of men believing that the wounded ranker temporarily lost his senses, while another group believed he did it on purpose, deliberately sacrificing his own life by dropping into the water, his armor taking him under immediately before any of his comrades could react. He did make one desperate attempt to grab for the edge of the raft, but the weight of the iron armor protecting him was, ironically and tragically, the cause of his doom. His body would not be found until the next day, more than a mile downstream, but in the moment, what mattered was that his comrade behind him reacted instantly, stepping forward to fill the gap in the line of shields before the Chatti archers could shift their aim.

Arrows continued to fly, yet the men on the rafts stood there, huddled behind their shields while the Immunes worked feverishly, somehow managing to drop the baskets into the correct spot. To retrieve the rafts, cables had been attached, and Pullus sent teams of men from the idle Centuries to grab them and pull them back to the riverbank, hauling them out of range of the hidden Chatti archers. The scorpions had kept up a steady barrage of their own bolts, and there had been a couple screams of agony, but from Pullus’ perspective, they had done practically nothing to suppress the Chatti’s missiles and protect his men. Once the rafts were secured, the Legionaries of Structus’ Century scrambled off, those from the downstream raft who were obviously unaware of their comrade’s fate complaining bitterly about the arrows that studded their shields, not only because it weakened them but the cost to replace them was going to be deducted from their pay, a practice that had been going on for decades but was still understandably reviled by the rankers. The men whose comrade was missing were in a decidedly different frame of mind, and there was a brief quarrel between the two sections as they integrated back into Structus’ Century that required both the Centurion and the Optio to break up, but it was the men from the downstream raft learning about their comrade that actually settled things down. Meanwhile, Gaetulicus and his Immunes were moving on to the next phase, which required help from Pullus’ men, muscling the large trimmed logs that would serve as the pilings for the bridge, while men from Cornutus’ Century, who had drawn the second shortest straw, made their preparations to go out on the rafts. This was the way of the Legions when they were given a task such as this, moving slowly, doggedly, but relentlessly, absorbing the punishment as they constructed the means by which Germanicus and his army could continue their destruction of the Chatti.

As Gaetulicus promised, the sun was still a couple fingers’ width above the trees when the bridge reached a point that, while not all the way across the river, was close enough to enable the Romans to drop into water that was waist deep. While Pullus predictably led the way across the newly laid planks that decked the bridge, the Fourth Cohort was followed by the Third and Fifth, but equally predictable was the fact that Pullus did not wait for them to form up along the riverbank on either side. Holding a shield that he had sent Alex to retrieve from the quaestorium, Pullus did not even wait for his own Cohort to fully fall into a line of Centuries, leaving Volusenus and his men scrambling to catch up as the Fourth went plunging into the underbrush. Pullus and the rest of the Cohort were disappointed but not surprised that, after loosing only two more desultory volleys, the Chatti melted back into the forest, giving the Romans nothing more than a frustrating glimpse of their backs as they fled. Far too experienced to continue the pursuit, there was a moment when the Pili Priores of the three Cohorts debated among themselves about whether they had the numbers to press the issue, with Clepsina of the Fifth Cohort urging that they follow the Chatti in the hope that the warriors who had escaped from Mattium were camped nearby. It was a tempting proposition, Pullus openly admitted, but while his losses had been light—two more men had been killed along with the drowned ranker from Structus’ Century—he also felt certain that Germanicus would not countenance such an aggressive action. Not surprisingly, both Maluginensis and Clepsina, acutely aware of Pullus’ special relationship with their Legate, deferred to his judgment, and the three Cohorts remained a short distance from the riverbank while Gaetulicus’ crew, now free from Chatti harassment, rapidly completed the rest of the bridge. The Cohorts withdrew, the Fourth going first, the smell of raw wood filling their nostrils as the men marched back across the Adrana to return to camp. Waiting for them on the riverbank was Germanicus, who had ridden out to observe the last part of the work, and after returning Pullus’ salute, he beckoned the Pilus Prior to come to his side.

“Well?” Germanicus asked, his expression sober. “I heard you took some losses?”

“Two dead, seven wounded, but only one of the wounded is going to be out of things for any length of time,” Pullus answered, his voice reflecting his pride and his fatigue in equal measure. “But we have a man missing. He took an arrow in the thigh, but,” he sighed, “he went into the river in his armor, so I’m certain he’s dead. If he was just swept away, he would have shown up by now.”

“I’ll say a prayer for the dead,” Germanicus said, “and I’ll make sure my personal physician attends to…?”

“Ovidius,” Pullus correctly interpreted his commander’s tone, “of the Second Century.”

“Ovidius,” Germanicus continued, “and I’ll send a turma downstream to find your man.”

“Thank you, sir,” Pullus replied, then in a subtle message of his own, stepped back and offered a salute. “May I return to my Cohort?”

“Of course,” Germanicus agreed, returning the salute and unfazed by what some other nobleman might take as disrespect.

Pullus turned and trotted off, rejoining his Century just as they reached the Porta Praetoria, while the other two Cohorts followed behind them, each dispersing to their area. For the men of the sections who were now missing a comrade, their duties were not yet done, and as he always did, Pullus made sure that he visited each tent to give his men the coin that they would place in their dead comrade’s mouth, a custom that he had brought with him from the Third Century and now did for the entire Cohort. With the section from Structus’ Century, since the man was still only considered missing and his body had not been found, he decided to read the mood of the section; he was not surprised to see that the man’s comrades had yet to accept the likelihood that he had died, so the coin remained in his purse.

When he left the tent, the section Sergeant followed him out, walking with Pullus a short distance away before saying quietly, “Thank you for doing that, Pilus Prior. We all know that Percennius is dead, but Regillensus isn’t ready to accept it yet.”

Regillensus, Pullus knew, was Percennius’ close comrade, but he said nothing, just offered the Sergeant a pat on the shoulder, then turned and headed for his next stop, the hospital. More than anything, he wanted some time to himself, so he walked slowly towards the forum, his demeanor such that those men of his Cohort who were out in their street understood that approaching him would be a bad idea. Even Volusenus, who had just emerged from his tent after discarding his armor took a step in his direction, then recognized the look on Pullus’ face, and rather than create an awkward situation, turned back and reentered his tent as if he had forgotten something. Once inside, he stood peering through the crack in the flap as the Pilus Prior walked by, studying him carefully. He looks tired, Volusenus thought, but also knew it was more than that, although he could not really define it; if he had known that Pullus was not only aware he was displaying this air but could not pinpoint the cause for it either, Volusenus would have been even more unsettled.

From Pullus’ perspective, he suspected that part of the cause was that, on this campaign, he was feeling the effects of his age more keenly than he had before, and as he had read in his grandfather’s account, for a man carrying the name Titus Pullus, the idea that his body could fail him in any way was almost beyond conception. Both grandfather and grandson had long been accustomed to their size, strength, and all the abilities that came with it. What made matters difficult was that, like most people, they also had the memory of what they had been able to do just a year or two previously. Standing for an entire day, for example, as he and most of the Cohort had done, had never left him feeling this drained before, although he was honest with himself and admitted that it was only by a matter of degree; he had never noticed that he was fatigued at all three or four years earlier. But, he also admitted to himself, it was more than that, and at first he had assumed that, for whatever reason, this situation with Giulia and their son was what weighed so heavily on him, but over the previous weeks, he had begun to suspect that this was not the cause. Whatever it was, he had shocked himself because, for the first time, he had actually begun to think of what a life outside the Legions might look like for him. Initially, he had ascribed this change of heart to the discovery that Giulia was alive, and that Volusenus was his son, yet just in the previous couple of weeks, he had begun to wonder about even that. Reaching the hospital interrupted his thoughts, and he paused a moment before entering, mentally preparing to present himself in the manner he had learned from his grandfather and father, the caring Centurion who was concerned for his men when they were wounded. He was thankful that, as such things went, arrow wounds were among the most minor, unless they happened to sever a vessel or lodge in bone, which could easily become corrupt and lead to either an amputation or an excruciating, lingering death.

Entering, he paused to let his eyes adjust, and he saw that, as promised, Germanicus had sent his personal physician to treat Ovidius, the most seriously wounded ranker, who had taken an arrow in the face, the iron point puncturing the man’s cheekbone and exiting the back of his neck. Somehow, the point did not sever the large vessel on the right side of his neck, nor did it lodge in his brain, but while it did not touch the spinal column, when Pullus had come to check on the man immediately after he had been dragged from the raft, he saw that the wooden shaft was right next to it. About four inches of arrow was protruding from the back, the rest of it sticking up at an angle from the ranker’s face, providing a graphic picture of the angle from which the arrow plunged down. While nothing had been said by his comrades, Pullus had assumed that the ranker had either become tired or he had gotten careless, allowing his shield to move a matter of a couple inches, which was all it took. Now he was sitting up while the physician examined him, aided by two medici, and Pullus decided to save this man for last, going to the other wounded men who were clustered together. The hospital was not completely empty of patients—it never was—although most of those confined were sick from one of the camp illnesses that were a constant trial for the Legions, but there had been very few battle casualties to this point, so Pullus’ voice sounded unnaturally loud as he alternated between teasing and chiding each of the men, making the same jokes that he had learned were old only to him because he had uttered them so often.

Only when he was done with the other wounded men did he return to where the physician, with the aid of two medici who were now holding Ovidius down on his side, was very carefully using a fine-toothed bronze saw to cut the shaft, just behind the iron tip. Pullus was careful to approach slowly, and he maneuvered so that he could not be seen by the wounded man, knowing that rankers had a tendency to react involuntarily to the presence of their Centurion, the impulse to rise to one’s feet and come to intente so ingrained that it was their second nature to do so. And, Pullus remembered, he had actually been in that position once, immediately after he had suffered the horrific wound to his left arm during the ambush at a place called The Quarry, during his second year under the standard and soon after his transfer from the Fourth Cohort of his original Legion, the 8^th, to the First, under the command of Pullus’ father’s former Princeps Posterior Publius Canidius, although Pullus would always think of him by the nickname Urso. It had been Urso himself who had pushed Pullus back to the ground because, despite the medicus attending him being in the process of examining his wound, he had seen his Primus Pilus approaching. Stopping a pace away, Pullus watched in morbid fascination as, once the physician was finished sawing through the shaft, he moved around to Ovidius’ other side, facing him.

“Gregarius,” the physician had a heavy accent, but he was clearly understandable, and his tone was apologetic as he explained, “I am about to extract the arrow, but I am afraid that we are going to have to do things a bit differently. Normally, I would have you bite down on the gag, but unfortunately, that would cause the muscles of your jaw to tense, and that is not good. Instead, I am going have you try to relax your jaw and neck as much as you possibly can. Do you understand?” Before Ovidius could reply, the physician, clearly alarmed at what he had just said, added hurriedly, “Wait! Do not try to speak, and I apologize. Just blink twice if you understand.”

Since Pullus was on the other side, he did not see, but obviously, Ovidius had given the correct response in the proper manner, because the physician nodded. Then, giving a glance to the two medici, one of them draped himself over Ovidius’ legs, while the other grasped Ovidius’ exposed shoulder, albeit awkwardly since they had not been able to take the man’s armor off, and Pullus saw the physician take a deep breath. Reaching out, he carefully wrapped his fingers around the shaft at a spot just an inch away from Ovidius’ shattered cheekbone, paused a heartbeat, then in one smooth motion, withdrew the shaft. What followed happened very quickly, and Pullus’ view was still obscured because of his position and the medicus responsible for holding Ovidius’ upper body. He heard Ovidius groan, except that it almost immediately changed to a gagging sound, as if his mouth had suddenly filled with liquid, but it was the sudden spew of blood that burst forth from Ovidius’ mouth to spatter all over the physician’s heavy leather apron that, to Pullus and his comrades, was identical to that used by butchers, which engendered the nickname men used for the medical staff. The sight and sound of Ovidius gagging caused Pullus to move around to the opposite side, worried that the wounded man might choke, but neither the physician nor the medici made any move to help Ovidius.

“We must allow the blood that was trapped behind his cheekbone to drain out, or it will pool there and become corrupt,” the physician explained, and even before Pullus reached the physician’s side, Ovidius had stopped gagging, the blood now slowed to a dribble that pooled on the dirt floor of the hospital.

Another reason Pullus had not been eager to come around to this side was because facial wounds were not only gruesome, but there were men who insisted that becoming disfigured, even in battle, was a mark of disfavor by the gods. He certainly did not ascribe to it, but there was still a residual effect that made him reluctant to move over to where he could see Ovidius’ face; nevertheless, he took a breath, then fixed his expression, intent on not reacting to what he might see. Even with his preparation, he had to stop himself from drawing in a breath, which was even more important because Ovidius was not only conscious, but his eyes had been drawn by the movement of his Pilus Prior stepping into his range of vision.

For a brief moment, Pullus said nothing, then he found his voice, saying gruffly, “If you ask me, that Chatti bastard did you a favor, Ovidius. You’re not nearly as ugly as you were.”

What issued from Ovidius was unlike anything Pullus had ever heard, a combination of chuckle, groan, and with the return of that gurgling sound that quickly transformed into a bout of coughing.

“Pluto’s balls, Ovidius,” Pullus gasped, dropping down on his knees, inadvertently landing in Ovidius’ blood. “I’m sorry!” Ovidius was unable to respond verbally, so he shook his head, which not surprisingly wrenched another groan from him, and now Pullus put his hand on Ovidius’ shoulder, patting it awkwardly, but when the wounded man tried to open his mouth, Pullus said sternly, “No. Don’t try to talk. Again, I apologize.” He paused, trying to think of what to say, only ending up with, “Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?”

When Ovidius shook his head, Pullus felt guilty and relieved in equal parts; it had been difficult for him to maintain his demeanor at the sight of a man who had one side of his face collapsed, where, instead of the protruding of his right cheekbone, there was now a sunken crater, the skin already bluish-black from the bleeding just underneath the surface. What was even worse, Pullus was certain that Ovidius could read the truth in Pullus’ expression, the tears that, somehow, he had managed to avoid shedding now rolling down his ruined face at what he saw in his Pilus Prior’s eyes.

Standing, Pullus concluded awkwardly, “I’ll let your section know I’ve seen you, and I’m sure they’ll be along shortly.”

This time, Ovidius tried to say something, but the swelling was such that nothing intelligible came from him, and Pullus, not knowing what else to do, nodded sympathetically then turned to walk away, making a subtle gesture to the physician to follow him.

“Will he ever be able to march again?” Pullus asked bluntly.

The physician was obviously not surprised at the question, answering readily, “If the gods are kind and everything heals cleanly, yes, Pilus Prior, he will be able to march. Now,” he shrugged, “how he will manage to eat solid food remains to be seen. Right now, we can keep him alive on broth until the swelling goes down. But,” he finished by warning, “if that wound corrupts, there will be swelling, and if it is severe enough, it will cut off his air and he will strangle.”

None of what he heard surprised Pullus; over his two decades, he had seen all manner of wounds, and while this one was more gruesome than most, there were enough men in similar circumstances over his time for him to know that what the physician was really saying was the odds were essentially even that Ovidius would die, and even if he lived, he faced a long, trying ordeal. From the brutally objective perspective of the Pilus Prior of a Cohort, Pullus mentally discarded Ovidius as an active member of his Century and Pullus’ Cohort for the foreseeable future. Thanking the physician, Pullus left the hospital, returning to his Cohort area, stopping at Ovidius’ tent, and while he did not lie, exactly, neither did he mention his conversation with the physician.

“He’s a tough bastard, Pilus Prior,” Ovidius’ close comrade said, “and he’ll be back with us before you know it!”

Perhaps this was said with bit of false bravado, but when his comrades all added their voice, Pullus knew that their support was meant as much for the close comrade as it was for the thought that Ovidius would survive.

“That’s good to hear,” Pullus knew he was expected to say something, and he was being honest when he finished, “and Ovidius is blessed by Fortuna to have the comrades in his section behind him, and that will help him heal faster.”

With that, he was finally done with his immediate tasks and returned to his own quarters, where Alex, who had been alerted that the Cohort had returned, was waiting to help Pullus out of his armor, the first step in the process. Pullus’ fatigue was obvious, and Alex knew from experience that when his de facto uncle was in this state, it was unwise to ask him many questions, so he confined himself to simply asking about the casualties.

“Two dead,” Pullus said wearily as he bent over at the waist to allow Alex to slide the hamata off. His voice was muffled as he continued, “And one of Structus’ boys was wounded in the thigh and somehow went into the river. He’s missing,” the hamata slid off his body and he stood erect as Alex walked over to the wooden stand to drop the armor over it as Pullus admitted, “but he’s undoubtedly dead. Other than that,” he shrugged, and Alex heard the flat, toneless quality that told him Pullus was physically and emotionally drained, “we have seven wounded, one seriously.”

“I heard about the Ovidius from Vespillo’s Century,” Alex said, and despite himself, he grimaced at the idea of the wound. “He took an arrow in the face?”

Pullus nodded, not answering immediately, but he knew Alex as well as Alex knew him, and he understood that his nephew and chief clerk was doing his part to help Pullus deal with the aftermath of a battle. Although, he thought, not for the first time, this won’t even make it into the Legion diary, so I actually haven’t led my Cohort in battle yet. Despite this understanding of the severity of what would barely qualify as a skirmish, Pullus was once more reminded that for the men like Ovidius, and the comrades of the dead men, this day would be etched in their minds for the rest of their days, even more so than any future major battle, provided they all survived it. That was the nature of the Legions, and Pullus supposed, of men in general; the historical importance of something was measured in their minds by how much impact it had on them personally, and losing a friend or suffering a debilitating wound marked this day as impactful as Germanicus’ father’s victories against the Germans, or Divus Augustus’ defeat of Marcus Antonius at Actium.

Once Pullus had shed his armor, his greaves had been unstrapped, and his padded undertunic peeled off, sodden with his sweat, Alex asked, “Food or scraping first?”

Pullus considered for a moment, then decided, “Scraping.”

As he removed his tunic, Alex went to the small box that contained the bathing supplies that were an integral part of a Roman’s life, no matter whether they marched under the standard or not, withdrawing the strigil and the flask of oil that, while it was mostly olive oil, had also been infused with a number of herbs and the essence of other oils, which required Alex to shake vigorously. This concoction was one of Pullus’ secrets; at least, so he, and to a lesser degree, Alex, believed, and it had been developed, mostly by trial and error, yet despite Alex’s mild skepticism, he could not dismiss the evidence his eyes presented, because after vigorously rubbing the oil all over Pullus’ body, as always, his skin began to almost glow a vibrant pink, the sign that blood was rushing to the surface of his skin. And, as it always did, it caused Pullus to shiver slightly, not from cold but from the sensation caused by that sudden flush, along with a tingling feeling in his extremities. Kneading the oiled muscles with a skill that came from long practice, Alex was also careful, knowing where to tread lightly, like the scar tissue on Pullus’ left arm and the slightly puckered hole in his side, the first wound that he had received under the standard, though it was not his first wound. That, as Alex knew, was on his back, just under his left shoulder blade, courtesy of a Latobici arrow when Pullus was ten years old, and he was careful with that one as well. Neither of them spoke, which was also a practice they had developed after a battle or a trying day, allowing Pullus’ mind to empty without the distraction of conversation, and Alex was rewarded with the sound of Pullus’ breathing slowing, becoming more regular. While he remained standing, arms slightly extended out from his body, Pullus’ eyes were closed, welcoming the feeling of relaxation that slowly suffused his body, which in turn allowed his mind to empty from all of the myriad and unending worries of a Pilus Prior after his Cohort has seen action. Once Alex was done rubbing the infused oil into Pullus’ skin, he took the strigil and, with quick, practiced movements, scraped the oil from Pullus’ body, taking the dirt with it.

Only once did Pullus break the silence, grunting, “I wish we had a caldarium.”

“Not until we get back to Ubiorum,” Alex replied briskly; this was a recurring complaint by Pullus, and his answer was always the same.

Indeed, Alex suspected that Pullus’ comment was more out of habit than anything else, and in a continuation of their established routine, once Alex was through, he left Pullus’ private quarters as part of the next step in the ritual. This had changed recently; not in substance, but in the identity of the participants. When Pullus had been promoted, while he brought Alex with him, he had left Alex’s counterpart Balio behind to provide Licinius with an experienced clerk, while Macer had taken Alex’s best friend Lucco with him to the Second Cohort. The second clerk was, like many of the class of scribes and clerks who were so important to the Legions, a Greek, but he had been born into that condition as one of the slaves belonging to a wealthy Roman merchant who had fallen on hard times and had sold him to the army. His name was Demetrios, and he was even younger than Alex, although, as Pullus was forced to remind himself, Alex was no longer a youngster but a man in his prime whose thirtieth birthday was not that far off. Initially, he had clashed with Alex, believing for reasons that Pullus would never learn that he should have been considered the chief clerk, meaning the preparation of the Pilus Prior’s meals was beneath him. By this point, however, Alex had asserted his authority in a manner that meant that, when Alex emerged from Pullus’ private quarters, Demetrios got up and went hurrying out to retrieve Pullus’ evening meal where it had been cooking on the charcoal fire outside the tent, without a word being said. From Alex’s perspective, it was not only important but a point of pride that he had settled this small power struggle himself without Pullus being aware that there was any friction in the first place. That Pullus chose to allow him to believe he was unaware of what had taken place, which Gemellus had informed him about since the Signifer had been passing the stables in Ubiorum, shortly before the Legion had departed, and seen Alex administering what was in effect a savage beating of Demetrios, was something about which Alex would remain unaware. Ultimately, what mattered, both to Alex and to Pullus was that, by the time the Legion marched with Germanicus, the hierarchy had been firmly established, and it was within a matter of heartbeats that Demetrios returned, holding a steaming bowl of soldier’s porridge in one hand, and an entire loaf of castris panera in the other, holding it in a manner that enabled him to place two small hard cheeses and a hunk of pork on top of it. Without a word being said, Demetrios transferred his burden to Alex, who, for what he was certain was the thousandth time, found himself shaking his head at the sight of the amount of food it took to satisfy his uncle. Pullus had settled behind his desk, where he usually took his meals, and Alex placed the bowl and bread on it. Pullus, as was his habit, gave a grunting sound that Alex knew was his way of saying thanks, but he was already pushing the flap aside to return to the outer office on the way to retrieve his own meal. By the time he returned, as he knew would be the case, Pullus had already consumed most of the porridge and half of the bread, which prompted Alex to shake his head again, although he wore a half-smile on his face.

“What? I was hungry!” Pullus protested, but in a manner that befitted a long-running dialogue that the pair had been conducting for many years.

“I think,” Alex replied, dropping onto the edge of Pullus’ cot, his normal spot when he consumed his own meal, “it would be easier to talk about the times you’re not hungry. In fact,” he cocked his head and asked teasingly, “can you even remember the last time you were full?”

Pullus considered, or pretended to, then answered with a triumphant grin, “Yes, I can.” He paused for comedic effect before saying, “I was twelve.”

Alex laughed, then the pair resumed eating, but in a silence that bespoke a familiarity and comfort that only comes from many watches of time spent together.

Alex broke the silence by musing, “I wonder if Titus has made up his mind yet.”

Pullus paused in his shoving of a piece of bread drenched in olive oil into his mouth, thinking for a moment before he shrugged. “There’s no telling with him. But,” his tone became sober, “it’s no small thing he’s considering, Alex. Going out on his own this soon?”

“I know.” Alex sighed. Like Pullus, he stopped eating to add, “But, he’s truly gifted, Uncle Titus. And he says that he’s learned everything he can from Scrofa.”

Pullus nodded, not because he was humoring Alex, but he had seen some of the work his younger brother, who had been named in honor of the first Titus Pullus, had created, and he completely agreed, although he did have some misgivings.

“The one thing I would suggest,” he said to Alex, “is that if he does this, he needs to consider relocating. Ubiorum has grown, no doubt, but it’s still a small town in the ways that count.”

“I told him that,” Alex exclaimed, more loudly than needed, but his frustration was not aimed at Pullus. “But then there’s Drusilla, and he’s afraid that if he forces her to choose between him or her father, he’ll lose her.”

This, Pullus knew, was also a consideration, but he felt compelled to point out, “If she’s the kind of girl who would choose her father over him, is she really worth worrying about?”

“And,” Alex sighed, “I told him that as well.” Shaking his head, he finished his last bite, then as he chewed, he mumbled, “It’s his life, I suppose. So he’s going to make his own decisions.”

“Yes, it is, and he is,” Pullus agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t worry about him.”

With that, Pullus finished his own meal, leaned back in his chair, and belched as Alex got up and picked up the bowl, pausing long enough to wipe the crumbs off Pullus’ desk, grumbling under his breath as he did so, and this, as much of a ritual as the bath and the meal, helped settle Pullus’ mind and revive his spirit. Now that the bridge was finished, they would be marching the next morning, and only the gods knew what lay in wait for the men of Germanicus’ army.

As expected, Germanicus led his men across the newly constructed bridge, pressing deeper into Chatti lands, while their warriors fell back on the familiar tactics of quick, hit-and-run ambushes, where they appeared as numeni from the heavy underbrush, hurled their short throwing spears, launched a dozen or so arrows, and only occasionally lingered long enough to clash with the Legionaries under attack. The daily march was subjected to a series of sudden stops, where most of the time the bulk of the army was aware of the reason for it only because the Corniceni in the area of the column where the ambush was sprung sounded the notes that signaled an attack. Sometimes, the assault would occur within earshot, or even within sight, farther up or back along the column, the reaction of those not under direct threat always the same, turning in that direction, with the men on the outside files suddenly becoming the most popular men in their Century as their comrades demanded to know what they saw taking place. And, occasionally, those who had witnessed the surprise attack the day before, or even earlier that same day, would find themselves suddenly assailed, forced on the defensive but without the opportunity to pursue their attackers once the Chatti expended their supply of missiles. It was maddeningly frustrating, but it was also a situation with which the men marching for Germanicus were all too familiar. Shortly after midday, scouts returned with the location of another Chatti village, which the leading elements reached about a third of a watch later, so by the time the 1^st arrived, it being their day to march at the rear, only smoldering heaps of debris that had once been the buildings were left. The stopping point for the day was reached shortly afterward, the camp quickly and expertly constructed, but even before the men were finished with their assigned tasks, the bucina sounded from the praetorium, summoning all Pili Priores.

Pullus was standing with the other five Centurions of the Cohort when the distinctively different sound of the horn used in camp drifted across, interrupting him in his own instructions, and he finished with, “Let me go find out what this is all about. I’ll send Alex to your tents to come to my quarters when I get back.

While it was slightly unusual that Germanicus spoke with all the Pili Priores at one time, it was certainly not unheard of, so none of the Centurions thought much of it, and when, shortly after they finished their evening meal, they were sent for by Pullus, although they certainly speculated about what they were about to be told, it was in a desultory fashion. The only man who did not participate was Vespillo, but this was not unusual; indeed, it would have been easier for Volusenus to count the number of times the Pilus Posterior had uttered more than a few words since the incident at Mattium. It did not particularly help the atmosphere of conviviality among the officers of the Fourth Cohort, but Volusenus had quickly determined that there were benefits in Vespillo’s silence, and he could tell his counterparts felt the same way. When they filed into Pullus’ office, Alex holding the flap open, the customary five stools were in front of Pullus’ desk, and Alex began immediately to pour wine into six cups. Once they were settled, there was a brief exchange about the day’s march, offered in between sips of watered wine, which Volusenus took as a sign that what Pullus was about to impart was not momentous in nature.

Finally, Pullus addressed the subject of the meeting, telling the others, “Germanicus has decided to change things up a bit. Tomorrow, we’re going to be changing direction and heading due east.”

He paused to take a sip, mainly to allow his Centurions to consult the mental map each of them carried in their heads of the area, but it was actually Vespillo who, surprisingly, offered up his guess, “Are we headed for his father’s old camp?”

Pullus offered Vespillo a smile, raising his cup in a salute that, at least to Volusenus’ eyes, was sincere and not mocking.

“Vespillo is right,” he confirmed, but when he said nothing else, Volusenus felt compelled to ask, somewhat crossly, “It’s nice that you two know, but could you explain to some of us who aren’t that wise exactly where that is? And,” he thought to add, “why we’re heading there?”

Pullus, rather than being irritated, grinned at Volusenus, but he answered readily enough. “If you’d be patient, youngster, I’d tell you. As far as where that is,” he paused again, the grin fading as he tried to calculate the distance, finally offering, “my best guess is that it’s about fifteen miles from here, almost due east. There’s a hill just to the north of a bend in a river, I think it’s called the Werra, and Germanicus’ father Drusus built a camp there that he and his army used as a base of operations.”

“Was this when you marched with Drusus, Pilus Prior?” Structus asked this, surprising Volusenus; he had not been aware that Pullus ever marched with Germanicus’ father.

Pullus shook his head, answering, “No, this was before the 8^th was sent to march with him. I think,” he frowned, a habit he had developed when trying to summon memories, “it was about three years before that.”

Before he could stop himself, Volusenus blurted out, “Pluto’s balls, Pilus Prior. I knew you were old, but…”

He did not finish, only because his counterparts began roaring with laughter, even Vespillo who, seemingly, temporarily forgot his antipathy towards the recipient of Volusenus’ jab. Pullus tried his best to appear as if he was upset, glowering at Volusenus for perhaps a heartbeat before joining in, and the six men enjoyed this moment for a few more heartbeats before Pullus finally got a word in, using his favorite epithet.

“Oh,” he growled, but wiping a tear from his mirth as he did, “go piss on your boots, you young pup.” The laughter died out, allowing Pullus to continue, “But yes, it was about three years before that, and Drusus set the camp up as a base of operations. And now, Germanicus is leading us there. We’re going to rebuild the camp.”

“To what purpose, Pilus Prior?” Cornutus asked, and for the first time, Pullus seemed to hesitate, although he did answer, “He thinks that if we remain in place for a few days but then send at least a Legion out into the area to keep doing what we’ve been doing, it will compel the Chatti to try something.”

A silence settled on the party, each Centurion absorbing this in their own way; in Volusenus’ case, he sipped from his cup as he thought it through, finally offering, “So he’s going to use a Legion as bait and hope that the Chatti snap at it?”

“That’s the plan,” Pullus agreed. Then he stared down into his cup, the frown returning. A heartbeat passed before he continued, in more of a musing tone than as if he was imparting information, “Honestly, I think this is more about resurrecting something his father built than for any real purpose. But,” his head came up, and he made sure to look at each of them as he spoke, “that’s just my speculation, and it doesn’t need to go any farther than here. Is that understood?”

It was not lost on Volusenus that Pullus had ended by staring directly at Vespillo, but they all murmured their agreement and promised that this last part would not be divulged. This was how Volusenus took it, at least, but since Vespillo was sitting at the opposite end of the row of stools, it was impossible for him to see the Pilus Posterior’s demeanor. With that, Pullus stood, the rest following suit, some of them hastily swallowing the last of their watered wine, then placed their cup on the small table next to the flap as they filed out, each of them thanking their Pilus Prior as they left. Since Volusenus was the last man out, over his shoulder, he gave Pullus a quick glance, but the older man was standing, head bowed as if he was studying something on his desk, except that the desk was bare of anything. There was nothing obviously wrong, Volusenus knew; Pili Priores had a lot on their minds, but Volusenus nonetheless felt a stirring of unease.

Whatever concerns Volusenus may have had about Pullus were quickly forgotten in the hectic activities that came with an army breaking camp, especially when it was the turn of the 1^st to be the vanguard Legion, and the Fourth had been selected by Sacrovir to serve as the advance Cohort, which created an air of anticipation over and above the norm. For the rankers, being the advance Cohort meant there was a prospect of not just some sort of action, but more importantly, the chance for enrichment since they would be the first to enter a Chatti village or town. Individually, particularly the experienced men, they knew that this was more a matter of chance, and the reality was that it was just as likely that all they would encounter would be at best a lone hut, or perhaps two, but when the men assembled in their Century formations, any sense of reality was swept away. And, as Volusenus had learned, it was at the behest of those few men whose imaginations were such that their talk of the possible untold riches overwhelmed the good sense of the men who knew better. As Volusenus marched beside his Century, listening to the men chattering excitedly about what might lie just a mile or two ahead, he could only shake his head, which caught Macerinus’ eye.

“It happens every time,” the Signifer commented wryly. “Before we’ve gone a stadium, three or four men running their mouths make the rest of these idiots forget the reality that we’re just as likely to find cac as we are a fortune.”

Volusenus laughed, replying, “At least it gives them something to talk about.”

“Oh, it does,” Macerinus agreed. “At least, for the first mile, until the Pilus Prior comes back here and starts whacking these bastards for talking when they should be watching and listening.”

Although this could have been taken as a reprimand from his Signifer, Volusenus knew that Macerinus was simply reminding him of the truth.

“All right,” Volusenus called out. “That’s enough talk, you bastards! Shut your mouths and keep your eyes open.”

As he commanded, a silence descended over his Century, the tramping of hobnailed soles and creaking of leather becoming the predominant sound as the Fourth settled into the routine that was part of the army on campaign. The first obstacle came in form of the river, where they found a turma of cavalry waiting for them to show them a spot they could ford, prompting the first stop of the day. And, inevitably, the silence was disrupted, this time by men muttering about the prospect of plunging into water that, since it was still spring, meant the water would be freezing, something that the Centurions ignored as long as the noise did not get above a certain level. Equally certain, Volusenus knew and was quickly confirmed for him, was wagering on just how deep the water would be, with particular attention being paid to whether or not the water would reach a spot that was of universal concern for men marching under the standard, and frankly, for men everywhere.

“None of you cunni better be wagering your rations,” he said in an almost conversational tone, but he was watching his Century carefully, and as he suspected, some of the men suddenly seemed interested in something on the ground, or their mouths quickly shut.

It’s always the same men, he thought with some disgust, but at least it makes my job easier. The movement resumed, with the First plunging into the river, but because of their spot and the thick forest on either side of the narrow track they were using, it was impossible for Volusenus to look ahead to see how wide or how deep the river was, meaning that his men were at even more of a disadvantage. One by one, each Century reached the riverbank, but being the last one also meant that the riverbank on both sides was churned, slippery mud, and despite Volusenus and Gillo calling out warnings to that effect, men lost their footing as they tried to negotiate the downward slope. The level of disturbance and chaos increased with every Century, and it was small comfort to Volusenus knowing that by the time the rest of the army used this ford, the conditions would be far worse. It began with the Third Section, when a man in the middle of the rank lost his footing and landed on his ass, but it was his pack that caused the bigger issue, the opposite end of the furca flipping backward as the man’s pack hit the ground, smacking the man in the Fourth Section immediately behind the unfortunate ranker squarely in the face, breaking his nose. Before Volusenus could have counted to three, the middle of his Century was a jumbled mess of men who either lost their own footing when they were forced to move more quickly than carefully on the slippery mud or were jostled by one of their comrades. Cursing roundly, Volusenus moved into the mess, grabbing first one ranker then another, using his strength and size to try and restore at least a semblance of order. The first two ranks of his Century were already in the water, but several of them stopped to turn and gawk at their comrades, some of them shouting in alarm at the sight of a close friend sliding down the mud embankment or laughing at a close friend sliding down the mud embankment. In short, it was a mess.

“Go to Macerinus!” Volusenus bellowed, pointing to his Signifer who, as was the practice, had been the first across so that he could plant his standard, which served as the reference point to form up on the opposite side. “Don’t just stand there gawking, you idiots!”

Thankfully, the men in the river obeyed, and after a span of several more heartbeats, the rest of the Century was plunging into the water, although one man had to be helped because instead of holding his pack, that hand was clutching his nose as he tried to stop the bleeding. Volusenus snatched up the man’s load, cursing in disgust, some of which was aimed at Gillo, who in his judgment had been slow to get involved to sort the mess out. It was understandable to a degree; more than once, Volusenus had felt one of his feet sliding, and he had come perilously close to landing in the muck himself, but blessed Fortuna had kept him from suffering that indignity. Still, that was what Optios were for, at least that was how Volusenus saw it, and he reminded himself to have a talk with Gillo about it once they made camp.

Once the Sixth was across, which Volusenus had Macerinus signal by thrusting the standard high in the air three times, the Fourth resumed, and it prompted Volusenus to comment to his Signifer, “At least we were the first across. It’s going to be a lot worse for those bastards in the 5^th.”

“If you say so,” Macerinus grumbled, but the cause for his discontent was made clear when he pointed at Volusenus, saying accusingly, “but you didn’t have your balls shrivel up like raisins. By Dis, that water was cold!”

It was one of those moments when Volusenus, like Pullus, was reminded of a fact that he had long since taken for granted, and he was actually somewhat surprised when he glanced down and saw that only the bottom few inches of his tunic were wet.

Laughing, he teased Macerinus, “It’s not my fault the gods loved me so much they made me tall enough to keep my balls from getting wet.”

Macerinus’ response was nothing more than a grunt, but the march had resumed, and so did the routine that came with it, the temporary excitement of crossing a river quickly forgotten by everyone, except those who had to endure the taunting from their comrades for being clumsy enough to fall in the mud. It was, in every respect, a normal day on the march.

Much to the disappointment of the Fourth Cohort, the only habitations that lay in their path were three small farms, although one had four huts, including a building that passed for a stable. And, to nobody’s surprise, the inhabitants were nowhere to be found, so that after a quick but thorough search, everything was put to the torch. There were two large cleared fields that had been plowed, but it was not the responsibility of the advance Cohort to despoil those; that job was left to the rest of the vanguard Legion, so once everything was fully ablaze, Pullus ordered the march to resume. At regular intervals, they would be met by groups of horsemen, sometimes as few as a half-dozen but never just a single rider, who gave Pullus information about what lay immediately ahead. Because they were now paralleling this part of the river, which changed from its north/south direction to more east/west, small detours were required to avoid leading the army into boggy spots that were a feature of land along a river. It was impossible to know, but Pullus’ estimate was that it added close to two miles to the actual march, and he was beginning to fret that Germanicus would deem the progress too slow. And, when they made their midday stop, his fears seemed confirmed when a shout from Volusenus alerted him that a party was approaching from behind them. Turning, he immediately saw that it was the Legate himself, along with bodyguards and a couple of Tribunes, including Gaetulicus, who were moving at the trot in his direction. Pullus waited until the Legate was within about fifteen paces before he called his men to intente while offering his salute, which Germanicus returned before sliding off his horse. As he strode towards Pullus, he turned to the standing men, making a gesture that indicated they could break from their position of intente and take a seat on the ground if they chose, then turned his attention on Pullus.

“Pilus Prior Pullus,” Germanicus spoke loudly, telling Pullus this was meant for his men’s ears as much as for himself, “I see you and your boys have been very thorough!”

“Sir?” Pullus asked, momentarily confused.

“It’s just that the Fourth picked those farms so clean that nobody else found a kernel of grain.” Germanicus smiled then, and Pullus relaxed, understanding what was happening now.

“You should have known my boys wouldn’t leave anything behind, sir,” Pullus’ voice was raised to match Germanicus’, and while he did not glance in their direction, he did not need to, seeing the broad grins on the men within the corner of his vision.

With this exchange out of the way, Germanicus made a subtle but unmistakable gesture as he walked a short distance away, and for a moment, Pullus worried that he heard the groans and muttered curses from the men within earshot.

Germanicus had his back turned towards them, so only Pullus saw his broad grin as the Legate said quietly, “No need for them to hear this. Besides,” he chuckled, “they’ll know soon enough.” Turning serious, he continued, “We’re about five miles away from my father’s old camp, which means we should be there about a watch before dark. If,” he added, superfluously in Pullus’ opinion, “the Chatti don’t have other ideas.”

“Has Gaesorix’s boys seen any sign of them?” Pullus asked, prompting an oath from Germanicus before he replied, “Oh, they’ve found a lot of signs. Apparently, they’re paralleling us, a warband on each side of us. My guess is they’re waiting to see where we’re heading. Although,” he admitted, “I imagine they have a really good idea, since they know I’m leading this army.”

It was, Pullus admitted to himself, something that had crossed his mind, and it was why he had alluded to Germanicus’ father to his Centurions, although he was not about to say this openly.

Instead, he chose a more neutral path, commenting, “That only means they’re going to find out one way or another today.” He paused for a moment, then decided he might as well ask, “Do you really think they’re going to come after us once we’re in your father’s camp?”

Germanicus did not answer at first, choosing to turn and stare off in an easterly direction; finally, he admitted, “Honestly, Pullus, I don’t know. Oh,” he waved a hand in the general direction of the column, “I know everyone thinks this is only about my father.” He suddenly gave Pullus a sidelong glance, smiling slightly as he chided, “Even you, Pullus. Admit it.”

“Well,” Pullus acknowledged, feeling awkward about it, “the thought may have crossed my mind.”

Germanicus snorted softly, saying with mild sarcasm, “Put like a true patrician, Pullus.” Before Pullus could reply, he sighed and continued, “But there’s some truth in that, no doubt. Honestly,” he shook his head, “I’m not sure myself why it’s so important to me. But what I do know is that we have to do something to get these savages angry enough to throw caution to the winds and come after us.”

This, Pullus knew, was an important consideration; whether it would work or not, this was something Pullus questioned, but he also understood why Germanicus was willing to try it, because ultimately, this season was not about the Chatti, it was about Arminius. And, he recognized, the sooner we deal with the Chatti the better.

This recognition was what prompted him to assure Germanicus, “I think you’re doing the right thing, sir. The sooner we put paid to these bastards, the sooner we can gut that cunnus Arminius.”

As Pullus intended, this seemed to help Germanicus’ doubts. Suddenly, the Legate’s demeanor subtly but unmistakably changed, becoming brisk, the signal to Pullus that this moment of intimacy between two comrades was over.

“Yes, well,” Germanicus turned and began heading for his horse, whose reins were being held by Gaetulicus, “time to resume the march, Pullus.”

“Yes, sir,” Pullus called out, already moving towards the Century as well. “You heard the Legate! On your feet!”

By the time Germanicus vaulted into the saddle, the men of the First were all standing and picking up their packs, the other Centuries following suit in a rippling movement down the column.

Waiting just long enough for Signiferi, starting with Macerinus in the rear, to thrust their standards in the air, Pullus turned back to the east, filled his lungs, and bellowed the command to resume the march.

The army reached Drusus’ old camp without any further excitement, not even coming across any more farms or homesteads. And, while Pullus had expected as much, the sight of the old camp, with sections of the turf walls having tumbled down to partially fill the ditches, which themselves were choked with weeds and bushes, unleashed a string of curses, not just by him but from all the men.

“It might as well not be built at all,” Volusenus grumbled after the Centurions had gathered to survey the ruins as they waited for the rest of the Legion to arrive.

“What are you complaining for?” Structus laughed. “It’s not like you’re going to be cleaning any of that out if we get that duty.”

“I know,” Volusenus protested, “but I have to listen to all the complaining. Just like you do.”

“Legionaries were given the right to complain by Mars and Bellona,” Cornutus intoned an oft-repeated utterance, usually offered up by Legionaries who faced the prospect of a smack with a vitus for doing so.

“Then Mars and Bellona can get their asses down here and listen to them,” Volusenus muttered, which prompted enough laughter that it drew Pullus’ attention.

“If you don’t have anything better to do than stand around and giggle like a bunch of girls,” he called out, “I can certainly find something for you.”

This had the desired effect, each man returning to their Centuries as the Cohort waited for the rest of the army to arrive, the rest of the 1^st quickly reaching the spot where Pullus had arrayed his Cohort, placing them in a spot where the other Cohorts of the first line could form up to their right, while placing the Fourth far enough in front of the river to allow the remainder to array themselves without standing on the riverbank. Like the veterans they were, the men of the Fourth were sprawled out on the ground, although in their formation, using their packs as pillows or bolsters, some of them catching up on sleep while others resumed what was essentially a dice game with no beginning that anyone remembered or an end that anyone could foresee. Rather than risk another chastisement, Volusenus chose to stand with Gillo and Macerinus, talking quietly as they watched their comrades arrive. Experience told them that perhaps a third of a watch would pass before the work on the camp would begin, once enough of the army was present to divide the labor. As always, wagering was brisk about what task the 1^st would draw, and as always, Volusenus watched with amusement, knowing that men based their bets on their own outlook, the optimistic, normally cheerful rankers always choosing the easiest duty, standing guard, or the second most desirable, setting the picket stakes once the wall was completed. Those men who were dour by nature, looking for the rat turd in the pot of honey as the saying went, placed their money on the prospect that they would find themselves digging a ditch, or chopping wood for the towers and, if they would be in place long enough, the gates. On this day, the pessimists won, Pullus returning from his meeting with Sacrovir to curtly announce the Fourth had drawn cleaning out the ditch.

“At least we don’t have to do much digging,” he had offered, but Volusenus and the rest of them heard the half-hearted tone, all of them knowing this would make no difference to the men doing the work.

Unfortunately, Volusenus and his fellow officers learned very quickly that, in this, the men were justified in their belief that cleaning out the ditch would not be any less onerous than digging it, and in fact, it was universally agreed that this time it was worse than just digging. Disguised by the presence of so much vegetation was about two feet of stagnant, foul-smelling water, which was bad enough, but the mud underneath the water was even viler. It was probably in the span of a couple hundred heartbeats that a section of men discovered at least one reason for the pervasive stench, stumbling on the carcass of some small animal who had presumably tumbled in and been unable to extricate itself from the sticky, clinging mud. Adding to the normal sounds of work, men began retching, and even for Volusenus and the other officers who were standing up on level ground, the foulness of the air caused them to pull their neckerchiefs up to cover their noses. It was a thoroughly miserable experience, and before much longer, Sacrovir went and found Germanicus, prevailing on him to relent in his command that the ditch needed to be returned to its original state, clear of any kind of obstructions, with only that vegetation that might provide cover for a man being yanked out by the roots. By the time the men assigned to the ditch were finished, the walls had been repaired, the tents raised, and the guard Legion was already in the process of preparing its evening meal where the filthy, thoroughly exhausted, and highly disgruntled Legionaries of the 1^st marched past.

What happened next was, perhaps, inevitable, and in fact was not at all unusual, as the men of the 15^th began to jeer and mock their comrades who had drawn what the men called the dirty end of the sponge, paying particular attention to the collective odor emanating from them as they marched past. And, if Pullus’ men had not been so filthy and certain that they would never get the stench of all that foul mud off them, they probably would have marched by with only verbal punches thrown. Instead, it was a man from Vespillo’s Century who, dropping his pack, immediately launched himself at his nearest tormentor, but while he was the first, it was only by a matter of a heartbeat, and it quickly involved more than just the Second Century. It happened so quickly with the Sixth that, for the span of a couple heartbeats, Volusenus could only seem to stand there in open-mouthed shock, but then he was moving, his vitus raised as he aimed for one of his men from his First Section, a stocky veteran named Aulus Atilius, although he was universally known as Pulcher in one of those cruel jokes. Part of the reason for his nickname was because of the nose that had been broken so many times that it seemed to be squashed flat against his face, and he lived up to his reputation as a brawler by instantly flattening a tall, lanky Gregarius from the 15^th who had the misfortune of being the closest target for Pulcher’s wrath. Initially, Volusenus only had Pulcher as his target, following the unwritten rule that a Centurion only apply his vitus to men who belonged to him, or at least his Cohort unless it was unavoidable in order to quell some sort of urgent issue. He managed to land one blow across the back of Pulcher’s legs, the preferred spot, which did serve to cause the ranker to yelp in pain, at least temporarily stopping him from throwing another punch. The blow that struck Volusenus came from his right rear quarter, catching him by complete surprise, and it was only his size and strength that kept him on his feet; as it was, he staggered several feet before regaining his balance. Whirling around, any thought about being a Centurion, or the idea that a Centurion did not strike a ranker not within his chain of command vanished. Suddenly consumed with rage, he dropped his vitus, both hands balling into fists, certain that the ranker of the 15^th who had struck him was the one who was nearest to him and looking wildly about as his own comrades scrambled to get away from him.

“Centurion! I…”

The man began to, presumably, plead his case, but he got no further, Volusenus grabbing a fistful of tunic in his left hand, and with an ease that nobody who saw it would forget, jerked the man up so that his feet were several inches off the ground. Shaking him once, then another time, Volusenus’ face was contorted in rage, except in the eyeblink after he drew back his fist, intent on smashing it into the now-terrified ranker’s face, it was caught from behind just as he launched it. The fact that his fist did not move forward more than a few inches instantly warned Volusenus of whom had caught it, so when he turned his head to see Pullus standing there, his right hand clamped firmly around Volusenus’ forearm, he was not particularly surprised. Pullus’ expression was another matter, hard and implacable, but Volusenus saw in the older man’s eyes what he interpreted as a look of real concern there.

Regardless, his voice was harsh and unyielding, as was his demeanor as he barked, “That’s enough, Centurion!” Softening his tone just a fraction, he added, “I think you’ve made your point, so you can put this cunnus down.”

As he returned to his senses, Volusenus only then realized he was essentially holding a full-grown man off the ground, and in the back of his mind, he knew that by his doing so, it would become a topic of conversation among those who saw it, at least for this night, and the thought did not displease him. Still, it was with a certain amount of chagrin that he released his grasp, the ranker’s feet barely touching ground before he began backpedaling away in the direction of his comrades. All of whom, Volusenus saw, clearly wanted to be somewhere else. Meanwhile, Volusenus only became gradually aware that, at least with his Century, his men had stopped brawling with the men of the 15^th.

“Who’s your Centurion?” Pullus demanded of the ranker, but now that he was within the relative safety of his section mates, this seemed to stir the man’s indignation.

“He,” the ranker pointed at Volusenus, “put hands on me! And he’s not even from the 15^th! That’s not right!”

“And what did you do before that?” Pullus asked in a calm enough voice, but Volusenus was not sure when Pullus had appeared. “What did you do that might cause Hastatus Posterior Volusenus here to put his hands on you?”

“I…I accidentally bumped into him,” the ranker began.

“Accidentally?” Volusenus asked, more incredulous than angry. “The only way you could have moved me was to throw yourself at me, and there’s no way it was accidental!”

This quickly proved to be the clinching argument, as Pullus agreed, “Looking at the two of you makes it clear that the Centurion here is telling the truth.” Pointing his vitus directly at the man, Pullus said coldly, “And assaulting a Centurion is punishable by death. They do teach you that sort of the thing in the 15^th, don’t they Gregarius?”

For an instant, to Volusenus, it seemed as if the ranker was disposed to argue, but then he took a glance over his shoulder at his comrades, all of whom looked pointedly away from him.

His shoulders suddenly slumped, and he replied sullenly, “Yes, we know the regulations as well as anyone.”

“As well as anyone what, Gregarius?” Pullus demanded, but once more, the ranker seemed determined to resist adding the proper courtesy, which lasted long enough for Pullus to take a single step in the man’s direction.

“As well as anyone…Centurion,” the ranker muttered.

Volusenus saw that Pullus was not satisfied, but they were hailed by two Centurions and a pair of Optios who were trotting in their direction, which seemed to signal to Pullus the time to pursue this matter was over.

Turning to Volusenus, Pullus said formally, “Hastatus Posterior, march your Century to their area. The tents are up and the slaves are ready to scrape the muck off your boys.” In a softer voice, he told Volusenus, “I’ll handle this. And,” he added, “we’ll talk about this later.”

Saluting, Volusenus moved to his spot, and he was relieved to see that Gillo had gotten the Century under control, including Pulcher, who was limping, which cheered Volusenus slightly. Only once did he glance over his shoulder to see Pullus standing there with the pair of Centurions, and he grinned at the sight of the Pilus Prior using his height and size in a manner that worked with everyone but Volusenus himself, towering over the pair and moving closely enough that both men were leaning back slightly. It was a tactic that, as Volusenus well knew, was extremely effective, and one he used on almost a daily basis. Not, he thought with some humor, with other Centurions, though.

It turned out that it required two coats of oil and the subsequent scrapings before most of the men felt clean, although as Volusenus made his circuit of the Century, he heard men muttering they could still smell a residual of the foul contents of the ditch. The topic of the skirmish with the 15^th was something the men discussed with considerably more animation, and Volusenus experienced a pang of trepidation as he wondered what Pullus would have to say about his actions. He did not have long to wait; Alex came just as he finished his meal, but while he expected some sort of private affair, when he entered Pullus’ quarters, he was disturbed to see that the other Centurions were already present. As he walked to his seat, he was more acutely aware of their eyes on him than normal, but it was their expressions that, to him, conveyed their disapproval.

However, it was not Pullus who spoke first; Structus broke the silence by demanding, “Well? Is it true?”

Since Structus occupied the stool next to him, Volusenus turned towards him, although he kept one eye on Pullus, but the Pilus Prior was looking on impassively. And, judging from the manner in which Structus was glaring at him with his arms folded, which suddenly brought to Volusenus’ mind a memory of a tutor who had once looked at him in an almost identical manner when he was improperly conjugating, he was certain that a chastisement was coming.

Nonetheless, he decided it would be better to play along for a bit, and he asked cautiously, “Is what true?”

For the first time, Structus’ expression changed subtly as one eyebrow went up, and he scoffed, “As if you don’t know what I’m talking about!” It was the sudden twitch of the Centurion’s mouth that gave the game away as Structus asked, “Is it true that you threw that cunnus from the 15^th all the way over his tent with one hand?”

Even if Volusenus had answered, he would not have been heard over the uproarious laughter from the others, and he experienced a wave of intense relief, confirmed when he glanced over at Pullus, who had pushed away from his desk and was doubled over holding his stomach, presumably from the hilarity of the moment.

Once it got quiet enough to be heard, Volusenus, who had begun laughing himself, though he was not sure why, asked Structus, “Where did you hear that?”

Wiping one eye, Structus was still chuckling as he replied, “Oh, from one of my boys a little while ago. I heard them talking at their fire, and he swore on the black stone that you snatched that 15^th bastard up and threw him so far and high that he flew over his tent and landed on the Century street on the other side.” This renewed the laughter, over which Structus added, “And he said you did it with your left hand, not your right. He said if you had used your gladius arm, that fucker might still be in the air.”

“Well,” Volusenus admitted, “he was right about one thing. It was my left hand, but that’s because I was about to cave in his face with my right.”

He did not intend to do so, but Volusenus instantly recognized that this dampened the humorous aspect of the moment, the smile fading from Structus’ face, and while he could not see Licinius, Cornutus, or Vespillo, he did not need to, hearing their laughter fade. However, when he glanced over at Pullus, expecting their Pilus Prior to be looking at him, instead he saw the older Centurion gazing down at his own left arm, the extensive scarring having turned white, and Volusenus wondered what he was thinking.

Pullus seemed to realize that things had quieted down, so he lifted his head, looking slightly embarrassed, and he cleared his throat before he said, “Yes, about that.” Now his expression had returned to what Volusenus thought of as his “Pilus Prior face,” when he was addressing them as their superior. “You know what would have happened if you actually hit that poor bastard, don’t you, Volusenus?”

“Yes, Pilus Prior,” Volusenus admitted; now that his ire had cooled, he had quickly realized he had flirted with disaster, which prompted him to continue, “and I have no excuse for my actions.”

“Actually,” Pullus replied mildly, “I thought you had every reason in the world to knock that cunnus’ teeth out.”

Volusenus had been unable to look Pullus in the eye when he acknowledged his error, so he looked up in real surprise, but Pullus’ expression was serious.

“You were doing your best to break up that fight, and you were assaulted,” Pullus went on. “We both know that there’s no way that piece of filth would have made you move a step if he had just ‘bumped into you’.” Pullus’ tone turned mocking. “And while I didn’t actually see what he did, I was close enough to see you staggering a few steps.” Shaking his head, Pullus said flatly, “So that cunnus deserved what you were about to give him.” He paused for perhaps a heartbeat or two, then added, “But it would still have caused you and,” he indicated himself and the other Centurions, “us a lot of problems.”

For the first time, one of the others spoke up, and it was Cornutus who asked, “So what did those two Centurions from the 15^th say? And, who were they?”

“The Sextus Pilus Prior and his Princeps Posterior,” Pullus replied, making a grimace of distaste that Volusenus sensed was more for effect. “It was the Princeps Posterior’s boys that Pulcher went after, and the one Volusenus threw over the tent was his as well.” As expected, this caused some chuckles, but Pullus became serious again as he went on, this time it being Vespillo’s turn as he continued, “The one your man Carbo went after was from the First of the Sixth. Anyway,” he shrugged, “they tried to make a fuss about it, but they decided it wasn’t a good idea.”

“And how,” Volusenus asked, “did they reach that decision?”

Pullus’ weathered face split into a grin, his humor returning, and he gave another, more elaborate shrug, “I have no idea, Volusenus. Maybe a numen whispered in their ear all the bad things that might be coming their way if they did.” This elicited chuckles, but now Pullus was ready to move on to more serious matters, informing the others, “But the main reason I called you here is to let you know that tomorrow it’s going to be the 5^th marching, and they’re going to be heading north. There’s supposed to be a decent-sized settlement about four miles from here, just south of the northern border of Chatti lands. We’re going out the day after, and we’ll be heading east. Then the day after, the last Legion is going out, but I don’t know where yet, just that it will be the 15^th. Germanicus wants to make sure each of us get the opportunity…”

“To act as bait,” Vespillo interjected sourly.

Volusenus was certain that this jibe from Vespillo would elicit a harsh response, but to his surprise, Pullus did not seem all that angry, although he was clearly irritated. Nevertheless, his tone was even as he agreed, “That’s exactly right, Vespillo. It’s good to see that you’re of the same mind as our Legate. I’m sure,” now his tone became heavily sarcastic, “Germanicus will sleep easier knowing that.”

This brought some snickers, though they were quickly stifled, and Volusenus did not have to see Vespillo to guess how he was reacting, although he wisely said nothing more.

Seeing that nothing more was forthcoming from the Pilus Posterior, Pullus returned to the subject. “You can tell the men they’re going to have tomorrow off, with no guard duties.”

This was good news, not just for the men but for the Centurions and their Optios, so when Pullus dismissed the Centurions, they were in a good mood, talking among themselves as they filed out, but Volusenus lingered for a moment, waiting for Structus to push through the flap.

“Thank you, Pilus Prior,” he said once they were alone, but Pullus only regarded him with a raised eyebrow, asking, “For what?”

“You know for what,” Volusenus replied, careful to keep his impatience hidden. “If you hadn’t stopped me, it would have caused me a lot of problems.”

“It would,” Pullus agreed, then added, “but it would have caused the Cohort problems as well.”

“Ah,” Volusenus nodded, seemingly accepting this, but asked, “so that’s all it was, that it helped the Cohort?”

“What do you think?” Pullus asked quietly, looking Volusenus in the eye.

Volusenus did not answer verbally; instead, he merely nodded his head, then pushed through the flap, leaving Pullus seated at his desk. As he made his way back to his tent, Volusenus considered the exchange. Part of his mind told him that Pullus’ intervention had been simply a matter of a Pilus Prior sticking up for one of his Centurions, and that he was right to do so because of what it meant for his Cohort, but the truth was, he did not believe it to be the case. Whatever the reason, he thought, I’ve got to learn to control my temper. He was contemplating how to go about this for the rest of the night, up until the moment he fell asleep, and was no closer to determining how to do that when he woke up.