by C K Ruppelt
***
Bassus led Perseus back down the hill amid his fellow muleteers. Tribune Crassus led a century of legionaries as escort and as help for quick reloading. The remainder of the legionaries were finishing the remaining ramparts to get ready for the absent palisade logs.
He knew the soldiers that had survived the fight without major wounds would be rewarded with lots more digging or logging in the woods below. Maybe that was for the best, to keep their minds off what had just happened. From what he could tell they would build a raised wall section across the whole mile of the ravine, connecting the fort with the ridge on the other side of the pass, and likely several watch towers to station some of the scorpios and ballistae.
He saw Crassus move up to walk next to him and turned his head to face the man. Of medium height, the young tribune had short and curly brown hair. He seemed average except for his highly intelligent green eyes, which perceptively scanned the men and their surroundings.
“You are Publius Ventidius Bassus?” Crassus asked. Bassus nodded before the man went on. “I heard from the other muleteers that it was your idea to ride the mules into battle. There is little doubt that it was your valiant charge that saved the few survivors of our Cretans and likely all of us,” Crassus said, pausing briefly before continuing. “I have to ask, most muleteers come from humble backgrounds and have one or two names at most, yet you have three like a nobleman and Ventidius sounds familiar somehow. Your speech doesn’t sound like it, but is your family originally from Picenum?”
Bassus sighed. “Yes, it is, tribune. Though I was brought to Rome at a young age, and never found my way back,” Bassus answered. He could see Crassus’ raised eyebrows in the hope for more information, but he stayed silent. He didn’t like to talk about his past. It was all done and behind him. Then he saw Crassus’ eyes widen and knew the man would not leave him alone now.
“Would your father’s name also have been Publius Ventidius? With a different third name?
Bassus sighed. “Yes. Bassus is indeed my very own nickname. I was a very fat baby, or so my mother told me. Though I am not so fat or stumpy anymore these days.”
“I can’t believe this. I actually saw you walk as a prisoner in Pompeius Strabo’s triumph. You were just a little boy and I was barely older then you myself. My father explained to me about you, that your father was a nobleman from one of the best houses of Asculum who just happened to be on the wrong side of the Social War.”
The man put his hand on Bassus’ shoulder. “And here you are, a true eques if ever there was one, working as a simple muleteer in the Ninth legion. Not for much longer however if I can help it. What would you say to decurion of one of our Ninth’s Roman scout turmae? Though we can’t make that official until we’re back with the rest of the legion.”
Bassus looked intensely at the young man and tried to figure out why the man was jesting with him. He is not smiling, maybe he is serious?
“I could be open to that, but only if my one demand can be met. It’s not negotiable,” he answered flat-faced, not expecting much.
“Oh, and what demand would that be? You are in everybody’s good graces, so I guess it’s the best time to ask for any favors,” Crassus said, his friendly face now looking disappointed.
“Well, the scouts all have magnificent horses, but that’s exactly the problem. I don’t want a horse. I don’t want to become a scout leader without Perseus, my mule here. We’ve grown quite attached to each other,” he replied while patting the mule’s shoulder. The young tribune will drop the matter now and that would suit me fine.
But incredibly, Crassus started to laugh. “That, my friend, may be irregular but is no problem, truly! And I understand, believe me. I have seen what your mules can do, even in battle.”
Back in good spirits Bassus continued his walk down the mountain, the first trip of countless he and the other muleteers would surely have to get through over the next days.
***
Blandius opened his eyes and found himself on a cot in his own tent. A cup of fresh water, some bread and a bowl with ground chickpeas, garlic and olive oil had been laid on a small three-legged folding stool next to him. He remembered waking a few times before, but the memories were blurry. He tried to sit up so he could drink, but the pain shooting up from his foot gave him pause. Oh no. Merda, this really happened.
Slowly pulling his blanket down he saw that his right foot was heavily bandaged, but even so it was apparently much shorter than his left. His shoulders slumped. My time in the legion is over. What am I supposed to do now?
He would likely be discharged once they got to their winter camp. Will the legion pay for me to travel back to Italia? Do I even want to go back? I don’t know where any of my childhood friends are. My life is here now, with the legion.
He mused what he could and would do. First, he needed to become healthy again and mobile. Hopefully he could still walk, that would be the most important part. If he couldn’t, would he be able to at least ride? No, he was a horrible rider anyway, that didn’t make sense. He could drive a wagon though, he had done that frequently as a child. Was there any way he could stay with the legion?
He swayed between the onset of major depression and the practical outlook that always helped him through any decision he made in his life. At least I am alive. A lot of my legionary friends are not.
The tent flap opened and his surviving squad members filed in. “He’s awake! Ho, Blandius, looked for a while like you wouldn’t make it,” one of them said.
“Yeah, and because of his silly foot of all things. If you would have croaked from a cut in your foot, you wouldn’t have been able to live that one down,” another said to erupting loud laughter. His friends knew what he needed most now. Camaraderie and teasing would keep him from feeling sorry for himself.
***
“Thank you for letting me know.” Nico thanked the medical helper that had just told him that Andrippos, the Cretan’s first decanus, was still alive against all odds. He walked out of his tent, followed by a couple of other Cretans at a slight distance, and headed straight for the one of Andrippos’ three squad tents he knew the man usually slept in. When he walked into that tent he wondered for a moment why there was so much empty space. Then he remembered, and it hit him like a brick. There was little need for superfluous cots here. All this empty space was full of people just two nights ago.
He glanced at his escort of two other Cretans. None of them were allowed to go anywhere by themselves, as was customary for soldiers that had recently lost most of their units. He knew that even with that precaution the rate of attempted suicides was high after most battles, but now he had the experience to understand why—his own survivor’s guilt felt like a boulder pushing down on him. He knew the officers wouldn’t stop worrying about him and his fellow survivors until the next battle. He had heard that the one emotion overriding any wish to depart from this senseless life was the deeply rooted need to help the man next to you and hoped it would be true for him as well when the time came.
Nico looked at Andrippos whose eyes were closed in an uneasy slumber. His forehead looked hot, beads of sweat running down the side of his head. Nico found a rag on the table and managed to pick it up with his left hand before moving it slowly over to his right. He was careful not to move his whole right arm and to keep the weight of the sling. He lifted a pitcher off the table with his left to pour some water over the rag. He switched the piece of cloth back to his left and started dabbing Andrippos’ forehead. He glanced up when he heard the medicus come in. The man had a servant in tow that carried a bowl and two small amphorae.
“Ah, how goes the broken clavicle?” the medicus addressed him. “Or your hairline cut?” The man was a miracle worker, though by now he looked so pale and ragged as to fall over any moment. He had treated men nonstop for two days, making house calls after the patients had been moved into their squad tents. He had no head for names but could always address men by their injuries.
&nb
sp; “My clavicle is fine, thank you, and so is my head. The stitches hurt, but it will all heal in time. I am not so sure the same goes for Andrippos here,” Nico answered, lowering his head.
The medicus moved in to pull off the blanket, followed by the wrappings and bandages. “All in good time. Since he’s still with us today, he might yet be with us tomorrow.” He touched Andrippos’ stomach and pushed hard a couple of times. “I cannot hear any liquids in there, which is a very good sign. It all depends on his fever breaking.” The medicus took a sponge from his helpers’ hands before watching the man fill his bowl with red wine vinegar. He dipped the sponge in his helper’s bowl and proceeded to soak the many wounds. All the big ones were stitched, including the hole in the upper stomach. The vinegar ran down the side of Andrippos’ body to stain the blanket and the cot beneath. “So far so good, but still too early to tell.” The medicus switched to a rag, and let his servant pour a generous amount of olive oil over it. Then he proceeded to wipe the wounds with that.
“As long as it doesn’t get red and inflamed, he has a chance. Though if he makes it, he won’t be a beauty anymore,” he said before laughing at his own joke, pointing at Andrippos’ deep cut up the chin that split the lower lip in two—the stitched sides were slightly misaligned. “I know how to save lives, but my stitches just aren’t good enough to make pretty scars.” Nico joined in the laughter. Somehow it felt right. Looking good was the last thing on anybody’s mind right now.
693 AUC (61 BC), summer
High Plateau of the Stella Mountains, lands of the Lancienses Transcudani, Hispania
The Transcudani chiefs held another emergency assembly. This time they sat out in the open close to the bigger lake of this high plateau. Just days earlier everybody had been proud and boastful—Retukenos remembered statements like “Let the Romans come, we’ll show them!” and “They can’t hurt us in our mountains.” They had all felt invincible. Until yesterday. The easy attack on the handful of Romans digging their trenches had ended in utter disaster. He had lost his older son in the scuffle and had realized they stood no chance in another open fight. He had sent for the remainder of his family to come up to the western high plateau. Nights were much colder up here, but they would be safer. After seeing what a small detachment of Romans could do he had lost faith in the fortifications securing the valley’s approaches.
The discussion was muted and he only listened half-heartedly without engaging. Topics fluctuated between possible defensive actions, food distribution and blankets for the late arrivals that frequently needed better clothing against the mountain cold. None of these things matter anymore.
All the tough talk of taking the fight to the Roman army was gone. Once everything was said the meeting broke apart and the chieftains dispersed. He watched many of them go north, back to their camps in the valleys below. He still stood there, deep in thought, when he heard a voice behind him. “Retukenos, there you are, I thought you had left already.” He turned and saw an old fellow chieftain walking over to him. Koitina was currently the only woman chieftain on the Transcudani high council. “I need to ask you, because you were down in the thick of things yesterday. Did the Romans fight as hard as I was told? Did they truly beat us back with far inferior numbers, even without having their fort finished?”
“Yes, Koitina. It’s true, and it was worse than whatever you heard. I lost my oldest boy down there.” He sighed. “I am now convinced that we cannot withstand them, not even here in the mountains. If their legion leader is as good as the few soldiers yesterday, they’ll come for us, and they won’t stop until we surrender or are all dead.” He looked around and saw a few other chieftains lingering close by. “Come, walk with me,” he told her. When they were far enough to not be overheard, he stopped. “I have sent word to my family and friends to move up here from the valleys. I suggest you do the same if you want them to live.” After a moment, he turned to keep walking, glancing back over his shoulder to see her shocked face. “You know I’m no coward, but with these odds I don’t think we should try to fight.”
693 AUC (61 BC), summer
East of the Stella Mountains, lands of the Lancienses Transcudani, Hispania
“Here comes that older Numidian again. I don’t know what you two see in these guys. They’re stupid barbarians and you know it.” Opiter Maximus, one of the newer centurions within the second cohort, grumbled at Titus Balventius and Gaius Seppius.
Balventius’ face turned sour. “Opiter, just shut up. Those Numidians saved my entire century. They are good people, and we’ll gladly have them cover our rear in any battle,” he retorted. “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and just leave right now, while you can. If you don’t, I will need to punch in that ugly nose of yours.” Balventius put as much venom into his look as he was able, until Maximus wisely decided to walk away. Titus Pullo, Maximus’ Optio, opened his arms in apology for the centurion. Balventius sighed, his face relaxing. Seppius shook his head, and they turned to face their visitor.
“Capussia, how goes today’s march for your men? Not too many in need of extra breaks?” Balventius called out with a dead-pan face. All seven cohorts and auxilia forces had stopped for a short break while their cavalry was out scouting and foraging, except for a few turmae of mounted Cretans that acted as guards for the column and rode up and down both sides. The Numidians marched with the legionaries—Capussia kept his turma intentionally right behind Balventius’s century. After years of fighting together, the men shared a bond of trust.
“Balventius!” Capussia said with a wide grin. Balventius saw that the man knew that this was teasing. “My men can march just as well as yours, and you know it!” Capussia walked up, and the two men clasped arms. “I wanted to ask you about the three cohorts we left this morning.” He looked around, making sure nobody else was close enough to overhear him. “Do you think they are strong enough to hold the pass? Three cohorts and ninety Cretans? Against, how many did Sabinius estimate? At minimum, a hundred thousand people in the mountains?” he whispered. “With no idea how many of them are at the southern pass. I fear for them and Andrippos.”
“I share your worry, though Sabinius’ number was for all their people, including their old and children. He also said the majority of them are in the valleys. Still, that might leave many thousands of warriors to watch the south pass, who knows. I just can’t figure out why Legatus Vatinius insisted on the legion moving on, instead of helping to get the pass secured first. Well, nothing left now but to hope for the best,” Balventius mused.
“We are close to the first northern pass into the mountains, right?” Capussia continued. “Did you see the ravine a while back? Why did we not camp close to that? It looked like it could lead all the way up to the plateau, and to the north of that, I can see what our cavalry commander meant about the wooded lower mountains.” He pointed to their left. “You could lead the whole legion up and over in the dark.”
“I think we’ll make camp soon, then let our scouts backtrack. I don’t agree with the decision about the southern pass, but I think it makes good sense not to give away our intentions to any of them spying on us from up there.”
Capussia nodded. “Ah, I guess that does make good sense.” He put his hand on Balventius shoulder. “Thank you, my friend. Let’s hope we see Andrippos again.”
Balventius anxiously watched his friend turn and walk back to his men. I am as worried as you are about Andrippos. Curse you careless Vatinius, you son of a dog.
***
Long before the afternoon was over the legion had made early camp. A messenger came by to tell Oz to come to the eastern gate with his turma’s tent group and to leave shields and armor in their tent.
They soon arrived at the open space in front of the gate, which happened to be the one away from the mountains. As decurion, he told his men to stay ready before he stepped towards the other officers. Ah, Capussia is here as well.
When his friend and superior winked at him, he groaned. He realized he had been
volunteered one more time. Still, he trusted Capussia’s judgment and moved farther forward to listen in on the conversation. The only thing left to do was to find out what he had been volunteered for.
“Your group will ride north around the northern pass, to see the lay of the land and the fortifications the enemy has put in place,” their cavalry commander, a man named Quintus Titurius Sabinius, explained to a decurion of the Celtic cavalry. “Capussia’s two Numidian squads will lead the other two exploration parties, with one legionary squad each for security. That is meant to increase the odds of at least a few men making it back to report in case things go sideways.” He fully turned to Oz, the other Numidian decurions and the two legionary squad leaders. “Everybody needs to go unarmored to keep quiet, and the camp prefect’s men here are to hand out dark woolen cloaks for all to help remain unseen.” He looked at Capussia who continued the instructions.
“Zelal, your mission is to go back and investigate the ravine to the south. See if the enemy has finished their wall there and if there is any weakness we can exploit,” Capussia said to the decurion leading the second team. He turned to Oz. “Your mission is to scout the tall wooded mountainside just to the north of here.” He pointed at Sabinius. “Our praefectus legiones here will personally join you for a look at the other side.”
Oz nodded, understanding now why he had been volunteered. The prefect needed to be kept safe at all costs, and Capussia trusted him to do just that. He looked at the sky, and how the sun, far in the west already, caused the first shadows on the mountain side. “Sirs, I suggest we get close to the ridge before nightfall and camp till first daylight. That way the morning’s sunlight will give us a clear view of the valley.”
Sabinius nodded. “Lead the way.”
