by R. W. Peake
"See that?" he asked quietly, and, following his finger, the Pilus Posterior looked up in the same general direction his commander had been looking.
He, in fact, did see it, but before he could comment, the other Centurions arrived and were quickly informed of what the Pilus Posterior had noticed, so in a moment, they were all looking.
"Pluto's cock," muttered one.
"This is bad," said another.
"It is, but at least we saw it in time," the Pilus Prior commented.
What they were staring at, and what had caught the Centurion's eye, was what appeared to be a blazing white patch on not one, but three trees next to each other, each patch at roughly the same height up the trunk. On closer inspection, the Centurions could see that scattered on the ground around the trunks were piles of white chips, further sign that these trees had been chopped partway through, in obvious preparation for something. But for what?
Actually, the Pilus Prior, and the other Centurions, for that matter, knew exactly what purpose these trees served, but the Pilus Prior hadn't been looking at the leaves. What he had been doing, as he waited for his Centurions to reach his side, was to examine the wooded slope beyond the trees, searching for any further sign of danger. Like the others, he knew that these trees were going to be pushed across the track to block the Cohort; that wasn't in question. What he had to determine was whether or not this marked the beginning of the section of track that was the ambush site, or if these trees were to be dropped once the Cohort had moved past it. He thought hard as he tried to remember if this was the first sign he had seen, or if his eyes had actually caught sight of something similar earlier, but he had been too preoccupied for it to register as what it was, the sign of a trap.
Finally, he spoke up, his voice firm. "I think they were planning on trapping us farther ahead, and after we passed by, they were going to come down and finish these trees to block any retreat."
The Pilus Prior was relatively young to be in his position, and all but one of his Centurions was older than he was, yet while he hadn't been Pilus Prior all that long, almost all of them had learned to trust his judgment.
"And if this was the far end of the ambush, they wouldn't be waiting for us to figure it out," he finished. "They'd already be swooping down on us."
Not only did they trust him, what he said made sense; even so, they began to look about them nervously, their eyes relentlessly scanning both sides of the track.
"So, what do we do, Pilus Prior?"
It was a sensible question, but again, the Pilus Prior didn't hesitate.
"We didn't come all this way just to turn back because of some chopped trees," he said calmly. "Besides, we're supposed to teach these Daesitiates a lesson about the power of Rome, and I know they're sitting up there just ahead, watching us and wondering what's going on." He gave his Centurions a tight grin, which they returned. "So I suggest we don't keep them waiting any longer, do you?"
He got exactly what he expected in answer: a combination of growled acknowledgements, or smiles that held nothing but the promise of approaching mayhem. Quickly, he gave them the instructions of what he wanted, and since it wasn't anything unorthodox, it didn't take long before they were trotting back to their Centuries. Turning to his own men, the Pilus Prior rapped out his orders and, within a few moments, the column was ready to resume marching. And to face what awaited them.
The Daesitiates sub-chief that was given the task of setting the ambush was seething with frustration, and he longed for the moment when he could release his pent-up rage. Coupled with the anger was an acute sense that he had already failed in his task, and he resolved that someone would be punished for leaving some sort of sign that had obviously caught the eyes of the Romans. From his position a half-mile further down the track, he couldn't make out any level of detail, but he saw the column coming around the bend, then stop. That wasn't supposed to happen; it was well known that the Romans never lingered anywhere there was heavy undergrowth, because their style of fighting wasn't designed for it. That had been the reason for choosing this spot, but now it was apparent that his carefully designed plan wasn't going to bear the fruit he had hoped. Watching the Roman Centurions gather in a cluster, he could tell that they were looking up the slope, and it was in the general area where the trees had been partially cut. Yet he didn't get the sense that the Romans had spotted the men who were hidden there and were assigned the task of completing the felling of the trees. Yet, what other reason could there be? He felt the presence of his men around him; what he was most conscious of was the hard stare of his titular second in command, another sub-chief of a branch of the tribe who made it clear that he should have been given the overall command of this force. He was the head man of the village and the lands that occupied the valley adjacent to where the commander ruled, and as was usually the case, despite the fact they were from the same tribe, the two communities hated each other with the kind of passion that comes from close blood ties. The only thing they hated more was Romans, and this united them, for the moment. Still, the commander knew there would be a reckoning now that it was clear the Romans had sniffed out their trap. The question was, what to do? Despite his feelings for the other sub-chief, he knew the prudent thing would be to discuss what action they should take next, but his pride didn't allow for this kind of temperate behavior. Luckily, the Romans quickly resumed their progress down the track, and the sub-commander felt the tightening in his stomach and loosening of his bowels that always accompanied the knowledge that he was about to enter battle.
"Make ready," he called out, loud enough to be heard, but not shouting it at the top of his lungs.
Around him, he heard the rustling of the underbrush as men stood up, the clashing sound as the metal bits of gear hit against each other. Perhaps it was the noise that prompted his second to come storming up to him.
"Are you mad?" he hissed. "Surely you don't intend to go through with this now! Isn't it obvious that they know we're here?"
"Then all the more glory when we kill them to the last man." The commander said this loudly enough to be heard, and he was heartened when his boast was met by shouts of approval and agreement. The fact that the number of men shouting was only a small fraction of the force within earshot was something that he chose to ignore.
"That is a whole Cohort of Roman Legionaries coming, and they're expecting us to attack," the sub-commander insisted, trying desperately to avert what he knew would be a disaster.
Unfortunately for his cause, the commander wasn't willing to countenance the thought that his rival was actually thinking of the larger reason for which they were both fighting, and instead saw it as an attempt to undermine his authority and belittle him. That meant his response was calculated to be as insulting as it was possible to be and not bring the men belonging to each chief to blows immediately.
"I understand that this is dangerous," he replied with an icy calm that he didn't really feel, "and if you don't have the stomach for it, then I give you my permission to leave."
The other man reacted as if he had been slapped, the blood draining from his face, the shock and disbelief written plainly on his face. Despite the upcoming trial, which was just moments away, the men around the two were drawn to the pair, all eyes staring at them. And if some of them were coldly measuring not the sub-commander, but their leader, those eyes belonged mostly to the older, more veteran warriors, because they agreed with everything the sub-commander had said. Some of these men had faced the Romans before, when the Roman they now called Augustus had conducted his campaign here years earlier. They, better than anyone, including this hotheaded young sub-chief, understood the true might and power of the Roman Legions. When they had the advantage of surprise, and they could be contained within the killing ground with the felled trees, every one of them was committed to the idea of attacking. But now, their experience told them that this was a time to leave quietly, and wait for another day.
The sub-chief finally found his voice, althoug
h it came out as a hoarse whisper. "I won't be anywhere but in the middle of the fighting!"
Satisfied that he had scored a victory, the commander turned back to see how close the Romans were. Now that they had drawn close enough so that he could see the men in the ranks, while they still marched four across, they had spread out into what he supposed was their normal battle formation. More importantly, he could see that their shields had been unslung and the leather covers were off, so the red paint gleamed and the metal bosses shone dully in the subdued light. Suddenly, he felt his resolve slipping away when confronted by this naked sight of Roman power, and he could all too easily imagine the warriors of his tribe dashing themselves against the rocks that were represented by that wall of shields.
Even when something is expected, the actual moment action begins can be startling, and the Pilus Prior silently cursed himself for jumping at the sudden eruption of sound, in the form of roaring voices in full cry. The noise was quickly followed by movement, first by dozens of arrows slicing through the air, which he clearly heard as a whistling sound as more than one went rushing by, just a hand's breadth away. Whoever was in command of this ambush had not only failed in the larger sense, he had removed what small advantage he had by giving a shouted command, before the archers in his force had loosed their arrows. Granted, it was nothing more than a heartbeat's delay, but it gave most of the Romans in the column, who were already expecting contact, the chance to react by hunching behind their shields as they dropped the poles carrying their packs, resulting in most of the arrows lodging harmlessly in the wood of the shields. The Pilus Prior had used this lapse as well, by coming to a sudden stop, understanding that the archers loosing their missiles at him would have aimed at a spot where they thought he was about to be instead of where he was at. It worked, as the dirt track seemed to sprout arrows, still quivering as they spent their energy, just a pace away from where he was even then pivoting to his right in order to face the slope as a mass of howling warriors came bounding down to smash into the thin line of Legionaries. As he had ordered, the column split in two, with the man closest to each slope turning to face the threat, while the man who had been immediately next to him in the column braced him by grabbing onto the harness of his comrade and, in this manner, the men of the Cohort were facing the attack from both directions. It was thin, woefully thin, but the challenge of limited space worked both ways, since the men of the Daesitiates couldn't properly use the weight of their numbers because of the slope.
The men immediately behind the first line of warriors that were even then smashing into the shields of the Legionaries, trying to use the momentum gained from their dash downhill to knock the Romans off their feet, did have the advantage of higher ground, so they could thrust their spears down at their enemy, giving the defending Romans just one more thing to worry about as they ducked the spear points and parried the blows of their immediate attacker. What had been the relative quiet, marred only by the sound of treading feet and creaking of gear, was now obliterated by a riot of noise. The crashing sound of shields meeting shields provided the basis for this song of death and destruction, while the bright, clanging noise as sword blade met spear point, or another sword provided the melody, with the cries and curses of men being struck, either a mortal blow or even a minor wound punctuating the air in a discordant accompaniment.
The Pilus Prior had only the barest moment to appreciate his escape from being struck down by the initial volley of arrows as he quickly found himself assailed by a snarling barbarian warrior, his shield held high and sword pulled back above his shoulder, ready for the first opportunity to make a killing thrust. Like every Centurion, the Pilus Prior was without a shield, at least in the early phases of a battle, although they almost always took the first available one from a man out of the fight. However, this also meant that they spent most of their time training to fight without one, and the Pilus Prior's blade was already out in front of him, angled slightly across his body. For this initial round of combat, at least, his sword would have to serve as both offensive and defensive weapon, but in a move that surprised him so much that it almost ended matters right there, the barbarian facing him lashed out with his shield. It was so unusual for non-Romans to use their shields in anything but a strictly defensive manner that, when trying to piece it together later, the Pilus Prior had no recollection of how he avoided the smashing blow that would have, at the very least, knocked him flat. Yet he somehow did, although his desperate dodge put him in an awkward position that, while better than losing his feet, which was instant death, was not much better. In desperation, he lashed out with his sword in a wide, sweeping blow that violated the most common precept drilled into every Legionary that the point always beat the edge. He didn't know who was more surprised, he or the barbarian, because the edge of his blade caught his foe as he was following up his blow with the shield with a thrusting attack. This meant the barbarian's arm was extended, and he howled in pain as the edge of the Pilus Prior's sword sliced just above the handguard of his foe's own blade to carve a chunk out of the outside of the barbarian's forearm in a spray of blood and flesh that was as visually unsettling as it was painful. Still, the barbarian managed to hold onto his sword and, more importantly, brought his shield up in a move that knocked the Centurion's blade aside. This gave the barbarian the opening to make another thrust with his blade, yet the pain of his wound was so intense that instead he took a step backward to recover himself. Using the brief pause, the Pilus Prior risked a quick glance around him to check on the condition of his Century and to try to get a sense of how the battle was developing. He was heartened to see the two lines, thin as they might have been, facing outwards and unbroken, and that most of the prone bodies weren't wearing the uniform of Rome's Legionaries. That was all the attention he could pay, because he sensed a shift out of the corner of his eye as his opponent regained his composure and made to renew his attack. Before the barbarian could do so, however, the Centurion launched his own. Using a tactic that had proven to be devastatingly effective in the past, he appeared to have been paying attention elsewhere when he suddenly and without any preparatory move that might have alerted the barbarian, lunged in the barbarian's direction. His sword had been held in what the Legionaries called the first position, with the blade held low and parallel to the ground, and it was from this point that he began his assault. Seeing the threat, the barbarian dropped his shield to block the gutting blow, but even as he did so, the Centurion was altering the trajectory of his thrust. His first move had been a feint; a hard feint that meant that changing his angle of attack robbed the blade of a fair amount of force, but the throat is a soft target, not protected by armor. The point of his sword punched into the side of the barbarian's neck, cutting off the man's cry of anguish before it could begin, a spray of bright, arterial blood arcing through the air that briefly obscured the Centurion's vision of his now-slain enemy's face. The defeated man stood, tottering for a brief moment before collapsing in a heap, but his body hadn't even hit the ground as the Centurion was already moving, covering the dozen paces that had been between him and the greater safety of his Century. In doing so, he was able to dispatch two more warriors who had lost their awareness of his existence in their excitement of the battle and had moved to try to envelop what was the front of the column, turning their backs to him. Eliminating these two warriors was accomplished with a couple of quick but brutal strokes, then the Pilus Prior was standing, next to his signifer, where he belonged with his men. Only then did his mind have time to register the fact that the man he had just dispatched had been dressed in a fine green tunic, and was wearing the type of armor that marked him as not only wealthy, but a man of importance. However, it was only a passing observation and he quickly turned his attention to more pressing matters.
The barbarian warrior who was second in command had just seen himself get promoted, when his rival had been ended by a quick thrust to the throat at the hands of the Centurion in the front of the marching column.
This was all that he needed; unlike his counterpart, he had understood the folly of what was taking place at that very moment, and his only concern at this point was to extract the warriors still remaining so they could be preserved to fight again.
"Sound the recall," he ordered to the man who carried the barbarian version of the cornu. To his credit, the man didn't hesitate and he blew his horn very quickly, in another sign that the warriors of the Daesitiates understood that their attack had been destined to fail, and they didn't need to hear the horn blow a second time before they obeyed. In fact, the men who needed to be reminded of their orders were the men of the Legion who, having repulsed this attack so easily, now wanted to pursue their advantage and chase these barbarians down. It took more than one blast of the cornu of every Century to remind the Legionaries that there would be no pursuit, but ultimately, they obeyed, and in a matter of a few moments, they were left alone, returning to their lines, still panting for breath.
After the sounds of battle, the only thing breaking the immediate silence was the low moaning of men, both Daesitiates and Roman who were lying on the ground, most of them holding their wounds. Quickly now, the shouts of Centurions filled the air, demanding that order be restored, in that most Roman of traits, trying to establish sense out of the most insensible of actions. Men were given the task of examining the bodies on the ground, both to find wounded comrades, and to find those barbarians who still lived to dispatch them with a quick slash across the throat. The Optios began moving through their Centuries, calling for those Legionaries that they didn't see immediately, most of them answering, while some remained silent, forcing the Optio to search through the bodies. Friends helped other friends bind up wounds, or in a few cases, squatted by a prone body, holding a hand and waiting either for help to come, or for the comrade to step into Charon's Boat, to take the long voyage across the river. In a very short period of time, order had been restored to the point where the Centurions left their Centuries to meet once again with their Pilus Prior, who stood calmly, wiping the blood from his sword.
