by R. W. Peake
By this point in time, Porcinus could see that the Rhaeti were assembled in a ragged line, just on the eastern side of the last row of buildings. Unlike other times when Porcinus and his men had faced men they considered wild tribesmen, this group of men didn't seem interested in engaging in their own pre-battle ritual, which usually consisted of shouted curses, challenges, and promises of what each warrior would do to their enemy that normally included individual warriors rushing out from their line to issue a personal challenge. It was a challenge that was always ignored, at least in every battle that Porcinus had been a part of, although he had heard of times when a Roman had accepted. In those cases, it was almost always an officer, a Legate or a Tribune who was eager to make his reputation. Now, while Porcinus could hear a low, rolling rumble of noise that he knew was their shouting, it was so muted that it was more comical than anything. The line of the Legions continued to advance, until they were no more than a hundred paces away from the line of Rhaeti, then the cornu of the command group blew the notes that called a halt, instantly obeyed by the men, who came to a crashing stop. It was usually at this moment that an aggressive barbarian commander, hoping to surprise the Legionaries, would sound the order to begin their own wild charge, although it had never worked as far as Porcinus had seen. Instead, this bunch of Rhaeti stood in their ragged line, and now that they were close enough, Porcinus, and the rest of the men of the front rank, could see the look of fear, and more importantly, resignation on the part of men who understood that their future could be measured in just a matter of a watch, at most.
Nero Claudius Drusus, Legate in command of this army, guided his horse to a spot where he could be seen by the men of the front rank and Porcinus was forced to admit, despite his general ambivalence towards the nobility, young Drusus cut an impressive figure. More importantly, at least at that moment, he was believable as he curbed his stallion, a gray that reminded Porcinus of Ocelus, and trotted it in front of the cheering Legionaries. Holding his sword aloft, with the feathers from the crest of his helmet streaming behind him, just his presence was enough to rouse his men; despite all the troubles between the classes, the Legions of Rome were as proud of their patricians as the Rhaeti were of their chieftains, probably even more so. Because what was represented, in the form of a young man in his twenties, dressed in armor that would have cost a Gregarius more than five years' pay, was the continuity of Rome. More importantly, it was the promise of Rome, the eternal light in a world of darkness, and while not one man in the ranks could have articulated it, this ideal was so deeply embedded in each of them that it was a belief that was as much a part of them as the color of their hair or eyes. They were Rome, and for a brief moment, all the oppressive barriers of class, money, and title meant nothing, because this young noble, and the men who roared their approval at his display, were one. That was why Porcinus, even after all that he had seen his father endure at the hands of men like Drusus, found himself in full voice, along with the other men, shouting their pride. Once Drusus reached the end of the line, he wheeled his horse about, but this time at a gallop, then pulled up in a spray of dirt, in front of the First Cohort of the 8th, anchoring the far right. Porcinus had to lean slightly forward to peer down the ranks to where Drusus was, the young Legate holding his sword aloft as the blade, also of a quality that was beyond most of the men of the ranks, except perhaps the Centurions, caught the sunlight in blinding rays of light that Porcinus hoped was a good portent. The sword stayed in its upright position for what was perhaps a dozen heartbeats before suddenly sweeping down in a sharp cutting gesture. However, if the Rhaeti expected that signal to start their foes' march in their direction, they were mistaken, because it was just the signal to the nearby cornu player to play the notes that actually prompted the men in the ranks to step forward, each with his left foot. It was usual that, in larger-scale battles, the cornu player attached to each Primus Pilus would then relay his own order, because as far as the deep, bass sound carried, on a multi-Legion front, it still needed to be repeated. That wasn't the case here; although the 8th had been ordered to increase the front of their attack by two Cohorts, the 13th was in reserve, while the other Cohorts were arranged in the normal acies triplex. Porcinus nevertheless gave the shouted command to begin the march, as did the other Centurions, and with only a slight ripple, the leading Cohorts stepped out, heading towards the waiting Rhaeti. Who still stood there uncertainly, Porcinus observed, and while this was a blessing, it did make him curious, and a little cautious. Did the commander have something planned? Could he possibly be so incompetent, or so scared, that he was going to allow his men to stand there, waiting for the coming onslaught? Because, despite the fact that these Rhaeti had essentially no chance of defeating Drusus' men, there were things they could do not only to negate the Legion's overwhelming superiority, but to make the inevitable Roman victory costly. Yet, as they continued marching forward, the Romans saw the Rhaeti warriors not begin their own rush forward, in an attempt to close the distance so quickly that the Romans could only land one volley of javelins. Ideally, they would have dashed forward in an attempt to make their enemy go straight to the sword and drop the deadly javelins that were arguably the most devastating weapon in the Roman arsenal. That moment had passed, however, and Porcinus watched with astonishment as the Rhaeti still stood there, except now he was close enough to see the naked fear and uncertainty in the faces of his enemies. He also noticed how they kept looking about, as if searching for someone in authority to give a command and, despite himself, Porcinus felt a flicker of pity for these men, so badly led. It wasn't their fault they were about to be slaughtered, but just because he felt some sympathy for the men of the lower ranks, that didn't mean he would hesitate when it came time to kill them. When the cornu suddenly sounded the halt, it startled him, and he chastised himself for letting his mind wander now, of all the times. Just a moment later, there came the shouted command, this time coming from Vettus and one that was relayed down the front line Centuries. Immediately after he heard the Princeps Prior, commander of the Third Century of the First Cohort to his right shout the command, Porcinus repeated it.
"Ready javelins!"
He didn't need to look over his shoulder; the sound caused by the creak of leather and the disturbance of the air as eighty arms swept backward told him that his men were indeed ready. Points were aimed skyward; it always amused Porcinus when he talked to civilians who always expressed surprise when they had occasion actually to see men throwing the javelin, usually on the practice field outside camp, that the Legionaries appeared to be aiming for the sun, instead of for the posts that were their targets. What they didn't understand was that by throwing the javelins high in the air, there was some force that made them come plummeting to the ground at a much higher speed and velocity than even the strongest man could generate throwing in a flat trajectory. Granted, there were times when the enemy was moving quickly and closed to a point where that was the best way to take down their enemy, but this wasn't one of them. Since the Rhaeti hadn't moved, they were about to be subjected to the javelins at their most lethal.
"Release!"
Again, in a ripple that ran the length of the front line, the sky filled with the dark lines of the streaking missiles rising, rising, rising in the sky, and it always fascinated Porcinus how, when they reached their highest point, they seemed to hesitate before the weighted points, sought out by whatever god controlled these things, suddenly reversed themselves to begin hurtling downward. As usually happened, the eyes of both sides were fixed on the javelins, and even at this distance, Porcinus could clearly hear the low moan emanating from the ranks of the Rhaeti as all the men with shields held them above their heads, while their less fortunate comrades huddled as closely to a man with a shield as they could. Besides the moaning of the Rhaeti for what they were about to receive, the scene was strangely still, although that changed immediately as the iron heads began punching into their targets. Suddenly, the air was filled with a sound that w
as akin to hundreds of men striking wood with a mallet, but amid that, Porcinus and the rest of the men heard a more sodden, thudding sound that their experienced ears told them meant a javelin had managed to avoid being blocked by a shield and instead found a fleshy target. Following so quickly behind it that it was almost impossible to distinguish that there was a pause between the two came dozens of screams, of all pitches and registers, some pitched so highly that it felt like Porcinus' ears were being pierced by an awl, others more of a low moan of despair. There were a fair amount of curses as well; despite not speaking the language, none of the Legionaries needed the services of a translator.
"Ready javelins!"
The racket from the first volley hadn't even died down when the second command came, followed by the order to release, even more quickly than the first. This was intentional; by launching the second volley quickly, it deprived the enemy of the chance to regroup, and these javelins were still in the air when the cornu of the First Cohort sounded the command to resume the advance.
Perhaps the kindest thing to say was that the Rhaeti commander was still in a state of shock. Consequently, he was unable to utter anything of any value to his men, and, in fact, was in much the same state of helplessness as they were watching the Romans approach. Somehow, he managed to survive the first volley, despite placing himself in the front rank, as was only fitting for a commander of the Rhaeti. He weathered the second as well, except the screams of the men around him as they were struck down shattered any chance of him regaining his senses to do not just the prudent thing, but the only one that made any sense and order his men to flee the field. Men who were looking to him as the example saw someone seemingly at a complete loss, at least as a field commander. He did, however, draw his sword, longer than the Roman short, stabbing sword that the men of the Legions referred to as the Spanish sword, although it wasn't as long as those used by the Gallic tribes further west. The men around him who hadn't drawn their weapons, waiting for him to make a decision, followed suit, their lack of enthusiasm matching that of the leader's. Only one thing kept them pinned to their respective spots, preparing to do battle, even if it was half-heartedly, and that was the fear of shaming themselves in front of their fellow tribesmen by running away, overwhelming even the gut-wrenching dread represented in the line of Roman Legionaries facing them. The line that, with the volleys of javelins completed, had resumed their measured, steady progress, only for a moment before halting again. Those few men in the ranks of this warband who had either faced the Romans themselves, or heard from family members or fellow warriors that had, understood what was about to happen.
"For the sake of Voltumna," one of the veteran warriors, a tall, broad-chested man wearing a mail shirt that hung down to his knees, and armed with just a spear now that his shield was punctured, shouted to the supposed leader of the warband, "will you just have us stand here and be slaughtered? Give us the command to fight because it's too late to do anything else!"
That seemed to reach the leader who, shaking his head so vigorously that his carefully braided pigtails swung violently about his face as he emerged from the fog of shock that had surrounded him from the moment the Romans were spotted, came back to the moment facing him and his men. Even as he did so, he understood it was too late, but like his men, he couldn't bear the shame of running away, not now. Raising his own sword, he barely had time to shout out his command to begin a countercharge when there was a roar emanating from the lines of Romans as they broke from their steady, measured pace into the final dash to slam into the Rhaeti. The only solace the leader of the warband could take was by setting an example of leading the men he had commanded so poorly and be in the leading rank of Rhaeti to meet the onrushing Romans. Unfortunately for the Rhaeti, they were only able to generate the momentum gained from a dozen paces when the large, rectangular shields of the front rank of Legionaries smashed into them. Just as planned, the volleys of javelins that hadn't actually struck a warrior at the least had punctured a shield, and as the weight of the wooden part of the shaft dropped towards the ground, it bent the softer metal of the last foot of the javelin before the hardened tip. It was a refinement created by the great Gaius Marius, more than a century before, yet it was still devastatingly effective, meaning that those first warriors to meet the Legions did so, for the most part, with only their weapon and without their shield. Even without the extra mass of the shields, the collision of the two opposing lines, as it usually was, created a horrific, crashing noise that momentarily drowned out the full-throated cries from both sides. Leading with their shields, the men of the Legions held them with their elbows locked against their hipbone for the initial contact, something that all warriors across the known world who used the shield did as well. However, for a Legionary, that was only the first of a two-part movement when, after their shield met the first resistance, from wood or flesh, they would then punch their shield outward, straightening their arm, using the protruding metal boss of the shield that protected their grip as a potent weapon itself. Depending on where the boss landed on an opponent, it could do anything from staggering a man backward to crushing in a cheekbone and dropping the foe out of the fight.
Because of the success of the two volleys, very few Rhaeti in the front line had their shields, and up and down the line there was the sound of the solid, thudding impact as the Roman shields smashed the warrior across from them either backwards a step, or completely off their feet. Following so quickly behind the crash of the initial collision as to sound as if it happened simultaneously, there were short, shrill screams of mortal agony from men who hadn't managed to dodge their enemy's initial thrust, as the Spanish swords again showed their value in a fight like this. Bits of gear, splintered pieces of shields, helmets, even the odd body part flew a few inches above the heads of the fighting men in the eyeblink of time after the two lines met, along with a spurt of arterial spray from men whose lives were ended in that first moment. After the collision, and the initial thrust, the contrasting styles of the Rhaeti and Romans were clearly apparent to even a novice eye. While the Romans, still in fairly uniform lines so that each man's right, or unprotected, side was covered by their comrades' shield, worked with a methodical precision, the Rhaeti warriors seemed to be nothing but whirling motion and fury, those with spears thrusting repeatedly from any number of angles. The warriors with swords, usually of the upper nobility, favored an overhead attack that, if it landed, could render a man almost in two. Those that were deprived of their shields by the javelins had either drawn a dagger, or in some cases, a short sword similar to the Romans' Spanish blades, using them for both attack and defense, parrying the short, brutal thrusts that flickered out from behind the Roman shield wall. Sometimes it would come from between shields, like a brutal silver-grey serpent striking, whenever a Rhaeti offered the Legionary across from him an opportunity, but most commonly, the Roman Legionary favored the thrust that originated below his waist and came up from under his shield. Not only was it hard to defend, it tended to strike a man in an area that concerned him a great deal, and if landed, almost always resulted in the foe being out of the fight. Now, all the time the men of the Legions spent in the boring, repetitive work with the wooden stakes showed itself profitable as they thrust, cut, and hacked bloody gaps in the Rhaeti mass. Even if the Rhaeti were competently led, and allowed to work themselves up into their normal pre-battle frenzy, the end result wouldn't have been any different; it just would have cost the Romans more in lives. Arrayed in lines several men deep, with each Legionary holding the leather harness of the man ahead of him, the 8th performed like the machine that it was, so that by the time the man who was in the fourth rank moved his way up to be in the front line, facing the enemy, the bodies were already heaped up two and three deep. Those Rhaeti left who were still fighting needed just one final push to go from what they were at that moment, a disorganized, demoralized mass of warriors, into a panicked mob intent on nothing more than escape. That was when the real slaughter began, a
t least in larger battles than this one, but the Rhaeti had already lost half their number as it was.
The leader of the warband, the Rhaeti noble ultimately responsible for what was becoming a crushing defeat that would deprive the larger rebellion of much needed willing swords and spears, had at least shown great bravery, being one of the first to swing his long sword over his head as he met the onrushing Romans. Consequently, he was also one of the first to die, and since he hadn't bothered to designate a second in command, now those other members of the Rhaeti nobility, each of them commanding a small contingent from their own holdings, started worrying about themselves and their own men. Alternately calling out their own name, or in the case of the more powerful lords doing this while their standard-bearer waved their personal banner, these lords only served to add further confusion to the fighting. By attempting to extract themselves, yet not working together, all those Rhaeti nobles trying to withdraw instead doomed themselves and their men, when what was still a solid mass of fighting men fractured into their smaller bands, almost inviting their enemy to chop them up piecemeal. The more experienced Centurions, the Pili Priores, and the two Primi Pili, seeing this happening and understanding what it meant, didn't wait for the order from Drusus.
If this had been on the training ground, we'd be doing this over and over, Porcinus thought as, on the command from Vettus to his right, he led the leading three Centuries of his Cohort at an angle towards a band of Rhaeti who were even then backing away. The movement of the Legionaries of the Fourth Cohort was not performed with the smoothness Porcinus would have liked, but because of the bodies piled in their path, it couldn't be helped. Their target was one of the larger groups, perhaps three hundred in number, and Porcinus was leading three of his Centuries directly toward them, while Pacuvius, commander of his Fourth Century and the ranking Centurion of the second line, led the other three Centuries that were in reserve on a wider circuit around to cut off an avenue of escape. Overall, Porcinus was happy with the way his men had performed, and even happier that his butcher's bill at this point was only two wounded, one of them seriously injured from a spear thrust through the thigh. But he also knew that in many ways, the worst was to come, especially if Pacuvius was successful in blocking an avenue of escape, meaning that these men had no choice but to fight to the death. There were similar scenes taking place across the battlefield, so that if whoever was leading the band that Porcinus was confronting tried to move away from both Porcinus and Pacuvius, they would have to fight their way through other Cohorts. Just as a pack of wolves circles the crippled beast in the herd, the Cohorts of the 8th worked in a fashion that their four-legged counterparts would instinctively recognize. Porcinus himself had dispatched three Rhaeti, despite being limited offensively because no Centurion normally carried a shield in battle. They always did so if the opportunity arose, when one of their men had fallen and had no use for it, but since that hadn't happened, Porcinus had to rely on his skill using his blade in both an offensive and defensive manner. He was helped in his cause for two reasons; the first by virtue of being trained by Titus Pullus, who had rightfully been recognized as the best man with a sword in not just the 10th Legion, but in all the Legions, although Porcinus knew there were men who would champion another for that honor. The other reason was that, like his father, he carried his own sword, not one of the issue blades that Legionaries usually went through at a rate of one a season. This was a Gallic blade, made almost forty years before, for a young Titus Pullus, and it had been a bequest to Porcinus that came along with the fortune, brought to him by Diocles. Of the two, at least at that moment, Porcinus appreciated the blade more; he vividly remembered the first time he had touched it as a young boy, when his uncle came to visit his farm, and he had eyed it covetously ever since. Barely breaking stride, Porcinus stooped to snatch up a torn piece of what looked like a Rhaeti cloak to wipe the blood from the sword, knowing that even as fine a weapon as this one would pit if the blood was left on the blade too long. Why this was so was one of those things that men talked about during the winter, each of them offering up some piece of arcane knowledge that supported their argument as to the cause for it.
