by R. W. Peake
"I wasted my breath," Sabinus continued. "Honestly, he's so absorbed in just trying to keep up with all the various duties that he barely had time to listen to what I had to say."
With that somewhat gloomy assessment, the tent was quiet for a moment as each man thought about what they had learned this night. When nobody seemed inclined to share with the others, Porcinus cleared his throat, his signal that not only was he about to resume speaking, but he wanted to change the topic.
"Has anyone heard more about Drusus and what happened the other day?"
Although this subject was as potentially explosive as Frontinus' prospects of being named permanent Primus Pilus, it was no less important. In fact, it could be argued that this was even more crucial, because it impacted more than just the 8th Legion. And in the intervening time between the battle and this, the fifth night after it, the full extent of the catastrophe that had befallen the 8thhad become clear. This news came from a variety of sources; most of the time, it would be from a clerk who was friends with one of the slaves that was attached to every tent section, but there were also snippets of conversations that were overheard by the Centurions themselves whenever their daily duties took them to the praetorium after camp was made. The best information, however, came from the other Centurions of the First Cohort itself, particularly Frontinus and the Primus Princeps Prior, Gnaeus Bassus. They were nearby when Drusus had, in what Porcinus could only believe was a bout of insecurity, countermanded Vettus' order for the Tenth Cohort, which was already standing at a spot nearer to the western end of the valley, to conduct the pursuit of the band of Rhaeti that to that point had managed to elude all attempts to pin them down and bring them to battle.
"Primus Pilus, I gave you the order," Drusus had supposedly said, and depending on whom one talked to, he had either shouted it, or at the very least, spoke in a stern manner to Vettus who, surprising none of his Centurions, responded calmly.
That, apparently, at least from what Porcinus could gather, had further agitated the young Legate, and he told Vettus that it was the First Cohort specifically and no other that he expected to pursue the fleeing remnant. And, showing the same flair for the dramatic, it was what Drusus said as Vettus saluted and turned to lead his Cohort that would turn out to not only be prophetic, but would haunt the young nobleman for the gods only knew how long.
"I expect you to completely crush these scum, Primus Pilus," Drusus had called, and from all accounts, he made sure that he was heard by the entire Cohort. "Do not leave one man alive. I expect complete victory. If you don't achieve it, then don’t bother returning."
It was the kind of thing Porcinus and the others had heard before, from haughty young Tribunes mostly, but Tribunes could be laughed off, and for the most part were ignored. A Legate, however, was another matter, especially one who was widely considered to be at least in contention for the title of Princeps when Augustus crossed the river in Charon's Boat, although none of the Centurions could ever recall hearing a Legate say anything as harsh and unforgiving as what Drusus had told Vettus. That, Porcinus reflected, was because by the time a Roman reached the status of Legate, he had been on campaign, usually several of them. This wasn't the case with Drusus, and it was just one more troubling sign as far as Porcinus and most of his compatriots were concerned. Hence the interest in the young nobleman's mental state here on this fifth night.
"Have you seen the boy?" Volusenus scoffed. "Now he's moping about, acting as if he's Atlas and got the world on his shoulders. I heard from Caleus," Volusenus referred to his personal slave, "who talked to some slave friend of his attached to the boy's household that he's not eating or sleeping." The Secundus Pilus Prior shook his head, and spat onto the dirt floor of the tent. "It's disgusting that he carries on this way."
"I actually think that's a good sign," Porcinus interjected mildly, unsurprisingly earning a scornful look from Volusenus. Neither fazed nor intimidated, he continued, "It shows he knows he made a mistake. That counts for something, at least in my book."
"Bah." Volusenus was equally unmoved. "So he made a mistake. We all have, and we all have made mistakes that have gotten men hurt. But you don't see us carrying on like a woman, wringing our hands and whining about it."
Porcinus wasn't the only Centurion who took notice of the callous disregard Volusenus seemed to be showing for the circumstances behind Drusus' behavior, and he saw Fronto stare at Volusenus with barely disguised hostility. He wasn't alone; in a moment, even Volusenus couldn't ignore the hostile gazes of at least a half-dozen of his counterparts, causing his face to flush and turn his already swarthy features even darker. Only then did he seem to realize how his words could have been taken, and he shifted nervously on his stool.
"I...I didn't mean anything disrespectful to the memory of the Primus Pilus," he said hastily. "I was just talking."
"Yes, you were 'just talking,'" agreed Publius Philo, the Sextus Pilus Prior, but his tone wasn't friendly. "It seems you do a lot of that, just...talking."
Volusenus' eyes narrowed at the insult and, for a moment, it looked as if he intended to make an issue of Philo's words.
Then, Fronto intervened by saying simply, "I agree with Porcinus. I think it's a good sign that the boy Legate is actually shaken up because of what he did. Although," he felt compelled to add, "It's not like what happened with Vettus was something that anyone could have foreseen."
That, also, was true, Porcinus knew. And of the larger tragedy of Vettus dying, this smaller one was in some ways worse, because Vettus hadn't been dispatched by a Rhaeti warrior he was facing on the battlefield, with his sword in hand. That at least would have been fitting. Instead, it was an act that every Centurion had seen happen across hundreds of battles and skirmishes, a case where the gods turned their face away from a man. Vettus, despite the harsh manner in which he had been addressed, was carrying out his orders to the letter that Drusus had demanded. But the First Cohort was operating at a disadvantage; they had been forced to run across the valley floor to close the distance to the fleeing Rhaeti band, meaning that not only were they winded, their cohesion wasn't what it should have been. The secret to the success of the Legions was their discipline, but part of that discipline was represented by how tightly they held to the space between each man, and the width between each rank. Not surprisingly, running over rough ground, especially for a long distance, shattered the cohesion of even the most disciplined and well-trained units. Vettus, probably still smarting from the stinging rebuke from Drusus, was leading from the front, as a good Primus Pilus does. However, in his desire to carry out Drusus' orders, he had ranged too far ahead of the front ranks of his Century, so that when the probably scared and undoubtedly desperate Rhaeti had flung his javelin, it was a case of a number of factors coming together that ended with this result. Obviously, Vettus couldn't add his own perspective, but from what was pieced together, he had just come to a stop and was in the process of turning to point to the spot where he wanted his Century to line up. Apparently, he had turned his back to the enemy, still more than thirty paces away, which was normally something an experienced man would never do if he was isolated. But it wasn't until Vettus turned around to see he had outrun his men to a point where he didn't have immediate support that he realized his mistake. The only conclusion that made any sense was that either the man who flung the javelin that killed him released immediately after Vettus turned his back or, somehow, Vettus didn't pick up the movement out of the nearly five hundred Rhaeti. Because Vettus had gained some twenty paces on his men, when his aquilifer tried to shout a warning, he was too out of breath and too far away to do more than cry out in anguish and frustration when the point of the javelin, arcing down through the air, struck Vettus in the hollow just above his left collarbone, punching through the mail to pierce his heart, whereupon he took a staggering step back towards his Cohort before dropping in a heap, already dead by the time his body hit the ground. Every Centurion present in the tent had either seen, or at least heard fr
om someone who had witnessed such random events happen during a battle, but none of them had ever seen or heard about it happening to the highest-ranking Centurion in the Legion. Now, those men Vettus had relied on the most in leading the 8th were left trying to cope with what was a devastating loss, made worse by the uncertainty the future held for their Legion. If any of them were to articulate their fears, none of them would have mentioned the campaign itself as a cause for worry; they had all been on multiple campaigns. And this one, at least to this point, was shaping up to be little more than a matter of killing a few tribesmen to remind the others that they were ruled by Rome. Whether it stayed this way remained to be seen, but their larger concern was the unknown posed by their Legate, and whether or not he, in fact, did learn from his mistakes.
The army’s pursuit of the Rhaeti continued, and for those uninitiated in tribal rebellions of this type, it was a frustrating business. Fortunately, Porcinus and the men of the 8th had a good deal of experience fighting what at times seemed to be a phantom enemy, as small bands of warriors would suddenly coalesce to strike at a minor Roman settlement, inflicting as much damage as they could in a limited amount of time. The damage was usually in the form of burned buildings, sometimes still smoldering as the advance guard of Drusus’ force would arrive. Fairly quickly, it became apparent that the goal of the Rhaeti was more than just the destruction of property. It was around the third or fourth settlement that the Romans understood there was a method to what the Rhaeti were doing, in the form of the mutilated corpses of every male Roman, all of whose genitals had been hacked away. And for men experienced enough to understand the signs, it was apparent that this was done while the unfortunates were still alive. Yet it was more than that; women weren’t immune to this treatment, although it was confined to women who had been carrying children. Even for those hardened to such things, the sight of fetuses ripped from their mother’s wombs not only turned stomachs, it created a cold fury, especially in men like Porcinus, who could too easily imagine that it was Iras lying there, with one of his children being ripped from her belly. The message the Rhaeti were sending couldn’t have been clearer: We will drive the Romans out of our lands and remove them from existence. At least, that was how it was presented to the men of the Legions by their Centurions, but every man wearing the transverse crest knew that they already had a receptive audience for their message. Still, as Porcinus and his compatriots knew, the anger of the rankers helped to dull the frustration, and the complaining that would normally have resulted from trudging through what was becoming increasingly challenging terrain, in pursuit of phantoms.
“It’s like trying to tie a knot in a wisp of smoke,” was how Ovidius put it one night as he sat in Porcinus’ tent, going over the events of the day.
Or, more accurately, the non-events, Porcinus thought dismally, because he was no less frustrated than any of the men, at least as far as closing with the enemy and crushing them in battle was concerned. That feeling was compounded by the fact that it was his Cohort that had been in the vanguard that day, meaning that he and his Century had followed the column of smoke still streaming into the sky and been the first to come upon what, even by this point, was an exceptionally gruesome scene. Whoever had commanded this band hadn’t been content just to slaughter the inhabitants of what had been a clearly prosperous settlement. It also hadn’t been purely Roman; there were already two distinct towns, one belonging to the Focunates, the tribe in whose territory the settlement lay, which was located on the north side of the Aenus (Inn) River, and the Roman, arrayed on the southern bank. Seeing the scene, Porcinus instantly understood that it was no accident that it was only the structures on the southern side that lay in smoking ruin, while the collection of small but sturdily built huts, with their tightly woven roofs of thatch, were completely intact and, from what he could see, unmolested. It was also no surprise that their occupants, the Focunates, who from what could be gathered by scouts and spies, hadn’t been part of this rebellion, were nowhere to be seen. Well, Porcinus thought grimly as he and his men entered the settlement, they’re in it now, because Rome isn’t going to make a distinction, not anymore.
Even as he understood it was a futile endeavor, Porcinus ordered his men to spread out through the three rows of streets, looking for survivors amid the rubble of the buildings. While he watched, he was struck by the odd juxtaposition of the neat lines made by the good Roman streets, and the smoking hulks of the shops, trading posts, and homes that had been enclosed by them. The contrast was made even greater by the sight of the Focunates settlement across the river, which seemed to have no sense of order to it at all, looking very much like the occupants of each structure had simply looked about and decided that this was a good spot to build upon. His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Corvinus, whose Century he had sent to the center of the small town where, like in every Roman town, the forum was located. Even before Porcinus had drawn near enough to see his friend’s expression, he knew that something even worse than what he was already seeing was coming. Reaching Corvinus, there was no mistaking the pallor underneath the Centurion’s normally swarthy features, made even more noticeable by lips pressed so tightly together that his mouth appeared to be nothing more than a thin gash sliced into the bottom of his face by a very sharp knife. In fact, Porcinus thought, if I didn’t know better, I would think he’s trying to keep from throwing up.
“You need to see this,” Corvinus told him quietly, but there was a catch to his voice that unsettled Porcinus even more than his friend’s expression. “But you need to prepare yourself.”
“Why? It can’t be anything I haven’t seen before,” Porcinus replied, but Corvinus only shook his head in response.
As he followed Corvinus, his friend’s bulk blocked his view for a precious few more heartbeats. Later, Porcinus wasn’t sure whether that had been a blessing or a curse. For a moment, he stared uncomprehendingly at the knot of men, huddled roughly in the middle of the forum. This place, he would only learn later that its name was Veldidena (Innsbruck), had yet to be consecrated and officially entered as a Roman town, which meant that there was no obligatory statue of Augustus. Instead, it appeared that the locals had settled for a statue of what Porcinus assumed was Jupiter Optimus Maximus; it was impossible to tell because the statue had been toppled and smashed to pieces. But that wasn’t what the men were looking at, and for the rest of his days, Gaius Porcinus would find himself wishing that he had just turned around and walked away, before his mind comprehended the awful sight that his eyes were seeing. A crude frame had been erected, perhaps twenty feet long. In construction and style, it was similar to the kind of frame farmers erected when it was time for slaughter, and as apt a comparison as it may have been, Porcinus immediately regretted making it, even if it was only to himself. Suspended from the frame were eight bodies, all strung up with their feet pointing skyward, their arms now dangling limply just above the ground. Underneath each of them was a huge pool of blood, barely congealed and telling the Legionaries that what had taken place had occurred within perhaps the last watch. Unfortunately, that was the least gruesome of the details seared into Porcinus’ brain, along with every other man who saw it. The fact that every victim was a woman was apparent, not from the usual telltales of their sex, but because just below each of them dangled the unborn fetus of the child she had been carrying. Despite himself, Porcinus noticed that each tiny corpse was in varying levels of development; two of them could have been babes in arms, while the others ranged from very small, but perfectly formed, to one that had to have been at least six months away from birth. While he had seen this type of butchery before, what made this even more gruesome were the signs that the warriors had taken the extra step with the better-developed fetuses by mutilating them, leaving no question about the message they were sending.
“By the gods….” Porcinus was barely aware that the croaking, strangled voice was his own as he stared in horror at the sight before him.
“I don’t
think the gods were watching over this place,” Corvinus said bitterly, standing next to Porcinus. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Neither have I and I hope I never have to again!” Porcinus shook his head violently, in a vain attempt to banish the image that was now seared into his memory.
“They were alive when those…cunni savages did this, Gaius.” Corvinus’ mouth twisted into a bitter grimace, and he finally spat the bile that had been pushing its way into his mouth from his stomach.
“I can see that,” Porcinus replied quietly. Closing his eyes for a moment, he uttered a brief prayer then continued. “Let’s cut them down and at least give them the funeral they deserve.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?”
Porcinus turned at this new voice to see that Urso had arrived on the scene. Frowning, Porcinus was about to remind Urso that he had given the Second Century instructions to move to the western end of the settlement, but refrained. Just because you don’t trust him doesn’t mean he doesn’t have something valuable to say, Porcinus remonstrated with himself.
Instead, he asked, “Why do you say that, Urso?”
“Because I think this is something Drusus and that bunch should see,” Urso replied, and while he was addressing his superior, his eyes never left the sight that had drawn their attention, for which Porcinus couldn’t blame him.
Considering for a moment, Porcinus nodded and said simply, “You’re right. He should see this. Thank you, Urso.”
For a brief moment, Urso looked startled, as if he had been expecting a reprimand, and it gave Porcinus a small sense of satisfaction, as he thought, No, that’s what you would do. But I’m not you. Which is why I’m the Pilus Prior and you’re not.
“Er…you’re welcome, sir.” And while Urso clearly meant it as a statement, it came out sounding like more of a question, causing Corvinus’ mouth to quirk in an unconscious smirk.
