by R. W. Peake
The resulting cheer was spontaneous, and loud, which was precisely the effect for which Drusus was looking. Even Porcinus, who could sense the artifice of the moment, added his voice to the chorus of shouts, but unlike his comrades, his cheering had nothing to do with the idea of not having to share in the profits that would accrue from the coming battle. Money was the least of his concerns.
Drusus continued the briefing, informing the Centurions in general terms the plan for the assault, while telling them that their written orders, with the detailed instructions, would be issued before nightfall. The briefing concluded with another round of cheering for the young general, and this time, Drusus did look surprised, and pleased. Porcinus walked back to his Cohort area, his Centurions and Optios with him, running down the list of items that had to be attended to before the next day. The Legion armorers would be opening up their shop to sharpen blades for those men who didn’t attend to this chore themselves. Porcinus knew that his father had always done this himself, not trusting anyone with his treasured Gallic blade, and it was a habit that Porcinus decided to continue. With some surprise, and a sudden twinge in his heart, he realized that this would be the first time he would be performing what had become Pullus’ ritual, carefully working the blade with a stone, using a few drops of oil. When he thought about how he had longed for that sword, Porcinus became sad, not really thinking through what that would mean. All he had known, from the moment he first laid eyes on it when Pullus had visited his farm, then through the years he had marched with his newly adoptive father, was that he wanted that blade. The fact that it was almost as legendary as the man who had first carried it was only part of his reason; the larger force behind his desire was that, in some small way, he would emulate and honor the man he admired and respected more than any other. But, now that he had it, he finally understood in a real and visceral way, the import of what it meant to carry this sword into battle. Not only was it the final, concrete sign that Titus Pullus no longer lived, it carried with it a huge burden to live up to, that of a man who always led from the front and never tasted defeat. This, he realized as he walked into his tent to retrieve the Gallic blade, was what it meant to be the heir of Titus Pullus.
Even before the sun had risen the next morning, the camp containing the Legions of Drusus was swarming with activity, and not all of it was devoted to the coming trial. Porcinus’ day started with Frontinus informing him that his Cohort would be among the first Cohorts to assault the Rhaeti position, along with the First, and in even more of a surprise, the Sixth. Although it wasn’t a regulation engraved on a bronze tablet like the other laws of Rome, it had been the custom for at least a century, once Gaius Marius had reorganized the Legions from their Velites, Hastati, Principes, and Triarii four-line organization into the Cohort and Century Legion, that the lowest number Cohorts were always the first into battle. When arrayed in the acies triplex, which Porcinus knew was his father’s old general Caesar’s favorite method of deployment, the First always anchored the right end of the first line. And while sometimes the order of the adjacent Legions were switched, so that it might be the Fourth next to the First, as had happened in the last battle, it was much rarer for the higher numbered Cohorts to be in the front line. Despite the fact this was going to be an assault and not a set-piece battle, the principle was still the same; it would normally have been the Second Cohort, along with the Third, instead of the Fourth and Sixth. At least, that was what the Secundus Pilus Prior was arguing with Frontinus, as Porcinus watched, slightly bemused, but also extremely interested in hearing why Frontinus had decided as he did. In this, he was to be disappointed, however, because the acting Primus Pilus refused to give Volusenus any reason, other than to say that his decision was final, and that the Secundus Pilus Prior needed to get his own Cohort ready, since they would be part of the second wave and would undoubtedly see action. Once he determined that there was nothing more forthcoming from Frontinus, who dismissed him with a wave, Porcinus headed back towards his Cohort area, only to be caught up by Volusenus, who had stalked after him.
“So how much did you offer him?” Volusenus made no attempt to hide his anger, or his scorn, staring at Porcinus in the gloom with unconcealed fury.
It took Porcinus a moment for the words to register, and his jaw dropped in astonishment.
“What? You don’t think I offered him a bribe just to be the first over the wall, do you?”
Volusenus gave a mocking laugh.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, and don’t bother denying it! Why else would it be your Cohort and not mine?”
Gaius Porcinus shared a number of traits with Titus Pullus, but a volcanic temper wasn’t one of them. Normally, he was very slow to anger, but there were few things guaranteed to raise his ire more quickly than the kind of thing that Volusenus was charging him with now. As always, he was acutely aware that men like Volusenus still viewed his rise up the ranks as being a direct result of favoritism and the patronage of his adoptive father. He also understood that there was nothing he could do that would convince Volusenus and those of a like mind that he, in fact, belonged where he was, that while having Titus Pullus as his mentor certainly helped in some ways, in others it was just as much of a burden as it was an aid to his advancement. Like now, he thought bitterly, and despite the fact he knew his attention should be elsewhere, that there were more important matters to attend to than the pique of the Secundus Pilus Prior, he felt the slow, coiling burn of anger building deep in his gut.
“Maybe it’s because my Cohort is better than yours, in every way,” he said this quietly, but with an intensity that was unmistakable. “My men are better trained, they’re tougher, and they’re better led. That’s why he picked us and not your bunch.”
If Porcinus had slapped Volusenus across the face, it was unlikely he could have looked more shocked. But that was instantly replaced by rage, and Volusenus reached out to grab Porcinus by the left bicep, squeezing hard. As strong as his hands were, however, through his anger there was a bolt of uncertainty when there was no give in the other man’s muscle, at all. It was as hard as iron and, for the first time, Volusenus realized that, while Porcinus didn’t have the same musculature as his uncle, who Volusenus had served under as well, the younger man was tightly muscled, without an ounce of soft flesh. For his part, Porcinus didn’t react strongly, making no attempt to pull his arm out of Volusenus’ grasp.
“Let go of my arm. Now,” was all he said, again quietly, but there was…something in his voice and, when Volusenus looked into Porcinus’ face, that same thing was reflected in his eyes.
It was anger, but it was a cold, calculating type of anger, not the hot rage that Volusenus had been feeling, at least up until this moment. Suddenly, Volusenus glanced down to see that Porcinus’ free hand was no longer empty, but was now holding that Gallic sword of his uncle. However, that wasn’t what acted like a bucket of water drawn from one of the icy streams that bounded down from the snow-covered mountains being dumped over his head, dousing not only Volusenus’ anger, but his nerve. No, it was what Porcinus was doing as they both remained, almost motionless, staring at each other with Volusenus still clutching Porcinus’ arm that triggered in Volusenus a memory. A very painful, humiliating memory, in fact, when as a young, newly promoted Optio, he had done something very foolish. Lucius Volusenus was good with a sword; every one of his comrades said so, the best man in his Century. This had been when Titus Pullus was the Camp Prefect of the Army of Pannonia, and nearing the end of his storied career. But even then, despite having no need to do so, Pullus spent at least a third of a watch, every day, working the stakes with a rudis, the wooden training sword, just as if he was still a tirone. As Volusenus had watched him work one day, the older man stripped to the waist, displaying a body that, despite the toll of the years and countless battles, was still impressive to behold. Volusenus had decided that while the old man handled a sword fairly well, he himself was still the better man. And, it must be said, with a g
reat deal of encouragement, in the form of taunts and teasing from his comrades, he had taken up a long-standing challenge to face the Camp Prefect in a mock duel. This challenge had been in place since before Volusenus even joined the Legions, when Pullus was still the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion and, in fact, it dated all the way back to when he was a young Gregarius and had been chosen as his Century weapons instructor by his Pilus Prior, the great Gaius Crastinus. It was one of the first things that newly arrived Legionaries were told when they joined the Army of Pannonia, that at any time they felt up to it, they could challenge the Camp Prefect to see who was the better man. The fact that Volusenus had never personally seen anyone take up this challenge was certainly in the back of his mind, but between his own confidence and the pressure being put on him by his friends, the moment he uttered the idea aloud, there was really no graceful way he could back out.
The beating Volusenus received at the hands of a man thirty years his senior was still a memory that caused the Secundus Pilus Prior to cringe when he thought about it. And in the pre-dawn morning of this day, more than a dozen years later, the sight of Gaius Porcinus, motionless except for just the tip of his downward-pointed sword, which was moving in small but easy circles, brought that memory flooding back. Suddenly, Volusenus felt his body break out into a cold sweat, and he was acutely aware of a single, frigid drop trickling down between his shoulder blades, causing them to clench together involuntarily. In the space of a couple of heartbeats, no more, the pain of that day, both the physical pain from the cuts, bruises, and broken nose, and the emotional torment of being thoroughly humiliated in front of his closest friends, swept every vestige of anger from Volusenus’ mind and heart. His hand jerked away from Porcinus’ arm and his mouth opened, but no sound came out. Porcinus continued to stand there, motionless, except for the sword, which kept moving, and without any words being said, both men understood that something had passed between them that would stay there for the rest of their lives. And from that point forward, Volusenus would never view Porcinus in the same way, as a man who was there only by the favor of a superior. Suddenly, and still without saying a word, Volusenus spun abruptly about, and walked unsteadily away towards his own Cohort area, leaving Porcinus to stare after him. He didn’t move immediately; he decided that it was a good idea to let his heart and breathing go back to normal before he faced his men with the news that they were about to earn their pay. Only when he was back to what passed for his normal, calm state did he sheath his sword, mainly so he didn’t have to see his own hand shaking as he did so.
It was only when the time for dawn came and it didn’t get any lighter that the men of the Legions realized their endeavor this day had been blessed by the gods. At least, that was what the camp priests were proclaiming about the thick fog that almost completely obscured everything but the closest objects. As his Cohort made their preparations, Porcinus observed that while the torches that lit the section of the camp wall nearest to him were barely visible, those farther down, or the ones that were permanently lit outside the praetorium were completely hidden by the thick veil of misty, wet fog. Whether or not the gods had a hand in this Porcinus somehow doubted, but what was certainly true was that this helped the Roman cause immensely. At least, he amended, it will help, once we start the assault. At that moment, however, as men made their final preparations and the bucina sounded the call for assembly to march out of the camp, the fog made matters decidedly more difficult.
“Hurry up, ladies! You know I expect you to be in formation before the second blast of that damn horn, not the third! I don’t give a fuck if you can barely see! Each of you should be able to find their spot blindfolded by now!”
Porcinus could clearly hear his Optio, and he could tell the general direction the sound was coming from, but between the quickly moving bodies and the gloom, he couldn’t determine his exact location. By the gods, I can barely see the back rank of my own Century, he thought with some dismay. Still, he could see enough to know that his Century was all there, in formation and ready to start the day’s work. Under normal circumstances, he could have simply looked to his left from his spot at the head of his Century to see the rest of the Cohort arrayed behind him, but on this morning, that was impossible. Consequently, he made his way down the Cohort street, and while he wasn’t surprised to see that the rest of his Centurions and their Centuries were also formed up and ready, he was nonetheless pleased. Exchanging a quiet greeting with each of them, he quickly moved back to the head of his Cohort, and gave the order to march. They would pass through the forum, on the way to and out the Porta Praetoria, heading into battle, and as always, Porcinus found the thick, crunching tromp of hobnailed soles comforting. It meant that he wasn’t going to be facing these Rhaeti alone, and as long as his boys were with him, he had no doubt that they would not only survive, they would prevail. Although he didn’t think about it much, Porcinus was dimly aware that this was what it meant to be a professional soldier, marching in the Legions of Rome, the quiet confidence that comes from knowing that one is the best. And they were; of that fact, neither Porcinus nor any man in his Cohort or the Legion held any doubt about. Today, they would prove it once more.
As they maneuvered into position, the fog turned out to be quite a challenge, and if the matter at hand hadn’t been so serious, Porcinus would have found it somewhat amusing to see the normally well-drilled, well-oiled machine that were the Legions acting more like the mob of warriors they were about to face. Men were running into each other because Centurions found themselves marching their Centuries right into another Century, both of them trying to occupy the same space. To Drusus’ credit, he quickly understood that the normal method of aligning each Century and Cohort by sight wasn’t going to work, so he ordered the Tribunes, most of whom were actually older than he was, to guide each Century into their spot. Nevertheless, it took more than a third of a watch to perform what should take barely a third of that time, and that was just for the 8th. Not that it mattered that much; originally, Drusus’ plan had called for the sun to rise on a Roman army already arrayed for battle, each Cohort of the assault element lined up across from the spot in the Rhaeti defenses to which they were assigned. But even after the sun had risen above the shoulder of the mountains to the east, it was barely visible as a pale, ghostly orb in the sky, casting a light so paltry that Porcinus was sure that he had seen nights with a full moon almost as bright. The difference was that the fog, reflecting the sun’s rays, turned the entire world around them into a gray, indistinct mass, where the only recognizable shapes were the men of his Century, and parts of the Centuries on either side of his. Punctuating this strange sight were the normal sounds of a Legion about to go into battle; the cornu of each Cohort was sounding his call, while Centurions continued shouting orders, as the horses of the command group and Tribunes neighed and snorted, passing on the vibrating nerves transmitted to them by their tense and nervous riders. All in all, Porcinus thought this was already the strangest battle he had ever been a part of, and it hadn’t even started yet! He was standing in his spot, with the Second Century of the First Cohort to his right. Whereas normally each Cohort aligned in a three-Century front, with a Century behind each one, the orders for this day had specified a narrower but deeper formation front of two Centuries side by side. However, unlike the First Cohort, where Frontinus arrayed the Second next to his First, Porcinus had opted for a different formation. The second Century in the front line, to his immediate left, wasn’t the Second, but the Fifth, led by Corvinus. As he had expected when he gave the order, Urso hadn’t liked this at all, but in a rare show of temper, Porcinus had cut him off short before he could splutter more than a couple of words in protest. It was only a few moments later that Porcinus admitted to himself that his confrontation with Volusenus was still running through his veins, and his blood had been up, so that he felt slightly ashamed at his show of temper. Now, as he and his men stood and waited for the sound of the cornu that would signal the next phase o
f the plan, the beginning of the artillery barrage, he found his mind going back to his argument with the Secundus Pilus Prior. Behind him, his men were talking quietly to each other, and there were even a few laughs, which Porcinus knew was a good sign. Although, he thought, they aren’t laughing nearly as much as they had been the last time they faced these cunni. But that was to be expected, since this was an entirely different proposition than routing and chasing a disorganized, poorly led and highly outnumbered mob. Using his ears more than his eyes, Porcinus strained to try to determine exactly where matters stood with the deployment of the rest of the army. From what he could determine, it sounded like the 8th was finished, but now the Tribunes were busy guiding in the 13th. Judging that there was still some time to go, Porcinus walked over to where Corvinus was standing. His friend was essentially doing the same thing Porcinus had been, but had actually untied his helmet and lifted one earpiece as he cocked his head, intent on trying to hear anything useful.
“You look like an idiot doing that,” Porcinus commented, prompting a mock scowl from Corvinus.
“You’re just jealous because you didn’t think of it first,” Corvinus retorted.
Porcinus laughed, but his heart really wasn’t into the normal banter that they both normally enjoyed so much, particularly before a trying moment like this. Sensing this, Corvinus gave him a quizzical look, one eyebrow cocked as he waited for Porcinus to say what was on his mind. Porcinus, on the other hand, was struggling to come up with the proper way to broach a subject that, by rights, he shouldn’t be bringing up with a Centurion of a lower grade. Under normal circumstances, Porcinus strongly discouraged the kind of gossip about other Centurions that some of his compatriots seemed to thrive on, and didn’t normally indulge in it himself. This, he told himself, isn’t a normal circumstance.
