by R. W. Peake
Looking over his shoulder, he called out just loudly enough to be heard, “Follow me. It’s time to get wet.”
Then he stepped into the river, gasping from the shock of the cold water as it went rushing around first his feet, then quickly rising up to mid-calf. He could feel the rocks under his feet shifting, confirming his worst fears that the footing wasn’t composed of the smoothly rounded and flat stones that the engineers had insisted composed the river bottom. Their reasoning was sound enough; unlike the Rhenus, which was flowing in the opposite direction, this small river emptied into the large lake. By the time a river neared its end, the action of the water usually had smoothed out the stones that composed the riverbed. But this river was different, and although in that moment, Porcinus didn’t put much thought into why, it had occurred to him that, because the mountains from which this river sprang were so near, it made it less likely that the bottom would be smooth. This was being confirmed as, within his first few steps, his foot slipped on an uneven and slippery rock, almost losing his balance and falling to the side. Although he caught himself, the swift current compounded the problem, but his troubles were just beginning. By the time he had gone twenty paces, the water was already just below his crotch, and he wasn’t more than a third of the way across. Behind him, he heard the first rank of his men come splashing into the water, and he mentally began counting, even as he continued wading. He didn’t get past ten before that sound he was dreading happened, as an alarmed shout reached his ears from somewhere to his front. Within the span of a dozen heartbeats, the Rhaeti on the walls were in full cry, and now that his men knew there was no need for silence, they began shouting their own challenges. Punctuating this was the sound of a heavy splash, followed by a shouted curse as one of his men lost his footing in the river. Porcinus was now halfway across, and he was dismayed that the water was now up to his waist, which, because of his height, meant that most of his men would be submerged up to their lower chests. The depth also made it even more difficult to keep his footing because of the current, so he supposed it was inevitable that, despite his care, he lost his balance when the rock under his left foot suddenly dislodged from its position. Instantly, he was submerged, fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm him as he felt his body tugged downstream. Within the span of a heartbeat, his speed picked up tremendously, so that when his side struck a larger rock, while it stopped his momentum, it also robbed him of his breath. The water itself, which had been perfectly clear, was now murky from the movement of both his men and the men of the First Cohort upstream, making it impossible for Porcinus to get his bearings. Bouncing off the rock, he felt his body spin around, and the force of the blow caused him to involuntarily open his mouth in a gasp of pain, which was the worst thing he could have done, his mouth and lungs suddenly filled with icy water. I’m going to drown; this was the thought that came blaring into his consciousness, although the voice in his head was devoid of emotion, simply stating what had become an obvious fact. I’ll never see Titus and Sextus grow up, I’ll never hold Iras again, or kiss my daughters when they get married. And not because I had a sword thrust into my guts, but because I lost my balance and drowned in this river.
When he had a chance to reflect on the moment later, Porcinus concluded that those thoughts and images of never seeing his family again had provided whatever it was he needed to decide not to die. That, and the fact that Corvinus had appeared out of nowhere to grab his harness and yank him to the surface, he thought ruefully, although he was extraordinarily thankful that his friend was paying attention. There had been no chance at that time to properly thank Corvinus, who half-dragged, half-carried his Pilus Prior the rest of the way to the far side of the river, before dropping Porcinus to the ground and collapsing on his own. What Porcinus did remember was rolling over and retching violently, sure that half the river came spewing out of his mouth and nose. Taking several ragged gulps of air, Porcinus thought that he had never smelled or tasted anything so sweet. Unfortunately, the part of his mind that was detached from the ordeal and focused on his job forced him to stop enjoying the moment, and he climbed unsteadily erect, water still streaming from his tunic and armor. Corvinus had also regained his feet, but when Porcinus turned to his friend, intent on thanking him for the rescue, the sight that greeted him yanked another gasp from him. In one of those strange moments that occur in moments of great danger, Corvinus, who was facing Porcinus, had much the same reaction.
“You’re bleeding!”
Both men had uttered the same words, at the same time, and they stared at each other in shock. How was it possible they had both been injured in the same spot, Porcinus wondered? Then Corvinus suddenly bellowed with laughter, confusing his Pilus Prior even more as he gaped at Corvinus, who was pointing at Porcinus’ face.
“We’re not bleeding,” Corvinus gasped between laughs. “It’s that fucking cheap dye we use for our crests. It’s run out and down our faces!”
Porcinus touched his face, and when he drew his hand away, he saw that his fingers were covered in red. It took only an instant of inspection for him to see that this wasn’t really the color of blood, but a slightly brighter red. One of the innumerable details that Augustus had changed about the army was the regulation that Centurions’ crests had to be dyed red, changing it from the traditional black or white of the past. It was one of those things that, when one thought about it, made sense, since the horsetail crests of the men were still black, making it easier for a commander to pick out his Centurions. Of course, it didn’t take long for one of the wags in the ranks to point out something that was equally as obvious, that it made the Centurions better targets, not only for the enemy, but for rankers with a grudge. Whatever the reason, the dye supplied to the Centurions for such purposes had immediately been cursed by the members of the Centurionate for its lack of fastness and tendency to fade quickly. Or, Porcinus thought ruefully as he took a corner of his wet tunic to wipe the dye from his face, while Corvinus did the same, to run when it got wet. While the two were thus occupied, their Centuries had managed for the most part to wade across, but although they had managed to do so without any man being swept away, when Ovidius, the last of Porcinus’ Century to cross, came to find his Pilus Prior, it was to report that several men had lost their javelins and two men had lost their shields. While this was bad news, it was also not unexpected; when faced with a choice of using both hands to maintain balance, or be swept away, it wasn’t uncommon for men to choose losing javelins. Losing a shield was more uncommon, but Porcinus knew that there was nothing gained by worrying about it now. By this point, he could see that both his and Corvinus’ Centuries were across and fully formed up, their shields now uncovered and ready for use. Walking across the rocky riverbank, he and Corvinus resumed their spots, and Porcinus shouted the order to continue the advance towards the Rhaeti.
The first arrow came streaking out of the fog to skip and clatter harmlessly across the rocky ground, but it was quickly followed by another, then another. At first, the missiles landed well wide of the Cohort, hitting several dozen paces to the right of the First Century. That’s where the First Cohort should be, was the thought that flashed through Porcinus’ mind. At least he thought so, although he was forced to acknowledge that it was just as likely that he was the one to veer off course as Frontinus. They had been within earshot of each other as they crossed the river, but now, despite straining to hear, he could no longer even pick out the odd noise that might tell him they were still fairly nearby. It was as if the First Cohort had simply been swallowed up whole by the fog; for all Porcinus knew, that was the case all along the front. What if we’re the only ones still about to assault the wall? This was a worrying thought, but he forced it from his mind, concentrating on peering into the gray veil ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ditch at the very least, anything that might tell him exactly where he and his men were. Then, after perhaps a dozen more paces, something emerged from the fog off to his left that caught his eye. It was
perhaps twenty feet beyond the last file of the Fifth Century, but when Porcinus determined what it was, he felt a flood of relief. It was nothing much, just the remains of what they had guessed was the foundation of a stone wall that was perpendicular to the line of the Rhaeti ditch. But there was no doubt about its identity, and more importantly, its location, because it was the only landmark of its type anywhere near the spot where Porcinus’ Cohort was supposed to cross the ditch and assault the wall. At least we’re in the right place, he thought, but whatever comfort that brought was immediately banished as the barrage of missiles that came hissing out of the mist started to shift, coming ever closer to the men of Corvinus’ Century.
Before Porcinus could give the order himself, he heard Corvinus’ voice ring out the command, “Shields up! And if any of you cunni get hit by these blind bastards, you’re on a charge!”
There was some laughter at this, although it was muted by the shields that the men had raised above their heads. And, as Porcinus feared, a moment later came the first shout of pain as one of the arrows found a gap between shields, and what little humor remained was gone for the foreseeable future. Porcinus resumed his position at the front, thankful that at least they were past the rocky riverbank where the footing was better. There was still no sign of the ditch, and perhaps Porcinus could forgive himself for temporarily forgetting the distance from the river to the ditch, considering all that had transpired to this point. He didn’t stop moving forward, understanding that now that the Rhaeti were aware of their general position, every moment spent in front of the walls increased the peril for his men, and the overall success of the assault. Unfortunately, it had become clear that Drusus had suspended the artillery bombardment soon after the order to advance, which meant that there was nothing to deter the Rhaeti archers from massing along the wall and raining arrows down on the heads of Porcinus and his men. Despite this fact, Porcinus didn’t fault Drusus’ decision, because as bad as it might get when they were finally spotted by the Rhaeti, having scorpion bolts and ballistae rocks slamming into the unprotected rear of his Cohort would be even worse. Walking steadily forward, Porcinus felt extremely vulnerable, both because of the difficulty seeing an arrow streaking in his direction because of the fog, which under the best of visibility was something of a challenge, but at that moment, the only protection he had was his vitus in his left hand. It was common practice for Centurions to pick up shields, except that would only happen when one of his Legionaries no longer needed it, usually because the man was dead or had been wounded and dragged to the rear to safety. And because two of his men were missing their shields already, he would have to wait even longer than normal. Even as this thought passed through his mind, in the very last space of time in which to react, his eye caught the blurring line of an arrow and, without any thought, he leaned his body slightly to the right, hearing the hissing sound of the missile pass by his left ear by no more distance than the span of a hand. His heart, which was already beating more rapidly than normal, but keeping a steady rhythm, suddenly leaped in his chest in a delayed reaction to his narrow escape. It was yet another lesson he had learned from Titus Pullus, that the best and really only way for a Centurion, in the most exposed position of the Century, to avoid being skewered was to not think about the fact that men were sending arrows in his direction.
“In situations like that, thinking will not only get you in trouble, it’ll get you killed,” Pullus had explained. “The best and only way to keep from being hit is to trust your body to know what to do. Just relax, and you’ll be fine.”
It was advice based on the experience of years spent as a Centurion, first of a Cohort, then of an entire Legion. Compounding matters, Pullus made a tempting target by virtue of his very size, because even now, after many years under the standard, Gaius Porcinus had never seen a Legionary the size of his father. In fact, he was just an inch shorter, meaning that he was the tallest man of not only the Centurionate, but almost of the entire Legion. However, while Pullus had seemed to be almost as broad across the shoulders as he was tall, Porcinus was lithe in build, with a frame that never seemed to pack on extra pounds, no matter how hard he had tried early on to emulate his mentor. Porcinus still had an enormous appetite, but he had long since stopped the exercises that someone, he no longer remembered who, had prescribed for him to build bulk and muscle. And right at this moment, he was thankful that he was more narrowly built than Pullus, particularly after that last close call. More arrows went streaking past him, although none came as close as the one a moment before, but behind him, he could hear that some of the missiles were at the very least finding shields. The sound was much like a mallet striking a block of wood, yet when compared to the alternative, the wetter, sucking sound as the barbed tip struck flesh, it meant this was music to Porcinus’ ears. Still, he knew that it couldn’t last forever, and it was just as he finally saw the ditch looming across his front through the fog that he heard the second, dreaded sound. This time, there wasn’t a shout or cry of pain, but a low groan, followed by clattering thud as a man, one of his boys, collapsed to the ground. From bitter experience, Porcinus knew that, at the very least, whoever had been hit was seriously wounded, most likely mortally.
“Give his shield to one of the men who needs it,” he yelled over his shoulder, even as he offered a silent prayer for the fallen man.
The ditch was now clearly visible, meaning that the danger was about to become much greater, as the men of the assaulting Cohort came to a halt. Speed was now of the essence, and Porcinus moved from his spot in front of the Century to a position from where he could supervise the next phase of the attack. The first step was the men of the trailing Centuries, all of whom had successfully negotiated the river, with the exception of Verrens’ Century, who had lost a man swept downriver, passing the bundles of hurdles forward to the men of the First and Fifth, who threw them down into the ditch. It was at this point, when Porcinus had done a brief inspection of the ditch that he had seen the engineers had been in error, because the ditch was just as deep and just as wide as it was further along the Rhaeti fortifications. In fact, this came as no surprise to Porcinus, and he silently gave a brief prayer of thanks to the gods that he had planned accordingly. Of course, as it was turning out, nothing connected with this operation was going as intended, because when Porcinus went to give the order, he was informed by Urso, Munacius, and Pacuvius that at least one man from each Century had lost the bundles they were carrying. In the case of Munacius’ Century, it was worse; five of his Legionaries had either been forced or opted to lose their burdens, which were presumably now swept downstream and were probably floating in the lake. Of the men who were carrying the wicker baskets, it was even worse, which in all honesty didn’t surprise Porcinus that much, since the dirt was heavier, and was more likely to drag a man under. Regardless of the reason, it meant that he would have to husband his resources to the point that there was only going to be one solid path across the ditch instead of the planned two. Within a matter of moments, the hurdles were thrown down, and the baskets of dirt emptied onto them, but it wasn’t without cost. Despite the best attempts of comrades to cover the men charged with this task, it was probably inevitable that some of them would be struck and, in the space of a dozen heartbeats, Porcinus was forced to watch three of his men get hit by Rhaeti missiles, one of them being hit by three arrows, the one striking him in the throat a mortal wound. Even so, he managed to fall forward, into the ditch, in his last act to help his comrades. Porcinus’ own throat tightened at the sight, recognizing the dead Legionary, his name Marcus Figulus, one of his most veteran men. Figulus was a Gregarius who hadn’t even earned the status of an immune, one of those men with a special skill that earned them extra pay, but as far as Porcinus was concerned, he was part of the solid core of veterans that formed the beating heart of his Century. It was a loss that he could ill afford, and the fact that it happened before the ladders had actually touched the wall was something that Porcinus hoped wasn’t an om
en. Arrows were now flying thick and fast, their hissing passage almost matching the sounds of the river and shouts of his men as they finished filling in the ditch. Seeing that it was done, Porcinus moved quickly; now was the time to draw his sword and to make sure he was the first one across the ditch. Before he did so, however, he stooped to pick up Figulus’ shield, which the man had dropped to the side of the formation before beginning what turned out to be his final task in the Legions. The distance to the wall from the ditch at this point was no more than twenty paces, but still the fog was so thick that, while it was visible, Porcinus couldn’t make out any level of detail. The Rhaeti lining the wall were simply dark objects protruding above the darker line of the wall, yet he couldn’t tell which ones were archers, making it difficult for him to anticipate when one of them would be loosing his missile. Keeping the shield in front of him while trying to peek around first one side, then another, then underneath, Porcinus was doing his best to keep the Rhaeti from targeting him as he advanced; the fact that if he couldn’t pick out individuals among the enemy meant they were in the same straits never occurred to him. Despite the lack of visibility, one or more Rhaeti archer managed to strike Porcinus’ shield, so that before he had gone a dozen steps from the ditch, there were four arrows embedded in his shield. He didn’t dare risking a look behind him, but between the blurred lines made by other arrows, and the distinctive sound, he knew his men were in much the same shape he was. Understanding that every arrow striking his shield weakened it to the blows of spears and swords that would be coming shortly, Porcinus quickened his pace from the fast walk to a trot. Now that he had committed himself and his men, the sooner they got to the wall, the more quickly they would be sheltered from the missile fire, because once they were at the base of it, any archer would have to risk leaning over and exposing himself to a javelin in the face. It was one of the ironies of combat, but it was also a truth in this case; the closer he and the Cohort got, the safer they would be. Although he dashed the last dozen paces, it wasn’t fast enough to keep another arrow from striking his shield, and this time the range was so short that the impact almost knocked the shield from his grasp. Barely managing to keep his grip, he nevertheless made it to the base of the wall, where he crouched, his shield over his head, watching as his men closed the remaining distance.
