by R. W. Peake
The Pilus Prior had lost track of the number of Rhaeti he had dispatched, but his arm was beginning to ache from the exertion, so he took the opportunity of a brief pause to take a step backward, within sword’s reach and protection by the outside file. Glancing over to his left, he could just barely make out the white stripe sewn into the shoulder of his Optio’s armor, frowning a bit at the sight of Ovidius, who wasn’t in his assigned spot to the left rear of the Century, but was, in fact, in front. This was something he had talked to Ovidius about before; his Optio’s excitement and eagerness for battle often meant that he pushed his way to the front, but that wasn’t the primary duty of an Optio. By putting himself in front, Ovidius was unable to perform his primary job, which was to make sure that the Gregarii of the Century didn’t take a step backward, and that any man who fell was immediately replaced in his spot by shifting the appropriate file up. The former wasn’t something that Porcinus worried about; his men were veterans, and the chances of them suddenly turning about and fleeing was minimal, especially in this fight, but the First Century was taking casualties, which meant that Ovidius should be making sure men moved into the right spot. Understanding that this wasn’t the moment to do anything about it, Porcinus turned his attention back to the mass of Rhaeti warriors, and while he was heartened to see that his men had pushed the barbarians back several dozen paces, leaving a sizable number of dead in their wake, what concerned him was what he sensed more than saw. Peering through the murk, he could just barely discern movement at the rear of the Rhaeti formation, which was almost invisible. Relying on his instinct rather than what his eyes were telling him, the rangy Pilus Prior, aided by his height, determined that even as his men were whittling them down, more Rhaeti were coming from the gods only knew where, adding their numbers to the mass of barbarian warriors already fighting. For the first time, Porcinus felt the glimmering of doubt; if they were replacing every warrior his Legionaries killed, it became nothing more than brutal mathematics.
Even as Porcinus stood there, regaining his breath and recovering from his exertions, he saw two of his men fall. One of them immediately began crawling back through the ranks of his comrades, aided by men deeper in the formation who grabbed him by the harness and helped drag him to the rear. The other man was clearly more seriously wounded, because immediately after falling his only action was to pull his shield over his body, curling into a ball to bring as much of his body as possible under the protective cover. He thought it was a Sergeant of the third section, a man from Hispania like himself by the name of Aulus Severius, but he couldn’t be sure in the brief moment he had to observe the action. From his experience, Porcinus understood that this man, whoever it was, was very seriously wounded, perhaps mortally. Either way, he wasn’t returning to this fight. What this meant was immediately clear to Porcinus; if matters continued as they were going, with more Rhaeti joining this fight, he was going to run out of men.
When he was thinking about it later, alone in his tent, Gaius Porcinus was still unable to separate all that occurred in what he calculated was no more than a sixth part of a watch after he made his grim observation. After their initial advance, the four Centuries of his Cohort that had been part of the fight with the body of Rhaeti who had formed down on the ground once the wall was lost to them had been brought to a grinding halt as more Rhaeti joined the mass of barbarians fighting them. One moment, Porcinus and his men had been steadily pushing the barbarians back, then suddenly, they were stopped in their tracks as the barbarians halted their own backward movement. Porcinus still wasn’t sure if it was because their numbers had been bolstered by warriors drawn by the sounds of fighting, although he suspected that was the case. All Porcinus could be sure about was the fact that he and his men had been stopped from pushing their foes into the lake, and his premonition of running out of men seemed certain to come true. His first inkling that there was a change was from a sudden eruption of noise coming from an unexpected quarter, back in the direction of the lake, to the Rhaeti rear. It started with what, to his ears, sounded like cries of alarm, despite the fact he couldn’t understand the words, followed a moment later by a noise that sounded exactly like what was assailing his ears and was caused by his men and the Rhaeti who were still fighting furiously. Except this time, the sound was coming from the rear of the enemy, rising very quickly in pitch and fervor to match the fighting to his immediate front. With extreme rapidity – Porcinus’ later estimate was the span of no more than two or three dozen heartbeats – what had been the noise of a furious fight degenerated into the sounds of a complete panic and rout. Just a moment later, Porcinus saw a surging movement headed in his direction, caused by men whose only thought was to flee. So out of their mind with fear were they that they ran headlong into the backs of men who were still stoutly resisting the onslaught of Porcinus’ men, and the result was a slaughter that was both complete, and inevitable. It was the most confused battle in which Porcinus had ever participated, from the moment the cornu had sounded the advance, but as hectic and disorganized as it had been, he couldn’t argue about the outcome. It was the source of their possible salvation that had all the men talking, of every rank.
“Of all the things I was expecting, it wasn’t that,” was how Porcinus put it to Corvinus, the night of the battle, as they sat in the Pilus Prior’s tent.
Corvinus didn’t reply immediately, but nodded his agreement as he sipped from his cup. He was sporting a bandage around his upper arm, courtesy of a thrust from a Rhaeti spear that he had only partially blocked. His superior was essentially unmarked, except for the normal bumps and bruises that were an inevitable byproduct of life as a Centurion of Rome, along with a gash just above his greave that hadn't even required being stitched up. He did have to draw a new helmet from stores, Porcinus reminded himself, rubbing the knot on his head gingerly. And there were links on the shoulder of his mail coat that would need to be replaced. Porcinus was thankful that, even now, the throbbing in his head had begun to diminish.
Setting the cup down, Corvinus finally replied, “You have to admit, it was a stroke of genius.”
While Porcinus was certainly impressed with what turned out to be a planned stratagem on the part of the young commander of the army, he wasn’t willing to go that far.
“I don’t know about ‘genius,’” he said, shaking his head as he thought of what his father would have said if he had heard someone utter such words about anyone other than Divus Julius, who Pullus maintained was the greatest general, and Roman, who ever lived, presumably up until his last breath. “But I admit it was…inspired,” he said, finally found a word he thought it was appropriate.
“The men still think that it was a trick of the gods that the fog was so thick,” Corvinus said, prompting another shake of Porcinus’ head.
“They’re going to believe what they want, no matter what the truth is.” Porcinus’ tone was rueful as he stared into his cup. “But you heard Quirinus; Drusus was told by locals that there’s almost always a thick fog coming off the lake in the mornings.”
“True,” Corvinus conceded, “but that doesn’t explain why it lasted past noon today.”
Porcinus just shrugged; if he were being honest, that thought had occurred to him as well, yet he still wasn’t willing to ascribe this seemingly unusual phenomenon to an act of the gods. Maybe my father’s opinion of the gods rubbed off more than I thought, Porcinus mused to himself, but aloud, he said, “Be that as it may, that fog turned out to be a blessing, no matter where it came from.”
“That it did,” Corvinus agreed, accepting another cup of wine when Porcinus proffered the jug, reaching across the desk. There was a momentary silence as the cup was refilled, then Corvinus settled back into his chair before continuing. “What I’d like to know is how in Hades Tiberius and his men managed to row all the way across the lake and find the right spot to land. That,” he raised his cup in a salute, “is more a sign of the gods’ favor than the fog, if you ask me.”
This wa
s something that Porcinus found hard to argue, so he didn’t try. Honestly, it was a surprise, albeit a happy one, and a puzzle how Drusus’ older brother had managed to navigate from the far northern end of what had been described as a ten-mile-long lake with a fleet of flat-bottomed transports carrying the two Legions that composed his part of the army, and landed exactly where they were most needed. It had been Tiberius and his men who were the cause of the sudden disruption and commotion at the rear of the Rhaeti formation, as five Cohorts from one of Tiberius’ Legions had followed the noise of the fighting in Porcinus’ area to slam into the rear of the warriors with whom Porcinus and his Cohort were engaged. The rest of Tiberius’ force had spread out from the lakeshore, and from everything Porcinus had heard, used the same tactic to march to the various spots where Tiberius’ brother’s Legions were fighting. From the gossip coming from the praetorium, through Lysander, the only flaw had been in the timing of Tiberius’ landing; the original plan had called for his men to actually land first, as soon as it was light enough for the men who were rowing the transports to see the lake’s southern shore. How they were supposed to accomplish that with the fog, which again, according to Lysander, was a key factor in the plan, Porcinus didn’t know. But that didn’t really matter; what did was that it worked, and now that it was dark, those Cohorts that hadn’t participated in the assault were still hard at work. And although what they were doing wasn’t as nerve-wracking or dangerous as the assault, it wasn’t without its own challenges, and even with the casualties his Cohort had taken, Porcinus was happy that his men had earned a rest and, most importantly, the chance to miss what was currently taking place. As he and Corvinus sat there, although they didn’t comment on it, they both could hear the sounds that always came in the aftermath of a Roman victory, especially when it was at the end of a rebellion like this. Shouts of despair, answered by the cries and calls of other voices, these almost always higher-pitched, followed by short, sharp words in the form of commands by those Legionaries designated for the task of separating and shackling prisoners; this was the noise that the leather of Porcinus’ tent couldn’t block. It was brutal, but it was efficient; in short, it was the army of Rome going about a part of its business that wasn’t talked about around the fires, yet was almost as much a part of what the men did as fighting Rome’s enemies. Jointly, Tiberius and Drusus had given the orders that every Rhaeti man of fighting age, whether there was any evidence that they had been part of the battle that day or not, was to be put in chains and sold into slavery. The fate of the women and children had yet to be decided, but it was still necessary to separate the male combatants from the rest of the Rhaeti, which was taking place just outside the confines of the Roman camp. Because of the location of the Fourth Cohort, next to the camp wall, the sounds of families being torn apart were clear for both men to hear, but of the two, only Porcinus was affected in any way. He supposed that was because of his own family; it was all too easy for him to imagine that it was Iras, Titus, Sextus, and the girls being herded into the enclosed area that was set aside to hold them. This was something he had never uttered aloud, and never would to any of his comrades, no matter how much he trusted them. It was just something a Legionary of Rome didn’t talk about, the fickle nature of Fortuna, and the capriciousness of the gods, particularly on this topic.
“Have you heard what’s next?”
Corvinus’ question brought Porcinus back to the present, but the only answer he could offer the other man was a shake of his head.
“No. I imagine it’s going to take a few days to sort this mess out.” He waved a hand in the general direction of where the Rhaeti were being segregated. “After that? I have no idea.”
“Hopefully, we’ll just pull guard duty,” Corvinus mused. “Gods know we need the time to let the boys heal up.”
“The ones that are going to,” Porcinus said grimly, thinking of his trip to the hospital tent less than a third of a watch before.
It was his last official duty of the day, one that came after every battle, and of all the onerous tasks that Centurions had to perform, Porcinus hated this one above all. Seeing his men with their wounds of varying degrees, almost all of them doing their best to let their Pilus Prior know that they would be ready to fight again soon, was hard enough. But it was the trip to a section of the tent that was separated by a leather partition, called Charon’s Boat, that was undoubtedly the worst. This was where the men the medici had deemed to be beyond hope, but who had yet to succumb to their wounds, were kept, a place that stank of fear and death. It was kept deliberately darkened, with only a single lamp near the opening, with a lone medicus there to do what he could to ease their suffering. Usually, that comfort was accomplished with a spoonful, or more, of poppy syrup, but Porcinus knew that the medicus assigned there also had another tool, a razor-sharp dagger, to be used when a man’s torment became too much. It was a place where there was a constant, low-pitched moaning coming from a number of the inhabitants, most of whom were either semi- or completely unconscious. Not all of them, however; Porcinus was always acutely aware of the stares coming from those who the gods hadn’t seen fit to allow to lapse into a stupor, who were forced to endure what had to be an unspeakable agony, compounded with the knowledge that the number of breaths allotted to them was dwindling every moment. The first time Porcinus had been forced to visit Charon’s Boat, he hadn’t been sure what to expect, but he prepared himself for at least an accusing glare from one of his men who, if he was being honest, Porcinus was at least indirectly responsible for putting there. What had shaken him to his very core was how his entrance was met from those men still conscious, with looks of what could only be described as hope, as if Porcinus was coming with some magic potion that would miraculously heal their wounds and make them whole again. Their pleading, no matter that it was silent, was a burden on him that was almost impossible to bear, and it was at moments like this that he cursed whatever it was in him that had spurred him to be more than just a Gregarius in the ranks. The night of the battle by the lake, Porcinus was bitterly aware that this would be the reception greeting him, but he steeled himself to enter. All things considered, he was lucky; he only had two men in the Boat, and one of them from the Fourth Century, a youngster who had only been with the Legion for about six months, had died even as Porcinus kneeled by his cot and held his hand, feeling it grow cold almost immediately. As the man gave his last, rattling gasp that Porcinus had heard so many times before, he was struck by the bitter irony of the fact that this man had been a replacement himself, and now he would need to be replaced.
When Porcinus had joined, originally by the dilectus held for the 14th Legion that was raised by the then-Triumvir Marcus Antonius, losses in the ranks weren’t replaced, at least not with any regularity. In fact, there had been no regulations covering this event; like most things in the Roman world, because it had been done this way since the beginning of the Republic, it was still that way early in Porcinus’ career. This meant that over the course of a sixteen-year enlistment, Legions would be whittled down, little by little, from the toll of fighting, marching, disease, and just ordinary exposure to what was an incredibly harsh existence. From what Porcinus had been told by his father, it was Divus Julius who had first instituted the practice of drafting men into a Legion that had suffered losses, but what Porcinus knew as a fact was that Augustus had codified this from practice to regulation. Now the Fourth Cohort was replacing replacements, he thought bitterly, even as he moved to the bedside of the second man. Feeling thankful and guilty at the same time that the man was unconscious, Porcinus only lingered long enough to say a prayer, then hand the medicus a coin. He told himself it wasn’t from the stench caused by the man’s punctured bowels, barely contained by a wrapping of gauze that was kept moist.
“If he wakes up, and he’s suffering, you know what to do,” the Pilus Prior told the other man quietly, who didn’t reply, but gave a somber nod.
Returning back to the relative cheer of the large
r tent, Porcinus stopped to talk to each of his men, making what he thought were the same, tired jokes about how they had managed to avoid normal duties. As often as he had made these jests, Porcinus recognized that although he had uttered them many times before, most of the wounded hadn’t heard them, unless this wasn’t their first time in the tent. Thankfully, there were only three of these men, and Porcinus thought up something different for each of them, a quick story of some past transgression, but with a comic twist, or complimented them for some off-duty exploit, usually involving some form of debauchery that, up until that moment, they were sure he hadn’t known about. As soon as he was able, Porcinus hurried away from the tent, his stomach churning as it always did from the sights and sounds. What Porcinus didn’t realize, nor would he have believed if he had been told, was how the men of the Fourth Cohort valued and appreciated these small signs by their Pilus Prior. Because the sad truth was that not every Centurion did what Porcinus did, and those who did rarely spent as much time or exerted as much effort as he did trying to lift their spirits. It was a characteristic of many fighting men, this reluctance to spend any time in the company of those who were wounded. In fact, many such men seemed to have a superstitious fear that the bad luck that had befallen their wounded comrades was somehow contagious, and whatever numen would strike twice and claim two victims, the original and the unfortunate man who had some sort of interaction with him.
“I wouldn’t change places with Frontinus right now for all the money under Augustus’ mattress.”
Once again, Porcinus was yanked from his thoughts, but he was actually thankful, knowing as he did the morose place such ruminations as Charon’s Boat would take him. Besides, the performance of the First Cohort was a topic of both immediate interest and long-term implications.
