Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “I don’t like this at all.” Ovidius had made his way from the opposite rear side of the formation to confer with Porcinus, but all Porcinus did was nod in agreement, keeping his eyes to the right. “At least we have flanking patrols on the other side,” Ovidius continued, “but all it would take is a handful of those bastards to kick some rocks loose and we'd be fucked.”

  “I know that,” Porcinus finally answered, his tone terse, “and the mud doesn’t help. But we still need to keep our eyes open to the left. In fact,” only then did he drop his gaze, looking at Ovidius. “I want you to send word back to the others that I still want everyone to send out a flank guard, but they’re all going to be on the left. At least,” he amended, “until this levels out a bit. Then we can put them back on the right as well.”

  Ovidius saluted, then spun and began trotting back to where the Second Century and Urso were marching, who in turn sent his own Optio to do the same thing, before returning to his place. Behind him, Porcinus heard not only his Optio, but the others shouting the number of the section that would be flanking to the left. Meanwhile, Volusenus pressed forward, and with every pace taken, the net thrown by Tiberius was tightening, shrinking the possible hiding spots down. At least, that was what Tiberius, and to be fair to the Legate, all of the Centurions thought.

  What Tiberius or Porcinus had no way of knowing was that this formation of rock was part of a system of ridges that extended to the west. In fact, young Titus Porcinianus Pullus could have been a great help at this moment because, while he wouldn’t have realized it, he would at least have seen how similar the terrain was to that lone ridge he had used to escape the Latobici. It was true that in the twenty-odd miles between that lone ridge and this area the ground was, while not flat, of a gentler grade than these two points, and appeared to be gently rolling. The fact that the underlying rock was of the same composition nobody knew, not even those native tribes who had inhabited the area for living memory. What they did know was if they started from the lone ridge to the west and rode east, it was relatively flat until they reached this part of the country, whereupon the terrain was almost identical to that of the lone ridge. And that feature that had allowed Titus to escape, in the form of the numerous caves riddling these hills, now revealed the secret of why the rebels were so hard to find. Porcinus’ first sign was in the blast of a cornu up from where Volusenus was followed, although the note was cut dramatically short, almost instantly by the surprised shouts and sudden commands of the Centurions of the Second, just up ahead. What Porcinus would never know was whether or not there had been some prearranged signal, or the other Varciani had heard the shortened note of the cornu and used it as their own signal. What he did recognize was that, almost simultaneously, he heard the flanking patrols to his left shout their warnings; to Porcinus it sounded like just his Century and the Second were under attack at the moment, while out of the corner of his vision, he caught a blur of motion coming from the opposite direction and, before he could react, a large rock came bouncing off the slope to hit with a tremendous spray of pebbles and mud just in front of him. From a nervous silence to a riot of sound and motion, Porcinus was suddenly assailed by threats from both sides.

  “Testudo!”

  Even as he bellowed the word over and over, he understood he was making a bad choice, but the only other one was worse. Forming a testudo would protect the men for the most part from the rocks that were beginning to cascade down the steep slope to the right, yet it robbed men of mobility and the ability to see what was coming their way from the other direction. The only thing that could have made it worse was if the rebels fielded even a small number of mounted troops, but Porcinus discounted that as a possibility, not aware that there, in fact, were several caves large enough to handle up to a dozen mounted men. His command was obeyed instantly, as the men on the most vulnerable side turned outward to bring their shields to bear, while their comrades who had been to their left, but were now behind them, provided what was at least as important, overhead protection. The men moved quickly; even so, Porcinus heard a dull, sodden thudding noise, accompanied by a dull snap that he had heard before. As quickly as his mind registered the sound of the impact, there was a shrill, sharp scream of pain, and he glanced to his right just in time to see one of his men about halfway down his Century go to the ground, leaving a momentarily gaping hole in the testudo. Rocks were now bounding down from the right all along the column, but Porcinus knew that whatever real attack would come from the left, because it was the only practicable slope. Bitterly, he had to salute the rebel chief, who clearly knew what he was about. His men had just formed up into a compact testudo, and Porcinus could see that Urso had done the same thing. Porcinus had quickly moved to the left side of the formation, since he was without a shield, yet it took a huge effort of will for him to turn his back to the cascading stones to pay attention to where he knew the real threat would come from. His eyes scanned the slope, trying to see through the thick foliage, for any sign of his section of men, looking for movement of some sort that would give him a hint where they were. Just as he caught sight of one of them who had just leaped over a fallen tree to land lower down on the slope nearer to Porcinus, his eye was drawn by even more movement directly up the hill from his man.

  He caught a glimpse of motion that his mind at first couldn’t grasp, and he was only vaguely aware that he spoke aloud, saying, “Can that be…?”

  “Cavalry!”

  The shout came from up the slope; Porcinus saw that it was his man who had jumped the log, and only now could he see who it was as he turned to shout a warning. His name was Placus, one of Porcinus’ most experienced men, but before Porcinus could even blink, he watched a slow-motion horror of a large black horse, its rider raising the long cavalry sword, burst into view from just behind Placus, the horse already beginning its leap over the fallen tree. Placus’ hands were still cupped around his mouth when the horse slammed into him, yet Porcinus tore his eyes away, as close to panic as he had ever been, knowing that he was just a few heartbeats from disaster.

  “Porcupine! Porcupine! Porcupine!”

  Even as he shouted it, he was sure it was too late, although he couldn’t spare a glance as he spun back around just in time for the black horse to come bounding down the slope, having run down Placus, whose body Porcinus caught a flashing glimpse of, still tumbling down the slope with that limpness that comes from either being dead or unconscious. Now the horse was close enough that Porcinus could see the flecks of foam on its muzzle, and immediately above it the ferocious smile of its rider as he aimed at a hated Centurion of Rome. Without thinking, or hesitation, Porcinus made a diving leap, except instead of his direction being backward, towards his men, he went the opposite way, his goal being to drop just underneath the hooves of the black as it flew overhead, its rider aiming his beast at the spot where Porcinus had been an eyeblink before. As Porcinus tucked his head down, preparing to roll when he hit the ground, he understood he had to get to his feet instantly or he would be trampled by the other horses he had seen behind the black and, for a brief instant, he thought he had gotten away cleanly. Then his foot slipped in the mud, so that one of its rearmost hooves caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder, sending a lightning bolt of pain through his upper body. More importantly, it knocked his body out of its tightly tucked position, and he hit the ground with tremendous impact at an awkward angle. Stars exploded behind his eyes as his helmet slammed into the rocky ground with terrific force, knocking him unconscious. And saving his life.

  Porcinus’ next conscious memory was opening his eyes to see nothing but what seemed to be a green veil, and it took him a moment to recognize that what he initially thought of as a veilactually was the screen of green leaves of a bush. Accompanying the sight were the sounds of fighting going on just a dozen paces away, and it was this that caused Porcinus to start rising from where he was lying in the mud, hidden from sight by the large shrub that he had clearly fallen, or been thrown, into. Fortunat
ely, he caught himself, stifling the urge to try struggling to his feet and, while it was initially to allow his head and, most importantly, his vision to clear, a moment later, he realized that if he were just to appear in the midst of this fight, in all likelihood, he would be cut down. For Porcinus, it was some of the worst moments of his life as he lay there, helplessly listening to the sounds of his men, his boys, in what was clearly a desperate fight. Even in the short time it took before the leaves just above his face finally came into enough focus that he could tell the individual leaves apart instead of the single green mass it had been before, he heard the sound of one of his men crying out in his tongue, a strangled cry for his mother that Porcinus had heard too many times before. Despite this, he didn’t rise, instead rolling over slightly to peer through the bushes. Perhaps a dozen paces away was what appeared to be the back line of the rebel infantry, pressing in around a single line of enemy cavalrymen who were slashing down at what he could see was essentially an intact formation. Although this was encouraging, just as troubling was the number of men he could see in a similar position to his, prone in the mud. Fortunately, most of them were moving or, in another sign of veterans, had pulled their shields over their bodies while curling up in as tight a ball as possible. He heard Ovidius shouting orders to his Century, and he was slightly relieved to see that a fair number of men had managed to thrust their javelins out in between the space of their shields. Also, he saw that there weren’t as many horsemen as he had feared; from his vantage point, he saw no more than a half-dozen, although they were still pushing hard against the thin wall of shields of his Century. That was all the time Porcinus could spend to the larger situation before getting back into the action, but he was mindful of not drawing unwanted attention. Carefully, he pulled his feet underneath him, while watching the rebels to his immediate front. He had determined that he hadn’t been out long, yet it was long enough that any warriors who were going to participate in the battle were already down in the ravine. Nevertheless, he still checked over his shoulder just before he burst forth from the shrub that had concealed him. He understood that his initial advantage of surprise, compounded by attacking from behind, would only serve him for a matter of a few heartbeats, so he had to maximize his impact. Seeing a somewhat larger gap between a pair of cavalrymen, he realized that one of them was the warrior on the black, and sensing that this was at the very least the leader of this bunch of warriors, he aimed for him, his plan to cut down the two infantrymen who stood in that gap between the black and the horseman to his right, mounted on a large roan and armed with a spear instead of sword. The two infantrymen were pushing up against his men, while the Legionaries directly behind the first line had at least been able to drop their shields in their normal position now that whoever had been rolling the rocks down would undoubtedly hit their own men if they continued. It was a good tactic but it had run its course; now the rebels had to take advantage of it and press home the attack. Drawing himself up, Porcinus dropped into a crouch, the Gallic-forged sword that had once been in his father’s in his own hand, drawn back and ready to strike. He gathered himself, taking the time to draw in a deep breath.

  “Now or never, Gaius,” he muttered.

  Then, without any more hesitation, he took his first stride back into the action, yet he had only gone a step when his foot slipped in the mud again. Despite this, he didn’t stop, instead mentally adjusting for the reduced traction, as the detached part of his mind recognized that the rain, in fact, had been to the Romans’ advantage, because not only had the enemy cavalry been forced to chop the stride of their mounts and thereby reduce speed to compensate, when they had slammed into his men, the men in the front ranks actually slid backwards, but kept their feet, rather than being knocked flat on their backs. None of that mattered in the moment, however, as he closed the distance, his eyes fixed on the back of the warrior to the right, next to the roan horse. When he came within a half-dozen paces, he was close enough to look past the man’s shoulders, so that he saw the Legionary facing the warrior glance past his adversary and see his Centurion approaching, a look of grim determination fixed on Porcinus’ face. The Legionary was relatively new to the Cohort, having been part of the last replacement draft, but he still thought quickly by making a sudden lunging thrust that, under normal circumstances would have put him in grave danger. But the warrior, seeing only that his enemy was overcommitting himself, made his own attack, sure that he had a kill to his credit. Porcinus’ blade struck low and hard into the man’s back, yet even before the Varciani had fallen, Porcinus yanked the blade free, bringing it across his body to strike the second man on foot, who was beginning to turn, just sensing this unexpected threat. The point of Porcinus’ sword punched into the man, right under the breastbone, causing the warrior’s breath to burst out of his lungs with a whooshing sound that was audible to Porcinus even above the other sounds of fighting. The Roman was blasted with a smell of wine, and a foul odor that Porcinus knew was caused by rotting teeth, yet he didn’t pause, wrenching the blade free and ripping it sideways as he was trained, no longer noticing the sudden appearance of intestines that came bulging out of his enemy’s body. By this time, the warrior on the black had turned at the disturbance he had spotted out of the corner of his eye, but while it was understandable, it was a fatal mistake. Even as he brought his own longer sword to bear on Porcinus, who was forced to step to his left to avoid the offal and falling body of his second victim, he opened himself up to the Legionary across from him, one of the men who had managed to bring a javelin to bear. It was just at the edge of his reach, but it was enough, the triangular point of the javelin tearing an awful, gashing wound in the mounted man’s face. Understandably, any intention he had held of dealing with Porcinus was no longer a priority, and he dropped his sword with an awful scream of pain that was cut short when Porcinus gave a hard, upward thrust just below the warrior’s ribcage. Before the man could topple from the saddle, Porcinus used his free hand to grab the black’s bridle, yanking its head around while using the flat of his bloody sword to swat the horse on the rump. As with all creatures, the horse leapt forward, following its head, which was pointed down the ravine, its now-dead rider falling limply from the saddle. And with that, Porcinus entered back into the relative safety of his men, the two across from him moving their shields aside just enough to let him back into the security of the formation.

  Ovidius, who had been in Porcinus’ spot, just inside the testudo, grinned at the sight of his mud-spattered Centurion, shouting, “Good to see you’re alive!”

  “Good to be alive,” Porcinus said wearily, then turned his attention to the fight.

  As Porcinus took in the situation, he saw that it was composed of equal parts good and bad. It wasn’t just his Century under attack; because of his height, he was able to see that Urso’s Century was similarly engaged, and seemed to have suffered the same amount of casualties. Although he couldn’t see past Urso and his men, Porcinus had to assume that the rest of the Cohort was under attack as well, or they would have already come to the aid of his and Urso’s Century. Both Centuries he could see were being pressed from all sides, with the gap that had been between them as they marched now filled with Varciani warriors, roughly divided equally in facing the opposite direction, one half pressing what was the front of Urso’s Century and the other half attacking what had been the rear of the First Century. There wasn’t enough room in the flat area of the ravine floor for any of the Centuries to form a true orbis with a large cleared area in the middle, although that was essentially the formation his men were in, if only because they were now being pressed from all sides. What this meant was that there was no place to which to drag the wounded, or where they could crawl under their own power if they were able. Instead, men were lying where they had fallen, or at most had been dragged just a couple of paces behind the front line. This was an additional hazard for the men still fighting, as they were forced to keep one eye on the enemy they were facing and their footing
at the same time. The gap between Porcinus’ Cohort and Volusenus’ was also teeming with Varciani, but there were even more because Porcinus had kept the normal spacing of at least a hundred paces between Cohorts. From his quick estimate, he thought there were at least two hundred rebel warriors, and the concentration of cavalry was the thickest in that space as well, since there was more room for the horsemen to maneuver. He was slightly relieved to see that there weren’t as many mounted troops as he had initially feared, but there were still enough to cause problems. Fortunately, they had managed to weather the first assault, and he was grimly pleased that most of the men on that side of the fight had managed to thrust their javelins out far enough to keep the horses at bay. And, in fact, the lack of space was now working against the Varciani cavalry because the riders didn’t have the area they needed to build their momentum back up to slam into his lines. Instead, the cavalrymen were being pressed hard by their own infantry as the rebels, understanding that they had achieved surprise and had the hated Romans on the defensive, were eagerly pushing the horses up against the bristling points of the javelins. Not surprisingly, the horses weren’t willing to have these hardened iron tips poking into their flesh, and most of them were balking. Nevertheless, they were still dangerous and in some ways even more so, because as Porcinus watched, first one, then another reared up, lashing out with their hooves at the threatening Legionaries. Before he could shout out the command, he saw one of his men struck flush in the face by one of the hardened hooves that were deadly weapons on their own.