by R. W. Peake
“The next time those bastards do that, step forward and gut the cunni with your javelins,” Porcinus roared, wincing at the stab of pain the effort caused in his head.
Fortunately, his men heard the command and, an instant later, when a horse the color of cream with a rider clad in mail of a quality that marked him as a Varciani noble, rose up in response to the hard shove to its hindquarters that forced it onto the point of the javelin of the Legionary in front of it, the man responded as Porcinus had commanded. Taking a short step forward, which put him at risk to a blow from the mounted men on either side, the Legionary braved the danger to launch a hard thrust up into the tender belly of the horse. Unleashing a scream that was almost human, the horse instinctively twisted away while still on its rear legs, which wrenched the javelin from the Legionary’s hand. Luckily for the man, Porcinus saw that it was one of his most veteran men, a Spaniard like himself named Artorius, the struggles of the cream-colored gelding distracted the cavalrymen on either side long enough for the Roman to leap back into the safety of the formation. Seeing that this part of his lines were intact, the Pilus Prior turned his attention back to the larger situation. Cursing as he slipped because the already muddy ground was churned up by the scrabbling of the Legionaries as the Varciani pushed in from all sides, Porcinus forced himself between the ranks, struggling to make his way back to what had been the rear of his Century. That was where he found Ovidius, who was in the process of using his neckerchief to bind up what Porcinus could see was a gaping leg wound of one of the newest men from the last replacement draft, who was staring down wide-eyed at the sight of his own blood. Porcinus knew the look, understood that the boy; Porcinus wasn’t sure, but thought his name was Strabo, was on the verge of panic, and despite understanding that he couldn’t spare the time, felt compelled to do something. Squatting down, he grabbed Strabo by the shoulder, squeezing it hard enough to drag his attention away from Ovidius working, the Optio’s hands already slick with blood as he expertly tied the bandage off.
“It hurts like Dis, doesn’t it?” Porcinus’ tone was conversational, at least as much as it was possible to be under the circumstances, as if he and Strabo were sitting in a tavern, having a cup of wine.
Strabo jerked in surprise, unaware of the Centurion’s presence until just then, looking up at Porcinus.
Swallowing hard, at first Strabo just nodded, then seemed to realize that this wasn’t a sufficient response to his Centurion’s question, replying hoarsely, “Yes, sir. It does. Will I…will I be all right?”
Porcinus had seen enough before Ovidius bound the wound to know that while it was a deep and ugly wound, and the blood was copiously flowing, it wasn’t the bright red that spurted in arcs with every beat of a man’s heart, allowing him to say with an assurance that didn’t sound false to his ears, “Absolutely! You’ll be sore for a bit, no doubt. But think of the bright side; you’ll be on easy duty for at least a month. And women love a warrior with scars.”
He gave the boy a grin and a man-to-man wink, and was pleased to see that his words seemed to have the effect he was hoping, Strabo giving him a weak smile back. That was all the time Porcinus could give to one man; he had a whole Cohort to worry about. Patting Ovidius, he leaned close to his Optio’s ear.
“We’re going to have to close this gap between us and Urso. Get the men of the second line on this side ready to follow me.”
Ovidius’ response was to stare at his Centurion, a clear question on his face, and without having to say anything, Porcinus understood.
“We need to worry about ourselves first,” Porcinus said, as quietly as he could and still be heard over the din of the fighting going on all around them. “Until we link up with Urso, then we do the same with the rest of the Cohort; there’s nothing we can do for Volusenus. They’re going to have to take care of themselves until we can get organized and I get a better idea of what’s going on.”
Ovidius considered for only a moment, then gave an abrupt nod.
“Yes, sir. I understand, and I will obey.”
Without waiting, the Optio turned and shoved his way towards what had been the rear of the formation until he reached the men of the second row, who were busy bracing their comrades of the now-front line. As Ovidius did this, Porcinus followed behind, but then moved off to the right side, stopping only to pick up a shield that had been set on its edge, somewhat out of the way in the middle of the formation. The man it belonged to was lying face-up, but covered with mud, the sign that he had fallen face first and his comrades had turned him over to check on him. But as his friends had seen and Porcinus saw now, he needed no help, the wound to his throat still seeping blood, trickling down into the mud. Because of the filth caking his face, Porcinus didn’t immediately recognize the man; he would learn his identity soon enough. Provided, of course, that he survived the day as well. With that cheerful thought, he hefted the shield and moved to the far side of the second line. Right now, his sword was needed more than his leadership, and he prepared himself for what had to be done.
Somewhat surprisingly, Porcinus and the men of the second line were able to leap from behind the first line and after striking down a dozen or more Varciani, easily scattered the remaining warriors facing them. Then, they fell onto the few Varciani who had either not heard or ignored their comrades’ shouts of warning and were still engaged with Urso’s men at what was the front of the Second’s column, the Romans killing another handful while scattering the remaining warriors. These last men scrambled to the relative safety of the throng of warriors who were still pressing Urso’s Century from the direction of both slopes, as Ovidius, left in command of the First, bellowed the orders for the bulk of the Century to sidestep into the now-vacated gap. If the Varciani in that part of the fight were better led, Porcinus thought, as he pushed his way past the men of the Second looking for Urso, they could have made his men fight for this gap all over again, flowing back into the vacated space the same way water does when a finger is pulled out of it. Porcinus and the eight men with him had made it with only one man wounded, fortunately minor, yet there was a span of time, however brief, when that area was still empty of everything but bodies and the detritus of battle, as the First fought its way, one step to the side at a time, to link up with the Second. Fortunately, the Varciani seemed resigned to the idea that the two Centuries would combine. In the span of a hundred heartbeats, the First Century managed to close the gap so that at least two Centuries of the Fourth Cohort were together. In their wake, they left only those Legionaries who were already dead, or who their comrades had seen were beyond hope; the rest were dragged, most of them howling with pain, along with their comrades who were still in the fight. There was no doubt they would be grateful, although that would come later. At the moment, however, more than one of them cursed the man who had grabbed their harness to drag them through the mud, along with their benefactor’s mother and ancestors. Meanwhile, Porcinus found his Cohort’s second in command at the far end of the Century, where just like Porcinus had done, Urso had picked up a shield and was adding the weight of his own sword to the fight. Unlike Porcinus, Urso had been wounded, but had either not noticed or hadn’t taken the time to bind up what Porcinus could see was a deep puncture wound in his left forearm. He must have overextended himself when he was following up with his shield, Porcinus thought, stopping just behind the Centurion, knowing from experience to wait for a moment when Urso wouldn’t be put in danger by being distracted. Urso’s use of the shield didn’t seem compromised by the wound, but Porcinus also knew that as time passed, that would change, especially if he didn’t bind the wound. Although it wasn’t bleeding heavily – for some reason, deep wounds like that often didn’t – the toll was still cumulative. Launching a vicious underhand thrust that, despite his vision being obscured by Urso’s body, Porcinus could tell had landed a probably mortal blow just from the shrill shriek that followed so closely behind it as to appear to be simultaneous, only after Urso recovered his position did Po
rcinus reach out and tap his second on the hip. This was something more commonly done by the man immediately behind the Centurion, usually the signifer of the Century, and as expected, Urso didn’t turn his head, but leaned back so he could hear.
“It’s Porcinus. Call a relief so we can talk.”
Despite himself, Urso glanced over his shoulder in surprise at the sound of his Pilus Prior’s voice, but gave a quick nod. The man immediately next to Porcinus who was directly behind Urso, heard the exchange and tapped his Centurion on his shoulder, letting him know he was ready. Making a sudden thrust with his shield, the boss punched into the body of the Varciani who had stepped into the place of the man Urso had just dispatched, and was thrown back a step. It was a maneuver that had been perfected by the Legions of Rome, and there was no fighting force in the world who did it better. Even before the warrior had finished staggering backward, Urso took a step to the side, while his relief made a step forward, at almost exactly the same time, so that even if the man across from the Romans was ready, there would have been no opportunity to exploit a gap that lasted for less than a heartbeat. The exchange accomplished, only then did Urso give any sign that he was aware of the wound, grimacing as he lowered the shield, letting it drop on the ground.
As he was doing so, Porcinus had taken off his neckerchief and before Urso could react, was already wrapping it around the Centurion’s forearm, saying, “Tell me when it’s tight enough.”
Porcinus pulled the ends of the neckerchief until Urso gave a grunt that Porcinus took to be the answer, then quickly tied them off.
Once he was done, Porcinus indicated the area just on the other side of the first line of Legionaries, who were being pressed by what appeared to be two Varciani for every Roman, while just behind those warriors was a fairly solid mass of barbarians, waving their own weapons and shouting encouragement to the men currently engaged. One slight relief was that there was no cavalry, and again, thanks to his height, Porcinus could look across the space to the Third Century, and see that there were no horsemen there either.
“We need to drive these bastards out of this space and link up with the Third,” Porcinus repeated to Urso.
Urso’s reaction was slightly different, but nonetheless one that Porcinus noted, as the Centurion stiffened, his face turning hard, and Porcinus realized that he took it as a rebuke.
“That’s what I was about to order, Centurion.” Urso’ tone was as rigid as the position of intente he was holding, which was one of those incongruous sights that often would cause Porcinus to burst out laughing at the oddest times.
Like now, he thought, yet he managed to refrain and, in fact, he decided not to respond in a manner that, while it would reinforce their respective roles, Porcinus knew would just further strain a relationship that was already fraught with tension.
“You’re right, Urso,” Porcinus said, although now he had to fight the urge to laugh even more strongly as he saw Urso’s jaw drop in clear astonishment. “I know you were already aware of the need, so I apologize. It’s just a habit.” This time, he did smile. “And I’m a little distracted.”
Now it was Urso who laughed, but he still rendered a salute.
“I understand, Centurion.” Turning back to face the front, he said briskly, “Now, let’s get these cunni sorted out so we can go save Munacius’ bacon!”
He shouted this last, prompting a cheer from his men, reminding Porcinus that, his problems with Urso aside, the man was a great leader.
It was in this manner that, over the next sixth part of a watch, the Fourth Cohort closed the gaps between their Centuries to form one solid wall of wood, iron, and flesh. It would have taken longer, but Corvinus, seeing the situation and reading it in exactly the same way as his Pilus Prior, had already fought his way to Verrens and the Sixth Century. Porcinus did have to suppress the urge to quibble with Corvinus about his decision to head away from the bulk of the Cohort, but he quickly realized that it didn’t really make a difference; either way he went, the rest of the Cohort would have had to move in that direction. But while Porcinus had done what was necessary to protect his Cohort, he had also moved farther away from the Second and Volusenus. Porcinus estimated that the men of his Cohort were facing perhaps a thousand warriors, pressing in from all sides. Only to what had been the right, where the slope was the steepest, was there not a press of Varciani at least four men deep. The only blessing, at least for the most part, was that there weren’t archers, slingers, or javelineers flinging missiles down on their head. However, as Porcinus quickly learned, this was only partially true. Once the entire Cohort coalesced, Porcinus pushed his way all the way to the Sixth Century, not only to find Verrens, but to assess the situation at what was essentially the other end of the fight in order to see what his options were, if any. As he stopped briefly with each Century and made a quick check, his mind had begun working on forming a plan, one that would allow him to detach at least the Sixth, to clamber up the lesser of the two slopes, then move back up the draw until they were roughly above the expanse of ground that was between his Cohort and the Second. As formidable as a Roman Cohort was, two were even more so, although from what Porcinus had seen, Volusenus was more hard-pressed than he was himself. However, that nascent plan was dashed almost immediately after he found Verrens. It was not only what he said, but the appearance of the Hastatus Posterior and the men of his Century who, unlike the other Centuries, hadn’t abandoned the testudo. When Porcinus closed on Verrens, spotting the transverse crest, he had to crouch beneath the shelter of the shields, and there was a spattering of the hollow sound that Porcinus knew were arrows striking shields. His Hastatus Posterior was in the same posture as his men, holding a shield aloft with arms that Porcinus could clearly see trembling, telling him that the Centurion and his men had been under missile fire for some time. Further proof was provided by the half-dozen arrows protruding from the shield he had picked up from a man who no longer needed it.
“The cocksuckers have us pinned pretty well,” was Verrens’ comment when he was alerted of Porcinus’ approach by the call of his men.
“So I see,” Porcinus said before asking for the overall situation.
“Tiburinus is dead,” Verrens said. That had been the Optio of the Century. “He took an arrow in the eye.” Verrens gave a laugh that held no humor. “That’s how we found out they had archers.”
Porcinus uttered a soft curse, then made a silent prayer for the Optio, who Porcinus believed had shown a great deal of potential. Pushing that out of his mind, Porcinus began telling Verrens what he had in mind, but before he got very far, he was cut off.
“Follow me,” was all Verrens said.
So, crouching and holding his own shield up, Porcinus followed Verrens to the farthest end of the formation. Before he had gone a half-dozen paces, the shield he was carrying was suddenly almost jerked from his hand, as what sounded very much like a mallet striking a block of wood assailed Porcinus’ left ear so loud that it made it ring. He managed to maintain his hold, but when he glanced up at the shield, he saw the barbed head of an arrow poking through, with perhaps two inches of shaft showing, towards the lower left corner of the shield. The amount of shaft visible told Porcinus that these missiles were being fired at close range, although he wasn’t willing to take the risk of peeking from behind his only protection to locate where the threat was coming from. That, Porcinus thought, as he stayed tight on Verrens’ hip, was probably how Tiburinus had died, trying to find where the bastards were, taking an arrow through the eye for his trouble. By this point, Verrens reached what had been the last rank of the last Century of the column, but had now become in essence a front line. Porcinus saw that, unlike the rest of the formation, there was only a thin screen of perhaps fifty Varciani warriors who were staying just out of the range of the javelins.
This sight puzzled Porcinus, who asked Verrens, “Why aren’t they pressing us on this side too?”
“They don’t have to,” Verrens replied bitterly, then po
inted to a spot beyond where the warriors were gathered. “See that? The bastards had this planned, no doubt about it.” His tone turned to one of grudging respect. “And they did a good job of it.”
Even as Verrens spoke, Porcinus was looking and he realized with a sinking heart that his Hastatus Posterior was accurate in his assessment. Not more than fifty paces behind the warriors, who even then were shouting taunts and challenges in a combination of their own tongue and camp Latin, was a pile of muddy rubble, partially blocking the ravine.
“Pluto’s cock,” Porcinus swore softly.
“That sums it up,” Verrens agreed.
Just then, another arrow came thudding down into Verrens’ shield, and both men heard a cracking sound they knew signaled that the shield was failing. Within another two or perhaps three strikes, the shield would be useless. The missile fire itself wasn’t the heaviest that Porcinus had experienced, although it was just enough to keep the men of the Sixth Century holding their shields up. The only blessing was that the men on the outer edges of the formation, where they were closest to the enemy, were safe from the danger of being struck by an arrow because of the proximity to their own comrades. Porcinus also guessed that the barbarian archers were saving their arrows for the moment they hoped was coming, when the Romans made an attempt to clear the ravine.
While it was similar in conception to what the Daesitiates had attempted a year before, that time with trees instead of rocks, Porcinus could see that the Varciani were only partially successful. Probably because of the mud, he thought, yet despite the fact that the floor of the ravine wasn’t completely blocked, from his examination, such as it was, it informed him that men would have to use two hands just to climb over the pile of large rocks, debris, and mud. And of course, that would spell the death of a great number of any Century he tried to send over the pile, no matter which one it was. He immediately understood Verrens was correct, that there was no way to detach a Century, and this was when he realized what he must do. As he had learned from his father, even when a decision is forced on you, hesitation only makes matters worse.
