by R. W. Peake
Painstakingly, one step to the side at a time, the five Centuries of the Fourth Cohort moved slowly to link up with Verrens and his men, who were still arrayed in their defensive formation, now augmented by the men who had essentially pulled and dragged the largest rocks from the rubble pile blocking the way. The latter Legionaries were easy to spot because they were uniformly filthy, and they had taken spots at the rear of the formation. As difficult as moving in this manner was, it was made even more so because a large number of otherwise healthy men had become noncombatants as they helped those wounded comrades who couldn’t move under their own power. These unfortunates were crammed into the center of the formation, each Century taking care of its own wounded, except for the Third, who had more casualties than the other Centuries and not enough men still standing to both fight and help their wounded. Their plight was such that men from the Second had to be sent to help with their wounded comrades. In practical terms, what this meant was that in the Second and Third Centuries, there was only the man on the outside of the formation, with one comrade behind him, also sidestepping while holding the harness of the man in front. It was a cumbersome, slow method of movement, but there was no avoiding it, at least until such time that Porcinus deemed it to be safe to resume a more normal mode of march.
“One…two…one…two…”
Like some huge, multi-legged beast, the compact formation that had become the Fourth Cohort slowly made its way back to the west. They reached the men of the Sixth Century who, instead of folding themselves back into the formation in their normal spot, adjusted their position so that they could screen the rest of the Cohort more effectively. This had been prearranged; the Sixth would maintain its position until the entire Cohort had made it through the choke point, then they would fall into a spot in front of the First. It was unusual, but it was the best that the combined minds of the Centurions could come up with. When the Fourth began their maneuver, there was a flurry of renewed assaults up and down the now-moving line, as the Varciani threw themselves at the Legionaries, who kept their shields up in the first position, elbows locked in the hollow just above their hipbones. Inevitably, some of those attacks were successful, as a man became momentarily distracted by being forced to step over the body of friend or foe who had already been struck down, or in one or two cases, sweat suddenly blinded a man. There would be a blur of motion from among the milling warriors as one of them spotted an opening, followed by a sharp cry and curses from the Romans around the unfortunate man. If the victim was lucky, he was able to take a staggering step out of the front line in order for his relief to take his spot, then join the mass of wounded in the middle of the formation. That was what usually happened; unfortunately, some men lost their balance, falling amid the shuffling feet of their comrades. This was the most dangerous moment, if the man next to him wasn’t alert and stepped over his fallen comrade or, more commonly, got his own feet tangled up as he tried to make a quick check on a comrade who was almost always a friend. This only happened twice, once on one side of the formation with the Second Century, and once on the other with the Fourth. Then, for several agonizing moments, the entire Cohort was forced to stop as the men in that area fought desperately to blunt the savage incursions of Varciani who had spotted their chance to break the Roman formation. Both attacks were turned back, and the progress resumed, as the Centurions called out the same, monotonous rhythm. Nevertheless, as tired as the men of the Fourth were, their superior training, conditioning, and, most importantly, discipline began showing now, as the Varciani attempt to stop their progress became more desperate. The Fifth, then Fourth, Third, and Second Centuries managed to make it through the choke point without having to alter their formation. In the beginning of this maneuver, some Varciani attempted to continue their pressure by scrambling up the muddy pile of rocks and debris to get on the other side, when the final wrinkle of what Corvinus had proposed made itself known. Being the first through the gap, the Fifth hurried and got into a position across the width of the ravine floor, basically paralleling the rubble pile, but within javelin range. The moment the first of the more intrepid Varciani appeared at the top of the pile, a dozen missiles went hurtling toward them, wiping them from the pile as if they had never been there. It only took two more such volleys to convince even the most ardent warrior that only death waited for them on the other side, leaving them to shout their frustration as Porcinus’ Cohort made its way to what would be the safety on the other side of the rubble. Finally, Porcinus’ Century passed through the gap, while Verrens and his men changed their orientation so that they were essentially backing through the gap. To provide cover, Corvinus ordered those men still with javelins to clamber partway up the pile, just high enough that they could hurl their remaining missiles down on any Varciani who appeared to be putting too much pressure on Verrens’ men.
Even with all the pressing problems and worries of the moment, Gaius Porcinus had never been prouder of his Cohort than he was in this retreat from what had turned out to be a well-planned and well-executed ambush. The teamwork and precision, forged by what the men grumbled were endless and pointless watches of practice were bearing fruit right then, and it would mark a turning point for the men of the Fourth that survived to see another winter. No longer would they complain so vociferously when they were summoned from the warmth of their huts during the cold winter months to practice maneuvers of this sort, all of them remembering this day.
Finally, Verrens and his Century were on the same side of the pile as the rest of the Cohort, but Corvinus still kept his men standing on their precarious perch, each of them holding at least two javelins, waiting to see what the Varciani had in mind. Fortunately, they seemed content to stay just out of javelin range, hurling only taunts and challenges at the retreating Romans, pointing to the line of Roman corpses being left behind. Fairly quickly, one of the Varciani got the idea to escalate the verbal harassment, running over to the nearest dead Roman. As Verrens’ men, still walking backward, looking over their shields, could only watch in impotent fury, the warrior’s arm raised, a battle-axe in his hand, hovering above his head for an instant before slashing down. Then the warrior bent over, and because the Legionary’s chin strap had been securely tied, was able to pick up the dead man’s head by the horsetail plume of the helmet, holding it up and displaying it to the enraged Legionaries. There was a sudden roar of sound as Romans howled in impotent fury, while the Varciani matched them with their triumphant shouts, as the warrior holding his grisly trophy danced and capered about, waving the still-dripping head above his own, completely heedless of the bits of gore dripping down onto him.
“Shut your mouths,” Verrens roared, before finally lashing out with his vitus at two or three of the most vocal of his men when they became so enraged they stopped their movement with their comrades. “There’s nothing we can do about it now. The faster we get back to the First, the sooner we can come back and take our revenge on these cunni!”
After that, there was nothing more to be said, and Porcinus waited to call a halt until they were almost three hundred paces to the west of the rubble. As he trotted down the side of the formation, his ears were assailed by the sounds of panting, cursing men; even worse were the moans of so many wounded. He thought briefly about taking the time for a full butcher’s bill, then dismissed it, for a number of reasons. What he did do was order the Centuries back into their normal spots, with the exception that men from both the Second and the Fourth were detailed to assist with the Third’s casualties, using shields as makeshift stretchers for men who couldn’t walk. Once matters were to his satisfaction, he told Nigidius, who was wounded in at least two places he could see, to sound the notes to resume the march. Immediately, the battered Fourth Cohort retraced its steps back to the west, leaving a piece of itself behind, along with the Second Cohort.
Chapter 7
The Fourth moved as quickly as possible, given the circumstances, but even so, it was a third of a watch before there was a shouted warnin
g from the section of men Porcinus had sent ahead. The advance guard was halted just before a slight dogleg in the wider northward passage, which Porcinus estimated was at least three times as wide as the ravine he and his men had been traversing, making it almost a small valley. Certainly wide enough for a full Cohort to spread out, he mused, which deepened his suspicions about the supposed peril that the First was in. Ordering a halt to the main column, Porcinus called Ovidius up to his spot.
“Wait here; if it’s some sort of trap, you know what to do.”
Ovidius saluted, assuring Porcinus that he did, and the Pilus Prior trotted forward, where his scouts were standing, staring farther up the ravine. Not until he was within twenty paces of them could he see that they were watching as an even half-dozen riders approached, yet while he couldn’t make out their features, he saw they were Roman. Despite his suspicion, he felt himself relax, reaching his advance guard a moment before the cavalrymen came trotting up. Porcinus instantly recognized one of the men as Silva’s troopers; if he remembered correctly, he had been one of the men who had escorted his son back to Siscia.
“Salve, Centurion,” the same man called out, confirming Porcinus’ guess. “What brings you up here? We weren’t expecting to see you and the Second.”
“It’s not the Second. It’s just us,” Porcinus replied, eyeing all the troopers with a growing unease.
None of them looked as if they had been in a fight, or harried in some way, and he felt a lead ball start to form in his stomach.
Nevertheless, he kept his voice as neutral as he could as he asked, “What say you? Everything all right up here?”
The trooper – Porcinus thought his name was Albinus, which would fit because his hair was the color of the sun when it was masked by clouds – gave a snort of disgust.
“Bah,” he replied. “This has been a total waste of a day so far. We haven’t seen anything but a lot of tracks. Although,” he added in what was clearly an afterthought, “most of them seemed to be headed in your direction. Did you see anything?”
Porcinus had to bite down hard on the retort that came to his lips, knowing that none of this was Albinus’ fault, if that really was his name. Instead of giving a verbal answer, Porcinus simply spun around on his heel and beckoned the riders to follow him. He walked until they passed the slight bend, enabling them to see the column of the Fourth Cohort, and they didn’t have to get close to see what Porcinus intended. He heard more than one man gasp behind him, and he turned to face them, his face cold.
“Pluto’s cock, what happened? Sir?” one of the other men with Albinus blurted out, his agitation such that he had to remember to append the correct courtesy to the end of his question.
“What does it look like?” Porcinus snapped.
He instantly regretted at least his tone, so in a quiet voice, he briefly explained the events that had occurred, finishing with, “Then we got a runner telling us we needed to leave the Second and come to help the First because they were under attack and that Tiberius had either been cut off or was dead.”
Porcinus would long remember the expressions of shock from every one of the troopers, but it was Albinus who answered. “I don’t know who told you that, Centurion. But we haven’t had as much as a sling bullet come our way. It’s true that Tiberius and the mounted advance guard have ridden ahead at least twice that I know of when they thought there might be some sort of mischief waiting for us. But,” he shook his head emphatically, “we haven’t been in any kind of fight, let alone one where we’d need help.”
Porcinus had opened his mouth to tell Albinus that this desperate news had come from the man who was the second in command of this part of the army, then thought better of it.
Instead, he said simply, “There’s only one way to find out. How far ahead are they?”
“No more than a half-mile,” Albinus answered instantly. “If you want, I’ll give you my horse, Centurion.”
Porcinus was tempted, but decided against it. Whatever was going to happen, he wanted the support of his boys, no matter whether it was only in spirit, so he shook his head.
“No, thank you. We’ll just march at the double quick and catch up.”
Albinus nodded, then turned his horse to head back, but Porcinus stopped him.
“I’d like you to drop back and make sure there are none of those bastards on our trail,” he told Albinus.
This made sense; Albinus saluted and beckoned his men to follow. While it was true that this was a standard method, that wasn’t why Porcinus didn’t want to give Barbatus any prior warning. In fact, he was so anxious to see the Primus Pilus’ face when he brought the Fourth, he trotted to march with the advance guard, wanting to be the first to meet him.
As it turned out, before he had the chance to confront Barbatus, he was met by a clearly agitated Tiberius, who came galloping back toward the end of the marching column of the First when he was alerted to the presence of approaching troops. His normal scowl was in place, but Porcinus could see that there was also a considerable amount of agitation and, worse for a commander, confusion.
“Pilus Prior…Porcinus?” He stared hard down at the tall Roman, taking in the condition of the Centurion’s armor, which was covered in blood, and with that look men who had just been in battle seemed to have in the immediate aftermath. “What are you doing here? Where’s the Second?” He sat taller in his saddle to peer past Porcinus, looking at the ranks of the Fourth, then trying to see beyond them.
Porcinus opened his mouth to give an immediate answer, then hesitated.
Instead of giving the kind of report that might be expected at that moment, he asked, “Sir, were you ever in danger?”
Tiberius quite naturally looked startled at the question, his eyebrows suddenly plunging downward and coming so close together they were almost touching.
“What? What do you mean ‘in danger’? I would assume we’re all in danger every moment we spend here in this gods-forsaken stretch of country. Would you mind not speaking in riddles, Centurion?”
“I received a message that you had disappeared and that the First was being hard-pressed and needed help. I was ordered to come to your aid immediately.”
Now Tiberius looked hopelessly confused, and although it gave Porcinus a spark of vindication that his guess was correct, it was outweighed by the feeling of dread that came rushing up from his gut, as he understood that a man like Barbatus wouldn’t do something like this without at least covering his tracks.
“‘Come to my aid’? What for? We haven’t seen anything more than some churned-up mud.” His gaze moved from Porcinus’ face down to his uniform, then he looked past the Centurion to the leading ranks of the Fourth Cohort, who had been brought to a halt by Ovidius a short distance away. There was clearly no mistaking the signs that the Fourth Cohort had been in battle, and it prompted Tiberius to say, “But you’ve clearly been in a fight, and from the looks of it, a bad one.” Porcinus didn’t know Tiberius that well, but he could recognize the dawning of realization on the face of the young Legate. “Where’s the Second?” he asked Porcinus softly.
It took all of Porcinus’ discipline to keep his tone level and not give in to the fear and desperation of the moment as he went on to explain in as few words as possible the events of the preceding time since they had separated.
“How long ago was this?” was Tiberius’ first question.
Unfortunately, with the clouds still hanging so heavy, it was hard for Porcinus to give an estimate with any accuracy, but he finally ventured, “Since the attack started? A watch. No more than that, but probably a full watch.”
“And you…left the Second behind?” Porcinus didn’t have to know Tiberius well to hear the quiet menace in the man’s tone, reminding the Centurion that, even with his youth, he was an extremely powerful man.
“Because I was ordered to.” Porcinus struggled to keep his tone matter-of-fact.
“By whom?” Tiberius demanded. “I certainly didn’t order it.” And whe
n Porcinus uttered the name of the Primus Pilus, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Tiberius’ lip curl in a sort of disdain, as if he was smelling something unpleasant. In response, Tiberius simply said, “Well, let’s go talk to the Primus Pilus.”
Without waiting for a reply, he wheeled his horse about and began trotting back to the head of the column, forcing Porcinus to break into a run to keep up.
