by R. W. Peake
“What idiot did that?”
“I don’t know, but things just got more interesting,” Porcinus commented, his eyes not leaving the sight, the same one that had caused Tiberius’ reaction.
Ovidius was the one who called his attention to it, and he was now standing next to him as both men stared ahead. When Ovidius pointed it out, Porcinus initially thought it was dust, probably churned up by the men of the 15th, who he knew were waiting on the far side of the forest, but very quickly he saw that it was not only different in color, it was quickly spreading across the entire front.
“I thought he had decided against doing that,” Ovidius said.
“He did, but either someone didn’t get the message, or they decided to do it anyway,” was Porcinus’ guess. “But there’s nothing we can do about it now.” Shrugging, he slapped Ovidius on the shoulder, sending the signal that his Optio needed to return to his spot as he finished, “Like I said, it just makes things more interesting.”
“And hot. And smoky,” Ovidius grumbled as he turned to return to his spot.
Porcinus laughed at his Optio’s grousing, calling after him, “Do you really want things to be easy all the time?”
“Yes!”
This was uttered not just by Ovidius, but by all the men within earshot who were avidly listening to their superiors talking, causing Porcinus to give them a glare, while they cheerfully grinned back at their Centurion marching alongside.
“Nosy bastards,” he muttered in a voice loud enough to be heard, knowing that they would get a laugh, which they did.
It was yet another lesson learned from Titus Pullus, that men needed a laugh from time to time, especially right before they were about to throw themselves into the terrorizing chaos of battle. Despite making light of it, Porcinus eyed the rapidly growing line of smoke, rising higher and spreading out by the heartbeat with some trepidation, increased by the feeling of the fresh breeze in his face, which was sending the flames in their general direction. From his perspective, this was almost equal parts good and bad; the fire now effectively cut off the escape route of the Varciani, but the barbarians would still reach the edge of the forest on this side before the fire did. As he saw it, the best thing that could happen was that the Varciani commander, seeing this new threat, would call a halt and turn to fight, yet Porcinus felt sure that he would still lead his men into the forest. It would mean they would have a fire at their back, and heading their way, but it also meant that they would no longer be in the open, and could fight on terrain where the Legions weren’t as effective. Before any of that could happen, however, the cornu sounded, calling the Pili Priores to meet with Tiberius. Trotting up from his spot, Porcinus hurried a bit to catch up with Fronto, whose Cohort was actually marching behind the First this day, since the Second was back in camp.
“Ready for this?” the Tertius Pilus Prior asked his counterpart.
“Very,” Porcinus replied grimly, prompting a grunted laugh from Fronto.
“That makes one of us,” he said, getting a laugh in return from Porcinus.
Then they were there, where Tiberius and Barbatus were already waiting, the Primus Pilus glaring at the two Centurions as if they had arrived late, despite the fact they were the first Pili Priores to arrive. The look caused Porcinus to reflect that he hadn’t come to hate a man in such a short period of time in his entire life, and shooting a glance at Fronto, he was heartened to see the disgust plainly written on the other man’s face. Tiberius, on the other hand, favored both men with his version of a smile, looking down from his horse, once more choosing to stay mounted. In another moment, the other five Centurions were gathered, and Tiberius wasted no time.
“We’re going in a double line of Cohorts, on a three-Century front,” he told the Centurions.
So far, this was standard, and it meant there would be four Cohorts, and Porcinus immediately looked over to the spot where he was sure his men would line up, third Cohort from the right, with the Third to their right and the Fifth to the left. But Tiberius had other plans.
“I want the First on the right.” This was standard and caused no comment, but the surprise was coming, “But I want the Fourth next to the First.” Turning to Fronto, Tiberius said, “Fronto, I want your Cohort to anchor the other end, with the Fifth to your right.”
This was slightly unusual, but Porcinus realized that the fact they were marching without Volusenus’ Cohort was also unusual, and he saw that Fronto didn’t appear to be overly upset. The only man who looked put out was Barbatus, and Porcinus saw the man open his mouth to object, except the look Tiberius gave him was apparently enough that he quickly shut it. It was with equal parts amusement and relief that Porcinus saw someone else who hated Barbatus as much as he did, and he supposed that he and the Legate, at least in the moment, had more in common than one would suppose just from looking at them.
“I want the First there.” Tiberius pointed to the base of a small rise to the north of their position that would put the First just to the right of the outermost edge of the rough line formed by the Varciani rearguard that, even then, was shaking out into their own version of a formation. Continuing, Tiberius said, “I’m putting half of Silva’s ala on the top of that rise.” He twisted in the saddle to look in the opposite direction, back where the Third would be. Pointing, he addressed Fronto. “The other half is going to be just next to that stream. You’ll use them as your left marker.” With his dispositions made, Tiberius snapped, “Well, hurry up! The faster we get formed up, the faster we can get those bastards. I want the men put in position at the double time.”
As the Centurions hurried away, Fronto muttered to Porcinus, “Notice he didn’t mention that huge fucking fire headed our way?”
In fact, Porcinus had, but the best he could come up with was, “I guess he realizes there’s nothing we can do about it. That’s probably why he wants us to double time to get in place.”
“But we’re going to have to pause to catch our breath,” Fronto argued.
Although it was a valid complaint, Porcinus wasn’t so sure, and he said, “Maybe not. You’ve seen the boys. They’re wound as tight as a ballista rope. They just want to get stuck in with these bastards. And so do I,” he finished.
Fronto didn’t appear convinced, but they had reached the Third, and the pair paused just long enough for a quick clasp of arms.
“Mars and Fortuna,” Fronto said, in an abbreviated form of the blessing that the Centurions of the 8th had used to wish each other luck since long before Porcinus had been in the Centurionate.
“Mars and Fortuna,” Porcinus repeated, then turned and resumed his jog back to the Fourth.
“All right, you misbegotten sons of whores,” he roared. “It’s time to earn our pay and avenge our brothers!”
The answering roar told Porcinus that his men were more than ready.
Moving into their respective positions as quickly as Porcinus could ever remember seeing, the 8th quickly brushed the rearguard out of the way, and with a minimum of casualties. The archers were particularly ineffective, mainly because, from what Porcinus saw, only a handful launched more than two or three arrows before turning to flee, following the main body into the forest. There was a slight pause when the small cavalry force with the rearguard suddenly came galloping forward with the clear goal of catching the Romans off balance. However, the men of the Roman front line all quickly thrust their javelins out in front of them, the bristling points convincing the Varciani cavalry they would be foolish to try and penetrate that line. Shearing away, they galloped parallel to the Roman front, and some horses and riders were actually taken down by quicker thinking men, who hurled one of their two javelins as they thundered by. Then the troopers belonging to Silva stationed on the small rise came down at the gallop, quickly dispatching those Varciani nobles whose courage overruled their brains. Meanwhile, the front line barely paused in their relentless advance, as the Centurions of both lines bawled out orders to keep the alignment as close to para
de-ground perfect as it was possible to do over rough, broken ground. Within three hundred heartbeats after the last of the rearguard either fled, or in one case consisting of a small knot of rebel infantry who made a foolish stand and were cut down, the Romans in the front line were within javelin range of the edge of the forest. Only then was a halt called, both Centurions and Optios working quickly as they straightened lines with a shove here and a push there. Just inside the forest, Porcinus could see the mass of Varciani, who had begun their own pre-battle ritual, meaning that the noise level rose rapidly, as individual warriors came darting out from the safety of the trees to shout their challenges and taunts while shaking their weapons at the Romans. It was a familiar sight to the veterans, and it had no effect on any man in the Roman ranks, most of whom stood there, shields grounded in front of them, the only signs of nerves either a drumming of fingers on the shield, or excessive yawning. While there was a noise coming from the ranks as the Legionaries talked quietly to each other, it was a low buzz compared to the roar from the Varciani. Although it was difficult for Porcinus, in his spot slightly ahead of his Century, to hear what was said, he caught enough to know that the men were beginning to get concerned about the smoke that was finally beginning to drift from the forest, and what was causing it.
Realizing he needed to say something, Porcinus turned about and bellowed loudly, “Look, boys! Hades has already gotten the fires going for when we drive those bastards into them! You’re going to get to watch them burn!”
There was a roar of approval, and very quickly, men on either side of his Century who hadn’t heard relayed his words, causing a rolling reaction that could be followed both directions down the line. For the moment at least, the fire became an ally, the flames another weapon, waiting for the 8th to drive these rebels right into them. The cheering was interrupted by the sound of the cornu assigned to Tiberius, coming from behind the center of the Roman lines.
“Prepare javelins!”
Porcinus and all the other Centurions of the first line bellowed the order. And, as before, he didn’t have to turn around, hearing the rustling, creaking sound of men drawing their arms back. Personally, Porcinus thought this was a waste of javelins, since the trees would block most of the missiles, but he supposed every man or shield taken down now was one less they would have to face in just a few dozen heartbeats. The cornu blast that followed served as the command to release, the air filling with streaking missiles, and even with the extra protection of the trees, Porcinus clearly heard the low moan coming from the forest as those men who were the most exposed tried to track the progress of the javelins on their earthward arc. The sound of the weighted shafts slamming into targets, both wooden and flesh, was oddly muffled compared to other times, which Porcinus assumed was because of the trees, but he had no time to wonder why.
“Prepare javelins!”
The rustling sound again, except this time, the command given was verbal, making the second volley more ragged, as each Centurion chose to wait varying lengths of time before thundering, “Release!”
With this second volley, even as the missiles were in the air, Tiberius’ cornu sounded again, with the three-note blast that unleashed the full fury of the Legions of Rome, only beginning their charge on the third note.
“Come on, boys! Don’t let those bastards next to us get there first!” Porcinus roared, holding his blade above his head, then bringing it down in a chopping motion, even as he began the dash towards the waiting enemy.
The second volley had just landed, giving the Varciani less than a dozen heartbeats before they had to prepare to receive the smashing impact of the Legionaries of the leading Cohorts, all of the men on the front line holding their shields hard against their left shoulder to put the weight of their bodies behind the first impact. This would be the only time they would use this tactic, but as always, it was devastatingly effective, and the immense, deafening crash of the impact as usual drowned out all other noise. Porcinus, not yet having a shield, had to be more judicious in his attack, although it was only marginally so, as he counted on his size and the sheer ferocity of his assault to make up for his lack of the other offensive weapon. As always, he chose either the largest warrior, or the one who had the appearance of being a leader or high-ranking noble. In this case, it was the former, a burly man who seemed to be as wide as he was tall, heavily muscled and adorned with several arm rings on each limb. This Varciani was armed with a heavy spear and a round wooden shield; in addition, he also had a mail coat that hung down to his knees, along with a helmet adorned with the antlers of a stag. As he approached at a run, Porcinus drew his sword back so the point was close to his ear, which was his favored method of starting a first attack. The Varciani, eyes narrowed into slits as he focused on this tall Roman, concentrated on the point of the blade, which was exactly what Porcinus had hoped for, starting what looked like a downward thrust when he was still two paces away. If the Varciani had had the time, he would have given a grim smile at the sight of this supposed veteran warrior, which he knew all Centurions were supposed to be, committing too early in this first crucial attack, so that even if the point struck him, it would be at the farthest end of the Roman’s reach. Still, he had no desire to be stuck at all and his shield arm rose, responding as of its own mind, the result of his own endless practice, preparing to block a thrust that would never come. Even as Porcinus took his next step, his sword arm was changing direction, moving the sword from a high thrust aimed at the Varciani’s chest, to one that came from beneath the lower edge of the man’s shield, slightly from the left. As it had done to literally thousands of men over its life, the point of what had been Titus Pullus’ Gallic sword punched through the mail of the Varciani, plunging deep into the warrior’s vitals just under the ribcage. In one smooth motion, Porcinus twisted, not his arm but his entire body, holding the sword rigid by keeping his upper arm tight against his chest. The result was as inevitable as it was devastating, the keen blade ripping across the abdomen, cutting through the muscles and metal links of mail with an ease that belied the enormous strength it took perform such a movement. The Varciani’s eyes bulged as his mouth opened and let out a blood-curdling shriek of pain, but Porcinus was already moving past the now-dead man before the Varciani even dropped to his knees. If Porcinus had the time or inclination, he would have acknowledged with some chagrin that this move, taught to him by his father, was one that Titus Pullus could perform without the need to brace himself, and, in fact, could disembowel a man with his arm fully extended. But there was no shame in what Porcinus had to do; he had never seen anyone else who could do it as Pullus had. Moving quickly, Porcinus crossed the two paces so that he was now tight up against the rest of his Century’s formation. Seeing an opportunity presented by a gap between two Varciani, he chose the Varciani that was engaged by the Legionary to his left, dispatching the man with a quick thrust to the back. There was a howl of outrage from the nearest Varciani, who leapt forward, bringing his long sword down in a smashing blow, trying to catch Porcinus before he could turn to face the new threat. It would have succeeded, but the Gregarius who Porcinus had helped returned the favor, taking a single step forward to the right, raising his shield to stop the blade, which struck the boss in a shower of sparks before bouncing off at an awkward angle. Again, Porcinus’ blade snaked out, this time coming in high as he noticed the warrior carrying his shield a bit lower than normal, the point catching the man in the throat, a spray of bright red arterial blood erupting from the gaping wound.
