Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  I find it almost impossible to express with any accuracy, at least that satisfies me, what it is like when, even when it is expected, more than a thousand warriors suddenly materialize out of nowhere, screaming at the top of their lungs, all of them seeming to be heading right for you and nobody else. Although the location for the ambush was expected, the actual execution of it was not, and I think back to that day as one where we quickly learned that, with Draxo, we had an extremely capable and cunning adversary. The first surprise was that, while the strip of woods was where he launched his attack, which we expected, it was not the only spot. The second surprise was that he let the entire First Cohort march through the woods and cross the river before the air exploded with the sounds of an assault. Except, instead of us, his target appeared to be the Second Cohort who, unlike us, were completely unprepared, still carrying their shields lashed to their backs. An instant after the voices of Colapiani warriors split the air, Urso had Varo blasting on his cornu, sounding the notes that let the Cohorts behind us and the Second know that we were under attack.

  An instant after that order, he bellowed, "Drop your packs, boys! Get your shields up!"

  We all obeyed instantly, although in the case of several of us, it did not go smoothly; I know this because I was one of them. Letting go of the pole of my furca and both javelins, I was trying to make sure that my transfer of my shield from right to left hand went perfectly, but because I was paying attention to making that happen, I was caught by complete surprise when the weight of the pack worked like a lever, bringing the handle of my furca shooting straight back at me. I did not see it coming until the last instant, and although I had begun to react, jerking my head to the right, I was too late.

  WHAM!

  The stout ash pole slammed into my face across my left cheekbone and eye, just missing my nose, and if it had not been for the iron brow strip that is now the standard for our helmets, it very well might have crushed my forehead, or at the very least, knocked me out. As it was, I staggered backward, but while I do not know how, I managed to keep my feet. Stars of a thousand colors exploded behind my left eye, but when I opened it immediately after that, I could not see with it, at least for a moment. Nevertheless, and to my surprise, I discovered that not only was I still upright, I had managed to draw my sword, while my shield was more or less up in front of me.

  "First Century, march by the right flank!"

  Urso's voice boomed out, and we automatically and immediately obeyed. I made a right facing turn, as did the entire Century, which kept me on the front rank, but now on the opposite side of the formation, while Flaccus was now directly ahead of me, and Capulo ahead of him.

  Moving parallel to the river a couple hundred paces, Urso gave the order to halt, then immediately sounded the command to perform another right turn. This, being honest, I was not happy about, because suddenly, I was now in the rear rank, the same place I had been when I was in the First of the Fourth, and the opposite side at that. Meanwhile, the other Cohorts were more or less performing the same maneuver, arraying themselves in one line; at least that is what I assumed, since it was impossible to hear their corniceni sounding the calls over the roaring sound of battle.

  "We're going to cross back over, cut through the woods, and hit those bastards from the rear," Urso shouted, explaining why he had moved us that far away from the road.

  Raising his sword and holding it for a heartbeat, he swept it down, and we stepped off, heading back across the river to help the Second. Because of where I was now, I could not actually see what was happening on the other side of the river, but I had enough experience to understand just by the noise that our comrades in the Second were being hurt badly. Nevertheless, I am sure I was not alone in feeling a sense of grim anticipation at the idea of going back across the river and hitting the Colapiani from the flank. That was when Draxo showed us what he was made of, and how dangerous he was.

  I do not believe we had moved a half-dozen paces when, from behind all of us in the rearmost rank came another roar of noise. Whirling about, I was too shocked to say anything; thankfully, my comrades were not as tongue-tied.

  "It's a trap! They're coming up from behind!"

  Not until later did we learn how Draxo had managed to hide another thousand of his warriors. I mentioned the hill that served as the source for the raw stone, but while the base of the hill was visible from where we were on the settlement side of the river, because of the way it curved, we could not see around it very far. Constructed at the very base of the hill, but out of sight from the road, and, in fact, screened by some trees from the rest of the village, were several sheds where the quarrymen worked during inclement weather. Draxo, knowing that while we could see most of the settlement as we approached but not these buildings, had specifically ordered that they not be burned down. It was in and behind these huts that he secreted the second part of his force. Consequently, when we turned about to help the Second, our rear was exposed to this new force. Standing there, as shocked as the rest of my comrades, I distinctly remember having the thought, you were upset because you weren't in the front rank anymore, but now you are. And frankly, I cannot say I was happy about it.

  "Shields up!"

  Urso's voice was like the crack of a whip, and I know that I, for one, needed that simple command to snap me out of the fog of surprise that seemed to envelop me. Less than fifty paces away, the rolling mass of flesh, dressed in their bracae, knee-length tunics, and motley collection of scale armor, boiled leather, and mail shirts, slowed only long enough for about a third of the attackers to hurl their version of the javelins at us, and are not as heavy as the war spear but still sturdier than ours, able to be reused and with a solid wooden shaft about the same size as ours. My head turned upward, trying to catch the flight of any missile that looked as if it was going to come close to hitting me. It was then I realized that, although I could see out of my left eye after a fashion, there seemed to be a number of bright spots, similar to when one looks at the flame of a lamp too long, obscuring part of my field of vision. Consequently, it was only a matter of luck that somehow, without really seeing it, I sensed a javelin hurtling down at such an angle that, if I had not raised my shield higher than normal, it would have gone through my face. But, while blocking it was a good thing, the impact of the javelin slamming into my shield almost knocked it from my hand and with my good eye I noticed that fully half the length of the blade was poking through, which meant it was stuck in my shield, making it extremely awkward. In the instant of an eyeblink after that, I caught a glimpse of a bearded face, the brim of his high, peaked helmet pulled low over eyes that burned with hatred, his shield just below his chin and one of their long swords raised high above his head, already starting its downward stroke. However, oddly enough, that javelin that I was worried about protruding from my shield and unbalancing it actually helped save my life, because as the warrior wielding the sword swung down, putting all his weight into it, before slamming into and probably cracking my shield the edge of the blade sliced into the shaft of the javelin. Granted, it did not stop the blow, but it did rob the blade of enough of its force that it slammed into my shield, and I felt the blow all the way down to my hips as the shock traveled through my arm, turning it numb, but without the telltale cracking sound of a weakened shield. I was vaguely aware of the butt end of the javelin spinning crazily up into the air, but while the balance of the shield was better, now with just about two feet of the shaft left, it was still useless as an offensive weapon. Putting it in simplest terms, if I punched forward with my shield and landed a blow, while I might do damage to my foe, it would undoubtedly do more damage to me by pushing the head of the javelin right into my arm from the force. Not surprisingly, I had no intention of stabbing myself, except that also meant my options were limited, but before he could recover his own blade, which had rebounded off my shield, I launched one of the sloppiest thrusts of my life to that point. Since my body was as unbalanced as my shield, I was unable to use my
weight in the manner in which we are trained, meaning it was only with the strength of my arm that punched my blade forward, aiming for a small gap I had noticed because the warrior was holding his shield out from his body too far. Being honest, this was more a feint than anything, and I was expecting him to shift his shield the half a hand span backward to cover up the gap. I have no idea why he did not; perhaps he was distracted by the remnant of the javelin shaft flopping about in my shield, yet whatever the reason, I am thankful for it, because I felt the point of my sword strike one of the bronze scales that are favored by tribes in this part of the world, stop for just an instant, then punch through into the man's side. My thrust did not have enough power to penetrate more than three or four inches, but before I could twist my wrist to inflict as much damage as possible he recoiled backward, removing himself from my blade to stagger away. At least I assume this to be so; I did not have time to notice as another weapon thrust right at me, this time at my face, a spear this time, which I just managed to dodge by jerking my head to the right while simultaneously raising my shield so that the top of it struck the shaft and forced it upward.

  When I caught a glimpse of another bearded face, I saw that this man was different in that his hair was the color of flame, like a Gregarius who was part of my dilectus when I joined the Fourth, Vibius Tuditanus. This warrior, however, was older than Tuditanus or I, looking to be in his early thirties, some of his teeth already showing black decay when he peeled his lips back in a frustrated snarl. When he pulled back his arm to recover the spear, it gave me an instant of respite because, like most barbarian tribes, this warrior did not view his shield as an offensive weapon. By my training, I should have counterattacked, but being honest, I needed just that instant to collect myself. The vision in my left eye, while still not back to normal, was good enough that I could see Avitus engaged with a Colapiani warrior who favored an axe, in most ways the trickiest weapon for us to face. While it would not occur to me until later, this was the first time I had fought with the First Cohort; however, it was not my first time being in the leading rank. To my right, I saw Flaccus using his staff as a weapon because he had not had time to draw his sword, jabbing the sharpened iron tip much like a spear, while Urso was standing next to him, just finishing off a Colapiani with a slashing cut across the man's face. That was all I had time to notice; my spear-wielding opponent had been joined by a comrade, this man a clean-shaven youth about my age who leapt forward without waiting to coordinate with the first attacker, ignoring what I assume was the shouted warning from the first man to wait. Instead of thrusting his spear; he did not even have a shield and was wearing a boiled leather cuirass that had what looked like iron rings sewn onto it, he swung the weapon overhead with an overhand grip in a wide arc, much like the way barbarians favor using their sword, clearly aiming the bladed edge of his weapon for my throat. This was a mark of his inexperience; it is hard enough to kill a man with a slash to the throat even when the weapon is a sword more than four feet long, while the entire cutting area of his spear blade was perhaps six inches, and even with that cursed javelin stump sticking out of my shield, his was an easy attack to block. Unfortunately for him, it is also easy to counterattack, and even as I raised my left arm and swept the shield outward to my left, meeting his spear coming from the opposite direction, my right arm was moving. And this time, my feet were properly spaced, my knees bent to the right degree, and I made sure to twist my hips as I executed what we call a first position thrust. Between my attack and the boy's own momentum, he basically ran himself right onto my blade so that we were a matter of no more than a couple of feet apart. Naturally, he was shorter than I was, but his face was clearly visible, framed by the two hanging cheek flaps of what looked very much like a Roman helmet from the time my father marched under the standard. His was a look I have seen often, and being honest, I make a point to not remember those faces, at least as much as I am able, but this is one that I still see today when I close my eyes. I suppose it is because we were of a similar age; once he was close to me, I saw that in fact he was younger than I; probably no more than sixteen, around the same age as my brother Sextus. His eyes were brown, his hair black as the wing of a raven, while his first beard had not yet come in, his cheeks showing the fuzz of boyhood, and as is almost always the case, the expression on his face was one of shock as, with almost comical slowness he looked down at my blade buried in his body to just a half hand's width from the pommel. Although I could not see it, I knew that at least six inches of my blade would be protruding from his back, yet somehow, he did not make a sound, at least at first. He might have been moaning softly, but the sounds of the fighting drowned them out. I cannot say it was an act of mercy; when I had time to think about it later, I realized that I might actually have prolonged the boy's suffering, because instead of twisting and ripping, I shoved the boy backward, intent on pushing him straight off my blade. Over the din, I heard the wet, sucking sound as my blade withdrew from his body, but that was instantly drowned out by his first real cry of pain. Even that was muffled as a gush of blood bubbled from his mouth, running down his chin in a gory mockery of the beard he would never have. However, I was not quite done with him, because although I did not twist the blade, just as I was about to completely withdraw it from his body, over his shoulder, I saw the redheaded warrior belatedly leaping forward. Using just the strength of my sword arm, I changed the direction that the dying boy was staggering so that he collapsed against the redheaded Colapiani, whose arm was even then drawing back for a hard overhand thrust. It was not much, but the weight of the boy as he collided with the second before finally dropping fully prone on the ground was just enough that, once more his spearhead shot past me, this time flashing by to my right as the redheaded warrior stumbled forward a step in my general direction. Once more, my blade, still covered in the blood and gore of the boy shot out, this time the point catching the Colapiani right in the mouth as he staggered, bent over at the waist to regain his balance, shattering his teeth as I drove my sword all the way through his skull, which forced me to wrench it out with a tremendous yank because it was lodged in bone. I was experienced enough by this point to keep my eyes up on what was ahead of me and resist the natural temptation to follow movement that is near you. Even so, it was extremely distracting to have the redheaded Colapiani lying at my feet, his body still twitching and quivering, which seems to be the case when a man is killed by a head wound, as my eye picked up the movement at the bottom of my vision. Fortunately for me, while it was difficult, it was not impossible to keep my attention on those warriors who were still alive and intent on killing me and my comrades.

  It must always be kept in mind that these moments I am describing are happening much more quickly than one can read about them, at least any account that tries to do them justice. From the instant when the javelin struck my shield to this moment when the redheaded Colapiani collapsed at my feet, I would estimate to be the span of perhaps fifty heartbeats, if that. Certainly not longer, yet despite the fact I had personally dispatched three of the enemy, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw one man lying motionless just in front of Avitus while another was helmetless, crawling away on hands and knees and, dragging what I was sure were his own entrails with him, the ardor of the attacking Colapiani had not ebbed in the slightest. To my right, I saw a small knot of men facing Urso, Capulo, and Varo, while Flaccus was the only man keeping the Colapiani from forcing their way into the slight gap that had opened up between the formation and the trio. Taking this in, I saw that Urso was even then fighting furiously against a pair of Colapiani, while Capulo, the Legion eagle thrust into the ground behind him, did his best to keep one of them from sliding around to get behind our Primus Pilus. More importantly, Urso's bone whistle was hanging from his leather lanyard and not clenched in between his teeth, and I made my decision. I suppose I should say that even as I did so, I took the adversarial relationship between Urso and me into account, and recognized that I was running the risk of mak
ing myself vulnerable to a charge that I was disobeying orders by leaving the formation. A charge I must admit had some truth to it, since I had done essentially the same thing just the year before in my first campaign. Nonetheless, that did not enter my mind until afterward when it was too late to do anything about it.

  Turning my head, I shouted to the Gregarius behind me – Fronto his name – who was holding my harness, "Let go, then step into my spot! I'm going to help them!"

  However, I did not wait for him to relinquish his grip, which pulled him off balance as I lurched away from the formation, and I heard him curse me roundly, although I did not stop. Yet neither did I go directly to Flaccus' side, the man nearest to me. Instead, I crossed the gap in a couple of long strides to intercept a man who had clearly seen an opportunity and had launched his attack on Flaccus, who in turn had just become engaged by another Colapiani. As I was swinging my shield up into position to place my shoulder against it the instant before I slammed into my target, I realized I had forgotten to remove the stub of javelin from my shield. With only two choices, I grit my teeth as I pulled the shield up tight and slammed into my foe just as he was drawing his arm back to drive a spear through Flaccus' unprotected side. Even in the moment, it was impossible for me to distinguish the precise instant when my shield smashed the weapon arm of the Colapiani and the burning agony as the force from the impact hit the stub of the javelin and drove the point that had been sticking through the shield just a matter of three inches directly into the top of my forearm. I had hit the Colapiani with the metal boss of my shield midway between shoulder and elbow, and while I could not hear the bone snapping, I clearly felt it give way the instant before my own body registered the searing pain. He might have yelled, or even screamed in agony; I would not have heard it because I was bellowing myself, letting out a string of oaths that I have never come close to duplicating since. Flaccus had just become aware of the threat to his left, but he was still jabbing at a Colapiani armed with a sword with his standard, keeping him at bay as the enemy warrior tried to time a swing so that he could either knock down the pole or cut through it, meaning Flaccus could not spare more than a glance in my direction.