Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  I cannot say it was all bad returning to my section hut, if only because of the greeting I received when I entered, and the atmosphere was improved by subtraction, if one takes my meaning. We had three empty bunks, not counting mine, but I was relieved to know that the two occupied by Marcus Glabrio, who had taken a wound to his thigh, and Numerius Quirinus, who had suffered a more serious wound in his upper chest, were expected to return; at least that was the hope in the case of Quirinus.

  "His lung wasn't punctured, but it was a deep wound. He took a spear that went right through his segmentata," Domitius explained.

  While that was a cause for concern, I confess that my mind was more on the one man who would not be returning, and I asked Domitius about Philo.

  Shooting a glance to the far end, where, at that moment, Caecina, Mela, and somewhat to my surprise, Sextus Geta, who marched next to Sido, were huddled together, talking in whispers, Domitius shrugged and said with a casual tone that I knew was false, "I'm not really sure. But some barbarian got lucky and managed to cut his throat."

  I did not reply immediately, staring at Domitius, who refused to meet my gaze, which was eloquent in itself.

  Finally, I managed, "Well, I'm not going to pretend that I'm not happy that the bastard is gone."

  Despite his obvious discomfort, Domitius laughed at this, and agreed, "Nor will I. Or," he inclined his head in the general direction of the rest of the section, "any of the boys, for that matter."

  Although I had just arrived, I could tell already that the atmosphere had changed; there was a distinct lack of heaviness that usually comes when a comrade dies. Do not mistake me; men were not joking or capering about as they normally would if we were all there, but neither was there a somber face among us. Not even, I could not help noticing, Caecina, or Mela, for that matter. In fact, I heard Caecina laugh, which was something he did quite often, and when I turned to see why he was so amused, perhaps it was an accident that he was looking at me with his mismatched eyes. Somehow, I doubt it was, because the moment I turned my head, he lifted the cup of wine he had just poured, making the gesture with it when one is giving a toast. I inclined my head, but I was not in the mood to say anything, instead trying to appear that I was just sitting down on my bunk and not collapsing on it. However, my rear had barely hit the straw when Caecina's voice boomed out.

  "Pullus! What are you doing?"

  Now that I was seated, I had to lean over to look down the length of the hut to where he was standing, still with that damnable smile on his face.

  "I'm going to lie down," I said warily, wondering what business it was of his. "I gave my pass to Tiburtinus. The only reason I'm not in the hospital is because there's not enough space and I would just be in the way." The effort of raising my heavily bandaged arm caused a sheen of sweat on my face that felt clammy against my skin as I displayed it for Caecina, finishing, "It's just my arm."

  "But that's not your spot anymore," Caecina said cheerfully. "That's no place for the hero of our section!" He turned to indicate the bunk that I knew was his, which confused me even more than I already was. "This is your new spot!"

  "But that's yours." I shook my head.

  I shot a glance at Domitius, but he was staring at the wooden floor, giving me the feeling that he was purposely avoiding my gaze.

  "That was mine," Caecina agreed, "but not anymore." He turned and pointed to the bunk formerly occupied by Philo, positioned at the far end, directly in the middle of the hut and just a couple of steps from the stove. "That's my new spot. And I've decided that you've more than proven yourself and belong up here. With us."

  This was too much for me to comprehend, and I felt my mouth drop in shock, except this time, when I looked at Domitius, I suppose he caught me glaring at him and understood I required some sort of explanation.

  Finally turning to me, Domitius used an even tone that told me almost as much as his words, informing me, "Caecina is our new Sergeant."

  I was so bewildered that I did not think to lower my voice. "But, I thought…"

  Now Domitius shot me a warning glare and whispered, "I'll explain later."

  "So, Pullus," Caecina's voice forced my attention back to him, yet while he was smiling, his manner had changed subtly and I did not miss the warning, "that wound didn't make you deaf, did it?"

  There were some muted snickers at this, and I felt the blood rush to my face.

  "No….Sergeant," I managed, even if it was through clenched teeth.

  It was only partially from the pain; nevertheless, I moved to the far end of the hut while Domitius assured me that he would carry my possessions to my new spot. My comrades moved out of the way, which I appreciated; normally, they would jostle and playfully shove anyone moving from one end of the hut to the other, and several of them patted me on the back as I passed. What made it even worse were the looks of sympathy from a number of them who understood that, while on the face of it I was being awarded an unofficial honor, especially given my short tenure in the section, the reality was far different. Caecina was putting me in a spot where he could keep an eye on me.

  Matters with my arm took a turn for the worse two days after our return to Siscia. In the middle of the night before, I was awakened by a throbbing stab of agony when I turned over that was far more painful than normal. Sitting up on my bunk, I became aware that my tunic was stuck to me like a second skin because it was soaked in sweat. I did not sleep the rest of the night, and since I was excused from duties, including morning and afternoon formations, I went immediately to the hospital after breaking my fast. The smell was even worse than it had been the day before, as a number of men's wounds had started to corrupt, but while a part of my mind recognized this was probably happening to me as well, there is always a part of a person that is hopeful. At least, that is the case with me, so when I sat down to allow the medicus to unwrap my bandage, I gazed down hopefully. Even before it was completely unwrapped, an odor hit my nose that, while not overwhelming, still caused my stomach to clench and I had to concentrate to keep my food down. Removing the final layer of bandage, I could not pretend I did not see that it was sodden with the discharge from my wound, which was an angry red and leaking a dark, greenish-brown pus.

  "That," the medicus said in what I thought was a bit of an understatement, "is not good."

  He stood abruptly, telling me to wait as he hurried off to find the physician.

  "Where would I go?" I mumbled. I could not take my eyes off the sight of my arm, and I believe this was the first moment where the horrible idea occurred to me that I might lose my arm.

  My father lost his leg, I remember thinking dismally, and now I'm going to lose an arm?

  Fortunately, before my mind could travel down that awful road very far, the physician arrived and took the seat formerly occupied by the medicus. Leaning closer, he took a sniff. Only because I had seen this done the first time I was wounded did I not jerk away, although that time, they had been trying to see if my bowel had been pierced.

  "What did you do?" he demanded, his head still close to my arm but pinning me with a severe gaze.

  "Nothing," I protested.

  "You took the bandages off!" His tone was accusatory, which ignited a flare of indignant anger in me.

  "I didn't touch these fucking things," I snapped.

  We continued to glare at each other for a moment, then he gave a grunt that I took to mean that either he believed me, or he did not but nothing could be done about it now. Using a long, metal rod that had a hooked ending, he touched one particularly large bump that was right next to the jagged edge of my skin where it had been sewn together. It looked like a small bird's egg had been stuffed under the skin, but while I could see he was being gentle, the moment he touched the spot, I jerked from the pain. That was bad enough; the stream of pus that shot out from the spot was finally too much and I barely got my head turned around in time as I vomited up my breakfast. Unfortunately for the medicus, it happened more quickly than he could move,
so I am afraid his feet were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think he shouted in disgust as he leapt back, but it was too late, although I cannot be sure because I was retching so violently and loudly. And naturally, my sudden movement meant my arm jerked from the physician's grasp, and I think it was the probe that my arm pushed against because what had been painful instantly became as agonizing as it had in the immediate aftermath of being wounded. I vaguely remember toppling over, and I suppose the gods are just in their punishment because I landed in my own vomit. That is the last I remember of that moment.

  Even before I opened my eyes, I knew I was back in the hospital, although it was not that long after I had walked in. It was a combination of the sounds of men in pain, along with the smell that I have described earlier to which, I thought with barely suppressed panic, I was now contributing. For a moment, I thought about keeping my eyes closed and pretending that it was all just a dream, but I finally opened my eyes nonetheless. The next puzzle was that, although there were wooden beams directly above, they were not peaked, but flat, and the boards on top of them were not pitched. It took a moment for me to recognize that I was not on the second floor, but the first, which meant I was with the more seriously wounded. That caused me to sit upright, my heart racing at the thought that I was now considered to be in worse condition than when I walked in, not thinking about the fact that lugging my dead weight up the stairs would be a chore for even three men. The sudden movement was, of course, a horrible idea, causing me to give a yelp as my arm jerked when I sat up, and I looked down, expecting to see it had been wrapped back up. But it had not been re-bandaged, so I was confronted by the ugly sight of my wound. When he had sewn me back up, the physician had been forced to stretch my skin a bit because, as he explained afterward, the javelin had essentially carved a chunk out of the outer layer of my skin, and presumably, that missing piece was rotting near The Quarry. Consequently, he had been given no choice at the time but to try and use the elasticity of the skin to stretch over what would otherwise have been a gaping hole, although he was only partially successful. Forcing myself to look at the wound, I pushed all the fear and panic down, examining it as objectively as I could. The wound extended from a point about an inch from the knobby bone on the outside of the wrist, all the way up my outer forearm to about three fingers' width from the elbow, but not in a straight line. Because of the circumstances in which I found myself during the fight, it actually curved towards the inside of my forearm before returning back in the other direction. From my point of view, it vaguely resembled a backward letter "S," and it was in the part of the wound that ran in the same direction as my forearm, about midway between wrist and elbow where the missing flesh was located. As I looked at it, I saw that the lump was substantially reduced; I was told later by the medicus that while I was unconscious the physician had drained the wound. However, while it did look less puffy, the flesh was still an angry red, particularly around the sutures that he had used to close me up.

  "You're staying here." I jumped at the sound of the physician's voice; I had been so absorbed in looking at my arm that I did not notice him approach. "If this corruption doesn't clear up on its own, we're going to have to take…steps to stop it."

  He did not articulate what those steps were, nor did he need to; it is one of the things that men in the ranks talk about all the time, always with a shudder and a declaration that they would rather die first. I, however, was not one of them, thanks to reading my Avus' story, although I will say that, of the two possibilities I much preferred the maggot treatment. At the battle of Munda, the final battle of Divus Julius, my Avus had been seriously wounded, almost dying from a chest wound. And, like mine, his wound turned corrupt, and the camp physician at the time placed maggots in the wound. My Avus had been extremely descriptive about the experience, so I knew that it would be unpleasant. Regardless of how it might feel to have worms wiggling in my arm, it was still better than the second, more drastic alternative, which was to cut the corrupted flesh out. I instantly understood that would be the end of my career; even if my arm was saved, too much muscle would be cut away for me to heft a shield, and I would be done. Seeing that there was really nothing to say, I merely nodded my head that I understood.

  "For the time being, we are not going to keep it tightly bandaged," he continued, "but it will be covered. And," as he said this, I saw a medicus approaching, carrying what looked a bit like a very low, narrow bench, "you're going to keep the arm elevated, like this."

  Taking the bench from the attendant, he placed it next to my cot, parallel to it, and I saw that it was just a few inches higher than the cot at one end, sloping upward at an angle. Before he allowed me to place my arm on the bench, he took the length of what looked like sheep's wool and placed it on the wood, while I tried to ignore the fact that it was heavily stained with the bodily fluids of other men. I just hope they washed it first, I thought as I laid my arm on it. I had to make a couple of small adjustments before I was as comfortable as possible, then I was left to essentially stare at my arm, willing it to heal on its own.

  It did not; two days after my return to the hospital, it was clear to anyone with eyes and a nose that matters had gotten worse. Adding to my misery was the fever that would not go away and left me constantly thirsty. The morning of the third day found me shaking and exhausted, having been unable to sleep, and even worse, I had weakened to the point I could not perform even the most basic bodily functions without help, having to endure the indignity of being attended for the first time since I had been a babe. That was humiliating, but my pride would heal; my arm, however, clearly was not improving at all. By the time it was fully light, I felt a stab of dull horror at the sight of a number of red streaks that, although they had just appeared, were still clearly visible. This is the condition we are always told is the sign that whatever poison it is eating away at our injury has entered our blood. Fortunately, before I could shout for someone to attend to me, the medicus on duty – his name was Ulpus, as I recall – had seen the same thing and had gone to get the physician. When the physician showed up, he only gave my arm a glance, then turned to Ulpus and whispered a few words, whereupon the second man turned and trotted off.

  "Well," the physician made no attempt to make light of the sight of my arm, which I actually appreciated, "I am not going to pretend this is not bad, but it's not unexpected. So, we will use the maggots."

  It was actually a good thing I was not hungry because my stomach would probably have ejected the contents once more, and I certainly did not want the reputation of having such a soft disposition that I puked at every change in my condition. Ulpus returned, holding a cup, but if one were to just judge by his facial expression and the way he held it out in front of him, if you were a betting man, you would wager that it was full of cac. Reaching my bedside, he and the physician peered down into the cup at its contents, the physician pointing down into it before turning his hand up underneath it. Ulpus tipped the cup as I watched with a sense of horrible fascination as one, two, three, then four fat, white, wriggling maggots dropped into the physician's palm. I could not tear my eyes away from his hand as he turned to face me. Then, bending over, he plucked one of the maggots from his palm, then briefly examining my arm, placed it on the spot that had been the source of the most discharge. Ulpus quickly took a strip of bandage, wrapping it loosely around my arm, but instead of having me lift it, he essentially wrapped it around the board on which my arm was stretched. He repeated this in each spot the physician placed a maggot, yet as sick as I might have been, I was still aware enough that I noticed a sensation I thought strange; more accurately, it was the lack of it that prompted me to ask a question.

  "Shouldn't I feel them moving or something?"

  The physician looked at me for a moment, giving me the sense that he was trying to decide whether to answer.

  Finally, he replied, "The reason you don't feel anything right now, Gregarius, is because that tissue is dead."

  I cons
idered that for a moment, then asked, "So, when I feel them, I don't know, moving about, that means they've eaten away all the corruption?"

  "Usually," he agreed, except he seemed hesitant. "But we're going to be checking several times a day. Now, all you need to do is lie there and let them do their work."

  "That's wonderful," I grumbled. "More time flat on my back."

  He did not bother replying; there were still men who needed his help more than I did.

  Later that day, Tiburtinus showed up for the first time. Domitius had come every day, yet despite my blustering, at least the first day before I became too ill, he had either been unable or unwilling to answer my questions about how Caecina became the Sergeant when before he had not even been considered.