Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  As I skidded to a stop, panting from the dash and all that was taking place, Urso glanced over at me, yet despite what was about to happen, he grinned at me and shouted over the noise, "Pullus! You ready to have some fun and make your father proud?"

  Pretending it was only because I was still breathless, I merely nodded, although I made sure I grinned back. Considering how scattered our Cohort was, I do not think we ever formed up faster than we did that night. Because they were guarding the prisoners, the Fourth actually formed up next to us, although they were missing two Centuries who were charged with herding the prisoners to the eastern edge of the common area. Their job was made harder by the fact that, more than most of them had shown while being made captive, the prisoners began resisting, stubbornly standing their ground and forcing their guards to shove them backward. Naturally, this was not done quietly, and the shouts of angry defiance from behind us did not help steady my nerves and, judging from my comrades, theirs either. I only had one last chance to glance to the right, where even then the other Cohorts were scrambling to get into a semblance of a line. Very quickly, I understood we were essentially formed up completely backward with us on the left of the single line, but because of the size of the town and its common area, we actually had six Cohorts in the first line instead of the normal four, although I did not learn this until later. Just as I turned my attention back to the front, I sensed a flurry of movement, coming up the street running from the wall to the edge of the common area directly in front of us. Where we were, positioned closer to the southern end, meant the main source of light from the fire to our right was the farthest away, making it impossible to tell much of anything other than some rolling black mass coming towards us. Otherwise, the only light came from the torches that had been placed around the area to provide us some light, along with the half moon. The roaring of the Varciani warriors seemed to be funneled by the houses of the street, making it feel like their howling rage was a palpable thing preceding their corporeal forms.

  When it appeared they were about halfway down the street, Urso bellowed, "Prepare javelins!"

  My arm, along with all the others, swept back but as we made ready, he shouted, "Only time for one volley, boys! Then straight to the sword!"

  His last order was still being shouted when they burst from between the buildings that bordered the western edge of the common area, instantly becoming more clearly visible, their high, conical helmets reflecting back the fire that had already moved to the next block, while their axes, swords and spears were raised above their heads in preparation to come smashing down as they raced full speed at our line.

  "Release!"

  Putting all of my weight into the throw, like my comrades, I launched my missile in a flatter trajectory because of the shorter range, understanding that we did not have the luxury of whatever the force is that brings missiles down at an even greater speed when they are thrown in a higher arc. Even as my right leg swung forward to land in front of my left, caused by the momentum of putting all of my weight and strength into the throw, I was already drawing my sword. Even so, I barely had time to recover, returning to the proper first defensive position with my right foot behind the left but turned sideways to provide more support for the impact that was coming, while bracing my left elbow in the small hollow just above the hipbone, the proper position being even more important for me because of my weakened arm. As I was doing this, our javelins had slashed into the leading rank of Varciani and there were several screams or shouts, along with a noise like a hammer hitting a block of wood that sounded above their roaring. I got the sense of a seemingly invisible hand sweeping along their front, sending perhaps two dozen men stumbling or, in one case right in front of me, being hurled backward from the force of a particularly powerful throw. I thought it was probably mine but while our one and only volley delayed them for a heartbeat as men either leaped over their fallen comrades or tripped and fell themselves, the impetus from the men behind the leading rank continued pushing them towards us. Catching the barest glimpse of a face framed by a beard that was in plaits and decorated with tiny white pieces I knew were supposed to be the knuckle bones of the men he had slain, my eyes were more focused on the sword raised above his head that was already sweeping down while he was still a couple paces away.

  WHAM!

  His shield crashed into mine as he did something I had rarely seen from a barbarian, using it in an offensive manner, punching it at me in the same fashion in which we are trained. However, he used his shield this way in order to force me to commit my own to block him as his sword came cleaving down in an attempt to split me down the middle. It was an extremely cunning attack, one I instantly understood would have a devastating effect; if, that is, I had been an average-sized Roman. But I suppose because of the dim lighting, or because he had simply not noticed how large I was, he had aimed his blow so the greatest force from his blade would strike where he assumed I would be after he had driven me backward at least one, or more likely two steps. Except that, although I did rock back, my rearward foot only slid perhaps an inch or two and that was all. At the same time, I bent slightly at the waist to my left while tilting my head so that the barbarian's sword, made in the style normally favored by the barbarians of Gaul and Germania, slammed down on my right shoulder plate. Make no mistake, it was a powerful blow, but as I had learned the year before, the segmentata is superior to the hamata in every way, with the exception it is more difficult to twist one's torso. But where the segmentata distinguishes itself is in the fact that there are not one, but four plates, one overlapping another, with the outermost extending out a few inches past most men's shoulders, although not as much with my size. However, most importantly, the designers of the segmentata curve the innermost plate slightly, not only to follow the contour of the shoulder, but it makes the plate lying on top of it extend from the first one at a slight angle, which is repeated the same way through the fourth and final plate. What this does is create a small gap between each plate that helps absorb the shock much better than the hamata because, although with the hamata, the shoulders are reinforced with another layer of mail, there is no gap, nor does mail have the slight springiness of a metal plate. Add to that the fact that since I had not actually been shoved backward, the part of his sword blade that struck me was no more than two feet from the pommel of his blade. It hurt, truly enough, but I actually was in greater danger when his blade rebounded from the blow; I swore I felt the kiss of the blade although that is not likely because my helmet protruded the width of one of my fingers past my ear and the barbarian's sword did not strike it. But unfortunately for him, even as his blade was bouncing off my shoulder, which did wrench a gasp from my lips from the shock of the impact, my own sword, blade turned parallel to the ground as we are trained, was punching forward from the third position. The point snaked behind his shield, which was still trapped against mine as we both pushed against each other with all of our might. The shock of the impact, as my blade struck what the detached part of my mind now recognized as the type of armor made of overlapping bronze scales, traveled up my arm, but even with his bulk against me, I managed to turn my hips in a move that coincided with the point puncturing the scales of his armor, helping me drive the blade deep into his body just beneath his ribs. I did not need much light to see the man's eyes open wide in shock and pain, but when I twisted, then ripped the blade across his front, his shrill shriek of an agony I hope I never have to endure almost shattered my eardrums. My right hand, which I had taken the time to clean off from my kill earlier in the day, was drenched once more in a warm shower of blood and offal, then when I gave a hard shove with my shield, the warrior fell away, the only resistance coming from his dead weight. Before my mind's eye could comprehend, my body took over as I recovered my shield but dropped it slightly as, before the first warrior had fully collapsed at my feet, the point of a spear slammed into it.

  This time, because I was in a slightly awkward position, I was pushed backward and, for a
horrifying instant, my feet threatened to trip over themselves as they scrabbled to gain traction, and with the help of the man behind me providing support, somehow I managed to resume my defensive position while the warrior recovered his spear. This man was easier to pick out because his hair matched the red of the flames, and while he wore his hair in two braids, his head was protected by yet another of the older Roman helmets. Fortunately, this was no longer the distraction it had been when we first encountered them, but while this spear-wielding barbarian was wearing one of our helmets, his armor, although mail, was the longer Gallic style that hung down to the knees even after it was belted. He carried an oblong shield with the notch at either end that I had learned was used to rest his spear on when in the defense, yet like most other barbarians, rather than lashing out with it, he kept it close to his body as his spear arm recovered. I got the barest sense of Avitus standing next to me, furiously engaged, but that was all the time I had as with a deft movement, the warrior changed the grip on his spear and thereby gave himself more options with which to launch his next attack. Once more, I was bothered by the idea we were on the defensive, yet I was sufficiently cautious that I did not go on the attack, and forced myself to remain that way. With a speed aided by the dimmer lighting so my eye could not easily track it my foe made a thrust, once more aiming low, and honestly, I was fooled into dropping my shield again. However, it was a feint, albeit a hard one, but still a decoy move that got me to drop my shield, whereupon he instantly shifted his point of attack, aiming a thrust right at my chest. Again, my mind was behind my body, for which I am eternally thankful since my sword arm made a sweeping motion upward in an almost perfect blocking maneuver that forced the point of his spear to go high and over my right shoulder. I say "almost" because the cutting edge of my blade was not at the right angle to slice through the shaft, a move that few men have the strength to perform; I do, which meant it was an opportunity lost. As it was, I got the barest satisfaction from shaving some wood from his shaft; however, whittling his weapon down until it was no longer a threat was not a prospect I savored. Nevertheless, I did not take an offensive step forward; the man of the Second Section when we were in our open formation, Sextus Fronto, still had a grasp on my harness and he had complained more than once about my tendency to drag him along as an unwilling participant in my private battles. Usually, he just relinquished his grip, except this time, I did not make him face the choice, content to only shield-punch my enemy, who was just stepping forward to launch a third attack. The boss of my shield met the outer edge of his oblong one, but with more force than I had originally planned because of his own momentum coming at me. Fortunately, the power behind my shield was enough and it hit at just the right angle to knock the shield out of his hand; to his credit, however, this did not stop him from his attack. When I reflected on the moment later, I recognized that, in fact, he did the only thing he could by trying to keep me on the defensive. My blow caused his shield to go spinning violently away from him, yet I was only vaguely aware when it caused another warrior some difficulty as he tried to dodge it, because at that same instant, my foe was launching a hard underhanded thrust, trying to get below my shield. Rather than just drop my arm, and because my arm was still supported by my body directly behind it, I brought the shield down, hard. Not only did I block his thrust, the point of the spear burying itself several inches into the dirt, I heard a satisfying crack as the strip of metal on the bottom edge of my shield broke the warrior's shaft. As one might expect, he had focused all his energy and attention on this thrust, his last chance to kill me, meaning he did not even see my blade that, as close to simultaneously as I believe possible, plunged deeply into his left eye just as his shaft was snapped. Most often, when a man suffers a deathblow to the brain, it is as if the bones of the man just vanish, and this was the case here as my arm was pulled down by the instantly dead weight. There was no need to twist the blade, and I instantly recovered, pulling my sword back behind my shield. Yet, even as I did this my shield was moving from its low blocking position upward, just in time to catch another thrust, except in a slightly unusual event, this one came from a sword.

  Over the top of my shield, I saw another warrior wearing a Roman helmet, except this man was also wearing what I now knew was an old hamata. Even more disturbing was his choice of weapon; while not quite as short as our own, and slightly curved, it still had a needle point and both sides of the blade were sharpened. As unsettling as that may have been, the fact this man was wielding the weapon in a manner that any Roman would recognize was even more so. In the quick glimpse I got, I saw he was older, with streaked hair, although instead of a beard, he wore a long, drooping mustache. For the next several heartbeats, we were locked in our own private battle, one where, although the ears hear the crashing din of a hard fight and all around the edge of one's vision, the flurry of movement is noticed, the only focus is on your immediate opponent. As I had learned, both to my benefit and detriment, such a narrow focus can be dangerous, yet this is the one area in which the Legions of Rome have an enormous advantage, because I had ultimate trust in Avitus, as he did in me. To my right, Flaccus had jammed his standard into the ground and was wielding his own sword with deadly effect; at least, this was the impression I got and it was a sense I had learned to trust. This was the reason why I was able to focus on killing my foe, waiting for the right moment when he gave me an opening I could exploit. Yet, although one can wear Roman armor and carry a sword that is like ours, and even use it as a stabbing rather than a slashing weapon, it is still a far cry from being a Legionary. Regardless, I instantly understood why this man was older, because he was careful not to overcommit himself and he was skilled in the use of his sword, the point of it flickering at me from first one angle, then another, my left arm already tiring in another sign that it was not yet mended. Then, when he was recovering from what would be his last attack, I saw his shield drop just a bit; I did not hesitate and I believe this thrust was as quick as they always were, yet he still managed to bring his shield up so the top of it struck my blade, deflecting it upward. Consequently, instead of punching into his chest, my blade sliced into the side of his face as I sensed the slight grating feel of the iron against his cheekbone, sending forth a spray of blood that looked black in the darkness, along with something my eye saw yet took an instant for my mind to recognize as part of the man's ear falling onto his mailed shoulder, where it lay just for an eyeblink as he staggered back with a cry of pain. In one of those odd little moments, I remember seeing the top half of his ear immediately slide off his shoulder when he recoiled from the pain of my thrust, shaking his head violently. My last glimpse of him was when he stumbled and fell down, only to have another warrior step over him to take his place. It was not a kill, I chided myself, except I was already looking at the man who had taken the earless warrior's place and was at that instant raising an axe, except not over his head as normal, but coming from a three-quarter angle. Before I could face him, however, over the roaring noise of the fight came the shrill blast of a bone whistle; Urso was sounding the relief. Reacting immediately as we are trained, since the axe-wielding Varciani had not yet stepped close enough, I did not need to push him off, so immediately, I took a quick step to my left, sensing Fronto's presence as he stepped into my vacated spot. In the Fourth Cohort, I had been trained to step to the left, or inside the formation before moving to the back of the line; Urso trained us differently, so that every file stepped to the right. While he never explained why, I believe it was based on the idea that the man stepping into my vacated spot would have at least partial coverage from my shield as he set himself. This night, however, I stepped to the left, but for a reason; right after the whistle blew, I had seen Avitus was in no position to push his opponent away because the barbarian across from him was bashing down on my comrade's shield with a huge club, and I immediately saw why this Varciani used such a weapon. This warrior was one of the few I had seen who matched me in size and obviously strength, except
he lacked any technique other than raw, brute power as he swung the club down, trying to dash Avitus' brains out. Also, I suppose because of his strength, this warrior's shield was broader across than normal, meaning that while Avitus was successfully blocking the blows with his own shield, he was not given a chance to either use it to shove the man back or use it to attack. Neither could he employ his sword offensively because the breadth of the warrior's shield would require a third position attack that came from an even wider angle than normal. This was why I took my step to the left instead of my normal right, pivoting slightly as I did so, a dangerous thing to do because it exposed my weak side to an opportunistic enemy. I did so despite the peril because I had just seen my comrade's knees buckle, along with the telltale cracking sound from his shield. Consequently, that meant taking a risk, so as I pivoted and in essentially the same motion, I lunged forward one step with my right foot while thrusting my sword out. If I had been on the training ground, in all likelihood, I would have gotten a smack from Urso's vitus because I overextended myself, which is one of the most fundamental mistakes Tirones make. Nevertheless, in the instant of time I had, it was the only way to save Avitus from having his brains spilled onto the dirt, and while I could not put more than the power of my arm into it, I accomplished what I had hoped. For the second time, I did not achieve a kill, but the point of my blade sliced deeply into the huge warrior's shield arm just below the elbow, and even with the poor lighting, I saw the sudden spray of blood that happens when a major vessel is hit, the warrior's bellow of pain confirming I had scored a blow. Still, I did not press the advantage to finish the man off since that was not what I had set out to do. Instead, I grabbed Avitus, who was still down on one knee where he had been driven, trying to drag him backward out of the way by the back of his segmentata while holding my sword with my thumb and two fingers and dragging him with the other two. As might be imagined, I was not successful; thankfully, he had just needed the opportunity to regain his feet and he scrambled back upright before we both moved backward down the same file. Reaching the back of the line, I stepped into my spot to hold the harness of Volusio of the Tenth Section, still gasping for air and trying to decide if Urso had held to the normal interval of one hundred beats for each shift and it just seemed to be ten times longer, or if he had actually delayed for some reason. Judging by how quickly I was recovering my breath, and my overall level of fatigue, I decided it had been for the normal interval; because of the circumstances, it just seemed longer. Once I was more or less recovered, I glanced over at Avitus, who had grounded his shield to examine it, and I saw the firelight glint off his helmet as he shook his head.