Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  "This thing is fucked," he said grimly.

  "Well, I have a feeling before the night's through, you'll have plenty to choose from," I told him, although honestly, I had already begun doing what is an obsession for men in the ranks, and that is to look about and observe the overall situation, gathering as much information as one possibly can in order to have an idea of what fate has in store for them.

  My one advantage was that because of my height, I could see farther, but of course, at night, this is not much help. Between the last time I had glanced at the fire when we were running to our spots in formation and when I observed it at that moment, I realized the light from it had grown so that it was visibly brighter, bringing me small comfort. Now at least three rows of houses were aflame, while the fire was moving slowly south, having crossed the first street to the next row. Outlined against the flames, I could see the entire Varciani force was now inside the walls, or so I assumed because while I was looking towards the wall, I did not see any more men emerge from one of the streets that led to it. From appearances, they were now all committed to the fight, a packed heaving mass of men extending for at least a hundred paces back towards the west wall from where their leading warriors were trying to crack our line. They were not neatly arrayed like us, instead jamming together like all barbarian tribes do, making it impossible to get an accurate count, even if it had been daylight. The whistle blew again and a few heartbeats later, Fronto appeared from the front, although he was on the outside as he was supposed to be, and I saw he had suffered a wound high on his arm just below the shoulder of his armor. Making him take his neckerchief off, I peered at the wound as he did so, but although it was bloody and a deep gash, it was more ugly than dangerous.

  "The Primus Pilus must think he's Hector, the way he's fighting," Fronto gasped.

  I realized I had forgotten to check to my right, more worried about Avitus at the moment, and I felt a twinge of guilt. However, I also knew Urso could handle himself, and he had Capulo, Flaccus, and Varo who, if required, would ground his horn and fight. The whistle sounded once more and we shuffled forward again as I kept my grip on Volusio's harness, although when more than five or six men deep, this is more a habit than a requirement. Then, before the whistle sounded again, he suddenly moved two paces forward, and while I followed without hesitation, when I leaned over to look up ahead, so did the other men of the file ahead of me, meaning I had to wait a couple heartbeats before I learned what happened.

  "Proculus is down!"

  Tiberius Proculus was in the Fourth Section, but as bad as the news was, I waited for him to be dragged backward by the men ahead of me, or to see him crawling back under his own power. When a man is wounded, if he is able, he will use the space between the files to take himself out of harm's way to reach the relative safety of the rear, where the medici are waiting and hopefully not overwhelmed. But if he is incapacitated, it is the responsibility of the second file, which an instant before had been the third, to ground his shield and pull the wounded man backward to the point where his comrade behind him can reach the man and repeat the process. Then there are the times when a man falls and there is no need to help him rearward, and, in fact, his body becomes an underfoot obstacle. After a moment, it became clear that Proculus was one of those; I offered a prayer that it had been quick and he was not one of the men howling in agony just a short distance ahead of me. Something I had learned while on my first campaign; during a man's last moments of life when he is in unbearable agony, the language these unfortunates speak is common to every fighting man, needing no translation. And the hope that one of those voices you hear does not belong to one of your comrades, that they have already crossed the river and are already at peace, is not much comfort. It is also a distraction that one cannot afford to dwell upon, so after offering up my short prayer for Proculus, I returned my entire attention to the moment. To my left, the other files were facing much the same, but in a Century of the First, our formation is so wide that, especially in the darkness, it is hard to keep track of which files are moving up more quickly than they should. As had happened with Proculus, men shouted when one of their comrades fell, but unless it happens within two or three files, with the noise of the fighting, it is almost impossible to hear names. And frankly, the closer to the front and your time to step back into the madness of the fight comes, the less you are aware of anything taking place more than a few feet away. I had found that, at least for me, by the time I was in the third rank, I shut out everything else that did not have a direct impact on my immediate future. My world shrank to a circle perhaps fifty feet across; everything outside of that was of no concern to me because, if there was a sudden breakthrough or change outside that circle, I would have time to react accordingly. The one thing I did notice was that the command group had shortened the distance to the formation, tightening their spacing so they were basically part of it, which was the most potent sign that we were being hard-pressed. Volusio was now second, meaning it actually took concentration and a fair amount of strength for me to keep hold of his harness as he struggled to maintain his own contact with Fibulanus of the Ninth Section. In many ways, being the second man is the most demanding because you are not only trying to provide physical support to the man doing the fighting by being ready to stop him if he is pushed backward, your second job is to make sure any enemy downed but not out of the fight stays down and is unable to make any trouble. Finally, the second man has to be ready to step immediately into the front rank before the relief sounds, in the event the man in the front rank falls before it is time to step aside. In that event, the third man, in the instant before he steps into the second spot, must be ready to grab his fallen comrade and either help him move to the rear, or if the man is unable to help himself, drag him at least until someone behind him can reach the wounded and continue the process. When this happens, there is a moment where the man in the first rank who has just stepped forward is unsupported and must be able to at least stand his ground without being bolstered. Not surprisingly, this is when a Century is at its most vulnerable, but as long as this is just happening in one file, it is not a problem and, being honest, even if it happens in two files simultaneously, if they are at opposite ends of the formation, it only makes matters a bit hectic if our enemy has their wits about them and tries to exploit it. But when it happens to men of two files that are either side by side, or separated at most by a file, this puts a Century in extreme peril against an experienced enemy. And that was exactly what happened to us, except there was one other factor that put us in even greater danger, the sudden appearance of an enemy who had sworn vengeance on our Primus Pilus, although we were not yet aware of that.

  The events that put us in such danger happened so quickly that, despite the fact they occurred within my field of vision, it was impossible for my mind to sort out what happened first, or determine if they happened at the same time. It started when Fibulanus suddenly lurched backward but also to the right, into the narrow space between Flaccus and Volusio, dropping both shield and sword to clutch his throat, trying to stop the flow of blood, but although I could not see the spraying that is the sign of the severed major vessel, the way his hands turned black with blood so quickly told me the wound was mortal. Worse, Fibulanus' movement was so violent that it wrenched Volusio's grip from his harness, while it happened so quickly that Volusio had no time to draw his sword. However, he still had his shield in his hand, which should have bought him some time, but his fatal mistake was that he was understandably distracted by Fibulanus' plight, as I saw his head turning in the direction of our mortally wounded comrade. It was not for long and is the kind of reflex reaction most of us make when there is an unexpected or sudden movement to the side; his head was already turning back to the front and despite my eyes being fixed on his upper body, at the edge of my vision, I could see him reaching down for his sword. But tragically, that reaction gave enough time for the warrior across from him, the one who had presumably killed Fibulanus, who was ju
st falling to his knees and still clutching his throat to my right front, to thrust his sword into Volusio's chest just above his shield. While my view was blocked, I felt Volusio's body violently spasm as he staggered backward with such force that, because I still had hold of his harness, I slid backward a step as well before I was caught myself by Fronto, who gave me a hard shove.

  "Get back up there, Pullus!" he bellowed, either forgetting or not caring he was right behind me, and even with all that was happening, I remember wincing because my ears rang.

  Nevertheless, it was exactly what I needed, although for an instant, I thought Volusio had actually just been staggered backward because he was still standing in front of me, but just as I reached out to grab his harness again, his body sagged and, although he did not completely lose his grip on his shield, he behaved as if it had become too heavy to hold in the right position.

  "Volusio!" I shouted at him. "Lift your shield, you stupid bastard!"

  Even if he heard me, it was too late; the words were not even out of my mouth when he shuddered again, except this time, he collapsed right in front of me. I let go of his harness, drawing my sword and lifting my own shield into position in the same movement. I still had not seen the warrior who had managed to kill two of my comrades in less than a half-dozen heartbeats, although what was more important in that instant was stepping over the body of Volusio to reclaim the ground that was lost. There is no real way to accurately convey how important something as seemingly simple as regaining what is in essence a patch of ground perhaps four feet square is, but within my small world, I saw that this incursion was potentially catastrophic to our Century. And, while I could not have articulated any of this in the moment, by extension, the collapse of a Century on the far flank of a formation has, more than once, led to the destruction of not just a Cohort, or Legion, but an army. I cannot say that any of this was in my mind; frankly, I was more concerned with not being at a disadvantage, and thanks to my long legs, I was able to step over the body of my comrade before my foe could claim the space Volusio had just occupied a moment before. In fact, it is probable Volusio was still falling over onto his side even as I moved, but he was dead; I was alive and determined not to be the man who allowed a wedge of flesh, iron, and hatred to split my Century apart. Still, although I moved quickly and was watching my foe over my shield, my attention was focused on the center of his body as we are trained; this makes it more difficult for them to make us overreact with a feint of a weapon or shield. Inevitably, however, it is impossible not to look up at a man's face, at least this is so for me. Nevertheless, when I determined that, for reasons I could only guess at but was happy was so, my foe had, in fact, not pressed the advantage he had created for himself, only then did I lift my gaze to his face, a gasp bursting from me in recognition. His appearance also gave the most likely explanation for his hesitation after slaying Volusio and Fibulanus; facial and head wounds bleed quite profusely, so I imagine the man whose face I had slashed, taking half his ear in the process, was feeling weaker than normal. Not lost on me, though, was the fact he had just dispatched two of my comrades, men of the First Cohort, our most experienced and best fighters. While this thought was certainly present in my mind, it was fleeting, quickly flushed away by a bitter realization. Because I had curbed my normal tendency of relentlessly engaging any foe who stood before me until I had proven in no uncertain terms who was the better man, and which, in combat, is the death of my enemy, I had unwittingly helped this man slay two of my comrades. Despite the fact that my lack of following up with this warrior when I faced him earlier and did not dispatch him was based in my desire to obey not only the letter but the spirit of our orders for once, it did nothing to quell the flood of harsh, helpless anger that I felt. Not even the sight of his bloody mess of a face, the entire left side of it looking like one of our own Roman generals celebrating a triumph, or that I could see his teeth gleaming dully from the reflected firelight as the lower part of his cheek drooped outward from where my sword had sliced him all the way from the corner of his mouth to where the top of his ear was missing gave me any satisfaction. His left eye was the only part of that side of his face clearly visible, but I believe it could have been the blackest night and I still would have seen the gleam of recognition in it when he saw me, as with an incoherent snarling sound I suppose was his attempt to hurl a curse at me, he followed his verbal assault with a physical one. I was no less eager, yet it was only partly due to the feeling of Volusio's dead weight pressing against my rear leg that told me I needed more space in which to move. In the eyeblink of time it took for us to hurl ourselves at each other, any idea of continuing to act only in a defensive manner was gone. Shield to shield we smashed into each other, the collision so tremendous I felt a mist of what I assume was the blood still pouring down his face spatter over my lower jaw and neck because of our height difference, and since my mouth was open, I felt the coppery taste of it. Yet, not only did I not find it repulsive, I reveled in this taste of the blood of my enemy, but I wanted even more. For a heartbeat, our faces were only inches from each other and I did not hesitate, whipping my head down with as much force as I could muster, aiming the iron strip of my helmet with as much precision as I could for his nose. Unfortunately, for one of the few times, my greater height did not help, although I connected hard enough that tiny sparks exploded behind my eyes. Regrettably, my head butt landed higher up on his helmet, although it still did damage; frankly, I am not sure if the ringing in my ears that happened at the same time was from the noise as our helmets slammed together or from the impact of the blow itself. What I did see, albeit in a somewhat altered way as the stars in my vision seemed to be falling downward out of view, but very slowly, was my foe staggering backward while shaking his head to clear it. Perhaps twenty heartbeats before I would have been content to stand there and allow this man to recover because I was fighting defensively, but not any longer.

  Lunging forward, I broke Fronto's grasp, except this time instead of cursing me, I heard him calling above the din, "Gut that cocksucker, Pullus! He killed two of us!"

  Although I did not need to be reminded of this, the detached part of my mind did appreciate that for once Fronto was cursing the enemy instead of me. My foe had arrested his backward movement but before he could set himself, I was on him, punching out with my shield first, determined to kill this man using the techniques that make us so rightly feared. You can wear Roman armor, you bastard, I vividly remember thinking with grim satisfaction, and you can even try to kill me like a Roman would, but I'm going to show you exactly what a real Roman can do. My punch, while not forcing him backward, did prevent him from settling down into his own defensive posture and I was resolved not to allow him to do so, subsequently launching the first of a series of thrusts and slashes. From first position, to third, followed by a slashing attack that did not land a killing blow, nor was it meant to, but it did slice open a nasty gash on his upper arm. Through all the noise of the fighting going on around us, I became aware of a strange, whistling sound I had never heard before I finally identified the source. The Varciani was panting for breath, but because his cheek was laid open, the air he was sucking into his lungs through the wound was making noise as it entered through an orifice that was radically altered by my sword. His eyes, which had been gleaming with a triumphant malice immediately after his second kill, now were reflecting his desperation, only fueling my determination. I shield punched once more, except this time, when he moved his own to block me, he was just a fraction of an instant slow, so that while our shields were aligned boss to boss, his was lower than it should have been, thereby giving me leverage from my boss being directly above his, and I did not hesitate. Fortunately, I had taken care to keep my arm within the plane of my body and while it hurt, the pain was bearable as I bore down, pushing downward on my shield. Even with half his features indistinguishable because of the mask of blood, I saw the fear in his eyes as he struggled to keep his shield from being forced lower. At the sa
me time, I was thrusting over the top of my shield, trying to plunge my sword into his face from the second position, but he managed to deflect both of my thrusts with his own blade. By maintaining the pressure with my shield arm, the friction caused by my boss against his meant he could only retract his shield either with a violent effort or a sudden step backward and as experienced as he clearly was, he knew doing either one would be fatal. At the same time, I understood that, as veteran and obviously skillful as this warrior was, the trick of me suddenly relenting in the pressure on the shield would not work, although I briefly considered doing it before being forced to because my arm gave out since it was rapidly weakening. However, immediately after he parried my second thrust over the top of his shield, I feinted as if I was trying the same attack one more time. This is normally something no warrior of any experience would do, performing the same maneuver not just twice but three times in succession. Still, because of his fatigue, as I hoped, he reacted instantly. Bringing his sword up in a sweeping motion, I saw in that instant the despair as he recognized my third thrust was nothing but a feint. Granted, it was a hard one, but his blade was still in its up and outward arc as the point of my blade shot underneath it and just over the shield, I had just pushed downward. When I close my eyes today, I not only can still see the point of my sword as it shattered his front teeth on its way through his skull, I still savor the sense of cruel happiness that the last sight his eyes beheld was me, avenging the deaths of my comrades. While I still see that moment in much the same way I experience things when under the spell of my divine madness, the reality is that my blade moved so quickly, punching through his mouth and angling downward so the point burst through at a spot right underneath the flange of his helmet, before he had even fallen to the ground my blade was back in the second position, just above my shield. Behind me, I heard Fronto give a shout that was half-growl, half-roar, reveling in my triumph over an enemy who had claimed the lives of our friends. Yet, while I had just avenged the death of Volusio and Fibulanus, overall, matters were deteriorating by the heartbeat, giving me less than a half-dozen of them to savor my victory before I became aware of that fact.