Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  At about the same moment Volusio had fallen, another of our comrades was struck down, but while it was not the man of the next file, it was the one on the other side. And, while it was because of my action of physically stepping forward just slightly ahead of the line formed by the first rank, due to my bulk, I would like to think because of the skill with which I was wielding my sword, none of the barbarians on my side of the second file were able to take advantage of the loss of Volusio. However, when the man on the front of the third file fell; only later did I learn his identity, Vibius Longus of the Eighth Section, for reasons I never heard, his relief Sextus Camerinus was tardy in stepping into the gap. This allowed one of the Varciani to press the advantage so that the Gregarius of the second file who was in the front rank, Furius of the Ninth Section, was instantly in an unviable position. Not only facing a man across from him, suddenly, he had a foe on his left flank; granted, it was to his shield side, but that meant his only defense for his most immediate opponent was his sword. Of course, we train in defensive tactics with only a sword, but even for the most skilled Legionary, there is an undeniable advantage with a shield when compared to a sword, for the simplest reason that a shield is bigger and covers more area. While that does make it more unwieldy and harder to move as quickly as a sword, I do not know one man, and I include myself among them, who would shun a shield for defense in favor of a sword. I bring this up only to defend Furius' quick, and correct, decision to take a step backward, deeper into the formation. However, as understandable and justifiable the decision may have been, neither can it be argued that it allowed the barbarians to push more deeply into our formation. And in doing so, it exposed me as well, despite the fact that at about the same instant, I was plunging my blade through the mouth of the foe who had proven to be so deadly to us.

  "Pullus! Your left!"

  I recognized Fronto's voice, but again, even as I was turning, my body was once more ahead of my mind as my shield, released from the grip caused by the now-slain foe's own, moved to my left but outside the plane of my body just in time to absorb a tremendous blow. The shock shivered up my arm, yet somehow, I managed to retain my grip on the shield despite the fact the thrust of what turned out to be a spear struck at an angle that yanked my wrist outward. Before I could react with a thrust of my own, however, I was forced to stay on the defensive as my body again reacted more rapidly, sending the command to move my shield more directly in front of my body to absorb another blow, while I had just a glimpse of a high-crowned helmet with a central fin that made its wearer appear even taller, the hanging flaps framing another face that was so thickly bearded I could only see the man's eyes clearly, wildly opened as he screamed what I assume was either a prayer to his gods for strength, or cursing my mother. Most importantly, my eye caught the glint of rapidly moving metal, reflecting the light from the steadily growing fire as it slashed toward me; it was not until later I understood that somehow my mind's eye had recognized this was an axe, not a spear, giving me the barest fraction of time to twist my wrist so my shield met the blow squarely. It was a powerful attack, but while it shoved my shield arm back, sending yet another jagged bolt up my arm that turned my fingers numb, the rest of me did not move. In what was more a reflex action than a planned attack, I punched with my sword, more to buy time than with any thought of doing damage, except the gods favored me as another shock traveled up my arm, this one from my blade landing a blow that caught my axe-wielding attacker in the act of shifting a bit to his left. Apparently, he did so because he thought I was sufficiently distracted, or more likely stunned by the blow from his axe; I was not, and consequently, he was out of the fight, likely dead from the gurgling noise he made, although I could not pay him any more attention because my Century was in danger of being split in two. I had just enough time to take in the situation, seeing Camerinus take a spear in the eye, and in less time than it takes to write about it, a half-dozen enemy warriors penetrated three ranks deep into our formation, and in doing so, created a wedge that threatened to separate the first two files from the rest of the Century. Suddenly, the men of the fourth rank were confronted by enemy warriors who had been infused with the burst of energy that comes from a sudden success. Forced to try and keep my attention in front of me because this was where my biggest threat was still coming from, I nevertheless attempted to remain aware of what was taking place to my left rear, so that I just caught the sight of at least two long swords raised in the air. I saw one slash down, followed by a simultaneous howl of triumph and scream of pain, except the cries of both victor and vanquished were suddenly swept away by what felt like an avalanche of noise. Do not mistake me; in the instant before it happened, it was just as noisy as any battle in which I have ever fought, before or since, but this new sound did not add to it as much as replaced it. Yet, as startling and chilling as the noise itself was, it was the sudden appearance of the cause that created, at least in me, an instant but fortunately temporary paralysis. Moving towards us was what looked like a huge wedge forcing its way through the packed mass of the Varciani, but while it was composed of men similar in appearance to those who had been trying to kill us, the light was sufficient to discern that the predominant colors of their tunics and bracae were different from the majority of those warriors with whom we were already engaged. However, even if that had not been enough, it was the warrior at the point of the wedge, a man with tattoos covering arms that bulged with muscle, one so large I had been taunted with the possibility he was my real father that informed us.

  "It's Draxo!"

  One important lesson I have learned over the years is that, even in the immediate aftermath of a battle, when the evidence of the causes for success, failure, or something in between are still fresh, most of the time, there are still more questions than answers, and this fight was no exception. Draxo's appearance, along with the approximately seven hundred Colapiani who had survived our earlier encounter was the subject of much discussion, debate, and outright argument among those of us who survived the fight, especially the subsequent winter. In fact, it remained one of the predominant topics for the rest of my time in the 8th, and I would not be surprised that the handful of veterans who remain in the First of the First all these years later still bicker about it when all other topics have been exhausted. My opinion, which is no better or less informed than anyone else who was there, is that there are two likely explanations, although I think one is more probable than the other. The first possibility is that, for reasons unknown, Draxo and his surviving Colapiani were late arrivals, climbing the ladders still leaning against the western wall and joining the fight, albeit late. While this is certainly possible, I do not think this is likely, simply because by the time Draxo and his men shoved their way into the fight, the fire that had started in the southwest corner of the town had spread north several blocks. And, although access to and from the wall had not been completely cut off at that point, those last couple streets where the houses were still not enveloped had to be unbearably hot; several hundred paces away, it was noticeably warmer than would be expected, even with the distance and in the crush of men. Finally, it just does not make sense to me that Draxo and his band would delay their appearance, especially given his intentions. No, what I believe most likely is that Draxo and his men were with the main body of Varciani, but because of the confused nature of the fight, and most importantly, the fact that the First Cohort was at the opposite end of where they were normally found, they headed to the northern end of the fight. Not finding us, he and his men had to push their way through the rear ranks of the Varciani; the heat from the fire would have forced them to avoid crossing the open strip of ground I had noticed between the houses and where the more timid or cautious Varciani were milling about. My supposition is that he and his men paused long enough to examine each Century, looking for either our Legion eagle, or perhaps a glimpse of Urso himself. The fact that six of our Cohorts were in the first line rather than the normal four meant further delays, until he reached ou
r position at the southern edge of the common area. Either he saw our eagle, Urso, or just by eliminating the other Cohorts in the first line and knowing that a First Cohort of a Roman Legion is never part of the reserve, he formed his men into a wedge. A wedge that he was the head of as it plunged like a spear point through their temporary allies in the Varciani, although it took a moment for me to understand what his real intent was and, more importantly, his target.

  Because of the incursion of the Varciani who had penetrated into our formation, what was essentially a small slice of our Century was suddenly isolated, of which I was now a part. Finally, whoever commanded this wing of the Varciani host was either working in a coordinated fashion with Draxo, and they had prearranged this tactic, or what is more likely in my mind, the warriors of the Varciani in our immediate area saw a breach in what was normally an unbroken line of shields, and every one of them in the vicinity wanted to be part of the kind of exploit the barbarian tribes make songs about. Ironically, when it came to my own personal situation, while it was not as if the warriors directly across from me suddenly started ignoring me, they seemed content to make an occasional thrust or slash in my direction, forcing me to keep my attention on them. At first, I was just thankful for the respite, knowing that not only was it not unusual by this point in a fight as the initial burst of ferocious energy has been exhausted, but also that it would be brief. Fortunately, the part of my mind that remained as a detached observer who tried to keep track of the larger situation and make sense of what is by all measures nonsensical in almost every way alerted me there was a reason for the seeming disinterest in killing me exhibited by these Varciani. Quickly, I realized that, since they had a better view of what was happening to my left and behind me, the most likely reason had to be that they saw something I would not like. Without diverting my gaze, I instead concentrated on my sense of sound, trying to determine what was happening on my left flank. What had first seemed to be the generalized shouting noise that is common to all fights and was happening outside of my imaginary circle of concern turned into a specific warning, as I determined that, not only had the Varciani incursion penetrated to two ranks behind my own, they were at the least engaging with the third or even fourth man of the file next to me. Then, before I could react, I felt Fronto let go of my harness, followed instantly by the slightly hollow, thudding sound of some sort of weapon smashing into a shield.

  "They're on us, Pullus!" Fronto managed to shout, then I heard him grunt in a manner that could either have been him responding with a thrust of his own, or because his opponent had landed a blow.

  Even as that detached part of me screamed a warning, I turned my head, intending to move just enough so I could see what was happening to Fronto but still keep an eye on the warriors to my front. I believe that if the Varciani across from me had waited just a fraction of a heartbeat longer before leaping at me, my gaze would have traversed just enough that he probably would have been successful. The warrior was already moving, so confident of his surprise that his feet had left the ground, his axe already on its downward stroke as his body hurtled toward me. Fortunately, my shield was already moving upward; so was my sword, sweeping up from the first position, each of our weapons striking simultaneously, the impact of both greatly increased by his leap. Much to my satisfaction, and relief, I reacted in time; while his blow struck my shield with such force that the edge of his axe penetrated the wood by the width of the cutting edge, the point of my own blade, completely crusted in blood and gore, plunged into his body just below his breastbone with such might that I felt no resistance when my sword cut through his mail. My feeling of savage gratification, however, only lasted for an instant; even as he died, the momentum of my foe's body, while slowed by his impaling himself on my sword, was not stopped enough and he came crashing down onto my shield. Although he was not overly large, his body was sufficiently bulky enough that not only did his now-dead weight stagger me, as he slid off my shield, something on his body snagged on the axe handle that was still protruding from it. If I am being completely honest, I cannot say with any assurance that, even at full strength, I would have been able to maintain my grip on my shield, but in the moment, as it was ripped from my grasp to land on top of his body, I was sure it was because of my weakened state. Not that it really mattered, nor could I dwell on it and indulge in any self-pity because one of the dead man's comrades saw this sudden opportunity and he did not hesitate. With a shout, another barbarian came at me, although in the instant of time I had, I saw he was not so foolish as to leap at me like the man lying at my feet. Another thing the detached part of my mind noticed was that this warrior, armed with a sword and with a long, flowing mustache that had clearly been oiled by the way it gleamed like obsidian, was wearing Colapiani colors. Most crucially in the immediate sense, his attack came from a slightly different direction, yet I had only the briefest glimpse behind him of this new arrival of Colapiani before I had to twist my body in a desperate maneuver as his sword swung down. While he missed, it was close enough I could hear the swishing sound as it passed my right shoulder on its way down, whereupon I was saved by a comrade. That he was no longer alive does not lessen in any way the fact that he was responsible for my salvation in a moment when I most needed help. Volusio's body was still at my feet, and when the mustached Colapiani's blade went slashing down, while it struck armor, it was not mine. Naturally, I did not look down to determine exactly what happened, at least right then; all I saw was that, for a brief instant of time, the barbarian's sword seemed to have become stuck in such a way that when he tried to recover to make ready for another attack, he could not do so. The expression on his face changed instantly, going from the sneering leer at the thought of what he had been certain would be an easy kill of a Roman without a shield to confusion as he yanked a sword that did not respond to his command. However, it was the sudden widening of his eyes followed by a scream that might have shredded his lungs as, without hesitation, my own sword swung down onto his unprotected arm that was important to me, severing it just below his elbow. Dropping his shield, he grabbed at the stump of his arm in what I could see was a vain attempt to stop the spray of his severed vessel as he stumbled backward, leaving his arm lying in the dirt right next to Volusio's body. It was when I risked bending down to retrieve my shield that my eye was caught by the sight of the barbarian's sword, still sticking up in roughly the same position it had been when the Colapiani's hand had been around it. The end of the blade was firmly wedged in between two plates of Volusio's segmentata, caught there in my comrade's last act to help a brother. In that moment, I remembered back to my first battle, when the man in the Ninth Section just ahead of me was killed by a spear that thrust all the way through his body so that the point was inches from my face. But in the same manner as Volusio helped me, the spear that transfixed Aulus Gemonius lodged in his backbone, and the first warrior I ever slew under the standard was struggling to extract it, enabling me to end his life. Were either of these incidents just one of those accidents that happen in battle? Perhaps; I do not believe that, even now.

  When I retrieved my shield, once I wrenched the axe from it and tossed it aside, I instantly saw the long vertical crack that ran in both directions from the gash, meaning I kept it only long enough to understand it was close to useless and discard it. Unfortunately, my earlier joke about more than enough shields being available was coming true before my eyes. Grabbing the nearest one – I believe it was Volusio's or it could have belonged to Fibulanus – I had a span of perhaps a dozen heartbeats to not only recover but try and get an idea of what was going on. Before a half-dozen of those heartbeats had passed, however, I was wondering why I had wanted to know. Furius in the second file next to me was still up and fighting, but I caught a glimpse of his sword arm as he made a thrust and while it was possible the blood was not his, just the way he was holding his sword told me that was not likely. Somewhat behind me and to my left was Fronto who, even if he had been so inclined, was unable to grab my h
arness because his hand was full with his sword. Just as I glanced his way, I saw it flash across the short space between him and his foe, my voice joining his in a shout of ferocious joy at the sight of it plunging into the chest of a Varciani. Suddenly, the whistle blew again, except rather than from Urso, it came from the opposite side of the formation, and I realized the Primus Pilus must have been so hotly engaged that it had been some time since the last relief, prompting Asinius to do it. However, being on the other side of the formation, it was also clear he was not aware of the rapidly degenerating situation on our side. The recognition it had been Asinius blowing the whistle was what prompted me to look over my right shoulder, except it took an extra beat for me to fully grasp how desperate a fight we were in; more specifically, Urso and the command group was in because, to my horror, it looked very much like we were about to lose not only our Primus Pilus but our eagle. And there was one figure among the mass facing us that leapt out at me, as Draxo was even then bringing what still is the largest double-edged axe I have ever seen down onto the head of Flaccus, but not before the weapon sliced through the heavy oaken staff of his standard, without visibly slowing a bit, that our Signifer had thrust above him in an ultimately vain attempt to protect himself. Although the bearers wear helmets underneath their headdresses, against a weapon such as that wielded by Draxo, the iron of it fared little better than the animal skin. It was a horrible sight, yet I could not tear my eyes away as I saw Draxo essentially split a man, almost in half, who was not only the bearer of our standard, but one with whom I had marched beside and considered a friend, despite our different ranks. What I remember most vividly, oddly enough, is the sight of the two halves of the standard falling to the ground on either side of Flaccus' body. I believe I force my mind to remember this moment so it does not dwell on the sight of Draxo's axe buried down to the middle of Flaccus' chest, the bloody top of the axe with the spiked top protruding from his back, gleaming obscenely from the light of the fire. Not lost on me was the tremendous amount of strength it took not only to bury it that deeply in an armored man's body, but what it took to wrench it from Flaccus' corpse, although Draxo was helped by the downward motion of my friend's body. Even as I stood there, while I knew I should be moving, I could not seem to do so; my feet seemed to be stuck in mud much like what we had struggled through in Germania the year before. It was as if everything that was going on suddenly stopped, or at least so it seemed to my eye, except I only had my eyes on Draxo, completely ignoring the fact that, almost entirely surrounding me, my comrades were fighting not just for their own lives but for the survival of, at the very least, the First Century. Regardless, I stood there for a period of time that, even now, I have no idea of its length; what I do know was it was an incredibly dangerous and stupid thing to do, and yet I still did so. As to why no enemy took advantage and I survived is just another of those questions I will have for the gods when I meet them.