by R. W. Peake
The Colapiani chieftain was just retrieving his axe; the fire was so bright now that I saw the gray in his hair and while he wore a long mail shirt, it was in the style of a vest, his arms uncovered except for what looked very much like a kind of bracere, but wide enough for his biceps, while his lower arms were only covered with the tattoos I had noticed first at Topulcava. Circling his waist was a wide leather baltea, and on his head was the conical helmet favored by Pannonians, except that affixed on either side were a pair of curved horns, perhaps belonging to a bull. His shield was faced in bronze and not the more common copper, which not only made it stronger, but heavier, which I am sure is part of the reason he carried it, announcing his physical power to all the other warriors of his tribe. Despite all this, it was his face that arrested my attention, the high cheekbones catching the firelight while the planes of his cheeks were black in the shadows. Ultimately, it was his eyes and the expression in them, and more than anything, the fact that, even as he was dispatching Flaccus, he barely deigned to look at him, instead keeping his gaze fixed on Urso, that I remember the most vividly now. Yet, there was more than the hatred and rage; perhaps I am coloring this memory but I swore that I saw a terrible sadness there, one that told of a loss and pain that went far beyond the breaking of a woman's arm. And, dear reader, whether or not that emotion was really there on the part of the Colapiani chieftain, I will assure you it is because of what I saw in that moment, it seemed to unstick me from the mud of my fear and got me moving. But it was Draxo's last action with Flaccus, when he bent down and spat into the ruined face of my friend just before he started for Urso that opened the floodgate of my rage, combining with the surge of guilt I felt when I recognized that at least part of Draxo's hatred for Urso was based on something I had done. Not the breaking of the woman's arm that seemed as if it had happened years instead of months before, but in killing his son. Even as I write about it, I understand it makes no sense now; it did not make sense then, either, if I had taken a moment to think it through. Except I did not have that time, and I suppose I should thank the gods I did not, because I have no idea what I might have done. And, once it was all over, I was only partially successful, even after the combination of those two powerful emotions ignited in me the rage passed to me by my Avus. Nevertheless, while I was determined to use the extra ability it gave me to stop Draxo from striking down our Primus Pilus, even in that instant, I was aware that part of that wrath was, if not directed at, caused by Publius Canidius, our Primus Pilus, and all he had done to bring this about. It had been his greed and brutality in demonstrating how completely Rome dominated the Colapiani that was a direct reason why we found ourselves in this town, engaged in the most bitter, dangerous fight we had been in. While this fueled my wrath and ignited within me the fire I was sure was every bit as intensely hot as the now-towering flames that provided the backdrop for the final phase of this battle, what got my body moving stemmed from a much simpler proposition; ultimately, I might have hated Urso, but he was a Centurion of Rome and it was not then, nor is it in me now, to let an enemy strike one of us down without doing everything within my skills and power to stop it. And, as I was about to learn, I was not the only one who felt that way. Just before I began crossing the distance to reach Urso, I gave one brief glance over my shoulder, satisfying myself that Fronto and our comrades immediately nearby were managing to contain those Varciani who formed one jaw of the pincer that had penetrated into the vitals of our Century. They were fighting desperately, but I put my faith in them to keep the Varciani at bay so they did not fall on my rear. I had just taken my first stride when I heard someone shout my name, but from an unexpected direction.
"Pullus! Wait! We're coming!"
There is no way to fully convey what the sight of Avitus, Sido, and Lutatius coming towards me at a run meant. Granted, I was determined to do whatever I could on my own, and with the fire I was feeling burning in my veins, I did not lack confidence, but as suffused with this divine force as I may have been, I welcomed the help.
"We're not going to let that barbarian cunnus get near the Primus Pilus!" Avitus shouted, running past me without slowing down and forcing me to hurry to catch up.
If we get out of this, I thought to myself, I need to ask where they came from.
As if reading my mind, as I drew abreast with Avitus, he had just enough time to shout, "Your bad habits are rubbing off!"
Then, with the kind of laugh only a man who is facing death can understand, he increased his speed to go slamming into the Colapiani warrior immediately next to Draxo while I aimed for the chieftain, my shield up in front of me and my sword pulled back farther than normal so that it was at least partly hidden by my shield. I was vaguely aware of Lutatius' presence as he threw himself in front of Urso, who had at least managed to pick up a shield, probably from the Second Century to the right. Because of the angle we were approaching from, it was only in the instant before I aimed myself at Draxo and saw that although our Primus Pilus was in a desperate situation, he, Capulo, and Varo were not completely isolated. Some of the men from the "little end" of the Second Century had seen our Primus Pilus in danger, and perhaps a dozen of them detached themselves from their own formation to move left. At that moment, they were trying to cut their way through those Colapiani who had been farther back in the wedge but came forward in an attempt to completely surround Urso, Capulo, and Varo, but from the side opposite of where Draxo was even then stepping over Flaccus' body, with only Varo left between the chieftain and Urso. Because I only had the amount of time it took for me to cover the two paces to see and absorb what was happening, all that I recall are fragments of images. Varo had completely abandoned his cornu; I glimpsed the large, curved horn discarded on the ground behind him, in favor of a shield he had snatched up from somewhere, and that separate piece of my mind took notice of the fact that it was not one our curved ranker's shields, but the round, flat variety used by our standard bearers. However, Capulo still had his strapped to his left arm, with the pole on which our sacred eagle is affixed jammed into the dirt behind him, thereby allowing him to use his sword. Flaccus, you fucking idiot you gave him your shield! I vividly remember this unworthy thought flashing through my mind. That was all the time I had as I pivoted just slightly to compensate for Draxo's own movement as he closed on Urso, but as I did, so I committed an almost fatal error of narrowing my attention only on the Colapiani chieftain. And, once more, either the gods favored me or the run of luck that had sustained me several times already in this battle continued, because although the sudden blow to my shield was completely unexpected, coming from my left quarter as it did, I can only surmise it was robbed of much of its force, judging from the glimpse I got of a Colapiani warrior stumbling over a body. Whether this was the cause or not the one sure thing was that his sudden, off-balance lurch put him directly between Draxo and me, yet despite the warrior trying to keep his shield between his body and my blade, it was to no avail. He was still trying to regain his footing, and in doing so, he was forced to extend his shield arm out away from his body, giving me all the opening I needed. My blade shot out to take him at the base of the neck, the point punching into the hollow spot there while his own momentum caused him to effectively slice his own throat. But despite recovering my blade quickly, that slight delay allowed another Colapiani to leap to Draxo's right directly between me and the chieftain, who had clearly sensed my approach as he turned his head, pausing his own progress for a moment, undoubtedly to assess how much of a threat I posed to his own design of cutting his way to Urso. Because of our respective heights, our eyes were at the same level so that we essentially looked over the head of the Colapiani interposing himself between us. Even as my left arm moved my shield slightly up and outward, having seen the axe held in this warrior's hand and recognizing he was making an attack using a three-quarter motion that was not straight overhead yet not quite from the horizontal, my eyes did not leave Draxo's face, and I clearly saw the shock of recognition in his eyes. Hi
s bellow of rage coincided with the loud, crashing thud of the warrior's axe, yet despite retaining my grip on the shield, being forced to move my arm not only outside the plane of my body while also lifting my elbow so it was no longer braced against my hip meant the impact from the axe blow jerked my shield even farther away from my body. This put me in trouble; for an instant, only my segmentata and sword protected most of my body. Unsurprisingly, the enemy did not hesitate, as from my right quarter I caught a blur of movement in my direction and originating from slightly above my head, this attack coming from an unanticipated quarter. By this point the battle fury was on me, making things slow down, although in this case, all it meant was my mind saw the spear thrusting down at me, and despite my sword arm already sweeping upward, a voice speaking as clearly as if standing next to me in a quiet room saying, "You're too late."
My sword had still been in the first position, and because of the high overhand thrust from the Colapiani who had materialized from behind Draxo, even as quickly as I was capable of moving with my heightened senses and reflexes, it was simply a situation where my sword had to move upward too far to be in time. That does not mean I did not even try, but my arm had only risen to the middle of my chest when, from a point just at the edge of my vision, a dark, solid thing suddenly thrust itself in between me and the point of the spear that would have, in all likelihood, killed me. My recognition of the object and the collision between it and the thrust of the Colapiani occurred simultaneously, enabled by the explosive sound of metal slamming into wood, followed so closely by the shout of frustrated rage by my would-be killer that it was all one noise.
"Your left!"
Lutatius' voice was so close that, even with everything going on, my head jerked in surprise, his warning coming as it did from a spot that could not have been more than two feet behind my right shoulder. Nevertheless, his warning had the desired effect as I snapped my attention back to the axe-wielding Colapiani just as he was launching another attack, this one a direct overhead blow. Feeling the strain all the way up my arm, my shield still swept upward and, while it was slower than I would have liked, it was sufficiently fast enough to catch the blow, although I almost lost my grip on the shield. Even as I was blocking his attack, however, my own blade was moving, except that what my enemy saw as a whole-hearted thrust that got his shield moving was, in fact, a feint, one that mimicked the attack any warrior facing us knows is our most favored so that he dropped it accordingly. Our arms were moving simultaneously but in different directions as I changed the track of my blade, suddenly swinging it outward to my right, then, in a circular motion that required me to reverse the orientation of my grip so that instead of my fingers facing up, they turned downward as I swept my arm across my body, locking my elbow as I did. I had practiced this maneuver quite a bit, but only on the stakes since in sparring, blows to the head are not allowed, and I had learned that locking the elbow is crucial to success. The reason for this is that, while the goal is to bring the point of the blade across the face of your target in the area of the eyes, the chances of being precise enough so just the tip slices across the eyeballs and bony cartilage of the nose and not extend the blade too far, so that one has to cut through either the side flap, bone of the skull, or both is almost impossible to do. And that is on a stake as the target. During battle, at night and after fighting for what seemed to be at least a full watch, it meant the shock of at least two inches or more of my sword striking just underneath the rim of his helmet on his temple would have torn the sword from my grasp if it had not been for my use of the Vinician grip. Despite putting all of my strength in the slicing blow, even remembering to twist my hips, I simply did not possess the power to finish the stroke cleanly, cutting all the way across the man's face. This is yet another image that appears to me in my dreams sometimes; the sight of my arm, fully extended and at the level of my shoulder, while the tip of my blade is still embedded in the right eye of my foe. A bloody horizontal line extends from his left temple and across his face, so that while I can see his mouth open in shock, the normal sight of a man's eyes are missing in a gory, red ruin. Recovering my blade, I did not bother twisting it, although that was to save time, because in perhaps the four or five heartbeats between the time Lutatius had saved my life with his shield and I dispatched this Colapiani, the men around me had not stopped their own attacks, or defenses, against their opponent. Pivoting as quickly as I believe I ever have, although I was too late to prevent what happened I was just in time to be forced to watch. Over the years, I have often wondered if in return for the favor the gods give me in the gifts of my size, strength and, in moments like this, the extra power and ability that comes with this divine madness, their price is to force me to watch the death of men I consider friends, and usually in the most horrible way imaginable. Because tragically, while Lutatius saved my life by extending his shield away from his own body to protect me, in doing so, he left himself wide open to what I will declare to my dying day was one of the most powerful enemies we ever faced in those days in Pannonia. Even if Draxo had not been fueled by what I believe was the terrible loss of a beloved son, just by virtue of his size, massive strength, and experience, he was a potent foe. And I was "lucky" enough to turn just in time to see his huge axe claim another man I considered friend, though his method was different than it had been with Flaccus. Despite the fact he was obviously intent on splitting Lutatius in half, this time it was from a different direction. My eye just caught sight of the glinting silver-gray of his huge double-bladed weapon as it made a smooth, arcing motion that struck Lutatius just above his waist. Even as my friend was pulling his shield back in front of his body, the axe just sneaked inside the edge of it before biting into his body, splitting one of the plates of his segmentata, which is bad enough, but the worst had yet to happen. As I could only look on with horror and a feeling of utter helplessness, I not only watched as Draxo's axe barely slowed, continuing to slice across my friend's body, when the axe exploded back into view from Lutatius' opposite side in a spray of blood and matter, I felt pieces of my friend spatter my face. If Lutatius made a sound, I could not hear it because of the triumphant roar of the Colapiani chieftain, and for an instant he drowned out even the sounds of the fight. Yet, as horrified as I was, my detached observer made sure to point out that even as his axe was disemboweling my friend, Draxo's eyes were focused over Lutatius' shoulder, staring at me with a fixed gaze that seemed intent on sending me a message that what I just witnessed was nothing compared to the fate he had in store for me. But what Draxo had no way of knowing, not that it would have mattered, was that I was no less enraged, and I had my own dark gifts that were now fueled even more by the death of not just a comrade, but my friend.
Forcing myself to ignore the sight of Lutatius' body, which remained in one piece only because Draxo's axe had not severed his spine, I hopped over it even as Draxo's roar of triumph was still sounding while I added my own voice, shouting a promise to Lutatius to avenge him. The Colapiani chieftain, whose eyes had never left me, answered my challenge, both verbally and by raising his axe, readying himself for another blow. However, to my eyes, he had suddenly been immersed in that cold honey I have mentioned before, meaning I saw him pulling his axe back as if he was in the first stage of working on his forms when we make each movement slower than normal, trying to train our muscles to remember the feeling. Unfortunately, it also meant I saw the bits of gore and shreds of intestine caught by the curved edge of his blade as it continued hurtling back over his shoulder before his axe came to a stop over his head. It paused there for what, to anyone else would have been a fraction of an eyeblink, but to me was slow enough that I noticed the telltale movement as he twisted the axe blade to a position that informed me he was planning on a feint first, before launching a blow from an angle different than what his current posture indicated. By noticing the angle, it told me he intended to try and convince me that he was coming from a different direction so that my shield was already moving. If the gods c
hose that moment to freeze all the combatants in their various postures, I have little doubt that any observer with any experience in war would be certain I had overcommitted myself and that Draxo's axe would, much like it had with Lutatius, come slicing inside the edge of my protection. Thankfully, when Draxo instead suddenly changed the direction of his weapon to match the angle of orientation of his axe blade, my shield was already in place and ready to absorb the attack. Still, even with my shield in the right place at the right time, the blow he delivered was the most powerful I had taken in that fight; in fact, it would be a few years before another warrior matched it. And I am convinced that, if it had not been for the gods' gift of my rage, my arm, as weakened as it was under normal circumstances, would have been unable to withstand his onslaught, with the result being either my arm being knocked down or the failure of my grip of the shield. Regardless of all this, while to outward appearances my shield, and I, weathered his blow that prompted a roar I needed no translator to tell me was one of frustration, my situation was far from perfect. The blade of his axe actually struck down on the metal boss of my shield, yet despite the iron itself withstanding the blow without being pierced, his strength was enough to dent it, something I had never seen happen before, nor have I seen since. Consequently, while my hand was still intact, the boss itself had collapsed to the point where I had absolutely no room for my fingers to move. Worse, by crushing the boss, it meant I had no ability to tilt my shield; all I could do was to change the orientation from side to side. If, that is, my wrist had been capable of doing so, which it was not. What this meant in a practical sense was that my range of options in how I used my shield, both defensively and offensively, were seriously compromised. Yet, despite being aware of this, it did not really matter; what did was killing this man who had butchered two of my friends. Regardless of my resolve, however, there was yet another handicap for which I had to account, which I was about to learn. Normally, our bosses protrude from our shields by almost four inches; now, mine was perhaps half that. It does not sound like much, and truthfully, it is not, except when judging distances in preparation for using the shield in an offensive manner. How I discovered this was when my left arm shot out, intent on smashing my shield into the bronze face of Draxo's which, although it had a boss, was normally only about two inches high. In the heat of the moment, I forgot I lacked those two extra inches, so that while my boss hit his when he anticipated my attack and moved his shield to block it, the impact was minimal. Draxo's response was to laugh contemptuously, although he did so while swinging his axe, this time in the same way he had used to disembowel Lutatius. Normally, the defense for an attack of this nature is to twist the wrist slightly outward so the angle of the shield aligns with the attack, in order to absorb the blow more evenly across the shield. I did not do this, but not just because I was unable to do so; instead, I took a large step forward to close the distance between us so our shields were pressed against each other. It gratified me to see the look of surprise on the chieftain's face except I was not about to hesitate, even as I knew I was about to take a serious blow. By shortening the distance between us, I accomplished two things; first, I put myself effectively inside the arc of his axe blade, although I would still have to absorb a powerful blow from the handle of his weapon. Yet, despite knowing I was about to experience what would be an intense pain, it also put my right arm in range. Specifically, I should say it put the pommel of my sword within reach; we were too close now for me to use my blade, so instead, I used the pommel to smash him in his face. Just as I raised my arm, I felt a terrific impact that, while the edge of my shield absorbed some of the force, almost drove the breath from my lungs as the stout shaft of his axe slammed into my side. Ignoring it, I punched at him with the pommel of my sword, counting on the metal end used to attach everything to the tang of the blade to do most of the damage.
