Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  I cannot declare with any real certainty how long this lasted in terms of time, but what I can say is that this was the path of my thoughts when, for the first time, I became aware of something that when it first hit me, I thought rather odd. I was still lying facedown, my shield beside me and my sword arm stretched out to my right; my detached observer noticed that the Vinician grip still served me, despite the fact I could not feel it, as the sword was still in my hand. I saw Caecina fighting furiously against the warrior who had come to Draxo's aid, but while the bulk of their bodies blocked any view past them, I could just make out that Draxo had regained his feet and was even then raising his huge axe so that it loomed high above Caecina and his foe. Frankly, I suspect because so much was going on, I did not immediately take note of the tingling sensation I felt, starting in my feet. Truthfully, my initial reaction was that the gods were taunting me, but then after a couple of tries, I distinctly felt my toes wiggle inside my boots, and it took all of my discipline to keep from shouting with relief. Despite my circumstances, even with the fear threatening to choke the breath from me, somehow I retained enough self-possession to understand that the reason I was lying there unnoticed and, most importantly, unmolested by way of a sword thrust between my shoulder blades was because, as far as the living were concerned, I was dead or at least incapacitated. Once I convinced myself it was not my imagination, I dared turn my attention to my arms, specifically my sword arm, not only because it was lying next to my face, but it is the most important to a warrior, no matter for whom he fights. The flood of relief I felt at the sight of my fingers moving as they clenched the grip of my sword tighter, simply because my mind willed it, was so immense that my vision suddenly clouded. Of all the times to cry, you stupid bastard! I shouted to myself. You'll need every bit of your wits and, most importantly, complete control of your limbs if you want to live another hundred heartbeats; once more, the voice in my head was not my own, except rather than my Avus, it belonged to my father. It was not until much later that I reflected on how fitting it was it was his voice I heard; after all, he had been lying flat on his back in the bottom of a steep gully, and he had kept his head despite the fact that his injuries were more severe than mine seemed to be. For however much longer the gods will me to live, whatever else they put before me to face, I will always believe the example set by my father was more responsible for my survival than anything I did that night. As strange as it might seem to someone who has not experienced anything similar, the most powerful motivation was the fear of the shame I would bring to my father if he ever learned the truth. The idea I had just lain there waiting for this battle to end as if I was nothing more than a spectator attending a gladiatorial game, then meekly accepted my fate in the form of either a sword thrust or a slice across my throat was what got me moving again and, ultimately, back into the battle. All around me, the noise and fury of the fight continued, but despite being relieved my paralysis seemed to be temporary, I was nonetheless aware there is a vast difference between being able to feel and being able to move, using my limbs in the way necessary for me to survive. That meant that not only did I have to plan the best way to get to my feet, I was required to utilize an attribute that had eluded me for most of my life: patience. Being able to feel my extremities was encouraging, but I could tell my strength had not fully returned, and I would need it for what I had to do. I have given much thought, especially in the immediate aftermath, trying to determine how long I was incapacitated. Even more importantly, if I, in fact, moved as quickly as I could have once I felt somewhat confident the feeling had returned to the point where I would be able to move while doing so in a manner that enabled me to survive. On the first question, even now, it is a guess, but it was probably not much more than fifty heartbeats from the time Caecina struck me on his way to come to the aid of the Primus Pilus and when I began moving. As far as the second, I believe I moved the instant I felt confident enough that I could do so without promptly collapsing, but only the gods truly know. When it came to determining the moment I was sufficiently recovered, the best way I can describe it is to compare it to when one has been sitting in such a position that it cuts off all the blood to a leg, or even a foot that goes completely numb, then how one knows the flow of blood has been restored. There is a tingling sensation, certainly, although even as I compare what I was feeling to something as minor as a foot falling asleep I confess I cringe when I see the words before me, but it is still the nearest I can come to a proper description. The difference, I suppose, is in the degree of discomfort when it is one's entire body that has somehow fallen asleep, and truthfully, I have no idea what exactly happened to cause this paralysis, other than the blow itself. I will add that to the list questions I will have for whoever is waiting for me when I cross in Charon's Boat but, gods willing to make it so, that is far ahead in my future. In that moment, I forced myself to wait until I was sure all sensation had returned, and even then, I moved slowly. That, I freely confess, was the hardest part, suppressing my initial instinct to scramble to my feet as quickly as possible. My reason for not doing so was due to the reality of my situation, which was that I really had no idea about what was happening around me. Someone, as they were struggling, had kicked one of my legs, but I had no way of knowing if the foot that did so belonged to a friend or foe. Directly to my front from where I had been standing just before I fell, I could tell that there was still a fight going on, and I recognized Caecina's voice as he shouted a curse at his foe, followed instantly by the distinct clanging sound of metal against metal, but that was the extent of my knowledge. Because of the way my face was turned with one cheek still in the dirt, I could see a Roman I was certain was Avitus, his back to me, also furiously engaged with a Colapiani who, from appearances, had managed to circle around behind the small knot of men protecting the eagle and the Primus Pilus. In the vicinity of my right leg, all I could see were the backs of some of my comrades, but just by the way their torsos were moving, I understood they were similarly occupied as Caecina. From all this, I deduced we had formed an orbis for all intents and purposes, but what concerned me was the vast area to my left where I could not see and only hear to determine in how much peril I was in if I suddenly moved. With everything considered, when that boot slid backward and was stopped by my leg, that simple movement told me more of my overall situation than what little I could see, and it was what compelled me to move as slowly as I did. Rather than just drawing my arms underneath me while pulling my knees up, the first step towards resuming a vertical position, I moved my arms slowly, which was easier to do with my left arm because it was masked by my shield lying partially on top of my left arm. My right arm I pulled towards me painfully slowly, as I waited for either some sort of shout from a Colapiani who noticed the movement, or more likely, the blessedly brief instant of horrible pain followed by whatever comes after this world when someone just thrust their sword down between my shoulder blades. Obviously, that did not happen, and once I had my sword hand just below the level of my face and aligned with my upper body, while I felt my left arm was in an identical position next to my upper chest, only then did I experience the first, very faint, flicker of optimism. It is easy to say now, in the comfort of my quarters, that there was so much going on something as minor as a Legionary who was clearly out of the fight moving his arms and legs was not worthy of any attention, and I admit it might still be a remnant of the hubris of my youth that colors this memory; I do not believe this is the case. Regardless of whether I was overlooked or not, in that moment, all I cared about was that I was able to perform this first part of the move to my feet, yet I still paused for an instant to ensure that not just my sensation but my strength had fully recovered. Considering what was about to happen and, in fact, was taking place in that moment, I have more than once thought it might have been better if I remained prone, out of the fight, and just waiting for what came next. This feeling, of course, stems from the kind of clarity that only comes when one is looking back over an event;
in the moment it would, and did, not even occur to me to remain prone. Taking a deep breath, I offered a brief and silent supplication to the gods above us before I used my arms to thrust my upper body up while drawing my knees up at the same instant. Not only was it surprisingly easy, I managed to do so with my sword still in my hand, although my shield was still lying, boss side down, in the dirt at my feet. By regaining my feet, I was just in time, and much too late.

  In order to do this account of mine justice, and meet the same standard for fidelity to these events of which I have been witness, for all intent and purpose, I am required to relate what I saw in that instant, just before I witnessed the larger act I will describe. Coming to my feet, as one might expect, my horizon expanded accordingly, so that not only the events taking place to my right were brought into a tighter focus, my vision was no longer restricted by the dirt pressed against my face. Directly to my front, Caecina and the Colapiani, who I am sure was the same warrior who interposed himself between Draxo and me, were still doing their best to kill each other. Immediately to my right, I saw that it was indeed Avitus who, in the instant I glanced over, was thrusting his sword into the face of a Colapiani who went staggering backward. And, right in between these two but perhaps four paces from me was Urso, Capulo, and Varo, each of them with their back to the other in a sort of triangular orbis. Evidently, the gods had decreed that when I came to my senses and to my feet, it would be just in time to bear witness to what happened in front of my horrified gaze. When Draxo had been granted his reprieve, and make no mistake that was exactly what it was, all I can say is that he did not waste it. Despite now being on my feet and just managing to snatch up my shield from the ground, I was still more of a spectator than participant, which meant I could only watch in shock as Draxo finally pushed close enough to Urso, with the Colapiani lifting his axe high above his head while issuing what sounded like a howl of triumph. It was actually the sound of his voice that got me moving, and I did so quickly; just not quickly enough. It was not as if the Primus Pilus did not have any warning; from where I was now standing, I could clearly see he had just thrust his sword into the chest of another Colapiani. Yet, even before the foe had fallen to the ground, Urso had spun about and squarely faced Draxo, so I know it was not a case of being taken by surprise because he had been so involved with his last opponent that it allowed Draxo to catch him unprepared. And even being relatively close to them, I was sufficiently separated so I cannot say with any surety I saw anything pass between them. Even so, to this day, I have a nagging sense something happened in that moment; some words, a look, something substantial took place between the pair of men, both of whom were responsible to one degree or another for what was taking place in this town. With a terrible fascination, even as my body was moving, I felt like little more than an onlooker as Draxo's axe began its downward trajectory towards Urso, who, I could see, was clearly ready, with the appropriated shield in a perfect position for him to raise it and block Draxo's blow. Except that he did not move the shield, at all; at least, not until it dropped from his nerveless hand immediately after Draxo's massive axe, the blade encrusted with the blood and pieces of at least two of my comrades, slammed down onto Urso's left shoulder. In the fraction of the heartbeat I had before Draxo came within reach of my own sword, I was forced to watch his giant axe cut through the double layer of Urso's mail as if it were nothing but two thin pieces of leather on its way down, deep into the Primus Pilus' body. I cannot say with any real certainty, but my sense at the time was that Draxo's axe was still slicing downward even as my sword arm was thrusting my blade forward into Draxo's unprotected right side. What I can recall was that I began shouting in the eyeblink it took for me to realize Urso's shield was not moving, but even though it was only one word, what started as a cry of protest turned into one of equal parts hatred and anguish.

  "Noooooo," I howled, and was continuing to do so as the point of my sword plunged through Draxo's mail shirt on his right side, immediately under his rib cage.

  My thrust happened so quickly after Draxo's axe struck Urso that the chieftain had not even registered the movement to his side, but I was rewarded by his head snapping around, his shout of triumph at fulfilling his vow to kill the Bear instantly changing to a shriek of agony. What should have been even more satisfying was the look of wide-eyed recognition when he saw the identity of his killer, yet all I could taste was the bitter ash of defeat because I had been one footstep too late. Nevertheless, I was a man of the Legions and I made sure his eyes were on me when I finished him in the manner we are trained by twisting my hips to the right while keeping my arm rigid, ripping my blade out and to the right, disemboweling him. He uttered one more strangled scream as he slowly turned his head to peer down at the sight of his intestines as they slid out of his body, tottering for just a moment before he started to collapse. My gaze was so riveted on the scene that it was not until I sensed the movement of the handle of Draxo's axe that I turned just in time to see our Primus Pilus topple backward, except his fall was partially arrested by Varo, whose back was to what had just happened but was still occupied by hacking down a Colapiani shield, trying to knock it aside so he could finish his foe. He was indirectly aided because the warrior was facing in the right direction to see his own chieftain being gutted, his shock apparently so great that it appeared he performed a move that was somewhat similar to the one Urso had just done, except that he was alive, and actually dropped his shield. Fortunately, Varo did not hesitate or stop to wonder about this sudden change, piercing the now-defenseless warrior in the chest, dropping the Colapiani, who landed on top of a number of his comrades. Only then did the cornicen pause to glance over his shoulder to determine what was happening, and when he shifted position, it caused Urso to finish falling to the ground, Draxo's axe handle now pointing skyward, his eyes wide open but staring in the sightless way of the dead.

  "W-what…what…?"

  His mouth kept working but nothing came out, which was understandable. Perhaps a total of five heartbeats had elapsed before I suddenly realized Varo had not actually shouted; if anything, it was more of a strangled whisper, yet I had heard it. This was when I became aware that despite the fight still continuing everywhere around us, those of us within the circle surrounding our eagle had been shocked into silence, both friend and foe. For perhaps the span of time it takes for a javelin to travel the longest distance a man can throw it, both Roman and Colapiani were of not just similar but perfectly like mind, as all of us tried to cope with the loss of the man we called our leader. At the same time, I became aware that because of where I was standing, all eyes were at least staring in my direction; frankly, there was only one pair of eyes that concerned me, although to be accurate, it was just one good eye. Both Caecina and the Colapiani warrior he had been trying to end seemed to have each stepped away from the other by unspoken consent, as the Colapiani stared in disbelief at the sight of Draxo lying facedown atop his own internal organs, surrounded by a pool of blood that was still growing, albeit more slowly than just a heartbeat before. Caecina, on the other hand, was shifting his gaze between me and Urso's body, and I saw the emotions warring for control of his face; because of the fire, I was clearly able to see the tear that rolled down his cheek from his good eye.

  Then he lifted his sword, except instead of resuming the fight he pointed it at me, and for perhaps the first time, I detected nothing false in his demeanor or tone as he shouted, "You! YOU did this! His blood is on YOUR hands!"

  By the time he finished, he was screeching this at the top of his lungs, and there was no missing the hysterical edge to his voice. I braced myself, sure that he was about to lunge at me, his fight with the Colapiani forgotten; being completely honest, when Caecina twisted around to face me, a part of me silently urged the Colapiani to take advantage of his foolhardy behavior, but I suppose the warrior was in his own state of shock. Yet, although Caecina did move, it was not in my direction; nor was it back at the Colapiani. Instead, he suddenly bolted
, except he headed to my left, nimbly hopping over the bodies that surrounded us, including that of Flaccus, without so much as a downward glance at our Signifer. It took a moment for his probable intention to hit me, but although I turned to give chase, his sudden movement also seemed to break the spell. My pursuit was stopped before it started by a howl of sorrow and rage, causing me to turn just in time to see Caecina's former foe leap in my direction, the hand gripping his spear pulled back as far behind his ear as it would go, pausing just long enough for me to see and, more crucially, understand his intent. Even with this warning, I barely got my shield in the right position to block the throw, which slammed into my shield with such force that not only did the head penetrate all the way through it, but several inches of shaft as well, although I got barely a glimpse of it because the impact from the heavy spear ripped the shield from my hand. Honestly, just like the previous time when my first shield had been knocked from my hand, I do not have any confidence that even if my arm had been at full strength, I would have been able retain my grip of the shield. Of greatest concern was that, before my shield actually hit the ground, the Colapiani who had hurled it was even then throwing himself at me. He wore a high helmet with the fin from front to back, and I caught the briefest glimpse of a snarling, bearded face, the features so contorted I could see only slits instead of his eyes, except it was his shield that concerned me as he held it in front of him, clearly intent on using this as his main weapon now that his spear was gone. Honestly, I did not need more than the fraction of time it took after I blocked his spear to see why he was willing to forego his main weapon. Whereas most barbarians carried shields that have either rounded, or in some cases, bosses that are the same shape and size as ours, I had seen a handful of men whose boss had a spiked point, much like the top of Draxo's axe. This was what was hurtling at me as the Colapiani bellowed what might have been a promise to his slain chief to avenge his death, the warrior leading with his shield held out in front of him almost at arm's length. Thankfully for me, while I was no longer under the power of my rage, he still seemed to be moving slower than I was, so I simply sidestepped to my left while bringing my sword up. The force of his body running onto my sword shoved not just my arm but my entire body as I staggered backward, my hand and arm once more drenched in the blood of an enemy. Unlike the night action when the Colapiani who essentially did the same thing slammed into me and swept me off my feet, I had moved sufficiently out of the way so his own momentum carried him just a couple more steps before collapsing facedown on top of his shield. Although I feel fairly sure this was not the true cause for it, from outward appearances, it seemed this last warrior's dispatch served as a sign to those Colapiani still alive that finally all was lost as, sounding above the noise from the fight that still raged elsewhere, their voices raised in a noise that reminded me of the wolves we had heard howling outside our camp during Drusus' final campaign. I cannot say they actually sounded like a pack of wolves; there was a note of despair and defeat that was clear to hear, but as I would learn later, I was not the only one who made this association. The noise they made was not nearly as important as their actions, because while we did not hear anything like a horn, or even a bellowed command cutting through the din, it appeared that individually, they had all come to the same decision at the same time. While it certainly was not done with the kind of precision shown by the Legions, the Colapiani suddenly spun about and in one ragged bunch, began running away from the fight.