by R. W. Peake
“Get him out of there and follow me.”
Scribonius did not hesitate, with Balbus moving as quickly, and between them, they turned Crassus’ horse. This snapped him out of it; digging his heels into the sides of his horse, he leapt through the crowd, knocking people sprawling. Unfortunately, this roused the mob from their daze as well, and they roared their anger. Meanwhile, the man I had struck collapsed to the mud, completely unheeded by his supposed friends. Finally, the gladiators noticed that something was amiss, turning their mounts to meet us as I came trotting up.
“How about earning your fucking pay?” I snarled at their leader, a scarred brute named Prixus.
“Don’t you worry about my job, soldier boy,” he snapped back, moving back towards Crassus, who was still trying to push his way out of the crowd.
Without hesitating or slowing down, as Prixus drew abreast of me I stuck my left arm out straight, my forearm hitting the gladiator in the throat. My momentum in the opposite direction swept him from the saddle like he had been struck by a scorpion bolt, and he landed heavily on his back in the mud, the wind rushing from his lungs, his eyes rolling back in his head. His men wheeled to face me, ranging their own horses in a rough semicircle, but I still had my sword in my hand. Without their leader, they looked to one another, unsure of what to do. Hearing the sound of horses behind me, Scribonius called out that they were clear of the trouble.
Pointing to Prixus, who was struggling to his elbows, I said, “Unless you want your boss to get torn apart by this mob, I suggest you help him onto his horse. The rest of us are getting out of here.”
Without waiting to see if the others were following, but knowing that Scribonius and Balbus would be there no matter what, I trotted out of town.
“I had been hoping to spend at least one night under a roof,” Crassus said ruefully, looking back at the tops of the buildings of Sirmium.
“We can go back if you want,” I told him.
He shook his head, giving me a grin.
“No, I'd rather sleep outside than be torn apart by a mob.”
“Good. So would I. They turned ugly awfully quickly.”
“It’s like this throughout the province,” he replied grimly. “It’s true that we’ve held this place for the last five years, but the natives clearly haven't fully accepted the idea.”
“At least it won’t be boring,” Scribonius observed.
“What happened back there with Prixus?” Crassus changed the subject, which I knew was coming at some point.
“He fell off his horse,” I replied.
“I can see that,” Crassus said with a touch of asperity. “I'm asking how it happened.”
“I think his horse shied at the commotion and he wasn’t paying attention.”
Crassus said nothing for a moment. When he did speak, his tone was careful.
“Well, I did notice that neither he nor his men seemed to be paying much attention to what was happening. I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else.”
He turned to look at me.
“Like you knocking him from his horse.”
“Now why would I do that?” I asked innocently, trying to ignore Balbus as he smirked, riding on the opposite side of Crassus.
The Legate shook his head, clearly realizing that he would learn nothing more.
Instead, he said quietly, “Be careful, Pullus. Prixus is a bad man to have as an enemy.”
I held out my hand, which he looked at curiously.
“See how my hand is trembling?”
He gave a short laugh, but did not press the matter any further. The bodyguards were riding towards the rear of the column and I could feel the eyes of Prixus boring into my back. I knew that Crassus was right, that I had made an enemy for life, yet I did not care. In fact, at that point, I did not care if I lived or died.
Pushing on, our ultimate goal was where the 8th was camped at the junction of the Savus (Sava) and Ister (Danube) River. The Ister is similar to the Rhenus, running in an easterly direction for hundreds of miles, and the 8th was camped on its southern bank, but west of the Sava, which turned south into Moesia at this point. Whoever had chosen the site had chosen well for defense, with essentially two rivers as a barrier to the Bastarnae. However, it would make offensive operations difficult because the Bastarnae were on the other side and, if they had their wits about them, they could make things very difficult for us when we began to move against them. I squinted, trying to see any sign of an enemy encampment on the other side, but the sky was clear of smoke that would signal the fires of an army.
Deciding to hold my suggestions about relocating the camp, I waited to see what Crassus would say and I was gratified when, about a mile further on he turned to me and said, “I think we need to move the camp to the other side of the river. What do you think?”
“I agree,” I said instantly. “I think it's sending the wrong message to these Bastarnae for us to be in a defensive position. They're the ones who are the aggressors, and we shouldn’t be seen as cowering behind a river.”
He nodded in agreement, and with that decided, we approached the camp. The bucina call that signaled the approach of an unknown party sounded, and I saw helmeted heads appear above the palisade as the guard Cohort watched us approach. Turning to the standard bearer, Crassus ordered it unfurled so that we could be more easily identified, but even so, we were all a bit nervous. While the 8th was not a raw Legion, they could not be considered truly veteran and we had all been in the army long enough to have known someone or seen firsthand when a nervous sentry flung a javelin before being sure of the identity of his target. We saw a transverse crest appear, followed by a gravelly voice ordering us to halt when we were a couple hundred paces away.
“Who goes there?” came the standard query in such situations.
“General Crassus and Camp Prefect Pullus of the Army of Pannonia,” Crassus called out in a loud voice.
He did not have to include me, but I appreciated the gesture.
“Advance, General and Prefect,” the duty Centurion answered.
This was the dangerous part; if one of the sentries was twitchy and one of us had a sudden itch or something that might cause him to panic and hurl a javelin at us. Consequently, I kept a wary eye on the faces of the men lining the parapet. Fortunately, none of them looked nervous or alarmed and once we got within the prescribed distance, the Centurion told us to halt again. It was at this point that it was normal for the duty Centurion to give the signal to open the gate, but he did not give the signal.
More curious than angry, I called out, “What's the delay, Centurion?”
There was a pause before he answered, his tone apologetic.
“I'm sorry, Prefect, it’s just that I've never seen either you or the General before and my Tribune has given strict instructions that we not allow anyone to enter unless they're recognized in person.”
“What do you think we are; Bastarnae?” I asked irritably, chafing at the delay.
Crassus did not seem in the least put out, and he explained why.
“This is as much my fault as anyone’s. I drilled it into Cornelius’ head that he should not make assumptions about anyone since we don't know the Bastarnae well, and they could try something, posing as Thracians or Dacians.”
“That’s understandable, but I hardly think we could pass for barbarians.”
“True,” he granted, then grinned at me. “I never said Cornelius was particularly smart, but I can count on him to obey his orders to the letter.”
“It’s comforting to know that he’s commanding a Legion,” I observed sourly.
“First, he’s in titular command, but you know better than anyone how that goes. Macrinus is really commanding, and he’s a good man. Second, we’re here now so it doesn’t really matter.”
During our conversation, a plumed helmet appeared, framing a young face that peered down at us. He was a handsome youth, with an aquiline nose and a mouth I had heard women describe as pouty, wh
ich I think made him look feminine, but I supposed it was popular with the women of the upper classes. His eyes widened at the sight of his commanding general sitting patiently on his horse, and he immediately turned to snap an order. A moment later, the gate swung open, and I turned to signal to the others to follow us into the camp.
“It’s about time,” I grumbled as we rode in.
To my eye, I was forced to admit grudgingly that the 8th was a tightly run, well-disciplined Legion. It was little things like the fact that the men were not allowed to hang their laundry from the guy ropes of their tents, or were wearing their belts and at least their daggers even when seated at the fire. Seeing these things made me feel better about having Gaius serve in the 8th; it also reminded me that I owed Macrinus a visit on the subject. I would not have to rely on letters going back and forth, trying to guess what he really meant, whether or not there really were no slots available in the higher Cohorts, or this was just an attempt to squeeze more money out of me.
Speaking of Gaius, he had been extremely quiet on this trip, which I assumed was because he was being parted from Iras, but I must confess I was not displeased when I learned that the 8th was not in Sisica. Recognizing that there would be time enough for this matter about Gaius’ position, I concentrated on getting familiar with the situation. In the Praetorium, on the wall of what was now Crassus’ office, was a vellum map of the region, where charcoal markings denoted the latest information on where the Bastarnae were located. Crassus, Cornelius, and a man I assumed was Macrinus were standing in front of the map talking when I arrived. My assumption was confirmed when Crassus introduced me to Macrinus. Despite being several inches shorter than I, his shoulders were as wide and his chest as heavily muscled as mine. He had iron gray hair, cut short in our manner, but there was a jagged scar that ran from just below his hairline on his forehead all the way back, almost to the base of his skull. He had another scar across his cheek, similar to the one I carried, while his face was tanned leather.
As Crassus made the introductions and we clasped arms, the general commented, “If Macrinus were a few inches taller, the two of you could be brothers.”
“My mother was a Suburan whore, so I suppose it’s possible, but somehow I doubt Prefect Pullus and I are related,” he replied, gripping my forearm.
He had a strong grip and I felt him applying extra pressure, so I gave him a grin and squeezed back. We stood there for a moment, testing each other’s strength, and I must say my arm was beginning to ache, when by unspoken consent we released our hold on the other. We simultaneously began rubbing our forearms, causing both of us to laugh.
“I'd call it a draw from appearances,” Crassus remarked.
Now that the pleasantries were aside, he turned our attention to Cornelius, who as the ranking officer on the location, would give the briefing. Holding a wax tablet, he frowned at it as he began.
“Er, it seems that the Bastarnae are conducting more than a raid, since they have their families loaded into wagons with all their possessions.”
This was a very important piece of information; I was surprised that this was the first we were hearing about it, and I said as much. Cornelius flushed, but instead of speaking, he shot a glance at Macrinus, who evidently was expecting this reaction.
“Our cavalry scouting parties either have disappeared, or have been pursued so heavily that they had to go a long way out of their way to get back to camp,” Macrinus explained. “So we didn't learn of the wagons until just two days ago, when a patrol we sent out a week ago finally made it back. Or at least what was left of them,” he amended.
“Has there been any other contact?” Crassus asked, to which both Cornelius and Macrinus shook their heads.
“The truth is that we haven’t seen them from the camp and I wasn’t comfortable sending out foot patrols without more of a cavalry screen,” Macrinus said. “We’ve been basically running blind more than three or four miles out.”
“We've seen some columns of smoke,” Cornelius added. “And we’ve had people approaching the camp saying that their homes have been destroyed, but of course we didn't allow them in.”
Crassus pursed his lips, thinking things over.
After a moment, he said, “The fact that they've brought their families means this is more than a raid. Does everyone agree?” We all nodded our heads, and he continued, “What numbers are we talking about? How many spears?”
Cornelius consulted his wax tablet.
“According to the scouts, they give an estimate of at least 20,000 warriors. Most of them are on foot, but there appear to be about 3,000 cavalry.”
“Double that,” I said, causing Crassus to raise an eyebrow.
“Just like we're doing, they're sending scouts out, especially if they're looking to relocate,” I explained. “So it’s likely that there’s double the number that the scouts reported.”
“Do you think the same goes for the foot?” Macrinus asked, but I shook my head.
“I doubt it. They'd keep the heavy infantry with their families, and besides, they can’t cover as much territory. No, I'm confident that if our scouts can count, they saw everyone on foot that's there to see.”
“So the question is, can we send these people back to where they came from with one Legion?” Crassus asked.
For once, I kept my mouth shut because I did not know enough about the quality of the 8th Legion to make an assessment that would be anything but guesswork. Instead, I looked to Macrinus for the answer.
“It all depends on how spread out they are.” Macrinus rubbed his chin. “If they're in a couple different groups and a sufficient distance apart, then I'd say yes, absolutely. But if they're all together or even close enough to provide support to each other when we attack, it would be a tough job. My boys aren’t the most experienced, but our ranks have a lot of veterans, and we’ve been blooded, so my gut says that we could take them.”
I liked Macrinus’ answer, because it was not a boastful response, but a clearly realistic assessment of his Legion’s chances. In the few moments we had been together, my opinion of the man was rising considerably. I looked at Crassus, since ultimately it was his decision, and he wasted no time.
“We're going to go on a scouting patrol, but with the whole Legion,” he announced.
He gave us all a wide grin.
“Let’s see if we can’t go find some trouble to get into.”
Crassus gave the orders to break camp the next morning, then cross the river, the first step in chasing the Bastarnae back to where they came from. It was strange for me, because for the first time, I did not actually have any duties to attend to, other than walking around looking important, I suppose. Men were hustling about, the evening air filled with the sounds of a Legion breaking camp and I decided to take advantage of the fact I had nothing to do to go look up Macrinus to discuss Gaius’ fate. Now that I had met the man, I did not believe that he was squeezing me, but I wanted to make sure. I found him in his quarters, finishing up a stack of reports that had to be sent to the Praetorium before everything was packed up, and I stood in the doorway watching for a moment before I cleared my throat to announce my presence. He looked up, clearly irritated at the interruption, his expression changing when he saw that it was me, rising to intente, which I quickly dismissed.
Waving me in, he said, “I bet you don’t miss any of this.”
“No, not a bit,” I agreed.
Dropping a tablet on the stack of finished reports, Macrinus sat back, regarding me with an expression that I could not read.
“I suppose you're here to talk about your nephew, and to find out whether or not I was just trying to get more money out of you to move him to a better Cohort.”
Rather than be offended, I appreciated his frankness, deciding to reward his honesty with my own.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“And? What do you think?” he asked me.
I considered for a moment, then relying on my gut, I shook my hea
d.
“I think that it’s exactly as you said in your letter, that there isn’t a spot available in the upper Cohorts.”
I could see that my answer pleased him. With that out of the way, he offered me a seat and a cup of wine, which I accepted. We sat, sipping from our cups for a moment, making small talk about the coming movement and the prospects for battle.
Then, Macrinus set his cup down, giving me a long look before he said carefully, “Since the last time we communicated on this subject, there has been a change in circumstances.”
Ah, here it comes, I thought. I was wrong; he is going to squeeze me.
“There's now a vacancy in the Fifth of the Third for an Optio. The day before you and the general arrived, the Optio died of a rupture after a weapons drill. The doctor thinks that there was something else wrong with him because he wasn't struck that hard, and he'd been complaining of a pain in his right side. He didn't show up for evening formation and when his Centurion went looking for him, it was too late.”
“That’s convenient,” I said, trying to sound like I believed Macrinus, but I clearly did not succeed, because his face flushed.
However, when he replied, his tone was even and did not show any offense at my rebuke.
