by R. W. Peake
“He’s too well-connected,” Crassus had explained to me. “His father is one of Caesar’s men, which is how he got the post to begin with. As long as he doesn't say anything treasonous, I'm going to ignore him.”
I had little doubt that by the time word reached Octavian, what had happened the day before would be distorted in a way that would only harm Crassus, but I did not know what I could do about it, so I asked Scribonius. He frowned, and this was one of those times I was glad to see that look on his face.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, dashing my hopes that my smart friend had some idea that would save Marcus Crassus from his own success. Shaking his head, he continued, “One thing I do know.” He turned to give me a severe look. “You need to keep your nose out of it. Haven’t you gotten enough patricians mad at you for a career?”
He was right, and I knew it, but I could not resist the idea of paying him back a bit.
Grinning at him, I replied, “I’m getting bored. Besides, if it all goes wrong, I’m just going to say it was all your idea.”
“If it goes wrong?” he scoffed. “When have any of your schemes gone right?”
Marching south, we crossed back over the Ister River, except instead of curving to the west back towards Pannonia, we continued south, deeper into Moesia. We followed a track that ran along a river that branched off the Ister, now called the Augusta (Ogosta) , with that river to our left, the spine of the line of hills that eventually ran all the way back to Naissus to our right. It was good ambush country; the hills provided cover, while the river pinned us down, making the men exceptionally alert while we traversed this stretch of country. Fortunately, the Moesians did not attempt to use the country to their advantage, but it was still a nervous couple of days. Reaching the spot where a pass through the hills would take us back to Naissus if we headed west, or heading east would take us deeper into Moesia, Crassus halted us for a day while the command group discussed what we would do.
“If we head a few miles farther south, we'll reach the Nisava. We can follow that to the east to make it through the mountains that separate the two parts of Moesia,” Crassus explained, pointing to the spot on the map.
I saw the Primi Pili exchange glances, their faces grim, giving minute shakes of the head to each other. It was clear that they did not like the idea, and I agreed with them. It was late summer by this point, time to think about heading back to Pannonia. Crassus seemed adamant, however, either missing or ignoring the dubious reactions around the table.
“And what is our goal if we head east?” Natalis, Primus Pilus of the 13th asked Crassus.
The Legate frowned as he tried to frame his answer. “Our goal, Natalis, is to show these Moesians the folly of attacking Rome.”
“We destroyed Naissus,” Aelianus, the Primus Pilus of the 15th pointed out. “Isn’t that lesson enough?”
Crassus shook his head.
“I don’t believe that it is. That was the direct result of one Moesian nobleman, but Runo isn't the only troublemaker among these people.” Giving an elaborate shrug, he finished, “It’s a matter of going ahead and finishing the job now, or having to march back here next season.”
He was probably right, but it was no certainty that the Moesians had not yet learned a lesson, and I could see that doubt in each of the Primi Pili’s eyes. Crassus clearly was not swaying his senior Centurions, and he recognized it.
“Perhaps we can accomplish what we need to without going deeply into the interior. We'll march to the Nisava, and we'll follow it for a week. If we run into any settlements, or significant numbers of Moesian warriors that we can engage and defeat, then we need go no farther.”
It was not much of a promise, yet it was also clear that this was as far as Crassus was willing to bend, so the Primi Pili accepted his word, a bit grudgingly perhaps. With the next several days decided, we resumed the march the next morning, the men enjoying the break but ready to keep going. From my perspective, it seemed that it was the Centurions who had more of a problem with Crassus’ intentions than the rankers did. I supposed that they were just thinking of their men. While the terrain was extremely rugged, staying next to the river minimized the amount of undulation we had to endure. It also put us in a position to find what villages and towns there were in the area, since the only inhabitable spots were along the river. When we came across a settlement, no matter what size, we laid waste to it, burning everything while taking what food we could find, along with anything else that was not essentially nailed down. There is a maxim among the Legions; anything that is not nailed down is theirs, and anything that can be pried loose is not nailed down. There was precious little food and after the first two or three times, somehow the word spread, meaning that every village we came across, no matter how small, was already deserted and stripped bare. If we managed to capture a Moesian civilian, they would be tortured to reveal the location of their stores of food, knowing from experience that they never carried the food away, but buried it somewhere nearby. Even doing this, our supply of grain was growing lower every day, seemingly dropping at the same rate as the days were growing shorter. There was a chill in the air when we arose every morning, though the abysmal weather had at least turned and the days were mostly sunny. One day short of reaching the Nisava, our scouts reported that they had come across the trail of a large group of men, estimating their numbers at about ten thousand. They did not see them, just the trail of their passing, yet what was troubling was that they were headed in a direction that would put them athwart our line of march at some point. With only ten thousand men, this group did not pose a significant threat, but it had to be assumed that they were just part of a larger group that was gathering, since this was the manner in which barbarian tribes operated.
Crassus was undeterred, and when we reached the Nisava, we made the turn to the east, with the river now on our right. Every march has a rhythm, and we had found the rhythm of this one. This is when men become complacent, no matter how hard the Centurions work to keep the men alert, and the Centurions are just as susceptible to the same problem. It extends all the way up the chain of command, so I was not immune and neither was Crassus; a particularly interesting or animated conversation starts between two friends, usually some sort of argument. Most of the time it is good-natured, sometimes it is not. Other times it will be a particularly entertaining story, usually about some off-duty exploit or something amusing that happened in a battle. In the beginning, there are only two or three participants, but soon enough everyone within earshot is either avidly listening or participating. These types of things are happening up and down the column, in every Legion, Cohort, and Century. That is why we post outriders and in some circumstances where contact is imminent, have Century and sometimes Cohort-sized flanking patrols in order to avoid being surprised. But they are part of the army, and even knowing that their duty is to be vigilant, it is hard to remain that way when day after day passes in the same fashion. I would be lying if I said that I had never let my mind and attention wander those times when I was a tiro and gregarius or was part of a flanking patrol, making it just a matter of luck that nothing bad ever happened during those times. All that said, men have a duty, and while I have some sympathy, there is no excuse for what happened.
The Moesians timed their attack perfectly, letting the vanguard and the leading Legion pass by before the first hint of their presence was announced by an alarmed shout. They had chosen a spot where the level ground along the river and the flank of the ridge that paralleled it was at its narrowest, with a strip of dense forest that started just a few hundred paces from the riverbank. We were marching in our normal section front, meaning that each rank was eight men across, with an arm’s length between each man. The Centurions and Optios were in their usual spots to the side, one at the front and one at the rear of each Century, though as was common practice, many of them were clustered together in small knots, talking while we marched. Technically, this was against the regulations, but it is one of the
most ignored in the army. Honestly, it would not have made any difference. No, the fault lay entirely with the Century of the 13th that had been placed on the flank of the hill, perhaps a hundred feet above the tree level to watch for just such an attack. We had just passed a ravine running perpendicular to our line of march that led deeper into the hills, which I imagine is where they had approached and were lying in wait. Somehow, the flank security Century completely missed seeing what turned out to be approximately two thousand Moesian horsemen. The alarm was raised not by the Century, who should have sounded the cornu call immediately, but one of the Evocati who had pulled off to the side to relieve himself. He glanced up just in time to see the first Moesians bursting from the treeline, javelins at the ready, already at a full gallop. Not taking the time to tuck himself in, he wheeled his horse while giving the alarm, but he was too late to save himself and fell, the javelins that pierced his back sticking out of his chest. Scribonius, Balbus, and I had been discussing our plans for what we would do when we returned to Pannonia, with Scribonius pressuring us both to go to Rome with him. The other Evocati were engaged in similar conversations, along with Crassus, the Tribunes, and every member of the command staff. Suddenly, I was staring wide-eyed at the sight of a mass of Moesian cavalry, my attention captured by the cry of the Evocatus who paid for alerting us with his life, something that I turned just in time to see happen. Ocelus, without waiting for any jerk of the reins, turned suddenly, going from the walk to the gallop in the blink of an eye, accelerating so suddenly I was almost thrown. Somehow, he knew not to head for the river, not because he was afraid of the water; he had forded many rivers with me by that point, and clearly enjoyed the water. However, if he had done so, I would have made an easy target. Unfortunately, some Evocati opted to try to make it to safety in that direction. Acting as a giant wedge, the Moesians split the column in two, then in an obviously prearranged movement, peeled into separate formations, one attacking to the left, the other to the right. Their commander had seemingly thought of everything; since the contingent to the right was attacking men facing them, he had put roughly two-thirds of his force in that group, while the one attacking to the left was hitting the command group and vanguard from the rear. I honestly do not know why Ocelus turned to head upriver, toward the head of the column, but in doing so, he saved my life and probably his. It was not because turning downriver would have run us directly into the Moesians attacking the rest of the column from the front, because he made his decision before they split up. Perhaps it was just luck, but I still believe that somehow he knew that our only chance lay in trying to escape by heading upriver towards the relative safety of the vanguard Legion. Whatever the case, he turned and was already several lengths farther upriver when the smaller Moesian force made their move in our direction. The scene was massive confusion, with men going in seemingly every direction in their haste to escape to safety. While most followed Ocelus’ lead to head in our direction, a fair number simply made the wrong choice and I suddenly found myself on a collision course with a Tribune who was furiously whipping his horse. He only had eyes for the oncoming Moesians, his head turned to the right, obviously having no idea he was headed straight for me. It was Claudius, and as we galloped toward each other, the terror on his face was clearly visible.
“Claudius, you idiot!” I roared this at the top of my lungs, taking the risk of letting go of the reins with one hand to wave to him in a frantic attempt to get his attention. “You’re going the wrong way! Turn around!”
He paid no attention, but his horse, seeing me wave at him, began to slow, forcing the Tribune to turn his head around to see why his mount had done so. Seeing me, his face registered surprise and confusion as his horse continued to go from a frantic gallop to a trot. I do not know why I did what I did next, but I did the same thing, pulling hard on Ocelus’ reins, who clearly did not want to obey, only reluctantly pulling up. Reaching out, I grabbed the bridle of Claudius’ mount, startling the Tribune, who opened his mouth while beginning to pull the reins in an attempt to wrest control of his horse from me.
“Come with me if you want to live,” I snarled at him, using every bit of my commanding presence and glowering at him.
I admit that I was somewhat surprised when he meekly obeyed, dropping the reins, allowing me to yank his horse’s head around. When the animal turned about, I slapped it on the rump while at the same time gave Ocelus a hard kick in the ribs. In a few blinks of an eye, we were back at the gallop, yet that pause cost us valuable time. I turned to see that Scribonius, who had hesitated just a fraction of a moment before following me, having been several lengths behind, had now caught up. A javelin whizzed by just in front of Ocelus’ nose, missing him by less than the width of a hand. Still, he never broke stride. It was as if now that we were back at the gallop he was not going to stop for any reason until we were both safe.
“Where’s Balbus?” I shouted back to Scribonius, but I could not hear his answer before I became fully consumed with trying to avoid being skewered by Moesians as they continued their onslaught.
I caught a glimpse of Crassus, Cornelius next to him but pulling away as he tried to make it to the rearmost ranks of the last Cohort of the vanguard Legion, which had just turned around to face the threat. The Moesians were shouting their battle cries, which carried above the sound of the wind in my ears while Ocelus ate up the ground in a blur. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw perhaps 50 Moesians, apparently having seen Marcus Crassus, angling their pursuit in an attempt to cut him off before he reached the Legion. Shouting a bitter curse, I wish I could say that I was concerned for the safety of my commander, but the path they were taking in their attempt to get to Crassus was going to cut me, Scribonius, and even Claudius off. Risking a glance behind me, my heart sank at the sight of only a dozen men who had chosen to go this way. It would not be enough to cut our way through this group of Moesians, meaning our only hope was that Crassus made it close enough to the Legions that they could drive the enemy off with their own javelins. Looking ahead, I could see that it was going to be desperately close, while also seeing that with the speed Ocelus was carrying, we would be among the Moesians very quickly. To that point, they had been completely focused on Crassus, and I had not seen one head turn our way. However, there were still a large number of them that were now effectively behind us as well, having reached the river, and I could hear the cries of men when they either struck a blow, or were stricken in return. I could not worry about any of the Evocati who had been caught, no matter who they were, because my small group was in enough danger themselves. Claudius still seemed to be out of his head with fear, as I glanced over to see him staring straight ahead at the Moesians with an expression I had seen all too often among men who have let their fear take control over them. I had begun to slow Ocelus again and this time he did not resist, perhaps sensing it was wise to do so. Claudius kept going at full speed and I called to him, trying to get him to slow as well, but he was oblivious. Scribonius pulled alongside me, also shouting at Claudius, who was now two or three lengths ahead of us, but the Tribune gave no sign of hearing.
“He’s out of his mind with fear,” Scribonius said grimly, and I nodded.
Turning around to see that there were less than ten of us left, it appeared the Moesians behind us had evidently turned their attentions elsewhere, although it was impossible to tell clearly because of the dust churned up by the horses. Seeing that there was no immediate threat to the rear, I turned my attention back to see just in time as Crassus leapt his mount over the kneeling men of the last Cohort of the vanguard, who immediately stood to fling their javelins at the Moesians. Horses and men were pierced two and three times, yet the Pilus Prior of the Cohort had given the order to loose too early, so that only the first dozen of the Moesians who were closest were hit. That left more than 40 Moesians, who were now turning away from the Legionaries, knowing that their quest to kill our Legate had failed. There were still targets, and one of them was Claudius.
&nbs
p; We had slowed to a canter, but the gap was still narrowing too quickly, so I hefted my shield, preparing myself to try my best to ward off the shower of missiles that I was sure would be coming our way. Much like the Numidian cavalry, most of these men carried sheaves of javelins in leather containers attached to their saddles. Some of them carried long spears and a few swords, but they did not worry me as much as the javelineers. More than for myself I was worried about Ocelus, because even at the canter, if he was hit and stumbled I would be hitting the ground extremely hard, making an easy target for one of the spearmen. That was how they went after Claudius. He was now many lengths ahead and had completely isolated himself, but was still too far from the protection of the Legions. Seeing a number of blurred lines streaking across my field of vision, I saw two javelins hit Claudius’ horse, one in the neck and one in the front shoulder, just forward of Claudius’ leg. The wound to the neck was most likely not fatal, nor was the one in the shoulder, but it was a disabling one and the horse stumbled, going to its knees and throwing Claudius over its head to the ground. The Tribune had not been expecting it and hit the ground awkwardly, tumbling with his limbs splayed in every direction before coming to a stop, lying still, telling me he had been knocked unconscious. Immediately, I saw one of the Moesians with a spear head for Claudius, who was facedown and unmoving, the mounted spearman lowering his weapon for the easy kill. Again, without any thought, I kicked Ocelus, who did not hesitate, moving from the canter back to the gallop.
“Titus, no! Leave him, he’s a dead man,” I heard Scribonius shout, and I knew he was right.
And I also knew that it would be the smart thing to do to allow this Moesian to finish Claudius, ending the threat to Crassus and to me. But there is something in me that will not allow a Roman, even a man I despised as much as Claudius, to be killed by an enemy if I could help it. The thought that he might be grateful never occurred to me; in fact, if I had been forced to think about it, I would have made the guess that he would have hated me even more, perhaps to the point where he actively tried to destroy me. None of that was in my mind as I was galloping Ocelus to place us in between Claudius’ inert body and the charging Moesian. I only had one thought, to kill this Moesian bastard. It was only made possible because Ocelus was simply one of the fastest horses I had ever seen, closing the gap with a speed that was almost unbelievable and was rapid enough that the Moesian clearly miscalculated. He had looked over at me, seen me approaching, and had given me an insolent grin, lowering his spear and still heading for Claudius, sure that I would not arrive in time. His surprise was evident on his face when Ocelus proved him wrong, his mouth opening in shock when I turned Ocelus at the last possible moment to draw alongside the Moesian. By force of habit, I had reached to my side, drawing my Spanish sword and not the spatha on my saddle. Still, we were close enough for my Gallic blade to do its work, despite the awkward angle, forced to reach across my body as I was. The Moesian desperately tried to use the shaft of his spear to knock my blade aside, but my thrust was too strong. He did manage to deflect the point upward just a bit so that it punched right under his ribcage to drive up into his liver and lungs. He did not shout, I suppose because his lungs were punctured and he had no air with which to do so, letting out more of a gasp, frothy blood appearing on his lips. Giving him a shove to free my blade, he toppled from the saddle and I pulled Ocelus up just a couple of paces away from Claudius. Scribonius reached my side, his spatha drawn and shield up, still watching the Moesians, who for the moment had become disorganized and were milling about.
