by R. W. Peake
“Fuck this,” he muttered to himself. To the woman, he spoke harshly, despite feeling slightly foolish for trying to communicate with her, “You and your brats stay in this tent, do you understand me? Stay here.”
To emphasize his words, he pointed at the dirt floor of the tent, then before he could change his mind he spun about and walked the step to the flap.
“Thank you, Roman. You are good man.”
His first thought was that her Latin was horrible, but while he did not acknowledge her words, when he stepped out of the tent, he paused for just a heartbeat to savor the feeling that he had done something that his mother would approve. Then he was moving, and he could tell just by the activity that what had seemed to him to be at least a third of a watch spent inside the tent was probably no more than fifty heartbeats. Macerinus saw him and came running, while Volusenus was striding in his direction, meeting a few paces away from the tent.
“Anyone in there?” Macerinus asked, and Volusenus noticed that his Signifer had blood spattered on his face.
“No, it’s empty,” Volusenus replied, but before Macerinus could say anything else, Volusenus pointed his gladius to where a half-dozen of his men had surrounded that number of Cherusci warriors. “I’m going over to sort that out. Where’s Gillo?”
Now it was Macerinus’ turn to point, indicating where the Optio was running after a handful of fleeing Cherusci.
“Fucking Gillo.” Macerinus laughed. “That mad bastard would be chasing those fuckers all by himself. He better hope they don’t turn around.”
Volusenus was already moving, but not after Gillo, instead telling Macerinus to grab a section of men to follow after the Optio. He had spotted another section of his men surrounding a half-dozen Cherusci who had chosen to use a tree to protect their backs, and he trusted his Signifer to handle whatever Gillo got himself into, so he strode over to them.
“What, are you waiting for them to fucking die from boredom?” he growled, but when none of them made any indication they intended to do anything, without breaking stride, he moved towards one Cherusci, choosing a young, beardless youth, his gladius out and held low, with his vitus in the other hand. Calling over his shoulder, “Keep these cunni occupied for me,” he crossed the intervening space at a seemingly leisurely pace.
His choice of foe was not random; he had seen the wide-eyed expression, as much of a telltale as the fact that the youth only had fuzz where his beard should have been, and as he closed on him, Volusenus saw the spear point wavering from the shaking hand holding it. Pausing just long enough to be sure that the men of his section were in position, Volusenus closed within range of his foe, although it was at the outer limit of his reach. As he anticipated, the young Cherusci panicked, launching a thrust with his heavy spear, which Volusenus batted aside with his vitus, and to anyone who was not familiar with the Centurion and his strength, it seemed to be almost a casual move, but as his men well knew there was tremendous power there. There was a sharp crack as the twisted vine stick struck the shaft of the spear, and with the parry, Volusenus not only averted being struck in the chest but jerked the youngster’s arm wide, creating a gap between his shield and spear, as Volusenus continued moving towards his foe, closing the distance. When they talked about it that night, those men who were present were unanimous that they did not really see the thrust, aside from a silver-grayish blur as Volusenus drove the point of his blade through the youth’s mouth, shattering his teeth, slicing through the soft tissue, then only slightly slowing when it struck the harder bone of his spine. It happened so quickly that the young Cherusci never even recovered from his initial thrust, dying with his arm still outstretched, while the sight and manner of their comrade’s death momentarily froze the warriors on either side of him. Volusenus’ Legionaries did not hesitate, and he was still cleaning the blood from his blade, using his slain foe’s tunic when the last Cherusci fell like their comrade, their bodies arranged in a rough circle around the lone tree.
“Now that you’re through lazing about,” Volusenus called out, “you’re coming with me and getting Gillo out of whatever cac he’s gotten himself into.”
Without waiting for them to acknowledge, Volusenus began walking in the direction he had last seen his Optio, although his exact location was obscured by a pair of tents. Suddenly, his eyes began to water as smoke came drifting across his front, and he glanced to his right, back where the other Centuries were, spotting not one but two tents enveloped in flames.
“Pluto’s cock,” he muttered disgustedly. “Every single time one of these mad bastards has to set something on fire.”
While he had done his best to quell the three men in his Century who, over time, he had learned shared this predilection for seeing things burn, he was also aware that he could not be everywhere at once, and frankly, he was just happy that whoever started this one was either in the Fourth or maybe Third Century. Wiping his eyes, he checked on the progress of the other Centuries again, although he was only concerned with the First, cursing when he saw a handful of Legionaries darting in and out of sight through the tents and shelters over where he knew Pullus’ men were located, but at least fifty paces ahead of his Century.
“All right, boys,” he bellowed. “We’re not going to let any of those bastards in the other Centuries beat us to the middle of the camp, are we?”
He was heartened at the volume and intensity of their answering response, and just as the men within earshot responded, he spotted the top of his Century standard behind a tent, so he headed in that direction.
Chapter Seven
Pullus was pleased with the progress his men had made, but he also understood that once the Cherusci who had initially fled tried to escape, they would be running into one of the other Cohorts, where they would either stand and fight them or come fleeing back in the direction of the Fourth. Like Volusenus, he was irritated at the smoke, although not physically because his Century and the Second was upwind, but he was too experienced to think that this would last. He had broken his men down into sections, only bringing them back together when they encountered a handful of Cherusci in numbers that he thought were too much for a single section to handle. Most of their time was now being spent in searching the tents, and a sudden cry of pain drew his attention to a tent about twenty paces away, just in time to see one of his own men staggering backward out of it, without his shield. Pullus understood why when he saw that the ranker, his name Postumus from the Fifth Section, was using his left hand to try and stem the spray of blood coming from the vicinity of his right elbow, although he was still clutching his gladius.
Falling backward, Postumus landed heavily on his ass, but Pullus, recognizing he was too far away to help made a quick scan around the wounded man and spotted someone, bellowing, “Oy! Frugi!” The ranker responded instantly, and Pullus pointed, “Go help Postumus, and be quick about it! There’s a fucking German in that tent!”
Just as he knew when he had chosen the man, Frugi went sprinting over to where his comrade was hunched over, still sitting on the ground trying to stop his lifeblood from seeping into the German dirt like so many other Romans had done. Pullus watched just long enough to see Frugi whipping out one of the leather thongs that men carried looped in their baltea whenever there was the prospect of prisoners, the ranker quickly wrapping it around his comrade’s upper arm to act as a tourniquet. The two men were in different sections, but Pullus knew that Frugi and Postumus were friends who could often be seen out in town debauching together. As Frugi worked, another pair of Pullus’ men approached the tent, each of them standing on one side of the flap, but while he was mildly interested, Pullus had more than just his Century to worry about, so he turned his attention away to look west, where the rest of his Cohort was engaged in much the same activity. My Cohort, he thought with quiet satisfaction, pleased by what he saw…for the most part. He had made it a habit in such situations to actually look to the farthest end of where his men were operating, so he came to the Second Centur
y last, where he spied Vespillo standing, his Signifer next to him, behaving as if they were having an idle chat on the forum, while, to Pullus’ eyes, Vespillo’s men were wandering aimlessly about, seemingly more interested in comparing what they were carrying in their sacks. Biting back a curse, Pullus strode over to Vespillo, intending to do something he normally did not do, chastise another Centurion in public. The Signifer caught sight of the Pilus Prior heading in their direction, warning Vespillo, who wheeled about, and Pullus was grimly satisfied at the look of mingled alarm and guilt on the Pilus Posterior’s face, which was still slightly swollen. He was within a half-dozen paces when he lifted his vitus and opened his mouth, about to verbally lash his ostensible second in command, hoping that Vespillo said something that met the standard needed to relieve him immediately and put Saluninus, the Optio for the Second in temporary command, but before any words came out, another sound intruded and gave Vespillo a reprieve. The notes were clear; more important, was the direction from which the notes came, and Pullus turned to look that way but could not see anything.
Turning back to Vespillo, he said coldly, “That’s the signal from the First Cohort. I’m going there now. Where’s Saloninus?”
Vespillo’s expression quickly changed to one of suspicion, but he answered by looking about, then pointing, “He’s over there with his half of the Century.”
Pullus did not reply directly to Vespillo, telling the Signifer Sextus Tetarfenus instead, “Go get him and bring him here. Tell him I want to see him.” Naturally, the Signifer did not hesitate, moving at a quick trot and carrying the standard with him, while Pullus, still ignoring Vespillo, looked about, spotting the next man he was looking for, calling out, “Capito, get over here and bring your horn!”
The Cornicen of the Second responded in the same manner, coming at close to a run, but Pullus ignored his salute, saying instead, “Sound the acknowledgement to the First. I want them to know I heard it and don’t want to waste time going back and having Poplicola do it.”
Capito, deducing that this was not the time for formality, nodded as he hefted the horn to his shoulder, licked his lips, took a breath, then blew the series of notes that fulfilled Pullus’ command, starting with a quick blast of four notes of the same pitch that announced it was the Fourth Cohort. He had not finished when, from the direction of the Second Cohort, Macer’s Cornicen played their own call, but with only two notes, and despite his irritation, Pullus grinned at the thought that he had beaten his friend to the punch.
Saluninus and the Signifer returned just as Capito took the horn from his shoulder, and again, Pullus ignored the formalities, informing Saloninus, “I’m heading over to the Legate and Primus Pilus and I’m leaving you in command of your Century, and Licinius will be in temporary command of the Cohort.” Pullus was unsurprised at Vespillo’s reaction, the Centurion issuing a strangled squawk of protest that was never formed into words because, for the first time, Pullus looked directly at him, and took a step closer to Vespillo as he said quietly, “Don’t. Say. A. Word.” He was now towering over Vespillo, but while he did not raise his voice, the two other men present for this heard the menace as clearly as the Pilus Posterior as Pullus finished, “We’ll speak about this later. Until then, you keep your fucking mouth shut, Vespillo, do you understand?”
For the briefest instant, it appeared that Vespillo considered defying Pullus, but then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and while he did not reply verbally, he nodded. Pullus was tempted to make an issue of it and force Vespillo to utter the ritual words of obedience but decided that time was too pressing. Consequently, without another word, he abruptly turned and left the three men of the Second Century, and their humiliated Centurion, moving with long strides, not to the Third Century but back to his own. On his way, he called to the man who served as his runner, and when the ranker came dashing up, calmly ordered him to go seek out his Princeps Prior to tell him that he had been temporarily promoted to second in command. The fact that the ranker did not look in the least surprised informed Pullus that he had witnessed the moment with Vespillo, and while he had been too far away to hear, had correctly deduced the meaning. It was another moment that reminded Pullus of two salient realities for a Centurion; the men were always watching, and just because they did not have much education, it did not mean they were unintelligent and incapable of drawing conclusions from scanty clues.
As the ranker went dashing off, Pullus reached Gemellus, asking, “Where’s Fabricius?” Gemellus’ answer was nothing more than vaguely pointing to a cluster of tents, and while Pullus could see several of his men, the Optio was not one of them, causing him to mutter an oath, but to Gemellus, he said, “I don’t have time to go looking for him, so I need you to do it. I’m going to the First now, so he’s in command.” Gemellus nodded, but then Pullus realized he had not been clear, and he had no desire for his Optio to go seeking out the man he would understandably think was the Centurion in command when the Pilus Prior was absent, he added, “And he’s to go to Princeps Prior Licinius if there’s a problem while I’m gone, not Pilus Posterior Vespillo. Is that clear?”
Gemellus’ face was always partially obscured by the wolf headdress every man of his status wore, but Pullus saw enough of it to read the surprise, yet to his credit, the Signifer did not ask any questions, saying simply, “Yes, Pilus Prior. I’ll go let him know.”
Pullus was already moving as he nodded his thanks, walking in what was a more northerly direction than northwest towards the First Cohort, but while Gemellus was idly curious, he had other things to do, and he was just a couple of steps behind his Pilus Prior, though heading in a different direction as he went to find Fabricius. Gemellus’ Centurion was not disoriented; he deliberately moved straight ahead because he wanted to get a glimpse of the Second Cohort, but when he realized that they had not penetrated this far into the camp, he grinned, relishing the thought of letting Macer know that his boys had gotten deeper into the camp more quickly than the Second. Once he determined this was the case, he veered to his left in the general direction of the First Cohort, and before he had gone another dozen paces, his eyes were streaming and he was cursing, although it was in between coughs. In a short span of time, more men had indulged themselves, and just from his position, he counted at least a dozen columns of smoke and fire in an arc that encompassed the part of the camp the Third had been assigned to clear. Between the physical effects from the smoke and his distraction as he wondered when Sacrovir was going to do something about Maluginensis’ growing ineptitude, he only became aware that there was a potential threat by movement that he caught out of the corner of his eye, but from a direction that indicated it was not Romans. Stopping, it took him a moment to see the four figures, coming directly towards him from the opposite, northern side of the camp, immediately knowing these were Cherusci, despite being partially obscured by smoke. I expected this, he thought ruefully; I knew they’d be coming back in this direction, but I fucking forgot. He understood the prudent thing would be to move back in the direction of his own Cohort, his best guess being that he was now directly in front of his Third Century, but instead, he stood there, drawing his gladius.
Whether it was that movement, or they had just gotten close enough that their view was not obscured by tents and shelters Pullus had no way of knowing, yet like him, they also came to a stop. Still too far away to make out much detail, one thing that was immediately obvious was that one of the men was taller and broader than the others, appearing to be at least Pullus’ size, if not bigger, which did not happen often. From where he was standing, what he could not see because of a pair of tents obscuring his vision was that the reason the Cherusci had come to a stop had nothing to do with him; because they remained motionless, he resumed moving and rounded the last tent to see five men he recognized from his Third Century, standing in a rough line facing the Cherusci. In the span of a heartbeat, he took in the scene and understood what was happening. These rankers, who he recognized all belonged to
the same section, although he was not sure which one it was, had gone wandering off to ransack the tents their Century would be clearing but were making sure they got there first. That the four Cherusci had been heading this direction was what had stopped them, and as he approached from behind, Pullus felt his anger growing, thinking, First Vespillo and now Licinius can’t keep their men under control?
