by R. W. Peake
Pullus and the Fourth Cohort had just reached the spot where Pedo had changed the direction of march, and while none of them had been told the reason for this, it did not take long for men to begin speculating, which was not restricted to the rankers.
Pitching his voice low, Tetarfenus asked Pullus, “Do you know anything about the northern edge of this fucking forest? I’m trying to remember if we’ve marched around here, but I can’t.”
Pullus considered, trying to recall whether or not they had actually marched through this area before, but he could not remember either, although he did offer, “I know that as we get closer to the coast, it flattens out and gets marshier.”
Tetarfenus nodded, remembering this to be true, then after thinking for another moment, he mused, “I think that we actually did pass through, but it was in the winter, so it wasn’t too bad.”
The chatter was interrupted by the sudden sounding of a cornu, faint but audible, coming from somewhere up near the head of the column, which, as was the custom, was relayed by the Corniceni marching in the following Cohorts, so that even before it was Poplicola’s turn to play the same series of notes, the men of the Fourth at least knew that there had been some sort of contact up ahead, instantly charging the atmosphere and stopping all of the normal chatter. Exchanging a glance with Tetarfenus, Pullus said nothing but did move outward slightly from the column, looking ahead in a vain attempt to see something, anything that might give him an idea of what was going on.
“All right, you lazy cunni!” Vespillo shouted suddenly. “Keep your eyes open! Watch the flanks! No telling what these devious savages have in mind!”
This had the desired effect, with the men on the outer files immediately turning their attention to the underbrush nearest to them. They had entered the thick forest that Gaesorix and the cavalry had entered not long before, every one of them understanding to one degree or another depending on their longevity that this was perfect terrain for an ambush. Since they had no idea how long this stretch lasted, it was a practical guarantee that the tension increased with every step, and Pullus was not immune, feeling the trickle of cold sweat running down the center of his back as his eyes continued moving from one clump of underbrush to another.
“Second and seventh file!” he called out, the thought just coming to him. “I want your eyes up there!” He pointed to the trees, all of them in their full bloom of summer and providing a dense curtain that made the light much dimmer under the low-hanging branches and thick foliage than out in the open. “Leave it to these bastards to hide up in the trees!”
It was his own idea, coming to him in the moment, but just behind him, he heard Licinius repeat his order, although what was more gratifying was seeing his Pilus Prior, his head turned upward as he anxiously scanned the trees, issue the same command. Although it did not necessarily ease the tension, Pullus was certain that his men appreciated that their Centurion was thinking of them, which was confirmed when Tetarfenus gave him a silent nod of approval.
“Probably won’t amount to anything,” he admitted in just above a whisper.
“Probably not,” Tetarfenus matched his tone, “but even if it does, we won’t be surprised.”
Although the pace had noticeably slowed, it was still steady, at least for a span of perhaps five hundred heartbeats, until there was another disturbance from up ahead, except this time, it was not a cornu, at least at first. There was a flurry of movement up the column that, while it caught Pullus’ eye, was much too far away for him to decipher what it meant, yet despite not really understanding, there was a frenetic aspect to it that, before his mind could do so, his body responded so that he suddenly found that his gladius was in his hand.
Not surprisingly, Tetarfenus saw this, asking sharply, “Centurion? What…?”
Before Pullus could respond, the flurry of movement resolved itself into a recognizable form, a galloping horse, but without a rider. Some of the Centurions ahead of Pullus thought to try to stop the animal, stepping in front of it with their arms raised, then every one of them was forced to hurl their bodies out of the way, so that by the time the animal was a hundred paces away, Pullus knew better than to even attempt it, instead stepping closer to the mass of his men in formation. The animal, a chestnut, although its coat was now almost black from sweat, swept past, the whites of its eyes showing, but it was the blood glistening on its neck and streaming from its right hindquarter, the shattered remnant of a javelin protruding from its body that explained its panicked flight. While this was the first, it was far from the last in a stream of fleeing animals, both of the four-legged and two-legged variety, as, after the initial rush of riderless mounts swept by, horses still carrying their riders began to appear. None of the cavalrymen who passed them was unwounded, and in fact, one of them, holding his stomach with a bloody hand, reeled in the saddle as he approached Pullus before, just a few paces away, he finally toppled over, hitting the ground with the kind of impact that made Pullus wince, yet he still ran to the man, who was lying face down. Even as he rolled him over, Pullus could tell by the limpness of his limbs that the man was dead, but he confirmed nonetheless, and momentarily stopped paying attention to what was going on around him as he murmured the prayer for the dead for this man he had never seen before.
“Centurion! Move to your right! Now!”
To his credit, Pullus did as Tetarfenus warned, literally throwing himself in that direction, but while he managed to avoid being bodily struck, the horse that went galloping past hit him with a glancing but extremely painful blow on one calf, causing him to let out a bellow of pain. Adding insult to the injury, he was unable to tuck his head or otherwise prepare himself for the impact with the ground, which he hit essentially face first, earning a mouthful of dirt in the process. He recovered quickly enough, coming up spitting it out and cursing with such vehemence that, even with all that was going on, he heard some of his men laugh. It was when he took a step with his left leg that he realized that the blow he had sustained was more serious than he thought, the pain lancing up his leg from his calf with such an intensity that his knee almost buckled. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he managed to turn his attention back to his right, and by doing so, saw another rider, clearly wounded, slumped over his horse, although the animal had slowed to a trot, but despite having time to move out of the way, Pullus confounded his watching men by stopping his movement towards his Century, instead turning to face the oncoming animal.
“Centurion!” Tetarfenus called out, wondering what in Hades was possessing Pullus to behave in this manner. “What are you doing?”
Pullus did not take his eyes off the approaching horse, although he did hold up both hands, having dropped his vitus, but his voice was calm as he answered, “I recognize that horse.”
Then, before the Signifer could respond, the horse came into his view, having been partially blocked from his vision by his comrades in the First Century, but it was slowing, its head up as it looked at Pullus.
Suddenly, Tetarfenus recognized not the horse but the man, gasping, “Wait! Isn’t that…?”
“Yes, it’s Prefect Batavius,” Pullus replied, making sure he kept his voice calm, while the horse slowed, first from the trot, then to a walk. “Easy, easy boy,” Pullus murmured, making sure he kept his voice low-pitched, using the kind of tone that he had picked up from men like his father and others who had extensive experience with horses, back when he was learning to ride as a youngster. “It’s all right. I just want to help your Dominus.” Swallowing the lump that formed in his throat, brought on by the sight of the blood that covered Gaesorix’s left side, starting from mid-chest and covering his thigh, Pullus called out, “Gaesorix? Can you hear me?”
This caused a response, in the form of a low moan, followed by the Batavian turning his helmeted head, or at least trying to do so, but he was clearly too weak to lift it from where it was resting on his horse’s neck. Pullus, alternating between talking to the horse and the Prefect, approached the animal
slowly, yet despite pawing at the ground a couple of times, it remained in its spot and allowed Pullus to come within arm’s reach.
“Gaesorix, can you hear me?” he asked, but all he got was a weak, barely perceptible nod, which was enough for Pullus to tell him, “I’m about to lift you up and off your horse, all right?”
This elicited something that sounded like a cross between a moan and some sort of mumbled response, but it did not stop the Roman from stepping so that he could touch both animal and man. Before he did anything with Gaesorix, he reached out and placed a gentle hand on the horse’s neck, feeling it flinch, but that was its only reaction, standing in place as Pullus continued making soothing sounds. Pullus did not relish doing so, but he knew he had no choice as he reached his right arm around Gaesorix’s waist, barely cognizant of the fact that the number of men who could do what he was about to do was extremely small.
“All right, I know this will hurt, but this is the only way to do it,” he explained, and he felt encouraged by another barely perceptible nod from the Batavian, his face shielded from view because it was turned in the opposite direction.
He was about to warn Gaesorix, then decided this would probably make the cavalryman tense, so, silently asking for forgiveness, he tightened his grip then, in one motion, lifted the man up out of his high-cantle saddle and pulled him towards him. Despite knowing this was likely, the scream that issued from Gaesorix’s lips made Pullus flinch, yet he maintained his grip around the man’s waist, even as his body involuntarily went rigid from a pain that Pullus could only imagine and fervently hoped he never experienced. As if it knew what to do, the horse immediately sidestepped backward and away from Pullus and his burden, enabling the Centurion to lay the Prefect down on the ground.
“Someone go get a medicus!” he barked, without thinking, but when he did not sense any movement, his attention on Gaesorix and his breathing, he looked up, his face dark with anger.
“Pilus Posterior,” Tetarfenus had crossed the distance to Pullus, “remember, they’re all the way in the rear with the baggage train.”
“Pluto’s cock,” Pullus swore bitterly, though he was not angry with his Signifer, recalling this. Standing erect, he thought rapidly, then called to his Century, “Who here knows how to ride a horse?”
It was certainly, if not unusual, then an unexpected request, and for a moment, none of his men seemed disposed to answer, but then a hand went up, albeit in a very tentative manner, in the middle of the formation.
Thankful that he recognized the man, Pullus beckoned to him, ordering, “Come here, Plancus.” Naturally, the ranker did as he was ordered, and as soon as he reached his Centurion, Pullus leaned over and grabbed one of the trailing reins of Gaesorix’s horse, thrusting it at Plancus. “I want you to go to the rear, find Alex. He’s not a full medicus, but he’s got some training. And,” he added, this being the most important thing, “he knows the Prefect. Tell him what’s happened, and he’ll do whatever’s needed to be done to keep him alive, if the gods will it.”
To his credit, Plancus did not hesitate, although he did not lunge at Gaesorix’s horse to mount it, approaching slowly, extending the hand holding the rein in front of the animal’s nose. Unfortunately, this was all the time Pullus could give to the situation, and he hobbled over to the Century, his attention returning back to what was taking place up the column. He was just in time to see, just ahead of the golden eagle of his Legion carried by their Aquilifer Marcus Camerinus, the 14th moving forward, while Sacrovir, and the rest of not just the 1st Legion but the rest of the army behind them, stayed put. Although there were still horsemen moving up both sides of the column, these troopers appeared to be largely unwounded, but it was the manner in which they refused to even glance in the direction of the men of the Legion that told more of the story.
“What now?” Tetarfenus asked, but Pullus did not answer, distracted between the pain in his calf, comforting Gaesorix, and the larger situation, although he still kept his gaze towards the front.
Realizing that an answer was expected, he said absently, “Now we wait, I suppose.”
None of them were counting the number of heartbeats that elapsed, and there was inevitable disagreement later about how long the rest of the army waited, as the 14th, whose Primus Pilus had decided on his own to go to the aid of the cavalry force, which was obviously in serious trouble, marched away. The only matter of universal agreement was the result, although enough time elapsed for Plancus to return, with Alex, who had obviously been informed of not only the reason for his summons but the identity of the wounded man, riding behind him. Sliding off, Alex did not hesitate, running over to where Pullus was now kneeling next to Gaesorix, having returned to the Prefect’s side and pulled off the Batavian’s helmet while they waited.
“How bad?” Alex asked, his face grim, but he was already reaching into the bag slung over his shoulder and withdrawing a bandage.
“Not good,” Pullus replied grimly, pointing down to a rent in the Batavian’s scale armor immediately under his ribcage.
Alex did not say anything, dropping to his knees to bend over and put his ear next to Batavius’ nose and mouth, while at the same time placing two fingers on the wounded man’s neck.
“He’s alive and breathing fine, but his pulse is very weak,” Alex reported.
“There’s not any froth in the blood.” Pullus indicated the spot where there were at least two scales missing, yet while the absence of the bubbles that were the telltale sign of a punctured lung was an encouraging sign, both men knew that if those missing scales had been pushed into Gaesorix’s body, he was doomed.
“Gaesorix.” Alex spoke more loudly than might have seemed warranted, but he had to repeat himself even more loudly before the Prefect’s eyelids even fluttered. Taking this is a positive sign, Alex continued, “I’m going to have to examine your wound now, so I’m sorry, but this will hurt.”
Gaesorix, whose eyes had come open, although they look unfocused to Pullus, did manage to whisper, “Do what you need to, Alex, and if I live, you’ll never pay for wine again.”
Alex forced a laugh as he answered immediately, “You have a deal. Now,” he glanced up at Pullus and indicated Gaesorix’s lower body, “I’m going to have the Centurion help me.”
The Batavian had closed his eyes but gave a weak nod as he clenched his jaw in anticipation, while Pullus gently yet firmly placed both hands on his thighs. Alex had extracted a rag from his bag, and he called over his shoulder for a canteen, which was provided by the nearest ranker who, like the rest of the Century, was standing and watching. Uncorking it, Alex took a sniff first, but he said nothing that might jeopardize the man who had given him the canteen, knowing that Pullus was watching with keen interest. He doused the rag, then with obvious care, began dabbing at the hole in Gaesorix’s side, but even this light touch caused the Batavian to groan and his legs tried to come up off the ground. Pullus pressed down, however, and his legs remained on the ground, but then Alex gave him a glance that warned the Centurion that worse was coming before he became more forceful in his ministrations as he began swabbing the partially congealed blood out of the wound. This time, Gaesorix did more than moan, unleashing a sharp cry of pain while the spasming of his body was violent enough that his legs were yanked from Pullus’ grasp.
“If you can’t hold his legs, then lie on him,” Alex snapped, his eyes never leaving the wound, which had suddenly begun gushing blood again.
Somewhat chagrined, but also irritated that his clerk had spoken to him in such a manner, Pullus nonetheless did as he was told, laying the mass of his torso across Gaesorix’s lower body. Alex continued his ministrations as, once the gush of blood slowed to a trickle, he used both hands to apply pressure on either side of the puckered hole in order to drain the last of the blood trapped inside the Batavian’s body cavity. Only then did he lean over so that his nose was just inches from the hole, then gave a cautious sniff, but while he said nothing, the way his body sagged and
the clear relief on his face told Pullus that the good news was that Gaesorix’s bowels had not been pierced. He knew this did not mean that the Prefect was no longer in danger of dying; he was concerned about those scales that were missing and that they might have been thrust into his body, but this was certainly good news. Alex turned his attention to Gaesorix’s face, about to inform him that the worst part was over, for the time being, but seeing that his eyes had closed again, he shook Gaesorix; when there was no response, he reached out and checked his pulse, his relief once more expressed through his posture.
“He’s passed out,” Alex informed Pullus, “so I think you can sit up now.”
Pullus did so, but before he could ask anything, there was an explosion of noise from back in the direction of what was obviously an ambush that caused him to leap to his feet, the sudden movement eliciting a sharp cry of pain caused by his injured calf that he tried to cover by adding a curse. For a second time, he could see a mass of movement, except this was on a scale much larger than the initial rush of retreating cavalry, the movement spreading across his line of sight from his right to left, although the Cohorts ahead of his blocked his view.