by R. W. Peake
“Is that….?”
Pullus could tell that Alex had stood up and was standing behind him, but before the clerk could finish, sudden shouts from behind them made them whirl about to see Germanicus, his helmet on, the black feather crest laid almost flat from the wind created as he galloped his horse towards them. Alarmed that in the Propraetor’s haste, he would not see Gaesorix’s prone figure, without thinking, Alex leapt over his body to stand in between the wounded man and Germanicus, but the Propraetor had obviously seen and veered wide to pass by several paces away. In the heartbeat of time it took for this to happen, Pullus saw Germanicus glance down at Gaesorix, the Batavian’s face upturned and deathly pale, but despite not even slowing, there was no mistaking the look of recognition as Germanicus swept past. Returning his attention to the wounded man, he saw that Alex had already dropped back to his knees and was struggling to raise Gaesorix up to a sitting position, the rolled bandage in his hand. Pullus bent over and grabbed the Batavian’s shoulders, but he was looking over his shoulder towards his First Cohort as he did, watching as Germanicus drew up and began making emphatic gestures, first at Sacrovir, then in the direction of the 14th, although they were too far away to make out anything other than a general sense of movement that bore no resemblance to the normal, orderly method of a Roman Legion advancing into battle.
“Finished,” Alex announced, and with Pullus’ help, they lowered Gaesorix back to the ground.
When he saw his Primus Pilus salute Germanicus, Pullus moved towards his Century as he shouted, “Drop your packs and unlash your shields, boys! It looks like…”
He did not finish before the Cornicen of the First blew the series of notes that was the preparatory command before an advance into battle, and there was a brief clattering noise and flurry of movement as his men obeyed.
Turning to Alex, Pullus said urgently, “You need to get Gaesorix back to the baggage train, now.”
“It might kill him,” Alex protested, and Pullus countered, “And staying here might get him and you killed. If the gods will it, he’ll survive. But,” he walked over to Alex and grabbed the clerk by his shoulder, squeezing it hard enough to make him wince as he said in a tone only Alex could hear, “you’re not going to sacrifice yourself, Alex. I’m ordering you as your Centurion that, if you have to, you’ll leave him and get to the rest of the army.” Alex did not look Pullus in the eye, so he shook the clerk with enough force to make his head jerk back and forth as he whispered harshly, “Swear it, Alex! Swear on the black stone that you’ll do as I say!”
Alex did look at Pullus then, just as the cornu sounded the second call to begin the advance, but Pullus could just hear him reply, “I will, Gnaeus. I swear it.”
“Good.”
Pullus patted him on the shoulder, then with a last glance at Gaesorix, half-limped, half-trotted over to stand next to his Century as they followed Germanicus into whatever lay ahead.
The attempt by the 14th to save Pedo’s cavalry began to fall apart almost immediately, beginning when their Primus Pilus took a spear thrust through the eye, while the Primus Pilus Posterior was seriously wounded at roughly the same time. Using cover and advancing in rushing attacks of a few hundred men in each group, Arminius’ warband seemed to be coming from almost every direction, while the reeling withdrawal of the cavalry shattered every attempt by the Centurions of the 14th to get their men into battle array as panicked horses and their riders sent men sprawling. Within no more than a hundred heartbeats, Legionaries and cavalry had become hopelessly intermingled, while Arminius’ warriors stabbed, slashed, and cut down their foes with such ferocity that what had started out as a disciplined, veteran Legion quickly became little more than a disheartened, panic-stricken mass of men whose only collective thought was to escape. This was what confronted Germanicus as, still on horseback, he rode alongside Sacrovir and his Century, who were moving at a brisk trot towards the fighting, leading the rest of the First Cohort. Horses, both ridden and otherwise, were still streaming past, although as fleeing animals tend to do, they veered around the approaching column, while, from his vantage point, Germanicus could see what, if one was unaware of the circumstances, looked like a writhing, rolling mass of red and gray water heading in their direction.
“Form line! Form line! Form line!” Germanicus began bellowing this, and as he did so, he was pointing with his gladius to a spot off to his right. “First Cohort, next to that stand of trees! Double Centuries!”
Like an experienced Primus Pilus should, Sacrovir had anticipated the command, and had already shouted over his shoulder as he pivoted and headed for that spot, while the other Centuries of the First followed his example, with the Fourth Century turning at the same time as the First, thereby placing them the prescribed fifty paces behind the front line of three Centuries.
Without being ordered to do so, Macer led his Century so they were aligned with the Third of the First, while his Princeps Posterior did the same as the Princeps Posterior of the First Cohort. By doing so, they moved with a rapidity that, afterwards, no officer of the 1st could ever recall doing before in aligning for battle, albeit not without difficulty when the first of the fleeing men of the 14th reached them.
“In between the files! Run between the files, you bastards!”
This, and orders like this filled the air, bellowed by both officer and ranker alike in the Centuries, who bore the brunt of the unintentional onslaught from their fleeing comrades. The first men of the 14th to reach the leading edge of the 1st were, not surprisingly, those most out of their minds with fear, and were either unwilling or unable to heed the shouts of their comrades so that, all along the front rank, Legionaries slammed into the outthrust shields of fellow Romans. Most of them bounced off and went reeling backwards because the man in the ranks was being bolstered by his comrades from behind, but some of the defenders were unlucky, either because they had not settled into a defensive posture and braced themselves, or their panicked comrade hurled themselves at them with unusual force in a mindless attempt to flee the advancing Germans. Because they were positioned roughly athwart the path that had been created by the cavalry earlier, the Second and Third Centuries of the Third Cohort and all three lead Centuries of the Fourth bore the brunt in terms of the largest number of fleeing men.
“Move between the files!” Like Vespillo, Pullus had begun bellowing this, but when one of his men of the First Section was bowled over, creating a ripple effect that sent the man bracing him stumbling backward as the fleeing ranker went sprawling on the ground in between them, without warning, Pullus felt the beast within him come to life. Stepping out in front of his Century, he moved to the middle of the formation, then, with his gladius drawn, Pullus pointed it at the next group of approaching men as he roared, “IF ONE OF YOU FUCKING COWARDS TOUCHES ONE OF MY BOYS, I’LL GUT YOU!”
Obviously, he was believed, the nearest of the fleeing men twisting their bodies sideways as they went staggering past their comrades, who had turned slightly themselves to widen the gaps. Nothing was said, either by the fleeing Romans or the men of Pullus’ Century, although it was the 14th’s rankers who refused to meet the gaze of their comrades. Pullus, still standing protectively in front of his men, divided his attention between those men of the 14th who had broken and were fleeing, and the remnant of the Legion that had managed to either keep or regain their cohesion no more than two hundred paces away. Their presence served to delay the bulk of the Cherusci who, while they had the numbers to flow around these men of the 14th, were unwilling to do so and thereby place them in their rear as they continued towards the waiting 1st. As Pullus watched, the end Centuries of what he estimated to be a line of about three full and one half of a Cohort, albeit from first, second, and third lines, responding to the Cherusci attempts to get around their flanks, gradually bent back on each other to form an orbis, in the middle of which Pullus got a glimpse through the legs of the men still in the fight of prone figures, along with men clutching some part of their bodies b
ut who were sitting up. Also present there within the circle was the 14th’s eagle standard, but while it was difficult to see with any clarity, Pullus was certain that whoever was holding it was not wearing the distinctive headdress of the Aquilifer, meaning that the man was either dead or so severely wounded he could not perform his duty. With the threat of being outflanked ended for the moment, there was a moment of confusion on the part of the German warriors who had placed themselves in between the 1st and the orbis of the 14th, and Pullus could see the warriors who were not immediately across from the other Romans glancing over their shoulders in their direction. From his perspective, this was the perfect moment to advance, yet when he glanced down the line, he saw Germanicus, still mounted, but while he was clearly engaged in urgent conversation with Sacrovir, the top of his white crest just barely visible through the mass of men, no cornu command issued.
“Come on, let’s go,” Pullus muttered, splitting his time between watching the Germans, those nearest to the 1st having turned about to face them, forming their own version of a line that ran at least three or four men deep, and his commander. “What is he waiting for?”
As if in response to a plea from one of his Centurions that there was no way he could have heard, Pullus saw Germanicus thrust his gladius straight up in the air, holding it there for a heartbeat, before bringing it down in a chopping movement to point directly at those Cherusci who were trying to get themselves organized to face the 1st. The cornu command sounded the instant the Propraetor’s arm went parallel to the ground, causing a moment of embarrassment for Pullus, because he was forced to scramble out of the way as his men, along with the rest of the leading line of the 1st obeyed the horn’s signal with the precision that came from endless watches of mind-numbing drill.
When he reached Tetarfenus’ side, slightly out of breath, the Signifer, without taking his eyes off the waiting Cherusci, said in a slightly mocking manner, “Glad you could join us, Centurion.”
“Oh, go piss on your boots,” Pullus countered, using his father’s favorite retort without thought, an expression he had never uttered before he joined the Fourth Cohort, and like Tetarfenus, his eyes were on the men arrayed across his front, their facial features becoming more distinct. “They fucked up,” he commented. “They should have come for us instead of waiting.”
There was no reply, but he saw Tetarfenus’ head nodding as, marching in unison, six Cohorts of the 1st Legion, led by Germanicus, came to rescue the remaining men of the 14th. As the distance decreased, even for Pullus it became more difficult to see beyond those Germans who were facing his Century, except for the gilt gold eagle that was still visible above the heads of the combatants, telling him that their comrades in the 14th who stood and fought were still doing so. At this point in the advance, the pace was still slow and measured, which every man knew would be changing within a matter of heartbeats, and Pullus heard both his men and those in the First Century to his right muttering their prayers to the gods now, while they still had the breath to do so. His own heart was hammering in his chest, his mouth dry and, although outwardly, he tried to present a demeanor that did not betray the slightest hint of nerves or fears, his mind was racing, not with thoughts of the dangers that awaited him, but the things he had to account for in order to do his job.
This was what prompted him to call out loudly enough to be heard over the roaring challenge of the Cherusci who were working themselves up into their frenzy, “Wipe your throwing hands, boys! Don’t want sweaty palms, not now!”
He did not bother glancing over, but he saw the flurry of movement from the men within the range of his vision as they hurriedly shifted the javelin they were holding in their right hands to their left, using a finger and a thumb to grasp the missiles while the other three fingers were wrapped around the shield, an awkward situation that lasted just long enough for them to wipe their palms on their tunics. It did not take more than a couple of heartbeats, but they were just in time for the next command to come, again signaled by the command cornu, and the line came to an abrupt halt.
“Ready javelins!”
While it was not with the same precision as their halt, there was a rippling motion as men all along the line drew their arms back in the first movement before unleashing a volley, the points seemingly aimed for the sky, each of them quivering to one degree or another as the men holding them fought the dread that produced a unique smell that every warrior could instantly identify, the rank odor of fear sweat.
The span of time between the next call of the cornu and the bellowed command, “Release!” was less than a heartbeat, but as they had been trained, each rank threw their javelin with all their might, dropping down into a natural crouch from the effort that served as the signal for the next rank to hurl their own, so that serried rows of the dreaded Roman javelin sailed through the air, while Pullus and the other Centurions kept their eyes locked on the Cherusci, watching as their faces turned upwards, close enough to read the fear in them, while the collective noise changed from a belligerent roar to a moaning sound as each warrior tried to pick out the missile plunging back down to earth that posed the greatest danger. Inevitably, while most men guessed right and were able to block one of the missiles with their shields, a good number of them did not, misjudging the trajectory, sometimes by no more than a matter of an inch or two, which was all it took to kill or wound them. It was the latter category of men the Romans heard from then, in the form of sharp cries of pain, or more rewardingly, a gurgling, shrill scream that signaled a likely mortal wound. From Pullus’ perspective, there was a ripple in the unbroken wall of shields and armored men, with those who blocked the missile with their shield forced to discard it now, while men who stopped one, or more, with their body either fell where they stood, or went reeling backward and out of sight as the comrade behind them took their place.
Pullus, along with the other Centurions, knowing that there would not be another cornu command until the final charge, shouted the next command. “Ready javelins!”
However, even as arms were sweeping back, there was the sound of a horn; actually, several horns, but they were not Roman, emanating instead from the Cherusci, the meaning made clear when, even as the higher-pitched, wailing note was still sounding, the Germans unleashed a verbal blast of their own as they came rushing headlong at the Roman line.
“Drop your javelins and follow me!” Pullus shouted this as loudly as he could, but it was his example that his men followed, as the large Centurion broke into a run, his injury completely forgotten and knowing that standing still to receive a rushing attack, particularly from Germans, was an invitation to disaster, while his men were no more than a step behind as they unhesitatingly obeyed his command, knowing this as well.
Pullus was far from alone; every Centurion on the front line reacted in the same manner, some with less hesitation than others, but the result was that one mass of armed and armored men went rushing headlong towards another mass of men doing the same, both sides intent on destroying their enemies. Before he had gone two paces, Pullus suddenly realized that he had forgotten his vitus, which, while not as potent as a shield, for a man who trained with it, could provide a surprisingly good defense. The ground between the two onrushing forces was littered with debris in the form of fallen cavalrymen, some Legionaries who had succumbed to their wounds while fleeing, and more importantly for Pullus’ purposes, dozens of discarded shields. In fact, there was one directly in his path, and in the fraction of time he had, he considered trying to lean down and scoop it up without breaking stride, yet when the instant came, he just lifted his leg slightly higher than normal as he hurdled over it without attempting the maneuver. Not only was he not confident that he could have performed what would be a challenging move, more importantly, this was the one area where being a paid man held a distinct disadvantage; in simple terms, Gnaeus Pullus had not trained in the use of a shield to a degree that made him confident it would be more help than hindrance. In that eyeblink of time, he resigned
himself to trusting in his abilities as they were; he would have to cope without anything other than his left arm to defend himself.
When Pullus glanced up at the sun, panting from the exertion and covered in blood, none of it his, he was shocked to see that no more than a third of a watch had elapsed from the moment when the first of the cavalry came rushing back to the column, and he had no way of judging how much time had gone by since he bellowed the command to charge. Only gradually did he become aware of more than this, the next being his recognition that there was a substantial change in the quality of the sounds surrounding him. Although it had certainly not become quiet, gone were the shouts, curses, bellows of triumph and screams of agony, replaced by a lower pitched moaning sound, and he dropped his gaze from the sky to stare dumbly at the ground around him, covered with the bodies of men; living, dead, or soon to be dead, along with parts of them, and he actually noticed that a severed arm was lying atop one of his feet, the hand still clutching the splintered shaft of a spear. He absently kicked it away as he tried to refocus his mind and piece together something that would give him an idea of what had just transpired, and more importantly, what he needed to do.
“Centurion?” Saloninus’ voice made Pullus start in surprise, but he turned to face his Optio, whose face gave nothing away as he said, “I’ve got the butcher’s bill…as you ordered, sir.”
“I did?” Pullus frowned, trying to recall, but when nothing came to him, he glanced around before asking in a low tone, “Did I really, Saloninus? Or are you just saying that?”
Saloninus glanced about before he answered carefully, “You always order me to, Centurion. So,” he shrugged, “I saw you were…distracted, so I just did what you’ve always told me to do before.”
Pullus opened his mouth to press Saloninus since he had never gone into battle with the Second before, then realized that this was something that could wait, so instead, he said as matter-of-factly as he could manage, “Yes, of course you’re right. So, how bad is it?”