by R. W. Peake
From his spot, with the roadway now to his left, Pullus barely noticed any of this, his attention divided between the part of the baggage train where he knew Alex and Gaesorix were located and trying to keep his Century aligned with Vespillo’s Century, who was now to his left, and Licinius’ to his right. By the time they had halved the distance to where there was a furious struggle going on, the water was calf-deep, and every step was a struggle as their boots sank into the mud. A Legion’s initial advance to an enemy was almost always conducted at a steady marching pace, which usually confounded their enemies among the native tribes, going back to the days of Caesar, who would launch themselves into a headlong charge when they were still two hundred or more paces away. This advance, however, was even slower because of the footing and the extra resistance to the water and mud, the distance closing with such agonizing slowness that Pullus was having trouble keeping his mind on what would be happening within a span of heartbeats, his concern for Alex seeming to grow with every step he took. Finally, over the sounds of the fighting, Sacrovir’s Cornicen sounded the halt, and it caught Pullus by surprise when he realized they were now within javelin range.
“He can’t be thinking of ordering us to soften these cunni up before we go at them, can he? Centurion?”
Pullus barely noticed Tetarfenus’ query, although he shared the Signifer’s concern, but this proved unnecessary, because it was Vespillo who shouted, “Drop javelins!”
The men immediately complied, albeit in a haphazard fashion, since it was impossible for Centuries who were not directly adjacent to their Pili Priores to hear the order, so they simply copied the Century next to them when they complied. Even with all the din, the splashing sounds as his men followed the command were audible, and it was with some surprise that he realized his gladius was drawn already, though he had no memory of doing so.
“Porro!”
The verbal command issued by his Pilus Prior just happened to coincide with Sacrovir’s order to his Cornicen to sound the call issuing the order, a coordination that rarely, if ever, happened, but none of that mattered.
“At them, boys! At them! That’s ours that they’re stealing! That’s our wounded they’re killing!”
Pullus shouted this as he broke into a run, or at least tried to, as he and his comrades learned very quickly that trying to run through water required them to alter not just their stride, but made them vulnerable because it gave the Cherusci who had already turned to face them more time to prepare by arranging themselves in a line that roughly matched the width of the Roman line. When he gave his command, Pullus, like the other Centurions, was aligned with his front rank, with Tetarfenus actually waiting for a beat so that he could fall into his normal position during an assault just behind his Centurion, but as had happened before, Pullus’ longer legs meant that, even with the impediment of the water and muddy ground, he was a couple paces ahead of his Century when he came within gladius reach of the Cherusci he had selected as his first target. These Germans who were intent on stopping Pullus and his men had managed to hastily arrange themselves in a line stretching across the roadway, while their comrades behind them were still going about the business of slaughtering, although it was not just the noncombatants with the baggage train, but the oxen pulling the wagons and mules carrying the baggage for every section of four Legions. Why they were doing this would become obvious, but in the moment, all Pullus worried about was the Cherusci warrior whom he had locked eyes with as he closed, a man his own size but older, with a plaited beard in which small white bones were attached, armed with a spear and round shield. Pullus had selected him both because of his size and the fact that he was one of the few men wearing a knee-length mail vest, cinched with a belt, and had a high, conical helmet on his head, marking him as a Cherusci noble or noble’s retainer, and the thought flashed through his mind that this could be Arminius himself for all he knew.
Without thinking about it beforehand, Pullus took advantage of the extra resistance caused by mud and water to help him come an abrupt stop, a pace earlier than he had originally intended, and as he hoped, the Cherusci, anticipating the spot where this hated Roman would be, had launched a powerful thrust that hit nothing but air, the point reaching a hand’s width from the center of Pullus’ chest, whose own weapon was already moving, not in a thrust but in a sweeping downward blow across his body intended to drive his foe’s spearpoint down towards the ground, which would then enable Pullus to close and get inside its reach. He had known that the blade his father had passed down to him was a superior instrument, but in an eyeblink of time, he understood there was a difference between knowing this in a theoretical sense and in the practical manner that was demonstrated when the finely honed edge sliced through the shaft with astonishing ease, sending the broad point and foot of shaft spinning up and back towards the Cherusci while leaving the warrior with nothing more than a stout stick. Ironically, this actually gave the warrior a reprieve from the death Pullus had planned for him, because as unprepared as the German was to lose his primary weapon, the Roman was equally unready for his blade to treat the stout ash shaft like a piece of kindling, and he actually stumbled with a great splash into the spot where the Cherusci had originally expected him to be. It also helped that this was the instant where the rest of Pullus’ Century to his left and Licinius’ to his right slammed into the other Cherusci. While these collisions were always dramatic, sending men reeling backwards, with helmets and other unattached pieces of gear tumbling into the air, there was an element added in the form of a great spray of brown, filthy water that covered both attacker and defender alike.
Pullus was only vaguely aware of this because his attention was still on the Cherusci he had planned on being dead the eyeblink before, and as he regained his balance, his foe took the opportunity to draw an axe from his belt that had been partially hidden by a fur-lined cloak. Grasping it under the head, the Cherusci let the head drop so that the handle slid through his hand, tightening his grip an inch from the end while bringing it up with a smooth motion that warned Pullus his enemy had done this many, many times. This was not what almost got Pullus killed, it was the manner in which the Cherusci swept the axe up in an underhanded blow, with the blunt end facing up that was aimed for just underneath Pullus’ chin. While Pullus managed to dodge the brunt of the blow by moving his head to the right, it still managed to strike him, glancing off the edge of his jaw, and he heard someone roar with pain, yet somehow, he managed to keep his eyes on the Cherusci despite the distraction. When he thought about it later, he wondered how he had divined what was coming next since he had never seen or even heard about this maneuver before, but Pullus nonetheless anticipated that after sweeping the axe up, the Cherusci would reverse direction to bring it, edge-down, altering his aim slightly to bite into the spot between Pullus’ neck and where his mail began. To counter this, Pullus took a half-step forward while he twisted his left wrist so that his vitus was vertical but inside the Cherusci’s right arm, and when the warrior began his downward swing, it was in a perfect position for Pullus to sweep his left arm out from his body, the vitus striking the shaft of the axe and knocking it outward as the momentum carried the head of the axe harmlessly down towards the watery ground to Pullus’ left. With less than a man’s body width between them now, Pullus was confronted with the unusual feeling that came from being able to look a man directly in the eyes without having to lower his gaze, so he saw the sudden widening of them as the point of his gladius, aided by the shorter distance, managed to snake behind the German’s shield.
Feeling the brief grating resistance from the mail before the point punched deeply into his enemy’s side, he kept the plane of his blade parallel to the ground, one of the first things that all Legionaries were taught; not only did it keep the blade from being trapped by the hard cartilage of the ribs, should the thrust be high, it put the blade in the proper orientation for a disemboweling move, something that Pullus did not do in this instance, only because some part of h
im was aware that it was not his primary role to deal out death on his own. Not that there was any need to gut the man; his gladius only stopped slicing into the man’s body just below the ribs when the handguard of it slammed into the man’s side, and Pullus was blasted with what would be one of his enemy’s last breaths, washing over him in an odor of mead, garlic, and the distinct odor of rotting teeth, followed by a deep-pitched, breathless groan that Pullus barely heard over the other noise. Feeling his arm being pulled as the Cherusci fell backward, Pullus used that momentum to withdraw his blade, while his attention had already moved elsewhere, to where his first rank was struggling furiously; thrusting, parrying, and bashing their foes with the bosses of their shields. There was an added dimension to this fight, which Pullus learned firsthand when the impact of his foe’s body created enough of a splash that he got a mouthful of muddy water that caused him involuntarily take a step backward as he gagged, spitting out as much of the foul-smelling and tasting liquid as he could manage before swallowing it. Doing so had an unexpected benefit, as at the precise instant he moved backward, another spear thrust into the just-vacated space, in essentially the same manner that had occurred no more than two heartbeats earlier. The difference this time was that he did not take advantage, but he did see Tetarfenus, using the pointed end of his standard, thrust the iron tip directly into the face of this warrior, creating an explosion of blood and teeth that sent the Cherusci reeling backward, where he was savagely knocked aside by one of his own comrades who, ignoring the slain Cherusci lying face down in the reddened water, leapt into this gap with a tremendous splash of his own. Fortunately, this time, Pullus was far enough away not to have a repeat, but Tetarfenus was not so fortunate, except that rather going into his mouth, the muddy water hit him fully in the upper face, obviously blinding him. The Signifer did not lose his grasp of the standard, but in an involuntary reaction, he lifted his left hand to wipe the matter out of his eyes, with the end of the standard, now covered in blood and matter, still hovering out into the small space between the lines of combatants. In his own reflex action, Pullus simultaneously dropped his vitus so that he could grab Tetarfenus’ harness, intending to yank the Signifer, and the standard, out of danger, but, seeing the Cherusci who had unintentionally created this opportunity dropping his shield to grab for the shaft, he swung his right side towards the enemy just as his extended right arm swept downward. It was at the very end of his reach, but thanks to the massive power given to Gnaeus Pullus by the gods, and the extended reach because of his size, he saved his Century from the ignominy of losing their standard, which he would learn later was a fate suffered by several Centuries and three Cohorts, although they all proved to be temporary losses. Pullus was aided in his attempt to remove Tetarfenus when the opposing tension created by the Cherusci who was tugging on the standard was relieved by Pullus’ blade slicing through the two bones, tendons, and muscle that attached the man’s hand to his wrist, and it sent Tetarfenus staggering back with enough force that Pullus’ grasp on his harness was wrenched loose.
The Signifer managed to keep his feet, reeling backwards a couple steps, shaking his headdress-clad head several times in a last attempt to clear his vision as he gasped, “Pluto’s balls! Thank…”
“Shut up and do your job!” Pullus snapped, having already returned his attention to his men in the first rank, then placed the bone whistle around his neck and gave a long blast on it, signaling the relief.
Once he saw the last man of his first rank manage to send his foe staggering back far enough to enable that his comrade in the second rank could step into the spot the first ranker vacated by taking a pace to the right before making his way down the file to the rear of the Century to join his other first rank comrades, only then did Pullus turn his attention to the larger situation. It was difficult to do so, the spraying of muddy water caused by men doing their best to kill each other adding a further element that only added to the confusion. He caught a glimpse of Vespillo’s red crest, but when he looked to his right, he could not see Licinius, while the standard of the Third Century was slightly behind where Tetarfenus’ was located, telling Pullus that the Cherusci facing the Third had managed to push that Century back. This was not an immediate concern, but Pullus realized it was a situation he would have to watch; if Licinius’ men fell back far enough, it would expose the right flank of his Century. As matters stood, perhaps a hundred heartbeats after the initial collision, Pullus was disheartened to see that they had not managed to push the Cherusci back at all. He judged this by the sight of Alex’s wagon behind the Cherusci line, and despite risking glances in that direction several times, he had not seen anything, or anyone, for that matter, which he hoped meant that Alex had already made his escape. Returning his attention to his men, he was in time to see a man of the Second Section; he recognized that it was Marcus Balbus, reeling backward, the splintered shaft of a spear protruding from his chest, forcing his comrade behind him to use his shield to push him off to the side, where he collapsed between the files in a spray of water. Cursing, mostly at himself for waiting too long, Pullus put the whistle to his lips and blew the relief, watching as one of Balbus’ comrades paused just long enough to lean down and check, the fallen man’s face just a matter of inches above the water. Shaking his head, the ranker moved on, giving Pullus the answer, but he had no time to dwell on it because, once again, over the noise, a cornu sounded, again from Pullus’ left. By the location of the sound, he knew that it was the First Cohort, but it was the command that was being sounded that caused him to doubt he had heard correctly.
“That’s the command to withdraw! Why are we doing that?”
It was, Pullus thought, a good question, but the fact that Tetarfenus asked it told him he had not misheard, but then it sounded again.
Despite not understanding why, Pullus nevertheless bellowed, “You heard the command, boys! Wait for my signal!”
Then, he put the whistle between his teeth; he would keep it clenched in his mouth for the duration as he blew a count that enabled his men to back away from the Cherusci in a manner that would make them pay if the barbarians tried to press too closely.
He blew, then shouted around the whistle as he kept it in his mouth with his hand, “One!”
As commanded, his men performed the same kind of maneuver that they would use for relief, using their shield or a thrust of their gladius to drive their foe back a step, which Pullus marked by roaring, “Two!”
Instead of the step to the side, the men of the front rank moved their left leg backward, then brought their right foot back into the bracing position, as the men in the file behind him shuffled backward. It was slow, methodical, but for those Germans who thought this presented them a chance to kill another Roman, they were disabused of that idea quickly, usually with a quick thrust to their groin, their face, or any exposed part of their bodies. Pullus moved with his men, keeping aligned with the Third and First Century, trying to ignore that he was leaving two of his men behind, both dead, the second man unknown to him at the moment because he was facedown in the water, able only to bellow in helpless rage as he saw a Cherusci use the man’s body as a platform to get out of the water. As they withdrew, the warriors only took a few steps before stopping, jeering at their foes, shaking their weapons, and Pullus saw the rearmost men turning away now that this threat was over and begin heading for the wagons, livestock, and however many of the slaves and noncombatants were left. And, with their withdrawal, the chances of Alex’s survival lessened with every step.
Alex had done what Gaesorix ordered, but while he had gotten out of the wagon, he did not go far; in fact, he was directly beneath the Batavian under the wagon, crouching in filthy water up to his chin, grasping the gladius that he had unsheathed, throwing the scabbard away. He had never been as frightened as he was in that moment, peering out from between the wheels of the wagon; the driver had been one of the quicker thinking among the small army of noncombatants, leaping down from his seat and splashing to
wards the head of the column, where Caecina and the command group were located. He heard Demetrios’ voice, shouting for him, the panic clearly communicated, yet he did not betray his position, feeling a deep sense of shame, and he almost reached out and grabbed his fellow clerk when his voice drew closer and Alex saw the lower half of his body as he went past. But, he did not, forcing himself to maintain a clear head since he intended to disobey both his Centurion and the Prefect, although he had no idea how he was going to protect Gaesorix. Shivering as the cold from the water inevitably penetrated his body, Alex tracked the attack of the Cherusci by the sounds of the screams, shrill with fear, and the pleas begging for mercy from his fellow clerks, the section slaves, and drivers, almost all of them ending abruptly, some of them close enough he heard the gurgling, rattling noise made by men exhaling their last breath, followed by the splashing of their bodies into the dirty water. However, the sounds did not begin nearby, but gradually, they became louder, telling him that the Cherusci were methodically working their way down the baggage train; methodical for Germans, at any rate.
When he first took refuge, everyone who had fled had been moving in one direction, towards the head of the column, which made sense because of their position in the baggage train, which was in the first third, while the baggage of the 1st Legion was immediately behind those wagons carrying the wounded. Suddenly, coinciding with the sounds becoming closer, several men, most of them moaning in terror, now went splashing by in the opposite direction on either side of his wagon, giving Alex warning that the Cherusci had cut off that avenue of escape and were about to reach his part of the train, and it was because of his distraction by this that he barely noticed the sudden sound of a cornu sounding the advance from the south, somewhere beyond the head of the column. Along with the sounds of human terror, the animals were expressing their own fear; oxen that pulled the wagons with a lower-pitched, deep-throated bellowing sound that communicated the same terror that the mules, with their higher-pitched braying, were experiencing. Without any warning, the wagon above him actually lurched, except that it was backward, not just threatening to expose Alex’s position next to the right front wheel but putting him in danger of being trampled by the pair of oxen who were obviously reacting to someone approaching. He managed to react in time, scrambling through the water to maintain his spot next to the solid wheel since it provided the most cover, moving along with it while keeping his eyes on the legs of the oxen as he did so, and he saw a pair of human legs splashing through the water, instantly knowing that they belonged to a Cherusci by the brown bracae the man was wearing. The Cherusci stopped suddenly, then Alex heard him bellowing something in his tongue that, while he did not understand, Alex assumed was a response to some sort of command, judging by the tone. Whether this was why the Cherusci did what he did he had no way of knowing, but he continued watching as the Cherusci resumed his movement, stopping next to the front legs of the right-hand animal. There was a meaty sound that was instantly followed by a bellow of agony, the oxen collapsing down onto its knees with a tremendous splash, the blood spurting from its neck mixing with the muddy water in a spreading red stain. For the span of a heartbeat, Alex waited for the partially seen Cherusci to slaughter the other animal, but instead, the warrior moved away from the wagon, and he realized there was no need for them to kill every animal; the wagon was now effectively immobilized and could not be moved without the dead animal being cut from the traces.