Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  As a result of his close relationship with his father, Porcinus had more of an idea than almost every other Centurion in the Legion, with perhaps the exception of the Primus Pilus Posterior, who was literally just a heartbeat away from bearing the same responsibility as the commander, the real burden of a Primus Pilus. It had become a tradition, when Pullus was still the Primus Pilus of the 10th, for Porcinus to share the evening meal the night before a likely battle with Pullus, Quintus Balbus, the Primus Pilus Posterior, and Sextus Scribonius, Pullus' best friend and the Secundus Pilus Prior, who was also Porcinus' direct superior back then. That gave him a unique insight into the things that occupied a Primus Pilus' mind the night before battle, but he could only imagine what was running through Vettus' mind at this moment. What he did know was that his ruminations did have one salutary effect; he was so intent on making sure he thought of everything he needed to remember that he had no time to be consumed with nerves. As the rhythmic tramping sound of a Legion on the march punctuated the air, which, even with the cold, raised a fine veil of dust, although it didn't seem to rise very far, Porcinus watched his men. While some were talking quietly, it was almost always to just the man next to them, the man with whom he would be standing, side by side to face whatever was coming. Porcinus knew from experience that none of the men would be able to remember what they had been talking about, after the fight, if it happened. Just the act of conversation was how some men girded themselves, indulging in a routine matter where the act itself was the important thing. In this manner, a man reassured himself, and those around him, that he wasn't overcome with fear, that his wits were about him and he was able to engage in talk, even if it was desultory.

  Porcinus did take the time to pause from his spot at the head of the Century, first to exchange a quiet word with his Optio, Ovidius, then to wait for the rest of his Centurions. Immediately behind his own First Century came his Pilus Posterior, Publius Canidius, a swarthy man with wiry black hair that covered almost his entire body, which had earned him the nickname Urso. Where Porcinus was tall and lithe, Urso was the polar opposite, looking very much like one of the barrels that the army packed the salted pork into, with the only difference being he had arms and legs, the former sticking out at an angle from his body because of his massive chest. Like his namesake, he was almost as strong, although despite appearances to the contrary, Urso had a first-rate mind, and a devious streak to go along with it. Add to that the fact that Urso was an extremely ambitious man, and most importantly, had been sure the post of Pilus Prior of the Fourth Cohort was his, meant that out of all his Centurions, Porcinus trusted Urso the least. However, not at moments like this; of all the things Urso was, he was a good Centurion, and while Porcinus didn't like to admit it even to himself, was more than capable of running the Cohort. Therefore, it didn't surprise Porcinus to see Urso's Century march by looking determined, and more importantly, ready. Porcinus and Urso only exchanged a brief word, the Pilus Prior telling Urso that if it was possible, he would hold a meeting before they went into action, then the Second Century was gone. Normally, like every Cohort and Legion, the order of march was mixed up from day to day, mainly to keep men from the same Centuries in close proximity for day after day, where small grievances and disputes could fester. While Porcinus had never seen it happen, at least for that reason, he had heard from the older Centurions and even rankers whose Legate or Primus Pilus had been unwise, lazy, incompetent or a combination of the three, and had witnessed it.

  Today was different, though, because of the anticipated contact that had been expected at Littamum, so that they were marching in Century order, meaning it was the Third that came next. Leading this Century was Aulus Munacius, a former veteran of the 10th who had chosen to retire rather than suffer the ignominy and humiliation inflicted on what to most of the Republic was the most celebrated and famous Legion, at the hand of Augustus himself. It was a topic that was never spoken of, at least in the ranks of the Legions currently marching, but it still rankled men like Munacius, and to a lesser extent, Porcinus. Augustus had held the fact that the 10th had served under Marcus Antonius against them, insisting that this had been a sign of disloyalty, ignoring the simple fact that the 10th had never been given a choice. After Philippi, while the two men who ruled Rome, three if you counted the non-entity Lepidus, divided up the entirety of the Roman Republic and all its provinces between them, they had casually decided which Legions would march for each member of what was officially known as the Committee of Three for Ordering the State. It had never occurred to any man in the 10th, or any of the Legions for that matter, that a matter in which they had no say would be held against them later. When the second enlistment of the 10th ended, those men who had been part of the second dilectus sixteen years before, of which Munacius was one, were told that if they chose to re-enlist they would be combined with the 10th Legion that had marched under Augustus, or as he was known back then, Octavianus Julius Caesar. Like many of his comrades, Munacius had opted to retire, despite the fact that he was only in his mid-thirties at the time. Yet, here he was, fifteen years later, almost fifty, but tough as the leather of an old caligae, with a slight build that belied a strength that made him feared by his men. His story, when asked, was one that Porcinus had heard many times; he was a better Legionary than a farmer, so when the dilectus, the recruiting party that was enlisting for the 8th Legion just a couple of years after the disbandment of the 10th, Munacius had joined up as a leader of a tent section. He had been an Optio in the 10th, which was how Porcinus had known him, and it wasn't long before Munacius earned a promotion to that spot. When he had the chance, he had offered him a spot as the Centurion in command of the Third Century, and if Porcinus trusted Urso the least, it was the exact opposite with Munacius, although that didn’t extend to the pair being close friends.

  Next came the Princeps Posterior, Vibius Pacuvius, just a couple of inches shorter than Porcinus, making him among the tallest of all the ranks in the Cohort, but he was broader than Porcinus. Except where Porcinus was all muscle, Pacuvius had a soft look about him, but while it was true that he loved his food, and wine, he was as strong as his sheer bulk indicated. In stark contrast to his slightly portly build, his face was made hard looking, even savage, by the livid scar that started on his forehead above his right eye and moved downward across the bridge of his nose. Although he still had his left eye, it was a milky white in color, while the blade that had cut into him had done some sort of damage that made the eye constantly weep, which as Porcinus had learned, could be very distracting. It didn't mar his abilities. However, Pacuvius was also good friends with Urso, which Porcinus didn't hold against him, yet it did make him wary about the man. Like the preceding Centuries, his men were clearly ready, and Porcinus exchanged a word or two with some of the more veteran members, making sure to use their names as he called on them to be prepared. Porcinus was beginning to think twice about his decision to meet with every Centurion, because it meant that he would have to run, and quickly, to be back at the head of his Cohort, and he wasn't as young as he once had been.

  Instead, he fell in step with Gnaeus Corvinus, the Hastatus Prior, essentially repeating everything he had told the other Centurions. Corvinus was a Spaniard, like Porcinus, and had grown up in the same province, Baetica, although at the opposite end from where Porcinus' farm was located. That was where the similarities between the two ended. Where Porcinus was as devoted to his family as a Centurion of Rome could be and still perform his duties, Corvinus had never had a relationship with a woman that wasn't measured in watches. Porcinus, following the example of his father and his Pilus Prior Scribonius, didn't drink much wine, although he knew that for appearances sake he had to be seen every so often in one of the wineshops in Siscia, standing his Centurions for a round of drinks. Corvinus spent as much time inebriated as possible, although it had never impinged on his ability to do his duty. Finally, while Porcinus was a stern but fair commander, Corvinus was known for the liberal use of the vitus,
the vine stick that was the symbol of command carried by every Centurion. Despite this, his men loved him, because he came from the same gutter that they did, and for the most part shared the same pursuit of pleasure and debauchery. And as unalike as the two were, Porcinus counted Corvinus as his closest friend, not just in the Cohort, but the Legion. They both shared an irreverence for some aspects of life in the army, and they both loved their men in a way that neither of them could ever put into words, let alone share them with another.

  Therefore, it was natural that Porcinus spent a bit more time with Corvinus before stopping to let the final Century reach him. Tiberius Verrens, the Hastatus Posterior, was the newest of the Centurions in the Fourth Cohort, having been in the post for only a year. And he was the youngest of Porcinus' Centurions, at thirty-one. He was also not Porcinus' choice; in one of their most vigorous disagreements, Primus Pilus Vettus had insisted that Verrens be put into that slot when it became open. So far, however, Verrens had shown himself to be solid, but this would be his first major test as a Centurion of the first line. Like Porcinus, Verrens had been in the Seventh Cohort, and, at one time, had been Vettus' Optio, and while Porcinus understood and appreciated Vettus' loyalty to a subordinate, there were disquieting rumors about Verrens that were the reason Porcinus had been given pause to select him for the Sixth Century. Nevertheless, this wasn't the time to worry about it, Porcinus knew, so like he did with the others, he kept his talk with Verrens brief. Then, taking a deep breath, dreading the effort he was about to make, Porcinus began trotting back up the column to reach his Century.

  Whoever was in command of the Rhaeti warband that had moved from Littamum to Sebatum was either inexperienced, or was grossly overconfident. That, at least, was the conclusion that Porcinus came to when he was informed that the Rhaeti seemed content to wait for the advancing Romans to come to them, on ground that favored the Roman way of fighting. Although the valley ran along an east-west axis, just before reaching the valley where Sebatum was located, the narrow valley carved by the river turned north and ran in that direction for a bit more than two miles, before turning back to the west. This was the opening into the valley and, by the standards of the countryside they were marching through, this valley was quite wide and almost flat, with only a couple of low hills in between the larger mountains that formed it. The station turned out to be more substantial than Littamum, and when he thought about it later, Porcinus thought that it was actually a nice spot that would probably grow into at least a small town. The station was located at the far end of the valley, which Porcinus had estimated was about three miles in width and four miles in length. Where the Rhaeti commander had made his error, for which he and his men would pay a dear price, was in not arraying his men at the point where the valley changed direction from north back to west. At this spot, the width of the valley was less than a mile, and the slope to the Romans' right was steep, while their left flank was anchored by the river. Within these confines, the disparity in numbers between the Rhaeti wouldn't have meant as much. Compounding his error, the commander also hadn't thought it prudent to post any kind of lookout on the hill that blocked the view to the east. That gave Drusus and the army the time to stop, hidden away from the Rhaeti, and conduct a quick conference, where it was decided that the width of the valley called for more of a front than two Cohorts. Porcinus was relieved and disappointed at the same time, but then Vettus told him that the Fourth Cohort was to stay next to the First, meaning that it was a certainty that they would face the Rhaeti.

  The Romans appeared, at least from the Rhaeti leader's perspective, out of nowhere. One moment he and his men had been enjoying the fruits of their attack; this settlement had quite a few more women than the last one, and there had been three inns instead of one. Naturally, this meant more wine, and his men had fought hard, even if it was against only fifty auxiliaries. They hadn't even killed all of them; their commander, an auxiliary Centurion, had ordered his men to throw down their swords when there were a little more than twenty of them left. Obviously, they hadn't heard what the Rhaeti had done at Littamum, or the Centurion had lost his nerve. These men he was saving for later, to make an example of and to show Rome that it didn't own Rhaetia as they thought. As far as the rest of the civilians, perhaps two hundred total, he hadn't yet decided whether he would put them to the sword, if only because there was a fair number of them. Still, in the back of his mind was the idea that perhaps it was better to let them live, sending them south into Roman territory to spread the word that Rhaetia was free. Before he could ruminate further, however, a series of excited and alarmed shouts made him turn to see a group of his men, who had been busy looting one of the outlying buildings to the east, pointing and gesticulating back up the valley. Even as the leader began moving in their direction, one of his warriors came dashing towards him, except it took a moment for him to understand what his fellow tribesman was shouting. Once he did, he froze in his tracks.

  "Romans! In the valley! They're already arrayed for battle!"

  In yet another mistake in a day that was filled with them, the leader's mind went as motionless as his body, his mouth hanging open as he struggled to absorb this devastating news. How did they get here so quickly? They were already formed for battle? What should he do? Order his men to fight? Or was this a moment for discretion, to flee to fight another time? His warrior stood uncertainly, shifting from one foot to the other as he stared at his leader, waiting for something, anything, to come out of his mouth. The warrior would never be able to guess how long they stood together, him waiting for orders, the other with no idea what to do. But it was the leader's hesitation that basically made the decision for all of them, always the worst alternative for a commander. Once he snapped out of his fog, he saw that the Romans were barely a mile away, arranged in their damnably neat rows, marching in inexorable and oppressive unison. Even as he watched probable defeat and death approach, a part of his mind admired the discipline and precision that those Roman bastards represented, and he wished that his own men had even a modicum of it.

  "Go alert the rest of the men," he finally croaked. "We stand and fight."

  In yet another slight delay, the warrior stood staring in disbelief, then risked another glance over his shoulder, with the irrational fear that somehow since the last time he had looked in their direction, the entire Roman force had managed to sneak up on him.

  Seeing the man's hesitation was the only thing that snapped the leader back to reality, and despite the lead ball that seemed to be burrowing deeper into his gut as he recognized that he was making a bad decision, his pride made him snap, "Go. Now! We're going to teach these Romans a lesson they won't forget."

  Finally, the warrior left, thinking bitterly that there would indeed be a lesson given this day, but he was fairly sure who would be doing the teaching, and it wasn't the Rhaeti.

  From his spot to the immediate left of the Third Century of the First Cohort, Porcinus watched the sudden flurry of movement as the barbarians finally recognized what was happening and reacted to it. Even from this distance of perhaps three-quarters of a mile, from the way men were dashing about, it was easy to tell that they had been surprised, and as they drew ever closer, Porcinus saw the telltale signs of an enemy very close to panic before the first javelin had flown their way.

  "Look at 'em, boys," he called out loudly enough for at least his Century to hear. "They're already running about like scared rabbits! This should be an easy day to get our swords wet! I don't know about yours, but mine is thirsty!"

  As he expected, this was met with a roar of approval, but he was slightly surprised that the men of the First Cohort to his right, taking up twice the amount of space because they were twice the size, responded as well. By his nature, Porcinus didn't normally indulge in such bravado; while like most men of the Legions, there was almost an intoxication that took over in battle, before the actual fighting started, he didn't find himself feeling like a dog, straining at the leash, eager to bound forward to im
pose his will on another man. That had been one of his father's many gifts when it came to warfare, a raging fury where it seemed that Pullus had built up in his mind a whole chain of events that the enemy facing him had perpetrated against him, so that by the time the cornu sounded the charge, he hated his opponents with a passion that ran white-hot. Porcinus was more cerebral, in the mold of his former Pilus Prior Scribonius, although he had experienced moments in a fight when it seemed as if there was liquid fire running through his veins, and his sword sang a song of sweet and deadly music. Those occasions had always been reserved for the most desperate fighting in which he participated, but he didn't think today would be one of those days, although one never knew. Regardless of his own feelings, Porcinus had long since learned that most men responded to the kind of words he had just shouted, and if it gave his men an edge in battle that saw them walk off the field under their own power, he would engage in every trick that helped.

  Somewhere in the First Cohort, a man began rapping his sword against his shield in a rhythm that matched the steps of the men, which was instantly picked up so that it became a thundering punctuation that had been the notice to the men standing across from whatever Legion that faced them that their death was at hand for decades, if not centuries. It was the sound of Rome's Legions about to engage in something that was, above all else, their business, the dealing of death and destruction, and while the pre-battle rituals of tribes like the Rhaeti made more noise, and were blood-curdling in their own way, this deceptively simple pattern of sound was all the more terrifying. It sent a signal of detachment, almost boredom, that this was all the Legions needed to prepare themselves for what all men knew, on both sides, was a fury of noise, sights, smells, and death, just moments away. Up and down the front ranks, Porcinus could hear other Centurions calling out to their own men, giving last-minute reminders to watch their spacing, to remember to brace the man in front of them, or they were shouting encouragement like Porcinus had done, so there was a rippling roar as each Century went through their own particular pre-battle ritual.