by R. W. Peake
"What do you want us to do with this bunch?" Urso's question pulled Porcinus from his thoughts, turning to see his Pilus Posterior jerking his thumb over his shoulder to where the prisoners were now sitting, miserable and seemingly resigned to their fate.
That appearance, Porcinus knew, was deceiving. If Drusus ordered these men be executed, as it appeared to be the case judging from what was taking place everywhere else, it was extremely doubtful they would remain passive.
"Keep an eye on them." Porcinus stared for a moment, trying to estimate how many remained, made difficult now that they were huddled together, each man seeking the simple solace of close contact with a comrade. "Your Century should be enough."
"My Century?" Urso groused. "Why mine? Why not Verrens'?"
While it was true that it was traditionally the last Century of a Cohort that was stuck with some of the more mundane, and usually unpleasant tasks, it certainly wasn't in the regulations.
In fact, Porcinus would have been inclined to agree, but something in Urso's tone irked him, prompting him to respond, "Because I said your Century will do it, that's why."
Gaius Porcinus wasn't a Centurion the men called a "yeller," which was self-explanatory; neither was he a "striper." He used his vitus judiciously, like moments before when he had stopped his men from killing essentially unarmed and helpless men, nor was he a Centurion that ordered floggings if he could avoid it. However, Urso knew his Pilus Prior well, and understood the tone in his superior's voice and what it meant. Stiffening to the position of intente, he rendered a salute that was meant to be seen by the Legionaries nearby, once more acknowledging not only Porcinus' rank, but his authority. As he left to shout at his men to spread out around the prisoners, Porcinus moved in the general direction of the mounted command group, thinking that he would find the Secundus Pilus Prior who, since the First Cohort was gone, would be the ranking Centurion in the Legion. It took some time, but he finally spotted Volusenus standing with a small group of other Centurions, and as Porcinus trotted over, he could see that most of the Pili Priores were already there.
"Glad you could join us." Volusenus was, under the best of circumstances, a normally surly man, but he clearly didn't relish the idea of being in command of the entire Legion, even if it was temporary. Without waiting for any response, Volusenus looked about, asking, "Who's still missing?"
Quickly determining that it was the Pili Priores of the Seventh and Ninth Cohort, by process of elimination as each of the Centurions present pointed out where their Cohorts were located in the wide valley, they saw that Seventh had apparently been co-opted either Drusus by or the sub-Legate Vinicius, and appeared to be involved in some sort of work in the smoking ruins of Sebatum. Meanwhile, the Ninth wasn't immediately visible, but after some intense searching, what the gathered Centurions assumed was their missing Cohort was spotted climbing up a slope on the northern side of the valley, having previously been hidden by the bulk of a smaller hill. From where they were standing, the Ninth was visible just as a series of roughly rectangular shapes, three of them leading another three, which they knew were the Centuries aligned in their normal configuration. Perhaps two stadia ahead of the Ninth was another dark mass, although this one was irregularly shaped, and Porcinus judged that this group contained perhaps slightly more than a Century, around a hundred men. Whoever was leading the Rhaeti seemed to have the idea that he and his men would climb up the steep slope of a mountain that, while it didn't have the craggy peaks of most of the mountains in this part of the world, was nonetheless extremely steep. For a moment, all the Centurions were absorbed, watching as the Pilus Prior of the Ninth drove his men, who they all knew had to be near exhaustion, in his dogged pursuit of this band of stragglers.
"I hope he knows what he's doing." Volusenus finally voiced the thought that Porcinus was sure was running through all of their minds.
He didn't know the Ninth's Pilus Prior, Quintus Maxentius, all that well, but Porcinus felt sure that he wasn't doing anything that he hadn't been ordered to do. The only thing that troubled Porcinus was who had given the command, because if it was Drusus, that was a bad sign.
When Gaius Porcinus had a chance to reflect later, he was struck by the thought that such an inconsequential action as the one that took place at Sebatum, one that would never have even been entered into the Legion diary as anything more than a skirmish if it wasn't for the presence of young Drusus, could have such a lasting and far-reaching impact. It certainly hadn't seemed that way as he and the other Pili Priores, minus the missing Cohorts, finally got their men formed up in something resembling a proper formation, even if it was missing three Cohorts. Then the men of the Seventh were finally released from the onerous task of pulling down the scorched walls and clearing the smoking debris of the buildings that had already been consumed by flames, pulling several charred corpses from the ashes. When they came marching back to where the rest of the 8th was standing, there was the usual round of jeers and good-natured bantering, silenced only when some Centurions lashed out with the vitus to remind the Legionaries that this wasn't winter camp. Porcinus had received the reports from his Centurions of their casualties, and he was happy that none of his men had been killed outright. One Legionary of the Fourth Cohort had suffered a serious wound to his side, and it was unlikely that he would live long, but Porcinus had seen stranger things happen than a man that the medici and the physicians had given up as dead refusing to submit to a ride in Charon's Boat. He also knew that it was in the hands of the gods, and he made a mental note to slip a coin surreptitiously to the wounded Legionary's close comrade to pay the camp priests for a sacrifice. I'll do it as soon as we make camp, Porcinus thought, if the man is still alive, seeing and understanding that matters were still too confused at that moment. Drusus' second-in-command, Vinicius, had come trotting over to Pilus Prior Volusenus to inform him that the young Legate had yet to decide if the army was going to push on a few more miles, or if they would make camp at a site that was perhaps a mile back towards the eastern end of the valley that was flat enough to accommodate the entire army. Even from where Porcinus was standing, he could see just by his posture that Vinicius was having a difficult time suppressing his impatience and irritation with the young Roman nobleman who, from everything Porcinus had observed, had decided to take the fact that he was given command of this part of the army, despite his youth, seriously. As fine a figure as the boy cut on a horse, and as bravely as he might have behaved, he was still a novice at the art of warfare and campaigning. It was this inexperience that, belatedly, Porcinus understood was the cause for what was about to happen. In reality, the catastrophe had already occurred, but it was only when Porcinus heard a shout and turned to see one of his own Centurions pointing to the far western end of the valley, and he saw a smudge of dust that was the presage of the bad news. Still too far away to make out anything more than a dark mass that seemed to roll slowly along the ground just below the cloud, Porcinus turned to his men and gave the order for them to sit down, still in formation, to wait this new development. At that moment, neither Porcinus nor any of his fellow Centurions, for that matter, were worried, all of them assuming that the First Cohort was returning after finally running down its band of Rhaeti and putting them to the sword. All of the prisoners, those that Porcinus had taken and the other stragglers rounded up by the other Cohorts, were now being guarded by a Century other than Urso's, one from the Eighth Cohort, a task more in keeping with one from the third line. Unfortunately, by the time that happened, Urso and his men had lost out on the chance for stripping the dead in their part of the battlefield, which Porcinus estimated was perhaps three stadia in width in its entirety, at least where the Rhaeti had made their first stand. Because they had scattered, there were clumps of bodies spread across the valley floor for perhaps a mile around where he was standing. The surviving civilians were being addressed by Drusus, and Porcinus watched, amused, as the Legate curbed his stallion, because Porcinus could see that on the side away
from the small cluster of disheveled citizens, Drusus was digging his heel into the side of the horse in order to make it act precisely in the manner it was. Shaking his head, Porcinus sighed, thinking that this was something a young man would do; create a situation that gave him the opportunity to show himself in the best possible light. He just hoped that this trait didn't extend into the way he conducted the campaign, but he had a feeling that it was a forlorn one.
Tearing his gaze away, Porcinus looked back at the returning First, and when he thought about it later, this was when he felt the first stirring of unease. It was nothing specific that he could identify; perhaps it was in the slightly darker mass at the front of what he could now make out as the rows of Centuries of the First. Whatever it was, it was enough to rivet his attention to the First as it approached, and he was only dimly aware that he wasn't alone. The heads of almost every man in the 8th were now facing to the west, and what Porcinus did notice was that the steady buzzing of men talking, sharing their experiences and stories that were inevitable after a battle, or arguments that they picked up where they left off before the fight started, all of this had stopped. At the very edge of his vision, he noticed that Urso was drifting closer, and he was quickly joined by the other Centurions; Pacuvius, Canidius, Corvinus, and Verrens. They stood in a little group, as silent as their men, each of them coming to grips with what the sight of the First meant, since the First Century was leading the way and now close enough to make out the details, explaining the slight mystery of what Porcinus had thought of as a darker mass at the head of the formation than would be normal. He felt his mouth open, and it suddenly seemed as if the world was threatening to fall away from under his feet, so dramatically that he took a staggering step back, stopped only when Urso grabbed his arm. Blood that had drained from Porcinus' face came rushing back at this lapse, yet when he glanced over at Urso, opening his mouth to explain this sign of weakness, he saw that his swarthy Pilus Posterior was no less affected, and, in reality, wasn't even looking at him. Instead, like every man there, his gaze was fixed on a sight that was seen fairly rarely on a battlefield owned by Rome's Legions.
Leading the First Century, and the whole First Cohort, were the Centurions of the Cohort, but only five of them were walking under their own power. Two pairs of them, side by side were each holding aloft a corner of what Porcinus and the others could see was a Legionary shield, carried with the concave side up so that it could hold, almost cradle, the body being borne by the Centurions. Like most things with the Roman army, there was nothing spontaneous about this procession, nor in the use of the shield. While Centurions falling during battle was a common enough occurrence, when it was the Primus Pilus, the event called for a solemn ritual whereby his body was borne from the field in the manner that Porcinus and the rest of the 8th Legion was watching. Even as he reeled in shock, Porcinus' mind registered how Vettus' legs dangled limply over the edge of the shield, both of them swaying in morbid time to the movement of the Centurions bearing his body. His helmet was still on, hiding his head and face from immediate view, but when they were still thirty paces away, Porcinus could clearly see that the shield was only partially successful at trapping the blood that had pooled around Vettus, so that it dripped in a slow but steady stream from the leading edge of the shield.
"What...How...?"
Porcinus heard the words, but didn't know who said them; in fact, it had been him, yet such was his shock that he wasn't aware that he had uttered a word. By this point, the Centurions bearing Vettus had come abreast of where Porcinus and his Centurions were standing, and with no command being given, they all stiffened to intente, rendering salutes to their now-fallen Primus Pilus. Only then did Porcinus regain enough of his equilibrium to notice that every man bearing Vettus either had tears streaming from his eyes, or looked very close to joining his comrades in sharing their grief. Since Porcinus' attention was focused on the sight in front of him, he heard the approach of what he assumed was Drusus before he saw it, the drumming hoof beats telling him that he was coming at a gallop, and he wasn't alone. The noise became so loud that it wrenched Porcinus' head to the right so that he watched as the young Roman nobleman drew on the reins of his stallion, bringing it to a skidding halt. Immediately behind him was Vinicius, and the other members of Drusus' staff, but Porcinus only had eyes for Drusus, so he saw the look of shock and dismay on the younger man's face as he looked down from his saddle at the corpse of Sextus Vettus.
"Sir, it is my sad duty to report, as the Primus Pilus Posterior, of the death of our Primus Pilus, Sextus Vettus. He fell on the field, and up until his last moment was leading his Cohort and Legion in a manner befitting Rome's Legions."
The Centurion, a man named Quintus Frontinus, was forced to pause, head bowed as he fought to regain his composure. All other sound had ceased, except for a low moan that to Porcinus' ears could have been the wind, or coming from the prisoners awaiting their fate; or it could have been from the men of the 8th. Wherever it came from Porcinus didn't really care, but he did note that this was the quietest he'd ever heard a battlefield.
Frontinus had regained enough composure to continue. "As far as your orders, we pursued the last band of Rhaeti out of this valley, and we eliminated the last resistance. While our overall casualties are low, as you can see, it was quite costly."
Porcinus thought he sensed a rebuke in Frontinus' words, in tone if not in what he actually had said, and, shooting a quick glance over at Urso, who was nearest to him, he saw that he wasn't alone. Clearly, it wasn't lost on young Drusus either, because his fair features suddenly turned a bright red, and Porcinus inwardly winced, certain that Frontinus' words, no matter how deserved they were, would not go unpunished. However, he was in for quite a surprise.
"You are right, Primus Pilus Posterior Frontinus," the young Roman replied quietly. "It is much too costly when we lose a man like Sextus Vettus, no matter how many of these rebels we kill." Straightening in the saddle so that he sat taller, and raising his voice at the same time, Drusus called out, "No matter how much of a victory this is, we have suffered a loss that I'm afraid can't be easily repaired. And I know you men of the 8th feel this grief the most keenly, but know that I, too, mourn the death of a great Centurion, a great Roman, and a great man, particularly since I am the cause of it."
He paused then, letting the words settle over the slumped shoulders of the men of the 8th Legion. Porcinus became aware that now the sound of low-pitched, quiet sobbing could be heard, clearly coming from every one of his Centuries, and he was sure that it was the same in every other Cohort. For so many of these men, Vettus was the only Primus Pilus under whom they had served, yet for men like Porcinus, the tie to the Primus Pilus ran even more deeply. Drusus, apparently deciding enough silence had gone by, resumed speaking.
"I have decided that we will make camp here. However, I excuse the 8th from their duties in order to give them time to prepare for the funeral rites that are in a manner and style befitting their Primus Pilus."
Without another word, at least that were audible to anyone other than Vinicius and his staff, Drusus wheeled his horse about and went galloping away, leaving the men of the 8th to grieve.
"I started out as his Optio," Porcinus said quietly, staring down into the cup that was holding unwatered wine. "He was the Pilus Prior of the Seventh at the time, and I had transferred in from the 10th."
The Centurions of the First Cohort and the Pili Priores were now gathered together in the tent of the Primus Pilus, the only tent large enough to hold all of them. The camp had since been erected, and the men of the Legions were performing the tasks of a Legion of Rome after battle, including this meeting.
"Yes, that's when your uncle made sure you were taken care of, wasn't it?"
This came from Volusenus, and Porcinus felt the flush rising up his neck, aware of some of the looks he was being given by the rest of the small group of Centurions.
However, he had become accustomed to such small, cutting remarks,
and replied calmly, "That's right. After the 10th Equestris was merged with the Veneria, after Actium. And after Parthia," he finished quietly, and he was pleased to see that his last remark had hit home.
Although he had only been a Gregarius, actually barely more than a tirone, a Legionary still in the first phase of his training, Gaius Porcinus' participation in what was acknowledged throughout the army to be the harshest, most grueling campaign, not just in recent history, but in the annals of the Roman army, no matter what side a man found himself on in the great struggle between the Triumvir of the East Marcus Antonius and the Roman now known and referred to as only Augustus, marked him as a hard man in his own right. Just surviving what became a death march through the vast wastelands of Parthia and Armenia was an achievement in itself, but Porcinus had also won the most coveted and honored individual award, the Civic Crown. He won the award during the last of the seventeen engagements that the army of Marcus Antonius fought with the Parthians, led by Monaeses, a Parthian prince who had duped the Triumvir into believing he had been bought and paid for with Antonius' gold. The 10th, acting as a rearguard, was protecting the army as it crossed the final river that marked the spot where the Parthians would stop their relentless stalking and pursuit. Understanding that this was their last chance, the Parthians had thrown not only their waves of horse archers, but the dreaded cataphracts into the assault. In the ensuing fight, Porcinus' Pilus Prior Scribonius was struck down and lying helplessly, waiting for the next Parthian lance to end his life, when the young Legionary leapt between his Centurion and the Parthian who was trying to end Scribonius. It had been one of those blindingly quick, unthinking actions, but it had resulted in Porcinus having the right to wear the simple award, a crown made of woven grass, on festival days and on parade in full uniform. At this moment, sitting in the large tent of the Primus Pilus, it served an even better purpose, stilling the acid tongue of men like Volusenus, and Porcinus was pleased to see that more than one Pilus Prior tried to hide a smile at his gentle but firm rebuke.