Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  With that in mind, he finally blurted out, “I think I’ve finally figured out why Volusenus hates me so much.”

  If Corvinus was surprised at Porcinus’ words, his face didn’t show it. He didn’t respond immediately, however, just looked at his Pilus Prior, waiting for him to continue. At last, Porcinus did, describing the scene that had taken place earlier that morning between him and Volusenus, including what had led up to it.

  “He thinks you bribed Frontinus?” Corvinus asked doubtfully. “That’s what he said?”

  “Exactly that,” Porcinus confirmed. “But I think I finally know what the real source of the problem is.”

  “I always thought it was just because he’s a bitter mentula. And he thinks you’re soft,” Corvinus added helpfully, causing Porcinus to laugh again, even though he didn’t particularly want to.

  “That’s part of it, but that’s not the cause. In fact, I don’t think it has as much to do with me as it does my father.”

  For a moment, Corvinus didn’t appear to understand and, in fact, he was trying to determine how it was possible for Volusenus to have any knowledge of Porcinus’ father. All Corvinus knew of him was that he had been a farmer in Baetica. Then he remembered, and his face cleared.

  “Ah. You mean Titus Pullus.”

  “Yes. I should have said ‘my adoptive father,’ but yes, that’s who I’m talking about.”

  Corvinus frowned, still not seeing any connection.

  “But what does Pullus have to do with Volusenus hating you? You mean, because he thinks you’re in the Centurionate because of Pullus greasing the wheels?”

  Something in the way Corvinus said this caused Porcinus to turn and study his friend’s face intently, his own expression suddenly growing impassive.

  Porcinus didn’t speak for a moment, then asked quietly, “Is that what you think, Gnaeus?”

  Corvinus looked startled, and if it wasn’t genuine, he was doing a good job of acting like it, Porcinus thought, the other man shaking his head.

  “By the gods, no,” Corvinus exclaimed. “I’ve known you a long time, and I’ve seen you in action, so no, I know that you’re where you belong on merit, not because of favor.” Porcinus’ expression softened, but Corvinus felt compelled to add, “But you know that there are men who think that. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  Porcinus nodded.

  “Yes,” he admitted, a bit grudgingly. “I know, and I know that Volusenus is one of those, but I think it goes deeper than that with my father. Frankly, it was something I had forgotten, but today, when he grabbed my arm…”

  “He did what?” Corvinus asked sharply, his face registering shock. “He physically put his hands on you?”

  Again, Porcinus answered with a nod. Corvinus let out a low whistle. What Volusenus had done in laying a hand on another Centurion was forbidden not just by regulation, but by a deeply held and long-standing custom. It was almost unthinkable for a Centurion to do something of this nature, for the simple reason that if it was allowed to happen, without any kind of punishment, it wouldn’t be long before the senior leadership of the Legion would be settling disputes by brawling, or worse. A Centurion’s person was considered sacrosanct, even by other Centurions of all ranks, and Volusenus’ action in grabbing Porcinus’ arm told Corvinus more about the depth of the Secundus Pilus Prior’s enmity towards Corvinus’ superior than anything Porcinus had said.

  “What did you do?”

  “I…I’m not sure,” Porcinus admitted, for the first time looking a bit unsettled himself. “All I really remember was him grabbing me. Then, the next thing I knew, he had let go.”

  “Probably because he realized what he had done,” Corvinus suggested.

  Now Porcinus’ face took on what to Corvinus seemed to be an almost sheepish expression, as if he were a child caught trying to filch a candied fig.

  “I don’t think so,” Porcinus replied, pausing for a moment before finishing with, “I think it had to do more with the fact that I must have drawn my sword.”

  “You drew your sword?” A moment before, Corvinus would have sworn that he couldn’t have been more surprised and shocked than he had been, at least until this moment now.

  “I think so,” Porcinus said with a shrug. “The truth is, I don’t remember drawing it. I remember him grabbing me, then it was just…there, in my hand.”

  “Well, I can see why he let you go,” Corvinus said with a muted chuckle.

  It wasn’t really funny, but in all the years he had known Porcinus, he had never seen him act in a manner that suggested he would do something like this and, frankly, Corvinus didn’t know how else to react.

  “It was more than the fact that I drew my sword,” Porcinus said quietly. “I was doing something with the sword that’s become a habit, I suppose. It’s something I picked up from watching my fa…Pullus,” he corrected.

  Corvinus frowned as he thought for a moment, before replying, “I bet I know what it is. It’s those circles you make, isn’t it? That’s what you were doing and that’s what Volusenus saw.”

  “Exactly!” Porcinus was happy that he didn’t have to explain, that Corvinus had finally known what he was talking about. “When Volusenus looked down and saw me doing that, he turned white. It was like he’d seen a numen,” Porcinus was referring to the disembodied spirits that all Romans knew haunted particular places, like forests. “And I realize now that he had. Or at least,” he amended, “what he saw brought back a memory that was very powerful.”

  The dawning of realization crossed Corvinus’ features as his eyes lit up.

  “By the gods, Gaius! If you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about, then that’s exactly what happened. I’d forgotten all about that myself.”

  “Like I said, so did I. But Volusenus clearly hasn’t.”

  “Nor would he,” Corvinus agreed. “I didn’t see it personally, but I certainly heard about it. And I saw him afterward. His nose looked like a plum!”

  “I didn’t see it either,” Porcinus said, “but the gods know I fought my father enough times to see him make those damned circles. And it was always when he was toying with me, about to teach me a real lesson about who the best man with a sword was. It got to the point where, when I saw him starting to draw those circles with his sword, I wanted to just throw mine down and call for mercy.”

  Porcinus finished this with a laugh, but it was one tinged with memories both sweet and painful as he remembered the harsh lessons dealt him by Titus Pullus. What had happened to Volusenus wasn’t unusual; over the years, many men had tried to best Pullus, but none had succeeded, and with every victory, Pullus’ reputation had grown. Which was exactly what Titus Pullus wanted to happen; as much as Porcinus loved and respected his father, he also was honest enough to acknowledge that humility simply wasn’t part of Pullus’ makeup. It was as if, even in the last days of his career, Pullus was trying to prove himself to others, somehow convincing himself that other Legionaries doubted him and his ability with a sword. But what was out of the ordinary was the severity of the beating Volusenus had taken at the hands, or rudis, of the Camp Prefect. What Volusenus hadn’t known, and Porcinus did, was that he had caught Prefect Pullus at a particularly bad time, not very long after the death of Pullus’ wife Miriam in childbirth, and immediately after the campaign conducted by Marcus Crassus’ grandson by the same name. During that campaign, Pullus had lost the little finger of his left hand, bitten off in a savage fight with a gladiator named Prixus who had been one of Crassus’ bodyguards. But it was also that Volusenus, undoubtedly goaded by his friends, had been loudly proclaiming that, in essence, a new champion had arrived, and that once Volusenus was through, men wouldn’t be talking about Titus Pullus as the best man with a sword in the Legions any longer. Of all the things a man could say, Porcinus knew from experience and observation that this would bring out a side of Titus Pullus that was terrible, yet awesome to behold. What Porcinus knew, however, that nobody else, with perhaps the
exception of Pullus’ best friend and longest companion, Sextus Scribonius, was aware of, was how badly and deeply scarred Pullus was, and it had nothing to do with the marks crisscrossing his body. When Miriam died, something in Titus Pullus had died as well; the softer, kinder side of the man had withered away, to be replaced by the iron that had filled the rest of his soul. It was out of this pain that the beating of Volusenus emanated, and created a memory that the Secundus Pilus Prior would never forget, no matter how hard he tried. And, in his confrontation with Porcinus, the humiliation and hurt from that episode had come roaring back to him, shaking him to his very core. However, it also marked a turning point in how Volusenus viewed Porcinus, something that would only become apparent later.

  Finally, the expected signal from Drusus’ personal cornicen came, sounding the notes that gave the men who were manning the artillery pieces the order to begin their barrage. The sound also served to break the moment between Porcinus and his friend, with the Pilus Prior returning to his own Century, but only after offering his hand and wishing Corvinus luck. This was in itself, something of a ritual, and soldiers by nature are a superstitious bunch, making it unthinkable for either man to skip this small and private moment. In fact, Porcinus had already done the same with his other Centurions, for the same reason, but while he normally did so in order, the reason Corvinus was last went all the way back to the very first time Gaius Porcinus led his Cohort in battle, some three years before. For reasons neither man remembered, Corvinus was elsewhere when his new Pilus Prior came to offer his wishes, making Corvinus the last man instead of the penultimate as Porcinus had intended. Yet, since the battle that day - from what Porcinus recalled, it was an action against the Daesitiates - he had been loath to change back to what would be considered the normal order. What Porcinus did remember was that Corvinus had made some comment that was both witty and helped to dispel the almost paralyzing case of nerves that Porcinus had been suffering from up until that moment. Had that been the start of their seemingly unlikely friendship, Porcinus wondered. Shaking his head, as if to banish the line of thought his mind had chosen to pursue at this moment, he was experienced enough to know that this wasn’t uncommon. At least as far as he was concerned, his mind tended to stray off in odd directions at the most unlikely moment, like this one, as he and his men waited for the command to advance. Although he never asked anyone else about it, what Porcinus was experiencing was, in fact, very common among his comrades, even if the subject matter varied from one man to another. For some, it was recalling some escapade of carousing in the past; for others, it was reminding themselves to take care of what was in reality a mundane and unimportant piece of business, like buying a new lamp because the one they had was leaking oil. Whatever it was, the minds of men about to go into battle did what they could to protect themselves by avoiding dwelling on all the horrible things that could possibly happen, using memories or odd pieces of unresolved business as fodder for the imagination instead. Which was why, when the deep, bass notes of the cornu finally did come rolling through the fog, Porcinus physically jerked in surprise. Chagrined at this display of nerves, he risked a quick glance over his shoulder, but thankfully, between the fog and the fact that his men were occupied with their own thoughts, none of them had noticed. Suppressing a chuckle at his behavior, for what was likely the hundredth time, Porcinus reached down and pulled his sword partway out of the sheath, checking to make sure that when the time came, it wouldn’t stick. Then, once the third and final call came, he filled his lungs to bellow, along with the other Centurions of the front line, the command to step forward. With a slight ripple that was unavoidable when a large number of men began moving, no matter how well trained and disciplined they may have been, the assaulting Cohorts began moving in the direction of the Rhaeti position. The assault had begun.

  It was no more than a hundred heartbeats later that Porcinus was struck by a thought that was both worrying and, at the same time, absurdly amusing. I wonder if we’re even headed in the right direction, he mused, although he continued in the same direction without faltering. Glancing over to his right, he was reassured that the First Cohort was still there and visible, but his relief was short-lived as, even as he watched, the left-hand Century started to disappear into the mist. He realized with a growing horror that the First was marching at a slightly different angle! The original plan had called for the two Cohorts to stay side by side, focusing on what would be a relatively narrow spot of the Rhaeti position. It had been selected both for the wall’s distance from the rapidly running river, which Porcinus could hear flowing across his front, although he still couldn’t see it, but also because the engineers had determined that there was a dip in the wall, effectively lowering it. From their vantage point when they were conducting their survey, they were able to determine that this wasn’t due to an indentation in the ground; more likely, it was the Rhaeti charged with constructing this portion of the wall being lax with his warriors, allowing them to do more leaning than shoveling. It was well known by the Legions that the warriors of barbarian tribes like the Rhaeti despised manual labor, thinking it beneath them, so it was entirely plausible that the area where Porcinus and Frontinus’ Cohorts were heading had a shallower ditch to go along with the lower wall. Nevertheless, Porcinus had stressed to his Centurions the strong likelihood that this was an illusion, or that the engineers had simply made a miscalculation. This was why the men of the Fourth Cohort were carrying more hurdles, the tied bundle of branches that would be thrown down into the ditch, as well as more wicker baskets filled with dirt that would be dumped onto the branches, than the engineers had estimated would be required. The hurdles and baskets had been evenly divided among the four trailing Centuries, which would be passed up through the ranks to the First and the Fifth, whose men would perform the actual act of filling in the ditch. In addition, there were two sections from each of the lead Centuries, who were tasked with carrying the ladders that would be used to scale the walls, and although the engineers had maintained that it wasn’t necessary, Frontinus had insisted that the ladders be constructed taller than they needed to be. In short, everything possible had been thought of, and was another example of why the Legions of Rome were so feared.

  Now, all the carefully laid plans seemed to be threatened because, with every step, the First Cohort was drawing farther away from the Fourth. This was worrying enough, but what compounded Porcinus’ fear was his doubt about who was in error at this moment. He felt sure that he was maintaining the proper heading, but he also recognized he could be the one who had somehow changed the angle of his approach. When he had first realized what was happening, he had opened his mouth to shout a warning to alert Frontinus that something was amiss, but had stopped himself. With the fog so thick, the Romans had been handed one huge advantage, and that was in their ability to approach as closely as possible before the Rhaeti could pinpoint their exact position. He was under no illusion that the Rhaeti would be caught completely by surprise; he was sure, that at this moment, there were warriors lining the walls, straining their eyes in this direction, trying to determine exactly where the approaching lines were. They had undoubtedly heard the cornu calls and, in all likelihood, the front lines of the advancing Romans had approached to a point where the Rhaeti could hear the sounds of the advance. But shouting would pinpoint at least Porcinus’ position more accurately than the general noise made by the sound of hobnails striking rock and the creak and rattle of leather and metal rubbing together. Consequently, Porcinus shut his mouth, clenching his fists in frustration, unsure what to do, although he continued to march, while his men continued to follow. Deciding that he had no choice but to carry on, at least until he reached the river, Porcinus forged ahead, the sound of water rushing over rock drawing ever closer. Finally, he picked out a change in the grayness, in the form of what looked like a dark line, and within a matter of a few more steps, Porcinus saw the width of the line extend to the point he could see the river. It wasn’t until he was no mor
e than twenty paces away that he could make out enough detail to give him an idea of what the crossing would be like, and he let out a soft curse. Despite the fact that he was half-expecting something of this nature, he was still disappointed to see that the crossing was going to be more challenging than they had been told. The river was swiftly running; that they could see beforehand from the scouting, but viewing from a distance, then being just a few steps away were two different matters. As planned, Porcinus called a quick halt by thrusting a clenched fist into the air, and behind him, he could hear his men come to a crashing stop, the odd pebble sent skittering across the rocky ground by caligae sounding very loud to Porcinus’ ears. This was the very kind of sound that experienced warriors would know was unnatural, being very different from the background noise of the rushing river, and Porcinus’ breath caught in his throat as he waited to hear some warning shout from the Rhaeti position. Straining to listen, trying to block out the sound of the rushing torrent, Porcinus could hear a buzzing sound that he knew from experience were men talking, telling him that the Rhaeti were truly out there, somewhere. After a moment, he allowed himself a sigh of relief; there had been no sudden shouts that would indicate alarm, telling him that so far, at least, the Rhaeti hadn’t been alerted. Of course, he realized, this was about to change, because there was no way to muffle the sounds of hundreds of men splashing across this river. The best hope for the Cohort at this point, Porcinus realized, lay in the fact that crossing this river wouldn’t take long, because the men would be at their most vulnerable once they waded into the water. However, his eye told him that this hope was, in all likelihood, a forlorn one, and he chided himself for hesitating. Regardless of how difficult it would be, this river had to be crossed; the problem of where the First Cohort was could wait until they got across. Even as this thought crossed his mind, he heard the unmistakable sound of men splashing into the river, upstream from him somewhere.