Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “Let go, Ocelus,” Titus groaned through clenched teeth. “I’m out of the river now.”

  While not completely true; his feet were still in the water, Ocelus relented, but what relief Titus might have felt from the sudden release of the grip of his arm was overwhelmed by the throbbing agony of his other shoulder. For the remainder of his days, Titus Porcinianus Pullus would never know where he got the strength, not only to stand up, but to climb up on Ocelus’ back, using just one arm to lever himself back into the saddle. Just as he settled onto his horse’s back, another dark blur went streaking by a few inches away from his head, and it caused Ocelus to jerk his own up. Without waiting for the command, the gray horse spun on his rear haunches, and began at a canter to head towards the ridge, the boy slumped over in the saddle, the three pursuers still in mid-river behind them.

  It was impossible for Titus to determine how long he’d been unconscious, or if, in fact, he had been at all. He remembered fragments and pieces of the next watch, but no whole memories remained. It was more impressions; Ocelus laboring underneath him as he began ascending the slope, entering the relative security of the trees, yet still managing to move quietly, something his Avus could have attested to about the big horse. He was vaguely aware that the sun, now a hand’s width above the horizon, was to his left as Ocelus began climbing. But he had no memory that would tell him how, the next time he was aware of it, the sun was to his right, and it was barely two fingers above the horizon. It took him a moment to determine that he had somehow reversed his direction, doubling back on his own trail, but higher up the hill than his original path, so that he was heading back in the general direction of the river, and the road. Had he done that, or had Ocelus done it on his own? He could feel his horse shuddering underneath him, and even through the pain, his heart started hammering as he realized that Ocelus was near collapse. He had to find a place to hide, so he forced himself to concentrate, desperately searching for one of the caves that Gallus had said riddled this ridge. Barring that, some small cleft or fold in the hillside would have to do, anywhere that would be hard to spot. Of course, if these warriors were good trackers, it might not matter, he thought grimly, but he refused to dwell on that, focusing instead on what he could do. When he found what he was looking for, it was completely by accident, and, in fact, he almost missed seeing the gap in what looked like just part of a section of sheer rock face. It was the sight of a small tree jutting out at an odd angle, different from the symmetrical arrangement of all the other trees that were growing straight and tall from the hillside, that caught his eye. Even then, it was just one of those things that the eye catches without the mind registering it as anything but something a little odd, and that was almost the case with Titus. He could have been forgiven; he was as close to collapse as his horse, his left side was useless, and he had never been this tired or in as much pain. Yet, somehow, his mind snagged onto the sight of that odd little tree, much as a man being swept downstream will grab at a root or branch. Nudging Ocelus in the direction of the tree, Titus approached from directly downhill from the rock face, where the small tree seemed to jut out from behind the rock, but with only the upper portion of the tree showing. Through the fog of pain, fear, and fatigue, his curiosity was aroused, so he guided Ocelus up the slope. Only when he was perhaps a half-dozen paces away could he see that what looked like sheer rock was actually a giant slab of the same type of rock that made up the ridge, but set out a distance from the rest of the rock face. What Titus didn’t know was that it was that tree that had caused this to happen, or more accurately, one of the tree’s ancestors, when a tiny seedling had managed to wedge itself in a fissure that, over thousands of years, slowly widened. By the time Titus found it, the gap between the lone slab and the rest of the rock face was just wide enough to accommodate the trunk of the tree, with a bit of room to spare. As Titus was about to discover, it was just wide enough for a boy and his horse to squeeze past. And it was from another accident of nature that gave the pair someplace to go, in the form of one of those caves that Gallus had talked about. This one had been created by the presence of a small but steady flow of water, supplied by a spring that originated at the very back of the small cave. And much like the tree had, over the thousands of years, the trickle of water had formed a depression in the rock floor, creating a small pool. It wasn’t perfect, however; Titus saw that he would have to dismount, and that while he and Ocelus would fit completely in the small cave, his horse wouldn’t have the ability to turn around. When it came time to leave, he would have to back Ocelus out, and although he had done this before, it was always in a stable or stall, never in a small cave in the wilderness. Titus was too far gone in his misery to give that more than a passing thought, however, and as carefully as he could, using the nearby tree branches to help, he grabbed one with his right arm and swung himself out of the saddle. When he dropped to the ground, he couldn’t suppress a groan of pain at the jar of the impact, and he had to stand for a moment, leaning his head against his horse’s flank to allow his head to stop spinning. After a moment, he felt strong enough to take Ocelus by his bridle and lead him into the cave. Immediately, the horse, already smelling the water, headed for it, dropping his muzzle deep into the pool to suck in the liquid. As he did so, Titus staggered into the cave behind Ocelus. The sun was almost down, and he knew that he couldn’t risk a fire, even if he had brought his firebox with him, so it was with a good deal of reluctance that he finally looked down to his shoulder, knowing that he had to do something while it was still light. He had been aware of a change in the nature and location of the pain and, as he forced his mind to focus, he realized that the change had come when Ocelus had dragged him from the river. His tunic was still damp from the immersion, but as he craned his neck to peer over his shoulder at his back, he could tell that the blood around the wound had dried there, although there was a warm, sticky feeling in his armpit. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his left arm; despite his preparation, he couldn’t stifle a muffled sound that was part sob, part moan, and it was loud enough that it disturbed Ocelus, who jerked his head up from drinking to turn and look inquiringly at his boy, water dripping from his muzzle.

  “It’s…all right,” Titus muttered. “I’ll be fine.”

  Ocelus continued to look at Titus, as if trying to determine whether the boy was telling him the truth. Then, he turned his attention back to the water, thrusting his muzzle back down, leaving Titus to attend to himself.

  For some reason, this bothered Titus, who glared at the horse and said hoarsely, “Well, thank you for not paying attention! It’s nice to see all you care about is drinking your fill. I hope you get a stomachache!”

  As quickly as it had come, his fit of pique faded. No, he didn’t want Ocelus to get sick; he still needed the giant horse, and for more than just his ability to carry him to Siscia. It was because of Ocelus that he wasn’t already captured, and hadn’t just given up. Returning his examination to his armpit, he saw the cause of the sudden discomfort, and he also somehow realized that despite the added pain, what he was looking at was actually a good thing. The arrow had hit Titus in the upper back, but his young bones, particularly his shoulder blade, had been strong enough to deflect the missile. Rather than punching through the bone, it had turned, the point scraping along the shoulder blade and lodging up against it. Then, when Ocelus had dragged him and the end of the shaft had come into hard contact with the ground, the force had driven the point deeper, but because of the angle, it had continued along his shoulder blade and punctured the skin of Titus’ armpit. He could see the point of the arrow, bloody and dull, sticking out no more than the width of a finger, poking its head out enough that, if he wanted, he could grasp the head of the arrow with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Not that he wanted to do anything with it, yet despite his youth, Titus was a child of the Legions. And over the course of his young life, he had heard much talk from men, usually around the stoves of their section huts, where he had the run of his f
ather’s Cohort area as he performed odd jobs and did errands for the rankers, just like every other Legionary child. While much of this talk was about whores, and carousing, almost an equal amount was focused on the more practical aspects of the Legionary’s life. And dealing with wounds was one of those realities of their lot, so it was natural that they would discuss the best way to deal with such things among themselves. This knowledge had been absorbed by the boy who, like all children, were akin to the sponges at the bottom of the sea who obtained their sustenance from the water around them by sucking it in, taking what was needed and discarding the rest. That was how Titus knew what he must do; the question was, would he have the courage to do it?

  The plan devised by Gallus and performed by him and Simeon had worked perfectly. Bursting from the farmhouse, they had attacked the five rebel warriors at a moment when they had all been absorbed in the find of one of them, the small chest of coins that was concealed in a larger trunk filled with clothes. It was a small fortune by anyone’s standard, so the rebels were understandably distracted when Gallus leaped into the wagon, followed closely by Simeon. Although their styles were vastly different, the two men worked well together, and in very little time, they thrust, hacked, and chopped down the Latobici rebels. The attack was so sudden, so severe, and so thorough that the remaining half-dozen rebels, who were stationed out on the road, keeping lookout per the orders of the newly promoted commander had no time to react. At least, they had no time to stop the slaughter of their friends, but even worse, they gave Simeon the chance to replenish his stock of arrows. Standing in the bed of the wagon, the Armenian held his bow with an arrow nocked at the ready, but the Latobici had experienced enough loss from this small party. The new commander gave the order to withdraw; normally, this would have been the first challenge to the new leader’s authority, because there had been friends and kinsmen lost to this puny party of Romans. However, the knowledge that there was a larger party nearby was sufficient to quell any possible unrest among the remaining tribesmen. Consequently, they were content to withdraw out of bow range, while sending two of their number to the far side of the farmhouse to keep watch and one man to find the larger band and let them know that there was loot to be had and losses to be avenged. Fortunately for Iras and her family, Gallus understood that the danger hadn’t passed, so when she put forth the idea that they try to force their way through what was admittedly a small force, he was firm in his refusal.

  “This isn’t over,” he told her quietly, only after he pulled her into the stable with the horses, away from the children. “They’ve gone for help, and if we get caught out in the open again, there’s no way to guarantee that we’ll be lucky again.”

  Iras considered this, but only briefly, knowing that the bodyguard was right.

  “Very well,” she sighed. “We’ll stay put.”

  Nodding his acceptance of her agreement, Gallus went to tell Diocles and Simeon and make dispositions. Now that they had access to the wagon again, Gallus and the other men transferred the contents into the farmhouse. Iras tried to ignore the fact that more than one box or crate had the blood of the rebels on it, but Birgit was unable to suppress a gasp at the sight. This naturally attracted the attention of the children, yet somewhat to Iras’ dismay, they seemed more interested than repulsed. The mules had been killed where they stood in their traces, although Gallus had acknowledged to Iras that if forced, they could hitch the horses to the wagon, but moving from this spot was only a last resort, and only if they were forced out. Now that the threat of missile fire was gone at least temporarily, Gallus had Simeon open the shutters on the two large windows that faced the road and the surrounding countryside. At the same time, he sent Diocles to the opposite side of the building, where he opened the large door so that he had a similar vantage point to the Armenian. There were still blind spots, of which Gallus was all too aware, but his instinct told him that the remaining tribesmen would be content to wait for reinforcements. He also understood that they weren’t expecting to wait long, because he assumed that they knew that one of their number had escaped and had gone to get help. If he were the leader of whatever raiding party was nearby, he would be acutely aware that Siscia was barely more than a day’s hard march away. His position was defensible, but only for a short period of time; it was all up to Titus now.

  Decurion Decimus Silva looked over his shoulder at the men riding behind him. His first thought was that he at least felt confident his men looked like he did; tired, hungry, and just worn down from days in the saddle, despite the fact that this day had just started. Silva was the Decurion of one of the two ala of cavalry attached to the Army of Pannonia, but this one, the most veteran one, was on the trail of Latobici rebels, whose lands were in the westernmost corner of Pannonia. It hadn’t surprised him that these barbarians had rebelled; they were the closest to Rhaetia and Noricum, and he had learned from bitter experience that the flames of uprising were quick to spread, and it was almost always a matter of proximity. And although the rebellion had been crushed in those two provinces, it hadn’t taken long for word to reach Pannonia. Equally unsurprising was the fact that the absence of the two Legions permanently stationed in Siscia had been taken as a sign from their gods that the time was right to throw off the Roman yoke. The Latobici were the first, but Silva, a veteran of more than a decade spent in Pannonia, knew they wouldn’t be the only tribe to test Rome’s strength. To that end, the entire army of four Legions, now under the command of Tiberius, because of his seniority to his younger brother, had just recently returned to Siscia. They weren’t going to be there long, only spending enough time to refit, replenish their larders, and make repairs to artillery and other equipment. Tiberius had decreed that no more than a week be spent in Siscia, which meant that the Legions, even with the tasks assigned to them, would have a chance to rest. That wasn’t the lot of the cavalry, and while Silva had experienced this reality more than once in his career, that made it no less bitter a draught to swallow now. Most of all, he was worried about the horses; the men could fend for themselves, but without their animals, they were no better than infantry. The very thought of that made Silva shudder, remembering the times he had watched his ground-bound counterparts hard at work with shovels and picks, digging the ditch and building the wall of that day’s camp. Not for him; he much preferred a life in the saddle. Nevertheless, there were drawbacks, and this was one of those times, because he and his men had been given all of one night’s rest in Siscia before being sent out to scout the province. Now they were following the Sava to the west, with the nearest landmark, a large, lone ridge that thrust up from the surrounding countryside on the northern side of the river, barely more than two miles away. That was the side Silva and his men were on, although he had a section of six men on the other side, paralleling his line of march. To that point, they had seen signs of activity in the form of clusters of hoof tracks, and every remote farm they came across was deserted, although Silva had known this was the case from the talk in Siscia. The town was crammed with families who had chosen to flee rather than try and fight for their homes and farms, something that Silva originally had neither sympathized with nor understood. But after a decade of service in this region, where there had been easily a half-dozen uprisings of varying levels of seriousness, he held a better appreciation for the fact that property was fine, but one’s life was more important. He had long since lost count of the times he and his men had come across the smoking ruin of a farm, or small settlement of a dozen families, where the settlers had chosen to fight. And for the most part, they had paid a heavy price for that defiance. Now, riding along the Sava, his one hope was that they would be able to stop this rebellion with the Latobici before the infection spread. First, however, they would have to find them, and Silva was growing increasingly frustrated at the elusiveness of their quarry. As was normal, Silva was riding near the front of his command, although he had another section of a half-dozen men spread out in front, riding as outriders and scouts. Thi
s was to avoid being surprised, of course, but also to give Silva that instant of time he might need in the event that one of his scouts was the one who surprised the enemy. The six men were paired up, so that one could race back to the main body to let the commander know whatever new developments had arisen while the other maintained an eye on whatever it was they spotted. It was the man from the pair Silva had deployed to his right front who came galloping back, and even before the rider reached him, Silva knew that something potentially important had been seen, or had happened. Not willing to wait, he put his own mount into a canter, heading to meet the scout, the two intersecting a short distance away from the main column.

  “Decurion, Postumus and I found a boy! He’s mounted on a beautiful horse, but he’s been hurt! He’s babbling about his family, and how they were ambushed.”