Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  Finally, he hopped down to the ground and shook his head, saying, “If anything, he should come to us. We’re the ones closest to Tiberius and the First.”

  Porcinus made no attempt to hide his relief.

  “That’s what I thought as well,” he replied to Urso. “In fact, I’ve been expecting him to do that very thing. But I can’t see the sense in us fighting our way to him, just to have Tiberius either come to us, or order us to come to him.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Urso commented. “We’re stuck in this ravine like a cork in a bottle.” He shook his head again, with a frown on his face. “No, I think we either have to stay put. Or,” he paused before he looked Porcinus directly in the eye, “we fight our way out of here and go to Tiberius on our own.”

  “And leave the Second?” Porcinus asked, although, being completely truthful with himself, he had thought of this. “No,” he said, “we’re not going to do that.”

  “With all due respect, Pilus Prior,” Urso said as quietly as he could get away with, “if we stay here, we’re just going to get worn down. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a breakthrough somewhere along our lines yet.”

  This, Porcinus knew, was nothing more than the truth; a bitter one, to be sure, but it was only slightly more unpleasant because it was uttered by Urso.

  “I know,” he finally replied wearily.

  Porcinus took off his helmet and was going to mop his brow with his neckerchief before he remembered that it was tied around his counterpart’s forearm. Sighing, the best he could do was to lean down to use a corner of his tunic to absorb the sweat, before he squeezed the moisture out of the liner and put the helmet back on. As he was doing so, Urso had been watching the men of his Century, and he lifted the bone whistle attached to the lanyard around his neck to give a long, sharp blast, his signal for the men of the front two lines to switch places.

  “How many is that for you?” Porcinus asked.

  Urso didn’t need more than that, answering flatly, “Nine.”

  Amid the noise, the chaos, the shouts, curses, and cries of men who were fighting, killing, and dying, Porcinus tried to shut it all out and think. As he saw it, there was no right answer to be had; if he gave the order to link up with the Second, it would be the men of his Century who would bear the brunt of the fighting as they cut and hacked their way through the mass of warriors between the Fourth and the Second, and as Urso had pointed out, it would put both Cohorts farther east in the event Tiberius came to their aid. If he chose to stand fast, Urso’s answer told him that he had perhaps a third of a watch, at most, before his men would simply be too exhausted to hold off these Varciani. He had determined some time before that not only were those slain enemy warriors being replaced by new arrivals in the form of small bands of combatants answering what was either a summons or the sounds of battle, Tiberius’ scouts had woefully underestimated the numbers of the Varciani.

  “Unless all seven thousand are here,” Porcinus muttered under his breath.

  Urso’s head turned, his flat, black eyes searching his Pilus Prior’s face, but when Porcinus looked up, he turned his attention back to his men. Porcinus knew he needed to get back to his own Century; as much as he trusted Ovidius, his boys needed him. He had lost count of how many times he had traveled back and forth from the far end where Verrens and his Century had at least been able to drop their shields now that the rain of arrows had almost completely stopped. He tried to calculate how long Paperius had been gone; certainly less than a third of a watch, not that the knowledge helped any. There were too many things he didn’t know for him to have anything more than a wild guess about when he and his men would hear the welcome sound of the cornu, telling him that Tiberius was on the way. Shaking his head, he left Urso without saying anything more, intent on joining his Century.

  As it turned out, Publius Paperius didn’t ever see Tiberius. The Legate, along with the detachment of cavalry and the Tribunes, had pushed ahead of the vanguard to scout what looked to be a likely spot for an enemy ambush. Consequently, it was to Barbatus that the cavalry trooper took Paperius, where the men of the First Cohort had come to a halt, letting the Legionary slide off the horse before turning and trotting back to his spot in the rearguard. Barbatus eyed the Gregarius with suspicion, and if the truth were known, Paperius was a bit nervous himself, yet his voice was firm as he rendered his salute.

  Once it was returned, Paperius said, “I was sent here by Pilus Prior Porcinus, sir. The Fourth and the Second are in, well, they’re in a bit of a fight.”

  Barbatus had stepped to the side, while the men of the Cohort stood, waiting for the return of the Legate, and the Primus Pilus’ expression was one that was hard for a man like Paperius to decipher.

  “A bit of a fight?” Barbatus repeated, his lip curling up. “I find that hard to believe. We haven’t seen anything more than some tracks.”

  “That might be because all those bastards are over there trying to kill us,” Paperius replied helpfully, then remembered, “sir.”

  Then, Paperius remembered the tablet, quickly withdrawing and handing it to Barbatus. Paperius was puzzled by this new Primus Pilus’ behavior, who acted as if the tablet had been dipped in cac before being handed to him. Because Paperius had made it a practice to avoid contact with Centurions of a certain rank; he could count the number of times he had been this close to any Primus Pilus on one hand and have fingers left over, he just ascribed Barbatus’ attitude to one of the many odd habits of superior officers. Consequently, like good rankers everywhere, he quickly adopted the position of intente, and started staring at a spot above Barbatus’ head. Meanwhile, Barbatus eyed Paperius up and down, his frown deepening as he opened the tablet and began reading. Paperius wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard his Primus Pilus suddenly take in a breath, the way one does when surprised by something, which Paperius supposed was understandable. Barbatus read the message not once, but twice, then snapped the tablet shut, his expression again unreadable.

  “Wait here,” he ordered Paperius, who gave the only acceptable answer, keeping his eyes above the transverse crest of the Primus Pilus.

  Spinning on his heel, Barbatus walked quickly over to the First Century, but while Paperius didn’t move his head, like any veteran, he had developed the ability to observe actions at the edge of his vision. And he was puzzled why a Primus Pilus of a Legion would pull a Gregarius out of the ranks of the First Cohort and take him on the far side of the formation from Paperius so Paperius’ view of the pair was now blocked. His mind wasn’t his best asset, so he had reached no firm conclusion when Barbatus and the other man came striding from where they had been conferring to come back to stand before Paperius, who was still at intente.

  “This is Gregarius Philo,” Barbatus said curtly. “He’ll go back with you to ascertain exactly what the situation is, and determine if matters are as your Pilus Prior says they are, or if he’s being a bit…dramatic.”

  Only then did Paperius drop his gaze to look directly in Barbatus’ eyes, his astonishment and alarm overriding the discipline instilled in him. When his eyes met Barbatus’, the Primus Pilus’ face flushed, confusing Paperius even more; the thought that flashed through the Gregarius’ mind was, why does he look guilty, like he’s done something wrong? Perhaps if Publius Paperius had been smarter, he would at the very least have been on his guard and suspicious enough to be alert to what was about to happen to him, but between his shortcomings and the obedience drilled into him from his first day as a tiro, his fate was sealed.

  Still confused, all he could manage was a salute and a weak, “I understand, Primus Pilus, and I will obey.”

  For a long moment, Barbatus said nothing, just stared into Paperius’ eyes, making the Gregarius feel as if the Primus Pilus were trying to probe his thoughts.

  Finally, he gave another curt nod, and said only, “Very well. Now, go with Philo. You need to guide him back to your Cohort so he can see for himself. Then he’ll report back to me and we’ll dec
ide then.”

  With that, Barbatus turned away and walked back to the front of the Cohort, sending a clear sign of dismissal.

  “Come on, then,” the Gregarius introduced as Philo said.

  Without waiting to see if he was obeyed, Philo began moving at a quick trot back down the column, in the direction of the Sixth Century and the way back to the Fourth.

  Sighing, Paperius turned to follow, calling out, “Wait! You don’t know the way.”

  Retracing their steps, nothing was said between the men for some time, but Paperius kept glancing over his shoulder at the man following him.

  Finally, Philo had enough and, in between gasping breaths, snarled, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

  Paperius wasn’t prepared for this kind of hostility, so he hurried to explain.

  “Nothing! I mean…it’s just that I’ve never seen you before.”

  Philo’s expression didn’t change, although his tone softened fractionally as he explained, “That’s because I’m new. To the Cohort, that is,” he added quickly, but he kept his eyes ahead of him, refusing to look Paperius in the eyes. “But I’ve been around. I’m no tiro,” he gave a breathless laugh that was humorless. What Paperius didn’t hear was Philo’s muttered, “Believe me, I’ve been around.”

  Satisfied for the moment, Paperius returned his attention to the path; he was retracing his steps, something he normally wouldn’t have done, but time was even more pressing now that the Primus Pilus had insisted that this Philo come along. However, Publius Paperius was naturally a friendly sort, so it wasn’t long before he resumed his questions. They had just stopped for a quick breather, Philo following Paperius’ example of dropping down at the base of a tree that was surrounded by small shrubbery.

  “So what Legion did you come from?” he asked Philo.

  Again, Philo didn’t look at Paperius, choosing instead to stare off to the east in the direction they were headed.

  For a moment, Paperius thought Philo hadn’t heard the question, then the other man answered, “No Legion. I’m from the Praetorians.”

  Even Paperius could hear the pride in the man’s voice as he said this; Paperius’ reaction was decidedly different. He turned his head to examine the man more fully, a sense of caution suddenly flooding through him. What he saw didn’t comfort him. Philo, still resolutely looking in the other direction, was obviously a tough man, with a nose that had clearly been broken more than once, and a heavy jaw that looked as if it always needed to be shaved. Instinctively, Paperius glanced down to look at Philo’s hands, and the sight of the scarred and misshapen knuckles confirmed what he was beginning to believe. Philo reminded him of the kind of tough man that the leaders of the collegia gangs who controlled the back alleys and shady streets of Rome used as muscle. There was no doubt these men were hard men, and it was true when Paperius joined the Legions, they served as his example of what a tough man looked and acted like. But his years under the standard had taught him the truth, and in his ten years with the 8th, he had seen more than one of these supposedly tough men show up full of loud talk and boasts of all the battles they had already won, only to break down in the middle of a fight against men who weren’t just scared bakers and tanners, but full-fledged warriors.

  “So what’s it like in the Praetorians?” Paperius tried to make it sound as casual as he could, and he was thankful that Philo didn’t seem to hear the catch in his voice. “Is it good duty?”

  Philo gave a grunting laugh, understanding what Paperius meant by “good duty.”

  “Well, there’s none of this marching about and bending your fucking back like a slave to dig a ditch,” he allowed. “There’s women and wine, and plenty of both.” Philo thought a moment, then finished, “So, yes. I suppose it is good duty.”

  “This must be a big change,” Paperius laughed, but Philo didn’t share in his amusement.

  “You have no idea,” he replied.

  Then he stood, and looked down at Paperius.

  “Shouldn’t we be going?”

  Paperius gave a start, feeling guilty that this man had to remind him. In answer, he gave a quick nod, then resumed leading the way. Philo followed behind, staring at the man’s back, feeling regretful about what he was going to do. That wouldn’t stop him, but it was a shame nonetheless; this Paperius seemed to be a really good sort.

  The pair heard the sounds of the fighting when Paperius estimated they were still almost a half-mile away.

  Turning to Philo, he said in a tone that the Praetorian hadn’t heard from him before in the short time they had known each other, “Now we slow down. And we keep our eyes open. It won’t do anyone any good if we get caught by a patrol this close.”

  Philo gave a simple nod in answer, and Paperius turned back to scan the wooded slope. He didn’t see Philo reach down and quietly draw his pugio partway out of the scabbard, as if checking to make sure it would slide out easily. Moving in a crouch, Philo followed Paperius as the Gregarius essentially repeated the performance that had enabled him to complete the first part of his task. Only once were they forced to dive for cover, when Paperius hissed a warning as what he could tell was the same pair of mounted warriors he had hidden from the first time, mainly because he recognized the voice of the man who had been talking earlier, passed by. Again, despite the circumstances, Paperius had to stifle a grin as the pair crossed in front of the two Romans, this time much closer than the first time, as he thought that it sounded very much like the Varciani had never stopped talking. Poor bastard, he thought, feeling sympathy for the other warrior who had to endure whatever this man was chattering about. Allowing them to pass, only when they disappeared through the trees did Paperius stand, beckoning to Philo as he began moving down the slope. The sounds of battle were clear now, to the point where the pair could hear the individual shouts of men, both in their own tongue and in the language of the barbarians, yet they were still unable to see anything. Finally, after another hundred paces, Paperius caught a glimpse through the trees, and was relieved to see that he had maneuvered the pair past the rubble blocking the ravine; he had no desire to scramble over that. Motioning to Philo, Paperius began creeping even more slowly, until he reached a point perhaps fifty paces up the slope from the bottom of the ravine, and directly across from what he recognized was the Sixth Century. They were close enough now that he could distinguish faces, and he saw Verrens, engaged at that moment with a Varciani warrior armed with a spear, his own blade flashing in quick but brutal movements.

  “Now what?” Philo’s voice startled Paperius, who had become absorbed watching the Centurion waging his own private battle.

  Paperius considered for a moment, then pointed to a spot.

  “See there? Right where those bodies are?”

  Philo followed Paperius’ finger, and he did indeed see what Paperius was indicating. Because of one of those quirks of battle, where either one or two Legionaries had been particularly deadly, or more likely because the Varciani had dragged these fallen men out of the way, then the flow of the fighting had seen a slight shift in position that coalesced around the pile, there was a gap in the warriors pressing against the Sixth Century. It wasn’t much, a space perhaps ten paces wide, and the footing would be tricky in the extreme as they clambered over the bodies to make the safety of the formation, yet although Philo was much less experienced in this kind of fighting, he saw that Paperius had picked the best spot.

  “Yes,” Philo said softly, giving a nod. “I see.”

  Paperius gave him a grin, then slapped him on the shoulder as he rose from his crouch.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  He had no chance, as one of the hands Paperius had examined earlier brutally clamped over his mouth. There was a searing, but thankfully very brief, pain in his neck, followed quickly by…nothing. Dropping the body back behind the bush that they had used as cover, Philo gave a brief glance down at his hands, and began wiping his hands before stopping, realizing it would help his story.

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry,” he said quietly to the corpse of Paperius, his face turned up to the sky, wearing that surprised look like so many of Philo’s victims had, the wide gash in his throat looking like a gruesome second mouth, still leaking blood.

  The fact was that Philo was sorry; in the short time that he knew the man, he had liked Paperius. But orders were orders, so there wasn’t any use dwelling on the injustice of it all. Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath, and made himself ready.

  “Man coming in!”

  Verrens, having just dispatched the Varciani with the spear that the now-dead Paperius had been watching him fight, whirled around, looking to his left towards the end of his Century. At first, he didn’t see anything, then his eye was caught by a darting movement at the very base of the slope, just a few paces behind the last line of enemy warriors. Whoever it was moved so fast that it was impossible for Verrens to catch more than a glimpse, but it was enough to see that it was a Legionary. Then the man was lost from view, blocked by the mob of barbarian warriors, and Verrens saw some of the Varciani near their rear suddenly turn about. This was immediately followed by a roar that reverberated above the rest of the noise of the fighting, as those warriors shouted in alarm, presumably from the actions of Verrens’ men to chop a path for the incoming Legionary. Verrens began pushing his way to the rear of the formation; before he had taken more than two steps, he heard answering shouts, these in his own language that told him that at the very least his men were aware and doing something to protect this incoming messenger. He had been informed by Porcinus that the Pilus Prior sent Paperius for help, and that was who he expected to see, yet when he reached the small knot of men who were surrounding a figure seated on the ground, he was in for a surprise. As his men parted, Verrens stared down at the panting man, confused for a moment; he didn’t recognize this man, was sure he had never seen him before, and his initial thought was that this was a Varciani dressed in a dead Legionary’s uniform.