Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  “Thanks,” Porcinus gasped, while never taking his eyes off the Varciani across from him.

  “Welcome,” the Legionary grunted. “Just remember that when it’s my turn to clean the latrines.”

  Porcinus laughed, and although it was forced, it was not only for the benefit of his men, but he knew that such behavior served to rattle their enemies, the idea that there were men who could laugh at such moments as this adding to the mystique and intimidation of the Legions. His front line had already pushed more than a dozen paces inside the forest, and Porcinus’ eyes had adjusted to the dimmer lighting. Following immediately behind the laugh, however, came a string of curses as Porcinus swore at the sight before him. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised, but he realized he had been irrationally hoping that somehow this forest would be different from the others in this area, that there would be less underbrush, and worse, the ground wouldn’t be littered with the trunks and large branches of fallen trees. This was the worst type of terrain for men of the Legions to fight on, yet he also understood that the only way to deal with this effectively was to break down into smaller groups that were more nimble and didn’t require as much open space. Fortunately, his men possessed plenty of experience in this kind of fighting, although they loathed it as much as Porcinus did.

  “Break down by sections!” He bellowed the order several times, risking quick glances to make sure the section leaders, all ten of them, had heard and acknowledged the order. Once he saw them signal with a nod or a wave that they had heard, he finished, “Wait for my command!”

  Then he turned his attention back to the front, waving his vitus and pointing it forward in a signal to press onward, closing back up to the Varciani, who had shuffled backward. Over the heads and behind the enemy, Porcinus saw what was taking the form of a gray wall of smoke, billowing upward and, more importantly, coming in their direction.

  “Get your neckerchiefs out and ready,” he suddenly ordered. “We’re about to be in that smoke, so those men who can, douse them with your canteens! And if I smell wine on any of you bastards, I’ll stripe you, I swear on the black stone I will!”

  The was a combination of muted laughs and curses, and Porcinus grimaced, knowing that more than one of his men had violated the regulations about only water being in the canteens of men going into battle. However, that was a worry for later. Like the men of the front line, he couldn’t take the risk of wetting his neckerchief, so it would be extremely unpleasant for some time to come. Then they were again within a couple paces of the Varciani, yet before he could give any more orders, a trio of warriors darted from their lines, screaming their defiance as they aimed at Porcinus. This wasn’t the time for reckless bravery, so instead of moving to meet them, the Centurion took a step back and to his left, bringing him hard up against his Century. In one smooth motion that betrayed the experience and training of the Legions, the man on the outside of the second rank took a step forward at an oblique angle to the right, placing himself to Porcinus’ right, instantly creating a solid line of Romans, now ready to meet the onrushing barbarians man for man. Two of them never faltered, but the third man, the one in the middle, either more timid or perhaps wiser, suddenly chopped his steps, as if changing his mind about the attack. This left Porcinus unengaged, meaning that it was short work for him to end the Varciani attacking the Gregarius to his right, the man from the second rank. Before he could turn his attention to the second man, he was already down, while the third man scrambled back to his own lines, accompanied by the jeers and taunts of the Romans who saw it happen. Still, the Varciani were backpedaling, then over the shouting and sounds of the fighting taking place to the right and to the left, there were screams from the rear of the Varciani formation. They were shrill with the kind of panic that told Porcinus in clear terms what had happened; the fire had just caught up with the rear ranks of the Varciani. The move backward was over.

  Not more than a handful of moments later, the entire area of battle was enveloped in smoke, reducing the visibility in any direction to less than thirty paces. Compounding the difficulty was the smoke itself, which soon had men’s eyes streaming, the sounds of coughing, gagging, and cursing now competing with the normal din of fighting. One unfortunate consequence of the fire was that, whether by choice or circumstance, it stiffened the resolve of the Varciani, as most of them understandably chose the relatively quick death offered by a blade rather than the lingering, horrific pain that came from fire. Very quickly, the ordered ranks of the Romans broke down as well, although this was by design, pursuing groups of rebels who took advantage of the clumps of underbrush, deadfalls of logs, and hidden gullies, using them as makeshift defensive barricades. It was a nightmare world of quick glimpses of darting warriors, moving from a clump of brush to leap behind a fallen tree, using it as a breastwork, while the Legionaries stood on the other side, thrusting over and down at their enemies, cursing in frustration.

  Porcinus was everywhere, moving from one section of his Century to another, adding his sword where it was needed, or giving directions about the best way to dislodge a stubborn handful of warriors. There were no more lines, ordered or otherwise, and once the smoke had settled like a choking blanket, there was no discernible direction. Porcinus worried that the poor visibility would allow a fair number of the Varciani to slip past his men, but he knew that, in all likelihood, Tiberius had kept the second line Cohorts positioned at the edge of the forest, waiting for just such a development. Regardless of Tiberius’ plans, this was something beyond his control and he gave it no more than a passing thought. What was of more immediate concern was the change in the ground as they penetrated deeper into the forest; the terrain was becoming more undulating, with creases and folds in the ground showing up with more frequency. If the wood was a difficult place to clear under the best of circumstances, between the smoke and these new obstacles, it was now a nightmare. Even as this was occupying his thoughts, he took a step forward and immediately discovered that the ground wasn’t where he thought it would be. For a sickening moment, he felt himself pitching forward, and he had more of an impression than actual view of a steeply sloping gully, the bottom of which was filled with a tangle of dead branches and logs. Windmilling his arms, he managed to recover his balance, then shouted a warning over his shoulder at the section of men following just behind. Directly across from him on the other side of the gully, which was perhaps twenty-five paces wide, he caught a glimpse of movement, yet before he could react, a Varciani spear came hissing through the smoke, missing him by a hand’s breadth. He ducked, then chided himself for doing so much too late for it do any good, whether it was an understandable reflex or not. Stepping back a pace, he crouched to present a smaller target as he strained his eyes, trying to see where the gully returned to the ground level either to his right or left, so that he could move his men around it. Finally thinking he saw the spot, he called to the section with him, and began skirting the gully. Even as he navigated around it, Porcinus was trying to get his bearings, realizing with a sinking feeling that he had lost track of where he and his men were in relation to anything familiar. The temperature had risen several degrees, but he could no longer tell in which direction the fire was, nor did he know where the edge of the forest where he and his men had entered should be any longer. It was nothing but shadows and smoke, and the only thing he was sure of was the direction those Varciani on the opposite side of the gully had headed.

  “Follow me,” he called, then plunged after them.

  He only became aware that he was alone when he turned back around a dozen heartbeats later and nobody was there. Cursing softly, he opened his mouth wider to call out for his men then, realizing it would just as likely attract unwanted attention, shut it. There were already men shouting all around him, but it was impossible to pinpoint their location with any precision, and although many were shouting in clear Latin, just as many were either in the Varciani tongue, or worse, unintelligible. If he followed his ears to one of those men, he could
walk right into a bunch of Varciani. Consequently, he began moving slowly, pausing every few paces to wipe his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision, except the smoke had gotten so thick that it was impossible to keep them from tearing up almost immediately. Then he saw a dark shape lying off to his left, and he approached cautiously, sword at the ready. It wasn’t until he got within a half-dozen paces that he saw that it was a Roman and, with a curse, he hurried to the man’s body. It was with equal parts relief and guilt when he saw that it wasn’t one of his men, but one from the First Cohort; if he remembered, the Third Century, although he couldn’t recall the man’s name. The one bright spot was that he now had a shield, and as he hefted it, he said a brief prayer for the dead man. Turning his mind to the immediate problem, he tried to determine the meaning of his discovery. Had he wandered so far from his own Cohort that he was now in the First Cohort’s area? Just then, he heard a shout, and recognized the voice as belonging to Frontinus, somewhere off to his right. That told him, in all likelihood, he was in between the Second and Third Century of the First Cohort, meaning that somehow, his own men were back to his left. However, now if he moved directly left, he would run into that gully he had bypassed, so with a quiet curse, he turned about to reverse his course. Before he moved three paces, there was another shout, directly from behind him.

  “There they are, boys! Gut those bastards!”

  It was Urso! He was sure of it, back in the direction he had just been headed, so he reversed course once more, still carefully moving, but doing so more swiftly than he had before. That meant he once more almost took a tumbling fall, except this time, he managed to stop himself, and he paused again to wipe his eyes, peering through the smoke. Before him was another gully; unlike the first one, this one ran across his front, perpendicular to the first one he had almost fallen into, meaning that, most likely, this one intersected it somewhere to his left. He began searching for a way across, either by a place that wasn’t as steep as what was in front of him, or for where this one ended, which he assumed would be off to his right, back in the direction of the First Cohort. That was the direction he moved now, intent on getting across so that he could at least rejoin his Pilus Posterior; maybe then, he could sort this mess out. Twice, he saw fleeting shapes, yet each time, they were fleeing in the same direction he was headed, and he couldn’t tell whether they were friend or foe, so he didn’t call out. He thought about using his bone whistle; he had heard several blasts in all directions, then decided against it since he was alone. Again, he paused for a moment, wiping his eyes one more time with the neckerchief, hoping that he would find a way across quickly so he could get back in the fight with his men.

  The blow, when it came, was completely unexpected. In fact, it was more of a shove, and before he could react, Porcinus felt himself sprawling to his left, into the empty space above the gully. The impact as his left side hit the ground drove the wind from his lungs in an explosive whoosh, the only blessing being that the ground was soft enough that it didn’t break his shoulder. Unfortunately, that was where the good news ended, as he felt himself tumbling end over end, the sight before him a rapidly whirling landscape where sky and ground switched places faster than his brain could account for the change. Then everything before that in the form of the impact from hitting the ground perhaps a half-dozen times seemed to be the whisper of a child compared to the shouts of a thousand men as his right leg met a log near the bottom of the gully. Slamming into the wood with horrific force, the two bones of his lower right leg just above his greave snapped as if they were twigs themselves, and he was only vaguely aware that the horrible scream of pain came from his own lips. Then he was still, lying on his back, much as he had been just a couple of days before, looking up at a tangled mass of vegetation, both living and dead. Somehow, he didn’t know how, he didn’t lose consciousness, although a part of him was praying that he would do so, anything to put him out of the most intense pain he had ever experienced. After a moment, when he realized he wouldn’t be passing out, at least right away, he tried to catch as much of his breath as he could in the choking smoke, which seemed to be thicker here than up on the forest floor. Then, with a dread that he would never be able to describe, he tried to lever himself upright into a sitting position. It was only with the help of a thick branch attached to the larger log that he assumed had broken his leg that he managed, pulling himself up to a point where he could look at his leg. He immediately wished he hadn’t, as without any warning, the sight of his leg, grotesquely twisted so that it formed a right angle, with the sole of his right foot pressed against his left calf, caused him to vomit. It happened so quickly that he couldn’t even turn his head, and the feeling of the warm bile splattering over his lap and upper legs only meant that he couldn’t stop until he was retching and nothing more was coming up. Each spasm of his stomach sent bolts of exquisite pain shooting through his lower right leg, and it wasn’t just the smoke that was causing the tears to stream from his eyes. Spent, he fell back down onto his back, staring up at the smoky sky, moaning with the pain, and for the first time in his life, he understood other men who had begged for their comrades to kill them. That was when he became aware of another sound, and with every fiber of his being, he forced himself to lie still, listening. It took just a moment for him to determine that it was the sound of someone, or something, large, coming down the slope of the gully from the side on which he had been. He opened his mouth to shout, realizing that he was almost completely hidden here at the bottom of the gully, covered over with the branches and leaves of the deadfall. Then, the part of his mind still aware of his overall situation clamped down on his mouth, firmly shutting it. Carefully, he began moving his head, looking all around him for his sword, but when he found it, he couldn’t stop himself from a small groan of frustration. It had landed low on the opposite side of the gully, just up the slope, the point partially buried in the dirt underneath the leaves. It had obviously been flung from his hand with a great deal of force for it to have landed where it had, with the point embedded in the earth. Even if moving at all wasn’t an agony that he was sure would cause him finally to pass out, for him to retrieve it he would have to lift himself up from his hiding spot. Instead, he reached down and was only slightly comforted by the feel of the handle of his pugio, still secure in its sheath, although he recoiled as his hands touched the sticky slime from his vomit coating the handle. The pugio would only be useful if he could somehow lure the Varciani close enough, and he decided that appearing to be dead was his best bet. If it was a Roman, it wouldn’t matter. Focusing all of his rapidly waning resolve and concentration, he slowed his breathing down to the point that he hoped from a distance at least, he would appear not to be breathing at all. Shutting his eyes so they were barely slit, he waited as the sounds of moving leaves and trickling dirt signaled the location of whoever it was coming down the gully. Finally, Porcinus heard a soft thud, in the direction of his feet, telling him that whoever it was had jumped the last distance down into the bottom of the gully. Then he heard a deeper rustling, followed by a dragging sound that Porcinus assumed was the man searching for him. This confirmed he was well hidden, and he began to hope that perhaps whoever it was, at least if it was the enemy, would give up and go scrambling back up the gully. If he did that, then Porcinus could at least risk a peek through the branches of his spot to see if it was friend or foe. As it turned out, there was no need for this; there was a vibration under Porcinus’ body that presaged the sudden removal of one of the branches above him. Just that movement caused Porcinus to want to scream out, but he clenched his teeth together tightly, praying to every god he could think of that whoever it was couldn’t see him. Then, he made out movement through the thicket of his eyelashes, and he let out a burst of pent-up breath as he fully opened his eyes.

  “Thank the gods,” he groaned. “I thought it was those Varciani bastards.”

  Porcinus’ relief was justified; even through the combined obscurity of eyes almost shut and the he
avy smoke, there was no mistaking the silhouette of the transverse crest of the Roman Centurion. However, that relief was also misplaced; in fact, he was in the most danger of his life.