Marching With Caesar-Rebellion

by R. W. Peake

  Porcinus’ first hint that all was not right, that he hadn’t been rescued, was in the silence that greeted Porcinus’ own words. He had been trying to struggle to a position where he would be easier to retrieve from the tangle of vegetation, but the lack of response stopped him. It seemed that time suddenly came to a complete standstill, as Porcinus raised his eyes to look up at the Centurion, still standing no more than five paces from him, hands on hips and with a smile on his face. But it was a smile that held nothing but a promise of pure malice.

  “Barbatus,” Porcinus breathed the name, and even above the throbbing agony, he felt a stab of such fear that, for a brief instant, the pain in his leg was forgotten.

  “Pilus Prior Porcinus.” Barbatus drew each word out, almost lovingly, as if he was savoring each one like a sweet grape. “The gods are indeed kind. They’ve answered one of our prayers.”

  “What…what do you mean?” Porcinus asked, trying to shove the panic down to force his mind to ignore the pain and think clearly.

  “I think you know what I mean,” Barbatus replied evenly, then took a step toward Porcinus.

  That was when Porcinus knew he had one chance, and one only, so that even understanding the agony it would cause him, he used his powerful arms to lever himself upright before grabbing two handfuls of the slope to begin pulling himself up, towards his sword, the Gallic blade that was so tantalizingly close. Barbatus didn’t react immediately; instead, he just stood there, watching with interest as Porcinus, emitting a whining groan that was almost feral in its intensity, pulled himself up towards the sword. However, just as Porcinus got to a point where he was sure the sword was within reach and he extended his right arm, Barbatus, without any real hurry, took a couple steps closer. Then, raising one foot, he brought one hobnailed boot down, hard, on Porcinus’ ruined leg. The shriek that emanated from Porcinus was so loud and so shrill that it not only caused Barbatus to wince from the noise, he cast a quick, slightly nervous glance up to the top of the gully, looking quickly to both sides before he drew his sword. Porcinus was now soaked in sweat, panting and almost out of his mind with the pain, but he still had the presence of mind to draw his own pugio, the sight of which only caused Barbatus to laugh.

  “You brought a dagger to a sword fight, Porcinus,” he sneered. Then, taking another step forward, he drew his sword arm back. “I’m going to enjoy this, you cunnus. You thought you were so much better than me, so much smarter than me! I’ve killed a lot of men, but I’m really going to enjoy sending the heir of the great Titus Pullus to Hades where he belongs! Oh,” his lips pulled back in a sneering smile, “and when I get back to Siscia, your brat is going to have an accident. Then your whore of a wife. Then the rest of your children. That will teach you who the better man is!”

  “You cocksucker.” Porcinus’ voice was part snarl, part shriek. “I swear by all the gods that I’ll piss on you, even if it’s from the afterlife. Why don’t you come closer and we’ll see who the better man is, you…minion!”

  “Shut your mouth.” Barbatus’ voice was no less savage than Porcinus’, and even through the fog of pain and the fear, Porcinus saw that he had hit a nerve.

  “Why? What are you going to do? Kill me?” Porcinus spat back. “Then you’re probably going to roll me over and fuck me, aren’t you? Oh wait,” Porcinus didn’t know how, but he found a way at least to make the approximation of a laugh, although it was more of a wheezing cough. “I forgot. You don’t like to give; you like to receive. Is that what Augustus does for you? Is it? He gives you the fucking you like? How big is your asshole, Barbatus? How much of his seed have you taken up your ass? In your mouth? When you fart, does it sound like a sigh?”

  “SHUT YOUR MOUTH!” Barbatus screamed this, but Porcinus only had eyes for the man’s sword and saw that the point of the blade was wavering, so overcome with rage was the Primus Pilus.

  “At least tell me why.” Porcinus hoped he sufficiently tamped down any pleading quality in his question. From his viewpoint, the only way to win at least a few more heartbeats of life was to play on the man’s vanity and pride. The memory of those grooming implements in the Primus Pilus’ quarters came to his mind now, and Porcinus was gambling that Barbatus was a man with a highly inflated sense of himself and his place in their world. “Did Augustus tell you to do this? Were those his orders?”

  Of all the guesses and leaps of intuition that Gaius Porcinus made in his life, this was the shrewdest, because it stopped Barbatus who, if anything, looked amused.

  Staring down at the prone Centurion, he finally gave a shrug, then answered, “Not that it matters now. You won’t be telling anyone. No, the Princeps didn’t tell me to kill you. Oh,” he hurried to add, “he knows about you. Don’t think he doesn’t. But he clipped your wings and frankly, you don’t matter. No,” he shook his head as his mouth twisted into an expression that gave Porcinus the full impact of the depth of Barbatus’ hatred, “this is my idea. Your uncle thought he was so much better than men just like him! Well, he wasn’t the only man who had plans! Who had dreams! But he had to rub the patricians’ faces in the cac and let them know he was the great Titus Pullus! And because of him, none of us in the ranks can count on reaping the rewards we deserve! So what better way to avenge myself on your cunnus of an uncle by stamping out his line?”

  Finished, Barbatus took another step and Porcinus knew it was over, that, at most, he had won a few more heartbeats of life, yet, in those last moments, his thoughts were only for his family, and he was filled with the hopeless dread that comes when a man realizes that everything he holds dear will be destroyed. Except Barbatus didn’t strike. Instead, he did something quite strange. He gave a little coughing sound, and with a slowness completely out of character for what he had been about to do, he made a slight half-turn, as if he wanted to make one last check over his shoulder. Then, he turned back around, and Porcinus would never forget the look on the man’s face, a puzzled expression that was marred by the stream of blood bubbling from his mouth. Barbatus took a staggering step forward before collapsing to his knees, his eyes wide but unseeing, then toppled forward on his face to land with a heavy thud just inches from Porcinus’ feet. Porcinus stared down at the prone body of the Primus Pilus uncomprehendingly, his mind barely registering the puckered hole oozing blood in his back. Only then did he lift his head, with an almost comical slowness, to see a man, this one dressed identically to both Porcinus and Barbatus, now lying dead in the gully, as Porcinus should have been. Porcinus felt his mouth working, but it took several tries before anything came out, a croaking combination of recognition and question.

  “Urso?”

  Porcinus’ Pilus Posterior didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he moved quickly to where Porcinus was lying, shoving the branches out of the way to kneel by his side. His face was grim as he looked at the mangled leg of his Pilus Prior, while Porcinus studied the other man for a clue as to how bad it really was. He had looked once, although he couldn’t bring himself to do so again, thinking that seeing it would only increase the agony he was already feeling.

  “Porcinus, I’m going to have to lift you up, and I won’t lie, it’s going to hurt like Dis,” Urso said.

  Porcinus barely heard the other man, still studying the darker features of his second in command, before he whispered a hoarse, “Thank you.”

  Urso just shrugged, seeming to be embarrassed by Porcinus’ gratitude.

  “You’re welcome, but there’s no real need to thank me. I’d expect you to haul me out of here instead of burning to death.”

  “That’s not what I was talking about,” Porcinus answered quietly. “I’m talking about saving me from Barbatus.”

  Porcinus would never forget Urso’s reply, not only for what he said, but for what happened immediately afterward.

  “There’s no need for that either,” Urso replied conversationally as he reached down to put a hand under Porcinus’ armpits. “That debt was paid by the man I work for.”

  Then, befo
re Porcinus could respond, or even make sense of what he had just heard, Urso lifted Porcinus up with a grunt. Sparks of a thousand colors exploded in Porcinus’ head as the pain simply became too overwhelming, and that was the last thing he remembered for some time. From what he pieced together later, the next full watch of his life was passed with him slipping in and out of consciousness; he had faint memories of hearing Urso’s harsh breath as he labored up the slope of the gully, then the shouts of other Romans before he slipped away again. His next memory was of intense heat, and he was lying on the ground, except there was something hard underneath him as he vaguely realized that he had been placed on a shield. He was only strong enough to turn his head, seeing the dirty legs and caligae of Legionaries, but it was what was beyond them that was the most vivid memory. It looked like a wall of flame, and it helped him to distinguish the meaning of the line of men, frantically chopping and tearing brush out in an attempt to slow the fire by creating a firebreak. Clearly, he and the others escaped the flames, because the next time he opened his eyes, he was staring up at a clear but smoky sky, while the shouts and calls that were so familiar to him of a Legion forming up sounded all around him. He remained conscious long enough to feel himself lifted up and a pair of hands, once again under his arms, dragging him backward onto a flat, hard surface.

  “Sorry, Centurion,” a voice with a tinge of Greek spoke, “but this is going to be bumpy getting back to camp. I’m afraid it’s going to be pretty painful.”

  Whoever told him that was right; he stayed awake until shortly after the wagon started moving. Then it hit a hole, sending a shuddering jolt through the floor of the wagon and up into Porcinus’ body. Once more, he heard a shout of pain, just before all went dark again.

  It was dark in the tent when Porcinus woke up next, although that was always the case in the hospital tent. The first sensation that was strong enough to cut through the pain was an almost overwhelming thirst, and he turned his head, looking for a medicus.

  Seeing nobody near, he opened his mouth to call, except all that came out was a croak that he didn’t recognize himself.

  “Water.”

  When nobody came, he braced himself, knowing that the effort would cause him agony.

  “Water!”

  “Coming, Centurion! I’m coming!”

  Then there was someone there, the medicus who Porcinus recognized as the one whose head Volusenus had bounced the cup off, and there was still a bandage in place, covering the wound. What was most important was that he brought a ladle and, lifting Porcinus’ head, he put it to the stricken man’s lips. He drank greedily, sure that he had never tasted water so sweet.

  “More,” he commanded once he had finished the ladle.

  “I’m sorry, Centurion, but that’s all you get. The physician still has to set your leg, and if you have too much in your stomach, you’ll regret it.”

  Porcinus opened his mouth to argue then, realizing the wisdom in the medicus’ words, just nodded his head weakly in acceptance. The medicus hurried off, presumably to inform the physician that Porcinus had awakened. Soon enough, an older man, bald and wearing a leather apron that Porcinus saw was stained with blood, came into view, and Porcinus recognized that it was Philandros, the physician who had worked on Titus.

  “Well now, Centurion,” he said with a geniality that Porcinus had heard before, knowing it to be the false heartiness that men like him saved for the gravely injured. “Let’s see what we can do about this leg, shall we?”

  Porcinus didn’t answer verbally, instead just giving a grim nod. Philandros, who Porcinus knew was the most senior among the staff, pulled the thin cover that had been lain over Porcinus’ lower body, and even that slight disturbance caused him to wince. His eyes never left Philandros, something that he would regret later, because he saw the man’s expression change instantly as soon as he looked down at the ruined appendage. Heaving a sigh, he suddenly seemed to be looking everywhere but in Porcinus’ eyes.

  “I regret to say that the damage to your leg is more…severe than I was led to believe,” he said at last.

  Porcinus waited for more, but when Philandros said nothing else, it prompted him to demand, “Well? What does that mean?”

  “It means,” the physician said softly, “that you are unlikely to survive what it would take for me to set the leg straight, and that even if I did, and you did live, the chance of it mending straight is…poor.”

  Porcinus didn’t reply for long moments, his fatigued mind struggling to make sense of what Philandros was telling him.

  Finally, he opened his mouth; it took him three tries before anything came out, and he protested, “But I’m strong and in good health! I survived breaking it. I’m not going to die when you set it!”

  “No, you may not,” the physician agreed, sending Porcinus’ hopes rising, if just for a moment. “In fact, I think you probably would, particularly since you don’t seem to have any other wounds, just some bumps and bruises. How did this happen, by the way? We don’t often see injuries like this after a battle.”

  “I was…I fell,” Porcinus mumbled, changing his mind in mid-sentence about telling the truth.

  In fact, this was the first time he had thought about the circumstances that led him to his current condition, and his next was the memory of Barbatus lying at his feet, with Urso standing, holding a bloody sword. Unaware of Porcinus’ musings, Philandros gave him a surprised look.

  “That’s strange,” he said, staring at Porcinus for the first time, with an expression that the Centurion couldn’t readily decipher. Then, he shrugged and finished, “But I’ve seen stranger things happen on a battlefield. Just your bad luck.”

  “Yes, just my bad luck,” Porcinus agreed through gritted teeth. “So, set my leg.”

  The physician gave him a long, searching look, before asking, “Centurion, are you sure? Because even if you survive, I can tell you that the chances of it healing straight again are not good. It will have to be in a splint for several weeks, and the broken ends of your bones have poked through the skin in two places. Frankly, I’ve seldom seen breaks this bad, and I’ve never seen one worse. At least, where the patient lived.”

  Porcinus felt a flare of temper, and he grabbed the physician, using the considerable strength of his right hand, made even more powerful by the conditioning exercises prescribed for all who used the Vinician grip. He was rewarded by a yelp of pain from the physician; under normal circumstances, Porcinus would have relented because he normally didn’t like exerting his strength to hurt men who weren’t enemies, but this wasn’t a normal moment.

  “Listen to me,” he hissed. “Set. My. Fucking. Leg. Now.” Only then did he relent with his grip, dropping his head back on the bolster, his hair and face soaked with sweat. “You let me worry about the rest of it.”

  “Very well, Centurion,” Philandros relented, rubbing his forearm and glaring at the prone Roman. “Have it your way. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Motioning to the nearest medicus, the physician ordered him to come assist, pointing to a stoppered bottle, which the medicus picked up. Pouring a spoonful, he indicated to Porcinus to open his mouth, which he did. When he swallowed the bitter concoction, he made a face that seemed to amuse the physician. “Poppy syrup. Tastes horrible from what I’ve been told. But you’ll be thanking me later. Not,” he rubbed his arm again, “that you deserve it. But I suppose this will be enough punishment as it is, even with the syrup.”

  As he spoke, the medicus tapped Porcinus on the jaw softly, in a signal for the Centurion to open his mouth. Porcinus did, the medicus shoving a round dowel wrapped with several layers of leather into his mouth and, as Porcinus clamped down on it, he could feel the grooves and indentations made by only the gods knew how many other teeth. That was when the fear hit him, a fresh spate of sweat bursting out all over his body as he prepared himself for his trial. Philandros, seeing that all was ready, did…nothing. In fact, he seemed more interested in continuing what had been a one-sided conver
sation, as it was, even before Porcinus clamped down on the gag.

  “I have seen at least two cases where the men in question were able to walk, but it was with a decided limp,” he continued on, in a tone that suggested he was talking with a colleague over a cup of wine, and not to a patient. “And one of them was actually able to return to the standard, although, if I’m being honest, he was a Gregarius near the end of his enlistment and not a Centurion. So he was consigned to guard duty for the most part. Still, he was able to retire and receive his full pension. I do think it’s very wise of Augustus to amend the regulations so that men who fall just a year or two short of their retirement don’t leave with nothing to show for it, don’t you?”

  Porcinus had no idea whether he was expected to answer; there was no way he could have responded in any fashion because just as the physician finished what he was saying, he suddenly reached down, grabbed Porcinus’ heel and gave a hard pull. Whereupon Porcinus’ world instantly went black.

  Porcinus opened his eyes, although it took a moment for them to focus on the roof of the hospital tent. It was even darker than when he had come to the first time, telling him that it was now nighttime. Turning his head, just that slight movement made his head pound; he had heard this was a side effect of ingesting poppy syrup, yet he was oddly thankful because it gave him something else to concentrate on other than the throbbing agony in his leg. His movement had another effect, as he heard a grunt from a few feet away.

  “So you’re awake. It’s about time.”

  Porcinus recognized the voice as belonging to Volusenus, and he remembered that the Secundus Pilus Prior had now been there for two days, since the first attack. Had it really only been two days? he wondered. So much had happened in that time, it was hard for him to imagine that such a short interval had passed. There was a shuffling sound, then suddenly the face of Volusenus loomed above him, still with the bandage wrapped around half his face and covering his ruined eye. The good one stared down at Porcinus, and there was something in the other man’s expression that Porcinus had never seen before. His mind was still dulled from the syrup, forcing him to struggle a bit to try and identify the look, but he quickly regretted it, recognizing the pity in the man’s face. Perhaps if it was coming from someone other than Volusenus, it wouldn’t have been such a shock to his system.