by R. W. Peake
After telling me I was going to brace the ladder, he turned and pointed his vitus directly at Didius and barked, “You there, Achilles,” he gave an emphasis to the nickname that did not imply that it was a compliment. “We’re going to see what you’re made of and if you can live up to the name. You’re going up first.”
Didius turned as white as I had ever seen him, and before he caught himself started to choke out a protest before stopping immediately when he saw the expression of not just the Pilus Prior, but of all of us. Gulping, he merely nodded and turned away so that his face did not betray his emotions. We all eyed each other, not having to say a word. The horns sounded, the ladders went up, and with another roar the men of the Second Cohort began the climb. Sitting with my back to the wall, I gripped the sides of the ladder to make sure that nobody stepped on my hands, and in this position, I got a front row seat to see Didius mount the ladder. I wish I could say that I felt some sort of pity for him, but I did not; instead, I experienced a great sense of satisfaction seeing the sheer terror on his upturned face as he climbed, his shaky legs nevertheless propelling him upwards. I very clearly felt the tremors of his body as he ascended, and it was with grim pleasure that I thought, now we’re going to see how much is talk and how much is deed.
Immediately following him was Rufio, who gave me a quick grin as he followed Didius up and he called out to me, “I think he shit himself. At least that’s what it smells like.”
I laughed, as did the others who heard him, though if Didius heard he was too terrified to give one of his normal surly retorts. Scribonius went up behind Rufio and I heard the first clash of metal, followed by a cry as Didius got to the top. Immediately, the progress up the ladder stopped and I frowned in concern, exchanging a look with Vellusius who had just stepped onto the first rung. This was not good; the key to storming a wall is to get as many men on the parapet as quickly as possible, and I wondered if this had happened when I went up the ladder the first time. Being fair, I knew that time was impossible to judge time in moments like this, so it may very well have been the same when I did it, yet it did not seem that way, and judging from the concerned looks on the others’ faces I had to believe that there was a problem.
“Achilles, you lazy bastard,” Rufio called, “make us some room up there.”
Over the clanging of metal, I heard Didius reply desperately, “I’m trying, damn you!”
“Well, don’t try you stupid bastard, do it!”
Finally, Rufio gave an exasperated growl and forced his way up the ladder, his voice adding to the melee on the wall. In a few heartbeats, whatever had been holding everyone up was taken care of, because the flow of men began again, moving quickly this time. Finally, I was the last one left and I pulled myself to my feet, giving the job of bracing the ladder to the designated man from the Century behind us and followed everyone else up.
The sight that met my eyes was one of chaos, even more than normal in an assault like this, with the Gallaeci flowing down the hill from the town like ants, headed towards the walls, where the men of the First Century were battling the warriors who were still fanatically fighting on the parapet. They were resisting with the desperate courage of men who knew that not only were they the last line of defense protecting their families, they were the last gasps of a rebellion, and defeat would mean the destruction of their people. Caesar’s treatment of the Lusitani that he defeated was no secret by this point, and it was this knowledge that kept them fighting long after they should have been exhausted. My heart sank when I saw a number of Roman bodies littering the parapet, and I could only hope that none of them were my tentmates; it was bad enough that they were from my Century. Looking for a place to stick in and help, I saw a small knot of Gallaeci pressing hard against Calienus and Atilius, both of them with their backs to the wall, frantically parrying the blows of the Gallaeci warriors. With a shout, I rushed over to help them, catching the Gallaeci by surprise. One of them turned his attention to me, snapping something to the others, obviously an order to keep up their assault on my two friends while he would handle me. Giving him a savage grin at this sign of his hubris, I beckoned him to come at me. He had a short sword, similar to those that we used and he wielded it with some skill, but in a moment I had his measure; he was too aggressive and prone to over-commit and expose himself. Feigning a retreat after one spirited attack on his part, it gave him the encouragement to press me, which is exactly what I wanted. Once again he made a thrust and overextended himself, so that for a brief instant his throat was exposed because his arm was too far forward. It was enough, and I relished the look of shock in his eyes as my blade punched through, coming out the back of his skull, then twisted the blade to free it, kicking him out of the way as I did so. His comrades had too much faith in his ability because their attention was still turned totally towards Calienus and Atilius, so I dispatched two of them with quick thrusts to the back before the other three realized what was happening. Now they were caught between the proverbial rock and the hard place, and in an instant they were all finished.
“Thanks Pullus,” Calienus gasped and I grinned, giving a quick salute before we turned our attention to other targets. Working together, we moved along the wall, trying to link up with the other Century further down, squeezing the Gallaeci into a smaller and smaller space as we did so, giving them less room to work while increasing our chances of hitting someone as they became more densely packed. Things were beginning to swing in our favor and the Gallaeci knew it, prompting some of them to jump off the parapet to retreat up the hill to form another line of defense. Some of our men kept their heads about them and on seeing the Gallaeci warriors jumping down, snatched up their javelins, flinging them into the backs of some of the retreating warriors. As the situation on the parapet began to stabilize, I began looking around for Vibius. When I saw him, a cry of fear escaped my lips before I could stop it.
Vibius was lying on the parapet, his lower body covered in blood as he lay motionless among other bodies, both Roman and Gallaeci. Running to him, I fell to my knees beside him. He was facedown and as I reached for him to turn him over, I saw my hands trembling; I had never been so afraid in all my life about what I might find. Steeling myself, I gently turned him over, a gasp of relief exploding from me as I saw his eyes flutter. He looked up, his eyes fuzzy and unfocused before they finally rested on my face. Seeing that he recognized me, I took this to be a good sign.
“Wha….what happened? Where am I, Titus?”
“You’ve been wounded,” I replied in what I hoped was a comforting tone, but I had my doubts when I saw his eyes widen in alarm. Immediately his hands began to roam over his body, and I grabbed them, saying as gently as I could, “Don’t do that. Let me see. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
I began by examining his lower torso, his tunic caked with blood underneath his armor, not bothering to hide my relief when I determined that he did not have any kind of belly wound. I found the wound when I examined lower down, a huge gash in his thigh, both in front and in back, a sign that it had been a sword thrust that had gone all the way through. The other good news was that the blade had not cut a major blood vessel, since if it had he would have been dead by the time I found him. Telling him the news, I watched his eyes flutter in relief.
“Let me go get a medici,” I told him, but before I left, I tore off a piece of his tunic to bind the wound, which was still oozing blood, although it was slowing down. I just hoped it was not because he had run out of blood, but he was still conscious, which I took to be a good sign. Jumping up, I looked over the wall to see if the medici had made their way this far along yet, then when I spotted one I called out to him. He heard me and promised to come up as soon as he finished with the man he was working on. Despite the fight raging further down the parapet, I sat down with Vibius to wait for the medici to arrive and talked to him, staying as cheerful as I could, teasing him that he was going to get out of all the duties for a while, yet I saw he was still worried.
“Vibius, don’t worry, you’re not going to die. I’ve seen enough wounds to know this isn’t fatal.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about, Titus,” he said quietly. “I’m worried that it won’t heal properly and I’ll be dismissed from the Legion.”
I had not even thought of this, and just the mention of it sent me into a near panic, since I could no more imagine being in the army without Vibius than I could grow wings and flying. Refusing to listen to him, I told him firmly that this was nonsense, and if he continued thinking like this, I was going to give him a good thrashing. After he recovered, of course, I amended hastily, and I think to the relief of both of us the medici arrived so I left Vibius with him to continue fighting, promising that I would come see him as soon as I could. Turning back to the sounds of battle, I looked for our Century before hurrying off to join them, leaving Vibius behind for the first time since we had been friends.
Fighting continued to rage, the accursed Gallaeci refusing to recognize the inevitable, and the battle soon degenerated into a series of smaller, more private fights involving at the most dozens of men on both sides. All sense of tactics and cohesion were gone as the situation reduced itself to its simplest denominator, that of men trying to kill each other for reasons that they could no more fathom at this point than they could express them. Finding the Pilus Prior, he was surrounded by a knot of men from my Century, so I hurried over to the group.
Catching sight of me, he called out, “It’s about time Pullus. Get over there,” he pointed to a spot where some of our men were being hard pressed by a larger group of Gallaeci, “and sort that out.”
Sketching a salute I ran over, jumping into a wild melee that resembled a tavern brawl more than any type of set battle. Men were simply bashing each other with both shield and sword, not even bothering to look for an opening or in any other way using their heads, merely trying to batter their opponents into submission. Resolving that I was going to be more logical about this, I waited as I watched two combatants who appeared to be evenly matched, looking for an opening where I could provide some help. After exchanging a series of blows, both the men stepped away from each other, panting from the exertion, their eyes only on each other. Seeing my chance, I stepped in quickly to dispatch the Gallaeci with a quick thrust. The Roman, I believe it was a man named Numerius from our Century, yelled at me in protest.
“I almost had him Pullus, you didn’t have to do that.”
I looked at him as if he had gone insane; this was not a contest or a training exercise, a point I reminded him of, not mollifying him in the slightest. “Next time, you worry about making your own kill and not wait until I soften someone up so you can just step in and take the glory,” he insisted.
I did not know how to respond, just looking at him with my mouth agape. Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to the fight, wondering if I would find someone more appreciative of my help.
Our effort to clear the second wall and move away from it took most of the day. First we would clear a section, with the Gallaeci falling back into the relative safety of the lean-tos and shacks arrayed on the slopes of the hill, but then they would reorganize and rally before we could move out from the wall. They would come rushing back, and more than once we found ourselves with our backs literally to the second wall, fighting desperately to maintain our formation and not get slaughtered piecemeal trying to claw our way back up to the parapet. After a couple of setbacks like this, we kept a reserve force standing on the parapet who would first fling whatever javelins they found to help relieve the pressure, then use the discarded longer spears that the Gallaeci favored, stabbing down at the enemy over our heads as we fought. In this manner we never had to face the prospect of trying to withdraw back over the wall, although it was a close-run thing. During one particularly vicious encounter, I was slashed down my right arm just as I was parrying a thrust from a spear, an opportunistic Gallaeci next to the man I was fighting lashing out with a short blade, scoring my arm from the elbow to just an inch or two above my wrist. While the cut was not particularly deep, it felt like someone poured liquid fire in a line down my arm; even now as I am dictating this I can see the scar clearly, although it has turned white with age. Despite myself I let out a yelp of pain, then gritted my teeth and took savage delight in gutting the man who cut me, laughing brutally into his face as he dropped to his knees, his eyes on me as he died. The blood from the wound ran freely for some time before it clotted; a wave of dizziness struck me after a few moments and I was sure that I was going to collapse on the ground, at the worst possible time. Somehow I found the reserves needed to maintain my footing, once again feeling the rage start to flow through me, giving me a burst of energy. Snarling like a wild animal, I bashed an older warrior with the boss of my shield, shoving him back to give me room to move forward while thrusting and slashing at any patch of bare flesh that I saw. The men around me began roaring their own war cries, feeding off the renewed energy as our group began pushing back away from the wall, moving steadily forward. Other smaller groups saw us and fought their way to us so that after several moments of non-stop fighting, we had gathered perhaps half the Cohort. The Pilus Prior saw our group and made his way to us, using us as a rallying point, and while he had the horns sound the command to form on the standard of our Cohort, I took the time to try binding my wound, taking the neckerchief we wore to keep our armor from chafing our necks off a dead Legionary, Plautius as it turned out, then with some help tied it around my arm. It was a bit restricting, though I was fairly confident that once we started fighting again I would not notice, which is what happened. Meanwhile, the 9th had made their way to a point where they had begun firing the shelters and other combustibles, and the wind, picking up in the day as it is prone to do in that part of the world, had begun to whip its way up the hill, sending a pall of smoke in our direction that was irritating yet not thick enough to obscure our vision. The Gallaeci, seeing us rally and form up, gave their own commands so that a large number of their warriors clustered together, ready to oppose our progress up the hill.
For however many times only the gods knew by this point, the Pilus Prior waved his sword in the air in a circle, before dropping it down and pointing at the men opposite us, bellowing, “Kill those bastards!”
Again, we responded with a roar, rushing forward. Finally, however, we could sense that this was the final push; the last fort, the last bunch of the enemy, the last battle of the campaign before we could rest. For some of us who dreamed of such things, it was also the last chance for glory, meaning that I was at the head of the Second Cohort as we smashed into our enemy.
Once it was all over, it was easily our hardest and bloodiest battle to date, which given the circumstances, was fitting. The Gallaeci fought like lions, and at some point in the final battle to finish off a last pocket of resistance, I found myself feeling very sad that we had to slaughter such worthy opponents as these. It is a feeling that I have had several times since. In fact, there have been times where I found I have more regard for the men I was killing than some of the men I was fighting with, and I know that I am not alone. On that day, we destroyed the Lucenses branch of the Gallaeci as a fighting force, or at least we thought we did, though they have proven to be a most resilient enemy. In the space of 30 years, they regained enough strength to cause the Imperator Augustus troubles that found the Legions marching once again over terrain that I had as a teenager. However, at the time we marched under the command of his adoptive father, we pacified the province, bringing the Lusitani and the Gallaeci to heel and ending the revolt. When all was said and done, the 10th Legion lost more than 200 men killed, with an equal number wounded severely enough to be dismissed from the Legion. In our Century, out of the original 91 men that made it through the final training and marched out of the camp in Scallabis, there were 74 left on active service; 12 men had been killed outright, including Optio Vinicius, and four had to be sent home. None of them were my tentmates, although five of us had been w
ounded to one degree or another, myself suffering two wounds, though neither of them were serious enough to see me on the sick and injured list. Vibius took a month to recover, and was left with a slight limp that showed up on cold days or at the end of a hard day’s marching, but otherwise did not slow him down. The day after we took the last Gallaeci fort, the leaders of the resistance still alive came to camp to surrender to Caesar, throwing themselves on his mercy, at a ceremony where we were paraded to watch the spectacle, which we enjoyed immensely. There are few things more satisfying than seeing an enemy humbled before the eagles of the Legions, and it was an event that never diminished in pleasure for me over the years, except when they were fellow Romans. We, the 9th and 10th, marched back south, to be met by the 7th, who had reduced Portus Cale and pacified the area, before continuing our movement until we met the 8th, still guarding their area of Lusitania for the weeks we were pursuing the end of the rebellion. It was in late September that we marched into Scallabis, to be met by adoring crowds, our standards wreathed in the traditional garlands that denote victorious Legions, with Caesar leading the procession. The 10th was given the place of honor on the march into the city, beginning a long relationship with Caesar as his favorite and most reliable Legion, a fact which we were quick to rub in the faces of the other Legions and was the source of many a brawl in the inns and wine shops of the places we were quartered through the years. We spent a month in Scallabis as the wounded men recovered, before marching to Corduba.