by R. W. Peake
Thinking about it, I believe that "burden" is not a strong enough word, but that is said only through hindsight. The Tribunis Laticlavus, what we call the "broad stripe," was the cause of our consternation. He had only arrived with spring, and with the exception of our aborted campaign for Tiberius, it had been a quiet campaign season to this point. Despite this lack of opportunity, Lucius Aemilius Paullus had managed to make himself known, except not in a good way. What we knew about him was that he was extraordinarily well connected to the highest level of our society; the source of our problems was that he knew it as well. And he apparently had wasted no time in letting the senior Centurions know that he was not impressed in the slightest about their combined years of experience, decorations, or battle scars. Since it is almost impossible to separate fact from fiction in matters such as this, unless one sees it with their own eyes, I will not detail any of the supposedly spectacular scenes he created as he attempted to actually try to give orders to various Centurions. What I do know was that, to this point, he had restricted himself to the other Legion stationed at Siscia, and had spent some time with the 13th in Poetovio; I suppose our absence had much to do with that. But as we quickly learned, he was apparently determined to make up for lost time, because the mess started almost immediately, when Paullus actually issued the order to begin the march…and nobody moved. I suppose it is germane to point out that, while technically the command to begin a march is issued by the highest-ranking officer, prior to this, at least since I had been under the standard, the officers had always allowed the Primus Pilus of the leading Legion to give the order. And, since our column was only composed of one Legion, that would fall to Urso who, from my spot just a few feet away from the front rank, had opened his mouth to do just that. I believe that when Paullus yelled with what I suppose he thought was a commanding tone to march, we were all so surprised that we just stood there instead. Oh, he was furious! Even in the dim light of pre-dawn, I could see the color rising to his face, almost matching the color of his plumed helmet. I will give Urso credit; he did try to cover up our lack of obedience by telling our cornicen to sound the series of notes within a couple of heartbeats of Paullus' failed order. And all would have gone smoothly, if Paullus had not decided to make an issue of it. The moment the last note died down, we began to march, just as the Legions have done for hundreds of years now. But we managed only about five steps when Paullus spurred his horse right into our path, turning the animal sideways in a clear signal to stop. It should not be surprising that we did not come to a smooth, parade ground halt, which resulted in men in the rear ranks who could not see through the rows of bodies and their furcae to come crashing into the backs of their now-halted comrades. In short, it was a jumbled mess, while the air filled with curses as men stumbled or, trying to sidestep, were unbalanced and went staggering out of formation.
"First I give you the order to march, which you don't obey, then you can't even halt in the proper manner!"
From my vantage point, having a front row seat, so to speak, I saw Paullus' lip curl in disdain as he looked down at us from his horse. I would come to learn that was actually his normal expression, but what was unmistakable was his glowering contempt.
"Forgive me, Tribune." Urso, as was proper, was the man who answered, and I saw he was angry, but he spoke in the monotone of the professional soldier. "I take full responsibility for that. It was my error…."
"Of course it was your error, Canidius," Paullus snapped. "Clearly, you've forgotten that it's the highest ranking officer who gives the commands, not a subordinate!"
While he was saying this, Paullus was turning his horse so that the Tribune could sidle up to Urso, where he towered above our Primus Pilus, staring down at him, I suppose in an attempt to firmly establish his authority. Despite how much I despised Urso at that time, I was nevertheless proud to see that he resisted what is always the impulse of a man on foot when the bigger body of a horse is looming and taking a step back to keep some distance. Instead, he stood his ground, and the pair stared at each other for perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats.
Finally, it was Urso who broke the increasingly awkward silence by asking, "What are your orders, Tribune?"
For the first time, I suppose what could be a smile crossed Paullus' face, although to my eyes, it was more sneer.
"I'm glad we got that sorted out," Paullus said, then straightened in his saddle.
I saw him take a breath, followed by the bellowed order to the cornicen to repeat the command to begin the march. The fact that the cornicen, Gnaeus Varo, was standing right next to Urso and Paullus could have reached out to touch him did not appear to matter. Fortunately, we managed to resume the march again without more mishap, but I glanced over to Flaccus, who was to my immediate right with the standard, and the look he returned was half-smile, half-grimace.
"This should be interesting."
It would be nice to say that after that bumpy beginning, we had no more excitement of that type, but just a watch later, when we were approaching The Quarry, or whatever was left of it, and Urso gave the command to halt, once more, Paullus came galloping up from his spot behind the First Cohort, the other three Tribunes with him.
"What are you doing?" Paullus demanded, not bothering to return Urso's salute, which is an incredible insult.
"We're stopping, sir," Urso said, then stood silently.
"I can see that," Paullus shot back. "But I didn't give the order to stop!"
Without waiting to hear Urso's response, he turned to Varo and ordered him to sound the call to resume. When Varo hesitated, this made Paullus furious.
"Gregarius, I gave you an order, and if you don't sound the command immediately, I will have you flogged! With the scourge!"
Flaccus and I, standing just a few feet away from this spectacle, looked at each other in shock.
"Tribune," Urso's tone was actually mild, and I had to marvel at his self-control, "would you care to know why I gave the order to halt?"
"No," Paullus practically spat the word out. "I don't care why because it doesn't matter!"
Even the other Tribunes, who normally stand together when confronting rabble like us, appeared disquieted by Paullus' behavior. One of them, who was slightly behind Paullus, leaned over to touch the Tribune on the shoulder to get his attention. As hard as it was for me to believe, it only made matters worse.
"Don't touch me!" Paullus whirled around to glare at the offending party. "Or do I need to remind you that you're subordinate to me as well, Claudius?"
That made me jerk in surprise; to Romans, the name Claudius means something, and it meant even more to me.
"No, Senior Tribune," the man identified as Claudius said, sitting straight in the saddle.
His back was to me, but a blind man could have sensed the anger radiating from him.
"Good," Paullus sniffed, then turned back to point a finger at Varo. "Now, sound the call to resume!"
Varo had filled his lungs and clearly was about to obey, but he was stopped by Urso, who placed a hand on his arm and just gave the cornicen a shake of the head.
But before Paullus could begin screeching again, Urso said, "We're stopping because I don't want this Legion walking into a fucking ambush, Tribune."
"Ambush?" If that was supposed to get Paullus' attention, and more importantly his concern, it failed. "What ambush?" With an exaggerated motion, he looked around, making his eyes as wide as I suppose they could go. "I don't see any barbarians lurking about, Primus Pilus." He returned his gaze to Urso. "Surely you don't think the scum would still be in this area, do you? The Quarry is, what, two miles ahead of us yet?"
"More like one mile," Urso said softly. "And, yes, Tribune, I think it's possible that Draxo and his men might be waiting for us, for precisely the reason you bring up, because normally, these warbands hit a settlement like The Quarry, then run back to someplace where the ground suits them."
"Well, I don't intend to have this Legion creeping forward, just because there m
ight be trouble ahead," Paullus replied scornfully, then actually pounded one fist into another as he finished. "We're going to march up that road, and I hope those barbarians hit us! What better way to crush this uprising here and now?"
I am not sure if the groan I heard was mine, but even if it was, I was not alone. Fortunately, Paullus did not seem to hear, but the Tribune Claudius turned in his saddle to survey us. Naturally, because of where I stood and my height, our eyes met, and I realized that he was perhaps five years older than I was, putting him in his mid-twenties, with curly hair that was fashionably long. He did not say anything, but did give a slight shrug as if the matter was out of his hands, which I suppose it was, before turning back to resume watching the second confrontation of the day.
"What better way?" Urso repeated Paullus. "The way that gets fewer men killed, sir. That's the better way."
Paullus gave a dismissive gesture to Urso's concern, and, in doing so, for every man in the ranks who was close enough to see it, cemented their absolute hatred for the nobleman.
"If you wanted to avoid getting bloody, Primus Pilus, you shouldn't have joined the Legion."
That, I saw instantly, was too much for Urso, and his already swarthy face darkened even more as he actually took a step towards Paullus, who, it must be said, suddenly did not seem quite so martially spirited, because he twitched the reins and his horse took a step back.
"Tribune," Urso's teeth were tightly clenched, "I'll put my record up against any man in the Army of Pannonia. I've gotten 'bloody,'" he managed to emphasize the word with a sneer, "as you call it, more times than I can count. I've been under the standard since before you were born, and have seen more death than you could even imagine. But," he took a breath as he tried to keep his composure, "my job is to do what Rome demands of us, but in such a way where the lives of these men," he indicated us, "aren't wasted. Especially by putting ourselves in a vulnerable position."
To anyone with a modicum of sense, that explanation would be enough. Paullus was, again, not swayed.
"Vulnerable?" he mocked Urso, then like Urso had, pointed in our direction. "Look at them, Primus Pilus! What bunch of barbarians could stand up to that?" He shook his head. "Now, we've wasted enough time on this." He pointed at Varo and repeated, "Give the command to resume the march."
"Sir," Urso's voice took on a pleading quality, "at least let us shake out of column, then, and approach the village in open order."
How could he possibly disagree with that? I wondered. I got my answer immediately.
"No," Paullus said firmly. "It will take too much time; time that we've already wasted with this nonsense."
Defeated, Urso stood there for a moment, motionless, and I thought that he was going to refuse to salute and give the standard acknowledgement. Paullus clearly thought the same thing, because he was opening his mouth to say something more, but then, Urso saluted.
"I understand and I will….obey, Tribune," he finally managed, except he was not through, "But I am doing so under protest, and if anything happens, I want it on the record that this was your decision."
If Paullus was concerned, he certainly did not show it.
"What do I care if it's on the record?" he scoffed. "When this is all over, and these barbarians are crushed, I'm going to be sure to report to the Legate that one of his Primi Pili wasn't quite as eager to get stuck into the enemy as he should be."
In the span of no more than fifty normal heartbeats, I witnessed Urso going from a dark, purplish hue to the kind of pale one sees on a corpse, yet somehow, he managed to stop himself from pulling that puffed-up piece of cac off his horse and running him through for that insult. Having won this battle, Paullus wheeled his horse and trotted it back along the column, with three ashen Tribunes trailing behind. Once more, only Claudius even looked in our direction, but his face was grim. Waiting for the four to get out of earshot and back to the safety of the middle of the column, Urso nodded to Varo, and, in a moment, we were marching again, heading directly for The Quarry, and right into an ambush.
The only reason that what happened next was not an unmitigated slaughter of my entire Century and most of my Cohort was thanks to Urso and Tiburtinus, and it served as a powerful reminder to me that, my hatred of my Primus Pilus notwithstanding, he was an exemplary leader when it really mattered, when our lives were on the line. As we marched towards The Quarry, he rapidly gave us our instructions, telling us exactly what to expect in the event that Draxo was as cunning as his reputation. As soon as he was finished, he sent Tiburtinus, who he had summoned from his normal spot at our rear before he issued his orders, back along the column; at least, as far back as he dared without tipping Paullus off. During a normal march, at least once the ceremony of leading the army out at the head of his troops is done, the commanding officer always rides behind at least the vanguard Cohort; in a large army of multiple Legions it would be an entire Legion. But since it was just us, he and the rest of the Tribunes were riding immediately behind the Sixth of the First, meaning that Tiburtinus could not hang back and wait to warn the Second. That was a circumstance that would have consequences.
Still, we marched closer to The Quarry, yet unlike a normal march, the only sounds were the tramping of our boots on the hard-packed dirt and the jingling of the metal bits of our equipment when they bounced together. My mouth was so dry that I could not have spoken if I wanted to, and I cursed myself for not taking the time to grab a drink from my canteen during our brief stop, but I had been too distracted by Paullus' antics. Now there was no opportunity to do so because, like all of my comrades, I was tense and alert. Marching in column means that the normal arm's length span between us is less than half of that; if one is forced to bring their shield up to bear, there is not enough room for the man to the left to draw his sword, let alone wield it with any efficiency. And that is under normal circumstances, when we are carrying our shields strapped to our backs, which we were not. In fact, what we were doing at that moment was something I had never seen done before, nor have I seen it since. Urso's instructions had been for us to unlash our shields from our backs while we were marching, which is quite a trick, I can assure you. Naturally, we could not use our left hands, which were still holding our furcae, but we were forced to shift the spare javelin that we use as a walking staff over to our left hands, which were already wrapped around our furca pole and other javelin. In doing so, I was one of the relatively lucky ones whose hands were large enough that I could do so without dropping anything, but there were clattering sounds and curses immediately after we resumed the march as men lost their grip or somehow fumbled with what they were doing. Frankly, I was only dimly aware of that, being so focused on making sure that I was not one of them, and only later did I hear that Urso's plan almost was foiled because Paullus noticed some stray javelins that had been dropped on the ground and left behind because we did not dare stop. According to some of the boys in the Sixth, marching just ahead of Paullus and his bunch, he was close to ordering a halt to find out who had dropped their javelins and punish them, but one of the other Tribunes talked him out of it. While I never heard which Tribune it was, my guess is that it was Claudius, just because of his demeanor when he was witnessing Paullus' histrionics earlier. Finally, it appeared that everyone had their shields unstrapped, but we were now carrying them in our right hands because we still had our furcae. Urso had warned us that, in the event there was an attack, that we would have to move quick as Pan, dropping our furcae while switching our shields to our left hands.
"There's going to be too much fumbling about for us to even consider using our javelins," he had explained, "so drop those with your furca, because if I'm right, I know exactly where these bastards are going to hit us and there won't be time."
It was not until we were less than a half mile away from the settlement before we saw tiny tendrils of smoke rising up, and at first, there was an audible sigh of relief because the assumption was that it meant a false alarm and what we were seeing were the n
ormal signs of habitation. That mistaken feeling did not last long.
"That's too many smoke trails," remarked Quintus Avitus, the man who marched to my left, who was just a couple inches shorter than I was, but more slender, although I had sparred with him enough to know that he had a wiry strength that was deceptive. "And besides, it's the wrong time of day for people to be cooking their meals."
I instantly knew he was right, as did everyone else, and the low buzzing that had just started as men began to think that this had been a false alarm immediately stopped. The Quarry was located at the base of a hill that was the source for the rock being cut and dressed and sent to Siscia, where it was sold and shipped to other points. But, while the hill loomed up, the denuded slope clearly visible, the settlement was screened from view by a line of dense forest, through which the road had been cut. However, since this was not a real Roman road, or at least it was not then, the cleared portion was extremely narrow. When we build a good, solid Roman road, not only is it paved, but the trees and undergrowth are cut back on both sides, to a distance longer than a javelin throw. And, as you can imagine, that is exactly why it is cleared away, so that a hail of missiles do not come sailing through the air out of nowhere and we have some warning in the event of an attack. Unfortunately, this road was just barely wide enough for a normal marching column to fit, with perhaps a half-dozen paces of cleared space on either flank. Compounding matters was that on the far side of this strip of woods was a branch of the Colapis, which ran across our line of march in a north/south orientation. Although it was not excessively wide nor very deep, it was enough of an impediment that we would be slowed a bit as we crossed. Just on the other side, all the trees and undergrowth had been cleared, all the way to the first houses of the settlement, about two hundred paces away from the edge of the river. In short, we were marching through a perfect spot for an ambush.