by R. W. Peake
I knew how dangerous it was to do so, but I could not seem to stop my eyes from glancing down at my arm in order to try and assess the damage. Not surprisingly, I was instantly sorry I did so, although I managed to accomplish it without an enemy taking advantage of my recklessness. For one thing, it was almost impossible to see anything other than a mass of red, but to my relief, I did not see a spray of my blood that would indicate I had severed one of the main vessels and therefore had just moments to tie it off before I passed out, and in all likelihood die before anyone could help. Otherwise, however, there was no real way to know what damage had been done, besides which the span of a half-dozen heartbeats of respite where this was possible was coming to an end.
The warrior whose arm I had broken had scrambled backward towards his own comrade while still in a sitting position, using just his legs to move himself as he held his useless limb with his other, glaring and screaming things at me that I could not decipher, not that any translation was necessary. Because he was still looking in my direction as he scooted backwards on his rump, he was unable to see the warrior who had chosen me as his target, and even though the charging Colapiani nimbly made a hopping step to avoid his compatriot, in one of those odd moments that stand out in the memory, the kite-shaped shield carried by this man did not miss, the bottom of it striking a solid blow against the back of the man's head, making a sound that I heard above the roaring noise of the fight, very similar to a gourd being struck with a stick. If the seated man had his helmet on, he would still probably have been knocked unconscious because of the two conflicting forces between his backward motion and the charging warrior's lunge, but he would have lived; at least for a short while longer if he was not carried from the field. Clearly, though, when I had slammed into him, I had knocked off his helmet; I dimly recalled seeing the top of it just peeking above the top of my shield in the instant before we collided, so I felt a flare of ferocious satisfaction that although I was unable to be the direct cause of the man's death, I saw the light leave his eyes. There was no chance to savor the moment because the warrior with the kite-shaped shield was now standing in front of me, carrying an axe with one blade but with a long, curving spike on the opposite side. While it was not the first time I had seen this weapon, it was the first time I had faced a man carrying it, and I was acutely aware that I was seriously hampered, both in a practical sense and as far as my morale. Because the javelin blade was still embedded in my forearm, I had practically no movement of my shield by using my wrist, as even just a simple raising and lowering motion using my elbow was agonizing. However, besides the good news it had not nicked or severed a major vessel, neither did I feel a grating sensation that would indicate the point was either rubbing or stuck in the bone. That, it seemed, was where the good news ended. Ironically enough, it was not the pain, which was considerable, that was threatening to debilitate me; it was the growing sense of panic that seemed to build deep within me as that part of a man's mind that is still thinking rationally was becoming more strident in its warning that I had to get this javelin out of my arm.
Even as I held the shield in front of me when the man with the axe began weaving it about, a maneuver to which I was accustomed, I was keenly aware that my limited mobility with the shield meant that I was in real danger. And, as happened before, my own pride and self-belief had put me in the position I was in, separated from the formation, a comrade whose own hands were full the nearest help. Behind me and to my left, I could clearly hear men shouting, both in my tongue and that of the Colapiani, and I thought I could pick out Tiburtinus bellowing out the order to shift. But at no time in that brief span of time did I hear anyone shout my name, or something that would indicate help was coming. In short, I had fucked myself again. And that, dear reader, was the cause for a feeling I had never experienced before, one that only afterward I was able to identify. I had seen it take control of other men, both friend and foe, but it had never happened to me before; yet, I sensed that it was dangerously close to bursting forth from wherever my soul was struggling to contain it, threatening to completely swallow me up. And then, I knew with utter clarity and conviction, I would be dead in a matter of moments.
Meanwhile, my enemy, his arm moving the axe slowly in some sort of pattern that I had been unable to discern at that point, added to my apprehension when he began spinning his weapon so that one moment it appeared that he was going to slash me with it, then the next use the spike to bury it in my skull. Even stranger was seeing how he took first one, then another shuffling step forward, yet did not seem to draw any closer. Only then did I become aware that, for the first time in my life, I was taking a tiny step backward, away from my foe instead of right at him, as I always had before, able to do so because I had stepped outside the formation. Accompanying that realization was another one; I had no idea how to defend myself from this warrior and his weapon, let alone go on the offensive and kill him. It was as if all the watches of practice, the previous year's worth of campaign experience in battle, all of it just…left my mind. Then, in that instant before I was sure he would go on the attack, he smiled at me, and it was the kind of smile that promised nothing but pain and death. It was the kind of smile I showed to men I had taken the measure of and was about to slaughter. However, in doing so, he saved my life; of that I have no doubt, as he unwittingly released the darker and more dangerous twin of that black beast of panic.
As quickly as it takes for a bolt of lightning to obliterate a tree, exploding it from within using whatever composes that enormous force contained within one of Jupiter's thunderbolts, the feeling of helpless fear was instantly replaced by what my Avus had described in his own account as some sort of divine fit. It is important to be clear on this; in that half of an eyeblink, my situation had not changed in any material sense. I was still wounded and my ability to use my shield in anything but the most rudimentary manner was still gone. The pain was still pulsing up my arm in what felt like ripples of fire moving up my forearm, and I was still isolated. Everything was the same, yet different, and the difference was that I no longer cared about any of these things. I was no longer worried about what permanent damage might be done to my arm because I had no future; all I had was these last few moments, and it was as if an invisible hand pushed me from behind, almost shoving me at the axe-wielding warrior in a silent command to go on the attack instead of the retreating I had been doing. And I obeyed, leaping forward while punching my shield out at the same time, my ears filling with a roar that in all likelihood came from me as the combination of the agony caused by the movement and the exhilaration of my killing rage was unleashed. My move caught the axe-man off guard; he looked as if he had just begun to launch his own attack, except I beat him to it, the boss of my shield slamming into his own, so that I felt both the normal shuddering jolt at the impact and accompanied this time by a an even sharper, exquisitely agonizing bolt of pain shoot up my forearm. Yet, that did not matter; what did was feeling the enemy warrior staggering back a step, his shield knocked out of position by mine. Over the rim of my shield, I glimpsed a face, or what could be seen through the thick, matted beard, but what I remember are his eyes, which had widened in surprise at my sudden move. They went even more so, which I would not have thought possible if I had not seen it, before the colored parts of his eyes suddenly rolled backward and disappeared altogether, leaving nothing but whites showing as my blade punched into his side behind his shield. There was the rattle in his throat as I twisted the blade, the weapon that just a half-dozen heartbeats before had scared me so badly I almost lost my wits slipping from his hand, then dropping limply away with the rest of his body. The shaft of the weapon dropped across my left foot, but I did not look down as I kicked it contemptuously away, pivoting as I did so to see that Flaccus was still keeping the same man at bay. The only difference I could see was one obviously fresh scar on the small, round shield he carried, clearly marking where Flaccus' opponent had managed to land a glancing blow. That was all the attention I gav
e as, closing the distance I had previously retreated in perhaps three strides, I rudely shoved Flaccus to the side with the flat of my sword, and without pause, once more I snapped my left arm out, punching the shield at an angle so that the boss was aimed for the Colapiani's face. While he managed to avoid his face being crushed with a lurching move backward, I was not willing to give him any time to gather himself. I felt my lips pulled tightly against my teeth, and I may very well have been making sounds that only an animal would recognize; all I was keenly aware of in that instant was that I was using gifts that were given to the first Titus Pullus by the gods and clearly passed down to me, meaning my blade was even more of a blur than normal as it sought out its prey.
As I had experienced before, only I seemed to be moving at a normal speed, while everyone around me, friend and foe alike, seemed to be mired in mud, except instead of just their feet, their entire bodies were encased in the substance, slowing them down. The Colapiani was moving his shield, but it was too slow, although I felt the edge of my blade scraping along the wood as the point punched through his armor, just below his breastbone. That was when I noticed something, a small, tiny detail that I believe I only recalled later because of the state I was in; the man I just dispatched, who even then was falling away from me, was wearing a mail shirt. That was not all that unusual, yet there was something about his that disturbed some corner of my mind, although that was all I thought about it in that moment. Flaccus, relieved from keeping this man at bay, was panting from the effort as his eyes met mine and he gave a curt nod of thanks, but I was neither in the mood to acknowledge his thanks nor was I done. I do not even remember whether I gave any indication I saw the gesture because I was moving again, pushed along once more, this time by the roaring sounds of men chopping and hacking each other down and all the attendant noises that go with it, of men screaming what is their last breath, calling to the gods for strength, or shouting curses or encouragement at and to each other. More often than not, I would come to learn, men will just roar at the top of their lungs, not bothering to articulate a word, just adding to the cacophony of noise as if just the sounds of fighting needed help to be heard by the gods. Now that I think on it, here in my snug, warm quarters all these years later, perhaps that is why we all make as much noise as possible, in an attempt to get the attention of the gods looking down on us from above, in some feeble effort to show that we are worthy of their favor and protection. In that moment along the river Colapis, on the outskirts of The Quarry, that din was almost a palpable force that kept me moving, my shield still clutched tightly in my left hand; being frank, I could not have relinquished my grip even if I had wanted to, but I still had use of it, and for it, as I closed on Urso, who had managed to dispatch one of his assailants in the handful of heartbeats since I left the formation to come to his aid. Once more, I did not hesitate, but this time, a warrior hopped over the pair of bodies to intercept me, obviously understanding my intention of coming to the aid of my Primus Pilus. Another warrior with an axe, the slight difference with this Colapiani was that the head of the axe was affixed to a heavy oak shaft that was about a foot longer than normal, as well as the quality of his armor and clothing, marking him as some sort of noble. While at first glance, it seemed to me that the extra length would make the weapon more unwieldy, that notion was quickly dismissed by observation of the way he handled it. It also gave him a longer reach, which he took advantage of by trying to land a blow that came from lower than normal and to my left side. At least, that was what I thought he was about, but I had not noticed that, although the head of his axe was single bladed, the cutting edge was exceptionally wide, the edges curving backward toward the middle. That was only slightly unusual, but when I moved to block his blow, I instantly learned that the longer handle and wider blade was for the specific purpose that the warrior demonstrated. Because of the extra length, I thought he had misjudged the distance, since, in fact, the part of his weapon that landed on my shield was the shaft, making bright sparks explode in my vision. Even in my current state of rage, I could not stop a howl of pain as the impact caused the javelin point imbedded in my forearm to jerk, presumably slicing through even more muscle tissue. That, unfortunately, was nothing compared to what happened when the Colapiani, instead of using the momentum that always occurs sending a weapon in the opposite direction when it bounces off, did something I had never seen before.
Exhibiting what was a control that under different circumstances that I would have admired, he made a vicious backward motion with his right hand, in effect hooking the outer edge of my shield, then using the angle between the curved axe head and shaft to trap it. If it had been at any other point in this fight, his tactic would probably have been successful, but since I was in my state where he seemed to move more slowly, it felt like I had the time to comprehend what he was attempting. More importantly, it allowed me to understand that if I attempted to keep my grip on my shield, because of the javelin tip, the result would be even more damaging than just losing a shield. Do not mistake me; once more, my array of choices were bad and I chose the least damaging one, so that as he pulled backward using all of his weight and power, I just…let go. Of course, it was not nearly that simple or as clean as I describe it, because as I felt the leather-wrapped wooden handle jerk from my hand, there was not only a bolt of agony that made everything else instantly fade from my memory, I could not help seeing the spray of gobbets of partially clotted blood that seemed to trail the shield, which was now hurtling back at the Colapiani much more quickly than he had expected. That, unfortunately for him, was the least of his worries, because I was following right behind my shield, my blade held up in a high second position, and I moved so quickly and was so close to my flying shield that I felt what I supposed was my own blood from my now-mangled left arm shower my face, still warm and sticky. The Colapiani was even then stumbling backward because of my sudden release of the shield, and even before it hit the ground just a pace to my left, I was slamming bodily into the shield of my foe. I barely felt the impact of his shield against my segmentata, partially because of my state of mind, but mostly due to the fact that he was still stumbling backwards. Under normal circumstances, this was something of which I would be aware, recognizing that while I was pressing my advantage, I was also pushing deeper into the enemy's midst. Frankly, I did not care; all that mattered was the death of this man, especially now that I could look into his face with only a shield between us, and before he could get his feet under him, I forced him to fall backward, where he landed heavily on the earth on his back. Desperately, he thrust his shield arm up in an attempt to ward me off and, without thinking, I raised my left arm to knock it to the side, except just the attempt sent a stabbing shot of pain so massive that my body simply refused to obey my mind's command, meaning that my arm remained in the half-bent position it was currently in. I was aware enough to see that my push of the Colapiani had separated us slightly, ours one of the smaller private struggles that such fights degenerate into, yet I sensed movement out of the corner of my eye, coming from the direction of the main body of the second ambush force. Consequently, instead of using my left hand, I launched a sweeping kick, my hobnails striking the edge of his shield, and just like mine had three or four heartbeats before, it went flying off somewhere; I did not care where, because I had pulled my arm back to plunge it into the Colapiani, who had dropped his axe and raised both hands in supplication. That, I expected; I also was prepared for him to cry out for mercy. However, I was not prepared to hear my own tongue.
"Roman! Wait! Please, I beg you! Mercy! Spare me! Mercy! My father is…."
I did not waste any more time listening, plunging my blade down into his open mouth, bending over slightly so I could make sure my face was in his vision, wanting it to be the last thing he saw before entering the shades. Only the gods know what he saw in my face, but there was no mercy there.
Of all the wisdom I gleaned from my Avus' account of his life, and specifically about this madness t
hat seemed to strike us, foremost in my mind immediately after I ended the Colapiani with the long axe was the understanding that this rage does not last long. Still feeling the fire as I spun about to face in the direction from where I had sensed a possible threat, I also was aware that it was not burning as fiercely as it had just the instant before when my sword plunged down to kill this last enemy. Not helping matters was the throbbing agony of my arm, although I refused to look at it, even as a part of me recognized that I looked slightly ridiculous with my left arm sticking out as if I was still grasping my shield. A trio of Colapiani, more richly dressed and better equipped than most of the other attackers were approaching, but in what I took as a mark of respect and caution, were not just charging in. For that I am thankful, because without my shield and still separated from most of my comrades, I was doomed. And because of their slight hesitation, I was saved.
"Pullus! Don't turn around but take a few steps directly backward! Keep your guard up!"
I recognized the voice of Flaccus, and I remember thinking his admonition to keep my guard up was not only superfluous, but without my shield, useless. Still, I slid first one foot then another backward, stopping only when my foot hit a body, then carefully lifted first one foot then the other, moving about four or five paces before I saw Flaccus at the edge of my vision, his standard still in his hand. He was not alone, however, but it was not until he tapped me on the shoulder to let me know I was safe that I dared glance over my shoulder.