by R. W. Peake
When I did, his mouth opened to say something, but then his eye was caught by the mess of my left arm, and he let out a gasp. "Pluto's cock, Pullus!" he exclaimed. "Your arm! It's…."
"I don't want to know," I snapped, my voice sounding strange to me, because while Flaccus was the Signifer and technically outranked me, it sounded like I was giving him the order.
Thankfully, he neither argued nor made an issue of it, instead using his free arm to grab the back of my harness and pull me gently but firmly to the side. As I recall it now, that was the first moment where I actually stopped and looked about in a way that was not just finding someone who was a threat, but to get a sense of the overall situation. I was in a small knot of Legionaries from my Century, but we were not part of the formation. Seeing or sensing my confusion, Flaccus explained.
"Things got so hot that Tiburtinus sent the Tenth Section over here to keep those cunni from cutting us off." He indicated what constitutes the command group of a Century, although being the First of the First, this means it is larger.
But there was one man missing, the most important one, and I felt a surge of anxiety, for which a part of my mind chastised me.
"Where's the Primus Pilus?"
When Flaccus pointed, it was not towards the Colapiani, who had begun moving backwards, but towards the far rear of the formation.
"Once Ferro and his section got us out of trouble, he went to try and find out what's going on with the rest of the Cohort."
Which, of course, is the job of the highest-ranking Centurion; he has more to worry about than just his Century. I stared off in that direction; I suppose I must have been taking on that vacant, faraway look that one sees in the wounded.
"Pullus." Flaccus' tone was harder. "I'm calling the medici. In the meantime," he turned about to a spot where there was not much blood on the grass, relatively speaking, "you go sit down over there."
"I'm…" I started to protest, but he cut me off.
"That's an order. I'll make sure a couple of Ferro's boys stay here. But…" He turned back and surveyed the field, but when I tried to follow his gaze, the world started tilting. Not seeing this, he said with the confidence of a veteran, "This is over for the most part. See?" He pointed back in the direction of The Quarry, and even as woozy as I was becoming, it was easy to see the backs of perhaps two dozen Colapiani who were moving at a quick trot, away from where we were standing. "Now we just need to finish this up and clean up the mess. And," his tone turned glum, "it is a fucking right mess." Turning back to me, he said quietly, "We got hurt badly today, Pullus. But it would have been a lot worse if…"
I did not need him to finish, nodding with my head that seemed to weigh twice as much as it had just a moment before. With another push, he merely pointed, and this time, I did not try to argue. Trudging the few paces, only then did I become aware I still had my sword in my hand, and I stared down at it dully. It was caked with the blood of the men I had either slain or wounded; I could clearly smell the cac on the blade from the bowels of at least one dead barbarian. Yet, I felt no satisfaction. I started to sheathe the blade, but it was too fouled to slide in easily, so I just dropped it. I am not sure how I ended up there, but my next memory is of sitting on the ground, my legs in front of me, and I noticed they were almost completely red up to the knees. Although the blood was not mine, the sight of it prompted me to do something I had been putting off, but I forced myself to look down at my left arm, which I had cradled in my lap. I remember tilting my head down, yet I still had to force my eyes to move with it and actually look down. I would describe what I saw but, thankfully, I do not remember, because whatever sight I beheld was bad enough that I lost consciousness. This is the first time I have admitted that I fainted at the sight of my own wound; that might give some indication of how bad it was.
Unfortunately, I was not unconscious long, which is another sign that I had actually fainted. But when one looks down at an arm where there is not one part of the skin below the elbow that is visible because of a thick crust of blood, and what appears to be a significant part of the muscle of the left forearm is flopping outward in a way that is not normal, perhaps I can be excused. As unpleasant as the sight was, the medicus who squatted beside me and began examining my arm was the most responsible for rousing me from my stupor, in the most unpleasant way imaginable. Apparently, he grabbed my arm and pulled it straight to examine it. My first memory is of a shock of pain that was immensely more powerful than the intense throbbing that I felt before I passed out. I shot upright and, in doing so, naturally jerked my arm out of the medici's grasp, while someone bellowed in pain, which I suppose was me. Without any thought, I swung my right fist, but fortunately, the medicus was falling away from me, and I missed. Instantly, I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder, hard, and I looked up to see Domitius standing just behind me, holding me down. Only then did I come to my senses somewhat, except the pain was so intense that, for a moment, all I could do was grit my teeth so tightly that I could not speak. Finally, I motioned to him that I was no longer a threat to the medicus, who was crouched several feet away, a dirty, wet rag in one hand and a rolled bandage in the other. The way he was eyeing me I would liken to that of a man who has surprised a wolf and is trying to determine what the wolf is going to do next.
It took me two tries, but I managed to mutter to him, "I'm fine now. You just…startled me."
Still looking wary, he came back, but either because I was conscious or he understood this time I would not miss when I swung, his touch was much more gentle. Grasping my hand, while I could feel his touch, when he asked me to straighten my fingers out, I tried but thought I would lapse back into a faint.
"That's all right," he assured me. "It's not that important right now. We need to get this wound cleaned out, but it's too serious for me to do here, so I'm going to wrap it up, and you can use one of your extra harness straps for a sling until camp is made and we get you into the quaestorium."
I groaned, but this time it was less from the pain than the thought of being in the hospital tent. This would be my second trip in as many seasons, and the thought crossed my mind that perhaps I was not as blessed as either my father or my Avus; at the rate I was going, I would run out of body parts long before my enlistment was up. In order to distract myself, I turned to Domitius, who was still standing there, but the look on his face as he watched the medicus minister to my arm made me almost wish I had not.
"So?" I broke the silence. "What happened?"
"It's over," he told me.
"I know that," I snapped, just as the medicus tried to push part of my arm back into place, or so I assume, which did not help my frame of mind. "I'm wounded in the fucking arm; I'm not deaf. I can hear it's over."
His face flushed, but he did not make an issue of my rudeness, saying instead, "We knocked the cunni a good lick. I think there's at least three hundred on this side of the river that are already dead, and maybe that many wounded. Most of the wounded they dragged away with them, but the boys are sorting out the rest."
I considered for a moment; it was hard to think, and I tried to remember exactly what happened.
Remembering something, I asked him, "So did we get back to help the Second?"
Domitius grimaced, and there was anger in his voice as he replied, "No. That bastard Draxo did us neatly, I have to give the cunnus that. He kept us tied down on this side of the river, and the Second was in column just like us, but…" He did not finish, but there was no need.
"But Urso couldn't warn them to be ready like he did for us," I finished for him, but when he winced, it took me a moment to realize it was due to my use of the Primus Pilus' old nickname aloud.
"You know I don't like hearing that name anymore, Pullus."
As wracked with pain and exhausted as I was, the sound of his voice right behind me sent a thrill of fear shooting through my body and, without thinking, I drew my legs up to get up and come to intente, despite the fact the medici was not through yet. But, ap
parently seeing me do that, I felt another hand on my shoulder pushing me down, and an instant later, Urso moved around so that he stood over me.
His hand was still on my shoulder, but although his face was set in its usual hard planes, his black eyebrows plunging down between his eyes as he gave me a piercing gaze, his tone was mild as he said, "But it wouldn't be good form for me to punish a Gregarius who saw that I was in trouble and tried to come to my aid."
"I didn't succeed," I blurted out without thinking. "The boys in the Tenth Section had to do the job."
Urso continued to stare down at me, and I felt uncomfortable under his examination, but he did not say anything for a moment. Then, I felt a tug on my left arm that made me flinch, looking over to see the medicus stand up and announce he had done all that he could for the moment.
"But, Primus Pilus, he needs to be one of the first of the men whose wounds aren't life-threatening," he told Urso.
"I'll make sure that he is," Urso told him. Turning to Domitius, he said, "You're dismissed now, Domitius. Go see what Tiburtinus needs you to do, and tell the Optio I'll be along in a moment to get this fucking mess sorted out."
Domitius saluted, then gave me a brief nod, promising that he would watch my pack and bring it to me in the hospital. As he trotted away with a haste that I appreciated, I found myself wishing I was with him. Being around Urso under any circumstances made me nervous, even this one. Suddenly, Urso squatted down so that our faces were almost even and separated by just a matter of a few feet.
"So, why did you try to come help me, Pullus?"
I had been trying to arrange my arm back to as comfortable a position as I could get it in, but I suddenly froze as I tried to think through the meaning of this exchange.
"I'm not sure I understand, Primus Pilus," I said slowly, but he was not put off.
"I think you do, Pullus." His voice was even, yet I knew him well enough to hear the edge of irritation. "Given our...history, some men would look at their Primus Pilus surrounded and about to be cut down as a gift from the gods."
"Some men would," I agreed. While it is almost impossible to explain, in that moment, once more I felt as if I was being pushed, but instead of physically, this time, it was words, which were, "But I'm not one of those men."
Urso's laugh startled me, causing me to jerk in surprise, which of course embarrassed me.
"No, apparently not, Pullus." He paused as an expression crossed his dark features that I had never seen before, one that might be described as melancholy. "No, I think you are your father's son, especially in that way." Once more, he fell silent, but he was still studying me when he said suddenly, "Your father is a good man, Pullus. And he was a great Centurion."
Although he had said this to me before, this time was different, although I cannot explain why that was the case. As I remember, I mumbled some sort of agreement, but his mind had already moved on.
"I've decided that you're not going to be involved in any of the…activities I have going on the side," he said.
Even in my state, the wave of relief that swept through me was an intense but welcome feeling; unfortunately, it did not last long.
"That doesn't mean that you're going back to the Fourth, though. I still want you in the First."
"To keep an eye on me." I could not resist saying this, and even I could hear the bitterness in my voice.
"No." He did not seem put off by my tone, nor surprised. "Not because I need to keep an eye on you. I saw enough of what you did today to know that, as young as you are, you belong in the First of the First." He shook his head again, but this time, he turned to survey the ground in front of us, watching as Legionaries moved through the piles of bodies. Without taking his eyes off them, he said suddenly, "You know, I never actually got to see your grandfather in a real fight. All I ever saw was him sparring when he was Camp Prefect. But," now he turned to face me, "I heard the stories. And not from your father. From other men who were there. What I saw you do today reminded me of those stories." He stood abruptly, taking a breath so deep it seemed almost a sigh, then turned as if to go. But, just when I thought that perhaps I had escaped it all, he said, "This mess with the Colapiani just got even bigger. We," he nodded with his head all the men on our side of the river, the entire First Cohort, "got bloodied. But the Second…" He paused again, but shook his head, apparently unable to find the right word to describe their plight. "Anyway, there's no way that the Legate isn't going to get involved now, and there are going to be a lot of questions about how this all started." Turning back to look down at me again, his eyes were cold. "And we both know the story, don't we?"
Swallowing suddenly became difficult because my throat seized up, so I just nodded, but he was not satisfied.
"No, Pullus. How did this uprising happen?"
"We were attacked without provocation by the Colapiani while we were on our patrol," I lied, repeating the story I had heard was being told about the camp in Siscia. Yet, there was a problem with that, which I brought up. "But you didn't take the Cohort, or even just our Century out. Won't the Legate know that just by looking at the Legion diary?"
"You let me worry about that," was all he said. "All you need to worry about is that you stick to the story. And, Pullus," his voice dropped so that only I could hear, "just because you're not part of my thing anymore, don't think that if you try something stupid, or betray me in some way, you won't end up like Philo."
"Philo?" I did not take his meaning. "What do you mean 'end up' like him?"
"He's dead," Urso said flatly. "He was killed in the ambush. At least, that's how the legion diary will read. Do you understand me?"
The lump that had closed my threat returned with a vengeance, and once more, I could only nod. Then, he turned and walked away.
Chapter 3
The Legion was forced to make camp, but it was one of the more unusual configurations of a marching camp that I have ever experienced. Since the only clear area was The Quarry, we essentially created a camp that had as one of its walls the rock face of the steep hill, while what remained of the buildings were enclosed within the confines of our camp. Even worse than the rubble and wreckage of what had been a Roman settlement was what it contained; seven Cohorts worked on the camp and one was assigned the burial detail. The First was given the guard duty, while the Second was completely absorbed in dealing with its own casualties. It was almost sundown by the time those of us designated as walking wounded were brought into the section of the quaestorium that serves as the hospital. The instant I walked in, I saw that there was not going to be enough room, and indeed, another large tent was erected, using the canvas from the tents of men who no longer had any use for them. There was another surprise for me, one that perhaps was a bit more pleasant, although I find it hard to characterize in that manner. But, good to his word, Urso ensured that, once those cases were disposed with where the man was in danger of losing his life unless immediate action was taken, I was the first man to be seen by the physician, not a medicus. By this point, the bandage the medici had placed around my arm was completely red along the top of my forearm, and although I balked at first, I was thankful that he had ordered me to lie on a cot with my arm supported by a piece of wood, while he sat on a stool.
"Let's see what these savages did to you," the physician muttered.
I studied him carefully; not surprisingly, he looked very tired, and a part of me wondered if it would not be better if he just waited to examine me in the morning, after he had gotten some rest. Of course, this was more about me not wanting to be confronted by my wound. Besides which, I knew he would not be getting any sleep that night anyway. Therefore, I remained silent, at least at first. Reaching the final layer, he slowly peeled the bandage back, and any attempt to remain quiet was gone, a groan escaping my lips. Fortunately for my pride, a camp hospital after a battle is a noisy, chaotic place, so the sound of my voice mingled with my comrades'. Because the blood had congealed, the bandage was stuck, which meant that pulling
it started the bleeding again. I was already feeling quite lightheaded, and I vaguely remember wondering if I was going to run out of blood. It did not seem likely; I had seen how much blood can come out of a human being, yet it was still a troubling thought. As was the fact that the physician sat back on his stool, seemingly content to let me bleed more, although I knew from experience that they do this to allow the blood to flush out any dirt, fabric, or metal that might be in the wound. So I passed the time staring dully down at the drops of blood that cascaded from my arm to the dirt floor, watching as the dirt turned to mud, made by the moisture of my own blood.
Finally, he was ready to begin the real work, which he announced by clearing his throat to get my attention, and when I looked up, he handed me a dowel wrapped in leather, telling me, "You're going to need this."
He was absolutely correct. The slightest movement of the torn muscles of my forearm was agonizing, worse than my first wound in my side that I had sustained the year before. During the interim, when I was waiting to be taken to the hospital, I had managed to quench my thirst, and it was a good thing that I did, because my entire body suddenly seemed to exude sweat over every inch of my body, quickly soaking my tunic.
"There is quite a bit of damage here, Gregarius," the physician said, although it was hard to hear because of a sudden roaring noise in my ears. "But I am going to do what I can to sew the ends of the muscle back together so that when it heals, the muscles will grow back together."
I tried to ask him a question, but realized I had bitten down on the gag so hard my teeth had imprinted on the leather to the point I had to use my free hand to wrench it out of my mouth using a fair amount of force.