Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  "Does that mean that my arm will be as good as it was?" I asked hopefully.

  He did not answer immediately; instead, he looked up from the wound and regarded me for a moment, then gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  "This arm will never be like the other one again, Gregarius," he said softly. Something in my face must have stirred something in him because he added quickly, "It won't be completely useless, and you seem like a determined young man, and gods know you're strong, so I have no doubt that you will work hard enough to make it as strong as possible. But," he shook his head again, "while you may be able to get it back to almost as strong as before, it won't be easy. But where you will notice the biggest loss is in your ability to move and twist your wrist and arm."

  Now, while this may sound like it was a minor loss, I instantly understood why he was so grave. Flexibility in the wrist is crucial to a man's ability to fight; if this had been my right arm, my career would have been over for all intents and purposes because I would be unable to demonstrate the forms required for service. The fact that it would be my shield arm impaired was better, but by such a thin margin that in the moment, it was impossible for me to take any comfort in the idea.

  I sat there, numb, for a moment, then just before replacing the gag, I said, "Then do your best to put me back together, and I'll take care of the rest."

  Looking down at his handiwork now, years later, I have to smile at my hubris; such is the conviction of youth! And the resilience that comes with being young in mind and body was crucial. Only now after enough time has passed that I can view the event with some dispassion can I acknowledge to myself that the most crucial factor in my recovery was that what the physician told me essentially went in one ear, and with no brain to stop it, quickly exited out the other. However, neither can I discount the skill with which the physician put my ravaged arm back together, although I cannot really describe it in any detail, other than a vague recollection of watching him reach down with hands bloody past the wrist and grasping what I suppose was one half of the severed muscle in my arm. Then all went black.

  About the only thing being in hospital is good for is that, after a battle, you get to mingle with men outside your Century and Cohort, which gives one a better idea of the fight, as well as a sense of the larger picture.

  "We didn't stand a chance," a Gregarius from the Second Cohort, the Third Century, I thought, said bitterly. "We were in fucking column, our shields were still lashed." The laugh he gave was of the type that held only sorrow and anger, without any humor. "But at least we were marching with the covers on. I suppose we should be thankful for that. Gods know a cover is cheaper than a ruined shield."

  Being frank, I had forgotten about the fact that we had fought with our shields still encased in their leather coverings, but as I thought about it, I vaguely remembered the fleeting thought that the shield was heavier and I had to compensate accordingly. Thinking about it further, I realized that it was probably due to the extra padding of the cover that kept my shield from cracking.

  Unaware of my internal musing, the Gregarius, who had suffered a deep wound to his thigh, which was now heavily wrapped and elevated, continued, "Plautus did what he could to get us opened up, but," he shook his head as he heaved a sigh, and I pretended I did not notice the tear that rolled down his cheek, "it was too little, too late."

  There was a pause, and I finally broke it by asking, "How many?"

  Clearly needing no expansion on my question, he answered, "Twelve dead, twenty like me."

  My gasp caused his head to turn and he gave me a twisted, bitter smile.

  "Including Plautus. He took a spear through the eye. So," he sighed, "we're getting a new Centurion. I just hope the bastard's not a striper."

  To a Gregarius, there is no worse fate than being under the command of a Centurion who likes to see his men strung up on the frame in the punishment square and flogged. That is why we call such types "stripers," and they are the bane of a ranker's existence. Lapsing into a brief silence, I stared up at the roof of the tent, idly noticing how blackened it was from the lamps used for lighting.

  "What about the rest of the Cohort?"

  This question came from the man on the opposite side, and I recognized him as being from the First, but in the Fifth Century, Valens his name.

  "Almost as bad," the Second man replied. "We got the worst because we were right in the middle of that fucking stretch of woods, but the rest of our boys didn't fare much better."

  Suddenly, something occurred to me, prompting me to ask, "But what happened to the Tribunes? They and their bodyguard were between us and you. Did at least one of them get what he had coming?"

  There was no need for me to be more specific, but we were not to be that lucky, and I got my answer in the form of the other man making the sign that places a curse as he said the name.

  "Tribune Laticlavus Paullus," he intoned as if he was calling the Tribune out for commendation, but there was no disguising the hatred and loathing as he spat between his fingers after saying the name. "No, our beloved and courageous Tribune escaped without a scratch."

  I was disappointed, to say the least, and I lay back again to resume my study of the blackened patterns above me. Something nagged me in the back of my mind, though, prompting me to turn back to the man and ask, "What do you mean 'escaped'?"

  "Exactly what I said," my comrade said bitterly. "He and the entire complement pushed their way right through us, which didn't fucking help our cohesion, I can tell you." He paused as the man on the opposite side and I swore bitterly.

  "You mean he ran?" This came from Valens.

  "Oh no," our informant replied, mockingly. "He wasn't running away; he was going for help."

  "We don't need any fucking help," I replied, feeling the indignation surge up to compete with my loathing for Paullus. "We have eight other Cohorts. And all those fucking bodyguards on horseback would have been a lot more fucking useful smashing into those cunni Colapiani."

  "Don't you think I know that?" the man shot back angrily, but even before I raised my good hand to placate him, he muttered, "Sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. It's just…"

  He did not finish, nor did he need to, and now the tears were running freely down his face as he mourned the loss of men he considered not only friends, but brothers. As hard as it is for those who have never been under the standard to understand, seeing one's friends die is worse than any wound one can suffer on their body. In many ways, it is even worse than dying yourself, because at least then the pain that comes with the memory of faces around a fire that will no longer be seen are gone.

  It was Valens who broke the silence.

  "Any idea what happens next?"

  "For us?" I shrugged, one of those unthinking gestures that one learns is painful the hard way, and I grit my teeth against the flash of pain shooting up my arm. "I suppose we're going back to Siscia. The Legion?" I thought for a moment, then continued, "I can't imagine the Primus Pilus is going to stop now."

  The others seemed to accept this as the most likely outcome, but I was only partially correct.

  I was awakened from my fitful sleep, aided by a spoon of poppy syrup, to the bustle and commotion of an army that is breaking camp. Looking about groggily, my head felt as heavy as if I had my helmet on, and my first assumption was that the wounded were being loaded on the Legion wagons to be transported back to Siscia. After just a moment of observation, however, I understood that much more was going on. Preparatory to moving wounded, the sides of the tent were rolled up, which allowed me to see that, even in the darkness before dawn, a bustle of movement that told me it was the entire Legion.

  "What's going on?" I asked one of the medici assigned to our section of the tent as he hurried by.

  "What does it look like?" he snapped over his shoulder, not stopping on his way. "We're marching!"

  "Where?" I shouted after him, but he was already out of earshot.

  Or, I thought bitterl
y, he chose to ignore me. Lying on my cot, I resigned myself to my fate of waiting for them to come get us and place us in the wagons, and I was struck by the thought that they would have to empty every one to get all of us in there. That was what convinced me to sit up and put my feet on the ground. I cannot say with any certainty whether it was from the combination of the wound and loss of blood, or a leftover effect from the poppy syrup, but the entire tent started to spin about and, for a moment, I considered returning back to my reclining position.

  The man next to me with the thigh wound noticed me and asked curiously, "What are you doing, Pullus?"

  The fact that he knew my name surprised me, although it should not have, I know now. Being second-tallest man and the largest across the chest and shoulders of anyone else in the Legion meant that I am easy to remember. The fact that it did not occur to me, I attribute to my condition.

  "The wagons are going to be crammed full," I mumbled, although, being honest, I had not really thought the matter through. "And my legs are fine. I'm going to march."

  Matters were not helped when the man laughed in a short, coughing bark.

  "You," he said genially, "are out of your mind."

  "Pullus," Valens called, "I don't think that's a good idea. I don't know how bad your arm is," the fact that I did know should have dissuaded me, but it did not, "but you don't look so good."

  "Thank you, Valens," I shot back. "When you retire, you can join these bastards," I waved my good arm around the tent. "You'd make a good medici."

  He was not impressed, saying only, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

  Ignoring him, I pushed myself to my feet; I would like to say it only took one attempt, except that is not true. But it was on my second, which I took to be a good sign, and I went staggering off. Because of the furor as the men assigned to the hospital hurried about, preparing to move, they missed me weaving out of the hospital, thankful that I did not need any help finding my Cohort and Century area, since it is always the same. Of course, as I quickly learned, the gods had decided that nothing would be that simple; because of our location, while our section was in the same general area as always, it was actually farther away because an entire block of what had been a row of homes and shops that Draxo and his men had been put to the torch. Fortunately, the sun was beginning to come up and gave me a bit more light; unfortunately, my nose told me that, despite the men on burial detail doing their best to drag the bodies out of the piles of rubble, they had not been entirely successful.

  Maybe that's why Urso is moving us, I thought; he wants to get us out of the stink. Us? That was the next thought through my mind. There is no "us" because you're going back to Siscia. Suddenly, I came to a stop, trying to force my mind to think through what I was beginning to understand might have been a hasty decision. The reason was simple; it did not occur to me that the Legion would be turning around and heading back to Siscia. I was sure that Urso would press on after Draxo in order to smother this newborn rebellion in its crib. Even now, I would argue that my logic was not far off the mark; more than anyone else, Urso had good reasons to crush Draxo, before the Legate got involved and began poking around. Regardless of my superb logic, when I finally made it to my Century street, containing the double rows of tents because of our larger size, I learned differently.

  "Pullus!"

  I was careful not to turn around quickly, yet even in as much pain as I was in, I smiled at the sight of Titus Domitius trotting up to me, his face showing his alarm.

  "Pluto's cock, what are you thinking?" he gasped.

  Despite myself, I laughed at his expression, telling him, "I want to make sure none of these thieving bastards get their hands on any of my things."

  I would like to think that, if I was not in the condition I was in, I would have realized how he might take that, but my first indication was when his face suddenly flushed so darkly that, even in the dim light, I could not miss it.

  "So you don't trust me to watch out for your gear?" I could not pretend I did not hear the bitter tone of his voice, although honestly, that was the first moment it occurred to me how he might take it.

  "No," I protested, and without thinking, I reached out to him…with both hands. Not surprisingly, that caused me to gasp in pain as another burst of sparks seemed to erupt between us, and I took a staggering step backward.

  Ironically, that did more to smooth matters over between us, because his face took on a look of alarm as he took a corresponding step and grabbed my arm; thankfully, my good one.

  "Titus," he gasped. "You shouldn't be up!"

  Steadied by his hand gripping my elbow, I managed to remain vertical, but it was not easy. I could not even speak until my head cleared, but at last, it did.

  "I'm sorry," I began. "It has nothing to do with trusting you. It's just that my legs are fine, and I know the wagons are going to be packed."

  He studied my face, then seemingly accepted my answer, which had the added benefit of actually being true. However, my argument was not convincing him in the slightest.

  "You can barely stand upright!" Domitius laughed. "If I were you, I'd turn around and go right back to the hospital and wait my turn to be loaded in the wagons."

  "I can't," I answered. "It wouldn't be…right."

  Now that time has passed, I can say that my refusal had nothing to do with anything more than the basest of motives; I hate enclosed spaces, and my experience from the campaign the previous year was sufficiently fresh in my mind that the idea of being confined in that manner was simply not acceptable.

  Then it occurred to me "Wait. You're marching in the opposite direction from Siscia."

  In answer, Domitius gave me a strange look.

  "No," he replied, speaking slowly. "We're not. The whole Legion is returning to Siscia."

  It took a moment for this news to sink in and, as it did, I stared at him, trying to determine if, for reasons I could not possibly guess, he was trying to trick me, but his gaze never wavered.

  Finally, I managed a strangled, "But, why? Yes, they hurt us, but we hurt them worse, surely!"

  Domitius' answer was a shrug as he replied, "I don't know why, but we're going back to Siscia."

  My mind struggled to accept this piece of information, but it was difficult for me to make sense of things.

  "Well," I said finally. "I don't care where we're marching. My legs are fine. I'm not going back to Siscia in a wagon."

  Domitius relented, yet I could see he was not pleased.

  "Well, there's no way in Hades you're going to carry your furca," he admonished me, his tone severe; all that would have added to it was him shaking his finger. "But I know you well enough to know I can't stop you."

  With that matter disposed of, I was about to press Domitius on another, but he excused himself, saying with a grin, "You might be on light duty, but I'm not. I have to get back to it."

  Nodding, I was about to ask him about Philo, but he moved away before I could. Instead, I looked around for either the Optio or Urso, preferring the former to inform him that I was planning to march in the ranks back to Siscia. Finally spotting him directing some of my comrades, I made my way to him, taking care to avoid being bumped into by men who were more intent on avoiding a slap or kick by Tiburtinus. He saw me approaching, his already stern face creasing into a frown, which I thought was something of an accomplishment in itself.

  "What are you doing out of the hospital?" he demanded.

  "I didn't want to be stuck in a wagon, especially when it's going to be overflowing as it is," I am not sure why, but I decided to be honest. "And I don't want to be stuck bouncing around."

  "Did they release you?" he asked suspiciously.

  "No," I admitted. "But you saw how crammed full it is. My legs work, so I thought I would be helping out if I marched."

  "Oh, you were thinking of everyone else," Tiburtinus scoffed, but I remained silent. Sighing, he relented, "Fine, Pullus. You can march with us. But," he warned, "if you can't keep up, I'm pu
tting you in a wagon no matter how much you whine about it."

  Understanding this was the best I could hope for, I nodded. He frowned as he examined the heavy bandage on my arm, taking in the cloth sling that I had been given.

  "So, how is it? I heard it was pretty ugly."

  "It'll be fine," I lied. "But," I had to admit, "it is pretty ugly."

  "Well, let's get you back to Siscia, then let the butchers sort you out." He took a glance around, judging the progress of the work of breaking camp. "I think we'll be marching in about a sixth part of a watch, so just stay out of the way, then be ready to march."

  Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he turned on his heel and stalked off, heading for a small knot of my comrades from the Third Section who were doing more talking than working. I did as he ordered, moving to a spot next to a pile of rubble that I vaguely remembered had been the blacksmith's shop, trying to ignore the stench of at least part of a body that had not been recovered.

  Although we marched back to Siscia, I only made it about halfway before I collapsed and Tiburtinus had Domitius and Avitus help me to a wagon. Naturally, it was already full, meaning I was consigned to sitting on the floor, which of course meant I felt every bump and jolt on the road. By the time we rolled through the gates, I was thoroughly miserable, my arm throbbing more intensely than it had since the moments immediately after it happened. Although I was dimly aware that this would be a feeling I would have to endure for the foreseeable future, there is a huge difference between the idea and the reality, as I would discover. The only consolation was that I convinced the physician that my wound, while severe, did not require me to stay in the hospital once we were back in camp; the clinching argument to him coming in the form of twenty denarii that I had secreted in a hidden pocket of my pack. His only condition was that I report to him every day for the bandage to be changed and the wound checked to make sure it did not corrupt. Frankly, I would have agreed to almost anything as long as it kept me out of the hospital, which of course, in Siscia, was not under canvas. In fact, at that time it was almost new, having been constructed in the year before I enlisted, a two-story brick building that had hypocaust heating on the lower floor and several stoves on the second floor, placed in such a way that it provided heat evenly. Of course, heating was not needed at this time of year, but there were large, spacious windows. If I am being honest, it was better ventilated than my section hut, and because I would be on the upper floor since my wound was not to my legs or so serious that I could not be moved up stairs without killing me, in some ways it was a better place to recover. Yet, it never crossed my mind to stay there; there was just too much misery and suffering inside that building for me ever to be comfortable. Perhaps it marks me as soft, at least back then; since that time, my attitude has not changed, although I suppose my heart has hardened now, which is an unfortunate necessity when one becomes a leader of Legionaries.