by R. W. Peake
"Not very well," I told him honestly, "and I still don't feel very confident about it. But that just means I'm going to have to work harder. Provided, of course," I joked, "that I don't get my head split open by a barbarian axe first."
"The day anything can crack that skull of yours, I want to be there to see it." He laughed, but it was fleeting, and he suddenly looked down at the floor. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft that I could barely hear him. "Will you help me when you get back?"
"Of course," I promised him, but could not resist giving him a gentle nudge in the ribs, making sure I aimed low. "But be careful what you ask for. You'll hate my guts by the time I'm through."
"If it keeps me in the Legion, that's all I need," he replied, and I saw that he was serious. Then, with a laugh, he finished, "Besides, I already hate you anyway."
I did not know what else to say, so instead, we sat on his bunk, watching our comrades finishing their tasks. It had come as no surprise to us that, once more, we were not given the liberty of the town the night before we were to leave, but I think most of us understood this was for the best. We would have our hands full with the Varciani; going to war with the 13th or 15th would not help our cause any. Therefore, we called it an early night, retiring even before the call. And during the night, the first frost of the year happened, almost a month earlier than usual.
It warmed up quickly enough the next day when we marched out of Siscia, but while none of us were happy with the circumstances, we did count ourselves blessed by what was missing from our ranks. Sitting on their horses, behind the Legate, were the Tribunes; at least, most of them. All but one, actually, and not only was the fact that Paullus was missing from the assembled officers, but that none of them moved to join us as we marched by, gave me the fleeting thought that perhaps this was a good omen. The Legate sat his horse, which seemed to think it was going to fall in with us, first striking the ground with one hoof, then hopping a bit as the Legate curbed its bit. Seeing that evoked an unexpected feeling of sadness in me as I thought of Ocelus, who had died not long before, and the feeling of hollowness inside me was so strong that my vision started to shimmer, forcing me to blink away the tears. Thankfully, neither Avitus nor Flaccus were paying any attention. One good thing about the cooler weather is that it makes marching more pleasant, although not as much because we were wearing our armor from the first day. And in my case, I was still somewhat sore from the night action, but my arm was getting stronger every day, in a limited sense. In a straightforward motion, using my elbow and keeping my forearm directly aligned with my upper arm, my strength was close to normal. Unfortunately, that was where the good news ended. Any rotation of my wrist, either straight up and down, or side to side, was still extremely painful. So excruciating was it that when I asked Lutatius to help with some light sparring, doing it out in the Century street, the first time he tried a third position attack that comes from the side and is designed to get behind the defender's shield, when I performed the prescribed maneuver of twisting my wrist, the pain was so intense I dropped the shield. Thankfully, Lutatius managed to pull his thrust so it did not do much damage, other than to my pride. Only after forcing myself to make the motion over and over while holding my shield did I feel that at the very least I would not drop it. More than that I was not sure about, which was what occupied my thoughts as we marched. That was not the only worry, although this particular one I know was shared by my comrades, and that was the fact we were marching with our ranks thinned.
Normally, the replacement of fallen men in the First Cohort comes from within the Legion, and the First always has priority over the other Cohorts when it comes to picking the cream of the crop. However, even with experienced men, there is a period of adjustment as they become accustomed to the way things are done in the First, along with becoming used to the fact that one's new Century is twice as big. Actually, when we are in our fighting formation, things are really not that different; the depth of each file is the same – it is only the rank that is twice as wide. The reliefs are the same; the Centurion blows the whistle, the man on the front rank punches with the shield to knock his foe back while stepping to the side as the second man moves forward, the same in all Centuries. Of course, it is rarely quite that neat; as any man who has gone through one battle knows, our opponents are not deaf, and it does not take long even for men who have never faced the Legions to understand our rhythm of battle. Fortunately, knowing what is going to happen and still being able to stop us from doing it are two separate things.
There was another blessing about this operation, except this one was a substantial one that none of us took for granted. In one of his rare moments of strategic competence, the Legate had ordered the entirety of our cavalry force to station themselves along the western edge of the Varciani territory. Specifically, they were charged with watching the eastern approaches into the patch of ground where we had brought the Colapiani to ground. The cavalry was there to report if the Varciani made any attempt to use the terrain that had proven to be a nightmare for us, but while we initially did not think this would do much for us, other than to inform us they were indeed heading for the ground that favored them so heavily, we were pleasantly surprised to learn otherwise. In one of those small mysteries I have come to learn are part of every campaign, some of them significant, the Varciani host had indeed been spotted approaching from the east, seemingly intent on hiding themselves in that territory. Yet, when they became aware that they were being observed by our cavalry, instead of brushing them aside, which they could have easily done, they turned about and headed back east. We were marching north from Siscia, using the road that leads to Poetovio, which is used by the 13th when the province is in upheaval. In fact, the 13th had departed Siscia the day before, but although they were not going to participate in the actual fight, the feeling among us in the ranks was that the Legate stationed them on the northern edge of Pannonia to discourage the Varciani from fleeing north, perhaps all the way to Noricum, or from joining forces with the Taurisci tribe, which was one of the few tribes with which the Varciani had good relations. That was perfectly acceptable to us; the Taurisci are one of the largest tribes, whose lands actually overlap into Noricum, and as bad as the terrain in that area of Varciani territory is, the Taurisci's domains are much more mountainous. Consequently, when we stopped the first day at a spot about twenty miles north of Siscia, which was short for a day's march, to make camp along the Savus, when we heard that, in fact, the Varciani appeared to be heading east, away from that area, we took this as another good sign. And, because of my familiarity with the ground here, a fact that Asinius shared with the section, which I did not appreciate, not surprisingly, I was peppered with questions about their likely destination. While I did not mind all that much that Asinius had divulged that I was familiar with some of this area, the circumstances of how I came to know it, which Asinius shared as well, was what bothered me.
Nevertheless, I did my best to answer their questions, the most pressing of course being, "Where do you think they'll go now?"
I considered Bestia's question as I chewed my bread, but a part of me was pleased that he had been the man to ask me; the results of our last sparring session seemed to have repaired our rift, at least partially, and I was encouraged to see he seemed to be coming out of his depression.
"Well," I answered thoughtfully, "they might head northeast to a spot that used to belong to the Jasi, before the Varciani took it. There is," I remembered something, "or was a village there at some springs that feed into the Dravus. But there's a ridge running east to west that would be good ground for them." Thinking some more, I shrugged and said, "There's also another, higher and steeper ridge, just about five miles west of there. If I had to guess, it would be one of those places."
There was silence around the fire as the others ate their meal, digesting both it and what I had said. Mentally, I counted the heartbeats before one of them broached the topic of how I came to know this.
"
So," the fact that it was Lutatius who broke the silence was a mixed blessing, "it's true what Asinius said? That when you were a boy, you had to hide from some of those savages? That's how you know about what it's like up there?"
"Yes," I admitted, but said nothing else, hoping they would drop the subject.
"And you were trying to get back to Siscia because the rest of your family was trapped?" When I only nodded, Lutatius added, "That must have been terrifying,"
I glanced at him sharply, trying to determine if he was mocking me, which was my normal reaction to anything that touched on my past or personal life. However, he seemed sincere, and I felt a twinge of shame that I had thought he was looking for an opportunity to make fun of me.
"It was," I admitted, thinking back to the long, cold night I had spent huddled in a cave, tired and in extreme pain, with only a big gray horse to comfort me. "It was the longest night of my life, and I hope I never have to go through anything like that again."
"What was so bad about it?"
More in surprise than anything else, I turned my head to look at Sido, who had asked the question, but deciding to accept the question on its face, I thought about it.
"Not knowing," I finally said. "Not knowing if my family was still safe, not knowing if I was going to escape myself. Not knowing if, even if I did get away, it would be in time." I shook my head, but it was more to drive away the memories than in any kind of response to Sido's question. "That was the worst."
"But you were." I was happy to see I was not the only one who jumped slightly at the sound of Asinius' voice. I had been so lost in my thoughts I had not seen him walk up. "You were in time, and your family was fine. Everyone was in one piece and that's all that matters, neh?"
"Not everyone." I thought about Libo and his one arm, sacrificing himself to give me the time to escape on Ocelus, recklessly charging into a half-dozen Latobici horsemen with only a sword and his courage. Sighing, I said, "But almost everyone, and my family was safe."
"You know, Pullus," Asinius spoke up, and I knew him well enough to know there was a meaning to his words underneath what he said, "if you think about it, this is your chance to avenge your father losing his leg." I stared at him – "glared" would be more accurate – but he was unmoved by my silent warning. "It was against them it happened."
I was about to point out that while it was true my father and the rest of the Legion were fighting the Varciani, he had actually fallen, literally, at the hands of another Roman. Then I thought better of it; I was almost positive Asinius had suspected as much, but I had never confided in him, and I do not think Corvinus would have either. All I had learned about what happened to my father in the past months was still too new, too fresh, and too raw for me to trust myself. Instead, I just nodded, and he soon departed, leaving us to finish eating before retiring for the night. It has always puzzled me how, even after a relatively short period of time without a certain activity, like marching with a pack, one loses their fitness for it. My one consolation was in seeing my comrades walking as stiffly into the tent as I did; misery does indeed love company.
Chapter 6
Resuming our northward march, we had only gone about five miles the next day when we heard the drumming of hooves from behind, and I turned to see a rider approaching, whipping his horse savagely, its muzzle and mouth ringed in white, the sign it was already blown. The sight of this made me furious; even now, I have little tolerance for a man who abuses his mount, but I managed to refrain from doing or saying anything about it, although I did curse him roundly as he slid to a stop, spraying dirt all over those of us on the outer rank. That, I thought, is one of the things nobody tells you when you are marching so close to the Primus Pilus. Unmindful of my indignation, the man leapt from his saddle, and despite my hostility, I had to grudgingly admit he was clearly a good horseman. The cavalryman was a ranker like us, meaning he was not a Roman; to my ear, I thought I heard the guttural accent of Germania, although I will say he did not wear his hair in braids. He did smell, but that did not surprise me in the slightest. However, before he was allowed to blurt anything out that our eager ears could make use of as fodder for the evening meal, Urso conducted him several steps away.
"Cac," Avitus mumbled, and we grinned at each other, because I had been thinking the same thing; there is nothing that is more important to a Gregarius than an idea about his fate.
My comrade who marched next to me had been clearly struggling, still weakened from his wound, yet he had not straggled, finishing the first day with us; this day was another matter, but I had already resolved to do whatever I had to do to keep him with us. If it meant carrying his pack, I remember thinking, then so be it. It is always an interesting exercise, at least it has been for me, to sit and recall these moments from my youth, and I often wonder if my Avus felt the same way when he was dictating his account to Diocles. Recalling that day, I can only shake my head at my hubris and the idea that, although I was still not fully recovered myself, I looked at Avitus as needing help. All I can say now is that, thankfully, my resolve was never put to the test, because Avitus was equal to the task. Watching Urso read the wax tablet the courier had proffered, it was almost impossible to tell whether the news was good, bad, or simply a piece of information that kept him apprised of the whereabouts of the Varciani. We got our answer, not from the mouth of the Primus Pilus, but from the fact that we suddenly altered the direction of our march. Moving off the road, he led us to the east, but before we had gone more than a mile, he turned us again, this time on a more southerly course. It did not take long for us to determine by the sun that we were almost doubling back on our original line of march. Until, that is, the sun became obscured by low-hanging gray clouds, which grew more thickly with every mile. Adding to our sense of foreboding, the temperature started dropping accordingly. While I was not overly concerned; I had packed not only the bracae Asinius had ordered, but at the last moment, I included four pair of fur-lined socks, along with a tunic with a thicker weave of wool than normal. I had not yet invested in a fur-lined sagum that some of the more veteran men had, although I would add that. Regardless of the preparations, the fact was that the day continued to grow colder. Perhaps two parts of a watch past our midday break, we came across the trail of the Varciani, consisting of a swath of churned-up earth that appeared like a dark ribbon marring the ground. When it is a large body of men, whether they be on foot or mounted, it is difficult to determine which direction they are heading. This trail was sufficiently fresh enough, and aided by the information provided by the mounted scouts from the ala of cavalry trailing behind the Varciani, to tell us they were heading south. Following behind them, I tried to remember as much as I could of the territory in the direction we were now headed. The best I could determine, we had marched perhaps thirty miles from Siscia before we changed direction, while we were now heading in a southerly direction but angling east, and that was an area with which I was not familiar. When I was young, the eastern part of the province was still too wild for even an adventurous boy like me to explore, so I was forced to ask my comrades what they knew of it.
From his spot right behind me, Ventidius offered, "It depends on how far east we go. If we get all the way to the Dravus, it's not too hilly, and there's forest, but not like Germania. But if they're heading south…" He did not finish his sentence, and I glanced over my shoulder to see him shake his head grimly. I looked over at Avitus, but he was too concerned with putting one foot in front of the other, so I resigned myself to learning more when we stopped for the day. Which we did, earlier than normal because the cold was becoming so bitter we were starting to make enough noise with our chattering teeth that I believe the Primus Pilus just did not want to hear it any more. This is one of the few times when men actually do not mind working on the ditch, or chopping wood for towers because it keeps a man warmer than if he is standing on guard duty. So, naturally, the First Cohort drew the duty of guarding the rest of the Legion as they got warm. By the time all was read
y, the slaves had finished erecting our tents and laying out the nightly supply of firewood, the temperature dropping to the point where we could see our breath, making the circle around the fire tighter than normal. And I had certainly forgotten about asking about what lay ahead of us as far as the terrain.
"Has it ever gotten this cold this early?"
I suspect this was a question asked at more than just our fire, and I imagine the answer was much the same; nobody could recall it happening since they had been in Pannonia. I certainly could not, although when I was young, I hardly paid attention to such matters. Retiring for the night, very quickly, men were scrambling to put on their extra clothing, even in the tent and wrapped in their sagum. The next morning, the moment I opened my eyes at the sound of the bucina call, I could tell that something was different, but neither I nor the rest of my comrades were prepared for the sight when we exited the tent. Covering the ground to a depth of perhaps four inches was a coat of snow, blanketing everything, including our tents. Nevertheless, the business of the Legion is not delayed for such trivial reasons as this, but we discovered very quickly that, although it had been cold enough to snow, the snow itself was not the light kind that can be brushed off of a surface like canvas. Consequently, it not only took longer to shake the snow off before striking the tents; once we did, they were clearly weightier, meaning the mules were more heavily loaded than normal. Even with the extra burden, this would have been more an annoyance than anything, but while it still remained cold, the cloud cover rapidly disappeared, then the temperature rose so it was clearly above freezing. Very quickly, the ground became soft, although this was one of the moments where marching in the front rank has its advantages, since we were in a situation where contact was possible at any time and Urso had not shifted our order of march. That was fine with, and for us, but for the rest of the Legion, and the mules in particular, the combination of heavier load and muddy ground meant we were forced to stop so many times I finally gave up counting. At first, it was because mules were slipping in the mud, but then they started going lame, requiring them to be switched with one of the spares, which of course had to have its burden shifted as well.