by R. W. Peake
Once we cleared each section of the town given to us by Asinius, the civilians we found and took prisoner were escorted to the common area, which was filling up rapidly with crying, miserable, and petrified people. Those few able-bodied men who were found we quickly put to the sword, although in almost every case, they died defending their families. Our Century faced this situation three or four times, but in only one was I involved, and then it was not a particularly satisfying kill. While Sido and Ventidius were engaged with the Varciani, who was armed with a spear, shield and the kind of frenzied courage that comes from being the last and only hope for defending one's family, I circled around behind him and ended him with a single thrust between his shoulder blades. The warrior's family was huddled in the corner of the small, one-room hut, but when they saw him fall, a woman I assumed was his leapt to her feet, screeching shrilly with her hands curved into claws, her lips curled back from bared teeth. Charging across the room, she aimed herself at me, but before she got close enough to inflict any damage, Bestia stuck out his foot and she went tumbling to the ground. Before she could scramble to her feet, Sido, whose back had been turned to her, spun around and, without hesitation, plunged his sword down into the woman's back in almost the exact same spot where I had ended her man. She let out one more short, sharp scream, then lay still, facedown, her eyes still open and last expression still frozen on her face. We do not talk about it, but I know I always found it disturbing to gaze on the faces of some of the people we killed when their last expression was one of such hatred and fear, still snarling their defiance with their last breath. Needing a distraction, I turned to see the children who both of these Varciani had died trying to defend, however futilely, and when I did, I could not stop from muttering a curse. There were four children; it was the oldest who drew my eye, but before I could make a move, Caecina stepped in and grabbed the child by the hair, causing her to shriek in pain. Dragging the girl, who I think was perhaps twelve and who, to anyone with a pair of eyes, was a rare beauty with raven hair and an oval face that was lovely even as it contorted in fear and pain, our Sergeant glared at me, daring me to intervene again. Without thinking, I took a step, but then sensed something and turned to see Geta and Mela had managed to get behind me, and this time, Mela had his sword unsheathed, while Geta had his hand on the hilt of his own weapon. Although, I took notice, he did not appear very eager to draw it.
"Not this time," was all Caecina said, then seeing that I was not going to stop him, laughed as he motioned to his two companions. "Let's have some fun, boys."
Rather than stay, I reached down and roughly grabbed two of the remaining three children, a boy of about ten who vainly tried to break free, and one of perhaps six. Dragging them out of the house, I was forced to step over the body of both parents, and as hardened as we may be, there are very few men under the standard who can carry children away who have just seen that same Roman kill one of their parents and do so without any hesitation, or guilt. I was young, I had no children and, as I knew, had been born and bred for what I was doing, yet that did not make me feel any less guilty as I took these children away to an uncertain but probably horrible fate. The only consolation I took was that they did not have to watch what I was sure would be their older sister being defiled by Caecina, Geta, and Mela; the fact that I did not get them away quickly enough to avoid hearing her screams was not consoling in the slightest. Carrying them to the common area, I dropped the pair into the midst of the other captives, ignoring the fact that one of the women, seeing the fear and grief on the faces of the children took them in her arms, despite the clear signs she had already undergone her own ordeal. And, I thought grimly, this is just the beginning.
What was even more of a mystery at the time than how the Varciani had chosen this location for their town was how all that happened that night managed to occur. Piecing it together later, my comrades and I came to the conclusion it was the confluence of a number of circumstances. The first was that, simply put, the Varciani town took much longer to clear than any of us thought it would, and the reason for that was twofold. In all candor, the town was just too large for one Legion to clear with any real speed; perhaps if we had arrived at the walls at least a watch earlier, we would have been done by sundown, yet even that is not certain. Additionally, the haphazard way barbarian towns grow made it impossible for our ordered Roman minds to make any sense of it. Consequently, every Cohort and Century spent crucial time doubling back on themselves as they tried to advance through the part of the town they had been assigned. It was not even because of the resistance we faced; although the Varciani warriors left behind fought fiercely, as usually happens, their inability to think like a unit rather than individual warriors meant they were always outnumbered whenever they were found standing in front of their families. Frankly, I, and I know all of the men of the 8th, were thankful for this trait, because while it would not have altered the outcome, it would have cost us even more in lives.
However, even with all those factors, we would have not been in as much trouble as we found ourselves, but whereas in the first and subsequent villages the location of the intoxicants were in one or two obvious locations, in a town the size of this one, there were too many caches for the Centurions to find, at least before the men did. This only became evident towards the end of the day, when the sun was just dipping below the horizon and it is only with hindsight I can say that, when I thought about it later, while the sounds of a town being sacked were still predominant, there was an added aspect to it. Whether it was in the sheer volume or the quality, the laughter and coarse humor of the men changed subtly, providing the clue that more than one man was becoming drunk. Things that were only mildly humorous became matters of great mirth, and the exuberance on display when some ranker found something valuable in one of the houses reached a new level. My first hint came when I saw one of the men of the Fifth Section who burst from one of the houses being searched, shouting with enormous gusto as he waved the treasure he had found, which to my eyes looked like a wooden comb. From what I could see, it had no jewels encrusted in it, nor was it inlaid with gold, yet the way the Gregarius was dancing about, waving it and laughing uproariously was, to put it mildly, puzzling. It was only when he suddenly staggered violently and overcompensated so much that he stumbled and landed hard on his ass without appearing to be the least embarrassed that I realized the cause.
"That's wonderful," I grumbled. "Looks like someone found some wine."
I had addressed this to Ventidius, but when he did not answer, I glanced over to see him standing there, smiling. This was understandable, except I noticed he also seemed to be weaving a bit.
"By the gods," I groaned. "Not you too."
"That last house?" He grinned at me. "The one you didn't go into? It had a cask of mead in it."
This, I instantly realized, was even worse. Having experienced the drink the year before, I not only understood its appeal, but its effects, although what I most remembered was that the drink had been used as an accomplice by Tubero, my former comrade of the Fourth, as a ploy to get me intoxicated enough for Gaius Maxentius to beat me half to death. Although the beating was why I was unconscious for two full days and part of another and my head hurt for weeks, I suspect the mead alone would have done nearly as much damage, which is why I will not touch the stuff now. I must confess that while we were sacking this town, it did not even occur to me that it could haven been more than just a few men involved, although now I realize my error lay in my assumption that only a few richer barbarians had possessed any quantities of the drink. Apparently, this town was stuffed full of the thick, sickly sweet concoction that can only charitably be called a liquid. Nevertheless, as one might surmise, men do not consume it for the taste but for the effect, and while I cannot say there were any more men other than those who normally could be counted on to risk the wrath of the officers by guzzling as much as they could before they were caught, the total result was such that those of us who were sober started spend
ing at least part of our time, and more importantly, attention to make sure our inebriated comrades did not skewer themselves when they tripped over their own feet and landed on their swords. I am not offering all I have described as an excuse for what was about to occur in a bit more than a full watch after the sun finally dropped behind the hill overlooking the town, but I do believe the whole story should be considered. Regardless of this, I suppose a part of me views all these factors as extraneous to the central fact that the 8th Legion was about to be badly hurt. As far as the part I played, particularly one series of actions, only now, fourteen years later, will I divulge the full, unvarnished truth about what happened. I do so because I have no intention of relinquishing this record of my time under the standard to anyone other than my heir, and after it will be too late for any punishment that may be meted out to me.
There is a strange phenomenon I observed for the very first time that night, and that is how when men are part of a larger body, there seems to be a collective attitude about certain matters. What makes it surprising is this: if we were pulled aside as individuals and asked to describe a certain situation, the answer we would give on our own, compared to the one we would offer once reunited with our comrades would differ from each other. However, although this was the first time I observed this peculiar behavior on the part of the men of the 8th, I have seen it since that time. As night fell on the town, if I had been pulled aside just before dark and asked, I would have insisted we were all aware of the fact that there was, in all probability, a Varciani warband that was even then closing in on us. And I am sure none of my comrades, at least the majority who were still sober, would have disagreed; all of us were cognizant that there was a fight in our future. This fact, I understand, is what, to an outside observer, would appear to be so strange, because from our collective behavior, one could assume we had quickly forgotten all about the looming battle. Regardless of circumstances, part of this attitude, ironically enough, stemmed from our utter faith in our Primus Pilus and the Centurions, and I cannot say this faith was misplaced, not only in a general sense, but at this specific moment. Because the First Cohort had actually been the last into the town, Urso exempted us from any duties, giving us the order to choose a section of the town where we could bed down for the night.
"The Tenth is on guard duty, and the Primus Pilus ordered the entire Cohort to man the walls," Asinius informed us. "And the Fourth is watching the prisoners and are bedding down in houses closest to the wall and are on half alert," which meant that no man in the Fourth would be getting a full night's sleep.
The fact that it was the Fourth was not lost on me, nor did I think it was a coincidence, and I gathered Asinius felt the same way, just from his demeanor when he was relaying the orders.
"In the meantime, you can get as drunk as you want." Whatever came next was understandably drowned out by the shouts from those who would do that very thing, so he had to repeat himself. "Just remember, that tomorrow is likely to be a rough day." His face was stern as he tried to impart the real meaning of his words. "And if you want to face whatever comes hung over, so be it. But it better not impair your ability to do your jobs."
I will say the Century did mute their happiness, and I know most of us were sincere in our recognition of the probable truth to his words. Yet, as the night wore on, I could not help noticing how many of my comrades either forgot that warning, or more likely, whereas their spirit was willing, their fleshly bodies proved unequal to the task. Still, very quickly, men scattered, most to perform more thorough searches of the homes we had cleared. As I knew, this would be when the truly valuable items, those that were more carefully hidden, would be found, so I was right there with the rest of my comrades. Normally, I would have paired up with Domitius; we had not yet become close comrades, holding each other's wills, but I trusted him the most. Lutatius was a close second, so that was who I found myself with as we wandered down one street, carrying a torch that we would use to examine those buildings we had already torn through. There was no real system to our search; we would stop outside a building and discuss the likelihood of the previous occupants secreting away some form of hidden wealth. Usually we agreed, but not always. I think we spent at least two parts of a watch tearing the selected buildings apart, and we were rewarded for our efforts. Underneath a hearthstone that Lutatius had discovered was loose by poking each of the stones with his sword, he found a leather bag containing a goodly number of coins, some of them in gold. When he offered to split it with me, for an instant, I almost refused, but I quickly realized that doing so would be unusual behavior, drawing questions as to why I had no desire for more money than I was making as a Gregarius, so I accepted. Once we divided it, I cannot say I was displeased to see I had just made what I estimated to be a full year's pay for a Gregarius like me. In another house, we found a brooch made of gold and studded with semi-precious stones, stuffed up inside a chimney, and since it was just one piece, we did have a bit of an argument about whether or not it should be sold and the proceeds split. Honestly, I only resisted for the sake of appearances; I was aware Lutatius had a woman in Siscia that he had been assiduously courting, so I did not begrudge him this piece. All over the town, similar conversations were being held as Legionaries tore houses apart, searching for all manner of valuables. Unfortunately for all of us, too many men found their loot in liquid form, although I suppose we should have been thankful it was still predominantly wine and not the other way around. Nevertheless, there was more than enough of both types of intoxicants to get men who were so disposed staggering about, and of course it was not long after that before the first punch flew. The Centurions were doing their best, but at the same time, they seemed to feel that letting us off the leash a bit was the smarter course in the long run, and truthfully, if the night had passed uneventfully, it would have been. That, however, was not to be the case.
In the aftermath of that night, even more facts became clear that, when viewed on their own and in the moment, seemed to be of little consequence. However, when each of these seemingly insignificant details were linked together, they produced a chain of events that resulted in the chaos of that night. Oddly enough, it started with the Decimus Pilus Prior's decision to give his men a partial rest. When a Primus Pilus orders one of his Pili Priores to perform a certain task, one of the unwritten rules, at least in the 8th Legion, was that the Pilus Prior was given the latitude to accomplish it in any manner he saw fit. Therefore, when Urso commanded the Tenth Cohort to man the walls, the Pilus Prior, seeing that in doing so, he would have men less than ten feet apart, all the way around the wall, decided that putting his Cohort on half alert would be sufficient. After all, even at night, unless there are other conditions like fog or smoke, a sentry can see more than twenty feet away. In his defense, the Decimus Pilus Prior, Gnaeus Turbo, was making the best of a bad situation, at least that was how he saw it. Still, although that reduced the manpower on the walls, neither I nor any of the other men with whom I talked about this afterward believe this alone was the cause for our troubles. Then, sometime in the second watch, after it had been dark for some time, a Gregarius or two who were never identified, apparently decided they did not want to wait until the next day to see the town burn. Consequently, as Lutatius and I were just entering what would turn out to be the last house we would search, one in the northwest part of the town started to burn. At first, it seemed to be contained; when Lutatius and I walked into the house, neither of us had any idea what was happening until, drawn by a number of men shouting in a way that was at odds with the normal sounds of drunken revelry, we emerged to see a sullen, reddish-orange glow just above the rooftops of the buildings in front of us.
"Juno's cunnus," Lutatius said disgustedly. "One of those fucking idiots who love to watch things burn couldn't wait. Now we're going to be fucked because the Primus Pilus is going call us to put it out before the whole fucking town goes up!"
I was no less dismayed because I thought Lutatius had the right of it; n
ot only were we the largest Cohort, we were the ones Urso trusted the most, knowing if he told us to put the fires out and not let any more start, we would obey, and we were not charged with any duties. Still, I suggested we wait until Urso actually ordered Varo to sound the call for us to attend to him.
"All right." He shrugged, then gave me a grin. "But let's start heading that way. We're done here, and there might be some fun happening. You know he hates it when men set fire to things."
Since we had finished picking over the section of houses given to us, I agreed and we headed in the general direction of the center of the town. We were in the southeast corner, near where we had come over the wall, and it took more time than it should have because of the way the streets were so haphazard, forcing us to turn about and backtrack more than once, both of us cursing the barbarians' lack of order. I do not mean to suggest the streets were empty; men were wandering about, some making sure a house had not been missed, while others were just content to stagger about in search of more to drink. On a couple of occasions, we ran into men who had found the most valuable treasure of all: the two-legged, female kind – women who had either taken it upon themselves, or whose men had devised a hiding place that had managed to avoid being discovered. At least, until then, and these lucky men invariably were not alone, and I do not mean they were in the company of the woman. The first man we ran into had the woman slung over his shoulder and seemed completely oblivious to her thrashing about, while behind him a tail of men followed. I suppose they were his comrades and if the torchlight had been brighter, I am sure I would have seen some of them drooling. The second man we ran into, while finding another hidden woman, was having considerably less success trying to drag her somewhere, not for privacy as much as a place where the other men would not find them right away, but although this woman was struggling like the first, she was actually doing a much better job of it. When we got closer, we recognized him as a man from the Fifth Century of our Cohort, a well-known shirker named Fibulus, and the woman had just kicked him in the groin, doubling him over and eliciting a moan of pain, yet somehow, he managed to retain his grip on the woman's arm.