Marching With Caesar-Pax Romana

by R. W. Peake

  When I returned to the common area, I believe the scene before me was one that would fit among those supposedly deep in the bowels of Hades, in the segment of the underworld where men like Sisyphus toil. What had been a battle was now nothing more than a slaughter as, forced to choose between death by blade or by fire, those Varciani and whatever remnant of Colapiani who were left ultimately made the right choice. I do not mean to imply that they simply gave up fighting and allowed themselves to be dispatched, but as relatively inexperienced as I might have been, I had seen enough of battle to recognize when the heart has gone out of an enemy and they now realize the outcome is inevitable and going to go against them. I did not return to my Century by the most direct route, choosing instead to follow the wall to where it turned east before I headed towards the clearing. As nearly as I could calculate, I intended to enter the eastern edge of the common area somewhere along the line of the First Cohort, but I also knew I was likely to get turned around and end up in some other spot. For what I believe was the first time, I managed to navigate the maze of streets and come out almost exactly where I had hoped, but I cautioned myself against reading too much into this as any kind of sign. What it did allow was the opportunity to examine the battle from a farther remove than normal, so I took the time to try and make sense of what was happening. To my far right at the far end of the town where the fire had started, while it was still burning, it was clearly in its dying stages, and I was informed thusly not only by evidence presented by the fire itself, but by the fact that what looked like two of the reserve Cohorts were now aligned roughly parallel to the northern edge of the common area. Our lines now formed the letter "L" if viewed from above, with the shorter segment of our lines pushing an increasingly shrinking mass of Varciani southward. Despite all that had happened, I held no real animosity towards the Varciani; a substantial number of these men were literally fighting for their homes, after all, and I could certainly understand if not quite sympathize why they were still resisting with such ferocity. I did not envy any of these men, especially since it was extremely likely a number of them were watching their homes go up in flames, along with the fact that their families were still being held in a huddled mass just a few hundred paces away and, worst of all, within clear view. From where I stood for a few moments, the combatants from both sides were figures silhouetted against a backdrop of flame and smoke. While the smoke generated by the fire was driven mostly upward by the heat, once it cooled down, some of it billowed downward in a circular pattern that partially obscured the last couple hundred paces of the western edge of the common area. In fact, once I got closer where I could more easily hear, the sounds of hundreds of men coughing and hacking from the smoke added an element to the fight I had never heard before. As far as I could tell, all of the second line Centuries from every Cohort in the first line had been committed as well, and I headed in the direction where I assumed my former Century was still charged with guarding the prisoners, except once I got close enough to see there were no familiar faces, I decided to return to my own Century. It was not without some trepidation, yet oddly enough, my first concern was not about facing questions about my whereabouts and, more importantly, what I had been doing. Instead, I was worried by the fact that, for the first time in not just my short career but for the previous eight years and several months, my Legion, our Legion, did not have its leader. Admittedly, this was part of my anxiety, but certainly not all of it as far as my state of mind and reluctance to rejoin my Century. For a brief period of time, I had forgotten I had lost at least two men who were more than comrades and, in fact, were men I considered friends, but the moment I returned to the battle, the reality hit me with a considerable amount of force. Nevertheless, while I cannot say I moved particularly quickly, I still made my way to the far southern end of our line. The first surprise came when I saw that the First was actually still in the same spot I had left it in, although the rest of the Cohort had pushed forward at least a hundred and fifty paces. Even as I walked in that direction, the sounds of the fighting now well into the second full watch continued, but interspersed with the same coughing I had first heard shortly before; when I got within about fifty paces of the rear lines of the Cohorts who were engaged, my eyes started burning. As bad as the smoke was, the fact that I could feel the heat from the fire that was easily four to five hundred paces away at its closest was somewhat unnerving. It was an odd feeling; one side of my body feeling the heat while the other side was beginning to shiver as the night continued turning colder. Actually determining that what could only be charitably called a formation was in fact the First Century was made more difficult because both our eagle and Cohort standard were missing, and I must confess I stopped for a moment, the warm part of my body turning cold as well, as the thought that somehow the Colapiani, or perhaps those Varciani who had managed to penetrate our formation, had snatched our eagle. Granted, even if they had done so, there was nowhere for them to take it, yet it nevertheless was a thought that troubled me a great deal, and I knew it would similarly affect the rest of the men of the First. Before the idea could take full bloom, however, I looked in the direction of the fighting, then sighed in relief at the sight of the eagle outlined starkly against the flames as a man I was sure was Capulo was thrusting it up and down, which is not a random movement. The sight of the Legion eagle moving in this manner is the signal to those who can see it to press the advantage; it is the same for Century or Cohort standards, and just as I saw this visual command, I heard the cornu blast that corresponded with the gesture Capulo was making. The way every man of the Legion responded to this order was to unleash a verbal blast of their own, and although it might have been my imagination, I believe I heard in the cry of my comrades the same combination of rage, triumph, and sorrow I was feeling as they gave their reply. Instantly, the din of the fight increased from what had become its normal level of noise, then perhaps a heartbeat or two after that I heard the first shriek as one of the barbarians met their end, or at least so I assumed. While all this was happening, I was still walking, splitting my attention between the fighting on the right and what was left of my Century straight in front of me, but it was not until I was within twenty paces or so that I forced myself to actually look at the men of my Century, and more importantly, understand what the scene in front of me meant.

  "Pluto's cock." I do not believe I said this loudly; in fact, I thought I had uttered this only in my mind. "Is this really all that's left?"

  "No." Asinius' voice made me jump; somehow, he had managed to come up on me from an oblique angle, slightly behind me. "Some of the men asked to join with the Second to finish this off. For Ur…the Primus Pilus." He corrected himself quickly, but I am happy it was just me who heard him nonetheless; at that moment, the nerves and emotions of the men of the 8th were like a raw, open wound and even the slightest offensive remark about our Primus Pilus could provoke a man to lashing out at the offender before thinking of the consequences.

  I turned my attention to Asinius; neither of us spoke for a moment. I suppose he was giving me the same kind of examination as I was giving him. What I saw was a grimy, blood-spattered face that, under the best of circumstances, would be described as a serious demeanor; now there were deep furrows in his cheeks and his mouth was turned down so severely I had the absurd thought that the ends might touch each other. But it was his eyes, reflecting the light from the devouring flames behind me, that told the real story of a man who is physically spent, yet knows he has no choice but to carry on with his duties. His arms were bloody, although I quickly determined it was not his own, but then I noticed there was what looked like a slashing wound on his lower leg, just above his right greave, moving from the front of his leg to the back. I pointed down to it.

  "How did that happen?"

  When he looked down to where I was pointing, he made an exclamation of surprise as he looked back up and admitted, "I have no idea."

  But when he pointed to my face, this was the first instant I re
membered I had sustained a wound from the spike of Draxo's axe myself.

  "What about you?"

  "From the spike on Draxo's axe," I mumbled, except when I reached up to touch it, he grabbed my hand, and although he did not say anything, just that action was eloquent enough. "I had forgotten about that," I said sourly, yet I did not try to touch my face again. "Thanks for reminding me. Now it hurts like Dis!"

  "Stop being a woman," he retorted.

  But while I thought, and hoped, this was the end of our exchange, I quickly learned it was not; at least I had a hint about the direction his mind was taking when he leaned sideways to examine my back. His action gave me just the instant of warning I needed; I still wonder if it was simply a happy accident.

  "Why," he asked in a mild tone that did not fool me in the slightest, "is your back covered in blood?"

  In the heartbeat of time I had, I made a decision that, rightly or wrongly, I determined I would ride to death; my earnest hope was that it stayed a figure of speech.

  "I have no idea," I lied to him, then I craned my neck, turning so the back of my segmentata would be exposed to the light from the fire, as if trying to see what he was talking about; at least, I made a show of doing so. Finally, I shrugged, falling back into the role of the Stupid Legionary as I said, "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe," I finished, "it happened during that mess with Draxo and the Primus Pilus."

  "Maybe," Asinius' tone did not match his words, "but the funny thing is I don't remember seeing all that blood when you went off on your little…excursion." His eyes bored into mine as he stood there silently, which I had learned very early on during my association with him was a favored tactic, except I was determined to match him and keep my mouth shut. It probably lasted no more than a couple of heartbeats, although it did not seem like it. Finally, though, he shrugged and said, "Not that it matters. Just one of those questions after a fight that you wonder about, neh?"

  "Yes, sir," I agreed, trying to make sure I did not betray my intense relief.

  Turning away from me, he pointed in the general direction of the First Section and ordered, "Go get in your spot, Pullus. I doubt we'll be needed, but you never know."

  I saluted, then went trotting over to where Avitus was standing, or leaning, on his shield. Turning his head, he did not speak at first, instead pulling some items from where he had stuffed them under his baltea.

  "These belong to you," he said, but while there was nothing outwardly different in his attitude, I sensed a subtle but definite change in his tone than the one he usually used with me.

  Of course, I remonstrated with myself silently, it could be because he's fucking exhausted. Thanking him, I did the same thing he had done, stuffing Draxo's armbands in my baltea; then on an impulse, I took one of his rings and tried it on. It pleased me that it fit perfectly, although I admit that it looked, and felt, strange on my finger, since I never had worn jewelry of any kind. Still, even in the wavering light from the fire, I could see the workmanship was superb, easily making out the incised figure of a rearing horse. It's Ocelus; the thought just thrust itself into my mind and caused a sudden welling of emotion that, as I had learned the year before, was something to which I seemed to be extremely susceptible in the aftermath of a fight. As I have come to discover, in this I am not alone; over the years, I have seen men weeping immediately after a battle, even when none of their friends or comrades were slain. I suppose this is the reason I did not become immediately aware that Avitus seemed to be studying me as intently as I had been my new ring, but I gradually became cognizant of his eyes on me. I did not say anything, instead just glancing over at him, yet that seemed to be enough.

  "So," he asked in a way I am sure he thought was casual but obviously was nothing of the sort, "where did you disappear to?"

  I had thought about how I would answer this and had decided the truth was the best course; at least, the partial truth.

  "Right before the cornu sounded, I found a Varciani girl tied up in a house," I told him, "but I didn't have time to cut her loose and bring her over with the others. So," I shrugged, but looked away as I finished, hoping my attempt at sounding casual was better than his, "as soon as I got the chance, I went to go check and see if she was still there."

  "Why would you care about some barbarian girl?" Avitus asked, but then he suddenly gave me a grin, actually reaching out to poke me in the arm. "Ah," he laughed as he nodded his head. "That's why!"

  He nodded his head, yet despite knowing I had just been given a perfect way out, I could not stop myself from replying sharply, "No! It was nothing like that! She was maybe eight years old!"

  "Ah." Avitus' expression changed and he stopped smiling. "Which brings back the question; why would you care?" He waved a hand in the general direction of the prisoners. "It's not like there's not a couple hundred girls about that age. And," he added, "it's not like we're seeing any of that money. Or did you forget that the fucking Legate is keeping the money for himself?"

  By the time he was finished, his bitterness was fully flowing, but at least his anger was directed from me; for the moment, at least, and I was determined to keep his ire aimed elsewhere. In answer, I made my own wave, except this time over at the flames.

  "If someone didn't get her, she was going to burn to death," I countered, then made sure I pinned him with my gaze. "Yes, they're our enemies, but would you wish that on anyone? Especially a little girl?"

  Avitus' face already looked flushed because of the light from the fire, but he turned even darker as he admitted, "No, no I wouldn't. You're right. That's no way to die, for anyone. Except," he suddenly turned and pointed to a spot; I did not need to turn and look to see that he was pointing at Draxo, "for that cunnus. No," he spat on the ground and said adamantly, "I'd like to burn that cocksucker a little at a time for what he did to the Primus Pilus. But," I would like to think his look of respect was genuine, "you sure put paid to him. It's just a shame that…."

  He stopped, suddenly looking embarrassed, but I did not begrudge him the sentiment.

  "I know," I assured him and I was surprised that when I said, "I wish I had gotten there in time, too," I actually sincerely meant it.

  "Did you see Caecina anywhere around?"

  I cannot say with any certainty if Avitus tried to catch me off balance with his question; from what I knew then and know even better now, subtlety of that sort just was not in his nature. To this day, I believe it was a sincere question, born of completely innocent intentions. And it must be said, it was not only a common kind of question to ask about the whereabouts of a man of one's own Century, it was a natural one to ask me specifically.

  "No." I shook my head. "I didn't, but honestly, I wasn't looking for him."

  "Hm…" He shrugged, then finished. "I imagine he'll turn up soon. Him," once more he leaned over and spat on the ground, making no attempt to hide his contempt, "and Mela. That bastard has his head so far up Caecina's ass, you can bet that where one is, the other will be there too."

  That, I remember thinking with grim amusement, is truer than you know.

  "So," he yawned and turned his attention back to the fighting, "was that girl there? The one you were looking for?"

  Sighing, I said, "No. She was gone."

  Even when we Romans make war where it is simply required of us and there is no reason for our personal passions to be inflamed against whatever enemy we are facing, it is a brutal business. And yet, that is exactly what it is to us most of the time, simply our job. I suppose it would be politic for me to say at this point we killed for Rome, or for some higher ideal like what Rome and all it represents brings to the uncivilized, backwards people of the world, a shining light in the darkness of a brutal world. Simply put, while it might make the horrible things we do in the name of Rome more palatable to some, it is not true. Most of the time, while once in the heat of battle our blood runs hot and we hate the enemy we are facing, before that moment, it is merely our occupation to march, and dig, and march, and tr
ain. Although I have never discussed this with a butcher, it seems unlikely to me that when a herd of swine are brought to him for slaughter, he starts swinging his butcher's blade because he hates pigs, or they have wronged him in some way. And, in many ways, we Legionaries are much like butchers; the difference is that we are trained and paid to slaughter our own kind. At least that level of detachment is usually the way it is when facing a previously unknown enemy, where no blood has been spilled before and there are not old grievances from previous battles. The reason I am inserting this into my account here is to make it clear that what I have just mentioned was not the case that night. It does not justify nor condone what took place in that Varciani town, but ultimately, once our Primus Pilus fell at the hands of Draxo, their fate was chosen for them, by us, and it would be an even more unpleasant one than a life of slavery, even if it was briefer.