Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

by R. W. Peake

  Somehow, I do not know how, Ocelus managed to avoid being struck by a flailing hoof, but he gave a snort of terror at the smell of his fellow creature’s blood, once again rearing to lash out with his hooves. I had become, if not accustomed, at least prepared for the idea that Ocelus would act in such a manner, suddenly rearing up with no warning, ensuring that I kept hold of the reins at all times. This made using the shield somewhat more difficult, but I knew that to lose the saddle would mean certain death. Between gripping him with my thighs and my hold on the reins, I was never in real danger of being unseated. Finally, the downed horse’s struggles slowed, finally stopping altogether, while Crassus continued his attempt to close with the Moesian, whose bodyguards had mostly been eliminated. I sensed another horse and rider coming up to the spot vacated by the gladiator and his mount; fortunately, the horse’s body kept the Moesians from flowing into the space themselves. I was slashing and thrusting, trying to best a man who had considerable skill, because he was parrying my thrusts with what seemed to be almost contemptuous ease. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I had at last met my match, but while his defense was superb, his offense was only mediocre at best. Finally, it was Ocelus who broke the deadlock by reaching out, stretching his long neck out to grab the man’s arm in his big teeth. It was completely unexpected, both by the Moesian and by me, the man giving a surprised yelp of pain when his shield arm was clamped in Ocelus’ jaws. That was the only opening I needed, making a quick thrust to the man’s neck, which was now exposed, the blade punching through the other side. He dropped his sword immediately, though his body remained semi-upright because Ocelus had not released him.

  “Let go of him, Ocelus,” I yelled, several times in fact, before my horse opened his mouth, the man dropping like a sack of grain.

  I saw several men gaping in astonishment, while I was no less surprised than they were, but I could not stop to give my horse a pat on the neck. Pushing forward, I continued thrusting and slashing at every Moesian I could reach. Balbus followed me closely, and when the Moesians suddenly took an unforced backward step, I risked a glance behind me. We had moved the Moesians about 50 paces backward, the men of the 8th filling in the gaps we had made immediately. The rest of the Evocati seemed to be in good shape, each fighting their own battles with Moesians ringed around the periphery of the bulge that we had created. Crassus had finally reached the Moesian, after he and Prixus had cut down the remaining bodyguards, with Crassus slashing down at the man, who fended off the blow with his shield. Prixus moved in, but Crassus gave him a sharp command to leave the Moesian alone, then I was too absorbed in my own fight to notice what was taking place. There was another attempt by a Moesian to try to get under Ocelus’ belly and I leaned down, still holding my shield high enough to ward off any blows from others, then chopped down with my blade. I was only able to strike a glancing blow, but it was enough to partially sever the man’s arm before he fell under Ocelus’ hooves, then rolled to safety, holding his spurting limb.

  About then, I realized that it was Scribonius who had moved up next to me, and having my two oldest and best friends on either side of me gave me confidence to push forward even farther. The noise was almost deafening, with men shouting to and at each other, others screaming when they were struck, some mortally. Punctuating the noise was the clanging of metal on metal, and underlying that was the sound of metal striking the wood of a shield, or flesh. We were now almost even with the next cross street, giving the Moesians a way to escape the pressure we were putting on, and the men of the rear ranks began slipping away. It did not take long for the men closest to the fighting to feel the absence of their comrades behind them, prompting one of them to take that step backwards. In a matter of a few moments, all organized resistance crumbled, the man I was engaging making the fatal error of letting his fear overcome him and turning to run. Ending his life with a thrust between the shoulder blades before pausing to catch my breath, it gave me the chance to see how the others were faring. Spinning Ocelus around, I watched Crassus finishing off the Moesian noble with a lightning-quick thrust to the chest, after he had knocked the man’s shield aside by using his horse’s body. With our job essentially done, the Legionaries of the 8th went streaming past us, pursuing the Moesians, their Centurions and Optios bellowing at them to keep up the pressure and not let them regroup. I looked all about trying to find Gaius, but I did not see him, and I tried to tell myself that this meant nothing, except the knot in my stomach was impossible to ignore. Balbus and Scribonius pulled alongside me, Scribonius grinning at me as he wiped the blood off his blade.

  “That was fun. Maybe I should have joined the cavalry after all.”

  “We’re not through yet,” I warned.

  “I don’t know about you, but I plan on getting off this beast for the rest of it,” Balbus said. “I don’t think going house to house on horseback is a good idea.”

  I realized that Balbus was right; it was time to finish this on foot. The streets of Naissus were narrow, and the one thing that being on horseback robs a man of is his mobility in tight spaces, as well as presenting a bigger target should some Moesian get up on the roofs of the buildings lining the streets. Granted, most of the buildings were squat wooden structures where one could see enough of the roof, that sneaking up that way would be next to impossible. However, there were a fair number of larger structures that would give an enemy a vantage point from where they could drop a rock or other heavy object down on us, causing grave damage. On horseback, it would be extremely hard to dodge something thrown our way, so I dismounted as a signal to the others that it was time to do the rest of this on foot. Wiping down the blade of the spatha, I sheathed it on the saddle of Ocelus, then seeing a Legionary tending to his wounded friend, I called him over.

  “Watch our horses while you wait for the medici to come help your friend.”

  The man looked apprehensive, glancing around, and I knew he was looking for his Centurion or Optio.

  I explained patiently, “Son, I'm the Camp Prefect, second in command of this army. If your Centurion has a problem, tell him to come see me after this is over.”

  He saluted, taking Ocelus’ reins, who clearly did not like a stranger watching him and he tossed his head several times, trying to yank the reins out of the man’s hands. Finally, I grabbed his bridle, speaking soothingly to him for a moment, which seemed to calm him down. With that taken care of, I drew my Gallic blade, liking the comforting and familiar feel of the handle, worn to fit my hand perfectly.

  “Let’s go finish this,” I told the others, then began walking down the street.

  Crassus was calling out commands to a couple of Centurions when we approached. He looked surprised to see us on foot, but when I explained why, he thought about it for a moment before nodding his agreement, although he did not dismount himself.

  “I need to be able to see what’s going on,” he explained, which was true enough, except that I could have told him even that would not help.

  Taking a town is one of the most confusing operations a Legion can perform, especially once all organized resistance is done and the men start to see opportunities to loot and run wild. However, I could look down the street we were on to see that the Moesians were starting to form back up several blocks away. At the same time, I could hear fighting still going on farther down both directions along the wall, with the men of the 14th taking over from the 8th, who continued to push past us to confront the Moesians down the street. Deciding that it would be good to head down the nearest side street running perpendicular to the main road leading from the gate, I called to the rest of the Evocati, then began to move. Farther down that street, I saw another group of Moesians, but between them and us was what looked like a Century of Legionaries. Deciding that they did not need our help, I turned to head in the opposite direction, stopping when Crassus called my name. Turning to look up at him, I saw that he was pointing in the original direction we had started.

  “Prixus went that w
ay,” he said quietly.

  I instantly understood what he was telling me, and what he wanted me to do.

  I looked over to Scribonius, telling him, “Take the Evocati down that street. I need to talk to Crassus for a moment. I’ll join you.”

  He gave me a long, searching look and I could tell that he did not believe me, but I had no intention of drawing Scribonius or Balbus into my troubles again. That had happened often enough in the past that I was unwilling to let it happen again. But he gave a curt nod of his head, then without saying a word to me, called to the others and they headed off in the opposite direction. Waiting a moment, I watched them move quickly down the street, then turned about, heading for Prixus.

  Now on my own, I approached the rear of the Century that was facing a relatively small group of Moesians who, despite the disparity in numbers, were putting up a fierce fight. The Century was handling them with relative ease; the Centurion in command blowing the whistle frequently, meaning that the shifts were kept short so the men would not tire. Seeing the Optio in his spot at the rear of the Century, I made my way over. If he was surprised to see such a high-ranking officer in such a place, he covered it well, giving me a perfect salute.

  “Have you seen four gladiators come this direction?” I asked the man, who knew exactly who I was asking about.

  “You mean Prixus? Yes, sir. I saw him and his bunch head down that alley there,” he replied, pointing down an alley where I could see a section of Legionaries already kicking in doors in search of loot.

  “Are they yours?” I asked the Optio, who quickly shook his head, but would not meet my gaze.

  I was sure he was lying. However, I was not in a position or even in the mood to do anything about it. What was happening was not uncommon; if the situation was under control, the Centurion often would send a section of men into nearby buildings to see what they could scavenge, before the official period of looting began. I was after Prixus, not some Legionaries trying to grab a few baubles and coins.

  “Any idea why he headed that way?”

  The Optio shrugged, only saying, “I thought I saw a woman head down that way right as we came up here to face these bastards.”

  That sounded like Prixus; I had heard him brag on many occasions about his appetite for the pleasures a woman can provide, making it clear he was not picky about whether those pleasures were given willingly or not. Following where the Optio had pointed, I headed down the alley, ignoring the men who were either dragging or carrying bits of plunder out and dumping them in a pile, under the eye of one of their comrades. Trusting that I would be able to find Prixus and his men, I listened carefully as I passed by a door or window of each building, hoping to hear a voice I recognized. I had almost reached the end of the alley, where it emptied out into the next street that ran perpendicular to the gate road. Risking a glance around the corner in each direction, it was clear that our men had not yet reached this deep into the town, seeing Moesians in both directions I looked. Some were townspeople, but an equal number or even more were warriors, and I ducked my head back quickly before I was spotted. It appeared that Prixus and his men had managed to get into the town somehow without being spotted.

  Turning around to walk back up the alley, I heard a low moan from a building I had walked by without hearing anything the first time. It was a woman’s voice, moaning with something other than pleasure, the fear and pain clear even out here in the alley. Freezing in mid-stride, I strained to listen; after a moment, I heard a grunt, followed by a smacking sound, followed by the woman crying out in clear and obvious distress. Despite not knowing for sure that it was Prixus and his men inside, I decided to go in to find out, except when I examined the building more closely, I could not readily find a door. Walking about, I noticed a small recess that looked like a gap between the buildings, into which I barely fit, having to turn sideways to do so. As I sidestepped my way deeper into the recess, the light grew dimmer with every step, and I barely saw the doorway that led into the building. I could see why the woman had thought she might be safe inside, because the entrance on this side of the building was extremely hard to find. The structure itself was made of rough-cut stone, and it was dark inside, the only light coming from a window or other door in what I assumed to be the front of the building at the opposite end.

  I unsheathed my sword very slowly before stepping into the building, since I could now hear men talking in low tones. One of them laughed and I immediately recognized it as belonging to one of Prixus’ men, telling me I was in the right place. Lifting my foot, I slowly put it down across the threshold, then taking a deep breath, stepped inside. While my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw that I was standing in what appeared to be the main room. Immediately to my left was a wooden wall made of rough-hewn planks, running the length of the room, with an opening at the far end that clearly led to the back room, nearest to the alley. There was a counter to the right, also running almost the entire length of the front room, arrayed on which appeared to be bolts of cloth, along with sundry other supplies that told me that this was a weaver’s shop. The windows were shuttered, but there were slats missing, and the front door was slightly ajar, which was what provided the light. I surmised that the girl had run in here, or perhaps she worked in the shop, and somehow Prixus and his men had found her. Moving carefully, I crept along behind the counter, trying to control my breathing, although I doubted that the gladiators were paying attention to anything other than the girl, or woman. Nearing the opening into the back room, I tried to place the approximate positions of each man by the sounds of their voices or breathing, yet it was impossible to tell. The woman was still moaning, a low continuous sound, which was clearly starting to irritate Prixus, who snarled at her to shut up. When she did not, there was the sodden sound of a fist smashing into flesh, but unsurprisingly that did not stop her crying; it only made it worse.

  “If you don’t shut your mouth, you cunnus, I'll cut your throat from ear to ear while I’m fucking you in your ass.” Prixus’ voice throbbed with fury and the promise that he was not only capable, but would enjoy doing that very thing.

  Realizing that I could not waste any more time, I took a couple quick steps, and in my haste, my foot came down on a shard of pottery or something of that nature.

  The cracking sound was probably not as loud in reality as I thought, but it was loud enough to cause the gladiator who had laughed earlier to say, “Did anyone else hear that?”

  I did not wait for an answer, closing the remaining distance in two quick strides, turning into the entryway to come face to face with the gladiator who was coming to check on the noise. In the gloom, I could not clearly make out his features, yet I saw enough to know that he was caught completely by surprise. Before he could open his mouth to shout, I made a hard overhand thrust at shoulder level, and since he was shorter than I was, I had to angle the point slightly downward so that it punched into his mouth. I was taking a calculated risk, because as long as I aimed the thrust perfectly, the point of the blade would pierce through the back of his neck, keeping him from crying out. However, the blade would be harder to dislodge once it was stuck in bone, and could cause a fatal delay. What I was counting on was that because of the dim light, the reactions of Prixus and his surviving men would be delayed since the first man did not have a chance to raise a warning. Even as dark as it was, I could see the whites of his eyes opening wide in shock as his life ended in less time than it takes for one heartbeat. The muscles of his body went suddenly slack, the life fleeing from his body, despite his eyes staying fixed on mine. My arm was suddenly being pulled down by his now dead weight, threatening to wrest the sword from my grasp. Lifting one leg, I kicked the man hard in the chest, at the same time twisting the blade, which made a sucking sound as his flesh gave way to release it. Without waiting for the body to hit the floor, I moved quickly, but these were men trained for the arena, and their reflexes were nothing to be sneered at.

  In those fleeting moments that it took for me
to step farther into the back room, I sensed the relative positions of Prixus and his men, and I headed for the man nearest to me. In a perfect world, I would have preferred to go after Prixus first, but he was farthest away from me, standing over the body of the woman, who was lying on a set of crates. She was moving, but I could not see if he had actually cut her throat yet. My next target had catlike reflexes, taking a nimble hop backwards when I gave a hard thrust, my arm jarring when it extended and hit nothing but air. If I had been an inexperienced man, a missed thrust like that would likely be fatal, the natural reaction being to stumble forward a bit, but I had my feet solidly under me, which was a good thing. I do not know if it was the sudden movement of the air or just some extra sense that told me there was a threat to my right, where the third man had been standing, yet I twisted to the right just enough to avoid the thrust he aimed at me. I felt and heard the blade sliding across the front of my mail shirt, then before he could withdraw his blade, I reached over with my left hand, taking a guess where his wrist would be. It turned out I was wrong; instead of his wrist, I grabbed the blade next to the hilt. We both instantly realized my mistake and he gave a hard yank as my hand closed around the blade. I should have let go but I did not, choosing to tighten my grip with all of my strength. The pain was excruciating, the blade cutting deeply into my fingers, but I had taken a gamble and it was one that paid off. When a man sharpens his blade, very few spend much time working on the part of the blade next to the hilt, since it rarely if ever is actually used in combat, meaning that part of the gladiator’s blade was relatively dull. Also, when I had grabbed hold, I felt that it was not a Spanish sword, which is double-edged its entire length, but a Thracian curved sword, which only is double-edged from the tip to perhaps a foot down the blade. Finally, I once again counted on being stronger than the gladiator, so that as far as he was concerned, the blade might as well have been embedded in stone, it not moving an inch from my grip. He should have let go but he did not, a mistake for which he paid with his life as I ignored the pain to make a quick thrust that took him high in the chest, just under his collarbone. He let out a shriek, falling backwards off of my blade while I dropped his sword, which clattered to the floor.