by R. W. Peake
“You’re an idiot,” he shouted at me.
Ignoring him, I slid off Ocelus’ back to reach down and grab Claudius by the neck of his cuirass. He gave a moan, his eyes fluttering open, weakly trying to swat my hand off of him.
Looking up and trying to focus, he muttered, “What are you doing?”
“Saving your patrician ass,” I told him while dragging him to his feet, and reaching for the saddle. The Moesians now saw three men, one on a horse and the other two dismounted. With a shout, they began turning their horses to head for us.
“Titus, you better hurry,” Scribonius warned.
“I’m trying,” I snapped. Realizing that I had to let go of Claudius, I asked him, “Can you stand?”
Despite his obvious fear, he nodded. Leaping aboard Ocelus, I reached down, again grabbing Claudius by the neck of his cuirass. Using all of my strength, I lifted Claudius to place him across the front of my saddle, kicking Ocelus at the same time. Claudius gave a grunt of pain as the saddle punched him in the stomach, and I felt Ocelus gather himself before he leapt forward again.
“Come on,” I shouted to Scribonius, who needed no urging, turning his horse and going to the gallop immediately.
The Moesians were now within javelin range and I heard one whistle just behind my head, seeing several more slash through the air in front of me and to the side. Somehow, none of them struck Ocelus, while I managed to block two with my shield, where they stuck, making holding it awkward. Ocelus was laboring now, but we were almost to safety, Claudius still hanging head down, one hand clinging to my leg so tightly that it hurt. Suddenly, I heard a cry of pain. Turning, I saw Scribonius reeling in the saddle, and I veered closer to him to see how badly he was hurt. His face was white, his lips a bloodless line, yet he grimly held on to the reins, leaving me feeling completely helpless. I could not reach out to steady him without letting go of the reins, because my right hand was holding Claudius on the horse, but my friend looked dangerously close to falling. Looking across Scribonius, I saw a Moesian, this one armed with a spear, whipping his horse, desperately trying to get close enough to stab Scribonius, who was barely conscious. The Moesian had his spear parallel to the ground, heading at an oblique angle, the point aimed for a spot just above the rim of Scribonius’ shield, which he was barely holding up.
“Sextus, raise your shield!” I screamed at Scribonius at the top of my lungs, but he gave no sign that he heard me.
Seeing him start to topple from the saddle, in desperation I let go of the reins and, with the shield still strapped to me, reached out to grab Scribonius by the arm. Squeezing Ocelus with my thighs with every bit of strength I could muster, I watched helplessly as the Moesian closed the remaining distance to pull within striking distance of Scribonius. The thought flashed through my mind that it might have been better to let him fall, but I could not see where he was wounded, and it was just as likely that hitting the ground would have shoved the javelin in even further and killed him, if it was lodged in his upper body. There was nothing I could do; I literally had my hands full. As it was, I was barely clinging to the back of my horse, who was still running for all he was worth. Everything had slowed down and I could clearly see the Moesian’s grin of triumph as he pulled his arm back to drive the spear home into the body of my best friend. I was so focused on the man’s face that I did not see the javelin that hit him full in the chest, throwing him backward from the saddle. From my viewpoint, one moment he was there, then in less time than it takes to blink, he was gone. I turned my head back to the front just in time to see the Century of Legionaries that the Pilus Prior had sent in front of his main line scattering out of the way, men diving to either side as we thundered by. We had made it to safety.
Grabbing the bridle of Scribonius’ mount, I pulled both horses to a stop, unceremoniously dumping Claudius to the ground. Leaping off of Ocelus, I still kept hold of Scribonius, who was slumped over. The Pilus Prior of the Century now between us and the Moesians, thinking quickly, had his men form a modified testudo, keeping his men in the ranks, with the front line kneeling with their shields in front of them. The second rank stood, holding their shields in front of their kneeling comrades while the third did the same for the second and so on, protecting themselves and everyone immediately behind the Century. I could hear the clattering of Moesian javelins striking the shields of the Century, but I was paying more attention to helping Scribonius off the horse. He was unconscious, which I suppose was a blessing, yet it was scaring me immensely to feel the dead weight of his body as I dragged him from the saddle. Protruding from his side, low on his rib cage just a matter of less than a hand span away from his spine, was the shaft of a javelin. His side was soaked in blood. Laying him gently on the ground, I bent over, listening intently for any sound of life. My heart felt like it was about to stop, seizing in my chest when at first I could hear or see no sign that Scribonius was still alive before he took a shallow breath and I saw his chest rise and fall. Relief washed through me, but it was short-lived as I tried to think what needed to be done. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, so I knew that the chances of him bleeding to death were slight, as long as the javelin remained where it was. But what kind of damage was it doing to his insides? I wondered. I was in an agony of indecision, kneeling by my friend’s side, oblivious to the sounds of the fighting that were beginning to wear down because our men had gotten organized and started inflicting casualties on the Moesians. Scribonius’ face was deathly pale, his eyes closed, mouth open in his struggle to breathe. On impulse, I took off my neckerchief to use as a bandage, reaching for the shaft of the javelin to yank it free.
“Don’t do that! You’ll kill him!” I heard a voice shout and turned to see Crassus striding up, leading his horse.
“He can’t breathe,” I told him, hearing the desperation I was feeling in my voice. “I’m afraid that the javelin is doing something to his lungs. I need to get it out of there.”
Crassus knelt next to me, putting a hand on my shoulder.
“If you do that, he’ll bleed to death, and you'll probably rip something loose inside him,” he said gently.
“Where’s Philipos?” I asked him.
I had not seen the Greek once in all the confusion. Crassus shook his head before rising to look about, searching for sign of the physician.
“I haven’t seen him, and I don’t see him now.”
“General, will you go find him?” I made no attempt to hide the fact that I was begging him, and for once, I was not even ashamed that I was doing so.
Crassus hesitated and I could see that he was trying to find a way to refuse me gracefully. I realized that I was asking a great deal of my commanding general, especially at that moment, but I did not care. I was being selfish, because Crassus needed to be the commanding general at that moment, rallying the men and getting things organized, except in that moment I convinced myself that after all I had given the army, and to Crassus in particular by ridding him of Prixus, that he owed me and I was about to remind him of that when I was saved, from the most unlikely source imaginable.
“I’ll go find Philipos.”
Crassus and I turned in surprise to see Tribune Claudius, standing upright. Weaving a bit, but upright. The look of terror was gone, replaced by a look that I had never seen on his face before, something resolute, if a bit embarrassed. Seeing our faces, he flushed but did not flinch.
“It’s the least I can do for the Prefect. He saved my life.”
I stood and walked to Ocelus, thrusting the reins towards Claudius. Claudius took them hesitantly, Ocelus clearly not liking the idea of a strange man riding him. Grabbing the bridle, I pulled his head down so we were eye to eye.
“You will let him ride you, do you hear me?”
He tossed his head in answer, though I had no idea if he was listening. However, I tried to seem confident when I boosted Claudius into the saddle. Ocelus arched his back, which was a sign that he was going to buck, then immediately settled down. Without
wasting another moment, Claudius turned and Ocelus bounded away, back toward the bulk of the army. The Moesian attack was breaking off, yet there were still clusters of them gathering together after they had finished off one of the Evocati, or the odd Legionary that had gotten cut off. Claudius had to navigate past these hazards, and I alternated between watching him and keeping an eye on Scribonius. Crassus stood there awkwardly for a moment, then cleared his throat.
“Pullus, I have to go get this mess organized. If I see Philipos before Claudius, I'll send him immediately.”
I did not answer, only nodding my head and keeping my eyes on Scribonius, who despite my fears, continued to breathe. I sensed Crassus leaving, hearing him start his horse in the direction that Claudius had gone. There were men lying all over the field, some moving but many not and I scanned the area, looking for Balbus, but saw no sign of him. The attack had been devastating, perhaps not in the total number of casualties, however, in one stroke the Moesians had disrupted the army and judging from what I saw it would take at least two days to recover from the damage done. Scribonius let out a low moan, and I squeezed his hand to let him know that I was there. Only now, years later, can I admit how frightened I was, in some ways more scared than when I had maintained my vigil over Miriam. Scribonius had been part of my life since I was 16 years old, and I am not ashamed to say that I loved him as much as any person in my life, thinking of him like a brother and comrade in arms. I could not imagine he, or Balbus, for that matter, not being part of my life. These were my thoughts while I waited helplessly for help to come, oblivious to everything going on around me.
Hearing the pounding of hooves, I looked up to see Claudius returning, and my heart sank before he pulled aside. I saw immediately behind him Philipos, bouncing in the saddle, clearly unaccustomed to the fast pace of his horse. Climbing down from his mount, he walked stiffly over, but I was not concerned with his discomfort.
“He needs help,” was all I could think to say.
“I can see that, Prefect,” Philipos replied, kneeling down and putting his head to Scribonius’ chest to listen carefully.
After a moment, he took my friend’s wrist, feeling for his pulse before gently laying it down. His face was grim as he looked up at me.
“His breathing is ragged, but there is no blood in his lungs. His pulse is very weak, but it is surprisingly steady.” He stood, reaching out to grip me by the shoulder. “We have to remove the javelin, but I must warn you, that doing so must be done very, very carefully to avoid inflicting any more damage.” He hesitated, and I braced myself for what was coming. “But no matter how carefully we do it, it still may kill him.”
“We don’t have any choice though, do we?”
In reply, he only shook his head. I took a deep breath.
“What do you need me to do?”
“I am going to withdraw it by grasping it where it entered his body. I need you to hold the end, but it is very important that you follow the direction in which I pull it out. You cannot move the shaft in any direction, it must be drawn straight out,” he finished, his tone urgent. “Do you understand?”
I swallowed hard, but nodded that I understood. We squatted down; I positioned myself so I could grasp the end of the javelin while Philipos took hold of the shaft right where it disappeared into Scribonius’ body. Looking at me to see if I was ready, the Greek took a deep breath, nodded his head, then began to pull on the shaft. I could feel it vibrating when Scribonius spasmed in pain, emitting a groan, his eyes opening briefly, looking straight up at the sky. With one smooth motion, Philipos pulled the javelin free, releasing a gout of blood from Scribonius’ side, the point of the javelin red and slick with gore. Tossing it aside, Philipos did not do anything for a moment, watching the blood pouring from Scribonius’ wound while I looked on in growing alarm. Finally, I could take it no longer.
“What are you doing?” I shouted at Philipos. “Do you want him to bleed to death?”
Philipos made no reply, just holding a hand up while continuing to stare at the wound, and I was about to throw him aside when I saw the flood slow to a trickle. Only then did Philipos take my neckerchief, placing it on the wound. Taking a roll of narrow linen from the bag around his shoulder, he motioned to me.
“Hold this tightly against his side. Even if he moans in pain, you must keep the pressure on the wound.”
Nodding that I understood, I used my other hand to help Philipos raise Scribonius gently off the ground into a semi-seated position, while Philipos wrapped the roll of linen bandage around his body several times. While he was doing so, I asked him why he had let Scribonius continue to bleed.
“The blood had filled his chest cavity and was pressing on his lungs, making it difficult for him to breathe,” he explained. “I had to allow the blood to drain to give his lungs enough space to do their job.”
I looked down at Scribonius’ face, still deathly pale, but I could see that he was clearly breathing easier. Seeing that the physician had obviously been right, I apologized to him for my harsh words, which he shrugged off.
“Don’t thank me yet.” He turned to look me directly in the eye. “Your friend has been very seriously wounded. His lungs were not punctured, though I don’t know how the javelin missed, but I do not know what other damage has been done to his insides. It’s amazing that he is still alive, which is a good sign, but he has a long way to go. I’ve done all I can for him right now. I am going to send orderlies to attend to him, but he can’t be moved very far or he will certainly die.”
With that, he left to go attend to other men of the command group and Evocati, while I watched him leave, still clutching Scribonius’ hand. I sensed movement out of the corner of my eye, and I looked to see that Claudius was still standing there, clearly unsure of what to do.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “You didn’t have to put yourself at risk to save him, but you did, and I'll never forget it.”
He looked embarrassed, but I could tell my thanks pleased him.
“I must thank you as well,” he replied formally, still a little stiff. “I may or may not have helped to save your friend, but you undoubtedly saved my life. I am in your debt.”
“I'd never let one of these bastards kill another Roman as long as I could stop it,” I told him, thinking to add, “no matter what our differences.”
He gave me a brief nod, then began to look around at the shambles that was just beginning to be cleared up.
“Tribune, I'm sure that Crassus needs all of the help he can get clearing this mess up,” I told Claudius gently.
I did not want to rupture the fragile peace between us, yet I knew that what I was saying was true. He did not seem to take offense, which pleasantly surprised me, but also seemed at a loss as he looked around.
“You’re right, Prefect. But I’m not sure what to do, and besides, I don’t have a horse.” He gave me a smile then. “Unless, of course, you want to lend me your animal.”
“No, I'm going to need him.” I smiled back. “But you can take Scribonius’ horse.”
I stood and walked over to where Scribonius’ mount was standing next to Ocelus, leading him to the Tribune and handed him the reins. I gave him a boost into the saddle, then he turned to follow in the direction Crassus had gone.
Before he did, he said softly, “I hope your friend survives, Prefect. He seems like a good man.”
“He is,” I said firmly, “and he will. Because I won’t let him die.”
Fortunately, Crassus made the decision to make camp where we were on the banks of the river. It was not an ideal location, yet the surprise attack by the Moesians had inflicted enough damage that time was needed to sort things out. As Philipos had promised, two medici arrived and, with my help, gently placed Scribonius on a litter, carrying him to the spot on which the hospital tent was to be erected, where he was laid next to the dozens of seriously wounded. Seeing that there was nothing else I could do for the moment, I extracted a promise from one of the medici that
he would not leave Scribonius’ side, then went looking for Balbus and the rest of the Evocati. I saw immediately that the brunt of the losses were in fact borne by the Evocati, command staff and the leading Cohort of the second Legion in the column that day, the 15th. Particularly hard hit had been the noncombatant clerks that marched on foot with the command group, their bodies having already been heaped in a pile. The contingent of cavalry that marched drag had come up and along with the 14th had posted themselves as security, the Cohorts arranged facing the strip of woods. However, there was no sign of the Moesians, save their dead and wounded, and there were precious few of those. I found Novatus, dead on the field, a gaping wound in his side, his eyes staring up at the sun but not seeing it, and I was beginning to think that would be how I found Balbus. I reflected on how horrible a day it would be if I lost both of my closest friends, all because of what was little better than a raid. Walking Ocelus, I took an inventory of the losses to the Evocati; there were 21 men dead on the field, but no Balbus. Hearing a shout from the direction of one of the Cohorts guarding the site, I turned to see a group of horsemen emerge from the woods, coming out of the ravine that bisected the ridge.