by R. W. Peake
Confined to a world that measured the width of his Century, Volusenus quickly lost himself in the rhythm of fighting in the Roman manner, where the only thing that mattered was gauging the precise instant when his men needed relief. He was protected by the left flank of the First Century of the Third Cohort, enabling him to act as Centurion and not as a ranker, but now that his blade had gotten wet, Volusenus was finding it difficult to remain in his spot, slightly behind the front rank. Within the span of perhaps three hundred heartbeats, however, Volusenus noticed something he considered odd; after the initial onslaught, the Germans had not been particularly frenzied in their attack, which was decidedly unusual. It’s as if, he thought to himself, they’re more interested in keeping us in place rather than trying to inflict real damage. Naturally, for the men doing the actual fighting, this was not a distinction that they would have recognized; all they knew was that a stinking barbarian was trying to kill them, and they were trying to stop it from happening by ending their foe. However, after the span of another fifty heartbeats, Volusenus was convinced that the Germans were not nearly as intent on shattering the Roman lines as they were keeping them in place. Part of this feeling was certainly from what had occurred during their eastward advance when the small party of Marsi had used the gully for cover, but there was not anything within Volusenus’ range of vision that would serve the same purpose, yet he understood that just because he could not see anything, that did not mean it was not there.
Immediately after sounding the relief again and feeling that the situation with his Century was under control for the moment, Volusenus backed up a few paces to a spot behind his Century, looking in both directions in an attempt to get a sense of how the battle was going in terms of casualties, and whether there was a spot that might be hiding a surprise force. He was pleased to see that there was only one man lying on the ground behind his Century, and he was already being tended to by a medicus, although he could see that he was clutching his stomach with hands covered in his own blood, some of which had spattered onto the dirty, churned snow. Not seeing anything in the way of concealment that might be used by the enemy, Volusenus inwardly scoffed at the feeling, telling himself, you’re not experienced enough to rely on something like that, and he began making his way back to the front when his suspicions were in fact confirmed as, from behind him, back in the direction of what was the bottom of the quadratum, the sound of several cornu drifted across the distance, and while they were faint because of the distance and the noise of the fighting to the front, Volusenus could pick out the series of notes that signaled an attack by an enemy force. When the calls came, he had made it midway back to the front, but he stopped and spun around, staring intently towards the rear, even as he chided himself that not only was the distance to where the 20th was taking up the rear too great, the wagons, mules, and slaves of the baggage train obscured his view. He only paused a handful of heartbeats, then realizing that it was impossible to discern anything, either visually or through sound because of the noise of the fighting a few paces away, Volusenus returned to the front, just in time to see a man from the Fourth Section, now the front rank of the fighting, take a staggering step backward as he dropped his gladius to clutch at the wound in his thigh, although he managed to keep his shield up in front of him.
His opponent, eager to press his advantage, took a step into the space between the two lines in an attempt to close the distance to administer another blow with the heavy war spear that Volusenus saw was his primary weapon. Before the thought even entered his mind, he let out a bellow of rage that, while not done intentionally, caused the German warrior to hesitate just a fraction of a heartbeat as he took in the sight of the huge Roman charging at him, without a shield, with Volusenus’ gladius held at shoulder level and pulled back so the point was just in front of the Centurion’s face. Instantly determining that this was the more proximate threat, the German began to pivot to face Volusenus, his own shield in position for the thrust that he expected, one that never came, at least from the direction he expected. It was not that Volusenus did not start, or at least seem to start his thrust, the point of his blade shooting towards the German from an angle that was created by the Roman’s superior height, and it certainly fooled his foe, who brought his shield up higher than normal to block what turned out to be a feint. Consequently, he was completely unprepared for the blow from what, in his initial glance, the German had dismissed as nothing but a long stick in the Roman’s left hand, but as he quickly learned, when the end of that stick was thrust into one’s midsection with the kind of power that Volusenus was capable of creating, even a mail shirt was not enough protection to keep the breath from leaving his body in an explosive gasp. More importantly, in a completely understandable but fatal reflexive reaction, he began to double over, and although he recognized the mistake immediately by trying to lift his shield back into a position to protect his upper body, he was too late. With the speed of a striking viper, Volusenus’ blade plunged at a slightly downward angle, although he did err slightly with his aim, the flat of his blade skipping along the metal strip at the top of the German’s shield and deflecting upward slightly so that the point did not strike the man in the hollow created by his clavicle as Volusenus intended. Instead, his thrust hit the German directly in the jaw just below his ear, and the tremendous force generated by the Roman’s massive body and strength shattered the thick bone, the point continuing until it burst out the other side at roughly the same spot, immediately putting Volusenus into mortal peril. The sound the stricken German made as his mouth filled with blood, teeth, and bits of bone was barely audible over the other noise, but it was when the warrior reeled to his right in reaction to the thrust that Volusenus realized that he could not withdraw his blade, the sheer weight of the German toppling over forcing him to choose between holding onto his blade and being jerked forward, away from the relative safety of the other men of his Century, or surrendering his gladius.
Without any discernible hesitation, the Centurion chose the prudent course, but as he quickly learned, now that all he had to defend himself was his vitus, the warrior who had been immediately behind his vanquished foe did not hesitate. This man was armed with a spear as well, although his armor was a cuirass of boiled leather with iron rings attached to it, while the shield he held in front of him was round, with several chips and gouges. It was the spear that concerned Volusenus, the German thrusting it out in front of him as he leapt over his supine comrade, who was thrashing about and futilely clawing at the iron blade embedded in the side of his face. The hilt was tantalizingly close to Volusenus, but the Roman knew if he lunged for it, he would meet the spearpoint of the onrushing warrior, while his only defense was his vitus, which he held out in front of his body, trying to anticipate when the German would make a thrust in earnest; he did not have long to wait. However, when the blow came, it was from a completely unexpected direction, when from his right rear, something slammed into him with enough force that, despite his size, it sent him staggering to his left in a manner eerily similar to the German at his feet who had just stopped his thrashing, finally succumbing to the inevitable. Volusenus did not see as much as sense what took place next, partially because his view was obscured by what he determined was the back side of a shield, a Roman shield, and he was more concerned with keeping his balance, forced to drop his vitus to thrust his arm out to stop himself from completely losing his feet. It was his ears that proved more informative, hearing the hollow, cracking sound as the iron spear point struck the shield that he was only vaguely aware had been shoved in front of him. Stumbling another couple of steps, Volusenus managed to regain his balance just in time to watch as his savior, after absorbing the blow with his shield, responded with a thrust of his own, one that sent the second warrior recoiling backward and dropping his shield, howling with pain as blood spurted from his left bicep. But, before the Legionary, who Volusenus now recognized as a man from his Seventh Section, could press his advantage, the Centurion reache
d out, grabbed the back of his harness, and while he did not yank the man back, he kept him from advancing.
The ranker glanced over his shoulder, and snarled, “What do you think you’re doing, you stupid cunnus?”
Volusenus, rather than being angered, had to suppress a grin at the expression on the man’s face when he realized that he had just cursed his Centurion, and there was no censure in his tone as he had to shout to be heard, “Just keeping you from making the same mistake I was about to make, Tullus. That’s why you had to save my bacon. Now,” he altered his tone so that the ranker would recognize it was an order, “get back in your spot. I’m fine now.”
Sheepishly, Tullus moved backward, and Volusenus noted with approval that he still kept his shield up and his eyes on the enemy, and he heard Tullus mutter an apology as he passed.
“You just earned yourself a month of no duties, Tullus,” Volusenus commented to him as the ranker returned to his spot and grabbed the harness of the man ahead of him, and not surprisingly, this earned the Centurion a grin.
Returning his attention to the fighting, Volusenus saw that the man in the front rank of Tullus’ file was busy defending himself from a German whose idea of offense seemed to be confined to flailing wildly with a long gladius, which he brought down again and again on the Legionary’s shield, who was content to absorb the blows as he waited for his opportunity. For his part, Volusenus had been reduced to nothing more than his bone whistle as his only weapon; his discarded vitus was lying on the churned, muddy ground, and like his gladius, was just out of reach. Returning to his primary duty, he placed the whistle in his lips, watched as the man in Tullus’ file in the front rank, seeing his opportunity when his opponent was forced to pause for breath, launched a lightning-quick thrust that the German was unable to block cleanly with his shield, catching a slicing blow to his leg just above the kneecap and on the inside of his thigh. The sudden spray of brilliant scarlet signaled that the large vessel that every warrior knew about had been severed, and it caused the German to let out a shrill scream, any idea of combat instantly forgotten because of the simple imperative of trying to stay alive for a few heartbeats longer. Using this as his signal, Volusenus blew the signal for a shift relief, once more watching with approval as his men performed the maneuver with the efficiency of a machine, and Volusenus was suddenly struck by the thought, certainly not original, that this was exactly what his Century was, a machine that brought death and destruction to Rome’s enemies.
Once he was satisfied that the relief had been performed, he began backing away again, ostensibly to go to the rear to retrieve a gladius, but also to try and determine what was happening behind him and his Legion. Only later would he learn that he was far from alone in being concerned; every one of his fellow Centurions would recount at least one attempt by them to find out what was occurring with the 20th, and it served as another example of the concern that bordered on an obsession by rankers to know more about their overall situation than what lay immediately in front of them. He was unhappy to see that the lone ranker had now been joined by two other men, but their wounds appeared to be relatively minor, both of them sitting up and talking to the medici. Seeing that one of them had made it to the rear with his gladius, Volusenus was in the process of retrieving it when, starting from the left end of the line of engaged Centuries, there came a sudden roar of voices that cut through the other noise of the fighting. Before Volusenus could determine what it might mean, the call was picked up by the other Centuries, but it was when the men at the front of his own began shouting that gave him an indication of the cause. Snatching up the gladius, he moved at the trot back to the front of his Century in just enough time to see the remnants of the German force fleeing back into the grayish-white background of the underbrush, leaving behind what was later estimated to be more than half their original numbers. As he was reaching the front rank, he heard a cornu call from the direction of the First Cohort, and he was just in time to stop his men from breaking formation to go in pursuit.
“You heard the order!” he bellowed, and since he did not have his vitus, he was forced to use his borrowed gladius to point at the two men at the opposite end of the formation who had broken ranks, their blood up and clearly intending on pursuing the fleeing enemy. “Get back in the ranks, both of you, or by the gods, I’ll flog you myself!”
Even as the words left his mouth, Volusenus experienced a stab of uneasiness, the memory of the mutiny still fresh in his mind, but to his relief, neither of the men appeared angry or resentful, their heads hanging as they went trotting back to their spots. And, with that, the battle was over for the men of the 1st, except that now that it was comparatively quiet, the sounds of the fighting to their rear quickly occupied the attention of every man in the front line of the quadratum, and despite no order being given to that effect, every man in every Century turned about to stare east, back in the direction from which they had come, trying to determine what was happening.
Germanicus’ precautions had borne fruit, in the form of the utter defeat of the confederation of the three tribes who had essentially risked everything on one decisive battle. With almost laughingly light casualties overall, Germanicus’ army sent the Germans reeling back east, and even before the army returned to its camps, the confederation of Usipetes, Tubantes, and Bructeri tribes who had temporarily set aside their differences had disintegrated, with the usual recriminations and accusations between the three tribes that the long-dead Arverni chieftain Vercingetorix would have recognized. It was a resounding victory, but as Volusenus and his fellow Centurions witnessed firsthand, while this would have normally put the men in a celebratory mood, the reaction this time was much more muted.
It was not until they were returned to Ubiorum and the comfort of their winter quarters that Macer, during a meeting with his Centurions, touched on the likely cause for the dampened enthusiasm, pointing out, “They know that this was actually the beginning of the campaign against Arminius and not just the end of last year.”
Even if he had not agreed with his Pilus Prior’s assessment, Volusenus immediately saw the heads of his fellow Centurions nodding up and down, and the conversation followed from Macer’s comment, occupying most of the meeting before Macer dismissed them.
On their way back to their respective quarters, Pullus lingered for a moment, waiting for Volusenus, something that had become such a habit that nobody took notice anymore. As they walked back along the snow-covered street, the only sound for a few heartbeats was their crunching footsteps as they packed down the snow that had been steadily falling since earlier in the day.
Pullus broke the silence by asking, “Did you finally find a gladius that you like?”
Volusenus’ answer came in the form of a grimace, then, realizing that Pullus expected more, he said, “No, not yet. Every one of the ones that Serranus gave me doesn’t feel right.” Glancing over at the older Centurion, Volusenus asked, “So how many blades have you snapped after they got stuck?”
“Not many,” Pullus replied, but while this caused a flicker of pleasure in Volusenus at the idea that he might actually be stronger than the older Centurion, it lasted only as long as it took for Pullus to add, “but that’s because I’ve been carrying my grandfather’s gladius since my brother brought it with him when he moved back to Siscia. Before that?” He shrugged. “I can think of at least two. Although,” now he looked over at Volusenus and grinned, “it wasn’t because I tried to stab a man through the middle of his skull.”
“I told you that was an accident,” Volusenus protested, partly nettled but mostly amused, since this had been a running joke, not only between the two but with the other Centurions of the Fourth. “I didn’t aim for the bastard’s head, it just happened that way!”
“So you say,” Pullus teased, “but I think you just thought you were the only man strong enough to do it.”
“You’ve never done it,” Volusenus retorted, then realized his error almost immediately as Pullus countered, �
��And I’ve never snapped my blade trying to get it out of a man’s head either, because I knew better than to do it in the first place.”