by R. W. Peake
Just as Gaesorix’s men had said, there was a wall, but even from a distance, Volusenus could see that it would come up to just about the middle of his stomach, although that meant it would be at armpit level for most of his men. It certainly was not something that could be hopped over, but neither would it require the use of ladders. Which, he thought with a touch of amusement, is a good thing since we left them behind. Despite the wall’s primary purpose not being defensive in nature, there were three small towers within Volusenus’ view, although because the town followed the river, part of the wall curved away out of his sight to his left. He could see there were men in each of them; more importantly, only one of them seemed to even be facing in this direction, while another of them was just barely visible because he was either crouched or sitting down on the small platform, the logs that created a crude parapet shielding him from view. The third man was facing inwards, towards the town, and over the distance, he heard a thin shout, but despite not being able to make out the words, just by the tone, Volusenus was certain that this man was not raising the alarm.
“Come on,” he did not realize he was muttering this aloud, “what are you waiting for?”
This prompted Macerinus to clear his throat, loudly enough that Volusenus was aware that it was not random, but rather than acknowledge his Signifer, he just gave an abrupt nod as he kept his attention on Germanicus. He did turn to check to make sure that all of his men had lifted their shields off the ground, and they were clutching their first javelin in their right hands, but it was in the intensity of their collective gaze, like Volusenus, focused exclusively on Germanicus, that told him they were ready. Finally, Germanicus raised his gladius, held it aloft for an instant, except this time when he dropped his arm, it was not done slowly, the blade moving quickly enough that it was a grayish blur. Instantly, every Cornicen blew the same long, single note, which was immediately drowned out by the roar of thousands of men as, at last, Germanicus unleashed his Legions on the Chatti.
Bursting out into the open, Volusenus’ first concern was to make sure that he stayed ahead of his men, which was proving to be more challenging than he would have thought, especially since he was not encumbered with a shield. Nevertheless, he managed to do so, barely, but as worried as he was about his own Century, he was almost equally concerned with being ahead of his fellow Centurions, one in particular. This was certainly not uncommon; Centurions of Rome’s Legions were ferociously competitive, but for Volusenus, there was more to it than just being first among his peers. The footing was precarious because of the furrowed rows that had just recently been plowed, making it difficult for Volusenus and the rest of the charging Romans to devote their attention on the reaction of the townspeople. Above the roaring of the thousands of men now at almost a dead run as they closed the last hundred paces to the wall, Volusenus heard a high, undulating note that sounded something like the bucina, but coming from within the town. The tower nearest to Volusenus had been occupied by the barely visible Chatti, who was now standing upright, and Volusenus was close enough to see the man’s mouth hanging open in shock, although he had hefted a spear, holding it on his shoulder as if he was trying to decide whether to hurl it, or more likely, at whom he would do so. This was all the time Volusenus had to worry about it, because he sensed, just above the top of the wall, a rush of movement that was going in seemingly every direction, which he identified as the upper part of villagers’ bodies. It was only once they were fifty paces away that Volusenus could hear something other than his own men shouting because of the shrieking sound of the wind rushing into the space between the earflaps of his helmet and his head. Again, he could not make out any words, although he instantly determined that most of the noise was coming from women and children because of the shriller pitch as all of them screamed in terror. Suddenly, another element was added in this torrent of noise, the sound of cornu, starting far to the right but instantly picked up by each Cohort’s Cornicen.
“Century!” He somehow managed to bellow the command, despite being quite winded himself. “Quick march!”
Only under these circumstances would Volusenus, or any of the men wearing the transverse crest or Optio stripe, have tolerated the raggedness as the men slowed from their headlong gallop across the open ground. He did feel somewhat better when he glanced towards the Cohort standard and saw essentially the same thing afflicting not only the Fourth, but the rest of the Legion. As uneven as it may have been, the line was now slowed to the steadier marching pace, which Volusenus was certain had been ordered to enable the men to catch their breath and to ready themselves for what came next while, as if from a command he could not hear, what looked like thin black lines suddenly came arcing from behind the wall, soaring upward, the morning mist partially obscuring their flight.
“Shields up!”
Volusenus’ command was shouted at almost the exact same instant as the other Centurions who saw the volley heading for them, yet even in the instant he had, Volusenus saw that it was only a handful of missiles. They had been loosed blindly, and all of them were sailing well over the first line of Centuries.
“All right, boys, who’s going to beat me to the wall?”
Volusenus gave himself a head start by waiting to shout this until after he had already broken into a run again, but his challenge was met, at least verbally, most of his men roaring back their answer as they resumed their own dash. To Volusenus’ direct front and extending to roughly the end of his Century, he saw about ten men arrayed along the wall, none of them fully armored, mostly young, beardless youths, and all of them clearly scared witless. He had no time to determine if it was the case, but he sensed that this scattering of defenders was about the same along the rest of the wall, though it did not matter to him in this moment. Altering his course slightly, with only his vitus in his left hand, Volusenus aimed for the largest of these Chatti, armed with a spear and a boiled leather jerkin that, in an odd little moment of clarity, he noticed had not been laced tight under the man’s left armpit. Calling him a man was charitable; what Volusenus noticed, in the amount of time it took him to cross the last five paces of space, was an essentially beardless youth with a shock of bright red hair, helmetless but holding a round shield and a spear that, while thrust out in front of him, was visibly shaking. Behaving as if he had no intention of slowing down, Volusenus waited until the very last instant he could do so before running himself onto the point of the Chatti’s spear to slide to a stop, although for a horrible eyeblink, he thought he might have erred because his feet slid farther than he expected. Thankfully, when the youth, with his eyes almost completely shut, made a wild thrust with the spear, just above the top of the low wall, the point came about an inch short of Volusenus’ mailed chest. Acting impulsively, the Roman dropped his vitus, which he had intended to thrust into the Chatti’s face to force him to move his shield, grabbing the German’s spear just behind the point instead, except rather than pulling, he gave a vicious shove, using his considerable weight and the strength that came with it. Just as he hoped, this sent the young Chatti reeling backward, staggering several steps away from the wall, thereby allowing Volusenus to use his height advantage by swinging his lower body up and over the wall. Knowing it was dangerous to do so, he still risked taking a quick glance in either direction, and despite all that was going on, he felt a grin split his face at seeing he was the first man on this side of the wall, at least within view. He heard but paid no attention to the sound of the thudding impact from his men as they came rushing to the wall and slamming into it, keeping his eyes on the redheaded youth who, while he did not know it, had been given a reprieve. Scrambling to his feet, the youth looked at the large Roman holding his gladius, then glanced down at the discarded spear, lying in the mud, just a tantalizing arm’s reach away. Looking back at Volusenus, whatever he saw in the Roman’s face was enough to convince him to a course of action that meant he did not even attempt to reach for his weapon, instead turning and fleeing to the nearest line of huts,
which was about twenty paces away.
This Chatti was not the only fortunate one, because Volusenus gave him barely a glance, offering him the chance to spot one of the other men come rushing at him from his position farther down the wall. Once again, it seemed to Volusenus that either this Chatti was moving slower or he was moving more quickly than normal, because in what felt to him like a leisurely fashion, he pivoted while bringing his gladius up with perfect timing to knock aside this man’s thrust, also from a spear, while his opponent’s momentum did the rest of the work as he essentially ran himself onto the point of Volusenus’ gladius. The Chatti’s momentum was enough that, between that and his body weight, Volusenus felt his back foot slide, but in the eyeblink of time where they were standing face to face, the Roman saw the look of shock on what he recognized was another youngster’s face, followed an instant later by a low-pitched, gurgling sound, just before Volusenus essentially guided the dying Chatti to the side and past him. He did not twist the blade as he normally did, which surprised him, allowing the body to slide off the blade and land, face down, in the mud. By this time, he saw that most of his First Section had already gotten over the wall, leaving a half-dozen bodies at their feet; more importantly, he saw that there was no more resistance awaiting them. Indeed, when he looked in both directions, he saw that the Romans were in possession of the wall, while the terrified inhabitants seemed intent on fleeing deeper into the town. Now that his area was secured, Volusenus moved down the wall, heading for where he saw the Fourth Cohort standard, although he did not see Pullus immediately. Reaching Structus, the Hastatus Prior fell in with Volusenus, exchanging a terse account of what they had faced, and they were quickly joined by the other Centurions, but when they arrived where Gemellus, the new Signifer of the Fourth who Pullus had brought with him from the Third, was standing, he informed them that Sacrovir had sent a runner to summon the Pili Priores.
“So we’re supposed to just stand here and let these cunni get organized?” Vespillo complained.
Despite his antipathy towards Vespillo, Volusenus actually agreed, and he saw the other Centurions shared this sentiment, noticing as well that they each made sure to face the buildings, although all Volusenus saw were the backs of fleeing tribespeople. The question was how long this would last; fortunately, Pullus quickly reappeared, moving at a jog past the men of the Third Cohort, who were to their right.
Even before he reached them, Volusenus saw the grim set to Pullus’ expression, while the Pilus Prior wasted no time relaying his instructions, and more importantly, who issued them, announcing, “Germanicus has given us our orders.” He paused, and Volusenus understood why when he resumed, “We’re to put everyone to the gladius.”
The shocked silence only lasted a heartbeat, though it seemed longer and Volusenus surprised himself by being the one to ask, “Everyone, Pilus Prior? Even…?”
“Everyone,” Pullus confirmed, then his voice dropped a fraction as he finished Volusenus’ unasked question. “Even the children.”
What ensued at Mattium would be a feature of Volusenus’ nightmares, both waking and asleep, for some time to come, but like every other man present, he obeyed the orders of his Legate. Oddly, at least from his perspective, what unsettled Volusenus was not the sights of the slaughter of the Chatti of Mattium but the sounds; the shrill screams of terrified children were bad enough, but it was the hysterical crying and pleading of women who were mothers, older sisters, or just neighbors of the slaughtered that would come back to him later. The only consolation he could offer to himself was that he was never in a position where he had to draw his gladius and use it on terrified civilians, nor did many of his men. However, along with the remorse he felt, there was a healthy streak of anger, which he quickly learned was shared by both his fellow Centurions and the rankers, not at Germanicus for issuing the order, but at the Chatti. Specifically, the men of the Chatti who, in his view, did not deserve to be called as such, because once it became apparent that the Roman attack was punitive in nature, rather than stand and fight, these men, who were fathers, sons, husbands, and brothers instead chose to flee to the opposite side of the town, throw themselves into the Adrana, then swim across to safety. What was especially galling was the fact that they were able to do this simply because the Legions were so occupied in cutting down noncombatants, and in Volusenus’ opinion, Germanicus had been too slow in recognizing that this was the case. When the order finally came, it was too late; even as Volusenus led his Century at a run down the muddy street that led to the riverbank, the last few Chatti warriors were wading into the water, some of them pushing floating bundles ahead of them, although it ultimately contributed to their demise because it slowed them down.
Despite the fact that the bulk of the Chatti fighting force escaped, it was not without loss, and in the process, Volusenus and the other men got their first glimpse of a new weapon, of which they had heard rumors but had yet to see. As they would learn, it was called the manuballista, which as its name implied, was a handheld weapon that, at least to Volusenus’ eye, was essentially like a scorpion, firing an iron-tipped wooden bolt, albeit smaller than that used by the weapon so favored by Divus Julius. Reaching the riverbank at roughly the same time as the other Centuries who responded to the altered orders from Germanicus, the only weapon Volusenus and his Century had were their jeers, since the opposite riverbank was out of javelin range. When the last of the surviving Chatti emerged from the water, some of them turned to bellow a response, shaking their fists in helpless rage; since none of the men of the Fourth Cohort were in the vicinity of the new weapons, they were only able to see the result when the half-dozen artillery Immunes who had been trained with this new weapon finally arrived along the riverbank, farther down from the Fourth. From Volusenus’ perspective, he only had the barest sense of something streaking from his right, coming from the vicinity of the First Cohort, but his eyes just happened to be fixed on the Chatti who had the ignominious distinction of being the first man slain by this new weapon. Only after more exposure to the weapon would Volusenus and his comrades determine that this first casualty was more a matter of luck than skill, the bolt that he had scarcely glimpsed streaking across the river that struck the Chatti right under his breastbone, barely slowing as it passed through his body and continued on, its path now marked by a trail of blood and matter. Making it more memorable was the manner in which the stricken Chatti flew backward from the impact, landing heavily on his back, where he made a feeble wave of one arm before expiring, yet despite the unexpected nature of this surprise, it instantly elicited a roar of ruthless delight from the Romans arrayed on the opposite bank.
Within a heartbeat, five more missiles had flown across the river, and although four of them missed their targets in the handful of Chatti across the river who were the stragglers, the final one struck a warrior in the back, after he had turned to flee now that he realized that the Romans were not as impotent as he and his comrades had assumed. And, like his deceased comrade, the bolt passed through the man’s body, but the difference was that the iron tip struck him directly in the spine, dropping him instantly, without even a flicker of movement after the man hit the dirt. Then, the Chatti men were gone into the thick forest that was perhaps a hundred paces from the opposite riverbank, and it was with a real reluctance that Volusenus spun about to return to the grim business that had been interrupted. He was still in the process of getting his Century organized and turned back around; he told himself that he was not delaying the inevitable, although he was aware that he was lying to himself, when Pullus shouted his name. To his chagrin, he realized he had been so absorbed in his own thoughts, he had obviously not heard the summons the first time, the other Centurions already standing with their Pilus Prior, and Volusenus quickly trotted over with a certain amount of trepidation.
“Glad you could join us,” Pullus said sourly, but that was all he devoted to chastising Volusenus. “The Legate has changed his mind about the women and children. We’re going to
round the rest of them up and he’ll decide what to do with them later.”
Volusenus did his best to hide his relief, although he was slightly heartened to see that Structus, Cornutus, and even Pullus seemed relieved, then Vespillo chose another moment to interject, “Maybe if he hadn’t told us to kill their whores and brats in the first place, we wouldn’t have to worry about what their menfolk are going to do about it now that they’ve gotten away.”