by R. W. Peake
Before Pullus could say anything, the ranker he recognized as the section Sergeant called out, “Oy! You bastards need to surrender! Now!” He pointed with his gladius, gesturing in a downward motion that the Germans should drop their weapons, which, as Pullus knew it would, got no more response than the four glancing at each other and muttering under their breath. This clearly angered the Sergeant, who bellowed, “You think we’re playing, you barbarian cunni? Drop your weapons!”
“Maybe they don’t understand you,” the man next to the Sergeant murmured, but he was immediately proven wrong when the largest Cherusci, carrying an axe and shield, though wearing only the helmet he had presumably managed to snatch up in terms of armor, separated himself from his three comrades.
Pointing his axe, he called out in heavily accented but understandable Latin, “If you want our weapons, you dog, you come and take them, and I will spill your guts on the ground in front of you!”
Later, it was agreed by the men who saw it that this had to have been what caused the Pilus Prior to behave as he did, because seemingly out of nowhere, and with a deep-throated, unintelligible growl, Pullus shoved his way past two of the men, although as he did, he reached over and snatched the shield from the man to his left, barely slowing as he did so. Then he was striding across the ground until he was no more than a dozen paces away from the large Cherusci before coming to a stop.
“Here I am, you cunnus.” Pullus just got this out of his mouth when, with a howl, the huge Cherusci came charging at the Roman, his axe held high above his head.
Pullus’ response seemed almost casual and without any real haste, as he waited until the Cherusci was perhaps five paces away before he took a single step forward while raising his shield. As he did so, it was made apparent that he expertly calculated the correct angle that the axe would strike the shield, tilting it just enough that, while it struck with a thunderous crash in a clearly powerful blow, the force of the impact was spread evenly across the shield so that, while the edge sliced through the layers of wood, the rankers who were now nothing more than an audience behind him saw that less than a half-inch of it protruded through the back of the upraised shield. However, the Cherusci was no novice, and with his own move that bespoke of many watches of practice and only the gods knew how many battles, he yanked the axe free while making a hopping step backward, anticipating Pullus’ counterattack; except, it never came, the large Roman seemingly content to stand pat and keep his blade held low and parallel to the ground.
The Cherusci, who had a black beard that hung to mid-chest and was plaited, with what were supposedly the knuckle bones of slain enemies woven into it, gave Pullus a savage grin, taunting, “You may be big, Roman, but you’re weak!”
“That’s not what your woman just told me,” Pullus shot back, then taking a gamble, he added with a grin of his own, “but I’ll tell you this. After I fucked her, I slit her throat because she was a poxed whore.”
He was rewarded by a sudden widening of the man’s eyes and a bellow of pure rage as the Cherusci renewed his attack, except this time, he came from a different angle, unknowingly exploiting the one weakness of Titus Pullus. Instead of another overhead blow, this time, the warrior swung his axe from a three-quarters angle so that the attack came from Pullus’ left side. The counter to this was simple; rotate the wrist outward so that, as with an overhead attack, the force from the impact was spread evenly, except that when Pullus tried to do this now, the effects of the horrible wound he received in his second year under the standard prevented him from doing so to the necessary degree. Consequently, when the axe struck, it did so in such a way that the curved lower edge of it penetrated all the way through the layers of wood, effectively hooking the shield, which the Cherusci instantly sensed, yanking his axe back towards him. It was a common enough maneuver, and under other circumstances, a man who was strong enough in his own right could have probably maintained his grip on his shield; this was one of Pullus’ very few weaknesses, and he felt it being jerked from his grasp but was unable to stop it. As the shield went flying out of his hand, the Cherusci, in another demonstration of expertise, flicked his own wrist in such a manner that he dislodged his axe from the shield, which went flying several feet off to the side.
Giving Pullus a sneering grin that held nothing but a promise of pain and death, the Cherusci raised his axe back to the three-quarters position in preparation to rush at Pullus, who was now reduced to nothing but his gladius as his only means of defense. In such a circumstance, the prudent man would have immediately tried to open space up between himself and his attacker, giving himself the opportunity to maneuver, but of all the things that could be said about Titus Porcinianus Pullus, that he was a prudent man was not one of them, so that, instead of backing away, he immediately rushed directly at the Cherusci. Who, despite being caught by surprise, still swung his axe with an admirable speed, the reflexes of a trained and talented warrior enabling him to react more quickly to this unexpected move than most men; nevertheless, it was not fast enough, as he would quickly learn. While they were roughly the same size, the Cherusci being a bit taller, he was not the only big man who could move quickly, which he discovered when, with a feral snarl, Pullus slammed bodily into the Cherusci, seemingly impervious to the force of the blow from the shaft of the Cherusci’s axe that went slamming into his side, just under his outstretched left arm. From the perspective of the Romans watching, what they saw were the bottoms of the German warrior’s and Pullus’ feet as they flew up off the ground, with Pullus launching himself into the man’s body and driving it into the dirt with a thudding collision that, when they discussed it later, every ranker swore they could feel vibrate up through their own caligae. The impact with the ground was such that it drove the air from the German’s lungs with a great whooshing sound that was audible several paces away, but rather than trying to bring his gladius around to drive the point into his foe’s body, Pullus instead reversed the orientation and brought his right arm down, leading with the spiked pommel and aiming for his enemy’s face.
Even if the Cherusci had managed to maintain control of his shield when he hit the ground with Pullus on top of him, it was too bulky to use when the range was so close that their faces were just a matter of a couple feet apart, so he brought his left arm up, blocking the first of Pullus’ blows, as well as the second, then the third, but not even a man the size of the Cherusci could withstand the mindless fury of the Roman, who continued snarling unintelligibly as he brought hammer blow after hammer blow down. Slowly but inexorably, the Cherusci’s arm was driven down towards his face, and feeling his strength failing, the warrior attempted one last, desperate move. While the two combatants were locked in their own private struggle, the section of Legionaries had rushed forward into a position where, if any of the other three Cherusci tried to intervene, they would be confronted and cut down by at least two Romans, but they seemed content to watch as their Cherusci comrade suddenly shifted his hold on the axe, which, unlike with his shield, he had managed to maintain control of when he hit the ground, sliding his hand up from near the end of the shaft to just below the head. Before any of the Legionaries could shout a warning, the pinned Cherusci whipped the axe up in an attempt to drive the spike that topped it into Pullus’ temple, a move that Pullus sensed out of the corner of his vision, and without even turning his head, caught the Cherusci’s wrist with his left hand, stopping the attack cold and several inches away from Pullus’ head.
“Draxo tried that, you cunnus,” Pullus snarled, his words barely understandable as he felt the extra strength surging through him that was a direct result of what he had come to think of as the divine madness that, along with his immense size and strength, had been passed to him by his Avus, “and it didn’t work then either!”
While Pullus’ left arm had been weakened by his wound that limited his range of motion, he had worked diligently to restore as much strength as possible, especially in his hand, which the Cherusci learned as he tried to
yank his wrist free and it remained trapped in a grip that by itself was extraordinarily painful for the German. Even as the enemy warrior was doing so, with his left arm, he was trying to essentially do the same thing as Pullus, snatching at Pullus’ arm in an attempt to catch it as the Roman continued to rain down blows with the pommel of his gladius, but despite actually managing to grab his foe’s wrist twice, both times, Pullus yanked out of his grasp with ease. Finally, there was a dull, sodden snapping sound as a bone in the Cherusci’s arm broke, and the ferocious growling that had been accompanying Pullus’ own changed to a shriek of pain. It was over within a matter of heartbeats after that, as Pullus brought the protruding piece of iron on the pommel of his gladius down to finally strike his enemy’s face, the first blow shattering the man’s cheekbone. Writhing with a desperate strength and heaving his body with all his might, the Cherusci was still unable to dislodge Pullus’ bulk as the Roman, his face contorted with the kind of mindless rage that had even the watching Cherusci warriors making their own signs or muttering a charm to their gods against evil, brought the gladius down, again, and again. It was probably around the fourth or fifth time Pullus struck that the gurgling, wheezing gasps from his foe stopped, yet he still did not stop, not until all that was left was a mess of blood, bone, and brains that could never have been recognized as human if it had not still been attached to the rest of the warrior’s body.
Finally, one of the Legionaries nudged his Sergeant, but while the section leader glared at the other man, he did call out, tentatively, “Pilus Prior, I think he’s dead.”
Pullus, still snarling despite his heavy breathing, did not react immediately, bringing his arm down one last time, his gasps partially drowning out the wet, smacking crunch before he finally sat up, straddling the newly made corpse, his hand, arm, and face completely covered in blood and gore.
“P-Pilus Prior? Did you hear me?” the Sergeant asked, and now Pullus did respond, turning his head to regard the ranker dully, without showing a flicker of recognition.
Even for a hardened veteran, the sight of the huge Centurion, his face almost obscured by blood and gobbets of flesh, caused him to go pale, while what the Sergeant was certain was half of what had once been the face and head of a Cherusci warrior clung to the Centurion’s chainmail, and his stomach suddenly began roiling. Pullus, slowly returning to a state of awareness, first noticed that the three Cherusci warriors were on their knees, their hands laced on their heads, while their weapons and shields were on the ground in front of them, and he frowned as he tried to recall if their surrender had occurred before or after he had launched himself at the Cherusci. Shaking his head as he realized it did not matter, he climbed slowly to his feet, experiencing the sudden onrush of an almost paralyzing fatigue that always seemed to follow these moments, and he had to be careful to lift one leg over the corpse, not wanting to stumble and fall into the gore that, while he knew he was responsible for, at that moment was still nothing but a blurry memory. As he had learned, things would come back to him in bits and pieces, suddenly remembered scraps that were so vivid that, if they happened while he was asleep, would always jerk him awake with a pounding heart. Shaking off the malaise, Pullus recalled that he had actually been on his way to where the First Cohort and Germanicus were waiting, presumably having secured Segestes and his family. With that in mind, he turned back in that direction, but before he got more than a few paces away, the Sergeant called out to him.
“What do you want us to do with these prisoners, Pilus Prior?”
Pullus considered for only a heartbeat, then shrugged and said indifferently, “If you don’t want to keep an eye on them, kill them.”
He heard but chose to ignore the muttered curses from the men who would be the ones to carry out this order, although Pullus was unconcerned; the gods knew that he had done similar things over the years. As he made his way around the tents and shelters, he barely noticed the presence of other men, aside from recognizing that they were Roman and not more Cherusci, and they were occupying themselves in ransacking the tents; he was more conscious of the feeling of the blood and gore that covered his face and right arm congealing, creating a tightening, clammy sensation on his skin that was decidedly unpleasant, yet he could not seem to summon the interest to do anything about it.
“Pullus! Pullus!”
Turning, he saw Macer raising a hand as he came at a trot, but then his friend disappeared briefly behind a tent. When Macer emerged back into view, he stopped short, staring at his friend in shock.
“Pluto’s cock” he exclaimed, but while he approached Pullus, Macer did it with such an air of reluctance that it actually roused Pullus from his lethargy enough to laugh. Pointing at the front of Pullus’ hamata, Macer said cautiously, “I’m assuming that none of that is yours.” Pullus shook his head, but then Macer pointed at his face, and asked suspiciously, “What about that?” When Pullus shook his head again, Macer sighed, “What did you do, Titus?”
“I…” Pullus began, but as he always was after one of these episodes, he was at a loss about how to describe it, settling on, “I got angry.”
“Angry?” Macer’s eyebrows almost disappeared under the brim of his helmet as he repeated, “You got ‘angry’?” Shaking his head, he resumed walking, doing so quickly enough that Pullus had to take a couple of longer strides to catch up, bemused at Macer’s sudden change in mood. He finally understood when, without looking at him, Macer asked flatly, “Was this like what happened with Pusio?”
This startled Pullus, but Marcus Macer was his best friend, so he actually thought for a moment before answering cautiously, “I suppose, in a way.” Seeing that this did not enlighten his friend, he tried to explain, “With Pusio, I was angry, certainly, but I knew what I was doing. This?” When he did not continue, Macer glanced over at him and saw Pullus shrug, as he said, “This was just like what happened when I was ten and I killed that dwarf I told you about.” After a pause, he added, “And it’s happened a few other times.”
Macer discerned from Pullus’ tone that he had said all he was going to say; besides, they had reached the center of the camp where what they quickly counted were not five but seven wagons were arranged in a circle, although there were another half-dozen lined side by side a short distance away. However, it was the sight of their Legate and their Primus Pilus, standing with their backs to one of the wagons that caused them exchanged an alarmed glance. It was not the pair that they found disturbing, it was the fact that surrounding them were several dozen people, mostly women, a few children, and a handful of men, but while they were close enough now that Pullus, thanks to his height, could see Germanicus’ expression, the Legate did not look alarmed as much as harried.
“I wonder what that’s about?” Macer said, but before Pullus could respond, Germanicus spied the pair.
“Pullus! Attend to me!” the Legate called out, and Pullus did not miss the look of annoyance on Sacrovir’s face, although he did not hesitate.
At least until Macer, reaching out, grabbed his arm, and when Pullus turned, he pointed to his friend’s face.
“Are you sure you want to walk up there looking like that?”
Pullus stopped, embarrassed, and he quickly turned so his back was to Germanicus and Sacrovir, but when Macer pulled his own neckerchief off and offered it to him, he declined it.
“I’d never hear the end of it,” he muttered, pulling off his own, only then realizing that he did not have a canteen, nor did Macer.
“Pullus! Attend to your Legate!”
Sacrovir’s voice, as it normally did, cut through the dull roar of the people surrounding him and Germanicus, so Pullus was forced to make a couple of passes with the neckerchief. Given how much was left on the cloth, he thought he had gotten most of it, but when he asked Macer, his friend laughed.
“At least you don’t look like a Legate celebrating a triumph now,” he offered, then added with a grin, “Just like a butcher who had a really bad day.”
Pullus
scowled, then turned and moved at a trot towards his two superior officers, slowing as he reached the back of the small crowd, somewhat at a loss about how he should behave with these Cherusci civilians. Finally, he settled on just pushing his way through, and his cause was aided when the first woman, whirling about to glare at whoever this interloper was, saw a giant, blood-soaked Roman, causing her to shriek in fear. This would have been enough, but she leapt back with enough force that she staggered the woman next to her, which caused a further disturbance rippling through the small throng, although it did have one salutary effect, as everyone between Pullus and Germanicus suddenly scrambled out of the way, giving him enough space that he could walk the remaining distance without brushing any of them as they shrank back in fear or disgust.
Now that there was a clear path between them, it was Germanicus’ turn to react, his expression akin to Macer’s as he exclaimed, “By the gods, Pullus! Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir,” Pullus assured him, except this time, he did not glance down at the front of his hamata, not wanting to roil his stomach any more than it was from the first time he had done it. “It’s not mine.”
Sacrovir looked equally disturbed, although Pullus could not tell whether it was because of how he looked or the fact that Germanicus had summoned him specifically. Only then did Pullus notice that, standing just on the opposite side of his Primus Pilus was a German he had missed earlier, with iron gray hair that was pulled back in the customary knot, although unlike the Cherusci Pullus had just slain, his beard was neatly trimmed and was the same color as his hair. Also, the quality of his tunic, with rich embroidery around the neck and sleeves, marked him as a high-ranking member of the tribe, but his expression as he examined Pullus was impossible to read, and Pullus was struck by the thought that the man was probably wondering whose remains caked his hamata and whether he knew the man. Assuming this was Segestes, Pullus waited for Germanicus to explain why he had been summoned, and the Legate wasted no time, although now that Pullus was present, he felt confident enough to turn his back to the small crowd so that they could not hear or, while unlikely, read his lips.