by R. W. Peake
When the attack came, to the men of the Third Cohort, particularly the Fifth, who Maluginensis had placed at the very rear of the column, it came not just from their rear, which they were somewhat prepared for, but from both flanks, which they were not. Somehow; there would be a lot of speculation about how what turned out to be a combined force of not just Cherusci, but some Chatti, survivors of the punitive campaign that the Romans had just conducted, along with Bructeri who had located and joined Arminius’s warband, managed to get in a position where they attacked the Fifth Century on three sides. What there was no debate about was how the Fifth reacted; their Hastatus Prior, Gnaeus Sentius, immediately bellowed the order to form an orbis, and like the well-drilled Century they were, his men responded immediately. Even so, it was not before a half-dozen rankers were struck down, while another handful were caught during the transition from marching in column, carrying their furca with their shield slung on their back or left side, to being battle ready. Although nobody was keeping track, the hollow space where the packs and furcae had been thrown was almost completely filled with wounded men within a span of fifty heartbeats, while the Germans, having been initially thwarted in shattering their first target, quickly flowed up the track to assail the Third Century, who was immediately ahead of the Fifth, with a substantial number of the enemy using the heavy underbrush lining the track to conceal their movement farther up the column. Since they had more warning, the Third’s orbis was already formed, but the Cherusci warriors did manage to insert themselves in between the two Centuries so that they could not link up, while the Third was quickly surrounded in the same manner as well, creating two Centuries separated from the other four, yet unable to combine their strength. At this point, it was a serious, but not unmanageable, situation, at least for a Pilus Prior who did not lose his composure. However, while Maluginensis, whose First Century was next in the column did react quickly, it was not to form an orbis. Instead, he ordered his Cornicen to sound the order to ground packs, reverse their facing, and array in their battle formation, as if they were out on the training ground, and this mistake was unintentionally exacerbated when the Cornicen hesitated, certain that he had misheard his Centurion. The result was as catastrophic as it was inevitable, with the Cherusci hurling themselves into what was nothing more than a disorganized mass of men, and in doing so, exploited the one advantage of the German method of warfare, their ability to fight under chaotic conditions. In contrast, Romans fought best when they worked as a team, and they worked as a team when they were correctly aligned and able to support each other.
Unfortunately, because of the combination of the inappropriate command and the Cornicen’s hesitation when he recognized it as such, Arminius’ warriors cut down the men of the First with such rapidity, and with their customary ferocity, that no more than two dozen heartbeats later, those men still standing went from tough, disciplined Legionaries of Rome to men literally frightened out of their senses whose only desire was to flee for their collective lives. What happened next was the stuff that filled Centurions’ nightmares, despite the fact that the Second Century, who was next in the column and had received sufficient warning but, contrary to Maluginensis’ example, their Centurion had responded promptly and properly. Simply reversing their facing so that the rear rank was now in front, the men of the Second were confronted by the men of the First, fleeing directly at them and screaming for their comrades to open their ranks enough to enable them to escape their pursuers. The Optio, who was essentially in the spot his Centurion would have been if they had been arrayed normally, bellowed at his men to keep their shields in front of them, threatening to cut down any man who shifted their posture to open enough of a gap for anyone to squeeze through. It was the right, and in fact the only, thing to do, but whether or not the Optio would have lived up to his threat would never be known, because first one, then another, followed by a third man along the front rank suddenly turned sideways to allow men who were not just comrades but friends escape certain death, yet in doing so, sealed their own fate and those of their comrades in their own Century. Faster than any man in the Third Cohort, or the rest of the 1st Legion, for that matter, could have fathomed, the Germans shattered the Cohort that Germanicus had specifically charged with delaying Arminius’ force, turning them into nothing but a frightened rabble whose only thought was to escape being slaughtered.
Volusenus heard the sudden uproar from behind him, but he did not call his Century to halt, choosing instead to turn about and walk back to where he had a better view, only after snapping an order to Macerinus to continue marching, knowing that as long as the standard kept moving, the rest of the Century would as well. At first, all he saw was the Fourth of the Third, which Maluginensis had chosen to lead his Cohort, and at that moment, most of them were craning their necks towards the noise, despite their Centurion not giving the command to halt. Like Volusenus, he had stopped to face to the rear as his Century kept marching past him, thereby partially blocking Volusenus’ view, who sensed the movement that was not part of the normal rhythm of Legionaries marching in formation before his eyes could make out the individual shapes of men, running in his direction.
“Pluto’s cock.” He was barely aware that it was his voice, but then he filled his lungs to bellow, “Get your men turned around…!”
He suddenly realized that he could not remember the name of his fellow Centurion in the Third Cohort, although he had actually shared a cup of wine or two with him out in Ubiorum, so he repeated himself. It was only when the Centurion cast a fearful glance over his shoulder that Volusenus, seeing the man’s face, made the association and recalled that the man’s name was Trigeminus, but he was relieved to hear the Fourth’s Cornicen at least play the notes that would send the men into the proper orientation. That sense of relief lasted no more than a couple more heartbeats as, watching in horror, the leading edge of what was essentially a flood tide of panicked men who, while wearing the same uniforms as Volusenus and the men of the Fourth of the Third, were every bit as much of a Cherusci weapon as their axes, spears, and gladii, swept what was the last remnant of resistance the Third Cohort could have offered aside. Things were happening so rapidly, and across his entire field of vision, that what Volusenus took in were more impressions than any tangible events that he would be able to analyze later as he thought about all that took place. All Volusenus would be able to recall afterward was that what got him moving at all was in knowing that the prudent course was to fall back towards his Century, turn them around, and put them in an orbis, since he had spotted the darting figures of attackers in the heavy undergrowth surrounding the track and knew they would be coming from more than just one direction. As he glanced over his shoulder at his men, in that instant he had every intention of doing that very thing, except there was one event, small in the context of all that was going on, but which served to snap Volusenus out of his temporary paralysis. When he turned his attention back in the direction of the Fourth of the Third, his eyes were instantly drawn to Trigeminus, who had managed to draw his gladius in the fraction of time Volusenus’ attention was more on the men of Trigeminus’ Century, and raise it in a desperate and ultimately futile attempt to block the sweeping overhead blow from an axe, wielded by a burly Cherusci. Trigeminus’ block only served to slow the axe blow, though not enough to save the Centurion’s life as the blade of the German’s weapon cut through crest, helmet, and ultimately the bone of Trigeminus’ skull, dropping the Roman officer where he stood. And then, Volusenus started moving…directly towards the German who had just slain his counterpart, raising his gladius as he broke into a run, bellowing at the top of his lungs and only dimly aware of the sudden shouts of alarm from behind him, as the men of his own Century watched their Centurion heading towards certain death.
Pullus heard the sudden explosion of noise, although it was muted by the distance, yet he immediately understood what it meant. Nevertheless, he did not order the halt, mindful of Germanicus’ orders that the march continue
as the Third Cohort fought a delaying action, but this ran against his every instinct, the sounds of a fight stirring his blood as little else could, even now.
Sensing Poplicola looking at him questioningly, he kept his eyes straight ahead but said, “Our orders are to keep marching.”
The Cornicen glanced over at Gemellus questioningly, and there was a subtle but unmistakable shake of the wolf headdress that told Poplicola the Signifer had no intention of interjecting. Behind them, however, the noise grew steadily louder, and Pullus’ men began casting their own nervous glances over their shoulders, although for all but the men in the rearmost ranks, this was an exercise in futility, and in reality, it only exacerbated their tension since they could not actually see the cause. Finally, Fabricius was forced to roar at them to keep their eyes to the front, but this lasted for no more than a span of fifteen or twenty heartbeats when, sprinting up both sides of the column came the first men of the Third Cohort without their packs, most of them without their shields, and all of them in utter panic.
“Arminius! Arminius!”
“The bastard caught us! We’re being slaughtered back there! Save yourselves!”
Not surprisingly, this caused an uproar, but over it all, every man of the First, along with the Second Century of the Fourth, heard a voice they recognized all too well.
“If any of you cunni take one fucking step out of the ranks, I’ll gut you myself!” Pullus roared, about to give the order to halt but saw there was no need; his men had stopped, their attention split between their fleeing comrades from the Third and Pullus, and in their expressions, he saw the sudden anxiety, the wide-eyed fear that he was certain stemmed as much from the name that one of the feckless cowards had been shouting as they ran away from the attack.
“All right, you cunni, drop your packs! About turn!” He began rattling off the orders that would send his men back towards whatever was facing them, but he got no farther because, among the fleeing men of the Third, he spotted a familiar face, but more than the man’s identity, there was something about his expression that sent a stab of fear deep into his vitals.
Without thinking to do so, Pullus had already begun moving towards the Cornicen of his son’s Century, meeting him next to where Vespillo was standing, yet even though Pullus barely noticed the Pilus Posterior, he was sufficiently engaged to see that, in this moment of crisis, his supposed second in command was behaving precisely as Pullus had with his own Century, and in fact, the Second was already in their battle spacing, facing the rear.
He gave no sign he noticed this, his attention on Ambustus as he came sliding to a stop in front of the Pilis Prior, but before he could demand an explanation, Ambustus blurted out, “Pilus Prior! It’s Volusenus! He’s in trouble!”
If there was anything more, Pullus did not hear it; within no more than two or three strides, he was running at full speed, drawing his gladius that had caused the deaths of so many of Rome’s enemies for more than fifty years, but he was no longer a Pilus Prior, nor even a Centurion of Rome bringing death to her enemies; he was a father rushing to save the life of his son and only child.
Volusenus realized almost immediately that he was in trouble, yet it did not slow the speed or dampen the ferocity of his attack, his first foe the Cherusci who had slain Trigeminus, and while in his mind it seemed as if it happened several heartbeats earlier, Volusenus saw that as he closed with the German, the warrior was still wrenching his axe from the head of the Centurion’s corpse, and consequently was momentarily distracted when the weapon did not come free immediately. He died within an eyeblink of raising his head because he sensed something rushing at him, so he barely got a glimpse of a huge Roman, his eyes blazing with a ferocious hatred and lips pulled back in a cruel smile, and he did not even see the blurring movement of Volusenus’ gladius as he launched a second position thrust that smashed the Cherusci’s teeth into fragments, some of them driven through the hole created as the point burst out the back of the man’s skull. The Cherusci’s corpse had not hit the ground when Volusenus, in one motion and without even turning his head in that direction, recovered the blade and, keeping it at shoulder level, made a backhand swing that, because of his height, sliced into the forearm of another warrior who was just then bringing his own long gladius down in the kind of wide overhand swing that barbarians favored, presumably aiming for the Roman’s head. Severed appendage and gladius went in two different directions, while Volusenus was struck in the face by the spray of the severed vessels in his second foe’s arm, while he had to move his head to avoid being struck by the hand and lower forearm as it went tumbling past him in a mist of blood. He was only dimly aware of the sudden shouts that came from his right rear, but he clearly heard Macerinus’ voice shouting a curse and could tell just by the proximity that his Signifer had come rushing after him. Not wanting to risk a glance in that direction, he lifted his right leg and gave his second foe, who was standing there staring dumbly down at the spot where the rest of his arm should have been, a brutally powerful kick, and while it was unintentional, he propelled the stricken man directly into the path of a spear-wielding Cherusci who, spotting the large Roman Centurion, had been rushing towards him. The onrushing German managed to catch the man on his shield, and he was no less rough in his treatment of his own comrade as Volusenus had been, brutally shoving him out of the way and sending him to the ground. Nevertheless, this delayed the spearman long enough for another Cherusci, also armed with a spear but wearing a mail vest that hung to the knees, a helmet adorned with ravens’ wings, and carrying a kite-shaped shield to launch his own assault on the Roman.
Without a shield, Volusenus was handicapped, and he had the briefest opportunity to sidestep over to where he could now see that the men from the rear rank of his Century had managed to partially close the gap with those men of the Fourth of the Third who were still standing fast, although his quick glance told him that was no more than fifteen or twenty men, and they were clearly wavering. Consequently, he began to sidestep in the direction of his men, trying to seek the relative safety provided by their shields, but before he could do so, he was struck, not by a weapon but by the staggering body of one of the men of the Fourth, who had just taken a spear thrust that penetrated his upper chest, the point briefly appearing just under his left shoulder blade in a shower of blood. The mortally wounded ranker slammed into Volusenus from his right, and while he had his feet under him enough not to be staggered himself, Volusenus’ gladius arm was temporarily trapped. In real time, it was for barely an eyeblink, except in the heat of a battle such as this, it was a lifetime, although he was fortunate to have his head turned at the right angle so that he saw the helmeted Cherusci thrusting the spear at his face. Even as the mortally wounded ranker was sliding off of him to collapse at his feet, Volusenus managed to lean slightly, not much, but just enough that the iron point of the Cherusci weapon missed, punching past his face closely enough for him to feel the disturbed air as it shot past. It was the attack from the man Volusenus had delayed by shoving the wounded German into his path that caught Volusenus unaware, yet despite the fact that the spearpoint did not penetrate his helmet, the impact from the blow to the side of it just below the crest was tremendous, instantly stunning him as what seemed like an explosion of a thousand sparks filled his vision, obscuring everything else.
Suddenly and without any warning, his legs lost all of their strength and he felt himself falling to his left, while, in the back of his mind, there was a detached voice that, said very clearly, in a matter-of-fact tone, “You just got yourself killed.”
Oddly enough, while he felt the impact of his weight hitting what he assumed was the ground, it did not hurt nearly as much as he thought it would, but despite the knowledge that he was doomed, he still managed to make a wild backhand swing of his gladius, and in fact, he felt the sudden impact wrenching his hand because the blade struck the shaft of the spear, the Vinician grip he had been so resistant to learn saving him from having his blade yanked fro
m his grasp as it knocked the weapon aside.
“We’re coming, Centurion!”
Volusenus heard Macerinus’ voice, which seemed to echo as if he was standing at the end of a long passageway, but he was more focused on regaining his feet, even as his body tensed in an unconscious expectation of the thrust or blow that would wound him, probably mortally. Somehow, he managed to get his left arm out from under his weight pressing down, only dimly aware that it was because, instead of the hard ground, he had landed on top of a body, one that had gone limp in death, the soft, yielding flesh providing just enough give to enable him to free his arm. Using it, he was just beginning to push himself up off the ground when, out of the corner of his vision to his right, he sensed more movement, and this time, he did not get just a glimpse but distinctly saw his death coming, in the form of the Cherusci wearing the raven-wing helmet. His spear was pulled back in an underhand grip that placed the point level with the man’s face so that Volusenus saw it all; the spray of spittle as the German snarled from a mouth framed by a dark beard, the eyes alight with the joy that, even in this instant, Volusenus not only knew but understood, the fierce satisfaction of being the cause of an enemy’s death. And yet, the thought that he was certain would be his last on this side of the river was one of worry, not for himself but for his men, and for his mother as he wondered whether it would be the Pilus Prior who would have to tell her that her son had gotten himself killed, and whether Pullus would be honest with her, that it was his excessive pride and overconfidence that was the cause, just as she had feared. His world suddenly went dark then, though not in the manner he expected, but he was still too dazed to fully comprehend that it was because of the sudden juxtaposition of a body in between himself and his attacker. Whoever, or whatever, it was, however, did not seem overly concerned with him because in doing so, their bulk slammed into him and once more he was knocked back down to the ground. This time, he did not land on a body, slamming into the dirt on his back while his helmet bounced off it, instantly scattering whatever of his senses he had managed to gather and leaving him to stare groggily up at what he at least comprehended was the back of one of his own, as whoever it was presumably battled with the Cherusci who had been about to kill him. The one thing that puzzled him was that he could not immediately place the man whose back he was now staring up at, for the simple reason that he knew he was the only man of that size in the Sixth Century, and he had the decidedly odd but persistent thought that he was actually watching himself fighting, that somehow his animus had been knocked out of his body, and now his spirit was watching his corporeal form as it battled to keep both spirit and body alive. This actually seemed confirmed when his eyes, despite the fact that they continued to try to cross themselves for some reason, traveled up the broad shoulders of his protector and saw that, to his dazed surprise, the form was wearing a transverse crest. It was only when trying to piece it together later that Volusenus understood then that what had seemed in the moment to last for several hundred heartbeats of time was probably no more than a half-dozen. The result was that he understood that the truth about why it took so long for his benumbed mind to register, that the color of the form’s crest was red and not the black that he and every other Centurion who was not a Pilus Prior wore, was a product of the blow to his head and nothing else, and it was that delay that would haunt him for the rest of his days.