by R. W. Peake
No man, either Roman or Cherusci, who survived that day and witnessed what took place would ever forget it, and it would serve as fodder for more discussions, arguments, and inevitably, brawls in the coming months than any other single topic. Equally inevitably, the number of men who claimed to have actually been present as witness grew to the point that a person unfamiliar with the incident would think that it had taken place in the forum, with the entire 1st Legion on parade, while the same held true for the Cherusci. When Titus Porcinianus Pullus, running at full speed and without discernibly slowing down, slammed into a Cherusci wearing a helmet with ravens’ wings attached, to men like Macerinus who were actually present and had not seen him coming, it was as if Pullus had appeared out of thin air, conjured there by some form of sorcery. What was not subject to any debate was the force of the impact as, eschewing any technique and not even bothering to try to use his gladius, Pullus smashed bodily into the Cherusci’s shield, sending his foe flying. Faster than the eye could comprehend, the German’s body went horizontal and at waist height as he went hurtling backward, his expression transforming from one of ferocious satisfaction to utter surprise in less than an eyeblink, whereupon he went colliding directly into two other Cherusci. Only one of them was facing in Pullus’ direction, while the other was at that very instant thrusting his spear at one of the few men of the Fourth of the Third still standing their ground, and the impact caused the former to fall forward as his comrade’s body slammed into his legs with enough force that they were swept out from under him so that he landed facedown, although his impact was cushioned by the body of the comrade who was responsible for it. Before either of them could recover, Pullus was on them, crossing the couple of paces almost as quickly as he had appeared, his face contorted with a rage and hatred that needed no translation, the legendary dark Gallic blade thrusting down once, then twice, first into the back of the German who had been knocked off his feet, and the second into the upturned face of the Cherusci who, barely a heartbeat earlier, had been about to kill Volusenus. Recovering his gladius with the same speed that he had initiated his thrusts, he was turning towards the third Cherusci but saw there was no need, as the Third Cohort Legionary under assault had not hesitated to take the opening offered when the warrior’s thrust had gone wide because of being jostled and thereby leaving him open to a counterthrust, so Pullus began to turn back and move to help Volusenus. The young Centurion was still on his back but had just lifted his head, blinking rapidly in the manner that anyone with experience in such matters knows is the body’s unconscious reaction after a man has been knocked senseless, and there was one heartbeat of time, just one, where their eyes met. Despite the danger they were both still in and his attempt to fight it and remain alert, Pullus felt his body go limp with relief, certain that, while clearly woozy, his son was not seriously hurt, although the side of his helmet had a sizable dent in it. He also saw by Volusenus’ expression that his son recognized him and was actually opening his mouth to say something while, at the same time, he was using his hands pressed against the ground to try and push himself up to a sitting position.
“On your feet…” Pullus began, certain that the habit of obedience would take over, but he was cut off by a shrill, panicked shout, and while he would never know, it came from Volusenus’ Signifer.
“Pilus Prior, behind you!”
To his credit, Pullus reacted immediately, spinning on the ball of one foot, and he actually managed to parry the spear thrust that had been aimed at the center of his back with a sweeping, outward move of his gladius, but by doing so, it left him open to a similar attack from a second Cherusci standing next to the first warrior. Somehow, though, he managed to twist his body just enough so that, while the spearpoint struck him in his chest, it was a glancing blow that only sliced through some links of his hamata and gashed the padded undershirt he wore over his tunic. However, it was the third Cherusci who struck the first damaging blow, although even then, it was not enough to incapacitate Pullus, since this German was armed with the long gladius with a more rounded tip favored by barbarians of both Gaul and Germania, and he was also the farthest away of the three attackers, so that the tip caused a slashing wound that sliced into the meat of Pullus’ left upper arm just below the edge of his armor. Over the noise of the fighting, his bellow of pain and rage was loud enough to momentarily arrest the attention of all of the other combatants, but it was still hanging in the air when, instead of backpedaling to gain more room, the huge Centurion actually moved in the opposite direction, directly at the trio of attackers. At first glance, this seemed to be a foolish move, but as Pullus knew it would, it not only put him within the arc of the most dangerous part of two of his attackers’ weapons, he also moved laterally just enough that the second and third Cherusci were partially screened by the first man whose spear thrust he had parried, enabling Pullus to focus on only one foe. This advantage would not last even a full heartbeat since, because of Pullus’ isolation from his comrades in either his Cohort or the Third’s, it was simply a matter of the other two men taking their own steps back into position, but he did not need more than that because, even as he was moving his body, his gladius was doing the same thing at the same time.
His immediate foe reacted quickly enough, moving his shield to block what he thought was a thrust from what the Romans called the second position, coming in from above a defender’s shield, causing him to lift it slightly, but even as it moved up, Pullus’ arm was already reversing direction in a motion that looked like a backward “C,” bringing his blade underneath the Cherusci’s shield in a lateral, slashing blow. It certainly was not Pullus’ or any Roman’s preferred method of a thrusting attack, but since Pullus was one of the few men, and not just Roman, with the strength to disembowel a man with only the strength from his arm, this was devastating, the Cherusci’s scream so shrill that, even at the height of his rage, it made Pullus wince. When the shield dropped from the man’s hand, it exposed the sight of his intestines and inner organs that had been released from the flesh, muscle, and mail that had encased and protected them from the outer world, something that Pullus did not even notice other than making a small, hopping step back so that the offal did not land on his own feet. The Cherusci dropped to his knees, while Pullus was already moving, but so were his foes, the two surviving Cherusci, without any word between them, separating slightly, both of them facing Pullus on either side of him, intent on killing this huge Roman. Before the Cherusci who was nearest to Pullus could launch his own attack, however, Pullus, once again moving with a speed that simply did not seem possible for such a large man, was already executing his own attack, taking advantage of his longer reach that his foe had miscalculated, believing that he had placed himself just out of the Roman’s range. He learned differently when the tip of Pullus’ gladius struck the Cherusci in his left eye, but although he would have disputed the fact, he was fortunate because, while he had been within Pullus’ reach, he was at the very outer edge of it so that the Gallic blade did not penetrate into his brain and end his life. Regardless of this distinction, it put the Cherusci effectively out of the fight, as he inadvertently saved his own life by simultaneously letting go of both weapon and shield while dropping to his knees, shrieking in pain as he clutched his ruined eye with both hands.
Knowing that the man was out of the fight, at least for this battle, Pullus ignored him as he moved again, this time taking a wide step to his left, directly in line with the third Cherusci, who was armed with a double-headed axe, but with an uncommonly long handle and wider flaring blades than normal, with a spike on top of the axe head. This German had no way of knowing that Pullus had not only faced a man with this kind of weapon but knew the purpose of both the longer handle and wider blade; he also knew that, since he did not have a shield that could be hooked by the beard of the axe blade and yanked from his grasp, this actually worked in his favor. For a bare fraction of time, the two opponents eyed each other, the Cherusci trying to gauge the best way t
o attack this giant Roman who had dispatched two of his comrades in a span of perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats. Pullus, on the other hand, did no such thing; all he knew was that this foe was about to die. How it happened would be determined by the Cherusci, who moved first, and his attack actually surprised Pullus somewhat, because instead of performing a slashing attack, the preferred method for warriors who favored the axe, the German lunged and thrust his axe directly at Pullus, aiming the spike for the Roman’s throat. Despite being caught by surprise, Pullus dodged the lunge easily enough, although his own counterattack was thwarted when the Cherusci blocked the Roman’s thrust with his shield. It was not completely in vain, though; the power behind Pullus’ attack was such that it sent the Cherusci reeling, and in one of those accidents that warriors as experienced as Pullus knew play as much a role in battle as the skill of the combatants, the warrior’s left foot struck the corpse of one of the slain Romans of the Fourth of the Third, causing him to stumble and fall backward. Pullus did not hesitate, nor did he give the Cherusci the chance to recover his balance, crossing the space between the two and, with a contemptuous ease, knocked the wild, poorly aimed swing of the Cherusci’s axe aside so that he could step inside the weapon to stand over his fallen foe. The thrust was delivered with the same brutal speed that had accounted for so many of Rome’s enemies, happening so quickly that the Cherusci, staring up at Pullus with eyes wild with fear and the knowledge that the strand of his life was being cut, did not even move his shield in an attempt to block Pullus’ blade as it punched into his throat. With an expert twist of the wrist, the last of the immediate threats to not just Pullus but, more importantly, to his Centurion son was dispatched.
What happened next was another of those things that occur in battle that are never fully understood, at least by the men who are forced to endure it; whether some sub-chief among the Cherusci had given an order to do so, or the word had simply spread that there was a Roman Centurion, a huge one at that, isolated and without the support of his men, the reason really did not matter. The result was that at that precise moment, bursting from the underbrush on the far side of the track, as well as in a rolling tide of men who had finally either cut down or sent the last remnants of the Fourth of the Third fleeing, several dozen howling, screaming Germans came rushing towards Pullus, just as he was turning to move back towards Volusenus. He stopped, his eye drawn to the sudden rush of movement; seeing and comprehending the danger he was in within a fraction of a heartbeat, he spun about to face the nearest of the onrushing Cherusci, taking in the situation at a glance but making no move to retreat, knowing that to do so would endanger Volusenus.
“Hold on, Pilus Prior! We’re coming!”
Pullus, hearing Gillo, actually turned away from the Cherusci and looked Volusenus’ Optio in the eye, then pointed his gladius at Gillo’s Centurion, who had just come to a sitting position.
“Get him out of here!” Gillo shifted his gaze from Pullus to the uneven line of onrushing Germans who were now no more than a half-dozen paces from the Pilus Prior, which Pullus obviously saw, because he bellowed, “That’s an order!”
If he said anything else, it was impossible to hear, because he had turned back about, his gladius lifting to block the attack from the first Cherusci to reach him, a wild-eyed, beardless youth wearing a conical helmet that had either come untied or, in the excitement of what was his first battle, the youth had forgotten to do so. While Pullus’ blade was in position to parry the thrust from the short hunting spear the youth carried, there was no need because, when the youngster did so, the movement caused his helmet, which was also a bit too large, to suddenly shift downward, blinding him and causing the spearpoint to shoot past Pullus’ head, missing by a margin of a couple feet. Because of the helmet obscuring his vision, the Cherusci youth never saw his death coming, but although he did not know it, Pullus showed him mercy, with a quick slash across the throat. It was the last clean blow Titus Porcinianus Pullus was able to land.
Pullus would have been pleased to know that Numerius Gillo did not hesitate; that he did so because, from where he was standing, he was certain that the Pilus Prior was doomed would not have mattered to the Centurion.
“Come with me,” Gillo shouted, then, without so much as a glance to see if he was being obeyed, went running over to Volusenus.
The young Centurion was still seated, shaking his head to clear it, but he did react to the sudden rush of movement in his direction, and Gillo saw that he was still dazed, because he fumbled for his gladius on the ground next to him, his face registering an alarm that told Gillo he thought his Optio might be the enemy.
“It’s Gillo, Centurion!” the Optio shouted, sliding to a stop at Volusenus’ feet as, in a slightly lower tone, he said urgently, “The Pilus Prior sent us to bring you back.”
He was reaching down as he spoke, but Gillo instantly realized he was not strong enough to haul Volusenus to his feet alone. Looking over his shoulder to where Vibius Turbo, Gnaeus Macula, and Tiberius Fronto had been the first to follow him, he beckoned to them, and they did not hesitate, crowding around Volusenus, Fronto, discarding his shield and sheathing his gladius, grabbing him under the arms, with the other two men on either side, pulling him up by his arms with their free hands. Volusenus came to his feet readily enough, except the sudden movement proved too much; Gillo had an instant’s warning when he saw the Centurion’s eyes roll back in his head as he staggered backward.
“Catch him! Catch him, you bastards, or we’ll never get him back up!”
The three men managed to do so initially, although it sent Fronto staggering, whereupon he tripped over a corpse, causing him to collapse to the ground, and while Turbo and Macula tried their best to keep hold of Volusenus’ arms, they were only partially successful. At least, that was what they tried to tell Fronto later, pointing out that he did not receive the unconscious Centurion’s full weight, something that their comrade did not seem to appreciate.
“Juno’s cunnus,” Gillo snarled, trying to keep his attention divided on the swarm of Cherusci who, at least to this point, were still surrounding Pullus and completely focused on him, and his Centurion. “You’re going to have to drag him now! Be quick about it!”
The trio immediately obeyed, dragging their Centurion by the arms back in the direction of the Sixth Century, but Gillo saw that Macerinus was now leading about half the Century in an attempt to reach Pullus, forcing some of the Cherusci who had come rushing around to get in his rear to turn and defend themselves from Legionaries desperately trying to reach the Pilus Prior. What happened then could only be called a battle in the loosest sense; it was little more than a brawl, fueled by a desperation on both sides. The Cherusci had the opportunity to kill another Centurion, and one whose size and prowess marked him as a formidable foe that would enhance the reputation of the warrior who struck him down, while the Romans of the Fourth Cohort were as determined to save their Pilus Prior, who was so completely surrounded by Germans that his men could only see his red transverse crest. Snarling, spitting, and cursing men fought with a frenzy, and it was a scene that would haunt those who witnessed it for the rest of their days, although none more keenly than Gnaeus Volusenus.
His memory of Gillo and three of his men coming for him was fragmentary and was based more on the remembered sensations than any visual recollection, but Volusenus would always recall the moment when his head cleared, because his first distinct memory was that he was now several paces away from the last spot he remembered being. Fronto, Turbo, and Macula, each from a different section of his Century, had dumped him after dragging him to safety, while Gillo had rushed back in Pullus’ direction to lead the rest of the Sixth Century in their attempt to cut a path to their Pilus Prior. It was the sight of Gillo moving at a run that helped Volusenus regain his senses, although he gave a puzzled frown as he looked around him, his first realization being that he was sitting on the ground. He did not really understand how it had happened, but the idea of being seated at a
moment like this prompted him to scramble to his feet, but while it clearly alarmed his men, and Fronto reached out to grab his arm, this time, while he was lightheaded, he did not lose his senses. For the first time since he had been struck, Volusenus took a moment to try and get an idea of the situation, but it took an extra heartbeat for him to comprehend the meaning of what he was seeing. Truthfully, even if he had not suffered a blow to the head, it would have been difficult for anyone to make sense of matters; he saw that there was what appeared to be a double row of Cherusci facing in his direction, back where the Sixth of the Fourth had been marching before they reversed themselves to follow him. Opposing them was what Volusenus estimated was most of his Century, with Gillo standing in the spot Volusenus would normally occupy, and he could see by the manner in which the second men of each file arrayed against these Cherusci were being jerked back and forth and side to side as they grasped the back of the harness of their comrades actually fighting that this was a desperate moment. It was next to impossible to make any real sense of why there were Cherusci immediately behind those facing his men who were turned in the opposite direction, only because he no longer saw the standard of the Fourth of the Third where it had been what he knew was not long before, despite the feeling that this battle had been going on for a span of watches and not the span of less than a thousand heartbeats. Then, over the shouts, curses, and sounds of the fighting came a bellow of pain that, in that instant, Volusenus recognized came from someone he knew, which in turn caused his gaze to move slightly, deeper into the knot of men whose collective attention was focused in what would seem to be the opposite direction from the threat posed by his Century, and Structus’ Fifth, which had appeared at some point while he was dazed and was now arrayed along a line parallel to the track in the direction of what had been the rear of the column and the Third Cohort, but on the opposite side from where he and his men were standing. It took another heartbeat before he spotted the red transverse crest, but then he saw an arm, a heavily muscled arm suddenly thrust upward, a gladius that, despite it being covered in blood and gore, Volusenus immediately knew was a blade that had been forged in Gaul more than a half century earlier, but as distressing as the sight of the bloody gladius was, it was seeing that the arm holding it was just as covered with it that was worse. Somehow, Volusenus knew that it was not Cherusci blood, but whether it was that or the red transverse crest that was responsible, he did not then, nor would he ever know. Nor was he aware that, without a word, he reached down and snatched his gladius that either Fronto, Macula, or Turbo had snatched up when they rescued him and they had thrust down into the dirt next to him, not that it mattered; what did was that he did so in the first place. He vaguely recalled that Fronto, or perhaps it was Macula who, having just saved their Centurion, tried to restrain him, but when he was told later that, without as much as a glance in his direction, Volusenus knocked the Gregarius flat on his back, this he did not remember at all. The predominant memory of the moment was the feeling of the sudden release of what Pullus had described as the beast deep within himself, that Volusenus had actually been happy to learn he was not alone in possessing and how, suddenly, a fury and hatred of such intensity that it actually seemed to slow everyone but himself down overtook him. Even if, somehow, the gods had managed to stop this moment in time so that an observer could approach and question Gnaeus Volusenus about what he was experiencing, the young Centurion would have been hard pressed to describe it. In its simplest terms, he was suddenly overwhelmed by an insatiable urge to kill, to destroy, to smash down anyone and anything that stood in his path, the feeling so intense that he was certain that, if he did not indulge this beast, it would consume him from within, burning him alive from the inside out. Nothing else mattered, nothing. Not the men of his Century, not the Cohort, not the Legion or even his mother; the only thing that mattered to Gnaeus Volusenus was to relieve this tidal wave of rage. As far as why the beast had been roused, this he was cognizant of both in the moment and later; he saw his Pilus Prior in danger, and he was acutely aware that the cause for Pullus’ jeopardy was because of what had happened to him.