by Peake, R. W.
"Fight, you bastards! Fight! Quit standing there and do your fucking jobs!"
It was quite unlike Gaius Porcinus to speak so harshly to his men; his style of leadership was more like that of his Pilus Prior Scribonius than it was his uncle's, but at that moment, if his men hadn't known better, they would have sworn to Mars and Bellona that it was the voice of their Primus Pilus, the man whom they feared more than death itself. And it was exactly what they needed just then, because in response, the Legionaries facing these fresh Wa began bashing them with their shields and following up with sword thrusts. Still, Porcinus was now afraid that this was a losing battle, and, like his uncle, he started to resign himself to the inevitability of what had first come to his mind earlier, that this was his last day on earth. If so, he thought grimly, I need to get a lot more blood on my sword. Edging his way toward the fighting, he watched for an opportunity to get stuck in. As he did so, he heard something that he was sure was a trick of the wind. It wasn't the fact that a cornu was blowing; the horns had been doing so all day, relaying signals back and forth. It was the direction this sound was coming from, off to his right front, which was impossible, since there were no Romans out there. But then it sounded again, and this time Porcinus was sure that he wasn't hearing things, nor was there some trick of the wind. Those were Roman horns, and they were coming from behind the attacking Wa!
Time, movement, noise, everything seemed to have come to a stop to Sextus Scribonius. Helplessly he watched as the Wa general thrust his sword into the chest of his best friend and Primus Pilus of the Legion. Scribonius had become aware that something abnormal was taking place, down the line from his spot where he was fighting with his Second Cohort, and in a brief lull in the fighting, he had moved along behind his men who were still in the fight, closer to the source of whatever strange thing was taking place. That's when he had seen Titus Pullus, facing one of the barbarians in a cleared space, as the two men did their best to kill one another. Scribonius wasn't sure at what point in the fight he showed up, but he did see that for all intents and purposes the men immediately surrounding the two combatants had stopped their own private battles to watch the one between these two champions. In fact, this wasn't all that uncommon: Scribonius had witnessed such scenes personally on two separate occasions, but those fights had involved the enemy king on one occasion, and the crown prince of his people on the other. That was what gave Scribonius the idea that the barbarian Pullus was facing was of a similar status to his people, because from Scribonius' perspective, it looked very much as though it was the barbarians who had halted their attack and were content to watch the Legionaries across from them warily, while eyeing the two combatants. As far as the Romans were concerned, any respite was welcome, so they were unlikely to disrupt this lull in the fighting. Instead, just like their foes, they were watching their Primus Pilus and shouting encouragement to him as the two men fought.
Scribonius wasn't sure what he had missed, but just bare moments after he arrived at his current vantage point, he saw Pullus make his strike that smashed the barbarian's helmet, saw the blood flowing down the man's face as he staggered backward, slashing his sword wildly in an attempt to keep his foe from pressing home his advantage. But for a reason Scribonius couldn't fathom, his friend seemed to hesitate, and in that pause, he gave the Wa the chance he needed to discard his damaged helmet. Scribonius had noticed that Pullus didn't have a shield, and he was too far away to see the remnants of it on the ground, so a part of him worried that his giant friend had once more given in to his own hubris and disdained the use of a shield, since these savages didn't carry any, either. Then, as Scribonius watched in horrified disbelief, the barbarian struck, and this was the moment that seemed to freeze all existence, as the Wa's blade struck his friend and just...kept going. Even if he had been close enough, Scribonius probably wouldn't have heard the barbarian's savage shout as he made his lunge, so mesmerized was he by a sight he truly believed was impossible. Pullus' blade had swept upward, it was true, but he had started his movement too late, so that he barely altered the trajectory of the thrusting blade. However, he did alter it, and the point punched into his body less than an inch below his left clavicle. Still, there was enough force behind the thrust that the point penetrated not only the chain mail in the front, but it also continued to travel through Pullus' muscular upper chest and the bone of his shoulder blade, then punch through the mail in back to protrude a couple of inches out of Pullus' back. Scribonius let out an anguished moan, almost as if he was the one struck, and, indeed, he felt an almost physical pain watching his best friend skewered like a roasted chicken on an enemy blade.
At the exact same time, there was a huge, collective, gasping moan that was almost immediately drowned out by an exultant roar, as the respective sides either mourned or celebrated. Remarkably, the only one who seemed unaffected was Pullus, who remained standing and, in fact, just barely rocked backward when the sword entered his body. For the remainder of his time on earth, Sextus Scribonius would never be able to determine accurately just how much time elapsed during a moment that seemed to last longer than any other of his entire life. Everything seemed to be moving in extraordinarily slow motion and, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to move, to run to his friend's aid, he couldn't seem to lift his feet or move a single muscle for that matter. Consequently, he was a mute spectator as he watched Pullus standing, the Wa general across from him, one hand still on the hilt of the sword buried in Pullus' body, his own body extended with his right foot forward, his arm straight out from his torso in what could have been a painting illustrating the perfect sword thrust. While Scribonius couldn't see Pullus' face, he could see the barbarian's—or, rather, the half that wasn't covered in blood—and he got the strong sense that the two men were staring each other in the eye. Then, Pullus' left hand moved, still seemingly very slowly, up to his chest, his hand reaching up, as if to feel the wound in his chest, maybe to see if it was real or if, like Scribonius, he didn't believe what had happened. Seeing that motion, the barbarian made his own, what Scribonius was sure was his preparatory movement to twist the blade before withdrawing it.
Yet somehow, as slowly as Pullus seemed to move, his hand still reached the Wa's blade before the barbarian could do as he planned. Pullus' hand closed around the blade, the top of his fist hard up against his mail, and that was when Scribonius saw a change in the expression of the barbarian general. The Wa smiled grimly, as if to tell Pullus that whatever he had in mind was futile, and Scribonius saw the muscles of the Wa's arm tense as he began to remove the blade. But Scribonius, better than anyone else left alive, could have told this barbarian that, while he didn't know it, he was making a vain attempt, because he, Pullus’ long-time friend, knew the strength of that grip.
When they had been tirones, and had been trained by their first weapons instructor Aulus Vinicius, he had instructed them in the grip that every man who had been in the First Century, Second Cohort of the 10th Legion at that time, and now every man in this enlistment of the 10th Legion, was trained to use. As part of that training, Vinicius had made the recruits in his charge perform a special exercise to strengthen their sword hand. Taking a bucket of sand, each tirone would thrust his hand into the bucket, with fingers splayed wide apart, and bury his hand up to the wrist. Then he would contract his fingers into a fist, while it was still in the sand. Vinicius made his tiros perform this exercise every day for the first three months of their probationary period, but as with anything in the army, there were men who did the bare minimum. Then there was Titus Pullus, and Scribonius remembered very well that this was his first indication that this giant specimen who stood next to him in the ranks wasn't just an overgrown, heavily muscled simpleton. Not only did Pullus do twice the number of repetitions of the exercise prescribed for him, he did the exercises with his left hand, as well as with his right. When seeing him do this one day, his tentmates teased him unmercifully, but the young giant was undeterred. Unlike the others, Scrib
onius wasn't the kind to mock others, even when they seemed to be doing foolish things, so one night he asked Pullus why he was doing something for the hand that wasn't going to be holding his sword.
"I might not be holding a sword with my left hand," Pullus had replied, "but I'm going to be holding a shield. And I'll be damned if some filthy barbarian knocks it out of my hand. Besides," he finished with a shrug, "you never know when it might come in handy."
From that day on, Sextus had followed Titus' example and had been following his example whenever he could, ever since. That conversation was in Scribonius' mind as he watched now, with Pullus' hand clutching the blade of the Wa sword, then seeing the Wa's expression begin to change, as his level of effort to retrieve his sword increased. Pullus was still looking at the barbarian, still unmoving, his hand perfectly immobile as well, hard up against his body. Scribonius was certain that the barbarian general, knowing the eyes of all of his men were on him, at first didn't want to appear to be exerting himself, but now he gave up all pretense of ease to begin yanking at the sword with what had to be tremendous force. Yet, not only did Pullus still hold the sword, but Scribonius saw that with every jerk by the Wa, the Roman’s arm barely moved—even more evidence of his friend's massive strength. Still, Scribonius knew firsthand how sharp these bastards' swords were, so Pullus' hand had to be paying a terrible price, as the Wa continued trying to remove the blade. Even as this thought came to Scribonius, he saw the first trickle of blood running down Pullus' arm from his palm.
At that same instant, he also noticed something else: Pullus' sword, which he had been holding with the point toward the ground, began moving, making very tiny circles. Scribonius felt a grim, cautious smile come to his face, having seen that small motion many, many times before, although the times he had seen it, he hadn't appreciated it very much. Just as with the exercises, which Pullus continued religiously, he never stopped training with his sword, and his most frequent sparring partner was his best friend. Not once, not ever had Scribonius beaten his friend, but he was immensely proud of the fact that on a total of four occasions over the years, he had battled his Primus Pilus to a draw. But every other time, Scribonius had been forced to take his lumps, and the only reason he did was that he knew if he could last any length of time with Pullus, he stood an excellent chance of walking away from every battle he ever fought. The times he knew he was in trouble, however, came when he saw the same thing he was seeing now: Pullus making those tiny little circles with his blade, because it meant that he was toying with his opponent, that he had taken his foe's measure and now was just going to enjoy himself. Titus Pullus wasn't a cruel man, necessarily, but he never wanted to leave any doubt in any man's mind who the best swordsman in the Roman army was.
Now, Scribonius understood, he was about to make this Wa pay, even if Pullus was mortally wounded, which was a thought Scribonius tried to banish the moment it crossed his mind. Oblivious to what was about to happen, the Wa, for the first and last time in his long career, as illustrious and admired by his own countrymen as Pullus was, let his pride get the better of him. Infuriated by this...this grubworm, who refused to know when he was dead, and had the effrontery to think that he couldn't even retrieve his own sword, the Wa put every bit of his strength into his effort, finally deigning to grasp the hilt with his other hand as well. As he did so, he continued staring into the giant grubworm's eyes, satisfied that at least his face was streaming sweat and was even paler than the barbarians were normally. The giant's jaws were clenched, and despite himself, the Wa general felt a surge of respect, as his foe resolutely refused to cry out. He couldn't even fathom the pain the barbarian was feeling, and the nagging thought crossed his mind that perhaps these grubworms weren't really human, but just resembled men the way some animals looked similar, but weren't the same. Finally, the giant's mouth opened after a particularly vicious jerk of the sword, and the Wa took a savage delight in the idea that at least he would force a howl of pain from this thing. Instead, he heard a string of gibberish that he was sure only his dogs would understand.
"You don't really think that you can defeat us, do you? That you could defeat me?" Pullus asked, even as he knew that the barbarian had no idea what he was saying.
But it wasn't his purpose to be understood; his goal was something else entirely. He saw the corners of his enemy's one visible eye crinkle in puzzlement, as the Wa barbarian tried to decipher what Pullus was saying, and Pullus watched, wondering if he would die, before he saw what he was looking for.
"Your mother's a whore, and I swear after I kill you that I'm going to find your family and fuck your wife, and kill your children," Pullus hissed through clenched teeth, and this time, while the Wa didn't understand his words, there was no mistaking the menace in the tone.
The Wa, wanting to make sure that this grubworm knew who had taken his life, opened his mouth to tell this arrogant barbarian his name and ancestry.
He never saw the sword. Even Scribonius, who had just divined what was about to happen, didn't see anything more than a silver blur. One instant, Pullus' sword was pointed at the dirt, still making the little circles, then the point was aimed almost skyward, glistening with blood, brain matter, and pieces of skull. Just like Pullus' left hand was still hard up against his body, now his right hand was almost pressed against the barbarian's open mouth, separated only by the handguard of the sword. The Wa general's eyes, or at least the one that Scribonius could see clearly, was opened wider than he had ever seen from any of these barbarians, such was the man's surprise and shock, the last emotions he would ever experience. That tableau was frozen into Scribonius' mind: Pullus, still grasping the Wa sword embedded in his shoulder, his right arm straight out but slightly lowered, because of the Wa's shorter stature, and the man who Scribonius had been sure had killed his best friend dangling from his friend's sword. The Wa general's body had gone slack, and even as strong as Pullus was, the dead weight of the body dragged his arm down, but still Pullus stood for a couple of heartbeats longer, holding a dead man on his sword, and surrounded by a sudden and almost total silence.
Then, he dropped his sword arm, kicked the dead man off his blade, and, still clutching the sword, turned and took a few staggering steps, before going to his knees. Only then did the silence break, as it was now the turn of the 10th Legion to roar their defiance and exultation and the Wa to howl in despair. Accompanying the sudden sound, there was a burst of movement, as the fighting immediately resumed, but this time, it was the Romans rushing forward, throwing themselves at the Wa, who seemed to be in a collective state of shock that allowed scores of Legionaries to make their easiest kills of the entire battle. Sextus Scribonius was oblivious to all of that, and, in fact, completely forgot his duties, as he sprinted to his friend's side, who at that moment was being surrounded by his men in a protective cordon, while one of the first Legionaries to his side knelt beside his Primus Pilus. Scribonius was there an instant later, his heart pounding not from exertion, but from fear of what he would find. Pullus was still kneeling, but only because now two men, one on either side, were holding him up, while the giant Roman's head was bowed, his eyes closed.
"Titus," Scribonius gasped, as he slid to a stop and dropped to his knees, his good hand reaching out for his friend's shoulders. As he did so, he snapped at one of the other kneeling men, "What are you sitting there for? Go get a medicus! NOW!"
Turning his attention back to Pullus, he saw that his friend's eyes were still closed, and Scribonius was too scared to feel for a pulse. Instead, he called his friend's name again, and again. Finally, with a shaking hand, Scribonius reached up to place two fingers on his friend's neck. It was at that moment that Scribonius heard the same blast from the cornu that Porcinus had, with much the same reaction. However, it stayed his hand, as he looked over his shoulder, sure that he was hearing things. Then, the horn sounded again. And Titus Pullus opened his eyes.
Hardly believing their luck, Felix and the men of the two leading Cohorts managed
to close to within a hundred paces at a fast trot, before they were noticed by some of the men at the rear of the Wa formation. Keeping the same pace for a handful of heartbeats more, Felix then called a halt to his men, when they were just a matter of thirty paces away.
"Prepare javelins!"
Arms along the line of Centuries swept back in a rippling motion, each hand clutching a javelin, the points tilted skyward, followed by a pause no longer than a couple of heartbeats.
"Release!"
The air filled with the missiles, but although every man still had his other javelin, Felix made the decision to forego a second volley, and even as the missiles were still in the air, he was shouting an order.
"Charge! For Caesar!"
Consequently, the Wa of the surprise attack force had almost no chance. Little more than a handful of the Wa in the rear ranks managed to form a ragged and thin line facing Felix and the two Cohorts as they slammed into the packed mass of barbarians, cutting them down without mercy. The sudden eruption of the noise of Legionaries roaring at the tops of their lungs was the first thing that alerted the Wa immediately next to the wall of this new threat, and many of them whirled around just in time to see their comrades slaughtered. Suddenly faced with the choice of trying to continue their assault on the camp or face this new and more immediate threat, almost every Wa in the attacking force, with no order to that effect having been given, turned to face the onrushing Legionaries. Roaring out their rage, the Romans very quickly cut their way deep into the tightly packed Wa, but after the initial shock, the barbarian warriors swiftly threw themselves into this fight with as much fervor as their foes. This was understandable; the least savvy of these Wa understood that, while they had no idea how it had happened, the situation had changed and they were now fighting not just for victory, but for their survival.