I had not realized how fatigued I was, but when I turned to speak to Vibius I found that no words came because I did not have the breath yet. Finally, I gasped, “That was a close one, neh?”
Vibius was holding onto the harness of the man in front of him and did not answer, keeping his eyes straight ahead, his face flushed with what I guessed was more than effort. He seemed to be embarrassed and I tried to tell him it was of no matter, yet he refused to speak so, irritated, I turned my attention back to what was going on. Advancing across the clearing to the edge of where the first round huts that comprised the beginnings of the town were located, we rejoined the rest of the Century as the Pilus Prior took charge again. We took a moment to collect ourselves and look around; the wall was now breached, and we could see the other Centuries moving down the dirt streets, heading towards the center of the town.
“All right, boys,” called the Pilus Prior, “we head down that street,” he indicated a dirt track winding in between the rows of cottages that seemed to head in the direction we needed to go. “Keep tight, stay sharp, and by the gods, watch the alleys and spaces between these cacheaps. These bastards are regrouping somewhere, but they probably left some men behind to hold us up.”
With that admonition ringing in our ears, we began moving down the track, pushing our way into the town. Moving past the first of the native huts like we were ordered, we kept our eyes open for any stragglers or ambushes. Instead of a threat, we saw the women and children of the warriors fighting us and whose fate was being decided as they sat, huddled in abject terror and fear. The sobbing and cries of them as we moved down the muddy street could clearly be heard, and despite knowing that they brought this fate on themselves, I felt my heart lurch at the sights and sounds. We did not run into any resistance, the remnants of the defenders apparently deciding to form up for a last stand somewhere ahead. Although the town was not yet taken, we could already hear the sounds of a city that falls by the sword. It has been a custom since the gods only know when that a town that resists leaves themselves open to the complete destruction and sacking of it. Nothing is safe; no property and no person, and we could already hear some of the Legionaries in the other Cohorts begin taking what was now theirs before the fight was finished.
Pilus Prior Crastinus heard it too, and commanded, “If one of you cunni take so much as a crust of bread until you’re told, I'll personally flog you until there's nothing left but a bunch of bloody meat, understand?” We responded, and he finished, “Just because those bastards don’t have any discipline it doesn’t mean that we're going to be like them. The Second Cohort isn’t a bunch of fucking rabble, got it?”
Again we answered, except I could plainly hear the bitterness and disappointment in some of the men’s voices. Since I never participated in the sacking of a town before, I had no idea what to expect, and therefore did not know that I was missing anything, nor did any of my comrades who were tiros. Approaching the town center, we heard the clash of arms from other Cohorts running into resistance before reaching the large clear spot that served as their market and assembly area. It was not dissimilar to my town of Astigi, despite the fact it had not been Romanized, making it more native in appearance than Roman. Smoke was beginning to curl up from different parts of the town where the Legionaries had started putting things to the torch. Forming up just at the edge of the town center, we waited for the rest of the Cohort to join up, and they came streaming out behind us, spreading out in a single line. Facing us, about 150 paces away, were the remnants of the defense, perhaps 500 men all told, many of them clearly already wounded. This time there was not a lot of their screeching and jumping about, just a grim silence as they awaited their fate, except we were just as silent, from our training and discipline, but also from the deep seated belief that the end was inevitable and Rome’s army would be victorious once again. While we waited, the Pilus Prior ordered each of the section leaders to do a head count of their tent section, which was quickly done.
“Anyone seen what happened to Didius and Vellusius?” Calienus asked us.
“I saw Vellusius go down before we got to the wall,” Remus replied. Glancing back at Scribonius from my place in the rank ahead, he responded with a shake of the head. “I didn’t see it,” he said quietly.
“What about Didius?”
Atilius spoke up from his spot two ranks ahead of his normal spot, “I saw him fall off the ladder when we were coming down, but then I got busy.”
This drew a laugh from us, the sound carrying over to our enemies, and I clearly saw the anger and humiliation on their faces, since I am sure they thought we were laughing at them. That we were doing so at all, no matter what the reason, clearly rattled them a great deal and I have seen such things many times since. It is part of the Roman mystique, if you will; the fact that we can laugh when death is all around is no small feat, and is yet another reason why we are so feared. What kind of man is it who laughs in death’s face instead of shrinking back when it looks at him? I was worried about Vellusius, though it is probably not surprising that I did not have the same feelings for Didius. His death would remove a source of worry on my part, but I was not to be that lucky.
Once the butcher’s bill was tallied, we were ordered forward once more, and this time we possessed no javelins to launch. No more than a third of a watch had passed since we assaulted the walls, and I hoped that we would be finished soon, looking forward as I was to what was about to happen once we were turned loose on this town. First though, we had to take care of this business and I turned my attention back to the problem at hand. Once we were about 50 paces away, we were halted to have our lines dressed. To our right, arrayed in the same manner were four Cohorts of the 8th Legion, compared to our five Cohorts, a total of about 2,500 men to maybe 500, and of those 500 many of them were already wounded. Primus Pilus Favonius moved to the front of the line where he could be seen, not only by us but by the Primus Pilus of the 8th. Next to him was his cornicen, who blasted the signal to prepare for assault, causing a ripple of movement as we crouched down and got ready. Glancing over, I saw that the 8th’s Primus Pilus was holding his sword in the air in the same manner as Primus Pilus Favonius, both of them watching each other. The moments passed, then the 8th’s Primus Pilus, obviously deciding that the tension was raised to the sufficient level, swept his arm down, followed an instant later by Favonius. Even as the cornicen blew the signal for the attack as well, the sound was almost drowned out by our roar as we began the charge. Adding my voice, I ran forward, following my comrades as the distance closed rapidly. The Lusitani apparently had decided to stand and meet the charge, rather than try to countercharge to create their own momentum, always a mistake. So much of what happens in a battle hangs on that first collision and standing still is a foolish, or desperate, thing to do. Slamming into the Lusitani, the clash by now a familiar sound to me, it was still difficult to listen to the cries and screams of wounded and dying men. Ignoring those feelings, I held on to the back of the harness of the man in front of me as we settled into the rhythm of battle. Now that we were reunited and working as a Century again, we listened for the Pilus Prior’s whistle, so I moved up at each blast, until I was next to go. When the whistle sounded for my turn I waited for the Legionary in front to push off, then stepped in to see that there were perhaps 300 men left, with a number of bodies lying at my feet and along our front. The man I relieved did a good job because the Lusitani he was facing still had not recovered his balance, so I finished him with a quick thrust. There seemed to be a renewed energy in the Lusitani, except it was that of desperation, the courage of men for who all hope is gone and all that is left for them is to die well. When the next warrior I faced came screaming at me, I noticed that he was one of the few I had seen to that point who was fully armed and armored. On his head was a high conical bronze helmet, and he wore the same kind of armor that I saw on the man who slew the Tribune, a series of scales made of bronze overlapping each other, but unlike the leader, his armor was tarnished and had some scales missing. Carrying the long sword and customary shield, he was somewhat darker than the men around him, his face smeared with blood, and I wondered whose it was as he came at me, immediately trying to take my head from my shoulders in a single blow. I took it on the shield instead, but the impact was fierce; this man was the strongest I had faced to this point. It did at least answer whose blood it probably was on his face, that idea fueling my desire to end him and wreak vengeance. As he recovered, I smashed him with my shield, expecting the same reaction that I experienced before, except this man met me boss to boss, blocking the blow, although it sent him back a step. This surprised me, and I told myself not to take this man lightly because he possessed the most skill and strength of anyone I had met in this first battle. For the next few moments we both bashed at each other, desperately seeking an opening, me for a thrust, him for a slash, but neither of us finding one. Finally we stopped, glaring at each other, panting like dogs on a hot summer day and cursing each other in our own tongue. Because I was younger I recovered more quickly, but just as I moved towards him, the whistle blew again and I cursed my luck. One more time that day, my pride was stung and I worried that he would not be around to finish our battle, so I pretended that I had not heard the whistle and kept moving forward. Instead of meeting me, he took a step back and I felt some grim satisfaction as I closed the distance; obviously he had learned that I was not one to be trifled with.