"She'll be singing a different song right quick," Caecina said, although if he said anything more I do not know, because I leaned back and kicked the door open, the wood around the flimsy lock splintering as it burst inward, but I was already moving into the room with my sword drawn.

That was the moment when the cornicen of the Tenth sounded the call, telling us we were under attack.

Because of my kicking in the door, all three men had spun about and were facing in my direction. Mela and Geta were closest to me, but since they had already shed their harnesses, both of their swords were lying at their feet. The pair bent down in a frantic attempt to retrieve them, except I had already begun moving towards them and they had no chance. More accurately, I did not actually make the two steps towards them; the instant the cornu sounded, we all froze. Nevertheless, I still had the advantage because my sword was already out, although frankly, I forgot I was holding it. Burned into my mind even now is the scene before me; both Geta and Mela were still bent over, yet while their look of shocked surprise, along with a satisfying level of fear was still there, their eyes were focused not on me but in the general direction of where the call had come from outside the house. Meanwhile, Caecina was similarly like a statue, although he was in an even more ludicrous posture because he had shed his harness and his segmentata, while his bracae were down around his ankles, his hard prick jutting out from underneath his tunic, which he had pulled above his waist. He was staring in my direction as well, but along with the surprise, his rage was easy to read, even in the poor light of the single lamp on the table behind him. Honestly, I only noticed the three men in terms of whether they posed an immediate threat; once I saw they were not, only then did my eyes move to the pallet on the floor where the girl was lying. Her shift had been pulled up, exposing her lower body, but her legs were pressed tightly together and I saw no blood on the pallet or on her, sending a flood of relief through me. My first thought was wondering why she was not taking the opportunity to leap to her feet, but then I saw her hands tied above her head, the end of the thong lashed around one of the vertical pillars that supported the roof of the building. What made this odd scene even stranger was that, aside from the cornu call, the sounds made by the girl and our breathing, inside the room, it was completely silent for the first ten heartbeats or so.

"What," Caecina's voice finally broke the spell, "the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

"I'm getting my prisoner." I tried to sound matter of fact, but I felt the tremor in my voice, hoping it was just me who heard it.

I must give Caecina credit; he did try to assert his authority in a forceful manner, snarling, "When are you going to learn, Gregarius? I fucking outrank you and I'm giving you an order, right now, to get the fuck out of here and mind your own fucking business!"

His words actually had the opposite effect of what I knew he was intending because I had a secret ally in that moment.

"You're not in uniform, Sergeant." Personally, I thought using my sword to point at his rapidly softening member was a nice touch that sent its own message. "It's hard to take you seriously when you're waving your prick at me."

It did not take much light to see his face flush, but when he opened his mouth to say something, while I was actually interested in his rejoinder, before he could say anything, the cornu sounded the call again.

"And it sounds like we have other business to attend to," I reminded them.

Closing his good eye – I suppose this was the first time I noticed his bad eye did not actually close – he snarled a curse, although he was pulling up his bracae and dropping his tunic as he did so. Seeing that he was getting himself properly attired, I turned my attention to the other two men, but when Geta picked up his harness and tried to draw his sword in one motion, I was close enough that I all I had to do was extend my arm to put the tip of my sword under his chin. Naturally, this got his attention, but I did not speak, just shaking my head instead, which was enough. Seeing he had gotten the message, I returned my attention to other matters.

"We need to get moving," I commented.

"Agreed," Caecina said, and I heard the clanking sound of his segmentata being picked up off the floor. "We can finish this later."

"Oh, it's finished now," I replied, but as I instantly discovered, I was wrong.

I had made a mistake, perhaps understandable but no less an error. While my eyes remained on the pair of Geta and Mela, my ears told me Caecina was behaving as I expected by retrieving his armor. Unfortunately, my ears were deceived. Although I was still looking at the other two, I sensed Caecina moving in my direction, yet when I turned my head to look at him, my sword was still extended, just inches from Geta's face. However, confronting me was essentially the same view Geta had, as the point of Caecina's sword was hovering about the same distance from my own face. In my glance, I saw that while he had picked up his segmentata, he was still holding it in his left hand, apparently deciding he could don it in a moment, after he had neutralized me as a threat.

"Now," he said, "as much as I hate to say it, Pullus is right. We have to hurry. But," I believe the smile he gave was meant for me, because it contained a promise of cruelty, "once we're through with whatever's going on, we're coming back here. And," he paused, his smile vanishing and his good eye glittered with undisguised malice, "we're going to finish what we started."

Before he finished, I heard the hissing sound of another blade being drawn, telling me that I was outnumbered, and for the moment, outmaneuvered.

"Good thing she's tied up." Mela tried to sound cheerful, as if relating an interesting piece of news. "We wouldn't want her wandering off."

Now faced with two blades, the trio used them to back me out of the house, and although I kept my sword extended as well, I made no attempt to resist. While Mela and Geta herded me back out onto the street, Caecina disappeared back inside and I gasped at the thought he was actually going to go ahead and rape the girl. Thankfully, he just blew out the lamp, bathing the room in darkness, and with the girl's whimpers becoming shouts for help, at least so I supposed, he joined us outside.

"Now, let's go see what's what," Caecina said calmly, then without waiting for me to respond, he turned and began running in the direction of the common area with Geta and Mela on his heels.

Suddenly, I was given an opportunity, except I believe Caecina knew me better than I would have liked, because his actions demonstrated a confidence that I would not be willing to risk the extra delay it would take to go back in, fumble around in the darkness, and cut the girl loose. Especially, I thought bitterly, when I could be sure that if I was not with Caecina and the others, my Sergeant would take advantage of my tardiness, telling Asinius or Urso some story I knew I would not like. Cursing bitterly, I began running after them, thankful once more for my longer legs and stride that enabled me to catch up with them before they reached the end of the block. The streets we were running down had men from the other Cohorts also sprinting to the common area, where our shields, javelins, and packs were grounded in our normal formation so we would all know instantly where they were. Once we reached the southern edge of the common area, the scene before us was one of total chaos and confusion as men were scrambling from all over the town to reach their gear, while only about half of the standard-bearers were in their spots by this point. The darkness did not help, as men collided with each other or tripped on some unseen hazard. Making matters worse, the prisoners had come to their feet, for the first time showing something more than the apathy of the defeated and for whom a life of slavery was a certainty. Ironically enough, the first indication I got of what was happening was when I noticed the prisoners all looking in the same direction towards the western wall. Following their gaze, it took a moment for my eyes to pick up the movement, and a longer one to make sense of it, but when I finally did, I felt myself stagger a step backward. At three different locations, I could see men not wearing our uniform on the parapet, spreading in both directions from what I correctly assumed were the ladders they had brought with them. Even as I struggled to comprehend this, I saw one of my comrades in the Tenth turn to face the swarming Varciani in one direction, only to be cut down from behind. Without any wasted motion and before his body had toppled to the ground from the parapet, enemy warriors were dropping off it onto the muddy street that followed the wall, instantly disappearing from our sight behind the houses of the town.

"By the gods, where did they come from?" Lutatius gasped, having just run from where he had been helping combat the fire.

"First Century, First Cohort, on me! Rally to me!"

It was difficult, yet I managed to tear my eyes away from the wall, but fortunately, my gaze did not travel far, and it was with a sense of relief that I saw that it was Urso, with Capulo and Varo next to him, standing at the southwestern edge of the common area. Just the sight of them standing there, as if for a morning formation, was extremely comforting, and no matter what my feelings for the man were, I realized there was no other Centurion I would rather have as my commander at a moment like what was happening then, and I did not hesitate as I ran at full speed, carrying my shield and javelins. Nor was I the only one; I sensed the rest of my comrades running alongside me as we more or less aligned ourselves while we were still hurrying to stand next to Urso.

As I skidded to a stop, panting from the dash and all that was taking place, Urso glanced over at me, yet despite what was about to happen, he grinned at me and shouted over the noise, "Pullus! You ready to have some fun and make your father proud?"

Pretending it was only because I was still breathless, I merely nodded, although I made sure I grinned back. Considering how scattered our Cohort was, I do not think we ever formed up faster than we did that night. Because they were guarding the prisoners, the Fourth actually formed up next to us, although they were missing two Centuries who were charged with herding the prisoners to the eastern edge of the common area. Their job was made harder by the fact that, more than most of them had shown while being made captive, the prisoners began resisting, stubbornly standing their ground and forcing their guards to shove them backward. Naturally, this was not done quietly, and the shouts of angry defiance from behind us did not help steady my nerves and, judging from my comrades, theirs either. I only had one last chance to glance to the right, where even then the other Cohorts were scrambling to get into a semblance of a line. Very quickly, I understood we were essentially formed up completely backward with us on the left of the single line, but because of the size of the town and its common area, we actually had six Cohorts in the first line instead of the normal four, although I did not learn this until later. Just as I turned my attention back to the front, I sensed a flurry of movement, coming up the street running from the wall to the edge of the common area directly in front of us. Where we were, positioned closer to the southern end, meant the main source of light from the fire to our right was the farthest away, making it impossible to tell much of anything other than some rolling black mass coming towards us. Otherwise, the only light came from the torches that had been placed around the area to provide us some light, along with the half moon. The roaring of the Varciani warriors seemed to be funneled by the houses of the street, making it feel like their howling rage was a palpable thing preceding their corporeal forms.

When it appeared they were about halfway down the street, Urso bellowed, "Prepare javelins!"

My arm, along with all the others, swept back but as we made ready, he shouted, "Only time for one volley, boys! Then straight to the sword!"

His last order was still being shouted when they burst from between the buildings that bordered the western edge of the common area, instantly becoming more clearly visible, their high, conical helmets reflecting back the fire that had already moved to the next block, while their axes, swords and spears were raised above their heads in preparation to come smashing down as they raced full speed at our line.

"Release!"

Putting all of my weight into the throw, like my comrades, I launched my missile in a flatter trajectory because of the shorter range, understanding that we did not have the luxury of whatever the force is that brings missiles down at an even greater speed when they are thrown in a higher arc. Even as my right leg swung forward to land in front of my left, caused by the momentum of putting all of my weight and strength into the throw, I was already drawing my sword. Even so, I barely had time to recover, returning to the proper first defensive position with my right foot behind the left but turned sideways to provide more support for the impact that was coming, while bracing my left elbow in the small hollow just above the hipbone, the proper position being even more important for me because of my weakened arm. As I was doing this, our javelins had slashed into the leading rank of Varciani and there were several screams or shouts, along with a noise like a hammer hitting a block of wood that sounded above their roaring. I got the sense of a seemingly invisible hand sweeping along their front, sending perhaps two dozen men stumbling or, in one case right in front of me, being hurled backward from the force of a particularly powerful throw. I thought it was probably mine but while our one and only volley delayed them for a heartbeat as men either leaped over their fallen comrades or tripped and fell themselves, the impetus from the men behind the leading rank continued pushing them towards us. Catching the barest glimpse of a face framed by a beard that was in plaits and decorated with tiny white pieces I knew were supposed to be the knuckle bones of the men he had slain, my eyes were more focused on the sword raised above his head that was already sweeping down while he was still a couple paces away.

WHAM!

His shield crashed into mine as he did something I had rarely seen from a barbarian, using it in an offensive manner, punching it at me in the same fashion in which we are trained. However, he used his shield this way in order to force me to commit my own to block him as his sword came cleaving down in an attempt to split me down the middle. It was an extremely cunning attack, one I instantly understood would have a devastating effect; if, that is, I had been an average-sized Roman. But I suppose because of the dim lighting, or because he had simply not noticed how large I was, he had aimed his blow so the greatest force from his blade would strike where he assumed I would be after he had driven me backward at least one, or more likely two steps. Except that, although I did rock back, my rearward foot only slid perhaps an inch or two and that was all. At the same time, I bent slightly at the waist to my left while tilting my head so that the barbarian's sword, made in the style normally favored by the barbarians of Gaul and Germania, slammed down on my right shoulder plate. Make no mistake, it was a powerful blow, but as I had learned the year before, the segmentata is superior to the hamata in every way, with the exception it is more difficult to twist one's torso. But where the segmentata distinguishes itself is in the fact that there are not one, but four plates, one overlapping another, with the outermost extending out a few inches past most men's shoulders, although not as much with my size. However, most importantly, the designers of the segmentata curve the innermost plate slightly, not only to follow the contour of the shoulder, but it makes the plate lying on top of it extend from the first one at a slight angle, which is repeated the same way through the fourth and final plate. What this does is create a small gap between each plate that helps absorb the shock much better than the hamata because, although with the hamata, the shoulders are reinforced with another layer of mail, there is no gap, nor does mail have the slight springiness of a metal plate. Add to that the fact that since I had not actually been shoved backward, the part of his sword blade that struck me was no more than two feet from the pommel of his blade. It hurt, truly enough, but I actually was in greater danger when his blade rebounded from the blow; I swore I felt the kiss of the blade although that is not likely because my helmet protruded the width of one of my fingers past my ear and the barbarian's sword did not strike it. But unfortunately for him, even as his blade was bouncing off my shoulder, which did wrench a gasp from my lips from the shock of the impact, my own sword, blade turned parallel to the ground as we are trained, was punching forward from the third position. The point snaked behind his shield, which was still trapped against mine as we both pushed against each other with all of our might. The shock of the impact, as my blade struck what the detached part of my mind now recognized as the type of armor made of overlapping bronze scales, traveled up my arm, but even with his bulk against me, I managed to turn my hips in a move that coincided with the point puncturing the scales of his armor, helping me drive the blade deep into his body just beneath his ribs. I did not need much light to see the man's eyes open wide in shock and pain, but when I twisted, then ripped the blade across his front, his shrill shriek of an agony I hope I never have to endure almost shattered my eardrums. My right hand, which I had taken the time to clean off from my kill earlier in the day, was drenched once more in a warm shower of blood and offal, then when I gave a hard shove with my shield, the warrior fell away, the only resistance coming from his dead weight. Before my mind's eye could comprehend, my body took over as I recovered my shield but dropped it slightly as, before the first warrior had fully collapsed at my feet, the point of a spear slammed into it.

This time, because I was in a slightly awkward position, I was pushed backward and, for a horrifying instant, my feet threatened to trip over themselves as they scrabbled to gain traction, and with the help of the man behind me providing support, somehow I managed to resume my defensive position while the warrior recovered his spear. This man was easier to pick out because his hair matched the red of the flames, and while he wore his hair in two braids, his head was protected by yet another of the older Roman helmets. Fortunately, this was no longer the distraction it had been when we first encountered them, but while this spear-wielding barbarian was wearing one of our helmets, his armor, although mail, was the longer Gallic style that hung down to the knees even after it was belted. He carried an oblong shield with the notch at either end that I had learned was used to rest his spear on when in the defense, yet like most other barbarians, rather than lashing out with it, he kept it close to his body as his spear arm recovered. I got the barest sense of Avitus standing next to me, furiously engaged, but that was all the time I had as with a deft movement, the warrior changed the grip on his spear and thereby gave himself more options with which to launch his next attack. Once more, I was bothered by the idea we were on the defensive, yet I was sufficiently cautious that I did not go on the attack, and forced myself to remain that way. With a speed aided by the dimmer lighting so my eye could not easily track it my foe made a thrust, once more aiming low, and honestly, I was fooled into dropping my shield again. However, it was a feint, albeit a hard one, but still a decoy move that got me to drop my shield, whereupon he instantly shifted his point of attack, aiming a thrust right at my chest. Again, my mind was behind my body, for which I am eternally thankful since my sword arm made a sweeping motion upward in an almost perfect blocking maneuver that forced the point of his spear to go high and over my right shoulder. I say "almost" because the cutting edge of my blade was not at the right angle to slice through the shaft, a move that few men have the strength to perform; I do, which meant it was an opportunity lost. As it was, I got the barest satisfaction from shaving some wood from his shaft; however, whittling his weapon down until it was no longer a threat was not a prospect I savored. Nevertheless, I did not take an offensive step forward; the man of the Second Section when we were in our open formation, Sextus Fronto, still had a grasp on my harness and he had complained more than once about my tendency to drag him along as an unwilling participant in my private battles. Usually, he just relinquished his grip, except this time, I did not make him face the choice, content to only shield-punch my enemy, who was just stepping forward to launch a third attack. The boss of my shield met the outer edge of his oblong one, but with more force than I had originally planned because of his own momentum coming at me. Fortunately, the power behind my shield was enough and it hit at just the right angle to knock the shield out of his hand; to his credit, however, this did not stop him from his attack. When I reflected on the moment later, I recognized that, in fact, he did the only thing he could by trying to keep me on the defensive. My blow caused his shield to go spinning violently away from him, yet I was only vaguely aware when it caused another warrior some difficulty as he tried to dodge it, because at that same instant, my foe was launching a hard underhanded thrust, trying to get below my shield. Rather than just drop my arm, and because my arm was still supported by my body directly behind it, I brought the shield down, hard. Not only did I block his thrust, the point of the spear burying itself several inches into the dirt, I heard a satisfying crack as the strip of metal on the bottom edge of my shield broke the warrior's shaft. As one might expect, he had focused all his energy and attention on this thrust, his last chance to kill me, meaning he did not even see my blade that, as close to simultaneously as I believe possible, plunged deeply into his left eye just as his shaft was snapped. Most often, when a man suffers a deathblow to the brain, it is as if the bones of the man just vanish, and this was the case here as my arm was pulled down by the instantly dead weight. There was no need to twist the blade, and I instantly recovered, pulling my sword back behind my shield. Yet, even as I did this my shield was moving from its low blocking position upward, just in time to catch another thrust, except in a slightly unusual event, this one came from a sword.

Over the top of my shield, I saw another warrior wearing a Roman helmet, except this man was also wearing what I now knew was an old hamata. Even more disturbing was his choice of weapon; while not quite as short as our own, and slightly curved, it still had a needle point and both sides of the blade were sharpened. As unsettling as that may have been, the fact this man was wielding the weapon in a manner that any Roman would recognize was even more so. In the quick glimpse I got, I saw he was older, with streaked hair, although instead of a beard, he wore a long, drooping mustache. For the next several heartbeats, we were locked in our own private battle, one where, although the ears hear the crashing din of a hard fight and all around the edge of one's vision, the flurry of movement is noticed, the only focus is on your immediate opponent. As I had learned, both to my benefit and detriment, such a narrow focus can be dangerous, yet this is the one area in which the Legions of Rome have an enormous advantage, because I had ultimate trust in Avitus, as he did in me. To my right, Flaccus had jammed his standard into the ground and was wielding his own sword with deadly effect; at least, this was the impression I got and it was a sense I had learned to trust. This was the reason why I was able to focus on killing my foe, waiting for the right moment when he gave me an opening I could exploit. Yet, although one can wear Roman armor and carry a sword that is like ours, and even use it as a stabbing rather than a slashing weapon, it is still a far cry from being a Legionary. Regardless, I instantly understood why this man was older, because he was careful not to overcommit himself and he was skilled in the use of his sword, the point of it flickering at me from first one angle, then another, my left arm already tiring in another sign that it was not yet mended. Then, when he was recovering from what would be his last attack, I saw his shield drop just a bit; I did not hesitate and I believe this thrust was as quick as they always were, yet he still managed to bring his shield up so the top of it struck my blade, deflecting it upward. Consequently, instead of punching into his chest, my blade sliced into the side of his face as I sensed the slight grating feel of the iron against his cheekbone, sending forth a spray of blood that looked black in the darkness, along with something my eye saw yet took an instant for my mind to recognize as part of the man's ear falling onto his mailed shoulder, where it lay just for an eyeblink as he staggered back with a cry of pain. In one of those odd little moments, I remember seeing the top half of his ear immediately slide off his shoulder when he recoiled from the pain of my thrust, shaking his head violently. My last glimpse of him was when he stumbled and fell down, only to have another warrior step over him to take his place. It was not a kill, I chided myself, except I was already looking at the man who had taken the earless warrior's place and was at that instant raising an axe, except not over his head as normal, but coming from a three-quarter angle. Before I could face him, however, over the roaring noise of the fight came the shrill blast of a bone whistle; Urso was sounding the relief. Reacting immediately as we are trained, since the axe-wielding Varciani had not yet stepped close enough, I did not need to push him off, so immediately, I took a quick step to my left, sensing Fronto's presence as he stepped into my vacated spot. In the Fourth Cohort, I had been trained to step to the left, or inside the formation before moving to the back of the line; Urso trained us differently, so that every file stepped to the right. While he never explained why, I believe it was based on the idea that the man stepping into my vacated spot would have at least partial coverage from my shield as he set himself. This night, however, I stepped to the left, but for a reason; right after the whistle blew, I had seen Avitus was in no position to push his opponent away because the barbarian across from him was bashing down on my comrade's shield with a huge club, and I immediately saw why this Varciani used such a weapon. This warrior was one of the few I had seen who matched me in size and obviously strength, except he lacked any technique other than raw, brute power as he swung the club down, trying to dash Avitus' brains out. Also, I suppose because of his strength, this warrior's shield was broader across than normal, meaning that while Avitus was successfully blocking the blows with his own shield, he was not given a chance to either use it to shove the man back or use it to attack. Neither could he employ his sword offensively because the breadth of the warrior's shield would require a third position attack that came from an even wider angle than normal. This was why I took my step to the left instead of my normal right, pivoting slightly as I did so, a dangerous thing to do because it exposed my weak side to an opportunistic enemy. I did so despite the peril because I had just seen my comrade's knees buckle, along with the telltale cracking sound from his shield. Consequently, that meant taking a risk, so as I pivoted and in essentially the same motion, I lunged forward one step with my right foot while thrusting my sword out. If I had been on the training ground, in all likelihood, I would have gotten a smack from Urso's vitus because I overextended myself, which is one of the most fundamental mistakes Tirones make. Nevertheless, in the instant of time I had, it was the only way to save Avitus from having his brains spilled onto the dirt, and while I could not put more than the power of my arm into it, I accomplished what I had hoped. For the second time, I did not achieve a kill, but the point of my blade sliced deeply into the huge warrior's shield arm just below the elbow, and even with the poor lighting, I saw the sudden spray of blood that happens when a major vessel is hit, the warrior's bellow of pain confirming I had scored a blow. Still, I did not press the advantage to finish the man off since that was not what I had set out to do. Instead, I grabbed Avitus, who was still down on one knee where he had been driven, trying to drag him backward out of the way by the back of his segmentata while holding my sword with my thumb and two fingers and dragging him with the other two. As might be imagined, I was not successful; thankfully, he had just needed the opportunity to regain his feet and he scrambled back upright before we both moved backward down the same file. Reaching the back of the line, I stepped into my spot to hold the harness of Volusio of the Tenth Section, still gasping for air and trying to decide if Urso had held to the normal interval of one hundred beats for each shift and it just seemed to be ten times longer, or if he had actually delayed for some reason. Judging by how quickly I was recovering my breath, and my overall level of fatigue, I decided it had been for the normal interval; because of the circumstances, it just seemed longer. Once I was more or less recovered, I glanced over at Avitus, who had grounded his shield to examine it, and I saw the firelight glint off his helmet as he shook his head.

"This thing is fucked," he said grimly.

"Well, I have a feeling before the night's through, you'll have plenty to choose from," I told him, although honestly, I had already begun doing what is an obsession for men in the ranks, and that is to look about and observe the overall situation, gathering as much information as one possibly can in order to have an idea of what fate has in store for them.

My one advantage was that because of my height, I could see farther, but of course, at night, this is not much help. Between the last time I had glanced at the fire when we were running to our spots in formation and when I observed it at that moment, I realized the light from it had grown so that it was visibly brighter, bringing me small comfort. Now at least three rows of houses were aflame, while the fire was moving slowly south, having crossed the first street to the next row. Outlined against the flames, I could see the entire Varciani force was now inside the walls, or so I assumed because while I was looking towards the wall, I did not see any more men emerge from one of the streets that led to it. From appearances, they were now all committed to the fight, a packed heaving mass of men extending for at least a hundred paces back towards the west wall from where their leading warriors were trying to crack our line. They were not neatly arrayed like us, instead jamming together like all barbarian tribes do, making it impossible to get an accurate count, even if it had been daylight. The whistle blew again and a few heartbeats later, Fronto appeared from the front, although he was on the outside as he was supposed to be, and I saw he had suffered a wound high on his arm just below the shoulder of his armor. Making him take his neckerchief off, I peered at the wound as he did so, but although it was bloody and a deep gash, it was more ugly than dangerous.

"The Primus Pilus must think he's Hector, the way he's fighting," Fronto gasped.

I realized I had forgotten to check to my right, more worried about Avitus at the moment, and I felt a twinge of guilt. However, I also knew Urso could handle himself, and he had Capulo, Flaccus, and Varo who, if required, would ground his horn and fight. The whistle sounded once more and we shuffled forward again as I kept my grip on Volusio's harness, although when more than five or six men deep, this is more a habit than a requirement. Then, before the whistle sounded again, he suddenly moved two paces forward, and while I followed without hesitation, when I leaned over to look up ahead, so did the other men of the file ahead of me, meaning I had to wait a couple heartbeats before I learned what happened.

"Proculus is down!"

Tiberius Proculus was in the Fourth Section, but as bad as the news was, I waited for him to be dragged backward by the men ahead of me, or to see him crawling back under his own power. When a man is wounded, if he is able, he will use the space between the files to take himself out of harm's way to reach the relative safety of the rear, where the medici are waiting and hopefully not overwhelmed. But if he is incapacitated, it is the responsibility of the second file, which an instant before had been the third, to ground his shield and pull the wounded man backward to the point where his comrade behind him can reach the man and repeat the process. Then there are the times when a man falls and there is no need to help him rearward, and, in fact, his body becomes an underfoot obstacle. After a moment, it became clear that Proculus was one of those; I offered a prayer that it had been quick and he was not one of the men howling in agony just a short distance ahead of me. Something I had learned while on my first campaign; during a man's last moments of life when he is in unbearable agony, the language these unfortunates speak is common to every fighting man, needing no translation. And the hope that one of those voices you hear does not belong to one of your comrades, that they have already crossed the river and are already at peace, is not much comfort. It is also a distraction that one cannot afford to dwell upon, so after offering up my short prayer for Proculus, I returned my entire attention to the moment. To my left, the other files were facing much the same, but in a Century of the First, our formation is so wide that, especially in the darkness, it is hard to keep track of which files are moving up more quickly than they should. As had happened with Proculus, men shouted when one of their comrades fell, but unless it happens within two or three files, with the noise of the fighting, it is almost impossible to hear names. And frankly, the closer to the front and your time to step back into the madness of the fight comes, the less you are aware of anything taking place more than a few feet away. I had found that, at least for me, by the time I was in the third rank, I shut out everything else that did not have a direct impact on my immediate future. My world shrank to a circle perhaps fifty feet across; everything outside of that was of no concern to me because, if there was a sudden breakthrough or change outside that circle, I would have time to react accordingly. The one thing I did notice was that the command group had shortened the distance to the formation, tightening their spacing so they were basically part of it, which was the most potent sign that we were being hard-pressed. Volusio was now second, meaning it actually took concentration and a fair amount of strength for me to keep hold of his harness as he struggled to maintain his own contact with Fibulanus of the Ninth Section. In many ways, being the second man is the most demanding because you are not only trying to provide physical support to the man doing the fighting by being ready to stop him if he is pushed backward, your second job is to make sure any enemy downed but not out of the fight stays down and is unable to make any trouble. Finally, the second man has to be ready to step immediately into the front rank before the relief sounds, in the event the man in the front rank falls before it is time to step aside. In that event, the third man, in the instant before he steps into the second spot, must be ready to grab his fallen comrade and either help him move to the rear, or if the man is unable to help himself, drag him at least until someone behind him can reach the wounded and continue the process. When this happens, there is a moment where the man in the first rank who has just stepped forward is unsupported and must be able to at least stand his ground without being bolstered. Not surprisingly, this is when a Century is at its most vulnerable, but as long as this is just happening in one file, it is not a problem and, being honest, even if it happens in two files simultaneously, if they are at opposite ends of the formation, it only makes matters a bit hectic if our enemy has their wits about them and tries to exploit it. But when it happens to men of two files that are either side by side, or separated at most by a file, this puts a Century in extreme peril against an experienced enemy. And that was exactly what happened to us, except there was one other factor that put us in even greater danger, the sudden appearance of an enemy who had sworn vengeance on our Primus Pilus, although we were not yet aware of that.

The events that put us in such danger happened so quickly that, despite the fact they occurred within my field of vision, it was impossible for my mind to sort out what happened first, or determine if they happened at the same time. It started when Fibulanus suddenly lurched backward but also to the right, into the narrow space between Flaccus and Volusio, dropping both shield and sword to clutch his throat, trying to stop the flow of blood, but although I could not see the spraying that is the sign of the severed major vessel, the way his hands turned black with blood so quickly told me the wound was mortal. Worse, Fibulanus' movement was so violent that it wrenched Volusio's grip from his harness, while it happened so quickly that Volusio had no time to draw his sword. However, he still had his shield in his hand, which should have bought him some time, but his fatal mistake was that he was understandably distracted by Fibulanus' plight, as I saw his head turning in the direction of our mortally wounded comrade. It was not for long and is the kind of reflex reaction most of us make when there is an unexpected or sudden movement to the side; his head was already turning back to the front and despite my eyes being fixed on his upper body, at the edge of my vision, I could see him reaching down for his sword. But tragically, that reaction gave enough time for the warrior across from him, the one who had presumably killed Fibulanus, who was just falling to his knees and still clutching his throat to my right front, to thrust his sword into Volusio's chest just above his shield. While my view was blocked, I felt Volusio's body violently spasm as he staggered backward with such force that, because I still had hold of his harness, I slid backward a step as well before I was caught myself by Fronto, who gave me a hard shove.

"Get back up there, Pullus!" he bellowed, either forgetting or not caring he was right behind me, and even with all that was happening, I remember wincing because my ears rang.

Nevertheless, it was exactly what I needed, although for an instant, I thought Volusio had actually just been staggered backward because he was still standing in front of me, but just as I reached out to grab his harness again, his body sagged and, although he did not completely lose his grip on his shield, he behaved as if it had become too heavy to hold in the right position.

"Volusio!" I shouted at him. "Lift your shield, you stupid bastard!"

Even if he heard me, it was too late; the words were not even out of my mouth when he shuddered again, except this time, he collapsed right in front of me. I let go of his harness, drawing my sword and lifting my own shield into position in the same movement. I still had not seen the warrior who had managed to kill two of my comrades in less than a half-dozen heartbeats, although what was more important in that instant was stepping over the body of Volusio to reclaim the ground that was lost. There is no real way to accurately convey how important something as seemingly simple as regaining what is in essence a patch of ground perhaps four feet square is, but within my small world, I saw that this incursion was potentially catastrophic to our Century. And, while I could not have articulated any of this in the moment, by extension, the collapse of a Century on the far flank of a formation has, more than once, led to the destruction of not just a Cohort, or Legion, but an army. I cannot say that any of this was in my mind; frankly, I was more concerned with not being at a disadvantage, and thanks to my long legs, I was able to step over the body of my comrade before my foe could claim the space Volusio had just occupied a moment before. In fact, it is probable Volusio was still falling over onto his side even as I moved, but he was dead; I was alive and determined not to be the man who allowed a wedge of flesh, iron, and hatred to split my Century apart. Still, although I moved quickly and was watching my foe over my shield, my attention was focused on the center of his body as we are trained; this makes it more difficult for them to make us overreact with a feint of a weapon or shield. Inevitably, however, it is impossible not to look up at a man's face, at least this is so for me. Nevertheless, when I determined that, for reasons I could only guess at but was happy was so, my foe had, in fact, not pressed the advantage he had created for himself, only then did I lift my gaze to his face, a gasp bursting from me in recognition. His appearance also gave the most likely explanation for his hesitation after slaying Volusio and Fibulanus; facial and head wounds bleed quite profusely, so I imagine the man whose face I had slashed, taking half his ear in the process, was feeling weaker than normal. Not lost on me, though, was the fact he had just dispatched two of my comrades, men of the First Cohort, our most experienced and best fighters. While this thought was certainly present in my mind, it was fleeting, quickly flushed away by a bitter realization. Because I had curbed my normal tendency of relentlessly engaging any foe who stood before me until I had proven in no uncertain terms who was the better man, and which, in combat, is the death of my enemy, I had unwittingly helped this man slay two of my comrades. Despite the fact that my lack of following up with this warrior when I faced him earlier and did not dispatch him was based in my desire to obey not only the letter but the spirit of our orders for once, it did nothing to quell the flood of harsh, helpless anger that I felt. Not even the sight of his bloody mess of a face, the entire left side of it looking like one of our own Roman generals celebrating a triumph, or that I could see his teeth gleaming dully from the reflected firelight as the lower part of his cheek drooped outward from where my sword had sliced him all the way from the corner of his mouth to where the top of his ear was missing gave me any satisfaction. His left eye was the only part of that side of his face clearly visible, but I believe it could have been the blackest night and I still would have seen the gleam of recognition in it when he saw me, as with an incoherent snarling sound I suppose was his attempt to hurl a curse at me, he followed his verbal assault with a physical one. I was no less eager, yet it was only partly due to the feeling of Volusio's dead weight pressing against my rear leg that told me I needed more space in which to move. In the eyeblink of time it took for us to hurl ourselves at each other, any idea of continuing to act only in a defensive manner was gone. Shield to shield we smashed into each other, the collision so tremendous I felt a mist of what I assume was the blood still pouring down his face spatter over my lower jaw and neck because of our height difference, and since my mouth was open, I felt the coppery taste of it. Yet, not only did I not find it repulsive, I reveled in this taste of the blood of my enemy, but I wanted even more. For a heartbeat, our faces were only inches from each other and I did not hesitate, whipping my head down with as much force as I could muster, aiming the iron strip of my helmet with as much precision as I could for his nose. Unfortunately, for one of the few times, my greater height did not help, although I connected hard enough that tiny sparks exploded behind my eyes. Regrettably, my head butt landed higher up on his helmet, although it still did damage; frankly, I am not sure if the ringing in my ears that happened at the same time was from the noise as our helmets slammed together or from the impact of the blow itself. What I did see, albeit in a somewhat altered way as the stars in my vision seemed to be falling downward out of view, but very slowly, was my foe staggering backward while shaking his head to clear it. Perhaps twenty heartbeats before I would have been content to stand there and allow this man to recover because I was fighting defensively, but not any longer.

Lunging forward, I broke Fronto's grasp, except this time instead of cursing me, I heard him calling above the din, "Gut that cocksucker, Pullus! He killed two of us!"

Although I did not need to be reminded of this, the detached part of my mind did appreciate that for once Fronto was cursing the enemy instead of me. My foe had arrested his backward movement but before he could set himself, I was on him, punching out with my shield first, determined to kill this man using the techniques that make us so rightly feared. You can wear Roman armor, you bastard, I vividly remember thinking with grim satisfaction, and you can even try to kill me like a Roman would, but I'm going to show you exactly what a real Roman can do. My punch, while not forcing him backward, did prevent him from settling down into his own defensive posture and I was resolved not to allow him to do so, subsequently launching the first of a series of thrusts and slashes. From first position, to third, followed by a slashing attack that did not land a killing blow, nor was it meant to, but it did slice open a nasty gash on his upper arm. Through all the noise of the fighting going on around us, I became aware of a strange, whistling sound I had never heard before I finally identified the source. The Varciani was panting for breath, but because his cheek was laid open, the air he was sucking into his lungs through the wound was making noise as it entered through an orifice that was radically altered by my sword. His eyes, which had been gleaming with a triumphant malice immediately after his second kill, now were reflecting his desperation, only fueling my determination. I shield punched once more, except this time, when he moved his own to block me, he was just a fraction of an instant slow, so that while our shields were aligned boss to boss, his was lower than it should have been, thereby giving me leverage from my boss being directly above his, and I did not hesitate. Fortunately, I had taken care to keep my arm within the plane of my body and while it hurt, the pain was bearable as I bore down, pushing downward on my shield. Even with half his features indistinguishable because of the mask of blood, I saw the fear in his eyes as he struggled to keep his shield from being forced lower. At the same time, I was thrusting over the top of my shield, trying to plunge my sword into his face from the second position, but he managed to deflect both of my thrusts with his own blade. By maintaining the pressure with my shield arm, the friction caused by my boss against his meant he could only retract his shield either with a violent effort or a sudden step backward and as experienced as he clearly was, he knew doing either one would be fatal. At the same time, I understood that, as veteran and obviously skillful as this warrior was, the trick of me suddenly relenting in the pressure on the shield would not work, although I briefly considered doing it before being forced to because my arm gave out since it was rapidly weakening. However, immediately after he parried my second thrust over the top of his shield, I feinted as if I was trying the same attack one more time. This is normally something no warrior of any experience would do, performing the same maneuver not just twice but three times in succession. Still, because of his fatigue, as I hoped, he reacted instantly. Bringing his sword up in a sweeping motion, I saw in that instant the despair as he recognized my third thrust was nothing but a feint. Granted, it was a hard one, but his blade was still in its up and outward arc as the point of my blade shot underneath it and just over the shield, I had just pushed downward. When I close my eyes today, I not only can still see the point of my sword as it shattered his front teeth on its way through his skull, I still savor the sense of cruel happiness that the last sight his eyes beheld was me, avenging the deaths of my comrades. While I still see that moment in much the same way I experience things when under the spell of my divine madness, the reality is that my blade moved so quickly, punching through his mouth and angling downward so the point burst through at a spot right underneath the flange of his helmet, before he had even fallen to the ground my blade was back in the second position, just above my shield. Behind me, I heard Fronto give a shout that was half-growl, half-roar, reveling in my triumph over an enemy who had claimed the lives of our friends. Yet, while I had just avenged the death of Volusio and Fibulanus, overall, matters were deteriorating by the heartbeat, giving me less than a half-dozen of them to savor my victory before I became aware of that fact.

At about the same moment Volusio had fallen, another of our comrades was struck down, but while it was not the man of the next file, it was the one on the other side. And, while it was because of my action of physically stepping forward just slightly ahead of the line formed by the first rank, due to my bulk, I would like to think because of the skill with which I was wielding my sword, none of the barbarians on my side of the second file were able to take advantage of the loss of Volusio. However, when the man on the front of the third file fell; only later did I learn his identity, Vibius Longus of the Eighth Section, for reasons I never heard, his relief Sextus Camerinus was tardy in stepping into the gap. This allowed one of the Varciani to press the advantage so that the Gregarius of the second file who was in the front rank, Furius of the Ninth Section, was instantly in an unviable position. Not only facing a man across from him, suddenly, he had a foe on his left flank; granted, it was to his shield side, but that meant his only defense for his most immediate opponent was his sword. Of course, we train in defensive tactics with only a sword, but even for the most skilled Legionary, there is an undeniable advantage with a shield when compared to a sword, for the simplest reason that a shield is bigger and covers more area. While that does make it more unwieldy and harder to move as quickly as a sword, I do not know one man, and I include myself among them, who would shun a shield for defense in favor of a sword. I bring this up only to defend Furius' quick, and correct, decision to take a step backward, deeper into the formation. However, as understandable and justifiable the decision may have been, neither can it be argued that it allowed the barbarians to push more deeply into our formation. And in doing so, it exposed me as well, despite the fact that at about the same instant, I was plunging my blade through the mouth of the foe who had proven to be so deadly to us.

"Pullus! Your left!"

I recognized Fronto's voice, but again, even as I was turning, my body was once more ahead of my mind as my shield, released from the grip caused by the now-slain foe's own, moved to my left but outside the plane of my body just in time to absorb a tremendous blow. The shock shivered up my arm, yet somehow, I managed to retain my grip on the shield despite the fact the thrust of what turned out to be a spear struck at an angle that yanked my wrist outward. Before I could react with a thrust of my own, however, I was forced to stay on the defensive as my body again reacted more rapidly, sending the command to move my shield more directly in front of my body to absorb another blow, while I had just a glimpse of a high-crowned helmet with a central fin that made its wearer appear even taller, the hanging flaps framing another face that was so thickly bearded I could only see the man's eyes clearly, wildly opened as he screamed what I assume was either a prayer to his gods for strength, or cursing my mother. Most importantly, my eye caught the glint of rapidly moving metal, reflecting the light from the steadily growing fire as it slashed toward me; it was not until later I understood that somehow my mind's eye had recognized this was an axe, not a spear, giving me the barest fraction of time to twist my wrist so my shield met the blow squarely. It was a powerful attack, but while it shoved my shield arm back, sending yet another jagged bolt up my arm that turned my fingers numb, the rest of me did not move. In what was more a reflex action than a planned attack, I punched with my sword, more to buy time than with any thought of doing damage, except the gods favored me as another shock traveled up my arm, this one from my blade landing a blow that caught my axe-wielding attacker in the act of shifting a bit to his left. Apparently, he did so because he thought I was sufficiently distracted, or more likely stunned by the blow from his axe; I was not, and consequently, he was out of the fight, likely dead from the gurgling noise he made, although I could not pay him any more attention because my Century was in danger of being split in two. I had just enough time to take in the situation, seeing Camerinus take a spear in the eye, and in less time than it takes to write about it, a half-dozen enemy warriors penetrated three ranks deep into our formation, and in doing so, created a wedge that threatened to separate the first two files from the rest of the Century. Suddenly, the men of the fourth rank were confronted by enemy warriors who had been infused with the burst of energy that comes from a sudden success. Forced to try and keep my attention in front of me because this was where my biggest threat was still coming from, I nevertheless attempted to remain aware of what was taking place to my left rear, so that I just caught the sight of at least two long swords raised in the air. I saw one slash down, followed by a simultaneous howl of triumph and scream of pain, except the cries of both victor and vanquished were suddenly swept away by what felt like an avalanche of noise. Do not mistake me; in the instant before it happened, it was just as noisy as any battle in which I have ever fought, before or since, but this new sound did not add to it as much as replaced it. Yet, as startling and chilling as the noise itself was, it was the sudden appearance of the cause that created, at least in me, an instant but fortunately temporary paralysis. Moving towards us was what looked like a huge wedge forcing its way through the packed mass of the Varciani, but while it was composed of men similar in appearance to those who had been trying to kill us, the light was sufficient to discern that the predominant colors of their tunics and bracae were different from the majority of those warriors with whom we were already engaged. However, even if that had not been enough, it was the warrior at the point of the wedge, a man with tattoos covering arms that bulged with muscle, one so large I had been taunted with the possibility he was my real father that informed us.

"It's Draxo!"

One important lesson I have learned over the years is that, even in the immediate aftermath of a battle, when the evidence of the causes for success, failure, or something in between are still fresh, most of the time, there are still more questions than answers, and this fight was no exception. Draxo's appearance, along with the approximately seven hundred Colapiani who had survived our earlier encounter was the subject of much discussion, debate, and outright argument among those of us who survived the fight, especially the subsequent winter. In fact, it remained one of the predominant topics for the rest of my time in the 8^th, and I would not be surprised that the handful of veterans who remain in the First of the First all these years later still bicker about it when all other topics have been exhausted. My opinion, which is no better or less informed than anyone else who was there, is that there are two likely explanations, although I think one is more probable than the other. The first possibility is that, for reasons unknown, Draxo and his surviving Colapiani were late arrivals, climbing the ladders still leaning against the western wall and joining the fight, albeit late. While this is certainly possible, I do not think this is likely, simply because by the time Draxo and his men shoved their way into the fight, the fire that had started in the southwest corner of the town had spread north several blocks. And, although access to and from the wall had not been completely cut off at that point, those last couple streets where the houses were still not enveloped had to be unbearably hot; several hundred paces away, it was noticeably warmer than would be expected, even with the distance and in the crush of men. Finally, it just does not make sense to me that Draxo and his band would delay their appearance, especially given his intentions. No, what I believe most likely is that Draxo and his men were with the main body of Varciani, but because of the confused nature of the fight, and most importantly, the fact that the First Cohort was at the opposite end of where they were normally found, they headed to the northern end of the fight. Not finding us, he and his men had to push their way through the rear ranks of the Varciani; the heat from the fire would have forced them to avoid crossing the open strip of ground I had noticed between the houses and where the more timid or cautious Varciani were milling about. My supposition is that he and his men paused long enough to examine each Century, looking for either our Legion eagle, or perhaps a glimpse of Urso himself. The fact that six of our Cohorts were in the first line rather than the normal four meant further delays, until he reached our position at the southern edge of the common area. Either he saw our eagle, Urso, or just by eliminating the other Cohorts in the first line and knowing that a First Cohort of a Roman Legion is never part of the reserve, he formed his men into a wedge. A wedge that he was the head of as it plunged like a spear point through their temporary allies in the Varciani, although it took a moment for me to understand what his real intent was and, more importantly, his target.

Because of the incursion of the Varciani who had penetrated into our formation, what was essentially a small slice of our Century was suddenly isolated, of which I was now a part. Finally, whoever commanded this wing of the Varciani host was either working in a coordinated fashion with Draxo, and they had prearranged this tactic, or what is more likely in my mind, the warriors of the Varciani in our immediate area saw a breach in what was normally an unbroken line of shields, and every one of them in the vicinity wanted to be part of the kind of exploit the barbarian tribes make songs about. Ironically, when it came to my own personal situation, while it was not as if the warriors directly across from me suddenly started ignoring me, they seemed content to make an occasional thrust or slash in my direction, forcing me to keep my attention on them. At first, I was just thankful for the respite, knowing that not only was it not unusual by this point in a fight as the initial burst of ferocious energy has been exhausted, but also that it would be brief. Fortunately, the part of my mind that remained as a detached observer who tried to keep track of the larger situation and make sense of what is by all measures nonsensical in almost every way alerted me there was a reason for the seeming disinterest in killing me exhibited by these Varciani. Quickly, I realized that, since they had a better view of what was happening to my left and behind me, the most likely reason had to be that they saw something I would not like. Without diverting my gaze, I instead concentrated on my sense of sound, trying to determine what was happening on my left flank. What had first seemed to be the generalized shouting noise that is common to all fights and was happening outside of my imaginary circle of concern turned into a specific warning, as I determined that, not only had the Varciani incursion penetrated to two ranks behind my own, they were at the least engaging with the third or even fourth man of the file next to me. Then, before I could react, I felt Fronto let go of my harness, followed instantly by the slightly hollow, thudding sound of some sort of weapon smashing into a shield.

"They're on us, Pullus!" Fronto managed to shout, then I heard him grunt in a manner that could either have been him responding with a thrust of his own, or because his opponent had landed a blow.

Even as that detached part of me screamed a warning, I turned my head, intending to move just enough so I could see what was happening to Fronto but still keep an eye on the warriors to my front. I believe that if the Varciani across from me had waited just a fraction of a heartbeat longer before leaping at me, my gaze would have traversed just enough that he probably would have been successful. The warrior was already moving, so confident of his surprise that his feet had left the ground, his axe already on its downward stroke as his body hurtled toward me. Fortunately, my shield was already moving upward; so was my sword, sweeping up from the first position, each of our weapons striking simultaneously, the impact of both greatly increased by his leap. Much to my satisfaction, and relief, I reacted in time; while his blow struck my shield with such force that the edge of his axe penetrated the wood by the width of the cutting edge, the point of my own blade, completely crusted in blood and gore, plunged into his body just below his breastbone with such might that I felt no resistance when my sword cut through his mail. My feeling of savage gratification, however, only lasted for an instant; even as he died, the momentum of my foe's body, while slowed by his impaling himself on my sword, was not stopped enough and he came crashing down onto my shield. Although he was not overly large, his body was sufficiently bulky enough that not only did his now-dead weight stagger me, as he slid off my shield, something on his body snagged on the axe handle that was still protruding from it. If I am being completely honest, I cannot say with any assurance that, even at full strength, I would have been able to maintain my grip on my shield, but in the moment, as it was ripped from my grasp to land on top of his body, I was sure it was because of my weakened state. Not that it really mattered, nor could I dwell on it and indulge in any self-pity because one of the dead man's comrades saw this sudden opportunity and he did not hesitate. With a shout, another barbarian came at me, although in the instant of time I had, I saw he was not so foolish as to leap at me like the man lying at my feet. Another thing the detached part of my mind noticed was that this warrior, armed with a sword and with a long, flowing mustache that had clearly been oiled by the way it gleamed like obsidian, was wearing Colapiani colors. Most crucially in the immediate sense, his attack came from a slightly different direction, yet I had only the briefest glimpse behind him of this new arrival of Colapiani before I had to twist my body in a desperate maneuver as his sword swung down. While he missed, it was close enough I could hear the swishing sound as it passed my right shoulder on its way down, whereupon I was saved by a comrade. That he was no longer alive does not lessen in any way the fact that he was responsible for my salvation in a moment when I most needed help. Volusio's body was still at my feet, and when the mustached Colapiani's blade went slashing down, while it struck armor, it was not mine. Naturally, I did not look down to determine exactly what happened, at least right then; all I saw was that, for a brief instant of time, the barbarian's sword seemed to have become stuck in such a way that when he tried to recover to make ready for another attack, he could not do so. The expression on his face changed instantly, going from the sneering leer at the thought of what he had been certain would be an easy kill of a Roman without a shield to confusion as he yanked a sword that did not respond to his command. However, it was the sudden widening of his eyes followed by a scream that might have shredded his lungs as, without hesitation, my own sword swung down onto his unprotected arm that was important to me, severing it just below his elbow. Dropping his shield, he grabbed at the stump of his arm in what I could see was a vain attempt to stop the spray of his severed vessel as he stumbled backward, leaving his arm lying in the dirt right next to Volusio's body. It was when I risked bending down to retrieve my shield that my eye was caught by the sight of the barbarian's sword, still sticking up in roughly the same position it had been when the Colapiani's hand had been around it. The end of the blade was firmly wedged in between two plates of Volusio's segmentata, caught there in my comrade's last act to help a brother. In that moment, I remembered back to my first battle, when the man in the Ninth Section just ahead of me was killed by a spear that thrust all the way through his body so that the point was inches from my face. But in the same manner as Volusio helped me, the spear that transfixed Aulus Gemonius lodged in his backbone, and the first warrior I ever slew under the standard was struggling to extract it, enabling me to end his life. Were either of these incidents just one of those accidents that happen in battle? Perhaps; I do not believe that, even now.

When I retrieved my shield, once I wrenched the axe from it and tossed it aside, I instantly saw the long vertical crack that ran in both directions from the gash, meaning I kept it only long enough to understand it was close to useless and discard it. Unfortunately, my earlier joke about more than enough shields being available was coming true before my eyes. Grabbing the nearest one – I believe it was Volusio's or it could have belonged to Fibulanus – I had a span of perhaps a dozen heartbeats to not only recover but try and get an idea of what was going on. Before a half-dozen of those heartbeats had passed, however, I was wondering why I had wanted to know. Furius in the second file next to me was still up and fighting, but I caught a glimpse of his sword arm as he made a thrust and while it was possible the blood was not his, just the way he was holding his sword told me that was not likely. Somewhat behind me and to my left was Fronto who, even if he had been so inclined, was unable to grab my harness because his hand was full with his sword. Just as I glanced his way, I saw it flash across the short space between him and his foe, my voice joining his in a shout of ferocious joy at the sight of it plunging into the chest of a Varciani. Suddenly, the whistle blew again, except rather than from Urso, it came from the opposite side of the formation, and I realized the Primus Pilus must have been so hotly engaged that it had been some time since the last relief, prompting Asinius to do it. However, being on the other side of the formation, it was also clear he was not aware of the rapidly degenerating situation on our side. The recognition it had been Asinius blowing the whistle was what prompted me to look over my right shoulder, except it took an extra beat for me to fully grasp how desperate a fight we were in; more specifically, Urso and the command group was in because, to my horror, it looked very much like we were about to lose not only our Primus Pilus but our eagle. And there was one figure among the mass facing us that leapt out at me, as Draxo was even then bringing what still is the largest double-edged axe I have ever seen down onto the head of Flaccus, but not before the weapon sliced through the heavy oaken staff of his standard, without visibly slowing a bit, that our Signifer had thrust above him in an ultimately vain attempt to protect himself. Although the bearers wear helmets underneath their headdresses, against a weapon such as that wielded by Draxo, the iron of it fared little better than the animal skin. It was a horrible sight, yet I could not tear my eyes away as I saw Draxo essentially split a man, almost in half, who was not only the bearer of our standard, but one with whom I had marched beside and considered a friend, despite our different ranks. What I remember most vividly, oddly enough, is the sight of the two halves of the standard falling to the ground on either side of Flaccus' body. I believe I force my mind to remember this moment so it does not dwell on the sight of Draxo's axe buried down to the middle of Flaccus' chest, the bloody top of the axe with the spiked top protruding from his back, gleaming obscenely from the light of the fire. Not lost on me was the tremendous amount of strength it took not only to bury it that deeply in an armored man's body, but what it took to wrench it from Flaccus' corpse, although Draxo was helped by the downward motion of my friend's body. Even as I stood there, while I knew I should be moving, I could not seem to do so; my feet seemed to be stuck in mud much like what we had struggled through in Germania the year before. It was as if everything that was going on suddenly stopped, or at least so it seemed to my eye, except I only had my eyes on Draxo, completely ignoring the fact that, almost entirely surrounding me, my comrades were fighting not just for their own lives but for the survival of, at the very least, the First Century. Regardless, I stood there for a period of time that, even now, I have no idea of its length; what I do know was it was an incredibly dangerous and stupid thing to do, and yet I still did so. As to why no enemy took advantage and I survived is just another of those questions I will have for the gods when I meet them.

The Colapiani chieftain was just retrieving his axe; the fire was so bright now that I saw the gray in his hair and while he wore a long mail shirt, it was in the style of a vest, his arms uncovered except for what looked very much like a kind of bracere, but wide enough for his biceps, while his lower arms were only covered with the tattoos I had noticed first at Topulcava. Circling his waist was a wide leather baltea, and on his head was the conical helmet favored by Pannonians, except that affixed on either side were a pair of curved horns, perhaps belonging to a bull. His shield was faced in bronze and not the more common copper, which not only made it stronger, but heavier, which I am sure is part of the reason he carried it, announcing his physical power to all the other warriors of his tribe. Despite all this, it was his face that arrested my attention, the high cheekbones catching the firelight while the planes of his cheeks were black in the shadows. Ultimately, it was his eyes and the expression in them, and more than anything, the fact that, even as he was dispatching Flaccus, he barely deigned to look at him, instead keeping his gaze fixed on Urso, that I remember the most vividly now. Yet, there was more than the hatred and rage; perhaps I am coloring this memory but I swore that I saw a terrible sadness there, one that told of a loss and pain that went far beyond the breaking of a woman's arm. And, dear reader, whether or not that emotion was really there on the part of the Colapiani chieftain, I will assure you it is because of what I saw in that moment, it seemed to unstick me from the mud of my fear and got me moving. But it was Draxo's last action with Flaccus, when he bent down and spat into the ruined face of my friend just before he started for Urso that opened the floodgate of my rage, combining with the surge of guilt I felt when I recognized that at least part of Draxo's hatred for Urso was based on something I had done. Not the breaking of the woman's arm that seemed as if it had happened years instead of months before, but in killing his son. Even as I write about it, I understand it makes no sense now; it did not make sense then, either, if I had taken a moment to think it through. Except I did not have that time, and I suppose I should thank the gods I did not, because I have no idea what I might have done. And, once it was all over, I was only partially successful, even after the combination of those two powerful emotions ignited in me the rage passed to me by my Avus. Nevertheless, while I was determined to use the extra ability it gave me to stop Draxo from striking down our Primus Pilus, even in that instant, I was aware that part of that wrath was, if not directed at, caused by Publius Canidius, our Primus Pilus, and all he had done to bring this about. It had been his greed and brutality in demonstrating how completely Rome dominated the Colapiani that was a direct reason why we found ourselves in this town, engaged in the most bitter, dangerous fight we had been in. While this fueled my wrath and ignited within me the fire I was sure was every bit as intensely hot as the now-towering flames that provided the backdrop for the final phase of this battle, what got my body moving stemmed from a much simpler proposition; ultimately, I might have hated Urso, but he was a Centurion of Rome and it was not then, nor is it in me now, to let an enemy strike one of us down without doing everything within my skills and power to stop it. And, as I was about to learn, I was not the only one who felt that way. Just before I began crossing the distance to reach Urso, I gave one brief glance over my shoulder, satisfying myself that Fronto and our comrades immediately nearby were managing to contain those Varciani who formed one jaw of the pincer that had penetrated into the vitals of our Century. They were fighting desperately, but I put my faith in them to keep the Varciani at bay so they did not fall on my rear. I had just taken my first stride when I heard someone shout my name, but from an unexpected direction.

"Pullus! Wait! We're coming!"

There is no way to fully convey what the sight of Avitus, Sido, and Lutatius coming towards me at a run meant. Granted, I was determined to do whatever I could on my own, and with the fire I was feeling burning in my veins, I did not lack confidence, but as suffused with this divine force as I may have been, I welcomed the help.

"We're not going to let that barbarian cunnus get near the Primus Pilus!" Avitus shouted, running past me without slowing down and forcing me to hurry to catch up.

If we get out of this, I thought to myself, I need to ask where they came from.

As if reading my mind, as I drew abreast with Avitus, he had just enough time to shout, "Your bad habits are rubbing off!"

Then, with the kind of laugh only a man who is facing death can understand, he increased his speed to go slamming into the Colapiani warrior immediately next to Draxo while I aimed for the chieftain, my shield up in front of me and my sword pulled back farther than normal so that it was at least partly hidden by my shield. I was vaguely aware of Lutatius' presence as he threw himself in front of Urso, who had at least managed to pick up a shield, probably from the Second Century to the right. Because of the angle we were approaching from, it was only in the instant before I aimed myself at Draxo and saw that although our Primus Pilus was in a desperate situation, he, Capulo, and Varo were not completely isolated. Some of the men from the "little end" of the Second Century had seen our Primus Pilus in danger, and perhaps a dozen of them detached themselves from their own formation to move left. At that moment, they were trying to cut their way through those Colapiani who had been farther back in the wedge but came forward in an attempt to completely surround Urso, Capulo, and Varo, but from the side opposite of where Draxo was even then stepping over Flaccus' body, with only Varo left between the chieftain and Urso. Because I only had the amount of time it took for me to cover the two paces to see and absorb what was happening, all that I recall are fragments of images. Varo had completely abandoned his cornu; I glimpsed the large, curved horn discarded on the ground behind him, in favor of a shield he had snatched up from somewhere, and that separate piece of my mind took notice of the fact that it was not one our curved ranker's shields, but the round, flat variety used by our standard bearers. However, Capulo still had his strapped to his left arm, with the pole on which our sacred eagle is affixed jammed into the dirt behind him, thereby allowing him to use his sword. Flaccus, you fucking idiot you gave him your shield! I vividly remember this unworthy thought flashing through my mind. That was all the time I had as I pivoted just slightly to compensate for Draxo's own movement as he closed on Urso, but as I did, so I committed an almost fatal error of narrowing my attention only on the Colapiani chieftain. And, once more, either the gods favored me or the run of luck that had sustained me several times already in this battle continued, because although the sudden blow to my shield was completely unexpected, coming from my left quarter as it did, I can only surmise it was robbed of much of its force, judging from the glimpse I got of a Colapiani warrior stumbling over a body. Whether this was the cause or not the one sure thing was that his sudden, off-balance lurch put him directly between Draxo and me, yet despite the warrior trying to keep his shield between his body and my blade, it was to no avail. He was still trying to regain his footing, and in doing so, he was forced to extend his shield arm out away from his body, giving me all the opening I needed. My blade shot out to take him at the base of the neck, the point punching into the hollow spot there while his own momentum caused him to effectively slice his own throat. But despite recovering my blade quickly, that slight delay allowed another Colapiani to leap to Draxo's right directly between me and the chieftain, who had clearly sensed my approach as he turned his head, pausing his own progress for a moment, undoubtedly to assess how much of a threat I posed to his own design of cutting his way to Urso. Because of our respective heights, our eyes were at the same level so that we essentially looked over the head of the Colapiani interposing himself between us. Even as my left arm moved my shield slightly up and outward, having seen the axe held in this warrior's hand and recognizing he was making an attack using a three-quarter motion that was not straight overhead yet not quite from the horizontal, my eyes did not leave Draxo's face, and I clearly saw the shock of recognition in his eyes. His bellow of rage coincided with the loud, crashing thud of the warrior's axe, yet despite retaining my grip on the shield, being forced to move my arm not only outside the plane of my body while also lifting my elbow so it was no longer braced against my hip meant the impact from the axe blow jerked my shield even farther away from my body. This put me in trouble; for an instant, only my segmentata and sword protected most of my body. Unsurprisingly, the enemy did not hesitate, as from my right quarter I caught a blur of movement in my direction and originating from slightly above my head, this attack coming from an unanticipated quarter. By this point the battle fury was on me, making things slow down, although in this case, all it meant was my mind saw the spear thrusting down at me, and despite my sword arm already sweeping upward, a voice speaking as clearly as if standing next to me in a quiet room saying, "You're too late."

My sword had still been in the first position, and because of the high overhand thrust from the Colapiani who had materialized from behind Draxo, even as quickly as I was capable of moving with my heightened senses and reflexes, it was simply a situation where my sword had to move upward too far to be in time. That does not mean I did not even try, but my arm had only risen to the middle of my chest when, from a point just at the edge of my vision, a dark, solid thing suddenly thrust itself in between me and the point of the spear that would have, in all likelihood, killed me. My recognition of the object and the collision between it and the thrust of the Colapiani occurred simultaneously, enabled by the explosive sound of metal slamming into wood, followed so closely by the shout of frustrated rage by my would-be killer that it was all one noise.

"Your left!"

Lutatius' voice was so close that, even with everything going on, my head jerked in surprise, his warning coming as it did from a spot that could not have been more than two feet behind my right shoulder. Nevertheless, his warning had the desired effect as I snapped my attention back to the axe-wielding Colapiani just as he was launching another attack, this one a direct overhead blow. Feeling the strain all the way up my arm, my shield still swept upward and, while it was slower than I would have liked, it was sufficiently fast enough to catch the blow, although I almost lost my grip on the shield. Even as I was blocking his attack, however, my own blade was moving, except that what my enemy saw as a whole-hearted thrust that got his shield moving was, in fact, a feint, one that mimicked the attack any warrior facing us knows is our most favored so that he dropped it accordingly. Our arms were moving simultaneously but in different directions as I changed the track of my blade, suddenly swinging it outward to my right, then, in a circular motion that required me to reverse the orientation of my grip so that instead of my fingers facing up, they turned downward as I swept my arm across my body, locking my elbow as I did. I had practiced this maneuver quite a bit, but only on the stakes since in sparring, blows to the head are not allowed, and I had learned that locking the elbow is crucial to success. The reason for this is that, while the goal is to bring the point of the blade across the face of your target in the area of the eyes, the chances of being precise enough so just the tip slices across the eyeballs and bony cartilage of the nose and not extend the blade too far, so that one has to cut through either the side flap, bone of the skull, or both is almost impossible to do. And that is on a stake as the target. During battle, at night and after fighting for what seemed to be at least a full watch, it meant the shock of at least two inches or more of my sword striking just underneath the rim of his helmet on his temple would have torn the sword from my grasp if it had not been for my use of the Vinician grip. Despite putting all of my strength in the slicing blow, even remembering to twist my hips, I simply did not possess the power to finish the stroke cleanly, cutting all the way across the man's face. This is yet another image that appears to me in my dreams sometimes; the sight of my arm, fully extended and at the level of my shoulder, while the tip of my blade is still embedded in the right eye of my foe. A bloody horizontal line extends from his left temple and across his face, so that while I can see his mouth open in shock, the normal sight of a man's eyes are missing in a gory, red ruin. Recovering my blade, I did not bother twisting it, although that was to save time, because in perhaps the four or five heartbeats between the time Lutatius had saved my life with his shield and I dispatched this Colapiani, the men around me had not stopped their own attacks, or defenses, against their opponent. Pivoting as quickly as I believe I ever have, although I was too late to prevent what happened I was just in time to be forced to watch. Over the years, I have often wondered if in return for the favor the gods give me in the gifts of my size, strength and, in moments like this, the extra power and ability that comes with this divine madness, their price is to force me to watch the death of men I consider friends, and usually in the most horrible way imaginable. Because tragically, while Lutatius saved my life by extending his shield away from his own body to protect me, in doing so, he left himself wide open to what I will declare to my dying day was one of the most powerful enemies we ever faced in those days in Pannonia. Even if Draxo had not been fueled by what I believe was the terrible loss of a beloved son, just by virtue of his size, massive strength, and experience, he was a potent foe. And I was "lucky" enough to turn just in time to see his huge axe claim another man I considered friend, though his method was different than it had been with Flaccus. Despite the fact he was obviously intent on splitting Lutatius in half, this time it was from a different direction. My eye just caught sight of the glinting silver-gray of his huge double-bladed weapon as it made a smooth, arcing motion that struck Lutatius just above his waist. Even as my friend was pulling his shield back in front of his body, the axe just sneaked inside the edge of it before biting into his body, splitting one of the plates of his segmentata, which is bad enough, but the worst had yet to happen. As I could only look on with horror and a feeling of utter helplessness, I not only watched as Draxo's axe barely slowed, continuing to slice across my friend's body, when the axe exploded back into view from Lutatius' opposite side in a spray of blood and matter, I felt pieces of my friend spatter my face. If Lutatius made a sound, I could not hear it because of the triumphant roar of the Colapiani chieftain, and for an instant he drowned out even the sounds of the fight. Yet, as horrified as I was, my detached observer made sure to point out that even as his axe was disemboweling my friend, Draxo's eyes were focused over Lutatius' shoulder, staring at me with a fixed gaze that seemed intent on sending me a message that what I just witnessed was nothing compared to the fate he had in store for me. But what Draxo had no way of knowing, not that it would have mattered, was that I was no less enraged, and I had my own dark gifts that were now fueled even more by the death of not just a comrade, but my friend.

Forcing myself to ignore the sight of Lutatius' body, which remained in one piece only because Draxo's axe had not severed his spine, I hopped over it even as Draxo's roar of triumph was still sounding while I added my own voice, shouting a promise to Lutatius to avenge him. The Colapiani chieftain, whose eyes had never left me, answered my challenge, both verbally and by raising his axe, readying himself for another blow. However, to my eyes, he had suddenly been immersed in that cold honey I have mentioned before, meaning I saw him pulling his axe back as if he was in the first stage of working on his forms when we make each movement slower than normal, trying to train our muscles to remember the feeling. Unfortunately, it also meant I saw the bits of gore and shreds of intestine caught by the curved edge of his blade as it continued hurtling back over his shoulder before his axe came to a stop over his head. It paused there for what, to anyone else would have been a fraction of an eyeblink, but to me was slow enough that I noticed the telltale movement as he twisted the axe blade to a position that informed me he was planning on a feint first, before launching a blow from an angle different than what his current posture indicated. By noticing the angle, it told me he intended to try and convince me that he was coming from a different direction so that my shield was already moving. If the gods chose that moment to freeze all the combatants in their various postures, I have little doubt that any observer with any experience in war would be certain I had overcommitted myself and that Draxo's axe would, much like it had with Lutatius, come slicing inside the edge of my protection. Thankfully, when Draxo instead suddenly changed the direction of his weapon to match the angle of orientation of his axe blade, my shield was already in place and ready to absorb the attack. Still, even with my shield in the right place at the right time, the blow he delivered was the most powerful I had taken in that fight; in fact, it would be a few years before another warrior matched it. And I am convinced that, if it had not been for the gods' gift of my rage, my arm, as weakened as it was under normal circumstances, would have been unable to withstand his onslaught, with the result being either my arm being knocked down or the failure of my grip of the shield. Regardless of all this, while to outward appearances my shield, and I, weathered his blow that prompted a roar I needed no translator to tell me was one of frustration, my situation was far from perfect. The blade of his axe actually struck down on the metal boss of my shield, yet despite the iron itself withstanding the blow without being pierced, his strength was enough to dent it, something I had never seen happen before, nor have I seen since. Consequently, while my hand was still intact, the boss itself had collapsed to the point where I had absolutely no room for my fingers to move. Worse, by crushing the boss, it meant I had no ability to tilt my shield; all I could do was to change the orientation from side to side. If, that is, my wrist had been capable of doing so, which it was not. What this meant in a practical sense was that my range of options in how I used my shield, both defensively and offensively, were seriously compromised. Yet, despite being aware of this, it did not really matter; what did was killing this man who had butchered two of my friends. Regardless of my resolve, however, there was yet another handicap for which I had to account, which I was about to learn. Normally, our bosses protrude from our shields by almost four inches; now, mine was perhaps half that. It does not sound like much, and truthfully, it is not, except when judging distances in preparation for using the shield in an offensive manner. How I discovered this was when my left arm shot out, intent on smashing my shield into the bronze face of Draxo's which, although it had a boss, was normally only about two inches high. In the heat of the moment, I forgot I lacked those two extra inches, so that while my boss hit his when he anticipated my attack and moved his shield to block it, the impact was minimal. Draxo's response was to laugh contemptuously, although he did so while swinging his axe, this time in the same way he had used to disembowel Lutatius. Normally, the defense for an attack of this nature is to twist the wrist slightly outward so the angle of the shield aligns with the attack, in order to absorb the blow more evenly across the shield. I did not do this, but not just because I was unable to do so; instead, I took a large step forward to close the distance between us so our shields were pressed against each other. It gratified me to see the look of surprise on the chieftain's face except I was not about to hesitate, even as I knew I was about to take a serious blow. By shortening the distance between us, I accomplished two things; first, I put myself effectively inside the arc of his axe blade, although I would still have to absorb a powerful blow from the handle of his weapon. Yet, despite knowing I was about to experience what would be an intense pain, it also put my right arm in range. Specifically, I should say it put the pommel of my sword within reach; we were too close now for me to use my blade, so instead, I used the pommel to smash him in his face. Just as I raised my arm, I felt a terrific impact that, while the edge of my shield absorbed some of the force, almost drove the breath from my lungs as the stout shaft of his axe slammed into my side. Ignoring it, I punched at him with the pommel of my sword, counting on the metal end used to attach everything to the tang of the blade to do most of the damage.

Regardless of this unusual tactic, Draxo was no novice, and he had instantly divined my intention so that he dropped his head to take my blow on the metal of his own helmet. Despite his protection, I felt a surge of intense and savage satisfaction, not only at his bellow of pain as I hit him once, twice, then three times, but at the huge dents the metal stud on the pommel put into his helmet. In response, I felt him uncoil his body in an attempt to push me away from him so his axe would be useful again, but again I felt, saw and understood his next move before it happened, quickly turning my right foot sideways while flexing my knees so I could allow both my upper and lower legs to do the work. Just before he attempted to push me away, we both sensed movement, to my left or his right, and he snarled something that I could not understand, but the figure at the border of my vision retreated, so I feel sure it was one of his men he warned off, wanting the glory for himself. Even as assured in myself as I was, especially in that moment, I was thankful Draxo had the same confidence in himself, although I did not have time to appreciate his command to one of his warriors, because at the same instant, he put his own massive weight against his shield in an attempt to push me away, clearly using his bellowing as a diversion. My legs took up the tension, my thighs going as rigid as pieces of iron while my knees began to scream from the pain caused by the massive pressure Draxo was exerting. With our faces as close as they were, even if the fire was not illuminating the area, there was no way I could miss the face of the Colapiani, his lips peeled back so his remaining teeth were bared as he put all of his strength into trying to push me off him. His eyes were bulging from the effort and I could feel the wild hatred radiating from him in the same way one can stand several feet from a fire and still feel the heat. Just like our bodies, our eyes seemed to be locked together, and I can only imagine what he saw reflected in my face, spattered with what the detached part of my mind knew was in all likelihood pieces of Lutatius' intestines. I suppose this was why I was growling as I glared back at him, trying to send him my own message of his death. Only the gods know how long we were straining against each other, yet even as we were, I was still trying to land a solid blow that would do more than dent his helmet. Unfortunately, because of the awkward angle and the strain the rest of my body was under, I could not land a good punch, but as limited as I may have been in the ways in which I could use my sword once I was this close, Draxo's weapon was next to useless; at least so I believed. Being so close together meant it was impossible to see the Colapiani chieftain shifting his grip on his axe as he moved his hand almost all the way up to just underneath the head. When I had gotten my first glimpse of his axe, although I had noticed the spiked top, I did not give it much thought; my immediate concern were the huge double blades, but I was about to learn that the spike was not there just to make the weapon look more fearsome. And, frankly, I shudder to think how matters would have turned out if I was not consumed by my madness, because while I did see it coming I still barely jerked my head back in time as Draxo brought his right arm up in an attempt to drive the spike into my skull, moving faster than I had seen him doing to that point. I also learned my first impression that it was a simple, rounded, spike was incorrect. Triangular in shape, looking much like the Greek letter they call Delta, the spike came to a point only slightly duller than the tip of a Roman sword, but while the three sides could not be honed to the kind of cutting edge that would make it useful for any kind of slicing did not mean they posed no danger themselves. Frankly, what I saw as the first threat were the blades of his axe as his arm moved up from his side from where it had been out of my range of vision, and I believe the breadth of the weapon was large enough it enabled my eye to immediately pick up the movement. And yet, I cannot say how or why I knew not only to turn my face to the right, but also jerk my head back, because I really did not see the spike although I certainly felt it as it grazed my cheek, one of its three edges slicing along my left cheekbone and laying it open to the bone, though I did not find that out until later. In the moment, there was a feeling like someone had taken the end of a glowing ember, then dragged it across my face, and I roared in pain as, for the briefest instant before he was able to pull his arm back, the entire left field of my vision was blocked by the blur of the axe head crossing in front of my face. As painful as the gash was, even in the moment, I was aware enough to be thankful the wound was below my eye, because I would have been instantly blinded by my own blood and subsequently dead within a matter of heartbeats. Understanding his ploy had failed, as quickly as Draxo struck, he brought his weapon back towards him, the axe disappearing from my vision as rapidly as it had come, leaving me bloody and Draxo snarling in frustration because he had not landed a killing blow. It must be kept in mind that we were still pushing against each other shield to shield with all our might, and probably had been doing so for perhaps ten heartbeats, yet even as he roared at being thwarted, for the first time, I sensed a subtle change as suddenly, my shield moved his own backwards towards his body. Not by much; just enough to not only give me hope but infuse me with a fresh burst of energy. This is the man who just cut Lutatius in half, the one who killed Flaccus and spat on him, I thought, as I continued glaring at him while somehow increasing the pressure a bit, rewarded by the sudden movement of not just his shield arm but his entire body as he started bending backwards slightly. This is the savage who thought he could just cut his way through us to strike down our Primus Pilus, who thought so little of the men around our Primus Pilus that he thought he could just knock us aside like we were nothing more than stray curs begging for scraps! In that instant, there were two opposing forces inside me; one was the voice in my mind, screaming these thoughts at me in much the same way a Centurion bellows in the ear of a frightened tiro, while the other was the screaming of my body, particularly my lower body, begging me to relent, to ease the intensity of my effort. I ignored my body, until suddenly, his rear foot slipped and he lurched backward, but while it was not enough to put him completely off balance, for the first time, his expression changed, and I saw what I felt sure was his first flicker of doubt. This, I thought as I called on everything the gods had given me in my strength, is the man who is not just after the death of Urso, but is trying to take our sacred eagle!

"NO!" I think this was the first articulate word I had spoken and I bellowed it at the top of my lungs. "No! No! Not now! Not ever!"

Draxo's rear leg finally gave way as he suddenly staggered backward, and I was ready for it. Stumbling, he was forced change his grip on the axe from just under the head back to the spot where he normally held it, except rather than to use it as a weapon he had to frantically swing it behind him to thrust the spiked end into the ground and arrest his retreating movement, leaving only his shield in between us, which he extended out farther than normal to provide a buffer. For the first time, he did not look like the superbly confident, renowned warrior of a barbarian tribe; to my eye, he looked like every other man I had bested in that final instant when they understood the moment of their death had arrived, and I would be lying if I said I did not savor that look, or that it did not give me a sense of such intense and horrible satisfaction. Ultimately, however, I cannot say with any certainty that I did not take a spare heartbeat to gloat; in the moment, it did not seem like I did, yet as I was about to discover, the gods were not quite done toying with us mortals.

Given everything that happened, there is no one to blame other than myself, but despite proving to be one of the most valuable lessons I ever learned on the battlefield, it is hard for me to justify the cost in lives of comrades it took to learn it. Making matters worse, because I still had the divine fire flowing through my veins, the events that took probably no more than a dozen heartbeats in real time seemed to me to last a full watch; in many ways, the repercussions of all that transpired continued to reverberate through the lives of the men of the 8^th Legion for some time to come. And, despite the fact I possessed a heightened awareness of everything around me, as I was about to learn, this did not mean I was invincible; specifically, although my peripheral vision seemed wider than normal when I was in this state, I still did not possess eyes in the back of my head. Consequently, the blow across the middle of my back just as I was stepping forward while raising my sword to plunge down into Draxo's upturned face, immediately after I contemptuously knocked his shield aside, was not only unexpected, it was so powerful that I instantly lost feeling in my legs so that they collapsed from underneath me as if they had just disintegrated. As far as the blow itself, I cannot say it was particularly painful when it landed, although the pain came quickly enough as I fell, first to my knees for an instant before landing face first. However, I did not lose consciousness, yet when I tried to break my fall with my arms, despite my mind commanding them to obey, this is when I learned the paralysis was not confined to my legs. As the ground came rushing up at me, I retained the presence of my mind to turn my face so I did not land facedown, and I believe it was because my mind at least was still in the grips of my fit, so that I not only had time to think, it seemed to take quite a long time before my head slammed into the hard-packed earth. Once more, there was a burst of thousands of sparks in front of me; the difference is that unlike other times, my eyes never closed, so I had the unique experience of still seeing the outside world, except it was through what looked like a screen of stars. The only example I can think of is what happens when looking across a fire at a friend, or friends, when someone either throws another log on it or a knot in a piece of wood explodes, sending a shower of sparks upward, the difference being in this case that the sparks were descending. Of course, there was the other difference caused by being on the ground, which turned the landscape on its side and took an instant for my mind to compensate.

"Get up! You're a dead man if you stay down!"

Of all the strange moments in my life, this shouted command, which I naturally tried to instantly obey, felt like it was shouted directly in my ear, as if someone had bent over to warn me. The problem was that the voice I heard belonged to Lutatius, who I knew was lying just a few feet from me with the two halves of his body bending grotesquely in opposite directions so his head and feet were next to each other. Honestly, this was only the first problem; the second, and in the moment the most crucial to my survival, was that when I tried to obey the command, nothing happened. Ironically enough, I now understand this is what saved my life. Because I was unable to move, my unseen assailant, who clearly had other concerns, obviously believed he had dispatched me, thereby prompting him to step over my body. Suddenly, my vision was obscured by a foot and lower leg, as the man I was sure was responsible for my current condition stepped over me. Except that when my right eye, the one not next to the dirt, was able to focus on that leg, I felt a moment of confusion. There was no mistaking the Roman military boot and I opened my mouth to alert this unknown comrade that, contrary to appearances, I was alive. Truly, I do not know why I hesitated, but I did, stopping the call for help before it left my mouth, and this is yet another thing I have pondered often over the years. In one sense, my decision stemmed from nothing more than my awareness of all that was going on and the innate instinct for self-preservation; after all, this was in the area where the fighting was the hottest, and while this Roman stepping over my body came from the same general direction as my unseen assailant, by calling attention to myself lying helpless on the ground while unable to move, I was just as likely to get a Colapiani spear into my exposed back as any assistance from a comrade who had his own concerns for survival. Although it makes perfect sense, I cannot say this was the reason I stayed my cry; what I can say is that because I hesitated, I not only saved my life, suddenly, everything made sense. Because as the Roman continued moving past me, first his other leg then his torso and back came into my limited view; it was not until he moved a couple paces away and turned slightly as he prepared to lunge at one of the Colapiani I recognized who it was.

I cannot say I was particularly surprised when I saw it was Caecina who did not give me a backward glance as he launched himself at a Colapiani warrior who had obviously seen Draxo in difficulty and leapt to his chief's defense. Naturally, my vision was extremely limited, even after I tentatively lifted my head slightly. Regardless of this, I still did not have possession of my limbs, and oddly enough, this was the first moment where it even occurred to me I might have been paralyzed permanently. The instant the thought entered my conscious mind, I suddenly had difficulty breathing, and the only way I could seem to draw air into my lungs was in short, panting breaths. That sensation I had first experienced a taste of at the ambush, the all-consuming, mindless black panic suddenly threatened to overwhelm me, but while I barely managed to keep it at bay, it washed away whatever vestige of my divine rage had remained. Suddenly, I was no longer angry; putting it simply, I was more frightened than I had ever been in my life. Everything happening around me; the battle that to my detached mind was reaching a fever pitch, the fact I had failed to kill Draxo, that Urso, and more than that, our Legion eagle were still under threat no longer seemed important. All I could seem to focus on was the prospect of a life where I could not use my limbs, and I cannot deny that, at this moment, I fervently prayed to the gods that, if this was indeed the case, I somehow succumb and die now rather than face a future where I was of no value to myself, or anyone else. After all, if I was not Titus Porcinianus Pullus, Legionary Gregarius, and the third generation of my family under the standard, what point was there in existing?

I cannot declare with any real certainty how long this lasted in terms of time, but what I can say is that this was the path of my thoughts when, for the first time, I became aware of something that when it first hit me, I thought rather odd. I was still lying facedown, my shield beside me and my sword arm stretched out to my right; my detached observer noticed that the Vinician grip still served me, despite the fact I could not feel it, as the sword was still in my hand. I saw Caecina fighting furiously against the warrior who had come to Draxo's aid, but while the bulk of their bodies blocked any view past them, I could just make out that Draxo had regained his feet and was even then raising his huge axe so that it loomed high above Caecina and his foe. Frankly, I suspect because so much was going on, I did not immediately take note of the tingling sensation I felt, starting in my feet. Truthfully, my initial reaction was that the gods were taunting me, but then after a couple of tries, I distinctly felt my toes wiggle inside my boots, and it took all of my discipline to keep from shouting with relief. Despite my circumstances, even with the fear threatening to choke the breath from me, somehow I retained enough self-possession to understand that the reason I was lying there unnoticed and, most importantly, unmolested by way of a sword thrust between my shoulder blades was because, as far as the living were concerned, I was dead or at least incapacitated. Once I convinced myself it was not my imagination, I dared turn my attention to my arms, specifically my sword arm, not only because it was lying next to my face, but it is the most important to a warrior, no matter for whom he fights. The flood of relief I felt at the sight of my fingers moving as they clenched the grip of my sword tighter, simply because my mind willed it, was so immense that my vision suddenly clouded. Of all the times to cry, you stupid bastard! I shouted to myself. You'll need every bit of your wits and, most importantly, complete control of your limbs if you want to live another hundred heartbeats; once more, the voice in my head was not my own, except rather than my Avus, it belonged to my father. It was not until much later that I reflected on how fitting it was it was his voice I heard; after all, he had been lying flat on his back in the bottom of a steep gully, and he had kept his head despite the fact that his injuries were more severe than mine seemed to be. For however much longer the gods will me to live, whatever else they put before me to face, I will always believe the example set by my father was more responsible for my survival than anything I did that night. As strange as it might seem to someone who has not experienced anything similar, the most powerful motivation was the fear of the shame I would bring to my father if he ever learned the truth. The idea I had just lain there waiting for this battle to end as if I was nothing more than a spectator attending a gladiatorial game, then meekly accepted my fate in the form of either a sword thrust or a slice across my throat was what got me moving again and, ultimately, back into the battle. All around me, the noise and fury of the fight continued, but despite being relieved my paralysis seemed to be temporary, I was nonetheless aware there is a vast difference between being able to feel and being able to move, using my limbs in the way necessary for me to survive. That meant that not only did I have to plan the best way to get to my feet, I was required to utilize an attribute that had eluded me for most of my life: patience. Being able to feel my extremities was encouraging, but I could tell my strength had not fully returned, and I would need it for what I had to do. I have given much thought, especially in the immediate aftermath, trying to determine how long I was incapacitated. Even more importantly, if I, in fact, moved as quickly as I could have once I felt somewhat confident the feeling had returned to the point where I would be able to move while doing so in a manner that enabled me to survive. On the first question, even now, it is a guess, but it was probably not much more than fifty heartbeats from the time Caecina struck me on his way to come to the aid of the Primus Pilus and when I began moving. As far as the second, I believe I moved the instant I felt confident enough that I could do so without promptly collapsing, but only the gods truly know. When it came to determining the moment I was sufficiently recovered, the best way I can describe it is to compare it to when one has been sitting in such a position that it cuts off all the blood to a leg, or even a foot that goes completely numb, then how one knows the flow of blood has been restored. There is a tingling sensation, certainly, although even as I compare what I was feeling to something as minor as a foot falling asleep I confess I cringe when I see the words before me, but it is still the nearest I can come to a proper description. The difference, I suppose, is in the degree of discomfort when it is one's entire body that has somehow fallen asleep, and truthfully, I have no idea what exactly happened to cause this paralysis, other than the blow itself. I will add that to the list questions I will have for whoever is waiting for me when I cross in Charon's Boat but, gods willing to make it so, that is far ahead in my future. In that moment, I forced myself to wait until I was sure all sensation had returned, and even then, I moved slowly. That, I freely confess, was the hardest part, suppressing my initial instinct to scramble to my feet as quickly as possible. My reason for not doing so was due to the reality of my situation, which was that I really had no idea about what was happening around me. Someone, as they were struggling, had kicked one of my legs, but I had no way of knowing if the foot that did so belonged to a friend or foe. Directly to my front from where I had been standing just before I fell, I could tell that there was still a fight going on, and I recognized Caecina's voice as he shouted a curse at his foe, followed instantly by the distinct clanging sound of metal against metal, but that was the extent of my knowledge. Because of the way my face was turned with one cheek still in the dirt, I could see a Roman I was certain was Avitus, his back to me, also furiously engaged with a Colapiani who, from appearances, had managed to circle around behind the small knot of men protecting the eagle and the Primus Pilus. In the vicinity of my right leg, all I could see were the backs of some of my comrades, but just by the way their torsos were moving, I understood they were similarly occupied as Caecina. From all this, I deduced we had formed an orbis for all intents and purposes, but what concerned me was the vast area to my left where I could not see and only hear to determine in how much peril I was in if I suddenly moved. With everything considered, when that boot slid backward and was stopped by my leg, that simple movement told me more of my overall situation than what little I could see, and it was what compelled me to move as slowly as I did. Rather than just drawing my arms underneath me while pulling my knees up, the first step towards resuming a vertical position, I moved my arms slowly, which was easier to do with my left arm because it was masked by my shield lying partially on top of my left arm. My right arm I pulled towards me painfully slowly, as I waited for either some sort of shout from a Colapiani who noticed the movement, or more likely, the blessedly brief instant of horrible pain followed by whatever comes after this world when someone just thrust their sword down between my shoulder blades. Obviously, that did not happen, and once I had my sword hand just below the level of my face and aligned with my upper body, while I felt my left arm was in an identical position next to my upper chest, only then did I experience the first, very faint, flicker of optimism. It is easy to say now, in the comfort of my quarters, that there was so much going on something as minor as a Legionary who was clearly out of the fight moving his arms and legs was not worthy of any attention, and I admit it might still be a remnant of the hubris of my youth that colors this memory; I do not believe this is the case. Regardless of whether I was overlooked or not, in that moment, all I cared about was that I was able to perform this first part of the move to my feet, yet I still paused for an instant to ensure that not just my sensation but my strength had fully recovered. Considering what was about to happen and, in fact, was taking place in that moment, I have more than once thought it might have been better if I remained prone, out of the fight, and just waiting for what came next. This feeling, of course, stems from the kind of clarity that only comes when one is looking back over an event; in the moment it would, and did, not even occur to me to remain prone. Taking a deep breath, I offered a brief and silent supplication to the gods above us before I used my arms to thrust my upper body up while drawing my knees up at the same instant. Not only was it surprisingly easy, I managed to do so with my sword still in my hand, although my shield was still lying, boss side down, in the dirt at my feet. By regaining my feet, I was just in time, and much too late.

In order to do this account of mine justice, and meet the same standard for fidelity to these events of which I have been witness, for all intent and purpose, I am required to relate what I saw in that instant, just before I witnessed the larger act I will describe. Coming to my feet, as one might expect, my horizon expanded accordingly, so that not only the events taking place to my right were brought into a tighter focus, my vision was no longer restricted by the dirt pressed against my face. Directly to my front, Caecina and the Colapiani, who I am sure was the same warrior who interposed himself between Draxo and me, were still doing their best to kill each other. Immediately to my right, I saw that it was indeed Avitus who, in the instant I glanced over, was thrusting his sword into the face of a Colapiani who went staggering backward. And, right in between these two but perhaps four paces from me was Urso, Capulo, and Varo, each of them with their back to the other in a sort of triangular orbis. Evidently, the gods had decreed that when I came to my senses and to my feet, it would be just in time to bear witness to what happened in front of my horrified gaze. When Draxo had been granted his reprieve, and make no mistake that was exactly what it was, all I can say is that he did not waste it. Despite now being on my feet and just managing to snatch up my shield from the ground, I was still more of a spectator than participant, which meant I could only watch in shock as Draxo finally pushed close enough to Urso, with the Colapiani lifting his axe high above his head while issuing what sounded like a howl of triumph. It was actually the sound of his voice that got me moving, and I did so quickly; just not quickly enough. It was not as if the Primus Pilus did not have any warning; from where I was now standing, I could clearly see he had just thrust his sword into the chest of another Colapiani. Yet, even before the foe had fallen to the ground, Urso had spun about and squarely faced Draxo, so I know it was not a case of being taken by surprise because he had been so involved with his last opponent that it allowed Draxo to catch him unprepared. And even being relatively close to them, I was sufficiently separated so I cannot say with any surety I saw anything pass between them. Even so, to this day, I have a nagging sense something happened in that moment; some words, a look, something substantial took place between the pair of men, both of whom were responsible to one degree or another for what was taking place in this town. With a terrible fascination, even as my body was moving, I felt like little more than an onlooker as Draxo's axe began its downward trajectory towards Urso, who, I could see, was clearly ready, with the appropriated shield in a perfect position for him to raise it and block Draxo's blow. Except that he did not move the shield, at all; at least, not until it dropped from his nerveless hand immediately after Draxo's massive axe, the blade encrusted with the blood and pieces of at least two of my comrades, slammed down onto Urso's left shoulder. In the fraction of the heartbeat I had before Draxo came within reach of my own sword, I was forced to watch his giant axe cut through the double layer of Urso's mail as if it were nothing but two thin pieces of leather on its way down, deep into the Primus Pilus' body. I cannot say with any real certainty, but my sense at the time was that Draxo's axe was still slicing downward even as my sword arm was thrusting my blade forward into Draxo's unprotected right side. What I can recall was that I began shouting in the eyeblink it took for me to realize Urso's shield was not moving, but even though it was only one word, what started as a cry of protest turned into one of equal parts hatred and anguish.

"Noooooo," I howled, and was continuing to do so as the point of my sword plunged through Draxo's mail shirt on his right side, immediately under his rib cage.

My thrust happened so quickly after Draxo's axe struck Urso that the chieftain had not even registered the movement to his side, but I was rewarded by his head snapping around, his shout of triumph at fulfilling his vow to kill the Bear instantly changing to a shriek of agony. What should have been even more satisfying was the look of wide-eyed recognition when he saw the identity of his killer, yet all I could taste was the bitter ash of defeat because I had been one footstep too late. Nevertheless, I was a man of the Legions and I made sure his eyes were on me when I finished him in the manner we are trained by twisting my hips to the right while keeping my arm rigid, ripping my blade out and to the right, disemboweling him. He uttered one more strangled scream as he slowly turned his head to peer down at the sight of his intestines as they slid out of his body, tottering for just a moment before he started to collapse. My gaze was so riveted on the scene that it was not until I sensed the movement of the handle of Draxo's axe that I turned just in time to see our Primus Pilus topple backward, except his fall was partially arrested by Varo, whose back was to what had just happened but was still occupied by hacking down a Colapiani shield, trying to knock it aside so he could finish his foe. He was indirectly aided because the warrior was facing in the right direction to see his own chieftain being gutted, his shock apparently so great that it appeared he performed a move that was somewhat similar to the one Urso had just done, except that he was alive, and actually dropped his shield. Fortunately, Varo did not hesitate or stop to wonder about this sudden change, piercing the now-defenseless warrior in the chest, dropping the Colapiani, who landed on top of a number of his comrades. Only then did the cornicen pause to glance over his shoulder to determine what was happening, and when he shifted position, it caused Urso to finish falling to the ground, Draxo's axe handle now pointing skyward, his eyes wide open but staring in the sightless way of the dead.

"W-what…what…?"

His mouth kept working but nothing came out, which was understandable. Perhaps a total of five heartbeats had elapsed before I suddenly realized Varo had not actually shouted; if anything, it was more of a strangled whisper, yet I had heard it. This was when I became aware that despite the fight still continuing everywhere around us, those of us within the circle surrounding our eagle had been shocked into silence, both friend and foe. For perhaps the span of time it takes for a javelin to travel the longest distance a man can throw it, both Roman and Colapiani were of not just similar but perfectly like mind, as all of us tried to cope with the loss of the man we called our leader. At the same time, I became aware that because of where I was standing, all eyes were at least staring in my direction; frankly, there was only one pair of eyes that concerned me, although to be accurate, it was just one good eye. Both Caecina and the Colapiani warrior he had been trying to end seemed to have each stepped away from the other by unspoken consent, as the Colapiani stared in disbelief at the sight of Draxo lying facedown atop his own internal organs, surrounded by a pool of blood that was still growing, albeit more slowly than just a heartbeat before. Caecina, on the other hand, was shifting his gaze between me and Urso's body, and I saw the emotions warring for control of his face; because of the fire, I was clearly able to see the tear that rolled down his cheek from his good eye.

Then he lifted his sword, except instead of resuming the fight he pointed it at me, and for perhaps the first time, I detected nothing false in his demeanor or tone as he shouted, "You! YOU did this! His blood is on YOUR hands!"

By the time he finished, he was screeching this at the top of his lungs, and there was no missing the hysterical edge to his voice. I braced myself, sure that he was about to lunge at me, his fight with the Colapiani forgotten; being completely honest, when Caecina twisted around to face me, a part of me silently urged the Colapiani to take advantage of his foolhardy behavior, but I suppose the warrior was in his own state of shock. Yet, although Caecina did move, it was not in my direction; nor was it back at the Colapiani. Instead, he suddenly bolted, except he headed to my left, nimbly hopping over the bodies that surrounded us, including that of Flaccus, without so much as a downward glance at our Signifer. It took a moment for his probable intention to hit me, but although I turned to give chase, his sudden movement also seemed to break the spell. My pursuit was stopped before it started by a howl of sorrow and rage, causing me to turn just in time to see Caecina's former foe leap in my direction, the hand gripping his spear pulled back as far behind his ear as it would go, pausing just long enough for me to see and, more crucially, understand his intent. Even with this warning, I barely got my shield in the right position to block the throw, which slammed into my shield with such force that not only did the head penetrate all the way through it, but several inches of shaft as well, although I got barely a glimpse of it because the impact from the heavy spear ripped the shield from my hand. Honestly, just like the previous time when my first shield had been knocked from my hand, I do not have any confidence that even if my arm had been at full strength, I would have been able retain my grip of the shield. Of greatest concern was that, before my shield actually hit the ground, the Colapiani who had hurled it was even then throwing himself at me. He wore a high helmet with the fin from front to back, and I caught the briefest glimpse of a snarling, bearded face, the features so contorted I could see only slits instead of his eyes, except it was his shield that concerned me as he held it in front of him, clearly intent on using this as his main weapon now that his spear was gone. Honestly, I did not need more than the fraction of time it took after I blocked his spear to see why he was willing to forego his main weapon. Whereas most barbarians carried shields that have either rounded, or in some cases, bosses that are the same shape and size as ours, I had seen a handful of men whose boss had a spiked point, much like the top of Draxo's axe. This was what was hurtling at me as the Colapiani bellowed what might have been a promise to his slain chief to avenge his death, the warrior leading with his shield held out in front of him almost at arm's length. Thankfully for me, while I was no longer under the power of my rage, he still seemed to be moving slower than I was, so I simply sidestepped to my left while bringing my sword up. The force of his body running onto my sword shoved not just my arm but my entire body as I staggered backward, my hand and arm once more drenched in the blood of an enemy. Unlike the night action when the Colapiani who essentially did the same thing slammed into me and swept me off my feet, I had moved sufficiently out of the way so his own momentum carried him just a couple more steps before collapsing facedown on top of his shield. Although I feel fairly sure this was not the true cause for it, from outward appearances, it seemed this last warrior's dispatch served as a sign to those Colapiani still alive that finally all was lost as, sounding above the noise from the fight that still raged elsewhere, their voices raised in a noise that reminded me of the wolves we had heard howling outside our camp during Drusus' final campaign. I cannot say they actually sounded like a pack of wolves; there was a note of despair and defeat that was clear to hear, but as I would learn later, I was not the only one who made this association. The noise they made was not nearly as important as their actions, because while we did not hear anything like a horn, or even a bellowed command cutting through the din, it appeared that individually, they had all come to the same decision at the same time. While it certainly was not done with the kind of precision shown by the Legions, the Colapiani suddenly spun about and in one ragged bunch, began running away from the fight.

They did not get far for the simple reason there was nowhere for them to go, because the fire was now raging across the entire western edge of the town. While this was of peripheral importance, what mattered more to us was that their sudden absence left the segment of Varciani who had penetrated our Century formation exposed on their left flank, and the Primus Pilus Posterior, now in command of the 8^th Legion, saw this opportunity and wasted no time. The cornu of the Second started blaring the notes that sent our comrades of the Second into motion, with the Century essentially splitting into two, the sixth through tenth ranks turning and moving quickly from behind their comrades as the first five of those ranks still engaged with the Varciani who, just a moment before, had been on the other side of the Colapiani wedge. Even as they were moving, so was I, except I did not go far, moving over to where Capulo, Varo, Avitus and Sido were alternately standing and kneeling in their tiny orbis, although they were no longer looking outward but down at the corpses of Publius Canidius and his enemy Draxo, parts of both men's bodies entangled with the other. The sight of these two men entwined in death left a powerful impression on me that lasts to this day. Meanwhile, the men of the Second Century who came rushing from the opposite direction were clearly torn; they were about to throw themselves at those Varciani who had managed to penetrate our ranks, but at the same time, the sight of our Primus Pilus, lying with an axe protruding from his chest, was a shattering sight. Once I was with the others, I stared down at Urso, and it is impossible for me to describe the tangle of emotions that assailed me. Had I hated him for using me? I wondered. Or had I hated him because he had been selling armor that ended up being worn by men who tried to kill us, and in the case of Lutatius, actually had done so? Even as I pondered this, I was barely aware that my appearance had caused the others to turn their attention on me, and although nobody said a word, at least at that moment, I was assailed by another thought that was in direct opposition to the first. Was it not true, I thought, that I also regarded him with the same kind of affection and respect I had held for Corvinus? And ultimately, what did my feelings matter when compared to the grief and raging sorrow I saw on the faces of the men gathered around him? Suddenly, Capulo turned his attention away from me and looked back down, but this time at Draxo. He bent over and I saw him reach out with a blood-spattered hand, but then a sudden roar behind me jerked our attention away from Capulo and the corpse of our leader, all of us just in time to see the second half of the Second slam into the Varciani. Although some of the Varciani had seen this new threat, only a thin line of the barbarians had managed to turn to face in the direction of this sudden attack, but it was not nearly enough to stop the tide of Roman fury that cut them down without any mercy. Even as we watched, those Varciani who tried to stand against this new threat to their left flank were chopped down until the Second managed to cut almost all the way through what had been a packed mass of snarling, furious barbarians fighting for their homes just an eyeblink before. Although this sight was a welcome one, I was far too tired to cheer about it, and none of my other comrades did so either. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my arm and I turned wearily to see Capulo holding something in one hand, which he proffered to me.

"By rights, these are yours," he said, and I noticed his voice was hoarse.

Only then did I look down and see that the objects in his hands were, in fact, the two armbands Draxo was wearing on each bicep, along with a pair of heavy gold rings that, only when I saw them then, did I recall noticing on his hands. It is impossible to recount the new flood of emotions that ran through me at the sight of these spoils. For an instant of time, I was transported back to the year before, when I had slain Vergorix, another chieftain, this one of the Chatti. That time, I had been awarded the spoils by none other than Nero Claudius Drusus himself, except I had been forced by Urso to turn over the most valuable piece, a heavy gold torq, which I never saw again nor did I see the supposed proceeds from the sale of it. He had also kept a heavy gold chain the slain chieftain had used to fasten the bear cloak he wore, but I did not begrudge him that; it has been a custom for centuries for Centurions to always get a cut of the spoils from their men. Although I was still in the Fourth then, he was my Primus Pilus, and honestly, it was the torq that bothered me the most, although not for my own profit; again, knowing you are already wealthy alters your perception of matters involving money, at least it did, and does, for me. At the time, my outrage was more about the fact I could not share the proceeds with men who were comrades and friends. Now I stared down at the collection in Capulo's grimy hand and I noticed that, contrary to my first impression, the armbands were not iron, but silver. Tarnished, although that could be fixed easily enough. I was just reaching for them when Avitus said something that made my blood freeze.

"Where did Caecina run off to?" he asked. "I thought he went back to his normal spot, but I don't see him over there."

My answer came in the form of spinning about and shoving the spoils into Avitus' hands then, without another word, turning and heading in the direction I was sure Caecina was headed. Until Avitus spoke, I confess I had completely forgotten, not just about Caecina's sudden disappearance, but what I was sure was the cause for it, a bound girl who was alone and undoubtedly terrified, confined in a darkened house. I had not gone more than a dozen paces, however, when I met Asinius heading in the opposite direction, yet despite my almost frantic need to continue in pursuit of Caecina, I felt compelled to stop to address the Optio.

"The Primus Pilus is dead," I said, and although it is true my mind was elsewhere, I still admit that I winced at the flat tone of my voice.

Asinius, on the other hand, actually staggered a step backward, and I reached out to steady him, part of me taking note of the red smear of blood I left on his upper arm.

"What?" he gasped. "When?"

I could only shake my head; honestly, in that moment I could not speak about what I had witnessed, so instead I told him, "Just now, right before the Colapiani turned tail."

"And why did they do that if the Primus Pilus is dead?" he demanded, and while I felt a flare of irritation that he seemed suspicious I was telling him something other than the truth, I managed to curb it and not say something to make it worse.

"Because I killed Draxo right after he killed the Primus Pilus," I explained. "They obviously saw it happen, then they let out a howl like Cerberus and ran off. Although," I thought to add, pointing back in the direction of what now looked like a solid wall of flame, "I have no idea where they think they're going to go."

The Optio considered for a brief moment before nodding his acceptance, but when I began moving past him, it was his turn to grab my arm.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"Have you seen Caecina?" I asked, which seemed to startle him, but then he thought for a moment.

"Not for a while," he admitted. "I saw him head off in your direction. He's not there?"

"No," I replied flatly. "He ran off."

Determined not to say anything more, I grew acutely uncomfortable when Asinius seemed to think this through, then stared at me intently.

"Pullus, what's going on?"

I did not say anything, instead just looking over his head, which was somewhat difficult; when we had been in the ranks together back when he was my Sergeant and I was a new tiro, he had marched next to me in the rank and although he was shorter, it was not by much. Nevertheless, I could feel his eyes boring into me as if he could peer into my soul, but when I heard him sigh, I was not prepared for what he said.

"Fine," he sighed. "Go do what you need to do. Now that the Primus Pilus is dead, we're going to need to clean the Century up. But, Pullus," he warned me, and something in his tone compelled me to look directly into his eyes, "if whatever you have planned goes badly, we never spoke. Do you understand? I'll hang your ass out to dry if you try and bring me into this."

In answer, I only gave him a grim nod, but it was enough.

"All right," he muttered. "Let me go sort this mess out."

He did not even glance back in my direction as I resumed running, heading to the southeast corner of the town.

Of all the changes that came with my rapid departure from the common area the sudden quiet, at least in a relative sense, was the most disconcerting. Running down the same street that Caecina, Mela, Geta, and I had used to reach the fight just a watch before, I was dimly aware my ears were ringing, although this is not that uncommon when the sounds of battle recede. I was more acutely mindful of another sensation, however, as the blood of the last Colapiani I had slain was exposed to the wind as I ran, cooling and drying on my hand and arm, which is distinctly unpleasant, no matter what the circumstances. It did not slow my pursuit, but I was nevertheless cognizant of the feeling that my skin was both tightening and turning sticky as the ichor clotted on my arm; still, it was this same feeling from the skin of my face that threatened to disrupt my concentration as a part of me shouted to slow down and at least use my neckerchief to clean my face. I resisted, not wanting to spare a moment since there was no way to estimate how much of a head start Caecina had on me in terms of time, but the one thing of which I was sure was that he was not my only enemy, that it was against me as much as he was. Reaching the end of the first street was the easy part in terms of remembering which way to go, so that despite my resolve, I had to slow down as I cursed the Varciani for their seemingly nonsensical layout of this town. My one, very faint, hope was that Caecina had experienced a similar problem, but after pausing perhaps five heartbeats, I chose to take the intersecting street to the left. Before I had gone another ten paces, I offered a silent prayer of thanks as I recognized the sight of a house whose door had been kicked in from the search earlier in the day. Unfortunately, my appreciation was premature; after negotiating another turn, then another, it was not until I reached the end of this last street before I became convinced it was the wrong one. I made no attempt to stifle my shout of angry despair as I whirled about and went charging back up the way from which I had just come. All these years later, it is impossible for me to calculate how many watches I have spent internally chastising myself for this error; while I have learned to live with my mistake, the bitterness and regret is still there inside me whenever my mind is turned to remembering that night, as it is now. Now there is yet another regret added to this episode, the fact that I must relive this horrible night all over again in order to give a proper and complete account. However, I made a sacred vow to emulate the example set by my Avus, the first and greatest Titus Pullus, and leave behind a record for our descendants that is not only complete, but more importantly, one that is as truthful as possible for a mortal man to be. And, dear as-yet unborn reader, this means recording the failures of my life with as much fidelity as the successes. While there is no way for me to know whether my error actually did make a difference in all that was about to happen, I freely confess it is the uncertainty that haunts me the most. In most ways, I would prefer at least to know the truth, however bitter it may be, especially when compared to the gnawing sense of disappointment and loathing I have for myself for my perceived failure.

Despite all that lay ahead, in the moment, I was still propelled by hope as I reversed myself and corrected my blunder. Finally, I was racing down a street I clearly recognized and although the area was still darkened, it was not nearly as dim as it had been. Not only was there reflected light caused by the flames that had fully consumed the western side of the town, the fire had reached the last row of houses at the southwest corner of the town, and fires are hungry beasts that are never satisfied until they have consumed everything in their path. Unless the fire is stopped, of course, but the 8^th was in too much a state of disarray, and the senior Centurion in command of the Cohorts who were not in the first line but held in reserve, had obviously deemed the fighting to be sufficiently heavy that he did not detach at least one Cohort to race to the area around the southern gate and try to stop the fire's progress. Honestly, I can find no fault in his decision, if only for the reason that by this point the fire was completely out of control, and I believe the entire Legion would have been needed to tear down a few blocks' worth of houses to create a fire break large enough to stop it. Even then, it is not a certainty. Once I reached the head of the street, the reflection from the fire made dancing shadows that bathed the houses to my left in a lurid light, but I also noticed out of the corner of my eye the sight of actual flames just over the rooftops of the houses to my right. Only giving a glance in that direction, I judged the fire was still several streets over, yet it was clearly moving east, held in check on one side by the southern wall. That was when I recognized the fire was essentially following the contours of the wall, meaning it was undoubtedly heading in my direction. But most importantly, once it consumed all the houses along the southern wall, although it would now be moving against the wind, I had little doubt about whether it would still be strong enough to consume all the buildings on the eastern side of the common area. That probability, I must confess, was not of an immediate concern at that moment. The house where the girl had been left was at the far end of this block, and I rounded the corner of the street, moving at a run, or at least as much one as I could manage after all that had taken place. I was still a few houses up the street when a figure emerged from the house, then came to an abrupt stop, clearly alerted by the movement of my approach. For the briefest eyeblink of time, I felt an intense burst of what I recognized as hope, if only because the figure in the doorway was not holding a shield, which I had seen Caecina carrying with him when he ran from the fight. That hope was snuffed out in the next instant because, after the barest hesitation, the figure broke into a run, running out into the street in front of me. Once out of the shadow of the doorway, I had no trouble recognizing that it was indeed Caecina as he raced down the middle of the street, but in the opposite direction from me.

"Caecina!" I roared. "Stop, you fucking cocksucker!"

I believe this was the epithet I used, but honestly, I did not expect him to heed me, so I was not surprised when he did not even glance over his shoulder as he darted around the corner to the right, but while it was in the direction of the flames, I was certain he planned on using one of the three or four streets oriented in the direction of the common area where the fire had not yet reached. Running down the street behind him, even as I knew it was futile, I suppose buried inside me somewhere was a faint hope that the girl was at least still alive. Let me be clear on this point; I was under no illusion that she would escape being violated, though in the moment, my hope was that, if forced to choose between indulging himself but knowing he did not have time to commit rape and kill the girl, he would do the former but forego the latter. Even so, I also knew any delay would heighten Caecina's chance of making it back to the relative safety of the Century, where I would be unable to exact my revenge, at least immediately. Nevertheless, I slowed down and approached the door of the house, which had been left open. Then, over the sound of my own breathing, I heard a noise from within the house, a grunting sound that, had I stopped to listen carefully, I would have recognized was much lower-pitched than the girl would have even been capable of making. But my excitement and relief at what I interpreted as the sound of the girl struggling to free herself was so overpowering that I went rushing in, and while I had drawn my sword, it was only with the intention of cutting her bonds. Since the lamp had not been relit and the windows were still shuttered, it took my eyes a moment to adjust back to the deeper darkness of the house from the steadily growing light of the street. After that, it took perhaps a heartbeat longer to for my mind to make sense of what my eyes took in as I saw a figure on top of the girl. Although I could not even see her small body, the man was thrusting away, explaining the grunting sound I had heard. I was vaguely aware I unleashed my own roar, yet even so, there was a part of me relieved that at least I had been in time to save the girl's life. The sound of my bellow apparently was the first indication to Mela that I was present and I saw the white blur of his face turn towards me, with the dark "O" of his mouth just visible in the middle.

"Pullus!" Mela's voice was so laced with fear that I felt a glimmer of grim satisfaction, but I did not hesitate as I stepped across the room.

"No!" His voice broke, sounding like a woman, which I thought was appropriate. "Wait! It wasn't my idea! It was Caecina! He…"

Something I learned in this moment was that despite my left arm being weaker than it had been, it was still strong enough, or my rage was sufficiently powerful that when I grabbed Mela by the back of his segmentata to drag him upright, I was able to do so in such a way I heard the scrape of his feet as I lifted him bodily from the ground. Oh, it was agonizing, except it only drove me more so that I believe my rage was at its height in that moment. Then, with Mela in hand, literally, I glanced down at the girl, thinking to say something that, if not letting her know she was safe, she would at least find soothing by my tone. It was then I learned I was wrong, that I had not been as angry as I thought it possible for me to be. My eyes had adjusted just enough that I could see the girl's face sufficiently to see her eyes were open, except while they were staring up at me, they did not see me. Underneath her mouth, which was open from what I can only assume was her final scream, was what looked like an obscene imitation of her smile, except this one had no teeth and was black from the blood that spilled from her cut throat to soak the straw pallet around her head, making her pale white face stand out even more starkly.

I had certainly heard men talking about such things, but it had always been in a joking manner, or at worst, in whispers of speculation about some other man, in some other Century or Cohort, as if none of us really took this depravity as a real possibility among anyone we knew. Yet here I was, seeing firsthand that, in fact, there were men with whom I marched who were not only capable of violating the dead in the most obscene way imaginable, I was suspending one of them in front of me.

"You….fucked her?" I did not even recognize my own voice. "You raped this girl after you sliced her throat?"

"I didn't do that!" To my ears, Mela's tone became even more like that of a hysterical female. "Caecina did it! He cut her throat! I just…just…."

Because I was suspending him upright by the scruff of his neck, so to speak, he could only offer half a shrug, but I believe he was so gone with fear that he actually thought his claim that it was Caecina who had murdered this girl would stay my hand.

"You just fucked a dead girl," I spat, but even as I said it, my sword arm was moving as I aimed the point at the one spot where he was unarmored; in fact, he had nothing to protect him since his bracae were still around his ankles and he had tucked the hem of his tunic in his baltea.

As geldings go, it was not particularly well done, but I had not grown up on a farm, nor did I have any intention of doing it cleanly. And frankly, he was struggling wildly so the movement caused me to lose my grip on him. Falling heavily, his screams were appropriately shrill, but despite wanting him to suffer, I did not have the time, nor could I take the risk he would somehow be discovered while still breathing. Except, instead of cutting his throat, I stepped heavily on one leg, pinning it under my weight as I thrust down into his thigh at the spot where the large vessel that carries blood to the lower leg is located. Since he was clutching the remnants of his manhood, I had to plunge my sword through one of his hands, but I considered that just a bonus.

Then, taking one last glance at the girl, I heard a voice that was a stranger to me yet I knew was mine say, "I'm sorry."

Then I was out of the house, resuming my pursuit of Caecina.

My best ally that night was the fire, because it reduced Caecina's possible escape routes but despite knowing this in a general sense, even I could not have anticipated how much it helped me. When I turned the corner, I had already dismissed the first street as one that someone as clever as Caecina would use, simply because it was the obvious choice. But before I had gone more than a half-dozen paces, my mind was changed for me by the fire. While it was true that the actual flames had not advanced so closely that the buildings along the farther streets were actually burning, the heat that hit me was so intense I quickly realized the possibility of Caecina enduring what I can only liken to being every bit as hot as the inside of our brick stove was extremely unlikely. I can only guess that, considering how much of a lead he had on me, Caecina had nevertheless tried to do that very thing but was forced to backtrack, much in the same way as I had when I was trying in vain to save the Varciani girl. Perhaps the gods decided to even the scales, balancing my error with one made by Caecina as part of their plan to use me to exact justice for all the evil my Sergeant had done. At least, this is what I like to think. Whatever the truth might be, even as I reached the intersection with the first street, I had almost decided that he would risk going at least one street farther along; nevertheless, I glanced to my right as I was crossing that street. There was only a fleeting shadow just turning the corner at the other end of the street, which was shorter than the one where the girl had been, but even running at close to full speed, that sight was enough and I managed to round the corner without slipping. My momentum carried me to the edge of the street, up against the buildings on the far side of the street to my left; however, I maintained enough self-possession to slow down as I neared the next corner. Additionally, I drifted back to the right, moving more toward the middle of the street and enabling me to see around the corner better. Because of this, I had the instant's warning I needed to dodge an object that Caecina hurled at me from his spot up against the left-hand wall of the next street. In much the same way one dodges a missile like javelins or arrows, my mind did not have time to react, so my body took over and I leaned to the right just enough so whatever it was went whistling by my head. Frankly, I still have no idea what it was, although from the sound it made as it passed by, I can say it was substantial and not just a pile of cac. But Caecina's tactic not only failed, it delayed him; he had only gone a half-dozen more steps, angling towards the next corner when I opened my stride and caught up with him. In retrospect, I suppose I could have used my sword and ended him right then, but I am afraid something inside me had been freed that night. It was another beast that, while it might have come from the same father as what I thought of as my divine rage, was different. Not exactly a twin, although this new monster was definitely fed and nourished by the one with which I was familiar. Consequently, even as I knew that it would hurt, my left hand shot forward, shoving him hard between the shoulder blades to send him sprawling into the muddy, filthy street. I must give him credit; although he fell heavily, he reacted quickly, trying to scramble to his feet while his hand scrabbled for the sword that had been knocked from his hand. My own momentum actually worked in my favor as I allowed one foot to drag along the ground, kicking the sword well out of his reach as I shot past before skidding to a stop a few feet away. For an instant, my back was turned to him, but the almost feral growl that issued from his throat as he threw himself at me gave me just enough warning to brace myself as I spun about. Even so, his body slammed into my midriff, the clashing sound of his iron shoulder plates hitting those around my midsection making a harsh, clashing sound that could have been heard by anyone within a hundred paces. Fortunately for me, the gods had deemed there were no eyes to witness anything that was happening. Despite the impact, I did not stagger, although I rocked backward but at the same time, I twisted my body, so that between his own momentum and this move, he slid off and went staggering past me, crashing heavily into the wall of a house on the other side of the street. Pivoting about, when Caecina came at me again, this time, I was fully set and prepared, except instead of smashing into him using my superior strength and weight, I merely made a small sidestep to my left so that he missed me completely. I, however, did not miss, but while I could have easily ended him right then, I chose not to do so; this newly roused beast within me was what kept me from dispatching him quickly. In one important sense, this different sensation I was experiencing was decidedly unlike the divine madness passed to me by Titus Pullus, because I still retained a complete awareness of matters far outside my immediate surroundings. In short, I knew that not killing Caecina immediately posed a great risk to me and, more importantly, if he somehow survived, I most certainly would not. This awareness was unlike the feeling I had when I was gripped in the marvelous power of my rage, where the only thing that mattered in the moment was bringing death to whoever I was facing. Where it was similar, however, was that ultimately I did not care about whatever peril I was facing by prolonging this event; going further, another similarity exhibited by this newly roused beast was its insatiable appetite. Somehow, I knew I would not be satisfied by simply ending Gnaeus Caecina's life, which is why, as he went stumbling past, I waited just long enough for the bulk of his body to pass by before I performed a quick slash, right across the back of his leg above the knee, severing the two cords that are on both sides there that give a man the ability to stand. Instantly, his growling hatred changed to the shrill scream of a seriously wounded beast, and he took just one more step before collapsing in the filthy street. Despite what I am sure was an unspeakable agony, he retained the presence of mind to immediately begin digging into the mud of the street with his fingers as he tried to pull his body along. At first, I thought it was just a mindless need to escape me, but when there was a sudden eruption in the nearby fire that caused a brief flaring of the flames, thereby lighting the darkened street enough, I caught the glint of the metal from his sword lying a few feet away from him. But instead of hurrying past him to kick the sword away, I casually walked alongside him, albeit out of range of any possible attempt to reach out and grab me or make a lunge, moving in a parallel direction with him as I stared down, feeling not the slightest shred of pity. Or remorse, it must be said. No, the only sensation close to an emotion I was experiencing in that moment was an intense desire to make this man suffer.

"You really don't think that's going to help, do you?" I taunted him, but although I actually did not expect an answer, Caecina's face, shiny from a combination of his sweat and what I was sure was the blood from the dead girl, turned towards me.

"Y-you're going to pay for this." While I could not classify his tone as a snarl, it was far from a whimper.

"By who?" I asked him, actually somewhat curious. "The Primus Pilus is dead, and all of his other…business," I was certain he would understand my use of the word, "died with him. So, Caecina," I had just reached his sword, the hilt lying right next to my foot, "who's going to make me pay for this?"

He did not answer, at least right away because he had also gotten close to the sword, and I could tell by the embittered, hateful expression on his scarred face that he understood I was toying with him. Yet even as he knew it was hopeless, I also understood that, were I in his place, I would still make the attempt. But just as his hand shot out with a speed that was somewhat surprising considering his circumstances, I kicked the hilt, sending the blade spinning several more feet away. Now the sound that came from him was more gratifying to my ears as he hissed in frustration before it turned into a wailing, drawn-out whine of impotent anger.

I was about to repeat my question when he collected himself enough to glare up at me with his one good eye, except I was completely unprepared when he repeated my question, then supplied his response, answering, "Who's going to make you pay? The gods, Pullus. The gods are going to avenge me!"

"The gods?" I could hear the incredulity of my voice and, truthfully, I made no attempt to control my scorn at the idea. "You dare to tell me that the gods are on your side? After what you just did? You murdered that girl!"

"Oh, spare me, you bastard," Caecina's face was twisted in pain, as was his voice, yet he managed to convey his own malicious contempt. "You couldn't give a fucking brass obol for that little cunnus, and you know it!" He was on his elbows now, his face still turned toward me and the milky eye catching another sudden flare of the fire. "This was about stopping me from something I wanted! It had nothing to do with some savage girl. Unless," even in his extremis, he tried to fight back any way he could, "you're angry because you were saving her for yourself."

If he was about to say something after this, the flick of my wrist taking his lone remaining good eye turned it into a scream of such intense agony that, for the first time, I felt a flicker of something that could be called pity. Unfortunately, for both Caecina and me, this tiny spark of compassion was not sufficient to stop me. Immediately after the point of my sword slashed across his eyeball, he collapsed facedown, but only for a moment as he pushed himself over onto his back then reached up and clutched his ruined eye. Still, I caught enough of a glimpse of the gelatinous substance that fills our eyeballs because it glistened in a slightly different manner than the blood with which it was mixing. Understandably, Caecina was now sobbing, but he was still not quite through trying to hurt me back.

"You fucking bastard," he screamed. "You miserable, jumped-up bastard! You think your cac doesn't stink just like mine does, that you have to squat just like the rest of us! You think you're better than me and everyone around you! You…"

I cut him off by saying harshly, "You're lying here at my fucking feet! I just took your good eye, and you know I'm going to fucking kill you. I'd say that pretty much proves it!"

"Maybe," he sobbed. "Maybe you're better than me, but you'll never be the equal of the Primus Pilus!" For the moment, I was content to let him continue, but then he said, "And you'll never be half the Legionary your father was." I do not know how he managed, but then he made a sound similar enough to his barking laugh to suppose that was what he was doing as he continued, "And you'll never be anything more than the cac on the sponge that wiped your grandfather, the great Titus Pullus' ass." His tone was mocking as he uttered what might look on paper like an honorific but when spoken was uttered as a curse. "You think you're something you're not, boy." As he was saying this he dropped both his hands from his face, even though he could no longer see, but he still turned his face at me, as if trying to force me to look down on the ruin I had made of it and his life. "Oh, you've managed to trick those other fools into believing you're the incarnation of him, but remember this." He lifted a badly trembling hand that turned into an accusing finger that pointed close enough to where I was standing to know it was meant for me. "You never fooled me. I've seen you for what you really are: a big, soft rich boy. You're no fucking different from Paullus or any of those patrician cunni because you think that who you're related to makes you special. But you're still a fucking Head Counter, and always will be!" By the time he finished this, his voice had risen to a level of hoarse shrillness. "And the gods are watching you, Pullus! They're the ones who are going to strike you down for your falsity! They know what you are! You can't fool them, and you couldn't fool me! I saw what…."

"Actually," I cut him off sharply, "you can't see anything anymore, can you? Not even this." As I uttered these last words, my sword plunged down into his throat, hard enough to feel the grating resistance of his spine, but I did not stop pushing until fully half of my sword was no longer visible, buried in the ground and in the body of Gnaeus Caecina.

Another aspect of this new type of madness that struck me was a level of calculation and awareness, which I am sure is what compelled me to drag Caecina's body back up the street, retracing our steps. Pausing long enough to actually listen to the night sounds, while the dominant one was a hissing roar that I knew was the fire raging just a few blocks away, I could also hear the clang of metal on metal, punctuated by the deeper thudding sound as someone blocked their foe's thrust with a shield. Those noises told me what I needed to know and I hurried on, hampered by the dead weight of Caecina. The blood that was still draining from his body was the least of my concerns at the moment; after all, I reasoned, I'm covered in it already and nobody can tell whose blood it is, I assured myself. Despite the fact I still think the reasoning was sound, there was a detail escaping my notice that would cause me some difficulty. However, I also knew I had to work quickly, but most importantly, I had to decide how close to the fire I was willing to get to accomplish what I was determined to do. As it turned out, I could only go one block over before the heat was so intense that I could feel the iron of my armor becoming too hot to touch. Granted, my tunic and padded undershirt gave some protection, but even so, I felt like I was being roasted alive, which is not far from the truth.

Therefore, I threw Caecina's corpse into the first house I found, one whose door had been smashed to splinters, muttering as I turned around, "That's better than you deserve."

Now I did not hesitate, breaking into a run and returning to the house where the girl and Mela were. As expected, he had bled to death, but I realized a possible complication; he was lying in a pool of blood that had already begun congealing, and the only way I could reach him was to step in it. And in doing so, I would leave behind what is a very distinctive footprint; the barbarian tribes of Pannonia, at least, do not use hobnails in their soles, not to mention I owned one of the largest pair of feet in the Legion, having to go out into town to have boots made that fit properly. Consequently, after I grabbed him, hauling his dead weight up and over my shoulder with a grunt and thankful that at least he would not drip all over me, I walked backwards as I dragged each foot, doing my best to smear the trail. It was too dark to see what kind of job I had done and I chided myself for my excessive caution, thinking it was extremely unlikely this house would be saved from the fire that was, at most, three streets away. Also, at the very least, I had obscured the size by my actions, understanding the presence of hobnails themselves was no proof of anything. Especially, I reminded myself, if there are no bodies here. Roman bodies at least, because while I deposited Mela in the same house as Caecina, believing it a fitting spot for him considering how firmly attached to our former Sergeant he was in life, when I returned to the house, I did not actually go inside again. Maybe I'm more of a religious man than I thought; this was what went through my mind before I decided to leave her there. Again, since one of the important aspects of this account is to be as honest as possible, while in the moment I would have claimed I left her as she was in the event that the fire was somehow stopped and she was subsequently found, her people could at least inter her in their manner, which is burial in the ground, that, however, is not truly the case. The harsh reality is I decided I wanted to leave the scene as it was, in the event that my actions against Caecina and Mela came to light. Not that it would matter in a legal sense; if the army allowed Legionaries to kill each other because of their mistreatment, or even murder, of prisoners, the Legions would never have a full quota of men and an impossible task in finding replacements. Ultimately, I left the murdered girl where she was, based on the belief it would ultimately work in my favor, rather than do what, arguably, I should have done. As it would turn out, my initial belief that at the end of it all, where she was would not matter because she was destined for the flames either way was proven correct, since the fire was not put out before it consumed that house and block.

When I returned to the common area, I believe the scene before me was one that would fit among those supposedly deep in the bowels of Hades, in the segment of the underworld where men like Sisyphus toil. What had been a battle was now nothing more than a slaughter as, forced to choose between death by blade or by fire, those Varciani and whatever remnant of Colapiani who were left ultimately made the right choice. I do not mean to imply that they simply gave up fighting and allowed themselves to be dispatched, but as relatively inexperienced as I might have been, I had seen enough of battle to recognize when the heart has gone out of an enemy and they now realize the outcome is inevitable and going to go against them. I did not return to my Century by the most direct route, choosing instead to follow the wall to where it turned east before I headed towards the clearing. As nearly as I could calculate, I intended to enter the eastern edge of the common area somewhere along the line of the First Cohort, but I also knew I was likely to get turned around and end up in some other spot. For what I believe was the first time, I managed to navigate the maze of streets and come out almost exactly where I had hoped, but I cautioned myself against reading too much into this as any kind of sign. What it did allow was the opportunity to examine the battle from a farther remove than normal, so I took the time to try and make sense of what was happening. To my far right at the far end of the town where the fire had started, while it was still burning, it was clearly in its dying stages, and I was informed thusly not only by evidence presented by the fire itself, but by the fact that what looked like two of the reserve Cohorts were now aligned roughly parallel to the northern edge of the common area. Our lines now formed the letter "L" if viewed from above, with the shorter segment of our lines pushing an increasingly shrinking mass of Varciani southward. Despite all that had happened, I held no real animosity towards the Varciani; a substantial number of these men were literally fighting for their homes, after all, and I could certainly understand if not quite sympathize why they were still resisting with such ferocity. I did not envy any of these men, especially since it was extremely likely a number of them were watching their homes go up in flames, along with the fact that their families were still being held in a huddled mass just a few hundred paces away and, worst of all, within clear view. From where I stood for a few moments, the combatants from both sides were figures silhouetted against a backdrop of flame and smoke. While the smoke generated by the fire was driven mostly upward by the heat, once it cooled down, some of it billowed downward in a circular pattern that partially obscured the last couple hundred paces of the western edge of the common area. In fact, once I got closer where I could more easily hear, the sounds of hundreds of men coughing and hacking from the smoke added an element to the fight I had never heard before. As far as I could tell, all of the second line Centuries from every Cohort in the first line had been committed as well, and I headed in the direction where I assumed my former Century was still charged with guarding the prisoners, except once I got close enough to see there were no familiar faces, I decided to return to my own Century. It was not without some trepidation, yet oddly enough, my first concern was not about facing questions about my whereabouts and, more importantly, what I had been doing. Instead, I was worried by the fact that, for the first time in not just my short career but for the previous eight years and several months, my Legion, our Legion, did not have its leader. Admittedly, this was part of my anxiety, but certainly not all of it as far as my state of mind and reluctance to rejoin my Century. For a brief period of time, I had forgotten I had lost at least two men who were more than comrades and, in fact, were men I considered friends, but the moment I returned to the battle, the reality hit me with a considerable amount of force. Nevertheless, while I cannot say I moved particularly quickly, I still made my way to the far southern end of our line. The first surprise came when I saw that the First was actually still in the same spot I had left it in, although the rest of the Cohort had pushed forward at least a hundred and fifty paces. Even as I walked in that direction, the sounds of the fighting now well into the second full watch continued, but interspersed with the same coughing I had first heard shortly before; when I got within about fifty paces of the rear lines of the Cohorts who were engaged, my eyes started burning. As bad as the smoke was, the fact that I could feel the heat from the fire that was easily four to five hundred paces away at its closest was somewhat unnerving. It was an odd feeling; one side of my body feeling the heat while the other side was beginning to shiver as the night continued turning colder. Actually determining that what could only be charitably called a formation was in fact the First Century was made more difficult because both our eagle and Cohort standard were missing, and I must confess I stopped for a moment, the warm part of my body turning cold as well, as the thought that somehow the Colapiani, or perhaps those Varciani who had managed to penetrate our formation, had snatched our eagle. Granted, even if they had done so, there was nowhere for them to take it, yet it nevertheless was a thought that troubled me a great deal, and I knew it would similarly affect the rest of the men of the First. Before the idea could take full bloom, however, I looked in the direction of the fighting, then sighed in relief at the sight of the eagle outlined starkly against the flames as a man I was sure was Capulo was thrusting it up and down, which is not a random movement. The sight of the Legion eagle moving in this manner is the signal to those who can see it to press the advantage; it is the same for Century or Cohort standards, and just as I saw this visual command, I heard the cornu blast that corresponded with the gesture Capulo was making. The way every man of the Legion responded to this order was to unleash a verbal blast of their own, and although it might have been my imagination, I believe I heard in the cry of my comrades the same combination of rage, triumph, and sorrow I was feeling as they gave their reply. Instantly, the din of the fight increased from what had become its normal level of noise, then perhaps a heartbeat or two after that I heard the first shriek as one of the barbarians met their end, or at least so I assumed. While all this was happening, I was still walking, splitting my attention between the fighting on the right and what was left of my Century straight in front of me, but it was not until I was within twenty paces or so that I forced myself to actually look at the men of my Century, and more importantly, understand what the scene in front of me meant.

"Pluto's cock." I do not believe I said this loudly; in fact, I thought I had uttered this only in my mind. "Is this really all that's left?"

"No." Asinius' voice made me jump; somehow, he had managed to come up on me from an oblique angle, slightly behind me. "Some of the men asked to join with the Second to finish this off. For Ur…the Primus Pilus." He corrected himself quickly, but I am happy it was just me who heard him nonetheless; at that moment, the nerves and emotions of the men of the 8^th were like a raw, open wound and even the slightest offensive remark about our Primus Pilus could provoke a man to lashing out at the offender before thinking of the consequences.

I turned my attention to Asinius; neither of us spoke for a moment. I suppose he was giving me the same kind of examination as I was giving him. What I saw was a grimy, blood-spattered face that, under the best of circumstances, would be described as a serious demeanor; now there were deep furrows in his cheeks and his mouth was turned down so severely I had the absurd thought that the ends might touch each other. But it was his eyes, reflecting the light from the devouring flames behind me, that told the real story of a man who is physically spent, yet knows he has no choice but to carry on with his duties. His arms were bloody, although I quickly determined it was not his own, but then I noticed there was what looked like a slashing wound on his lower leg, just above his right greave, moving from the front of his leg to the back. I pointed down to it.

"How did that happen?"

When he looked down to where I was pointing, he made an exclamation of surprise as he looked back up and admitted, "I have no idea."

But when he pointed to my face, this was the first instant I remembered I had sustained a wound from the spike of Draxo's axe myself.

"What about you?"

"From the spike on Draxo's axe," I mumbled, except when I reached up to touch it, he grabbed my hand, and although he did not say anything, just that action was eloquent enough. "I had forgotten about that," I said sourly, yet I did not try to touch my face again. "Thanks for reminding me. Now it hurts like Dis!"

"Stop being a woman," he retorted.

But while I thought, and hoped, this was the end of our exchange, I quickly learned it was not; at least I had a hint about the direction his mind was taking when he leaned sideways to examine my back. His action gave me just the instant of warning I needed; I still wonder if it was simply a happy accident.

"Why," he asked in a mild tone that did not fool me in the slightest, "is your back covered in blood?"

In the heartbeat of time I had, I made a decision that, rightly or wrongly, I determined I would ride to death; my earnest hope was that it stayed a figure of speech.

"I have no idea," I lied to him, then I craned my neck, turning so the back of my segmentata would be exposed to the light from the fire, as if trying to see what he was talking about; at least, I made a show of doing so. Finally, I shrugged, falling back into the role of the Stupid Legionary as I said, "Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe," I finished, "it happened during that mess with Draxo and the Primus Pilus."

"Maybe," Asinius' tone did not match his words, "but the funny thing is I don't remember seeing all that blood when you went off on your little…excursion." His eyes bored into mine as he stood there silently, which I had learned very early on during my association with him was a favored tactic, except I was determined to match him and keep my mouth shut. It probably lasted no more than a couple of heartbeats, although it did not seem like it. Finally, though, he shrugged and said, "Not that it matters. Just one of those questions after a fight that you wonder about, neh?"

"Yes, sir," I agreed, trying to make sure I did not betray my intense relief.

Turning away from me, he pointed in the general direction of the First Section and ordered, "Go get in your spot, Pullus. I doubt we'll be needed, but you never know."

I saluted, then went trotting over to where Avitus was standing, or leaning, on his shield. Turning his head, he did not speak at first, instead pulling some items from where he had stuffed them under his baltea.

"These belong to you," he said, but while there was nothing outwardly different in his attitude, I sensed a subtle but definite change in his tone than the one he usually used with me.

Of course, I remonstrated with myself silently, it could be because he's fucking exhausted. Thanking him, I did the same thing he had done, stuffing Draxo's armbands in my baltea; then on an impulse, I took one of his rings and tried it on. It pleased me that it fit perfectly, although I admit that it looked, and felt, strange on my finger, since I never had worn jewelry of any kind. Still, even in the wavering light from the fire, I could see the workmanship was superb, easily making out the incised figure of a rearing horse. It's Ocelus; the thought just thrust itself into my mind and caused a sudden welling of emotion that, as I had learned the year before, was something to which I seemed to be extremely susceptible in the aftermath of a fight. As I have come to discover, in this I am not alone; over the years, I have seen men weeping immediately after a battle, even when none of their friends or comrades were slain. I suppose this is the reason I did not become immediately aware that Avitus seemed to be studying me as intently as I had been my new ring, but I gradually became cognizant of his eyes on me. I did not say anything, instead just glancing over at him, yet that seemed to be enough.

"So," he asked in a way I am sure he thought was casual but obviously was nothing of the sort, "where did you disappear to?"

I had thought about how I would answer this and had decided the truth was the best course; at least, the partial truth.

"Right before the cornu sounded, I found a Varciani girl tied up in a house," I told him, "but I didn't have time to cut her loose and bring her over with the others. So," I shrugged, but looked away as I finished, hoping my attempt at sounding casual was better than his, "as soon as I got the chance, I went to go check and see if she was still there."

"Why would you care about some barbarian girl?" Avitus asked, but then he suddenly gave me a grin, actually reaching out to poke me in the arm. "Ah," he laughed as he nodded his head. "That's why!"

He nodded his head, yet despite knowing I had just been given a perfect way out, I could not stop myself from replying sharply, "No! It was nothing like that! She was maybe eight years old!"

"Ah." Avitus' expression changed and he stopped smiling. "Which brings back the question; why would you care?" He waved a hand in the general direction of the prisoners. "It's not like there's not a couple hundred girls about that age. And," he added, "it's not like we're seeing any of that money. Or did you forget that the fucking Legate is keeping the money for himself?"

By the time he was finished, his bitterness was fully flowing, but at least his anger was directed from me; for the moment, at least, and I was determined to keep his ire aimed elsewhere. In answer, I made my own wave, except this time over at the flames.

"If someone didn't get her, she was going to burn to death," I countered, then made sure I pinned him with my gaze. "Yes, they're our enemies, but would you wish that on anyone? Especially a little girl?"

Avitus' face already looked flushed because of the light from the fire, but he turned even darker as he admitted, "No, no I wouldn't. You're right. That's no way to die, for anyone. Except," he suddenly turned and pointed to a spot; I did not need to turn and look to see that he was pointing at Draxo, "for that cunnus. No," he spat on the ground and said adamantly, "I'd like to burn that cocksucker a little at a time for what he did to the Primus Pilus. But," I would like to think his look of respect was genuine, "you sure put paid to him. It's just a shame that…."

He stopped, suddenly looking embarrassed, but I did not begrudge him the sentiment.

"I know," I assured him and I was surprised that when I said, "I wish I had gotten there in time, too," I actually sincerely meant it.

"Did you see Caecina anywhere around?"

I cannot say with any certainty if Avitus tried to catch me off balance with his question; from what I knew then and know even better now, subtlety of that sort just was not in his nature. To this day, I believe it was a sincere question, born of completely innocent intentions. And it must be said, it was not only a common kind of question to ask about the whereabouts of a man of one's own Century, it was a natural one to ask me specifically.

"No." I shook my head. "I didn't, but honestly, I wasn't looking for him."

"Hm…" He shrugged, then finished. "I imagine he'll turn up soon. Him," once more he leaned over and spat on the ground, making no attempt to hide his contempt, "and Mela. That bastard has his head so far up Caecina's ass, you can bet that where one is, the other will be there too."

That, I remember thinking with grim amusement, is truer than you know.

"So," he yawned and turned his attention back to the fighting, "was that girl there? The one you were looking for?"

Sighing, I said, "No. She was gone."

Even when we Romans make war where it is simply required of us and there is no reason for our personal passions to be inflamed against whatever enemy we are facing, it is a brutal business. And yet, that is exactly what it is to us most of the time, simply our job. I suppose it would be politic for me to say at this point we killed for Rome, or for some higher ideal like what Rome and all it represents brings to the uncivilized, backwards people of the world, a shining light in the darkness of a brutal world. Simply put, while it might make the horrible things we do in the name of Rome more palatable to some, it is not true. Most of the time, while once in the heat of battle our blood runs hot and we hate the enemy we are facing, before that moment, it is merely our occupation to march, and dig, and march, and train. Although I have never discussed this with a butcher, it seems unlikely to me that when a herd of swine are brought to him for slaughter, he starts swinging his butcher's blade because he hates pigs, or they have wronged him in some way. And, in many ways, we Legionaries are much like butchers; the difference is that we are trained and paid to slaughter our own kind. At least that level of detachment is usually the way it is when facing a previously unknown enemy, where no blood has been spilled before and there are not old grievances from previous battles. The reason I am inserting this into my account here is to make it clear that what I have just mentioned was not the case that night. It does not justify nor condone what took place in that Varciani town, but ultimately, once our Primus Pilus fell at the hands of Draxo, their fate was chosen for them, by us, and it would be an even more unpleasant one than a life of slavery, even if it was briefer.

It began somewhere roughly in the middle of our battle line, with the Fifth Cohort, as one of their Centuries had managed to isolate a group of Varciani from the remaining mass of warriors who were being pushed slowly but steadily towards the southern part of the town. As far as I know, I doubt the exact number of this smaller band of Varciani will ever be known; over the years, I have heard a number ranging from a dozen to more than a hundred. However, many of these isolated warriors there were, once they were completely surrounded and cut off from their own comrades, they continued to put up a fight for a short period of time. This group had formed their version of an orbis, which in their case is little more than a rough circle of men with their backs to each other, with those not currently engaged in the middle, waiting for one of their own to fall so they can step in. Apparently, one of these Varciani was of a sufficient rank in their society to be considered a commander whose word would be obeyed, because when he suddenly ordered this group of Varciani to yield, signaling their surrender by throwing down their weapons and dropping to their knees in submission, he was obeyed. Depending on to whom you talked in the Fifth Cohort, this noble's order was either instantly followed or most of the men refused it for a few hundred heartbeats of time; whatever the case, there were a number of Varciani warriors who surrendered. What happened next was the subject of much debate over the subsequent winter among my comrades and, being honest, I believe that just as we will never know the exact number of these Varciani, the truth of how this event developed will never be fully known either. What is certain is that every one of those Varciani were initially allowed to surrender, then their hands and legs were bound with whatever was available; leather thongs that some men carry for that purpose, baltea discarded by the medici who were treating the wounded, even lengths of rope. The material used does not really matter; what does is that once they were secured in this way, these Varciani were then thrown bodily into the fire that was still consuming what had been the homes, shops, and storage buildings of this town. We were sufficiently far enough away we could not hear the actual screams of these particular Varciani, but we were made aware of some sort of disturbance over and above the normal noise of the fight. It prompted Avitus and me to look in that direction, except it was too far away and there were too many men between us. However, after a few moments a new sound emerged, made discernible mainly because of its rhythmic nature, which was in direct contradiction to the cacophony of noise that had become the normal sounds of a fight to our ears. Cocking my head, even after lifting one earflap, I could not make any sense of it; Avitus was the first one of us able to decipher the sound that continued with the same rhythm but was growing in intensity and strength with every heartbeat.

"Are they shouting….burn? Like a chant?"

The moment he uttered this, I instantly understood Avitus was undoubtedly correct; as the men of the Fifth were throwing their prisoners into the fire, their comrades around them who were no longer engaged in the fight were cheering the sight of these men being burned alive. The manner in which they were chanting reminded me of how the supporters of one of the chariot racing teams like the Greens will chant the name of the team, or perhaps that of their favorite driver. This was the first sign I remember that told me this night would be unlike any other I had experienced; I had no way of knowing at the time that I would still be able to make this claim even as I scratch these words tonight, that I have seen nothing like it since.

Regardless, it was Avitus who first uttered the words that within the next full watch would have the ring of prophecy when he said grimly, "I have a feeling that whatever's happening over there is just the start."

It was actually not until quite some time had passed before we heard anything that could even remotely be called boasting by the boys in the Fifth about what they did that night. In fact, in the ensuing confusion and chaos of that night, I had occasion to run into some of the men who had been part of this act; in truth, they were easily identifiable, even with just the light of the fire. Every inch of their exposed skin was a deep red, except not from blood, either theirs or that of the enemy, and I saw at least two men whose arms were blistered, informing me they had to have been close to the flames. Even so, it was their armor that was the most telling, because the plates of their segmentata were scorched and blackened. Still, this was not what I remember most vividly; it was their reactions to the shouted questions from men of the Cohorts on either side, or even men of the Fifth of different Centuries. More accurately, it was their refusal to answer or even look their questioners in the eyes, to the point where their lack of communication about what they had witnessed angered the men asking the questions. It did not come to blows, but seeing it firsthand, I am sure this was more due to exhaustion than any other reason that restricted the dispute to the verbal kind. And, compared to everything else going on, this was a minor event.

Shortly after the chanting stopped; only later did I learn that, in fact, there were still Varciani who had yet to be consigned to the flames but as enraged and vengeful as the men of the Fifth were, they evidently had lost the stomach for watching men burn to death. Over the ensuing weeks, as more details of what happened emerged, I find it easy to understand why they felt this way. It reminded me of my Avus' account of his first campaign as Camp Prefect under Marcus Publius Crassus, the grandson of the great man, who ordered a stand of trees in which tribes from the Bastarnae were hiding to be set afire, and how it had haunted Crassus when he witnessed the sight of men burning to death. And although there is no way to know with any certainty, I believe that any chance of the remaining Varciani, perhaps a thousand of them still fighting at this point, offering to surrender was certainly lost. Consequently, I have no doubt that even those Varciani farthest removed from the northern edge of the steadily shrinking battlefield quickly heard what had befallen those Varciani who were roasted alive. While the end result was inevitable, the acting Primus Pilus of the Legion, Aulus Macerinus, hastened that end by his decision to relieve the First and Third Cohorts, ordering two of the Cohorts who had been in reserve but not charged with guarding the prisoners, who had been forced to watch the destruction of all that they knew and loved, to relieve the First and Third in place. Because this maneuver actually takes a fair amount of space behind the engaged Centuries as their counterparts in the relieving Cohorts line up on the tail end of each Century still fighting, we were forced to move aside. Normally, this would not have been anything more than an inconvenience, but in this case, we were running out of room. At least, if we did not want to end up looking like the boys in the Fifth who had danced with the flames, and in this, we were all of a like mind, not wanting anything do with the fire.

"Shouldn't he start thinking about getting us out of this fucking place?"

I glanced over at Sido, who had asked the question, but he was occupied with staring in the direction from which I had come; looking past him to the south, I will say I simultaneously felt a sense of shame and relief as I realized that the house holding Caecina and Mela was already fully ablaze. Also, from what I could tell, the fire was just crossing the narrow street to the block where the girl's body was located. Even if Macerinus were to order the entire Legion to stop fighting Varciani and start battling the fire, there was no way either of the houses containing the evidence of what took place would be left. Still, despite the fire solving one problem, I shared Sido's concern; now that the fire had reached the southwest corner of the town, we would have to rely on the northern wind to arrest the fire's progress as it consumed the eastern section of town. I supposed it was conceivable that if we stayed in the large open area of the common ground, where the only building there was the chieftain's hall, from my observation, it seemed to be far enough from the nearest buildings to catch fire itself, although there was no way to know with any certainty. Still, even if this was true, it was already uncomfortably hot, to the point where those comrades of mine who had at least cleaned their faces from the blood and grime of the fight now glistened in the light from their sweat. In fact, it was sweat that reminded me of my own particular problem when it rolled down my face and into what I still did not know was a gaping wound along my cheekbone. Specifically, it was the salt from my sweat that reignited the fire along my cheekbone, which very quickly became so distracting that I swallowed my pride and turned to Avitus.

"How bad is this?" I pointed to my cheek, trying to keep my tone light and bantering. "Will the ladies love it or run and hide?"

Avitus stepped closer, moving my left side towards the light of the fire. His sudden and involuntary wince gave me the answer.

"Pullus, I'm not going to lie." He shook his head. "That's a right nasty gash. I can see your cheekbone."

Rather than be thankful to him for being honest, despite knowing better, I found myself growling, "You could have lied to me about it."

Thankfully, his response was not to take offense but laugh, and oddly enough, his reply, "What? Then have you come bash my skull in when you go to the medicus and he keels over in a dead faint and you find out I was lying?" actually made me feel better.

Such was and is still, I suppose, my hubris. I remember something I once heard my Avus say to my father that, like so many of the things he said and did, has stayed with me.

"The day nobody thinks I'm a dangerous man," he had said, sitting at the table with my family, "is the day I open my veins. There's no worse fate for a warrior than to be seen as harmless."

I remember thinking at the time that his fear was so far out of the realm of possibility that it was simply beyond comprehension to the young boy sitting at that table; even now in my thirty-first year, I find it impossible to think of Titus Pullus as harmless. And yet, what I will say is that, like my size, strength, and other gifts, he has passed this same feeling to me as well, and only now as an adult can I see that my father was no less affected. It was what made the year after the loss of his leg the hardest my family had to endure, as he struggled to cope with the idea that when he limps down a street in Arelate on his one crutch and wooden leg, the reason people step aside is because of our society's revulsion for anyone who has been crippled. At least, that is how he viewed, and I suppose still does, their reaction. But having walked beside him more times than I can count, while I cannot deny that some of the looks he got were based in this idea, far more of them were of respect and recognition that he was a man of the Legions. And in places like Arelate, which was founded by Divus Julius himself, that means something.

Immediately after Avitus informed me of the extent of my facial wound, I was forced to admit, only to myself of course, that I should not have asked him because now it was all I thought about. I found my hand reaching up to probe the wound, but after Avitus gently stopped me from doing so a half-dozen times, he finally slapped my hand, hard, which elicited an undignified yelp of pain from me.

"You're going to open it up again, idiot," he growled at me. "Then you're going to bleed some more. Then you're going to start staggering around because you'll think you're bleeding to death. Then you'll keel over. And then I'll have to lug your fat ass to the medici." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the area that had been set up as a makeshift field hospital. "And they already have more business than they can handle. They don't need to waste time holding your hand."

Ironically enough, this was precisely what I needed to hear at that moment, and the shame of being so absorbed in what I knew was a minor wound kept me from worrying about my cheek for the rest of the night. The fact that there would be more than enough to occupy my attention did not hurt.

Being where we were at the southeastern edge of the common area, behind the part of the Legion that was still occupied in slaughtering the remaining remnant of the Varciani warband meant that our attention was evenly split between watching the fight and the fire. Most troubling was our recognition that all access to the southern gate was now cut off since the fire was at its hottest in that area. The northern gate was our only option, at least if we did not want to be forced to lift our dead and wounded up and over the eastern wall, which was still untouched by the fire at that point. Immediately after this thought crossed my mind, another one came on its heels; I found it hard to believe there were only two gates for this town. Even if it was just nothing more than a doorway built into the wall somewhere, I was sure there had to be another exit. I debated for a moment whether or not to approach Asinius and bring this up; Macerinus was still with the Cohorts finishing our business with the Varciani, Capulo right there with him, the sight of our eagle inspiring men who I knew were near exhaustion. This battle had been by far the longest in which I had ever participated, and even without all that had taken place with Caecina, I would have been bone tired. Now, if another warband had somehow appeared, I was sure that neither I nor any of my comrades in the First would be able to do more than offer a token resistance before being cut down. Thankfully, this did not happen. Finally, I could restrain myself no longer, and I half-walked, half-stumbled over to where Asinius was standing a few paces in front of us, his eyes on the fighting as he waited for a signal that we were needed, something I fervently hoped would not occur.

"Do you know whether or not those gates are the only way in or out of here?"

I admit I asked the question with no real hope or expectation of an answer, but Asinius was always one to surprise.

"The Primus Pilus sent a couple sections from the Sixth to search," he informed me, not taking his eyes off the fighting. "But that was before…" He did not finish, nor did he need to. "Whether or not they found anything…" He shrugged. "All I know is that I saw one of them talking to Macerinus, so maybe they did. Or," he finished, his tone flat with resignation, "they didn't."

Understanding this was all I would be getting from my Optio, I returned to spread this piece of information to the rest of my comrades in the Century that were left. During this period of time in the waning moments of the battle, although a fair number of my Century had followed the eagle into the fray, more of them had come drifting back to rejoin us, the last of their energy spent. It would still be some time before we knew our exact strength and who we had lost, but just in my section, I knew of four men; the fact that two of them were by my own hand was not lost on me. Making a quick count, the only men unaccounted for were Geta and Bestia, and I assumed the grizzled veteran was still in the thick of the fight, still intent on exacting vengeance for the loss of his best friend. As far as Geta was concerned, I confess I had been pleasantly surprised he was not with Caecina or Mela, although it was only for tactical reasons; three men are harder to kill than two. While we had not been given leave to sit on the ground, otherwise, we were only required to stay in a semblance of our proper alignment. And nothing had been said about leaning on our shields, which all of us were doing now, resting our arms across the top and bent over at the waist, trying to regain as much strength and energy as we could. Another unusual aspect of what was already a remarkable night was that our normal banter was clearly muted, confined to muttered snatches of conversation between men who were standing side by side. Completely missing were the calls to men on the far side of the formation, or between the first couple of sections back to the last; it was as if nobody was willing to expend that much energy. This was certainly part of it, but I suspect that more than anything, we were all still in shock. Whatever the case, it did mean there was no missing the sudden roaring sound, over and above the fight, and when we all looked in that direction, I will never forget the sight of our eagle, thrust high in the air by Capulo and outlined against the flames as the last of the Varciani fell.

"It's over," Avitus said, but flatly and without any emotion; there was nothing left, in any of us, to feel any elation at our victory.

But, while he was correct in one sense, the next battle had just begun, and all of us were about to be caught up in the events that were to come.

As one might suspect, it takes some time to restore a semblance of order and organization after a battle, even under the best of circumstances. What faced our new Primus Pilus that night was the exact opposite of the best of circumstances, and even now, I cannot fault him for any of the decisions he made in the aftermath of such a chaotic night. The first order of business, of course, is to take stock of our casualties and get the medici to those men who have fallen but cannot be moved immediately, which was what happened next. At least that was how it started, except there was a complication; we had men who were still alive but were now lying on the field too close to the flames. Once the din of the actual fighting had died down, at least the clashing sounds of metal on metal and metal against wood, for a brief period of time, what we heard were the normal sounds of the aftermath, the shouts and cries of men exulting in still being alive, the short, sharp screams of Varciani being finished off, and underlying it all the low, keening moan of those who had fallen but were still breathing. But then, after an interval of perhaps thirty heartbeats of this, just long enough at least for my ears to send the signal to my mind that matters were settling back to normal, what turned out to just be the first of a series of screams pierced the night air. Even after the riot of battle noise and the sounds of agony we had already heard, this was unlike anything that had come before, causing Avitus and me to exchange an uneasy glance. I never asked him, but I suspect his mind was running along the same lines, that one of those numen we all know lurk about us, the disembodied, invisible shades of all manner of creatures and men had been drawn to this scene of carnage. But then it was joined by another shriek that, if anything, was even more distressing to the ear than the first. All of my comrades were muttering now, shifting about as what was rapidly becoming a chorus of agony so unbearable it made the hair on my neck stand up, reminding me of the night I first heard the wolves howling outside our camp in Germania during the campaign the year before. Except these were not wolves, but men, I knew, although we still had no real idea of what it meant. Once we got our answer, not for the first or last time did I curse my inquisitive nature.

"There are wounded men too close to the fire for our medici to get," Asinius announced to us after returning from the jumbled mess that was just beginning to get sorted out. "They're roasting alive, but we can't get to them."

Consequently, we were forced to stand there, helplessly listening to the sounds of our comrades who were so severely wounded they could not drag themselves away from the killing flames essentially be cooked within their armor. Even now, all these years later, I suffer dreams where I can hear them screaming; even worse than just the insensate cries of agony were those calls men made to one of their comrades to come and drag them from the flames. And it must be said, more than one man tried, but after two attempts that saw otherwise unwounded men suffer the worst kind of burns on their arms and faces, Macerinus forbade anyone else from trying. It is one of those hard, grim and brutal decisions that Centurions must make, removing one's emotions from whatever is happening and opting to sacrifice the few for the many. Even when it is the right decision; and I believe that it was, even now, it does not mean rankers view it that way, at least not in circumstances like this when men we know and who marched in our ranks were burned alive. Honestly, I cannot say how I would have reacted if I had been aware of something that only afterward became known, that one of the men we heard screaming for us to rescue him was actually someone we knew. In fact, it was someone who not that long before I had taken steps to repair my relationship with, after knocking a rudis from his hand what seemed like years before but had just been a few months. As we stood there, however, we were all happily ignorant of Bestia's horrific and tragic fate, but I at least hope he and Dentulus have been reunited. I still find it a bitter blow and sign of the caprice of the gods that Caecina and Mela were already dead when the flames consumed them, while a good man like Aulus Bestia was consigned to the most horrible death imaginable. That is something I plan on bringing up when I meet the gods. Nevertheless, the suffering was not over, and for one group of people in that town, was just about to begin.

Even under these extreme circumstances, the Centurions of the 8^th worked diligently and quickly, organizing the movement of the wounded to the safety of the northeastern edge of the common area, although we could all see this was a temporary measure. The fire had just moved to the corner where the southern and eastern wall met, which in turn forced us to move in the opposite direction. While we were not called on, both Avitus and I felt compelled to go to Asinius and ask his release so we could help transfer the wounded, which he gave. We were quickly joined by Sido and Ventidius, who turned out to be the only other unwounded left of our section. At least, not seriously enough that they were incapacitated; Sido had his neckerchief wrapped around his forearm while Ventidius bore an ugly but superficial gash on the outside of one thigh, which he had also wrapped with his neck covering. Frankly, the worst part was that we had to get closer to the fire, and I believe we can be excused for our relative haste, which meant we handled some of the wounded men a bit more roughly than we normally would have done. I do not think any of us were offended at the epithets hurled at us by those men, usually with leg wounds or serious wounds to the upper body as we rolled or lifted them onto a shield before hurrying them away from the same fate as those who had been immolated. As for those unfortunates, I saw more than I ever wanted and, even now, I will not describe the scene in any detail out of respect for those comrades who were condemned to this horrific outcome. By the time the wounded were transferred to the spot designated by Macerinus, the sky just above the eastern hill was tinged with pink, contrasting with the dull orange reflection of the fire against the western hill. Just as the last of the wounded were relocated, the cornu sounded the command for the Legion to assemble in formation, and automatically, the four of us looked for Flaccus. While I cannot speak for the others, I suspect the emotions that overcame them in the instant they realized Flaccus would not be there and, in fact, our standard had been rendered into two pieces by Draxo, was very similar to mine; a queer, empty and somewhat lost feeling. Fortunately, Capulo and the eagle were normally just a couple of paces away, and we quickly saw the golden eagle, catching the firelight and actually not far away.

"Looks like we're forming up in our normal spot this time," Avitus commented.

I do not think it was lost on any of us that, in doing so, it also put us the farthest away from the fire and closest to the southern gate. Just from that, I was not alone in assuming we would be leaving this town in the immediate future, but although that might have been the plan there was one more drama to be played out.

This final act began when Macerinus gave the order to the Nones Pilus Prior to begin the process of securing the prisoners. I cannot say exactly when the responsibility for the captive Varciani had been given to the Ninth; neither can I say with any certainty that what was about to transpire would not have occurred if it had been another Cohort. But as I had observed since the previous campaign season, of all the Cohorts of the 8^th, the Ninth was the most ineptly led, and I do not believe it a coincidence, nor much of a surprise that the post of Nones Pilus Prior was filled by a man who had essentially purchased the post. Despite the fact I am reluctant to question or criticize our beloved Augustus, who even now in his dotage is a wise and extremely powerful ruler, of all the reforms he carried out early during his time as Princeps, the practice of essentially auctioning off posts in the Centurionate is one that is most questionable. And I would point to what happened this night as an example of what happens when a Cohort, or even a Century, is under the command of a weak leader who is in fear of the men he leads. Consequently, because of my spot, I was in a position to be among the first to learn that a problem existed when the Nones Pilus Prior approached Macerinus, who was huddled with the Pili Priores of the first line Cohorts, including Corvinus. In fact, as we stood there, I was idly wondering if Corvinus was relieved about Urso's death, especially since our Primus Pilus took only the gods know how many secrets with him as he stepped into Charon's boat. Then the Nones Pilus Prior appeared from his spot, and there was something in his posture that gave me a hint that, at the very least, the exchange would be interesting.

"Well? Are the prisoners secured?" Macerinus' voice was a raspy shell of the one I normally heard booming out at the men of his Century, but it was loud enough so that we could hear.

The Nones Pilus Prior's back was to me, but I saw him shifting from one foot to another, back and forth, which is not the expected behavior of a Centurion, and I quickly learned why when he replied, "Er, yes, Primus Pilus. But there's a…problem."

"Problem?" I saw one of Macerinus' eyebrows lift and I could only imagine his weariness as he pressed, "What kind of problem? I knew we'd be short of chains; the immunes didn't have time to make enough, but you had more than enough thongs. So, what is it?"

The Pilus Prior did not answer immediately and I saw Macerinus' eyes narrow, but just as he opened his mouth, the other man blurted, "My Cohort refuses to escort the prisoners."

I can only imagine that our acting Primus Pilus' expression was a mirror of mine, a combination of irritation and bemusement in equal measure.

"What the fuck do you mean?" he asked the Pilus Prior, but before he allowed the other man to answer, he shook his head, pointing with his vitus. "Go back there and tell them they'll do what they're fucking told, man! By the gods, you're their commander! Start acting like it!"

"But it's not just that, Primus Pilus," the Pilus Prior protested, and I felt my lip curl in disdain at the whining quality of his voice. "They're demanding that the prisoners be executed!" I cannot say with any certainty, but I think the sudden look of rage that suffused Macerinus' face, which I am sure was precipitated by the use of the word "demand," caused the Pilus Prior to hurry on and add, "As retribution for the Primus Pilus! I mean, the former Primus Pilus."

The anger seemed to drain from Macerinus and he waved his hand wearily, "I know who you mean."

He heaved a sigh and I remember this as a moment, one of many I must say, where a tiny voice inside me cautioned me that these were the sorts of situations I would likely face if I pursued what I believe is my destined course; obviously, I did not listen to that voice.

Oblivious to my own internal musing, Macerinus continued, his voice calm, "Go back and tell the men that, while I understand their desire, those aren't our orders. We're bringing these prisoners back to Siscia as ordered by the Legate."

Although he clearly hesitated, the Pilus Prior nonetheless saluted, then spun about to return to his Cohort. This gave me a good look at his face and I would liken his expression to that of a man being shoved out into the arena to face an array of hungry and ravenous beasts, armed with only a dagger for protection. Which is probably not that far off the mark, considering what happened. Macerinus returned his attention back to the other Centurions, but they were speaking in low tones, although this did not stop me from observing them, and I took heart when I saw Macerinus gesture in the direction of the north gate.

Turning to Avitus, I muttered, "It looks like we might be about to get out of here."

"I fucking hope so," he replied.

Unfortunately, our hopes were quickly dashed when, from the opposite direction, there came a new eruption of noise, a mixture of voices either roaring or howling their repudiation of what they had just been told.

"This isn't good." Avitus' mouth was set in a grim line, but I knew he was speaking nothing but the truth.

Macerinus' attention was jerked away from the other Centurions, but when I looked over, although I did not know him that well, his expression was strange to me. A combination of anger, yet with a strong appearance of unease, although it did not make him hesitate. Even so, neither I nor my comrades were prepared for his snapped command for our Century to follow him. Nevertheless, when given a command, the habit of obedience is drilled into us to the point where, even if he had been paying close attention to our response, he would not have seen much, if any, hesitation. Marching behind him, I was acutely aware of the eyes of the other Cohorts as we passed, and I was shaken to my core at the coldness of their collective stares. Only after the fact did we piece together what was happening as far as the other Cohorts, but because of their closer proximity to the men of the Ninth, they had received advance warning of what the Ninth was actually demanding. Complicating matters even more, as we quickly discovered, the other Cohorts thought the Ninth had the right idea. The way we learned this was after we were ordered to halt a short distance away from where the Nones Pilus Prior was standing, with his other five Centurions, including our old Optio Tiburtinus, recently promoted, but who had separated himself slightly. And, I immediately noticed, the Optios as well.

"What's the meaning of this?" Macerinus demanded.

"Primus Pilus—" the Nones Pilus Prior was the one who spoke; at least, he started to, but instantly, someone from the ranks broke in, cutting him off, which is an offense in itself.

"We're not marching these cunni back to Siscia! We're putting them to the fucking sword!"

At least, I believe the last word was "sword," because the unseen ranker was instantly drowned out by the roaring approval of the men around him. This was shocking enough, but when the shouts of approval suddenly seemed to envelop our Century as the men of the Cohorts around us added their voices, I experienced a stab of fear. It was similar to, yet unlike anything I felt before battle, and I was struck by the thought, Was there more blood about to be spilled? From my viewpoint, this seemed a certainty, yet the real question was, whose would it be? Macerinus, whose back had been to us, whirled around, and thanks to the growing light, I saw his face go white as he looked past me in the direction of the other Cohorts. While we were technically still at intente, considering what was happening, I felt confident that my turning around to look over my shoulder would not be taken amiss since, as I did I saw every other man in the Century do the same.

"Pluto's cock," I heard from behind me; I assume it was Fronto. "Are we going to have to fight our own?"

"I hope not," I told him, but honestly, I was not sure.

Turning back to Macerinus, I saw him holding his hands up, but it was clearly more a plea than a command for silence. My best estimate was that it took about another twenty or thirty heartbeats before it calmed down enough so he could be heard.

"Comrades," he began shouting, that term of address unusual in itself. "I hear you, and I understand your desire to avenge the death of our Primus Pilus! Publius Canidius," as usual, it took my mind a moment to recall this was Urso's name, "would be flattered and humbled by this honor you are showing him! But," his voice hardened just a fraction, "he would also demand that you obey the orders given to us by the lawfully appointed Legate of the Army of Pannonia…"

"Who's a preening, incompetent cunnus!"

This came from deep within the ranks somewhere behind us, but if Macerinus was going to respond, anything he might have said was drowned out by another roar, this one accompanied with men thrusting their fists, or more ominously, their swords into the air. As bad as this was, it was made infinitely made worse when, on some unheard or unseen signal, the men around us broke formation to begin crowding around the prisoners. The fact that Macerinus had marched us to a spot where we were now positioned between the rest of the Legion and the prisoners meant that my palms instantly became wet with the kind of sweat I associated with going into battle. Even though I did not believe our own comrades would cut us down, their anger was so powerful, their desire for vengeance so palpable, that I could not dismiss the possibility, and when I glanced over at Avitus standing next to me, I am sure he bore the same expression as I did. Darting a glance over at Macerinus, I saw that he was clearly overwhelmed, but he thrust both hands into the air again, this time not making any pretense that he was not begging for the men to settle down. Except they did not; if anything, the clamor grew, but although I was justifiably worried about the safety of my comrades and myself, I nevertheless cast a glance over Macerinus' shoulder in the direction of the prisoners. The nearest of the captives in the disorganized mob was about fifty paces behind Macerinus, and with the sun just peeking over the eastern hill, between it and the light from the fire, there was no mistaking the abject terror of the Varciani prisoners, almost entirely composed of older men, younger women, and children. Just as they were hemmed in by the Centuries of the Ninth ringed around them, I was able to determine that we were essentially surrounded as well, as the previously intact formations of the other Cohorts had moved in the direction of the prisoners. The only spot I could not see was on the opposite side of the chieftain's hall, but considering that on either side of it there was an unbroken ring of Roman shields and the contorted, hateful faces of my comrades all topped with Roman helmets, I knew we were completely encircled. Not only did the prisoners not have anywhere to run, neither did the First Century, and I can imagine just how pitiful we looked, being as understrength as we were, and arrayed as the only protection for the Varciani. Then, from the general area where the Fourth Cohort had been formed up, a figure broke through the ranks. Rather, the packed mass of Legionaries suddenly parted, and even if it had been quiet, I am sure no command had been given. When I saw Quartus Pilus Prior Gnaeus Corvinus stride across the narrow strip of open ground in Macerinus' direction, I was assailed by a number of emotions, most of them in direct conflict with the other. Relief at seeing a familiar face; apprehension wondering whose side he would take in this showdown, but underlying it all, a vestige of bitter anger that he had not turned out the man I thought him to be. Once more, because of my spot, and there being no way to keep one's voice down and still be heard, I was able to listen to their exchange.

"Looks like you've got a dilemma on your hands," was how Corvinus started, except it was said in such a nonchalant manner, as if he was commenting on the fact that a barrel of chickpeas had come up missing, even Macerinus gave a short, snorting bark of a laugh.

"You think?" he retorted. "Thanks for pointing it out. I wasn't sure until you told me."

From my vantage point, I saw Corvinus grin at him, the same kind of cheerfully insolent grin I had seen him give my father when I was a child and my father had chastised him about showing up at formation hung over.

"That's what I'm here for," he replied, but then the smile left, and while he lowered his voice, I was still able to hear him say, "But I don't have to tell you how serious this is."

"No," Macerinus conceded, staring over Corvinus' shoulder in the direction of the rest of the men.

"And," Corvinus pressed, this time jerking a thumb in our direction. "Not only will these boys not be able to stop it, do you really want them to get hurt in the process?"

As strange as it may seem and as much as it may strain the bounds of credulity, my first reaction was to bristle at what I took as a slight against my Century. Thankfully for all of us, when I turned my head to commiserate with Avitus about this slur, I saw he had other issues on his mind than the honor of the First Century, like staying alive.

"But we have our orders," Macerinus protested. "So what do we do when we get to Siscia?"

"Do you think we're going to make it back to Siscia if you don't let the men have their way in this?"

Macerinus' face twisted into a bitter grimace, yet only now that I am in a similar position do I understand why he seemed so torn about what I recognized as fact; the men of the 8^th were bent on avenging Urso in a way that not only slaked their thirst for blood but, in a way that only men under the standard could understand, honored our Primus Pilus. At the time and, even now, I am sure most of the rankers of the 8^th held the Legate directly responsible for what is a tragic event for a Legion, the loss of their supreme commander. And by depriving the Legate of the gains from any sale, we would be doing homage to Urso, albeit in our own way. It is impossible to say exactly how much time passed as Macerinus pondered matters, his gaze shifting from over Corvinus' shoulder, then back over his own at the prisoners. From where I stood, it was clear to see that the captives somehow understood their fate was being debated. As it turned out, in effect, they gave Macerinus the answer when one of the prisoners who had been unbound, either on his own or more likely with help from one of his fellow captives, suddenly darted from the bunch.

"Prisoner escaping!"

At least this was what I believe someone shouted, except the last word was instantly drowned out by the full-throated roar of men who took this attempt as the pretext they needed to do what they had been demanding. As they collectively leaped forward, it is impossible to accurately convey the next few moments as our comrades from the other Cohorts came sweeping in from their respective spots, descending on the now-terrified prisoners. And they were right to be so; I suppose I could say I was merely swept along by the flood of anger and revenge, yet that is only a partial truth. While it is true I had no chance of standing my ground, even as large as I was, and I was propelled along with the rest of my comrades, nobody told me to draw my sword. And I never heard anyone utter a command to do so; none was needed, nor did they need to order me to use it. I am just as culpable as any man of the 8^th Legion in what took place that night; perhaps even more so, considering that among all those I slew that night, two of them were Roman.

Even if the Legate had chosen to make an issue of the fact that the 8^th returned without a single prisoner in chains, by the time the fire swept through that Varciani town that no longer exists, there was no evidence left behind of what we had done. Nor has there been any attempt by the Varciani to rebuild it in the intervening years. I suppose it could be argued they choose not to because the place is cursed, this idea quickly becoming a local legend, but I believe it has more to do with the fact that when this place was first founded, the Varciani had never faced the might of Rome, particularly in the form of our artillery. A town situated in that spot would always be vulnerable and ripe for the taking by us, which is why I believe this is the true reason all that is left there are ruins. The fact that we left behind piles of corpses, weltering in pools of their own blood, both combatant, civilian, and tragically, some of our own, simply added weight to the claim of a curse. Most crucially, all the bodies were incinerated, leaving behind nothing but charred bones and, in many cases, with the warriors' armor fused together from the intense heat, amid the ruins of what had been a thriving town.

Macerinus resumed control of the Legion, but not until after every human being who had been a member of the Varciani tribe and was in that town was slaughtered; at least, every one of them we found. Prior to this night, I had heard from men who were more veteran than I claim that actions such as this, where the enemy is annihilated, are never as thorough or all-encompassing in killing everyone as one might believe. We humans are hard to kill, but while I found it hard to credit then, given all that I saw and did that night, I have learned this is almost certainly the case. Regardless, there is only one segment of the Varciani population where I can unequivocally say I know escaped with their lives, because I am the one who ensured it was possible. Although I doubt they were the only ones, there were at least two stables tucked in the northeastern corner of the town, and as we were making preparations to evacuate, I found them. The fire had indeed continued its sweep around the inside perimeter of the wall, and even with the breeze, was inexorably making its way back north, consuming all of the buildings on the eastern side of the town. Consequently, I was attracted to the sounds of frightened neighing as the poor beasts penned inside these two low, wooden buildings began to panic at the smell of smoke. Being fair, Avitus did try to dissuade me, but in one gamble that paid off on this night, I reasoned that, given everything that had occurred over the last watch, a Gregarius dashing from his spot in the ranks for a brief period would escape any kind of punishment. In this at least, I was proven correct. Helping my cause was something I had heard from some of the men who had been sent out by our deceased Primus Pilus, about a smaller gate, more of a door actually, about midway along the eastern wall. Running there first, I saw that although it was in fact not a gate, it was a large double door that would just accommodate the height of an average horse. Moving quickly, I made my way by following along the wall, guided by the sounds of the animals thrashing about inside their stalls. I cannot say what I did was without any danger, but the risk was almost completely confined to the lashing hooves of horses that had lost their minds with fear. Despite the risk, I managed to free them although I cannot honestly say whether or not the two dozen or so horses actually found their way to freedom; I would like to think they did.

Thankfully, I managed to slide back into my spot just a matter of heartbeats before Macerinus ordered Varo to sound the call to march through the northern gate. The road from the northern gate was in many ways identical to the southern approach, snaking up the side of the slope, although the hill was not as high in this direction. It was tall enough that when I glanced over my shoulder after reaching the top, I could see the entire town; at least, if there had not been so much smoke, I could have viewed it in its entirety. What I saw was another of the images seared into my memory, of what had been just the day before a thriving, good-sized town, yet was now either a smoldering ruin all along the western side, or a blazing inferno to the east. And in the middle were piles of Varciani corpses, of which less than half were warriors. By the time I reached the top, those corpses around the outer edge of the irregular mass of bodies had started burning, and I could not help noticing the smoke produced by the corpses was distinctly different from that produced by the consumption of the wooden buildings. The chieftain's hall, the only building in the middle of the common area had been put to the torch as well, and the flames from that had found more fuel in some of the other bodies strewn nearby. With the grayish-white smoke from the buildings mingling with the black, greasy smoke of the smoldering dead, my last sight of that place would have fit perfectly with the deepest part of Hades. By the nature of our departure, the 8^th was leaving a number of our own dead behind, men who had been consumed by the flames, like Bestia. Or, I reminded myself, like Caecina and Mela, both of whom had been listed as missing, presumed dead by our Optio who, for this period of time, was effectively running our Century since Macerinus already had his hands full running the Legion. What I can say is I do not believe it was lost on any man in the ranks that we had mutinied in everything but name, and considering all that has transpired since that day, not just with the 8^th but with a number of Legions, I have often wondered if what happened with the 8^th was just an early symptom of a larger disease. Even now, I do not know the answer to that question.

Since we left relatively early in the day, we came within sight of Siscia just as the sun was going down. All things considered, I still think it was an appropriate time. Macerinus called a halt, whereupon there was a rearrangement of our marching column, albeit a minor one in most ways; in another, more symbolic way, it was most profound. I cannot say with any authority where this tradition came from; I remember my father mentioning it when Primus Pilus Vettus, the man I most remember from my childhood, was felled in a freak occurrence that sometimes happens in battle, when a lone arrow managed to plummet from the sky at just the right angle to plunge into his body. The tradition is that the Centurions of the first grade, at least the remaining five, precede the Legion bearing their fallen Primus Pilus on a shield. His body is borne by the four lower grade Centurions while the Primus Pilus Posterior, Macerinus in this case, marches at the head of the procession. By the time these matters were arranged, it was growing dark, so Macerinus ordered those men of the first file who are the tallest among our comrades to bear torches that lit the way forward. Naturally, this took even more time, but I will say that from my viewpoint and that of my comrades, at least judging from their comments afterward, this made our entrance into Siscia even more dramatic. The final touch was Macerinus ordering the corniceni and bucinator to play the dirge that we use for funerals of state. This served two purposes, I believe: not only to honor Urso, whose body had been at least partially cleaned up to the extent he no longer had Draxo's axe protruding from his chest, but to alert the townspeople of our approach who, for the most part, had already retired for the night. Fronto and I were the first of the torchbearers, he on one side and me on the other, with the Centurions bearing Urso just behind us in the middle. Macerinus was aligned even with us and, thus arrayed, we marched solemnly into the town. I was struck by the memory of doing something similar just the year before when I had been one of the honor guard bearing Drusus' body into Mogontiacum over the last mile. Yet, while in some ways it was comparable, in other ways, the contrast was striking. When the first of the townspeople, drawn by the sound of the blaring horns, left their homes to see the cause for the commotion and started lining the street, their reaction to the sight of us was…interesting. Yes, there was some grief displayed when those citizens who understood the meaning of our procession informed those around them, but I was acutely aware that not every face wore a look of sadness. Do not mistake me; nobody was celebrating, but despite the poor lighting, I clearly saw some of the townspeople looking on with expressions of grim satisfaction, reminding me again that Urso had been preying on the people in the town in one way or another for some time. I remember thinking if they had only known that most of the men who were likely to know enough about his side business to keep it going were dead as well, they might actually have been less circumspect in their joy. That, I also understood, was of secondary importance to all the official actions that would be taking place because of Urso's death. And, in the back of my mind, I did idly wonder if Tiberius would play any role in the appointment of a new Primus Pilus, since he had clearly been responsible for the promotion of Publius Canidius. What actually transpired still serves as a reminder to me even now that, for any man who plans on making a career in the Legions where becoming a member of the Centurionate is a goal, they would be wise to pay close attention to all that is happening in Rome from a political standpoint. This was a lesson I was about to learn.