"How are you still alive?" Scribonius blurted this out without thinking, so amazed at the sight of his friend, still breathing. Pullus, back on the ground and lying in his original position, managed a wan smile.

"I've been wondering the same thing," he muttered, sure that he had broken at least one tooth from clenching them so tightly.

The sword was still embedded in his body, the giant Roman refusing to allow the medici to remove it, sure that as soon as they did he would perish. And he had matters to attend to before that happened, which was why he had called for Scribonius. His friend knelt beside him, his eyes filled with unshed tears as he looked down at Pullus, but Pullus refused to meet them, not wanting to destroy his own composure. Even now, in what he was sure were the last moments of his life, Titus Pullus was conscious of his reputation, and was determined that he would die in a manner that he deemed befitted a Primus Pilus of Caesar's Legions. No sniveling, no complaining about the unjustness of what had happened. Titus Pullus would leave something for men to talk about around the fire for the rest of time.

"I sent for Gaius as well," Titus said to Scribonius, and this simple statement was too much for the Pilus Prior to bear, and now he began sobbing. Pullus frowned at his friend, saying only half-jestingly, "You're making a spectacle of yourself Sextus."

"I don't care," Scribonius shot back. "I've lost too much today. Balbus......"

His voice trailed off, but Pullus didn't need him to finish, knew that Scribonius was going to say, "Now you." But Pullus wasn't willing to let his friend be distracted by self-pity at this moment, because Pullus was still the Primus Pilus.

"Mourn later," he said, with as much of the hard edge that he used to let his friend know that it was the Primus Pilus speaking and not Titus as he could muster. "There are things I need to tell you to do. How many Centurions from the First are left?"

Scribonius' only response was a mute shake of his head.

"That's what I thought. That means you're the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion now, so I need you to....."

Before he got any further Scribonius cut him off.

"What 10th Legion?" he burst out, the bitterness of a loss so huge that it couldn't be put into words almost threatening to choke him. "There is no 10th Legion anymore Titus. It was destroyed today."

"No it wasn't," Pullus snapped, and now Scribonius could see real anger in his friend's eyes, even if his voice wasn't able to convey it. "As long as there's still one man alive and under the standard, there's a 10th Legion. The Legion will never die. You understand me, Pilus Prior?"

The use of his rank informed Scribonius that, even here at the end, Titus Pullus was a Centurion of Rome. And so was he, Scribonius admitted, as bitter and galling as it was right now, for he wanted nothing more than to find some hole to crawl into and not think, or feel anything.

"Yes, Primus Pilus. I understand. And I will obey," Scribonius spoke the words he had so often uttered by rote, without thought, but understanding the import of all that meant, most especially to his friend.

So if he could send his best friend, his longest companion on his way to Elysium by assuring him that the 10th Legion would carry on without him, even if Scribonius had no idea how that was possible, it was the least he could do.

"Good," Pullus muttered. "Now, you need to get the butcher's bill as soon as possible. Delegate one of the other Centurions to do it while you take care of getting the men organized. And you need to set a watch, immediately. I doubt these bastards are going to come back, but if they do, we need to be ready."

Scribonius, now that his mind was absorbed with practical matters, had calmed down, the tears drying from his cheeks as he thought about what needed to be done.

"I don't know if we have enough men left to cover the western wall, let alone the whole camp," Scribonius mused.

He was surprised when his friend gave a slight shake of his head.

"The relief Cohorts are still here, aren't they?" When Scribonius assured him that they were Pullus continued, "Then use them."

"But they're not from the 10th. In all honesty, I'm not sure where they're from. I think the 14th and the 30th, but I haven't paid that close attention."

"Well it's about time the 14th did something worthwhile," Pullus grunted, eliciting a chuckle from his friend who momentarily forgot the circumstances of their talk. "But you're about to be the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion, so you outrank any of those bastards. Pull rank if you have to. Don't worry about what Caesar thinks. For all we know he's dead, and even if he's not, he's not going to fault you for protecting the camp."

Even if Scribonius was disposed to argue, he saw the sense in what Pullus was saying. Before he could say anything more, however, the sound of someone approaching at a run drew both their attention away, but because of the angle, Pullus couldn't turn his head to see who it was. So only Scribonius saw that it was Pullus' nephew, and even as the younger Centurion approached, their eyes met and Scribonius could only give a grim shake of his head. That slowed Porcinus to a sudden walk, as if he didn't want to come near enough to learn the truth firsthand. But he made his way carefully around the other wounded to circle about to approach his uncle from an angle where Pullus could see him.

"Get over here boy," Titus called weakly, lifting his arm in a beckoning gesture for just an instant before it fell limply back onto his body.

Now it was Gaius' turn to begin crying, seeing for the first time the sword that bore mute testimony to what was happening to his uncle. Dropping to his knees at his uncle's side, Porcinus dropped his head, sobbing, as Pullus did his own examination of his nephew. Seeing the caked blood around Porcinus' right ear and down the entire side of his face, Scribonius heard his friend give a sharp hiss as he caught his breath at the sight.

"What happened to you? Are you all right?" Pullus asked, and the absurdity of the question, and the fact that his uncle was asking him caused Porcinus to burst out in a laugh tinged with hysteria.

"You're lying there with a sword sticking out of you, and you're asking me if I'm all right?" Porcinus asked, and when put that way, even Pullus had to smile, albeit faintly.

But he was not so easily thrown off the trail, and he asked Porcinus again.

"Yes, I'm fine. I got lucky," his nephew said, causing Pullus to snort in disbelief.

"It doesn't look like you're lucky."

"Well, I am. I just have a headache."

"Did you at least kill the cunnus who did that to you?"

Although it would have been easier to just lie and say that he had, Porcinus had never lied to his uncle, and he didn't plan on starting now.

"If I did, it was later on. I got knocked cold for a bit. But I'm fine now," he insisted.

"Well, you let the medici decide that. At the very least it looks like you need stitches. Now, there's something I need to tell you," Pullus turned back to business.

Unlike Scribonius, Porcinus wasn't willing to cooperate with his uncle, not if it meant acknowledging what his eyes told him to be the truth.

"There's nothing I need to know right now that can't wait until you're better."

Again, Pullus gave a snort, but he reached out with his free hand and grasped his nephew's arm. Even near death, Porcinus thought, he has a grip that feels like it will turn the bones of my arm into powder.

"Enough," Pullus said gently, more gentle than he had been with Scribonius, because unlike with Sextus, what Pullus had to tell his nephew didn't involve official business. "You need to listen to me. In my pack, you'll find a scroll that's sealed with my ring."

Pullus was referring to the signet ring that Caesar had given his giant Primus Pilus as a gift, after Pullus had once again saved his Legion from disaster on the beaches of Pandya. The symbol on the ring, which was solid gold, was that of a dragon, which Caesar and his men had first seen depictions of in the lands of the Han.

Continuing, Pullus said, "You need to make sure that you don't open that by yourself. It needs to be witnessed by others, because it's my will."

This caused Porcinus even more grief, and he realized that he was as disturbed by his uncle's matter-of-fact tone as he was by the words themselves. Every man in the Legion had a will, and death was a constant companion to them all, but Gaius Porcinus, and if the truth were known, Sextus Scribonius, never thought that Titus Pullus would ever be in a position to talk about his will. His death was simply inconceivable to both of them, and in fact to every man of the 10th Legion. He was indestructible, and while his body bore so many scars that they almost connected together to form a jagged, winding line like a river, none of them thought that the man had been born or the weapon forged that could defeat him.

Ignoring the effect his words were having Pullus bore onward, telling his nephew, "In my will, not only do I leave you everything, but I adopt you as my son and heir. That means that when you return to Rome, you'll be not only eligible for equestrian status, but Caesar has promised that he'll endorse your elevation to the Senate."

"Back to Rome?" Porcinus repeated dully, shaking his head as if trying to wake himself from a bad dream. "Back to Rome?" he repeated again. "I'm not going to see Rome again. None of us are. We're never leaving this island!"

Not even Titus Pullus could have explained where he got the strength, but without warning, his calloused, battle-hardened hand moved with a speed that reminded both men beside him that despite his bulk he moved with the speed of a much, much smaller man. The sound of his open palm slapping his nephew across the face made Scribonius jump, while Porcinus' head rocked back, almost knocking him from his kneeling position and onto his backside. His ear began ringing, and the side of his face felt like it was on fire as Porcinus stared down, open-mouthed in astonishment and not a little pain, seeing in his uncle's eyes a cold fury that he had never been the recipient of but had seen on the battlefield.

"Don't ever say that aloud again," Pullus told him, his quiet tone in odd contrast to the action he had just taken. "The only thing that keeps these men marching forward is their belief that they'll see home again. And I want you to swear to me, on Jupiter's stone, that you have every intention of trying to return back to Rome. And taking back as many of the men as you can."

Porcinus didn't answer immediately, mainly because he knew that his uncle was deadly serious, and didn't take the swearing of an oath as lightly as a lot of men did. And while the thought passed through Porcinus' mind that he could offer the oath to make his uncle happy, since he wouldn't be around to see it fulfilled so that it made giving it almost academic, it never occurred to Porcinus to do so. If he agreed, it would be because he had every intention of fulfilling his pledge to his uncle.

That's why he hesitated before he finally said, "I swear on Jupiter's stone that I'll do everything in my power to get back to Rome."

"And to get the men back" Pullus insisted.

Porcinus heaved a sigh, adding, "And to get the men back as well."

Although he had no idea how he was going to accomplish this. With that matter settled, Pullus seemed satisfied, and the three of them were silent for some time.

"Well," Pullus finally said, "there's no need putting it off any longer. Go get one of the medici and let's get this over with."

Both Scribonius and Porcinus' fragile composure, brought on by the brief period of quiet, broke immediately, but this time Pullus didn't remonstrate with either of them.

Instead, he just said quietly, "It's going to be all right boys," over and over.

The medici answered Scribonius' call, for he had been nearby, hovering about the wounded and staying within earshot, both because he knew he would be needed, but also to hear what he was sure would be his Primus Pilus' last words, for Titus Pullus was as renowned with the noncombatants of Caesar's army as he was with the men. Besides which, he was good friends with Diocles, Pullus' servant, scribe and, despite their radically different stations in life, good friend. Over his strenuous objections, Diocles and some of the other slaves had been sent down the ridge on the eastern side, to wait aboard one of the ships for the outcome of the battle, and this medici knew that the Greek would want to know every detail of his master's last moments on earth.

"Yes sir?" he asked when he reached the three Centurions.

"You need to get this thing out of me," Pullus said without any hesitation.

Although he knew that this was coming, the medici still paused for a moment, suddenly aware of the eyes of the other two men on him, eyes that were telling him that if he caused the Primus Pilus any undue suffering, there would be a reckoning with them.

Understanding this, Pullus assured him, "Don't worry about them. Just do it quickly and it'll be all right. And I'm telling you both now," he moved his head slightly so that he could look into both men's eyes, "don't take it out on him for doing his job. Just because I might yell like a pig going to slaughter, it's not his fault."

Scribonius tried to give Pullus a smile at his friend's attempt at humor, but he wasn't very successful, and Porcinus could only look away, mumbling his agreement. This didn't serve to soothe the medici's nerves any, but he knew that he needed to perform this task. Most of the clean bandages had long since been used, but he had been saving one, tucking it inside his tunic. If the truth were known, he had been saving it for himself, since at one point during the day's battle he was sure that he was going to be struck down, like so many others were. Now he produced it, tearing it with his teeth into two roughly equal pieces. Looking about, he reached over for a discarded baltea, the Legionary's belt, and stripping off the decorative strips and the dagger sheath, he examined it for a moment before realizing that he would need something else. This engendered a short walk, where he found yet another baltea, and he repeated the process. Both Centurions watched the man, neither of them speaking, and for the first time Pullus' own composure seemed to be slipping away.

Squeezing his nephew's knee, Pullus said, "I just want you to know how proud I am of the man you've become, and what a fine Centurion you are, Gaius."

Porcinus couldn't trust himself to respond, his head bowing again as the tears started anew.

Turning to Scribonius, Pullus whispered, "Sextus, no man could have had a better or more loyal friend. It's been my honor to know you, and I will pray that the gods watch over you."

Now it was Scribonius' turn to break down, the raw emotion of the moment even penetrating the hard shell of the medici, who had witnessed so many scenes similar to this, on this day alone, that he should have been inured to it by now. But he was as moved as the other two men, and it was only with a great effort of will that he kept his tone level.

"Yes, well. All right then," he mumbled as he arranged the items he had gathered just so. "Best get on with it. Centurion," the medici turned to Scribonius, "if you could hold his legs please. No, like that." A nod. "Yes, like that. Thank you," he motioned next to Porcinus as Scribonius tightened his grip on his friend's legs, straddling them with his own pair and grasping Pullus' calf with both hands. "If you would get behind him. Yes, like that. Now, hold both of his shoulders. Tightly."

Every man has his limits, and even Pullus had reached his, groaning when his nephew tightened his grip on his shoulders. Porcinus had shut his eyes, trying to focus completely on his task as the medici explained to Pullus what he was going to do.

"You've undoubtedly seen this done before Primus Pilus," he told Pullus. "So you know that I'm going to do my best to pull the blade straight out at the exact angle as it went in. That minimizes the damage and......"

"Would you shut the fuck up and just do it already?" Pullus muttered through clenched teeth.

The medici blinked a couple of times, then nodded his head. With a hand that was shaking only slightly, Pullus noted and thought was a good sign, he grasped the hilt of the sword. But before he made any move, he bent down so that his eye was level with the hilt and squinted down the length of the blade, trying to determine the angle. Finally satisfied, he took a deep breath, looked down at Pullus, who gave a brief nod, his jaw muscles so tightly bunched that it looked as if the Roman had been in a brawl and had a swollen face. Then, with one smooth motion that spoke to the number of times he had performed this act before, the medici withdrew the sword. It happened so quickly that Scribonius, the only one of the two holding onto Pullus who was actually looking, wasn't sure that he had seen it. Just one moment the sword was there, sticking out of his friend's body, then it wasn't. As soon as the blade was removed, a gout of blood gushed from both front and back, but the medici made no immediate move to staunch the flow, prompting a sharp question from Porcinus as to why he wasn't doing so.

The noncombatant shook his head in answer, but then seeing that a non-verbal response wouldn't appease either of the Centurions, he explained, "He's had that sword in him so long that the blood has pooled inside his body. If we don't let it drain out, for some reason it will turn corrupt, and it will end up poisoning him."

Scribonius was about to argue, but thought better of it, mainly because even as the man was talking, Scribonius could see that the flow was slowing drastically. After just a few heartbeats later, it had stopped for the most part, and only then did the medici move to place the bandages on either side of Pullus' chest, soaking up some of the blood. Pullus was quiet, because he had fainted when the blade was withdrawn, but when Scribonius went to revive him, he was stopped by a gentle but firm hand.

"Let him stay out for now, Centurion," the medici told him. "He's going to want to be out for what we have to do next."

What came next was pulling off Pullus' armor, a feat made even more difficult than it normally was from an unconscious man who was nothing but dead weight, when that weight was as much as Pullus'. Even in his unconscious state, a groan escaped from the Primus Pilus' lips as Porcinus and the medici, as gently as they could, lifted his arms above his head. This also prompted a fresh rush of blood, but the medici insisted that this wasn't a bad or dangerous thing. Recognizing they had no other choice but to trust the man, both Scribonius and Porcinus followed his instructions exactly. As slowly as they could, they pulled the heavy mail shirt off of Pullus, tossing it aside once they did. This forced yet another groan from Pullus, and his eyes fluttered open for a bare moment before they rolled back into his head, and he lapsed back into unconsciousness. With the armor off, the next was the padded undershirt, but before they did so, the medici inspected it closely.

When asked why he was doing this, he replied, "I'm trying to see if that sword made a clean cut and sliced through the mail, this undershirt and his tunic, or if it was dull and pushed some of it into the wound."

Neither man needed to be told what that meant; even if Pullus survived the next watch, he would be facing a long, lingering and extremely agonizing death as his wound putrefied from the foreign material left to fester in his body. It was true that one of the more experienced physicians might be able to fish the debris out, but the wound was so close to vital organs like the lungs and heart, that would only be a last resort because in all likelihood the operation would kill him. Both Centurions had been in the army long enough to know of men who had suffered this fate, and it was something neither of them would wish on anyone, particularly someone they cared about. Finally satisfied, the medici gently pulled off the undershirt, leaving only the tunic, where the process was repeated. It was only after that, and they removed the tunic, that the orderly showed any sign that could be called relief, no matter how faint.

"It looks like that bastard had a very sharp sword, because as far as I can tell, that's about the cleanest cut I've ever seen."

Neither man had realized they were holding their breath until they both suddenly expelled it in harsh bursts, causing them to chuckle a bit. Now that Pullus was stripped, the orderly gently swabbed the wound with a rag now completely filthy and black from performing this chore for the better part of a day on other wounds. Once he was satisfied, he took the two bandages, put them back in place, then linking the two baltea together, had Porcinus and Scribonius heave Pullus' bulk into an upright sitting position. The way Pullus' head lolled back as they did this reminded Porcinus of the newly dead, who possessed a limp shapelessness that a soldier knew all too well, but he did his best to ignore that, taking comfort in the sound of his uncle's breathing, as shallow and raspy as it was. Using the two baltea, the medici pulled the bandages tightly against Pullus' body, forcing one last groan from the unconscious man.

"We're done now," the orderly said, more to soothe the other two men than anything else.

Laying Pullus back gently, Porcinus asked, "Now what?"

"Now," the orderly said grimly, "we wait. It's in the hands of the gods now. But," he shook his head, "I will say this. I've never seen anyone wounded that badly who's survived this long."

"So there's hope," Scribonius interjected, to which the orderly could only shrug.

"Where there's life, there's hope. How much?" he asked, not finishing the sentence, instead giving a slight shrug. He didn't have to say anything more.

All posts by R.W. Peake on blog.rwpeake.com are copyrighted by the author, 2012.