R.W. Peake's Blog

Caesar Triumphant-Chapter 9 (Cont.)

As the day
progressed, the stench from bodies lying in the hot sun grew steadily worse,
and the air was becoming thicker by the moment with all the insects that so
much dead flesh attracted. By the end of the second watch, there was an underlying hum in the air,
even when men weren't talking, created by the rapid flapping of the millions
and millions of tiny wings. Men were still
in the process of dragging the dead bodies of the Wa out of the camp, but even
Caesar's genius for organization was put to its severest test, because never
before had there been so few men to do so much work. Those Cohorts and Legions
that had been lucky enough to be in the two southern camps were bearing the
brunt of the work, something that normally would have caused massive complaints
among the men.

However, in yet
another sign that the battle the day before was unprecedented, all the
bickering and griping stopped as soon as the men marched through the gate of
either Caesar's or Pullus' camp. The sight of what was clearly a ferocious
battle silenced every Legionary who had been inclined to let his displeasure
known, and by the time they were assembled in their respective forums, it was a
somber group of men waiting for orders. As much bickering and rivalry that took
place between Legions, no man in the ranks took any joy in the sight of their
comrades suffering. They had shared too much, endured too much, and spent too
much time together for them not to understand the ordeal the men of the two northern
camps had endured. Sextus Scribonius, standing next to Volusenus, was only
slightly recovered after a fitful night's rest, and had just come from
checking, for perhaps the tenth time since the sun came up, on the condition of
his friend. Pullus was sleeping, aided by the poppy syrup that the medici reserved for the most grievously
wounded. When Scribonius had gone to check on Pullus the last time, he found
that he was being attended to by one of the physicians that had joined Caesar's
army to augment and replace the staff of physicians that had been attached to
his army from the beginning of the campaign.

The identity of
the man, one of the Han physicians, told Scribonius that Caesar was not only
aware but extremely interested in seeing the giant Roman recover. Scribonius
knew there were a number of the men in the ranks who swore these Han knew
sorcery, such was their skill compared to the others, particularly with the
last four Greeks still alive, none of whom looked on their Han rivals with any
favor. The physician, whose name Scribonius didn't know, nor could he have
pronounced even if he had, was given explicit instructions by Caesar never to
leave Pullus' side, and that the Primus Pilus was his one and only patient.
Although Scribonius knew that it was a good sign that Pullus was still alive,
he was also aware that if any foreign material, such as one of the links from
his mail shirt, or the stuffing from the padded undershirt, even a thread from
his tunic, was left behind in the wound, the Han physician would need to call
on every bit of his skills to keep his friend alive. The Han didn't speak
Latin, and Scribonius certainly hadn't mastered their tongue, but somehow
through a combination of gestures and with the help of one of the Gayans
pressed into service as an orderly, Scribonius learned that the physician was
cautiously optimistic. Telling the Pilus Prior that it was normally within the
first day that any sign of corruption began to present itself, the Han
nevertheless emphasized that Scribonius' friend wasn't out of danger. Pullus
had been semi-conscious for that visit, and his head had moved slowly back and
forth as he tried to follow the conversation that was going on around him.
That, to Scribonius, was a better sign than anything the Han could have said. 

Over the years, the Pilus Prior had observed that those men who eventually
succumbed to their wounds universally showed a complete lack of interest in
their own care, as if they already knew the outcome. Pullus’ trying, no matter
how groggily, to follow the dialogue between Roman and Han had lifted
Scribonius' spirits, and he had gone to find Porcinus to tell him of this
development. He found him in the process of working with the two other
Centurions who survived from the Tenth Cohort, reorganizing into units that
were Centuries in name only. Now, just returned from his last check on Pullus,
Scribonius met with the Centurions of the Cohorts that had just arrived,
assigning each Century a specific work detail.

Turning to the
Pilus Prior of the Second Cohort from the 5th Alaudae, Scribonius asked,
"Has Caesar decided what to do with ours yet?"

There was no
need for Scribonius to expand on what "ours" meant, if only because
of where they were standing. Stretching out behind the two Centurions were
now-neat rows of bodies, as cleaned up and made presentable by hiding the
wounds that had killed each man as time and location of the wound allowed. This
was a topic that was very much on the minds of the men in the ranks and of
great concern to all of them. One problem caused by the polyglot composition of
Caesars current army was that that there were so many different customs for
honoring the dead. Much as Rome did with religion, men in the ranks were
allowed to worship their native gods and follow the customs that prescribed how
the dead were honored. While there had been men killed in the ranks, it had
never been on a scale like this, and with the scouts out, it was looking likely
that Caesar would be moving the army, soon. What direction they would head in,
either to the northwest in the direction of the capital, or back to the east
and the bay where the fleet was anchored, this was the subject of much
speculation, and not just with the men.

The Centurions
were just as interested in their next destination as the rankers, yet it had
been a custom of not just Caesar's army but of the armies of Rome for at least two centuries that the army
didn't move, until after the dead had been honored. There was also a more
practical reason; no Roman commander liked marching without every leadership
spot that had been vacated by death or incapacitating wound filled, and that
had yet to happen, as well. Arranging the various ceremonies was always
challenging, but the sheer scope of the numbers of men who had either to be
cleansed by fire, in the Roman way, or buried in the ground like the Pandyans,
or even just left to rot like the Parthians, meant that whatever was being
arranged needed to be done soon. Since the Pilus Prior of the 5th had marched
past Caesar's camp on the way to the northern camp where they were standing,
Scribonius was hoping that the Centurion had heard something, but he replied
with a simple shake of the head. Stifling a curse, knowing it wasn't the man's
fault, Scribonius turned his mind back to the tasks that he could perform at
that moment. His arm ached horribly, and he found it extremely painful to flex
his fingers or make a fist, which of course he found himself doing over and
over as a way to distract his mind from the enormity of the losses.

The final
butcher's bill, as the Centurions had called it, had been completed, and the
10th Legion could field barely more than a thousand men, from its strength of
almost 4,000 when the battle started. Of course, some of the missing ranks
would be filled by the wounded, but it was too early to tell how many it would
be, and even if every man made a miraculous recovery, the Legion still would be
less than half strength. From what Volusenus told Scribonius, this was about
the same for the 12th. Scribonius hadn't heard the numbers for the two Legions
in Caesar's camp, but given what he knew of what happened the day before, he
couldn't imagine they were any better off. Even at this point, more than
halfway through the day after the battle, there were still more questions than
answers, for both the living and the dead.

 

Knowing how
unpopular his decision would be, Caesar nevertheless issued it, knowing that he
couldn't spare the time to properly honor the dead. Truthfully, he had been
wavering about the matter. Until, that is, a courier sent by the mounted scouts
he had sent northwest in the likely direction that the Wa army would take, or
what remained of it, came galloping into the camp. Within moments, the
situation changed dramatically, as Caesar read the message informing him that
there was no sign of any sizable force between him and the army and the
barbarian capital. The report went on to say that the scouts had found the
trail of those Wa nobles who had decided before the sun rose that their only course
of action was to return to the capital to receive further orders.

Naturally,
Caesar had no way of knowing any of this, but what he did know was that
according to the report, this group numbered perhaps a thousand. Even as badly
mauled as Caesar's army was, he had no doubt that the men could sweep aside a
force as paltry as that. But in order to make that happen, they had to move,
and move fast. Still shaken from his experience yesterday, Caesar was acting
out of force of habit more than anything, doing and saying those things that he
knew the Caesar of two days before would do, without hesitation. Perhaps, he
thought, by playing the role of Caesar, I will become Caesar again. But first,
he had to issue this order, and in this order Caesar sought a compromise,
hoping that the men would understand. His decision was that he would honor the
dead, respecting the customs of each nationality, but he would do so en masse,
not individually, as was the custom. Normally, the men of the tent section the
deceased belonged to would perform the ritual cleansing, gather the wood,
cremate the body and gather the ashes, if he were Roman. But now there were
whole tent sections laying in the forum waiting to be sent to the afterlife, and Caesar
simply didn't have the luxury of time to sort out who would tend to them.
Caesar, sitting in what had become his accustomed spot on the stool outside the
praetorium, finished the order that would put this into motion, then handed
it to one of the scribes that had come from the fleet.

"See that this gets to the northern camp," he directed,
then turned to relay the verbal instruction to the Primi Pili standing next to
him. None of the men made a comment, but as with Flaminius and Ventidius
earlier, their body language communicated very clearly to Caesar what they
thought about his idea.

"I know this is......unusual," Caesar decided to be
direct. "But if we can get to their capital quickly, we have the chance to
defeat the army there, before they're joined by other forces that might have
been summoned."

For a long moment, none of the Primi Pili reacted, which puzzled
Caesar more than any irritation he might have felt at the lack of a response.
After an exchange of sidelong glances, the Primus Pilus of the 21st Legion, a
short, stocky Campanian named Papernus cleared his throat in a signal that he
was going to speak.

"Caesar, it's just that we weren't expecting this,"
Papernus said carefully.

Caesar instantly understood the Primus Pilus' meaning that the
"this" he was referring to wasn't the funeral arrangements.

Sitting back, Caesar folded his arms, responding coolly, "Go
on."

Vibius Papernus didn't lack for bravery, but at that moment he
would have much preferred to face the screaming yellow-skinned bastards than
looking into those ice-blue eyes of his general. Nevertheless, he plunged
forward, girded by the sight of the slight nods of the other Primi Pili
encouraging him to continue.

"If we move inland, we're going to be moving away from the
fleet," he began, but before he could go any further, Caesar interjected.

"Yes, Papernus, that's generally how it works. The farther from the shore you go, the farther away your support
is. But that's never stopped us before."

And with that, Caesar gave Papernus the opening he needed, and he
immediately pounced.

"But we've never been in the shape we're in now,"
Papernus argued, making a sweeping gesture with an arm in the direction of
where the wounded were being tended. "What are we going to do about them,
for example?"

Realizing his mistake, Caesar also recognized that the retort that
came to his lips would only make matters worse. Besides, he acknowledged, if
only to himself, he has a point. And they have a right to know that the wounded
will be cared for.

"I've sent for all but two Cohorts from the strategic reserve
we left behind on the island," Caesar explained with a patience he didn't
feel. "They will come here to watch over the wounded."

"But how long will that take?" Now it was another Primus
Pilus who asked the question, the Centurion commanding the 14th Legion, Sextus
Spurius.

"Perhaps two weeks," Caesar replied, and while the other
men initially relaxed, thinking that the men would welcome a respite of that
length after what they had just been through, the more observant among them
were alerted by something in the way their general spoke the words.

"But, we're not going to wait for them, are we?"

Aulus Flaminius, fresh from his escape of Caesar's wrath had
promised himself that he was going to keep silent, but somehow the words
escaped his lips before he could stop them, and he was forced to stifle a groan
as Caesar turned to glare at him.

"No, we're not," the general said after a moment, the
words clipped and short because of his clenched teeth.

There was a shocked silence, before completely forgetting the
proper manner in which to do these things, the Primi Pili began talking at
once.

"We can't leave the wounded unprotected!"

"Caesar, the men need to rest after what they've been
through!"

"If we wait for the relief to arrive, a good number of the
wounded will be recovered enough to march with us."

While the others
were shouting to make their complaints heard above the racket, this last
comment was spoken in almost a conversational tone, but what was said more than
the volume cut through the other noise. Immediately all the men became quiet,
turning their eyes to Caesar, knowing him well enough to know that of all the
objections, this practical one would carry the most weight. And they were
rewarded by the sight of Caesar looking suddenly uncomfortable, while still
managing to shoot a look at Papernus, who had asked this last question, a look
of exasperation and respect in equal measure.

"That's true Papernus," Caesar acknowledged. "But
that will also give the barbarians the time to muster more forces, and they
would be foolish to come and try to assault us here again, when we gave them
such a beating."

"But we don't know that hasn't already started,"
Papernus pointed out. "And they may very well already be gathering at
their capital. And," he added, "we only know the approximate location
of as it is. We could go stumbling into another army of those bastards."

"We've seen nothing that would indicate that there is a
population capable of producing more than one army of the size we just
defeated," Caesar said stiffly, nettled at the open skepticism that was
being displayed by his most senior Centurions.

"It wouldn't have to be the same size," Carbo, the
acting Primus Pilus retorted. "It wouldn't take an army the third of the
size to give us more than we could handle."

Now Caesar was being confronted with yet another new emotion, just
one more in a series of sensations that he'd never experienced before over the
last two days. This was a feeling of desperation, as for the first time in
many, many years, Julius Caesar recognized that he was losing his grip on his
army.

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

Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 9 (Cont.)

In much
the same way that Scribonius couldn't fathom why the Wa didn't come finish what
they had started, down in the Wa camps the survivors of their army were huddled
together wondering when the grubworms would stride down the ridge and exact
vengeance. However, unlike the Romans, the Wa were even more severely crippled
in the area of leadership. Whereas Caesar lived, and even if he hadn't
survived, the Centurions in his army had been trained and encouraged to take
the initiative and think for themselves, within limits of course, the opposite
was true with the Wa. Romans liked to think they had an extremely rigid
hierarchical system, and for the part of the world they came from, they did.
But it was nothing like that which was developing on this island nation. While
difficult, there was upward mobility between the strata of classes in Roman
society. Titus Pullus was an example of a man who, if he ever made it back to
Rome, would be not only wealthy, but would be at least in the equestrian class
and in all likelihood through Caesar's influence, a member of the Senate. This
would have been unheard of in the Wa society, and in fact there was no
mechanism of government that could be compared to even the most basic
components of Roman governance. There was a class of nobility that formed the
warrior core of the army, but there was no layer between the nobility and their
emperor, who they believed ruled by divine right and was in fact a god sent to
them from the heavens. The cornerstone of Wa society was unflinching obedience
to the divine will of the emperor, and whatever he directed was as much of a
law as any of those composed by the Senate of Rome and incised on bronze
tablets.

The
warrior/nobility class of Wa society served as the overseers of the mass of
common people, and within the boundaries of the lands in which each member of
the nobility claimed as their own, their word was law, almost as sacrosanct as
those created by the emperor himself. And of all the laws that the emperor
decreed to be inviolable, that of obedience was of the highest order. Members
of the lower classes not only were not expected to think and make decisions for
themselves, they were forbidden to do so, and any show of independence, of
thought or action, was practically a guarantee to at the very least draw the
wrath of their lord. Or worse. The survivors of the great Wa army were
overwhelmingly men from the lower class; their sword-wielding superiors, each
trying to outdo the other in acts of valor and martial in order to bring glory
to their family name and draw the attention of their superiors had fallen in
much greater numbers. Although this wasn't all that different an attitude of
behavior than their Roman counterparts, the lengths to which these men went
meant that they had been almost completely wiped out. Of the perhaps 2,000 Wa
that were left, less than one in ten of the survivors were of the upper class,
and of these, almost every one of them was in the more junior subset of their
class. Third or fourth sons, lords whose holding was barely more than the size
of the area filled by the ridge where the camps were located, none of them had
ever commanded more than a handful of men at a time, if that. The two generals,
the commander and his immediate subordinate, lay dead in a heap of bodies up on
the ridge, and scattered throughout all of the piles were the men who acted as
their lieutenants.

It was
a situation crying out for leadership, but again, the idea of showing the
initiative that would be required for one of the minor lords to take command
was so foreign a concept that it didn't even occur to any of them, at least at
that point. Instead, they huddled in small groups, the men of the lower class
who were nothing more than fodder for the swords of the Wa's enemies shaking
with terror as they whispered to each other, as if speaking loudly would draw
the attention of the grubworms on the ridge. And it was because of this
prospect that, starting shortly after dark men, in one's and two's, began
moving quietly out of the Wa camps, heading back to whatever part of the island
from where they came. This exodus was confined almost completely to the
spear-wielding lower class, as the small number of nobles left could have never
borne the shame of skulking away, preferring to at least die with honor. As the
night progressed and the numbers of men left in the camp dwindled, the nobles
began their own movement, but this was to coalesce in the northernmost camp,
seeking solace and companionship with their own kind. But while they didn't run
like the peasants had, they were just as terrified at what the next morning
would hold. The difference was that no man among them would have uttered a word
about his fears, which would have shamed him in the eyes of his peers. Instead,
they swapped stories of the battle, talking in hushed tones of things that they
had seen these grubworms do. In fact, if there was one prevailing attitude
among all of the men left behind, it was confusion. When the sun had risen on
this day, every one of them held the conviction that these pale creatures would
be crushed in much the same way as the farmer crushed the grubworm under his
heel when he dug it out of the ground. That the Wa were superior, in every way,
was not doubted by any of the nobles in the Wa army.

Yet,
now that the sun had set, they had discovered the reality to be far different,
and it was this newfound knowledge they found so confusing. Hadn't the divine
emperor himself sent this army forward at his command? How could a man who was
a god himself have underestimated these pale beings so completely? Their
superiors, those very, very few who were even allowed to be within the presence
of the emperor, and that was only after undergoing a purification ritual that
rendered them worthy and protected them from bursting into flame, had relayed
the words of the emperor, that this barbarian army was hardly worthy of the
massive army gathered for the purpose. Now, that army was shattered, these
scared teenagers all that remained. This was how the night passed in the Wa camp
until, despite their best intentions, even the nobles became so terrified that
they convinced themselves that in fact their duty required them to make haste
to the capital, to prepare for a last-ditch defense from this army of
grubworms. Therefore, shortly before dawn, unknowing and frankly uncaring that
the lower classes had departed at least two watches before, the pitifully small
remnant of the nobility that was left of the once-mighty Wa army also left with
only slightly more dignity than their comrades. 

 

Daylight
came, the sun's rays beaming down on a horrific sight, no matter what side you
had fought on the day before. After grabbing perhaps a watch of sleep, Caesar
was only partially recovered, still badly shaken from all that had transpired
the day before. Nevertheless, he had regained enough of his composure to at
least present something that approximated the general the army had followed for
so many years. During the night, Caesar had shifted troops around the four
camps. Agreeing, at least by virtue of not countermanding it, with Pullus'
order to Scribonius to keep Felix and the eight Cohorts there at the northern
camp, Caesar summoned the rest of the 14th and the 30th, ordering Ventidius to
destroy the camp before marching to meet with Caesar. Additionally, he had sent
couriers to the southern camp where the 5th Alaudae's new Primus Pilus was left
in command with Pollio's absence now that he was there with Caesar, ordering
the new man, Marcus Macro, to send a reconnaissance in force down the slopes of
the ridge far enough to determine whether or not the Wa camp was occupied and
if it was, the size of the force. Caesar was still concerned that the
barbarians might have enough strength left for one more assault of the ridge.

As
always, Caesar tried to put himself in whoever was commanding the barbarians.
Knowing so little about the Wa was one aspect of this campaign that had
troubled Caesar the most, and one of his first dispatches had been down to the
fleet in the bay, summoning Zhang to come to his side. Along with Zhang, Caesar
had ordered that every man, no matter what their status or job, be brought to
the camp as well, to help in the thousand tasks that still remained. Once he
dispensed with his morning list of matters to be seen to, he paused to take a
breath and to break his fast. Never a hearty eater, he had even less appetite
this morning, but he also knew it was likely that he would need all of his
strength before the day was out, not knowing what it would bring. As he
listlessly chewed on a piece of bread, washing it down with water, the bucinator at the gate blew the signal
that a rider approached. Knowing that it couldn't have been from the fleet,
neither did he think it was from the southernmost camp. That left the camps on
either side, and while he had men stationed on the rampart, which was the first
thing that had been repaired as soon as it was light, they hadn't reported any
movement from the Wa camp out on the plain. He hoped that boded well, but he
had been fooled the day before, and there was a nagging doubt in the back of
his mind that perhaps the barbarian commander had moved his men under the cover
of night, taking them to the north of the ridge, where the slight gap that was
the only passage to the ocean for miles lay, and from there was launching
another assault, directly from the north. He was pondering this possibility and
the best way to counter it if it indeed proved to be fact, when the rider drew
up a short distance away before dismounting. Trotting over, he rendered his salute
before holding out the tablet. Taking the proffered message with one hand while
wiping the crumbs of his breakfast off his other, Caesar summoned on his badly
depleted supply of resolve, understanding that now more than any other time
under his command, his men needed to see their general in his usual calm and
collected state, treating every new message as if it was exactly what he was
expecting.

"Where is this from?" Caesar asked the man, his heart
suddenly accelerating at the man's reply that it came from the Primus Pilus in
command of the northern camp.

Could
this contain the message that he was dreading? That the attack had been
renewed, out of sight and sound of Caesar and the men in this camp? Opening it
and reading the words, it took a supreme effort of will for him not to sag in
visible relief, knowing this would be just as disconcerting as any sign of
distress to the men nearby. The release of tension that he felt came from two
sources; one that there was no assault taking place, and according to the
Primus Pilus of the 10th, who had sent out a Cohort-sized patrol down the
northern slope into the gap to check for the very thing Caesar was worried
about, there was no sign of the enemy anywhere about. But it was more than just
the contents of the message that made Caesar suddenly feel better than he had
in several watches. It was the barely legible signature at the bottom, that
even for a Primus Pilus' whose writing was barely readable under the best of
circumstances, was the first sign to Caesar that perhaps there was hope. For
the last he had heard, it was extremely unlikely that he would ever lay eyes on
a giant Roman who he had come to regard with something as close to affection as
a man of Caesar's status could have for a man from the ranks. Feeling a smile
crawling across his face, Caesar decided that, while these tablets were
constantly reused, this was one that he would keep as it was at that moment, to
serve him as a reminder that even when things were seemingly at their bleakest,
where there was life there was hope. And he had been reminded of that by what
amounted to nothing but chicken scratches on a wax tablet that served as the
signature of Titus Pullus, who was not only alive, but apparently still giving
the orders in the northern camp.

 

When
Aulus Ventidius arrived at Caesar's camp, at the head of the rest of the two
Legions of his own position, he was still undecided about whether or not he was
going to pursue any action against the Primus Pilus of the 30th, Flaminius.
Although he was acutely aware by this point that Flaminius had acted on his
own, and had even tricked Ventidius by sending him off to fend off a phantom
breach so that he could organize the relief force, Ventidius was equally
cognizant that the Primus Pilus' actions had undoubtedly saved the army from
destruction. The Legate, who was actually 3 years older than Caesar, but like
Caesar carried the vitality of a much younger man, was still fuming at the
insult borne him by Flaminius. However, he was at an age where he was honest
enough with himself to know that his anger was as much about his wounded pride,
that he wasn't the one allowed to take credit for making the decision to send
relief to the other camps, as it was a righteous indignation that Flaminius had
so flagrantly breached the chain of command.

As it
turned out, the decision was made for him, by Caesar, who addressed the matter
as soon as Flaminius and Ventidius were brought to him in the newly erected praetorium, stitched together from
panels of leather from the tents of men who no longer needed shelter. It was
when Caesar had been informed by his quartermaster, Hirtius, who had been sent
down to the fleet for the battle, that even with all the tents burned to
cinders there would be enough tents left to create a new headquarters tent
without putting any man out into the elements that Caesar understood just how
devastating the day before had been to his army. He had already sent word to
dispatch one of the Liburnians back to the island that had served as the supply
depot, where two Legions had been left behind to provide security, with orders
to commandeer any shipping they found and bring all but two Cohorts, one from
each Legion, to their current position. Depending on what his mounted scouts
told him, they too having been aboard ships but were even now beginning to
reconnoiter, Caesar hoped that he and the army would no longer still be here on
this ridge whenever the new troops arrived. It all depended on what lay between
him and the capital, but that he wouldn't know for a couple of days at least,
and putting that matter aside, he turned his attention to the two men standing
side by side.

Now,
with Ventidius and Flaminius before him, he did not say anything for a moment;
as was his habit, Caesar used the time to glean as much information as he could
from the two men, although they were not uttering a word. This was one of
Caesar's greatest talents, the ability to observe other men's body language and
deducing much about them, and by extension whatever matter was being discussed,
before he committed himself by opening his own mouth. Sitting on his stool now,
Caesar concealed his amusement at the sight before him. His Legate, who was
known throughout the army as Caesar's Muleteer, since that's how he had gotten
his start with Caesar in Gaul, was standing rigidly at the position of intente, anger radiating from every part
of him. Even his eyebrows, which many of the men likened to two large
caterpillars, told Caesar that the older man was still fuming, as it looked like
the two caterpillars were glaring at each other eyeball to eyeball over the
bridge of Ventidius' nose. Meanwhile, Flaminius was no less perfect in his
posture, but while he didn't give off the same aura of rage, the sign he was
giving Caesar was one of defiance, tinged with understandable anxiety. While
Caesar's vision wasn't what it once was, it was still sharp enough to see the
beads of sweat on the upper lip of the Primus Pilus, despite the heat of the
day not warranting it. Caesar had seen this many times before, knowing it a
sign of great anxiety, and he supposed that Flaminius had good cause to be
worried. And while Caesar had already decided what he was going to do about
this matter, he was in no hurry to let either Flaminius or Ventidius know it,
even if it was for two totally different reasons.

"So Primus Pilus Flaminius, here we are," Caesar broke
the silence, grimly amused at the visible start the Primus Pilus gave at the
sound. "It appears that you have much to answer for, if General Ventidius
is to be believed, and he's never given me any reason to doubt him."

When Caesar stopped talking for a moment, Flaminius opened his
mouth as if to respond, but then shut it. Caesar sighed, knowing exactly the
game Flaminius was playing. The Stupid Legionary was one of the oldest tricks
in the enlisted man's book, and Caesar couldn't count the number of times he
had seen it played in front of him. Some of the time, he didn't mind playing
along, amused to see how far a man was willing to go down that path. This
wasn't one of those times, however.

"Well? Explain yourself," Caesar snapped, making his
irritation plain for both men to see.

 Ventidius looked relieved,
but whether it was because it was Flaminius drawing Caesar's ire, or the fact
that he himself was escaping Caesar's wrath Caesar didn't know, nor did he
particularly care.

"Yes sir," Flaminius' face reddened, but his tone was
even and clipped, a professional giving his report. "Because we had the
situation at our camp so well in hand, and knowing that the brunt of the
assault was going to be on your camp or on the northern camp, I decided it
might be prudent to send as many men as we could spare to off their assistance.
Sir."

"Yes, yes, I know that," Caesar waved an impatient hand.
"But who gave you the authority to do this?"

Now the sweat that originate on his upper lip began spreading to
his forehead, beading up as Flaminius was clearly growing more uncomfortable.

"Er, nobody. Sir, I assumed General Ventidius would agree, so
I didn't see the need to bother him with a detail that would take more
time."

Ventidius could take it no more, snorting in disbelief, the two
eyebrows now actually touching as he stared down his prodigious nose at his
commander.

"That's an awful lot of assuming," the Muleteer spat.
"And if you were so sure that I would agree, why did you feel the need to
send me off on a fool's errand?"

Caesar turned a decidedly cool gaze on Flaminius; this was a part
of the story he hadn't heard.

"Yes, Flaminius. Please explain that, and perhaps for my
benefit you could explain what 'fool's errand' you sent your superior officer
on?"

When
put that way, even Flaminius could see why Ventidius was still upset, and his
nerves, which were already on edge, now were positively vibrating. Ventidius
was glaring at the Primus Pilus as well, evidently forgetting that he hadn't
been given leave to alter his position of intente, standing with folded arms waiting for Flaminius to explain
himself. Caesar was about to rebuke Ventidius, but chose to let it go. Flaminius
finally spoke again, and while it appeared to surprise Ventidius, it didn't
surprise Caesar at all.

"I have no excuse sir. I knew the risk I was taking, and I
decided to let the dice fly."

Despite himself Caesar felt a smile tugging at the corners of his
mouth at Flaminius' statement, while Ventidius appeared to become even angrier,
which Caesar could understand. Flaminius, you sly dog, Caesar thought, using
the exact same thing I said crossing the Rubicon. Well, at least you have good
taste.

"No, you don't have a good excuse. In fact, you have no
excuse," Caesar agreed, making his tone hard as he stared directly into
Flaminius' eyes.

For his part, Flaminius steadfastly tried to ignore the sudden
shaking in his legs, hoping that it wasn't noticeable.

Caesar paused, deliberately drawing it out, before continuing,
"But although I have every right to have you scourged and crucified,"
his words were all the more chilling because he was so matter-of-fact and his
tone so even, "neither can I forget that your actions saved this army, and
this campaign for total failure. For that alone I should decorate you."

For a moment Caesar thought Ventidius would die of an apoplectic
fit right on the spot, his face turning a purplish hue that Caesar had rarely
seen, so he hurried on.

"But because of your flagrant disregard for the chain of
command, and for issuing orders beyond the scope of your office, I've decided
that the two things cancel each other out. So you will be neither censured nor
commended. No disobedience will be noted in the army diary, but Ventidius will
be given full credit for issuing the command that saved the army."

When
Caesar was finished, he sat silently watching the two men, again amused,
although for different reasons, because this time their expressions were almost
identical. Neither of them looked happy, which to Caesar was his indication
that his decision was fair and equal to the both of them. For while everything
he had said was true, Caesar did in fact hold Ventidius at fault, because he should
have arrived at the decision himself, and sooner. And nothing Ventidius had
told him, nor what he heard from other sources gave any indication that he had
been thinking along the same lines as Flaminius. As much as Caesar faulted
Ventidius, he still valued the older man, and had no intention of criticizing
his lack of initiative and decisiveness either publicly or privately. No, he
mused after dismissing the pair, watching them both walk away with straight
backs and clenched fists, neither of them looking at the other man, this was
the best way. I don't need any more problems than I already have, and the army
doesn't need the distraction that would come from the spectacle of a Tribunal
of a Primus Pilus, which is by rights what should happen. Content with his
decision, Caesar turned his mind to other matters.

 

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

Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 9 (Cont.)

Entering Caesar's camp, Asinius Pollio's mouth
hung open as he gazed about. Only when he looked to the right side of the forum
did he see anything resembling a Roman camp, except that the usually neatly
ordered streets were now crammed full of men lying in row upon row. Other men,
both uniformed and noncombatant, were moving about, crouching next to a man to
offer a drink of water, ladling it out of a bucket in one spot, while in others
a pair of men would be grabbing the legs and trunk of a Legionary who had
succumbed to his wounds. Treating the now-dead man with a care that Pollio had
seen so many times before, the bearers nevertheless moved swiftly, carefully
stepping over the other wounded as they took the body away to...where, Pollio
wondered? Even as he watched this scene played out on every single Legion
street, sometimes simultaneously, as quickly as the corpse was removed, two
more orderlies would come hurrying up, using the plank stretcher to bring
another wounded man from one of the areas Caesar had designated for his
physicians and the medici, where they
assessed the casualty brought before them. Although this scene wasn't all that
unusual; Caesar had long since perfected the art of rapid restoration of order
and treatment of casualties after battle, Pollio had never seen anything on
this scale before. That was because, he realized, nothing like this had ever
happened to Caesar's army before.

He had since dismounted, leaving his horse
behind to walk on foot, mainly because he had reached the part of the camp
where everything was in such a shambles that it was impossible to even see
where the Via Principalis or Via Praetoria was, let alone follow it. But the
real reason he had chosen to walk, the two Tribunes he had brought with him
trailing behind him, their mental state much the same as his, was that he
needed time to absorb what he was seeing. Also, he had been prepared to tell
Caesar in expansive terms about the hard-fought battle they had endured to hold
the southernmost camp, but all the flowery phrases that he had come up with in
his mind were wilting as rapidly as if they were real blooms suddenly exposed
to a desert sun. For Pollio realized that nothing he and the men of the
southern camp had faced was anything close to what he was seeing happened in
Caesar's camp.

Reaching the far edge of the forum, Pollio's
walk slowed even more, then came to a stop as he stood, open-mouthed and
looking in the direction of the western wall. Normally his eye would be met
with row upon row of ordered tent lines, blocks of them neatly arranged by the
Cohort and Legion that they belonged to, the streets between the blocks as
neatly delineated as the tents. It was a sight that was always pleasing to a
Roman eye, and even more than the sight of the blackened ruins of entire blocks
of tents, most of them still smoking, it was the lack of order that impacted
Pollio most profoundly. He would never have thought that he put so much
importance on seeing what was nothing more than clumps of peaked leather
arranged in regular patterns, but in that moment Pollio realized just how Roman
he was. Now standing there, his eye traveled from the southern wall to the
northern wall, only stopping when he spotted something that was out of place in
what he was now recognizing as a scene of total destruction. Usually it was the
sight of a group of Legionaries, bending over one of the many heaps of bodies
where at some point part of the fight had coalesced at that spot. From his
experience in reading battlefields, Pollio knew that this sudden preponderance
of corpses usually signaled some event that merited an increase in the fury of
the fighting, at least to the men in that area. Usually, Pollio knew, it
involved something like a signifer of
a Cohort, or even an aquilifer
carrying the Legion eagle, either choosing or being forced to make a stand,
which naturally drew the attention and effort of the enemy to take the prized
symbol. Or it could revolve around an individual who attracted the same kind of
attention, usually a Centurion, Tribune, or even Legate. Whatever the cause,
while the piled bodies weren't a new sight to Pollio, the sheer number of such
heaps was, and momentarily forgetting what it was he had come to do, Pollio
stood in place as he surveyed the scene. The ability to read a battlefield only
came with experience, but what Pollio was trying to interpret was on a scale
unlike anything he had seen, hence it took him longer to make sense of what he
was seeing. He could see a number of spots on the western wall where the
palisade stakes were missing, telling him the spots where the barbarians had
come pouring over the wall. Turning to examine the southwest corner, he
understood that this was where the biggest and probably fatal breach had
occurred, as not only the wooden stakes but a great section of the turf wall
had been pulled down.

As he gradually made sense of the scene, he
could see that Caesar had staged a fighting withdrawal, stopping his backward
movement every couple of dozen paces, where the barbarians would renew their
assault on what was essentially a mobile wall composed of wood, flesh and iron.
Satisfied that he had a sense of the flow of the battle, Pollio turned and
continued heading toward the forum, reaching the jumbled mass of equipment,
crates, tables and carts that had formed the makeshift barricade. He was
pleased to see that Caesar had at least organized work parties to clear a path
to the barricade so that Pollio and the Tribunes didn't have to step on the
bodies that literally covered the ground entirely so that the only visible dirt
was this path, cordoned off by a grisly pile of dead barbarians who, Pollio
noted dismally, were already beginning to stink and draw flies. It always
struck him how quickly the human body started to decay after a man's death; he
had heard men claim that they could smell the stench of death even as a man's
body hit the ground. While Pollio doubted that, he did know that it took less
than a watch before the first scent of that sickly sweet smell reached his
nostrils. Following the gory path, he nevertheless had to clamber over the
barricade, thankful that there was a ladder in place to help him. He was no
longer a young man, and he was afraid that he would break something if he had
been forced to climb over the barricade by hand. But it wasn't lost on him that
Caesar hadn't ordered the barricade to be taken down, and he wondered if that
was because Caesar had specific information, or he was just being cautious. If
it was the latter, Pollio thought, that would be a sign that Caesar had been
shaken much more badly than he would want to admit, and he carried this thought
with him as he gazed about at the knots of men, trying to find the general. He
wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but he realized he shouldn't have been
surprised that the space inside the barricade had been cleaned up as much as
the time allowed. There were no bodies, or much debris in the form of pierced
or shattered helmets, damaged shields or spent javelins. But what there was, in
abundance, were dark stains, splotches of dirt that told Pollio of fallen men,
fighting to keep the barbarians out. So many of them it was impossible for him
to even make an estimate of the casualties suffered in this last phase of the battle.
The packed dirt area of the forum, where the wounded had been dragged during
the fight, was completely darkened with the blood of the fallen, to the point
where it was uniform in color. From above it looked like a roughly square shape
of a different type of dirt had been laid over the lighter colored soil that
was a feature of this ridge. Finally, Pollio saw one of the groups of men
suddenly disperse, revealing the sight of his general, who was still seated on
the stool that had been brought to him some time before. Pollio made his way in
that direction noticing that the men who had been gathered with Caesar and were
now heading in different directions, all wore the distinctive transverse crest
of the Centurion. Surely, Pollio thought with dismay, there's more than two
dozen Centurions left out of the 120 that had started the day!

Caesar hadn't seen Pollio yet, concentrating
instead on another tablet, inscribing something in the wax with his stylus, and
it was this sight more than anything that brought home to Pollio exactly how
costly this battle had been. As Pollio thought about it, just as he was
reaching Caesar's side, he couldn't remember the last time he had seen Caesar,
out in public at least, writing his own messages. In private, certainly; Pollio
knew that Caesar had been keeping a journal of this entire campaign, much in
the same way as he had in Gaul, but it wasn't seemly for the general commanding
the army to be forced to write his own dispatches. Caesar, head bent down and
concentrating on the tablet, only became aware of Pollio when the standing
man's presence blocked out the last of the daylight. Obviously irritated,
Caesar looked up with a frown, squinting up at whomever it was that had dared
to throw a shadow over his work. At first he didn't seem to recognize Pollio,
and in the short silence Pollio had the chance to examine this man he had been
following for so much of his life. Just like Carbo, what Pollio saw was a man
who seemed to have aged overnight, but in Pollio's case this was almost
literally true, since it had been just the night before that Pollio had
attended the last briefing Caesar had held. How much had changed in that time,
Pollio thought, only partially thinking of the battle. He was about to open his
mouth when Caesar's expression changed to one of recognition, and the general
waved the tablet wearily at his lieutenant.

"I was about to send you another
dispatch," he said wearily. "I hadn't heard from you and I need to
know if you have any medici you can spare. Mine are almost exhausted; I expect them to drop
any moment. Frankly, I don't know what keeps them going," he muttered.

"Because they're
needed," Pollio told Caesar quietly.

This prompted a laugh
that held no humor whatsoever.

"That they
are," Caesar agreed. Then, he turned his mind to other matters, asking
Pollio, "What's your status? I assume since you're here that your camp
held?"

"Yes, it did,"
Pollio replied. Not knowing why exactly, he was nonetheless compelled to be
frank as he told Caesar, "I was going to tell you how hard a fight it was,
and how the men fought like Trojans. But now that I've seen all this," he
waved a hand around him, "I realize we had it easy."

Instead of answering
immediately, Caesar looked outward in the direction Pollio had indicated, but
his true gaze was inward. Watching him sit there, Pollio had a thought very
similar to Carbo's earlier, thinking that Caesar looked.....lost. That was it,
Pollio realized, for the first time, if not in this campaign but his entire
life, Caesar doesn't know what to do next. And that thought scared him more
than anything he had seen this day.

 

Even after events that men are sure have never
taken place under the sun before, no matter how cataclysmic or monumental, the
sun still sets, ending the day in which these events occur. Such was the case
on this day, a day that the fate of an army, and the destiny of a people were
forever changed. Normally, the Roman army's activity ceased with the setting of
the sun, save for the obligatory guard watches, while those men not on duty
retired to their respective tent sections to sit with their comrades and
discuss the day or pick up an argument where they had left it off the night
before. Not on this night, however; there was simply too much left to do. In
the northern camp, the acting Primi Pili of the 10th and 12th Legions, Sextus
Scribonius and the Primus Hastatus Posterior of the 12th, Vibius Volusenus, had
ordered that not only torches be lit, but all flammable debris, ruined shields,
broken crates, desks from the Cohort and Legion offices that still survived,
all of it be placed in several piles and set alight. The resulting bonfires
provided a lurid light that allowed the men to continue working on the tasks
they had been assigned by their respective Centurions, small in number as they
may have been.

Standing together in the forum, the two Primi
Pili were discussing the next steps, and they had been joined by the Centurion
who had saved their camp, Felix. The short, stocky Quintus Pilus Prior of the
30th looked as exhausted as the other two men, and in the dancing light
provided by a nearby bonfire, the crevices on his otherwise young face made him
look as ancient as Caesar. Diagonally across one cheek was a hastily stitched
gash, and while the blood that covered the lower half of his face had been
washed off, the cut itself looked black from the dried blood caked in the
wound. He also had a filthy neckerchief tied high on his left shoulder, and
this too was darkened from the blood from a spear thrust that had struck a
glancing blow. In fact, none of the men standing there was unmarked in some
way; Scribonius had undergone the agony of having the bandage covering the
wound on his arm loosened, allowing the feeling to come flooding back, bringing
with it a suffering that far outweighed what should have been the toll of the
injury itself. But Scribonius was lucky; when the orderly carefully unwrapped
the bandage, he had done so with such gentle skill that the wound hadn't
reopened, allowing the medici to
stitch it shut, then rewrap it with a fresh bandage. It was fresh only in the
sense that it was new to Scribonius. In fact the medici had removed it from a man who no longer needed it,
succumbing to other wounds of his body, but he saw no need to tell this
Centurion that he was essentially sporting a dead man's bandage. For his part,
Scribonius was just grateful that the bleeding hadn't begun afresh; knowing
that as lightheaded as he was already, it was likely he would lose
consciousness if he shed any more. If that happened, he knew from bitter
observation that it was unlikely that he would ever wake up.

So he wasn't in a complaining mood, and in fact
was thankful that he had as much of his faculties as he did, because there was
so much that had to be done. Volusenus and he had sent a joint message to
Caesar that, knowing their general as they did, both understood wouldn't meet
his requirement for information. While this hadn't been by accident, it had
only been done because neither Scribonius nor Volusenus had finished tallying
the dead and separating the wounded into the categories that Caesar always
required. The simple truth was that the survivors in the northern camp were so
few in number and so overcome with exhaustion that they were overwhelmed. Along
with the dispatch that said that the camp had held, albeit barely, and an
estimate of effective strength and the supply situation as far as they knew it
since a great deal of the camp, like Caesar's had been burned to the ground,
they unwittingly made the exact same request that Caesar made of Pollio for
more medical help. Now, standing in the forum, the two Primi Pili had been
quietly discussing ideas that would help accomplish some of the things that
needed to be done, when Felix joined them. Neither man spoke directly to Felix
at first, mainly because there weren't words that could adequately express
their gratitude. So instead, Scribonius thrust the skin he had been drinking
from, which Felix took with a lifted eyebrow, in a silent question.

"It's rice
wine," Scribonius told him, laughing at the face the other man made.

Still, Felix lifted the
skin in a silent thanks before bringing it to his mouth, taking a long, deep
swallow. Coughing, he handed the skin back to Scribonius with an oath, causing
the other men to laugh.

"Granted, it tastes
like horse piss, but it gets the job done," Scribonius said, just before
taking another long pull on the skin himself.

Scribonius and Felix had
already conversed a couple of times by this point, the first concerning what
Pullus had directed his friend to do, and that was keep Felix from taking the
relief force from the northern camp. Fortunately, Felix hadn't put up a fight
at all, instantly seeing the sense.

As he put it,
"Until I get a written order telling me otherwise, my last orders were to
come to your aid. Flaminius didn't specify that it was only fighting."

Truth be known,
Scribonius was hugely relieved at Felix's words, because he didn't relish
imposing his will on others, especially a man who had saved them, the way
Pullus did.

"Do you think
they'll come back?" Felix asked the question that was haunting every man,
regardless of rank, in the northern camp that night.

Scribonius shook his
head, but not in the way Felix might have liked.

"I don't
know," Scribonius said. "I know if I was their general, or if it was
Caesar leading them, we would scrape up every single man we could find and
march up here and finish us. And," he finished grimly, "there's
nothing we could do about it."

The other two men stood
digesting this for a moment, both of them knowing what Scribonius was saying
was true. Finally, Volusenus grunted, which Scribonius was learning was his
prelude to speaking.

"Well, there's not
much we can do about it. Worrying isn't going to help. We just need to do what
we can to get the men rested up."

"As tired as they are, I doubt there's
going to be much sleep tonight," Scribonius replied as he handed the skin
back to Felix, indicating that he should finish it as it was down to the dregs.
Again, silence fell as each man was absorbed in their own morose thoughts. In
the quiet between them was the bond forged by shared loss, each of them
thinking of close friends they had lost today. Scribonius' first thought was of
Balbus, finally coming to grips with his death when he saw the Centurion's
body, his scarred face looking oddly peaceful, despite the puckering hole in
his chest. Immediately on the heels of that was thoughts of another friend, and
it was as if Felix could read his mind, but it took him repeating it twice
before Scribonius was jerked back to the present.

"And Pullus? Is he
still alive?"

Scribonius shook his
head again, but just like the previous time, it wasn't meant in the way that
Felix took it, whose mouth was even then opening to offer his sympathies to
Scribonius on the loss of a man who was a legend.

Before Felix could say
what he wanted to, Scribonius murmured, "I don't know why he's not dead.
But no, he's still alive. And you know what?" Scribonius' expression was
one that Felix, only knowing the other man by sight and reputation, didn't
recognize, but what Scribonius' face said echoed his next words, which was a
message of hope. "I think he's going to survive. I don't know how, and I
surely don't know why. But I think that if he hasn't died by now, I don't think
he's going to."

It was Volusenus who opened his mouth to argue
this, planning to point out that as strong as Pullus was, he was still mortal,
and he had seen the fight, and the blow that had felled him, and his experience
told him that Scribonius' hope was a vain one. And to Volusenus, a foolish one.
But before he uttered the words he was distracted by a sound, and like the
other two he turned to see another Centurion approaching. In the light supplied
by the fires, Volusenus recognized the tall, lean figure before he got a clear
glimpse of the face, and it was enough to tell him that it was Pullus' nephew.
And while Volusenus might have been willing to tell Scribonius the harsh truth,
he wasn't about to be that harsh with a youngster who was blood kin to Pullus.
He didn't need that kind of trouble.

"Porcinus, I thought I told you that you
were supposed to stay with the Primus Pilus!"

Scribonius' sharp tone was a cover for the stab
of fear he experienced when he saw his friend's nephew approach, sure that the
only reason Porcinus would leave Pullus' side was because he was no longer
needed. But nothing in Porcinus' attitude or expression indicated that this was
the case. Instead, he had a look on his face that could best be described as
bemusement, which was explained by what came out of his mouth.

"I know you did
Pilus Prior, but the Primus Pilus outranks you. And he wouldn't let me stay, no
matter what I told him. In fact, he tried to throw a cup at me, and he promised
that as soon as he's recovered, he would thrash me good if I didn't go make
myself useful."

For the first, and one
of the only times that night, roars of laughter could be heard coming from the
northern camp.

 

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

Caesar Triumphant-Chapter 9

"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.

Caesar Triumphant

It was only because of the shouted
warning of one of his men that Felix turned in time to see one of the
barbarians, this one wearing a helmet mounted with the wings of some white
bird, come lunging at him with a screaming shout and upraised sword. Barely
able to get his shield up in time, Felix just managed to block the massive blow
that shook Felix all the way down to the soles of his caligae. Before he could answer, the barbarian had recovered his
blade and in seemingly one fluid motion changed the direction and angle of his
thrust, going from a high overhand downward thrust to a vicious,
upward-traveling slicing swing that originate from a point beneath Felix's
shield. Somehow Felix managed to deflect the Wa's blade with his own so that it
went flashing diagonally by, across the Roman's body. This put the Wa in a
vulnerable position, and again showing why the Legions of Rome valued the
shield for both its defensive and offensive capabilities, Felix gave a hard
horizontal thrust with his left arm. The shield, its metal boss leading the
way, punched out at the barbarian general, and this time it was the Wa's turn
for a desperate movement, twisting his body backward so that, while the boss
struck him on his right shoulder, by giving way the impact was lessened. Still,
it was a painful blow and Felix was rewarded with a hissing sound exploding
from the barbarian's lips, but he had no time to savor the moment because again
his enemy's blade came flashing at him, this time with the point aimed directly
for his eyes. With a slight turn and dip of his head, the point of the Wa's
blade only struck a glancing blow high on Felix's helmet, but it was enough to
cause lights to explode behind Felix's eyes. Fighting the surge of panic at his
momentary sightlessness, Felix in turn made an overhand thrust at the last spot
he had seen the barbarian just before the Wa landed his blow. While it missed,
having the point of a sharp blade jabbed right at you is enough to disturb even
the most disciplined man, and the Wa's recoiling jump backward gave Felix
enough time for his sight to clear.

Just in time to move his shield to
block yet another strike from his opponent, catching the point with the boss,
making a clanging sound and striking sparks as the blade bounced harmlessly
off. In much the same way that the Wa had recognized the strengths and
advantages of his opponent's style of fighting, a part of Felix was no less
appreciative that these yellow-skinned barbarians were exceptionally skilled,
able to move with a rapidity and fluid grace that Felix wished he, and the rest
of his men for that matter, possessed. Where a Roman would strike with his
sword one time, in that same span of time these barbarians seemed to be able to
do the same at least twice, if not more times, and while Felix had no idea how
they did it, each blow still managed to carry the same amount of force as that
of the average Legionary. Only men like Titus Pullus and a handful of others
could match these men in pure skill, Felix realized, but they lacked the
discipline and teamwork of the Legions. He didn't even want to think of how
formidable these barbarians would be if these two strengths were combined, and
the detached part of Felix's mind hoped that if they survived this day, Caesar
would figure out a way to train his Legions to take advantage of what these
yellow bastards could do with a sword. Both men had paused to catch their
breath, the Wa general glaring at his opponent who stared at him from above the
rim of his shield, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"I will gut you like a
fisherman guts a fish," the Wa general taunted, completely forgetting that
this grubworm wasn't civilized enough to understand language.

Felix, while he didn't understand
the words, clearly comprehended the meaning, and in answer made a motioning
gesture with his sword, inviting the barbarian to do his worst.

"You sound like a pig
grunting," Felix taunted, eliciting the exact same response from the Wa.

Not understanding the words but
needing no translator, the general leaped into the air with a grace that gave
witness to the hundreds of watches he spent practicing maneuvers like this. The
sudden movement caused Felix to react, the point of his sword suddenly striking
out like a snake, but in the delay between what his eyes saw, his brain
commanded, and his arm obeyed, the spot where he aimed his thrust was now
empty. His right arm was now fully extended, and anticipating that this would
be Felix's move, the general had already begun his downward swing, the blade of
his sword arcing in what could only be described as a beautifully precise
semicircle when, in yet another one of those accidents of battle that the
beneficiaries usually attribute to an act of the gods, the warrior next to the
general had just taken a thrust from a Roman sword to the throat and staggered
sideways, bumping into the general just as the sword was perhaps halfway in its
arc of travel. While it would have made a slightly diagonal strike across
Felix's forearm, severing the Pilus Prior's sword arm and probably leading to
his death, instead the general's body was jarred enough that the blade turned
so that it missed Felix's arm by no more than a hand span. But what this also
did was upset the general's stance and throw him off balance, so that in that
instant after his sword missed its target, and before he could recover himself,
the Wa general was vulnerable. And Felix didn't waste the opportunity provided
him.

Bringing his already extended sword
up in a straight line, it brought the edge of his blade up and directly into
the Wa general's throat, the point tearing into the soft flesh directly
underneath his chin. Although there wasn't a lot of force behind it, since his
arm was already extended, it was nevertheless a damaging blow, the Wa's head
snapping back in a spray of blood and exposing his throat. Felix made a leaping
step forward, his arm still extended out before him so that the point of the
blade entered the Wa's body right above his Adam's apple, the Centurion only
stopping when he felt the grate of the bone that supported the man's head. When
he felt that resistance, he immediately moved his arm sideways, slicing through
the carotid artery and most of the muscles of the neck, causing the Wa's head,
weighted down by the helmet as it was, to suddenly tilt grotesquely to one
side. For a couple of heartbeats, the barbarian stood there, blood spraying in
a bright arc as his heart continued beating, his eyes registering the same
shock that almost every man experiences at his own sudden death, before
collapsing in a heap. There was a moment's pause, then the Romans around Felix
erupted in a roar of savage joy, knowing that their Pilus Prior had slain an
important man. Immediately around the Wa general, his men let out howls of
despair, but continued their fight with even more fury than before. Unlike
their leader, they hadn't thought about the larger situation; all they knew was
their job, which was to obey, and to die should their commander order it. And
now that their leader was down, all that was left for them to do was to
continue killing, even though it meant their certain death.

 

The sun, which almost every man of
Caesar's army would have sworn would never, ever set, was now just barely above
the low horizon, and for the first time that day, the prevailing sound was
silence. At least, it was silent when compared to the sound and fury of a
battle that had begun not that long after dawn. In the northern camp, there was
not much other than smoke, ruin, and a level of carnage that nobody in Caesar's
army, not even those veterans of Gaul who had been at Alesia, had ever
witnessed before. If one stood in the middle of the camp and just listened,
they would have sworn they heard the keening of a relentless, lonely wind. But
the breeze was almost nonexistent; taking its place was the sound of thousands
of wounded, on both sides, each of them speaking a universal language of
suffering and pain. Sextus Scribonius stood, as he had been standing for some
time, too weary to move, or to give any orders for that matter. He was afraid
to sit down, sure that if he did he would never be able to stand, so instead he
just.......stood there. His mind was almost as empty as the rest of his body,
barely able to register the sights, sounds and smells around him. All he knew
for sure was that somehow, he had no idea how, the camp hadn't fallen. Anything
more complex than that, even for someone as brilliant as Scribonius, was beyond
him. All around him, men were shuffling as if they were sleepwalking, most of
them doing nothing more strenuous or involved than checking on fallen comrades
to see if they still lived. If so, they would raise a hand and try to call for
the attention of a medici to come and
aid the wounded man they had found. Even this taxed them, as they shuffled from
one pile of bodies to another, bending over and pulling aside the barbarian
bodies, using their dagger on any Wa that showed any sign of life. Scribonius
watched all of this, with a detached interest that was the best effort that he
could muster, watching mutely as men went about their grisly business. Then, a medici, his tunic completely black from
all of the blood in which he had been forced to wade this day, approached him,
with an expression that Scribonius couldn't readily interpret.

"Pilus Prior, can you come
with me?" the medici's accent
betrayed a Pandyan heritage, if his dark skin hadn't already proclaimed it.

Scribonius found it difficult to
summon interest in what this man was saying, but he forced himself to respond.

"Why? Surely you don't need me
to tell you if someone's alive or dead."

The medici hesitated, and something in his manner triggered a slight
spurt of interest in the Pilus Prior.

"It concerns the Primus
Pilus," the medici replied.

"Ah," Scribonius'
curiosity faded, not willing to deal with this detail despite knowing that it
was inevitable. Couldn't these bastards allow a man to grieve for his best
friend for just a few moments, he wondered? "Well, I'm sure there are
other men who need your help more than he does."

The medici's reaction confused Scribonius, because the man hesitated
again, as if there was something more than the routine requirement of deciding
what to do with his friend's body.

"I doubt that," the other
man replied. "He's alive, so he needs us just as much as anyone. More,
probably," the medici added.

Scribonius stared in disbelief; he
was so sure that last conversation with Pullus would be the final time he would
ever speak to his friend, his tired mind unable to fully comprehend what it was
hearing.

"He's...alive?"
Scribonius gasped.

The medici nodded, but his expression was grim.

"Yes, he is. I don't know how,
and I don't know for how long, but yes, right now he's still alive. And he's
asking for you."

 

In Caesar's camp, the general was
in much the same state as his Secundus Pilus Prior of the 10th, but he had the
luxury of being attended by the handful of his slaves and staff that had
somehow survived. Statianus' attack, with his four Cohorts, had shattered the
Wa assault, although it had been at a grievous cost. Even so, these four
Cohorts, along with a scratch force that Caesar had thrown together of what
remained of his forces defending the barricade, numbering about a full Cohort
strong, were pursuing the barbarians. However, Caesar had given strict orders
for the pursuit not to go more than halfway down the slope, because as
shattered as this Wa force was, until he knew what the situation was in the
other camps, his army was still in great danger. As exhausted as he was,
Caesar's mind was still hard at work, directing not just the caring for his
wounded and tallying his losses, but already putting men to work at cleaning
away any debris that might hinder a defense if there was in fact another
assault. Most of the camp was a smoking ruin, especially the half of the camp
between the western wall, where the assault had come from, and the forum. After
thinking about it for a moment, Caesar had ordered that the makeshift barricade
not only stay in place, but improved.

The wall was being repaired as
well, although the ditches were still filled with the bodies of the Wa who had
served the same purpose as the fascines,
the bundles of sticks that were piled on top of each other to fill a ditch.
Unfortunately he couldn't spare the men or the time to toss the bodies out of
the ditch, so that this would enable the Wa to cross with no impediment, but it
couldn't be helped. Someone had found a stool, and although it was something
Caesar normally wouldn't do, taking a seat while his men worked, this time he
was too tired to worry about appearances. However, his men didn't begrudge
their commander on this day, nor did they try to shirk the tasks he had set out
for them, knowing that what they were doing was in their interests. Once the
camp was secure, Caesar had sent couriers to the two camps to the south, and it
was word of their status that he was waiting on now as he gazed out at the
destruction, pain and death around him. Caesar never liked these scenes, but
today it distressed him even more, because he knew that all of what he was
seeing was due to his own ambitions and dreams. Granted, his men followed
willingly, and had been rewarded handsomely, but he wasn't blind to the fact
that as wealthy as his men all were by this point, there wasn't anywhere to
spend it, or anything to buy.

They were strangers in a strange,
very strange, land, and it was in this moment that Caesar's doubts and fears
were their strongest. What had he done, he wondered? Bringing these men so far
away, only to die on this strange, mysterious island? And for what, after all?
To fulfill an ambition that he knew, and had known for some time would never be
fully satisfied? That no new lands, new peoples, would ever be enough, because
he would always hunger for more? For this was Caesar's darkest secret, one that
he would admit only to himself. How could he make these men, who had given so
much, give even more than they had this day? These were the dark thoughts
passing through his mind when one of the surviving Centurions, the Primus
Princeps Posterior, the Centurion in charge of the Fourth Century of the First
Cohort and the only Centurion surviving from the First Cohort of the 15th
Legion, which had been one of the Legions in Caesar's camp, approached him
carrying a tablet. Seeing his general deep in thought, the man, Gnaeus Carbo,
stood waiting for Caesar to notice him, but he showed no sign that he was even
aware there was anyone nearby. Finally, Carbo cleared his throat, and only then
did Caesar look up, causing Carbo's heart to lurch at the sight of his general,
looking older and more tired than he had ever seen him. It was as if he had
suddenly aged ten years, for the first time looking every one of his 65 years.
Still, Caesar managed a smile, grim as it may have been.

"Quite a day, eh Carbo?"

"Quite a day," Carbo
agreed, opening his mouth to say something then thinking better of it.

Instead he simply offered Caesar
the tablet, which his general took with a hand that Carbo pretended wasn't
slightly shaking. Opening it, Caesar scanned the contents incised in the wax,
the lines around his mouth deepening as he read the grim figures.

"Are these accurate?"
Caesar finally asked, hoarse from the titanic effort it was taking to control his
voice.

"They're.....accurate, but
incomplete, Caesar," Carbo finally answered, prompting a harsh laugh from
Caesar that held no humor whatsoever.

"You mean it could be
worse?"

"I'm afraid so," Carbo
said softly.

Without answering Caesar suddenly
bowed his head, and Carbo stood growing more uncomfortable. Seeing his
general's lips move, he realized that Caesar was saying a prayer for all of his
dead men, still filling his role as Pontifex Maximus, a post he had held in
absentia for almost four decades. Finally finished, Caesar looked back up at
Carbo, heaving a sigh that said more to Carbo than any words.

"Thank you Carbo. That will be
all for now. Go and see to your men. As of this moment, you're the Primus Pilus
of the 15th Legion, so that includes taking care of the other Cohorts as
well."

Carbo wasn't sure whether it was
appropriate to thank Caesar at a time like this, and even if it was, he didn't
much feel like celebrating. Like any Centurion worth his salt, Carbo wanted
promotion, and he knew that it was almost always because a man higher up the
ladder fell, but as ambitious as he was, he had no desire to vault up so many
rungs in this manner. Nevertheless, he had a duty to perform and he went off to
see to it, leaving Caesar behind. Not much longer after Carbo departed, there
was a shout at the eastern gate, and one of the surviving buccinators, the horn that sounded signals inside the camp like
changing of the watch, blew the notes that signaled an approaching rider.
Knowing that this was the courier returning, Caesar roused himself from his
spot and began hobbling toward the gate, careful to avoid stepping on the
wounded as he passed across the forum. Normally he would have stopped to offer
some words of comfort to the men lying there, but he needed to know, now, the
status of the other camps.

 

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

Caesar Triumphant

Outside the walls, Centurion Felix was startled by what he recognized as Roman voices, shouting in a manner that told his experienced ears that something good had happened. He was too busy to pay it more than passing attention, since at that moment he was thrusting his sword into the gut of a barbarian with a spear who had overstepped and left himself open. His sword was wet the entire length, and there was enemy blood splashed almost up to his elbow, but Felix was still concerned. There were just so many of these bastards! With this latest man dispatched, Felix stepped aside, letting a man relieve him so that he could remove himself from the immediate fighting and move along the back of the formation to get a better idea of what was happening. Even farther away, the dust was thick enough that it was extremely difficult to determine exactly what was going on, so Felix had to use a combination of his ears, his experience, and the alignment of his Centuries to get an idea of the overall situation.

Once in position, Felix immediately saw that his Third Century was further back in the long line than they should have been, to the point where it looked as if their front rank was at a spot that put them about even with the fourth or fifth man in the file of the Century to their left, and the third or fourth man of the Century to the right. This made a dangerous bulge in the line, and if the barbarians could push them even farther back, there would be a crack that would allow some of their warriors to squeeze through on either side to attack the rear of the adjacent Centuries. Normally this would be an easy problem to fix; simply ordering one of the Centuries of the second line to add their weight to the beleaguered Century was usually enough to push the enemy back. But since Felix had put his Cohort into a single line to provide a wider front, there was no second line to provide help. Even as Felix watched, some of the more experienced Wa warriors that were removed from the immediate fight clearly saw this and were hurrying to the spot, throwing themselves at the Third Century and forcing them yet another step backward. Just as the Wa general on the other side, Felix was seeing what seemed to be a victory suddenly threatened. Unlike the barbarian commander, Felix didn't hesitate. Understanding that it would be impossible to reach one of the other Cohorts to find a Century that their Pilus Prior could spare, even if they weren't as hard-pressed as Felix was at that moment, instead the Quintus Pilus Prior ran over to where his own First Century was even then pushing forward, closer to the wall.

Pushing his way to the man fourth from the rear on the right hand side of the formation, he grabbed the man by the shoulder and shouted, "Follow me. Pass the word down!"

Then, repeating the command for each rank behind him, without waiting to see that he was obeyed, Felix trotted back to the Third Century. Within a few heartbeats, the men he had summoned had joined him.

"Sort this out!" he pointed to the rear of the Third Century, and every man immediately began moving, not needing any more direction.

Quickly lining themselves up in their normal spot in the formation, the added weight of these men pushing against the man in front of them had the desired effect. At first it stopped the backward slide, but after a moment Felix saw that the Third was taking a shuffling step forward, forcing the barbarians back toward the wall. Satisfied that this crisis was averted, Felix returned to his own Century, ready to finish the job.

Hearing the huge roar farther down the line from him, Sextus Scribonius had too much experience to let it distract him at that moment, since, like Felix, he was in the process of parrying the sword thrust of one of the barbarians. Countering this move, Scribonius responded with a thrust of his own, regretting for perhaps the thousandth time that his left arm was so useless that he couldn't hold a shield, knowing that it would have come in extremely handy at this moment. Finally, after a further exchange of blows, each man blocking the other with their blades, the barbarian overcommitted himself, his sword arm extending out far enough that the distance to his body was such that he couldn't bring the blade back in time to parry Scribonius' hard overhand thrust. Catching him high in the chest, the point of the Roman's sword punched through both the lamellar armor and the breastbone of the Wa, the point severing the Wa's windpipe. Knowing that twisting the blade was not only going to be difficult because of the hard bone of the chest, it was unnecessary, Scribonius made a neat recovery, not bothering to wipe his blade clean, knowing that it was useless.

He did take a step backward, removing himself in much the same way as Felix did, except this was to try and determine what the source and cause of the sudden burst of sound was about. Looking in the direction from which it came, at first Scribonius was sure that he was seeing things that his mind, so overcome with grief at the death of his friend, tried to protect him from by putting this apparition in his view. In fact, Scribonius reached up and using the grimy back of his hand, tried to clear his eyes. But when he looked again, his giant friend was still standing there. What told Scribonius it wasn't a vision was when Pullus turned slightly so Scribonius could clearly see the sword, still jutting from his chest and back. However, the emotion that flooded through Scribonius wasn't relief or joy at the knowledge that his friend still lived. No, it was anger that suddenly went coursing through him, in a cold wave that was as much fear as it was rage. Suddenly completely oblivious to the situation around him, Scribonius went striding in Pullus' direction, his mind filled with all sorts of choice invective. But when he reached his friend's side, all the things he had come up with suddenly fled as he stared at his friend, whose bone-white face looked at him in what Scribonius knew was Pullus' amused expression, marred as it was by the pain he was in.

"What.....what by Pluto's cock do you think you're doing?" Scribonius spluttered, causing the thin line of Pullus' grimace to twitch.

"My job?" Pullus' voice was back to a hoarseness that belied his condition, but his attempt at humor was completely unappreciated by his friend.

"If you haven't noticed, you've got a sword sticking out of you," Scribonius shot back. "And you have Centurions to do this."

"The Legion needs me Sextus," Pullus replied, but his eyes closed for a moment and he started to tilt in one direction but Artabanos was there and put a gentle but firm hand around his Primus Pilus' waist, keeping him upright.

The sight of that almost undid Scribonius, and his vision suddenly clouded, but he was past caring showing this sign of weakness in front of anyone, let alone rankers. Besides, he knew they felt much the same way from the looks on their faces as they gazed up at Pullus, their faces showing the strain of the emotions they were feeling. Scribonius imagined it was much the same as he was feeling, a combination of pride and grief in equal measure as they saw the toll this was taking on their leader.

"They need you alive, Titus," Scribonius said gently, still hoping to reach his friend with reason.

Pullus made a sound that was more groan than chuckle, but he was no less adamant than his friend.

"Alive? I'm not going to survive this Sextus and we both know it. So I might as well be useful as long as I have a breath left in me."

Words aside, Scribonius recognized the tone more than anything and knew that there was no swaying his friend, even if he had summoned an argument that Cicero would have envied. Not trusting himself to speak, Scribonius' only response was a shake of his head. Seeing that his friend had recognized the inevitable, Pullus turned slowly about, looking at the fighting going on all around him. Over where the Third Cohort was, Pullus' eye was drawn to a small group of men, slightly detached from the rest of the orbis, where about a dozen barbarians had managed to penetrate.

"Help me over there," Pullus commanded the two men. As they made their way toward this threat, Pullus called over his shoulder to Scribonius, "Go back to your men Sextus. They still need you too."

Scribonius could only stare at the back of his friend before, with a shake of his head, he did as his Primus Pilus ordered, understanding it was probably the last order he would ever receive from his friend.

Like everyone else, Porcinus had heard the roar, but had been too busy at that moment to take the time to determine the cause. The incursion that Sutra had brought to his attention had grown in size, and for the first time Porcinus' Century had started giving ground, the front rank now halfway down the dirt ramp. Glancing desperately about, Porcinus saw that he and his men were on their own; everywhere within his range of vision the rest of the reserve force was similarly engaged. Although some Centuries were still holding the wall, a number of them were in similar straits to Porcinus. Unlike Felix, Porcinus didn't have the luxury of rank, nor were their sufficient men left for him to get help from another Century to bolster his own lines. He and his men were further hampered by their almost overwhelming fatigue, and every time Porcinus made another thrust, or parried a Wa sword, he was sure it was the last time he would have the strength to do so. Yet, the next time he would feel his arm moving as if it had a mind of its own, repeating the same motions that he had spent so many watches perfecting on the wooden stakes. His men were in the same state, but inevitably one of them would be a trifle too slow with his shield, or he would overextend on a thrust, leaving him vulnerable to the slashing blades of a barbarian warrior. Just like with the fighting in the forum, there was a grim pile at the bottom of the dirt ramp that had been steadily growing from the first moments the Wa ladders had been thrown against the southern wall. Porcinus' hopes, suddenly buoyed by the sounds of the horns and the sight of the relief Cohorts, were starting to plummet yet again as he watched the continued destruction of not just his Century, but every one along the wall. He hadn't seen Tetarfenus for perhaps a watch by this point, and could only assume that the Pilus Prior was dead or wounded so severely that he was out of action. In fact, he hadn't seen his own Pilus Prior for perhaps a third of a watch, and assumed he had suffered the same fate as Tetarfenus. At that moment, all Porcinus knew was that he was almost out of men, and the Wa weren't.

"Centurion!"

Porcinus had taken a pause, stepping back down the ramp to catch his breath, and the man calling him was a Gayan, whose knowledge of Latin had almost been exhausted with that single word. Turning wearily toward the man, wondering what in Hades could be important enough to call his attention to at this moment, he saw the Gayan pointing. However, he wasn't pointing anywhere along the wall, but back behind the fighting to the right, in the direction of the Porta Principalis Dextra. Following his finger, Porcinus squinted at the flurry of movement he was seeing, and his heart suddenly threatened to seize up at the sight of men pouring through! So great was his fatigue that his initial reaction was that he was seeing their doom, so sure that the men now entering at a run had to be those yellow-skinned, black-hearted bastards. But as he stared, it slowly dawned on him that it was extremely unlikely that the Wa would have been carrying shields. Nor would they have been carrying Roman standards. As quickly as it had come, the despair was flushed out of him by a new wave of a hope that was so overwhelming that he couldn't restrain himself from letting out a shout of joy. Their troubles were over!

Somehow what looked like a full Cohort of men were coming to their rescue, and now more men were seeing this blessed sight, their shouts of joy mingling with Porcinus' voice. Yet as quickly as it had come, Porcinus' joy fled, not as much by a new onrush of despair as it was by puzzlement, as he saw the Roman relief force streaming by, seemingly ignoring the fighting going on to their right. Recognizing what it meant, Porcinus wasted no time. Shouting over his shoulder at his acting Optio to sound the relief for a line shift, he went stumbling down the rampart, hurdling the pile of corpses without a thought, intent only on intercepting the Pilus Prior of this Cohort, who he could see at the head of his men. Shouting to get his attention, Porcinus finally caused the head of the Pilus Prior to turn, and the sight of a dark face caught the young Centurion by surprise. In his confused and exhausted state, for a brief moment Porcinus thought it might in fact turn out to be a barbarian trick, since this man's skin tone had a slightly gold tint to it, and although his eyes weren't the almond shape of the men they were fighting, Porcinus supposed it was possible that there were such men fighting in the Wa ranks. But then he remembered about Pacorus, the Parthian Centurion who had caused such an uproar when he was promoted to run a Cohort, and although Porcinus had only seen him at a distance, he recognized that this was who he was looking at. Even with his fatigue and the overall situation, Porcinus had been thoroughly trained in a manner befitting a Centurion of Rome, so he remembered to render a salute, which the Parthian returned after pausing for a moment, giving a snapped order to his Optio to continue on to the spot Pacorus had pointed out as where they would form for the attack on the Wa force surrounding the forum.

"By the gods it's good to see you, sir!" Porcinus panted.

"I'm glad we could make it in time," Pacorus' Latin was extremely good, yet another reason he had come to Caesar's attention, who always had an eye out for men with a facility for languages like he did.

"I know you're heading for the forum," Porcinus wasted no time. "But we could sure use some help at the wall," he gestured with a thumb back over his shoulder.

Leaning slightly to the side so that he could see more closely, Pacorus surveyed the scene for several moments, his eyes missing nothing.

Finally he replied, "Yes, I can see that you have your hands full."

Porcinus wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but this noncommittal response completely threw him for a moment. He was about to make a sharp retort, something about how arriving so late to a fight practically guaranteed that he and the rest of the men at the wall would have their hands full, but unlike his uncle, Porcinus wasn't naturally a hothead. Besides, he understood that such a comment would only hurt his chances.

Instead, he tried to match Pacorus' tone, "That we do. I don't know what your orders are, but can you spare us at least a Century? Two would be better," he finished hopefully.

Pacorus gave a barking laugh at the younger Centurion's wording.

"Yes, I can imagine," he responded dryly, then it was his turn to jerk a thumb back over his own shoulder. "But I imagine that your Primus Pilus wouldn't take it kindly if one of his junior Centurions diverted part of the force that it looks like they desperately need as much as your bunch does."

"My Primus Pilus is dead," Porcinus replied softly, trying to keep his tone even and lower lip from trembling in an unseemly display in front of this foreigner, Centurion or not.

"Balbinus is dead?" Pacorus asked sharply, for such was the legend of Titus Pullus that it didn't occur to him that it might be the Primus Pilus of the 10th.

Porcinus shook his head in answer, not saying anything in response as his vision suddenly began swimming at the sheer enormity of what he was imparting to the Pilus Prior. For a moment, Pacorus stood there, not understanding the import of the other man's mute answer. Then his face lost its color as his jaw dropped in astonishment, and the fleeting thought passed through Porcinus' mind that suddenly Pacorus didn't look so much like a Parthian.

"Titus Pullus is dead?" Pacorus gasped, but again Porcinus could only answer with a simple nod of his head.

Unbidden, Pacorus' lips formed the prayer said for the dead to the gods of his people, for Titus Pullus' reputation demanded no less.

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Centurion," Pacorus finally managed to say. "But if that's as you say, then surely the need of the men in the forum is greater?"

"If we can't stop these cunni from getting over the wall, then it might not matter," Porcinus replied.

And that was something Pacorus couldn't argue. In fact, if he didn't offer up aid to this Centurion, whose name he hadn't asked, then his own Cohort may be faced with the sudden appearance of an enemy in their rear. It might not tip the balance back in the barbarians' favor, but it wasn't a good idea to put him and his men in a position to test that idea.

"Very well, but I can only spare you one Century."

Porcinus opened his mouth to argue, but seeing the look on the Parthian's face, shut it, understanding that he was lucky to get that.

"Thank you Centurion," Porcinus said instead.

While this exchange had been taking place the men of Pacorus' Cohort had continued running past the two men, and as luck or the gods would have it, the last Century was just approaching. Waving his hand at the Centurion at their head, Pacorus signaled him to stop his Century. The panting man ran up to Pacorus, and like Pacorus rendered his salute.

"Take your Century and go with this Centurion," Pacorus directed. "You're under his command and he'll tell you what he needs."

The Centurion didn't hesitate; this had been a day of surprises and firsts, he reasoned. One more was to be expected. Porcinus thanked Pacorus again and turned to go, but then Pacorus stopped him with a question.

"Centurion, in case this all works out, who should I say helped save this day?"

"I'm Decimus Hastatus Posterior Gaius Porcinus, of the 10th Legion, Pilus Prior," Porcinus answered, prompting a frown from Pacorus.

"If I recall, Primus Pilus Pullus had a nephew by that name," Pacorus commented.

At the mention of his uncle in the past tense, Porcinus felt a stab of pain even greater than he had experienced in the moments after his recognition that his uncle was dead.

"He still does, Pilus Prior," Porcinus answered, his tone stiff with the hurt and rebuke. "And he always will."

Without another word or waiting to be dismissed, Porcinus turned and began trotting away, beckoning Pacorus' Centurion to his side as he did. Pacorus only watched for a matter of a couple of heartbeats, understanding the younger man completely. Then he turned back and began running to where even then the five Centuries of his Cohort were arraying in a line, prepared to pounce on the barbarian rear.

It was over, the Wa general now recognized. He still wasn't sure how it had happened, but he was now assured that at the very least his attempt to breach the wall had failed, and the taste of that was bitter ash in his mouth. Now the only thing he could do was to leave those of his men who had managed to get up the ladder and over the wall and were even now fighting to their fate, and pull the rest of the men gathered at the ladders to join their comrades in the fight against this new force. At this point in the battle, if this general had been Roman, Greek, or even Han, his goal would have been to fight his way out from this predicament to preserve what remained of his force, to fight another day. But this was not the Wa way. To be defeated was so shaming that no Wa with any self-respect would dare to show his face back at the capital, and no man in the rank and file would have done so either. No, what remained was only to die with as much glory as could be salvaged, and to take as many of these grubworms as they could. To that end, the general now began shoving his way to the front, no longer needing to direct matters. He was determined that he would wet his sword to the hilt, and that his gods would be so impressed with the number of his kills that they would forgive him for not bringing victory to his people. It helped that he was sure that the battle itself was won; it didn't occur to him that the force assaulting the camp holding the grubworm general would fail. So even if the strategic aim of this prong of the attack was foiled, the loss of their general would undoubtedly send these barbarians skulking back to their ships. And no matter what happened, they had crippled this invasion force to the point where it would be impossible for them to continue.

What this Wa forgot, which could be forgiven under the circumstances, was that this attack had been an all-or-nothing proposition, that the only troops left at the capital were the personal bodyguards of the emperor, and men who were too sick or still recovering from wounds received from the other engagements with these grubworms. In fact, the only hope of the Wa at this point was that the mauling the Romans had received was so savage that it removed any thought of continuing their thrust towards the capital. To help ensure this end, the Wa general made his way to the front, standing just behind the front line where his warriors were still slashing and thrusting at the shields of the grubworms, who in contrast to his own men, still stood in ordered lines several men deep. As much as he despised these pale creatures, he was nevertheless admiring of the discipline and order that they brought to a battle, and it was a pity that he wouldn't survive to try and adopt some of these practices for his own army. Seeing one of the grubworms with the device on his helmet that went crossways over the top, unlike all the rest of these barbarians whose plumes that looked like horsehair simply hung straight down, the general drew his sword and headed directly for him, determined that this would be the first of what would be many deaths he would bring.

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

Caesar Triumphant

Looking back, Gaius Porcinus would never be able to accurately determine how much time actually elapsed from the moment the first ladders of the surprise attack had hit the wall and the point where he had his first inkling that the reserve Cohorts were holding the eastern wall. It was all a haze of pain, fear, and an agony that can only come from watching men under your care, men that you trained to the standards befitting a Legionary of Rome, fall to the flashing blades of this yellow-skinned horde. Barely able to lift a borrowed shield, his head aching abominably, Porcinus nevertheless drove himself to half-run, half-stumble to wherever his sword and body were needed along his Century front. A pitifully shallow Century formation, where he was down to three men standing in their files in most places, and he had determined some time before that even glancing back at the heaps of bodies of his men that had been rolled down the ramp of the rampart so they were out of the way was a bad idea. Just the sight of seeing what was now more than half of the Sixth Century, Tenth Cohort of the 10th Legion lying enmeshed together, in a tangle of limbs and torso, was enough to take what little energy he still had. Therefore, he resolutely kept his face turned toward the fighting, both as a way to avoid the sight, but more importantly to rush to the next trouble spot.

Along his Century's front alone stood four ladders, out of what Porcinus, when he risked a glimpse along the length of the wall, reckoned to be more than 50 that this second force had brought with them. Even through his fatigue he knew that matters were much the same for all the other Centuries as what he and his Century were facing all along the wall, and that like Porcinus' Century they were being whittled down. Now that the relief had come, however, the sight of those bobbing poles on which were affixed wooden placards declaring Century and Cohort had infused all of them with more energy. This new threat to the barbarians' rear, coupled with the efforts of the men battling on the wall signaled to Porcinus that the worst was perhaps over. Men were still climbing the ladders, but whenever Porcinus risked leaning out to take a quick look down into the ditch, he saw that the huddle of men gathered around the base of each one, waiting their turn to go up, was smaller.

"Boys, I know you're tired," Porcinus had long since shouted himself hoarse, his voice now resembling that of a frog in the throes of either agony or ecstasy, and he had to bellow out his words, "but I think this is the last of it! The bastards have had their own surprise sprung on them by Caesar, and now it's up to us to finish them off!"

No cheer came at his words, but he didn't expect one, because he knew his men's voices were no less shattered than his own. Besides, they were too tired for any extraneous display of energy, so instead he got a few grim nods, or muttered words, which was enough for him. Immediately after saying this, Gaius did risk a glance over his shoulder, but this time it was directed further inward to the fighting in the center of the camp. Initially, he was heartened to see that somehow, someway the orbis was still intact. It was smaller, but it was still unbroken, giving Porcinus a sliver of hope that they were going to survive. With that examination of the overall situation, he paused again to look to see if he could spot the giant figure of his uncle down in the forum.

He naturally looked to where the fighting was the thickest, knowing that was the most likely place where the Primus Pilus could be found. But after several heartbeats as he stared hard at the knots of men tangled together, bashing and slashing away, he couldn't see his uncle anywhere near where he had been the last time he checked. Granted, it had been some time before, but now his eye traveled the entire length of the 10th's orbis, with a steadily increasing sense of worry. Still, no sight of the largest Roman of the Legion, so he turned his attention to the part of the shrinking semicircle that belonged to the 12th, and by the time he was finished he was almost frantic. With great reluctance, Porcinus turned his attention to the row upon row of men lying so closely packed together that it was almost impossible for the remaining medici to reach a man in the middle of them. It was only after he searched each row not once but twice for sight of his uncle that he forced himself to look at the only other place left, the heaps of bodies that were, from where Porcinus stood, a gruesome attempt at a last-ditch rampart, as men were piled on top of one another like bloody logs, complete with flopping limbs hanging askew on either side.

Despite the difficulty of discerning any features of the unfortunates who would serve as the last bastion of the orbis, Porcinus was sure that if he saw the body of his uncle he would somehow know it. Then he shook himself, angry at the time he had just wasted; if his uncle the Primus Pilus was dead, his men would never make him suffer the indignity of laying among the rankers. That is when he began searching amid the clutter and debris in the desperately narrow strip between the feet of the men of the last line and where the wounded were gathered. Perhaps 15 paces, if that, and there were shattered shields, helmets, swords, and men who had just recently fallen but there hadn't been time for the medici to come assess where they would be taken, jammed side by side, or in the pile. As Porcinus' eyes traveled around this ruined patch of ground, for a moment he didn't recognize the sight of a prone man, because he was extremely close to the fighting, and in fact was almost circled by Legionaries, who appeared to be putting up a desperate and savage fight. Once Porcinus realized what he was seeing, for a brief, horrifying moment he was sure that the earth beneath him was tilting so violently that he would slide off. There was no mistaking the size of the prone Legionary, even without the helmet lying by his side. The only small blessing for Porcinus at that moment was that he wasn't close enough to see the blade protruding from his uncle's body, but he certainly didn't know that, and now that he had discovered his uncle, he stared, hard at him, willing for his Primus Pilus to move, anything to show he still lived. Titus Pullus was the only Primus Pilus Porcinus had ever followed, and with the exception of a very small handful of the senior Centurions, the same was true for the entire 10th Legion. Porcinus could no more imagine a 10th without his uncle leading it than he could marching in an army without Caesar leading it. Now, Porcinus offered up a silent prayer to every god he could think of to will his uncle to show some sign of life, any movement, no matter how small. Yet, even after the span of several normal heartbeats, he saw no sign of life.

"Centurion! Centurion Porcinus!"

Yanked from his vigil, Porcinus' head turned, slowly and reluctantly, to where his Tesseraurius, a Pandyan named Sutra was pointing to a spot along the wall where a small group of barbarians had managed to create another foothold. It took a moment for Porcinus to understand why it wasn't his Optio calling his attention to this new threat, but even as he began moving to where the man was pointing he realized that Sutra was in fact his Optio, because Odysseus was dead, and he was the next in line. Casting one glance back over his shoulder, he saw no change in his uncle's position on the ground, no sign that he was alive, and it was with a deep despair that Porcinus, more out of force of habit than anything, went back into the fight. If he had just waited a fraction longer, he would have been rewarded with the sight of a "dead" man suddenly raising his arm and beckoning to someone nearby.

"Philippus! Get over here!"

Of all the commands that Titus Pullus had uttered in his career, this was the undoubtedly the weakest, at least in terms of volume, and he had to repeat it twice before his intended target became aware that someone was saying his name. Philippus was at the back of the now three-deep line, and when he turned he was so surprised at the sight of his Primus Pilus weakly gesturing at him that he let go of the harness of the man in front of him. Realizing he was being called to come to his fallen Centurion's side, Philippus had the presence of mind to tap his comrade on the shoulder to let him know he was leaving, then hurried to kneel at Pullus' side.

"Help me up."

At first Philippus was sure he hadn't heard Pullus correctly.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid? I said help me up!"

Startled out of his disbelief, Philippus actually started to unthinkingly comply and clasped the prone man's proffered right arm, but fortunately for both of them caught himself.

"Primus Pilus, if I just pull on your arm by myself, I'm more likely to kill you than help you."

Pullus was about to snap at Philippus, but through the pain he recognized that his man was right.

"Go get some help," he said grudgingly, his reluctance at admitting this weakness emphasized by the fact the order was given through gritted teeth.

As Philippus hurried off to grab a comrade to help, a part of Pullus chided himself. What are you thinking, you idiot? You've got a sword sticking out of you, and you're in more pain than you've ever been in your life, and that's saying something. But as racked with agony as he was, once Pullus regained consciousness, even from his admittedly limited perspective and vantage point here on the ground, he knew that the 10th still had a chance to survive. He had heard the sounds of the horns outside the camp, and between that and his slaying of the Wa general, whose corpse was laying a couple dozen paces away and was still visible amid the tangle of legs of both sides, Pullus understood that he was needed, now more than ever. Once he had come back to this world, he had been cautiously pleased to see that his body weight had apparently closed the wound around the sword enough that the bleeding had stopped, although there was still a large dark stain on the ground around his upper body, sign that he had lost a substantial amount of blood. He was still sure that he was going to die, but Titus Pullus had always possessed a formidable will, and it was with this will he determined that he wasn't done just yet. Pullus was alerted to the presence of Philippus and whoever he had brought by the sight of two sets of bare, dirty and blood-spattered legs.

Craning his head to see, the Primus Pilus saw that the first man had returned with his own close comrade, a Parthian veteran who had been in the Parthian army and after Phraaspa had fallen chose to join the victors. Pullus remembered well how suspicious he had been of this man, Artabanos, but he had long since proven himself and after Philippus' close comrade had fallen during the invasion of Pandya, he and Artabanos had partnered up. As Pullus recalled, it had been the Pandyan campaign where Artabanos had in fact saved the life of his best friend Scribonius, killing a Pandyan who had managed to get behind the Pilus Prior and was about to bury a blade into his friend's back. Artabanos had been awarded the Civic Crown for that, much to the uproar of a large segment of the army, and it had caused Caesar a number of headaches, but he had steadfastly refused to heed the cries of the Romans in the ranks, including his officers, that this was an honor reserved for citizens of Rome only. What wasn't known, by anyone in the ranks, even now, was that it had been Titus Pullus who had prevailed on Caesar to award Artabanos this decoration, which the giant Roman had never regretted doing. It wasn't just because of gratitude for the identity of who had been saved; Pullus was grateful, but he had a more practical goal. While he had been just as opposed to the full integration of non-Romans into not just the ranks but into the customs and benefits that Roman citizenship brought, like Caesar he had recognized that not only was it vital to keep the ranks full, if it was going to be done, it had to be done all the way, and not in half-measures. Now it was Philippus and Artabanos who squatted on either side of him, ready to help him up.

"Primus Pilus, your bleeding has stopped. If we sit you up, it's a certainty that we'll open the wound again," Artabanos' Latin was still accented but easily understood.

"That's my worry, not yours," Pullus growled, even as he knew that the Parthian was right.

However, he didn't have the time to explain and argue that he knew he was going to die, and that he was going to sit up whether they helped or not. The two men exchanged a glance that Pullus saw, but didn't make any further comment about. With a grim nod to his comrade, Artabanos put his hand, as gently as he could, under Pullus' left shoulder pressed into the dirt. Even that slight movement caused a fresh spate of sweat to start pouring down the Roman's face, but he stifled the groan, not wanting to give any reason for the two to hesitate. With Philippus clasping the giant's forearm, the two of them still strained to bring Pullus slowly to an upright sitting position. Even before they were finished, for a horrified instant Pullus was sure that he would faint, such was the agony, and he felt a sudden gush of warmth on his chest and back, sign that he had indeed started bleeding again. Somehow, he managed to keep his head as he was hauled to a position where his upper torso was upright, his legs splayed out in front of him. It took a moment for the dizziness to subside to a point where Pullus was reasonably sure that he wouldn't immediately pass out. But he also knew that he was only halfway there, and his jaws were already aching from how tightly clenched his teeth were.

"All right, pull me up the rest of the way," he finally said, holding up his right arm.

While he could still wiggle the fingers of his left arm, even that slight a movement caused a paroxysm of agony that Pullus was so sure would cause him to lose consciousness that he made absolutely sure to keep his left arm as still as possible. With both men grasping his right arm, they nevertheless could barely pull their Primus Pilus to his feet, and as painful as the last several moments had been for Pullus, this last bit made all that seem a trifle. The sounds of the fighting that he had become accustomed to suddenly seemed to take on an echoing quality, and the bright sunshine present just a heartbeat earlier suddenly fled, as if the gods had chosen to darken the sun as they had on a number of occasions during Pullus' lifetime, suddenly bathing the scene in front of his eyes in an eerie dimness.

Still, neither man knew how, Titus Pullus was back on his two feet, weaving as if he had downed an amphora of wine, and with the gruesomely odd sight of a sword protruding from both sides of his body. But he was upright, and astonishing the two men even more, he took a very wobbly, tentative step forward. Almost toppling over, he nevertheless waved both men away with a snarled warning that was as close to a whimper as either men would ever hear from their leader.

"Where's my sword?" Pullus' voice was almost unrecognizable, so strained and hoarse it was, but by this point neither man was shocked by what was happening.

Just as Caesar had done over the years, Titus Pullus was even then adding to his legend. But after a quick search of the area around them, neither man saw sight of Pullus' treasured Gallic blade. Thinking quickly, Philippus drew his and offered it to his Primus Pilus, hilt first. Looking down at it, Pullus actually had to try to grasp it twice because there were two of them and he grabbed the wrong one first. But he did manage, automatically wrapping his fingers around his thumb in the unorthodox grip that was now second nature, not just to him but to every man of the 10th Legion, and truth be known, a fair number of the men marching in the other Legions.

Pullus, sweat streaming down his face in rivulets, began surveying the scene around him, eyes narrowed as he looked for some point in the fighting where he thought his presence was needed. Fortunately for him, he didn't have far to look, or to travel. In a rough semicircle, the men in his immediate vicinity who had formed a protective pocket around what they thought was the corpse of their Primus Pilus, were even then being pushed so hard that in the amount of time it had taken the two Legionaries to help Pullus to his feet, the gap that had been about a dozen paces wide was down to a little more than half that.

Nodding his head in that direction, Pullus told the two men, "Walk on either side of me, and whatever you do, don't let me fall or I'll flay the both of you."

Even with the harsh words, both men grinned; this was the Pullus they knew, feared and loved in equal measure.

"Don't worry Primus Pilus, we won't let you down," Philippus joked, pleased to see a shadow of a grin on Pullus' face at the play on words.

Slowly but steadily, they made their way the short distance to a spot where Pullus was just behind the worst of the fighting.

"What are you cunni loafing off for? Do you really need me to do everything for you?"

For a brief moment there was no reaction from the men within earshot, but it was from disbelief more than they didn't hear, and as the supporting men turned their heads, once Pullus saw that eyes were on him, he raised his borrowed sword high above his head. Only Titus Pullus would ever know the effort, and the agony that this simple gesture took, but to the men who saw it, it was a sight they would remember for the rest of their lives.

"Kill. These. Bastards!"

Pullus roared this, and while he might have known the cost of raising the sword, he never would know where the strength to bellow those words came from, but in that moment, he was the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion that his men had followed for all these years. And despite the fact that not one of those men had any voice left themselves, the answering roar they gave back rang out so loudly that it echoed off the camp walls. Titus Pullus had risen from the dead; if that was possible, how could they lose?

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

Caesar Triumphant

Hardly believing their luck, Felix and the men of the two leading
Cohorts managed to close to within a hundred paces at a fast trot before they
were noticed by some of the men at the rear of the Wa formation. Keeping the
same pace for a handful of heartbeats more, Felix then called a halt when they
were just a matter of thirty paces away.

"Prepare javelins!"

Arms along the line of Centuries swept back in a rippling motion,
each hand clutching a javelin, the points tilted skyward, followed by a pause
no longer than a couple of heartbeats.

"Release!"

The air filled with the missiles, but although every man still had
their other javelin, Felix made the decision to forego a second volley, and
even as the missiles were still in the air, he was shouting an order.

"Charge! For Caesar!"

Consequently,
the Wa of the surprise attack force had almost no chance. Little more than a
handful of the Wa in the rear ranks managed to form a ragged and thin line
facing Felix and the two Cohorts as they slammed into the packed mass of
barbarians, cutting them down without mercy. Roaring at the top of their lungs,
the sudden eruption of noise was the first thing that alerted the Wa
immediately next to the wall of this new threat, and many of them whirled
around just in time to see their comrades slaughtered. Suddenly faced with the
choice of trying to continue their assault on the camp or face this new and
more immediate threat, almost every Wa in the attacking force, with no order to
that effect being given, turned to face the onrushing Legionaries. Roaring out
their rage, the Romans very quickly cut their way deep into the packed mass of
the Wa, but after the initial shock, the barbarian warriors quickly threw
themselves into this fight with as much fervor as their foes. This was
understandable; the least savvy of these Wa understood that, while they had no
idea how, the situation had changed and they were now fighting not just for
victory, but for their survival.

The
overall commander of the Wa surprise assault force, wearing a helmet of the
same style as the Wa facing Pullus except instead of horns he wore the white
wings of a crane, was even then ascending one of the ladders now that a
significant number of his men had made it over the wall. Ironically this gave
him a better vantage point than if he had been on the ground amidst his men, so
that he could see that his force still significantly outnumbered this barbarian
force. Therefore, he wasn't excessively worried, having been informed by one of
his warriors at the top of his ladder who was able to see into the enemy camp
that the original assault force surrounded the barbarians inside. His most
important decision, he understood, was whether he went on ahead into the camp,
or stayed here to lead the fight against this new threat. His subordinate was a
capable warrior, he knew, if slightly inexperienced, and he was tempted to let
him lead the fight on this side of the wall. After all, he reasoned, the
greater glory was in taking this camp. That clinched his decision, and he began
to climb the ladder again, giving one glance back over his shoulder to reassure
himself he was making the right choice. What he saw stopped him, as he stared
in the direction of the ridgetop road where it dipped out of sight. Seemingly
rising up from the ground just like he and his force had appeared some time
before, was a line of even more barbarians, coming at a fast trot. Suddenly, he
no longer felt quite so confident, and he recognized immediately that his place
was here, on this side of the wall. In numbers and the way the barbarians were
aligned it looked like it was exactly the same composition of this force that
was now battling his men. While he still outnumbered the barbarians, the margin
wasn't nearly as wide as it had been, but even before he finished descending to
the ground, he saw yet another wave of these barbarians, exactly the same as
the first two! Now, for the first time this Wa general was concerned. He was
still confident of victory, but it appeared that it would be much harder
fought. Reaching the ground, he shoved his men aside, snapping out an order for
his bodyguards to accompany him, then began to push his way to what was now the
front, where the fighting was happening.

 

The
second line of Centuries also discarded their javelins as they ran, their
Centurions clearly seeing how entangled the lines already were, the men on both
sides fighting with a ferocity that came from still being relatively fresh and
not at it for the better part of two watches like the defenders inside the
camp. One hidden benefit of the slight delay following the first line was that
it gave the two Pili Priores a chance to survey the situation and see where it
appeared they were most needed. As matters stood, there still looked as if
there were several thousand Wa massed along the wall, and from a distance it
looked like a giant black and white mass. Hemmed in on one side by the straight
line of the wall, and on the other bordered by a thin line, grayish-silver
tinged with red, that was much, much narrower than the mass of the Wa force,
the two Pili Priores instantly saw the spot where the Roman line was the thinnest.  Drawing closer, the Centurion commanding the
Cohort on the left veered in that direction even farther than the original path
steered by Felix. He had seen that whoever was commanding the barbarians had
shifted a large number of men from the rear ranks over to the Wa right, where
Felix's Sixth Century was being hard pressed. The enemy's intention was clear;
by shifting men to one wing and throwing every available man at this one
Century, he was attempting to turn the flank of Felix's formation.

In fact
even as the Pilus Prior, Gnaeus Labeo, watched, the last several men of Felix's
Sixth Century were either cut down or pushed backward by what appeared to be Wa
literally throwing themselves at the Roman lines. A gap formed, and through it
poured several hundred Wa warriors, who immediately turned to fall on the now
outflanked Sixth Century. Now breaking out into a full run, Labeo drew his
sword as he shouted for his men to follow him as he aimed his Cohort so that
the middle of his formation would come to the aid of the Sixth Century.
Startled by the change in course, the Pilus Prior of the other Cohort, Publius
Varrus nonetheless kept moving his men in the original direction, seeing that
the center of Felix's formation was almost as hard pressed as the Sixth.
Following behind the third line came the fourth and final pair of Cohorts, the
Pilus Prior of the Cohort on the left following the same path as Labeo. But
like Labeo, this Pilus Prior, Gaius Vorenus, was one of Caesar's Centurions,
and what he saw was an opportunity. In his judgment, there were enough men to
handle the barbarians outside the walls. He needed to get his Cohort and the
other one inside the camp, and to that end, he didn't head anywhere near the
eastern wall. Instead, he led his Cohort toward the southern gate, the Porta
Principalis Dextra. Now his challenge was to get his men inside the camp in
time to help.

 

None of
the men, less than three thousand Legionaries of what had been the 10th and
12th Legion that still remained in the fight inside the camp thought it was
possible that the barbarians could increase the fury of their attack, but they
were being proven wrong. Ironically, it was the sounds of the Roman horns that
had spurred them to increase their effort to the point that now it didn't seem
that any warrior used any type of technique or tactic to vanquish the foe
across from them. Instead, they were coming in what to the battered, exhausted
Legionaries seemed to be waves, but instead of water these were composed of
flesh, iron and fury. Slashing and hacking, the Wa poured every last bit of
their seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy into what they understood was
their last chance to crush these grubworms. The death of their general had come
as a great shock, but they didn't need him to tell them that time was running
out. What they did need was direction, and the Wa general's subordinate
officers were either dead, or too badly scattered around the perimeter of the orbis to issue any orders to the entire
force.

However,
unlike the Roman Legion, the army of the Wa wasn't trained to the level that
their enemy was, especially when it came to unit formations and maneuvers.
Consequently, the last phase of the fight became a clash of individual warriors
picking out one of the Romans across from them, and hurling themselves forward.
As ground down and battered as the remnants of the 10th and the 12th were, as
jumbled as their Centuries had become, all the endless hours of training were
now paying off, the Legionaries continuing to fight in the manner in which they
were trained. Despite their exhaustion, the harsh discipline that they so often
complained about to each other was what kept the woefully thin, semi-circular orbis intact, no man even thinking of
not giving his all when it came his time to fight. Still, as many of these
barbarians as they had killed, they still outnumbered the Legions by at least a
three to one margin, and now every single loss of a Legionary was one that
couldn't be spared. Even now, the surviving Centurions were working with lines
that at most were four men deep, and that was only in a few spots in the
formation. There were spots where the Roman lines had been thinned down to the
point that there was only one man standing behind his comrade who was fending
off wild swings of Wa swords or spears. These were the spots where the nearest
Centurion would run over and unceremoniously grab a man from those spots still
four deep with Legionaries, shoving the last man in the line towards the
trouble spot with a shouted order. This they had been doing for some time,
accounting for the hopeless confusion between Centuries and even Cohorts.

Sometimes
though, it had to be the Centurion himself who ran to the nearest threat, sword
held high, and if he had the presence of mind to grab one from a dead Legionary
as he ran, a shield. Of the 120 Centurions of the 10th and 12th Legion that
started the fight that day, now more than two full watches before, barely more
than 30 were still standing, meaning that they were spread thinly across the
entire orbis. One of them had taken
himself out of the fight, however, and that was Scribonius, kneeling next to
his friend who was also still kneeling, no accident as it would turn out.
Pullus, though barely conscious, had realized that toppling over in any
direction would do even more damage than had already been caused by the Wa
general's sword, which still protruded grotesquely from both front and back of
his chest. Blood was still flowing freely, but Scribonius, looking for anything
on which to fasten his hopes, saw that it wasn't the bright spray that signaled
a severed artery. That meant there was still hope as far as Scribonius was
concerned. Seemingly oblivious to the furious fighting that was now just paces
away in every direction as what remained of Pullus' Century surrounded their
fallen Primus Pilus, Scribonius held onto Pullus' uninjured shoulder gently but
firmly, understanding the same thing that Pullus did.

"Why aren't you in the fight?" Scribonius barely heard
this question from Pullus, made even more difficult because his friend's teeth
were still tightly clenched together.

"Why do you think?" the Pilus Prior asked in
astonishment, although a part of his mind understood that his friend was right,
that no one man, no matter his rank or status was more important than the rest
of the men still fighting.

But for the first time in his long career, Sextus Scribonius
simply didn't care about his duty, such was his concern for his friend.

"The men need you Sextus," Pullus retorted, weakly
voiced but no less adamant than Scribonius.

Understanding
that a continued outright refusal would only agitate Pullus more, Scribonius
tried to mollify him by saying, "All right Titus. As soon as the medici get here, I'll go back
to the fight."

Pullus
slowly raised his head to survey the scene around them, turning to look first
one way, then another with almost comical slowness, and unbidden to Scribonius'
mind came the memory that in that moment his friend looked like a giant
tortoise peering about for danger before taking its next, ponderous step. Done
with his inspection, Pullus turned to face Scribonius, and for the first time
looked his friend in the eye. That almost unmanned the Pilus Prior, because he
had never seen his giant friend with this ashen pallor, and it was only through
a supreme effort of will that he didn't let out a gasp. Scribonius' only slight
ray of hope was when his friend gave him a grimace that he knew was Pullus'
attempt at a grin and he saw no blood in his mouth, the presence of which was
normally a sure sign that he had suffered damage internally.

"We're
surrounded you idiot," Pullus said, "so I don't think the medici are coming anytime
soon."

Only then did Scribonius take his eyes away from his friend and
glance around, his heart sinking at the sight and knowing his friend was right.

Taking a deep breath, Scribonius closed his eyes for a moment in a
brief prayer, then replied, "All right. But only if I can try to lay you
on your side, understand?"

Pullus
didn't answer, but then his head bobbed once in a grim acceptance of what his
friend wanted to do, as he braced himself for even more pain. Standing up,
Scribonius used both hands to grasp his friend, trying to shut out the groan
that escaped from his friend's lips when Scribonius began tipping him over,
onto his left side. Although it seemed to be the worst thing to do, both men
had seen wounds like this too many times and they knew from bitter experience
that if the Primus Pilus was indeed bleeding internally, the pooling of blood
that would occur as the blood was drawn to the ground, as all things were,
would in all likelihood collapse his lungs and Titus Pullus would die of
suffocation, before any chance of help arrived. In addition, the weight of his
own body would actually close the edges of the wound around the blade and help
staunch the flow of blood. However, there was a tradeoff for the benefit, and
that was the excruciating pain caused by Pullus' own body weight pressing down
on the damaged tissue. But it couldn't be helped, and Scribonius deafened
himself to the groans and gasps as he strained to lay his friend slowly down
onto the ground. Once he was as settled as Scribonius could make him, the Pilus
Prior rose to go, very reluctantly.

"Are you all right there?" he asked without thinking,
and although the reply was harsh, it fed the tiny, tiny flame of hope that his
friend would somehow survive.

"What, are you tucking me in now?" the prone Primus
Pilus growled wheezily. "How the fuck do you think I feel, you idiot?"

Despite himself, Scribonius let out a laugh, drawing his sword.
Before he turned back to the fighting, he told Pullus, "Don't worry Titus.
We're going to hold these bastards off until whoever's out there comes to help
us."

"Not if you don't stop talking and get back in the
fight," Pullus was, and always would be, a Primus Pilus Centurion of
Caesar's 10th Legion, to his last breath.

 

Reaching
the southern gate, Vorenus led his Century around the dirt barriers of the
gate, winding around and through it, emerging into the camp, where he
immediately came to a stop. This had been by design, in order to get first his
Century, then his Cohort formed up before throwing them into the fight. But
even if it hadn't the sight before him would have brought him to a halt. The
camp was an utter shambles, with smoking ruins of whole rows of Legion streets
that had been put to the torch, and looking down the Via Principalis, the
street that led from the side gates to the Praetorium
and the forum, what he saw staggered him. There were heaps of bodies, and to
his experienced eye, the progress of the battle was told by those corpses.
Scanning the area to his left and front, while part of his vision was obscured
by those few tents that were still standing, he could see how the 12th and 10th
had waged a grudging, hard-fought withdrawal back to where they were now, the
forum. More accurately, Vorenus could see, they were in part of the forum, as
the barbarians had managed to collapse the orbis
of Balbinus and Pullus down to its present size. For some reason, the large
tent of the Praetorium of the camp
was still intact; Vorenus assumed that whoever was commanding these barbarians
understood its purpose and had given orders for it to remain intact, to be
plundered at leisure.

Oddly enough,
it was the sight of this tent that fueled Vorenus' rage, brought on by the
effrontery of this yellow-skinned savage to be so sure of victory. In turn,
this caused him to start lashing out savagely at his men, snarling at them to
move even more quickly than they already were. But no matter how quickly they
moved; and truly, they were scrambling into their formations with a speed they
had never displayed before, the gate was a bottleneck. Vorenus, and every man
of his Cohort understood that time was almost as much of an enemy now as the
barbarians with their swords, and those that had made it through the gate and
fallen into their spot in their Century added their voice now to Vorenus',
shouting at the comrades still pouring through the gate to hurry! Why were they
moving as if they had all day? The result was that, while it was the most
ragged Cohort formation he had ever seen, Vorenus decided that it was good
enough, even before the men of the last Century had finished forming up. Unlike
the relieving Cohorts outside who needed to cover a wider area, Vorenus had
decided on the more traditional three Century front, although by rights he
should have waited for the trailing Cohort to also arrive and place themselves
side by side. However, he hadn't taken the time to look back to see if the last
Cohort of the relieving force was in fact following behind. Which, as it turned
out, it wasn't, meaning that if Vorenus had waited as the manual said he
should, he would have been too late to save the men of the forum. Instead, he
raised his sword, and without waiting for his cornicen to blow the command, dropped it
as he shouted the command to advance. And as he expected, all eyes of the
Cohort had been on him, so just as if they were marching in the forum, Vorenus'
Cohort began the advance, heading for the rear of the as yet unsuspecting Wa.

 

The
last Cohort, the 10th of the 14th, hadn't followed Vorenus for the same reason
that Vorenus hadn't followed Labeo. Again, the Decimus Pilus Prior was one of
Caesar's Centurions, although of all of Caesar's Centurions he was the only
non-Roman. He was also the newest Pilus Prior in Caesar's army, having been
promoted to the post just a month before this new campaign began. He was a
Parthian named Pacorus, and his promotion to lead a Cohort had caused more than
its share of grumbling among the other Centurions; they had barely gotten
accustomed to the idea of non-Romans being Centurions, now this? Pacorus knew
how his fellow Centurions felt about him, and he also felt the weight of
representing not just the Parthians in the army, but all of the non-Romans,
since he was the first non-Roman Pilus Prior. Oddly enough, this was foremost
in his mind as, instead of following Labeo he led his trotting Cohort in
another direction. Making a wide enough arc that he and his Centuries could
safely skirt the lines of men of the other Cohorts now battling with barbarians
outside the camp, Pacorus led his men in the direction of the Porta Principalis
Sinister, the left-hand and northernmost gate of the camp. Being a Centurion in
Caesar's army meant that like at Caesar's camp, Pacorus instantly understood
the tactical situation and what would provide the most impact to the fight
inside the camp. This was why he led the way to the northern gate now, although
he was understandably nervous about making the right decision. Just like at the
southern camp, where Statius had understood the need for coordination, Pacorus
understood that at this point in the fight the most important thing was to
maximize the force he was leading as far as its impact on the battle. If
pressed, he couldn't have articulated any of this; it was more a gut instinct
than anything, but in fact the ability to think through a problem rapidly was a
trait that Caesar valued in his Centurions almost more than any other, and this
was what had recommended Pacorus to him. Now, the Parthian was going to either
prove or disprove Caesar's faith in his ability to pick the right man for the
right job.

It
didn't seem possible, but in the space of a finger width's of the sun's travel
to its home in the west, the Wa general commanding the surprise attack was
seeing certain victory turn into a defeat with a rapidity that he would never
have believed if it wasn't happening in front of his eyes. His men were still
fighting with the same reckless fury that they had started with, and the
general knew that the battle wasn't lost.....yet. But the last warrior he sent
up the ladder to try and catch a glimpse of what was happening in the center of
the camp, which was the shortest route to gather information but also the most
dangerous, had just jumped down to inform him that while the grubworms were
being hard-pressed, they were still intact and holding in the center of their
camp. However, because he had to take his look while dodging thrusts from
grubworm swords, he was unable to tell his general the disposition or numbers
of their own troops still left, other than a very general guess. Cursing the
man, the general gave him a cuff on the head for good measure, although he knew
that it was impossible to expect more from the limited time his warrior had,
without being skewered.

Now he
was in the fork of a dilemma; should he stop the assault on the walls and count
on the men of the main assault to finish what they had started in order to fend
off this grubworm attempt to save their doomed comrades? Or should he continue
with the mission assigned to him originally, and force his way up and over this
wall? He would never have thought that these grubworms could have held out as
long as they had to this point, and he had to believe that one more good push
would crack them. Now that these new barbarians had appeared he no longer had
the luxury of doing both things at once. His hesitation had nothing to do with
the idea that the men currently engaged with these new barbarians along what
was now his front line would be sacrificing their lives to allow their comrades
closer to the wall to continue the attack on the camp, the main goal. Every man
under his command knew their duty and would willingly lay down their lives
without hesitation, and in fact had done so in order to fill the ditch in the
original attack. His concern was purely practical; how many men could he afford
to leave behind to continue the fighting that would be a strong enough force to
hold off the grubworms as his men continued climbing the ladders? Normally a
decisive man, his reputation wasn't as esteemed as the general who, unknown to
him now lay dead in the middle of the camp, but he had been selected as second
in command because his renown was still very great.

Now,
however, he was in a turmoil of indecision, switching his attention from the
fighting going on outside the camp to watching with an increasingly anxious eye
at his men still trying to ascend the ladders. There would be a sudden spurt of
men clambering quickly up a ladder whenever a barbarian behind the wall would
be struck down and create a gap that allowed one of his men to leap onto the
dirt rampart. More than once his men had managed to carve out a pocket of space
to allow their comrades to join them in their attempt to fight their way to a
gate and secure it. That was the only way he had at this point of feeding
enough troops into the fight and break the back of these grubworms once and for
all. However, his gods had either turned their face away from the Wa or had
some design that he couldn't fathom that would bring them victory, because
despite several promising starts, no Wa force had managed to get to the gate.
He had briefly considered shifting a part of his force to assault the southern
gate, early in the fight, but he had been so confident of victory, so sure that
his men would swarm over the wall and crush these insects that it had only been
a brief consideration. Now, it was too late. This new force of barbarians had
hemmed them in between the walls of the camp and their wall made of swords and
shields. What sort of man would cower behind a small, portable wall anyway he
scoffed? Warriors with sufficient skill had no need for such devices, and it
was in fact the sight of these pieces of equipment that had led not just this
Wa general, but the overall commander of the entire Wa army who now lay dead
inside the camp, to underestimate the potency of this force of pale, strange
creatures.

That,
the general realized now, had been a mistake. Consequently, he was aware that
although he might escape censure for this error, since the tone of this entire
campaign to expel these grubworms from a land blessed by the gods had been set
by his now-dead superior, his error in not committing a force to the southern
gate wouldn't go unnoticed. That made it even more imperative, he recognized,
that this camp fall, because only then would their emperor forgive him. Still
torn, he remained at his spot close to the wall, a small space made for him by
his bodyguards, as he tried to force himself to think. And with every
heartbeat, his chances for a solution were becoming smaller and smaller. In
fact, although he wouldn't become aware of it for another span of time, the
moment had passed. This last Wa general, now in command of this assault force,
on which the entire strategy of this attack had hinged upon, had just managed
to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

 

 

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

Caesar Triumphant

Gasping for breath, Felix tried to ignore the steadily growing pain in his side, knowing that if he felt it so did his men. But he wouldn't let that stop him, the example of Artaxades, whose name he would never know, clear in his mind and spurring him on. Behind him the sound of hobnail boots hitting the rocky road surface, clanking bits of metal hitting each other, and the panting of almost an entire Legion of men filled Felix's ears. They were a little more than a mile away from the northern camp by Felix's reckoning, but the only time he had visited the camp in the short period of time they had before the attack, he hadn't thought to memorize the details of the approach. It simply hadn't occurred to him. However, he thought he remembered that there was a dip in the ridge a little less than a mile from the camp and once they traversed down into it and climbed back up, it was less than a half mile to the camp. That's what he thought, at least, but he wouldn't know if he was right until they got there. And that was what was important at that moment, getting there. Felix didn't envy the men of the rearmost Cohorts, eating the dust raised by the thousands of running feet in front of them, but over the years every man in Caesar's army had occasion to do the same. Never before had it been in such an important cause as this, but at the moment the dust was just like any other dust that had to be choked through and endured, and Felix knew they would. The other problem that Felix had to sort out was how to deploy the Cohorts with him, on the run and quickly enough that the element of surprise wasn't lost. He understood that there wasn't any way to get all eight Cohorts in a single line; not only would it take too long, there wasn't enough room, and that wouldn't help getting into the camp. Consequently, as he ran, he made the decision to deploy the first four Cohorts in the column in a manner similar to what Statius had done at Caesar's camp, despite not knowing how Statius' attack had transpired. The one difference was that Felix wasn't willing to spare the time to send part of his force to the far, northern gate. Instead he decided to feed at least the first four Cohorts through the two closest gates, and only then would he have one or two of the other Cohorts make their way to the northern gate.

Now that he had decided what to do, Felix realized that despite his desperate desire to get to the camp as quickly as possible, he would have to call a halt, at the very least to pass on his orders if nothing else. As he thought about it, the more he realized that in order to give this attack the best chance for success, especially since he had no idea exactly what was happening, he would have to make some quick decisions about which Cohorts would be the first into the camp. Just as he came to that decision, the road made a gentle, sweeping bend and tilted downward, and Felix recognized that this was the dip for which he had been waiting. Once he was sure, he immediately slowed down to the normal pace they used for marching, and since he had forbidden the use of any of the cornu once they left Caesar's camp, there was some confusion as each Century almost ran into the back of the preceding one as they slowed. Fortunately, there weren't any major entanglements or injuries, although a few men tripped over their feet and went sprawling onto the rocky road. Felix wasn't aware of any of this, his mind instead absorbed with what needed to happen next. Reaching the point where the road began to slope back upward, he held up his hand to signal a halt, then stepped to the side of his Century, looking back down the long column. This was going to be the worst and most nerve-wracking time for Felix, because the signal he gave to his Cohort signifer, a raising and lowering of the standard three times in quick succession, had to then be relayed all the way to the last Cohort. That signal was for all the Pili Priores, the commanders of the Cohorts, to come immediately to the front, at the double. But when it's in a formation of slightly more than 3,000 men, valuable moments inevitably passed, moments Felix was keenly aware could not afford to be lost. But to give this attack the best chance of success, he had to force himself to take the time. After what seemed like a full watch, but was probably no more than a tenth of that, the other 7 Pili Priores were standing in front of him, chests heaving, sweat streaming down their faces.

"Right on the other side of this hill we'll be in view of the 10th's camp," Felix announced, glad that he at least had the chance to catch his breath since he was the one talking. "And if I remember correctly, it's a little more than 3 stadia to the Porta Praetoria."

He paused for a moment, but nobody said anything, every Centurion paying close attention to him.

"We need to get into the camp the quickest way there is, and since we don't have ladders, and we didn't bring any hooks to pull the palisade down, we're going to have to go through the gates."

Now a couple of the men exchanged glances, but Felix chose to ignore the dubious looks they were giving each other.

"So I've decided that we're going to crest the hill, in a double column of Cohorts. My Cohort will be on the right, and I want the Sixth Cohort from the 14th on the left. This will give the Sixth a shorter line to the southern gate, while my Cohort heads for the eastern. Right behind me I want the Eighth of my Legion, but I'll let you," Felix indicated one of the Centurions, a stocky, swarthy man with thick eyebrows and coarse black hair that made him look perpetually unshaved, "decide who follows the Sixth."

 His name was Aulus Frontinus, and although he nodded that he understood, he didn't look particularly happy about being given the ability to choose who would support his Cohort. Again, Felix ignored Frontinus' clear misgivings as he continued to pass on his orders.

"While the first two Cohorts are going through their gates, I want the next two Cohorts to head all the way to the northern gate. Ideally I'd like to wait for them to get in place before we go, but I don't think we'll have the time. That is, I don't think the 10th and 12th have the time," he finished grimly. Looking about, he asked, "Are there any questions?"

"Are we all going to be in this double column?"

Felix thought a moment then shook his head.

"No, I don't think it's as important for anyone but the first two Cohorts through each gate. The rest of you can follow us in single column. But remember, the next two Cohorts are going to the northern gate. Let's decide now who it will be."

After a quick discussion, the identities of the next two Cohorts were determined, and all that was left was the disposition of the final two. Felix announced that one Cohort would follow the leading pair to the southern gate, the other to the eastern. Once that was decided, Felix dismissed the men to return to move into position.

"I hope this works," he heard one of the Pili Priores mutter to another.

"So do I," the other man replied, still moving away so that Felix could barely hear the last part.

"Because if it doesn't we're all dead men one way or the other."

Just moments after Caesar heard the three blasts of the cornu, he and his remaining men were rewarded by the sight of Legionaries streaming through the three gates, where they quickly formed up into their Century formations. Although the original plan that Statius had sketched out was to wait long enough for at least three Centuries from each of the lead Cohorts to form up and align side by side before launching their attack, the sight of their comrades in such extremis, surrounded by what was still a few thousand barbarian warriors, quickly dispelled his best intentions. In fact, it was Statius himself who, completely forgetting his own plan, immediately led his own Century headlong into the seething mass of Wa, those in the rearmost ranks just beginning to understand the new threat and turning to face it. In the part of the Wa lines that Statius had chosen, most of the warriors didn't make it, so they were either turned obliquely or still had their backs turned when the Centurion and his men slammed into their midst.

Within the space of a few heartbeats, almost a dozen Wa had fallen or been pushed backward into their comrades, who were just becoming aware of the danger. Jammed together as they were, lending their weight by leaning against the men in front of them, who were doing the same in turn, all the way up to the edge of the makeshift parapet, the Wa of the rear ranks were hampered by the man on either side as they attempted to spin about and face the new threat. Statius and his men took full advantage, and very quickly, Statius' sword was wet almost to the hilt, just like most of his men. Bashing with their shields or punching the points of their swords up and out in short, gutting stabs, Statius and his men punched a huge hole in the ranks of those Wa nearest to the eastern gate where the Romans had entered. Even as they did so, Statius heard another roar, the same cry of "Caesar Triumphant" as the Second Century, or what he assumed was the Second, got organized and threw themselves into the battle. Out of the corner his eye, Statius got a glimpse of a row of Roman helmets, slightly behind him and to his right, the sign that whoever it was had started their own attack and were now engaged.

That was the only attention he could pay to the overall situation before he was occupied by a sudden spear thrust from one of the yellow-faced warriors across from him, the man's face contorted in a mask of fear and rage as he whipped the teardrop-shaped blade upward in answer to Statius' first parry. The move surprised Statius, and he barely avoided having the edge slice upward into his lower jaw by leaning over backwards, but he still felt the disturbed wind on his cheek as the blade slashed by in a blur. Just then the Legionary to Statius' right sidestepped a half-step to the right, aiming his own blade at the spear-wielding Wa, who was in the process of recovering the weapon in preparation to strike again. Now it was the barbarian's turn to twist desperately to the side, but over the other noises Statius heard the man give a shout of pain as the other Roman's blade sliced through the leather lamellar along the man's ribs. In the instant it took for the man to withdraw, Statius could see a long red line marking where his man had scored, and it was this small gap that he aimed for in his own attack. More out of desperation than anything else, the Wa whipped his spear around in a sweeping blow that caught Statius by surprise. Even in mid-lunge, he violently twisted his torso to avoid the slashing spearhead, but he was only partially successful. Almost simultaneously, the point of Statius' sword punched into and through the ribs of the Wa, as the edge of the barbarian's spear sliced diagonally downward, starting at a spot just below Statius' left eye. Statius' head snapped back from the impact, which ironically enough saved his life, although the blade ripped through his cheek, smashed out his front teeth and cleaved his lower jaw in two.

Staggering to the side from the blow, Statius' plight was worsened by the fact that because of the awkward angle caused by his attempt to avoid the Wa's spear, he had violated the primary rule of a thrust to the ribs while keeping the blade parallel to the ground, instead of perpendicular like his sword now was, buried in the chest cavity of the Wa. When the barbarian collapsed the blade was lodged firmly in the man's ribs, caught in the cartilage as if it were in a vise, and Statius felt the sword ripped from his grasp, even as he continued falling to the ground, a gout of blood, and bits of teeth preceding him. Although he was still conscious, he suddenly no longer seemed connected to what had been taking place just a heartbeat before, as if it was no longer important. The sounds were still there, ringing in his ears, and he heard someone shout his name once, then twice, but his mouth couldn't form the answer to the call. Lying partially facedown, he saw a pool of blood slowly form around his ruined mouth, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. All around him he could see feet, some of them clad in the Roman caligae, others wearing what appeared to be some sort of sandal but with a leather strap protruding from between the toes, which Statius found strange. They were dancing about, kicking up dirt, some of which flew into his face, further clouding his vision, but he had the presence of mind to know that the only reason he hadn't felt the thrust of a blade between his shoulder blades is because he hadn't moved and the barbarians thought him dead. Consequently, he forced himself to refrain from reaching up to wipe the dirt from his face and eyes, or to check his injuries, which he knew were serious. Only after his men pushed these bastards back would it be safe to move, so until that moment came, Statius resigned himself to laying still and suffering in silence as the fighting continued to rage around him. He was out of the fight now, and it was up to the rest of the men of these four Cohorts to save Caesar, and as he lay there, he offered up prayers to every god he could think of to make it so.

Time, movement, noise, everything seemed to have come to a stop to Sextus Scribonius as he stood watching helplessly as the Wa general thrust his sword into the chest of his best friend and Primus Pilus of the Legion. Scribonius had become aware that something abnormal was taking place down the line from his spot with his Second Cohort, and in a brief lull in the fighting, he had moved along behind his men who were still in the fight, closer to the source of whatever strange thing was taking place. That's when he had seen Titus Pullus, facing one of the barbarians, in a cleared space as the two men did their best to kill the other one. Scribonius wasn't sure at what point in the fight he showed up, but he did see that for all intents and purposes the men immediately surrounding the two combatants had stopped their own private battles to watch the one between these two champions. In fact, this wasn't all that uncommon; Scribonius had witnessed such scenes personally on two separate occasions, but those fights had involved the enemy king on one occasion, and the crown prince of his people the other.

That was what gave Scribonius the idea that the barbarian that Pullus was facing was of a similar stature to his people, because from his perspective, it looked very much like it was the barbarians who had halted their attack and were content to warily watch the Legionaries across from them, and the two combatants. As far as the Romans were concerned, any respite was welcome, so they were unlikely to disrupt this lull in the fighting. Instead, just like their foes, they were watching their Primus Pilus and shouting encouragement to him as the two men fought. Scribonius wasn't sure what he had missed, but just bare moments after he arrived at his current vantage point, he saw Pullus make his strike that damaged the barbarian's helmet, saw the blood flowing down the man's face as he staggered backward, slashing his sword wildly in an attempt to keep his foe from pressing home his advantage. But for what reason Scribonius couldn't fathom, his friend seemed to hesitate, and in that pause he gave the Wa the chance he needed to discard his helmet.

Scribonius had noticed that Pullus didn't have a shield, and he was too far away to see the remnants of it on the ground, and a part of him worried that his giant friend had once more given in to his own hubris and disdained the use of a shield since these savages didn't carry one. Then, as Scribonius watched in horrified disbelief, the barbarian struck, and this was the moment that seemed to freeze all existence as the Wa's blade struck his friend and just....kept going. Even if he had been close enough, Scribonius probably wouldn't have heard the barbarian's savage shout as he made his lunge, so mesmerized was he by a sight that he truly believed was impossible. Pullus' blade had swept upward, it was true, but he had started his movement too late, so that he barely altered the trajectory of the thrusting blade. But, he did alter it, and the point punched into his body less than an inch below his left clavicle. Still, there was enough force behind the thrust that the point not only penetrated the chain mail in the front, but it continued to travel through Pullus' muscular upper chest and the bone of his shoulder blade, then punch through the mail in back to protrude a couple of inches out of Pullus' back. Scribonius let out an anguished moan, almost as if he was the one struck, and indeed it was almost a physical pain that he felt watching his best friend skewered like a roasted chicken on an enemy blade. At the exact same time, there was a huge, collective gasping moan that was almost immediately drowned out by an exultant roar as the respective sides either mourned or celebrated.

Remarkably, the only one who seemed unaffected was Pullus, who remained standing and in fact just barely rocked backward as the sword entered his body. For the remainder of his time on earth, Sextus Scribonius would never be able to accurately determine just how much time elapsed during a moment that seemed to last longer than any other of his entire life. Everything seemed to be moving in extraordinarily slow motion and despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to move, to run to his friend's aid, he couldn't seem to lift his feet, or move a muscle for that matter. So he was a mute spectator as he watched Pullus standing, the Wa general across from him, one hand still on the hilt of the sword buried in Pullus' body, his body extended with his right foot forward, his arm straight out from his body  in what could have been a painting illustrating the perfect sword thrust. While Scribonius couldn't see Pullus' face, he could see the barbarian's, or the half that wasn't covered in blood, and he got the strong sense that the two men were staring each other in the eye. Then, Pullus' left hand moved, still seemingly very slowly, up to his chest, his hand reaching up as if to feel the wound in his chest, maybe to see if it was real or if like Scribonius, he didn't believe what had happened. Seeing that motion, the barbarian made his own, what Scribonius was sure was his preparatory movement to twist the blade before withdrawing it. But somehow, as slowly as Pullus' hand seemed to move, it still reached the Wa's blade before the barbarian could do as he planned. Pullus' hand closed around the blade, the top of his fist hard up against his mail, and that was when Scribonius saw a change in the expression of the barbarian general. Giving a grim smile, as if to tell Pullus that whatever he had in mind was futile, Scribonius saw the muscles of the Wa's arm tense as he began to remove the blade.

But Scribonius, better than anyone else left alive, could have told this barbarian that while he didn't know it, he was making a vain attempt, because he knew the strength of that grip. When they had been tirones, and they had been trained by their first weapons instructor Aulus Vinicius, he had instructed them in the grip that every man that had been in the First Century, Second Cohort of the 10th Legion, and now every man in this enlistment of the 10th Legion was trained to use. As part of that training, Vinicius had made the recruits in his charge perform a special exercise to strengthen their sword hand. Taking a bucket of sand, they would thrust their hand into the bucket, with their fingers splayed wide apart, and bury their hand up to the wrist. Then they would contract their fingers into a fist, which was still in the sand. Vinicius made his tiros perform this every day for the first three months of their probationary period, but like with anything in the army, there were men who did the bare minimum. Then there was Titus Pullus, and Scribonius remembered very well that this was his first indication that this giant specimen who stood next to him in the ranks wasn't just an overgrown, heavily muscled simpleton. Not only did Pullus do twice the number of repetitions of the exercise prescribed for him, he did the exercises with his left hand as well as his right. When seeing him do this one day, his tentmates teased him unmercifully, but the young giant was undeterred. Unlike the others, Scribonius wasn't the kind to mock others, even when they seemed to be doing foolish things, and one night he asked Pullus why he was doing something for the hand that wasn't going to be holding his sword.

"I might not be holding a sword with my left hand," Pullus had replied, "but I'm going to be holding a shield. And I'll be damned if some filthy barbarian knocks it out of my hand. Besides," he finished with a shrug, "you never know when it might come in handy."

From that day on, Sextus had followed Titus' example, and had been following his example whenever he could, ever since. That conversation was in Scribonius' mind as he watched now, as Pullus' hand clutched the blade of the Wa sword, and the Wa's expression began to change as his level of effort to retrieve his sword increased. Pullus was still looking at the barbarian, still unmoving otherwise, his hand still perfectly immobile hard up against his body. Scribonius was certain that at first the barbarian general, knowing the eyes of all of his men were on him, didn't want to appear to be exerting himself, but now he gave up all pretense of ease to begin yanking at the sword with what had to be tremendous force. Yet, not only did Pullus still hold the sword, Scribonius saw that with every jerk by the Wa, his arm barely moved, even more evidence of his friend's massive strength. Still, Scribonius knew firsthand how sharp these bastards' swords were, and Pullus' hand had to be paying a terrible price as the Wa continued trying to remove the blade. Even as this thought came to Scribonius, he saw the first trickle of blood running down Pullus' arm from his palm. At that same instant, he also noticed something else. Pullus' sword, which he had been holding with the point toward the ground, began moving, making very tiny circles.

Scribonius felt a grim, cautious smile come to his face, having seen that small motion many, many times before, although the times he had seen it he hadn't appreciated it very much. Just like with the exercises, which Pullus continued religiously, he never stopped training with his sword, and his most frequent sparring partner was his best friend. Not once, not ever had Scribonius ever beaten his friend, but he was immensely proud of the fact that on a total of four occasions over the years, he had battled his Primus Pilus to a draw. But every other time, Scribonius had been forced to take his lumps, and the only reason he did was that he knew if he could last any length of time with Pullus, he stood an excellent chance of walking away from every battle he ever fought. The times he knew he was in trouble, however, came when he saw the same thing he was seeing now, Pullus making those tiny little circles with his blade, because it meant that he was toying with his opponent, that he had taken his foe's measure and now was just going to enjoy himself. Titus Pullus wasn't a cruel man, necessarily, but he never wanted to leave any doubt in any man's mind who was the best swordsman in the Roman army.

Now, Scribonius understood, he was about to make this Wa pay, even if Pullus was mortally wounded, which was a thought that Scribonius tried to banish the moment it crossed his mind. Oblivious to what was about to happen, the Wa, for the first and last time in his long career, as illustrious and admired by his own countrymen as Pullus' was, let his pride get the better of him. Infuriated by this......this grubworm who refused to know when he was dead, and had the effrontery to think that he couldn't even retrieve his own sword, the Wa put every bit of his strength into his effort, finally deigning to grasp the hilt with his other hand as well. As he did so, he continued staring into the giant grubworm's eyes, satisfied that at least his face was streaming sweat and was even paler than the barbarians were normally. The giant's jaws were clenched, and despite himself, the Wa general felt a surge of respect as his foe refused to cry out. He couldn't even fathom the pain the barbarian was feeling, and the nagging thought crossed his mind that perhaps these grubworms weren't really human, but just resembled men the way some animals looked similar but weren't the same. Finally, the giant's mouth opened after a particularly vicious jerk of the sword, and the Wa took a savage delight in the idea that at least he would force a howl of pain from this thing. Instead, he heard a string of gibberish that he was sure only his dogs would understand.

"You don't really think that you can defeat us, do you? That you could defeat me?" Pullus asked, even as he knew the barbarian had no idea what he was saying.

But it wasn't his purpose to be understood; his goal was something else entirely. He saw the corners of his enemy's one visible eye crinkle in puzzlement as the barbarian tried to decipher what Pullus was saying, and Pullus watched, wondering if he would die before he saw what he was looking for.

"Your mother's a whore, and I swear after I kill you that I'm going to find your family and fuck your wife, and kill your children," Pullus hissed through clenched teeth, and this time, while the Wa didn't understand his words, there was no mistaking the menace in the tone.

The Wa, wanting to make sure that this grubworm knew who had taken his life, opened his mouth to tell this arrogant barbarian his name and ancestry.

He never saw the sword; even Scribonius, who had just divined what was about to happen, didn't see anything more than a silver blur. One instant, Pullus' sword was pointed at the dirt, still making the little circles, then the point was aimed almost skyward, glistening with blood, brain matter and pieces of skull. Just like Pullus' left hand was hard up against his body still, now his right hand was almost pressed against the barbarian's open mouth, separated only by the hand guard of the sword. The Wa general's eyes, or at least the one that Scribonius could see clearly, was opened wider than he had ever seen from any of these barbarians, such was the man's surprise and shock, the last emotions he would ever experience. That tableau was frozen into Scribonius' mind; Pullus, still grasping the Wa sword embedded in his shoulder, his right arm straight out but slightly lowered because of the Wa's shorter stature, and the man who Scribonius had been sure had killed his best friend dangling from his friend's sword. The Wa general's body had gone slack, and even as strong as Pullus was, the dead weight of the body dragged his arm down, but still Pullus stood for a couple of heartbeats longer, holding a dead man on his sword, and surrounded by a sudden and almost total silence. Then, he dropped his sword arm, kicked the dead man off his blade and still clutching the sword, turned and took a few staggering steps before going to his knees. Only then did the silence break, as it was now the turn of the 10th Legion to roar their defiance and exultation, and the Wa to howl in despair.

Accompanying the sudden sound there was a burst of movement as the fighting immediately resumed, but this time it was the Romans rushing forward, throwing themselves at the Wa, who seemed to be in a collective state of shock that allowed scores of Legionaries to make their easiest kills of the entire battle. Sextus Scribonius was oblivious to all of that, and in fact completely forgot his duties as he went sprinting to his friend's side, who at that moment was being surrounded by his men in a protective cordon while one of the first Legionaries to his side knelt beside his Primus Pilus. Scribonius was there an instant later, his heart pounding not from exertion but fear of what he would find. Pullus was still kneeling, but only because now two men, one on either side, were holding him up, while the giant Roman's head was bowed, his eyes closed.

"Titus," Scribonius gasped as he slid to a stop and dropped to his knees, his good hand reaching out for his friend's shoulders. As he did so he snapped at one of the other kneeling men, "What are you sitting there for? Go get a medici! NOW!"

Turning his attention back to Pullus, he saw that his eyes were still closed, and Scribonius was too scared to feel for a pulse. Instead, he called his friend's name again, and again. With a shaking hand, Scribonius reached up to place two fingers on his friend's neck. It was at that moment that Scribonius heard the same blast from the cornu that Porcinus had, with much the same reaction. However, it stayed his hand as he looked over his shoulder, sure that he was hearing things. Then, the horn sounded again. And Titus Pullus opened his eyes.

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

Caesar Triumphant

It seemed to take forever for Titus Pullus to make his way across the small remaining space behind the Legionaries still fighting, littered as it was with the detritus of the battle, including several bodies. Normally Pullus would have taken the time to say a brief prayer for his men who had fallen but at that moment all of his attention and concentration was on meeting the barbarian that he implicitly understood was the Wa general. Whether he was the overall commander and the architect of this devastating attack on the army, or just the commander of this assault force Pullus had no way of knowing, nor did he particularly care. In that moment, all that concerned him was the challenge presented by this arrogant bastard who even then was having his bodyguard clear a path toward the front where the fighting was taking place. Just as Pullus had feared, the Wa general was clearly aiming at the spot where the 10th and 12th met, and before Pullus could intercept the attacking warriors, the first of the general's bodyguards threw themselves at the thin wall of Roman shields, three abreast and swords raised high above their heads. Pullus had noticed before this tendency for the barbarians to attack in this manner and it had almost always proved fatal, to the attacker. It was a simple matter for the Legionary under assault to tilt his shield up and lift it slightly above his head as he launched an underhand thrust into the Wa's completely unprotected belly. This time, however, the three barbarians were clearly more skilled because even as Pullus watched, each warrior performed a different maneuver, but with the same result. The three Romans facing the Wa performed the exact tactic that Pullus had seen to be so effective, except in every case the Romans ended up with their blades hitting nothing but air. Still, this wouldn't have alarmed Pullus because he had noted with approval that they had all tilted and lifted their shields in anticipation for the sweeping, downward stroke that, even if it was blocked, would probably shatter their shields but still leave them untouched. However, one of the Wa's simply stopped dead in his tracks from his full run, a feat in itself that further demonstrated these warriors' extraordinary ability and reflexes. Predictably, the Legionary across from this man did what Pullus expected of him, launching a hard underhand thrust, the bloodied point tilted upward in a brutal arc aimed for the vitals of the Wa. But since the Wa wasn't there, for a fraction of time the Roman's arm was out in space, and just as Pullus' mind shouted the warning to his man, there was a flash of metal sweeping downward as the Wa finished the stroke he had started with his upraised sword. Even before Pullus, or the Legionary for that matter, could blink, the man's arm from just below the elbow down was lying on the ground as blood sprayed from the severed stump of the stricken Legionary's elbow, the severed hand in the dirt still clutching his sword. Even as this was happening the second Wa, instead of stopping, made a hopping leap in the air, slightly spreading his legs so that the thrust from his opponent went harmlessly into the space between his legs. This Wa, as he was coming down, shot his free hand out with a speed that Pullus had only witnessed from the cobras that some of the men kept for sporting purposes, slapping the Roman's sword hand downward and knocking the tip of the blade into the dirt. The instant his feet touched the ground, the Wa made an elegant, downward sweeping motion with his sword, while at the same time bringing the blade across his body so that it was now on the right, unprotected side of the Legionary's body. With his sword buried in the dirt, there was no protection from the backhand cut that struck the doomed man in the middle of the neck, who hadn't even had the time to hunch his shoulders to protect that most vital area. At about the same time as the first Legionary's arm was severed, the second Roman's head went spinning crazily into the air, the helmet flying off in one direction as the head went in another, spraying blood and gore all over men on both sides. Taking all this in, Pullus' mind couldn't register the fate of the third man, although in the blur of motion and riot of noise, he was vaguely aware of a body clad in Roman armor going to its knees, right next to the headless corpse that was just tottering over to fall forward onto the ground.

Then he was there, coming in from an angle, into the fighting, shield up and sword held in the first position. Because the barbarians' attention was understandably focused on their immediate opponents they were completely unprepared for the giant barbarian to come smashing into the Wa on the left, who was in the process of kicking the now one-armed Roman that had dropped his shield to clutch at his arm, out of the way. The terrific force generated by the weight and speed of Pullus sent the Wa, already off-balance, flying off his feet as if he had been shot at short range by a scorpion. Hitting the warrior at the angle that he did Pullus sent the first Wa careening, both legs a couple of feet off the ground, hard into the warrior to his right, just as he was stepping around the fallen headless corpse of the second Legionary. In turn, although this Wa managed to keep his feet he still stumbled several feet to the side, hitting the third Wa, who was at that moment lifting his sword to finish his stricken opponent. That Legionary was on his knees, blood pouring down his face, blinded by the slicing blow that had knocked his helmet off and almost scalped him. This jolt disrupted the aim of the third Wa enough that the blade, instead of cleaving the kneeling man's skull, instead went whistling harmlessly by to strike the ground next to the Roman. Pullus, since he was prepared for the impact, not only kept his feet but recovered more quickly so that he took a couple of shuffling steps to close the gap between himself and his targets. Mindful that in doing so he was placing himself directly in the path of the other barbarians that the general's bodyguard had shoved to the side, he pivoted slightly so that he was facing their ranks, his sword lashing out in a sweeping arc that was designed more to keep any overeager warrior at bay than to strike a target. As he did this he lifted his left arm high in the air, and risking a glance to the left to make sure he hit his target, brought his shield crashing down, using every bit of his strength, so that the metal edge struck the Wa he had knocked down and who was now on hands and knees, shaking his head trying to clear it. The wooden shield, with its several layers of thin wood and glue, bolstered and reinforced by the strip of iron around the edge and the iron boss in the middle, was a deadly weapon itself, and when brought down from the height that Pullus was capable of reaching, with the huge amount of power the Primus Pilus could generate, the fate of the first Wa was sealed. Pullus' aim was off, however, because he had been aiming for the small gap between the enemy's helmet and armor, where the neck was exposed. Instead, the shield struck roughly in the middle of the back of the Wa's helmet, making a loud, ringing sound much like striking a gong, except it ended in a loud crack as the helmet split into two parts. As the top half flew a foot away, Pullus was only vaguely aware that it contained the top of the warrior's skull, as the dead man's limbs suddenly went limp and he collapsed face first onto the ground, a pool of blood quickly forming. Instead, his attention was torn between his next target, the second Wa who was also trying to regain his balance, and the fact that he had generated such force with his blow that his shield shattered into too many pieces to count, leaving him with just the handle, and a ragged remnant of the center, with the boss still affixed.

Pullus didn't have the time to either worry about it, or grab a shield from one of the fallen men, because at that moment a flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye caused him to turn back to face the rest of the Wa, just in time to see the barbarian general roughly shoving aside the remaining men of his bodyguard. As he did so he snapped some sort of order in a low, guttural voice that to Pullus sounded very much like the growl of a dog. Nevertheless, he was clearly understood by his men, because in ragged unison they took a step backward, swords still up at what Pullus had determined was the equivalent of their first position, the swords held with two hands out in front of them. Moving quickly, Pullus dropped his ruined shield to pick a new one up from one of his men who no longer needed it. Now there was a slight pocket of space formed around Pullus and the Wa general men, as the men around them continued fighting. Despite not understanding the words, Pullus, and the rest of his men in earshot clearly understood the intent; this barbarian was claiming their Primus Pilus for himself.

"Gut that cunnus Primus Pilus," a man shouted. "Do it for Vellusius!"

Oh, how Pullus wished that whoever called that name out had picked another, because at the moment when he needed all of his concentration, hearing the name of one of the two remaining occupants of the first tent section Titus Pullus belonged to, and knowing what it meant, caused in him a shudder of grief at the worst possible time. Vellusius? Dead? Pullus' mind reeled at the thought, just as the Wa general, displaying the speed and ferocity of all of his warriors, launched his attack.

Titus Pullus was immediately at a disadvantage, his mind still reeling from the knowledge that an unknown Legionary had unintentionally imparted to him. Publius Vellusius, one of the two survivors of his original tent group, formed so many years ago when then-Praetor Gaius Julius Caesar had authorized a dilectus for what would become the most famous and feared Legion in the entire world, Caesar's 10th Equestris, had apparently died. Even as the giant Primus Pilus tried to process this thought the Wa general charged at the Roman, his blade slashing down in a vicious arc that Pullus barely avoided by twisting to the side. Before he could recover himself back to a proper defensive position, the Wa, his age impossible to tell because of the helmet almost completely masking his features except for his eyes, brought his blade back up in an almost exact reversal of his first stroke. Normally this would have been nothing more than quick recovery, but because the top of the barbarian's blade was sharpened for almost half its length, instead of pulling it straight back he made an exaggerated semicircular arc with the point, the tip aimed with precision just below the brim of Pullus' helmet. His intent was clear; either by cutting a gash in the Roman's forehead, or striking across the eyes, he was trying to blind Pullus. It would have worked if Pullus had done the natural thing by jerking his head backward, and in fact it might have been a killing blow if the Wa's sword tip had slashed his throat, but this wasn't the first time that Pullus had seen this move used, albeit on other men. And what he had seen was that the best of what was nothing but bad choices was to drop his head to take the blow on the brow of his helmet. In fact, that was why over the years Caesar had demanded that a strip of iron be added just above the forehead, to not only reinforce that area but to keep blades from sliding down and into the faces of his men. Still, it was far from an ideal defense and despite it being at the outermost limit of the barbarian's reach, there was sufficient force behind the sword tip to make a sound much like a bell being rung as tiny sparks shot in every direction, the Wa scoring a glancing blow. More problematically, it made similar sparks explode in front of Pullus' eyes and he heard a gasp of surprise and pain, only dimly aware that it came from him. His mind had barely cleared from the news of Vellusius, now he had to shake his head to try to clear it from the blow, but he still had the presence of mind to keep his shield up, with elbow locked tightly against his hip. It was a good thing he did, because as quickly as the Wa commander recovered his blade back to what the barbarians used as their basic offensive position, he lashed out again with his sword. In fact, the next few moments saw a flurry of thrusts and slashes, all of them from the Wa general, the man a blur of fluid, deadly motion, forcing Pullus to stay on the defensive.

However, as frenetic the pace of the attack, no less spirited was Pullus' defense, although all he could do at this point was to desperately keep his shield in front of him and move it just enough to block each of the barbarian's attacks, knowing that if he overcommitted in one direction, a man as skilled as his opponent would make him pay for the mistake with his life. Again, all of the watches spent training for times like this was what kept Pullus alive, it seeming that his head would never clear. There was still a ringing in his ears, and his vision was slightly blurred. Regardless of his current condition he was thankful that it wasn't worse; if he had experienced double vision at that moment, he would already be a corpse. Whatever shape he was in, he also knew that he couldn't stay on the defensive for much longer, the fatigue in his shield arm growing stronger with every heartbeat. Even as his shield absorbed another blow, the thudding sound was accompanied by a high-pitched cracking sound, telling Pullus that his shield was failing, giving him even less time. In fact, this attack by the savage across from him seemed to Pullus to epitomize how the entire day had gone. From the outset Caesar's army had been on the back foot, on the defensive, which was bad enough. Despite that, up until this battle even when Caesar and his men were forced to defend, they had still managed to dictate matters to a certain degree. But not today; all day Pullus had been running from one spot to another, always reacting to some new threat posed by these yellow-skinned men, and now in what he realized were the waning moments of his life Pullus was being forced to dance to the tune that this little bastard was calling.

That fact, even more than the idea of defeat, infuriated Pullus to a degree that came as a surprise to him. Another lightning-quick thrust from the Wa struck his shield, this time to the right of the boss and lower down, but it created a crack that moved diagonally up and across his shield, two spidery lines appearing on either side of the metal. Pullus instantly recognized that with the Wa's next strike his shield would fall apart and be useless, both as a defensive and an offensive weapon so, not waiting, he finally made his first offensive move. Taking a step forward that was much larger than it would be for most men, thanks to his longer legs, Pullus punched out with his damaged shield. Timing it as he did, just as the Wa general was recovering from his last attack, Pullus' opponent had no chance to cleanly dodge the metal boss that Pullus had aimed right at his face, aided as Pullus was by the barbarian's smaller stature. All the Wa could do was, just like Pullus moments before, try to minimize the damage. While Pullus had ducked his head, the enemy general tilted his head to the side slightly, taking the blow from the giant Roman's shield on the iron cheekpiece of his helmet instead of squarely in his face. Once more there was a gong-like sound as the metal from Pullus' shield struck the Wa helmet, and while it wasn't a clean blow by any means it still contained enough power behind it that it would have knocked a lesser man off his feet. But this barbarian hadn't achieved his rank just by virtue of his birth, earning his position by a combination of that and his prowess in battle. Despite it being a damaging blow the Wa kept his feet, and more by instinct than anything, since he carried no shield to protect him, he made an off-balance, wild swing in an attempt to keep his opponent from following up more than with any hope of landing a solid blow. As poorly aimed as it was, it still struck Pullus' shield, completing the destruction of the Primus Pilus' best defense, pieces of wood exploding in every direction, disintegrating so much that in the instant before he dropped it, all that Pullus was left with was the handle of the shield, even the boss falling to the ground at his feet. This paused Pullus for a fraction of a heartbeat from his advance, his sword pulled back, ready to deliver a killing blow, but it was enough. Regaining his balance the Wa general lunged forward, both hands clutching his sword as he raised it above his head.

Pullus had seen this attack more times than he could count this day, and while every other time it had seemed to be made especially for the Romans' short, thrusting counterattack into the completely exposed belly of the attacker, some instinct warned him that this was what the barbarian was expecting. More importantly it was what he was hoping for, so instead, Pullus took a hopping step to his right. While it moved Pullus' own sword farther away from his intended target it clearly surprised his enemy who, even as Pullus made this move, had altered his attack by letting go of the sword with his left hand, and by simply dropping his right elbow back down to his side, brought his blade into position for a disemboweling horizontal stroke. Like Pullus the Wa general had observed what these grubworms favored when faced with the overhead attack and had expected this grubworm, giant he may have been, to do the same thing. And indeed, if Pullus had done as so many of his men had done so often this day, taking a simple step forward while bringing his sword forward in a sweeping underhand thrust, at the very least his sword arm would have been exposed as the Wa's blade traveled along its horizontal path. Ideally, the giant barbarian would have stepped forward far enough so that the general's blade would have bitten deeply into the man's side but either way, since the man had lost his shield, the fight would have been over. Instead, his blade bit into nothing more than the air and now it was the Wa who was vulnerable, as instead Pullus had immediately brought his feet underneath him, keeping his sword at the first position and ready to strike. In the time it takes to blink an eye, Pullus did just that, the tip of his sword traveling toward the Wa at a speed that the human eye could barely comprehend. In all of the thrusts he had made, in practice or in battle, the thousands upon thousands of times, Titus Pullus was sure that he had never been faster than he was in that moment, on that day. Any other day, against any other opponent this fight would have ended right then, because Pullus was absolutely right in his belief; he had never launched a faster or more devastating attack. Against this opponent, however, while Pullus' thrust struck, it wasn't the killing blow it would have been with any other foe as the Wa general desperately twisted his body to one side, moving the part of his lower torso where Pullus had aimed a matter of a few inches. It wasn't enough to avoid being hit altogether, but instead of punching through the lamellar armor the Wa was wearing and the blade entering several inches into his abdomen, it only managed to penetrate the armor and enter perhaps an inch deep. More importantly, the Wa was moving too quickly and violently for Pullus to finish the attack in the normal manner, with either a twisting of the blade to cause more internal damage, or a strong lateral cutting move that disemboweled the victim. Therefore, despite the wound being painful and causing the barbarian to expel a sharp, hissing breath of pain, it didn't do the damage it should have.

What it did do was put the Wa on the defensive and sensing that at least it was his opponent's turn to stand on his back foot, Pullus didn't waste the opportunity. Even as he recovered from his thrust he was moving forward to close the gap between him and his opponent back to what it had been an instant before. As quickly as his arm had drawn back it lashed out again but this thrust Pullus not only aimed higher, he moved his arm out from his body a bit. Normally this was discouraged because it robbed a man of much of the force that came from using the bulk of his body; Titus Pullus was one of the few, not just in the ranks but in the upper classes, with the possible exception of Marcus Antonius, for whom this rule didn't apply. Moving his arm out in this manner meant that his blade was heading for the Wa at a slightly different angle. Coming at him from his left, this was a moment where the lack of a shield made the Wa vulnerable, as the point of Pullus' sword seemed to unerringly seek the barbarian's throat. In answer, the only move the barbarian could perform was to whip his sword up and across his body in an attempt to knock Pullus' blade off its path. In this he was only partially successful. Instead of the point of the Roman's sword piercing his throat, the Wa managed to knock the blade upward so that it struck him just above where his helmet flared out, on the rounded portion above the ear. Between the deflection and the smooth surface of the helmet, much of the blow's force was absorbed, but the point of Pullus' sword still tore a ragged gouge in the general's helmet and sliced into the top of the man's scalp. For the first time the Wa let out a howl of pain as he staggered sideways, blood almost immediately starting to flow down the side of his face. Pullus felt a savage satisfaction, but he knew that his foe was still dangerous, and determined not to give this barbarian any chance to recover, he pressed his advantage now. Taking a shuffling couple of steps forward he closed the distance caused by the Wa's staggering retreat, his blade already back at a modified first position, angled across his body slightly more than normal to compensate for his lack of shield. The Wa was weaving about; whether it was because he was groggy or by design Pullus couldn't tell but the end result was the same. It made the man harder to hit and forced Pullus to pause. For his part, the barbarian general, although he was in fact reeling from the blow, never took his eyes off Pullus, despite the blood streaming down his forehead and into his left eye. Neither man made a move for the span of a few heartbeats and while they didn't notice, the men around them had moved their own fighting slightly farther away, making a rough circle as the champions of the two army continued to battle.

Pullus' arm ached from the slashing wound he had received some time before, although he couldn't tell whether it was from the wound or the bandage being too tight. He longed to relinquish the grip of his sword, to flex his hand and arm in an attempt to relieve the ache, but that of course was impossible. During the lull the Wa, with his free hand, reached up and managed to rip the helmet off his head, only then giving Pullus an idea of the man's age. His hair was long but pulled back tightly so it lay flat against his skull, and Pullus saw that while it was just as black as every other Wa the Primus Pilus had seen before, it was also liberally streaked with gray. Now that he was helmetless, Pullus could also partially see the man's features, although one side of his face was obscured by blood, but what Pullus could see were the same seams and lines that he knew he himself carried. This was a man who had been exposed to the elements for most of his life, and was clearly as tough as the metal of Pullus' sword. As his mind made that comparison Pullus was thankful for that quality in his weapon, once more thanking the gods for this Gallic blade that he had carried for more than two decades. Now that Pullus could at least partially see the man's face, it suddenly made this fight more immediate, and more personal. This was the man who at least had a partial hand in the destruction of Caesar's army, and most importantly to Pullus, had destroyed his beloved 10th Legion, who had caused the death of one of his best friends, Balbus, and one of his longest-term comrades, Vellusius. Suddenly, Pullus felt a surge of warmth that seemed to start somewhere in his belly, uncoiling itself like some sort of serpent as it made its way up through his body and he recognized it for what it was, the return of an old friend, one that he needed now more than ever. That feeling was what distracted Pullus, just for the blink of an eye, but that was all the Wa needed as, clearly sensing this lapse in his opponent he struck with blinding speed. And it was this distraction that caused Pullus to react to the barbarian's sudden strike just a fraction slower than normal. Between these two factors, it was enough as the point of the Wa's blade snaked past Pullus' own and, even as Pullus swept his blade up in a desperate attempt to deflect the attack, the point punched through Pullus' mail, burying itself deeply in the Roman's body. 

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