R.W. Peake's Blog, page 2

Caesar Triumphant

If the relief force led by Felix thought he had pushed them hard making their way to Caesar's camp, that belief was quickly dispelled by the brutal pace that he was setting now in his attempt to reach Pullus' position. Very quickly men began dropping out of their Centuries, but this didn't stop Felix, who had determined that it was better to arrive more quickly, even if it meant with a few less men. And unlike at Caesar's camp, he was sure he didn't have the luxury of slowing the men down to allow them to catch their breath. He would, however, at least have to slow long enough to allow the trailing Centuries and Cohorts arrange themselves from the column they were in now to the standard battle line. As he ran he tried desperately to keep his composure enough to think through how he would accomplish this feat, finally coming up on an idea. The challenge now was how to accomplish it, and he slowed enough to drop to the side of his own Century, looking for his Optio.

"Optio," he gasped, and his second in command veered from his spot at the rear of the formation, and sprinted a few paces to reach his Centurion's side.

In between gasping breaths, Felix relayed what he planned to do.

He finished with, "I need you to drop off and make sure that the Pili Priores know what's expected of them."

Felix knew that he was asking his Optio for a huge effort, one worthy of some form of decoration if he could pull it off, but the man gave that no thought. Simply put, he knew the stakes involved and without more than panted acknowledgement, he separated from Felix then slowed down, looking behind him for the next Century. His task would have been daunting even if they had remained in the same order of march when they left their camp, as Felix had prepared for a similar maneuver when they reached Caesar's camp. However, when they stopped and Felix made his decision, he had made matters a bit more complicated for himself later. Essentially, the decision Felix made between the two choices, saving Caesar's camp, or saving the northern one, was to choose both. Detaching four Cohorts from his force, he included two from the 14th, and two from the 30th, putting the most senior Centurion, the Quintus Pilus Prior of the 14th, Lucius Statius in command. These Cohorts were left behind to come to Caesar's aid, but Felix didn't stay long enough to direct how it should be done, leaving it up to Statius as to the best way to go about it. It was true that this left Felix two Cohorts short of a full Legion, but as far as he was concerned, this was really the only choice he could have made. If he had taken all twelve Cohorts with him and saved the northern camp at the expense of losing the commander of the army and the only general any man in the ranks had ever followed, Felix had no doubt that he would have fallen on his sword from the shame. Whatever was waiting for him and the men with him ahead at the northern camp, eight Cohorts would have to be enough to tip the balance.

Lucius Statius had confronted the problem of how to feed four Cohorts into Caesar's camp by choosing to spread his forces out and have them enter through the main and two side gates. He knew he was violating a basic tenet of warfare in spreading his force, but although he hadn't been with Felix when he entered the camp to see the situation, he had heard the sounds of the fighting and seen the hovering dust. Understanding its import, he was making the gamble that every barbarian in the camp was gathered in more or less the same place in the center, because whoever was commanding them wouldn't risk scattering his force throughout the camp when the battle was in its final stages. If he was right, his and the Cohorts from the 30th would descend onto the unprotected rear of the barbarians, who would be completely focused on the destruction of Caesar and however many men were still left. The hardest part was waiting the length of time it took for one Cohort to run the length of the eastern wall, before turning to the left and running the slightly shorter distance to the Porta Principalis Sinistra, the left gate of the camp. The other Cohort from the 30th that was going to enter through the Porta Principalis Dextra didn't have quite as far to go. Statius stood, fidgeting by tapping his vitus against his leg, waiting for the third and final blast of the cornu that would tell him it was time for him to lead the two Cohorts of the 14th through the main gate. While he was willing to separate his force, that was as far as he was going to go in throwing away his advantage, and it was imperative that this attack be coordinated as much as possible. Even so, it was extremely hard for every man in that force, knowing that with every moment that passed, more of their comrades might be dying. Statius' Cohort was lined up in a row of Centuries, one behind the other just outside the gate, all of the men in the ranks fidgeting just as much as Statius. Some were rhythmically drumming their fingers on their grounded shields, others clenching and unclenching their sword hands, and still others yawning excessively. All of their ears were attuned to the sound that at last came, the single blast of the cornu from the Cohort at the Porta Principalis Sinistra, followed immediately by the answering blast by the Cohort at the Port Principalis Dextra. Without hesitation, Statius turned to snap the order to his cornicen to sound the call that would unleash all three forces to the attack, but the man had already begun sounding the notes for the third time.

Unsheathing his sword, Statius shouted over his shoulder, even as he was moving through the gate, "Follow me boys! Shout it out now! Let Caesar know we're coming! These cunni are going to regret being born! CAESAR TRIUMPHANT!"

And with that roaring call being shouted by every man, they followed Statius into the camp.

It didn't take a man as experienced as Titus Pullus was to know that the battle for the northern camp was in its final stages. Between the pressure from the original assault element, as depleted as it may have been, and the surprise attack on the eastern wall, what remained of the 10th and 12th Legion was being squeezed between two jaws by what was in effect a huge, bloody beast. In several spots on the eastern wall the Wa had managed to create pockets containing a handful of warriors, most of them the type armed with swords that Pullus worried about. At the same time, the remnants of the 10th and 12th that had been defending the western wall had retreated to the edges of the forum, while the formerly open area of the forum itself was now jammed with bodies of the wounded, the medici, and the surviving noncombatants of both Legions. While most of the slaves had other roles during the battle, mainly serving as stretcher bearers, now that it was only a matter of dragging a man a few paces back into the center, most of them stood huddled in small groups, shaking in terror as they watched the thin wall of Legionaries slowly whittled down, one by one. Although such complex tasks were no longer within Pullus' power to perform, if he had made the calculations, he would have realized that less than a quarter of both Legions were still standing, and of those still in the fight, perhaps one man in four was unwounded. All he knew at that moment was that his Legion, his beloved 10th Legion, the eagle under which he had been marching since its formation when Gaius Julius Caesar had been a relatively unknown Praetor of a province in Hispania, was in its death throes. He no longer harbored any hope that help would be coming, so all that remained for him and his men was to die in a manner that would finish the history and the legend of Caesar's 10th Legion Equestris, the most famous Legion of Rome, as it should end, covered in glory. This was his pervading and really only thought at this point as he strode around the interior of his lines, which was almost but not quite an orbis. Directly across from the eastern wall there was a gap, but while it hadn't been planned that way, neither Pullus nor Balbinus, both of whom were commanding what was in effect one half of a horseshoe, saw any need to close it. Because of the presence of the relief Cohorts, whoever was left in command of the original Wa assault force was unwilling to send any troops into that space, where they would essentially have their backs to Tetarfenus' men. It was a small blessing, and Pullus wearily recognized that ultimately it wouldn't make any difference in the outcome, although it might mean just a precious few more moments before he and the remnants of the 10th and 12th were finally overwhelmed. Moving from one trouble spot to the next, Pullus seemed to be everywhere at once, bashing aside a Wa with a borrowed shield when the barbarian had knocked one of his men down in one spot, then suddenly, as if by magic, he was on the opposite side of the 10th's area, thrusting his sword into the face of an enemy warrior who had just done the same thing to a Legionary. Covered in blood, some of it his own but most of it not, Pullus and his Gallic sword were the only things that kept the last of the 10th from collapsing, not just because of what he did, but because of the example he set in those last moments, giving his men courage and energy that every one of them thought had long since been exhausted. For Pullus it was all a blur of motion, color and noise, where the thousands of hours of practice at the stakes took over, as his muscles seemed to react with a mind of their own now that his mind was too exhausted to give the necessary commands. Since he had enlisted, the number of days where Titus Pullus hadn't devoted at least a third of a watch to his sword work were few and far between, and the tiny corner of his mind that wasn't utterly exhausted thought of how fitting it was that here in the final watch of the life of the 10th, all that practice should now bear its fruits. Regardless of the heroics, not just of Pullus but the other surviving Centurions and Optios, along with some men of the ranks like Vellusius, the pressure from the Wa was unrelenting, forcing the already compact formation into an ever smaller space. Pullus wasn't sure how it happened, but after he was forced to give the command to take yet another few, shuffling steps backward, he found to his happy surprise that standing next to him was Sextus Scribonius. His pleasure wasn't only because Scribonius was still alive, but that here in these last moments he and his best friend would be side by side, swords in hands.

"Well Titus, here we are," Scribonius' voice was almost gone, but he gave Pullus a tired smile. All Pullus could think to do at that moment was to smile back.

"Yes, Sextus. Here we are."

"We gave these bastards a good show though, don't you think?" Pullus could tell that his friend wasn't asking this lightly, the other man's face creased by an anxious frown as he waited for Pullus to answer.

Even if he hadn't thought it to be true, Pullus wasn't going to give his friend any other answer.

"One they'll never forget," Pullus replied fervently. "And one they'll be telling their grandchildren about."

"It's just a shame Rome will never hear about it," Scribonius said sadly, his words striking Pullus to his core, because that thought was his own as well, and he viewed it as a tragedy even greater than the actual destruction of Caesar and his army.

For that was one thing Pullus was sure about; if he and the 10th, along with the 12th fell, he was positive that Caesar and the rest of the army would suffer the same fate. Still, there was a part of Titus Pullus that felt the need to offer his friend some solace, no matter how shaky it might have been.

"I wouldn't be so sure Sextus. I think that word of what happened here will spread, and it might be years from now, but Rome will hear about what we did here."

"I hope you're right," Scribonius replied doubtfully. Shaking his head, he finished, "But whatever happens, I'm just glad that you're here."

As emotionally spent as Pullus was, he felt his throat tighten at his friend's words, and all he could manage was a choked, "Me as well, Sextus. Me as well."

With that, there was nothing more to say, and as it happened, something happened that tore Pullus' attention away from the moment. A great shout arose, but from the other side of the fighting, amidst the Wa, whose ranks were now the thinnest they'd been since they first threw themselves at the walls of the Roman camp. Still, they were deeper than those of the men opposing them, and it was at the rear of these rows where the shouts originated, and even with his height, Pullus was forced to stand on tiptoe to see the cause of the commotion. From his vantage point, Pullus saw a rippling disturbance in the rear ranks of the Wa, men moving aside to make way for something or someone that at first Pullus couldn't see. But then when the barbarians in the middle of the mass of men stepped aside, Pullus finally saw what it was. It took a moment for the import of what he was seeing to hit him, but when it did, it created in him a surge of emotions that was hard for him to identify. It was equal parts rage and a certain savage anticipation, along with the recognition of what it meant to finally come face to face with the Wa general who had so savaged his Legion. At first all Pullus could see was the top of his helmet, on which were affixed what looked like horns, but made of some sort of metal. Gradually coming into better view as a small group of warriors that were obviously his bodyguard, all wearing a smaller version of the same helmet and the iron lamellar armor that Pullus had determined marked their version of noblemen, shoved their comrades aside to allow the general to pass. It was only then that Pullus finally got a good look at the man. His face was mostly obscured by the sweeping cheek guards that almost met in front of the mouth, but Pullus could see that not only was he more powerfully built than almost any Wa the large Roman had seen to this point, he was also taller. Although nowhere near Pullus' own height, he nevertheless stood a full head above the other warriors in his army. Most importantly, he held a sword in one hand, and even from where Pullus was standing, he could see the quality, and the ease with which the Wa commander wielded it. While it was curved in the same way as all the other Wa blades, Pullus could see that the blade was somewhat narrower than what he assumed was normal, and the opposite, or upper edge of the sword was clearly sharpened for several inches along its length. Still, like the rest of these barbarians, the Wa general disdained the use of a shield, and as Pullus watched him making his way forward, Pullus could see where he was headed. Like any good military man, he had divined where the two Legions met in the orbis, the 12th on one side and Pullus' 10th on the other. How he could tell Pullus had no idea, but he was sure that it was no accident that this was the point where he was headed. And Pullus immediately began moving to intercept him.

"Titus!" Scribonius called out, and although he was about to tell his friend not to go, he instantly understood that not only would his friend ignore him, it was wrong and selfish for him to do so. As great a Legionary and Centurion Sextus Scribonius was in his own right, he also never held any illusions that Titus Pullus was, simply put, the greatest Legionary who ever marched for Rome, and to try to stop him from facing this barbarian would not only bring shame to Pullus, it would bring equal shame to Scribonius for suggesting it.

"Gut that bastard!" was what Scribonius said instead, to which Pullus gave nothing more than a grim nod before moving to intercept the Wa general. 

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

Caesar Triumphant

In the northern camp, Pullus and his men didn't have the luxury of falling back to a barricade of any kind, a fact that Pullus now realized was his single greatest mistake of this entire day, a day filled with them. However, armed with that knowledge, his men were giving ground even more stubbornly than Caesar had, so that there were still more than a hundred paces of space left from the ragged and thin rear ranks of the Roman lines to the beginning of the forum. As they continued falling back, the Wa had continuously tried to extend their own lines farther in either direction in an attempt to turn the flanks of Pullus' men. This had forced Pullus and Balbinus, who still lived and was directing the left flank of the withdrawal to take men and send them to the edges to meet this new threat. The result was that the Roman formation was slowly bending into a semicircle where the ends crept closer together. Further complicating matters was the frustration that the two Primi Pili felt at the sight of the reserve Cohorts that were now spread along the southern wall. In their overwhelming desire to crush these barbarians, by extending their own lines in an attempt to flank them the original Wa force had turned their back to these reserve Cohorts. Unfortunately, Tetarfenus and the Cohorts on the southern wall were obviously too heavily engaged to allow for any detachment of some Centuries to fall on the rear of the Wa.

Pullus could see that whoever was commanding the force assaulting his position at least recognized this as a possibility because there was a small force of Wa standing at the ready facing the reserve Cohorts. And Tetarfenus was clearly aware because the men in the rear ranks of his force were doing the same, as these two small groups kept a wary eye on each other. While Pullus was happy that at least some of these bastards were diverted to this task, he didn't think that the reduction in numbers of men assailing his woefully thin wall of shields and flesh was going to make much difference. Still, Pullus was gratified to see the same thing that Caesar had, that these Wa were finally showing some signs of tiring. And despite the fact that the men from each Century were now hopelessly entangled, the cohesion of the overall formation was still holding, and they were still giving ground only after inflicting some damage on these yellow-skinned savages. Shaking himself back to the moment Pullus gave a blast of his whistle, seeing that the men of the front line were almost collapsing now from exhaustion. Along the line under his command, each Legionary gave a savage thrust with his shield to knock whatever man was opposing him back a step, before moving quickly aside to let the man behind him take his place. Some men chose to use their swords instead of their shield, something that Pullus normally disapproved of doing because it robbed his men of the chance to follow up with a thrust if the blow from the shield sufficiently staggered the opponent. At this moment all he cared about was that it gave his men the chance to exchange places, especially now that the Wa had figured out the rhythm and pacing used by the Legions of Rome. They had learned quickly, and with their damnable agility, Pullus had seen a number of his men fall victim to a sudden thrust or slash of a Wa who had leaped aside or backward to dodge the thrusting impact of the shield. Thankfully his men had seen this countermove and had adjusted as well, so now the Wa, when they heard the whistle blast, couldn't be sure if they would have to dodge a shield or block a sword. This time the change went smoothly, without losing a man, for which Pullus was thankful. But like Caesar, he knew that he was buying his men little more than a third or two of a watch of life and nothing more. And like his general, the idea of doing anything less never entered his mind. Titus Pullus and the men of the 10th, or at least those that remained would never quit fighting, not until they were all dead. The idea that help would arrive was now as far from his mind as the idea of surrender. If it hadn't happened by now it wasn't going to happen so there was no need dwelling on it. Now all there was to do was to die well, in a manner that would make Rome proud.

Gaius Porcinus took a breath, pausing just long enough to use his neckerchief to mop his face and clear his eyes from the stinging sweat. His head still throbbed abominably, and he found it hard to concentrate, but somehow he forced himself to continue directing his Century in the fight. While there were a number of spots where the Wa had managed to get one or two men onto the parapet, where the fighting there had the fury and frantic pace that had been present during the beginning of the first Wa assault, Porcinus' Century had managed to keep the Wa from gaining a toehold anywhere along their sector. It hadn't been without cost; Porcinus' latest count had been more than a dozen men down, although he couldn't have said who was dead and who was wounded. All that mattered at this moment was their swords were missing. His Optio Oesalces was still at his spot on the opposite side of the line, his sword bloodied to the hilt and suffering a gruesome slashing wound to his cheek that cut so deeply that the flap of skin was hanging down, exposing his gums through the blood and gore. Regardless of his wound, he was cutting down any barbarian who tried to scramble up the ladder placed against the wall in front of him.

The Wa had altered their tactics somewhat, trying to coordinate between their archers and warriors. Archers would launch as many arrows as they could as the warriors began mounting the ladders, only stopping when the leading man's head was no more than a couple feet below the parapet, forcing the Romans to stay behind their shields and robbing them of the ability to see how close the men on the ladders were. The instant the barrage stopped the first Wa would scramble to close the remaining distance, most of them choosing to try and leap high above the parapet to land cleanly on the other side of the palisade stakes. As far as Porcinus could tell, this tactic was unsuccessful as often as it worked, but since the beginning of the attack the barbarians had managed to either make or bring more ladders, so that it almost didn't matter. All along the wall the enemy was popping up, some of them seeming to levitate in the air before landing on the dirt parapet. But that wasn't a concern for Porcinus as long as it didn't happen in his sector, and so far it hadn't.

Farther down the wall, however, was another story. Pilus Prior Tetarfenus was at that moment furiously engaged with two Wa standing side by side, backs pressed against the stakes, both of them armed with swords that alternately flickered out like the tongues of a two-headed serpent, one after the other, keeping Tetarfenus and the man next to him, one of the newest Gayan recruits, at bay. For the moment it was a stalemate; the Wa couldn't push away from the stakes to make room for any more of their comrades, but neither could Tetarfenus or his Legionary penetrate the defenses of their adversaries. Even as he was furiously thrusting and slashing at the barbarian across from him, a part of Tetarfenus was forced to admire, albeit grudgingly, the enormous skill of this yellow bastard who, without a shield was blocking every attempt by the Pilus Prior to kill him. The best Tetarfenus had done was score a partially deflected slashing cut, high up on the Wa's arm, just below the edge of his lamellar armor. Then, the Gayan, either through fatigue or carelessness, just after making a training manual perfect punching thrust with his shield, returned to what the Romans called the first position. Except instead of the shield being perfectly vertical, the bottom was tilted inward just a bit. Not much, but the Wa instantly saw it and took advantage. Launching a feint, seemingly aiming a low thrust at the Gayan's legs, the young Legionary responded by dropping his shield. If his shield had been in a true first position and held vertically it was doubtful that what happened next would have worked, but because of the outward tilt at the top, this created more of a gap than it normally would have. And it was into this gap that the Wa, with a quickness that Tetarfenus was just now coming to understand and appreciate was a characteristic of all these warriors, made an overhand thrust that plunged directly into the left eye of the Gayan, dropping him like a stone. Before Tetarfenus could react, the Wa, his blade still dripping the blood and brain matter from the Legionary, made an overhand slash to his left, catching the Centurion across the jaw. Fortunately for Tetarfenus, the barbarian was at the outer limit of his reach, so that it was just the tip of the sword that struck Tetarfenus. Even so, the blow had enough force to not only slice through the flesh, but it shattered his jawbone as well. Tetarfenus let out a shriek of agony, reeling backward into the shield of one his men, ironically enough saving his life, as the second Wa, on seeing what happened, followed up with a vicious, disemboweling thrust of his own that hit nothing but air. In the ensuing tangle of bodies, shields and swords on the part of the Romans, the two Wa took advantage of the confusion and stepped forward, blades flashing in front of them as they made room for more of their own comrades. In no more than the space of a couple of normal heartbeats, they were joined by two more warriors, and what had been a minor toehold now became the most dangerous incursion of the southern well.

"Tetarfenus is down!"

Porcinus heard the shout even from his spot further down the wall, but at the moment he was too busy to give it more than a passing thought. Besides, there was nothing he could do about it and surely the Pilus Posterior of the Eighth would step in, if he was still alive. If not, then it would have to be the Princeps Prior. Either way, he had his own problems, as a Wa had managed to get over the wall and was even at that moment being joined by a comrade of his own. This was occurring farther down the line, at one of the new ladders that had been placed in between the two covered by his Century. Unfortunately, because of the rotations he had already ordered the Legionaries facing these two were men from the last section of the last Century of the Tenth Cohort. And while Caesar had done what he could to abolish the practice, it had been a tradition for longer than any Roman had been alive that the most inexperienced men were in the Tenth Cohort, and of the Tenth, invariably the most inept were moved to the rear of the formation, in the last two sections of men. In the case of Porcinus' Century, these last two sections were almost exclusively composed of the newest Gayan recruits, and because they were in the Tenth they had seen less action than every other Legionary in the Legion. That was who faced the Wa at that moment, and Porcinus could only watch helplessly as he watched his men across from the barbarian flailing away with their swords, completely forgetting to use their shield in the manner in which they had been trained. Before he could make a move to push his way to their side, he saw the flash of silvery gray as one of the Wa struck, and even over the shouting and noise, Porcinus could hear the distinctive sound of a blade solidly striking flesh. The stricken Gayan staggered backward, making a gurgling sound that told Porcinus that the wound was mortal. Just like with Tetarfenus there was a flurry of movement as the Gayan's now dead body fell backward onto his comrade who had been holding his harness, creating a gap that the Wa took immediate advantage of, his blade still flashing in a blur of motion that even the most experienced Legionary would have been hard-pressed to defend. Porcinus could only watch helplessly as a second of his men fell, but this time he went to his knees, clutching his throat as blood geysered between his fingers. It was because of that only one more Wa managed to join his comrade before the two dead Legionaries were jerked unceremoniously out of the way in order to allow the men behind them to step forward. Porcinus had started to wedge his body in between the files of men to make his way to this trouble spot when a shouted warning made him turn just in time to see the man he had been standing next to drop his shield, an arrow shot by an opportunistic archer protruding from his chest as he stared down at it with a puzzled expression, just before falling backward. Even as his mind registered this, the head and torso of another barbarian appeared as the Wa leapt over the palisade to land on the rampart. Porcinus was forced to reverse his course and head directly for the Wa, who was even then slashing at the Legionary vainly trying to step over his fallen comrade. 

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

Caesar Triumphant

Felix was in agony, but not from the exertion of the run. Now that they were within a couple stadia of Caesar's camp, it was clear that his general needed his help. From the position of the dust cloud itself Felix could plainly see that the camp had for all intents and purposes fallen, and that his general and men were now in the area of the forum, putting up a last defense. But it wasn't just the dust that told him this; he was close enough now that he could hear the noise of fighting even above his harsh breathing. Up ahead his advance Century had stopped their trotting advance, coming to the quick step that they normally used when marching. Felix could see the Centurion commanding the advance party turn to look in his direction, clearly waiting for orders. Every sign pointed to a clear-cut decision, that it was Caesar's camp that needed succor, and the relief force hadn't arrived too late to help. But that knowledge didn't bring Felix any sense of relief whatsoever, because the nagging of the feeling that as badly as they might be needed by Caesar, Pullus, Balbinus and their men were in even greater danger. However, given what he could see at that moment, Felix had no choice but halting at Caesar's camp. Continuing his trot, Felix and the men following him closed the distance to the main gate of Caesar's camp, and the absence of any men manning the gate was further confirmation of the desperate situation. The advance Century had come to a halt, just as Felix had instructed them to, and when Felix reached them, he called a halt to the main column. He was standing within a hundred paces of the gate and was trying to decide the best way to proceed now that they had arrived. Deciding that the best thing to do was see the situation for himself, he ordered his Century forward, giving instructions to the Centurions of the advance guard and the Centurions of the Centuries closest to the front to remain where they were and wait for his signal to proceed. Leading his Century, Felix approached the gate with a heart that hadn't stopped pounding even after coming to a stop, and he could hear in his ears the breath coming as if he was still running, such was his tension. Tapping his vitus nervously against his leg as he closed the remaining few paces the noise now was only partially muffled by the dirt walls of the camp, and the Roman was close enough that he could almost make out individual voices and sounds, shouted orders and the clash of metal on metal. Eyes fixed on the dirt barrier of the main gate, without conscious thought he drew his sword, only made aware of that by the rasping sound of his men doing the same, following the example of their Centurion. Almost jumping at the harsh noise, it also jerked Felix's attention partially away from the gate as he glanced back to see his Optio who, for some reason was looking in another direction. Felix opened his mouth to reprimand his Optio for letting his attention wander but before anything came out, the other man raised his arm to point in the direction he was looking.

"Centurion! Someone's coming! It looks like one of ours and he's running like Cerberus is about to catch him!"

Artaxades had reached a point where the only thing he was aware of was that his legs were moving, and they were moving fast. Nothing else mattered at that point and if the truth were known, he wouldn't have been able to articulate why he was running faster than he ever had in his life at that moment. All he knew was that the finish line was just ahead, marked by a large, dark blur in his vision that was looming larger with every stride. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew that this was Caesar's camp, and he knew that he had to deliver a message, but for the life of him, at that moment he couldn't remember what the message was. Whatever it was, first he had to get there, and his arms were pumping as quickly as he could move them back and forth. His mouth had long since gone completely dry, every drop of moisture in his body sucked inwards to try to cool it down, but he felt as if he were being baked in the panera oven of the Legions like a loaf of bread. Caked around his open maw was a rime of white, chalky material, and while it was normal for him to have this substance around his mouth after a race, never had it been this thick. Now that he was within two hundred paces of the gate he began to veer slightly off the road, in an unconscious attempt to shorten the distance before he could finally stop. Such was his level of distress and his concentration that it wasn't until he was less than fifty paces away and even above the roaring sound in his ears did he hear shouts, and he was so surprised that he immediately broke stride. Gone was the smooth, ground-eating lope that he had been using; instead he began stumbling as his limbs seemed to suddenly grow minds of their own and refuse his directions to continue with the smooth motion that had gotten him to this point. He felt as if the world was suddenly tilted on its axis and he was in danger of sliding off, and to compensate he began windmilling his arms in an attempt to somehow counteract the fact that his legs seemed to be sliding out from underneath him. But although he was still propelling himself forward it was no longer a run but a stumble, and in his confused state he caught just a glimpse of a face, a Roman face with a helmet wearing a transverse crest on top of it before he went crashing into the dirt. The impact drove what little breath there was from his lungs but he barely felt the effect of the rough ground, as the tiny, protruding sharp rocks tore into his skin, carving deep gashes as he slid to a stop. For a moment he lay motionless, then somehow found the energy to push with one arm over onto his back, where he lay sprawled, face to the sun. His lungs were continuing to suck in air as fast as they could, but it still wasn't enough, and Artaxades saw a dark, hazy mist that seemed to circle all around the edges of his vision, where the only place he could still see the sky was in the center. Am I dying, he wondered? He had never felt like this after any race, no matter how hard he had run, and the last mile had been an agony that he would never have believed he could have endured before this moment on the other side, having done it. Thoughts and images were tumbling through his mind, things he hadn't thought about in years, like his home in Ctesiphon, in Parthia. His mother, hard at work as she always was, preparing a meal while his sister stood next to her, learning the job of a woman. She was looking up and smiling at him, and while he couldn't hear her words, he could see that she was calling him, probably to taste his favorite dish of spiced lamb, roasted over the spit. Oh, how he would love to have some of his mother's cooking to help him recover from this last race he ran! He was so tired, never this tired, and it still seemed next to impossible for his lungs to draw in enough breath. Even as his mind tried to puzzle out what that meant, the dark mist continued closing in, ever narrowing in a smaller and smaller circle. But now he could hear his mother calling him.

"Arta! Arta! Come here you foolish boy! Look what your mother has made for you, even if you don't deserve it! Your father told me he caught you sneaking away to play with those boys again! How are you going to learn how to be a mason if you do not listen to your father and do what he tells you?"

He wanted to answer her, to assure her that he no longer needed to learn his father's skill because he had found a home in the army, but he couldn't form the words, and even if he did, his throat was so dry that what did come out of his mouth was nothing but a croaking, raspy moan. Then, the mist came as a roaring sound filled his ears, which for whatever reason seemed to snap him out of the mental daze he was in just long enough for him to realize that he had failed. He hadn't carried the message that would help his friends.

"He's dead," Felix said incredulously, kneeling by the side of the fallen man and searching frantically for any sign of life. "He can't be! He can't be dead!"

Felix shook the prone man, his attempts to revive him growing increasingly vigorous as he went from shaking, to slapping him across the face. Finally, in frustration and anger, Felix brought his fist down, hard, on the man's chest, but still nothing happened. This courier, whoever he was, was dead. Felix's Optio, a man of indeterminate origin who claimed to come from Galatia and had joined the Legion after the first battles against the Parthians, stood watching his Centurion. While he spoke Latin fluently, it was still with the accent of his home lands, which was one reason that many of the other men doubted his claim to be a Galatian. Hence his nickname became Odysseus, after the perpetual wanderer of Homer's tale. Now he stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"Centurion? I don't think that's going to bring him back. The man's clearly dead."

Felix didn't answer, but he did sit back on his haunches, forearms across his knees as he gazed down at the dead man. After a moment he stood and turned to face his Optio.

"I wonder what his message was?" he asked, although he didn't really expect an answer.

Nevertheless, Odysseus replied, "Whatever it was, it was important enough for him to run himself to death."

At first, this didn't register with Felix, as he had already stood and started walking back the very short distance to the gate. When they had spotted the courier, Felix, along with his Century, had actually run past the gate to meet Artaxades, Felix being sure that this man would be carrying a message that would provide him with more clarity about his dilemma. Now, Felix was trotting toward the gate, and leading his men he navigated through the passageway of the dirt gate. The sounds of the fighting were very loud and he could clearly hear commands, shouts, curses and the ringing sound of sword striking sword or some other metal surface, all of it punctuated with the deeper thudding sound when someone blocked a thrust with a shield. But even as prepared as he thought he was, when he entered the camp at the run, he still came to a complete stop. By the time Felix arrived, the withdrawal to the hastily prepared fortifications had just been completed, and an appallingly small number of Roman Legionaries were standing on the makeshift parapet, their shields providing more coverage as they desperately fought the remaining Wa force. Although Felix had no way of knowing it, this assault element was composed of barely a third of their original numbers, but they still outnumbered the remnants of Caesar's command. Taking this sight in, Felix stood there with his Century, unobserved by the Wa, who clearly were not expecting other Romans showing up. They were completely focused on the final destruction of these barbarians who had invaded their land, and after a short lull in the ferocity and energy, they were now pouring every last bit they had left into finishing it. That, more than any other factor, made Felix's decision for him.

Turning to his Optio, he asked, "What did you say just a moment ago? About him?" He jerked his head in the direction of where Artaxades was still lying, barely cold.

"What? Oh," Odysseus thought a moment, and said, "That he ran himself to death, just like Phidippides did at the Battle of Marathon."

Felix nodded thoughtfully, then replied, "And that message was so important that it was worth dying for, I expect. Just like this one," he finished under his breath.

And with that, Felix made up his mind.

Caesar was pleased to see that, for the moment at least, the makeshift barricade was successfully holding the Wa at bay, and for the first time he could see real fatigue showing in the movement and faces of these barbarians who until that moment had seemed to be impervious to the normal draining of energy that came from such strenuous activity. But as tired as they were, Caesar and his men were no less so, and in many spots around the hodgepodge of items that had been used to create this wall, the fighting taking place was almost comically slow. A Wa would thrust a spear, and a Roman would either block or parry the blow in such a way that if Caesar hadn't known how deadly serious it was he would have said he was watching one of the mime shows in Rome where battles were recreated for the crowd. Of course, the other difference was that at the end of the "battle" in Rome, something funny would take place and the crowd would roar with laughter. Here, nobody was laughing, or in fact doing much shouting at all, such was the fatigue. Instead, the air was filled almost entirely by just the sounds of sword on sword, or spear against shield, along with the occasional blast of a Centurion's whistle that signaled the men standing on the rampart to step aside and let their relief take over. At least when there were enough men to relieve them, Caesar thought bitterly, as he could see in many spots there wasn't even a Legionary standing behind the man on the rampart. The space enclosed by the barricade was jammed full of wounded men, with barely enough room for the paths that the medici and remaining slaves needed to move around, ministering to the wounded. Thankfully, now that they were back behind some sort of wall, the flow of Roman wounded being carried or dragged to the forum had slowed, but every loss was one that Caesar and his men couldn't afford. In fact, Caesar thought wearily, all he had done was buy these men perhaps a watch more of life, if that. He couldn't imagine that the other redoubts, from whom he hadn't heard a word in only the gods knew how long, were faring any better than he was, so the idea of help never entered his mind. No, Caesar's Luck had finally run out. Of this he was sure, that today would see the final battle of his career, and the beginning of the Legend of Caesar. Shaking his head, more ruefully than with any real regret, he acknowledged to himself that perhaps this time he had overreached, that finally he had come across the one place and the one people he couldn't conquer. Standing there, surrounded by the remainder of his staff, as always Caesar stood alone, still aloof and with every bit of his dignitas intact. Finally, the Parthian Tribune cleared his throat, jerking Caesar out of his reverie. Somewhat surprised, Caesar turned to see the man, the Pandyan Tribune next to him, both of them bespattered with blood, and the Parthian sporting a ragged bandage wrapped around his upper thigh. When did that happen? Caesar wondered with a frown, trying to recall if he had seen it happen, or had been told by the Parthian and he had just forgotten.

"Caesar, what are your orders, sir?" the Parthian's tone arrested Caesar's attention, the tone of it causing him an even deeper twinge, recognizing in the words that it was as much a plea for hope and encouragement as it was a request for direction. I owe these men more than this, Caesar thought with real sadness. They have performed in a manner that would make any Roman proud, no matter where they came from.

With this in mind, Caesar answered, "We continue to fight, gentlemen. That's all we can do right now. We show these barbarians that being Roman isn't just a matter of where one is born, but what one is made of. Because both of you fought like Romans today."

To the horror and embarrassment of both men, their reaction was a welling of tears and lumps in the throat that rendered both men speechless, for they had never been praised in such a manner by Caesar until this moment. Finally, the Parthian nodded, then straightened and offered a perfect salute.

Swallowing hard, he asked, "Where will my sword be of most use?"

Caesar quickly surveyed the area, then pointed to a spot.

"It looks like Valerius' Century could use some help."

Caesar pointed to another spot, addressing the Pandyan, "And Amulius needs you there."

The Pandyan offered the same salute, then dashed away, sword held high, ready to lend itself to this last phase of the fight. Sighing, Caesar watched the two younger men move into position before drawing his own sword. Looking about, he saw another spot where there was only a single line of Legionaries, one of his men even then wrestling with a Wa who had managed to throw a leg over the barricade and was slashing at the Roman. Unlike the two younger men, Caesar had neither the energy nor the inclination to run at this point. No, he would walk to his death with the same disdain for it he had always had. He began moving in that direction, but had to pick his way carefully among the detritus of battle, as well as taking care not to step on a wounded man. When he got within a few paces of his destination, something happened that he was sure was a figment of imagination, and while he faltered for a moment, he immediately resumed his progress. But before he could take more than another couple of steps, not only did it happen again, it was then accompanied by a shout from some of the men behind him. This had been happening all day, and wasn't unusual since it normally signaled some sort of trouble, but there was something decidedly different in these shouts. It was an alarm, but it sounded.....joyful? Caesar whirled about, and this time he recognized that it wasn't his imagination, as a cornu blasted a series of notes a third time. And those series of notes were used to send the Legions of Rome into battle! 

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

Caesar Triumphant

Centurion Felix waited impatiently as his men caught their
breath and sucked greedily at their canteens. The advance Century he had sent
out ahead was now standing just below the crest of the slope, staying out of
sight because once atop it they would be within plain sight of Caesar's camp,
a little more than a mile away. Despite his impatience Felix forced himself to
wait, making sure that he could see that the force he was commanding was
sufficiently recovered before they closed the remaining distance to the
general's camp. None of the other Centurions commanding this hodgepodge
assortment of Cohorts from two different Legions left their spots to come talk
to Felix, another sign that this was an unusual development. Felix welcomed the
solitude, consumed as he was with all sorts of conflicting thoughts and
emotions and in fact didn't blame them for avoiding him like he had the
plague. Like his Primus Pilus Flaminius, Felix felt in his bones that this was
the right thing to do, but just like his commander, he was aware that if it
wasn't his career was irreparably harmed. It was true he would be protected
somewhat by following the orders of his superior, but not only had he not hesitated he had also eagerly accepted Flaminius' judgment that Felix was the most senior
of the Centurions in command of these twelve Cohorts and that, he knew, wasn't
the case. Therefore, at the very least he would be guilty of overstepping his
authority, but that was more of a nagging consideration than a real fear.
Instead, his mind was almost totally consumed with what would be taking place
immediately after he and his men crested the slope. He was sure that he would
be able to get a better idea of what was happening in Caesar's camp but that
was only half the problem. As certain as he was that this was the right thing
to do he also felt in his bones that no matter how desperate Caesar's
situation might be, the real key to the battle lay to the north, where the 10th
and 12th could even at that moment be in their death throes and needing help
desperately. Finally, he spat on the ground in a signal, to himself at least,
that the time for thinking and recovering was over.

"All right! Let's go! Caesar's waiting on us!"
Felix shouted, not using his cornicen as
he would normally do, not wanting the deep, bass sound of the horn that carried
for long distances to possibly alert the enemy.

He doubted they were within earshot, but they had come too
far and didn't need any kind of surprises now. His command was relayed down the
column and within a matter of a few dozen heartbeats, Felix saw the Centurion
of the rearmost Century wave his hand to let him know that all was ready.
Giving the command to his own Century, Felix resumed the march at the normal
pace, but after just a moment he immediately increased the pace back to the
quick trot. Thankfully he and the men had recovered their breath, because the
grade of the slope was steeper than it looked and very quickly Felix could
feel the burning in his thighs as they pumped, moving him and the relief force
up the slope. Keeping his eye affixed on the advance guard, he saw them
disappear, and he knew that the next few moments would tell him what he needed
to know. If one of the advance party came sprinting back in his direction, even
before they told him he would understand that it meant there was a problem in
Caesar's camp. The absolutely worst possibility would be that Caesar's camp was
already overrun and the Wa had spilled out onto the road, blocking Felix and
his men from helping either Caesar or the 10th. Every stride took him closer to
the top, but still he didn't see any sign from the advance party and even with
the exertion, his heart was beating faster from the anticipation. Then he was
at the top of the hill and he managed to take an extra gulp of air in relief
at the sight of the leading Century, still trotting forward. As soon as the
feeling of relief came, he shoved it aside as he looked over the heads and
slightly to the left of the advance party at Caesar's camp, and as much as he
thought he had prepared his mind for any possibility it still took a moment
for the sight before him to register in its import. Not only was there a pall
of dust hanging above the camp, all the way almost to where he knew the forum
was located, but there were black tendrils of smoke drifting up into the still
air. Knowing that Caesar would never intentionally order anything inside the
camp burned, Felix understood that this could only come from the enemy firing
the flammable objects inside the walls. Whether it was intentional or
accidental didn't concern Felix; what did was the knowledge that between the
presence and location of the dust and the smoke, the walls of Caesar's camp
were breached, and Caesar had in all likelihood been forced to retreat to the
forum. In short, Caesar's camp was about to fall.

  Artaxades was having trouble with his vision, not only
because of the sweat streaming freely down into his eyes but also because his
lungs were unable to pull in air quickly enough. Not helping matters, it was becoming more
difficult to control where his eyes focused, as they seemed now to have a mind
of their own and if he didn't know better he would swear that he was looking
in two different directions, making it impossible for his brain to interpret
what it was receiving from his eyes. The pain in his side, the
cause for him remaining undiscovered by forcing him to stop before reaching the
top of the ridge, was back in full force now that he had moved farther south
along the slope. By his estimate he had gone perhaps another mile before he had turned back up and
finished his climb to the top. When he did so he had glanced back to his right, but thankfully
nobody was visible, friend or enemy, and at least now he was running along the
better surface of the road. Blessed with unnaturally long legs, Artaxades'
stride was still smooth and even, despite the intense strain he was under. His
breathing would have been audible a hundred paces away, and it was the only sound
roaring in the Parthian's ears now as he pushed his body harder than he ever
had before. Never in a race had he run this fast, he was sure, and the fleeting
thought crossed his mind that it was a shame that this wasn't in the Legion
games, because he surely would have left his competitors so far behind that men
would talk about it around the fires for years to come, the day that Artaxades
had flown faster than Hermes himself. That thought seemed to give him strength and while part of him rebelled at it, his stride lengthened even further, his
legs moving so fluidly and swiftly that the balls of his feet barely touched
the ground. It was as if he in fact possessed the winged shoes of Hermes and
just the feeling of freedom, of flight and speed made the pain bearable, the
ache in his side feeling like something was about to burst in him, his lungs
close to exploding, and yet it didn't matter. Artaxades, in that moment, was
sure that he was touched by the gods, blessed by them as they saw how he was
pouring every bit of energy and heart into his mission to save his friends from
certain disaster. Racing down the road, as Artaxades squinted through the pain
and sweat, his vision was too blurry for him to make out much more than vague
shapes and colors, so when he rounded a slight curve that put him in sight of
Caesar's camp, it didn't register as anything more than a darker shape against
the sky. And even if his eyes had been clear, his mind was so absorbed with
keeping his body moving at the same speed he had been maintaining that it was
incapable of any higher thought like deciphering what the straight lines of
that dark shape meant. But somewhere deep in his mind, a small voice whispered
to Artaxades that, since there were no straight lines in nature, this meant
something important and even as his feet continued in a blur of motion,
drawing him ever closer to the finish, he puzzled over what it meant. He
covered another stadia before the answer popped into his head, seemingly out of
nowhere. It was Caesar's camp, the finish line! He was almost there!
Immediately following that thought was the recollection that there was a reason
he had been sent on this mission, yet it wouldn't come to him. Instead, the
pain was almost overwhelming, from his feet, to his thighs, to his chest, every
part of him throbbing with an agony that he had never experienced. Yet, he
still didn't slow down, which was a feat in itself, and even through the pain
he could see that he was within the last few stadia. That meant he had to remember the message he was
supposed to give whoever he first came into contact with once he got to the
camp.

 

"One........two........one............two..........."

At roughly the same time, the same thing that was taking
place in Caesar's camp was being done in the northern camp, but it was Pullus
who was moving behind the slowly retreating men, doing the same things Caesar
was doing, in much the same way. Unlike Caesar, Pullus didn't hesitate to wade
into a fight when he saw that one of his men was having trouble disentangling
from the Wa as they moved backward. Even as fatigued as Pullus was, he still
wielded his blade with a lethal economy, striking quickly and with a brutal
force that brought death to even more Wa. Pullus had no idea how many of the
enemy he'd slain; it was well over a hundred, but he could look over the heads
of the front rank and see that the barbarians were still several rows deep.
There seemed to be no end to them and despite killing them in the thousands,
they showed no sign of despair or fatigue. Still they came on in wave after
human wave, but what Pullus had seen over the course of this fight was the only
thing that gave him a sliver of hope. While the Wa who wielded the swords did
so with a skill that Pullus had never encountered in an enemy before, they
numbered perhaps a quarter of the total of the assaulting force. The rest,
carrying the spears with the teardrop-shaped blades, varied greatly in skill
levels but the majority of them were not much better than the native levies of
any of the lands that Pullus and the army had marched through and conquered.
The only real question, and one on which any chance of survival this day hinged
upon was how many of those sword-wielding Wa were still left. As he moved to
another spot, his eyes scanned the leading ranks of the Wa, trying to determine
the ratio of barbarians with swords and those with spears, but the mental
energy needed for such complex operations had long since been spent. He saw
that it seemed to be that every other one of the Wa who were furiously pressing
against the shields of his front ranks were carrying swords, using them to
thrust, stab or otherwise hack their way past the thin wooden wall to get at
the men behind them. One small blessing was that at this point, men had shouted
themselves hoarse, so the level of noise was significantly lower than it had
been a watch, or even a third of a watch before. That didn't mean that there
wasn't still an unholy racket assaulting his ears, but compared to earlier it was
blessedly quieter. Finally giving up trying to determine the proportions of the
barbarians who were waving swords about, Pullus instead focused on the things
he could control. Moving again, he half-trotted, half-stumbled behind the
woefully thin line of Legionaries, only stopping when he found the man he was
looking for, his best friend Scribonius. Just like Pullus, his arm was bound
tightly, but in his case it was the left arm and he had lost sufficient
feeling in his hand so that he couldn't even grasp a vitus, let alone a shield. Also like Pullus, his face was drawn and
spattered with blood and grime, a sign of the desperate fighting that had been
raging for most of the day.

"Did you hear about Balbus?" Pullus winced as he blurted
out the question, but truthfully he had neither the energy nor the ability to
bring up the death of their friend in a more diplomatic fashion. 

Scribonius'
face became even more drawn, his mouth turning down in a frown that Pullus knew
from long experience was his friend's sign of real grief.

"Yes, I heard," he finally said, not looking Pullus in the
eye as he talked. "Stupid bastard."

Despite himself, Pullus let out a short, barking laugh.

"He was that," he admitted. "But I never
thought......."

"Neither did I," Scribonius cut him off. "Just like I
didn't think we could ever be beaten."

His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace at this last, and although
Pullus understood and essentially agreed with his friend, he still felt
compelled to put a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"We're not done yet," Pullus said with as much conviction
as he could muster. "We don't know what's happening everywhere else, so
for all we know Caesar's on his way with help. We just have to hold out a little
longer."

Now it was Scribonius' turn to laugh, but this one held no humor.

"I really hope you're right, and the gods are listening Titus.
But I think we may have come to the end of our string here."

"I don't believe that," Pullus shot back and to his real
surprise, the moment he said it he realized that while a part of him
understood the gravity of the situation they were in, there was clearly another
part of him that still held out hope. 

In that moment Pullus chose to listen to
the hopeful part of his being and he grabbed Scribonius by the shoulder,
squeezing so hard it made his friend wince.

"I think we can get out of this," he insisted.
"We just have to hold on a little longer. Make these bastards pay for
every foot of ground they take from us. Once we get back to the forum, we're
going into an orbis, and we're going
to hold long enough for help to come. We will hold, do you understand me? We will hold!"

When all was said and done, Sextus Scribonius believed his Primus
Pilus and friend mainly because he wanted to believe, but at that moment what
mattered was that he did and looking his friend in the eye, he gave a curt,
brief nod.

"We'll do just that Titus. You have my word on it."

Pullus didn't respond, just gave his friend another squeeze of the
shoulder before he moved away, searching for the rest of his Centurions to
impart the same message, and the same resolve in them, that there was hope and
that the 10th would not fail this day. 

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

Caesar Triumphant

Artaxades' breathing was harsh but even as he picked his way as carefully as the blistering pace he was setting would allow, carefully lifting his feet higher than normal to avoid tripping over a rock or root. He had left the eastern gate as directed, wearing nothing but a tunic and a dagger strapped to his belt, and headed downhill for a distance before turning south to run along the face of the slope. The ground was extremely rough and broken, but the Centurion giving him the message to deliver hadn't spared Artaxades any detail, impressing upon him exactly how important this message was, not just to the fate of his friends in the 10th, but the entire army. Artaxades, despite being a Parthian, had been with the Legion now for seven years, long enough for bonds to form that were as strong as any he felt towards his blood kin. In fact, after the first year, where he had woken homesick every single day, unaccustomed to the harsh strangeness of the Roman military life, he thought of his family, his mother and father, his two brothers and three sisters, with ever-decreasing frequency. The men standing on either side of him, one of them another Parthian named Gaspar, who Artaxades now regarded as someone closer than a brother, and the man who protected his sword side, a Roman named Numerius who meant almost as much, these men had become his family. 

And it was for these men, and the rest of the 10th for whom Artaxades ran now, his eyes relentlessly scanning the ground just ahead, looking for a protruding rock, root, or worse, hole in the ground that would snap his ankle. He wasn't sure how far he had to run before he could turn and climb up the slope to use the road, but after almost tripping headlong yet again, he decided it was time to risk it. Making a arcing right turn so that he didn't break stride, his breathing almost immediately started to become ragged, his lungs screaming in protest at the sudden extra burden caused by the incline. Naturally, without thinking, Artaxades eased his pace to compensate, but then unbidden the thought of Gaspar and Numerius, who were at that moment standing in the line and could even be fighting for their lives, burst into the Parthian's consciousness. Despite the pain, he resumed his previous level of exertion, and within a couple of moments his breathing was so labored that he couldn't even hear the sound of the hobnails in his caligae when they struck the rocky soil. Nevertheless, his legs kept churning, and he could see the top of the slope barely fifty paces away, so he dropped his head and began pumping his arms furiously to dash up the last part. Just before the top, a pain in his side became so intense that despite himself he slowed, and in slowing saved his life and gave the army a chance at survival. That slight decrease in his pace meant that he heard the shouts of men, not anything associated with fighting, but some sort of orders. At least that's what it sounded like to Artaxades, but what he did know was that it wasn't in Latin, but in the tongue of the barbarians. He heard just enough to come to a stop before his head and shoulders crested the slope, keeping him out of sight. Panting, he paused only for a moment before turning and heading back a short distance down the slope, then turned to continue his run to the south. He wouldn't be able to take advantage of the road, not yet.

Gaius Porcinus' first sensation was a throbbing pain on the side of his head, which only intensified when he opened his eyes to the sunlight streaming down. His helmet had been pulled off by someone, he didn't know who, and without thinking he reached up to touch the spot on his head, wincing in pain as his fingers touched the matted hair where a deep gash ran just above his ear. It was several inches long running from just behind his ear to his temple, but gritting his teeth, he forced his fingers to probe gently for any sign of a fracture. Despite the pain, he heaved a sigh of relief as his fingers found no obvious signs that his skull was broken. Suddenly, the sunlight was blocked by a figure looming over him, and Porcinus' eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden change. Blinking, it took a couple moments for him to recognize the face of his Optio, another Parthian named Oesalces, his swarthy features showing the strain of all that was happening.

"Hastatus Posterior Porcinus! Are you all right sir?" Oesalces had to shout to be heard over the noise of the fighting, which had continued unabated while Porcinus was unconscious.

He had been dragged several paces away from the wall, just far enough to be out of danger but the din was still almost overwhelming, and Porcinus was sure it added to his already pounding headache. In answer to Oesalces, Porcinus sat up and immediately his head began spinning so violently he was overcome with a wave of nausea. Turning his head to the side, he vomited the remains of his breakfast onto the ground next to him. Staring at the mess, Porcinus struggled to focus, but for some reason his mind was occupied with trying to determine how long ago he had ingested what was now on the ground. It was only when Oescales put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a hard shake that his attention on that subject was broken.

"Centurion! Are you all right? Can you stand?" Porcinus forced himself to look up at his Optio, trying to gather his thoughts as he considered the answer.

After what seemed like a long time, Gaius finally nodded his head, wincing as he did.

"I think so. Help me up," he told Oescales, holding his hand out, grabbing at his Optio's own as he was pulled to his feet.

For a moment, he thought he would topple over but Oescales held his arm as his head cleared. Once he regained his equilibrium, Porcinus turned his attention to the immediate situation.

Looking at his Century, he frowned and asked, "Where's Olympus?"

Oescales was startled by the question, but it told him that the blow to Porcinus' head was worse than he had thought.

"Olympus was killed sir. You were standing next to him when it happened. Remember?"

Once Oescales uttered the words, the image of Olympus' body being hurled down into the mass of Wa warriors came flooding back into Porcinus' mind, causing an involuntary shaking that made his head hurt even more.

"Yes, I remember now. Never mind. How long have I been out?"

"Not that long. We've only had a couple more men go down, one wounded but he'll make it and one dead."

"He'll make it if we survive," Porcinus answered grimly.

The mention of the dead Legionary prompted the realization that he needed a helmet, since the one he had been wearing had been buckled by the blow from the Wa sword. Porcinus could see it on the ground just a couple steps away, where it had been tossed after being removed from his head by....who? It doesn't matter, Porcinus chided himself. All that matters is getting back in the fight and leading the men. Seeing a discarded helmet lying next to the small row of bodies that had already started to form, Porcinus trotted over to it, scooping up his ruined helmet as he did. His own felt liner was of course no good, so the dead man's would have to suffice, and Porcinus put that on first, wincing as it settled over his injury. Quickly affixing the transverse crest to the new helmet, he stifled a groan of pain as he pulled the helmet down onto his head, tying the chin thong as tightly as he dared.

"Where's my sword?" he asked Oescales, but his Optio answered that he didn't know, so Porcinus picked among several now scattered about, discarding ones that he could see were cracked or just didn't feel good in his hand. Settling on one, he made a few circular motions with the tip of it as a way to loosen up his arm. Then, turning to his Optio, Porcinus gave him a grim smile.

"Well Optio, let's get back in things, shall we?"

Without waiting for an answer but knowing his Optio would be hot on his heels, Porcinus strode to the back of his Century, calling out to the men as he shoved his way to the front.

"I'm back boys and feeling refreshed from my nap! Let's say we kill some more of these cunni!" Anything else he had shouted was drowned out by the added roar of the men of the Sixth Century, Tenth Cohort as their Centurion resumed his spot at the front. They were more than ready to keep fighting. 

"One...........two................one.............two!" The command rang out, bellowed by Barbatos, still standing near Caesar who, despite being in overall command, let his Centurions do their job. Barbatos was calling out the numbered commands that the Legions used when staging a fighting withdrawal. At the command of "one", lash out with the shield, pushing the enemy across from you back a step, but instead of moving forward on the second command, take a step back, shield still up, sword still ready. Still, it was a step back and not forward, and all along a steadily shrinking line, the Romans in Caesar's camp moved slowly back in the direction of the forum, where every available man was working feverishly to create some sort of prepared position. Boxes, barrels, sacks of rice, anything and everything that possessed any kind of solidity and weight to it was dragged or carried to form a rough, circular shape slightly larger than the forum. The tents that were in the way were yanked down and dragged elsewhere, while the guy ropes holding up the large praetorium tent were cut and the poles removed, but only after the desks and other pieces of solid furniture were carried away to be added to the makeshift barricade. Anything and everything that could possibly be used for protection was salvaged from the entire part of the camp to the east side of the forum, still untouched by fighting. Meanwhile, Caesar was moving rapidly about, just behind the line of fighting men, exhorting his boys to keep their discipline, listen to the count of their Centurions, and lending his sword where needed. While it wasn't the first time he had done such things, never before had Caesar put on such a virtuoso performance; not at Munda, not at Ecbatana, not even in the bitter fighting against the Pandyans on the beaches of that kingdom. It seemed he was literally everywhere, showing up in one spot to give the final sword thrust that stopped a Wa from striking down one of his men and creating a gap in the slowly retreating line. Then he would be at another point, holding onto the harness of a man who was being pressured by the weight of barbarian soldiers who were massed together, trying to buckle the Roman line by sheer weight of numbers. Calling to others, he would stay until the man's comrades who were able came to his aid, only then removing himself to move to another trouble spot. No men who saw Caesar in those moments weren't inspired to fight harder than they ever had before, and despite the seemingly overwhelming numbers of swords and spears slashing and thrusting at them, the lines held.

"One..............two...............one............two........" Step by step, Barbatos and the other Centurions assigned to the task along the line called out the count, and for the brief moment Caesar took to catch his breath, he was gratified to see that the ground behind the mass of Wa still pressing against the shields of his men was covered with bodies. Most of them were Wa, but there was still a disturbingly large number of men clad in the uniform of the Legions as well.

"Caesar!" The general was disturbed from his examination to see the Parthian Tribune, face shining with perspiration, a sign that he hadn't thought himself above the manual labor of constructing the breastworks. If he survives, he may make a good officer, Caesar thought while still listening to the report of the Parthian.

"The breastworks are finished and ready to be occupied!"

"Good," Caesar answered immediately, but while this was good news, there was one more thing that had to be done that he didn't relish in the least. "We'll be there in just a few moments. Make sure that you direct the signiferi to ensure their spacing is enough to cover the entire wall all the way around."

The Parthian saluted, and Caesar turned back to the next task, and as exhausted and drained as he was, he still had enough energy that a sudden, leaden ball formed in his stomach. Ignoring it, he scanned the lines of men until he saw who he was looking for. Pushing his way close enough so that he could be heard, he called out to the man.

"Barbatos!"

Hearing his name, the Centurion carefully backed away from the front line before facing his general. Seeing Caesar beckoning him to come to him, Barbatos made his way through the lines of men, but made sure to make a joke or offer a word of encouragement and slap on a shoulder as he did, causing Caesar an even deeper twinge of regret over what he had to do.

When Barbatos reached his side, Caesar wasted no time, speaking in a low voice so the men nearby wouldn't hear.

"The breastworks are ready."

Barbatos' face betrayed no emotion, but he gave a brief nod that he understood, and Caesar recognized that Barbatos knew what was coming, and he said as much.

"I can tell you know what needs to be done, and I can think of no better man than you to make sure it's done well, because our survival depends on it."

"You need me to have the first line hold off these bastards long enough for the rest of you to get to the breastworks," Barbatos replied calmly.

Perhaps it was the matter-of-fact tone, the calm acceptance of a fate that meant certain death, but Caesar's vision suddenly became clouded as the tears threatened to come pouring down his face, and it was only through his supreme will that they remained unshed. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he couldn't speak for a moment, and when he did, his voice was husky with emotion.

"Yes, that's exactly what needs to happen. And I know that I couldn't have made a better choice for the man to do it."

Now it was Barbatos who felt the swell of emotion, and for the remaining moments of his life, the pride that he felt would buoy and sustain him, giving him the strength to do what needed to be done.

"We won't let you down, Caeasar," he finally managed to say. Both men stood for just a moment, then Caesar reached out and grabbed Barbatos by the shoulder, squeezing it hard.

"May Mars, Bellona and Fortuna bless you and the men," Caesar told Barbatos, but he only received a nod in return before Barbatos turned about, and without another word, headed back to the fighting. 

Caesar took a moment to watch him stride, sword in hand, a proud Roman meeting his fate and his destiny with head held high, and the older man was almost overcome with a wave of sadness and remorse. He had caused this, he knew. These men were here because his thirst for fame and overwhelming desire to outstrip Alexander had brought them here, to this strange land, facing these strange men. And now most, if not all of them would die. Caesar forced himself to push the feelings down, thinking now about his next step. Surveying the men, he found the man he was looking for, and headed directly for him, skirting behind the men clutching onto the harnesses of those in front of them. Now Caesar had to ensure that the sacrifice of Barbatos and the men of the front line wasn't in vain, that with their deaths they ensured that the remainder of his force was able to move behind the barricades that were waiting for them in the forum. 

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

Caesar Triumphant

Gaius Porcinus and his Century were at that very moment hurling the second and last of their javelins into the mass of Wa who had reached just the other side of the ditch. Every one of them was roaring in their own tongue, and while not one of the men on that rampart understood the words, they needed no translation of intent. Unlike the other assaults, the commander of this contingent of Wa had decided speed would be an even better weapon than a barrage of arrow fire. And while the rear ranks, composed of archers, were firing, the intensity of the firing was nowhere near the ferocity of the barrage on the western wall. While this meant less men would fall from arrows, the other benefit was that the Roman's shields were intact when the first of the Wa came scrambling up the ladders. Since Caesar had ordered that only the ditch facing the most likely avenue of attack be sown with the lilies, the only obstacles were the sharpened stakes embedded in the wall of the ditch directly underneath the rampart and palisade. And while these stakes did their job and claimed a few Wa who were either too zealous or unlucky, the numbers were akin to catching a handful of water out of a waterfall. 

Porcinus was in his spot at the right of his Century, roughly in the middle between the main gate and the western corner of the camp. Although the initial assault of this enemy force was focused around the main gate, it was only a matter of moments before, again like a flood of water, the Wa in the middle ranks came boiling up the ditch. Porcinus, in the instant before the screaming warriors began throwing their ladders up against the rampart, was struck by how much this was like a raging flood brought on by a sudden storm, except instead of water this torrent was composed of flesh, blood and iron. Then the top of a ladder suddenly came into view directly to his left, in front of his men of the first tent section of his Century. Because this was the last Cohort, the Tenth, there was a higher concentration of non-Romans, and the man to Gaius' left was a Pandyan named Supor, but who had earned the nickname Olympus because in the winter games held every year, he had been crowned the Legion champion, and had been narrowly defeated for the title of best discus thrower in the army. But he was also a good fighter, and this was the quality that Porcinus and the rest of his comrades valued now, especially since none of the men of the relief force had siege spears. This was going to be decided one way or the other by Roman swords and shields. Since Olympus was holding his own shield and had his sword in his other hand, it was up to Porcinus to try and push the ladder away. Unfortunately, while Gaius was no weakling, it took the strength of a Titus Pullus to singlehandedly thrust a ladder now holding two or three Wa who were scrambling upward as quickly as they could away from the rampart. Knowing this, Porcinus didn't even try, deciding in that instant to add his own sword to stop the first barbarians up the ladder. He and Olympus struck simultaneously, so that the first Wa faced a choice that sealed his fate either way. As he dodged Olympus' blade, he consequently moved right into the path of Porcinus' savage downward thrust, the tip punching right into the soft space between clavicle and shoulder blade, sending the Wa toppling backward, striking the man immediately behind him and starting a chain reaction of falling bodies that swept the first few Wa off the ladder.

"We couldn't have done better if we had planned it," Porcinus shouted more loudly than he needed to than if he was just talking to Olympus, but like any good leader, he knew his men needed every small victory that came their way. "If that's not a sign that the gods haven't forsaken us, I don't know what is!"

This elicited a round of cheers, but as Porcinus knew, watching the men below untangling themselves, it would be short-lived. Even as he watched, the first men were replaced by more Wa, their yellowish faces turned up as they clambered up the rungs, eyes almost invisible and lips thinned in a snarling mien of fear, hate and bloodlust. Within a matter of a few heartbeats, Olympus and Porcinus attempted to repeat the tactic that had worked so well, but this Wa was either more experienced or had observed what happened to his comrade and come up with a countermove of his own. Instead of trying to twist backward to avoid one of the Roman's thrusts, this Wa did the opposite, suddenly throwing his body hard up against the ladder, while the Roman blades bit into nothing but empty air behind him. Because of his angle to the ladder Porcinus could see the Wa, but in order to reach him with a sword thrust he would have had to lean out over the parapet, and he had seen more than enough times what happened to men who did that. To Olympus, however, it was as if the Wa disappeared from sight and thinking that the barbarian had somehow fallen off the ladder, he made the very mistake that Gaius knew to avoid.   Counting on his own quickness, the Pandyan decided to risk a peek by moving his shield a fraction so that he could quickly lean over to make sure that the yellow bastard had indeed been dispatched.

"Olympus no! Don't....." Gaius shouted, but it was too late.

The Wa gave a simple upward thrust that was so quick that Gaius' brain barely registered the silvery flash, and Olympus never saw what killed him as the point of the Wa's blade pierced the spot where the throat and chin intersect, killing the Pandyan instantly. Losing Olympus so early was bad enough, but then somehow the Wa managed to let go of the ladder with his free hand to reach up and grab the slumping Legionary by the front of his harness and using the blade still buried in his head for added leverage, jerked the dead man up and out over the rampart. Porcinus could only watch in horror as Olympus' body fell over the side, the momentum of the Wa's tug enough to avoid hitting his comrades further down the ladder. For a moment, just the briefest of moments, there was a pause as the Wa grabbed the ladder again with his free hand, and Porcinus thought that the man immediately behind Olympus would have the time to step into the now vacated spot. But that was a vain hope; the Legionary who had been bracing the Pandyan was a Gayan, one of the newest batch of tiros and while he was now a veteran by virtue of all of the fighting this campaign had seen, he was still relatively inexperienced, the sudden death and disappearance of Olympus unnerving him so much that he froze. It was only for a matter of perhaps two or three heartbeats, but in moments like this, that is an eternity. However long a time it was, it was enough for the Wa who created the first crisis of this portion of the battle. With an explosive thrust of his legs, this warrior cleared the palisade and before his feet touched the earthen rampart he delivered a devastating, slicing blow aimed at Gaius Porcinus, who had just begun moving to fill the gap left by Olympus. The blade of the Wa's sword struck Gaius on his helmet, just above the ear, making a ringing sound not unlike a gong being struck, dropping the young Centurion, who was unconscious before he hit the ground.

Titus Pullus was still reeling from the loss of his second closest friend, a man who Titus privately considered to be his match, if not in skill, certainly in experience and in that undefinable virtue of ferocity and refusal to accept defeat. However, matters had become so precarious, the line of Legionaries holding back the Wa from flooding into the camp so thin that he had to force himself to put his grief away, despite the difficulty. Surveying the situation, what he saw was incredibly disheartening. No matter how the day ended, the 10th Legion was finished as a fighting force. From his quick survey, Pullus' estimate was that of the men still standing, perhaps one in ten were still unwounded. The rest of the men had all suffered wounds, mostly to the extremities, although Pullus could see men with hasty bandages wrapped around their heads, with some even still fighting despite part of their face being covered where a Wa sword or spear had inflicted a wound. Pullus hadn't received an update from Balbinus and the 12th for a period of time that was impossible for him to calculate, but if he stepped up to within a few paces of the base of the rampart, his front line now located on the first piece of level ground, he could look down the length of the camp at what he knew to be the remnants of the Seventh Cohort of the 12th and see that the situation was much the same as with the 10th. Despite how well the men were fighting, Pullus understood that this was the moment when the Wa's overwhelming advantage in numbers would tell. His men were fighting like the heroes of Troy and even if he died this day, a possibility that was growing in likelihood with each passing moment, this would still rank as the greatest fight the 10th had ever put up. It was just a shame that the Republic for which these men fought so bravely would never hear of what took place today, Pullus thought sadly. Even as this thought ran through his mind he was in motion, heading towards a spot near where the 10th and 12th met, where he could see a bulging pocket had been formed by a group of Wa that had pushed the Legionaries in that area almost all the way across the cleared area next to the rampart, so that the backs of the men in support were almost up against the first row of tents. Pullus began moving toward this spot, but when he turned to call to whatever men he could muster to come with him, less than two dozen men were able to answer his call. That was the moment Pullus knew what he must do, and it was with a leaden ball of shame and sadness that he grabbed one of the Legionaries by the arm, the Centurion of his Fourth Century as it turned out.

"I don't have any more tablets, or if I do all the slaves carrying them are dead," he shouted above the growing sounds of the fighting, as the Wa began to sense that victory was near and shouted encouragement to their comrades. "So you have to remember this order to take to the courier."

"What courier?" the Centurion asked. "They're either dead or trapped here in the camp now that those bastards have hit the main gate."

"I know that," Pullus snapped, the strain of the moment wearing on him. "But we have to get word to Caesar somehow, so I want you to go find out if Artaxades is still alive. If he's not, then you'll have to do it. But I think he's probably still alive because he's in the last section of his Century in the Eighth, and he's our best chance. Our only chance," Pullus amended.

Normally, a Primus Pilus wouldn't concern himself with the health or whereabouts of a lowly Gregarius in one of the junior Cohorts, but this man, a Parthian, bore the distinction of being crowned the fastest runner of the longer distances in the army.

Pullus was counting on this now, as he continued, "If he's alive, tell him to carry this message to Caesar. The camp is about to fall, and I'm ordering a fighting withdrawal to the forum, then an orbis. I doubt that we'll survive two parts of a watch, but if we do, we have a chance that Caesar can send reinforcements to hit the Wa from behind."

"That's not much of a chance."

"I know," Pullus admitted. "But it's the only one we have. So tell Artaxades to strip down. No armor, no helmet, nothing that can slow him down, not even a sword or dagger. Send him out the  eastern gate, have him head down the slope about halfway before he turns south. Whoever their general is, he's a clever bastard, but hopefully he didn't think to put some men farther down the ridge to stop the kind of thing we're doing."

As was normal, the Centurion repeated everything back except for the last thing Pullus said, knowing it wasn't necessary. With a curt nod, Pullus dismissed the Centurion, who immediately turned to carry out his orders. Before he took more than two steps, Pullus called to him.

"Tell Artaxades that he needs to run faster than he ever has in his life before. The 10th depends on him."

That piece of business done, Pullus continued toward the pocket, happy to see that as tired as the men accompanying him were, they hadn't hesitated and had already run on to bolster their comrades. All unit cohesion was gone by this point; Centuries had become irretrievably enmeshed with each other, so it was rare that men from the same section were fighting side by side. This, however, was where the grueling and harsh training of the Legions showed, as men who had never stood in the line together still knew exactly what was expected of them. Just before Pullus took his place at their head, he called the nearest cornicen to him.

"Sound the signal for fighting withdrawal," he told the man, "we're falling back to the forum."

The moment Pullus was finished, the first notes of one of the most hated horn commands began sounding, and to Pullus it was clear that it was an order that the men were expecting, because none of them turned to look in disbelief or anger at the idea of giving ground. Those men still fighting understood this was the correct, indeed the only decision at that moment. I think I left it too late, Pullus thought as he waded into the fighting, his already bloodied sword held in first position. He had done all he could do as a commander for the moment. Now it was time to fight.

Centurion Felix was at the head of the column sent by Flaminius, pushing the men under his command relentlessly north, towards Caesar's camp. Every few moments, the undulations of the ridgetop road afforded Felix and his men a view of the commander's position, but they were still too far away to make out particulars. They could see the cloud of dust hanging just above the ramparts, a sign of many, many feet shuffling about. What he was unable to determine was whether the fighting was still along the walls, or if the camp had been penetrated. With that acting as a spur, he unconsciously picked up the pace of his trot, only becoming aware of the increased pace a few moments later when the sound of his gasping became so loud he couldn't block it out. Only then did he relent a bit, the sound of the rest of his men gasping and retching soon overwhelming the sound of his own breath in his ears. Still, although he slowed he didn't stop yet, even as he recognized that he would have to do so, soon. Otherwise, he and his men would be too winded and fatigued to do anything more than vomit on those barbarians. Just a bit farther, he thought, then we'll stop, seeing ahead of him a slight slope leading to a dip in the road that would shield he and his men from view and allow them to catch their breath. Felix tried to remember the route from the times he had traveled back and forth during the hectic time that the positions were being prepared. There would be a slope of perhaps three or four stadia, then the road would be relatively level for the rest of the little more than a mile to Caesar's camp. Once they reached the top of the slope, then he would be close enough to get a good idea of what was taking place at Caesar's camp, and whether or not he would be pressing on to Pullus' position. 

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

Caesar Triumphant

Julius Caesar barely had time to register the blur of motion
that suddenly streaked in from behind him as one of his men threw their body
directly into the path of the charging Wa, who even then was beginning the
downswing of his raised sword. The Legionary instinctively threw his arm up,
but there was no shield attached, it having been shattered moments earlier and
the force of the Wa's blow was so massive that the sharp blade sliced through
the Legionary's forearm as if it wasn't even there, continuing down onto and
through the man's helmet. Although Caesar hadn't yet completely comprehended
what one of his men was doing for him, and the army, he did feel the warm,
sticky spray of blood and brain matter as the Wa's sword sliced through the
iron helmet and the hard bone of the skull. Its momentum was finally stopped by
the lower jawbone of the stricken Legionary, who remained standing for a
moment, his body suddenly jerking spasmodically as his body tried to receive
signals that were no longer being sent. Without any thought, Caesar reacted to
the sight by thrusting his sword into the chest of the Wa, who was still trying
to wrench his sword from the Legionary's skull, and he collapsed at Caesar's
feet. Only then did Caesar fully focus on the sight to his right, his eye
caught by the point and a clear foot of the blade of the sword protruding from
the back of the Legionary's skull. Before he could react, however, the man
fell straight down into a heap, his ruined face looking curiously intact
except for the bloody, straight line separating one half of his face from the
other. It was extremely unsettling, even for a man like Caesar who had seen so
much violent death and destruction to see what was in effect one half of a
face, the eye gazing up at him with that surprised expression so many of the
dead have, while the other half was literally facing in the other direction. 

This
sight rooted Caesar to the ground, until a Centurion, the Quintus Pilus
Posterior of the 15th Legion, Quintus Barbatos, nudged Caesar gently. Quickly
snapping back to reality, Caesar took in the situation and saw that the
outbreak had been contained, the men who had followed him and still survived
now mopping up the handful of Wa who were now completely surrounded. Studying
his general's face, albeit when he thought Caesar wasn't looking, Barbatos was
distinctly unsettled by what he saw etched in the older man's face. Not only
did he look tired, he looked........Barbatos tried but couldn't come up with
a word that fit, yet whatever that look was, it didn't inspire confidence.
Apparently sensing eyes on him, Caesar turned from his examination of the
situation in front of him, as the last of the Wa were cut down.

Giving the Centurion a tired smile, Caesar said, "Hot work, eh,
Barbatos?"

"That it is, Caesar," Barbatos agreed, feeling slightly
better with his general's ice-blue eyes now looking directly into his and experiencing
the same queer but pleasant sensation every person who was favored with that
look of Caesar's felt.

It was as if he could see into your soul and see your darkest
secrets, but he accepted them with a slightly mocking, slightly humorous tilt
of the head and an upturned lip that was just the hint of a smile. Even now,
Barbatos saw, if not that identical expression, one close enough that he chided
himself for letting his imagination run away with him. Caesar, scared? Rattled?
Not likely, the Pilus Posterior silently scoffed, feeling sure that his
thoughts would be read by Caesar.

However, Caesar only said, "This appears to be contained now,
Barbatos. But I see you're running thin. I'll have Glaxus and his Century come
to relieve you," naming the Hastatus Prior of the Seventh Cohort.

"Caesar," Barbatos replied, the worry coming back now,
"that's who we relieved. They're cut up worse than we are."

This was when Barbatos realized it hadn't been his imagination,
because the expression he thought he had seen earlier now came flooding back
over Caesar's features, and now that he was facing his general, Barbatos
recognized what he was seeing. Caesar was in doubt, and in fact was having a
hard time deciding the best course of action. Everything he had tried, every
trick he had learned in the four decades of war that he had waged for Rome
still couldn't seem to stem the tide of these Wa. And, he reminded himself,
this isn't even the camp where the main assault is focused. His reserve Cohorts
had already been committed; he was completely out of artillery ammunition; even
as he and Barbatos stood there where they had stopped this incursion he could
hear the shouts and screams that his ears told him was another breach of the
wall. But most troubling of all was that his men had lost heart, that they had
turned and ran. Well, he thought grimly, I better make them understand there's
nowhere to run to. And with that, he dismissed Barbatos with a curt command to
continue holding his position, calling for one of the Tribunes as he strode in
the direction of the forum.

Catching up with him, the Parthian Tribune reaching his side first,
asked for orders.

"I want you to take every slave, every medici, and any man you can find and go to the forum and create a breastworks.
Use the wagons, use the livestock, use anything that's solid to make a wall.
This will be our final position. Do you understand?"

Even a Tribune who wasn't a Roman by birth didn't need to be told
the import of this order, on every level, and it was only through a supreme
will that his hand was steady as he saluted his general, his voice clear and strong as he replied, "Yes Caesar. I will see to it."

"As soon as it's ready, let me know immediately," Caesar
said, but turned his attention away and back to the fighting before the Tribune
could say another word.

Pivoting about, the Parthian dashed deeper into the camp,
grabbing every noncombatant that he came across as he did. Meanwhile, Caesar
moved in the direction of the hardest fighting, and like Titus Pullus, he could
never remember feeling this tired. More disturbingly, the idea that this was
the day that Caesar was defeated had taken root in what to that point had been
rocky soil, the tendrils of doubt and despair starting to burrow their way into
his psyche. For Caesar, it was the most disturbing and paralyzing emotion he
had ever experienced. Even so, he continued moving toward the far corner of the
camp, where the Wa had managed to tear down the rampart and were now pouring
through the gap at the corner where one side of the earthen wall met another.
If this is the day I am defeated, Caesar thought, naked sword in hand, then I
will give these barbarian scum something to tell their grandchildren about.
Without breaking stride, he scooped up a new shield, and hurried to the new
breach.

"Balbus is down!"

Even from where Titus Pullus was sitting, on a macabre makeshift
couch made of the dead, he heard that cry above what had become a dull roar of
fighting. It was as if he had been dashed with a bucket of cold water, letting
out an audible gasp as he came to his feet, his overwhelming fatigue
momentarily forgotten. Looking over to where the Second Century of his First Cohort
was fighting, Pullus couldn't immediately make any sense of what he was seeing
in the mass of moving bodies. The Wa had again managed to create a presence on
the rampart, this one numbering perhaps a dozen men, and what Pullus could see
was that the line of Romans holding them back was only two deep. Seeing this
and understanding what it meant, Pullus whirled to call up the Century that had
now gone through three rotations with the Second Century, the Fourth. His
initial reaction was anger, thinking that the Princeps Posterior had taken his
men back into the camp for some reason, because all that was standing there was
perhaps two tent section's worth of men, the Centurion among them. That anger
dissolved into a twisting knot in his stomach as he recognized the sight in
front of him for what it was; the Fourth Century hadn't gone anywhere. This was the Fourth Century, less than twenty
men. Returning his attention back to the fighting, he saw that some of the men
in the second line had managed to grab Balbus and drag him out of the fighting,
where he was lying just a couple of paces behind the line. Pullus, fighting the
fatigue, forced himself to trot over to Balbus, arriving at the same time as
one of the overworked medici knelt beside the Centurion, feeling Pullus' friend's neck for any sign of life.
Just as he reached Balbus, he saw Balbus' head move slightly, and a wave of
relief washed through him at the sight, but when he also knelt down, the feeling was
short-lived. Balbus' eyes were open, and they met those of Pullus as his friend
came into view, and when he smiled, it was a gruesome sight, the blood bubbling
and frothing at his lips, filling his mouth and dribbling down his cheek.
Pullus had seen this too many times not to know that Balbus' lungs had been
punctured, and that his friend was beyond hope. Nevertheless, seemingly oblivious
to the fact that less than a dozen paces away ferocious fighting was still
going on, Pullus reached down to clasp the free hand of Balbus as the other one
clutched vainly at the hole in his chest, where blood was oozing through his
fingers in slow, rhythmic pulses, this liquid also alive with tiny, frothy
bubbles.

"What have you gone and done?" Pullus asked, his voice
choked and hoarse.

"I moved the wrong way," Balbus wheezed, prompting a weak
chuckle from his friend. "I thought the bastard was going for a low
thrust, but he caught me good and proper. I'm sorry Titus," Balbus' voice
was rapidly weakening. "I let........."

"Shut your mouth," Pullus interrupted, not wanting to hear
any more. "If you don't you're on report!"

"It's been a long time since I've been in trouble," the
last words were nothing but a whisper. "Titus, tell
Scribonius........" but before he could finish, he took a huge, spasmodic
breath, holding it for a second as his eyes widened, then with the rattle in his
throat that Pullus knew all too well, Gnaeus Balbus died. 

For a moment, Pullus
remained motionless, feeling his friend's hand growing cold almost instantly.

Then, he laid the hand gently on the chest and told the medici, "Get a stretcher bearer to
take the Pilus Posterior away, out of here."

The medici, for the
briefest of moments opened his mouth to argue, telling the Primus Pilus that
the stretcher bearers were so overworked as it was they barely were getting
wounded men to the forum to be treated and couldn't waste time on a dead man.
Then, he saw the giant Roman's face, and this man, a Parthian, quickly closed
his mouth and hurried off to obey. Meanwhile, Pullus stood and like Caesar,
took in the scene around him. As he was doing so, a huge roar from behind him
and to his left suddenly erupted, causing anyone not actually fighting to cast
an apprehensive glance over their own shoulder. The surprise Wa force had
clearly hit the wall around the main gate. Now everything was in the hands of
the gods.

 

The decision Aulus Flaminius made was one born of equal parts
pragmatism and bravado, but it was the luckiest decision he would ever make.
With the situation well in hand, with only his frontline Cohorts needed to hold
the camp, Flaminius had sent a runner to his colleague in command of the other
Legion occupying the camp, the 14th. The 14th's history under Caesar was
spotty, to put it mildly, although despite a rough start when, because of the
incompetence of the Legate commanding them in Gaul, Aulus Sabinus, they had
been wiped out to a man, their performance in this current campaign now lasting
a decade had partially redeemed their reputation. Nevertheless, Caesar had
never fully invested this Legion with his trust again, hence their position in
this camp, the one that Caesar had deemed to be the least likely to bear the
brunt of the assault. The Primus Pilus of the 14th, Gnaeus Figulus had answered
Flaminius' query with the answer Flaminius had hoped for, that like his own
Legion, they were under no duress. More importantly, Figulus had assured him
that he essentially had committed only half his Legion to the fight. From that
information, and his belief not only in his men but that Caesar, or more likely
Pullus, could use every spare man, Aulus Flaminius risked his career by not
bothering to consult with the Legate left in charge of this camp, Caesar's
quartermaster, the old muleteer Ventidius.

"Go get Pilus Prior Felix," he ordered, naming the
commander of the Fifth Cohort, whose men were standing idly a short distance
away from the rampart. The runner departed as Flaminius sent another runner to
request the presence of Figulus as well. What he was about to do was a huge
risk, he knew, but deep down in his old soldier's bones he was sure that he was
doing the right thing. Once both men arrived, Flaminius wasted no time.

"Since we have the situation in hand, I think we should send
our reserves, including the second line Cohorts, to Caesar's camp. I'm sure he
could use some help."

The relative silence for the next few moments was profound, but
whether it was because they were thinking about what needed to be done to make
this happen, or they thought him mad, Flaminius didn't know.

Finally, Figulus cleared his throat, then asked, "Did you talk
to Ventidius about this?"

"Yes," Flaminius said the word even before he could think
about it, and he would never be able to put his finger on exactly why he did
so. "He thinks it's a good idea. That's why I called you."

For the briefest moment Figulus looked disposed to argue, or even
worse, go ask Ventidius himself, but for reasons that, like Flaminius, Figulus
would never be able to explain, instead he shrugged.

"Who will be in command of the detachment?"

"Felix," Flaminius answered firmly, his tone brooking no
argument. 

Again, Figulus opened his mouth, then shut it. For this was yet another factor in Flaminius' decision. Felix
was the best Centurion in the 25th, with the possible exception of Flaminius,
but a combination of circumstances had seen his best fighting man in charge of
the Fifth Cohort only, and not in one of the frontline formations. Still, even
if he had his choice of Centurions to lead what he had in mind, Flaminius would
still have chosen Felix. The next few moments saw Flaminius doing most of the
talking, interrupted by a question or two from the other two men, then once
finished, both Centurions returned to their respective units to make
preparations.

"On your feet you lazy bastards," was how Felix put it,
bawling out the order while simultaneously kicking one of the Pandyan
Legionaries who was looking a little too comfortable resting on the ground.
"We've got orders, and we have to move. Fast."

As he was getting his own Cohort ready, Flaminius had sent
runners to the Pili Priori of the other Cohorts that would be marching, while
Figulus was essentially doing the same. Crack Legions or not, nobody could have
faulted how rapidly the 12 Cohorts of Legionaries were assembled and ready to
march out of the gate. Flaminius was waiting there, and despite his strong
feeling that he was doing the right thing by taking matters into his own hands,
he was nevertheless extremely nervous, especially since he had been forced to
lure Ventidius to the farthest corner of the camp, where a phantom incursion
was taking place. When the Legate returned and saw that more than half of the
army assigned to him was missing he would be understandably furious. In fact,
Flaminius didn't think it was out of the realm of possibility that the Legate
would have him taken into custody on the spot. Therefore, it put Flaminius in
the perverse position of actually hoping that matters were as desperate as his
instinct told him, otherwise he knew that there would be no way to repair the
damage done to his career. Even with all these thoughts piling on top of one another
in his mind, like all of Caesar's Centurions, particularly the Pili Primi,
outwardly he was extremely calm and matter-of-fact.

"March fast, Felix, but I think you should have at least a
Century out in front by a stadia at least."

Felix's face, set much like his Primus Pilus, showed surprise.

"You don't think these cunni
have
gotten all the way up to the road do you?"

Flaminius could only shrug, but his tone was firm and confident as
he replied, "Probably not, but I'm already putting my neck on the block as
it is. I don't want to compound whatever trouble I've gotten myself into by
letting you stumble into an ambush."

"I won't let you down, Primus Pilus," Felix said quietly.

"I know you won't, but if I'm right, Caesar's going to need
every one of you."

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

Caesar Triumphant

Julius Caesar was no Titus Pullus as a swordsman, but he was
nevertheless highly skilled. Snatching a discarded shield lying on the
ground, he was leading with it as he went careening into one of the small group
of Wa who had momentarily paused at the bottom of the ramp. Their hesitation
was understandable; not only were they now effectively well inside the enemy
camp, but it was just as shocking to these Wa seeing the pale barbarians
turning to flee. That brief moment allowed Caesar to close the remaining gap,
and just as the nearest Wa sensed this new danger and was turning to face it,
the 65 year-old Roman slammed into him with terrific force. Advanced age or
not, Caesar was still extremely fit, hardened by years of relentless trial and
exposure to the elements, and while slender in build, was all muscle and bone.
It was with this force that Caesar sent the first Wa recoiling backward, but
despite keeping his feet, he was only doing so with difficulty, both arms
windmilling crazily as he slammed into the Wa next to him. Their legs tangled
together, finally causing the first Wa to leave his feet and crash heavily into
the ground. 

Barely breaking stride, Caesar leapt over the first Wa, counting on
whoever was behind him to dispatch the man before he could become a threat and
attempted the same maneuver with the second Wa still struggling to stay
upright. This time however, the Wa managed to dodge Caesar's blow with his
shield, causing the Roman general to become the one who was unbalanced. In the
instant it took for him to recover, the second Wa had accomplished the same
thing, and with a bellow in their tongue that Caesar had no need for a
translator to understand, unleashed a slicing blow at waist level that would
have disemboweled the Roman if he hadn't blocked it. As it was, Caesar heard a
sharp, splintering crack from his shield and knew from  the sound that
it was now cracked and severely weakened. Nonetheless, he countered with his
own thrust, only dimly aware as the rest of the men following him threw
themselves into the Wa, and from the sound of it with the same abandon their
general had displayed. This Wa, again proving damnably agile, simply twisted his
body from the waist to allow the point of Caesar's blade to go thrusting by at
abdomen level. Fortunately for Caesar, the direction that the Wa turned moved
the Wa's blade away from Caesar, so he was unable to make a counterattack.
Instead, he made a small, hopping step even farther to Caesar's left while twisting his torso in the process so that when both feet were on the ground he
was squared up again, so that now it was Caesar's sword that was out of range.
Normally this wouldn't have concerned Caesar because his shield was between him and the Wa, but instantly he understood that was the Wa's target. Even as the
thought flashed through his mind, the Wa unleashed a hugely powerful thrust
aimed directly at Caesar's shield just to the left and a little below the boss.
Just as Caesar feared, the Wa had targeted the weakened part of his shield, the
general realizing that the crack must be visible to the Wa, although it hadn't
worked all the way through.

Until, that is, this last thrust and Caesar watched
in horror as, in seemingly slow motion, a spidery-thin longitudinal crack made
its way in both directions from where the point of the Wa's sword had punched
through, leaving a beam of daylight streaming through when he withdrew it.
Despite the shield remaining intact, Caesar knew it would only be that way for
at best two more blows, and that was only if he still had Caesar's Luck. Understanding
this fact, he didn't bother using his shield offensively, instead pivoting on
his left foot in answer to the move of the Wa, and in doing so exposed his
unprotected side to another Wa warrior who, seeing the chance at winning
eternal glory, not to mention a reward that would instantly make him a wealthy
man and elevate his status, didn't hesitate to come charging in with a sword
raised high above his head, lips pulled back in a ferocious, triumphant grin.

 

Gnaeus Balbus had singlehandedly stopped the dangerous incursion
of Wa in his sector, and was standing now, literally covered in blood and gore.
Unfortunately, not all of it belonged to the Wa; Balbus had suffered several
wounds, the most serious one a puncture wound low on his side that had driven
several small links of his mail armor into his body. The pain was excruciating,
and Balbus knew with utmost certainty that unless he put himself under the
surgeon's blade and probe and allowed him to rummage around in his insides and
get those links out, he was going to certainly die in an agony that he couldn't
fathom. Nevertheless, he shook off every attempt by his Optio to gently guide
him away from the fighting, finally snarling that he would run the Optio
through himself if he persisted in his silliness. 

Now, with a brief respite in
the fighting, he stood, legs shaking so violently that if it weren't for a pile
of bodies that he used to lean against, he was sure he would collapse. The only
concession he had made for the Optio was to allow the man to use his and
Balbus' neckerchief, knotted together, to make a makeshift bandage that Balbus
had insisted be drawn so tightly that it made it difficult to breathe. Despite
his formidable will, he couldn't keep an agonized moan escaping from his lips
as the Optio, his own face drawn and tight, pulled and tugged at the cloth.
Balbus still held his sword, and noted idly that if he didn't know better he
would have sworn that he had picked up one of the heavy wooden training swords.
He was finding it much harder to maintain his concentration at all that was
going on, and in fact was losing interest in it altogether. Then there was a
hoarse shout over and above the other noise, and he dully turned his head to
see four Wa had managed to establish another pocket of resistance directly in
front of one of the ladders. More importantly, they had managed to push outward
in a rough semicircle that opened up space for more Wa to climb the ladder and
join them. Shaking his head vigorously, Balbus finally resorted to slapping himself
in the face with his free hand, dully noting that it was caked with blood,
before rousing himself sufficiently to begin making his way toward the latest
trouble spot. Despite trying, he couldn't seem to force his legs to move in
more than an unsteady wobble, but he nevertheless propelled himself towards this new threat.

 

Gaius Porcinus was on his way back to his Century, with nothing
more in mind than rejoining them as quickly as possible so that he could at
least die with his men and among friends. Crossing the forum, however, he
suddenly stopped. Looking around, he saw that the entire open area was covered
with wounded men, some moaning in pain, others lying quietly with that vacant
look that the severely injured have, as if their immediate surroundings are no
longer important. And perhaps they weren't, Porcinus thought, but as he stood
there, unsure why he had stopped, it came to him with utter clarity. Without
thinking further, he began speaking, using what his uncle called his
"command voice" a volume just below a bellow.

"I know many of you are wounded too badly," he called.
"But I'm not going to lie to you. We've been surprised by another force
coming from the south."

He paused for a moment as his announcement prompted a buzzing of
talk as those who were able alternately cursed, moaned or exclaimed to the man
lying next to them, seeking solace in each other in this moment of extremis
even if they only knew the man by sight or they didn't speak the same tongue.

After a moment, Porcinus continued, "So I'm asking those of you
who are able to lift a sword to join us. We're going to need every man we can
get, because I don't have to tell you what happens if this part of the wall is
breached."

Nobody stirred. Gaius stood there, watching in growing helplessness
as he saw men looking from one man to another. Finally, at the far end of the
forum, he saw a bareheaded Legionary struggle to his feet, clearly favoring one
leg. Slowly bending down, he retrieved his helmet, and it was only when he
strapped it on that Porcinus recognized the Quartus Hastatus Posterior, the
Centurion commanding the last Century of the Fourth Cohort, a man named Vibius
Metellus. Helmet on, he stood there for a moment, saying nothing, just looking
down at the rest of the wounded, but even from a distance Porcinus could see
the look of disdain on his face. He saw Metellus open his mouth.

"All right you lazy cunni!
You've been lolling about whining about your scratches long enough! It's time
to earn your pay, so on your feet you bastards!"

And to Porcinus' amazement, men stirred, forcing themselves to
stand more or less upright. Some of them still had their shields, which in fact
had been used as their makeshift stretcher in most cases, but Porcinus also saw
that, good Roman Legionaries they were, they had all kept their weapons with
them. His vision suddenly became cloudy, and he found his throat tightening at
the sight before him, as these battered, already wounded men gathered
themselves in makeshift Centuries, sorting themselves out as they hobbled to
get into some semblance of a formation. There was at least one more Centurion
and perhaps a half-dozen Optios that Porcinus could see, and they took the
responsibility for organizing the men. Despite the fact that Metellus
technically outranked Porcinus, with obvious pain and difficulty, he hobbled up
to the younger man and rendered a salute.

"What are your orders, Centurion?"

That was almost too much for Gaius to bear, but he managed to keep
his composure and said in a husky voice, "I think right now you should
just stand ready at the edge of the forum and wait for developments. Do you
agree Hastatus Posterior Metellus?"

Even if Metellus seemed to be ceding the command to Porcinus, not
only did the younger Centurion have his own Century that he was desperate to
join, respect for hierarchy was so ingrained in all Legionaries that it was
extremely difficult for Porcinus to even entertain being in charge when a more
senior man was present.

Metellus, lips tightened against the pain managed to say through
clenched teeth, "I agree that's the best. I'll shake what we have out in a
line there," he pointed to one spot then another to show Porcinus,
"but we don't have enough men for a reserve. And Porcinus," he
finished grimly, "I don't know how much fight these men have. Or me, for
that matter."

"Well, hopefully we won't need you," Porcinus replied,
trying to keep his tone level and as if they were discussing the weather.
Before he turned to go to his Century, Metellus suddenly thrust out his hand, which
despite his surprise Porcinus immediately took, grasping the other man's
forearm in the Roman manner.

"May Fortuna bless you," Metellus, then with a raspy
chuckle added, "And the rest of us."

"And you," was all Porcinus could think to say, then he was
moving at a trot in the direction of the main gate, scanning the Centuries now
lining the wall of the camp looking for his men.

Even as he spotted the familiar sight of his signifer, a man almost as tall as Porcinus
and one of the Parthians recruited a few years before, Porcinus heard a chorus
of shouts.

"Here they come!"

Falling immediately on the heels of the warning cry, as Porcinus
strode up the ramp to join his men, he heard one of them utter words so
familiar and comforting.

"Jupiter Optimus Maximus, protect this Legion, soldiers
all!"

It was the Legionary's prayer, and as Porcinus took his spot on the
rampart, hard against the palisade stakes, he immediately saw that those
prayers would be desperately needed and even then, they might not be enough.

 

Titus Pullus had long since lost track of time. If Caesar
himself had demanded it, he couldn't have given him even a rough estimate of
how long the fighting had been going on. His best guess was that it had been
more than a full watch since the first fusillade of arrows had sailed over the
palisade, and that the battle for the rampart had been going on for two parts
of that. But he also knew that it could be longer, or shorter. Only one thing
he was sure of; over the entire span of his prodigious career, through almost a
hundred battles and thousands of skirmishes, he had never been as fatigued as
he was at that moment. It was almost impossible for him to concentrate, and it
was only through his willpower, as equally formidable as his physical prowess, that
he was able to do so at all. Drawing closer to the battle, Pullus felt a surge
of energy, welcoming it as he selected the spot where his men seemed to need
the most help, and he managed to build up enough speed to slam into the knot of
men trying to kill each other with great force. Because of his fatigue,
however, his aim was off and not only did he send the Wa he had aimed for
reeling backward, he sent one of his own men, one of the Pandyans and a
relatively new tiro, crashing
directly into the man to his left. More exactly, the tiro fell onto the naked blade of his comrade, and while the force
wasn't sufficient to drive the blade deeply into his body, it nevertheless
broke through the links of his mail and penetrated about an inch. With a sharp
cry of pain, the tiro staggered
backward even further, and because the other man hadn't been expecting this chain of events, he was in turn jerked off balance as well. The sudden absence of two
men in the front press of fighting immediately pitted three Wa against
Pullus, although the man he had slammed into was still staggering backward.
Blades slashed from two different angles at Pullus, and one of them gashed a
deep trench down his sword arm, eliciting a hiss of pain from the Primus Pilus,
but he managed to block the other with his shield. Fortunately the cut wasn't
deep, yet it felt like a trench of liquid fire had been laid in a line down his
forearm. Still, he was able to wield the Gallic blade with deadly effect as,
ignoring the pain, he took advantage of a slight overextension of the Wa who
had inflicted the wound. With what looked like nothing more than a flick of his
wrist, but as any of his men who had faced him on the training ground could
testify contained a huge amount of power, he chopped down with his blade into
the middle of the Wa's sword forearm, severing the man's arm as if he was
slicing through a loaf of bread. Blood spurted from the stump as the Wa stood,
paralyzed, staring down in shock at his now-missing hand, the appendage now lying in the dirt,
the grimy fingers still clutched tightly around the hilt. 

Although it would
have seemed the logical thing to do to finish this Wa off, Pullus completely
ignored him, knowing that he was out of the action and counting on the man
either bleeding to death or being finished off by another of his men. Instead
he focused on the Wa he had barged into, who had just recovered his balance and
was bringing his sword up to bear, preparing for a lunge at the big Roman.
Pullus' gaze never wavered from this man as, briefly pulling his sword arm back
almost a foot behind him, he launched a low, hard thrust clearly meant to
disembowel. However, at the same time, despite not moving his head, he uncoiled
his left arm straight out from the shoulder with the same amount of force,
punching his shield's boss flush into the face of the third Wa who had raised
his blade high over his head to unleash a killing blow designed to cut Pullus
in half lengthwise. Because of his posture, it was impossible even for someone
with the reflexes that this Wa possessed to bring his arms down to at least
partially block the blow, and Pullus felt a satisfying jolt travel up his arm.
Accompanying the feeling was a wet, crunching sound as the Wa's nose and cheeks
were crushed. Pullus had only intended the blow to stop the Wa momentarily, but
because the warrior was stepping into his own planned strike, the force of the
metal boss slamming into his face was doubled. With the cartilage of his nose
shoved violently backward into his brain, the Wa dropped immediately, dead
before he hit the ground, although the body continued to spasm and jerk for
several moments, the man's eyes staring dully up out of a face now curiously
concave.

Meanwhile, Pullus' sword thrust was met by a sweeping parry aimed
downward and out from the Wa's body, the Roman's blade sliding up the Wa's and
ending by punching air to the Wa's right. Since this was taking place in the
space of time between normal heartbeats, Pullus hadn't recovered his shield
back to its first position, and if the Wa was armed with a shield of his own
and used it in the same manner, Pullus could have been in serious trouble. But
since he had no shield, instead the Wa lashed out with that empty fist, in a
blindingly fast punch that was aimed not at Pullus' face, who was anticipating
the blow and was reflexively jerking his head, but for his arm, directly on the
wound he had received moments before. Lightning flashes of pain shot up Pullus'
arm and for a brief, horrified instant he thought he would pass out as his
vision was shot through with what he could swear were the sparks from a
disturbed fire. But while he managed to avoid that, not even he was able to
keep his grasp on his sword, even with the grip that had served him so well,
and it fell to the earth. Now he stood with only his shield, but even as
formidably skilled as Pullus was with the use of the shield, he knew he was at
a severe disadvantage. Risking a quick glance, he saw that every one of his men
near enough to come to his aid were furiously busy with their own private
battles. At this point, the prudent course for Pullus was to wage a defensive
fight, hoping to wear the Wa down and wait for either an opportunity to
retrieve his sword, despite the ferocious pain coursing up his arm, or for one
of his men to vanquish the Wa they were currently engaged with and come to his
aid. 

Pullus did neither thing; instead with his shield squarely in front of
him, he went charging at the Wa, who was clearly caught by surprise by the
brazenness of the attack. Nonetheless, he still managed to bring his sword to
bear, the point of his blade sticking directly out in front of him in an
attempt to keep Pullus at bay. Pullus acted as if the blade wasn't there,
moving his bulk behind the shield directly onto the blade, and the point
pierced the wood of the shield just to the left of the boss. However, Pullus
didn't stop, and in fact continued to push forward with all of his strength,
closing the distance between himself and the smaller Wa. In doing so, the point
of the sword poked farther through the shield and it was inevitable that if
Pullus closed the distance any more, the point would pierce his left arm, which
is exactly what he did. Now the Wa was shoved back against the palisade, with
no more room to retreat, and between that and the sight of this giant
barbarian, covered in blood and seemingly impervious to the fact that as he
closed the last few inches the blade of the Wa's sword was burying itself more
deeply into the arm behind the shield, his eyes widened in shock and fear. Now
that Pullus was within reach, with a speed that surprised the Wa, his right arm
shot out, his fingers hooked in a claw as he grabbed the Wa around the throat.
If the Wa had released his grip on his sword to use both hands, he might have
been able to pry the giant monster's hands off his windpipe, but the simple
truth was that he panicked. Consequently, he was left grabbing wildly at the
Roman's wrist, trying to pry the hand choking the life from him from his
windpipe, as his lungs quickly began screaming for air. When that didn't work,
he began as he had started, beating unmercifully at the wound on Pullus' arm.
This time, despite the sparks flying in front of him, Pullus ignored the
horrific pain, teeth clenched, lips pulled back in a half-grin, half-grimace that
was feral, grunting in time to the hammer blows of the Wa that fell on his arm
over and over. Then Pullus felt more than heard the crunching and popping of
the Wa's trachea finally collapsing under the enormous pressure produced by his grip, as the Wa's
eyes bulged out in vain appeal, the normally golden-yellow skin now a purplish
hue that under other circumstances would have reminded Pullus of a plum. After several normal heartbeats and knowing that his enemy was now dead no matter what because his trachea was crushed, Pullus released him to fall limply
backward. 

Somehow still aware of what was happening, Pullus saw that this
latest threat was all but contained; there were two Wa facing back to back,
surrounded by Legionaries in the same way a pack of wolves surrounds the
weakest animals of a herd. Carefully squatting, knowing that bending down from
the waist would make him keel over, he retrieved his sword, wincing at the
effort it took to grasp the hilt. Staggering a few steps away to what was
effectively the rear, it was only when Pullus tried to let go of his shield and
it didn't drop to the ground that he became aware that the Wa's sword was still
protruding from it and the blade had pinned the shield to his left arm. Calling
to one of his men, he had the man grasp the hilt of the sword.

Gritting his teeth, Pullus told the man, "Pull it out, quickly
but do it in a straight line so you don't do any more damage. Understand?"

The Legionary, one of the Gayans who were in effect the newest
recruits, like all of his compatriots, was deadly afraid of the giant Primus
Pilus, and if the truth were known he would have preferred to be in the front
line at that moment. Still, he gave a hard gulp then nodded his head in answer,
something that Pullus would normally have rebuked him for, but said nothing.

"Ready?" Pullus hissed. "Go."

Surprising them both, the Gayan did exactly as he had
been told, pulling the blade out in one smooth motion, moving in a straight
line backward. A gout of blood spurted from the wound, but Pullus saw
immediately that it was darker in color, meaning that he hadn't severed a major
vessel. Letting it bleed for a moment to flush the wound out, he then bound his
neckerchief around the wound. Unknown to him at that moment, he and Scribonius
were virtual twins, both suffering wounds of roughly the same severity and the
same location. As he tied the last knot, with the help of the Gayan, there was
another series of shouts that alerted him of another breach, and he turned to
head that way, but took only one halting step before he recognized that if he
didn't rest, he would indeed pass out. Despite the desperate need, Titus Pullus
was, after all, a mortal man, and all men have limits. Titus Pullus had reached
his. That was how the Wa finally effectively breached the western wall of the
northern camp. 

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

Caesar Triumphant

The only position that wasn't hard-pressed was the camp to the south of Caesar's, where Aulus Flaminius and the 30th Legion were repulsing the Wa with relative ease, and even lighter casualties. Whether the Wa commanding this force wasn't made of the same iron as the others, or his orders were simply to make a demonstration Flaminius didn't know, but he wasn't about to complain. Not only were the reserve Cohorts standing ready in the forum, but he hadn't even had to send in the relief Centuries. Walking behind the Centuries manning the ramparts, Flaminius called out encouragement to the rankers, and advice to the Centurions, and it was almost like a training exercise. Consequently, his men were in high spirits now that the initial tension of the assault was dispelled and the measure of the enemy was taken. Those on relief were bantering back and forth, yelling above the noise and placing wagers on how many of these barbarians they would kill when their turn came up. Those few wounded were quickly dragged out of the way by their comrades, down the ramp to the waiting stretcher bearers, who placed the wounded on the plank used for the purpose, carrying them to the hospital tent. When Flaminius moved up to the rampart to assess the strength of the Wa assault, he was surprised and delighted to see before him a ditch almost overflowing with bodies, particularly around the ladders the Wa had thrown up against the wall. Better still, he took a quick count of the remaining ranks of those warriors still trying to cross the ditch and saw that they were a half-dozen deep at most. 

However, most importantly he could see that whatever fighting spirit was in these barbarians was quickly deserting them. Even as he watched, he saw the men to the rear, directly in front of the two ranks of archers who had stopped firing now that their comrades were at the walls, begin looking over their shoulders. Flaminius, like all the Primi Pili, was one of the most experienced Legionaries in the army, and he had seen that look, starting in Gaul and stretching across the entire known world. That look signaled victory, if his men could summon just enough of their strength to make one final push. Of course, in this case that didn't mean what it would in a pitched battle; Flaminius wouldn't have dreamed of ordering a pursuit. It would be enough to break these Wa against the walls, and after seeing the scene before him, he knew that it wouldn't be long before they did break. Returning to his spot behind the fighting, Flaminius called to his clerk standing a short distance away. Taking the wax tablet the scribe held out, he incised his report to Caesar. Once finished, he was about to snap the tablet shut and hand it to the Legionary who would dash to the waiting courier, who in turn would gallop the message to Caesar and presumably return with one. He had finished his report, there was nothing else to say, but then he stopped, bent his head down and, if truth be known looked slightly ridiculous as he added one more line, his tongue out of his mouth as he concentrated. While Flaminius knew his letters, like all Centurions he was no scholar, so he had to think carefully about what he was writing, hence the intense concentration. Finally finished, he quickly re-read it and then snapped it shut, handing it to the Legionary who, without saying a word turned and began running back toward the middle of the camp. He didn't know what the message said, nor did he care. In fact, it was better that he didn't know, because if he understood that he was essentially carrying the outcome of this battle, and the fate of Caesar's army, he might have collapsed on the spot from the sheer enormity of the task.

Caesar had somewhat recovered his equilibrium and was back to directing the men fighting for their lives and his, but even as he did a part of his mind was still occupied with what he feared was happening at the camp to the north. Like the northern camp, the Wa had managed to establish a presence on the rampart, but it was a much more tenuous affair, with the deepest penetration only two men deep and then only in a half-dozen spots. Otherwise it was a case where a Wa would leap over the parapet and down onto the rampart, fight ferociously for anywhere from a few heartbeats to several long moments before being cut down. Unfortunately, as with Pullus' position, it was a case of mathematics, because Caesar simply couldn't afford to lose men in the way the Wa commander could, and the latter had already proved more than willing to sacrifice as many as it took to overwhelm these pale creatures. So it was with increasing helplessness that Caesar saw his men fall, some of them able to move under their own power, crawling around and through the legs of their comrades until they were sufficiently far enough for one of their friends to grab them by the harness and drag them the rest of the way to safety, ignoring the screams of pain as they did so. Others weren't so lucky, either struck a mortal wound or so severely they were immobilized, and unless one of the men still in the fight noticed and did what they could, these men saw their lifeblood pour into a ground that was already soaked with it. The sounds of the fighting had been roaring in his ears for so long that Caesar no longer noticed it, his mind now registering it as part of the background. It was only when there was a change in the pitch of what had become a steady dull noise that alerted Caesar to a new development in the ongoing battle. 

It started with a series of shouts and screams that were of a much higher intensity and volume, and looking in the direction of the source of the sound, in front of Caesar's horrified eyes he saw that several dozen paces away down the rampart, where the Fifth Cohort of the defending 25th Legion was located, a cluster of perhaps a dozen Wa who were now securely on the rampart. In fact, they were moving down the ramp at a run, slashing down at the unprotected backs of the men, Caesar's men, whose nerve had at last failed and were fleeing away from the onslaught. In doing so, they not only essentially sealed their fate, since the greatest slaughter on the battlefield came when men's collective nerve and courage finally broke and they turned to run, their flight threatened this whole camp. The sight caused Caesar to freeze for a moment, so unaccustomed and shocked at the sight of his men in headlong flight that it rendered him into a form that looked very much like the statues of him now spread from one end of the world to the other. It was only momentary, however, as with an abrupt shake of his head, he began heading toward the breach at a dead run, pausing only long enough to point a now-drawn sword at the small group of aides and some Legionaries who had just been relieved that were standing nearby.

"Follow me! If we don't stop this, it's over for all of us!"

And without another glance back, sure that his men were hot on his heels, a 65 year-old general rushed headlong into battle, with all the fervor of a young veteran eager to win glory.

It didn't take long for Gaius Porcinus to find his uncle; Titus Pullus was always easy to spot, for a couple of reasons. The first was his size, but it was the second that delayed Gaius from making it to his Primus Pilus' side, as the giant Centurion was still standing hard up against the palisade, forming one side of a box that was still managing to keep the Wa in that area hemmed in. But even as Gaius weaved his way through the panting men on relief, then hopped over the numerous bodies lying in heaps, despite his relative inexperience as a Centurion, he was a hardened veteran of many battles, and he took in and understood the desperate situation at a glance. The Century that Titus was assisting, although Gaius didn't recognize it, was the Fourth of the First Cohort, but what Gaius could see was that there were now no more than four men in each file standing there, ready to take their turn. Although he kept moving, Gaius did take the time to look down the ramp to where the relieving Century would be waiting, and his heart started racing even more than it had been from the exertion in getting there. He hadn't thought it possible, but the Century waiting to go back into battle was even worse off than the one currently fighting, with perhaps three men per file. And now there was a new force assaulting the camp? In the remaining time it took Gaius to reach his uncle, he came to the simple conclusion that this was going to be the day he died, along with all of his men, the Legion and probably the army. Almost overwhelmed at the thought, Gaius' stride faltered for a moment, and the feeling of impending loss that swept through him threatened to bring him to his knees. Yet, none of the thoughts racing through his head had anything to do with his own life ending and were instead focused on the tragedy faced by the families and loved ones of his men. The very thought was so painful in intensity that he gasped aloud before ruthlessly pushing it aside, spurred by the knowledge that his uncle would never let his feelings impede his ability to do his job. Finally getting to a point where he was within a few paces of Pullus, Gaius halted, knowing that distracting his uncle at that moment, when he was engaged with a Wa, could be fatal even for a man as experienced as his uncle. Waiting until he saw Pullus' blade sink deeply into the Wa's side, the warrior's mouth opening into a contorted shape by the agony of the mortal wound, although he didn't let out more than a groan that was barely audible from where Porcinus was standing, when the Primus Pilus took a step backward to take a breath, only then did Gaius move to his side.
"Primus Pilus," he called out, as always careful to refer to his uncle only by his rank in front of the men, no matter the circumstances. Pullus turned in clear surprise at the sound of his nephew's voice, the older man covered in blood, mostly that of the Wa, his eyes narrowing at not just the sight but the import of his nephew who was part of the reserve.

"What is it?" Pullus snapped, unmindful at that moment of their blood ties, seeing instead only the Hastatus Posterior of one of his Cohorts.  

If Porcinus was unsettled by the reception, he didn't betray it a bit as he saluted, then in as few words as possible gave his report. Even so, he had to repeat the report once more before Pullus' mind could grasp the import of what his nephew was telling him. It was only through a supreme effort of will that Titus Pullus didn't betray the sudden anxiety, and if truth were known, the fair amount of fear that threatened his composure. Instead, he forced himself to give only a grim nod.

"Tetarfenus is in position?"

"They were moving onto the walls as I left. I'm sure that they're in place now."

Nodding again, Pullus considered.

"All right. You're dismissed. Go back and tell Tetarfenus that he must hold, no matter the cost. Although I'm sure he knows that."

Gaius waited for more, but once it was clear that his uncle had said all he was going to, in fact turning back to the fighting as he moved his sword in an easy pattern of circles as he tried to keep his aching muscles loose, he remained rooted to the spot where he was standing. Sensing this, Pullus turned back to Porcinus, his expression one of irritation at the delay of getting back to slaughtering barbarians.

"Well. What is it?"

"Primus Pilus, aren't you going to release the reserves of the 12th?"

Pullus frowned, caught clearly by surprise. How had he forgotten about that, he wondered? Was his mind so overwhelmed at what was going on that he could forget such vital details? While his first instinct was to tell Gaius to go to the Primus Pilus of the 12th and relay his orders to move them over to join the rest of the 10th's reserve, for some reason the orders wouldn't come out of his mouth. Instead, he looked carefully about him, at not just the Centuries still fighting, but the men waiting in relief. When he did, he saw the same thing that his nephew had, and with great reluctance, he shook his head.

"I can't spare them Gaius," he said quietly. "Tell Tetarfenus he's going to have to do the best he can with the men he has."

Even with the maelstrom of noise and fighting, both men could only look each other in the eyes as both of them understood what Titus Pullus was telling his nephew. There would be only three Cohorts, a few more than a thousand men, to stop what Tetarfenus was sure was ten times that number. Swallowing hard, Porcinus couldn't trust himself to speak, instead giving a curt nod before turning to go. Before he did, Titus Pullus reached out and grabbed his nephew's shoulder.

"Gaius, wait." 

When Porcinus turned back to face his uncle, the older man's expression was one that would stay with Gaius for the rest of his time on earth.

"May the gods be with you Gaius," Pullus said as softly as could be managed in the din, blinking away what looked suspiciously like tears.

"And you........Uncle," Gaius' reply almost choked in his throat, but before either of them shamed themselves, Porcinus turned away, starting out at a dead run back to be with his men to face whatever fate awaited them.  

Pullus stood and watched for a few moments, until Gaius disappeared between the tents still pitched and aligned in their neat rows, forcing down the lump in his throat until the man he had come to love as a son was no longer in sight. Drawing a deep breath, Pullus squared his shoulders, then called to his runner, crouched just out of the range of the fighting.  

"Go to Primus Pilus Balbinus. Tell him I need his reserve. Now."

Without waiting to see if he was obeyed, Pullus turned his attention back to the fighting, looking for a spot that needed some help. Quickly seeing that every single spot where ladders were against the wall was being hard-pressed, he simply chose the spot nearest him, and headed back into the fighting.

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

Caesar Triumphant

Several paces away, the Second Century of the First Cohort was in much the same straits as the First of the First, and Balbus, like Pullus was doing everything within his power to stem the tide of advancing Wa. He wasn't as skilled as Pullus was, but he was close, and while he lacked Scribonius' intellectual ability, he more than made up for it with guile and a ferocity that perhaps even outmatched that of his Primus Pilus. Now he was standing next to the last man on the right of the leading rank, the one engaged with the Wa, and Balbus' Century was in even more trouble than the First. Whether by accident or design he would never know, but whereas the Wa had placed an average of two ladders along the length of rampart that a Century covered, the Second Century had three ladders along its front.
 
And there was a steady stream of smaller, wiry men clambering up, shouting in a guttural way that none of his men could make any sense of whatsoever. Although the Romans were cutting down most of the Wa who came leaping over the palisade stakes, inevitably the Romans suffered casualties as well, and in the moment that it took for a Legionary to replace the fallen man, the victorious Wa would press a step forward, standing over the body of the man he had just vanquished. Consequently, it was a grudging, hard-fought struggle, inch by inch and foot by foot, but it was one the Romans were losing. While the leading edge of the First Century was still at the very edge of the level portion of the rampart, the men of the Second Century had already been pushed even farther back.
 
The leading edge of the Second was halfway down the dirt ramp, and strewn in front of them were the dozens of bodies of friend and foe alike that provided testament that the men of Balbus' Century weren't giving ground without making the Wa pay. It was just a case of grim mathematics, Balbus knew; he was rapidly running out of men, no matter how many Wa they took with them. By this point the Primus Pilus Posterior estimated that he had less than half the men he had started with, a Century that was almost 30 men short of full strength already. Even accounting for Caesar's practice, ironically enough started with the 10th Legion all those years ago when he was Praetor in Hispania, of hundred man centuries, the fighting had whittled down the senior Cohorts down so that when Balbus managed to make a quick head count, there were only 34 men of his Century still left fighting. That knowledge filled Balbus with a despair unlike any he had ever faced in his entire life, let alone his career, even when his woman had died in childbirth. He was watching the destruction of what he loved more than anything else; his Century, his boys. For no matter that some of them were at least as old, to Balbus they would always be his boys, and his heart filled with a desperate, angry love.
 
"No," he snarled. "Not today. Not this fucking day!"

With a feral growl issuing from his throat, Gnaeus Balbus literally threw himself into a small clump of Wa who were just behind their engaged comrades, looking very much like they were gathering themselves to go charging into the Roman lines.

Sextus Scribonius was hurting, both within and without. He had taken a sword thrust all the way through his left forearm fairly early on in the fighting, and it was only through the intervention of the gods that it hadn't severed an artery. Nevertheless, it was extraordinarily painful, and he had only taken the time to wrap his neckerchief around the wound and then, gritting his teeth against the agony, had one of his men tie the ends as tightly as his strength allowed. Now it was a dull, aching throb that was manageable, but the consequence was that he had lost all feeling in his hand and was unable to hold a vitus, let alone a heavy shield. Even so, it was the internal ache that was causing Scribonius the most trouble, and like Balbus he found it hard to concentrate. For just like his second-closest companion, Scribonius was watching not just his own Century, but the entire Second Cohort being destroyed, slowly but inexorably. In terms of outright casualties, his Century was a bit better off than that of Balbus; Scribonius' last head count had yielded 42 men, but in just the bare moments since then he had seen at least 2 more men fall, although one had crawled quickly to the rear on hands and knees. Perhaps he would be back, Scribonius thought, but the lanky Pilus Prior wasn't counting on it.
As for the rest of the Cohort, Scribonius was continually being updated by runners coming from all along the Second Cohort's front, and he had been forced to have his own reserve of three Centuries enter into the rotation some time before. Since he could no longer carry a shield, he was being a bit more circumspect than Balbus, only darting in to add the strength of his sword when it was absolutely necessary or a Wa was turned away from him by one of his men. Even so, the blade of his sword was red almost to the hilt, but again like Balbus, he knew it wasn't going to be enough. Nevertheless, Scribonius resisted the temptation of looking to the rear to see if the reserve Cohorts were standing ready to assist, knowing that the sight of their Pilus Prior looking for succor would in all likelihood trigger a panic. So Scribonius willed himself to continue looking to the front, which was a good thing because in another one of those fluke moments, two Legionaries who were standing side by side were struck down at almost exactly the same time. Instantly there was a gaping hole in the front rank, and because of the way the bodies collapsed, they formed a barrier preventing their reliefs to step into their spots. Seeing this, understanding what it meant and what had to be done occurred to Scribonius in the time it takes to blink the eyes; of all the Centurions, not just in the 10th but in the entire army, Sextus Scribonius was by far the smartest man in the ranks. In fact, it could be argued that he was second only to Caesar in the prodigy of his brain, but this was something Scribonius only exhibited to a very, very few people. But while it was his brain that told him what needed to be done, the impetus to do it, to leap into the void from the side of the formation where he was standing, came from the same wellspring that had sent Balbus charging headlong into a numerically superior enemy. For like Balbus, like Pullus and like almost every Centurion, Scribonius truly loved his men, so there was no hesitation as with his own roaring challenge, he used his long legs to cross the distance, squeezing himself through the ranks, then ending his progress by hopping over the bodies of the two men to go crashing into the first of the Wa who had stepped into the gap.

Gnaeus Tetarfenus, Pilus Prior of the Eighth Cohort followed the duty Optio back up the ramp where Prixus was still standing, eyes fixed to the last spot he had seen the movement farther south along the ridge.
 
"Seen anything?" the Optio demanded, but Prixus' only response was a shake of his head.
 
"So what is this extremely urgent thing you saw?" Tetarfenus, knowing the duty Optio only by reputation since he was from the Fifth Cohort, was unable to hide his skepticism and impatience.
 
When asked in such a bald way, both the Optio and Prixus hesitated, exchanging sidelong glances.
Finally, the Optio cleared his throat nervously, "Well Pilus Prior, it's hard to say exactly......"
 
"So you didn't see anything other than some dust?" Tetarfenus interrupted.
 
"Well, no. Er, I mean, not exactly," the Optio amended, but Tetarfenus had heard enough.
 
"Then until you have something substantial to report, stop wasting my time," he snapped. "If you haven't been paying attention, we're in the fight of our fucking lives."
 
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel to stalk back down the rampart back to his Cohort. The Optio stared at his retreating back, trying to calculate how far Tetarfenus needed to go before he could curse him without being heard. Fortunately, for everyone as it would turn out, Prixus, still smarting from his rebuke by the Optio and not sure if there was a flogging in his future, kept his eyes fixed on the spot where the ridge road reappeared. What caught his eye confused him at first, looking like slender reeds that had just popped up from the ground, but topped with flowers unlike any he had seen, because they were a dull, silvery color. Then one of the Wa carrying his spear turned the shaft in his hand so that the broad side of the distinctive tear-shaped blade was facing Prixus, causing an explosive gasp from his lips. Whirling about at the sound, the Optio took one step to gaze over Prixus' shoulder, his jaw dropping and all the blood rushing from his face.
 
"Pilus Prior!" the Optio called.
 
Tetarfenus faced about, ready to issue a sharp rebuke but the look on the Optio's face stilled his tongue. Running back to the rampart, in the few heartbeats it took Tetarfenus to cover the distance, any doubt about what was approaching had been removed, as the heads of the leading Wa suddenly appeared as if by magic, climbing the slope toward the unprotected Porta Praetoria side of the camp. They were less than a mile away, and Gnaeus Tetarfenus found himself rooted in his spot for a moment, his face a mirror of that of the Optio standing next to him. Shaking his head as if he were trying to wake himself up from a bad dream, the Pilus Prior snapped back to reality, and without a word to the two men, went sprinting down from the rampart.
 
"Reserve Cohorts! Rally to me!" he started bellowing at the top of his lungs. "We're under attack!"
 
There was a ripple of movement as men who were kneeling, their arms draped across their shields, jumped to their feet, and the air filled with a babble of questions as the men struggled to comprehend this new reality.
 
"What did he say?"
"Something about an attack!"
"Huh? From where? How?"
"How the fuck should I know?"
 
In the ensuing scramble, it was once again the fact that the men of the 10th were so experienced that the move from a position of rest to standing at intente, at the very least ready to move into position, was accomplished so quickly, even if they didn't know where they were moving to, but the Centurions had moved at a run to close the gap to their Pilus Prior, meeting him roughly halfway between the forum and the rampart.
 
"I don't know how, but those slanty-eyed cunni got a force behind us," Tetarfenus gasped out, his Centurions going rigid with shock.
 
"How many?" asked Pilus Prior Nasica.
 
"Enough," Tetarfenus' face was grim. "Enough to sweep us away unless we stop them at the walls. Get the men up to the walls, immediately."
 
"Reserve?" asked the Hastatus Posterior of the Tenth, a Roman named Gaius Porcinus, one of the youngest Centurions in the 10th, born in Baetica Province like Titus Pullus.

While he was somewhat taller than the other Centurions, he wasn't the same height, or breadth as Titus Pullus, but there was a similarity in facial features that belied the fact Gaius Porcinus was the son of Valeria, Titus Pullus' sister, and Titus' only nephew. His position in the Centurionate was achieved despite his uncle's every attempt to dissuade his young nephew from a life in the army, although he had plucked the youngster from the ranks of the 14th Legion when Gaius managed to enlist, despite his mother's objections, putting him in Scribonius' Second Cohort where his best friend could keep an eye on him. However, despite Porcinus' fresh-faced appearance, he had flourished in the Legion, and had earned the right to wear the transverse crest of a Centurion in Caesar's army. Now his nephew stood, among the other Centurions of the reserve Cohorts, waiting to hear their dispositions.
 
"We're not going to have any reserve," Tetarfenus answered quietly. "We're going to need every man on the wall. Now, I want the Eighth there," he pointed to the spot around the Porta Praetoria, "the Ninth there, and the Tenth there. Now move!"
 
As the officers went scrambling to their respective Centuries, Tetarfenus grabbed Porcinus' arm, stopping him.
 
"I need you to go to the Primus Pilus, tell him what's happening. Tell him that we haven't gotten an exact count yet, but my guess is that there's going to be at least 10,000 men trying to get over that wall. And tell him," Tetarfenus' tone became even grimmer, "that we're going to need the 12th's reserve as well if we're going to have any chance at stopping these bastards."


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