R.W. Peake's Blog, page 3

Caesar Triumphant

Gnaeus Tetarfenus, the Pilus Prior of the Eighth Cohort of Caesar's 10th Legion, had been standing with Titus Nasica, his Pilus Posterior, speculating on what they were both sure would be the command to move up. Tetarfenus had been sending men across the forum to check on the fighting on the rampart, so he knew the situation was growing desperate, and when he saw the duty Optio returning he was sure he knew what the orders would be. In fact, when they were the exact opposite of what he was expecting, Tetarfenus made the Optio repeat himself twice more before, with a shake of his head, he called the Centurions of the reserve.
 
"The Primus Pilus has ordered us to move in the direction of the Porta Praetoria," he announced, to the obvious surprise of the assembled officers.
Still, surprised or not, they didn't hesitate when they moved back to their respective Centuries, where their men were crouched and waiting. As they shuffled themselves into position, the duty Optio hurried over to the reserve of the 12th, and they in turn began their own process of moving closer to the action. With his duty discharged, the Optio proceeded to his post, where his men were standing on the rampart. As he drew closer, the Optio saw that his men's eyes weren't facing outward, but back into the camp, towards the forum.
 
While understandable, this was a clear breach of regulations, and the moment he was close enough the Optio roared, "You there! Prixus! You bastard! Don't think I don't see where you're looking! By the gods I'll stripe you good!"

Before the words were out of his mouth, the man Prixus, along with his comrades, spun guiltily back about, knowing that they were well caught. When they did, Prixus saw something out of the corner of his eye to the southeast, back along the ridge road. It was just a flash of sun on metal, but it was enough to catch his attention. However, when he looked more closely, the only thing he saw was the dust hanging above the ridge road, right before it dipped out of sight in a fold of ground. His initial reaction was to relax slightly, thinking that the dust he was seeing was still from the courier who was now safely inside the camp. But while Prixus would never be accused of being smart, he was experienced, another of the Romans who had managed to survive this ten year campaign, and it was that experience that told him that any dust raised by the arrived courier would have been settled by that point. So he stared, hard, at the spot where the road reappeared, knowing that it would only be a matter of heartbeats before any rider on that road would reappear. The idea it could have been a man on foot didn't even occur to Prixus and his attention was now so fixed on that spot he was barely aware that the Optio had climbed the ramp onto the rampart.

"Oh, now you're going to pretend you're doing what you should have been doing all along," the Optio snapped caustically. "But it's not going to save you a flogging."
 
It was only when Prixus gave no reaction to the idea of a flogging that the Optio realized it was no act, and instantly his irritation dissolved as his attention centered on the Legionary. Prixus was a scoundrel, one of those men who could magically disappear whenever there was a work detail, or conjure his way onto a sick list. But he was a hard-bitten, veteran Legionary, and one of the best fighters in the Century, his very survival a testament to that fact, so the Optio moved immediately to his side, following his man's gaze.
 
"What is it?" he asked quietly. "What did you see?"
 
Instead of answering immediately Prixus, as he had been trained used one of his javelins to point to the now settling plume of dust.
 
"See there Optio? I didn't see a rider or anything, but....."
 
"That dust couldn't be from the courier who's already here," the Optio finished, understanding the same thing as Prixus.
For a moment they continued staring before the Optio asked, "When did you first see whatever it was?"
 
"Long enough that whoever it was would be in sight by now," Prixus replied.
 
That was when something else happened, something that while both the Optio and Prixus saw or more accurately sensed it, neither could have described it with any level of accuracy. Again, it was more the sum total of their years of experience that told them something was happening that was, at the least, noteworthy. Perhaps it was a vagary of the breeze, which in this part of the world blew from the northeast at this time of year, but for whatever reason carried a shrill cry from the south. Or maybe it was just the fleeting glimpse of an arrow that sailed through the air, and in its arc crested just above the brow of the rise that was blocking their view. Whatever it was, the Optio frowned for a moment, then made a decision.
 
"Stay here, and keep your eyes on that spot," he snapped, giving quick orders for the rest of Prixus' section to do the same. With that, he went bounding down the rampart, heading back towards Tetarfenus.

Pullus had by this time returned his attention, and his sword, back to the fighting. Even as he did so, with a sinking heart he could see that the Wa were winning. It wasn't quickly, and it was at great cost, but with more than 5 men for every Legionary, they could afford to be profligate. By this point the front rank of the Cohorts were standing just barely on the edge of the rampart, forcing the men behind them to stand lower on the ramp, making it difficult to brace their comrade. Moving back up to the front, Pullus bent down to pick up a shield, pulling it from the lifeless fingers of one of his men, a Pandyan whose throat had a gaping hole from a single thrust into the base. His eyes stared wide at the sky, his face bearing that look of surprise that Pullus had seen so many times before, and the detached part of Pullus' mind recognized the man as the Legionary that Balbus had caught trying to sneak the Wa beauty out of the town. Well, Pullus thought, he doesn't have to worry about Caesar stealing any more of his women. Hefting the shield, Pullus waded back into the fighting, welcoming the freeing of his mind as it settled into the simple needs and demands of combat. For a moment he could forget the worries of command, losing himself in the most elemental of questions; can I best my enemy?
Hesitating for just a moment, he spotted one of his men of the front rank take a staggering step back from the thrust of a Wa sword. Before the man could recover, Pullus stepped in, lashing out with his shield and, coming from an oblique angle as he was, striking the Wa's left shoulder. Now it was the Wa's turn to stagger, but like all of his comrades, he recovered quickly, making a low underhanded thrust across his body that Pullus, his shield still high from his blow to the Wa's shoulder, was barely able to block. As off-balance as the Wa was, the thrust was still able to punch through Pullus' shield just above the protective metal strip at the bottom. The force of the blow pushed the bottom of Pullus' shield towards him while tilting the top out, which normally would have left Pullus exposed. But turning what would normally be a threat into an opportunity was something Titus Pullus did very well, and he did so now, whipping the tilted edge of the shield straight out, catching the Wa a glancing blow just above the ear. Unfortunately for the Wa, a glancing blow by a man as strong as Titus Pullus was the same as taking the strongest shot from any other man, and the Wa dropped like a stone.
Without any hesitation, Pullus stepped over the body while keeping his shield up and ready, remembering to give a savage thrust down into the throat of the unconscious man. His slight advance, while putting him just ahead of the front rank of his Legionaries, also took him closer to the rampart. Now there was only a lone Wa between him and the protection that the rampart would give to his unprotected side, and it was to this man that Pullus turned his attention.

Fortunately for Pullus, or at least so he thought at first, this Wa was armed with one of the teardrop shaped spears, the butt end hovering out over the rampart and into space. However, while this normally would mean whoever was wielding it would be restricted, this Wa quickly disabused Pullus of that notion. With an overhand grip, the Wa, who Pullus was sure was barely out of his teens, although he had learned it was almost impossible to accurately tell the age of any Wa who wasn't either a child or incredibly old, suddenly whipped the butt end of the spear at Pullus with a seeming flick of the wrist. Although the blow was blocked by his shield, there was so much force behind it that the shield slammed back into his upper shoulder and took him back a step. Eying his opponent with a new respect, Pullus began moving the tip of his sword in a geometric pattern, trusting his instinct that this Wa was indeed relatively inexperienced. As he had hoped, despite himself the Wa's eyes began following the moving sword tip, giving Pullus the opportunity he had been seeking with his shield. With undeniable quickness, Pullus punched out with his shield by simply extending his left arm straight out from the shoulder.

The metal boss of the Roman shield was a deadly weapon in its own right, and with any other foe, the blow Pullus launched would have been devastating. But this Wa, like so many of the others he had faced, had reflexes that no cat would have spurned, and it was these reflexes that served him well now. The boss should have hit him in the right shoulder, and it was with enough force that it would have crushed whatever bone it came in contact with, but because of a combination of leaning backward and sweeping upward with his spear to absorb some of the force, the blow didn't cause nearly the damage it should have. But it was enough to snap the solid shaft of the spear like a twig, leaving it in two pieces. Even this didn't seem to have the effect that Pullus would expect, as the Wa simply shifted his grip on each piece before making another thrust with the business end of the spear that Pullus blocked again. As the Primus Pilus did so, however, the Wa swung the other piece of the spear like a club, and because Pullus had moved his shield across his body, it was out of position to block it. If the club end of the spear struck Pullus where the Wa had aimed, the blow was strong enough to at the very least to stun Pullus, but like so many of his enemies, the Wa wasn't used to fighting a man of the giant Roman's stature. Instead, the shaft struck Pullus a solid blow on the meaty part of his upper arm, and it was only because the heavy muscles there that it didn't break the Roman's bone. This would leave another massive bruise, but that would come later. Somehow, Pullus managed to keep hold of his shield despite the pain, but he instantly knew that his ability to use it offensively was gone for at least the next several moments. Consequently, he made a feint with the shield by shrugging his shoulder and twisting his upper body, and as feints went it was one of his weakest. Fortunately for Pullus, it was enough; reacting again with unbelievable speed, the Wa shifted his weight slightly to his left, leaning his upper body backward as he did so. This dropped his left hand, holding the blade of the spear, just a matter of a few inches, but it was enough. Pullus gave a high overhand thrust, stomping forward with his right foot as he did so, thereby extending the reach of his sword and putting the power of his weight behind it. Aiming at the Wa's throat, even as quick as the Wa was, his arm was just a little too low to sweep it upward quickly enough to deflect the blade from punching through his throat. Pullus felt the grate of the bone grabbing the blade as it sliced through it, forcing him to twist to make sure that it didn't get stuck. Over the years he had seen too many men who, in the excitement of battle, had forgotten what was an elementary move that all tirones were taught early in training, leaving them yanking the blade, desperate and defenseless to a comrade of the man they had just killed. Freeing the blade, the Wa collapsed in a heap at his feet, allowing Pullus to move a pace closer to the rampart. Now that his right side was protected, he could concentrate on trying to stem the tide of barbarians, but even as he did, he could see that it was a hopeless task.


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

Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 8 (Cont.)

Prompted by Pullus' challenge, the Wa increased the fury of their assault, something that no one in Caesar's army would have believed possible until they saw it happen. If they had the time, they probably would have muttered under their breath about how it was their Primus Pilus and his challenge that had created this situation, but every man on the rampart was either engaged or holding the leather harness of the man who was thrusting, blocking and slashing in a desperate attempt to stem the threatening flood of Wa warriors. And while Pullus had stopped the immediate threat posed by the first two Wa over the wall, there were more other such trouble spots boiling up all along the 10th's sector.
Immediately after dispatching the two Wa, Pullus occupied himself running from one spot to another, but very quickly recognized that there was so much going on in so many different places, he was better off doing his primary job in directing the Legion, rather than following his instincts and training to fight in the front line. Backing away from the fighting, he paused to catch his breath, then began walking down the rampart, behind the short lines of the men standing in support of those fighting. Each Century was fighting on a front of 10 men, and theoretically 10 deep, but by this point it was more commonly only six deep, and even less in some Centuries, particularly those of the senior Cohorts of the First, Second, Third and Fourth. These were the Cohorts almost always in the front line of every battle, consequently suffering the most casualties.
This day, each Cohort was aligned in a three Century front, with another Century immediately behind, standing immediately behind the raised portion of the rampart. The dimensions of Caesar's camps had long since become standard in the Roman army, even before he and his men essentially disappeared from the view of Rome on this historic campaign, and every rampart was wide enough so that it could accommodate a Century of men, each man holding the harness of the man in front of him, except of course for the first and last. Every Centurion was equipped with a bone whistle, which he blew at intervals to signal that the man in front was to bash his opponent with his shield, knocking the opponent backward to give the Legionary the time to quickly step aside to let the man behind him take his place before the first man moved back in the space between the files to become the last, resting while supporting the Legionaries in front by bracing them, as he had been braced.

Fighting in the manner that they were right now, it was less a case of pushing the opponent away as the Centurion judged the best moment when there was a momentary lull because the Wa at the top of the ladder was either sent plunging to his death or sufficiently staggered. This relief system was the first thing that Pullus watched as he moved along the rampart, judging the fatigue level, and most importantly the casualties the leading Centuries had suffered, telling him a Century needed to be pulled out in relief. Much to his dismay, he saw that even this early in the actual assault on the wall, several Centuries had suffered heavy casualties, as evidenced by the row of bodies that had been dragged off the rampart to lay in neat rows. While the number of dead wasn't extremely high, Pullus knew from experience that for every body he saw, it was likely there were at least two wounded men who had been carried off by the Legion's clerks and slaves who doubled as stretcher bearers and taken to the hospital tent, which Pullus was sure was already overflowing as the medici worked to save those men they could.
Stopping at a number of Centuries, he ordered that the supporting Century relieve the one currently on the rampart, whereupon the relieving Century was marched directly behind the one they were replacing, grabbing hold of the leathers of the last men of the Century on the rampart. Much like a normal relief within a Century, this was how the Romans had perfected the act of switching out fatigued troops with fresh one, as the Centurion of the fighting Century continued blowing his whistle. Every time, the Legionary in front would do whatever he needed to disengage then move backward, except they moved all the way off the rampart, where they would collapse, panting and exhausted from the frantic combat going on just paces away.

By the time Pullus reached the end of the line, where the Seventh Cohort was standing next to the First Cohort of the 12th, roughly half the Centuries had been swapped out for fresh ones, but Pullus knew that, barely a sixth of a watch since the first Wa ladders had touched the rampart walls, the 10th, and of course the 12th was in serious trouble. Stopping to talk to Balbinus, the Primus Pilus of the 12th, Pullus quickly determined that the 12th was in much the same condition as the 10th. Caesar had been explicit in putting Pullus in charge; although Pullus was technically senior to Balbinus Caesar had made it clear to Balbinus that he was to obey Pullus as if the order came from Caesar himself, as it well might. As reluctant as Pullus was to do it, not only because of what it meant in a tactical sense, but also knowing how the men would interpret it, he recognized that he had to at least order the reserve Cohorts of the Eighth, Ninth and Tenth of both Legions to come closer to the rampart. Just the sight of them standing there would be meaningful to the men currently engaged, but there was no denying that he would have to do it at some point. Deciding to be prudent, he turned to his cornicen, who followed him wherever he went except into the thick of the fighting, Pullus told the man to be ready to sound the signal that the reserves were to move forward. Turning around to head back toward his Cohort, he stopped long enough to confer with Scribonius, who was standing at the edge of the rampart, watching as the men of his Century surrounded a group of a half-dozen Wa who had managed to get a foothold on the rampart.
There were already several bodies, most of them Wa, but Pullus saw among the tangle of limbs, some of them moving, some twitching and some still that there were Romans there as well. The Wa were standing back to back, all of them armed with swords and using them so skillfully that it was clear the Legionaries engaging with them were more than a little intimidated. As Pullus approached, his friend suddenly saw an opening, and with commendable speed crossed the short distance, sword held high and slightly out from the body with the point angled down, in what the Romans called the second position. His target, a Wa warrior who Pullus could see was extremely muscular and stocky, a stark contrast to the smaller, leaner builds of most of the Wa, was engaged with one of Scribonius' men and in doing so had turned slightly. Since he was the man on the outside, there was no other Wa to protect him, a fact that Scribonius took full advantage of with a hard, brutal thrust downward. The point of his blade cut deeply into the Wa at the base of the neck, half the blade disappearing into his body cavity. Dropping immediately, he landed on top of another Wa body, opening up a space that Scribonius' men immediately filled to press in on the Wa who was next to the now dead warrior. This was the only advantage needed, and even before Pullus had ascended the ramp to the rampart, the immediate threat was over. Working quickly, the Romans pitched the bodies over, doing their best to drop them down on the head of the next Wa ascending the ladder. Sensing the movement out of the corner of his eye, Scribonius turned his head just enough to see that it was his Primus Pilus out of his peripheral vision, and with his eyes still fixed on the fighting in front of him, slowly backed up to meet his friend. Once he was out of the immediate area, only then did Scribonius turn to face Pullus, and for the first time that Pullus could remember, Scribonius didn't start the conversation with a light remark or some attempt at a joke.
 
"We're in trouble," the Secundus Pilus Prior said, lips thinned down in a grimace at the thought. "I think we might not survive today, Titus."

Essentially behind and to the left of Titus and Scribonius, outside the camp and down the slope, the leading edge of the surprise Wa force was scrambling around the perimeter of the Roman position positioned closest to the point where the bump of the ridge turned from its east/west orientation to the north/south that the rest of the ridge ran. Like water flowing around a rock, the Wa made no attempt to attack the position, virtually ignoring them despite the Century of Legionaries felling dozens of Wa with their javelins, and the scorpions and ballista drawing blood as well. Caesar had moved to a spot where he could watch this Wa advance, and although he was grimly pleased at the sight of a good number of bodies strewn all around the Roman position, he also understood the brutal arithmetic of it. Perhaps if the Wa had to run a gauntlet of a dozen more such positions they wouldn't pose such a huge threat, but of course that wasn't the case. Once past, the main body continued ascending the steep slope of the ridge, and Caesar could tell that at least the Wa were showing signs of fatigue, as the mad dash had slowed to more of a steady climb. He felt confident that once at the top, whoever was commanding this contingent would give his men the opportunity to catch their breath and regroup in whatever organizational structure they used. In fact, Caesar thought bitterly, they would probably use the very road he had ordered cut the length of the ridge as an impromptu forum, the width of the road giving just enough of a clear space where at least the center of the Wa formation could gather. A few feet above the first of the Wa, Caesar could just make out a thin veil of dust still hanging in the air, and he understood the meaning of it. That would be the dust trail left by the first courier, carrying Caesar's orders to release the reserve to Pullus' control, which if Pullus hadn't already done, he would once those orders arrived. That meant that there would be no men on the walls on that side to meet the assault from the direction the Wa were coming except for the sentries, and their only impediment would be pulling down the turf wall and palisade stakes.

Caesar could see the scene in his mind; the horde of barbarian warriors, showing the same controlled frenzy they displayed in their ascent up the ridge, making short work of the ditch, which didn't have any of the traps that were embedded in the bottom of the other side. The only hazards lining that part of the ditch were the sharpened stakes, but it would only slow the Wa down for a matter of moments. In fact it wouldn't surprise Caesar at this point if some Wa merely leaped into the ditch to impale themselves to give their comrades an easier path. Why would that be any different than what was happening right in front of his eyes? Once the ditch was crossed, the turf wall torn down and a breach affected in the walls of the camp, the Wa would pour through it like water, roiling and angry, destroying everything and everyone in their path. They would reach the forum of the camp first, since that was always in the middle of the camp, next to the praetorium. Caesar knew that in all likelihood the forum was now packed with casualties as the medici tried to administer to those men that could be saved. If he were the commander, he wouldn't waste time with the wounded, instead continuing the sweep through to fall on the unprotected rear of his men. If the reserve Cohorts were still being held, it would be at the edge of the forum, and at least those men would have a hint of the danger, not that it would ultimately make any difference. There were just too many Wa, and Pullus' camp was about to be caught in between two crushing jaws, he and his men crushed between them.

"Primus Pilus! A courier's arrived!"
Pullus took several paces backward before turning to see the Optio left in charge of the section of sentries at the Porta Praetoria, the main gate of the camp dashing in his direction, waving a wax tablet in his hand. Snatching the tablet, Pullus ignored the man's gasping report, for once unconcerned with the formalities required of all junior officers reporting to a senior. Although it was what he was more or less expecting, reading the words Caesar had incised into the wax, as always using his dot above the last word of each sentence, it still sent a chill up the giant Centurion's spine. Pullus hadn't had time to send more than one report, but Caesar had seen what was happening and obviously understood the import and gravity of the situation at the northern camp. Even as his mind raced with the implications, there was a stray flash of relief; now Pullus was off the hook for doing what he was about to do. Snapping the tablet shut, Pullus then turned to his cornicen, opened his mouth to give the order that Caesar had now authorized........and nothing came out. For the rest of his time on earth, Titus Pullus would never be able to articulate what stopped him, or why for that matter. He stood there motionless, much as Caesar was doing at that same moment, seemingly oblivious to all that was happening around him. Barely a couple dozen paces away, there was a thin line of Wa who had managed to gain a foothold, and in fact in several spots were now two deep, the second rank providing the same kind of support to their comrade in front that the Romans in their line did. Those men currently engaged were hampered by the bodies of their friends and enemies, some of whom were trying to drag themselves through and around the legs of the men still fighting. Like wounded animals who seek a quiet place to die, these Legionaries were single-minded in their purpose of getting away from what had hurt them in the first place. Everywhere one looked along the rampart, the ground the men were fighting for was soaked wine-dark with the blood of friend and foe, as each side did their utmost to bring on the destruction of the other. Shouts, screams, splintering wood and the ringing sounds of iron hitting iron so filled the air that for anyone unaccustomed to it, this cacophony would banish any vestige of sanity from them as surely as the rising sun drives away the darkness. Even for men long hardened to the sounds of battle, this was by far the loudest conditions they had ever fought in, and would seem to make it impossible for anyone to think. However, Pullus stood there, completely immobile, face expressionless, almost as if this was a morning formation and he and the men were waiting for the Legate or one of the Tribunes with the duty that morning. His only movement was to open the tablet again, staring down at the writing with a frown, before giving a minute shake of his head while snapping it back shut. Thrusting the tablet into his belt, Pullus turned back to the Optio.

"On your way back to your post, go find Pilus Prior Tetarfenus," Pullus commanded, naming the Centurion commanding the Eighth Cohort of the 10th. "Tell him I want him and the other Cohorts of the 10th to move to the far side of the forum."
 
If the Optio was surprised, he didn't show it; junior officers of the Legion were so accustomed to obedience that it actually never occurred to the man to question his Primus Pilus. He was turning to leave, but good Optio that he was, he thought of something.
 
"What about the 12th Primus Pilus? What do you want them to do?"

Pullus thought for a moment.
 
"Have them stay on this side of the forum, but move a street closer," he commanded, and with that, the Optio dashed off to carry out his orders. Titus Pullus didn't know it, but he had just made one of the most important decisions of not just this day, but of his entire life.

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

Caesar Triumphant Chapter 8-(Cont.)

At the far southern outpost, Asinius Pollio and Primus Pilus Batius still stood side by side, a short distance from the rampart, watching as the men in front of them met the attacking Wa as they threw their ladders against the turf wall and began their ascent. Unlike Pullus' camp, the archery barrage had done minimal damage, both in casualties and in damage to the shields of the defenders. There were no gaps in the line of men lining the ramparts, and for the most part their shields were sufficiently undamaged that they were able to withstand the first wave of Wa attackers that attempted to breach the defenses. While the fighting was fierce, it wasn't of nearly the same intensity as what Pullus and Balbinus were facing, though neither man had any way of knowing that.
 
Over the noise of the fighting, Asinius turned to Batius and asked in as close to a conversational tone as possible, "Do you think it would be a good idea to have the reserve Cohorts give their javelins to the front line men? If we need the men of the reserve it will probably be too late for them to use their javelins."

"True," Batius agreed, "they'll probably need to go straight to the sword. That's a good idea sir, I'll make sure it's done."

With a salute, Batius turned to go give the orders. Before he could, however, a lone arrow, actually loosed by a Wa in his death throes after being pierced by one of the last javelins of the last volley, causing the trajectory of the missile to arc high in the air, came hurtling down to earth, picking up even more speed than normal. Batius was just turning, so the arrow pierced his neck, the barbed tip slashing tissue as it buried itself deep in the Primus Pilus' body. He took one halting step, giving a gurgled, choking cry before collapsing, dead before he hit the ground. It took Pollio a moment before the import of what happened hit him, then he instinctively moved to kneel by Batius' body. He stopped himself, understanding that it was too late, knowing from experience when a man was killed instantly. His lips moved in a silent prayer as he interceded on the behalf of Batius, asking the gods to transport him not to Charon, but Elysium, the home of all the bravest warriors. When he was finished, he called to the nearest Centurion standing with his Century as part of the reserve. The Centurion's attention had been on the action going on in front of him, Pollio and Batius standing off to his left front.

"Centurion! Centurion!" Pollio bellowed, the man turning in surprise at the sound of his general. Pollio pointed down at Batius' body, and said in his command voice, "Your Primus Pilus has fallen! Who will carry him from the field with the honor he deserves?"

As it was with Pollio, it took a moment for Pollio's words and what it meant, but once it sunk in, he was deathly afraid his legs would collapse from under him. While Batius' status wasn't quite as legendary and covered in glory as that of Titus Pullus, he was still a formidable Legionary with a sterling record, and more importantly, he was the only Primus Pilus the Centurion had ever known. In fact, this was true for the vast majority of the men, other than a very small handful of no more than thirty men whose time in the Legions equaled his. Standing unmoving, Pollio had to repeat himself before the Centurion shook his head, and turned to call some of the men from his Century. In a small group, while the fight for the rampart continued, they marched to where Batius lie, then with a gentleness that was close to reverence and using a shield, laid him in it. Then, with a man at each corner, they lifted the shield on their shoulders, and with the Centurion leading the way, marched into the center of the camp, where the Primus Pilus would be laid in the forum, to wait the bodies of his comrades to join him on his next journey. As they did so, Pollio tore his attention away, forcing his mind back to the scene before him, where more fighting and dying was taking place.

Caesar had never experienced the emotions that threatened to take over his whole body as he did at that moment, watching the surprise attack of the Wa unfolding. Streaming across the valley floor, they were moving with a rapidity he wouldn't have believed possible of such a large body of men if he wasn't watching as it happened. Frozen in his spot, he stared, unblinking, unmoving, but his mind was reeling in shock, racing through every possibility he could think of that would salvage the situation. There was one shred of hope, or at least so he thought for a few moments, until the leading men flowed around the bulge of the ridge and into the pocket, crossing the short expanse of open ground and hitting the base of the slope, still at a dead run. This was the maximum range for the three small outposts that had been emplaced roughly halfway up the slope, and as Caesar had commanded, they immediately opened fire. Each outpost was armed with two scorpions and one ballistae apiece, with a Century, but despite several of the Wa in the leading ranks being struck down, Caesar saw with sickening clarity how this was much too little to slow down the Wa assault, let alone stop it. In fact, those outposts would in all likelihood simply be bypassed; even combined together, three Centuries attacking from the rear of such a large force would be akin to a fly hoping to take down a mosquito. Even before it happened Caesar recognized this would be the case, destroying the last shred of hope that he'd held that he could at the very least buy the time to get a warning to Pullus. As it was, with even the swiftest horse, there was no way that a courier would be able to slip past that surprise force because at the rate they were climbing the slope, they would be at the ridgetop road before the courier. Making matters even worse were the orders he had given for Bodroges to give to the courier to take to the northern camp. They authorized Pullus to use his reserve as he saw fit now that he was out of artillery ammunition, understanding as he did that if Pullus had done so, even if he had fired too early and run out sooner than he would have if he obeyed Caesar's orders to the letter, he was still hard-pressed already.

Caesar, as he did in every battle, retained the control of all reserve forces, so it would require an order on his part, although he knew that if absolutely necessary Pullus would order his reserves into battle before orders arrived and ask forgiveness later, which of course Caesar would grant, trusting his giant Primus Pilus more than any other of the Primi Pili, and second only to Pollio and Hirtius. Even with all that, knowing that it was probably futile, Caesar knew he had to try, so he called for the Pandyan Tribune since Bodroges had yet to return. Shaking himself from his malaise with a supreme effort of will, Caesar composed himself mentally, his face still the same calm, composed mask that gave nothing away, and snapped an order for the secretary to hand him another wax tablet. When none was forthcoming, he turned his head in irritation, ready to reprimand the man, one of his minor secretaries, then saw why he hadn't answered. The man had taken an arrow through the soft spot at the base of the throat, right above the chest and was laying there in a slowly growing pool of blood, eyes wide and staring up. It had obviously just happened, but Caesar had been so shaken and absorbed in his own thoughts and fears that he hadn't even noticed, and it was this that shook him more than the man's death. Still, to an outside observer he looked like his normal, composed self as he bent down, still careful to shelter behind the shields as he reached to pluck a tablet from the dead secretary's hand. But when he took hold, the dead man's hand closed tightly around the tablet, giving Caesar a start. He had been starting to look back up toward the Pandyan Tribune when grabbing the tablet, but naturally his eyes turned back to the fallen secretary, and when he did his heart suddenly jumped as the man's eyes blinked once, twice, then three times. The secretary wasn't dead, yet. His wound was definitely mortal, but whatever is in each of us that clings to life, that keeps our heart beating even when it should have stopped, was strong in the spirit of the secretary, so he stared up at Caesar with desperate pleading eyes, unable to talk because of the blood that pooled in his mouth and flowed out of the corner onto the ground. That didn't stop him from trying, and his jaw moved as he tried to form the words, and Caesar, shaken to his very core, tried to understand what the dying man was saying.

"Please........kill.......me," the man made no sounds, but Caesar could read lips better than most people, although it took the man repeating it three times before he understood.

Without hesitation, Caesar gave him a nod, and despite the fact the secretary was a slave, told him, "I will say prayers myself and have a sacrifice made so the gods accept you into the afterlife."

Truthfully, this being a minor secretary who had been captured during the Parthian portion of the campaign, Caesar was unsure what gods the man prayed to, but he silently vowed that if he lived through the day he would find out. It was the least he could do. With his free hand, Caesar placed it gently on the man's forehead while he temporarily relinquished his hold of the tablet, drawing his pugio, the Legionary's dagger with it. As he did so, his hand moved from the forehead down over the secretary's eyes, to shield them from what Caesar was about to do. With the practiced skill of an augur, Caesar made a quick but strong slash across the man's throat, the blade of the dagger cutting deeply just above where the shaft of the arrow protruded. Wiping the blade on the secretary's tunic, Caesar closed the man's eyes, then took the tablet from the now-lifeless hand, standing erect and reaching for his stylus in one motion. The Pandyan, given a shield the same way as with Bodroges, had reached Caesar's side and waited for Caesar to write his orders, orders that the general knew had almost no chance of reaching the intended recipient. Still, that didn't stop him from handing the tablet to the Pandyan, with curt instructions, whereupon the Pandyan moved as quickly as he dared, shield still held aloft. Only when Caesar saw the Tribune safely away did he turn his attention back to the fighting. Immediately he saw a spot where there were several bodies, roughly equally divided between Roman and Wa, but more importantly and dangerously, a small group of Wa had formed a pocket, their backs to the rampart facing outward in a slight bulge, with just enough space left so more Wa could climb the ladder located there and join these men. Like Titus Pullus, Caesar was at heart a warrior as well as a general, and seeing that every other Roman was occupied, and he was the closest, he drew his sword.
 
As he did so, he called to the three Legionaries protecting him, "It's time to earn our pay, boys. Follow me!"
And without waiting for their answer, Caesar strode toward the waiting Wa, sword in hand.

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

Caesar Triumphant Chapter 8 (Cont.)

Just before reaching the two Wa, Titus Pullus skidded to a halt, stopping suddenly enough that both Wa, anticipating that he would careen headlong into their waiting swords, both swung their blades at the spot where they thought the giant Roman would be. And while the Wa were the fastest men Pullus, or any Roman for that matter, had ever seen, Titus Pullus himself was one of the fastest moving big men of his time, and it was with that speed that he struck now. Simultaneously lashing out with his shield at the Wa to his left, he launched a hard, low thrust with his Gallic blade, the point aimed at a spot well below where the Wa's blade was still hovering in midair, in the bare instant before he recovered. While both Wa managed to react, neither of them were completely successful in blocking their respective attacks. The boss of Pullus' shield, which he had aimed directly for the first Wa's face, was partially blocked, but it was by the Wa's shoulder as he twisted to the side. Pullus felt the jolting blow all the way up his arm, as the Wa grunted in pain but managed to hold onto his sword as he staggered a step back. In doing so, he came within range of the Roman next to the two dead men, one of the Legionaries armed with a siege spear, but the long spear was so unwieldy that by the time he moved the point from its spot protruding over the rampart, the first Wa had moved to close back with Pullus.
Even if he continued with his movement and stabbed the Wa in the back, now the Roman was faced with an enemy warrior just two rungs from the top of the ladder to his left, and who was coming in range. Understanding the greater threat, the Legionary also had utmost faith in his Primus Pilus, so he returned his attention back to the ascending Wa, stabbing down at the man the moment he came within reach. Pullus' sword thrust, meanwhile, was also partially blocked, the second Wa desperately sweeping his blade in a downward arc that managed to keep Pullus' blade from plunging deep into his gut. Instead, the point of Pullus' finely honed Gallic blade, one that he had been carrying for more than 20 years, buried itself into the meat of the Wa's left thigh. Despite how excruciatingly painful the thrust was, the Wa only let out a hissing sound through tightly clenched teeth, and before Pullus could twist the blade and do further damage, the Wa lashed out with his own blade in a wild swing that swept at an upward angle.
Now it was Pullus' turn to twist aside in desperation, and in doing so he withdrew his blade, leaving behind a relatively clean gash in the Wa's leg that, instead of spurting arterial blood, flowed a dark red. The Wa's blade struck Pullus a glancing blow right at the junction of the right shoulder, where his mail protected him from further damage as several links broke instead. Even so the force from the blow jolted Pullus, as it was his turn to let out a gasp of pain, and he felt his arm go instantly numb, the only thing saving his grasp of the sword the grip taught to him by Aulus Vinicius when he was a tiro. All three men had taken some damage in the first exchange, and they were all content to take a step backward to gather themselves, but despite the damage Pullus had inflicted, he was in essentially the same position, outnumbered two to one. All around him he heard the shouts and screams of men, and he knew that there were Wa now on the rampart, meaning that the men immediately around him were occupied. Now he had to rely on those men in relief, waiting just paces away, but this was a moment where Titus Pullus was a victim of his own legend. Too many times he had waved other Legionaries away from a private battle, his pride and never-ending drive for acclaim and glory meaning that those who had intervened in the past hadn't earned anything other than a tongue-lashing, or worse. Consequently, that meant that his men were standing there, watching and unwilling to risk his wrath, sure in the knowledge that their Primus Pilus couldn't possibly fall to barbarians. Knowing this, Pullus was spurred on by their faith in him, and was determined that even if his life was coming to an end this day, it wouldn't be at the hands of these two Wa.
Therefore, he was the first to break the slight lull, lunging again, but this time instead of placing himself roughly equidistant between the two Wa as he did in his first attack, he moved directly to his right, putting himself to the extreme left of the second Wa, and effectively putting this warrior in the path of the first Wa. It was a move that would only buy him a fraction of a moment, but he was counting on the wound this Wa carried to sufficiently slow him down, and it worked. As the second Wa pivoted to face Pullus squarely, he was forced to shift his weight onto his right leg, and while it didn't buckle altogether, it did cause him to stagger for an instant. That was all the time Pullus needed as this time he delivered a high, overhand thrust, aimed at the base of the Wa's throat. Despite the speed the blow was delivered, the Wa's reflexes were still quick enough that he was able to twist just enough that instead of hitting him in the throat, Pullus' thrust struck home high in the Wa's left shoulder, the point punching through the iron lamellar armor as if it weren't there. Pullus had struck with such force that the blade, entering just below the Wa's collarbone, punched all the way through to protrude by half a foot. This time the Wa wasn't so circumspect, letting out a shrill cry of pain that only increased in volume as this time Pullus was sure to twist the blade savagely, wrenching it back and forth as he yanked it free. Paralyzed by the pain, the Wa was standing motionless, allowing Pullus the time to lift one of his feet and give the Wa a good kick that sent him flying backward and out of sight over the rampart, still screaming until it was cut short with a gurgling cry. Fortunately for Pullus, his training and instincts had kept his shield up in what the Romans called the first position, the elbow braced against the hip and the forearm parallel to the ground. Even as he turned his attention back to the first Wa, there was a splintering, cracking sound as the Wa struck with savage force with a thrust of his own, and to Pullus' surprise and discomfort, he saw the point of the Wa sword punch through his shield just inches above his arm.

Already weakened by all the arrow strikes, Pullus noticed with horror the large, longitudinal crack running almost the entire length of the shield, where a sliver of daylight came streaming through. As the Wa yanked his blade free, almost tugging the shield out of Pullus' grasp, the crack grew even wider, and Pullus knew that it would last at most two or perhaps three more blows, if that many. His arm still tingling from the blow of the Wa he had just dispatched, Pullus nonetheless lashed out with his own blade, but not before the Wa managed to extricate his own, which he used to parry Pullus' strike. The blades clashed together in a small shower of sparks, but this time the greater brute strength the Primus Pilus of the 10th showed, as the Wa's blade recoiled backward from the force of the blow, leaving the body of the Wa temporarily vulnerable and unprotected by nothing more than his other arm. Without hesitating, Pullus stepped forward, using the rampart at the Wa's back to pin the man so he couldn't escape. This time he used his shield to pin the Wa, pushing him hard against the rampart and with every ounce of his strength, put his massive weight behind his shield. Even as he did so, he heard the wood protesting with a shrieking crack but he continued to press. No matter how strong the Wa was in his own right, he was no match for Titus Pullus, and he found himself completely pinned as the breath was crushed from his lungs. Lashing out desperately with his blade, his movement was restricted by the pressure of the shield, but even so, Pullus used his own blade across the top of his shield to contemptuously knock the Wa's blade aside.
 
"Thought you would do for me, huh you cunnus?" Pullus snarled into the Wa's face, several inches below his own, the saliva spraying into his enemy's face, which was turning purple as the Wa vainly tried to draw breath into his lungs.
Suddenly, the Wa brought one knee up in a savage blow, aimed at Pullus' groin, but the Roman was much too experienced and had been expecting such a move, turning his hips to the side so the knee struck him in the meat of the thigh. Still, it was painful, but by this point Pullus' battle fury was fully aroused and he barely felt the blow, only dimly aware that if he survived this day, he would awake next morning with a huge bruise, and he would try to recall the circumstances around how he had gotten it. But in that moment, as he watched the life drain from his opponent's body, the only thing that Pullus felt was the savage exultation that came from besting your enemy, in seeing him vanquished. And as tired as Titus Pullus may have grown in regards to much of army life, this was a feeling in which he never grew tired. In fact, it was what kept him marching, and fighting. Finally, the Wa gave a rattling sigh that Pullus knew from long experienced was the signal the Wa's spirit had fled his body, but even so, he continued the pressure for a moment longer before finally stepping backward. The Wa immediately collapsed as if all his bones had suddenly been removed, and Pullus stood there for a moment, chest heaving, staring down at the dead man. Then, completely unmindful of everything else going on around him, the Primus Pullus of the 10th Legion suddenly hopped up onto the body of his enemy so that he could stand higher than the rampart. Showing total disdain for the furious fighting, the still flying arrows, and all the maelstrom of battle, Titus Pullus filled his lungs.
 
"I am Titus Pullus, Primus Pilus and hero of Caesar's 10th Legion! I piss on you savages! I will fuck your mothers and your daughters, but not until I've waded in your guts! DO ANY OF YOU CUNNI THINK YOU CAN DEFEAT ME? THEN COME ON!"

As he roared his challenge, bellowing with a volume that only came from decades of shouting commands in battle, he held his arms out wide, ruined shield in one hand, sword in the other, beckoning to the Wa down in the ditch. For just the briefest instant, the action immediately around the large Roman stopped as men openly gaped, the Wa astonished, and if the truth were known, a little afraid at the apparition before them, and Pullus' men in savage pride at the sight of their Primus Pilus. Here they were, in the fight of their life, and their Centurion was mocking the enemy, daring them to do their best! How could they lose with men like Pullus leading them? In response, without any order, a low-pitched, savage growl began emanating from the Roman lines along the rampart. Without any prompting from their Centurions or Optios, the Legionaries of Rome, no matter where they came from, suddenly increased the fury of their fighting, thrusting and stabbing into the Wa as they, with equal fervor and not a little desperation, scrabbled to gain a solid foothold on the rampart of the barbarian camp. Never before, and perhaps never since, had any army of Rome fought with such savage intensity, but never before had they been so evenly matched in their fury as they were against the Wa.

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

Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 8 (Cont.)

Caesar had yet to draw his own sword,
still choosing to direct the action from his spot just a few paces behind the
palisade of his camp. Unlike the main assault force at Pullus' camp, the Wa
assaulting Caesar's position had yet to fully fill the ditch, and the ladders
were still a few rows behind the front ranks. However, as each rank of the
enemy moved up and became the rank closest to the ditch, there was still no
hesitation on any of their parts as one by one they threw themselves on top of
their unfortunate comrades. Those Wa that were the first to do this had since
had the life crushed out of them, but the top two or three layers still contained
writhing, gasping men. If anything, Caesar could see that his own men were
becoming more unnerved as now that their supply of javelins had been expended,
they could only watch in horror as they took an occasional peek around their
shield. Since the ladders had yet to go up, the archers in the rear ranks were
still firing volley after endless volley of arrows, and just within Caesar's
range of vision he saw that the majority of his men now had shields studded
with at least a dozen arrows apiece, some with more, some with less. That meant
their shields were dangerously weakened and unlikely to survive the first few
moments of action. While there were spares, Caesar knew that not only were
there not enough, there was no way to get them distributed in time. His men
would have to fight without what was not only a defensive weapon to the Roman
Legionary, but a potent part of his offensive arsenal as well. However, a good
commander also knew when there was no point in worrying about what could not be
changed, and as quickly as the realization came, he put it out of his mind,
returning his attention to what could be controlled.

"Caesar!"

Like Pullus, Caesar was too
experienced to do more than turn his head about, staying behind the protection
of his own shield, although in the case of the commanding general there were
three Legionaries detailed to provide an umbrella of protection for him.
Looking back toward the interior of the camp, he saw the Tribune Bodroges
hurrying toward him. He was so intent on reaching his general's side that he
seemed oblivious to the fact that he was entering to within the range of the Wa
arrows, the line clearly marked by the serried ranks of arrows protruding from
the ground in uneven rows. Just as he was about to enter the beaten zone, a
lean, grizzled Optio, another of the few remaining Romans of the army
unceremoniously grabbed the Tribune by the arm. Caesar couldn't hear what the
Optio said, but no matter how sharply he may have spoken to a man who was
technically his superior, he would have received no censure from Caesar, who
understood completely what the Roman was doing, and that was saving Bodroges
from possible harm. Caesar saw the swarthy features of his Parthian Tribune
flush darker, but he meekly took the proffered shield, one of the few that were
undamaged, before he resumed making his way to Caesar. Dashing through the hail
of missiles that, while not falling as thickly as they were moments before,
still posed a huge hazard to anyone without protection, Bodroges reached
Caesar's side huffing and puffing. Instinctively coming to intente and about to render a salute, Bodroges froze as he mentally
tried to work out how to do that while keeping his shield raised in its
protective posture. The expression on the Tribune's face caused Caesar to burst
out laughing, in one of those strangely humorous moments that occur in even the
most hazardous of situations.

"This is one time I think the
formalities can be forgotten Bodroges," Caesar said, his tone light
despite pitching his voice loudly enough to be heard over the racket of arrows
striking wood and the shouting of men. Turning serious, he asked, "What's
your report?"

"The first of the couriers have
arrived Caesar," Bodroges replied, trying to match the calm demeanor and
tone of his general, as if they were standing in the forum watching the men
drill instead of fighting for their very survival. "The northern camp is
under attack by a force of at least 15,000 infantry and almost 2,000 archers
according to Primus Pilus Pullus. He also reports that he is already out of
ammunition for the artillery. His casualties are light at this point,
but...."

"But that won't be the case for
long. Yes, I know," Caesar interrupted grimly.

While nothing he was being told was
unexpected, although the number of archers was higher than his estimate, he was
troubled by the news that his giant Primus Pilus had already expended his stock
of ammunition. Had Pullus been too profligate? Had he not obeyed Caesar's
explicit instructions or were the numbers he was facing just so overwhelming
that it was inevitable that he was going to run out quickly, no matter what the
orders? Bodroges began to speak again, jerking Caesar from his musings; this
would be something to talk about with Pullus later and see what went wrong. If
they survived, he amended, but only to himself.

"General Pollio's courier hadn't
arrived, but the courier from Primus Pilus Flaminius has arrived as well. He
reports that as expected, the forces facing his Legions number only about
8,000, and less than 1,000 of those are archers. He still has artillery
ammunition, and when he dispatched the rider the Wa hadn't made it to the
ditch, so he had yet to open fire with it. Although I imagine that by now that's
happened."

"Don't speculate Bodroges,"
Caesar admonished, although it was more of an automatic gesture, since his mind
was still processing all that he knew to this point in time. "Only tell me
what you've been told. Your job is only to relay what the couriers have told
you. Trying to decide what it means is mine." Seeing Bodroges' face fall
at this gentle rebuke, Caesar added, "However, you're undoubtedly right.
Now," his expression hardened a bit, and his tone turned severe, "Is
there a reason that you chose not to wait for General Pollio's courier as I
instructed?"

Bodroges swallowed hard, but his tone
was even as he replied, "I judged that the information from Primus Pilus
Pullus was more important and couldn't wait, so I decided to come
immediately."

For a moment Caesar said nothing,
then rewarded Bodroges with a smile and a nod.

"You made the right decision
Bodroges. That information is definitely more important. Now," he
continued, ignoring the visible sag in Bodroges' body as he went limp with
relief that he had guessed correctly. "I need you to go back and give
this," Caesar was scribbling in a wax tablet handed to him by a shaking
secretary who had been crouched at his feet, the sheer terror at being exposed
to fire etched on his features, "to a courier, to go to Primus Pilus Pullus."

Snapping the tablet shut, he handed
it to Bodroges who, remembering the folly of saluting, simply began backing
away, holding the shield above his head with a clearly shaking arm, the other
clutching the tablet. Before Caesar could turn about to resume watching the
situation in front, an alarmed shout came from the palisade. It took him a
moment to find the source among the line of men, but he quickly picked out the
figure of a Centurion, standing just behind the Legionaries directly next to
the palisade in the first line of defense. Assuming that this shout signaled
that at last the Wa were in the ditch and throwing up their ladders, Caesar was
quickly disabused of this by the Centurion, who called his name while pointing
at a spot farther out into the valley.

"Caesar, come quickly!"

The tone, if not the words, was
enough to spur Caesar to push quickly past the Legionaries designated as his
protectors, disdaining their cries of alarm that he needed to stay behind the
shields and they would escort him to the Centurion's side. Even now, at 65
years of age, Caesar was a man unaccustomed to fear, and was at least as
reckless as Titus Pullus in exposing himself to danger in order to set an
example for his men, if not more so. Now he strode quickly forward, bareheaded,
his scarlet paludamentum swirling
behind him as he moved.

Reaching the Centurion's side, he
demanded, "What is it?"

In answer, the Centurion, the
Secundus Hastatus Posterior, pointed again, but not down to his immediate
front, but out toward the floor of the valley, in the direction of the Wa
encampment.

"The bastards have tricked us!
Look there, Caesar!"

And Caesar did look, and when he did,
he felt his heart seize so violently that for a fleeting moment, he thought he
was having an apoplectic fit and would drop dead on the spot. But, seeing the
scene before him, immediately following was the thought that perhaps dropping
dead right now would be a blessing, because the Centurion was right. They had
been tricked, well and truly fooled. And in being fooled, that premonition of
defeat Caesar had felt earlier only strengthened. For streaming out of the Wa
camp was still another force, and while not as large as the body of men
assaulting Caesar's camp at this moment, it was perilously close to the same
size. Even as he watched the Wa, now out of the camp and moving quickly across
the valley floor, Caesar tried to determine how they had done it, and all he
could surmise was that somehow in the night, the Wa commander had managed to
shift men from one camp to another, and doubled up the number of occupants of
the Wa tents. This second group of men had remained behind, hidden from view,
until the action had well and truly begun, before springing from their hiding
spot. And now they were moving, but instead of moving to reinforce the force
assaulting Caesar's camp, they were angling across the valley floor, clearly
headed for that spot where the ridge made the pocket that he had worried about
earlier. In effect, they were going to slice into the Roman lines at a spot
where they could fall on Pullus' camp from the rear, completely enveloping the
10th and 12th. Even as he watched in growing horror, Caesar was forced to
silently salute his counterpart, because unless he could think of something,
and think of it fast, his northernmost position would be overrun, and he would
have a large enemy force sitting on his right flank. And as the Wa that were
even now throwing the ladders up against the rampart of his camp kept the men
in this camp occupied, that force could then essentially repeat what they had
just done to Pullus' camp, thereby rolling up the entire Roman position like a
carpet.

"They're at the walls!"

This shout tore Caesar's attention
away, and he turned to see, not more than a dozen paces away, the top of the first
ladder being thrown against the rampart. His army, his men, his life, was in
all likelihood in the last watches of their collective existence. Because for
once, a feat in itself, Caesar had no idea what to do. 

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

Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 8 (Cont.)

Pullus' problem was more immediate;
the ditch in front of him was already half-filled with Wa, and he hadn't made
the connection between the fact that his artillery was wreaking havoc in the
front ranks and that this was exactly what the Wa commander had intended. To
Pullus, it was simply a matter of mathematics; the more Wa he killed, even if
they did fill the ditch, the less Wa his men had to face. Whose tactic was the
correct one would only be played out over the next watch, although neither
Pullus nor Caesar had any idea what the other was doing to counter this threat.
So Pullus never ordered his artillery to shift aim, and in fact, had called on
the men safely down out of fire to pass their javelins forward so that their
comrades could hurl them down into the packed mass of men just on the other
side of the ditch. They did this with a bitter and savage relish, putting every
fiber of their being into their throws, so the javelins carried even more
velocity than normal, and aided by their higher position on the rampart, some
men's throws traveled completely through one of the enemy to lodge deep in the
next man's body. While this made the Romans feel better, it also helped the Wa
by dropping more men into the ditch, until in three or four spots, whoever was
in charge of the attackers in that area deemed the ditch to be filled enough to
give the command to cross. Not surprisingly, one of those spots was directly in
front of where Pullus and the First Cohort were positioned, and at the sight of
able-bodied warriors taking the short hop down into the ditch, heedless of the
shrieks of pain from their comrades who had yet to expire, Pullus roared the
order for all men to return to the rampart, with siege spears. The arrow fire
was still intense, and Pullus understood that he was going to lose men as they
moved into position, no matter how careful they tried to be, but he couldn't
afford to wait any longer. As the Legionaries scrambled up the slope, Pullus
continued to watch as Wa clambered over the packed meat that was still
quivering in spots, causing many of the enemy to stumble and fall on top of the
bodies. When this happened, those of Pullus' men who still had javelins didn't
hesitate, flinging their missile down, usually into the back of the unfortunate
Wa who would be trying to regain his footing. Every one struck down in this
manner brought a cheer from those who saw it happen, but as many Wa were being
slaughtered there, Pullus could see that he and the men were still outnumbered.
All around him he could sense his men moving into position, and he glanced to either
side to make sure that the men with the siege spears would be those on the
parapet, and that each one had a comrade with a relatively intact shield. Their
job would be to provide as much shelter to the man wielding the spear as
possible, and each man had a replacement immediately behind him, ready to stop
in should he fall. The faces of his men mirrored the expression of their Primus
Pilus; a look of grim determination as they readied themselves for the coming
onslaught. Down in the ditch, those Wa carrying the ladders had just begun to
cross, drawing a curse from Pullus as he realized that he had been too hasty
with the order to loose javelins, because there were none left for these men.
Not that it really mattered in the long run; if they had killed every Wa
holding a ladder there were more than enough ready to step in and pick it up,
but it was a matter of principle, and Pullus chided himself for his lack of
professionalism. It was as he was engaged in dressing himself down that he
became aware of a change in the sounds of the fight. To be precise, it was the
lack of a sound that alerted him that something was amiss, but before he could
make the mental shift necessary to determine what it was, he was alerted by a
shout, and again only turning his head while keeping his shield up, he saw one
of the Immunes that was the de facto
commander of the men manning the scorpions making his way in a crouching run
along the rampart toward Pullus. Before the man could even reach Pullus, he
knew what he was going to be told, because the sight of the Immunes had served to tell him that the
missing sound was.

            Therefore
he wasn't surprised when the man reached him, saluted then gasped out,
"We're out of scorpion bolts!"

 

Aulus Flaminius, Primus Pilus of the
30th Legion was in the camp immediately to the south of Caesar's, and to that
moment, he and his men were faring better than any of the other positions,
mainly because the Wa commander had sent the smallest contingent of archers to
this spot. Still, the Wa were at the ditch, and because of the fact that
Flaminius had only been given 2 scorpions and 3 ballistae, he had been unable
to stem the advance. Ironically, this posed a problem for the Wa in charge of
this assault, who had been given the same orders as all the others, to
sacrifice the leading ranks of men to serve to fill the ditch. But they hadn't
suffered enough casualties to do so, so instead the Wa began leaping down into
the ditch, whereupon they learned firsthand of Caesar's genius for diabolical
traps, cunningly disguised. Although the Wa could plainly see the sharpened
stakes imbedded in the opposite wall of the ditch, what they only discovered
the hard way were the rows of Caesar's lilies, the iron hooks in blocks of
wood, buried in pits and then covered with a loosely woven mat of rice leaves
then covered with dirt. Over and above the din came the shrieks of pain as men
were hooked through the calf, immobilizing them and making them easy targets
for Roman javelins. Those few who weren't dispatched in this manner were faced
with a horrible choice of either waiting until one of the barbarians with the
javelins noticed them and finished them off, or enduring the agony that came
from pulling themselves off the hook, inevitably tearing through the calf
muscle and crippling them for life, if they survived. Even so, the Wa continued
to tumble into the ditch, moving across the bottom to stumble into the next row
of lilies, then the next. Yet they still came, but in their haste and ardor to
get their ladders up, the men following behind pushed the leading Wa, screaming
in alarm and then agony onto the points of the stakes, where the crushing
weight of their own comrades served to pin them, the bloody points protruding
from their backs. It was only when some of the Wa wearing the iron lamellar
armor and carrying swords began striking at their own men, pushing them back,
that the slaughter was stopped. Very quickly, Flaminius' men had expended their
supply of javelins, and now stood with their siege spears, the points sticking
out from between the stakes of the rampart and shields, waiting for the next
phase of the assault to begin. Ladders, again carried by the men several ranks
back, were now passed down into the ditch, and the Wa, for the first time free
from any javelin or artillery fire, as desultory as it had been, paused as
their officers began trying to organize the next phase of the operation.

            "Get
ready boys," Flaminius, who was able to peer down into the ditch with only
moderate risk from the archers, who were also too dispersed to concentrate fire
on one point, saw what was happening and understood that his camp was about to
come under assault. "Let's give these cunni
a taste of Roman iron! What do you say?"

His answer was a roar from the
throats of his Legion, accompanied by the clattering sound of swords beating
against the metal rim of shields, a sound that had struck fear into more
enemies than any other army in history. No matter who these yellow men were,
Flaminius and the 30th Legion was ready to face them.

 

By this point in time, back at
Pullus' camp the ditch had become sufficiently filled for the men with the
ladders to begin moving down into the ditch. Clambering over the grisly human
flooring filling the ditch, the Romans, having expended all of their javelins,
could only watch as the ladders were carried forward.

"Get ready boys!" someone
shouted, which was answered with a low growl.

The men holding the siege spears made
last-moment adjustments, most of them wiping their sweaty palms on their tunics,
despite it not doing much good because most of them had already soaked the
fabric through. No man on that rampart was under any illusion that today, after
all the battles and all the bleeding that had hardened the 10th Legion into
what it was this day, this would be the sternest test any of them had ever
faced, even the hoariest veteran like Vellusius. No, they knew individually and
collectively that today would either see the destruction of the 10th, or the
most glorious victory in its storied history. Titus Pullus stood among them,
and despite sharing that knowledge along with his men, he felt a sudden surge
of affection that threatened to overwhelm him, filling his heart until he was
sure it would burst. And with no little surprise he realized that, as much as
he wanted to see another day, just like any of his men, there was still no
place he would rather be than at this spot, in this moment. What finer thing
could there be, he wondered, than to make history, no matter how the day turned
out? Because what happened today would live forever in the annals of warfare,
even if the 10th was exterminated, along with the rest of Caesar's army. Pullus
was then struck with a thought. If the unthinkable happened and the Romans were
defeated, how would anyone back in Rome know of all that had been accomplished?
As suddenly as it came, the feelings of pride and affection were replaced by a
leaden ball of doubt, not about the outcome as much as about the aftermath. Who
would be left to return to Rome and tell the Roman people, he wondered?
Suddenly, his train of thought was interrupted by a number of shouting curses,
and jerking his mind back to the moment, he turned to see the very tips of the
ladders peeking up above the palisade stakes, even as the men holding the shields
reached out with their free hand to push the ladders away from the stakes.
Pullus knew that only a few men were strong enough to do that with one hand,
and because he happened to be one of them, he leapt forward from his spot,
heading to the nearest ladder. Despite the fact that there were Wa warriors now
scrambling up the ladders, some of their archers continued to fire, their
feathered missiles streaking just feet above the heads of their comrades. While
not of the same intensity as their earlier barrage, the fusillade was still
sufficiently dangerous enough that even as Pullus moved forward he saw one of
his men holding a shield lean too far outside edge of the one he was holding and
take an arrow in the eye. Killed instantly, the suddenly nerveless fingers of
the man released their hold on the shield and before the man behind him could
lunge to recover it, the shield fell forward and down into the Wa, leaving a
gaping hole that made the otherwise unbroken line look like a mouth suddenly
missing a front tooth. Into that momentary gap came the first Wa who, in one
fluid and incredibly quick movement pushed off from the ladder to leap over the
palisade, seemingly hovering there in midair for the briefest instant before
landing squarely on the back of the fallen Roman. Even as Pullus' mind tried to
register what his eyes were seeing, the Wa's sword was swinging in what Pullus
knew from brutal experience was a deceptively smooth arc that nonetheless
packed an incredible amount of force. Before anyone could react, the Wa's blade
sliced cleanly through the neck of the Roman standing next to the fallen man
with the shield, and in one of those strange moments of clarity, what was
burned into Pullus' memory for the rest of his time on earth was the expression
of open-mouthed surprise and astonishment as his Legionary's head went spinning
into the air, the helmet still attached, leaving a briefly upright corpse still
spurting bright, arterial blood provided by a pumping heart that had not
received the message that it was no longer needed. In the instant after this
scene, the body of the second Roman collapsed, slumping forward over the
palisade, still spraying blood over the helmeted head of the second Wa on the
ladder, drenching him so thoroughly that when his head appeared over the
palisade, he appeared to be solid red. Scrambling to join his comrade, the
second Wa took the more conventional approach, but that only served to
emphasize his appearance as some sort of demon sent from the underworld, waving
a sword and eager to take as many Romans back down with him. Now the gap was
even larger, and although Pullus had been heading for the man closest to him,
he suddenly veered to meet this larger threat, without thought and without
hesitation, his sword out and his shield up and ready. In the bare fractions of
time that it took to close the distance, Pullus noticed that, with the second
Wa now standing atop the body of the second Roman like his comrade, both of
them disdained the use of shields and were armed only with their swords, the
same slightly curving blades Pullus had seen before. Before the attack on his
camp when the 10th had almost been overwhelmed, Pullus would have sneered at
the idea of any warrior with the hubris to fight without a shield. But not anymore;
he had seen firsthand the skill with which the Wa employed their weapon and
knew that they didn't use shields because they didn't need them. Nevertheless,
he went charging forward with his shield out before him, still confident enough
in his own abilities, experience and strength that the idea of facing two Wa,
no matter how skilled, gave him no pause whatsoever. 

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

Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 8 (Cont.)

As the scorpions opened fire along the parapet of the
northern camp, Pullus bellowed the command to his cornicen to blow the notes that commanded the men of the 10th who
had been waiting out of range to rush to the rampart. With a huge shout, his
Legion responded, although the men took care to keep their shield raised above
their heads as they scrambled up the slope and into position. Inevitably, some
men fell, despite the protection of their shield, and Pullus could see that
because of the closer range, the arrows that found their mark were buried more
deeply in whatever body part of the unfortunate it struck, to the point that in
some men just the feathered end of the arrow protruded out of their body as
they fell. Some of these men fell without a sound, while others let out a shout
or a shriek, but all of those struck were either mortally wounded or at least
out of action. The only satisfaction that Pullus could take was that the noise
emanating from the Wa ranks, in the form of groans, pained shouts and what
Pullus assumed was some sort of oaths in their gibberish, was much louder.
Risking another peek, Pullus got a glimpse just as a scorpion bolt hit a Wa in
the front rank in the middle of the torso, and trailing a spray of red mist,
passed through the first man, then through the man behind him to lodge with
half its length showing in the chest of yet a third man. Letting out a shout of
savage exultation, the Primus Pilus shook his free fist in the direction of the
Wa, now just a matter of a few paces on the other side of the ditch.

            "How
do you like that, you sorry, slanty-eyed bastards?" he shouted, lips
pulled back in a fierce grin.

            "Probably
not very much," Pullus was too experienced to do more than turn his head,
still keeping tucked safely behind his shield, although it was about to become
useless, to see that Balbus was back by his side. He would never utter it
aloud, but Pullus was thankful to have a friend with him right now, and he
laughed at the jest.

            "No,
probably not," he agreed, then turned serious. "But I'm afraid I left
it too late. I doubt the scorpions are going to be enough to stop them."

            "I
don't think they would have no matter when you gave the order," Balbus
told him, and while normally Pullus expected, and in fact demanded brutal
honesty from his subordinates and friends alike, this was one time he thought
that if Balbus was lying, he would forgive him. Without replying, Pullus turned
his attention back to the Wa, and it was at this point that he noticed what
Caesar had some time before, although neither had any way of knowing that.

            "They
don't have any ladders, or hurdles," was how the Primus Pilus put it, but
unlike Caesar, he didn't divine the purpose. In fact, it was Pullus' other
friend, the Secundus Pilus Prior Sextus Scribonius, who sent a messenger
scurrying behind the men now standing on the rampart, the rank nearest the wall
resting their shields on top, while their comrades behind them held theirs
above the heads of the first rank and themselves, with the other ranks behind
them doing the same. Even as wide as the rampart was, there wasn't enough room
for the normal depth of a Century formation, forcing the last few ranks of men
to stand behind the rampart, a pace away from the slope. Scribonius' messenger,
none other than the old tentmate of Pullus and Scribonius, Publius Vellusius,
had to weave in and out among men, including those laying on the dirt who had
yet to be dragged off, one and usually more arrows sticking from them. Reaching
the Primus Pilus, Vellusius took a moment to regain his breath before blurting
out what Scribonius had sent him to tell his commander.

            "Pilus
Prior Scribonius says that he thinks that the Wa are planning on letting the
poor bastards in the front rank to fill up the ditch! That's how they're going
to get across!"

Exchanging disbelieving glances, both Pullus and Balbus
took another look, this time braving the fire, which was just beginning to
slacken, to study their enemy.

            "By
the gods, he's right," it was Balbus who broke the silence. "I knew
that big brain of his would come in handy sometime."

Pullus was torn; although he didn't want to believe that
any man was so merciless and cruel to send his men to die in such a manner, in
his gut he recognized that both his friends were right. That only left one
question; what to do about it?

 

At the far, southernmost camp, the Wa assault had yet to
begin in earnest, and they were in fact just marching up the base of the slope.
Standing next to Asinius Pollio was the Primus Pilus of the 5th Alaudae, a
grizzled veteran originally from Pompey's 1st Legion named Vibius Batius, who
was one of the oldest Centurions in Caesar's Legions, in fact being less than 5
years younger than Caesar himself. He was as brown, scarred and tough as old
boot leather, but while Titus Pullus stood more than 3 inches over 6 feet,
Batius was a foot shorter. However, where the gods take away in one area, they
give in another, and Vibius Batius possessed the ferocity and sheer
determination that many men of smaller stature have, and coupled with a
first-rate brain and a toughness that was second only to his counterpart in the
10th, though he would never concede that, Batius was a good choice to stand
next to Pollio. While there was another Roman of Legate rank there, the pecking
order in Caesar's army had long been established, so nobody questioned that if
Pollio should fall, it would be Batius who would conduct the defense of this
camp. To assist him he had the 28th Legion, who had lost their Primus Pilus
Gnaeus Cartufenus on the beach those weeks ago. The new Primus Pilus was the
former Pilus Posterior, moving up one Cohort, but he was too junior and too new
to even think of contesting Batius for leadership, and in fact deferred to him.
Because of Caesar's conviction that the most serious threat was to the northern
camp, Pollio and Batius had at their disposal a much smaller complement of
artillery, but to compensate, Caesar had given them the majority of the
Balearic slingers. Unfortunately, as they were about to find out, the lightly
armored slingers were easy targets for the Wa archers, numbering about a
thousand in this force, more than enough to inflict real damage. Although
whoever was commanding the Wa force was moving slower than his other
countrymen, he was using the same tactics; once within range, the archers began
sending sheaves of arrows into the sky, each making a graceful arc in the air
as it soared skyward before pausing for the barest fraction of a heartbeat,
then plunging down to earth. As missiles rained down, Batius' men sheltered
under their shields just like the Romans in the other camps were, and just like
them men began to fall, most of them writhing in pain and cursing their luck,
while some simply collapsed.

            "Batius,
I think we should answer back with the artillery now," Pollio's voice
sounded eerily calm, but Batius could hear the strain underneath the words.

            "But
Caesar said we needed to wait until they got closer," Batius reminded
Pollio, but this didn't change the general's mind.

            "Yes,
but he also thought our slingers would be able to make a dent in their numbers
before they got close, but that's not going to happen."

Even if he had been disposed to argue further, Batius saw
the sense in what Pollio was saying, and he snapped the order to his cornicen, who blatted out the series of
notes that gave the signal for both ballistae and scorpions, few as they were,
to open fire. The men, hearing the horn and knowing the command it sounded,
managed to let out a cheer that for just a brief moment drowned out the racket
caused by the raining death. Both men gave each other a grim smile, and Pollio
said, "Sounds like the men are ready to get stuck in."

            "My
boys are always ready, general," Batius boasted. "These cunni will wish they had never crawled
out from between their mothers' legs by the time we're through!"

Gods, I hope so, Pollio thought, but said nothing, turning
his attention back to the sight of the Wa, now moving steadily up the slope,
their archers firing as they went.

 

Caesar, now that he
understood the intent of the Wa commander, realized that he was essentially
doing what the Wa wanted by slaughtering the leading edge of the attacking
force, and instantly understood that while he couldn't completely forestall the
tactic, he could make it harder to employ. He gave the order for the artillery
to shift their aim slightly, to a point farther back and deeper in the Wa
ranks, and he quickly found this had the added benefit of slackening the
archers' fire, now that they were suffering casualties. Even so, when he
checked he saw that the ditch was already a quarter full of men who had been
struck down the entire length of the ditch. Although most of these unfortunates
had been killed; either pierced through with a scorpion bolt or eviscerated and
mangled with a rock from a ballista, there were enough who had yet to die to
make it seem as if the bloody mound was moving in juddering, spastic jerks and
twitches as those still alive either went through their death throes or tried
in vain to claw their way to the top of the pile. The sight of the carnage left
Caesar speechless, not so much for the numbers of men, but because of what
their purpose was supposed to be. With the front ranks just on the other side
of the ditch, they were close enough for Caesar to see men's faces, and they to
see his, and he supposed that their thoughts were running along much similar
lines; here are the men who want to kill me. In Caesar's case, this was less a
general representation and more of an actual goal of each of the Wa warriors
who, unbeknownst to Caesar or anyone in the Roman army, had been offered a huge
reward for the head of the barbarian general who led this force of men who
looked like the kind of white, pale grub that were dug out of the ground in the
garden and crushed. That's what would happen to these grubs, even if they did
stand upright and look somewhat like men. And there wasn't a man in the Wa
ranks who was in a position where they could see Caesar that didn't know that
this was the barbarian general, the commander of this foul horde who had come
to their land unbidden, bringing invasion and destruction. But first, they had
to cross that ditch, and to do that, these men in the front ranks knew their
duty, and were in fact keenly disappointed when the savage fire from the
barbarian machines, machines that they had never seen before but had come to
fear, stopped concentrating on them and instead were now laying waste to their
comrades behind them. The shouting they were doing wasn't enough to drown out
the screams of men who suddenly had half their face torn away by a rock flying
so quickly that it was impossible to duck, or the gurgling call to a dear
friend in the ranks as one of those large, iron-tipped arrows struck deep into
a man's chest, filling his lungs with blood. Hearing all this behind them, and
knowing that they had to fulfill their purpose, without any command being
given, some of the men in the front Wa ranks began throwing themselves down
into the ditch, calling their comrades behind them to follow suit and pile on
top. Those first men who did this knew that eventually they would be crushed,
the wind driven from their lungs by the weight of more armored men following
their lead, yet they didn't hesitate. Caesar stood aghast at the sight, and in
fact, it so unnerved the men serving the weapons that for a moment they could
only stare in disbelief. Perhaps strangely, or perhaps not, the sight also
filled the Romans with fear, despite knowing that these were men that wouldn't
be clambering up the ladder and over the wall to come kill them. What kind of
men were these? It was a question that had become as common a refrain around
the fires at night as the complaints about eating rice, and the lack of wine,
and seeing the answer in front of their eyes didn't bring them any comfort. 

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

Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 8 (Cont.)

Watching his orders being carried out, it took Pullus a
moment to become aware that someone had made their way through the men moving
all around him to stand beside him. Finally turning, he saw Balbus, holding his
own shield up, which was now studded with more than a half dozen arrows.
Immediately understanding his friend's intent Pullus shook his head
emphatically.

            "No,
you get back to the rear as well. I need you to be ready to take over the
Legion in case I don't duck quickly enough."

Despite the circumstances, Balbus still gave his version of
a grin at the attempted humor, appreciating the effort if not the wit, but he
made no move to go. Pullus' voice hardened.

            "I
mean it, get out of here!"

Just as he finished the sentence, there was a loud clanging
crack, and Balbus' shield was almost jerked from his hand by an arrow that had
struck the boss. Grimacing, he nevertheless gave his superior and friend a curt
nod, but before he turned away, he said as quietly as possible under the
circumstances, "All right, but promise me you won't stand there like a
statue. Nobody is going to think less of you if the great Titus Pullus actually
acts like the rest of us and tries to avoid getting hit by one of these damned
things."

At first Pullus didn't answer, but seeing that Balbus
wasn't going to budge, he snapped, "Fine. I promise. Now get out of
here!"

Whereupon Balbus began backing up, careful of his footing
as he moved backward down the packed dirt slope that led to the rampart and
allowed Roman Legionaries to get to their spot on the wall more quickly than
any other army who used ladders. Satisfied that Balbus was leaving, Pullus
turned his attention back to the remainder of his men, those volunteers who
were staying behind to watch the Wa, who at this point were content to have
halted for a time, obviously to allow their archers to soften up the defenses.
We'll be softened all right, Pullus thought grimly, as a man, one of the
Pandyans by the look of him, who had stayed behind suddenly let out a
strangled, gurgling cry, staggering backward to fall tumbling down the ramp
with an arrow in the throat. His attention on the stricken man for just a
heartbeat, Pullus turned back to the front just in time to sense more than see
a Wa arrow streaking down from the sky, almost vertically above him. The angle
was such that it would skim over the top of his shield before he could move it,
and displaying reflexes honed through years of battles, Pullus merely twisted
his body a fraction, far enough for the arrow to miss, but close enough that he
could hear the whistling and felt the slap of the wind against his cheek as it
shot past to bury itself in the ground just behind him. Despite the gravity of
the situation, Titus Pullus burst out laughing in relief, glad that he had
actually heeded Balbus' advice. Even so, there was a small part of his mind
that chided him that what he had done could look like cowardice, a feeling that
hearkened back to very early in his career, before he was a legend.

 

Titus Pullus was only in his 20's when he was promoted from
his post as Optio of the First Century, Second Cohort by Caesar, immediately
after Alesia. This, in and of itself, was not unusual; he had been Optio for
almost 4 years, but what was unusual
was that instead of putting Pullus into one of the most junior Cohorts;
traditionally it would have been as the Decimus Hastatus Posterior, the most
junior Centurion in a Legion, Caesar had named him as the Secundus Pilus Prior,
the most senior Centurion of the Second Cohort and its commander on detached
operations, and one of the most senior positions in the Legion. It had been an
extremely bold, and controversial, decision by Caesar, who was never bound by
tradition if it served as an impediment to what he viewed as the most effective
or efficient way to run the army. The promotion thrust Pullus into a position
that, although in his secret heart he had coveted, he never thought he would
actually have to face, commanding Centurions more experienced and older than he
was. One of them in particular, if unsurprisingly, that gave him the most
trouble had been Gnaeus Celer, the Pilus Posterior and the customary choice to
move up when the Pilus Prior, who had been known as Pulcher because of the
leering scar he bore on his face, was killed. From that moment, for the next
few years, Celer had done whatever he could to undermine Pullus; subtle mockery
of his age, trying to engineer events so that he could appear to the men as the
sympathetic figure when Pullus was deemed to be harsh. Between Celer's actions
and his youth, Pullus was acutely aware that the eyes of all the men of the Cohort
were on him, judging him, measuring him, and because of that he developed a
habit of displaying a disdain for moments such as this that bordered on the
foolhardy. Yet, somehow, he had survived, despite what seemed at times to be
his best attempt to do otherwise. Now, under the constant rain of arrows,
Pullus, if he was forced to admit it, was more than happy to risk his
reputation for bravery as he held his shield above him, peering under the rim
as the arrows first came into sight and relying on his innate instinct to tell
him what to do. He had long since learned that the worst thing to do when under
intense missile fire was to actually try to think about what to do in order to
avoid being skewered; you were much better off letting your body take matters
over, and he spent the next few moments hopping first one way, then making a
quick step forward before leaning to the side, all to avoid being hit.
Nevertheless, as well as he was able to dodge the odd arrow, more were caught
by the shield, and while at first they had lodged so that barely half the point
was embedded in the wood, Pullus began noticing that now the barbed heads were
protruding all the way through. That could only mean one thing, he realized;
the Wa had resumed their advance, and were firing as they closed the distance.
Understanding that the only way he could see whether they were close enough for
the scorpions to commence firing was by moving the few feet closer to the wall
of palisade stakes and taking a look, despite the danger, he muttered a curse
as he shuffled forward, shoulders hunched and ready to receive a blow. The
footing had become treacherous simply from all the shafts of arrows sticking
out of the earthen rampart, but he tried to kick as many away as he could,
knowing that his men would have to do the same. All around him, the Legionaries
who had remained behind were in similar postures, in a half-crouch, their
bodies pinched up in an attempt to avoid overlapping the edge of the shield
with a body part that they cherished, their faces screwed up with the tension
and fear of the moment. Fortunately, only a handful of these men had been
struck, and of those that had, it looked to Pullus that perhaps a half dozen
were permanently out of action. Even so, he didn't like losing any men to the
Wa arrows because he felt sure he would need every strong right arm. Reaching
the wooden stakes that made up the wall, despite two more strikes to his
shield, one of which started a slight crack that Pullus could see went all the
way through to the back, he took a deep breath. Leaning over to the side, he
peered around the edge of the shield, his gaze directed to where he estimated
the Wa to be. He let out an explosive gasp as it took him just a fraction of a
heartbeat for his mind to register what his eyes were telling him, that he had
looked in the wrong place, too far down the slope, although what he saw was
useful in its own way. The Wa were barely more than 150 paces away, and the
only thing that was saving the Romans from them closing the remaining distance
by bursting forth in a run was the severity of the slope.

            "Scorpions
begin firing! Open fire! Hurry you bastards!" Pullus began shouting over
and over, prompting the men who crewed the weapons and had been at the back
edge of the rampart, sheltering themselves with their shields to scurry forward
to man their weapons. Even as they did so, Pullus thought that it would be too
late to do any good. Almost the entire assault force would be scaling these
walls, bringing death to the 10th Legion.

 

Caesar's redoubt was under a similar assault, although it
was nowhere near the severity as that the northern camp was enduring. In fact,
he had yet to be informed that the Wa had begun their missile attack there, the
courier bringing that news still galloping along the undulating road on the
ridgetop. Consequently, he was able to risk a glance at the Wa who had stopped
down the slope to allow their archers to begin their work, and making a quick
decision, gave his orders for both the ballistae and scorpions to begin firing
back. Immediately the reports of both types of weapons began, followed a few
moments later by thin cries that could barely be heard above the storm of noise
caused by the arrows hitting shields, or men. Despite the distance, Caesar could
tell that the first volley had drawn blood, giving him a savage satisfaction.
For all of his faults, Gaius Julius Caesar did love his men, and seeing them
suffer was one of the few things that brought him genuine grief, and there was
nothing worse than seeing them suffer without being able to strike back. Now
we'll see how they like it, he thought grimly, his ears tuned for more sounds
that the Roman missiles were finding fleshy targets, even as he gave orders to
one of his Tribunes, a young Parthian nobleman who was related to the king,
Pacorus, and who had chosen the side of the victors after seeing what
destruction Caesar and his army could wreak. That had been when it was still an
all-Roman army, a massive and deadly magnificent machine of chaos and destruction,
relentlessly and ruthlessly grinding up and spitting out all who stood in its
path. Caesar's army now was no less deadly; in many ways, it was more so, as
Caesar picked up other methods of warfare, and modified them to suit his style,
but Caesar knew that this was going to be the severest test it had ever faced,
and all of his faculties, every bit of his experience and resolve was going to
be needed to survive the day. Finishing his orders, he made the Parthian
Tribune, Bodroges was his name, repeat everything back to him before he was
dismissed to go fulfill his task. The moment he left, Caesar turned to another
Tribune, this one a Pandyan, and like Bodroges, was a member of his people's
nobility who had started out as a hostage, but after exposure to Caesar desired
nothing more than to be considered Roman himself. He had even gone so far as to
have a toga made, although it was made out of silk, and was the source of much
amusement on the part of the true Romans among the officers, who had tried to persuade
him that only a woman would drape herself in such material, no matter how it
was cut. But he would not be dissuaded, and for all his affectations he had the
makings of a good Legate one day. Caesar, his voice raised because of the
racket, gave this man another set of orders, listened to him repeat them back,
then as with the Parthian, he was sent on his way. Turning back to the matter
at hand, Caesar unknowingly mimicked Titus Pullus, shuffling forward a bit to
get a better look at the Wa before his walls. He hadn't seen the need to send
the bulk of the men away from the walls, so there was no chance of him being
surprised as Pullus had been, but he was still concerned to see the Wa closing
the distance at a steady, if not altogether swift climb. As he watched,
something that he couldn't immediately identify puzzled him, until he finally
realized that he hadn't seen any ladders among the troops in the front ranks.
It was only when he happened to be watching just as a rock from a ballistae
bounced just in front of the leading edge of the Wa before punching a bloody
hole through the first two or three ranks that he saw why. Immediately after
the men fell, he could see more deeply into the Wa formation, and that is when
he saw that they were in fact carrying ladders, but farther back in the ranks
than he had ever seen before. It was customary for the men who would reach the
wall first to carry scaling ladders, and Caesar wondered what the meaning of
this was, or if there was any at all. Even as he watched, another disturbing
thing happened. When the Wa immediately behind the two men of the first two
ranks that fell stepped forward to move to the front, Caesar spotted one end of
a ladder that the Wa was carrying. However, rather than carry it with him, Caesar
saw him hand his end back to the man immediately behind him, who in turn did
the same as he moved forward to take the second spot.

            "Why
on Gaia's earth are they doing that, I wonder?" Caesar asked aloud,
something extremely unusual for him, but this for some reason was unsettling
him. That is when he noticed something else, starting the dawning of a
realization. Another thing that was missing were the hurdles, the big bundles
of sticks that were thrown into a ditch in front of a wall that allowed the attackers
to cross relatively swiftly, and without having to scramble up the side of the
ditch. The Wa weren't carrying any, so how were they planning on getting
across? Could it be they weren't planning on crossing? Surely they wouldn't
just stand there absorbing punishment from the artillery! As Caesar thought
about it, suddenly going still despite all the din and action going on around
him, he again tried to put himself into the mind of the Wa commander. He was
still sure that this wasn't the main focus of the Wa assault, and that his
enemy's goal was to merely keep the Romans in this camp tied down so they
couldn't go to the aid of the men in the northern camp. So it made some sort of
sense that the Wa would be willing to halt short of the ditch, or even go
through the laborious process of crossing the ditch, despite it being laced
with all of Caesar's refinements, some of which the Wa could see once they got
close enough and look down, but most they could not because they were
concealed. But why subject your men to that kind of wholesale slaughter? Wasn't
there a better way to use your men?

            "What
if they are the hurdles?" he
suddenly asked, again aloud, and as soon as he said it, a sort of leaden ball
materialized in his stomach. He knew that feeling; it was the feeling he got
when he had arrived at an answer to a problem that was a horrible answer, one
that he would rather not know. That was it, he was suddenly sure; the Wa
commander was going to march his men up to the ditch, and allow them to be mown
down like stalks of wheats, and use their bodies to fill the ditch. After all,
look at what they did at the beach, when we first used our artillery on them,
he thought, this time silently to himself. A strange feeling came over Caesar,
one that he had never experienced before, a strange combination of revulsion
and.......admiration? Could that be it? Yes, he acknowledged, yes, admiration.
Suddenly Caesar understood the mind of the Wa commander better than he ever had
before. He knew that he had met a man as ruthless as himself, and in fact,
maybe more ruthless, because Caesar couldn't fathom ordering Pullus and the
10th to do such a thing. But this Wa, whoever he was, was willing to do
whatever was necessary to win, even if it meant slaughtering his own men. Despite
the fact that it was promising to be a warm day, the sun now a full hand's
width above the eastern hills, Caesar felt a chill run through his body. Was
this what a premonition of defeat felt like? 

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

Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 8 (Cont.)

Titus Pullus had seen the same thing as Caesar, and had
much the same reaction. Standing next to him was Balbus, his Pilus Posterior,
and casting a sideways glance, Pullus could clearly see that his friend was
just as troubled.

            "The
Legion stores are going to be drained dry of shields by the time we're
through," Balbus said, his tone calm despite the scene before him. Both
these men were vastly experienced in the art of leading men, and knew that the
rankers hung on every word uttered by their Centurions and Optios, no matter
how hard they tried to look like they weren't listening, as those around the
pair were doing now. It was essential that the Centurions sound unconcerned,
especially at moments like this, Pullus reflected, happy that Balbus was as
aware as he was that his tone would do much to keep the men as calm as
possible.

            "You're
right Balbus, but you know what? I'm not going to let the army cheat my boys
just because these Wa bastards are going to poke some holes in their shields.
I'll pay for every ruined shield out of my own purse!"

Just as he had hoped, the men within earshot let out a
happy shout, the upcoming threat and the fact that it was likely a good number
of them wouldn't live through the day temporarily forgotten as they rejoiced at
the idea that the rankers would get one over on the army. It never failed to
amuse Pullus that the entity known as "the army" was universally loathed
by the men, and any chance at foiling what they considered the army's
never-ending plot to rob them of their hard-earned pay at every turn was a
cause for celebration. The Legion, on the other hand? Well, these men would
fight and die for the Legion, as they would fight and die for the friends
immediately to their left and right, never stopping to think that it was the
amalgam of Legions, filled with men just like them, with the exact same
viewpoint, that comprised the hated "army". The other thing Pullus
knew was that the word of his largesse would fly down the length of the rampart
from where he was standing, as the men passed the word to those comrades who
wanted to know what the cheering was about. In fact, even as he and Balbus
stood there he could hear the ripple of shouts making their way down the
rampart, where it abruptly stopped when the last man of the 10th turned to pass
the word to see that it was in fact a man from the 12th standing next to him.
Although not quite as loud, Pullus could hear the groans from the 12th as they
heard of the bounty their comrades in the 10th had been given, cursing the luck
that came from being in the wrong Legion. Out of the corner of his eye, Pullus
saw Balbus' scarred face grimace in what he knew was his version of a grin,
made sinister looking by the severed nerves that made his lip permanently
droop.

            "Balbinus
isn't going to thank you for that," he laughed. "Now he's going to
have to match you or his men will curse his name every day from here on."

            Pullus
grinned back at Balbus, giving a shrug. "Not really my problem, is it? And
he can always refuse. He is a cheap bastard; he still owes me 50 sesterces from
our last dice game. Although," the Primus Pilus finished with a laugh,
"I don't know why I care. It's not like I can spend it anywhere."

            "It's
the principle," Balbus immediately replied, without thinking, and cursed
himself as he saw Pullus wince. "Sorry," Balbus said awkwardly,
"I didn't mean....."

            Pullus
waved him off. "I know. Don't worry about it. Well," he abruptly
changed the subject, "let's check to make sure every man has his siege
spear ready." Without waiting for a reply, Pullus turned toward his own
Century, bawling out, "You cunni
better have those siege spears ready! I want to see nothing but points sticking
out over the wall!"

            Balbus,
before he turned to his own men, stared at the back of his retreating friend.
"When are you going to learn to keep your mouth shut?" he asked, only
of himself, since the men around him within earshot wouldn't dare respond. Not
if they didn't want to suffer a fate that scared them more than the sight of
the Wa marching up the slope.

 

What Balbus had said and had disrupted the moment brought
Titus Pullus back to the scene of another battle, one from years before this
campaign started, on a dusty plain outside of a town called Pharsalus. It was
there that Titus Pullus and his longest, best friend Vibius Domitius, had found
themselves on the opposite side, a moment that had severed for all time a
friendship that had started when they were 10 years old. In the immediate
aftermath of the battle, when Caesar had called on his exhausted men to
accompany him in his pursuit of Pompey, who had escaped the battle with barely
a Century's worth of men, the 10th, Caesar's favorite and most loyal to that
moment, had refused. It had been a huge shock to Caesar, and it was only less
of a shock to Pullus, who was the Secundus Pilus Prior, commander of the Second
Cohort, because he had a few moment's warning just before it happened. Vibius
had been his Optio then, and in the heat of the moment, as he and Vibius stood
there face to face, Pullus had come perilously close to drawing his sword and
striking down his best friend. Ironically, that act had done Pullus' career an
enormous amount of good, despite the personal pain it caused him, as Caesar saw
it happen as well. Knowing in that moment that Pullus' loyalty to his general
was unflinching, and recognizing that the rankers of the 10th were less likely
to forgive the giant Centurion, Caesar had appointed him as the de facto Primus Pilus of the two Cohorts
of the 6th Legion, which had been on the field in the ranks of Pompey just a
watch before. In the resulting rout, these two Cohorts, the 7th and 10th, had
been stranded on the wrong side of the river as the rest of the Legion made
their escape, "joining" Caesar's forces somewhat involuntarily, being
given the choice of that or death by Marcus Antonius, who was the commander of
that portion of the field. However, these two Cohorts of the 6th had served
Caesar steadfastly and well, no matter how their service started, accompanying
him to Alexandria, and being the part of Caesar's force that had soundly
defeated the dreaded Pontic chariots at Zela, the battle that prompted the
"I came, I saw, I conquered" dispatch from Caesar that was in many
ways more famous than the battle itself. By the time Caesar, and Pullus had
returned, a year after Pharsalus, matters had settled to the point that Pullus
had been appointed the official Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion, while Vibius
continued to serve out his enlistment as the Optio of what became Scribonius'
Century and Cohort. Neither man spoke to the other after that, and when the
original men of the 10th saw their enlistment expire, Vibius chose not to re-enlist,
instead going home to finally marry his childhood sweetheart, who had once
jilted him to marry another man during the Gallic campaign, and who had since
had the good grace to die and leave her a widow. It was only through
Scribonius, who had managed to maintain his friendship with both men, that
Titus learned that the son Juno had borne Vibius was named Titus, just as
Titus' dead son had been named Vibius, back when they had been friends and sure
that nothing would ever sever that bond. As Pullus went through the motions of
doing a last-minute inspection of the men, his mind was elsewhere, thinking
about all that he had lost in his life, balanced against all that he had
gained. The words that Balbus had uttered surprised Pullus because of how much
they still hurt him to hear. "It's the principle" had been one of
Vibius' favorite phrases when he had found himself in an intractable position.
One time it had been over what was essentially a spoonful of vinegar that he
became convinced Vellusius had filched from his flask, until Scribonius had
found the small hole near the bottom that allowed the remaining fluid to leak
out. Even faced with such evidence, while Vibius had grudgingly apologized to
Vellusius, he had insisted that "it was the principle" about which he
was arguing, and in that principle he maintained that he was vindicated in his
condemnation of Vellusius. It was the kind of incident that was infuriating to
all involved in the moment; indeed, Pullus had seen Legionaries kill each other
for similar reasons over the years, but years later provided some of the
loudest, longest laughs around the fire at night. And here, on this hill in Wa,
with thousands of armed men marching to try and end not just Pullus' life but
the existence of the 10th and the army in general, this was what occupied
Pullus' mind.

 

Pullus' mind might have been elsewhere, but his body was
very much standing on the rampart of the northernmost camp, and the sheer size
and bulk of his presence heartened his men more than even Pullus realized. The
post of Primus Pilus was almost always filled with only the most exemplary of
Centurions, but even among the Primi Pili, Titus Pullus was a legend. He had
long since shown that there was more to his prowess in battle than his size and
strength; from the age of 12, an outsize 12 it was true, he and Vibius had
begun training for the Legions, at the hands of a veteran of Sertorius' Spanish
Legions who was Titus' brother-in-law. And from that first day, it was very
rare that Pullus didn't spend at least a third of a watch every day working on
his skills with the sword. He had learned in his first campaign, when he had
been lulled into a sense of invincibility by the constant praise of his Pilus
Prior, the famous Gaius Crastinus, his weapons instructor Aulus Vinicius, and
most of his comrades, that as talented as he may have been, he could be bested.
From that first close call, to this day, he never took his skills for granted,
and his subsequent exploits had built, one upon another, until his men held him
in an awe that was just slightly below Caesar, who they were convinced was a
god. If Caesar was god, they were sure that their Primus Pilus was a demigod,
and just having him standing there, next to them, waiting for what was to come,
gave them enormous comfort, and instilled in them a belief that despite the
odds, they would be victorious once again.

 

Only dimly aware of this, Pullus continued walking among
the men, putting a hand on the shoulder on one, while sharing a joke with
another about some past exploit or error, but still his mind ranged back over
the years of his life. He supposed that this was understandable, because
although he didn't have the same feeling in his bones that Caesar was
experiencing, he was aware that this would in all likelihood be the toughest
battle he and the 10th had ever faced, and that made the chances very good that
he wouldn't live to see another day. After all, he reasoned, everyone's string
plays out, and I've had more luck than anyone other than Caesar. Even as this
thought, the last of his reverie to run through his mind, there was a shouted
warning that the Wa had halted their progress. Turning to face them, Pullus was
just in time to see a rippling movement in the rear ranks as the massed
archers, with impressive precision considering their large numbers, tilted
their bows upwards while pulling their other arm backwards, drawing the string
up to each man's cheeks, where it was held there for an instant before a short,
sharp blast of some sort of horn sounded.

            "Shields
up!" Pullus' roar mingled with that of the other Centurions and Optios,
but he continued, in the same bellowing volume, "Remember boys! I'm paying
for the shields!"

Any cheers that came from the men was wiped out by the
sudden hollow clatter of arrows striking the wood of shields, punctuated by a
number of clanging rings as some missiles hit metal bosses, and even worse,
shouts and cries of men who were struck down. Over the din, Pullus heard the cornu blow the command that told the
ballistae, all of which had been positioned off of the rampart, about 40 paces
from the walls where their arcing fire would clear the men on the ramparts, to
open fire. They would be essentially firing blind, but with their ammunition of
rocks, precision wasn't as important as with the scorpions. Those weapons were
arrayed on the walls, and no order had been given to them at this point,
although the leading Wa were well within range. Still, this was part of
Caesar's plan for each of the forts, to maximize their casualties, because he
had a real fear that they would run out of bolts well before they ran out of
Wa, so every shot had to count. To protect them from the Wa arrow fire,
fascines, large wicker baskets filled with dirt had been placed side by side,
with just enough of an opening for each scorpion to have an arc of fire of
perhaps 10 degrees, but there were enough of them so their fields of fire
interlocked, leaving no spot where the Wa would be safe. While Pullus
understood and accepted Caesar's reasoning, it was still hard for him to crouch
in place without hearing the distinctive twanging report from Caesar's favorite
weapon. But he at least had the comfort of the crashing sound as the arm of the
ballistae hit the crossbar, stopping it abruptly while sending the contents of
its basket into the ranks of the Wa. Unfortunately, the hail of arrows was too
thick to risk peeking out to see what kind of damage was being done. Just as
had happened on the beach, and to a lesser extent when their makeshift camp had
been attacked when the 10th had been out on patrol, the rain of arrows was
practically nonstop, the air so thick with feathered missiles that it indeed
appeared possible that they would blot out the sun. Within the span of perhaps
100 heartbeats, the barrage was so intense that as Pullus did look to each
side, still holding the shield he had drawn from stores in front and slightly
above his body, he saw that there wasn't a man who didn't already have at least
3 or 4 arrows protruding from their shield, while the ground all around was
studded with shafts, some of them still quivering from impact. Realizing that
if this continued every man's shield would be useless, Pullus made a quick
decision.

            "I
need a section of volunteers from each Century to stay with me on the rampart
to keep an eye on these cunni! The
rest of you I want down off the rampart out of range to save your shields! Pass
the word!" Pullus bellowed this order first to his right, then repeated to
his left, counting on his Centurions and Optios to immediately divine his
purpose and react accordingly. To his relief, there was only a slight delay as
Centurions either asked, or in some cases, ordered certain men to stay behind,
and those who didn't, or weren't as the case may have been, began backing down
the slope of the rampart, their shields still up. Inevitably, some men were
still struck down, although it was a blessed few, although the shields suffered
more damage.

            "Plautus you bastard, I've had
you on report for a month now but I've been too busy, so you're one of the
volunteers," was how it was expressed by Marcus Glaxus, the Primus
Princeps Prior, or commander of the Third Century of the First Cohort to a
veteran of Gaul, one of the few remaining. Although ostensibly true, it was
also because Glaxus knew that of all the men in his Century, Plautus was one of
the toughest, and wasn't likely to crack under what was shaping up to be the
most intense barrage they had ever endured. 

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

Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 8 (Cont.)

Just as Pullus had predicted, it took the Wa almost a full
watch before they were in what was apparently their battle formation, and at
first, it appeared that the Wa commander was going to behave precisely as
Caesar had expected him to. There hadn't been any real shift in terms of the
numbers, so that the same size Wa force was now aligned roughly even with the
base of the northernmost camp, giving every indication that they would make a
straightforward assault. Elsewhere, smaller groups of Wa, but still in
contingents that looked to be about 10,000 men in strength, lined themselves up
across from each of the five Roman camps. What Caesar couldn't see was beyond
the camp to his left, to the rest of the southernmost positions that ended in
an almost identical position to the south. While he could just make out the Wa
camps that were roughly aligned just like the others, he could only tell there
was movement by the large clouds of dust from the closest camp, and because the
mounted couriers were galloping back and forth. However, even with the road
that Caesar had the men cut along the top of the ridge, it would be at least a
sixth part of a watch before he could expect to be informed by a courier, and
that was only if he rode hard and the horse didn't founder. That was why, as
soon as the Wa had begun making their own camps, he had sent Asinius Pollio to
the southern position. He needed a man he could trust, even though he felt in
his bones that there would be no major attack on the southernmost camp. He also
had a group of couriers stationed along the ridge road, at each camp, where
they would act as relay riders, taking the message to the next so he would be
informed as quickly as possible in the event he was wrong. His reasoning was
simple; the northern pass was closest to where he had been told the capital lay
to the northwest, and he didn't think that any commander would risk
concentrating his forces in such a way that if his opponent stole a march, the
capital lay undefended. And he was sure that by this point, the one thing that
the Wa knew about this "barbarian" was that he and his army were
capable of moving very swiftly indeed. No, he was about as sure as he could be
that the north would be where the action was. What was still unclear to him was
the Wa commander's intent. Since the Wa had no navy to speak of, and certainly
not strong enough to be of any threat to his own fleet, which now rode at
anchor just on the other side of this ridge, it didn't really make sense for
the Wa to try and force a passage through that northern pass to get to the bay.
The only thing their infantry could do in that event was shake their fist at
the ships, and in fact, there was still some of the ship borne artillery that
hadn't been stripped from the vessels, so if they got too close to the shore,
the navy would punish them for that. Furthermore, forcing the pass would
effectively put the Roman army at their back, with the bay on the other side.
Despite their numerical superiority, they would be in a tactically inferior
position, and the Romans could move down the slope to within artillery range,
putting the Wa in a vice. No, Caesar mused, I don't think that's it. That left
only one other option, the one that made the most sense on a number of levels;
the Wa commander's intent was to come up this ridge and destroy this army once
and for all, in a decisive battle.

 

The only question was, how? Caesar had spent a sleepless
night turning that over in his mind. He had long since learned that while it
was of some value to think about what he would do in the Wa commander's place,
that didn't always mean that is what would happen. In fact, it rarely meant
that, so Caesar turned his prodigious mind to trying to divine what the Wa
commander would do. What made this so damnably difficult was Caesar's
unfamiliarity with his opponent, both in a general sense as far as
understanding the Wa mind, and in a specific sense, with this particular
general. He knew he had never faced this man, and while there had now been a
few engagements with the Wa, they had acted in such unexpected ways that Caesar
was very reluctant to draw any firm conclusion. Hence, a lot of tossing and
turning. Would the Wa commander just send that large body of men scrambling up
the slope, ready to absorb whatever punishment his men must endure in order to
close with the Romans, while using the smaller groups to keep the other Roman
camps occupied so that no reinforcements from them could be sent to help the
northern camp? On its surface, that would certainly seem the most likely
approach, but Caesar had spent enough time in this strange land to understand
one very important thing; the people of this entire part of the world didn't
think anything like those from the West. It was this thought gnawing at his
brain that finally prompted him to do summon Zhang. The Han emissary came very
quickly, and it was clear he hadn't been sleeping either.

            "It's
nice to know I'm not the only one losing sleep," Caesar said in Latin,
more as a test than anything.

            "Tomorrow
is........important day," Zhang replied haltingly, in Caesar's tongue. One
thing that Caesar was famous for, and if the truth were known, was one of the
things of which he was proudest, was his facility for languages, but this Han
had demonstrated to be his clear superior in that regard, as his Latin, just in
the weeks since he had first surprised them, was markedly improved. It
irritated Caesar quite a bit, in fact; when one has always been considered the
best at something, it's always a rude shock to find out you're not. This was
something that Caesar tried very hard not to show, keeping his countenance and
demeanor as close to normal as it always was. Achaemenes had been summoned as
well, and Caesar turned to him now.

            "I
want you to stay here, but Zhang and I are going to carry on this conversation.
Only step in when it's clear that either of us is having difficulty, is that
clear?

After being assured that it was, Caesar turned to Zhang.

            "I
need to ask you a question, and it is a very, very important one. The reason
it's important is that it affects your future just as much as it does mine, and
that of this army. So I need you to be completely honest with me. Do you
understand?"

Zhang didn't answer immediately, his flatter features
giving nothing away, but after what seemed to Caesar to be a very long moment,
he finally nodded.

            "Yes,
I understand, and I will be as honest as it is possible to be."

            "That
is a courtier's answer," Caesar snapped, but Zhang didn't understand the
word, so there was a pause as he and Achaemanes talked in Zhang's native
tongue. After a moment, Zhang made a small noise that Caesar took to mean he
now understood.

            "Forgive
me, Caesar," Zhang bowed his head toward the Roman. "That was a poor
choice of words. Yes, I will be completely honest with you."

Not completely satisfied but understanding he would get
nothing better, Caesar then posed his question.

 

 

Now, as Caesar watched matters unfolding, his mind went
back to that conversation with Zhang, and despite himself, he clenched a fist
in frustration. It had been singularly unsatisfying; the people of this part of
the world were worse than Greeks, speaking in riddles that to a Roman, smacked
of sophistry and duplicity. If Zhang didn't know, how hard would it have been
to simply say that? Still, his mind chewed on what little grist the Han had
provided, and as he saw the neat, serried ranks of the northernmost Wa force
begin to move, he slowly relaxed. They were heading directly for the slope, and
gave every indication that they were going to try and overwhelm Pullus and
Balbinus' Legions with sheer brute force. His attention was pulled away by the
sound of a bucina in his own camp,
and he turned to see that the smaller Wa force that had arrayed themselves at
the foot of the slope below his camp, had also begun to move.

            Turning to
Torquatus, whose Legion held this camp, Caesar said, "Remember what we
discussed Torquatus. I want you to wait longer than normal for the Wa to get
into range. I want to let them get really close before we commence
firing."

Torquatus saluted, assuring Caesar that he would do just
that, then left to move down the rampart to attend to his men. Caesar's purpose
in the order was twofold; at closer range, the scorpions in particular could
strike down two and even three men, especially these Wa, who fought in a more
compact formation than the Romans did and whose lamellar armor was inferior, at
least for those who wore the leather armor. The other reason was that he wanted
to make sure that this wasn't just some sort of feint, that the Wa would just
come partway up the slope, before suddenly shifting their attack. It came back
to that slight pocket formed by the curve of the ridge. If the Wa came part of
the way up the slope, then suddenly turned to move north along the length of
the ridge, because of that pocket, they could in effect swing around to hit the
northern camp from the rear. It was the one weakness of the position that
Caesar had thought the Wa commander would take advantage of, which was why he
had ordered the placement of those smaller positions, designed to hold no more
than a Century and 2 scorpions, or one ballista. But to this point, it didn't
appear that they would be needed, because the Wa were continuing to march up
the slope to the beat of heavy drums and what sounded like wooden blocks being
struck in a certain rhythm. Along the leading edge of the Wa ranks were men
carrying brightly colored banners, which Caesar assumed were some kind of unit
standard, although there were many more of them than a Legion carried. In fact,
as they drew closer, it looked like every tenth man carried a flag. The other
details that Caesar began to make out was the composition of the ranks of the
Wa; along with the flags, the front several ranks bristled with those long
spears, but behind them Caesar saw that there were as many ranks behind the
spearmen that were carrying swords, although at this point they just appeared
to be unarmed. These Wa were wearing white, making it look very striking as
they moved, something Caesar appreciated in a detached way. Then the sea of
white suddenly changed, with the next several rows wearing black, and as they
advanced up the slope Caesar could see what looked like slender branches,
stripped of limbs, sticking up over each man's shoulder. That had to be archers,
Caesar realized, and his heart started thudding more heavily as he counted the
rows of them. Ten deep, and how many across? More than a hundred. A hundred
fifty? So just in this group of Wa there are 1,500 archers? Turning his
attention back to the north, he shielded his eyes, the sun at his back as he
stared. If he squinted, he could just make out the ranks of the Wa that were
the farthest to the south enough to count the ranks. He threw a quick prayer of
thanks to the gods that the Wa used such striking color divisions between their
troops, making this task easier. But while the task was easier, the result was
extremely disheartening. There were 15 rows of archers in that northern force
of Wa, and the only thing he didn't know was how wide the formation was, but he
knew it would be at least three times as wide, if not even more so. Say they
would attack on a front of 500 men, and with 15 rows of archers, that meant
7,500 of just archers? Why, they'll blot out the sun with that many arrows. The
only hope for his men would be that they ran out of arrows fairly quickly with
that many men firing them.

 

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