Caesar Triumphant- Chapter 3 (Cont.)
Titus Pullus heard the blast of the cornu once, twice then a third time before his mind finally registered the meaning. Retreat? he thought. Could that possibly be what he had heard? His wedge formation had finally made its way several paces inland, the men in it fighting savagely to secure this tiny foothold of beach. Now, after losing the gods knew how many men, he was supposed to give it up? Never before had Pullus' loyalty to Caesar and instant obedience to orders been so severely tested, not even at Pharsalus, as it was at this moment. His men, and he himself, had fought like Achilles this day to gain territory, however little it may have been, and Titus Pullus wasn't the type of man to surrender ground won at such cost willingly. In fact, he continued fighting, counting on his example to keep the men around him inspired to do the same.
Caesar watched as those transports of the first wave that had deposited their loads then left the beach try to maneuver their way back to the beach. The increasingly heavy surf compounded matters, causing two of the transports to collide heavily against each other, snapping off at least a half-dozen oars from both craft. Caesar couldn't help a curse escaping his lips; it was very rare that he lost his composure, at least in public, but this was one of those occasions. Giving his cornicen a sidelong glance, he saw that the man was much too occupied with the sight before him to give any indication that he noticed his general muttering about men whose mothers may have been prostitutes. Turning his gaze back to the beach, he could only watch as the two damaged transports tried to disengage from each other, with limited success. Meanwhile, he saw that Pullus and his Century had managed to use their wedge formation to gain more of a foothold on the beach, causing him a pang of anxiety. For an instant he experienced a sense of doubt, a very foreign feeling to Caesar, as he wondered if he had been premature in sounding the retreat. Then he looked down the length of the beach, and seeing the majority of his men still standing on the fringe of the beach or in the surf, his resolve returned. If Pullus and his men were able to fight their way onto the beach, they were able to fight their way off it.
For Sextus Scribonius, the call to retreat was something of a relief, and in fact he had been half-hoping for that signal. Turning his mind to the immediate problem, he called over his shoulder to his own cornicen. "Give the signal for fighting withdrawal," he shouted. Almost immediately, the deep, bass notes issued from the large curved horn, and Scribonius immediately took note that the faces of the men around him showed nothing but relief. Indeed, the command seemed to infuse the men with more energy as they began the process of shuffling backward. Now, Scribonius thought, all we need is a boat to get aboard. As his Legionaries engaged, Scribonius disentangled himself from the crush of men, shoving his way to the rear. It was only because of the respect and regard his men held him in that none of them thought for an instant that he was positioning himself to be the first aboard; they knew him too well. Instead, he was making his way to Andros, the commander of the slingers who to that point had provided very little support. "I need you to form up there," Scribonius shouted while pointing to a spot where the surf was perhaps knee-deep. "You're going to fire over our heads and keep these cunni at bay while we get back on the boat."Andros stared at Scribonius in disbelief. "Are you mad?" he gasped. "Being this close means some of your men will be hit. My men are good, but they're not that good." "I know that," Scribonius replied grimly, "but that's the only way to get any breathing room." Grabbing Andros by the arm, he finished urgently, "If you don't do this we're all going to die on this beach."Gulping, Andros only nodded in answer.
Farther down the beach, Gnaeus Cartufenus and his group of 20 men had just gone smashing into the Wa ranks when the signal to withdraw sounded, but neither he or his men heard it over the din of clashing metal and shouting men. Oblivious to anything but the Wa across from him, Cartufenus was a snarling, spitting mass of malevolent energy and focused violence, thrusting and bashing with his shield, fighting desperately to gain a purchase of more sandy beach. Infected by the example of their leader, those men who normally would have never found themselves in the thick of fighting were standing next to him, matching Cartufenus in his fury. For the first time there was a wavering in the Wa line as they absorbed the impact of this small group of Romans, hacking their way into the midst of the Wa ranks. Knocking spears aside, the Romans demonstrated a level of teamwork and controlled ferocity that countless enemies before them had been forced to endure, and like those enemies, the Wa found themselves taking a step backward, tentative and halting, but definitely backward. The bulk of Cartufenus' men, however, heard the signal, and his Optio, a man named Spurius Lentulus, seeing his Primus Pilus isolated and either ignoring or not hearing the command, did his duty and took control. Like Scribonius, Lentulus ordered the cornicen to sound the call to make a fighting withdrawal. Only then did Cartufenus take notice, his head whipping around at the sound, but by this point the Wa on his flanks had enfolded his group so they were completely isolated. The only way for Cartufenus and his men to join the rest of his men would be to fight their way out.
The empty transports finally made their way back up to the beach. Caesar, who had ordered the bombardment of his artillery to cease in an order to conserve ammunition, commanded the galleys to re-commence firing to provide covering fire. For those Centuries that had not made headway onto the beach, withdrawing was more straightforward, although there was substantial difficulty in extracting wounded men. Those who could, staggered and waded through the now-heavy surf, some of them seemingly covered in blood from a wound to their upper body and were dragged aboard by crewmen. Ironically, these were the lucky men, because those still able-bodied enough to fight had the extra pressure of keeping the Wa across from them at bay as they backed up through the surf. Fortunately, the Wa were now showing their first signs of fatigue and were not as eager as they had been just moments before. Much of it had to do with the bodies piled on the fringe of the beach, the sand and surf on either side of the line almost completely red. Not only was it demoralizing to see so many casualties, they served as a barrier to keep the Wa somewhat at bay. Even so, there were quite a few Wa who clambered over and around the bodies to keep up the pressure. Unlike those Wa that were in the first few ranks, these men were almost exclusively armed with swords, which they wielded in a manner unlike any that the Romans had encountered before. Much like the Gauls, they slashed with their weapons, but unlike the warriors of that now-faraway land, the Wa blades were more slender and they seemed adept at attacking from any angle. Whereas the Gauls, with their long swords, attempted to decapitate their opponents, the Wa seemed content to land a damaging blow wherever they found an opening, clearly counting on their conditioning and endurance to outlast their opponents. Even from his ship, Caesar could see the flashing of blades as those Wa armed with swords came pushing against his men as they shuffled backward, shields up. He was pleased to see that the Romans were scoring hits, as Wa warriors were bested by the short, thrusting sword that they all still carried. Even now, Caesar mused, as skilled as some of the warriors of the lands I have conquered have been, when it comes to a weapon, nothing has been superior to the Spanish sword. Until now, he thought grimly, although this was only half-formed, something worthy of further contemplation, but not until he had extracted the rest of his army.
Pullus' sword arm was soaked up to the elbow with blood, and it ached like never before from all the work he had done. Still, he was proud of his men, because they had now managed to actually crack the Wa lines. But now he was supposed to give all this up? Despite the fatigue, despite the loss of so many men, Pullus still couldn't really fathom the idea of retreat. So out of all the Centurions on the beach, Pullus alone refused to give the order to withdraw, choosing to ignore the command. And despite a couple of glances over their shoulders, his men didn't hesitate to continue following their Primus Pilus. Not only were they conditioned to obey their Centurion, they had ultimate faith in him; he was a legend, not just in the 10th Legion, but in all of Caesar's army. And if he still believed that victory was possible, then they did as well. So they continued trying to move forward, confident that their Primus Pilus knew best. For his part, Pullus continued surging forward, always applying pressure on whoever stood opposite him, slaying each of them in turn. Besides his wound in his upper shoulder, he had a gash on his shield arm, and a cut just above his greave, so while most of the blood on him was not his, not all of it was that of his enemies. None of those wounds deterred him; his body was covered in scars by this time. In fact, Scribonius often joked that it was harder to find a spot on Pullus that didn't have a scar than the opposite. All of these Pullus bore proudly; they were the proof of his accomplishments even more than the phalare, torqs and crowns that he had won. It was because of these scars that men followed him so readily and so steadfastly, and that bond was in evidence now as Pullus continued fighting.
Scribonius was backing up, slowly, across the small expanse of beach that his men had claimed, trying to avoid the bodies. The Balearic slingers had begun whirling their arms above their heads, loosing their lead missiles, much deadlier than the smooth rocks they used previously, sending them whizzing just inches above the heads of the Romans. Despite their best efforts, there would be a stray shot, smashing into the unprotected back of one of the Romans, followed by either a grunt or shrill scream. One of the stricken men's comrades would grab the fallen man by the harness, dragging them backward to deposit them unceremoniously on the sand, or as the withdrawal continued, in the shallow surf. Those men unlucky enough to be unconscious ended up face down in the surf, either by the action of the waves or because the men dropping there had other things on their mind. Only because of the slingers who, in between loosing shots, were grabbing those men and turning them over were they saved, since no medici had landed. There was still the problem of loading not just these unfortunates felled by the slingers, but those wounded earlier in the action who were unable to help themselves. Realizing this, Scribonius reluctantly gave the command for half the slingers to cease fire and begin loading these men onto the boats, an order they obeyed with alacrity. No man was willing to leave a wounded comrade behind, if only because if it ever happened to them, they didn't want to suffer the same fate. Whatever the reason, there was no hesitation on the part of the slingers as they either carried or dragged the unconscious men back toward the waiting transport. Very slowly and methodically, the Second Cohort disengaged and made their way toward the waiting transport.
By this time Caesar wasn't bothering to hide his agitation, but this time it was aimed at the Primus Pilus of his 10th Legion, his favorite and best Legion. Seeing that Pullus had made no attempt to withdraw either he or his men, he pounded the rail in frustration. Of all the men he could afford to lose, Pullus, and by extension the First and Second Century of the First Cohort of the 10th, were last on the list. His judgement was not entirely based on just the practical; he vividly remembered the first time he had decorated the tall, broad man on the beach when he was a raw youth of 17, and over the years they had become as close as it was possible for men in their respective positions to be. In fact, Caesar was now faced with a choice he had no desire to make, but this time he didn't hesitate. "Send the rest of the First Cohort onto the beach," he snapped at one of his aides. "Their orders are to help Pullus get his insubordinate ass back aboard their ship," he roared this last. "So I can crucify him myself."
All posts by R.W. Peake on blog.rwpeake.com are copyrighted by the author, 2012.
Caesar watched as those transports of the first wave that had deposited their loads then left the beach try to maneuver their way back to the beach. The increasingly heavy surf compounded matters, causing two of the transports to collide heavily against each other, snapping off at least a half-dozen oars from both craft. Caesar couldn't help a curse escaping his lips; it was very rare that he lost his composure, at least in public, but this was one of those occasions. Giving his cornicen a sidelong glance, he saw that the man was much too occupied with the sight before him to give any indication that he noticed his general muttering about men whose mothers may have been prostitutes. Turning his gaze back to the beach, he could only watch as the two damaged transports tried to disengage from each other, with limited success. Meanwhile, he saw that Pullus and his Century had managed to use their wedge formation to gain more of a foothold on the beach, causing him a pang of anxiety. For an instant he experienced a sense of doubt, a very foreign feeling to Caesar, as he wondered if he had been premature in sounding the retreat. Then he looked down the length of the beach, and seeing the majority of his men still standing on the fringe of the beach or in the surf, his resolve returned. If Pullus and his men were able to fight their way onto the beach, they were able to fight their way off it.
For Sextus Scribonius, the call to retreat was something of a relief, and in fact he had been half-hoping for that signal. Turning his mind to the immediate problem, he called over his shoulder to his own cornicen. "Give the signal for fighting withdrawal," he shouted. Almost immediately, the deep, bass notes issued from the large curved horn, and Scribonius immediately took note that the faces of the men around him showed nothing but relief. Indeed, the command seemed to infuse the men with more energy as they began the process of shuffling backward. Now, Scribonius thought, all we need is a boat to get aboard. As his Legionaries engaged, Scribonius disentangled himself from the crush of men, shoving his way to the rear. It was only because of the respect and regard his men held him in that none of them thought for an instant that he was positioning himself to be the first aboard; they knew him too well. Instead, he was making his way to Andros, the commander of the slingers who to that point had provided very little support. "I need you to form up there," Scribonius shouted while pointing to a spot where the surf was perhaps knee-deep. "You're going to fire over our heads and keep these cunni at bay while we get back on the boat."Andros stared at Scribonius in disbelief. "Are you mad?" he gasped. "Being this close means some of your men will be hit. My men are good, but they're not that good." "I know that," Scribonius replied grimly, "but that's the only way to get any breathing room." Grabbing Andros by the arm, he finished urgently, "If you don't do this we're all going to die on this beach."Gulping, Andros only nodded in answer.
Farther down the beach, Gnaeus Cartufenus and his group of 20 men had just gone smashing into the Wa ranks when the signal to withdraw sounded, but neither he or his men heard it over the din of clashing metal and shouting men. Oblivious to anything but the Wa across from him, Cartufenus was a snarling, spitting mass of malevolent energy and focused violence, thrusting and bashing with his shield, fighting desperately to gain a purchase of more sandy beach. Infected by the example of their leader, those men who normally would have never found themselves in the thick of fighting were standing next to him, matching Cartufenus in his fury. For the first time there was a wavering in the Wa line as they absorbed the impact of this small group of Romans, hacking their way into the midst of the Wa ranks. Knocking spears aside, the Romans demonstrated a level of teamwork and controlled ferocity that countless enemies before them had been forced to endure, and like those enemies, the Wa found themselves taking a step backward, tentative and halting, but definitely backward. The bulk of Cartufenus' men, however, heard the signal, and his Optio, a man named Spurius Lentulus, seeing his Primus Pilus isolated and either ignoring or not hearing the command, did his duty and took control. Like Scribonius, Lentulus ordered the cornicen to sound the call to make a fighting withdrawal. Only then did Cartufenus take notice, his head whipping around at the sound, but by this point the Wa on his flanks had enfolded his group so they were completely isolated. The only way for Cartufenus and his men to join the rest of his men would be to fight their way out.
The empty transports finally made their way back up to the beach. Caesar, who had ordered the bombardment of his artillery to cease in an order to conserve ammunition, commanded the galleys to re-commence firing to provide covering fire. For those Centuries that had not made headway onto the beach, withdrawing was more straightforward, although there was substantial difficulty in extracting wounded men. Those who could, staggered and waded through the now-heavy surf, some of them seemingly covered in blood from a wound to their upper body and were dragged aboard by crewmen. Ironically, these were the lucky men, because those still able-bodied enough to fight had the extra pressure of keeping the Wa across from them at bay as they backed up through the surf. Fortunately, the Wa were now showing their first signs of fatigue and were not as eager as they had been just moments before. Much of it had to do with the bodies piled on the fringe of the beach, the sand and surf on either side of the line almost completely red. Not only was it demoralizing to see so many casualties, they served as a barrier to keep the Wa somewhat at bay. Even so, there were quite a few Wa who clambered over and around the bodies to keep up the pressure. Unlike those Wa that were in the first few ranks, these men were almost exclusively armed with swords, which they wielded in a manner unlike any that the Romans had encountered before. Much like the Gauls, they slashed with their weapons, but unlike the warriors of that now-faraway land, the Wa blades were more slender and they seemed adept at attacking from any angle. Whereas the Gauls, with their long swords, attempted to decapitate their opponents, the Wa seemed content to land a damaging blow wherever they found an opening, clearly counting on their conditioning and endurance to outlast their opponents. Even from his ship, Caesar could see the flashing of blades as those Wa armed with swords came pushing against his men as they shuffled backward, shields up. He was pleased to see that the Romans were scoring hits, as Wa warriors were bested by the short, thrusting sword that they all still carried. Even now, Caesar mused, as skilled as some of the warriors of the lands I have conquered have been, when it comes to a weapon, nothing has been superior to the Spanish sword. Until now, he thought grimly, although this was only half-formed, something worthy of further contemplation, but not until he had extracted the rest of his army.
Pullus' sword arm was soaked up to the elbow with blood, and it ached like never before from all the work he had done. Still, he was proud of his men, because they had now managed to actually crack the Wa lines. But now he was supposed to give all this up? Despite the fatigue, despite the loss of so many men, Pullus still couldn't really fathom the idea of retreat. So out of all the Centurions on the beach, Pullus alone refused to give the order to withdraw, choosing to ignore the command. And despite a couple of glances over their shoulders, his men didn't hesitate to continue following their Primus Pilus. Not only were they conditioned to obey their Centurion, they had ultimate faith in him; he was a legend, not just in the 10th Legion, but in all of Caesar's army. And if he still believed that victory was possible, then they did as well. So they continued trying to move forward, confident that their Primus Pilus knew best. For his part, Pullus continued surging forward, always applying pressure on whoever stood opposite him, slaying each of them in turn. Besides his wound in his upper shoulder, he had a gash on his shield arm, and a cut just above his greave, so while most of the blood on him was not his, not all of it was that of his enemies. None of those wounds deterred him; his body was covered in scars by this time. In fact, Scribonius often joked that it was harder to find a spot on Pullus that didn't have a scar than the opposite. All of these Pullus bore proudly; they were the proof of his accomplishments even more than the phalare, torqs and crowns that he had won. It was because of these scars that men followed him so readily and so steadfastly, and that bond was in evidence now as Pullus continued fighting.
Scribonius was backing up, slowly, across the small expanse of beach that his men had claimed, trying to avoid the bodies. The Balearic slingers had begun whirling their arms above their heads, loosing their lead missiles, much deadlier than the smooth rocks they used previously, sending them whizzing just inches above the heads of the Romans. Despite their best efforts, there would be a stray shot, smashing into the unprotected back of one of the Romans, followed by either a grunt or shrill scream. One of the stricken men's comrades would grab the fallen man by the harness, dragging them backward to deposit them unceremoniously on the sand, or as the withdrawal continued, in the shallow surf. Those men unlucky enough to be unconscious ended up face down in the surf, either by the action of the waves or because the men dropping there had other things on their mind. Only because of the slingers who, in between loosing shots, were grabbing those men and turning them over were they saved, since no medici had landed. There was still the problem of loading not just these unfortunates felled by the slingers, but those wounded earlier in the action who were unable to help themselves. Realizing this, Scribonius reluctantly gave the command for half the slingers to cease fire and begin loading these men onto the boats, an order they obeyed with alacrity. No man was willing to leave a wounded comrade behind, if only because if it ever happened to them, they didn't want to suffer the same fate. Whatever the reason, there was no hesitation on the part of the slingers as they either carried or dragged the unconscious men back toward the waiting transport. Very slowly and methodically, the Second Cohort disengaged and made their way toward the waiting transport.
By this time Caesar wasn't bothering to hide his agitation, but this time it was aimed at the Primus Pilus of his 10th Legion, his favorite and best Legion. Seeing that Pullus had made no attempt to withdraw either he or his men, he pounded the rail in frustration. Of all the men he could afford to lose, Pullus, and by extension the First and Second Century of the First Cohort of the 10th, were last on the list. His judgement was not entirely based on just the practical; he vividly remembered the first time he had decorated the tall, broad man on the beach when he was a raw youth of 17, and over the years they had become as close as it was possible for men in their respective positions to be. In fact, Caesar was now faced with a choice he had no desire to make, but this time he didn't hesitate. "Send the rest of the First Cohort onto the beach," he snapped at one of his aides. "Their orders are to help Pullus get his insubordinate ass back aboard their ship," he roared this last. "So I can crucify him myself."
All posts by R.W. Peake on blog.rwpeake.com are copyrighted by the author, 2012.
No comments have been added yet.
