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.