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.