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.