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.