Caesar Triumphant

Julius Caesar was no Titus Pullus as a swordsman, but he was
nevertheless highly skilled. Snatching a discarded shield lying on the
ground, he was leading with it as he went careening into one of the small group
of Wa who had momentarily paused at the bottom of the ramp. Their hesitation
was understandable; not only were they now effectively well inside the enemy
camp, but it was just as shocking to these Wa seeing the pale barbarians
turning to flee. That brief moment allowed Caesar to close the remaining gap,
and just as the nearest Wa sensed this new danger and was turning to face it,
the 65 year-old Roman slammed into him with terrific force. Advanced age or
not, Caesar was still extremely fit, hardened by years of relentless trial and
exposure to the elements, and while slender in build, was all muscle and bone.
It was with this force that Caesar sent the first Wa recoiling backward, but
despite keeping his feet, he was only doing so with difficulty, both arms
windmilling crazily as he slammed into the Wa next to him. Their legs tangled
together, finally causing the first Wa to leave his feet and crash heavily into
the ground. 

Barely breaking stride, Caesar leapt over the first Wa, counting on
whoever was behind him to dispatch the man before he could become a threat and
attempted the same maneuver with the second Wa still struggling to stay
upright. This time however, the Wa managed to dodge Caesar's blow with his
shield, causing the Roman general to become the one who was unbalanced. In the
instant it took for him to recover, the second Wa had accomplished the same
thing, and with a bellow in their tongue that Caesar had no need for a
translator to understand, unleashed a slicing blow at waist level that would
have disemboweled the Roman if he hadn't blocked it. As it was, Caesar heard a
sharp, splintering crack from his shield and knew from  the sound that
it was now cracked and severely weakened. Nonetheless, he countered with his
own thrust, only dimly aware as the rest of the men following him threw
themselves into the Wa, and from the sound of it with the same abandon their
general had displayed. This Wa, again proving damnably agile, simply twisted his
body from the waist to allow the point of Caesar's blade to go thrusting by at
abdomen level. Fortunately for Caesar, the direction that the Wa turned moved
the Wa's blade away from Caesar, so he was unable to make a counterattack.
Instead, he made a small, hopping step even farther to Caesar's left while twisting his torso in the process so that when both feet were on the ground he
was squared up again, so that now it was Caesar's sword that was out of range.
Normally this wouldn't have concerned Caesar because his shield was between him and the Wa, but instantly he understood that was the Wa's target. Even as the
thought flashed through his mind, the Wa unleashed a hugely powerful thrust
aimed directly at Caesar's shield just to the left and a little below the boss.
Just as Caesar feared, the Wa had targeted the weakened part of his shield, the
general realizing that the crack must be visible to the Wa, although it hadn't
worked all the way through.

Until, that is, this last thrust and Caesar watched
in horror as, in seemingly slow motion, a spidery-thin longitudinal crack made
its way in both directions from where the point of the Wa's sword had punched
through, leaving a beam of daylight streaming through when he withdrew it.
Despite the shield remaining intact, Caesar knew it would only be that way for
at best two more blows, and that was only if he still had Caesar's Luck. Understanding
this fact, he didn't bother using his shield offensively, instead pivoting on
his left foot in answer to the move of the Wa, and in doing so exposed his
unprotected side to another Wa warrior who, seeing the chance at winning
eternal glory, not to mention a reward that would instantly make him a wealthy
man and elevate his status, didn't hesitate to come charging in with a sword
raised high above his head, lips pulled back in a ferocious, triumphant grin.

 

Gnaeus Balbus had singlehandedly stopped the dangerous incursion
of Wa in his sector, and was standing now, literally covered in blood and gore.
Unfortunately, not all of it belonged to the Wa; Balbus had suffered several
wounds, the most serious one a puncture wound low on his side that had driven
several small links of his mail armor into his body. The pain was excruciating,
and Balbus knew with utmost certainty that unless he put himself under the
surgeon's blade and probe and allowed him to rummage around in his insides and
get those links out, he was going to certainly die in an agony that he couldn't
fathom. Nevertheless, he shook off every attempt by his Optio to gently guide
him away from the fighting, finally snarling that he would run the Optio
through himself if he persisted in his silliness. 

Now, with a brief respite in
the fighting, he stood, legs shaking so violently that if it weren't for a pile
of bodies that he used to lean against, he was sure he would collapse. The only
concession he had made for the Optio was to allow the man to use his and
Balbus' neckerchief, knotted together, to make a makeshift bandage that Balbus
had insisted be drawn so tightly that it made it difficult to breathe. Despite
his formidable will, he couldn't keep an agonized moan escaping from his lips
as the Optio, his own face drawn and tight, pulled and tugged at the cloth.
Balbus still held his sword, and noted idly that if he didn't know better he
would have sworn that he had picked up one of the heavy wooden training swords.
He was finding it much harder to maintain his concentration at all that was
going on, and in fact was losing interest in it altogether. Then there was a
hoarse shout over and above the other noise, and he dully turned his head to
see four Wa had managed to establish another pocket of resistance directly in
front of one of the ladders. More importantly, they had managed to push outward
in a rough semicircle that opened up space for more Wa to climb the ladder and
join them. Shaking his head vigorously, Balbus finally resorted to slapping himself
in the face with his free hand, dully noting that it was caked with blood,
before rousing himself sufficiently to begin making his way toward the latest
trouble spot. Despite trying, he couldn't seem to force his legs to move in
more than an unsteady wobble, but he nevertheless propelled himself towards this new threat.

 

Gaius Porcinus was on his way back to his Century, with nothing
more in mind than rejoining them as quickly as possible so that he could at
least die with his men and among friends. Crossing the forum, however, he
suddenly stopped. Looking around, he saw that the entire open area was covered
with wounded men, some moaning in pain, others lying quietly with that vacant
look that the severely injured have, as if their immediate surroundings are no
longer important. And perhaps they weren't, Porcinus thought, but as he stood
there, unsure why he had stopped, it came to him with utter clarity. Without
thinking further, he began speaking, using what his uncle called his
"command voice" a volume just below a bellow.

"I know many of you are wounded too badly," he called.
"But I'm not going to lie to you. We've been surprised by another force
coming from the south."

He paused for a moment as his announcement prompted a buzzing of
talk as those who were able alternately cursed, moaned or exclaimed to the man
lying next to them, seeking solace in each other in this moment of extremis
even if they only knew the man by sight or they didn't speak the same tongue.

After a moment, Porcinus continued, "So I'm asking those of you
who are able to lift a sword to join us. We're going to need every man we can
get, because I don't have to tell you what happens if this part of the wall is
breached."

Nobody stirred. Gaius stood there, watching in growing helplessness
as he saw men looking from one man to another. Finally, at the far end of the
forum, he saw a bareheaded Legionary struggle to his feet, clearly favoring one
leg. Slowly bending down, he retrieved his helmet, and it was only when he
strapped it on that Porcinus recognized the Quartus Hastatus Posterior, the
Centurion commanding the last Century of the Fourth Cohort, a man named Vibius
Metellus. Helmet on, he stood there for a moment, saying nothing, just looking
down at the rest of the wounded, but even from a distance Porcinus could see
the look of disdain on his face. He saw Metellus open his mouth.

"All right you lazy cunni!
You've been lolling about whining about your scratches long enough! It's time
to earn your pay, so on your feet you bastards!"

And to Porcinus' amazement, men stirred, forcing themselves to
stand more or less upright. Some of them still had their shields, which in fact
had been used as their makeshift stretcher in most cases, but Porcinus also saw
that, good Roman Legionaries they were, they had all kept their weapons with
them. His vision suddenly became cloudy, and he found his throat tightening at
the sight before him, as these battered, already wounded men gathered
themselves in makeshift Centuries, sorting themselves out as they hobbled to
get into some semblance of a formation. There was at least one more Centurion
and perhaps a half-dozen Optios that Porcinus could see, and they took the
responsibility for organizing the men. Despite the fact that Metellus
technically outranked Porcinus, with obvious pain and difficulty, he hobbled up
to the younger man and rendered a salute.

"What are your orders, Centurion?"

That was almost too much for Gaius to bear, but he managed to keep
his composure and said in a husky voice, "I think right now you should
just stand ready at the edge of the forum and wait for developments. Do you
agree Hastatus Posterior Metellus?"

Even if Metellus seemed to be ceding the command to Porcinus, not
only did the younger Centurion have his own Century that he was desperate to
join, respect for hierarchy was so ingrained in all Legionaries that it was
extremely difficult for Porcinus to even entertain being in charge when a more
senior man was present.

Metellus, lips tightened against the pain managed to say through
clenched teeth, "I agree that's the best. I'll shake what we have out in a
line there," he pointed to one spot then another to show Porcinus,
"but we don't have enough men for a reserve. And Porcinus," he
finished grimly, "I don't know how much fight these men have. Or me, for
that matter."

"Well, hopefully we won't need you," Porcinus replied,
trying to keep his tone level and as if they were discussing the weather.
Before he turned to go to his Century, Metellus suddenly thrust out his hand, which
despite his surprise Porcinus immediately took, grasping the other man's
forearm in the Roman manner.

"May Fortuna bless you," Metellus, then with a raspy
chuckle added, "And the rest of us."

"And you," was all Porcinus could think to say, then he was
moving at a trot in the direction of the main gate, scanning the Centuries now
lining the wall of the camp looking for his men.

Even as he spotted the familiar sight of his signifer, a man almost as tall as Porcinus
and one of the Parthians recruited a few years before, Porcinus heard a chorus
of shouts.

"Here they come!"

Falling immediately on the heels of the warning cry, as Porcinus
strode up the ramp to join his men, he heard one of them utter words so
familiar and comforting.

"Jupiter Optimus Maximus, protect this Legion, soldiers
all!"

It was the Legionary's prayer, and as Porcinus took his spot on the
rampart, hard against the palisade stakes, he immediately saw that those
prayers would be desperately needed and even then, they might not be enough.

 

Titus Pullus had long since lost track of time. If Caesar
himself had demanded it, he couldn't have given him even a rough estimate of
how long the fighting had been going on. His best guess was that it had been
more than a full watch since the first fusillade of arrows had sailed over the
palisade, and that the battle for the rampart had been going on for two parts
of that. But he also knew that it could be longer, or shorter. Only one thing
he was sure of; over the entire span of his prodigious career, through almost a
hundred battles and thousands of skirmishes, he had never been as fatigued as
he was at that moment. It was almost impossible for him to concentrate, and it
was only through his willpower, as equally formidable as his physical prowess, that
he was able to do so at all. Drawing closer to the battle, Pullus felt a surge
of energy, welcoming it as he selected the spot where his men seemed to need
the most help, and he managed to build up enough speed to slam into the knot of
men trying to kill each other with great force. Because of his fatigue,
however, his aim was off and not only did he send the Wa he had aimed for
reeling backward, he sent one of his own men, one of the Pandyans and a
relatively new tiro, crashing
directly into the man to his left. More exactly, the tiro fell onto the naked blade of his comrade, and while the force
wasn't sufficient to drive the blade deeply into his body, it nevertheless
broke through the links of his mail and penetrated about an inch. With a sharp
cry of pain, the tiro staggered
backward even further, and because the other man hadn't been expecting this chain of events, he was in turn jerked off balance as well. The sudden absence of two
men in the front press of fighting immediately pitted three Wa against
Pullus, although the man he had slammed into was still staggering backward.
Blades slashed from two different angles at Pullus, and one of them gashed a
deep trench down his sword arm, eliciting a hiss of pain from the Primus Pilus,
but he managed to block the other with his shield. Fortunately the cut wasn't
deep, yet it felt like a trench of liquid fire had been laid in a line down his
forearm. Still, he was able to wield the Gallic blade with deadly effect as,
ignoring the pain, he took advantage of a slight overextension of the Wa who
had inflicted the wound. With what looked like nothing more than a flick of his
wrist, but as any of his men who had faced him on the training ground could
testify contained a huge amount of power, he chopped down with his blade into
the middle of the Wa's sword forearm, severing the man's arm as if he was
slicing through a loaf of bread. Blood spurted from the stump as the Wa stood,
paralyzed, staring down in shock at his now-missing hand, the appendage now lying in the dirt,
the grimy fingers still clutched tightly around the hilt. 

Although it would
have seemed the logical thing to do to finish this Wa off, Pullus completely
ignored him, knowing that he was out of the action and counting on the man
either bleeding to death or being finished off by another of his men. Instead
he focused on the Wa he had barged into, who had just recovered his balance and
was bringing his sword up to bear, preparing for a lunge at the big Roman.
Pullus' gaze never wavered from this man as, briefly pulling his sword arm back
almost a foot behind him, he launched a low, hard thrust clearly meant to
disembowel. However, at the same time, despite not moving his head, he uncoiled
his left arm straight out from the shoulder with the same amount of force,
punching his shield's boss flush into the face of the third Wa who had raised
his blade high over his head to unleash a killing blow designed to cut Pullus
in half lengthwise. Because of his posture, it was impossible even for someone
with the reflexes that this Wa possessed to bring his arms down to at least
partially block the blow, and Pullus felt a satisfying jolt travel up his arm.
Accompanying the feeling was a wet, crunching sound as the Wa's nose and cheeks
were crushed. Pullus had only intended the blow to stop the Wa momentarily, but
because the warrior was stepping into his own planned strike, the force of the
metal boss slamming into his face was doubled. With the cartilage of his nose
shoved violently backward into his brain, the Wa dropped immediately, dead
before he hit the ground, although the body continued to spasm and jerk for
several moments, the man's eyes staring dully up out of a face now curiously
concave.

Meanwhile, Pullus' sword thrust was met by a sweeping parry aimed
downward and out from the Wa's body, the Roman's blade sliding up the Wa's and
ending by punching air to the Wa's right. Since this was taking place in the
space of time between normal heartbeats, Pullus hadn't recovered his shield
back to its first position, and if the Wa was armed with a shield of his own
and used it in the same manner, Pullus could have been in serious trouble. But
since he had no shield, instead the Wa lashed out with that empty fist, in a
blindingly fast punch that was aimed not at Pullus' face, who was anticipating
the blow and was reflexively jerking his head, but for his arm, directly on the
wound he had received moments before. Lightning flashes of pain shot up Pullus'
arm and for a brief, horrified instant he thought he would pass out as his
vision was shot through with what he could swear were the sparks from a
disturbed fire. But while he managed to avoid that, not even he was able to
keep his grasp on his sword, even with the grip that had served him so well,
and it fell to the earth. Now he stood with only his shield, but even as
formidably skilled as Pullus was with the use of the shield, he knew he was at
a severe disadvantage. Risking a quick glance, he saw that every one of his men
near enough to come to his aid were furiously busy with their own private
battles. At this point, the prudent course for Pullus was to wage a defensive
fight, hoping to wear the Wa down and wait for either an opportunity to
retrieve his sword, despite the ferocious pain coursing up his arm, or for one
of his men to vanquish the Wa they were currently engaged with and come to his
aid. 

Pullus did neither thing; instead with his shield squarely in front of
him, he went charging at the Wa, who was clearly caught by surprise by the
brazenness of the attack. Nonetheless, he still managed to bring his sword to
bear, the point of his blade sticking directly out in front of him in an
attempt to keep Pullus at bay. Pullus acted as if the blade wasn't there,
moving his bulk behind the shield directly onto the blade, and the point
pierced the wood of the shield just to the left of the boss. However, Pullus
didn't stop, and in fact continued to push forward with all of his strength,
closing the distance between himself and the smaller Wa. In doing so, the point
of the sword poked farther through the shield and it was inevitable that if
Pullus closed the distance any more, the point would pierce his left arm, which
is exactly what he did. Now the Wa was shoved back against the palisade, with
no more room to retreat, and between that and the sight of this giant
barbarian, covered in blood and seemingly impervious to the fact that as he
closed the last few inches the blade of the Wa's sword was burying itself more
deeply into the arm behind the shield, his eyes widened in shock and fear. Now
that Pullus was within reach, with a speed that surprised the Wa, his right arm
shot out, his fingers hooked in a claw as he grabbed the Wa around the throat.
If the Wa had released his grip on his sword to use both hands, he might have
been able to pry the giant monster's hands off his windpipe, but the simple
truth was that he panicked. Consequently, he was left grabbing wildly at the
Roman's wrist, trying to pry the hand choking the life from him from his
windpipe, as his lungs quickly began screaming for air. When that didn't work,
he began as he had started, beating unmercifully at the wound on Pullus' arm.
This time, despite the sparks flying in front of him, Pullus ignored the
horrific pain, teeth clenched, lips pulled back in a half-grin, half-grimace that
was feral, grunting in time to the hammer blows of the Wa that fell on his arm
over and over. Then Pullus felt more than heard the crunching and popping of
the Wa's trachea finally collapsing under the enormous pressure produced by his grip, as the Wa's
eyes bulged out in vain appeal, the normally golden-yellow skin now a purplish
hue that under other circumstances would have reminded Pullus of a plum. After several normal heartbeats and knowing that his enemy was now dead no matter what because his trachea was crushed, Pullus released him to fall limply
backward. 

Somehow still aware of what was happening, Pullus saw that this
latest threat was all but contained; there were two Wa facing back to back,
surrounded by Legionaries in the same way a pack of wolves surrounds the
weakest animals of a herd. Carefully squatting, knowing that bending down from
the waist would make him keel over, he retrieved his sword, wincing at the
effort it took to grasp the hilt. Staggering a few steps away to what was
effectively the rear, it was only when Pullus tried to let go of his shield and
it didn't drop to the ground that he became aware that the Wa's sword was still
protruding from it and the blade had pinned the shield to his left arm. Calling
to one of his men, he had the man grasp the hilt of the sword.

Gritting his teeth, Pullus told the man, "Pull it out, quickly
but do it in a straight line so you don't do any more damage. Understand?"

The Legionary, one of the Gayans who were in effect the newest
recruits, like all of his compatriots, was deadly afraid of the giant Primus
Pilus, and if the truth were known he would have preferred to be in the front
line at that moment. Still, he gave a hard gulp then nodded his head in answer,
something that Pullus would normally have rebuked him for, but said nothing.

"Ready?" Pullus hissed. "Go."

Surprising them both, the Gayan did exactly as he had
been told, pulling the blade out in one smooth motion, moving in a straight
line backward. A gout of blood spurted from the wound, but Pullus saw
immediately that it was darker in color, meaning that he hadn't severed a major
vessel. Letting it bleed for a moment to flush the wound out, he then bound his
neckerchief around the wound. Unknown to him at that moment, he and Scribonius
were virtual twins, both suffering wounds of roughly the same severity and the
same location. As he tied the last knot, with the help of the Gayan, there was
another series of shouts that alerted him of another breach, and he turned to
head that way, but took only one halting step before he recognized that if he
didn't rest, he would indeed pass out. Despite the desperate need, Titus Pullus
was, after all, a mortal man, and all men have limits. Titus Pullus had reached
his. That was how the Wa finally effectively breached the western wall of the
northern camp. 

All posts by R.W. Peake on blog.rwpeake.com are copyrighted by the author, 2012.