Caesar Triumphant

Julius Caesar barely had time to register the blur of motion
that suddenly streaked in from behind him as one of his men threw their body
directly into the path of the charging Wa, who even then was beginning the
downswing of his raised sword. The Legionary instinctively threw his arm up,
but there was no shield attached, it having been shattered moments earlier and
the force of the Wa's blow was so massive that the sharp blade sliced through
the Legionary's forearm as if it wasn't even there, continuing down onto and
through the man's helmet. Although Caesar hadn't yet completely comprehended
what one of his men was doing for him, and the army, he did feel the warm,
sticky spray of blood and brain matter as the Wa's sword sliced through the
iron helmet and the hard bone of the skull. Its momentum was finally stopped by
the lower jawbone of the stricken Legionary, who remained standing for a
moment, his body suddenly jerking spasmodically as his body tried to receive
signals that were no longer being sent. Without any thought, Caesar reacted to
the sight by thrusting his sword into the chest of the Wa, who was still trying
to wrench his sword from the Legionary's skull, and he collapsed at Caesar's
feet. Only then did Caesar fully focus on the sight to his right, his eye
caught by the point and a clear foot of the blade of the sword protruding from
the back of the Legionary's skull. Before he could react, however, the man
fell straight down into a heap, his ruined face looking curiously intact
except for the bloody, straight line separating one half of his face from the
other. It was extremely unsettling, even for a man like Caesar who had seen so
much violent death and destruction to see what was in effect one half of a
face, the eye gazing up at him with that surprised expression so many of the
dead have, while the other half was literally facing in the other direction. 

This
sight rooted Caesar to the ground, until a Centurion, the Quintus Pilus
Posterior of the 15th Legion, Quintus Barbatos, nudged Caesar gently. Quickly
snapping back to reality, Caesar took in the situation and saw that the
outbreak had been contained, the men who had followed him and still survived
now mopping up the handful of Wa who were now completely surrounded. Studying
his general's face, albeit when he thought Caesar wasn't looking, Barbatos was
distinctly unsettled by what he saw etched in the older man's face. Not only
did he look tired, he looked........Barbatos tried but couldn't come up with
a word that fit, yet whatever that look was, it didn't inspire confidence.
Apparently sensing eyes on him, Caesar turned from his examination of the
situation in front of him, as the last of the Wa were cut down.

Giving the Centurion a tired smile, Caesar said, "Hot work, eh,
Barbatos?"

"That it is, Caesar," Barbatos agreed, feeling slightly
better with his general's ice-blue eyes now looking directly into his and experiencing
the same queer but pleasant sensation every person who was favored with that
look of Caesar's felt.

It was as if he could see into your soul and see your darkest
secrets, but he accepted them with a slightly mocking, slightly humorous tilt
of the head and an upturned lip that was just the hint of a smile. Even now,
Barbatos saw, if not that identical expression, one close enough that he chided
himself for letting his imagination run away with him. Caesar, scared? Rattled?
Not likely, the Pilus Posterior silently scoffed, feeling sure that his
thoughts would be read by Caesar.

However, Caesar only said, "This appears to be contained now,
Barbatos. But I see you're running thin. I'll have Glaxus and his Century come
to relieve you," naming the Hastatus Prior of the Seventh Cohort.

"Caesar," Barbatos replied, the worry coming back now,
"that's who we relieved. They're cut up worse than we are."

This was when Barbatos realized it hadn't been his imagination,
because the expression he thought he had seen earlier now came flooding back
over Caesar's features, and now that he was facing his general, Barbatos
recognized what he was seeing. Caesar was in doubt, and in fact was having a
hard time deciding the best course of action. Everything he had tried, every
trick he had learned in the four decades of war that he had waged for Rome
still couldn't seem to stem the tide of these Wa. And, he reminded himself,
this isn't even the camp where the main assault is focused. His reserve Cohorts
had already been committed; he was completely out of artillery ammunition; even
as he and Barbatos stood there where they had stopped this incursion he could
hear the shouts and screams that his ears told him was another breach of the
wall. But most troubling of all was that his men had lost heart, that they had
turned and ran. Well, he thought grimly, I better make them understand there's
nowhere to run to. And with that, he dismissed Barbatos with a curt command to
continue holding his position, calling for one of the Tribunes as he strode in
the direction of the forum.

Catching up with him, the Parthian Tribune reaching his side first,
asked for orders.

"I want you to take every slave, every medici, and any man you can find and go to the forum and create a breastworks.
Use the wagons, use the livestock, use anything that's solid to make a wall.
This will be our final position. Do you understand?"

Even a Tribune who wasn't a Roman by birth didn't need to be told
the import of this order, on every level, and it was only through a supreme
will that his hand was steady as he saluted his general, his voice clear and strong as he replied, "Yes Caesar. I will see to it."

"As soon as it's ready, let me know immediately," Caesar
said, but turned his attention away and back to the fighting before the Tribune
could say another word.

Pivoting about, the Parthian dashed deeper into the camp,
grabbing every noncombatant that he came across as he did. Meanwhile, Caesar
moved in the direction of the hardest fighting, and like Titus Pullus, he could
never remember feeling this tired. More disturbingly, the idea that this was
the day that Caesar was defeated had taken root in what to that point had been
rocky soil, the tendrils of doubt and despair starting to burrow their way into
his psyche. For Caesar, it was the most disturbing and paralyzing emotion he
had ever experienced. Even so, he continued moving toward the far corner of the
camp, where the Wa had managed to tear down the rampart and were now pouring
through the gap at the corner where one side of the earthen wall met another.
If this is the day I am defeated, Caesar thought, naked sword in hand, then I
will give these barbarian scum something to tell their grandchildren about.
Without breaking stride, he scooped up a new shield, and hurried to the new
breach.

"Balbus is down!"

Even from where Titus Pullus was sitting, on a macabre makeshift
couch made of the dead, he heard that cry above what had become a dull roar of
fighting. It was as if he had been dashed with a bucket of cold water, letting
out an audible gasp as he came to his feet, his overwhelming fatigue
momentarily forgotten. Looking over to where the Second Century of his First Cohort
was fighting, Pullus couldn't immediately make any sense of what he was seeing
in the mass of moving bodies. The Wa had again managed to create a presence on
the rampart, this one numbering perhaps a dozen men, and what Pullus could see
was that the line of Romans holding them back was only two deep. Seeing this
and understanding what it meant, Pullus whirled to call up the Century that had
now gone through three rotations with the Second Century, the Fourth. His
initial reaction was anger, thinking that the Princeps Posterior had taken his
men back into the camp for some reason, because all that was standing there was
perhaps two tent section's worth of men, the Centurion among them. That anger
dissolved into a twisting knot in his stomach as he recognized the sight in
front of him for what it was; the Fourth Century hadn't gone anywhere. This was the Fourth Century, less than twenty
men. Returning his attention back to the fighting, he saw that some of the men
in the second line had managed to grab Balbus and drag him out of the fighting,
where he was lying just a couple of paces behind the line. Pullus, fighting the
fatigue, forced himself to trot over to Balbus, arriving at the same time as
one of the overworked medici knelt beside the Centurion, feeling Pullus' friend's neck for any sign of life.
Just as he reached Balbus, he saw Balbus' head move slightly, and a wave of
relief washed through him at the sight, but when he also knelt down, the feeling was
short-lived. Balbus' eyes were open, and they met those of Pullus as his friend
came into view, and when he smiled, it was a gruesome sight, the blood bubbling
and frothing at his lips, filling his mouth and dribbling down his cheek.
Pullus had seen this too many times not to know that Balbus' lungs had been
punctured, and that his friend was beyond hope. Nevertheless, seemingly oblivious
to the fact that less than a dozen paces away ferocious fighting was still
going on, Pullus reached down to clasp the free hand of Balbus as the other one
clutched vainly at the hole in his chest, where blood was oozing through his
fingers in slow, rhythmic pulses, this liquid also alive with tiny, frothy
bubbles.

"What have you gone and done?" Pullus asked, his voice
choked and hoarse.

"I moved the wrong way," Balbus wheezed, prompting a weak
chuckle from his friend. "I thought the bastard was going for a low
thrust, but he caught me good and proper. I'm sorry Titus," Balbus' voice
was rapidly weakening. "I let........."

"Shut your mouth," Pullus interrupted, not wanting to hear
any more. "If you don't you're on report!"

"It's been a long time since I've been in trouble," the
last words were nothing but a whisper. "Titus, tell
Scribonius........" but before he could finish, he took a huge, spasmodic
breath, holding it for a second as his eyes widened, then with the rattle in his
throat that Pullus knew all too well, Gnaeus Balbus died. 

For a moment, Pullus
remained motionless, feeling his friend's hand growing cold almost instantly.

Then, he laid the hand gently on the chest and told the medici, "Get a stretcher bearer to
take the Pilus Posterior away, out of here."

The medici, for the
briefest of moments opened his mouth to argue, telling the Primus Pilus that
the stretcher bearers were so overworked as it was they barely were getting
wounded men to the forum to be treated and couldn't waste time on a dead man.
Then, he saw the giant Roman's face, and this man, a Parthian, quickly closed
his mouth and hurried off to obey. Meanwhile, Pullus stood and like Caesar,
took in the scene around him. As he was doing so, a huge roar from behind him
and to his left suddenly erupted, causing anyone not actually fighting to cast
an apprehensive glance over their own shoulder. The surprise Wa force had
clearly hit the wall around the main gate. Now everything was in the hands of
the gods.

 

The decision Aulus Flaminius made was one born of equal parts
pragmatism and bravado, but it was the luckiest decision he would ever make.
With the situation well in hand, with only his frontline Cohorts needed to hold
the camp, Flaminius had sent a runner to his colleague in command of the other
Legion occupying the camp, the 14th. The 14th's history under Caesar was
spotty, to put it mildly, although despite a rough start when, because of the
incompetence of the Legate commanding them in Gaul, Aulus Sabinus, they had
been wiped out to a man, their performance in this current campaign now lasting
a decade had partially redeemed their reputation. Nevertheless, Caesar had
never fully invested this Legion with his trust again, hence their position in
this camp, the one that Caesar had deemed to be the least likely to bear the
brunt of the assault. The Primus Pilus of the 14th, Gnaeus Figulus had answered
Flaminius' query with the answer Flaminius had hoped for, that like his own
Legion, they were under no duress. More importantly, Figulus had assured him
that he essentially had committed only half his Legion to the fight. From that
information, and his belief not only in his men but that Caesar, or more likely
Pullus, could use every spare man, Aulus Flaminius risked his career by not
bothering to consult with the Legate left in charge of this camp, Caesar's
quartermaster, the old muleteer Ventidius.

"Go get Pilus Prior Felix," he ordered, naming the
commander of the Fifth Cohort, whose men were standing idly a short distance
away from the rampart. The runner departed as Flaminius sent another runner to
request the presence of Figulus as well. What he was about to do was a huge
risk, he knew, but deep down in his old soldier's bones he was sure that he was
doing the right thing. Once both men arrived, Flaminius wasted no time.

"Since we have the situation in hand, I think we should send
our reserves, including the second line Cohorts, to Caesar's camp. I'm sure he
could use some help."

The relative silence for the next few moments was profound, but
whether it was because they were thinking about what needed to be done to make
this happen, or they thought him mad, Flaminius didn't know.

Finally, Figulus cleared his throat, then asked, "Did you talk
to Ventidius about this?"

"Yes," Flaminius said the word even before he could think
about it, and he would never be able to put his finger on exactly why he did
so. "He thinks it's a good idea. That's why I called you."

For the briefest moment Figulus looked disposed to argue, or even
worse, go ask Ventidius himself, but for reasons that, like Flaminius, Figulus
would never be able to explain, instead he shrugged.

"Who will be in command of the detachment?"

"Felix," Flaminius answered firmly, his tone brooking no
argument. 

Again, Figulus opened his mouth, then shut it. For this was yet another factor in Flaminius' decision. Felix
was the best Centurion in the 25th, with the possible exception of Flaminius,
but a combination of circumstances had seen his best fighting man in charge of
the Fifth Cohort only, and not in one of the frontline formations. Still, even
if he had his choice of Centurions to lead what he had in mind, Flaminius would
still have chosen Felix. The next few moments saw Flaminius doing most of the
talking, interrupted by a question or two from the other two men, then once
finished, both Centurions returned to their respective units to make
preparations.

"On your feet you lazy bastards," was how Felix put it,
bawling out the order while simultaneously kicking one of the Pandyan
Legionaries who was looking a little too comfortable resting on the ground.
"We've got orders, and we have to move. Fast."

As he was getting his own Cohort ready, Flaminius had sent
runners to the Pili Priori of the other Cohorts that would be marching, while
Figulus was essentially doing the same. Crack Legions or not, nobody could have
faulted how rapidly the 12 Cohorts of Legionaries were assembled and ready to
march out of the gate. Flaminius was waiting there, and despite his strong
feeling that he was doing the right thing by taking matters into his own hands,
he was nevertheless extremely nervous, especially since he had been forced to
lure Ventidius to the farthest corner of the camp, where a phantom incursion
was taking place. When the Legate returned and saw that more than half of the
army assigned to him was missing he would be understandably furious. In fact,
Flaminius didn't think it was out of the realm of possibility that the Legate
would have him taken into custody on the spot. Therefore, it put Flaminius in
the perverse position of actually hoping that matters were as desperate as his
instinct told him, otherwise he knew that there would be no way to repair the
damage done to his career. Even with all these thoughts piling on top of one another
in his mind, like all of Caesar's Centurions, particularly the Pili Primi,
outwardly he was extremely calm and matter-of-fact.

"March fast, Felix, but I think you should have at least a
Century out in front by a stadia at least."

Felix's face, set much like his Primus Pilus, showed surprise.

"You don't think these cunni
have
gotten all the way up to the road do you?"

Flaminius could only shrug, but his tone was firm and confident as
he replied, "Probably not, but I'm already putting my neck on the block as
it is. I don't want to compound whatever trouble I've gotten myself into by
letting you stumble into an ambush."

"I won't let you down, Primus Pilus," Felix said quietly.

"I know you won't, but if I'm right, Caesar's going to need
every one of you."

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