Caesar Triumphant
Artaxades' breathing was harsh but even as he picked his way as carefully as the blistering pace he was setting would allow, carefully lifting his feet higher than normal to avoid tripping over a rock or root. He had left the eastern gate as directed, wearing nothing but a tunic and a dagger strapped to his belt, and headed downhill for a distance before turning south to run along the face of the slope. The ground was extremely rough and broken, but the Centurion giving him the message to deliver hadn't spared Artaxades any detail, impressing upon him exactly how important this message was, not just to the fate of his friends in the 10th, but the entire army. Artaxades, despite being a Parthian, had been with the Legion now for seven years, long enough for bonds to form that were as strong as any he felt towards his blood kin. In fact, after the first year, where he had woken homesick every single day, unaccustomed to the harsh strangeness of the Roman military life, he thought of his family, his mother and father, his two brothers and three sisters, with ever-decreasing frequency. The men standing on either side of him, one of them another Parthian named Gaspar, who Artaxades now regarded as someone closer than a brother, and the man who protected his sword side, a Roman named Numerius who meant almost as much, these men had become his family.
And it was for these men, and the rest of the 10th for whom Artaxades ran now, his eyes relentlessly scanning the ground just ahead, looking for a protruding rock, root, or worse, hole in the ground that would snap his ankle. He wasn't sure how far he had to run before he could turn and climb up the slope to use the road, but after almost tripping headlong yet again, he decided it was time to risk it. Making a arcing right turn so that he didn't break stride, his breathing almost immediately started to become ragged, his lungs screaming in protest at the sudden extra burden caused by the incline. Naturally, without thinking, Artaxades eased his pace to compensate, but then unbidden the thought of Gaspar and Numerius, who were at that moment standing in the line and could even be fighting for their lives, burst into the Parthian's consciousness. Despite the pain, he resumed his previous level of exertion, and within a couple of moments his breathing was so labored that he couldn't even hear the sound of the hobnails in his caligae when they struck the rocky soil. Nevertheless, his legs kept churning, and he could see the top of the slope barely fifty paces away, so he dropped his head and began pumping his arms furiously to dash up the last part. Just before the top, a pain in his side became so intense that despite himself he slowed, and in slowing saved his life and gave the army a chance at survival. That slight decrease in his pace meant that he heard the shouts of men, not anything associated with fighting, but some sort of orders. At least that's what it sounded like to Artaxades, but what he did know was that it wasn't in Latin, but in the tongue of the barbarians. He heard just enough to come to a stop before his head and shoulders crested the slope, keeping him out of sight. Panting, he paused only for a moment before turning and heading back a short distance down the slope, then turned to continue his run to the south. He wouldn't be able to take advantage of the road, not yet.
Gaius Porcinus' first sensation was a throbbing pain on the side of his head, which only intensified when he opened his eyes to the sunlight streaming down. His helmet had been pulled off by someone, he didn't know who, and without thinking he reached up to touch the spot on his head, wincing in pain as his fingers touched the matted hair where a deep gash ran just above his ear. It was several inches long running from just behind his ear to his temple, but gritting his teeth, he forced his fingers to probe gently for any sign of a fracture. Despite the pain, he heaved a sigh of relief as his fingers found no obvious signs that his skull was broken. Suddenly, the sunlight was blocked by a figure looming over him, and Porcinus' eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden change. Blinking, it took a couple moments for him to recognize the face of his Optio, another Parthian named Oesalces, his swarthy features showing the strain of all that was happening.
"Hastatus Posterior Porcinus! Are you all right sir?" Oesalces had to shout to be heard over the noise of the fighting, which had continued unabated while Porcinus was unconscious.
He had been dragged several paces away from the wall, just far enough to be out of danger but the din was still almost overwhelming, and Porcinus was sure it added to his already pounding headache. In answer to Oesalces, Porcinus sat up and immediately his head began spinning so violently he was overcome with a wave of nausea. Turning his head to the side, he vomited the remains of his breakfast onto the ground next to him. Staring at the mess, Porcinus struggled to focus, but for some reason his mind was occupied with trying to determine how long ago he had ingested what was now on the ground. It was only when Oescales put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a hard shake that his attention on that subject was broken.
"Centurion! Are you all right? Can you stand?" Porcinus forced himself to look up at his Optio, trying to gather his thoughts as he considered the answer.
After what seemed like a long time, Gaius finally nodded his head, wincing as he did.
"I think so. Help me up," he told Oescales, holding his hand out, grabbing at his Optio's own as he was pulled to his feet.
For a moment, he thought he would topple over but Oescales held his arm as his head cleared. Once he regained his equilibrium, Porcinus turned his attention to the immediate situation.
Looking at his Century, he frowned and asked, "Where's Olympus?"
Oescales was startled by the question, but it told him that the blow to Porcinus' head was worse than he had thought.
"Olympus was killed sir. You were standing next to him when it happened. Remember?"
Once Oescales uttered the words, the image of Olympus' body being hurled down into the mass of Wa warriors came flooding back into Porcinus' mind, causing an involuntary shaking that made his head hurt even more.
"Yes, I remember now. Never mind. How long have I been out?"
"Not that long. We've only had a couple more men go down, one wounded but he'll make it and one dead."
"He'll make it if we survive," Porcinus answered grimly.
The mention of the dead Legionary prompted the realization that he needed a helmet, since the one he had been wearing had been buckled by the blow from the Wa sword. Porcinus could see it on the ground just a couple steps away, where it had been tossed after being removed from his head by....who? It doesn't matter, Porcinus chided himself. All that matters is getting back in the fight and leading the men. Seeing a discarded helmet lying next to the small row of bodies that had already started to form, Porcinus trotted over to it, scooping up his ruined helmet as he did. His own felt liner was of course no good, so the dead man's would have to suffice, and Porcinus put that on first, wincing as it settled over his injury. Quickly affixing the transverse crest to the new helmet, he stifled a groan of pain as he pulled the helmet down onto his head, tying the chin thong as tightly as he dared.
"Where's my sword?" he asked Oescales, but his Optio answered that he didn't know, so Porcinus picked among several now scattered about, discarding ones that he could see were cracked or just didn't feel good in his hand. Settling on one, he made a few circular motions with the tip of it as a way to loosen up his arm. Then, turning to his Optio, Porcinus gave him a grim smile.
"Well Optio, let's get back in things, shall we?"
Without waiting for an answer but knowing his Optio would be hot on his heels, Porcinus strode to the back of his Century, calling out to the men as he shoved his way to the front.
"I'm back boys and feeling refreshed from my nap! Let's say we kill some more of these cunni!" Anything else he had shouted was drowned out by the added roar of the men of the Sixth Century, Tenth Cohort as their Centurion resumed his spot at the front. They were more than ready to keep fighting.
"One...........two................one.............two!" The command rang out, bellowed by Barbatos, still standing near Caesar who, despite being in overall command, let his Centurions do their job. Barbatos was calling out the numbered commands that the Legions used when staging a fighting withdrawal. At the command of "one", lash out with the shield, pushing the enemy across from you back a step, but instead of moving forward on the second command, take a step back, shield still up, sword still ready. Still, it was a step back and not forward, and all along a steadily shrinking line, the Romans in Caesar's camp moved slowly back in the direction of the forum, where every available man was working feverishly to create some sort of prepared position. Boxes, barrels, sacks of rice, anything and everything that possessed any kind of solidity and weight to it was dragged or carried to form a rough, circular shape slightly larger than the forum. The tents that were in the way were yanked down and dragged elsewhere, while the guy ropes holding up the large praetorium tent were cut and the poles removed, but only after the desks and other pieces of solid furniture were carried away to be added to the makeshift barricade. Anything and everything that could possibly be used for protection was salvaged from the entire part of the camp to the east side of the forum, still untouched by fighting. Meanwhile, Caesar was moving rapidly about, just behind the line of fighting men, exhorting his boys to keep their discipline, listen to the count of their Centurions, and lending his sword where needed. While it wasn't the first time he had done such things, never before had Caesar put on such a virtuoso performance; not at Munda, not at Ecbatana, not even in the bitter fighting against the Pandyans on the beaches of that kingdom. It seemed he was literally everywhere, showing up in one spot to give the final sword thrust that stopped a Wa from striking down one of his men and creating a gap in the slowly retreating line. Then he would be at another point, holding onto the harness of a man who was being pressured by the weight of barbarian soldiers who were massed together, trying to buckle the Roman line by sheer weight of numbers. Calling to others, he would stay until the man's comrades who were able came to his aid, only then removing himself to move to another trouble spot. No men who saw Caesar in those moments weren't inspired to fight harder than they ever had before, and despite the seemingly overwhelming numbers of swords and spears slashing and thrusting at them, the lines held.
"One..............two...............one............two........" Step by step, Barbatos and the other Centurions assigned to the task along the line called out the count, and for the brief moment Caesar took to catch his breath, he was gratified to see that the ground behind the mass of Wa still pressing against the shields of his men was covered with bodies. Most of them were Wa, but there was still a disturbingly large number of men clad in the uniform of the Legions as well.
"Caesar!" The general was disturbed from his examination to see the Parthian Tribune, face shining with perspiration, a sign that he hadn't thought himself above the manual labor of constructing the breastworks. If he survives, he may make a good officer, Caesar thought while still listening to the report of the Parthian.
"The breastworks are finished and ready to be occupied!"
"Good," Caesar answered immediately, but while this was good news, there was one more thing that had to be done that he didn't relish in the least. "We'll be there in just a few moments. Make sure that you direct the signiferi to ensure their spacing is enough to cover the entire wall all the way around."
The Parthian saluted, and Caesar turned back to the next task, and as exhausted and drained as he was, he still had enough energy that a sudden, leaden ball formed in his stomach. Ignoring it, he scanned the lines of men until he saw who he was looking for. Pushing his way close enough so that he could be heard, he called out to the man.
"Barbatos!"
Hearing his name, the Centurion carefully backed away from the front line before facing his general. Seeing Caesar beckoning him to come to him, Barbatos made his way through the lines of men, but made sure to make a joke or offer a word of encouragement and slap on a shoulder as he did, causing Caesar an even deeper twinge of regret over what he had to do.
When Barbatos reached his side, Caesar wasted no time, speaking in a low voice so the men nearby wouldn't hear.
"The breastworks are ready."
Barbatos' face betrayed no emotion, but he gave a brief nod that he understood, and Caesar recognized that Barbatos knew what was coming, and he said as much.
"I can tell you know what needs to be done, and I can think of no better man than you to make sure it's done well, because our survival depends on it."
"You need me to have the first line hold off these bastards long enough for the rest of you to get to the breastworks," Barbatos replied calmly.
Perhaps it was the matter-of-fact tone, the calm acceptance of a fate that meant certain death, but Caesar's vision suddenly became clouded as the tears threatened to come pouring down his face, and it was only through his supreme will that they remained unshed. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he couldn't speak for a moment, and when he did, his voice was husky with emotion.
"Yes, that's exactly what needs to happen. And I know that I couldn't have made a better choice for the man to do it."
Now it was Barbatos who felt the swell of emotion, and for the remaining moments of his life, the pride that he felt would buoy and sustain him, giving him the strength to do what needed to be done.
"We won't let you down, Caeasar," he finally managed to say. Both men stood for just a moment, then Caesar reached out and grabbed Barbatos by the shoulder, squeezing it hard.
"May Mars, Bellona and Fortuna bless you and the men," Caesar told Barbatos, but he only received a nod in return before Barbatos turned about, and without another word, headed back to the fighting.
Caesar took a moment to watch him stride, sword in hand, a proud Roman meeting his fate and his destiny with head held high, and the older man was almost overcome with a wave of sadness and remorse. He had caused this, he knew. These men were here because his thirst for fame and overwhelming desire to outstrip Alexander had brought them here, to this strange land, facing these strange men. And now most, if not all of them would die. Caesar forced himself to push the feelings down, thinking now about his next step. Surveying the men, he found the man he was looking for, and headed directly for him, skirting behind the men clutching onto the harnesses of those in front of them. Now Caesar had to ensure that the sacrifice of Barbatos and the men of the front line wasn't in vain, that with their deaths they ensured that the remainder of his force was able to move behind the barricades that were waiting for them in the forum.
All posts by R.W. Peake on blog.rwpeake.com are copyrighted by the author, 2012.
