Caesar Triumphant

Felix was in agony, but not from the exertion of the run. Now that they were within a couple stadia of Caesar's camp, it was clear that his general needed his help. From the position of the dust cloud itself Felix could plainly see that the camp had for all intents and purposes fallen, and that his general and men were now in the area of the forum, putting up a last defense. But it wasn't just the dust that told him this; he was close enough now that he could hear the noise of fighting even above his harsh breathing. Up ahead his advance Century had stopped their trotting advance, coming to the quick step that they normally used when marching. Felix could see the Centurion commanding the advance party turn to look in his direction, clearly waiting for orders. Every sign pointed to a clear-cut decision, that it was Caesar's camp that needed succor, and the relief force hadn't arrived too late to help. But that knowledge didn't bring Felix any sense of relief whatsoever, because the nagging of the feeling that as badly as they might be needed by Caesar, Pullus, Balbinus and their men were in even greater danger. However, given what he could see at that moment, Felix had no choice but halting at Caesar's camp. Continuing his trot, Felix and the men following him closed the distance to the main gate of Caesar's camp, and the absence of any men manning the gate was further confirmation of the desperate situation. The advance Century had come to a halt, just as Felix had instructed them to, and when Felix reached them, he called a halt to the main column. He was standing within a hundred paces of the gate and was trying to decide the best way to proceed now that they had arrived. Deciding that the best thing to do was see the situation for himself, he ordered his Century forward, giving instructions to the Centurions of the advance guard and the Centurions of the Centuries closest to the front to remain where they were and wait for his signal to proceed. Leading his Century, Felix approached the gate with a heart that hadn't stopped pounding even after coming to a stop, and he could hear in his ears the breath coming as if he was still running, such was his tension. Tapping his vitus nervously against his leg as he closed the remaining few paces the noise now was only partially muffled by the dirt walls of the camp, and the Roman was close enough that he could almost make out individual voices and sounds, shouted orders and the clash of metal on metal. Eyes fixed on the dirt barrier of the main gate, without conscious thought he drew his sword, only made aware of that by the rasping sound of his men doing the same, following the example of their Centurion. Almost jumping at the harsh noise, it also jerked Felix's attention partially away from the gate as he glanced back to see his Optio who, for some reason was looking in another direction. Felix opened his mouth to reprimand his Optio for letting his attention wander but before anything came out, the other man raised his arm to point in the direction he was looking.

"Centurion! Someone's coming! It looks like one of ours and he's running like Cerberus is about to catch him!"

Artaxades had reached a point where the only thing he was aware of was that his legs were moving, and they were moving fast. Nothing else mattered at that point and if the truth were known, he wouldn't have been able to articulate why he was running faster than he ever had in his life at that moment. All he knew was that the finish line was just ahead, marked by a large, dark blur in his vision that was looming larger with every stride. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew that this was Caesar's camp, and he knew that he had to deliver a message, but for the life of him, at that moment he couldn't remember what the message was. Whatever it was, first he had to get there, and his arms were pumping as quickly as he could move them back and forth. His mouth had long since gone completely dry, every drop of moisture in his body sucked inwards to try to cool it down, but he felt as if he were being baked in the panera oven of the Legions like a loaf of bread. Caked around his open maw was a rime of white, chalky material, and while it was normal for him to have this substance around his mouth after a race, never had it been this thick. Now that he was within two hundred paces of the gate he began to veer slightly off the road, in an unconscious attempt to shorten the distance before he could finally stop. Such was his level of distress and his concentration that it wasn't until he was less than fifty paces away and even above the roaring sound in his ears did he hear shouts, and he was so surprised that he immediately broke stride. Gone was the smooth, ground-eating lope that he had been using; instead he began stumbling as his limbs seemed to suddenly grow minds of their own and refuse his directions to continue with the smooth motion that had gotten him to this point. He felt as if the world was suddenly tilted on its axis and he was in danger of sliding off, and to compensate he began windmilling his arms in an attempt to somehow counteract the fact that his legs seemed to be sliding out from underneath him. But although he was still propelling himself forward it was no longer a run but a stumble, and in his confused state he caught just a glimpse of a face, a Roman face with a helmet wearing a transverse crest on top of it before he went crashing into the dirt. The impact drove what little breath there was from his lungs but he barely felt the effect of the rough ground, as the tiny, protruding sharp rocks tore into his skin, carving deep gashes as he slid to a stop. For a moment he lay motionless, then somehow found the energy to push with one arm over onto his back, where he lay sprawled, face to the sun. His lungs were continuing to suck in air as fast as they could, but it still wasn't enough, and Artaxades saw a dark, hazy mist that seemed to circle all around the edges of his vision, where the only place he could still see the sky was in the center. Am I dying, he wondered? He had never felt like this after any race, no matter how hard he had run, and the last mile had been an agony that he would never have believed he could have endured before this moment on the other side, having done it. Thoughts and images were tumbling through his mind, things he hadn't thought about in years, like his home in Ctesiphon, in Parthia. His mother, hard at work as she always was, preparing a meal while his sister stood next to her, learning the job of a woman. She was looking up and smiling at him, and while he couldn't hear her words, he could see that she was calling him, probably to taste his favorite dish of spiced lamb, roasted over the spit. Oh, how he would love to have some of his mother's cooking to help him recover from this last race he ran! He was so tired, never this tired, and it still seemed next to impossible for his lungs to draw in enough breath. Even as his mind tried to puzzle out what that meant, the dark mist continued closing in, ever narrowing in a smaller and smaller circle. But now he could hear his mother calling him.

"Arta! Arta! Come here you foolish boy! Look what your mother has made for you, even if you don't deserve it! Your father told me he caught you sneaking away to play with those boys again! How are you going to learn how to be a mason if you do not listen to your father and do what he tells you?"

He wanted to answer her, to assure her that he no longer needed to learn his father's skill because he had found a home in the army, but he couldn't form the words, and even if he did, his throat was so dry that what did come out of his mouth was nothing but a croaking, raspy moan. Then, the mist came as a roaring sound filled his ears, which for whatever reason seemed to snap him out of the mental daze he was in just long enough for him to realize that he had failed. He hadn't carried the message that would help his friends.

"He's dead," Felix said incredulously, kneeling by the side of the fallen man and searching frantically for any sign of life. "He can't be! He can't be dead!"

Felix shook the prone man, his attempts to revive him growing increasingly vigorous as he went from shaking, to slapping him across the face. Finally, in frustration and anger, Felix brought his fist down, hard, on the man's chest, but still nothing happened. This courier, whoever he was, was dead. Felix's Optio, a man of indeterminate origin who claimed to come from Galatia and had joined the Legion after the first battles against the Parthians, stood watching his Centurion. While he spoke Latin fluently, it was still with the accent of his home lands, which was one reason that many of the other men doubted his claim to be a Galatian. Hence his nickname became Odysseus, after the perpetual wanderer of Homer's tale. Now he stepped forward and cleared his throat.

"Centurion? I don't think that's going to bring him back. The man's clearly dead."

Felix didn't answer, but he did sit back on his haunches, forearms across his knees as he gazed down at the dead man. After a moment he stood and turned to face his Optio.

"I wonder what his message was?" he asked, although he didn't really expect an answer.

Nevertheless, Odysseus replied, "Whatever it was, it was important enough for him to run himself to death."

At first, this didn't register with Felix, as he had already stood and started walking back the very short distance to the gate. When they had spotted the courier, Felix, along with his Century, had actually run past the gate to meet Artaxades, Felix being sure that this man would be carrying a message that would provide him with more clarity about his dilemma. Now, Felix was trotting toward the gate, and leading his men he navigated through the passageway of the dirt gate. The sounds of the fighting were very loud and he could clearly hear commands, shouts, curses and the ringing sound of sword striking sword or some other metal surface, all of it punctuated with the deeper thudding sound when someone blocked a thrust with a shield. But even as prepared as he thought he was, when he entered the camp at the run, he still came to a complete stop. By the time Felix arrived, the withdrawal to the hastily prepared fortifications had just been completed, and an appallingly small number of Roman Legionaries were standing on the makeshift parapet, their shields providing more coverage as they desperately fought the remaining Wa force. Although Felix had no way of knowing it, this assault element was composed of barely a third of their original numbers, but they still outnumbered the remnants of Caesar's command. Taking this sight in, Felix stood there with his Century, unobserved by the Wa, who clearly were not expecting other Romans showing up. They were completely focused on the final destruction of these barbarians who had invaded their land, and after a short lull in the ferocity and energy, they were now pouring every last bit they had left into finishing it. That, more than any other factor, made Felix's decision for him.

Turning to his Optio, he asked, "What did you say just a moment ago? About him?" He jerked his head in the direction of where Artaxades was still lying, barely cold.

"What? Oh," Odysseus thought a moment, and said, "That he ran himself to death, just like Phidippides did at the Battle of Marathon."

Felix nodded thoughtfully, then replied, "And that message was so important that it was worth dying for, I expect. Just like this one," he finished under his breath.

And with that, Felix made up his mind.

Caesar was pleased to see that, for the moment at least, the makeshift barricade was successfully holding the Wa at bay, and for the first time he could see real fatigue showing in the movement and faces of these barbarians who until that moment had seemed to be impervious to the normal draining of energy that came from such strenuous activity. But as tired as they were, Caesar and his men were no less so, and in many spots around the hodgepodge of items that had been used to create this wall, the fighting taking place was almost comically slow. A Wa would thrust a spear, and a Roman would either block or parry the blow in such a way that if Caesar hadn't known how deadly serious it was he would have said he was watching one of the mime shows in Rome where battles were recreated for the crowd. Of course, the other difference was that at the end of the "battle" in Rome, something funny would take place and the crowd would roar with laughter. Here, nobody was laughing, or in fact doing much shouting at all, such was the fatigue. Instead, the air was filled almost entirely by just the sounds of sword on sword, or spear against shield, along with the occasional blast of a Centurion's whistle that signaled the men standing on the rampart to step aside and let their relief take over. At least when there were enough men to relieve them, Caesar thought bitterly, as he could see in many spots there wasn't even a Legionary standing behind the man on the rampart. The space enclosed by the barricade was jammed full of wounded men, with barely enough room for the paths that the medici and remaining slaves needed to move around, ministering to the wounded. Thankfully, now that they were back behind some sort of wall, the flow of Roman wounded being carried or dragged to the forum had slowed, but every loss was one that Caesar and his men couldn't afford. In fact, Caesar thought wearily, all he had done was buy these men perhaps a watch more of life, if that. He couldn't imagine that the other redoubts, from whom he hadn't heard a word in only the gods knew how long, were faring any better than he was, so the idea of help never entered his mind. No, Caesar's Luck had finally run out. Of this he was sure, that today would see the final battle of his career, and the beginning of the Legend of Caesar. Shaking his head, more ruefully than with any real regret, he acknowledged to himself that perhaps this time he had overreached, that finally he had come across the one place and the one people he couldn't conquer. Standing there, surrounded by the remainder of his staff, as always Caesar stood alone, still aloof and with every bit of his dignitas intact. Finally, the Parthian Tribune cleared his throat, jerking Caesar out of his reverie. Somewhat surprised, Caesar turned to see the man, the Pandyan Tribune next to him, both of them bespattered with blood, and the Parthian sporting a ragged bandage wrapped around his upper thigh. When did that happen? Caesar wondered with a frown, trying to recall if he had seen it happen, or had been told by the Parthian and he had just forgotten.

"Caesar, what are your orders, sir?" the Parthian's tone arrested Caesar's attention, the tone of it causing him an even deeper twinge, recognizing in the words that it was as much a plea for hope and encouragement as it was a request for direction. I owe these men more than this, Caesar thought with real sadness. They have performed in a manner that would make any Roman proud, no matter where they came from.

With this in mind, Caesar answered, "We continue to fight, gentlemen. That's all we can do right now. We show these barbarians that being Roman isn't just a matter of where one is born, but what one is made of. Because both of you fought like Romans today."

To the horror and embarrassment of both men, their reaction was a welling of tears and lumps in the throat that rendered both men speechless, for they had never been praised in such a manner by Caesar until this moment. Finally, the Parthian nodded, then straightened and offered a perfect salute.

Swallowing hard, he asked, "Where will my sword be of most use?"

Caesar quickly surveyed the area, then pointed to a spot.

"It looks like Valerius' Century could use some help."

Caesar pointed to another spot, addressing the Pandyan, "And Amulius needs you there."

The Pandyan offered the same salute, then dashed away, sword held high, ready to lend itself to this last phase of the fight. Sighing, Caesar watched the two younger men move into position before drawing his own sword. Looking about, he saw another spot where there was only a single line of Legionaries, one of his men even then wrestling with a Wa who had managed to throw a leg over the barricade and was slashing at the Roman. Unlike the two younger men, Caesar had neither the energy nor the inclination to run at this point. No, he would walk to his death with the same disdain for it he had always had. He began moving in that direction, but had to pick his way carefully among the detritus of battle, as well as taking care not to step on a wounded man. When he got within a few paces of his destination, something happened that he was sure was a figment of imagination, and while he faltered for a moment, he immediately resumed his progress. But before he could take more than another couple of steps, not only did it happen again, it was then accompanied by a shout from some of the men behind him. This had been happening all day, and wasn't unusual since it normally signaled some sort of trouble, but there was something decidedly different in these shouts. It was an alarm, but it sounded.....joyful? Caesar whirled about, and this time he recognized that it wasn't his imagination, as a cornu blasted a series of notes a third time. And those series of notes were used to send the Legions of Rome into battle! 

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