by R. W. Peake
“They can’t get up to us!” He said this to Trebellius, more as a thought, as his mind raced about the best way to exploit this knowledge.
“I can see that,” Trebellius replied. “But now what?”
His question, Pullus quickly understood, was the important one, because during the span of that exchange, the last javelins had been expended between the two forces, reducing both sides to cursing each other, while tending to those wounded in the exchange.
“We could go down there after them.” Pullus’ voice was pitched low, since he was more thinking aloud than actually offering this as a possibility, but Trebellius still looked at his Primus Pilus, somewhat alarmed.
“We could,” he answered carefully, “but…”
“But the only way is if we’re willing to lose too many men.” Pullus shook his head, not seeing the sagging of Trebellius’ body.
Before the Primus Pilus could consider anything else, there was a blaring sound from down in the ditch, which he knew was from the Parthians’ version of the cornu, telling Pullus that not everything about the Crassoi was still Roman. Despite the different sound, however, the series of notes was clearly recognizable.
“They’re running, boys!” Trebellius shouted, quickly drowned out by the roar of the men around him.
It was the alacrity of their retreat that gave Pullus the idea, and he turned to Trebellius, pulling him away from the parapet. In a few urgent words, the Primus Pilus gave Trebellius orders that, while they clearly surprised him at first, he still obeyed immediately, saluting even as he was calling to a handful of men, whereupon they disappeared down the rampart and back into the camp. With nothing else to do at this moment, Pullus turned his attention down the rampart to the second tower, just in time to see it collapse in a roaring heap that sent embers and sparks roiling up at least fifty feet into the air. I hope the boys in that tower got out of there, he thought, but his instincts told him that, even if they had, the Crassoi had used that foul, gods-cursed naphtha, and he still had nightmares about how the viscous, sticky substance clung to whatever it struck. The light from the blaze did give him a good view of what was happening, but the men down by the second tower were in a similar state of inaction, reduced to waving their swords and shouting imprecations at the Crassoi. Using their behavior and the way that men were now no longer peering down into the ditch, but looking straight across, Pullus was certain that those Crassoi had clambered back up out of the ditch.
Then, Trebellius returned, and behind him were the men he had taken, carrying a ladder, one that was built specifically for the deeper dimensions of a Caesarian ditch. Moving quickly, they maneuvered the ladder over the waist-high parapet, then dropped it down into place. However, when Trebellius moved to be the first man down the ladder, Pullus stepped between him and the ladder, giving his subordinate a firm shake of his head.
“No.”
Without saying anything more, Pullus then swung first one leg, then the other over, then sitting on the parapet, stepped down onto the ladder, facing down into the ditch. As was his habit, the Primus Pilus of the 10th would be the first man to face a Crassoi.
Things had gone to cac, Gaius Asina thought sourly, this made even worse because their attack had actually begun promisingly enough when the tower Caspar had assigned his Century had instantly caught fire. But, while Asina was by no means a stupid man, he also had a habit of letting the moment get the best of him, where his love for a fight overwhelmed the need for a Centurion to retain a certain level of detachment in order to keep a clear head in the event a situation deteriorated. This was such a moment, and while Caspar, who was in command of the other three Centuries responsible for the second tower, had instantly recognized the futility of trying to scale the dirt wall with ladders that were three feet too short, and that was if there hadn’t been a dirt parapet, Asina hadn’t because his blood was up. Consequently, he had overlooked this crucial problem, but like the good Centurion he was, he had been the first down into the ditch, and it was within a matter of heartbeats after that he realized his error. Unfortunately, it had been too late, because his men hadn’t hesitated in following him, and very quickly, the bottom was filled with his Century, and they were immediately joined by the other two that were part of the attacking force. What Asina found most galling was that, if they had known that these bastards dug their ditches deeper and wider, he was convinced that, given the amount of confusion and chaos their igniting of the tower caused, he and his boys would have been able to wreak tremendous damage, then be gone before their foes could get organized. After the exchange of volleys, of which he could clearly see his men had taken the worst of it, only then did Asina realize the futility, and ordered his Cornicen to sound the recall. Immediately after this, he and his men discovered that, while it had been something of a problem dropping down onto ladders that were more than two feet lower than they should have been, clambering out was even more difficult. The only blessing was that the Romans above them were confining themselves to verbal assault, in the form of jeering taunts now that their supply of javelins was exhausted; at least, at first. As a good Centurion should, Asina was at the tail end of the lines of his men now climbing back up the ladders, with the assistance of the man who had gone ahead who turned, and offered an arm to help their comrade up. Things were moving as quickly as could be expected, and it was more from habit that Asina was facing back towards the dirt wall that towered more than twenty feet above him, not from any real expectation that their foes would come down after them. Suddenly, he saw a flurry of movement at the top of the wall, then a large, wooden ladder dropped down. The sound of it thudding into the dirt caused the last section of men nearest to Asina spin about, their shields coming up automatically.
“Do you want us to stay behind, Pilus Posterior?”
Asina didn’t have to turn; he recognized the voice of one of his best men, but he shook his head and said, “No need, Pictor. I can handle anything these cunni could…”
He didn’t finish, only because he saw a man wearing a transverse crest, a white one, the same color as worn by Caspar, although the Crassoi now used a Parthian-style crest, swinging his legs over the parapet. Because of the light from the still blazing tower, Asina was able to see the Roman Primus Pilus who was descending the ladder, but facing him, moving with care but descending quickly.
“That is the biggest fucking man I’ve ever seen,” Pictor gasped, but while Asina agreed, his pride wouldn’t allow him to say anything other than, “Bah. That just means he’ll hit harder when he falls.”
“Are you sure…” Pictor began, but Asina cut him off with a chopping hand, although he did take the slight risk of turning and saying, “Hand me your shield, though.” Once the ranker did, he ordered, “Now, go. I’ll be along.”
Returning his attention back to the giant Roman, Asina saw that while he had reached the bottom of the ditch, he was still standing next to the ladder, though he understood why when the Centurion turned slightly, looking up to catch the shield that one of his men had dropped to him, presumably when they had seen Asina take one for his own. Asina welcomed the sudden tingling he always experienced just before he went into battle, except this time, there was an added element that, frankly, he’d never experienced before, a sense of dread when his eyes took in not just the overwhelming size and muscularity of the Centurion, but the multiple scars that were visible, even in the flickering light of the blazing towers. Nevertheless, his feet began moving him towards Pullus, his shield moving up into place and his body naturally dropping into what every man witnessing this moment knew as the first position. Asina’s adversary, however, didn’t respond in the same manner, although he had drawn his own sword, which he held loosely at his side, the only motion being the tiny, perfect circles he made with the point as he calmly regarded the Crassoi Centurion, who had no way of knowing the meaning of this seemingly insignificant habit.
“Kill that fucking traitor, Primus Pilus!”
There was a burst of
noise as the men on the wall roared their agreement and shouted their own curses, but these were answered in turn by the Crassoi on the opposite side of the ditch, triggering the stray thought in Asina’s mind that this was almost like one of the games that featured a gladiatorial contest.
“What’s your name and rank?”
Of all the things that Asina expected, this wasn’t it, but before he could catch himself, he answered automatically, “Gaius Anienses Asina, Primus Pilus Posterior of the First Cohort of the…” suddenly, for the first time in several years, Asina experienced the bitterness that he and his comrades had learned to submerge inside their minds but never really vanquished as he finished, “…Eastern Spad of the King of Parthia.”
The light was sufficient for Asina to see that the grin his adversary gave him was a mocking one, matched by his tone as the Centurion said, “I bet you never thought you’d be saying that, did you? Back when,” the larger man’s features hardened, “you made an oath to Mars, Bellona, and Jupiter Optimus Maximus to defend Rome!”
“Don’t talk to me about Rome!” Asina snarled, even as he launched himself at the big Roman; just before the two men’s shields collided, Asina realized, he wanted me to do that, and I fell for it.
Then it was too late, and Asina learned firsthand what it meant to face Titus Pullus, in the form of bouncing backward off the big Roman’s shield, while his foe barely moved at all. Nevertheless, Asina was no novice, the fact that he was one of the surviving men of the Crassoi a testament to that, and he instantly understood that he was no match for his enemy’s strength, so the possibility seeing another sunrise rested on his skill and speed. Consequently, Asina’s backward motion became part of one continuous movement as, the instant his feet touched back onto the dirt, he sprang forward, but also to his right, trying to get on his enemy’s unprotected side, the first move that would culminate in launching a killing thrust that could only be blocked with his foe’s blade. And, as Pullus would tell Balbus and Scribonius later, Asina did move with an almost incredible speed that Pullus rarely faced, and was, in fact, reminiscent of his former best friend Vibius Domitius, although that was where the similarity ended. But in that fraction of an eyeblink as Asina made his move, he was confronted with another reality that any man who hoped to best Titus Pullus had to face, that despite his huge frame, he moved with a speed and grace that was, simply put, astonishing for such a big man. The result was that the point of Asina’s blade didn’t snake past that of his adversary but instead buried itself in the outer edge of the Centurion’s shield, eliciting a hiss of frustration as Asina jerked his blade back. At least, this was his intent, but to those watching, it almost appeared as if instead of pulling the blade free of the shield, it was still attached as it shot towards Asina. Unknown to Asina, this was a favorite tactic of Pullus’, because he was one of the few men, and the first one that Asina had ever seen, who could punch his shield out with a speed that was only fractionally slower than if he had done so with just his fist. It was only because Asina’s reflexes, honed over the years of battles and sparring, were not to be sneered at that it enabled him to bring his shield over just enough to partially protect himself from the large metal boss that his foe had unerringly aimed at his face. Once more, though, he felt his body propelled backward, except this time, it was so violently and unexpected that, forgetting his training, he held both arms out from his body, moving them in the unconscious way all people do when trying to maintain their balance. Asina managed to keep his feet under him, but although he moved with a speed born of desperation, he was unable to bring his shield back in front of him to block the blow coming from the big Roman who had followed his own shield with his body, and who now filled Asina’s vision. Looking up, in the eyeblink of time he had left, Asina saw that his foe wasn’t executing a thrust, but was aiming for what Asina was certain was a decapitating blow, and his eyes met that of the man who would be able to claim that he had bested Gaius Asina. Then, there was a brief explosion of light, a sharp pain...then, nothing.
Caspar had withdrawn his part of the assault force about two hundred paces away from the Roman entrenchments, where he and his men waited for Asina’s group to join them, the only damage inflicted being the firing of the tower that had been their responsibility, accomplished by hurling several pots from their side of the ditch. While it was true he had stopped within range of Roman artillery, the two burning towers meant that there was no threat from that, although, he granted, since they hadn’t been able to scale the wall, it was possible there was one or more ballistae positioned out of sight, but they would be loosing blind, and while there was certainly a fair amount of light from the blazing towers, he judged the risk as negligible. He was disappointed, but he was thankful that he had kept his men from going down into the ditch when there was no way for them to scale the wall, and at this moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that Asina would do anything differently. His first suspicion that something had happened was when the other group finally got close enough to distinguish as a formation of men, and his experienced eye saw that it was more compact than it should have been. Then, when the Centurion who detached himself from the group and came trotting towards Caspar got close enough for him to recognize that it wasn’t Asina, but the Primus Princeps Posterior, the commander of the Fourth Century, his vague sense of unease sharpened into alarm. In the space of time it took for the man, Gnaeus Tappo, to relay what had happened, Caspar was torn between anger and grief. Asina hadn’t just been his second in command, he was a friend, one who had often been a guest in Caspar’s quarters back in Merv, yet at the same time, as the Primus Pilus of the Crassoi, he was angry at Asina, not just for his own folly, but that it had cost, according to Tappo, more than two dozen men left behind in the ditch, and another twenty wounded who managed to keep up with their comrades.
“There’s nothing we can do for any of them now,” Caspar concluded, then issued orders to return to their own fortifications.
They had done something, Caspar thought, but was it enough to convince Gobryas that an active defense, launching sorties like this at various points of the Roman fortifications, was the right tactic? And, more importantly for Caspar personally, would Gobryas use the fact that they hadn’t managed to inflict near the damage they had intended, while incurring a higher cost in terms of casualties, to punish Caspar? Forcing himself to be brutally honest, Caspar had to allow his mind to go to a place he didn’t want it to, the fact that in the past, their Parthian overlords had exacted punishment not on the transgressor among the Crassoi, but their families instead. Granted, it had been for crimes like desertion, or in one case the murder of a nobleman of a minor Parthian house, although it was in a drunken brawl. The closer they drew to their own lines, Caspar’s anxiety grew, although none of his men could have detected that he was shaken in any way.
Supervising the crossing back through the ditch and over their wall, once the last man was across, Caspar turned the command of the Cohort over to Princeps Prior Potitus, with the curt instruction, “For the moment, you’re the Pilus Posterior. Tell the other Centurions they’re all shifting up one Century for the time being, and I’ll make my decision about the Hastatus Posterior post later. First,” he took a breath, “I have to go see Gobryas.”
Gaius Asina’s next memory was actually more of a sensation, a throbbing ache that ran the length of his skull on the left side above his ear, and was actually what brought him back to a semblance of consciousness. In a reflexive action, he lifted his left hand to touch the side of his hand; or, he attempted to do so, but his arm remained where it was. Because of his groggy condition, it took longer than normal for him to realize that the reason for this was because his left arm was restricted, and longer still for him to associate the biting feeling of some form of restraint around his wrist. Naturally, his next move was to try the same thing with his right hand, quickly learning that it, too, was secured. Finally, he thought of standing, only to find that his legs were also bound to something substant
ial, which was what prompted him to open his eyes. However, even when he did, there was no change, nothing came into focus, followed by an instant where he was certain he was blind, before the part of his mind that remained rational recognized the musty smell of a staple food that he had last tasted years before, but clearly remembered, and recognized that someone had put a discarded sack that had once held chickpeas over his head. Despite everything else, he slumped in relief at the recognition he still possessed his sight, though the feeling was short-lived as he forced himself to pay attention to more than his physical condition. Turning his head, he strained to listen for some sort of sound that would give him an idea of where he was, but it was that motion that prompted what came next. Suddenly, there was the sound of footfalls, but even before he could make any kind of determination about the meaning, what felt a bit like a club landed heavily on his head, though it was only there long enough to grasp the sack, then in the same motion yank it free. The fact that whoever it was also grasped a handful of Asina’s hair meant that he yelped in pain and alarm as the hood was whipped from his head.