by R. W. Peake
“They’re too fucking good,” Caspar muttered to himself, immediately regretting it when the heads of some of his men turned in his direction, although he ignored them as he skirted around them.
Every man on the level part of the rampart was now packed tightly together, all of whom had placed both their hands on the backs of the comrades in front of them, a low-pitched but clearly audible groaning sound competing with the harsher shouts and noises of the more active and traditional fight that was taking place just a few paces away, as every one of them put all of their strength into keeping the enemy from achieving their aim. As he passed around them, he could see that this measure had been a stopgap; their energy was going to fail within the near future, but while he considered summoning men to replace those currently engaged, he discarded it for the simple reason that there was no effective way he could think of to do it. This was the moment when he and the large Primus Pilus locked eyes, and without any conscious thought to do so, Caspar began moving towards him, although he was forced to step around the burning shield, the fire from it just beginning to die down. As he moved in between the narrowly packed files of his men who were, despite the condensed space, behaving in a manner that every Legionary on the other side would recognize, he saw with some dismay that he had already lost a half-dozen men, while he could only see one of the Romans on his side of the parapet actually sitting in between the feet of his Aquilifer, who was quickly tying what Caspar recognized as a baltea strap around the sitting man’s left bicep to stem the spurting flow of blood from the severed vessel. Otherwise, unless they had somehow moved their dead or wounded up and over the stone parapet, these Romans were inflicting more casualties than they were suffering.
Perhaps the only positive was that it gave Caspar the opportunity to snatch up a shield from one of his fallen men before he roughly shoved aside the ranker immediately behind the Crassoi who was just then jabbing at the Centurion with his javelin. Caspar was happy to see that his man, who he recognized as Gaius Valerius, a Sergeant of the Third Section, didn’t seem distracted at the momentary relinquishment of his harness as Caspar exchanged places, but his relief didn’t last long. The Crassoi Primus Pilus’ view of exactly how it happened was blocked by Valerius’ body, but the result was unmistakable, signaled to Caspar first by a sudden vibrating shudder that he felt through his hand holding Valerius’ harness, though it was followed so quickly that it seemed simultaneous as Caspar’s hand was showered with hot, sticky blood when the point of the Centurion’s sword burst through Valerius’ back, just inches above where Caspar was grasping the leather. However, it was the force with which the man reeled backward into Caspar that caused him in turn to stagger a step in the same direction before he was bolstered by the man behind him that gave the Crassoi a hint of the challenge awaiting him. Luckily, the ranker to the slain man’s right used his death as an opportunity to strike his own blow, thrusting his javelin at the large Centurion, who, Caspar saw even as he was extricating himself from being entangled with Valerius’ corpse, blocked the thrust in such a desultory manner it seemed as if he found it insulting. This understandably fired Caspar’s anger even further, which meant that his own attack was ferocious; it was also injudicious. Leading with his appropriated shield, Caspar nimbly hopped over the body of his ranker, using his weight and forward momentum to bash his shield into the one held by his foe just as the Roman was recovering it to its proper position and orientation. Even in the moment, Caspar noticed that the Primus Pilus was holding a Crassoi shield and not one of his own, but he was hoping to catch his larger opponent slightly off balance after just blocking the javelin thrust from the ranker that Caspar was now standing beside. Consequently, Caspar aimed the center of his shield so that it would strike the inner edge of his enemy’s shield just as he intended, except the only thing that moved was the Centurion’s arm as he absorbed the impact with just that and not his entire body. This was unsettling in itself, but when Caspar’s eyes met those of his enemy counterpart, for the first time since he had been under the standard and had been known as Numerius Pompilius, this man who was a veteran of hundreds of battles felt a stab of fear that he had never experienced before. It wasn’t the scar that followed the contour of the man’s cheekbone, and it wasn’t even the fact that Caspar had to glance up at a significant angle to look the man in the eyes; it was what he read in the Centurion’s expression that shook him. Even so, when the Centurion launched his own attack, Caspar was able to block the first position thrust, dropping his shield, but doing so only slightly, knowing that this was a favorite first strike for an experienced Roman Legionary. Normally, it was performed with the hope that the defender overcommitted, so that when the Centurion lashed out with his own shield in the expectation that he could come in above that of the defender’s, Caspar was ready for it. At least, he was ready for the blow itself, but the power behind it was something that deepened his sudden sense of unease. Nevertheless, he still responded with a counterthrust from the third position, aiming for a spot behind the Centurion’s shield, hoping to create enough room with his own second strike against the edge of his opponent’s shield in order to allow his blade to snake behind it. He hadn’t done so, which he learned when his foe responded by simply sweeping his shield outward from his body, sending the point of Caspar’s sword harmlessly past him. Despite his attack being thwarted, Caspar was prepared for the counterthrust from the Centurion, which he blocked with his own shield, catching the point squarely in the middle of his shield. Once again, however, it was the power behind the thrust that staggered Caspar in more than just a physical sense, yet he somehow managed to keep his shield in its proper orientation as the huge Roman unleashed a dizzying series of thrusts and slashes.
Over the span of no more than three or four heartbeats, Caspar was certain that he had blocked no less than a half-dozen blows, forced to use both his shield and sword, which all happened without any thought. His entire world narrowed down to just this one opponent, the Centurion’s face gleaming with sweat and reflecting the light from what was now a number of sources scattered about in the ditch and on the edge of the rampart, as the Crassoi in the nearest tower continued throwing pots of naphtha down, despite their parlous effect on the attackers. The light wasn’t quite the same level as if it was daylight, though it was close enough that Caspar wasn’t hampered in any way, at least as far as his ability to see the next move of his foe. Seeing it and being able to do something about it, on the other hand, were two different things altogether, as Caspar was about to discover. At first, it seemed to be a repetition of the Centurion’s first attack, starting with a punch of his shield, which Caspar met by turning his hips to his right while bringing his own shield across his body. Not much; he knew that if he overcommitted in that direction, it left him vulnerable to a third position thrust behind his shield, and indeed, this was what he anticipated the Centurion was setting him up for, but he quickly learned differently. At the last possible instant, and with a speed that, if he hadn’t seen it himself, Caspar would have sworn on Jupiter’s black stone was impossible for a man the size of his opponent, the Centurion changed the direction of his shield punch, suddenly thrusting it in a downward direction so that the bottom of his shield struck Caspar’s. Because of the height discrepancy between the two combatants, the bottom of the Centurion’s shield actually struck Caspar’s just slightly below the boss, but at an angle that pushed the bottom half of Caspar’s shield towards his body. In less than an eyeblink from the moment the Roman’s shield slammed into Caspar’s, the Crassoi sensed a blur of motion to his left, and he had only that long to understand that he had just been defeated. Even worse, for him anyway, was his brain had just enough time to understand why before the Roman’s sword came sweeping in to strike him in the temple.
The struggle for the dirt bridge was over within a matter of heartbeats after the Crassoi Primus Pilus fell, the stone wall finally toppling over immediately after that, once the strength and energy of the defenders failed at l
ast, the torsion created by the pressure causing the mortar to fail in two places, a matter of no more than a couple feet from where the last Roman involved in the task on either side was located. What resulted was that only a section of the wall completely collapsed, while for several feet on either side, the embedded wall leaned inward, the degree gradually lessening farther away from the section where the wall had finally failed. Within a matter of heartbeats of it falling, trapping three unfortunate Crassoi who weren’t quick enough to scramble out of the way, the men of the First Century of the 10th swarmed onto the rampart, followed by the Second, then Third Centuries. Nevertheless, the Crassoi still managed to retreat in good order, quickly falling back while maintaining a semblance of a formation. A handful, perhaps two sections’ worth of men, either elected or were ordered to stay behind to buy their comrades time to withdraw, purchasing that time with their lives, although the two remaining men were allowed to surrender, and were treated with a respect that was noticeable. Despite this positive development, Pullus wasn’t happy; before he could take advantage of the breach and bring the rest of his Cohort across the bridge to spread out along the wall and fall on the rear of the Crassoi defenders still manning the rampart in both directions against the other Cohorts, whoever was now in command ordered his Cornicen to signal his men to withdraw. Despite the fact that the Crassoi used the Parthian horn, which had a much higher pitch and created an undulating, wailing sound, the pattern of notes used were the same, which was what informed Pullus of a lost opportunity. His mood was soured even further when, after performing a quick check on his own men, conferring with first Lutatius, then finishing with Balbus, Laetus, and the rest of the Centurions of the First Cohort, when he returned to the spot where he had felled the Crassoi Primus Pilus, the man’s body wasn’t there.
Rounding on Vespillo, who had been at his side when Pullus had faced the Crassoi Primus Pilus, he snapped, “Where is he?”
“Where is who, Primus Pilus?” Vespillo replied, but he knew perfectly well to whom Pullus was referring, and the Primus Pilus wasn’t fooled.
“You know who, Vespillo.” Pointing his sword, the darker metal now gleaming black in the firelight from the blood which had yet to dry, he said, “He was right there! Now where did he go?”
“They,” Vespillo admitted, reluctantly, “carried him away, Primus Pilus.”
“And you didn’t stop them?” Pullus demanded, and Vespillo thought that his best defense was to offer a simple shrug.
But when Pullus continued glaring at him, the ranker tried to explain. “You didn’t order us to stop them, Primus Pilus! And,” he added with a shrug, “I didn’t think you’d want to lose men trying to.”
Vespillo saw instantly that this had scored a telling blow with Pullus, confirmed when, with only an inaudibly muttered curse, he abruptly turned away, stalking back to supervise the rest of the Legion crossing the ditch.
“Why’d he want that bastard’s body so badly?”
Vespillo turned to see one of his section mates who had been silently witnessing the exchange, and Vespillo realized that, since this man had been to his right and was facing outward, his view of what had happened had been obscured by Vespillo. Consequently, Vespillo took a quick glance around, looking for Lutatius; seeing that the Optio was a safe distance away, only then did he address his comrade, yet even so, he turned his body so their backs were to the Optio, who was occupied with checking on the wounded from both sides.
“Because,” Vespillo answered quietly, “the Primus Pilus didn’t kill him.”
This understandably confused the other man—his name Gnaeus Tubero; while it was true Vespillo had been between him and Pullus, he was certain he had seen enough, even if it had been out of the corner of his eye.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “He hit the man right,” he held his hand up to the side of his own helmet, right where the helmet and earflap were attached, “here! As strong as the Primus Pilus is, I was surprised he didn’t slice the top of the fucker’s head right off!”
“That’s because,” Vespillo replied, still in a low voice, “he turned his blade so he hit the bastard with the flat of his blade.”
“With the flat?” Tubero frowned, not yet willing to believe this, and he shook his head to signal this. “That makes no sense. That,” he pointed out correctly, “is the best way to snap a blade. And,” Tubero added, “as much as he loves that fucking sword of his…”
“I saw it happen, Gnaeus,” Vespillo responded, but he did allow, “Now, as far as why he would risk that blade like that?” Shaking his head, he said honestly, “I have no idea. But,” he grinned at Tubero, “I can see why he paid so much for it!”
Tubero was still reluctant to accept Vespillo’s explanation, yet neither could he think of a reason his comrade would lie. Nevertheless, he did agree, “So can I. Any other sword?” He snapped his fingers. “It would have snapped, just like that.”
“Oy! You two! Yes, you, Vespillo and Tubero!” The pair exchanged a glance, silently blaming each other before turning to face their Optio, who pointed to a pile of bodies as he ordered, “Since you two have so much time to chat, how about you continue your conversation sorting those out? We’re still missing two men!”
“Yes, Optio,” they both chorused, quickly forgetting the topic of the missing Crassoi Primus Pilus.
Meanwhile, Pullus had taken command of the Second Century, leaving the First to reorganize, and was leading them into the nearest and largest Crassoi camp, located outside the city walls and on the eastern side of the gate, while the Second and Third Cohorts’ Pili Priores were working quickly to get their commands formed up before catching up to the First. Hampered as they had been by being forced to cross the ditch, then scale the wall with ladders, they were still scattered, which Scribonius was trying to remedy by having those Centuries of his Cohort who hadn’t dropped down into the ditch trot over to the dirt bridge to cross there. Unfortunately, Metellus had had essentially the same idea, creating a logjam as the Centurions of each Cohort tried to bully and bluster their way past their counterparts to enable their own Centuries to cross first. Completely unsurprisingly, none of the other Centurions were cowed in the slightest, and it took the intervention of both Scribonius and Metellus, who were forced to cross back over the dirt bridge from the rampart, before there was a resolution that got men moving again. And, as often happened, this seemingly trivial issue proved costly in terms of the ability to inflict more losses on the Crassoi. Those near enough to it had fallen back into the camp, but only long enough to snatch some prized personal possession, then they had hurried out the southern gate, moving down the road that led the two furlongs back to Susa. Once away from the light provided by the pots of naphtha, the earliest of which had already flickered out, it was impossible for Pullus to determine whether or not the retreating Crassoi were heading straight for the city, or if they had stopped to regroup, and were waiting in the darkness for the inevitable Roman advance. This was the moment where the delay in getting the Second and Third Cohorts to support his five Centuries of the First came into play, because Pullus wasn’t willing to risk advancing any further with just the men with him. Because of this, he instead turned his men loose to loot the Crassoi camp, under Balbus’ supervision, while he went back towards the rampart. He ran into Scribonius and Metellus, who were standing nose to nose, shouting at each other about who had been responsible for the delay crossing the bridge. While this was slightly interesting to Pullus, he cared more about the fact that the two Cohorts were already formed up in the space between the wall and the Crassoi camp.
“Both of you shut up.” Pullus said this equably enough, but with a tone both men knew meant that obedience was expected. “We need to figure out what’s happening in the direction of the 12th.” Turning to Metellus, who had crossed the ditch to the right side of the First, Pullus asked his former Optio, “What’s your casualty situation?”
“Less than 10 percent,” Metellus answered, happ
y that this was the case, and he added, “and hardly any of them are burns.”
Pullus turned to Scribonius, who nodded as he said, “Mine are a bit worse, maybe 15 percent, but the same as Metellus; very few burns, and the ones who were got it mostly on the legs.”