Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  Pollio had remained in place, sitting his horse with his staff of Tribunes and bodyguards behind him. To this point, he hadn’t given the order for the rest of the army to break out of the quadratum and align themselves for battle, wanting to see if Balbinus and his Cohorts would be enough to sweep this enemy formation aside. From his slightly higher vantage point, and because he was advancing slowly, at the same pace as the leading Cohorts, Pollio could see beyond the first few ranks of the Bargosan formation, performing a quick count of the number of rows, then the number of ranks across. Consequently, for the first time, Pollio felt a prickling of unease.

  “Only three thousand men?” He said this aloud, but not loudly enough that anyone around him heard him. “Surely they’re not just putting these three thousand men out here and thinking they’re going to stop us.”

  Now he drew up, both to think and because he had reached a spot that he calculated would offer the best vantage point of not just the 12th, but to his right and left, where the forest returned to its natural state. What, he wondered, could this Bargosan commander, whoever he was, be planning? It seemed foolhardy in the extreme, and wasteful, to put just a three-thousand-man force out here, unsupported, without any visible reinforcements, against an army of this size.

  “There has to be something else going on.” For the first time, he said this loudly enough so that others could hear; unfortunately, Balbinus was out of earshot and had already ordered his men to advance at the quick march.

  For a brief moment, Pollio considered ordering his Cornicen to sound the recall but decided against it, thinking, let’s see what happens with this. The slingers had performed their task, and as they had been trained, each man took a quick look over his shoulder and, if needed, sidestepping a couple of paces so they were between the files of the advancing Legionaries, who, for the most part, ignored them as they swept past. He was pleased to see there were casualties, but in the mark of a well-drilled foe, the bodies of the dead and wounded had been quickly dragged to the rear of the phalanx where, presumably, the Bargosan version of the medici were waiting. Not that this was a concern to a Roman Legate, but while he wasn’t surprised to see how the discarded shields of the fallen were quickly thrown to either side of the phalanx, it was still somewhat disappointing to see it happen, because it was another sign of a well-trained force. Within perhaps thirty heartbeats, there was once more an unbroken line of shields waiting for the 12th, who had reached the spot, about thirty paces away, where the first volley of javelins would be hurled. Pollio was initially alarmed because Balbinus led his men beyond the point where Pollio had mentally marked as javelin range, but before he could react, he saw the line of Cohorts crash to a stop, the shouted command of first Balbinus, then echoed by the other Centurions mingling together and drifting back to him. There was the briefest pause, then Pollio saw the arms of the leading rank sweep back, the points of each man’s javelin seemingly pointed for the sky, followed by another heartbeat’s hesitation. As one, the first line launched their missiles but remained in the crouched position just long enough to allow the second line an unimpeded view, who did the same for the third. This accomplished two things, and it reminded Pollio that, while Balbinus was no Titus Pullus, he was still an extremely experienced Centurion in his own right. Not only did this method give each rank an unimpeded view of their targets, it meant that the volley came in waves, which made it extremely difficult for an enemy to defend against. However, Pollio also saw there was another reason for Balbinus’ shortening the range, as he had obviously ordered the men in the first two or three ranks to aim more deeply into the formation, while the Romans farther back aimed at the men of the front ranks. And, just as Balbinus intended, the effect was devastating; although Pollio was too far away to immediately hear the shouts and screams of the Bargosans, he could see the rippling in their ranks, starting from about a quarter back in their formation. The impact was made more devastating because in a tightly packed formation, especially when each man was wearing a high, conical helmet, the men who were the targets of the first few ranks didn’t see the javelins coming until an eyeblink before they struck. All along the Bargosan lines, Pollio saw sudden holes in the neatly ordered lines, although the men in the front rank of the phalanx managed to block the missile aimed at them with their shields, for the most part.

  The sight made Pollio smile with a savage delight, and this time, he spoke loudly enough so everyone within earshot could hear. “These bastards just learned about the secret of our javelins, and it looks like they don’t like it very much!”

  As he expected, this unleashed a roar of approval, but his eyes never left the phalanx as he watched men confronted with the dilemma posed by the modification made by the great Gaius Marius. When they reached down to yank the javelin out of the shield, the Bargosans quickly learned this was easier said than done, the hardened triangular head of the javelin making it difficult, but it was the bending of the soft metal shaft that Pollio could see was causing the most consternation. As they were struggling with this, Balbinus had resumed his advance, so the men in the phalanx were faced with deciding whether or not to drop their shield, and either take one from a man behind them or remove themselves from the front rank to allow a man with an unpierced shield to take their place. Or, as Pollio watched with some amusement, they could frantically scramble over to where the shields discarded by the men struck down by the slingers were lying. Meanwhile, Balbinus had gone to the trot, obviously intending to save his second javelin to hurl it just before breaking into the final dash that would send his men crashing into the Bargosan line, opening what would be the first battle against these people. The sight of the Romans picking up their pace was the obvious cause for what came next, but it was the first of several surprises that were in store for the Romans on this day. With a precision that could only have come from a command, as the men in the front rank dropped their spears, placing them atop their shields, every other Bargosan discarded the weapon and instead drew their swords, which neither Pollio, Balbinus, or any other Roman, for that matter, had noticed they were carrying. This movement just happened to coincide with Balbinus shouting the order for his men to throw their final javelin, on the run, and in another mark of the man’s experience, he timed it superbly, so that in the eyeblink before they collided, the javelins arced down into the Bargosan ranks. The sound caused by the crash of the two forces slamming together was delayed a fraction of a heartbeat, and as always, Pollio found it made the collision seem somehow removed, his eyes seeing the violence of it while his ears only received the sounds of it an instant later. As normally happened, all manner of things went sailing up into the air; helmets were the most common, and Pollio winced as he saw that at least one of them belonged to a Roman. From the distance he was, Pollio knew it would be impossible to see, and consequently impossible to know with any certainty how the battle was going, so he resigned himself to splitting his attention between the fighting and watching the cavalry on his side of the quadratum slowly moving parallel to the forest’s edge, like a huge, swinging gate. Only later, during the inevitable second-guessing and recriminations, did Pollio recall thinking idly that the wind was at his back, which was somewhat unusual; normally, the wind came from the south, and it is on such seemingly small things that catastrophic events can turn.

  Later that same day, the Equestrians transferred from their ships onto the armed biremes; it was actually done on the water, although in the river’s mouth where there were no swells, and Pullus had to admit that it was an extremely shrewd move on Caesar’s part. Knowing that the men were extremely skeptical of the efficacy of these modified ladders, he had ordered that they be used to allow the men to transfer to the ships that would be carrying them to the assault. It helped they were unencumbered, carrying only their shields and javelins, their packs being left on their original transports, but with one exception, the men crossed without incident. The ranker who fell in was saved by the device that had been created a couple months earlier,
a pole with an iron loop attached to the end that was thrust down into the water where the man disappeared. It didn’t always work; much depended on the man’s presence of mind and what the bottom was like, but while the ranker’s lower body was dripping from the riverbottom mud, his only injury was to his pride, as his comrades, hiding their relief, mercilessly mocked him for his clumsiness, and while Lentulus, the man’s Tertius Princeps Prior, thought about fining him for the loss of shield and javelins, he decided that was punishment enough. The boats carrying both the men and the artillery rode perilously low in the water, particularly the ships with the ballistae, and very quickly, it was determined that, in order for the men who were participating in the assault not to become completely exhausted before the battle started, the shifts at the oars were rotated every third of a watch. Working against the current didn’t help matters, and the progress was much slower than Caesar wanted or had anticipated; before the first full watch had passed, shortly after dark, he was forced to revise his plans about beginning the assault at midnight.

  “We’re going to begin the assault at the beginning of third watch, not second,” Pullus informed Balbus after reading the tablet that had been delivered to him by one of Caesar’s scribes.

  “That’s going to cut it a bit fine, don’t you think?” This was Balbus’ only comment, and he didn’t really expect an answer, and Pullus just shrugged.

  The deck of the bireme was packed with men, which forced the two to remain in one spot, next to the navarch at the tiller, and guaranteed that Pullus would be irritable. Normally before battle, he was moving among the men, which was as much a release of nervous energy as it was for any real purpose, but he also knew that it had become an important part of the prebattle ritual for his men. Pullus wasn’t as superstitious as most of his men, but it was at this moment he realized that part of his irritation was based in his uneasiness that, for some reason, the gods wouldn’t look favorably on him for not behaving as he did before every battle prior to this. As always, he had had his chief immunes Gabinius of the armorers put an edge on his Gallic blade, Diocles had set up the small shrine to his household gods, while Pullus had consumed the same meal he always had before battle, then he had laced his boots and donned his armor in the same manner and order as always. Now that he was deprived of this last part of the ritual, he realized that it meant as much to him as the men, and he was in a pensive mood, which Balbus quickly recognized and was why he hadn’t said more about the delay. In the growing dusk, it was possible for the men aboard the ships to spot occasional spots of light out in the surrounding countryside, where some farmer was presumably trying to finish their work by torchlight, or the shutters of their houses were open. Once, they passed by a small group of men who, obviously interested in the sight of so many ships rowing past, came to the riverbank to investigate, and they were standing gape-mouthed in astonishment. Pullus’ ship had already passed by, and since they were standing in the stern, they watched as one of the other biremes that wasn’t outfitted and loaded down, suddenly veered for the shore.

  “They’re going to regret being curious,” Balbus commented with a laugh, and they both watched as men leapt from the ship before its prow touched the riverbank, dashing for the group of men.

  Who, too late, realized the danger, all but one being cut down where they stood, and the last man being caught as he tried to scramble up the riverbank. The river was too wide, and it had grown too dark to see if similar things were taking place on the southern bank; while not as large as the Indus, it was still almost a mile wide at this point, although according to the scouts, it would narrow down to a half-mile just before the bend where they were originally going to stop. Now there would be no delay; the assault biremes had seen to that since Caesar had them leading the way, and their slower pace removed the need for any wait. Once they turned into the canal, the other ships carrying the other Legions could increase their speed to land their occupants as quickly as possible; the ships carrying the 25th and 30th brought up the rear since they were going to play a supporting role. Caesar would be directing everything, as much as it was possible to direct an operation such as this, from his flagship, which would be placed roughly equidistant from the Legions attacking the eastern and western walls. Honestly, none of that mattered to Pullus, his Centurions or his men; as they had learned in Pattala, Caesar trusted his Equestrians, and it was a point of pride among the men of all ranks that this was the case. It meant that they were doubly determined to live up to that trust, and it was just another example of Caesar’s talent for inspiring his men. From his spot on the higher deck of the stern, Pullus saw the dark bulk of land that seemed to block their path, which he recognized as the bend in the river. This was the spot he had determined where he would rouse the men, and he began the process.

  “All right, you misbegotten sons of whores,” he didn’t bellow, not wanting to be heard a mile away, but it was loud enough for every face on the deck turn towards him, “time to pack up the dice, swallow the last bit of bread, and get on your feet. It’s almost time.”

  Immediately after he said it, Pullus had cause to regret it, as the sudden movement as men thrust themselves to their feet caused the ship to rock so violently that, for a brief instant, he was certain they would capsize. There were a number of alarmed shouts, and even over that he heard the sloshing sound of water coming over the left side. Fortunately, before he could open his mouth to order it, some of the quicker thinking of his men shifted to the right side of the center of the ship, averting the crisis, though not without a fair amount of excitement.

  “All right, all right,” he growled, “quit acting like a bunch of fucking women! Just be careful about how you move, you dozy bastards.” Not expecting more than a ragged response, Pullus called out, “Optios and section leaders, locate your men. Let’s get organized.” While they were doing so, he added, “And remember, it’s my boys in the First who are up the ladders first!”

  “That’s all right, boys.” Balbus, who was standing next to Pullus, shot his friend a glare as he said, “We all know these poxed cunni need a head start, but the Second will still beat them to the prize!”

  When the men responded, the Second with roars of agreement, and the First with howls of derision, both Centurions exchanged a guilty look as the sound echoed across the water.

  “Hopefully, they didn’t hear that in Bargosa,” Pullus commented, although he felt certain that, between the distance and barrier of the riverbend, the sound hadn’t carried.

  There was a brief pause as the assault biremes regrouped and each navarch maneuvered their ship into their prearranged spot; the ships with the ballistae placed themselves nearest to the riverbank in anticipation of making the sweeping left formed by the curve of the river. If Caesar was correct in his estimate, it would be no more than another half mile before they reached the mouth of the canal, and then things would become more cramped, but the confidence that Caesar had in the 10th was returned by the Equestrians; if Caesar said there would be enough room to do what needed to be done, that was good enough for them, at least in tactical matters. Once the biremes had moved into their right spot, Pullus had his navarch, using the shielded lamp, send the signal to Caesar’s flagship downstream that all was ready. There was no more than a heartbeat’s delay when the answer came from the same device.

  “All right,” Pullus told the navarch, “it’s time to move.”

  Wisely, the navarch didn’t respond with the retort that came to mind, that he wasn’t blind; he only knew this huge Roman by sight, but nothing about him indicated that he wouldn’t just pitch the navarch overboard for his effrontery. Once more, it proved difficult to get the heavily laden ships moving, but move they finally did, and within a few strokes, they approached the point where the bend back to the river’s original direction began.

  “Before I forget,” Balbus’ voice caused Pullus to turn his attention away, where his friend was holding out his arm as he said, “Mars and Bellona.”

 
Without hesitation, Pullus reached out and grasped his second’s arm, repeating, “Mars and Bellona.” He paused for a moment, then as he gave Balbus’ forearm a harder squeeze than necessary, he added, “And your boys haven’t seen the day when they can beat mine.”

  As he expected, Balbus replied with a derisive snort.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  More than twenty miles to the north and earlier in the day, Balbinus was pleased with the way his men were performing. Without the extra length of the sarissa to keep their foes at bay, and as they were still reeling from the running volley with their last javelins, Balbinus’ men had slammed into the Bargosan phalanx, and within the span of no more than fifty heartbeats, had already driven them almost a hundred paces deeper into the cleared area. It wasn’t that there weren’t trees, and it did cause a bit of adjustment on the part of both combatants, particularly with the Romans, some of whom were prevented from taking their accustomed step to the left during a relief because there was a tree in the way. It also added an unusual facet to the battle, because the arching branches of the trees that were left formed a canopy where men were moving from bright sunlight into shade dark enough that it took the eye an instant to compensate. Fortunately, the Centurions adjusted quickly, but there was yet another surprise waiting for the Romans when, rather than trying to keep their enemies at bay with their spears, the Bargosans in the third rank and beyond discarded that weapon and were using swords. While it was unexpected, it also made matters for Balbinus’ men more straightforward; they trained against men using swords for months at a time, and while the styles practiced between the two were markedly different, it didn’t take long for the Romans to adjust. The skill level of the average Bargosan member of the phalanx wasn’t bad, Balbinus noted with a certain level of detachment, his bone whistle in his mouth as he watched the current rank thrusting, bashing, and defending themselves, waiting for the right moment to sound the relief. In fact, he realized with a faint stir of uneasiness, these men were the most highly skilled infantry they had run into since the beginning of this entire campaign. Balbinus was certain that there were more than three thousand men trained as both hoplites and swordsmen, but he was equally sure they were back in the city, or perhaps in a similar position somewhere else between them and Bargosa. It didn’t matter in this moment; what did was that his boys do their jobs, and he blew into the whistle, the shrill blast signaling the process in which Legionaries were drilled until their arms gave out. This was only the third shift, and Balbinus could see that their enemies were still trying to figure out the best way to counter this system that presented them with a fresh Roman, although a handful of the Bargosans across from his men at least tried to disrupt the timing. His lips curved up in a grim smile as he watched one man of the phalanx who recovered from the shield push he had been given by his adversary take a small leaping step forward, trying to take advantage of the momentary vulnerability with a man who was trying to watch his footing as he stepped to the side and not stumble over a discarded Bargosan shield that had been shattered. And, just as they had trained, the man’s comrade who stepped into the spot didn’t hesitate, the point of his blade aimed from under his shield, which meant it skimmed under the one held by his opponent to punch deeply into the side of the enemy.