by R. W. Peake
“Pluto’s cock, you’re running us into the side of this fucking canal!” Pullus bellowed, but even as he did, several things happened at the same time.
There was the distinctive, heavy crashing sound as the arms of the ballista launched the first hurdle, now fully ablaze and trailing sparks, several of which dropped down onto the heads and exposed skin of the Legionaries in Pullus’ ship, causing a ripple in the line of shields, and while it cleared the heads of the men, Pullus was certain he felt the heat of the blazing bundle of sticks. For a brief instant, the top of the rampart was fully illuminated, which enabled Pullus, and the men in his ship to see that there was a line of Bargosans who were standing behind the waist-high wooden rampart, their arms drawn back.
“Shields!” Pullus had reacted instantly, giving his men just enough of a warning, so when the Bargosans hurled the first of their shorter but sturdier javelins down at the passing ship, the only sound that Pullus heard was the deep, hollow thud as the enemy missiles were blocked.
It was good that their first volley hadn’t drawn any blood, and Pullus hoped their luck held, although in the back of his mind a voice chided him for being unrealistic. The crewman whose responsibility it was to beat out a rhythm was shouting at the men, but in his excitement had lapsed into his native tongue, which delayed the recovery of the oarsmen, and Pullus felt the ship’s momentum, which had already been significantly slowed, actually start to shift in the opposite direction.
“Pull, you bastards!” Balbus roared this, beating Pullus to it. “Get this fucking thing moving again! We’ve got to keep going or we’ll block the canal!”
For this was the one weakness that Pullus and the other Centurions had seen in Caesar’s plan for the Equestrians; everything depended on the Bargosans being unable to slow, or even worse, completely stop the ships leading the twin columns of the biremes. This wasn’t considered as much of a risk for the ships on the outer side, and this was proving true because the bireme with the ballistae that had been perfectly aligned with Pullus’ vessel as they entered the canal was now half a ship’s length ahead because their navarch had managed to steer clear of the opposite bank. Aboard Pullus’ craft, matters seemed hopelessly confused, as the crewman continued to scream what could only be assumed were imprecations at the Legionaries seated on the benches, who at least were sheltered from the rain of javelins by the upper deck. In turn, the navarch was shouting something at the crewman, which Pullus presumed was some sort of correction; at least, he was until, in what was the third flurry of javelins, one missile struck the metal strip of the shield held by one of the Legionaries who Pullus had placed on the rear deck, with orders to protect the navarch at the tiller, caromed off it at an upward angle that narrowly missed striking the Legionary in the face, instead plunging directly into the eye socket of the navarch. The man collapsed immediately, dead before he hit the ground, but it was his release of the tiller, which just happened to coincide with the oarsmen finally resuming their stroke that caused the most immediate problem. Jumping forward from the stroke, the wooden pole that was attached to the tiller, without anyone to keep it aligned, turned in the direction that made the bow of the ship to suddenly veer sharply to the left, heading it directly for the outside ship. The speed created with this first stroke wasn’t enough to send the bireme crashing into the side of the other craft, but it was enough to cause it to interfere with the oar stroke of the men on the right side of the ballista ship, and even with all the noise, Pullus heard the shout of alarm from the men on the other vessel at the sudden lurching movement this caused. It also inadvertently helped the Roman cause by altering the trajectory of what was the fourth hurdle. Instead of landing somewhere on the other side of the rampart, it hit just below the top of the wooden parapet, whereupon it rolled up and over it to strike one of the javelineers, his clothes instantly catching fire. The stricken man was visible for only an instant because he instinctively reacted by turning to flee off the rampart, but in doing so, he collided with two of his comrades, each of whom were badly burned, while his shrieks of an agony that every man feared more than any other momentarily overwhelmed all the other noise. It took the span of another twenty heartbeats before the navarch was replaced, the crewman had recovered his wits to speak in Latin, and the oars of Pullus’ ship began to sweep again. During this time, the javelineers above them had been hurling missiles down as fast as they could throw them, but the punishment wasn’t all one way.
“Scorpions, loose!”
In a ragged unison, the men manning the four scorpions responded to Pullus’ command, and with the range as it was, it was impossible to miss with this first volley, especially since these Bargosans had never experienced Caesar’s favorite weapon. And, like its name implied, the “sting” of these wooden bolts was extremely lethal, particularly so close. The four men each crew selected as their first targets were hurled bodily backward, swept off their feet and disappearing as, without any discernible slowing, the bolts streaked into the night, trailing blood and viscera that glistened in the light of the flames from the hurdles offering the only visual sign of their flight. It took three more volleys before the Bargosans even made an attempt to duck the weapon, but they learned very quickly that what they thought of as the security provided by a six-inch thickness of wood didn’t exist when the scorpions were so close. While the crews worked their weapons with a practiced quickness, the rest of their comrades continued to hold their shields up as, much more slowly than Pullus liked, the lead ship moved upstream. It had been decided that Pullus’ lead ship would stop at the point where the canal curved back to the river and not all the way to where the new waterway met the Narmada, and Pullus could see that the spot was just ahead. This was a decision that had been met with a little resistance from Balbus, who correctly pointed out that by doing so, there would be a section of the dirt rampart uncovered, where the portion of the dirt rampart after the curve returned to the river would be devoid of any Roman presence. Somewhat surprisingly, Pullus didn’t disagree, but he was gambling that there would only be a skeleton force along that section, and that once the Romans showed up, the Bargosans wouldn’t be able to spare sending men to that section of the rampart, something that turned out to be the case, another reminder to Balbus that, like Caesar, the gods loved Titus Pullus.
“All right, boys, get those ladders ready!”
Pullus shouted the order, splitting his attention between the enemy, who even as he watched grew in number along the rampart, and he noticed that, unlike the men hurling the javelins, these were wearing helmets, armor, and holding shields, then glanced over to gauge how his men were faring as they dragged the heavy ladders out onto the deck. Now Pullus glanced over his shoulder, trying to determine whether or not his bireme had corrected its course and where it was in relation to the ballista vessel, seeing that the latter was keeping its half-length lead. More importantly, the bow of his own ship was now properly aligned, the slain navarch replaced by the crewman who had been beating the rhythm, who in turn was replaced by a third man who was beating the small drum. Their alignment with the other ship wasn’t just a matter of form; once they reached the proper point, there was another task assigned to the ballistae ships that would conceivably spell the difference between taking the rampart or disaster. The five modified ladders were now on the deck, with men arrayed on either side holding the vertical supports, still in a crouch so that their comrades could line the side and protect them from the javelins, of which the Bargosans seemed to have an inexhaustible supply. After what seemed to Pullus a full watch between the time he had first seen the spot where the canal angled back to the river and when it was within a hundred paces, he quickly became alarmed at what he was seeing.
“You better slow this thing down or we’re going to go too far!”
Pullus’ bellowed warning had the desired effect; afterward, during the inevitable second guessing, it became clear to Pullus and the other Centurions that, to a man, the navarchae had assumed that this final m
ovement would be commanded by the Centurions, and not the acknowledged experts in ship handling, so they had been waiting for the command to slow down. Regardless of the error, the crew at least responded instantly, the crewman even remembering to give the order in Latin, whereupon the Legionaries at the benches lifted their oars up for a pause, then thrust them back into the water before pushing in the opposite direction. The ship lurched again, but the newly promoted navarch at the tiller kept his composure, staring at the side of the embankment to gauge the proper distance, seemingly oblivious to the fact that, even in the moment Pullus was watching, the point of a javelin buried itself in the deck barely an inch from his foot. It happened agonizingly slowly, but the ship did slide to a halt, and Pullus wasted no time.
“Oars in!” He shouted the order, while Balbus supervised the men armed with hooks similar to those used on the modified ladders, except the ropes attached through the eye were in single lines, so that Balbus’ shouted “Ropes out!” sounded simultaneously.
Most of the half-dozen men with the grappling hook used an underhanded toss, because it allowed them to remain partially crouched, but it also meant that none of them were successful on their first throw, and only one managed to land the hook in the dirt of the embankment at all, although it immediately pulled out when he gave a strong tug. Out of frustration, one of the men sidestepped from out behind his comrade’s shield, intending to use an overhand throw, but before he released it, a javelin hurled by one of the defenders took him in the chest, causing his throw to go wild as he collapsed to the deck. Pullus muttered a curse in frustration; while they had suffered a handful of casualties, this was the first death, but he knew it would be far from the last, especially if they didn’t get closer to the embankment.
Barhinder’s warning had been heeded immediately, and the men who had been camped in their low, round tents on the opposite side of the dirt rampart from the canal reacted quickly.
He had expected some sort of praise from Bhadran, the commander of the thousand swordsmen and three hundred javelineers who were semi-permanently positioned at this spot, but instead, Bhadran had asked abruptly, “How many ships? How many men are in each ship? How do you know they’re the enemy?”
To Barhinder, the answer to the last question at least was obvious; there was no circumstance he could think of where a party of friendly men came rowing up to his city as it was prepared for a siege, particularly in the middle of the night and up the newly constructed canal that he was certain nobody outside the city knew about, but instead he could only offer, “I saw two, but I do not know how many men are in them.”
“Useless,” Bhadran had snarled at him, then shoving him roughly aside, snapped, “Go to your spot at the rear where you belong, boy!”
Then, without another word, Bhadran had sprinted over to the ladder leaning against the wooden portion of the dirt wall, scrambling up it to see for himself, leaving Barhinder standing there. Agathocles had, prudently in his own opinion, allowed Barhinder to give the report; he was wiser in the ways of their commander and had suspected that Bhadran would be anything but grateful. Giving his friend a reassuring pat, he was about to say something more when, while it was muffled by the barrier rising above them, they both heard a shout, immediately followed by a sound neither of them had heard before. Then, before they could react one way or another, soaring above their heads was what, to Barhinder, appeared to be a bundle of sticks that had been set on fire. The bundle landed several paces away, off to their left, hitting the ground in a spectacular shower of sparks, but the sudden illumination was extremely disorienting, not just to the two youths, but the rest of the men who had been running for the ladders. Even before this registered on Barhinder, another flaming bundle landed a few paces away from the first, followed by another, then another. While it wasn’t as bright as daylight, it certainly was enough light for Barhinder to see that Agathocles was wearing an expression that he was certain matched his own; fear, excitement, and the idea that, at last, they would become warriors.
Agathocles recovered first, grabbing Barhinder’s arm as he ran to take a spot at the back of the line of men clambering up the nearest ladder, shouting over his shoulder as he did, “Come on, Barhinder! We need to get back on the wall so we can stop these demons!”
When Caesar had performed his examination of the defenses along the canal, he had seen that the Bargosans had chosen to essentially reverse the orientation of the dirt wall, placing the sloping side that was the only way for what was nothing more than packed dirt to remain stable without being faced with wood or stone, especially when it loomed above the water of the canal, and he immediately understood that the weakness of that orientation would cause what was happening at this very moment. Whereas in a Roman camp or fortification using a dirt wall, the men could scramble up the sloping part of the wall, the Bargosans were confined to climbing ladders, and no matter how many ladders one had, it was still not as fast as the Roman method. It wasn’t as much an error as it was a difference in philosophy; by placing the slope outward, it made it more difficult for enemy artillery to do damage, and it presented its own set of challenges for anyone who brought conventional ladders. Now, when the Bargosans needed every defender up on the wall as quickly as possible, valuable time was lost, although neither Barhinder or Agathocles was aware of this in a specific sense; to them, the delay was bad because it kept them from getting themselves on the wall as quickly as they wanted. Finally, it was Agathocles’ turn, and Barhinder was right behind him, having become accustomed to the awkwardness of scaling a ladder while holding the circular shield with one hand. Scrambling up as quickly as he could, Barhinder’s view was screened by his comrades for the first several heartbeats, as the various subunit commanders directed them where to move along the wall. When Barhinder finally had a somewhat clearer view, his first thought was that he regretted his eagerness; he was one of the men who at least had the presence of mind to leap away when one of the javelin men, his hair and tunic blazing with a heat that made Barhinder wince, went streaking by, careening into two of his sword wielding comrades who both screamed in agony at being brushed by this human torch, who, without even slowing, ran right off the opposite side of the parapet. Barhinder couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, and he watched the flaming man, arms flailing wildly, seem to fly off into the air for an eyeblink, before smashing into the ground below with a deep, meaty sounding thud that cut him off in mid-scream. The youth was transfixed, actually turning his back to the canal as he stared down in horrid fascination, watching a man burn to death.
He was jerked back to reality, literally, by Agathocles, who for the first time since Barhinder had known him, didn’t look at all cheerful, his friend having to shout over the noise, “Don’t stand there like that! Come here, follow me!”
Without waiting, the older youth turned and moved in a crouch, which puzzled Barhinder at first until, having gone barely five paces, one of the men standing at the wooden parapet came flying backwards, his feet actually leaving the ground, while Barhinder only got the barest sense of…something that streaked by just above his head, but it was the spray of a warm, sticky liquid that Barhinder felt spattering one side of his face and the back of his neck between his armor and helmet that he would have cause to remember later. The man landed on his back with an enormous impact, his body sliding across the smoothly packed dirt with so much force that, when the man’s head struck Barhinder’s lower leg, he felt himself swept off his feet, landing heavily on top of the casualty, and he heard what he assumed was a groan. Horrified, both by what was happening and the thought that he had hurt one of his own, even inadvertently, Barhinder quickly scrambled to his feet, gasping an apology as he reached down to help the man up. For the second time in no more than a hundred heartbeats, Barhinder felt as if he was paralyzed, staring down into the eyes of a man who, while he didn’t know him personally because he was with the javelineers, he certainly recognized, but even more than the raggedly round hole just below the man’s
breastbone, it was his expression that burned into the youth’s memory. It was one of utter surprise, eyes almost comically wide open and slightly bulging, jaw dropped so that, aided by the light provided by the dozen bundles of flaming sticks that were now arrayed all around, Barhinder could actually see that the man was missing a molar, and another one was black with decay.
“Gopra! Gopra!”
The sound of the man’s voice who was the commander of the group of nine that Barhinder and Agathocles belonged to did more to alert Barhinder than hearing his last name, and instead of turning towards the sound of the voice, Barhinder immediately dropped back down into a crouch and scuttled along the rampart to catch up with Agathocles. As he did so, the one thought that kept running through Barhinder’s mind was that this wasn’t anything like what he imagined, and for the first time, he understood why his brother had been so scornful whenever Barhinder talked about battle. Reaching the relative security of comrades in his group, Barhinder crouched next to Agathocles, and it was with some surprise that he realized that he had passed by at least a dozen other men who were either dead or wounded, and barely given them a second glance.