Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  “All right, Bhadran has given us this part of the wall to defend,” Pradyot, his direct commander, began.

  If he was going to say anything more, neither Barhinder nor his comrades would ever know, although in Pradyot’s death, they learned a valuable lesson. He had taken care not to expose himself above the wooden parapet, which was between waist and mid-chest high, depending on the man, but it didn’t matter. The only thing the six inches of wood that served as their protection did was slow the scorpion bolt down so that it didn’t pass all the way through Pradyot and strike one of them. Instead, it passed through the wood, then through Pradyot’s torso, entering under his left arm before passing partially through the body so that the iron point, dripping blood and bits of things Barhinder didn’t want to think about, protruded at least six inches from just behind his right arm. Pradyot didn’t say anything, nor did he make much of a sound, just a soft grunt that was barely audible over the roaring noise created by hundreds of voices before toppling over onto his side, the point driven into the dirt by the weight of his body. For several long heartbeats, the others knelt around him, staring down in shock and a fair amount of terror.

  Then, someone spoke, “All right, Pradyot’s dead, but we know what we are supposed to do. Our families are in that city! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t intend to let whoever these demons are touch my little sister or my mother!”

  On some level, Barhinder recognized the sound of his own voice, and there was a part of him that was as surprised as his comrades seemed to be, but when he stood up and moved resolutely to stand at the parapet by stepping over the body of Pradyot, the others quickly joined his side, and for the first time, Barhinder and his comrades looked the might of Rome right in the eye.

  Even with as much faith as Pullus had in Caesar, and by extension Volusenus in his role as Praefectus Fabrorum, seeing how perfectly the ladders worked was a pleasant surprise. It wasn’t done without some difficulty, and Pullus counted at least four men who were part of one of the ladder teams get struck by a javelin, hurled by one of the Bargosans who had managed to evade being skewered himself by a scorpion. Nevertheless, the ladders were thrust out from the side of the bireme, the men holding them grunting with the strain, just as the outer bireme hove to close enough for the Legionaries on the second ship to use long poles to push the ladder ship closer to the bank. Pullus had had the foresight to tell the men holding the ladders not to rely on a verbal order, but the sound and sensation they felt under their feet when their bireme bumped the wooden bank. It worked perfectly, and while Pullus wasn’t overly religious, he did take this as a good portent as he watched the spiked ends of the ladder drive into the dirt, while the hooked end dropped neatly over the wooden side, securing both ends.

  “All right, boys, who’s going to beat me up the wall?” Pullus bellowed, even as he was leaping up from the deck onto the first plank of the makeshift gangplank, already moving.

  His challenge was met with a roar, as Balbus copied his Primus Pilus on the gangplank at the opposite end of his craft, the two Centurions quickly followed by the men ascending the three in between. Pullus, his shield up in front of him as he climbed the steep grade, using every other plank because of his longer legs, naturally moved more rapidly than Balbus and the others, something that he knew would be the case, and even in the moment, he grinned to himself, imagining hearing his second complain about the unfair advantage. Truthfully, Pullus was more worried about Caesar than whoever was waiting for him on the rampart, because in his heart, he knew that he should be playing the role of Primus Pilus, ensuring that the ships behind his own had essentially copied their example, but this particular Primus Pilus couldn’t seem to keep himself from being in the front at such moments. Within a half-dozen strides, he was just below the top; the spiked end of the ladder having buried itself in the dirt embankment about two feet below the base of the wooden parapet, another testament to Caesar’s remarkable ability to gauge distances, even from a half-mile away and clinging to a tree. At least a half-dozen javelins had struck Pullus’ shield, although all but two had struck at an angle or hit the metal boss that kept them from sticking, which made the shield feel a bit awkward, but he barely noticed, his attention now on the swordsmen who had shoved their skirmish troops aside to line the parapet, with their comrades lining up behind them. Bellowing things Pullus couldn’t understand, the man directly across from him moved his shield aside just enough so that his face was clearly visible, and his eyes met those of Pullus as he made a beckoning gesture with his sword in an unmistakable challenge.

  “Be careful what you wish for, you cunnus,” Pullus growled, but he was far too veteran to fall for this kind of taunting; he was waiting for the right moment, which he knew was coming.

  Streaking past from a spot immediately behind him, the javelin hurled by the man in the First Section who was second behind his Primus Pilus struck a shield, not of the Bargosan who had taunted Pullus but of the man to his right. While he blocked the missile, the impact drove the man back a step, and as Pullus anticipated, this sudden peripheral movement caused the swordsman blocking Pullus to involuntarily turn his attention away from the large Roman, just for an instant. It was an understandable error, but it was an error, and the last one the Bargosan ever made, because even as his head was moving towards his comrade, so was Pullus, who sprang upward from his spot to land at the base of the wooden rampart, his lower body slamming into the barricade. As he did so, his right arm was extended out already, so that rather than using the movement of his arm to provide the force, it was supplied by his considerable bulk leaping forward. Whether it was with the muscles of his arm or in this manner didn’t really matter; the swordsman’s head was already moving back towards Pullus in reaction to the Roman’s movement as the point of Pullus’ blade penetrated into the man’s left cheek, barely slowing as it thrust through bone and brain to burst out the back of the man’s head, showering a comrade behind him with blood and matter.

  Even as his first foe died, Pullus’ mind was registering that, unlike the stone wall erected by the Crassoi outside Susa, this wooden parapet was solidly anchored, not budging from his body weight slamming into it, which was what prompted him to shout over his shoulder, “Up and over, boys! This thing is too solid to pull down!”

  He was shouting this even as he vaulted over the parapet himself, taking advantage of the space created by the Bargosan he had just slain, the man’s body guided by Pullus’ sword, hurtling back into his comrade who was now temporarily blinded by the spray of blood that had burst from the back of his comrade’s head. Pullus used the impetus of his first victim’s backward motion to help free his blade, and he was already turning to his right in preparation to meet an expected thrust from the man to the slain Bargosan’s left. He was just in time to see another javelin strike, except this time, it wasn’t a shield but the man’s chest that was the target, hurled by the third man on the ladder, causing this Bargosan to stagger back, dropping his shield to claw at the spot where the soft metal shaft vanished in his body. When Pullus had pivoted to address what he considered the most immediate threat, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen that the man who blocked the javelin with his shield was still struggling with the missile, furiously yanking at it in an attempt to be able to use his primary defense. It was understandable, and Pullus had seen it happen more times than he could count, with every enemy who faced Rome for the first time and were unfamiliar with the design of the Roman version of the javelin. Even so, while he was certainly happy about the outcome, it wasn’t intentional when, as he spun to his right, the shaft of one of the javelins that still protruded from Pullus’ shield smacked the Bargosan, his attention diverted to his dilemma, fully in the face, causing the man to drop both sword and shield in an involuntary reaction. The unexpected impact almost caused Pullus to lose his grip on the shield, but there was a happy result in the javelin being yanked out of the shield with enough force to send it spinning off back in the direction
of the canal. With the extra room provided by the Bargosan slain by the javelin, Pullus moved over as the First Section ranker, before swinging his legs over the parapet, made a thrust into the chest of the Bargosan whose concern had shifted from wrenching a javelin from his shield to clutching his face and shattered nose. This was the manner in which the Legions of Rome took a defended position, by working as a team and never hesitating when an opportunity presented itself. While Pullus, as usual, was the first man to set foot on the rampart, he wasn’t alone long, quickly being joined by his men. At the opposite end, his horribly scarred face and its menace making almost as much of an impact on the opposing Bargosans as his blade, Balbus wasn’t far behind his friend. Neither was Lutatius, Pullus’ Optio who was on the ladder to his Primus Pilus’ immediate right as, like a reddish-gray stain, the Equestrians expanded their presence on the dirt rampart.

  Barhinder had never been so frightened before in his life, all thoughts of martial glory vanishing with the sight of what he was certain was some demon from beyond that merely took the form of a human appearing just a couple men down from where he was standing. He wasn’t at the wall; Pradyot’s replacement Gutara had ordered him to be in the rear rank in the line of men standing behind their comrade at the parapet, placing him four men away, inadvertently giving him the perfect vantage point to see the giant appear off to his right. The demon was wearing what Barhinder easily identified as a helmet, and while it was different from those worn by himself and his comrades, it wasn’t completely foreign, atop which there was a crest that was white in color. It didn’t run in the same direction as the crests of the men of the phalanx, the only troops of Bharuch who wore such a device, instead running from one ear to another, but what impressed and terrified Barhinder was how broad this being was across the shoulders and how large his arms were. He knew he was supposed to be paying attention to only the men ahead of him in his file, waiting to move up to replace a man should he fall, but he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away, watching as, in one smooth and connected motion that even an inexperienced youth like Barhinder knew was only the result of much practice, the giant threw himself against the wooden parapet while holding his sword straight out as the point slammed into the face of one of Barhinder’s comrades. In the previous span of time that he would never be able to measure, Barhinder had seen more death than in his entire life to that point, but as horrible as landing on top of a corpse had been, or seeing what happened to Pradyot, nothing compared to seeing a man’s brains seem to explode out the back of his head as if the helmet wasn’t even there, caused by the point of the beast’s blade protruding from the metal. Seemingly unable to tear his eyes from the scene, he saw it all; the second man staggering back as the body flew into him, the frantic pawing at his face to clear his vision that resulted in his own demise, while the giant seemed to leap up onto the wooden parapet on one foot then drop down onto the rampart with the other, as if he was simply hopping over a low fence. Barhinder even saw the accidental but effective clubbing of the man struggling to get the long javelin out of his shield as the giant spun to face to his right an eyeblink after that man took one of those javelins to his chest. If he had been thinking to count, Barhinder wouldn’t have reached ten before the giant was joined by two other men, who at least didn’t appear to be giants. In fact, he thought, feeling a flicker of hope for the first time, they’re smaller than we are.

  “Barhinder! Keep your head to the front!”

  Agathocles’ voice jerked Barhinder’s attention away, and he was shocked to see that his friend, who had been to his immediate left, was now two men closer to the wooden parapet, and there were two of their comrades lying in the dirt in between them, although one had crawled away from the parapet a few paces before collapsing, face down. With all the burning bundles of sticks, there was enough light for Barhinder to see the dirt around the man darkening, and he knew that it was this man’s blood. Before this really registered, he sensed more movement, and he turned to see that the swordsman in front of him had just moved forward, but as he did so, he gave a brutally powerful kick to yet another body, moving it out from under his feet. This man was face up, and when Barhinder automatically took a step forward to close the gap, he found himself staring down into the open eyes of a man who, if he had been asked just a day earlier, he would have sworn he would be happy to see in this state. The man’s name was Mahendra, and he was one of the veterans who had made Barhinder’s life a misery ever since he joined this corps of swordsmen. Yet, now as he stood there with Mahendra lying at his feet, his eyes wide open and seemingly staring up at the night sky, it was hard for Barhinder to think of those times and feel any satisfaction, especially when, despite his best efforts, his gaze went to the horrible gaping wound in his stomach, where the overlapping bronze scales had been punctured, but worse than that, the man who slew Mahendra had clearly ripped his blade across his stomach, tearing a huge rent in armor and muscle. The sight of bulging, grayish-blue loops of intestines pushing up out of the ragged opening was just another thing for Barhinder to try to forget in a night of horrors, but his attention was jerked back to more immediate concerns by a shrill, piercing scream coming from his right. Even as he turned to look, there was a part of Barhinder that warned him that he would just be seeing something that could be even more horrible than what he had witnessed to this point, but he still shifted his attention to where the screams were just dying out.

  The scene he took in seemed to be frozen in time for an interminable stretch of time, as his eyes went to one of his comrades, whose back was now turned to the parapet, seemingly oblivious to the danger posed by his action, the sight of the man using his right hand to try to staunch the spurting blood from his left arm, or what remained of it since it appeared to have been severed at mid-forearm, which at least provided an explanation for his action in turning his back to the enemy. It wasn’t this sight that caused what happened next, as Barhinder’s eyes were torn from his wounded comrade to the movement essentially behind the man’s back, where he saw the demon, several bodies already at his feet, standing with his back to the parapet. For this seemingly long moment, Barhinder’s eyes were on the giant Roman, and there was a detached part of his mind that noticed how dark his features were, except that he somehow knew this was not the giant’s natural coloring, but had been created by constant exposure to sun and wind, and all the brutality the elements could bring to bear on him. The blazing of the fires from the bundled sticks seemed to not only be reflected in the giant’s eyes; to Barhinder, it was intensified to the point where the youth had the sudden thought that perhaps, just perhaps, this being was actually Shiva, the god of destruction come to Earth in human form. Then, the giant moved away from the parapet by lifting one leg and stepping over the bodies at his feet as if he was avoiding a puddle instead of Barhinder’s dead comrades, thereby breaking the spell so that, before he actually gave any thought to either do so or to stop himself, Barhinder was surprised when his legs started moving him, without any command, directly towards the huge Roman. And, even more shockingly, Barhinder heard a bellow of…something that sounded like his voice as he moved, even as his shield and sword came up, again seemingly all by themselves. Back in the dark recess of the mind where there exists the invisible entity whose only job is to avoid its host being destroyed, it was screaming at Barhinder to stop, to let someone else, someone more experienced face this giant. And yet, the rest of Barhinder kept moving, heading directly for what even then he knew was certain destruction.

  Pullus had just finished cutting down the file of swordsmen who had been lined up behind the first man he had slain, taking advantage of the last Bargosan’s overcommitment with his shield by severing the man’s arm. With the path to his direct front clear, and the Bargosans on either side engaged with his men, Pullus moved from the parapet to give his men space, and to do so, he had to take a large step over the tangle of bodies, save the man with the severed arm, who had managed to get to the city side of the rampart before colla
psing. There was still one javelin protruding from his shield, which Pullus was about to deal with when, from his right quarter, over all the other noise of battle, he heard a shout that, somehow, he knew was aimed at him. Pivoting smoothly to bring his shield around, Pullus locked eyes with the Bargosan who was charging directly at him, his smaller round shield held in front of the man, while his sword was raised high above his head. Pullus noticed all this in the first eyeblink, but when his eyes met that of his attacker, he experienced a jolt that was completely unexpected. He would never be able to articulate to Scribonius, Balbus, Diocles, or even his nephew Gaius, although he supposed that it was the latter and his relative youth that had a direct effect on what was about to happen. He’s just a boy! The thought flashed through Pullus’ mind in the same eyeblink of time that it took for the Bargosan to begin swinging his sword downward, while without any thought to do so, Pullus raised his shield even as he tilted it close to parallel with the ground, in order to spread the force from the impact evenly. When the youth’s blade struck his shield, despite himself, Pullus was impressed with the amount of force, but even with the young Bargosan remembering to not drop his shield and keep it in front of his body, a common mistake because it added a counterbalance and more force to the impetus of the sword’s downward slash, Pullus could have ended this contest, and the boy’s life, without much effort. Instead, he surprised himself by deliberately striking his opponent’s shield with the point of his sword rather than shooting the blade just above it and into the base of the boy’s throat. By doing as he did and adding a bit more force by twisting his torso, the effect was to shove the boy violently backward, his shield forced back towards his body from the impact. And, as Pullus expected, the Bargosan went reeling, instinctively windmilling his arms in an attempt to keep from losing his feet, while that detached part of Pullus’ mind that represented the purist in him in the art of combat noted with some approval that his victim didn’t do what most inexperienced soldiers did by dropping their sword, shield, or both.