Caesar Ascending-India Limited Edition

by R. W. Peake

  The sound of the notes from the horn on the southern wall, more faint but clearly audible, cut Abhiraka off in mid-sentence as he turned to stare in that direction over a darkened city, done by his order, with the exception of torches at every intersection to allow men to move quickly. What, he wondered, his excitement rapidly evaporating to be replaced by a growing dread, could that be about? Were the Romans actually attacking the southern side as well, where the river and the wharves were located? Even if that was the case, that didn’t negate his ability to send men out of the eastern gate, and he turned back to the man, ready to give that order when a horn sounded from the eastern wall. What this meant in a practical sense was that Abhiraka immediately realized that defending the canal was no longer his biggest problem; his city was being assaulted from all sides.

  Pullus barely gave the unconscious youth at his feet a second glance, already moving to help his men, but Lutatius had seen the short-lived event; he couldn’t have even called it a fight, and he shook his head, smiling wryly. It wasn’t the first time that his Primus Pilus had spared an enemy, although in the case of the Crassoi Centurions Asina and Pompilius, or Caspar as he still thought of the man, it was understandable; they were Roman, that boy wasn’t, but the Optio didn’t give it any more thought than that.

  “All right, boys!” Pullus shouted, liking what he was seeing so far. “Don’t let up!”

  By this point, most of the First and Second Century were on the rampart, facing a thin line of Bargosans no more than three men deep in any one spot, with the third man perilously close to the inside edge which, as several men found to their demise or injury, hadn’t been built with any kind of impediment to keep men from stepping off of the edge. Those men who couldn’t crawl away and somehow make their way down a ladder to where orderlies were frantically working were finished off, their bodies then dragged into piles by the encroaching Romans in order to give them more room. Pullus took the moment to step away from the press of the fighting, looking down the rampart to his right, trying to see how the other Cohorts were progressing. Caesar had originally wanted Pullus to wait for the rest of the Equestrians to move into position before he began the assault, but the heavy volleys of javelins had convinced the Primus Pilus not to wait. When he made the decision, in the back of his mind he was concerned how Caesar would take it, but now that he was standing on the rampart, not only was he more certain it was the right thing to do, he also saw an opportunity, and he moved quickly down the rampart to where Balbus was located, as usual finding his second in command up where the fighting was happening, and he watched as his friend countered a desperate thrust of a Bargosan sword, knocking his opponent’s blade aside in a small shower of sparks, then punching the man in the face with the pommel of his sword. And, as almost always happened whenever Balbus punched a man, the Bargosan went staggering backwards, while the man behind him instinctively ducked aside so he kept going…then disappeared with a short scream as he fell off the rampart. Pullus called Balbus now that there was no Bargosan left to kill, and Balbus lifted his bloody sword to acknowledge that he had heard before stepping backward a couple paces.

  Grabbing one of his rankers from the third rank, Balbus shouted, “Here, Silo. Don’t say I never gave you anything. Kill that goat fucker!”

  He propelled the ranker into the spot he had just vacated, while the Bargosan who had inadvertently caused his comrade’s death seemed content to wait for his foe, which was almost always a fatal mistake. Only when it was safe did Balbus turn to face his Primus Pilus, giving Pullus a grin that was made even more savage than normal because of the blood spattering his face.

  “I don’t think these Bargosans fuck goats,” was Pullus’ first comment, and Balbus gave a snorting laugh.

  “We haven’t seen what their women look like yet,” he retorted. “The goats may be a better choice.”

  Even with all that was going on, Pullus had to laugh, but then he turned serious, grasping Balbus’ shoulder to turn him slightly so that he could point with his own sword, which was as bloody as his Pilus Posterior’s.

  “See how there’s a crease there? Where the Second is still along the parapet?”

  Balbus immediately saw what his friend meant, and he said, “So you want me to take some of my boys down that way to join up with Asellio and Vistilia?”

  Pullus had expected that, so he wasn’t surprised at the look of disappointment on his friend’s face when he shook his head. “No, I just want you to send a runner down that way and tell them what they should do.”

  “Fine,” Balbus grumbled, but he didn’t hesitate in doing so. He turned, surveyed the lines for a heartbeat, then bellowed, “Oy! Centho! Get over here!”

  Pullus didn’t wait, knowing there was no need, heading back to his Century to find that this part of the rampart was now scoured of all but Bargosan dead; at least, that was his assumption, although it would turn out there was a survivor.

  “Let’s get down on the ground!” Pullus bellowed. “We need to keep pushing these cunni back to the city!”

  While Lutatius began herding the men towards one of the three ladders in their area of the rampart, Pullus moved back to the wooden parapet.

  “Send the rest of the men!” He bellowed this, which prompted a flurry of movement, but since he couldn’t see with any real clarity, he decided to play it safe by reminding the men still on the ships. “Remember to bring the ladders!”

  “Like we’d fucking forget?” Gellius muttered.

  The First and Second of the Sixth had been in the outer ship next to the one carrying Pullus and two of his Centuries, and as soon as the men had vacated the first ship, Gellius quickly moved his men over, bringing the unmodified ladders with them. This wasn’t just for efficiency; once the outer line of ships was unloaded of their human cargo, the crewmen remaining shoved the ships back towards the opposite bank, in order to give their ballistae the space they would need to arc their missiles high enough to clear the wall and add distance to the range. While it wasn’t a certainty, in his usual thorough fashion, Caesar had thought about the possibility of a sortie from the city while the Equestrians were still engaged in fighting for the dirt wall. The ballistae would be firing blind, which was why, nestled in crates exactly like those carried in wagons of Pollio’s part of the army, there were jars of naphtha, while every ballista was using the modified iron basket, which ironically enough, had been fabricated by the Greek citizen Anaxagoras of Seleucia to help repel the Romans assaulting the city. It was just another example of how Rome adapted new tactics and technological advances as their own, something that would only increase in the coming years with the men of Caesar’s army. None of which mattered at this moment, and the Centurions of the Sixth Cohort essentially didn’t pause, directing their men as they moved from their original ships to those closest to the rampart, then hopped up onto the modified ladders while carrying those that would be used against the city walls. The Sixth was soon up on the rampart, while the first three Centuries of the First Cohort had already dropped down to the ground level, where Pullus and his Centurions were in the process of making a quick count and reorganizing. Those Bargosans that the First had faced appeared to be doing much the same thing, but they were doing it all the way on the opposite side of the tents that had housed the men defending the canal, but with just a bit more than half the men that had been manning their part of the rampart a third of a watch earlier. Most of the hurdles in the area had burned out, the darkness returning, but now it suited Pullus that this was the case, knowing that he and his men would be within range of whatever artillery the Bargosans might have on the city walls. It was the one thing that Caesar’s scouting trip had been unable to determine; even from his perch in the tree, he hadn’t been high enough to look down onto the rampart. During the time Pullus had been on the dirt barrier, he had taken the time to scan the expanse of the northern wall, but it was too dark for him to spot anything that would give an indication one way or another. Given their experience with
the Pattalans, he and the other officers had made the assumption that Bargosa would be at least as heavily influenced by the Greco-Macedonian method of waging war, so if there was artillery, at least they wouldn’t be surprised.

  Once down on the ground, he allowed his Optio, Balbus, and Laetus to handle their men while he observed what was happening farther down the rampart. As he had expected, Asellio’s and Vistilia’s Centuries turning and moving down the rampart instead of joining the rest of the First had turned the tide for the Second Cohort, the Bargosans suddenly having a force arrayed across the rampart assailing them from their right flank. He also noticed with approval that, seeing it would be more effective, Celadus had actually led his Century down to the ground to move into a position where they could hurl their complement of javelins at the rear of the Bargosans who were engaged with Scribonius and his men, although he was slightly concerned about not having enough missiles for the next part of the assault. What was occurring at this moment was what Pullus and the Romans called “rolling the carpet” because of the ripple effect as Bargosans down the wall found themselves outflanked, meaning this part of the battle was soon over. The hurdles were still burning farther down the rampart, enabling Pullus to watch as Bargosans began dropping down from the dirt wall, many of them not bothering to use the nearest ladder, while his own men became the predominant sight.

  “I wonder how long it’s going to take their commander to figure out they’re fucked and just get his men who are left off the rampart to regroup?”

  Pullus turned in surprise, instantly recognizing the voice of Scribonius, who had just descended one of the ladders, leading his men down to the ground.

  In answer, Pullus pointed downstream, where the dirt wall was barely visible where it made the bend, saying, “It looks like he heard you, Sextus.”

  Both of them watched as figures that, between the distance and the poor light from the hurdles were impossible to distinguish but who both men knew were Bargosan just by the frantic manner in which they were dropping to the ground, most of them eschewed the ladders in their haste to escape. As they observed, Pullus spotted Celadus and called him over.

  “That was good thinking,” Pullus told his Princeps Posterior, who was clearly pleased by the compliment.

  “Thank you, Primus Pilus,” he answered, then turned and pointed to the dozens of tents in between the Romans and the city, asking, “What about them?”

  Pullus sighed, knowing what Celadus meant, and after a moment’s thought, he said, “All right, here’s what we’ll do. One tent per section, but only one man goes through it. I know these thieving bastards all brought at least one sack, but I’m not going to have them loaded down and more worried about that than their fucking job. That’s why,” he glanced over at Scribonius with an expression that warned the Pilus Prior that this wasn’t going to be taken well, “each Century will detach one, and only one man to watch over whatever they get out of those tents.”

  “One per Century?” Celadus asked in dismay, then shook his head. “Primus Pilus, the men aren’t going to be happy about that. What about one man per section?”

  Pullus bit his tongue, literally, to keep himself from snarling at Celadus; that he did so was in recognition of the fact that men from two Cohorts were moving past the three, and given the current mood of the army, Pullus knew it would do more harm than good.

  Consequently, his tone was almost jarringly gentle as he admonished his Centurion, “Gnaeus, I’m not going to take ten men from every Century just to guard whatever loot we find in these tents. Remember,” Pullus pointed up at the wall that loomed over them, “Caesar’s giving us everything inside the city, and I don’t think any coin or trinkets these bastards have is going to be more valuable. Remind them of that and I think that should do the trick.”

  More than the words, it was the use of Celadus’ praenomen that warned the Centurion that, while Pullus was exhibiting a patience that was unusual for him, it wasn’t going to last long if he argued the point.

  “You’re right, of course, Primus Pilus,” Celadus answered, then asked, “Do you want me to tell the others?”

  “Yes, please,” Pullus answered, another oddity, but when he pointedly turned back to Scribonius, Celadus wisely took his leave.

  The Pilus Prior watched Celadus trotting away, bellowing the names of the other Centurions of the first, then turned to Pullus and said wryly, “That had to hurt.”

  Pullus had to laugh, but it didn’t last long, and he answered soberly, “Not as much as it would hurt if the men decide they’ve had enough.”

  Realizing it was pointless to pursue this line of thought, Scribonius straightened, asking formally, “What are your orders, Primus Pilus?”

  Pullus, understanding immediately, replied in kind, “Form your Cohort, Pilus Prior, in the space here between the wall and those tents. Then wait for further orders.”

  Scribonius saluted, then like Celadus went hurrying away, leaving Pullus to try and decide whether he should press ahead towards the city wall, or wait for the entirety of the canal rampart to be cleared. While he was thinking, the decision was made for him when, seemingly out of nowhere, a round rock came hurtling down to smash against the wood that lined the back side of the wall with a sharp, cracking sound. It was what it did when it caromed off, slamming into a Legionary who had just descended to the ground from the rampart, hitting him in the back and snapping his spine so that the man essentially folded in half the wrong way, the scream so shrill that it felt like an invisible man pierced Pullus’ ear with an awl that prompted Pullus.

  “Artillery!”

  “First Cohort, advance through the tents! Get closer to the wall! We have to get under these bastards!”

  As Pullus hurried to join the rest of his Cohort, it occurred to him that at least the issue with looting the tents was solved.

  Abhiraka’s order to begin loosing on the enemy who had cleared the rampart on the eastern side instead of unleashing every piece once his own men were no longer in danger of being hit was born out of frustration, and he knew it was the wrong thing to do tactically speaking. However, he also felt a visceral need to do something, and this was the only thing available to him, so he ordered the three pieces aligned directly across from where he could see Romans dropping from the rampart down to the ground to begin loosing. As he quickly discovered, because the hurdles in that area had burned out, he was robbed of the pleasure of seeing these Romans, who he had already begun to hate after watching so many of his prized elephants burning, being punished by the smooth, polished rocks that were the only ammunition capable of reaching that far. Because of the distance, the noise of the men still fighting for possession of the rampart was little more than a low humming sound that was occasionally punctuated by a thin, barely audible shriek, but since those hurdles were still in various stages of burning, Abhiraka could see that the end was inevitable.

  “That fool Bhadran better be dead.” He growled this, not aimed at anyone in particular; the bodyguards he had sent on the various errands had returned, standing in a small group a short distance away. “There’s no other excuse for him not seeing that it’s time to abandon the wall and withdraw.”

  “Highness,” he heard and recognized the voice, “maybe that is Bhadran who is getting those men down there organized.”

  Abhiraka was chagrined when he saw Arshad was correct; while it was impossible to make out in any detail because of the darkness, after a moment’s examination, it was clear that this was in fact what was happening. He had no real way of knowing but, somehow, he was certain that whoever was doing it, it wasn’t Bhadran, nor was he ready to be mollified or encouraged in any way.

  “If it is, why is he letting more than half of the men he has left stay up there on the rampart?” he muttered, then shook his head. “That’s not nearly enough men to stop these vipers. If it’s him, he should have sounded the recall, because the dirt wall is lost.”

  Arshad wouldn’t have dreamed of arguing, especially
at this moment, because he was certain his king was correct, but he did feel compelled to ask, in as respectful a tone as he could manage, “Should we consider sending some men out to help, Highness?”

  Abhiraka considered; for the first time, he gave Arshad a smile, but it wasn’t with any humor, and he answered, “Yes, Arshad, we’ll send help. But not men.”

  Arshad understood immediately, and he answered Abhiraka’s smile with one of his own, relishing the idea of a line of war elephants thundering into the midst of these savage invaders.

  “Shall I go give the order, Highness?”

  Abhiraka shook his head.

  “No, Arshad. That is something I will do myself.” The king turned to head for the stairs, but before he did, he ordered the bodyguard, “Remain here and take command of the artillery. It won’t do much, but any damage we can inflict on these savages will help.”

  Of the Legions taking place in the assault, the 3rd had drawn the short straw. Not only did the ships carrying Spurius and his men have to negotiate through the smaller boats that were tied to one of the piers that jutted from the wharf that lined the entire length of the southern riverbank and extending slightly beyond the southeast corner, the Bargosans had done more to prepare for an assault from the southern side. That it wasn’t because of the Romans and from periodic but regular raids by river pirates and rival kingdoms neither Caesar nor any Roman had any way of knowing, though they quickly learned in a practical sense. It began when, arcing out from the southern wall, a flaming missile plunged downward, but instead of the approaching ships, the target was a large pile of debris, and while it took two attempts, once it was struck, instantly ignited. Before Spurius, standing in the prow of the leading ship, could have counted to fifty, there were four other such piles blazing furiously, and it instantly became clear why, when the Primus Pilus of the 3rd was soaked by a stone that splashed just a few feet to the right side of his ship. The navarch reacted immediately, ordering the beater to pick up the pace, which, to Spurius and the men aboard seemed to be a decision bordering on madness since they were heading directly for the part of the wharf directly in line with the southern gate.