by R. W. Peake
Shoving past his men, Spurius made his way to the rear of the ship, lurching as the speed increased, finally reaching where the navarch, a swarthy Cretan with whom Spurius had a good relationship up to this moment was standing next to the man at the tiller, and the Primus Pilus gasped, “Are you mad, Lysippus? What are you doing?”
“Running us up onto the wharf.” Lysippus’ tone was in stark contrast to Spurius’, but before the Primus Pilus could respond, another rock came hurtling down from the southern wall, except this time, it struck the ship a shuddering blow on the right side almost directly amidships. There was a horrific cracking sound, but it was actually a glancing blow that caused the rock to carom off with another splash, several paces away. “That’s why,” the navarch said grimly. Pointing over at the first blazing pile of debris, he told Spurius, “Now that they can see us, our only chance is to get you unloaded as fast as we can.”
“But what about your ship?” Spurius asked, knowing how much pride the Cretan took in this quadrireme, which Lysippos had named Eurybia. “You might get stuck, and then you’d be dead meat.”
The navarch gave Spurius a grimly amused look, answering evenly, “No, Spurius. Once you and your men are off of her, they won’t care about Eurybia. They’ll be dropping those things down on your heads. Now,” his tone took on that of the master of his ship, “go get your men ready for impact! We’re less than a furlong away!”
Spurius at least reacted immediately, torn between being angry at Lysippos for uttering what he knew was the truth and being grateful that the navarch was determined to give his men the best chance to disembark, and he was moving forward as he began shouting, “Get off your feet! Get on your knees or sit on your ass! We’re going to hit the wharf!”
He hadn’t made it halfway back to the bow, repeating his orders, which the two other Centurions of his Second and Third Century began repeating, when another stone plunged down, except this one crashed into the deck, right between two Legionaries, the impact buckling two of the deck planks before skimming a few inches above the deck to smash into first one, then another Legionary. The first stricken man had one foot torn off, while the second was more fortunate, only having the bone of his shin shattered before it was stopped by a third man’s shield, which he had just rested on the deck, although the shield was ruined. Spurius bellowed for a medicus to come from below, although he didn’t stop moving or alerting the men, all of whom quickly obeyed, dropping down into a crouch or kneeling position. Those who could grabbed for something solid, either the side of the ship, or an edge of the upper deck. The Primus Pilus was almost back to the bow when another rock, launched by one of the Bargosan pieces at an oblique angle to the ship, managed to sail through one of the small openings on the uppermost bank of oars, eviscerating the Legionary nearest to the opening and killing his comrade on the bench next to him by crushing his ribcage, while their oar was violently moved in the opposite direction from the rest of them, first striking the one next to it with enough force that the oar was ripped from the grasp of both men before dangling downward to interfere with the sweep of the oarsmen directly below on the second bank. The loss of propulsion force on the right side meant that the ship made a sudden, lurching movement violent enough to cause Spurius to lose his balance, although it wasn’t enough to appreciably slow the huge ship as it collided with the wharf, crushing the small craft that had been tied to that spot as if it wasn’t there. The impact sent even those men who had chosen to sit down on the deck violently sliding forward, men colliding into each other, the shouts of alarm and pain temporarily drowning the screaming of the footless Legionary and the men belowdecks who had just seen two of their comrades killed. Spurius hit the prow with his shoulder hard enough that it knocked the wind from him, but even in his slightly dazed state, he could feel that the ship wasn’t coming to an immediate, abrupt stop, and because of his proximity to it, the sound he heard most loudly was caused by the timbers of the wharf snapping, making a sound that was similar to when a man broke a thick branch over his knee, but at a volume that was deafening.
It seemed to take a long time, but the ship finally stopped moving, enabling Spurius to recover his senses and his breath; he reacted immediately, leaping to his feet, and bellowing at the top of his lungs, “Follow me, boys! This is the only way off now, over the side up front!”
Then, pausing just long enough to pick a spot to land that wouldn’t hurt him, Spurius disappeared, but he was almost immediately joined by the men of his First Section.
“Remember the ladders! Find your Signifer!” The Primus Pilus Posterior, Lucius Appius, shouted this over and over, while the Primus Princeps Prior, Marcus Herennius, was directing men with his vitus to the front of the ship.
Eurybia and her passengers were relatively fortunate; the ships following Spurius’ absorbed even more punishment, one of the triremes actually having its timbers buckled just above the waterline, seriously damaging the ship. Each navarch responded to the hail of stones from what was later determined to be twelve ballistae in their own way, and the results weren’t always positive. Two ships collided together as both navarchae aimed for the same spot along one of the piers that seemed to be shielded from artillery for some reason. Men were thrown into the water, and several of them drowned before they could be fished out by their comrades, although most of them managed to grab one of the oars or the pier itself. The light provided by the blazing debris piles provided a lurid, dancing light as the first of the ships carrying the 3rd unloaded, some in an almost orderly fashion, while most of them ended up in the manner of Spurius and the men on his ship, just scrambling up and over the prow to leap down onto the pier. Another effect of the barrage of missiles was that the order of the ships and where they landed was scrambled, so that men of the Second Cohort found themselves on the wrong side of the First for their normal deployment. If that had been the only example, it would have been immediately corrected, but very quickly, Spurius determined that, if he arrayed his Legion in the normal fashion, it would take long enough that the hail of rocks would pound a good number of his men into jellied meat. Therefore, he instead ordered his Cornicen to sound the advance, counting on his subordinate Centurions to understand what he was doing, and why he was doing it.
“We’ve got to get under those fucking ballistae,” he unknowingly echoed Pullus, saying this to Appius when his second came to report that the First Cohort, at least, was ready to march. “The longer we stand here, the worse it will be.”
Consequently, it was a ragged advance, without any real sense of order or uniformity, but it helped the men of the 3rd, because by being in such disarray, it made it difficult for the Bargosans to use the normal Roman order and alignment to inflict multiple casualties. This didn’t mean that they didn’t suffer; even with the light provided by the debris piles, it was next to impossible for a man, or men, to spot a rock hurtling down in their direction from above in time to duck or dodge out of its path. The men carrying the long ladders were the most vulnerable, it being impossible for one man to move without the others moving with him, something that was brought bloodily home when three of the Bargosan pieces aimed in the general direction of one ladder group, the end result being a ladder in splinters and three Legionaries killed. But, just as Spurius intended, his men finally crossed the open ground to reach a spot underneath the rampart, although this didn’t mean their ordeal was over. Now they were within arrow range, and men were loosing as quickly as possible, creating a veritable rain of iron-tipped missiles raining down on the Romans.
“Testudo!”
An instant after Spurius’ verbal order, his Cornicen blew the notes, and the Centuries who were now sheltered from the artillery contracted into the tight defensive formation, where the most important men weren’t those on the edges but those holding their shields above themselves and their comrades for protection. The predominant sound became the hollow thud as iron points struck wood, along with an occasional metallic clang as a boss was struck, and it didn
’t take long before every Roman shield was studded with at least one and usually more arrows.
Spurius, trying to time his next command, waited for a moment he was certain would come; the archers above them would eventually run short of missiles, and when he sensed the moment had arrived, he gave the next order. “Ladders up!”
It was done more raggedly than Spurius would have liked, but they went up nonetheless, and like his counterpart and friend Pullus, the Primus Pilus of the 3rd was the first up the nearest ladder, holding a shield above his head, determined to be the first man to land on the rampart of Bargosa.
Abhiraka immediately saw that he had committed another blunder by not requiring the handlers of at least some of the elephants to keep their animals prepared to move, but like any good leader, he didn’t dwell on what he couldn’t fix. It didn’t help matters that time was pressing, but more than that, elephants were notorious for valuing their rest, and they didn’t appreciate being roused in the middle of the night, yet one more way they were similar to their human masters. The noise of their trumpeted protests made using a normal tone impossible, but Abhiraka stayed only long enough to see that the twenty elephants he had selected to augment the forces on the northern side were being outfitted with their armor blanket, chest protector, and headdress, with the placing of the wooden box coming last.
“Move to the northern gate as quickly as you can, but wait for me to get there,” he instructed the senior handler, a short, wiry man whose skin was the color of the darkest teak that had helped make Bharuch so wealthy and powerful, the iron gray beard more striking in contrast.
His name was Memmon, and he had been the man who first placed a young Abhiraka atop Darpashata’s predecessor, showing him how there was so much more to elephants than their size and strength. He was one of the few men who served Abhiraka who wasn’t required to perform the usual obeisance to the king, and he was also one of the few that Abhiraka trusted implicitly.
“Yes, Highness.” Memmon only nodded absently, his eyes instead on the men who were standing on the platform that was used to lower the armored blanket onto an animal’s back. Before Abhiraka could respond, he pointed his goad at one of the men on the platform, shouting, “Ravidha, you fool! How many times have I told you that Rudra doesn’t like being approached from that side, and that’s when he hasn’t been roused in the middle of the night! If he skewers you like a chicken, I wouldn’t blame him!”
Despite the moment, Abhiraka had to smother a smile; like many men who have a gift with animals, Memmon clearly preferred his charges to those of his own kind.
Returning his attention back to Abhiraka, Memmon said only, “We will be there waiting, Highness.”
Then he turned and hurried off, something that was normally an unforgivable breach of protocol in the presence of a king, but if Abhiraka punished Memmon every time he had behaved in such a manner, the man wouldn’t have an inch of skin left; besides, the king had other matters just as pressing. Because of the enclosure’s central location, Abhiraka had to travel several blocks in every direction to check the other three walls, and just before he had gone to the elephant quarters, he had ordered a stableman to saddle one of his horses, which was waiting when he emerged onto the street. Leaping aboard, he kicked the horse into a gallop, deciding to check at least the western wall since it was on the downstream side and was likely the spot where whatever the enemy had planned in addition to what was happening at the northern wall was already more developed. Reaching the base of the stairs that served the central portion of the western wall, Abhiraka leapt straight from his horse onto the steps, taking them two at a time, and was met on the rampart by the member of his personal bodyguard he had put in charge.
“Well, Nahapana?”
Instead of answering verbally, Nahapana beckoned to his king, and they crossed the rampart together, the sudden crash of the arm of one of the catapults hurling its missile serving to partially inform the king that the Romans were within range of his artillery. Even with the forewarning, when he reached the parapet, he couldn’t stop a gasp from leaving his lips, and for a long moment, he could only stare wordlessly at the sight of so many ships spread across and down the Narmada, vanishing into the darkness. There was a three-quarter moon, although there were clouds that were drifting across its face so that the moonlight intermittently reflected on the water of the river provided enough illumination for Abhiraka to see that, if anything, both the headman and his own scout had underestimated the size of the fleet. Most worrisome was that his view was partially blocked by his own walls, but he felt certain that there were even more ships further upriver as well. Not until Nahapana, in yet another breach of protocol, gently nudged his king and pointed towards the riverbank nearest to the western gate did Abhiraka see the ships that had already been beached, and lines of men streaming from each one.
“Shall we light the beacons, Highness?” Nahapana asked.
Abhiraka could only nod, seemingly struck dumb by what he was seeing, but within a couple of heartbeats, the nearest catapult launched a small pot, a rag stuffed in its mouth set afire just before it went hurtling through the night. When the pot struck the pile of debris the first time, the men around him cheered, and this served to jerk the king from the numb trance brought on by the sight of these Romans, whose army he now realized was much, much larger than he had assumed.
Forcing himself to sound as if he believed it himself, Abhiraka said loudly, “That is truly a good omen!” Turning to Nahapana, he kept the volume of his voice up as he ordered, “Nahapana, I know you and your men can be counted on to repel these demons! Your king decrees it, and I know you will make him and Bharuch proud tonight!” Only then did he drop his voice, speaking urgently, “I’m returning to the stables to order you receive twenty-five of the elephants. Until they arrive, you must keep these dogs from reaching the rampart!”
Abhiraka didn’t wait to acknowledge either Nahapana’s affirmation or the cheers of the men, spinning about and forcing himself to stride, quickly but without showing any panic, across the rampart to descend the stairs. Moving as rapidly as he dared without pitching himself off the steep steps, the king decided that he would send the same number of elephants to each wall, knowing that he couldn’t afford the time it would take to verify that his city was being assailed by an equal number of men on all sides. He had seen the Romans attacking the northern wall; his estimate was that it appeared to be at least five thousand men, and while the western side hadn’t been illuminated as brightly as the northern because of the Roman hurdles, his sense was that the men he saw organizing themselves on the riverbank were about the same in numbers. If that held true for the other two walls, he was outnumbered by three to one, and for the first time he began to regret his strategy of stopping what he had thought was the only threat, the army from the north, outside the strength of the city walls. Suddenly, he came to a stop, just a couple of steps from the bottom, and he had to reach out and hold on to the wall, the sudden realization that he had forgotten about their presence, causing a rush of palpable dizziness. Yes, he was certain that he had hurt them badly, but it had been at a cost that, now in hindsight, he understood he couldn’t afford. Somehow, he didn’t yet understand the exact circumstances, he had woefully underestimated the strength, and the guile of these Romans. Then, he remembered Ranjeet, and while it was a faint hope, it was the only one he had; Ranjeet had to stop that northern menace, while he and the men he had here would have to repel these invaders surrounding his walls. His equilibrium restored, if temporarily, he finished his descent, leapt aboard his horse and went to the gallop, thankful that at least the streets were now empty.
Abhiraka might have taken solace if he had known that the part of Caesar’s army commanded by Pollio and Hirtius was in no condition to march when the sun came up. Despite repelling the surprise attack by the elephants, the 6th and 8th had suffered heavy casualties, but as much as the numbers themselves, it was the manner in which many of their comrades had died that r
attled every man in the entire force. Using the abandoned Bargosan camp, Pollio ordered the men of the 15th, who had been following the 8th and were essentially unscathed, to dig the ditch and wall, which extended beyond the original boundaries of the Bargosan camp by several hundred paces, while the 11th, who had been following the 6th, stood guard. And, in further insult, the rains that normally occurred in early afternoon that had held off during the battle resumed just as the 15th began their labors, compounding the misery. The portion of the quaestorium that served as a hospital was also expanded to accommodate the wounded of the 5th, 6th, 8th, and 12th, each of whom had been involved in the battle to one degree or another. Charon’s Boat, the partitioned portion of the hospital that served as the spot for men breathing their last had to be expanded as well, but it was because of the more than two dozen men who had suffered horrific burns, caused by an errant throw, an unfortunate proximity to one of the targets, or the fickle nature of the naphtha itself. It was here where the messenger sent from the praetorium found Primus Pilus Batius, sitting on a stool next to the cot of a man who had the protuberant parts of his face burned off, yet somehow still lived. At first, the scribe Pollio had sent thought that Batius was dozing; his jaw was almost touching his chest, and his eyes were closed, but just as he was about to reach out and rouse him, the scribe saw Batius’ lips moving. Deciding it would be proper to wait, the scribe stood silently, and when Batius finished, he opened his eyes but didn’t seem to notice the man.