by R. W. Peake
Naturally, the Septimus Hastatus Prior did as he was ordered, but he was clearly unhappy about it, trying to move as quickly as he could without risking bumping into one of his men, all of whom understandably cleared a path, jumping out of his way, every man fearing the volatile substance, even when it was supposedly inert.
Pullus met him at the first of the scorpions, kneeling down and snapping to one of the immunes, “Hand me one of those strips.” Although the ranker obeyed, it wasn’t before he exchanged a glance with his comrade who was in charge of this scorpion, something that Pullus didn’t see because he was using his pugio to carefully cut through the leather that served as the lid of the jar. Peeling the leather back, he held out his hand, but when the man didn’t immediately drop the rag into his hand, he looked up to see the men standing around him, all of them wearing the same expression that, at a different moment, would have made Pullus laugh about later. Not now, however, and he snapped, “What?” Before anyone could answer, he spotted the strip of cloth dangling from the man’s hand, snatching it and thrusting it down into the jar.
This prompted the Immune in command to clear his throat before saying nervously, “Primus Pilus, is this a good idea? That stuff is just as likely to send Diana up into flames…” He swallowed, then added, “…and us with it.”
Pullus’ first reaction was to ask in bewilderment, “Diana? Who the fuck is Diana?” Before the man could reply, Pullus understood. “Ah, that’s what you call your piece.” Standing suddenly erect, it caused the Immune who had challenged this idea to recoil backward slightly, which did cause Pullus to fight a smile, but he realized that this wasn’t the time for indulging his temper, so instead of answering with a bellow, he pointed back at the elephants. “Is this a good idea? No. But we don’t have time to keep trying the way we’re doing it now. We’ve got to get that cac lit.”
He offered the strip, holding it out with two fingers clasping the very end of it, and with a look of resignation, the Legionary responsible for the bolts took it, just as gingerly, wrapping it around the bolt then tying it in place with one of the thin leather thongs that hung from his baltea. Placing it in the grooved channel, before anyone else could react, Pullus reached out and gently but firmly pulled the man out of the way.
Pointing to a spot several paces away, Pullus said, “You’ve got that cac on your hands now, so you don’t need to be anywhere near this.”
“Neither do you, Primus Pilus,” Percennius spoke up, and Pullus realized with some chagrin that his Centurion was right, so he walked away with the Immune.
Without thinking, he reached down to wipe his fingers off on his tunic, something the Immune saw and actually reached out and grabbed his arm, none too gently. When Pullus turned on him—a ranker touching a Centurion was punishable by death—the man was holding out his neckerchief with his other hand.
“Use mine, Primus Pilus. I already did, so it’s ruined.”
Nodding his thanks, Pullus did his best to wipe the substance from his fingers, noting absently that it felt somewhat like honey, but his mind was already on what was about to happen, determined they were far enough away, and called out, “All right, boys!” Pointing to the elephants, who appeared to be no more than a hundred paces on the opposite side of the two jars, he continued, “We only have one chance at this, so don’t fuck it up!” He took a breath, then shouted, “Light!” What occurred next happened so quickly that it was impossible to track with the eye, the spark struck not even seeming to reach the soaked fabric of the rag, when there was a flare of fire that boiled up so violently that it made the man who struck the spark recoil violently enough to go stumbling backward, landing on the rampart sitting on his ass. This was bad enough, but the rest of the crew, including the man holding the lanyard all reacted the same way to one degree or another. Pullus saw this, and knowing that they were a heartbeat from disaster, bellowed, “Loose! By the gods, loose!”
The Immune did so, the bolt leaving a fiery trail that, this time, Pullus could track all the way to the jar, but what had occurred an instant before with the rag igniting was a pale comparison to the sudden, brilliant blossom of orange-white flame that instantly spread outward from the spot where the bolt struck. None of the watching men, Roman or Bargosan, had any way of knowing that, because the Immune had been recoiling from the flames he was certain would engulf first his beloved Diana, then himself, he had given a hard yank on the lanyard instead of the smooth pull that kept the weapon from moving slightly and thereby ruining the aim. As it always did when this occurred, it made the bolt sail high of its intended target, but thanks to the flames dripping from the rag as the bolt streaked above the spot where, as Pullus and his men had heard, one of the jars had been shattered moments earlier, the miss was inconsequential. Igniting the puddle of naphtha that was still spreading across the paving stones of the road was violent enough that it sent shards of the shattered jar sailing with tremendous force, one of them striking the second jar, but it was the small globules of the sticky fluid that caused what happened next. To Pullus’ eye, it appeared as if the second jar just combusted spontaneously, his night vision already degraded by the initial ignition of the rag, but he saw several blazing fragments arcing out through the air from the source of the combustion, each of them like the streaking lines that he had seen on many nights in the starry sky, except these were yellow and didn’t move quite as quickly. Before he could have counted to five from the moment the initial explosion of fire from the contents of the first jar, the globules of flaming substance had landed in a rough circle about a hundred paces in diameter. Most hit the ground, where they sputtered and provided small pools of light, but at least five of them struck a tent, so that faster than he dared hope, the night was banished, and the panicked trumpeting screams of elephants suddenly confronted by fire filled the air.
What Memmon realized in the heartbeats of time after he saw the streaking missile heading in their general direction, not at him but at a spot well ahead of where he and Anala were currently located, was that nothing could have prepared him for the sudden eruption of a fire that seemed to be alive and with a mind of its own, as if summoned by some form of magic. The thought that perhaps these Romans were actually demons immediately followed, although he was quickly occupied with trying to control his elephant, who offered the kind of bleating sound that he knew meant the animal was frightened to the point it might panic. Because of his position, sitting at the base of his elephant’s neck and through the saddle that actually required him to wedge himself into it, he not only sensed the bunching of Anala’s muscles underneath him, but he saw the telltale sudden lifting of the massive head that warned him what was coming. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough to shout a warning before the animal reared, and he heard the alarmed shouts of the three men behind him, followed by a sharp cry of pain that sounded as if it came from a different spot slightly farther behind him than the box, which he understood meant at least one of his crew had been thrown out. This wasn’t all that uncommon, although it didn’t make it any less painful, or dangerous, for whoever it was; he instantly learned the identity of the missing crewman, complicating matters even more.
“Socus is down!”
Memmon recognized Aditya’s voice, but he was absorbed in using his goad to convince Anala to return his front legs to the ground, which the elephant did with a resounding impact that Memmon felt all the way up through his body.
Only then did he turn, shouting at Aditya, “Is he all right?” Before the archer could respond, Memmon asked the more crucial question, “Is the horn still there?”
“No!” Aditya shouted but then said nothing else, and Memmon growled in frustration.
Regardless, he couldn’t devote any more time to determining the status of Socus, because Anala was even then backing up, and he realized that, if as was likely, Socus was too stunned or injured to move out of the way, any chance of having his horn player sound the appropriate command would be gone. Still using his goad, something th
at he normally employed sparingly, Memmon desperately tried to turn Anala’s head while making the animal reverse itself or at least stop moving backward, but in order to do so, it meant that the elephant would momentarily be heading towards the massive wall of flame, the heat of which Memmon could easily feel almost a hundred paces away. While the result wasn’t all that surprising; even for men who were familiar with elephants, as handlers, crew, or fighting alongside them, they were almost as dangerous to friend as they were to foe, when Anala stepped backward with his right hind foot and brought it down on Socus’ lower leg, the man’s shrill scream of pain instantly made the situation more difficult, even for an experienced handler like Memmon. Almost as if he was responding to Socus’ cry, Anala raised his trunk and gave another blast that, while not exactly at the same pitch as the injured man, gave Memmon an instant’s warning of what was coming.
Without turning his head, still trying desperately to keep Anala under control, he shouted, “Get off! Jump!”
This wasn’t uncommon either, so Aditya and the other man, Gordias, didn’t hesitate, both of them leaping out to the side, although Aditya landed cleanly, while Gordias hit the ground awkwardly to join Socus on the ground, rolling in pain. Memmon gave them no attention, struggling to prevent Anala from breaking into a panicked run as he fought against the massive power of an elephant intent on turning its head to begin running from the fire. He wasn’t just trying to keep Anala under control; elephants were herd animals, and whenever Darpashata wasn’t present, Anala was the dominant bull, which meant that if his animal turned to flee from the enemy, Memmon was certain that the rest would follow suit, having seen it happen once before, something that still haunted his dreams. At least one of the other elephants had responded to Anala’s cry, answering with a trumpeting call of its own, but Memmon only could tell it came from one of the animals to his left. Finally, the experience of Memmon, and the trust his animal had in his handler, won out, with Anala finally returning to face the Romans, although he made it clear he had no intention of taking another step in their direction. At least, Memmon thought, not down the road, and for the first time, he began to look about for a way to maneuver around the flames far enough away that Anala would obey. To his dismay, he saw that, somehow, there were tents that weren’t directly next to the road that were now on fire, and the thought passed through his mind once again that perhaps these Romans had help from the underworld. In simple terms, Memmon would have to move more closely to the other elephants, which potentially could leave a gap for the enemy to exploit and get behind his animals, while Anala’s presence could disturb the other elephants that were already nervous. He was aware that Bhadran’s men had been behind them and could have conceivably been there to stop these Romans from doing so, but even if they hadn’t moved to new positions, Memmon had no confidence in their ability, both because of his instinctive distrust of the infantry, and Bhadran’s example. Nevertheless, this appeared to be his only option, so he began moving Anala in a direction to their right, parallel to the dirt wall, trying to determine whether there was enough space between two of the burning tents on that side that was far enough apart to enable him to coax his elephant past them, when he was hailed.
“Memmon! Wait!”
He turned to see Aditya running towards him, limping slightly but otherwise unharmed; more importantly, he was carrying Socus’ horn with him, so Memmon, and his animal, happily stopped. Leaning down, he offered the archer a hand, pulling him up with some difficulty, but soon the archer was back in the box, panting for breath.
“What about Socus and Gordias?” Memmon asked.
The normal grin Aditya wore, no matter the situation, vanished, and he shook his head, “Socus will never walk again, I’m afraid. And Gordias isn’t hurt as badly, but he can’t walk either.” Memmon grunted, not really surprised, and he pointed to the horn. “Can you play that?”
“Socus showed me how,” Aditya said, then hesitated for a moment before admitting, “but I haven’t really practiced much.”
“It will have to do,” Memmon muttered, already turning his attention back to more pressing matters.
Now that there was more light, Memmon’s eye was caught by something sailing through the air, and he looked up just in time to catch the flight of a rock soaring across his front from his left to his right and come crashing down, striking one of the men standing in the box of the elephant that was two animals over from his spot, the man’s body seeming to fold over double in an explosion of blood and matter while it went hurtling backwards, colliding with the man standing behind him and sending them both flying out of the box.
“They can see us better now,” he called to Aditya, “but that means you might be able to spot one of those rocks coming. Keep your eyes open!”
It was an order that didn’t need a response, and Memmon guided Anala on a somewhat serpentine path, weaving around the tents, all the while cursing Bhadran for not requiring his men to properly emplace their shelters in the manner that had become customary since Bharuch had fallen under Macedonian influence. For a brief moment, he thought of just making Anala move in a straight line, crushing the tents and whatever was in them, but he decided it was almost a certainty that the animal would become entangled in the cloth and lines, so he forced himself to take the time. He kept his gaze to his left, and once he saw that there was a path, directly heading for the dirt rampart that would place him between two of the blazing tents, only then did he turn Anala’s head. Now he was only a matter of twenty paces away from the nearest elephant, controlled by Anik, who was still navigating his animal through the portion of the camp that was just beyond the range of the Roman scorpions. It was not, however, beyond the range of the stone that, just as Memmon was about to shout to Anik to coordinate their charge into the mass of Romans who seemed to be milling about just between the last and penultimate row of tents, came hurtling down to strike Anik in the head, decapitating the man so quickly that Memmon’s eye couldn’t actually follow it. The only blessing was that striking the head of Anik caused the ten-pound stone to veer from its trajectory and sail just to the side of the three crewmen, although they were all sprayed by the bone, brains, and blood that had constituted the handler’s head. From Memmon’s perspective, one instant Anik was sitting astride his animal, shouting a command to it, then in his place was a headless corpse that swayed obscenely in reaction to the elephant’s continuing movement.
“Get him off!” Memmon shouted, seeing, and understanding, the shocked expression of the spattered faces of the three crewmen of the elephant who were just becoming aware that something had happened, and Memmon knew that the chance to retain control of the animal would only last the next few heartbeats.
This was something for which the corps of elephants and the men who comprised their crews trained for, and even with all that was happening, Memmon felt a flash of relief when he saw that the replacement handler, almost always one of the archers, managed to step over the wall of the box, and balancing precariously as the elephant slowed but did not stop, grasped the headless corpse of what an eyeblink before had been Anik, and roughly shoved it out of the saddle before dropping down to take the original handler’s place. Even as this was happening, Memmon could hear other shouts and trumpeting calls of frightened elephants, while he saw more streaking lines of fire slashing down from the dirt rampart. Except, he immediately saw, none seemed to be aimed at the elephants, but at spots just ahead of them; it wasn’t until several of them disappeared among the tents that Memmon learned why. Once again, there was a sudden blossoming of flame that leapt up above the height of the tents, as if by some sort of magic, and within a matter of one or two heartbeats, the tent nearest to the newly erupting fire began to burn.
“All right, my giant,” Memmon’s voice was intentionally quiet, even with everything that was going on, “I need you. Your king needs you. Our people need you. Can I count on you?”
As if in answer, Memmon saw Anala’s trunk curl so that it bent back
and touched the bronze headdress that protected the animal’s forehead, but instead of a trumpeting cry, Memmon heard the low-pitched, breathy sound that he knew meant that his elephant had heard, and most importantly, understood. Despite the circumstances, and knowing the likelihood that his elephant wouldn’t survive, Memmon’s heart filled with a pride and terrible love that he had never been able to feel with his two-legged counterparts, and he reached out to pat Anala on the side of his head.
Turning to Aditya, Memmon commanded, “Sound the call to charge.”
It was far from perfect; they weren’t in the long, evenly spaced straight line that he was certain his king had envisioned, but the time had come. Despite the flames, the soaring stones arcing down from the sky, Abhiraka’s elephants went thundering forward, their handlers and crew all shouting the same thing.
“Bharuch!”
What Pullus’ gambit created was something that would haunt his dreams for some time to come. By blocking the clear expanse of the road in a wall of fire, he essentially forced the Bargosan handlers to guide their charges into what were essentially two separate forces, reducing the impact on the entirety of the Roman Cohorts who stood, waiting with their siege spears, but compounding the power of the force that would initially strike a narrower front. It was also a calculated gamble on Pullus’ part by letting his Centuries break up into smaller groups that used the tents as cover from the Bargosan artillery. He was counting on his Centurions obeying his instructions, but it went more deeply than that; the Primus Pilus of the Equestrians was demonstrating his faith in the men under his command to know exactly what to do, and most importantly, when to do it. It didn’t take an expert to know that there would come a moment when, even if the Bargosan artillery was disposed to do so, they wouldn’t be willing to risk sending their own missiles down onto the heads of their enemies, for the simple reason that by doing so, they would imperil their elephants. And, as little as Pullus and the rest of the Romans knew about how these Bargosans, and as far as they knew, every tribe they might face in India who used these animals, there was an understanding that, being the most potent weapon available to them, they would be loath to put them at risk from their own missiles. However, for every advantage there was usually a corresponding disadvantage, and the fact that the attacking elephants would be able to concentrate their massive power on a narrower front meant that the unfortunates in their path would bear the brunt, although it would also make it easier for the unaffected Centuries and Cohorts to wrap around each elephant and surround them. And, much to Pullus’ dismay as he stood watching from the rampart, this meant that the Second Cohort; specifically, the First and Second of the Second found themselves facing twice as many of the huge beasts as the rest of their own Cohort. It wasn’t just the Second Cohort, of course; over to Pullus’ right, the scorpions on the rampart had managed to ignite some of the jars to their front, causing enough of a conflagration that, from the right edge of the road, the spot where the original jar had started the inferno, all the way across the front of the first five Centuries of Metellus’ Third, the Sixth Century of the Third and the First of the Fourth Cohort were exposed to the brunt of the Bargosan attack. As slowly as they seemed to move, Pullus was surprised at how, before he had any real recognition of it, the elephants had managed to close the distance, and it wasn’t without cost to his men, specifically his artillery Immunes. Off to his right, at the far end of the line of scorpions, the Immune commanding one of them was a bit too slow in pulling the lanyard, while the Immune who had soaked the strip of cloth had been a bit too liberal in dunking it into the pot of naphtha that was designated for their use. The result was a sudden conflagration as the flames seemed to leap from the bolt onto the outstretched hand of the Roman who had just dropped it into the grooved channel, which in turn caused the Immune in command to drop his hold of the lanyard as he rushed to try and get his comrade away from the boiling fire, and before a count of five, the scorpion, and two of its crewmembers were totally engulfed in flames, sending their comrades rushing headlong in both directions along the rampart. For Pullus and the rest of the men around him, what it meant was a sudden flare of light that was enough to draw their attention, all of them feeling the horror of seeing one of their own sprinting off the edge of the rampart completely afire. Forcing himself to turn away, Pullus returned his attention to the larger situation, watching as the elephant that had been in the center of the road suddenly veer to his own left, moving away from the wall of flame that ran the width of the road, along with one of the tents a few paces away. Sensing that this was the likely commander of the group of elephants, if only by virtue of being in the center of the line, Pullus divided his attention between him and what was taking place on the opposite side of the road, and it was because he was looking to his right that he missed seeing one of his ballistae make what was ultimately a lucky shot that decapitated the handler of the elephant next to the one he had designated as the leader. Consequently, when he returned his attention back to his left, he only saw the ending of the incident, as a man leapt from the box on the animal’s back, and showing admirable skill in balancing himself that reminded Pullus of the charioteers in Britannia, used both hands to remove the corpse of the man who had been guiding the animal before dropping down to replace the dead handler.