Caesar Triumphant

  Pullus grunted, which Scribonius knew was a sign that he agreed with the assessment. It was amazing, to both of them, if the truth were known, how well the integration of so many different people into the Legions had gone, but it served as proof that fighting men were essentially the same, no matter the color of their skin. Of course, there were cultural differences that had to be accounted for: Titus found it impossible to keep track of the deities his men worshiped, but when boiled down to its essence, warrior culture seemed to be always the same. Fighting men want to be led by a general who brings them victory, and in Caesar they had such a general. Through thousands of skirmishes, and probably in excess of 200 battles, Titus couldn't remember the last time they had tasted defeat, and even their defeats proved to be temporary. Gergovia, which had seemed so devastating a loss, was now a distant memory and barely registered as a defeat now, Titus mused. Now, here he and Sextus sat, in a tent, many thousands of miles away and some 20 years after that fight, and they were talking about essentially the same thing: the men. Always the men. For it was their strong right arms on which success or failure rode, on their ability to impose Caesar's will on this last race, the people of Wa. And Titus Pullus, as he always had, would do everything to ensure that his general could rely on the 10th Legion, whether they were Romans or not.

  Chapter 2

  Of course it would be pissing rain, Titus Pullus thought sourly, as he watched the tedious boarding process taking place in the darkness of the watch before midnight. The men were fully kitted, the rain making them gleam in the light of the sputtering torches, as errant rays bounced off helmets and armor. Over the sound of the waves lapping against the sides of the ships and posts of the pier from which they were loading was the underlying hum of men talking. None of them, Titus included, liked sea voyages, no matter how many such excursions the veterans of Caesar's army had made to that point. How many was it, he wondered idly, as his ears tried to filter out the gibberish of the Gayan, Han, Pandyan, Parthian and the gods knew what other languages, in order to listen to the commands of his Centurions who were supervising the loading process. Despite the requirement that every non-Roman in Caesar's army learn all the basic commands and words needed for their duties in Latin, there was no such restriction on their speech, when they were gathered together in moments like these. It might have made the men more comfortable, but it made it much more difficult to understand what was going on, Titus was sure, and there were always mishaps, when embarking men on board transport vessels. Someone was bound to lose his balance going up the gangway or get too close to the edge of the pier, and a friend would accidentally bump them, and into the water they would go. Sometimes, it wasn't an accident; Titus was well aware that this was a favored way some men chose to settle scores, so to forestall such an event happening in his Legion, he had ordered the Optios from each Century to maintain a vigil at the edge of the pier, where their men were boarding. Despite these precautions, Titus knew that at some point it was extremely likely there would be a splash that sounded over and above the noise the waves produced, followed quickly by a shout alerting those nearby that a man had gone into the water. From that moment, it was critical that he be fished out, the rescuers using a long pole with a sort of hoop attached at the end that the man could grab onto, when it was thrust down into the spot, where he was last seen. Even so, there was an even chance that he would drown, rather than have the presence of mind to reach out in the murky water around him to find the pole he knew would be coming. It was only the experience of dozens of these types of operations that had taught the men of Caesar's army what needed to be done, if there was going to be any chance of rescuing a fallen man. Exactly how many voyages have we made, Titus wondered?

  "They always clump together, don't they?" Scribonius' question jerked Titus from his reverie, and he turned to see the dark outline of his friend, his helmet gleaming from the combination of torchlight and rain.

  Titus knew what Scribonius meant, without asking, because as usual, his friend was right. The new men from the last dilectus were, indeed, huddled together, seeking the solace of the familiar in an extremely alien and unfamiliar situation. Some of the Gayan in this draft had been fishermen, Titus knew, but an equal number had been poor farmers, and he imagined that the farmers were now seeking out the counsel of countrymen more familiar with the world of ships than they themselves were.

  "One or two fights will sort them out," was Titus' only comment, and in this he was also correct.

  Before these Gayan men were blooded, it was only natural that they cling to each other. But once the man next to you, who was more likely to be a Han, Pandya, or even a Roman, saved your bacon, barriers like language and culture wouldn't seem so important. This was something Caesar had known, despite the downright refusal of his Legates, men like Hirtius, Pollio, and even old Ventidius, formidable men in their own right, to accept this idea. It had been one of the first crises of many, Titus remembered, when it had become apparent that the only way to achieve Caesar's ambitious goals was by replacing the men lost in the ranks. By the time this was obvious to everyone, which even Titus acknowledged was much, much later than Caesar's recognition of this fact, they were well into the Parthian empire. It had been the last battle against Pharnaces that had precipitated the decision, and a whole winter was spent dealing with this new reality. But Hirtius and the rest of the Legates—and Tribunes and Centurions, if the truth were known—had insisted that the only way integration would work was by requiring the men to essentially forget their former ways, down to their language and customs. They must become Romans in everything but blood, almost every officer argued, or they will fracture the army. But Caesar was undeterred, and he was proven right. Now, all they needed to cement the bonds so essential to an army was a good, bloody fight.

  In the briefing conducted by Caesar, they were told that the crossing would take more than a day, and judging from the chop, Titus thought that was optimistic. What nobody could tell any of the Centurions was the kind of reception they would receive. Pullus could only hope that it wouldn't be like Britannia, or any of the half-dozen opposed landings the army had made to that point. In some ways, heavy seas were something of a blessing, because they kept the men occupied by being miserable and not dwelling on what awaited them. Titus was past being seasick, but he abhorred the idea of being cooped up on a ship, at the mercy of strange men and even stranger gods that controlled matters on the water in this neck of the world. Perhaps the worst part was once the Legion was loaded and they had to wait for the rest of the army out in the harbor that served as the embarkation point: then they would be sitting out in the water, bobbing about, but making no headway toward their landing site, so it would not be long before the first man would vomit, which invariably created a chain reaction of retching that could be heard on shore.

  "Which Cohorts are loaded?" Titus asked his scribe, standing next to him and almost swallowed up by the regulation sagum he was wearing to ward off the rain. Even without the cloak, they would have made a ludicrous sight, because Diocles, Titus Pullus' scribe, body slave, and chief clerk of the Legion, stood more than a foot shorter than his master and was very slight in build. But what Diocles lacked in bulk and height, he more than made up for in intellect and ability to keep track of all the thousand details involved in running the Legion. And while it wasn't something that either Titus or Diocles spoke about to anyone else, their relationship had long since passed from master and slave to that of friends. But as much as Titus trusted Scribonius and confided in him, there were still things only Diocles knew.

  "The Fourth through the Tenth," Diocles answered immediately, not having to consult the wax tablet he carried everywhere with him. "The Third is loading now and should be finished in less than a sixth of a watch."

  Titus merely grunted in reply, understanding that it was time for him to rouse his Century, and for the other Centurions to do the same with the rest of the First Cohort. Turning back to Scribonius, he gave his Second Cohort comma
nder the order to make ready to embark. Before Scribonius left, he offered Titus his hand, which the Primus Pilus accepted.

  "See you onshore," Sextus said with a smile.

  "The gods and the Wa people willing," Titus smiled back.

  "They're not going to stop us," Scribonius laughed, as he walked away, prompting Titus to call after him.

  "Who's not going to stop us? The gods or the Wa?"

  Scribonius stopped and, despite the dim light, Titus saw the same smile on his friend's face.

  "Why, the Wa of course. The gods wouldn't dare turn on one of their own, would they?"

  Scribonius spoke these words loudly enough for the men immediately nearby to hear, and they let out a cheer of agreement, so despite being irritated at his friend, Titus had to laugh. Both of them were secretly amused at the men's belief that their general was a god, but they also knew how deadly serious it was to express anything resembling disbelief or mockery of that idea in front of the rankers. Only Titus knew that Scribonius was being facetious, but it still made him nervous, when his friend uttered such things outside the privacy of either of their tents.

  Giving Scribonius a wave of dismissal, Titus returned his attention to the dark bulk of the men of his Century, all of them sitting huddled in groups under their cloaks, rigged as makeshift shelters, so they could continue their dice games uninterrupted by the weather.

  "All right, you lazy cunni," Titus roared. "Get your thumbs out of your asses and get on your feet. Our turn to board is coming up, and I'll flay the man who makes the rest of the army wait. That might be fine for other Legions, but not for the 10th!"

  Titus was pleased to see the reaction of the men, as they scrambled to pack up their dice and wine flasks and climb to their feet. Even after all these years, Titus thought, they're still scared of me. And that's a good thing.

  In a manner that had become accepted as normal by most of the army, the crossing to the Land of Wa went smoothly, with only minor discomfort from seas heavy enough to make the weaker stomachs rebel, but not threaten to swamp any of the transports. The landing went even better, the only opposition coming in the form of a handful of frightened natives who, at least at first, could only openly gawk at the sight of men leaping over the sides of ships rowed ashore onto the beach. First ashore were, of course, the signiferi, followed by the Optios and Centurions, who moved into their pre-assigned spots to present a front prepared for any reception the natives might care to give them. Fortunately for the Wa fishermen—for that is what the natives were—with no martial ability or inclination, the sight of such quick organization was more than enough to deter them from attacking and committing suicide. Instead, as soon as they had at least a basic sense of what was happening, that these strange figures coming from the sea were clearly warriors of some type, they turned tail and fled as fast as their feet would carry them, back to the small village, less than a mile away, from which they had come.

  "They run faster than rabbits," Publius Vellusius, Gregarius of the last section of the First Century, Second Cohort, laughed at the sight of the heels of the barely clad natives running in terror.

  "Wouldn't you run, if you saw us coming?" Scribonius asked, although he was as amused at the sight as Vellusius, and hoped it boded well for this operation. Normally, a ranker wouldn't have felt free to banter with his Centurion, particularly a Pilus Prior, the leader of the entire Cohort, but Vellusius was a special case. He, Scribonius, and Titus Pullus had enlisted in the dilectus that had birthed the 10th Legion, and had, in fact, been in the same tent for the first parts of their respective careers. While Pullus' rise had been dizzying in its height and rapidity and Scribonius had displayed the characteristics needed to qualify as a Centurion in Caesar's army, Vellusius had neither the ability nor the aspiration to such lofty heights. He was perfectly content with his lot, and was one of the steady, reliable men who form the backbone of any fighting unit worth anything. The very fact of his survival, ten years into this campaign and 27 years under the standard, was a tribute to his fighting ability, and he was one of the most-respected rankers, not just in the Second Cohort, but the entire Legion, even among the non-Romans.

  Pullus was ashore, as well, bellowing at the Centurions of not just his Cohort but of the rest of the Legion to hurry the men into their spots. In Pullus' case, this was less a worry about a possible attack—since he had seen the same thing that Scribonius and Vellusius had—as it was a matter of winning a wager with the two other Primi Pili in the first wave about whose Legion would be the first to fully form up and be ready to march off the beach. There would be a total of four waves, and Pullus had learned from bitter experience the importance of the first wave’s getting off the beach as quickly as possible. Otherwise, you would have what happened, when they had landed on the beach of the Pandya, whose warriors came dangerously close to pushing the landing back into the sea! That, Pullus thought, had been worse than the first landing in Britannia, something he wouldn't have thought possible. This time, however, things were going smoothly, and it looked very much as though he would be collecting from Torquatus and Balbinus, the Primi Pili of the 25th and 12th, respectively.

  The first three Legions formed up quickly, and began marching inland, up a narrow valley through which a river flowed, as it emptied into the sea. Caesar's exploratores, led by the Legate Volusenus, who had been the officer responsible for picking landing sites, since all the way back to Britannia, had chosen a narrow inlet at the far southern tip of the island. This was far from ideal, because it would require the army to move northward through what Pullus and the rest of the army could see was extremely mountainous and rugged terrain, and the landing site itself was extremely small for an army of this size. But as bad as it was, according to Volusenus, it was the best available, and it was no better or worse than any other of a half-dozen Pullus could think of. Still, he was thankful that there was no immediate opposition to add to the difficulty. Marching at the head of the 10th, leading the way as always, in a line of Cohorts, with only one Century ranging ahead as an advance party, Pullus and the first wave moved barely a half-mile, before the valley had narrowed so much that it could barely support two Centuries in open formation, side by side, so he ordered a halt, while sending a runner back. Caesar was arriving in the second wave, which was unloading already, and Pullus wasn't willing to go any farther, until Caesar saw for himself what was facing them. Because, while Volusenus had picked a landing site that worked, he clearly hadn't gone very far inland, if he had landed at all. What faced Pullus right now was a steep ridge, perhaps a thousand feet high that, from the look of it, was going to be too steep to climb by the most direct route. Instead, he was sure that they would have to wind their way up, in order to make the grade gradual enough for the men to ascend. The men were one thing; Pullus was sure that the only way the wagons, artillery and all the other baggage needed to support such a huge army would be able to cross that ridge was by the legionaries building a road that would have to be cut out of the hillside. Although the hills were covered with green vegetation, Pullus could clearly see ribs of rock sticking out between the thick shrubs. He wasn't an engineer, by any means, but he was experienced enough to know that what he was looking at was a massive amount of work.

  Caesar saw the same thing, and made one of his instant decisions.

  "We're not going to unload any more of the fleet," he told the assembled officers and staff. "In fact, whatever artillery or baggage that's been unloaded will have to go back aboard!" He ignored the stifled groans, his eyes still on the ridge. "The Legions that are ashore will head north, over the ridge, while the fleet will continue to sail to the eastern side of the island and look for a better place."

  "I thought Volusenus said this was the best spot," Aulus Hirtius, one of Caesar's Legates spoke up, voicing the question of the others.

  "On the western side it is," Caesar replied calmly. "But I didn't like the idea of setting up a base from which to assault the Wa's islands without clearing this isl
and first, and the best way to do that is to march across it, since it's not very wide."

  For a moment, Titus Pullus was unsure that he had heard correctly, and a quick glance at most of the others confirmed that he was not the only one feeling this way. In fact, only Hirtius and Pollio of the perhaps 20 senior commanders seemed to be the only ones unsurprised. Caesar continued issuing instructions, until he paused for a moment; then Balbinus, the Primus Pilus of the 12th spoke up:

  "Caesar, I'm confused. You said we were setting up a base to assault the islands of the Wa?"

  If Caesar knew what was coming, his face betrayed nothing, although he knew very well what was on Balbinus' mind.

  "Yes, Balbinus, that's exactly what I said."

  Caesar could have continued, but he refused to do so, choosing to force Balbinus to articulate exactly what was on his mind. Pullus knew that this was a favored tactic of his general, and had,in fact, been subjected to it himself, but that didn't mean he liked it any more than Balbinus.

  Seeing that Caesar wasn't going to be forthcoming, Balbinus continued, "I thought this was the Land of the Wa's or Was, or whatever they're called."

  "It's one of the islands of their land," Caesar agreed, "but it's a minor one. In fact, there are several islands, but the main island is where we're headed next."

  "So, we have to make another crossing?" this question came from Aulus Flaminius, the Primus Pilus of the 30th Legion, and now Caesar for the first time looked uncomfortable.

  "Yes, that's what it means, when there's another island, Flaminius," he said dryly. "I would have hoped that one of my Primi Pili would be aware that being on one island and having to get to another means they would have to get back aboard ship."

  There were a few muffled snickers, and Flaminius reddened, but kept his tone even, as he asked, "And how far away is this other island?"