Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  Just a couple of ships away, Julius Caesar again stood in the prow, oblivious to the surging spray produced by the definitely higher chop of this morning. Like Titus Pullus, his stomach was churning, and if they were standing side by side, perhaps one of them would mention it and discover that their anxiety stemmed from the same place, which was that nagging spot called the unknown. Because, like Pullus, Caesar couldn't define what felt different about this day. But whatever it was, he would see it through, and even as unfamiliar as he may have been with the feeling, he wouldn't have called it doubt. Never that! Caesar didn't experience doubt or fear. Still, it was hard to dismiss the gnawing feeling in his gut, as he stared at the ranks of men, as unmoving as any Roman Legion.

  Sextus Scribonius, Pilus Prior of the Second Cohort and Titus Pullus' best friend was too busy to worry about what was coming, as he checked the men of his Century, hoping that his other Centurions were doing the same. These transports fit only two Centuries apiece, but in the case of each First Century of each Cohort, save the First, instead of the Second Century, there was a contingent of missile troops. Accompanying Scribonius and his Century were the last of the slingers from the Balearic Isles, a hardened group of men who still wore their traditional tunics, although the original material had long since been replaced, and who disdained the lamellar cuirasses made of leather most of the other missile troops had taken to wearing, once they were introduced to them by the Han. They also insisted on stubbornly conversing in their own tongue whenever a Roman Centurion was about, Scribonius noted sourly, but he knew they would fight like the Furies, and his inspection would yield nothing with which he could find fault. Scribonius made his usual small talk with his men; unlike Pullus, whose very size and bulk made him so formidable and, coupled with his reputation, made him respected out of fear as much as from devotion, Scribonius was genuinely loved by his men. He could be a harsh disciplinarian, but he was scrupulously fair and did whatever he could to make the lives of his men easier. Now he was making bad jokes and complimenting his men for their efforts to make themselves presentable under the circumstances. But these men were veterans of Caesar's army, and it had always been their practice to go into battle wearing their decorations and horsehair plume, so today was no exception. When Scribonius stepped in front of Publius Vellusius, he spent more time than with the other men, as the two shared a quiet word, their bond even stronger, because many years before, they both had been scared, wide-eyed teenagers, sharing the same tent. Even now, that bond transcended the normal gulf that existed between Centurion and ranker, and both were glad that the other was there to face the coming battle.

  Pullus and the First Cohort were naturally in the first wave, the men of the first two Centuries now standing from a point amidships to the rear of the transport, in order to raise the prow in preparation for the moment when the ship would ram itself onto the beach. As he did every other time, Pullus wished there were a better way to accomplish an amphibious landing than just rowing a boat onto the shore and jumping over the side into water that could be anywhere from waist-high to deep enough to drown most of the men. That was never a problem for Pullus personally, but it was still a worry, nonetheless—just one of the thousand things that crowded the mind of a Primus Pilus going into battle. Like Caesar, Pullus was the only man standing in the prow of his ship, eyes riveted to the beach that was now rapidly approaching.

  "If they've got missile troops, we're coming into range right about...now," he muttered to himself, and as if he had summoned it by his words, the sky suddenly darkened with the slivers that he knew were arrows, originating from the rear ranks of the waiting Wa. Before he himself could bellow the words, a few of the men, peering over the side at the beach, shouted the warning, as men's shield arms automatically lifted. Normally, this would have been a move executed with precision but because of the cramped conditions on the deck, most of the men ended up jostling those immediately in front of them, forming what looked somewhat like a shuddering beast trying to shake itself. The delay caused more than just a superficial problem, because there were gaps in the normally impenetrable testudo, gaps through which those missiles shot, seeking a fleshy target to land with the wet, thudding sound that signaled a strike. The air immediately filled with sounds of men in pain, some howling, some cursing, but others only seemed to utter a soft sigh before partially slumping to the deck, held upright only by the pressure of their tightly packed comrades on either side. Even before Pullus could react and more rapidly than he had ever before seen even against the Parthian archers, another volley came slicing towards him and his men, just as thick as the first. Thank the gods I decided to grab a shield from stores, instead of waiting for one! The thought flashed through his mind even as he felt the shield he was trying to shelter behind shudder from one, two, then three solid strikes from the feathered shafts. Still at a range where the barbed points barely poked all the way through, Pullus knew that by the time they were on the beach itself, the enemy’s arrows would carry enough force to protrude several inches through the layers of wood and glue that comprised his shield. The only thing working in the Romans' favor at that point that Pullus could see was that the Wa infantry was deployed almost to the water's edge, making it impossible for their missile troops to continue this murderous fire, once he and his men went over the side. Looking behind him, he could see that the second volley had mostly been blocked, but already the first several ranks of men had multiple arrows sticking out of their shields. Even as he took this all in, yet a third volley came slamming down into the packed ranks, while the open deck between where Pullus was standing and where the Century was amidships was literally studded with arrows. It looks like a pincushion, he thought absentmindedly, as he felt the scraping, grating jolt of the prow of the transport coming into contact with the sand of the beach, almost throwing him off his feet because his attention was focused elsewhere. Fortunately, his men were better prepared, some of them only stumbling slightly; but a couple of men, further hampered by the body of a wounded or dead comrade lying at their feet, lost their balance to fall clumsily onto the deck.

  The transport now grounded, this was normally the time when speed was vital, that the faster the men unloaded and stormed the beach, the more quickly the transport could pull away from the beach and another could take its place. After conducting almost a dozen such operations, Pullus, along with every veteran of the army, officer and men alike, knew that the key to such an assault was normally to get as many men on the beach as quickly as possible. Yet this time, the men didn't move. It was almost like Caesar's first invasion of Britannia, when nobody got off the boats, until the Legion aquilifer, carrying the sacred eagle standard of the Legion, leaped into the water. But despite that similarity, this time was very, very different, because on this occasion, it was by design: Caesar, seeing the packed ranks of the Wa warriors and their proximity to the surf line, had signaled shortly before reaching missile range for the men to remain aboard. His reason for waiting was to enable his warships, along with a squadron of specially designed and armed chuan, to maneuver themselves into a position parallel to the beach, but arrayed so that the bulk of each craft was in the gaps between transports. Caesar's purpose was made clear in a matter of moments, when the first salvo of artillery fire, a combination of scorpion bolts and the smooth, one pound rocks from the ballistae bolted to the deck of the warships sliced into the ranks of the Wa, tearing bloody holes into the tightly packed mass. For the first time, Pullus could hear the screams of the Wa, the first real sounds they had made, but even as he watched with a sense of unease, those holes were immediately filled in a disciplined manner with which no Primus Pilus could find fault.

  Unfortunately, the men on the beached transports were still on the receiving end of what was appearing to be an endless supply of arrows, and very quickly Pullus realized that even if his casualties were minimal, it was extremely likely that a substantial number of his men would have their shields rendered useless, because they would be so weak
ened from being riddled with arrows. While knocking the shafts off would help restore the balance to the shield, with a dozen or more arrows in it, it was probable that a shield would be cracked, making it vulnerable to splitting apart at the first strike from a bladed weapon or spear. But there was nothing that could be done about it, and was just one of those things that might tip a battle in either direction, depending on how the men responded to fighting without that protection. For Centurions and Optios, it was not as much of a challenge, but there were only two of those per Century. Still, the punishment was no longer one-way, and as Titus crouched behind his shield, between dodging arrows, he took great satisfaction in watching the bodies of the Wa warriors being transfixed or mangled, depending on what hit them. The scorpions, in particular, were great for producing mass casualties, particularly at this relatively close range of perhaps 150 paces from the surf line, with one iron bolt usually passing through at least two and sometimes three men. Even as Titus watched, one bolt, aimed a little higher than the rest, struck a Wa warrior right in the nose, causing his head to explode in a spray of red mist, as what Pullus assumed was the top half of his skull went spinning off to the right, trailing bits of gore behind it. As many times as he had seen such things, it still made him shudder and thank the gods that he wasn't on the receiving end.

  Despite soaking up this punishment, the Wa continued to shift their ranks rapidly to fill the gaps opened by the carnage wreaked by the vicious bombardment. And there seemed to be no end to the supply of men willing to step into the front ranks, despite knowing the fate that awaited them; it was this sight more than anything that fueled Titus Pullus' growing sense of unease. However, he would still be the first over the side to wade ashore and into the mass of waiting men. Suddenly, the barrage stopped, and there was the blast of a horn coming from Caesar's flagship, the call quickly picked up by the cornici on the other ships.

  Without hesitation, Titus Pullus stood and strode to the starboard side of the transport, and, without looking back to see if he was being followed, he bellowed, "Over the side you, cunni! It's time to earn our pay!"

  And then with a splash, he disappeared over the side.

  While Sextus Scribonius wasn't in a position to see his Primus Pilus go over the side, he clearly heard the blast of the cornu, the heavy, curved horn that was used in battle, because its sound carried so far. But like his best friend, he was the first over the side as well, creating a huge splash as he struggled to keep the shield he had drawn from stores above his head, so that it wouldn't get wet. Pullus had ordered the men to keep the leather covers on their shields to protect them from the inevitable splashing about, because if the shield was completely immersed, nothing could keep it from becoming waterlogged, and a shield in that condition was worse than useless. Even so, either because of where his craft had landed, or because Scribonius was just unlucky enough to land in an underwater hole, he went completely under, almost losing himself in panic as his feet scrabbled to find purchase on the bottom, which seemed to be mostly sand, with precious few rocks to provide traction. Finally his head burst above the surface, water streaming from the transverse crest and his helmet and still obscuring his vision as he spluttered and gasped for breath. Shaking his head and blinking to clear his vision, he caught in glimpses the fact that his men hadn't hesitated in following him over the side, and that they were now churning through the surf to make their way onto the beach.

  Even as he took this in, he heard a huge roar, issued from the throats of the thousands of Wa warriors who leaped forward to come sprinting the short distance from their spot on the beach to the very edge of the surf. Indeed, he saw dozens of them charging forward, wearing helmets similar in style to those worn by the Han, and carrying as their primary weapon a long shafted weapon with a teardrop-shaped blade at the end. Otherwise they carried no shields, apparently counting on the length of the spear to keep the enemy from getting close enough to do any damage. Their armor was the lamellar style also used by the Han, but the overlapping plates were of leather, at least for these men. All of these details Scribonius took in as he waded ashore, his shield now up in what was called the first position. Because of his stumble, a number of his men had reached the beach first, and he thought with equal parts regret and relief, no corona litus for me, referring to the crown, devised by Caesar, that was an addition to the various coronae in use in the Roman army for centuries as decorations for bravery. As he watched, the Wa warriors slashed into the leading elements of his men, who were unable to do anything more than form a partial single line, although more men were making their way either alongside or behind their comrades already on the beach. Therefore, Scribonius wasn't too worried when he saw a couple of his men stumbling backward from the potent jabs and thrusts of the Wa, knowing that once the Romans got into formation, they would be able to support each other. And Scribonius, like Pullus, had been in so many battles, and had been victorious so often that his mind didn't even register the possibility of defeat.

  Titus Pullus was lucky, both because of his height and because of his landing in water that was barely above his waist. Naturally it meant that he made more of a target, but this was something to which he'd long been accustomed, and, frankly, he was thankful that his shield, already weakened by arrows, didn't have to withstand any more of those missiles. Instead, just like in Scribonius' area, the Wa weren't content to wait to let the invaders come to them, but the Wa found in the Roman fighters opponents with as much battle fervor as they possessed. Seeing a small number of Wa, carrying the same weapon that faced Scribonius and his men, dashing towards him, Pullus tried to generate as much momentum as he could by surging through the water, his thighs pumping in a futile attempt to gain speed. Just as the first Wa warrior, eyes almost invisible as his face contorted in a primal scream of anger and hatred, thrust his long weapon at Pullus' midsection, Pullus took the blow on his shield, surprised by the strength behind it for such a small man, but using his blade, put all his strength into a slicing downward blow, cutting through the shaft of the spear as if it were a twig.

  The blade Pullus was wielding was one he had paid to have made for him more than 20 years earlier, in Gaul, and despite his searching through all the lands he had traveled through, there was still no weapon that he had found that matched it. Even more than Scribonius, this blade was his oldest and best friend, and it didn't let him down now, as he saw the Wa's eyes widen in shock at what this giant was able to do. In fact, he was still in shock when Pullus made his next move, bashing the boss of his shield into the gaping face of the Wa, hearing the bone crunch above the din of surf and battle. The Wa collapsed in a heap, as if the bones in his body suddenly disintegrated, but even before he did, Pullus was moving toward the next Wa. Titus Pullus was a very quick man for his size, and up until that instant, he had never met anyone quicker than his boyhood friend and first comrade in the Legions, Vibius Domitius; but he had never seen a single man, let alone so many, move with such blinding speed as he did. Before his mind could register, his shield arm had moved to block another blow from a second Wa, and he felt the shuddering jar of the blow all the way up his arm. Even worse, he heard a distinctive crack that warned him that his shield was weakening. For an instant, the teardrop-shaped blade lodged in the wood of his shield, which wouldn't have been such a problem, except that a third Wa came at him—but this time with a high, downward sweeping blow designed to cleave Pullus' helmet and skull, and Pullus was unable to use his shield. Instead, raising his blade above his head, a tiny shower of sparks was created when the sword and the head of the spear clashed together, except that instead of bouncing off as normally happened, Pullus immediately saw the purpose in the two tines angling from the head of the spear, when his blade was caught between the head and one of the tines. The Wa warrior gave a ferocious jerk, and it was only because of the grip taught to him almost 30 years before by his first weapons instructor, Aulus Vinicius, that it wasn't yanked from his hand. Instead, the Wa was thrown off balance, as Pul
lus twisted the blade to free it from the spear, then made a sweeping cut that slashed across the throat of his adversary. By this point, the second Wa of the original three—with two now dead—had freed his spear for another attack, but before he could renew it Pullus' men had arrived, and suddenly Pullus found himself shoved not so gently to the side, as his men rushed to engage the enemy.