by Peake, R. W.
Sextus Scribonius had managed to defend against the unorthodox attack of the Wa warrior, but he was given no time to celebrate his victory, as the spot was immediately filled by another man, this one also wielding a sword. This was the first Wa swordsman Scribonius faced, and like Pullus, he couldn't help feeling unsettled by the obvious speed and grace of his opponent. Everything the Roman method of warfare counted on: teamwork, relentless training, sometimes bone-crushing discipline—none of these seemed to matter against the Wa, each of whom seemed to be an endless fount of energy and skill. Regardless, Scribonius and his men fought on, having pushed their way a few paces farther up from the surf line, stepping over the bodies of the fallen, Wa and Roman. None of the medici had landed yet, so the wounded were forced to look out for themselves the best they could, hoping they survived long enough to receive treatment. Some of them managed to draw themselves up under their shields, and there were a number of these, looking a bit like turtles who have drawn in their feet and head, scattered about the beach among the corpses or those wounded unable to do even that to protect themselves. Behind him, Scribonius heard another blast of the cornu, sounding the signal to advance, and he wondered if it was meant for the transports carrying the rest of his Cohorts. Because he had just landed with his Century and the Balearic slingers, his men were hard-pressed: the slingers were at this point almost useless, because the range was too close, so they were huddled together, standing knee-deep in the surf and occasionally sending a missile into the packed mass of Wa whenever an opportunity arose. It would have been better if they had stayed on the ship and used the height advantage to fire over our heads, Scribonius thought, immediately after killing the sword-wielding Wa with a backhanded slash to the neck. From Scribonius' quick assessment, he was dismayed to see that almost half his men were down, leaving fewer than 40 packed together, still fighting. To his immediate right, the men of the Third Cohort of the 10th were faring little better, although they seemed to have suffered slightly lighter casualties.
"Either we get reinforced, or we get back on the boat," Scribonius muttered to himself, but even as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw that the ship from which he unloaded had already pulled off the beach and was rowing away. Stifling a curse, he turned back around, his only hope that another ship had answered the cornu command and was rowing up to replace it.
Caesar was watching all of this from his flagship, and somehow, without making a conscious decision, he began the process of determining what needed to be done in order to extract that part of his army on the beach. Although a relatively small part of his overall numbers was trapped there, it represented the fighting heart of his army, and to lose those men would be a catastrophe from which not even Caesar's luck could save him, and he knew it. Still, it was almost impossible to bring himself to give the order to send in the transports that had pulled away from the beach back in to retrieve the men. Part of this hesitance was because of his deep-seated belief in himself and his men, but just as much of it was due to the fact that neither he nor any of his officers had ever discussed the best means to conduct such a withdrawal. The last time it might have been necessary was the first invasion of Britannia, and that was so long ago, and so many more landings had been effected that withdrawal didn't seem to be worthy of contemplation. But here Caesar was, watching his men die just for a few paces of sandy beach, desperately struggling to keep from being thrown into the pounding surf. With a start, Caesar realized that the swells had been steadily increasing, the waves crashing onto the beach growing ever higher, only compounding his headaches. If they got any stronger, he thought, they will be enough to knock some of the men off their feet, and then they'll be done for. With growing dismay, he knew that his time to decide was running out faster than even his prodigious mind could compensate for, and he turned to his personal cornicen.
"Be prepared for my command," he told the wide-eyed man calmly, the steadiness of his voice belying the turmoil he was feeling inside, as he prepared to give an order he hadn't given once during this entire 10 year campaign.
Titus Pullus heard the blast of the cornu once, twice, then a third time, before his mind finally registered the meaning.
Retreat? he thought. Could that possibly be what he had heard? His wedge formation had finally made its way several paces inland, the men in it fighting savagely to secure this tiny foothold of beach. Now, after losing the gods knew how many men, he was supposed to give it up? Never before had Pullus' loyalty to Caesar and instant obedience to orders been so severely tested, not even at Pharsalus, as it was at this moment. His men, and he himself, had fought like Achilles this day to gain territory, however little it may have been, and Titus Pullus wasn't the type of man to surrender ground won at such cost willingly. In fact, he continued fighting, counting on his example to keep the men around him inspired to do the same.
Caesar watched as the transports of the first wave that had unloaded their cargo then left the beach now try to maneuver their way back. The increasingly heavy surf compounded matters, causing two of the transports to collide heavily against each other, snapping off at least a half-dozen oars from both craft. Caesar couldn't help a curse escaping his lips; it was very rare that he lost his composure, at least in public, but this was one of those occasions. Giving his cornicen a sidelong glance, he saw that the man was much too occupied with the sight before him to give any indication that he noticed his general muttering about men whose mothers may have been prostitutes. Turning his gaze back to the beach, he could only watch as the two damaged transports tried to disengage from each other, with limited success. Meanwhile, he saw that Pullus and his Century had managed to use their wedge formation to gain more of a foothold on the beach, causing him a pang of anxiety. For an instant, he experienced a sense of doubt, a very foreign feeling to Caesar, as he wondered if he had been premature in sounding the retreat. Then he looked down the length of the beach, and seeing the majority of his men still standing on the fringe of the beach or in the surf, his resolve returned. If Pullus and his men were able to fight their way onto the beach, they were able to fight their way off it!
For Sextus Scribonius, the call to retreat was something of a relief, and in fact, he had been half-hoping for that signal. Turning his mind to the immediate problem, he called over his shoulder to his own cornicen.
"Give the signal for fighting withdrawal," he shouted.
Almost instantly the deep, bass notes issued from the large curved horn, and Scribonius immediately took note that the faces of the men around him showed nothing but relief. Indeed, the command seemed to infuse the men with more energy as they began the process of shuffling backward. Now, Scribonius thought, all we need is a boat to get aboard. As his Legionaries began the process of withdrawing, Scribonius disentangled himself from the crush of men, shoving his way to the rear. It was only because of the respect and regard in which his men held him that none of them thought for an instant that he was positioning himself to be the first aboard; they knew him too well. Instead, he was making his way to Andros, the commander of the slingers, who had provided very little support to that point.
"I need you to form up there," Scribonius shouted, while pointing to a spot where the surf was perhaps knee-deep. "You're going to fire over our heads and keep these cunni at bay, while we get back on the boat."
Andros stared at Scribonius in disbelief.
"Are you mad?" he gasped. "Being this close means some of your men will be hit. My men are good, but they're not that good."
"I know that," Scribonius replied grimly, "but that's the only way to get any breathing room." Grabbing Andros by the arm, he finished urgently, "If you don't do this, we're all going to die on this beach."
Gulping, Andros only nodded in answer.
Farther down the beach, Gnaeus Cartufenus and his group of 20 men had just gone smashing into the Wa ranks when the signal to withdraw sounded, but neither he nor his men heard it over the din of clashing metal and shouting men. Oblivious to anything but
the Wa across from him, Cartufenus was a snarling, spitting mass of malevolent energy and focused violence, thrusting and bashing with his shield, fighting desperately to gain a purchase of more sandy beach. Infected by the example of their leader, men who normally would have never found themselves in the thick of fighting were standing next to him, matching Cartufenus in his fury. For the first time there was a wavering in the Wa line, as they absorbed the impact of this small group of Romans, hacking their way into the midst of the Wa ranks. Knocking spears aside, the Romans demonstrated a level of teamwork and controlled ferocity that countless enemies before them had been forced to endure, and like those enemies, the Wa found themselves taking a step backward, tentative and halting, but definitely backward. The bulk of Cartufenus' men, however, heard the signal, and his Optio, a man named Spurius Lentulus, seeing his Primus Pilus isolated and either ignoring or not hearing the command, did his duty and took control. Like Scribonius, Lentulus ordered the cornicen to sound the call to make a fighting withdrawal. Only then did Cartufenus take notice, his head whipping around at the sound, but by this point the Wa on his flanks had enfolded his group so that they were completely isolated. The only way for Cartufenus and his men to join the rest of his men would be to fight their way out.
The empty transports finally made their way back up to the beach. Caesar, who had ordered the bombardment of his artillery to cease, in order to conserve ammunition, now commanded the galleys to re-commence firing to provide covering fire. For those Centuries that had not made headway onto the beach, withdrawing was more straightforward, although there was substantial difficulty in extracting wounded men. Those wounded who could, staggered and waded through the now-heavy surf, some of them covered in blood, seemingly from a wound to their upper body, and were dragged aboard by crewmen. Ironically, these were the lucky men, because those still able-bodied enough to fight had the extra pressure of keeping the Wa across from them at bay, as they backed up through the surf. Fortunately, the Wa were now showing their first signs of fatigue and were not as eager as they had been just moments before. Much of it had to do with the bodies piled on the fringe of the beach, the sand and surf on either side of the line almost completely red. Not only was it demoralizing to see so many casualties, they served as a barrier to keep the Wa somewhat at bay. Even so, there were quite a few Wa who clambered over and around the bodies to keep up the pressure. Unlike those Wa who were in the first few ranks, these men were almost exclusively armed with swords, which they wielded in a manner unlike any the Romans had encountered before. Like the Gauls, the Wa slashed with their weapons, but unlike the swords of the warriors of that now-faraway land, the Wa blades were more slender and the men wielding them seemed adept at attacking from any angle. Unlike the Gauls, who attempted to decapitate their opponents with their long swords, the Wa seemed content to land a damaging blow wherever they found an opening, clearly counting on their conditioning and endurance to outlast their opponents. From his ship, Caesar could see the flashing blades of those Wa who came pushing against his men, as they shuffled backward, shields up. He was pleased to see that the Romans were scoring hits, as Wa warriors were bested by the short, thrusting sword they all still carried. Even now, Caesar mused, as skilled as some of the warriors of the lands I have conquered have been, when it comes to a weapon, nothing has been superior to the Spanish sword. Until now, he thought grimly, although this was only half-formed, something worthy of further contemplation, but not until he had extricated the rest of his army.
Pullus' sword arm was soaked up to the elbow with blood, and it ached like never before from all the work he had done. Still, he was proud of his men, because they had now actually managed to crack the Wa lines. But now he was supposed to give all this up? Despite the fatigue, despite the loss of so many men, Pullus still couldn't really fathom the idea of retreat. So, out of all the Centurions on the beach, Pullus alone refused to give the order to withdraw, choosing to ignore the command. And save for a couple of glances over their shoulders, his men didn't hesitate to continue following their Primus Pilus. Not only were they conditioned to obey their Centurion, but they also had ultimate faith in him; he was a legend, not just in the 10th Legion, but in all of Caesar's army. And if he still believed that victory was possible, then they did as well. Consequently, they continued trying to move forward, confident that their Primus Pilus knew best. For his part, Pullus continued surging forward, always applying pressure on whoever stood opposite him, slaying each of them in turn. Besides his wound in his upper shoulder, he had a gash on his shield arm and a cut just above his left greave, so while most of the blood on him was not his, not all of it was that of his enemies. None of those wounds deterred him; his body was already covered in scars by this time. In fact, Scribonius often joked that it was harder to find a spot on Pullus that didn't have a scar than the opposite. All of these Pullus bore proudly: they were the proof of his accomplishments even more than the phalarae, torqs, and crowns that he had won. It was because of these scars that men followed him so readily and so steadfastly, and that bond was in evidence now, as Pullus continued fighting.
A short distance away, Scribonius was backing up, slowly, across the small expanse of beach his men had claimed, trying to avoid the bodies. The Balearic slingers had begun whirling their arms above their heads, loosing their lead missiles—much deadlier than the smooth rocks they had used previously—sending them whizzing just inches above the heads of the Romans. Despite their best efforts, there would be a stray shot, smashing into the unprotected back of one of the Romans, followed by either a grunt or shrill scream. One of the stricken man's comrades would grab him by the harness, dragging him backward to deposit him unceremoniously on the sand, or as the withdrawal continued, in the shallow surf. Those men unlucky enough to be unconscious ended up face down in the surf, either by the action of the waves or because the men dropping them there had other things on their minds. Only because slingers who, between loosing shots, were grabbing those men and turning them over, were they saved, since no medici had landed. There was still the problem of loading not just the unfortunates felled by the slingers, but also those wounded earlier in the action who were unable to help themselves. Realizing this, Scribonius reluctantly gave the command for half the slingers to cease fire and begin loading these men onto the boats, an order they obeyed with alacrity. No man was willing to leave a wounded comrade behind, if only because, if it ever happened to them, they didn't want to suffer the same fate. Whatever the reason, there was no hesitation on the part of the slingers as they either carried or dragged the unconscious men back toward the waiting transport. Very slowly and methodically, the men of the Second Cohort disengaged and made their way toward the waiting transport.
By this time Caesar wasn't bothering to hide his agitation, but this time it was aimed at the Primus Pilus of his 10th Legion, his favorite and best Legion. Seeing that Pullus had made no attempt to withdraw either himself or his men, Caesar pounded the rail in frustration. Of all the men he could afford to lose, Pullus and by extension, the First and Second Century of the First Cohort of the 10th were last on the list. His judgment was not entirely based on just the practical; he vividly remembered the first time he had decorated the tall, broad man now on the beach as a raw youth of 17, and over the years they had become as close as it was possible for men in their respective positions to be. In fact, Caesar was now faced with a choice he had no desire to make, but this time he didn't hesitate.
"Send the rest of the First Cohort onto the beach," he snapped at one of his aides. "Their orders are to help Pullus get his insubordinate ass back aboard their ship," he roared the last few words. "So I can crucify him myself."
Responding to the commands, the transports carrying the rest of the First Cohort came riding the heavy surf up onto the beach. Their task was made more difficult, because the transport originally carrying the first two Centuries had responded to Caesar's command and was pulling back onto the beach. The other two transports had to aim
on either side of the beached vessel, but both captains managed to do just that, and before the transports came to a halt, the men aboard were jumping into the seething water. The Princeps Prior, commander of the Fourth Century of the First Cohort, Servius Arrianus, was the first over the side, followed close behind by the rest of his men, each of them eager to save their friends in the other Centuries. Thanks to the incursion made by Pullus and the men of the First Century, there was sufficient room to form up before plunging into the Wa ranks. The Wa, seeing the arrival of fresh men, realized that, at the least, this meant that their time to annihilate the wedge formation of the First Century was growing shorter, and as a result picked up the fury of their assault on the compact group. Balbus and Camillus had also managed to push the Wa back a bit, if only to maintain contact with the First on their right, now several dozen paces up the beach. Arrianus had one simple task: get to Pullus and make sure he understood that Caesar had ordered a withdrawal. Despite the seemingly straightforward nature of his task, Arrianus was not looking forward to delivering the message. As much as he admired and respected Titus Pullus, there was a healthy dose of fear there as well, so between facing these Wa barbarians or Pullus, to Arrianus it wasn't that different. Nevertheless, he was at the head of his men as they left the water behind and stepped over the piles of bodies on the beach, some of whom were reaching out and calling for help from friends they recognized and who were charging past. Nobody had time for these unfortunates at that moment, save for a sympathetic glance as they went by. Pushing his way through the packed rear ranks, where in each row the legionary was holding the harness of the man ahead of him, Arrianus forced his way forward between the files, snarling at men when they wouldn't immediately give way. Finally reaching just a couple rows behind his giant Primus Pilus, who was still thrusting and slashing at the Wa in front of him, Arrianus was at a loss what to do. Shouting might distract Pullus, although for the first time the Wa immediately surrounding the front of the wedge formation were no longer pressing as closely as they had. In fact, there seemed to be a pocket of space just outside the radius of the reach of Pullus and the front ranks of the formation, and even Arrianus was troubled with the thought, should we really be retreating? Nevertheless, those were the orders he was to relay, so he finally reached out and tapped Valerianus, the aquilifer of the Legion standing immediately behind Pullus. Whipping his head about so quickly it almost dislodged the wolfskin headdress that everyone in his position wore, Valerianus' eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected sight of the Fourth Century Centurion.