by Peake, R. W.
"I bring orders from Caesar," Arrianus shouted, surprising the aquilifer even further.
Arrianus proceeded to relay them to Valerianus, who visibly blanched before turning about. Tapping his Primus Pilus on the hip, a move they had obviously used before, because instead of turning around, Pullus merely leaned back so he could hear what Valerianus had to say. Arrianus saw Pullus stiffen, and even over the din of battle he heard the string of oaths from his commanding officer. For several moments, Pullus continued his slow and steady shuffle forward, lashing out first with his shield, following up with his blade, as if he hadn't heard a word. It looked very much to Arrianus that Pullus wasn't going to obey.
Meanwhile, Cartufenus and his small group of men had become totally isolated, as the remnants of the First and Second Century obeyed the command to withdraw. Moving backwards in good order, the First, under the command of the Optio, maintained their cohesion as they edged back into the surf, abandoning the toehold of beach they had fought so hard to attain. Those who were able dragged wounded comrades back with them, but too many were being left behind, some of them begging their friends to take them along, others beyond caring, knowing they would be dead soon, one way or another. Cartufenus, glancing about, seeing and understanding what was happening, knew that he and the rest of the men with him were doomed, and a part of him was grimly amused that it would be these men, the shirkers, who would buy with their lives enough time for the rest of his men to clamber back aboard the transport.
"All right you cunni," he snarled to the dozen men still standing, "we're all fucked. But we're going to show these slant-eyed bastards how a Roman dies!"
It was hard to say who was more surprised at the hearty roar that issued from the throats of every single man as they signaled their assent: Cartufenus or the men themselves, but none of them hesitated as they renewed the fury of their attack, moving deeper into the ranks of the Wa pressing about them, their blades flashing in the air.
Scribonius was the last man of his Century off the beach, backing up slowly, his shield, riddled with arrows and scarred from several spear and sword strikes, but still intact, still in the first position. The slingers, after loading the wounded, had clambered back aboard, immediately moving to the foredeck of the transport, and were now sending a hail of missiles into the massed ranks of the Wa. This was all the protection that Scribonius had, as he continued backing through the surf, trying to steady himself against the waves and praying he didn't step into the same hole that he landed in when he had jumped into the water just—what, he thought with some surprise—about two thirds of a watch before, if that? Helping keep Scribonius safe were some of his Legionaries who, scrounging up unused javelins, were launching them at any Wa who gave them a target by getting too close. However, for the most part, they seemed content to stop just out of missile range and stand there, jeering at the retreating Romans. Despite having no idea what was being said, Scribonius and his men burned with shame and indignation, needing no translator to understand the scorn being heaped on them. Somehow, Scribonius managed to make it to the side of the transport, where several helping hands reached down and unceremoniously hauled him aboard, where he lay gasping on the deck from the exertion, still shaking from all that had transpired. Finally clambering to his feet, he took a quick glance around, dismayed at the sight of the carnage on the deck, as the medici attached to his Century, all two of them, hurried about, trying to assess those casualties that had a chance of being saved. Very quickly, Scribonius realized that there was little, if anything, that could be done for these men, since any treatment they would receive should be given by the more skilled Han physicians, or even the Pandyan, or the Greeks. But Caesar had planned only on success, counting on having space on dry land, after being successful, so he hadn't thought to disperse the physicians among all the transports. Any chance Scribonius' seriously wounded had now rested in the hands of these two medici, and it didn't take an expert to see that they were completely overwhelmed, since it appeared that at least half of the remaining members of his Century were wounded to one degree or another.
After what seemed to be another full watch, Titus Pullus snapped an order over his shoulder, never turning his head away from the enemy, and his cornicen, standing next to Valerianus, lifted the horn and blew the same notes that had sounded from Caesar's own man earlier. Automatically, and without any hesitation, the men in the rear ranks of the wedge formation, helped by the members of the Fourth Century on one side and the Fifth Century on the other, pushed outwards against those Wa still trying to apply pressure on the flanks of the formation. Bashing with their shields, the fresher men of the relieving Centuries very quickly made a space for the men of the First to extract themselves, and now all the watches of training for a maneuver that the Centurions and men alike scoffed at as something they would never do paid off. Closing the distance back to the surf line much more quickly than they had moved forward, the Romans rapidly began the process of loading back onto the transports. The Sixth Century had landed next to the Second, who had been anchoring the far left of the First Cohort's sector, and Balbus followed his men off the beach under the fresh javelins of the Sixth, who followed immediately after. However, there was no real pursuit; as in the case with Scribonius, heavy missile fire kept the Wa at bay, although this came from the heavier artillery of the offshore warships, instead of from slingers. Still, it was more than that, because the Wa showed no inclination towards pressing their victory, instead standing there amid the piles of bodies, many of those moving, but most lying still in the sand, panting heavily and unable to speak. Titus Pullus, surveying the beach, saw the Wa and with a brief flash of excitement understood that this was the moment to press the attack again, sure as he had ever been that victory was still in the Romans' grasp. He was about to turn his head and give the command to unload the ships and renew the assault when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a tall, spare figure standing on the deck of the flagship. Even from this distance, he could see Caesar glaring at him, causing the flare of savage jubilation to fizzle out immediately, and he hissed in frustration at what he was sure was an opportunity lost. Still, he obediently continued backing up, until he reached the side of the ship. Unlike Scribonius, he spurned the offers of help, but before he clambered aboard he turned back to face the new enemy, the only one who had ever made him retreat.
"I am Titus Pullus," he roared at the top of his lungs, lungs conditioned by decades of bellowing orders across vast expanses, so he knew the Wa would hear, even over the pounding waves and moaning men. "I am the Primus Pilus of Caesar's 10th Legion, and I swear by my gods Mars, Bellona, Shiva, and Mithras that we will be back! And I will have vengeance!"
Climbing aboard, he heard the jeering catcalls of the Wa, and like Scribonius and his men, he needed no translator to understand them.
Gnaeus Cartufenus had only a half-dozen of the original twenty men around him, and he had never been more exhausted than he was at that moment. He was barely able to hold his shield in the first position; this was the third shield, the others having been splintered, and his sword arm ached so badly that he couldn't hold his arm out upright, even though his life depended on it. Panting for breath, it felt as if he were inhaling pure fire, and every part of his body shook, as if he had the ague. His men were in the same situation, and they were now hemmed in on all sides by spear- and sword-wielding Wa, their weapons all pointing at the beleaguered group of Romans. Still, they didn't finish them off, and Cartufenus dimly wondered why, although it didn't seem to matter all that much. At that moment the idea of death was a relief, and after several moments, where nobody moved, Cartufenus finally had enough.
"Come on you savages," he gasped, waving his sword feebly in the direction of himself and his men, "come get us! Let's get this over with and we'll show you how Romans die!"
There was still no movement, until the ranks immediately opposite the Romans suddenly opened up and a Wa warrior stepped forward. This man wore the la
mellar iron armor, along with a helmet adorned with what Cartufenus assumed was some sort of bird. A crane, perhaps, he thought dully? Whatever, it didn't matter. The man was, like the rest of the Wa, short but compactly built, and without knowing a thing about him, Cartufenus and his men immediately understood that this was what passed for a nobleman of these people, his air of command and authority the same as if he were standing in the Forum of Rome. When the Wa spoke, it was in a guttural language that sounded nothing like the singsong pattern of the Han, but more like the language of the Gayan, those people of the peninsula the army had crossed just before coming here. Cartufenus had a few Gayan in his ranks, but none of them were here now, and even so, it wasn't likely that they could understand that much, either. But that didn't deter the Wa commander, who, as he talked, kept gesturing with the point of his sword. Once he was finished, he stood looking expectantly at Cartufenus and his survivors, telling the Primus Pilus that something was expected of him, although he had no idea what. Finally, Cartufenus spat onto the sand of the beach, then threw down his sword.
"Drop the weapons, boys," he told the rest of the men. "We might as well see what the gods have in store for us. Who knows," he said with grim and heavy humor, "maybe they'll be so impressed with us that they'll let us go."
Individually, none of Cartufenus' men, all veterans and all born survivors, would have believed their Centurion, but something happens when men group together, and a collective consciousness seems to take over, and along with it, the will to survive increases dramatically. Perhaps it's because the idea that one won't be alone when facing the unknown gives some men courage, but whatever the cause, Cartufenus' men followed suit, throwing down their swords. They were now captives of the Wa, and only the gods knew exactly what their fate would be.
Still standing at the rail, Caesar could only watch as the remnants of the first wave of his army boarded the transports, then slowly pulled away from the beach. Left behind was carnage on a level that Caesar couldn't recall seeing since Alesia, and while he took grim satisfaction in the sight of the majority of those lying strewn in the sand being Wa, he knew that his army had been badly hurt. Good men, really good men, were being left behind, and even as this thought crossed his mind, he heard a shout that alerted him to a sight farther down the beach. He could barely make out a small knot of what looked like Wa warriors, but they were clearly surrounding a smaller group, and with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he recognized that some of his men were prisoners. Hopefully it won't be a Centurion, he thought, not knowing that his worst fears were being realized. Unfortunately, there were even bigger problems, and Caesar began preparing himself mentally for the reality to sink in: the Wa had repulsed the landing. Caesar had been defeated.
Chapter 4
It was a somber group of men crammed into Caesar's stateroom aboard the flagship. None of them was accustomed to defeat, and there was no way for any of them to pretend this was anything but a defeat, and a resounding one at that. Standing and bracing himself against the rolling ship, Caesar surveyed the faces of the men around him, his expression matching theirs. Now is not the time to grieve, he admonished himself, recognizing that as they had done so many times before, this group of men, leaders of his army, were looking to him to set the tone and to provide a solution to their dilemma.
"Before I say anything else, I would like to offer a prayer to the gods for Cartufenus and his men, and request not only their blessing on him and his men, but a curse onto the Wa for what they did."
Although the men all bowed their heads and held their arms out in supplication, as Caesar intoned the words, the sense of anger and frustration was palpable in the small room. Titus Pullus, in particular, felt a surge of rage and guilt— Cartufenus having been more than a colleague but also a friend—as Caesar's voice droned the ritual blessing. Had this been his fault, he wondered? Had his stubborn refusal to withdraw from the beach helped to spur the Wa into the act of barbarity they were all forced to witness in helpless anger, as they stood at the rail of their respective ships? Shaking his head, trying to dispel such thoughts, he was singularly unsuccessful in banishing the memory of Cartufenus and his men, kneeling, with their hands bound, being systematically decapitated. The roars of rage and helplessness clearly carried across the entire fleet, as a Wa warrior—probably the leader judging by the adornment of his helmet and quality of his armor— walked from one Legionary to the next. There would be the flash of a blade as it slashed down in a graceful arc, and the detached part of Pullus' mind found itself in grudging envy of the fluidity and obvious force behind each blow. The sight of a head rolling in the sand, spattering gore as it tumbled a couple of paces, jerked him from that admiration, and as hardened a soldier as he was, he felt a clenching in his stomach that signaled the possibility of its expelling whatever contents were left in it.
Now, standing shoulder to shoulder with the other Primi Pili, Tribunes, and Legates, Pullus looked to Caesar, his prayer finished, to issue the orders that would begin the process of avenging the death of not just Cartufenus, but all of those left behind on the beach. All of the assembled men understood that if the Wa had executed those able-bodied men left behind, their stranded wounded suffered the same fate, making their anger a palpable force. Conscious of it, Caesar was careful in his speech.
"There is no question that we must avenge the death of those men who were left behind," he began, but seeing the faces of the Centurions, most notably Pullus, darken, he hastily added, "through no man's fault but my own." Seeing a slight relaxing in their posture, Caesar continued, "But we cannot afford another setback like today’s."
That's one way to put it, Pullus thought, but he knew how hard it was for a man like Caesar to utter the word "defeat".
"To that end, I've sent Volusenus farther up the coast to find a landing site that's unlikely to be contested. Barring that, he has orders to look for another island that is either uninhabited or lightly defended, so that we can land there and recover."
The men digested this, saying nothing, unsettling Caesar a bit. Normally there would be questions, or at the least some comments, but nobody said a word.
Silence stretched out for several heartbeats, prompting Caesar to ask, somewhat irritably, "Are there any questions?"
None were forthcoming, so nonplussed, Caesar dismissed the men to return to their respective ships, each man buried deep in his own thoughts.
Volusenus' ship returned to the fleet three days later, meeting up as the main group continued to beat north into the teeth of a steadily growing wind. After rowing to the flagship, Volusenus reported the presence of what appeared to be an uninhabited island another two days farther north, but Volusenus was adamant that there wasn't a single beach or anchorage sufficient for the fleet. The only other option was the much larger island they had seen to the south during their passage to the main island, but even from a distance, it had looked as forbidding a place to land as the island Volusenus had found. Additionally, Caesar reasoned that the larger island was in all likelihood inhabited, and despite taking the first island east of the Gayan peninsula with ease, even the man renowned for his luck and daring was shaken.
Turning cold eyes to Zhang, he addressed his question to Achaemenes, "Does he know whether the island to the south is inhabited? And if so, in what numbers and, more importantly, are there any of those abominable savages there?"
As he waited for the translation, Caesar pondered all that Volusenus had told him. He knew very well that every day at sea that passed, more of his men who still might be saved would die, but he couldn't suffer another setback like the one that had occurred a few days before. NOT a setback, Gaius, he chided himself. Even if you don't utter the word aloud, you must not lie to yourself. We, no, I was trounced, defeated, beaten. Suddenly and savagely, the word NO screamed unbidden in his mind, almost making him utter the word aloud, but only with the discipline of Caesar did he avoid making such a blunder. I may have been defeated, but I am NOT BEATEN, he raged at himself,
all the while maintaining the same, calm demeanor his men knew so well. For that was the power of being Caesar: never, ever, did he betray what he was really thinking at any time, and this time, more than others, this was important, because any sign of self-doubt would fuel what he knew were already mutterings among the men, that Caesar's luck had finally run out. One such defeat he could master, but two? No, not even Caesar could overcome that, hence the importance of his next decision.
Achaemenes finally turned to Caesar and reported, "Zhang says that the island to the south, while it's uninhabited, doesn't have an anchorage of a sufficient size for the fleet."
Despite his best attempt, Caesar hissed in frustration, turning back to Volusenus, who looked extremely uncomfortable being the sole focus of his commander's attention.