Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  Once more, he paused and waited for the men to digest this, and, while he wasn't surprised, he was somewhat disappointed at the looks of doubt and uncertainty some of the men had on their faces, and those looks weren't confined to the Centurions. Hirtius, Pollio, and the less senior Legates also looked distinctly uncomfortable, but since Caesar had made up his mind, he didn't give them the opportunity to raise whatever objections they may have had, dismissing his officers immediately. A couple of them, notably Pullus and Hirtius, stood there, not moving for several moments, both of them looking at each other, waiting for the other to speak. But using their hesitation, Caesar turned on his heel and left the meeting room, leaving the two of them open-mouthed.

  "I thought you were going to say something," Hirtius fumed, but Pullus was unapologetic, though as irritated as Hirtius.

  "It seems to me that rank has precedence in a situation like this," the Primus Pilus shot back, to which Hirtius had no real reply, recognizing that Pullus was right in this instance.

  Both men left discontented, but Pullus had the more immediate problem of passing the word to the men of the 10th Legion, and he, better than anyone, knew that they weren't going to be happy. Before he summoned them, he met with the Pili Priores to let them know what Caesar had decreed. Almost in unison, the Pili Priores sucked in a breath, each of them immediately thinking about the reaction of their respective Cohorts, and none of them felt sanguine about how the men would take this latest order.

  "We'll be getting the loading order later today," Pullus informed them, and, like Caesar, he wasn't in the mood for questions.

  Unlike Caesar, however, he had nowhere to go, since they were all crammed into his tent.

  "And what do we do, if they don't get on the ships?"

  This question came from the Pilus Prior of the Fifth Cohort, Gnaeus Macrianus, whom Pullus considered to be a candidate for his own post at some point in the future, although Pullus was nowhere near ready to step down. If it had come from someone other than Macrianus—perhaps Scribonius—Pullus wouldn't have entertained the question, but with them he felt compelled to answer.

  "We stripe as many backs as we need to," he answered harshly. "But I'm counting on each of you to keep that from happening."

  "How, exactly?"

  This time it was Scribonius who asked the question, and he refused to flinch at Pullus' angry glare, not cowed in the slightest by his friend's bluster. Expelling a harsh sigh, Pullus was forced to think for a moment.

  "You need to convince them that staying here isn't possible, and that if they want to spend all day scrabbling up mountains and making 20 miles a day, that's what's in store for them if they don't get aboard the ships. Also," he added, suddenly inspired, "let them know that there's no food in the area, and we have to find more food than the surrounding countryside offers."

  He paused to let this sink in, somewhat pleased to see that the Pili Priores seemed to accept this reasoning, mulling it over and not rejecting it out of hand.

  Finally, Scribonius spoke, "I think we can make that work with them, although I can't guarantee it. But none of them want to go hungry."

  "Or climb these fucking mountains," Metellus, the Pilus Prior of the Third Cohort, added.

  "Well, go do what you need to in order to make sure they're ready to board in the morning."

  Pullus, and if truth were known, Caesar and the rest of the Legates, were vastly relieved to see that in the morning, the men fell to their tasks of breaking down the camp and readying to board with only a bit more grumbling and discontent than was normal. Because of so much practice, the men were ready well within the time Caesar expected, and the boarding process commenced without delay. By the middle of the day, the fleet began moving out of the harbor, sailing west first, in order to clear the large island to the south that was their original anchorage. Once past this land mass, they turned south, making good time, clearing the southern tip of the island in less than a full watch, before turning east. Although most of the army was aboard, Caesar had taken a gamble, leaving almost his entire mounted force ashore to move eastward overland. Their orders were specific: keep close to the coast, staying within visual sight of the fleet whenever possible; Caesar had informed them he would send the Liburnian scout ship ashore twice a day to pick up any reports they made. In this manner, Caesar hoped to be informed of the presence of either larger areas of arable land that could be plundered for their harvest of rice, or of a large armed force.

  Caesar's plan, like all of his plans, was both simple, but sweeping in scope. Sure that there had been some survivors of the assault on the town who escaped, his hope was that they would spread the alarm, and give the Wa sufficient time to muster a force that represented the bulk of their army. The real reason Caesar chose the sea route was that, given the success the Romans experienced with the last beach assault, he hoped that word of his fleet would reach the Wa commander, whoever he may be, and that the Wa army would choose the same tactic as the previous two times: to meet the Romans on the beach. To that end, Caesar had ordered that all usable bolts possible be salvaged from the site of the last fight, along with the rocks, but he had also had his men scrounge up as much in raw materials as they could in the time allowed. As the fleet sailed eastward, his immunes were hard at work, repairing the scorpion bolts and making new ones, along with shaping the hundreds of rocks that had been gathered. Caesar was counting on the idea that, moving with the speed for which he was famous, his army would appear at a place that was strategically important, before the Wa had a chance to reflect on what changes needed to be made in their tactics. If he could have his artillery do the brunt of the work as they had during the previous encounter, , Caesar was sure his army could vanquish any foe before them.

  Caesar and his army, heading east, were bringing Rome deep into the land of the Wa, still seeking to conquer one last land and one last people.

  It was a little more than a month after the Romans launched their invasion of Wa that there was the first appearance of trouble, of a sort that threatened not just the campaign, but the army itself.

  "We haven't located nearly as much rice as we thought we would," was how Caesar put it to his assembled Primi Pili. "However, we still expect to be resupplied from the stockpile we have on the first island."

  Caesar was referring to the lightly populated island they assaulted when they crossed from the Gayan Peninsula. Dubbed "Fortuna" by the men, Caesar had established a forward base on this island, directing that the Legate he left in charge, an older man who had been in charge of the vast herd of livestock needed to transport the army, put his energies into ferrying supplies from the Gayan Peninsula to the island. This man, Publius Ventidius Bassus by name and known throughout the army as Ventidius, the Muleteer, was a superb hand at the grindingly mundane, but crucially important, art of logistics. Caesar trusted Ventidius implicitly; therefore, he wasn't particularly worried at the dearth of consumables on the large island they were on now. According to Zhang, who was his only source of information about not only the size of the island, but also about practically everything else, they had barely covered a quarter of this island, so Caesar still harbored hopes of stumbling onto a settled area with the requisite foodstuffs his army needed. However, in the meantime, he had total confidence in his older Legate to provide the needed supplies. Caesar kept the base on Fortuna apprised of his latest position and intentions, using his Liburnians, still the fastest sailing craft he had at his disposal. Yet, the farther east along the coast they traveled, the longer the supply line stretched. It was a concern for the general, but not yet a worry.

  The progress of the army was slowed by the fact that Caesar insisted that the fleet halt every third day for the army to go ashore and make a proper camp. From this camp, they would spend a day, alternately resting and scouting, looking for signs of large settlements or arable land that showed signs of cultivation. Sometimes they would camp on one of the hundreds of islands that dotted this inland sea, but usually they tried to
find campsites on the main island from which they could launch their forays. This was made difficult by the terrain: not since Greece had Caesar seen such a mountainous country, and it was no wonder his men had trouble finding large areas of cultivation. But, Caesar mused, as he sat in his stateroom one night thinking about the problem, it may also be that we're not going far enough inland. However, Zhang insists that the farther east we go, that's when we'll find fields of a substantial size to support my army. Until then, we'll have to count on Ventidius.

  It was just another sign of the gods' blessings that the day the dreaded storm Zhang called the tai-fun came, the army was actually ashore in their camp. Even so, the storm was horrific, wreaking terrible damage to the fleet and ripping a large number of the men's tents to shreds. Even with the damage, it could have been worse—much worse—a fact the Centurions wasted no time in impressing on the men. It was little short of a miracle that none of the ships, all of them riding at anchor in a bay barely large enough to fit all of them, had sunk; instead, the damage they sustained came almost exclusively from their bashing into each other.

  "How long to repair the damage?" Caesar asked the Roman he had put in charge of all matters regarding the navy.

  Claudius Nero consulted the wax tablet he was holding, considering for a moment, before answering, "At least a week, and that's if we use all the immunes who have experience with this kind of work."

  Caesar sucked in a breath through his teeth, grimacing despite suspecting the answer, before it was given.

  "Well," he said after a moment's reflection, "perhaps we can make this work for us. While we're working, I'll send out at least 2 of the Legions and have them head north, into the interior, to see what they can find in the way of food. Or an army," he added, almost as an afterthought. "In the meantime, we'll wait for Ventidius' fleet to catch up with us. Yes," he finished briskly, once again the Caesar who was never put on the back foot for more than a moment, "we can actually make this work for us."

  And it would have worked, if the gods, as suddenly as they favored Caesar, hadn't taken that favor away; although it wasn't until almost the full week had passed before he and the army learned of the misfortune that had befallen them, without their being aware of it. Until, that is, three heavily damaged transport ships, all that were left of the fleet of 30 that had left Fortuna, came limping into the small bay. As soon as they anchored, the senior captain, a Greek navarch who had been with the fleet since the beginning of the campaign and who was one of the most experienced sailors left, rowed ashore. He was quickly led to the praetorium, which was still standing, although a panel from the roof had been blown out and a patch applied, the darker leather showing starkly against the faded panels of the rest of the headquarters tent. Immediately allowed into the tent, the navarch Lysandros saw Caesar standing with two of his scribes, dictating something to one, while discussing a totally different topic with the other. Seeing Lysandros and recognizing him, Caesar stopped immediately and beckoned him to approach, his eyes taking in the Greek's haggard appearance and instantly understanding that it boded ill. His instinct was confirmed a moment later, when after exchanging salutes, Lysander gave his report.

  "General, I regret to inform you that all but my ship and two others were destroyed by that cursed wind the Han call the tai-fun," Lysandros' voice shook with a combination of emotion and exhaustion. "We tried running before the wind, but between the waves and rain, all the boats became swamped or foundered."

  Caesar stood there motionless for several moments, not saying a word, and all other activity in the tent ceased as well.

  Finally, he managed to ask, in a strangled voice, "All but three? Are you sure? Did you search for any other ships?"

  Lysandros nodded as he said sadly, "Yes, Caesar. We spent two days after the storm on one of the islands that gave us the chance to make repairs and watch for any survivors or ships that made it through as well. All we saw were corpses and flotsam," he finished bitterly.

  After a few more questions that convinced Caesar that there was no hope of a miracle, Lysandros was sent to see to his crew's needs and to his own. As if that wasn't enough, there was a stir at the entrance to the headquarters not long after Lysandros left, this time it was caused by a messenger, a cavalrymen assigned to one of the Legions Caesar had sent out on patrol. The only thing Caesar didn't know was which of the two Legions it was, but that was immediately answered when the cavalryman reported.

  "General, I've been sent by Primus Pilus Pullus. He reports that his Legion has found a large town that appears to be well supplied with food." Before Caesar could digest this however, the messenger continued, "But the Legion was forced to make camp in the face of the enemy because a large, armed force of those savages appeared out of nowhere!"

  "How large?" Caesar asked instantly.

  "Primus Pullus estimates at least 15,000," the cavalryman replied.

  Caesar let out a string of curses and snapped out an order to one of his aides to have the call sounded summoning all Primi Pili and officers. Turning back to the messenger, he asked several questions, trying to ascertain an exact location, all while consulting the crude map of the surrounding area. Once finished, he dismissed the messenger who, instead of departing at once, seemed to hesitate.

  "Well?" Caesar forced himself to be calm, knowing that snapping at this man wouldn't help anyone. "Is there something else?"

  "Yes sir," the man stammered, "I mean, I don't really know sir. It's just that as I topped the last ridge before the 10th was out of sight, I stopped to make sure I wasn't being followed. And when I did, I naturally just looked back over my trail looking......"

  "Yes, yes, just tell me what you saw," Caesar snapped, his patience finally fraying.

  "Well sir, I could see the camp. It's in a good position, like I said, but those Wa bastards already have it surrounded. And," he swallowed hard, "they were already beginning to attack the camp. I don't know if they'll be able to hold long enough for us to save them."

  Smiling grimly, Caesar simply put his hand on the man's shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze.

  "Then I guess we'd better hurry then, shouldn't we?"

  And with that, he dismissed the messenger and began issuing orders.

  "I really wish we had brought siege spears," Pilus Posterior Balbus called to his Primus Pilus, Titus Pullus, over the raging din created by the wave of Wa warriors throwing themselves at the earthen rampart of the fortified camp holding the 10th Legion.

  "Me too," agreed Pullus, standing just behind a line of his men jabbing down at the clawing warriors trying desperately to reach up and drag the wooden palisade down, the first step toward breaching a Roman camp. "But hopefully Andros got through and Caesar will be here soon."

  "He better be," Balbus shouted grimly, as he shoved a Legionary—who had just taken a spear thrust through the shoulder from one of the teardrop-shaped weapons used by the Wa—out of the way and grabbed his relief man to throw him into the gap, before it could be exploited.

  All around the perimeter of the camp, similar scenes were being played out, as the Wa, having brought with them bundles of sticks to throw into the ditch, were streaming across to tear at the earthen rampart. There was a steady roar of noise, punctuated by shouts and screams, the tenor and frequency telling Pullus' experienced ears that his camp was in mortal danger of being overrun. Taking a moment to step away from his own Century and Cohort, the Primus Pilus of Caesar's most famous and feared Legion paused to look around the entire perimeter of the camp, taking in the scene before him. Unlike the normal army camp, this one was much smaller, since it had to protect just one Legion, and Pullus was thankful that he had been given enough time to erect one in a strong position. Yet its smaller size was both a blessing and a curse: while it allowed for his reserve—consisting of just one Cohort—to move more quickly to a trouble spot, there was also less space to maneuver, if and when the walls were breached. As Pullus watched, he began the mental process of deciding at what point
he would sound the call for the orbis, the formation of last resort for the Roman Legion, and where the best location for it would be in the camp. As it was, the 10th was already in something of an orbis, because there wasn't one side of the camp that wasn't under assault. Making a decision, Pullus shouted at Balbus to take over command of this sector of the wall, which Balbus acknowledged with a sketched salute with his sword, whereupon Pullus ran down the ramp into the camp, heading for a spot on the wall that looked harder-pressed.

  That part of the wall was under the control of the Quintus Pilus Prior, commander of the Fifth Cohort, Gnaeus Macrianus, a veteran of the second dilectus of the 10th, making him more than a decade younger than his Primus Pilus. Blood was streaming down the Macrianus’ cheek, but he looked otherwise unhurt, as he swiftly made a short hop into a suddenly opened gap, and from Pullus' position down on the ground, he could only see a pair of hands reaching out to grasp the wooden stakes of the palisade directly in front of Macrianus. Even as Pullus watched, he saw Macrianus' blade draw back, seem to hover for an instant, before plunging down quickly and brutally, presumably into the face of the Wa reaching for the stake. The set of hands immediately disappeared, but just as quickly, first one, then another set of hands appeared to replace the first. Seeing this, Pullus began sprinting up the ramp, reaching Macrianus' side just in time to see the contorted faces of the two Wa warriors, trying to wrench the stakes out of the ground, their eyes in such tiny slits that the detached part of Pullus' brain marveled at how they could see at all. Even as this thought flitted through his mind, his hand was moving, gripping his sword in the manner in which his first weapons instructor had taught him: with his thumb wrapped on the inside of his fingers instead of the outside. With a quick and economical, but extremely powerful thrust, his Gallic blade punched down into one of the helmeted faces, the point entering the open mouth and slicing through the back of the man's throat, not only killing the Wa instantly, but also severing the nerves, so that his hands dropped limply to his sides, his spirit fleeing before the body hit the ground. Meanwhile, Macrianus did the same to his man, but even so, there was no respite. Despite himself, Pullus let out a gasp at the sight of the seething mass of warriors, men practically trampling each other in their frenzied haste, as they boiled up out of the ditch and, using the bodies of those already fallen, threw ladders up and climbed the side of the earthen wall.