by Peake, R. W.
"I need a section of volunteers from each Century to stay with me on the rampart to keep an eye on these cunni! The rest of you I want down off the rampart out of range to save your shields! Pass the word!"
Pullus bellowed this order first to his right, then repeated it to his left, counting on his Centurions and Optios to divine his purpose immediately and react accordingly. To his relief, there was only a slight delay, as Centurions either asked or in some cases, ordered certain men to stay behind, and so those who didn't volunteer or weren't asked, as the case may have been, began backing down the slope of the rampart, their shields still up. Inevitably, some men were still struck down, although it was a blessed few, but the shields suffered more damage.
"Plautus, you bastard! I've had you on report for a month now but I've been too busy, so you're one of the volunteers," was how it was expressed by Marcus Glaxus, the Primus Princeps Prior, or commander of the Third Century of the First Cohort, to a veteran of Gaul, one of the few remaining in the army.
Although it was ostensibly true that Plautus was on report, Glaxus also knew that of all the men in his Century, Plautus was one of the toughest and wasn't likely to crack under what was shaping up to be the most intense barrage they had ever endured.
As he watched his orders being carried out, it took Pullus a moment to become aware that someone had made his way through the men moving all around him to stand beside him. Finally turning, he saw Balbus, holding up his own shield, which was now studded with more than a half dozen arrows. Immediately understanding his friend's intent, Pullus shook his head emphatically.
"No, you get back to the rear as well. I need you to be ready to take over the Legion in case I don't duck quickly enough."
Despite the circumstances, Balbus still gave his version of a grin at the attempted humor, appreciating the effort, if not the wit, but he made no move to go. Pullus' voice hardened.
"I mean it, get out of here!"
Just as he finished the sentence, there was a loud clanging crack, and Balbus' shield was almost jerked from his hand by an arrow that had struck the boss.
Grimacing, he nevertheless gave his superior and friend a curt nod, but before he turned away, he said as quietly as possible under the circumstances, "All right, but promise me you won't stand there like a statue. Nobody is going to think less of you if the great Titus Pullus actually acts like the rest of us and tries to avoid getting hit by one of these damned things."
At first Pullus didn't answer, but seeing that Balbus wasn't going to budge, he snapped, "Fine. I promise. Now get out of here!"
Balbus then began backing up, careful of his footing as he moved backward down the packed dirt slope that led to the rampart and that allowed Roman Legionaries to get to their spots on the wall more quickly than any other army who used ladders. Satisfied that Balbus was leaving, Pullus turned his attention back to the remainder of his men, the volunteers staying behind to watch the Wa, who at this point were content to have halted for a time, obviously to allow their archers to soften up the Roman defenses. We'll be softened all right, Pullus thought grimly, as a man—one of the Pandyans, by the look of him—who had stayed behind suddenly let out a strangled, gurgling cry, then staggered backward to fall tumbling down the ramp with an arrow in the throat. His attention resting on the stricken man for just a heartbeat, Pullus turned back to the front just in time to sense, more than see, a Wa arrow streaking down from the sky, almost vertically above him. The angle was such that it would skim over the top of his shield before he could move it, and displaying reflexes honed through years of battles, Pullus merely twisted his body a fraction, far enough for the arrow to miss, but close enough that he could hear the whistling and feel the slap of the wind against his cheek as it shot past to bury itself in the ground just behind him. Despite the gravity of the situation, Titus Pullus burst out laughing in relief, glad that he had actually heeded Balbus' advice. Even so, there was a small part of his mind that chided him that what he had done could look like cowardice, a feeling that hearkened back to very early in his career, before he was a legend.
Titus Pullus was only in his 20's when he was promoted from his post as Optio of the First Century, Second Cohort, by Caesar, immediately after Alesia. This, in and of itself, was not unusual; he had been Optio for almost 4 years, but what was unusual was that instead of assigning Pullus to one of the most junior Cohorts—traditionally it would have been as the Decimus Hastatus Posterior, the most junior Centurion in a Legion—Caesar had named him Secundus Pilus Prior, the most senior Centurion of the Second Cohort and its commander on detached operations, this being one of the most senior positions in the Legion. It had been an extremely bold, and controversial, decision by Caesar, who was never bound by tradition if it served as an impediment to what he viewed as the most effective or efficient way to run the army. The promotion thrust Pullus into a position that, although in his secret heart he had coveted, he never thought he would actually have to face, commanding Centurions more experienced and older than he was.
One of them, in particular, that unsurprisingly gave him the most trouble had been Gnaeus Celer, the Pilus Posterior and the customary choice to move up when the previous Pilus Prior—who had been sarcastically known as Pulcher, “The Handsome,” because of the leering scar he bore on his face—was killed. From that moment and for the next few years, Celer had done whatever he could to undermine Pullus: subtly mocking his age and trying to engineer events so that he could appear to the men as the sympathetic figure when Pullus was deemed to be harsh. Between Celer's actions and his own youth, Pullus was acutely aware that the eyes of all the men of the Cohort were on him, judging him, measuring him, so that he developed a habit of displaying a disdain for moments such as this that bordered on the foolhardy. Yet, somehow he had survived, despite what seemed at times to be his best attempt to do otherwise. Now, under the constant rain of arrows, Pullus, if he was forced to admit it, was more than happy to risk his reputation for bravery as he held his shield above him, peering under the rim as the arrows first came into sight, and relying on his innate instinct to tell him what to do. He had long since learned that the worst thing to do when under intense missile fire was to try to think rationally about what to do in order to avoid being skewered; you were much better off letting your body take over, so he spent the next few moments hopping first one way, then making a quick step forward, before leaning to the side, all to avoid being hit. Nevertheless, as well as he was able to dodge the odd arrow, more missiles were caught by the shield, and while at first they had lodged so that their points were barely half-way embedded in the wood, Pullus began noticing that now the barbed heads were protruding all the way through. That could only mean one thing, he realized; the Wa had resumed their advance, and were still releasing arrows as they closed the distance.
Understanding that the only way he could see whether they were close enough for the scorpions to commence firing was by moving the few feet closer to the wall of palisade stakes and taking a look, despite the danger; he muttered a curse as he shuffled forward, shoulders hunched and ready to receive a blow. The footing had become treacherous, simply from all the shafts of arrows sticking out of the earthen rampart, but he tried to kick as many away as he could, knowing that his men would have to do the same. All around him, the Legionaries who had remained behind were in similar postures, in a half-crouch, their bodies pinched up in an attempt to avoid overlapping the edge of the shield with a body part that they cherished, their faces screwed up with the tension and fear of the moment. Fortunately, only a handful of these men had been struck, and of those that had, it looked to Pullus that perhaps only a half dozen were permanently out of action. Even so, he didn't like losing any men to the Wa arrows, because he felt sure he would need every strong right arm. Reaching the wooden stakes that made up the wall, despite two more strikes to his shield—one of which started a slight crack that Pullus could see went all the way through to the back—he took a deep breath. Leaning over to the sid
e, he peered around the edge of the shield, his gaze directed to where he estimated the Wa to be. He let out an explosive gasp, as it took him just a fraction of a heartbeat for his mind to register what his eyes were telling him: that he had looked in the wrong place, too far down the slope, although what he saw was useful in its own way. The Wa were barely more than 150 paces away, and the only thing that was saving the Romans from the enemy’s closing the remaining distance by bursting forth in a run was the severity of the slope.
"Scorpions begin firing! Open fire! Hurry you bastards!" Pullus began shouting over and over, prompting the men who crewed the weapons and were at the back edge of the rampart, sheltering themselves with their shields, to scurry forward to man their weapons.
Even as they did so, Pullus thought that it would be too late to do any good. Almost the entire assault force would be scaling these walls, bringing death to the 10th Legion.
Caesar's redoubt was under a similar assault, although it was nowhere near the severity as the attack the northern camp was enduring. In fact, he had yet to be informed that the Wa had begun their missile attack there, the courier bringing that news still galloping along the undulating road on the ridgetop. Consequently, he was able to risk a glance at the Wa, who had stopped down the slope to allow their archers to begin their work, and making a quick decision, gave his orders for both the ballistae and scorpions to begin firing back. Immediately, the reports of both types of weapons began, followed a few moments later by thin cries that could barely be heard above the storm of noise caused by the arrows hitting shields or men. Despite the distance, Caesar could tell that the first volley had drawn blood, giving him a savage satisfaction. For all of his faults, Gaius Julius Caesar did love his men, so seeing them suffer was one of the few things that brought him genuine grief, and there was nothing worse than seeing them suffer without being able to strike back. Now we'll see how they like it, he thought grimly, his ears tuned for more sounds signaling that the Roman missiles were finding fleshy targets, even as he gave orders to one of his Tribunes, a young Parthian nobleman who was related to the king, Pacorus, and who had chosen the side of the victors after seeing what destruction Caesar and his army could wreak. That had been when it was still an all-Roman army, a massive and deadly magnificent machine of chaos and destruction, relentlessly and ruthlessly grinding up and spitting out all who stood in its path.
Caesar's current army was no less deadly. In many ways, it was more so, as Caesar picked up other methods of warfare and modified them to suit his style, but Caesar knew that this was going to be the severest test these men had ever faced, and all of his faculties, every bit of his experience and resolve, were going to be needed to survive the day. Finishing his orders, he made the Parthian Tribune—Bodroges was his name—repeat everything back to him, before he was dismissed to go fulfill his task. The moment he left, Caesar turned to another Tribune, this one a Pandyan, and, like Bodroges, a member of his people's nobility who had started out as a hostage, but after exposure to Caesar now desired nothing more than to be considered Roman himself. He had even gone so far as to have a toga made, although it was made out of silk and was the source of much amusement on the part of the true Romans among the officers, who had tried to persuade him that only a woman would drape herself in such material, no matter how it was cut. But he would not be dissuaded, and, for all his affectations, he had the makings of a good Legate one day. Caesar, his voice raised because of the racket, gave this man another set of orders, listened to him repeat them back; then, as with the Parthian, he was sent on his way. Turning back to the matter at hand, Caesar unknowingly mimicked Titus Pullus, shuffling forward a bit to get a better look at the Wa before his walls. He hadn't seen the need to send the bulk of the men away from the walls, so there was no chance of his being surprised as Pullus had been, but he was still concerned to see the Wa closing the distance at a steady, if not altogether swift climb. As he watched, something that he couldn't immediately identify puzzled him, until he finally realized that he hadn't seen any ladders among the Wa troops in the front ranks. It was only when he happened to be watching, as a rock from a ballistae bounced just in front of the leading edge of the Wa before punching a bloody hole through the first two or three ranks, that he saw why. Immediately after the men fell, he could see more deeply into the Wa formation, and that is when he saw that they were, in fact, carrying ladders, but farther back in the ranks than he had ever seen before. It was customary for the men who would reach the wall first to carry scaling ladders, and Caesar wondered what the meaning of this was, or if there was any at all. Even as he watched, another disturbing thing happened. When the Wa immediately behind the two men of the first two ranks that fell stepped forward to move to the front, Caesar spotted one end of a ladder the Wa was carrying. However, rather than carry it with him, Caesar saw him hand his end back to the man immediately behind him, who in turn did the same, as he moved forward to take the second spot.
"Why on Gaia's earth are they doing that, I wonder?" Caesar asked aloud, something extremely unusual for him, but this for some reason was unsettling him.
That is when he noticed something else with the dawning of a realization. Another thing that was missing were the hurdles, the big bundles of sticks thrown into a ditch in front of a wall that allowed the attackers to cross relatively swiftly and without having to scramble up the side of the ditch. The Wa weren't carrying any, so how were they planning on getting across? Could it be they weren't planning on crossing? Surely they wouldn't just stand there, absorbing punishment from the artillery! As Caesar thought about it, suddenly still, despite all the din and action around him, he again tried to put himself into the mind of the Wa commander. Even now, he was sure that this engagement wasn't the main focus of the Wa assault, and that his enemy's goal was merely to keep the Romans in this camp tied down, so that they couldn't go to the aid of the men in the northern camp. Thus, it made some sort of sense that the Wa would be willing to halt short of the ditch, or even go through the laborious process of crossing the ditch, despite its being laced with all of Caesar's refinements, some of which the Wa could see, once they got close enough and looked down, though they could not see most of the obstacles, because they were concealed. But why subject your men to that kind of wholesale slaughter? Wasn't there a better way to use your men?
"What if they are the hurdles?" he suddenly asked, again aloud, and as soon as he said it, a sort of leaden ball materialized in his stomach.
He knew that feeling: it was the one he got when he had arrived at an answer to a problem that was a horrible answer, one that he would rather not know. That was it, he was suddenly sure: the Wa commander was going to march his men up to the ditch allow them to be mown down like stalks of wheat, and use their bodies to fill the ditch. After all, look at what they did at the beach, when we first used our artillery on them, he thought, this time silently. A strange feeling came over Caesar, one that he had never experienced before, a strange combination of revulsion and...admiration? Could that be it? Yes, he acknowledged, yes, admiration. Suddenly Caesar understood the mind of the Wa commander better than he had before. He knew that he had met a man as ruthless as he himself, , maybe even more ruthless, because Caesar couldn't fathom ordering Pullus and the 10th to do such a thing. But this Wa, whoever he was, was willing to do whatever was necessary to win, even if it meant slaughtering his own men. Despite the fact that it was promising to be a warm day, the sun now a full hand's width above the eastern hills, Caesar felt a chill run through his body. Was this how a premonition of defeat felt?
As the scorpions opened fire along the parapet of the northern camp, Pullus bellowed the command to his cornicen to blow the notes that commanded the men of the 10th waiting out of range to rush to the rampart. With a huge shout, his Legion responded, although the men took care to keep their shields raised above their heads as they scrambled up the slope and into position. Inevitably, some men fell, despite the protection of their shields, and Pullus could see that
because of the closer range, the arrows that found their mark were buried more deeply in whatever body part of the unfortunate it struck, so much so that in some men just the feathered end of the arrow protruded out of their bodies as they fell. Some of these men fell without a sound, while others let out a shout or a shriek, but all of those struck were either mortally wounded or at least out of action. The only satisfaction Pullus felt was that the noise emanating from the Wa ranks, in the form of groans, pained shouts, and what Pullus assumed were oaths of some sort in their gibberish, was much louder. Risking another peek, Pullus got a glimpse just as a scorpion bolt hit a Wa in the front rank in the middle of his torso, and then, trailing a spray of red mist, passed through this first man, then through the man behind him to lodge with half its length showing in the chest of yet a third man. Letting out a shout of savage exultation, the Primus Pilus shook his free fist in the direction of the Wa, now just a matter of a few paces on the other side of the ditch.