by Peake, R. W.
"How do you like that, you sorry, slanty-eyed bastards?" he shouted, lips pulled back in a fierce grin.
"Probably not very much," Pullus was too experienced to do more than turn his head, still keeping tucked safely behind his shield—although it was about to become useless—to see that Balbus was back by his side.
He would never utter it aloud, but Pullus was thankful to have a friend with him right now, and he laughed at the jest.
"No, probably not," he agreed, then turned serious. "But I'm afraid I left it too late. I doubt the scorpions are going to be enough to stop them."
"I don't think they would have been, no matter when you gave the order," Balbus told him, and while normally Pullus expected, and in fact demanded, brutal honesty from his subordinates and friends alike, this was one time he thought that if Balbus was lying, he would forgive him.
Without replying, Pullus turned his attention back to the Wa, and it was at this point that he noticed what Caesar had some time before, although neither had any way of knowing it.
"They don't have any ladders or hurdles," was how the Primus Pilus put it, but, unlike Caesar, he didn't comprehend the purpose.
In fact, it was Pullus' other friend, the Secundus Pilus Prior, Sextus Scribonius, who sent a messenger scurrying behind the men now standing on the rampart, the rank nearest the wall resting their shields on top, while their comrades behind them held theirs above the heads of the first rank and themselves, with the other ranks behind them doing the same. Even as wide as the rampart was, there wasn't enough room for the normal depth of a Century formation, forcing the last few ranks of men to stand behind the rampart, a pace away from the slope. Scribonius' messenger, none other than the old tentmate of both Pullus and Scribonius, Publius Vellusius, had to weave in and out among men, including those lying on the dirt who had yet to be dragged off, one and usually more arrows sticking from them. Reaching the Primus Pilus, Vellusius took a moment to regain his breath, before blurting out what Scribonius had sent him to tell his commander.
"Pilus Prior Scribonius says that he thinks the Wa are planning on letting the poor bastards in the front ranks fill up the ditch! That's how they're going to get across!"
Exchanging disbelieving glances, both Pullus and Balbus took another look, this time braving the volley of arrows, which was just beginning to slacken, to study their enemy.
"By the gods, he's right," it was Balbus who broke the silence. "I knew that big brain of his would come in handy sometime."
Pullus was torn; although he didn't want to believe that any man was so merciless and cruel as to send his men to die in such a manner, in his gut he recognized that both his friends were right. This left only one question; what to do about it?
At the southernmost camp, the Wa had yet to begin their assault in earnest, and were, in fact, just then marching up the base of the slope. Standing next to Asinius Pollio was the Primus Pilus of the 5th Alaudae, a grizzled veteran originally from Pompey's 1st Legion named Vibius Batius, who was one of the oldest Centurions in Caesar's Legions, - actually being less than 5 years younger than Caesar himself. He was as brown, scarred, and tough as old boot leather, but while Titus Pullus stood more than 3 inches over 6 feet, Batius was a foot shorter. However, where the gods take away in one area, they give in another, and Vibius Batius possessed the ferocity and sheer determination that many men of smaller stature have; coupled with a first-rate brain and a toughness second only to his counterpart in the 10th—though he would never concede that—Batius was a good choice to stand next to Pollio. While there was another Roman of Legate rank there, the pecking order in Caesar's army had long been established, so nobody questioned that if Pollio should fall, it would be Batius who would conduct the defense of this camp. To assist him, he had the 28th Legion, who had lost their Primus Pilus, Gnaeus Cartufenus, on the beach those weeks ago. The new Primus Pilus was the former Pilus Posterior, moving up one Century, but he was too junior and too new to even think of contesting Batius for leadership, and he, in fact deferred to Batius. Because of Caesar's conviction that the most serious threat was to the northern camp, Pollio and Batius had at their disposal a much smaller complement of artillery, but to compensate, Caesar had given them the majority of the Balearic slingers. Unfortunately, as they were about to find out, the lightly armored slingers were easy targets for the Wa archers, numbering about a thousand in this force, more than enough to inflict real damage. Although whoever was commanding the Wa force was moving more slowly than his other countrymen, he was using the same tactics: once within range, the archers began sending sheaves of arrows into the sky, each making a graceful arc in the air as it soared skyward before pausing for the barest fraction of a heartbeat, then plunging down to earth. As missiles rained down, Batius' men sheltered under their shields just like the Romans in the other camps, and just like them, men began to fall, most of them writhing in pain and cursing their luck, while some simply collapsed.
"Batius, I think we should answer back with the artillery now," Pollio's voice sounded eerily calm, but Batius could hear the strain underneath the words.
"But Caesar said we needed to wait until they got closer," Batius reminded Pollio, but this didn't change the general's mind.
"Yes, but he also thought our slingers would be able to make a dent in their numbers before they got close, and that's not going to happen."
Even if he had been disposed to argue further, Batius saw the sense in what Pollio was saying, and he snapped the order to his cornicen, who blatted out the series of notes that gave the signal for both ballistae and scorpions, few as they were, to open fire. The men, hearing the horn and knowing the command it sounded, managed to let out a cheer that, for just a brief moment, drowned out the racket caused by the raining death.
Both men gave each other a grim smile, and Pollio said, "Sounds like the men are ready to get stuck in."
"My boys are always ready, general," Batius boasted. "These cunni will wish they had never crawled out from between their mothers' legs by the time we're through!"
Gods, I hope so, Pollio thought, but said nothing, turning his attention back to the sight of the Wa, now moving steadily up the slope, their archers firing as they went.
Caesar, now that he understood the intent of the Wa commander, realized that he was essentially doing what the Wa wanted by slaughtering the leading edge of the attacking force, and instantly understood that while he couldn't completely forestall the tactic, he could make it harder to employ. He gave the order for the artillery to shift their aim slightly, to a point farther back and deeper in the Wa ranks, and he quickly found that this had the added benefit of slackening the archers' fire, now that they were suffering casualties. Even so, when he checked, he saw that the ditch was already a quarter full of men who had been struck down, for its entire length. Although most of these unfortunates had been killed—either pierced through with a scorpion bolt or eviscerated and mangled with a rock from a ballista, there were enough who had yet to die to make it seem as if the bloody mound in the ditch was moving in juddering, spastic jerks and twitches, as those still alive either suffered through their death throes or tried in vain to claw their way to the top of the pile. The sight of the carnage left Caesar speechless, not so much for the numbers of men, but because of what their purpose was intended to be.
The front ranks of the Wa, arrayed just on the other side of the ditch, were close enough for Caesar to see men's faces, and for them to see his, and he supposed that both their thoughts were running along much similar lines: here are the men who want to kill me. In Caesar's case, this was less a general representation and more of an actual goal of each of the Wa warriors; unbeknownst to Caesar or anyone else in the Roman army, these warriors had been offered a huge reward for the head of the barbarian general who led a force of men who looked like the kind of white, pale grubworms that were dug out of the ground in the garden and crushed. That's what would happen to these grubworms, even if they did stand upright and look somewhat l
ike men. And there wasn't a man in the Wa ranks in a position to be able to see Caesar who didn't know that he was the barbarian general, the commander of this foul horde who had come to their land unbidden, bringing invasion and destruction.
But first, they had to cross that ditch, and to do that, the men in the front ranks knew their duty, and were, in fact, keenly disappointed when the savage fire from the barbarian machines—machines that they had never seen before but had come to fear—stopped concentrating on them and instead were now laying waste to their comrades behind them. The shouting they were doing wasn't enough to drown out the screams of men who suddenly had half their faces torn away by rocks flying so quickly that they were impossible to duck, or silence a man’s gurgling call to a dear friend in the ranks, as one of those large, iron-tipped arrows struck deep into his chest, filling his lungs with blood. Hearing all this behind them and knowing that they had to fulfill their purpose, without any command being given, some of the men in the front Wa ranks began throwing themselves down into the ditch, calling their comrades behind them to follow suit and pile on top. Those first men who did this knew that eventually they would be crushed, the wind driven from their lungs by the weight of more armored men following their lead, yet they didn't hesitate. Caesar stood aghast at the sight, and it so unnerved the men serving the weapons that, for a moment, they could only stare in disbelief. Perhaps strangely, or perhaps not, the sight also filled the Romans with fear, despite knowing that these were men who wouldn't be clambering up the ladder and over the wall to come kill them. What kind of men were these? It was a question that had become as common a refrain around the fires at night as the complaints about eating rice and the lack of wine, but seeing the answer in front of their eyes didn't bring them any comfort.
Pullus' problem was more immediate: the ditch below him was already half-filled with Wa, and he hadn't made the connection between the fact that his artillery was wreaking havoc in the front ranks, but that this was exactly what the Wa commander had intended. To Pullus, it was simply a matter of mathematics: the more Wa he killed, even if they did fill the ditch, the fewer Wa his men had to face. Whose tactic was the correct one would be played out only over the next watch, although neither Pullus nor Caesar had any idea what the other was doing to counter this threat. So Pullus never ordered his artillery to shift aim, and, in fact, he had called on the men safely out of range to pass their javelins forward, so that their comrades could hurl them down into the packed mass of men just on the other side of the ditch. They did this with a bitter and savage relish, every fiber of their being pumping up their throws, so that the javelins carried even more velocity than normal. Aided by their higher position on the rampart, some men's javelins traveled completely through one of the enemy to lodge deep in the next man's body.
While this made the Romans feel better, it also helped the Wa by dropping more men into the ditch, until in three or four spots, whoever was in charge of the attackers in that area deemed the ditch to be filled enough to give the command to cross. Not surprisingly, one of those spots was directly in front of the area where Pullus and the First Cohort were positioned, so at the sight of able-bodied warriors taking the short hop down into the ditch—heedless of the shrieks of pain from their comrades who had yet to expire—Pullus roared the order for all men to return to the rampart with their siege spears. The arrow fire was still intense, and Pullus understood that he was going to lose men as they moved into position, no matter how careful they tried to be, but he couldn't afford to wait any longer. As the Legionaries scrambled up the slope, Pullus continued to watch the Wa clambering over the packed meat that was still quivering in spots, causing many of the enemy to stumble and fall on top of the bodies. When this happened, those of Pullus' men who still had javelins didn't hesitate and hurled their missiles down, usually into the backs of the unfortunate Wa who would be trying to regain their footing. Every Wa struck down in this manner brought a cheer from those who saw it happen, but as many Wa as were being slaughtered there, Pullus could see that he and the men were still outnumbered.
All around him he could sense his men moving into position, and he glanced to either side to make sure that the men with the siege spears would be those on the parapet, and that each one had a comrade along with a relatively intact shield. The job of each such comrade would be to provide as much shelter to the man wielding the spear as possible, and each man had a replacement immediately behind him, ready to step in, should he himself fall. The faces of his men mirrored the expression of their Primus Pilus: a look of grim determination as they readied themselves for the coming onslaught. Down in the ditch, those Wa carrying the ladders had just begun to cross, drawing a curse from Pullus, as he realized that he had been too hasty with the order to loose javelins, because there were none left to eliminate these men. Not that it really mattered in the long run; even if they killed every Wa holding a ladder, there were more than enough ready to step in and pick it up—but it was a matter of principle, and Pullus chided himself for his lack of professionalism.
It was as he was engaged in dressing himself down that he became aware of a change in the sounds of the fight. To be precise, it was the lack of a sound that alerted him that something was amiss, but before he could make the mental shift necessary to determine what it was, he was alerted by a shout, and again turning only his head and not his body while keeping his shield up, he saw one of the Immunes who was the de facto commander of the men manning the scorpions make his way toward Pullus in a crouching run along the rampart. Before the man could even reach him, Pullus knew what he was going to be told, because the sight of the Immunes had served to tell him what that missing sound was.
Therefore, he wasn't surprised when the man reached him, saluted, then gasped out, "We're out of scorpion bolts!"
Aulus Flaminius, Primus Pilus of the 30th Legion was in the camp immediately to the south of Caesar's, and up to that moment, he and his men were faring better than any of the other positions, mainly because the Wa commander had sent the smallest contingent of archers to this spot. Still, the Wa were at the ditch, and because of the fact that Flaminius had been given only 2 scorpions and 3 ballistae, he had been unable to stem the advance. Ironically, this posed a problem for the Wa in charge of this assault, who had been given the same orders as all the others: to sacrifice the leading ranks of men to fill the ditch. But they hadn't suffered enough casualties to do so; instead the Wa began leaping down into the ditch, whereupon they learned firsthand of Caesar's genius for diabolical traps, cunningly disguised. Although the Wa could plainly see the sharpened stakes imbedded in the opposite wall of the ditch, what they discovered only the hard way were the rows of Caesar's lilies, the iron hooks in blocks of wood, buried in pits, then first covered with a loosely woven mat of rice leaves, and finally covered with dirt. Over and above the din came the shrieks of pain, as men were hooked through the calf, immobilizing them and making them easy targets for Roman javelins. Those few who weren't dispatched in this manner were faced with a horrible choice of either waiting until one of the barbarians with the javelins noticed them and finished them off, or enduring the agony that came from pulling themselves off the hook, inevitably tearing through the calf muscle and crippling them for life, if they survived.
Even so, the Wa continued to tumble into the ditch, moving across the bottom to stumble into the next row of lilies, then the next. Yet, they still came, but in their haste and ardor to get their ladders up, the men following behind pushed the leading Wa, screaming in alarm and then in agony, onto the points of the stakes, where the crushing weight of their own comrades served to pin them, the bloody points protruding from their backs. It was only when some of the Wa wearing the iron lamellar armor and carrying swords began striking at their own men, pushing them back, that the slaughter was stopped. Very quickly, Flaminius' men had expended their supply of javelins and now stood with their siege spears, the points sticking out from between the stakes of the rampart and shields, waiting for the ne
xt phase of the assault to begin. Ladders, again carried by the enemy several ranks back, were now passed down into the ditch, and the Wa, for the first time free from any javelin or artillery fire, as desultory as it had been, paused, as their officers began trying to organize the next phase of the operation.
"Get ready boys," Flaminius—who was able to peer down into the ditch with only moderate risk from the archers, and determined they were also too dispersed to concentrate fire on one point—saw what was happening, understanding that his camp was about to come under assault. "Let's give these cunni a taste of Roman iron! What do you say?"
His answer was a roar from the throats of his Legion, accompanied by the clattering sound of swords beating against the metal rim of shields, a sound that had struck fear into more enemies than that of any other army in history. No matter who these yellow men were, Flaminius and the 30th Legion were ready to face them.