Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  By this point in time, back at Pullus' camp, the ditch had become sufficiently filled for the Wa holding the ladders to begin moving down into the ditch. As the Wa clambered over the grisly human flooring filling the ditch, the Romans, having expended all of their javelins, could only watch as the ladders were carried forward.

  "Get ready boys!" someone shouted and was answered with a low growl.

  The men holding the siege spears made last-moment adjustments, most of them wiping their sweaty palms on their tunics, despite it not doing much good, because most of them had already soaked through the fabric. No man on that rampart was under any illusion that after all the battles and all the bleeding that had hardened the 10th Legion into what it was this day, today would be the sternest test any of them had ever faced, even the hoariest veterans, like Vellusius. No, they knew individually and collectively that today would see either the destruction of the 10th or the most glorious victory in its storied history. Titus Pullus stood among them and, sharing that knowledge with his men, he felt a sudden surge of affection that threatened to overwhelm him, filling his heart until he was sure it would burst. And with no little surprise he realized that, as much as he wanted to see another day, just like any of his men, there was still no place he would rather be than at this spot, in this moment. What finer thing could there be, he wondered, than to make history, no matter how the day turned out? After all, what happened today would live forever in the annals of warfare, even if the 10th was exterminated along with the rest of Caesar's army. Pullus was then struck with a thought. If the unthinkable happened and the Romans were defeated, how would anyone back in Rome know of all that had been accomplished?

  As suddenly as they had come, the feelings of pride and affection were replaced by a leaden ball of doubt, not about the outcome as much as about the aftermath. Who would be left to return to Rome and tell the Roman people, he wondered? Suddenly, his train of thought was interrupted by a number of shouting curses, so jerking his mind back to the moment, he turned to see the very tips of the ladders peeking up above the palisade stakes, even as the men holding the shields reached out with their free hands to push the ladders away from the stakes. Pullus knew that only a few men were strong enough to do that with one hand, and because he happened to be one of them, he leapt forward from his spot, heading to the nearest ladder. Despite the fact that there were Wa warriors now scrambling up the ladders, some of their archers continued to fire, their feathered missiles streaking just inches above the heads of their comrades. While not of the same intensity as their earlier barrage, this fusillade was still sufficiently dangerous so that as Pullus moved forward, he saw one of his men who was holding a shield lean too far outside the edge of it and take an arrow in the eye. Killed instantly, the man's suddenly nerveless fingers released their hold on the shield and’ before the Legionary behind him could lunge to recover it, it fell forward and down into the Wa, leaving a gaping hole that made the otherwise unbroken line look like a mouth suddenly missing a front tooth.

  Into that momentary gap came the first Wa who, in one fluid and incredibly quick movement, pushed off from the ladder to leap over the palisade, seemingly hovering there in midair for the briefest instant, before landing squarely on the back of the fallen Roman. Even as Pullus' mind tried to register what his eyes were seeing, the Wa's sword was swinging in what Pullus recognized from brutal experience as a deceptively smooth arc that nonetheless packed an incredible amount of force. Before anyone could react, the Wa's blade sliced cleanly through the neck of the Roman standing next to the fallen shield bearer, and in one of those strange moments of clarity, what was burned into Pullus' memory for the rest of his time on earth was the expression of open-mouthed surprise and astonishment, as his Legionary's head went spinning into the air, the helmet still attached, leaving a briefly upright corpse still spurting bright, arterial blood provided by a pumping heart that had not received the message that it was no longer needed. In the instant after this act, the body of the second Roman collapsed, slumping forward over the palisade, still spraying blood over the helmeted head of the second Wa on the ladder, drenching him so thoroughly that when his head appeared over the palisade, he appeared to be solid red. Scrambling to join his comrade, the second Wa took the more conventional approach, but that only served to emphasize his appearance as some sort of demon sent from the underworld, waving a sword and eager to take as many Romans as possible back down with him.

  Now the gap was even larger, and although Pullus had been heading for the man closest to him, he suddenly veered to meet this larger threat without thought and without hesitation, his sword out and his shield up and ready. In the bare fraction of time that it took to close the distance, Pullus noticed that, with the second Wa now standing atop the body of the second Roman like his comrade, both of them disdained the use of shields and were armed only with their swords, the same slightly curving blades Pullus had seen before. Before the attack on his camp, when the 10th had almost been overwhelmed, Pullus would have sneered at the idea of any warrior with the hubris to fight without a shield. But not anymore; he had seen firsthand the skill with which the Wa employed their weapon and knew that they didn't use shields because they didn't need them. Nevertheless, he went charging forward with his shield out before him, still confident enough in his own abilities, experience, and strength that the idea of facing two Wa, no matter how skilled, gave him no pause whatsoever.

  Caesar had still kept his own sword sheathed, choosing to continue to direct the action from his spot just a few paces behind the palisade of his camp. Unlike the main assault force at Pullus' camp, the Wa assaulting Caesar's position had yet to fill the ditch completely, and the ladders were still a few rows behind the front ranks. However, as each rank of the enemy moved up and became the rank closest to the ditch, there was still no hesitation on any of their parts, as one by one they threw themselves on top of their unfortunate comrades. The Wa that were the first to do this had since had the life crushed out of them, but the top two or three layers still contained writhing, gasping men. If anything, Caesar could see that his own men were becoming increasingly more unnerved, now that their supply of javelins had been expended , and they could only watch in horror, as they took an occasional peek around their shields.

  Since the ladders had not gone up yet, the archers in the rear ranks were still firing volley after endless volley of arrows, and just within Caesar's range of vision, he saw that the majority of his men now had shields studded with at least a dozen arrows apiece, some with more, some with fewer. That meant their shields were dangerously weakened and unlikely to survive the first few moments of action. While there were spares, Caesar knew that not only were there not enough of those, but there was also no way to get them distributed in time. His men would have to fight without what was not only a defensive weapon to the Roman Legionary, but also a potent part of his offensive arsenal. However, a good commander knows when there is no point in worrying about what cannot be changed, so as quickly as this realization was formed, he put it out of his mind, returning his attention to what could be controlled.

  "Caesar!"

  Like Pullus, Caesar was too experienced to do more than turn his head, staying behind the protection of his own shield, although in the case of the commanding general, there were three Legionaries detailed to provide an umbrella of protection for him. Looking back toward the interior of the camp, he saw the Tribune Bodroges hurrying toward him. He was so intent on reaching his general's side that he seemed oblivious to the fact that he was entering within the range of the Wa missiles, the line clearly marked by the serried ranks of arrows protruding from the ground in uneven rows. Just as he was about to enter the beaten zone, a lean, grizzled Optio—another of the few remaining Romans of the army—unceremoniously grabbed the Tribune by the arm. Caesar couldn't hear what the Optio said, but no matter how sharply he may have spoken to a man who was technically his superior, he would have received no censure from Caesar, who understood completely
what the Roman was doing, and that was saving Bodroges from possible harm. Caesar saw the swarthy features of his Parthian Tribune flush darker, but he meekly took the proffered shield, one of the few that were undamaged, before he resumed making his way to Caesar. Dashing through the hail of missiles that, while not falling as thickly as they were moments before, still posed a huge hazard to anyone without protection, Bodroges reached Caesar's side, huffing and puffing. Instinctively coming to intente and about to render a salute, Bodroges froze, as he mentally tried to work out how to do that, while keeping his shield raised in its protective posture. The expression on the Tribune's face caused Caesar to burst out laughing in one of those strangely humorous moments that occur in even the most hazardous of situations.

  "This is one time I think the formalities can be forgotten, Bodroges," Caesar said, his tone light, despite pitching his voice loudly enough to be heard over the racket of arrows striking wood and the shouting of men. Turning serious, he asked, "What's your report?"

  "The first of the couriers have arrived, Caesar," Bodroges replied, trying to match the calm demeanor and tone of his general, as if they were standing in the forum watching the men drill, instead of fighting for their very survival. "The northern camp is under attack by a force of at least 15,000 infantry and almost 2,000 archers, according to General Hirtius. He also reports that he's already out of ammunition for the artillery. His casualties are light at this point, but...."

  "But that won't be the case for long. Yes, I know," Caesar interrupted grimly.

  While nothing he was being told was unexpected, although the number of archers was higher than his estimate, he was troubled by the news that his most trusted general had already expended his stock of ammunition. Had Pullus and Balbinus been too profligate? Had they not obeyed Caesar's explicit instructions, or were the numbers they were facing just so overwhelming that it was inevitable that they were going to run out quickly, no matter what the orders? Bodroges began to speak again, jerking Caesar from his musings; this would be something to discuss with Pullus later and see what went wrong. If they survived, he amended, but only to himself.

  "General Pollio's courier hadn't arrived, but the courier from Generals Ventidius and Primus Pilus Flaminius has arrived, as well. He reports that, as expected, the forces facing his Legions number only about 8,000, and fewer than 1,000 of those are archers. He still has artillery ammunition, and when he dispatched the rider the Wa hadn't made it to the ditch, so he had yet to open fire with it. Although I imagine that by now that's happened."

  "Don't speculate, Bodroges," Caesar admonished, although it was more of an automatic gesture, since his mind was still processing all that he knew to this point in time. "Tell me only what you've been told. Your job is to relay only what the couriers have told you. Trying to decide what it means is my job." Seeing Bodroges' face fall at this gentle rebuke, Caesar added, "However, you're undoubtedly right."

  Finally, Bodroges finished with the fifth and final camp, in between Flaminius and Pollio's southernmost camp. It was the only one not occupied with a man of Legate rank, the two Legions in it, 11th and the 8th, commanded by the senior Primus Pilus, Quintus Ausonius Felix, and while Titus Pullus was the most feared and respected fighter, Felix was considered the luckiest man in the army, because despite exhibiting a bravery that Caesar required of all his Primi Pili, he had never been seriously wounded, never needing more than a few stitches to close up the odd slash wound. Now, his camp was under an assault of what appeared to be about the same intensity as that the camp of Ventidius and Flaminius was weathering, with similar numbers of enemy combatants.

  "Now," his expression hardened a bit and his tone turned severe, "Is there a reason that you chose not to wait for General Pollio's courier, as I instructed?"

  Bodroges swallowed hard, but his tone was even, as he replied, "I judged that the information from Primus Pilus Pullus was more important and couldn't wait, so I decided to come immediately."

  For a moment Caesar said nothing, then rewarded Bodroges with a smile and a nod.

  "You made the right decision, Bodroges. That information is definitely more important. Now," he continued, ignoring the visible sag in Bodroges' body, as he went limp with relief that he had guessed correctly. "I need you to go back and give this," Caesar was scribbling in a wax tablet handed to him by a shaking secretary who had been crouched at his feet, the sheer terror at being exposed to fire etched on his features, "to a courier, to go to General Hirtius."

  Snapping the tablet shut, he handed it to Bodroges who, remembering the folly of saluting, simply began backing away, holding the shield above his head with a clearly shaking arm, the other clutching the tablet. Before Caesar could turn to resume watching the situation in front, an alarmed shout came from the palisade. It took him a moment to find the source among the line of men, but he quickly picked out the figure of a Centurion standing just behind the Legionaries directly next to the palisade in the first line of defense. Assuming that this shout signaled that at last the Wa were in the ditch and throwing up their ladders, Caesar was quickly disabused of this by the Centurion, who called his name, while pointing at a spot farther out into the valley.

  "Caesar, come quickly!"

  The tone, if not the words, was enough to spur Caesar to push quickly past the Legionaries designated as his protectors, disdaining their cries of alarm that he needed to stay behind the shields and they would escort him to the Centurion's side. Even now, at 65 years of age, Caesar was a man unaccustomed to fear and was at least as reckless as Titus Pullus in exposing himself to danger in order to set an example for his men, if not more so. Now he strode quickly forward, bareheaded, his scarlet paludamentum swirling behind him as he moved.

  Reaching the Centurion's side, he demanded, "What is it?"

  In answer, the Centurion, the Secundus Hastatus Posterior, pointed again, but not down to his immediate front, but out toward the floor of the valley, in the direction of the Wa encampment.

  "The bastards have tricked us! Look there, Caesar!"

  And Caesar did look, and when he did, he felt his heart seize so violently that for a fleeting moment he thought he was having an apoplectic fit and would drop dead on the spot. But, seeing the scene before him, immediately following was the thought that perhaps dropping dead right now would be a blessing, because the Centurion was right. They had been tricked, well and truly fooled. And in being fooled, that premonition of defeat Caesar had felt earlier only strengthened. For, streaming out of the Wa camp was still another force, and while not as large as the body of men assaulting Caesar's camp at this moment, it was perilously close to the same size. Even as he watched the Wa, now out of the camp and moving quickly across the valley floor, Caesar tried to determine how they had done it, and all he could surmise was that, somehow, in the night, the Wa commander had managed to shift men from one camp to another and doubled up the number of occupants of the Wa tents. This second group of men had remained behind, hidden from view, until the action had begun in earnest, before springing from their hiding place. And now they were moving; but instead of moving to reinforce the men assaulting Caesar's camp, they were angling across the valley floor, clearly headed for that site where the ridge made the pocket he had worried about earlier. In effect, they were going to slice into the Roman lines at a spot where they could fall on Pullus' camp from the rear, completely enveloping the 10th and 12th. As he watched in growing horror, Caesar was forced to silently salute his counterpart, because unless he could think of something, and think of it fast, his northernmost position would be overrun, and he would have a large enemy force sitting on his right flank. Moreover, as the Wa that were now throwing the ladders up against the rampart of his camp kept the men in this camp occupied, that force could then essentially repeat what they had just done to Pullus' camp, thereby rolling up the entire Roman position like a carpet.

  "They're at the walls!"

  This shout tore Caesar's attention away, and he turned to see, not more tha
n a dozen paces away, the top of the first ladder being thrown against the rampart. His army, his men, his life, were in all likelihood in the last watches of their collective existence; because, for once, a feat in itself, Caesar had no idea what to do.

  Just before reaching the two Wa, Titus Pullus skidded to a halt, stopping so suddenly that both Wa, anticipating that he would careen headlong into their waiting swords, swung their blades at the spot where they thought the giant Roman would be. And while the Wa were the fastest men Pullus, or any Roman for that matter, had ever seen, Titus Pullus himself was one of the fastest moving big men of his time, and it was with that speed that he struck now. Lashing out with his shield at the Wa to his left, he simultaneously launched a hard, low thrust with his Gallic blade, the point aimed at a spot well below where the Wa's blade was still hovering in midair, in the bare instant before he recovered. While both Wa managed to react, neither of them was completely successful in blocking his respective attack. The boss of Pullus' shield, which he had aimed directly for the first Wa's face, was partially blocked, but it was at the Wa's shoulder, as he twisted to the side. Pullus felt the jolting blow all the way up his arm, the Wa grunting in pain but managing to hold onto his sword, as he staggered a step back. In doing so, he came within range of the Roman next to the two dead men, one of the Legionaries armed with a siege spear; but the long spear was so unwieldy that by the time he moved the pointed end from its spot protruding over the rampart, the first Wa had moved to close with Pullus again. Even if he continued with his movement and stabbed the Wa in the back, the Roman was now faced with an enemy warrior, who was just two rungs from the top of the ladder to his left and coming in range.

  Understanding the greater threat, the Legionary also had utmost faith in his Primus Pilus, so he returned his attention back to the ascending Wa, stabbing down at the man the moment he came within reach. Pullus' sword thrust, meanwhile, was also partially blocked, the second Wa desperately sweeping his blade in a downward arc that managed to keep Pullus' blade from plunging deep into his gut. Instead, the point of Pullus' finely honed Gallic blade, one that he had been carrying for more than 20 years, buried itself into the meat of the Wa's left thigh. Despite how excruciatingly painful the thrust was, the Wa only let out a hissing sound through tightly-clenched teeth, and before Pullus could twist the blade and do further damage, the Wa lashed out with his own blade in a wild swing that swept at an upward angle. Now it was Pullus' turn to twist aside in desperation, and in doing so, he withdrew his blade, leaving behind a relatively clean gash in the Wa's leg that, instead of spurting arterial blood, flowed a dark red. The Wa's blade struck Pullus a glancing blow right at the junction of the right shoulder, where his mail protected him from further damage, as several links broke instead. Even so, the force from the blow jolted Pullus, so it was his turn to let out a gasp of pain and he felt his arm go instantly numb, the only thing saving his grasp of the sword being the grip taught to him by Aulus Vinicius when he was a tiro.