by Peake, R. W.
All three men had taken some damage in the first exchange, making them content to take a step backward to gather themselves; despite the damage Pullus had inflicted, he was in essentially the same position, outnumbered two-to-one. Everywhere around him he heard the shouts and screams of men, and he knew that there were Wa now on the rampart, meaning that the men immediately around him were occupied. Now he had to rely on men in relief, waiting just paces away, but this was a moment when Titus Pullus was a victim of his own legend. Too many times he had waved other Legionaries away from a private battle, his pride and never-ending drive for acclaim and glory having the result that those who had intervened in the past hadn't earned anything other than a tongue-lashing, or worse. Consequently, his men just stood there, watching and unwilling to risk his wrath, sure in the knowledge that their Primus Pilus couldn't possibly fall to barbarians. Knowing this, Pullus was spurred on by their faith in him and was determined that even if his life was coming to an end this day, it wouldn't be at the hands of these two Wa.
Consequently, he was the first to break the slight lull, lunging again. This time, instead of placing himself roughly equidistant between the two Wa as he did in his first attack, he moved directly to his right, putting himself to the extreme left of the second Wa, and effectively putting this warrior in the path of the first Wa. It was a move that would buy him only a fraction of a moment, but he was counting on the wound this Wa carried to slow him down sufficiently, and it worked. As the second Wa pivoted to face Pullus squarely, he was forced to shift his weight onto his right leg, and while it didn't buckle altogether, it did cause him to stagger for an instant. That was all the time Pullus needed, this time delivering a high, overhand thrust, aimed at the base of the Wa's throat. Despite the speed with which the blow was delivered, the Wa's reflexes were still quick enough that he was able to twist slightly, so that instead of hitting him in the throat, Pullus' thrust struck home high in the Wa's left shoulder, the point of his sword punching through the iron lamellar armor as if it weren't there. Pullus had struck with such force that the blade, entering just below the Wa's collarbone, punched all the way through the warrior to protrude by half a foot through his back. This time the Wa wasn't so controlled, letting out a shrill cry of pain that only increased in volume, because this time Pullus was sure to twist the blade savagely, wrenching it back and forth before he yanked it free. Paralyzed by the pain, the Wa was standing motionless, allowing Pullus the time to lift one of his feet and give the Wa a good kick, sending him flying backward and out of sight over the rampart with a long scream, until it was cut short with a gurgling cry. Fortunately for Pullus, his training and instincts had kept his shield up in what the Romans called the first position, the elbow braced against the hip and the forearm parallel to the ground. Even as he turned his attention back to the first Wa, there was a splintering, cracking sound when the Wa struck with a thrust of his own, delivered with savage force, and, to Pullus' surprise and discomfort, he saw the point of the Wa sword punch through his shield just inches above his arm.
Already weakened by all the arrow strikes, Pullus noticed with horror the large, longitudinal crack running almost the entire length of the shield, where a sliver of daylight came streaming through. As the Wa yanked his blade free, almost tugging the shield out of Pullus' grasp, the crack grew even wider, and Pullus knew that it would last at most two, or perhaps three, more blows, if that many. His arm still tingling from the blow of the Wa he had just dispatched, Pullus nonetheless lashed out with his sword, but not before the Wa managed to extricate his own, which he used to parry Pullus' strike. The blades clashed together in a small shower of sparks, and this time the greater brute strength of the Primus Pilus of the 10th showed, as the Wa's blade recoiled backward from the force of the Pullus’ blow, leaving his body temporarily vulnerable and unprotected by nothing more than his other arm. Without hesitating, Pullus stepped forward using his shield to pin the Wa against the rampart at his back to keep him from escaping, and pushed him hard, applying his massive weight behind his shield with every ounce of his strength As he did so, he heard the wood protesting with a shrieking crack, but he continued to press. No matter how strong the Wa was in his own right, he was no match for Titus Pullus, and he thus found himself completely pinned as the breath was crushed from his lungs. Lashing out desperately with his blade, his movement was restricted by the pressure of the shield, but even so, Pullus used his own sword across the top of his shield to knock the Wa's blade aside contemptuously.
"Thought you would do for me, huh you cunnus?" Pullus snarled into the Wa's face, several inches below his own, the saliva spraying into his enemy's face, which was turning purple, as the Wa vainly tried to draw breath into his lungs.
Suddenly, the Wa brought one knee up in a savage blow, aimed at Pullus' groin, but the Roman was much too experienced and had been expecting such a move, turning his hips to the side, so that the knee struck him in the meat of the thigh. It was painful, but by this point Pullus' battle fury was fully aroused and he barely felt the blow, being only dimly aware that if he survived this day, he would awaken the next morning with a huge bruise and try to recall the circumstances around how he had gotten it. Yet in that moment, as he watched the life drain from his opponent's body, the only thing Pullus felt was the savage exultation that comes from besting your enemy, in seeing him vanquished. And as weary as Titus Pullus may have grown of so much of army life, this was a feeling of which he never grew tired. In fact, it was what kept him marching and fighting. Finally, the Wa gave a rattling sigh that Pullus knew from long experience was the signal that the Wa's spirit had fled his body; Still, he continued the pressure for a moment longer, before finally stepping back. The Wa immediately collapsed, as if all his bones had suddenly been removed, and Pullus stood there for a moment, chest heaving, staring down at the dead man. Then, completely unmindful of everything else going on around him, the Primus Pullus of the 10th Legion suddenly hopped up onto the body of his enemy, so that he could stand higher than the rampart. Showing total disdain for the furious fighting, the arrows still flying into the camp, and all the maelstrom of battle, Titus Pullus filled his lungs.
"I am Titus Pullus, Primus Pilus and hero of Caesar's 10th Legion! I piss on you savages! I will fuck your mothers and your daughters, but not until I've waded in your guts! DO ANY OF YOU CUNNI THINK YOU CAN DEFEAT ME? THEN COME ON!"
As he roared his challenge, bellowing with a volume that came only from decades of shouting commands in battle, he held his arms out wide, ruined shield in one hand, sword in the other, beckoning to the Wa down in the ditch. For just the briefest instant, the action immediately around the large Roman stopped, as men openly gaped, the Wa astonished, and, if the truth were known, a little afraid at the apparition before them. Conversely, Pullus' men took savage pride at the sight of their Primus Pilus. Here they were, in the fight of their lives, and their Centurion was mocking the enemy, daring them to do their best! How could they lose with men like Pullus leading them? In response, without any order, a low-pitched, savage growl began emanating from the Roman lines along the rampart. Without any prompting from their Centurions or Optios, the Legionaries of Rome, no matter where they came from, suddenly increased the fury of their fighting, thrusting and stabbing into the enemy, as the Wa, with equal fervor and not a little desperation, scrabbled to gain a solid foothold on the rampart of the barbarian camp. Never before, and perhaps never since, had any army of Rome fought with such savage intensity, but never before had they been so evenly matched in their fury, as they were against the Wa.
At the far southern outpost, Asinius Pollio and Primus Pilus Batius still stood side by side a short distance from the rampart, watching the men before them meet the attacking Wa who were throwing their ladders against the turf wall and starting their ascent. Unlike Pullus' camp, the archery barrage had done minimal damage, both in casualties and in damage to the shields of the defenders. There were no gaps in the row of men lining the ramparts, and for t
he most part their shields were sufficiently undamaged, so that they were able to withstand the first wave of Wa attackers that attempted to breach the defenses. While the fighting was fierce, it wasn't of nearly the same intensity as what Pullus and Balbinus were facing, though neither man had any way of knowing that.
Over the noise of the fighting, Asinius turned to Batius and asked in as close to a conversational tone as possible, "Do you think it would be a good idea to have the reserve Cohorts give their javelins to the front line men? If we need the men of the reserve, it will probably be too late for them to use their javelins."
"True," Batius agreed, "they'll probably need to go straight to the sword. That's a good idea, sir, I'll make sure it's done."
With a salute, Batius turned to go give the orders. Before he could, however, a lone arrow—actually loosed by a Wa in his death throes, after being pierced by one of the last javelins of the last volley, the trajectory of the missile describing an arc high in the air—came hurtling down to earth, picking up even more speed than normal. Batius was just turning, so the arrow pierced his neck, the barbed tip slashing tissue as it buried itself deep in the Primus Pilus' body. Taking one halting step, he uttered a gurgled, choking cry before collapsing, dead before he hit the ground. It took Pollio a moment, before the import of what happened hit him, and he instinctively moved to kneel by Batius' body. Then he stopped himself, understanding that it was too late, knowing from experience when a man was killed instantly. His lips moved in a silent prayer as he interceded on behalf of Batius, asking the gods to transport him not to Charon, but Elysium, the home of all the bravest warriors. When he was finished, he called to the nearest Centurion standing with his Century as part of the reserve. The Centurion's attention had been on the action going on before him while Pollio and Batius had stood off to his left front.
"Centurion! Centurion!" Pollio bellowed, the man turning in surprise at the sound of his general. Pollio pointed down at Batius' body, and said in his command voice, "Your Primus Pilus has fallen! Who will carry him from the field with the honor he deserves?"
As it had been with Pollio, it took a moment for the general's words and what they meant to register, but once they had sunk in, he was deathly afraid his legs would collapse from under him. While Batius' status wasn't quite as legendary and covered in glory as that of Titus Pullus, he was still a formidable Legionary with a sterling record, and, more importantly, he was the only Primus Pilus the Centurion had ever known. In fact, this was true for the vast majority of the men, other than a very small handful of no more than thirty men whose time in the Legions equaled his. Standing unmoving, Pollio had to repeat himself before the Centurion shook his head, and turned to call some of the men from his Century. In a small group, while the fight for the rampart continued, they marched to where Batius lay, then with a gentleness that was close to reverence and using a shield, they lowered him onto it. Then, with a man at each corner, they lifted the shield on their shoulders, and with the Centurion leading the way, marched into the center of the camp, where the Primus Pilus would be laid in the forum, to await the bodies of his comrades to join him on his next journey. As they did so, Pollio tore his attention away, forcing his mind back to the scene before him, where more fighting and dying was taking place.
Caesar had never experienced the emotions that threatened to take over his whole body as he did at that moment, watching the surprise attack of the Wa unfolding. Streaming across the valley floor, they were moving with a rapidity he wouldn't have believed possible of such a large body of men, if he wasn't watching as it happened. Frozen in his spot, he stared, unblinking, unmoving, his mind reeling in shock, before racing through every possibility he could think of that would salvage the situation. There was one shred of hope—or at least so he thought for a few moments—until the leading Wa hordes flowed around the bulge of the ridge and into the pocket, crossing the short expanse of open ground and hitting the base of the slope, still at a dead run. This was the maximum range for the three small outposts that had been emplaced roughly halfway up the slope, and as Caesar had commanded, they immediately began releasing their missiles. Each outpost was armed with two scorpions and one ballistae apiece, and manned with a Century, but despite several of the Wa in the leading ranks being struck down, Caesar saw with sickening clarity how this effort was much too little to slow down the Wa assault, let alone stop it. In fact, the outposts would in all likelihood simply be bypassed; even combined, three Centuries attacking from the rear of such a large force would be akin to a fly hoping to take down an elephant. Even before it happened, Caesar recognized this eventuality, destroying his last shred of hope that he could at the very least buy the time to get a warning to Pullus. As it was, riding even the swiftest horse, there was no way a courier would be able to slip past that surprise force, because at the rate they were climbing the slope, they would be at the ridgetop road before the courier.
Making matters even worse were the orders he had given for Bodroges to give to the courier riding to the northern camp, understanding that it was under enormous pressure. These orders authorized Hirtius to use his reserve as he saw fit, now that he was out of artillery ammunition.. Caesar, as he did in every battle, retained the control of all reserve forces, so it would require an order on his part to release them, although he knew that, if absolutely necessary, Hirtius would order his reserves into battle, before orders arrived and then ask forgiveness later—which of course Caesar would grant. Going further, Caesar also trusted his giant Primus Pilus more than any other of the Primi Pili and second only to his generals Pollio and Hirtius. Even with all that, knowing that it was probably futile, Caesar realized he had to try, so he called for the Pandyan Tribune, since Bodroges had yet to return. Shaking himself from his malaise with a supreme effort of will, Caesar composed himself mentally, his face still the same calm, composed mask that gave nothing away, and snapped an order for the secretary to hand him another wax tablet.
When none was forthcoming, he turned his head in irritation, ready to reprimand the man, one of his minor secretaries, but then saw why he hadn't answered. The man had taken an arrow through the soft spot at the base of the throat, right above the chest and was lying there in a slowly growing pool of blood, eyes wide and staring up. It had obviously just happened, but Caesar had been so shaken and absorbed in his own thoughts and fears that he hadn't even noticed, and it was this fact that disturbed him more than the man's death. Still, to an outside observer he looked like his normal, composed self, as he bent down—,careful to stay sheltered behind the shields as he reached to pluck a tablet from the dead secretary's hand. However, when he took hold of the tablet, the dead man's hand closed tightly around it, giving Caesar a start. He had been looking back up toward the Pandyan Tribune when grabbing the tablet, but now his eyes turned back to the fallen secretary, and when they did his heart suddenly jumped, as the man's eyes blinked once, twice, then three times. The secretary wasn't dead, yet! His wound was definitely mortal, but whatever is in each of us that clings to life, that keeps our heart beating, even when it should have stopped, was strong within the spirit of the secretary, so he stared up at Caesar with desperate, pleading eyes, unable to talk because of the blood that pooled in his mouth and flowed out of its corners onto the ground. That didn't stop him from trying, though, and his jaw moved attempted to form the words, and Caesar, shaken to his very core, strained to understand what the dying man was saying.
"Please...kill...me," the man made no sound, but Caesar could read lips better than most people, although it took the man repeating it three times, before he understood.
Without hesitation, Caesar gave him a nod, and despite the fact the secretary was a slave, told him, "I will say prayers myself and have a sacrifice made, so the gods accept you into the afterlife."
Truthfully, this being a minor secretary who had been captured during the Parthian portion of the campaign, Caesar was unsure what gods the man prayed to, but he silently vowed that if he lived through
the day, he would find out. It was the least he could do. Caesar placed his free hand gently on the man's forehead, while he temporarily relinquished his hold of the tablet, drawing his pugio—the Legionary's dagger—with the other. As he did so, his hand moved from the secretary's forehead down over the man’s eyes to shield them from what Caesar was about to do. With the practiced skill of an augur, Caesar made a quick, but strong, slash across the man's throat, the blade of the dagger cutting deeply just above where the shaft of the arrow protruded. Wiping the blade on the secretary's tunic, Caesar closed the man's eyes, then took the tablet from the now-lifeless hand, standing erect and reaching for his stylus in one motion.
The Pandyan, who was given a shield as Bodroges was, had reached Caesar's side and waited for the general to write his orders, orders that the general knew had almost no chance of reaching the intended recipient. Nonetheless, that didn't stop him from handing the tablet to the Pandyan, with curt instructions, whereupon the Pandyan moved as quickly as he dared, shield still held aloft. Only when Caesar saw the Tribune safely away did he turn his attention back to the fighting. Immediately he saw a spot where there were several bodies, roughly equally divided between Romans and Wa, but, more importantly and dangerously, a small group of Wa had formed a pocket, their backs to the rampart and facing the Legionaries in a slight bulge, with just enough space left, so that more Wa could climb the ladder located there and join these men. Caesar was, like Titus Pullus at heart a warrior, as well as a general, so seeing that every other Roman was occupied, and that he was the closest, he drew his sword.