Caesar Triumphant

  Gnaeus Tetarfenus, Pilus Prior of the Eighth Cohort followed the duty Optio back up the ramp, where Prixus was still standing, eyes fixed to the last spot where he had seen the puzzling event farther south along the ridge.

  "Seen anything?" the Optio demanded, but Prixus' only response was a shake of his head.

  "So what is this extremely urgent thing you saw?" Tetarfenus, knowing the duty Optio only by reputation, since he was from the Fifth Cohort, was unable to hide his skepticism and impatience.

  When asked in such a bald way, both the Optio and Prixus hesitated, exchanging sidelong glances.

  Finally, the Optio cleared his throat nervously, "Well Pilus Prior, it's hard to say exactly......"

  "So, you didn't see anything other than some dust?" Tetarfenus interrupted.

  "Well, no. Er, I mean, not exactly," the Optio amended, but Tetarfenus had heard enough.

  "Then, until you have something substantial to report, stop wasting my time," he snapped. "In case you haven't been paying attention, we're in the fight of our fucking lives!"

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel to stalk back down the rampart to his Cohort. The Optio stared at his retreating back, trying to calculate how far Tetarfenus needed to go before he could curse him without being heard. Fortunately for everyone as it would turn out, Prixus, still smarting from his rebuke by the Optio and not sure if there was a flogging in his future, kept his eyes fixed on the spot where the ridge road reappeared. What caught his eye confused him at first: things looking like slender reeds that had just popped up from the ground, but topped with flowers unlike any he had ever seen, because they were a dull, silvery color. Then, one of the Wa carrying his spear turned the shaft in his hand, so that the broad side of the distinctive tear-shaped blade was facing Prixus, who expelled an explosive gasp.. Whirling about at the sound, the Optio took one step to gaze over Prixus' shoulder, his jaw dropping and all the blood rushing from his face.

  "Pilus Prior!" the Optio called.

  Tetarfenus faced about, ready to issue a sharp rebuke, but the look on the Optio's face stilled his tongue. Tetarfenus ran back to the rampart,, and in the few heartbeats it took him to cover the distance, any doubt about what was approaching had been removed, as the heads of the leading Wa suddenly appeared, as if by magic, climbing the slope toward the unprotected Porta Praetoria side of the camp. They were less than a mile away, and Gnaeus Tetarfenus found himself rooted to his spot for a moment, his face a mirror of that of the Optio standing next to him. Shaking his head as if he were trying to wake himself from a bad dream, the Pilus Prior snapped back to reality, and, without a word to the two men, went sprinting down from the rampart.

  "Reserve Cohorts! Rally to me!" he started bellowing at the top of his lungs. "We're under attack!"

  There was a ripple of movement, as men who were kneeling, their arms draped across their shields, jumped to their feet, and the air filled with a babble of questions, each of them struggling to comprehend this new reality.

  "What did he say?"

  "Something about an attack!"

  "Huh? From where? How?"

  "How the fuck should I know?"

  The ensuing scramble demonstrated once again that the men of the 10th were so experienced that the move from a position of rest to standing at intente—at the very least to being ready to move into position—was accomplished with great speed, even if they didn't know where they were moving, while the Centurions had run to close the gap to their Pilus Prior, meeting him roughly halfway between the forum and the rampart.

  "I don't know how, but those slanty-eyed cunni got a force behind us," Tetarfenus gasped out, his Centurions going rigid with shock.

  "How many?" asked Pilus Prior Nasica.

  "Enough," Tetarfenus' face was grim. "Enough to sweep us away, unless we stop them at the walls. Get the men up to the walls, immediately."

  "Reserve?" asked the Hastatus Posterior of the Tenth, a Roman named Gaius Porcinus, one of the youngest Centurions in the 10th, born in Baetica Province, like Titus Pullus. While he was somewhat taller than the other Centurions, he wasn't the same height, or breadth, as Titus Pullus, but there was a similarity in facial features that confirmed the fact that Gaius Porcinus was the son of Valeria, Titus Pullus' sister, and Titus' only nephew. His position in the Centurionate was achieved despite his uncle's every attempt to dissuade his young nephew from a life in the army, although he had plucked the youngster from the ranks of the 14th Legion—when Gaius managed to enlist, despite his mother's objections—putting him in Scribonius' Second Cohort, where his best friend could keep an eye on him. However, despite Porcinus' fresh-faced appearance, he had flourished in the Legion and had earned the right to wear the transverse crest of a Centurion in Caesar's army. Now, his nephew stood among the other Centurions of the reserve Cohorts, waiting to hear their dispositions.

  "We're not going to have any reserve," Tetarfenus answered quietly. "We're going to need every man on the wall. Now, I want the Eighth there," he pointed to the spot around the Porta Praetoria, "the Ninth there, and the Tenth there. Now move!"

  As the officers went scrambling to their respective Centuries, Tetarfenus grabbed Porcinus' arm, stopping him.

  "I need you to go to the Primus Pilus; tell him what's happening. Tell him that we haven't gotten an exact count yet, but my guess is that there's going to be at least 10,000 men trying to get over that wall. And tell him," Tetarfenus' tone became even grimmer, "that we're going to need the 12th's reserve as well, if we're going to have any chance at stopping these bastards."

  Chapter 9

  The only position that wasn't hard-pressed were the camps to the south of Caesar's, where Aulus Flaminius and the 30th Legion and 14th Legion, under the overall command of The Muleteer Ventidius were repulsing the Wa with relative ease and even lighter casualties. The same was true for the camp farther to the south, next to Pollio's southernmost position, where the men of the 11th and 8th were faced by a Wa force composed almost identically in numbers to that facing Flaminius. Whether the Wa commanding these forces weren't made of the same iron as the others, or their orders were simply to make a demonstration Flaminius didn't know, but he wasn't about to complain. Not only were the reserve Cohorts standing ready in the forum, but he hadn't even had to send in the relief Centuries. Walking behind the Centuries manning the ramparts, Flaminius called out encouragement to the rankers, and advice to the Centurions, so it was almost like a training exercise. Probably not surprisingly, his men were in high spirits, now that the initial tension of the assault was dispelled and the measure of the enemy was taken. Those on relief were bantering back and forth, yelling above the noise and placing wagers on how many of these barbarians they would kill when their turn came up. The few wounded were quickly dragged out of the way by their comrades, down the ramp to the waiting stretcher bearers, who placed the wounded on the planks used for that purpose, carrying them to the hospital tent.

  When Flaminius moved up to the rampart to assess the strength of the Wa assault, he was surprised and delighted to see before him a ditch almost overflowing with bodies, particularly around the ladders the Wa had thrown up against the wall. Better still, he took a quick count of the remaining ranks of those warriors still trying to cross the ditch and saw that they were a half-dozen deep, at most. However, most importantly, he could see that whatever fighting spirit was in these barbarians was quickly deserting them. Even as he watched, he saw the men to the rear—directly in front of the two ranks of archers who had stopped firing now that their comrades were at the walls—begin looking over their shoulders. Flaminius, like all the Primi Pili, was one of the most experienced Legionaries in the army, and he had seen that look, starting in Gaul and stretching across the entire known world. That look signaled victory, if his men could summon just enough of their strength to make one final push. Of course, in this case making a final push didn't mean what it would in a pitched battle; Flaminius wouldn't have dreamed of ordering a pursuit. It
would be enough to break the Wa against the walls, and after seeing the scene before him, he knew it wouldn't be long before they did break.

  Returning to his spot behind the fighting, Flaminius called to his clerk who stood a short distance away. Taking the wax tablet the scribe held out, he incised his report to Caesar. Once finished, he was about to snap the tablet shut and hand it to the Legionary who would dash to the waiting courier, who in turn would gallop the message to Caesar and, presumably, return with one in reply. He had finished his report; there was nothing else to say, but then he stopped, bent his head down and—if truth be known—looked slightly ridiculous, as he added one more line, his tongue out of his mouth in concentration. While Flaminius knew his letters, like all Centurions, he was no scholar, so he had to think carefully about what he was writing, hence the intense focus. Finally finished, he quickly re-read it and then snapped the tablet shut, handing it to the Legionary who, without saying a word turned and began running back toward the middle of the camp. He didn't know what the message said, nor did he care. In fact, it was better that he didn't know, because if he understood that he was essentially carrying the outcome of this battle and the fate of Caesar's army, he might have collapsed on the spot from the sheer enormity of the task.

  Caesar had somewhat recovered his equilibrium and was back to directing the men fighting for their lives and his, but even as he did, a part of his mind was still occupied with what he feared was happening at the camp to the north. Like the northern camp, the Wa had managed to establish a presence on the rampart, but it was a much more tenuous affair, with the deepest penetration only two men deep and then only in a half-dozen spots. Otherwise, it was a case where a Wa would leap over the parapet and down onto the rampart, fight ferociously for anywhere from a few heartbeats to several long moments, before being cut down. Unfortunately, as with Pullus' position, it was a case of mathematics, because Caesar simply couldn't afford to lose men in the way the Wa commander could, and the latter had already proved more than willing to sacrifice as many as it took to overwhelm these pale creatures. Consequently, it was with increasing helplessness that Caesar saw his men fall, some of them able to move under their own power, crawling around and through the legs of their comrades, until they were sufficiently far enough away for one of their friends to grab them by the harness and drag them the rest of the way to safety, ignoring the screams of pain as they did so. Others weren't so lucky, either having been struck a mortal wound or hurt so severely that they were immobilized; and unless one of the men still in the fight noticed this and did what they could, these unfortunates saw their lifeblood pour into a ground that was already soaked with it.

  The sound of the fighting had been roaring in his ears for so long that Caesar no longer noticed it, his mind now registering it as part of the background. It was only when there was a change in the pitch of what had become a steady dull noise that Caesar was alerted to a new development in the ongoing battle. It started with a series of shouts and screams of a much higher intensity and volume, and now looking in the direction of the source of the sound, in front of Caesar's horrified eyes he saw that several dozen paces away down the rampart—where the Fifth Cohort of the defending 25th Legion was located—a cluster of perhaps a dozen Wa were now securely on the rampart. In fact, they were moving down the ramp at a run, slashing down at the unprotected backs of the men, Caesar's men, whose nerve had at last failed and who were fleeing away from the onslaught. In doing so, they not only essentially sealed their fate—since the greatest slaughter on the battlefield came when men's collective nerve and courage finally broke and they turned to run—but their flight also threatened this whole camp. The sight caused Caesar to freeze for a moment, so unaccustomed to and shocked at the sight of his men in headlong flight that it rendered him into a form that looked very much like the statues of him spread from one end of the world to the other. It was only momentary, however, as with an abrupt shake of his head, he began heading toward the breach at a dead run, pausing only long enough to point a now-drawn sword at the small group of aides and some Legionaries who had just been relieved and who were standing nearby.

  "Follow me! If we don't stop this, it's over for all of us!"

  And without another glance back, sure that his men were hot on his heels, a 65 year-old general rushed headlong into battle with all the fervor of a young veteran eager to win glory.

  It didn't take long for Gaius Porcinus to find his uncle; Titus Pullus was always easy to spot, for a couple of reasons. The first was his size, but it was the second one that delayed Gaius from making it to his Primus Pilus' side, as the giant Centurion was still standing hard up against the palisade, forming one side of a box that was just managing to keep the Wa in that area hemmed in. But even as Gaius weaved his way through the panting men on relief, then hopped over the numerous bodies lying in heaps, despite his relative inexperience as a Centurion, he was a hardened veteran of many battles, and he took in and understood the desperate situation at a glance. The Century that Titus was assisting, although Gaius didn't recognize it, was the Fourth of the First Cohort, but what Gaius could see was that there were no more than four men in each file standing there, ready to take their turn. Although he kept moving, Gaius did take the time to look down the ramp to where the relieving Century would be waiting, and his heart started racing even more than it had been from the exertion in getting there. He hadn't thought it possible, but the Century waiting to go back into battle was even worse off than the one currently fighting, with perhaps three men per file. And now there was a new force assaulting the camp?

  In the remaining time it took Gaius to reach his uncle, he came to the simple conclusion that this was going to be the day he died, along with all of his men, the Legion, and probably the whole army. Almost overwhelmed at the thought, Gaius' stride faltered for a moment, and the feeling of impending loss that swept through him threatened to bring him to his knees. Yet, none of the thoughts racing through his head had anything to do with his own life ending, but were instead focused on the tragedy faced by the families and loved ones of his men. The very thought was so intensely painful that he gasped aloud, before ruthlessly pushing it aside, spurred by the knowledge that his uncle would never let his feelings impede his ability to do his job. Finally getting to a point where he was within a few paces of Pullus, Gaius halted, knowing that distracting his uncle at that moment, when he was engaged with a Wa, could be fatal, even for a man as experienced as the Primus Pilus was. Waiting until he saw Pullus' blade sink deeply into the Wa's side, the warrior's mouth opening into a contorted shape by the agony of the mortal wound—although he didn't let out more than a groan that was barely audible from where Porcinus was standing—when the Primus Pilus stepped backward to take a breath, only then did Gaius move to his side.

  "Primus Pilus," he called out, as always careful to refer to his uncle only by his rank in front of the men, no matter the circumstances.

  Pullus turned in clear surprise at the sound of his nephew's voice, the older man covered in blood—mostly that of the Wa—his eyes narrowing at not just the sight of his nephew, but also at the import of Gaius’ standing there, knowing he was part of the reserve.

  "What is it?" Pullus snapped, unmindful at that moment of their blood ties, seeing instead only the Hastatus Posterior of one of his Cohorts.

  If Porcinus was unsettled by the reception, he didn't betray it a bit, as he saluted; then, in as few words as possible gave his report. Even so, he had to repeat the report once more, before Pullus' mind could grasp the significance of what his nephew was telling him. It was only through a supreme effort of will that Titus Pullus didn't betray the sudden anxiety—and if truth were known—the fair amount of fear that threatened his composure. Instead, he forced himself to give only a grim nod.

  "Tetarfenus is in position?"

  "They were moving onto the walls as I left. I'm sure that they're in place now."

  Nodding again, Pullus considered.

  "All
right. You're dismissed. Go back and tell Tetarfenus that he must hold, no matter the cost. Although I'm sure he knows that."

  Gaius waited for more, but once it was clear that his uncle had said all he was going to—in fact turning back to the fighting, moving his sword in an easy pattern of circles as he tried to keep his aching muscles loose—he remained rooted to the spot where he was standing. Sensing this, Pullus turned back to Porcinus, his expression one of irritation at the delay of getting back to slaughtering barbarians.

  "Well. What is it?"

  "Primus Pilus, aren't you going to release the reserves of the 12th?"

  Pullus frowned, caught clearly by surprise. How had he forgotten about that, he wondered? Was his mind so overwhelmed at what was going on that he could forget such vital details? While his first instinct was to tell Gaius to go to the Primus Pilus of the 12th and relay his orders to move them over to join the rest of the 10th's reserve, for some reason the orders wouldn't come out of his mouth. Instead, he looked carefully about him, at not just the Centuries still fighting, but the men waiting in relief. When he did, he saw the same thing his nephew had, and with great reluctance, he shook his head.

  "I can't spare them, Gaius," he said quietly. "Tell Tetarfenus he's going to have to do the best he can with the men he has."

  Even with the maelstrom of noise and fighting, both men could only look each other in the eyes, as each of them understood what Titus Pullus was telling his nephew. There would be only three Cohorts, a few more than a thousand men, to stop what Tetarfenus was sure was ten times that number. Swallowing hard, Porcinus couldn't trust himself to speak, instead giving a curt nod before turning to go. Before he did, Titus Pullus reached out and grabbed his nephew's shoulder.