by Peake, R. W.
"Gaius, wait."
When Porcinus turned back to face his uncle, the older man's expression was one that would stay with Gaius for the rest of his time on earth.
"May the gods be with you, Gaius," Pullus said as softly as could be managed in the din, blinking away what looked suspiciously like tears.
"And you...Uncle," Gaius' reply almost choked in his throat, but before either of them shamed themselves Porcinus turned away, starting out at a dead run back to be with his men to face whatever fate awaited them.
Pullus stood and watched for a few moments, until Gaius disappeared between the tents, still pitched and aligned in their neat rows, forcing down the lump in his throat, until the man he had come to love as a son was no longer in sight. Drawing a deep breath, Pullus squared his shoulders, then called to his runner, crouched just out of the range of the fighting.
"Go to Primus Pilus Balbinus. Tell him I need his reserve. Now."
Without waiting to see if he was obeyed, Pullus turned his attention back to the fighting, looking for a spot that needed some help. Quickly seeing that every single spot where ladders were against the wall was being hard-pressed, he simply chose the spot nearest him, and headed back into the fighting.
Julius Caesar was no Titus Pullus as a swordsman, but he was nevertheless highly skilled. He had snatched a discarded shield lying on the ground and was leading with it as he went careening into one of the small group of Wa who had momentarily paused at the bottom of the ramp. Their hesitation was understandable; not only were they now effectively well inside the enemy camp, but it was just as shocking to these Wa seeing the pale barbarians turning to flee. That brief moment allowed Caesar to close the remaining gap, and just as the nearest Wa sensed this new danger and was turning to face it, the 65 year-old Roman slammed into him with terrific force. Advanced age or not, Caesar was still extremely fit, hardened by years of relentless trial and exposure to the elements, and, while slender in build, was all muscle and bone. It was with this force that Caesar sent the first Wa recoiling backward, who, despite keeping his feet, was doing so only with difficulty, both arms windmilling crazily as he slammed into the Wa next to him. Their legs tangled together, finally causing the first Wa to leave his feet and crash heavily into the ground. Barely breaking stride, Caesar leapt over the first Wa, counting on whoever was behind him to dispatch the man, before he could become a threat, and attempted the same maneuver with the second Wa still struggling to stay upright. This time however, the Wa managed to dodge Caesar's blow with his shield, causing the Roman general to become the one who was unbalanced. In the instant it took for him to recover, the second Wa had accomplished Caesar’s own maneuver, and with a bellow in their tongue that Caesar had no need for a translator to understand, unleashed a slicing blow at waist level that would have disemboweled the Roman, if he hadn't blocked it. As it was, Caesar heard a sharp, splintering crack from his shield and knew from hearing the sound that it was now cracked and severely weakened. Despite this, he countered with his own thrust, only dimly aware that the rest of the men following him threw themselves into the Wa, and—from the sound of it—with the same abandon their general had displayed. The Wa, again proving damnably agile, simply twisted his body from the waist to allow the point of Caesar's blade to go thrusting by at abdomen level. Fortunately for Caesar, the direction in which the Wa turned also moved the Wa's blade away from Caesar, so he was unable to make a counterattack. Instead, he made a small, hopping step even farther to Caesar's left, but twisted his torso in the process, so that when both feet were on the ground, he was squared up again, while now it was Caesar's sword that was out of range. Normally, this wouldn't have concerned Caesar because his shield was between him and the Wa, but instantly he understood that this was the Wa's target. Even as the thought flashed through his mind, the Wa unleashed a hugely powerful thrust aimed directly at Caesar's shield, just to the left and a little below the boss. Exactly as Caesar feared, the Wa had targeted the weakened part of his shield, the general realizing that the crack must be visible to the Wa, although it hadn't worked all the way through. Until, that is, this last thrust and Caesar watched in horror as, in seemingly slow motion, a spidery-thin longitudinal crack made its way through the shield in both directions from where the point of the Wa's sword had punched through, leaving a beam of daylight streaming through, when he withdrew it. Despite the shield’s remaining intact, Caesar knew it would only be that way for at best two more blows, and that was only if he still had Caesar's Luck. Understanding this fact, he didn't bother using his shield offensively, instead pivoting on his left foot in answer to the move of the Wa, and in doing so, exposed his unprotected side to another Wa warrior who—seeing the chance at winning eternal glory, not to mention a reward that would instantly make him a wealthy man and elevate his status—didn't hesitate to come charging in with a sword raised high above his head, lips pulled back in a ferocious, triumphant grin.
Quintus Balbus had singlehandedly stopped the dangerous incursion of Wa in his sector, and was standing now, literally covered in blood and gore. Unfortunately, not all of it belonged to the Wa; Balbus had suffered several wounds, the most serious one a puncture wound low on his side that had driven several small links of his mail armor into his body. The pain was excruciating, and Balbus knew with utmost certainty that unless he put himself under the surgeon's blade and probe and allowed him to rummage around in his insides and get those links out, he was going to certainly die in an agony that he couldn't fathom. Nevertheless, he shook off every attempt by his Optio to guide him gently away from the fighting, finally snarling that he would run the Optio through himself if he persisted in his silliness. Now, with a brief respite in the fighting, he stood, legs shaking so violently that if it weren't for a pile of bodies that he used to lean against, he was sure he would collapse. The only concession he had made for the Optio was to allow the man to use his and Balbus' neckerchief, knotted together, to make a makeshift bandage that Balbus had insisted be drawn so tightly that it made it difficult to breathe. Despite his formidable will, he couldn't keep an agonized moan escaping from his lips, as the Optio, his own face drawn and tight, pulled and tugged at the cloth. Balbus still held his sword, and noted idly that if he didn't know better, he would have sworn that he had picked up one of the heavy wooden training swords. He was finding it much harder to maintain his concentration on all that was going on and, in fact, was losing interest in it altogether. Then there was a hoarse shout over and above the other noise, and he dully turned his head to see that four Wa had managed to establish another pocket of resistance directly in front of one of the ladders. More importantly, they had managed to push outward in a rough semicircle that opened up space for more Wa to climb the ladder and join them. Shaking his head vigorously, Balbus finally resorted to slapping himself in the face with his free hand—barely registering that it was caked with blood—before rousing himself sufficiently to begin making his way toward the latest trouble spot. Despite trying, he couldn't seem to force his legs to move in more than an unsteady wobble, but he nevertheless propelled himself towards the battle.
Gaius Porcinus was on his way back to his Century, with nothing more in mind than rejoining them as quickly as possible, so that he could at least die with his men and among friends. Crossing the forum, however, he suddenly stopped. Looking around, he saw that the entire open area was covered with wounded men, some moaning in pain, others lying quietly with that vacant look that the severely injured have, as if their immediate surroundings are no longer important. And perhaps they weren't, Porcinus thought, but as he stood there, unsure why he had stopped, it came to him with utter clarity. Without thinking further, he began speaking, using what his uncle called his "command voice," a volume just below a bellow.
"I know many of you are wounded too badly," he called. "But I'm not going to lie to you. We've been surprised by another force coming from the south."
He paused for a moment as his announcement prompted a buzzing of tal
k, as those who were able alternately cursed, moaned, or exclaimed to the man lying next to them, seeking solace in each other in this moment of extremis, even if they knew the man only by sight or didn't speak the same tongue.
After a moment, Porcinus continued, "So I'm asking those of you who are able to lift a sword to join us. We're going to need every man we can get, because I don't have to tell you what happens, if this part of the wall is breached."
Nobody stirred. Gaius stood there, watching in growing helplessness, as he saw men looking from one man to another. Finally, at the far end of the forum, he saw a bareheaded Legionary struggle to his feet, clearly favoring one leg. Slowly bending down, he retrieved his helmet, and it was only when he strapped it on that Porcinus recognized the Quartus Hastatus Posterior, the Centurion commanding the last Century of the Fourth Cohort, a man named Vibius Metellus. Helmet on, he stood there for a moment, saying nothing, just looking down at the rest of the wounded, but even from a distance Porcinus could see the look of disdain on his face. He saw Metellus open his mouth.
"All right you lazy cunni! You've been lolling about whining about your scratches long enough! It's time to earn your pay, so on your feet, you bastards!"
And to Porcinus' amazement, men stirred, forcing themselves to stand more or less upright. Some of them still had their shields, which had actually been used as their makeshift stretcher in most case, but Porcinus also saw that, good Roman Legionaries that they were, they had all kept their weapons with them. His vision suddenly became cloudy, and he found his throat tightening at the sight before him, as these battered, already wounded men gathered themselves in makeshift Centuries, sorting themselves out, as they hobbled to get into some semblance of a formation. There were at least one more Centurion and perhaps a half-dozen Optios that Porcinus could see, and they took the responsibility for organizing the men. Despite the fact that Metellus technically outranked Porcinus, he hobbled up to the younger man with obvious pain and difficulty and rendered a salute.
"What are your orders, Centurion?"
That was almost too much for Gaius to bear, but he managed to keep his composure and said in a husky voice, "I think right now you should just stand ready at the edge of the forum and wait for developments. Do you agree Hastatus Posterior Metellus?"
Even if Metellus seemed to be ceding the command to Porcinus, not only did the younger Centurion have his own Century that he was desperate to join, respect for hierarchy was so ingrained in all Legionaries that it was extremely difficult for Porcinus to even entertain being in charge, when a more senior man was present.
Metellus, lips tightened against the pain, managed to say through clenched teeth, "I agree that's the best. I'll shake out what we have in a line there," he pointed to one spot, then another to show Porcinus, "but we don't have enough men for a reserve. And Porcinus," he finished grimly, "I don't know how much fight these men have. Or me, for that matter."
"Well, hopefully we won't need you," Porcinus replied, trying to keep his tone level, as if they were discussing the weather. Before he turned to go to his Century, Metellus suddenly thrust out his hand, which, despite his surprise, Porcinus immediately took, grasping the other man's forearm in the Roman manner.
"May Fortuna bless you," Metellus with a raspy chuckle added, "And the rest of us."
"And you," was all Porcinus could think to say, then he was moving at a trot in the direction of the main gate, scanning the Centuries now lining the wall of the camp, looking for his men.
Even as he spotted the familiar sight of his signifer, a man almost as tall as Porcinus and one of the Parthians recruited a few years before, Porcinus heard a chorus of shouts.
"Here they come!"
Following immediately on the heels of the warning cry, as Porcinus strode up the ramp to join his men, he heard one of them utter words so familiar and comforting.
"Jupiter Optimus Maximus, protect this Legion, soldiers all!"
It was the Legionary's prayer, and as Porcinus took his spot on the rampart, hard against the palisade stakes, he immediately saw that those prayers would be desperately needed and even then, they might not be enough.
Titus Pullus had long since lost track of time. If Caesar himself had demanded it, he couldn't have given him even a rough estimate of how long the fighting had been going on. His best guess was that it had been more than a full watch since the first fusillade of arrows had sailed over the palisade, and that the battle for the rampart had been going on for two parts of that. But he also knew that it could be longer, or shorter. Only one thing he was sure of: over the entire span of his prodigious career, through almost a hundred battles and thousands of skirmishes, he had never been as fatigued as he was at that moment. It was almost impossible for him to concentrate, and it was only through his willpower, as formidable as his physical prowess, that he was able to do so at all.
Drawing closer to the battle, Pullus felt a surge of energy, welcoming it, as he selected the spot where his men seemed to need the most help, and he managed to build up enough speed to slam into the knot of men trying to kill each other with great force. Because of his fatigue, however, his aim was off and not only did he send the Wa he had aimed for reeling backward, but he also sent one of his own men, one of the Pandyans and a relatively new tiro, crashing directly into the man to his left. More exactly, the tiro fell onto the naked blade of his comrade, and while the force wasn't sufficient to drive the blade deeply into his body, it nevertheless broke through the links of his mail and penetrated about an inch. With a sharp cry of pain, the tiro staggered backward even further, and, because the other man hadn't been expecting what happened, he was jerked off balance, as well. The sudden absence of two men in the front of the press of fighting immediately pitted three Wa against Pullus, although the enemy he had slammed into was still staggering backward. Blades slashed from two different angles at Pullus, one of them gashing a deep trench down his sword arm, eliciting a hiss of pain from the Primus Pilus, although he managed to block the other with his shield. Fortunately the cut wasn't deep, but it felt like a trench of liquid fire had been laid in a line down his forearm. Still, he was able to wield the Gallic blade with deadly effect, as, ignoring the pain, he took advantage of a slight overextension of the Wa who had inflicted the wound. With what looked like nothing more than a flick of his wrist—but as any of his men who had faced him on the training ground could testify, contained a huge amount of power—he chopped down with his blade into the middle of the Wa's sword forearm, severing the man's arm, as if he were slicing through a loaf of bread. Blood spurted from the stump, as the Wa stood, paralyzed, staring down in shock at his now-missing hand, lying in the dirt, the grimy fingers still clutched tightly around the hilt.
Although it would have seemed the logical thing to do to finish this Wa off, Pullus completely ignored him, knowing that he was out of action and counting on the man either bleeding to death or being finished off by another of the Romans. Instead he focused on the Wa he had barged into, who had just recovered his balance and was bringing his sword up to bear, preparing for a lunge at the big Roman. Pullus' gaze never wavered from this man as, briefly pulling his sword arm back almost a foot behind him, he launched a low, hard thrust clearly meant to disembowel. However, at the same time, despite not moving his head, he uncoiled his left arm straight out from the shoulder with the same amount of force, punching his shield's boss flush into the face of the third Wa who had raised his blade high over his head to unleash a killing blow designed to cut Pullus in half lengthwise. Because of his posture, it was impossible even for someone with the reflexes the Wa possessed to bring his arms down to at least partially block the blow, and Pullus felt a satisfying jolt travel up his arm. Accompanying the feeling was a wet, crunching sound, as the Wa's nose and cheeks were crushed. Pullus had only intended the blow to stop the Wa momentarily, but because the warrior was stepping into his own planned strike, the force of the metal boss slamming into his face was doubled. With the cartilage of his n
ose shoved violently backward into his brain, the Wa dropped immediately, dead before he hit the ground, although the body continued to spasm and jerk for several moments, the man's eyes staring dully up out of a face now gruesomely concave.
Meanwhile, Pullus' sword thrust was met by a sweeping parry aimed downward and out from the Wa's body, the Roman's blade sliding up the Wa's and ending by punching air to the Wa's right. Since this was taking place in the space of time between normal heartbeats, Pullus hadn't recovered his shield back to its first position, and had the Wa been armed with a shield of his own and had used it in the same manner, Pullus could have been in serious trouble. But since he had no shield, the Wa lashed out instead with that fist, in a blindingly fast punch aimed not at Pullus' face, who was anticipating the blow and was reflexively jerking his head, but for his arm, directly onto the wound he had received moments before. Lightning flashes of pain shot up Pullus' arm and for a brief, horrified instant he thought he would pass out, as his vision was shot through with what he could swear were the sparks from a disturbed fire. But while he managed to avoid that, not even he was able to keep his grasp on his blade, even with the grip that had served him so well, and the sword fell to the earth. Now he stood with only his shield, but even as formidably skilled as Pullus was with the use of the shield, he knew he was at a severe disadvantage. Risking a quick glance, he saw that every one of his men near enough to come to his aid was furiously busy with his own private battles At this point, the prudent course for Pullus was to wage a defensive fight, hoping to wear the Wa down and wait for either an opportunity to retrieve his sword—despite the ferocious pain coursing up his arm—or for one of his men to vanquish the Wa he was currently engaged with and come to his aid. But Pullus did neither.