by Peake, R. W.
Instead, with his shield squarely in front of him, he went charging at the Wa, who was clearly caught by surprise by the brazenness of the attack. Nonetheless, he still managed to bring his sword to bear, the point of his blade sticking directly out from his body in an attempt to keep Pullus at bay. Pullus acted as if the blade weren’t there, moving his bulk behind the shield directly onto the blade, and the point pierced the wood of the shield just to the left of the boss. However, Pullus didn't stop, and, in fact, continued to push forward with all of his strength, closing the distance between himself and the smaller Wa. In doing so, the point of the sword poked more deeply through the shield, so it was inevitable that if Pullus closed the distance any further, the point would pierce his left arm, which is exactly what he did. Now the Wa was shoved back against the palisade, with no more room to retreat, and between that and the sight of this giant barbarian—covered in blood and seemingly impervious to the fact that, as he closed the last few inches, the blade of the Wa's sword was burying itself more deeply into the arm behind the shield—his eyes widened in shock and fear. Now that Pullus was within reach, with a speed that surprised the Wa, the Roman’s right arm shot out, his fingers hooked in a claw as he grabbed the Wa around the throat. If the Wa had released his grip on his sword to use both hands, he might have been able to pry the giant monster's hands off his windpipe, but the simple truth was that he panicked. Consequently, he was left grabbing wildly at the Roman's wrist, trying to pry the hand choking the life from him away from his windpipe, as his lungs quickly began screaming for air. When that didn't work, he began as he had started, beating unmercifully at the wound on Pullus' arm. This time, despite the sparks flying before his eyes, Pullus ignored the horrific pain, teeth clenched, lips pulled back in a half-grin, half-grimace that was feral, grunting in time to the hammer blows of the Wa that fell on his arm over and over. Then Pullus felt, more than heard, the crunching and popping of the Wa's trachea finally collapsing under the enormous pressure, as the Wa's eyes bulged out in vain appeal, the normally golden-yellow skin now a purplish hue that under other circumstances would have reminded Pullus of a plum. Knowing that his enemy was now dead, Pullus released him to fall limply backward. Somehow still aware of what was happening, Pullus saw that this latest threat was all but contained; there were two Wa standing back to back, surrounded by Legionaries in the same way a pack of wolves surrounds the weakest animals of a herd. Carefully squatting, knowing that bending down from the waist would make him keel over, he retrieved his sword, wincing at the effort it took to grasp the hilt. Staggering a few steps away to what was effectively the rear, it was only when Pullus tried to let go of his shield and it didn't drop to the ground that he became aware that the Wa's sword was still protruding from it and that the blade had pinned the shield to his left arm. Calling to one of his men, he had the man grasp the hilt of the sword.
Gritting his teeth, Pullus told the man, "Pull it out, quickly, but do it in a straight line, so you don't do any more damage. Understand?"
The Legionary—one of the Gayans who were in effect the newest recruits, like all of his compatriots, was deathly afraid of the giant Primus Pilus, and, if the truth were known, he would have preferred to be in the front line at that moment. Still, he gave a hard gulp, then nodded his head in answer, something that Pullus would normally have rebuked him for, but said nothing.
"Ready?" Pullus hissed. "Go."
Surprising them both, the Gayan did exactly as he had been told, pulling the blade out in one smooth motion, moving in a straight line backward. A gout of blood spurted from the wound, but Pullus saw immediately that it was darker in color and not pulsing with every beat of his heart, meaning that he hadn't severed a major vessel. Letting it bleed for a moment to flush the wound out, he then bound his neckerchief around the wound. Unknown to him at that moment, he and Scribonius were virtual twins, both suffering wounds of roughly the same severity and at the same location. As he tied the last knot, with the help of the Gayan, there was another series of shouts that alerted him of another breach, so he turned to head that way, but took only one halting step before he recognized that if he didn't rest, he would indeed pass out. Despite the desperate need, Titus Pullus was, after all, a mortal man, and all men have limits. Titus Pullus had reached his. That was how the Wa finally effectively breached the western wall of the northern camp.
Julius Caesar barely had time to register the blur of motion that suddenly streaked in from behind him, as one of his men threw his body directly into the path of the charging Wa, who just then was beginning the downswing of his raised sword. The Legionary instinctively threw his arm up, but there was no shield attached, it having been shattered moments earlier; the force of the Wa's blow was so massive that the sharp blade sliced through the Legionary's forearm as if it weren’t even there, continuing down onto and through the man's helmet. Although Caesar hadn't yet completely comprehended what one of his men was doing for him and the army, he did feel the warm, sticky spray of blood and brain matter, as the Wa's sword sliced through the iron helmet and the hard bone of the skull. Its momentum was finally stopped by the lower jawbone of the stricken Legionary, who remained standing for a moment, his body suddenly jerking spasmodically, as his body tried to receive signals that were no longer being sent. Without any thought, Caesar reacted to the sight by thrusting his sword into the chest of the Wa, who was still trying to wrench his sword from the Legionary's skull, and he collapsed at Caesar's feet. Only then did Caesar fully focus on the sight to his right, his eye caught by the point of the blade and a clear foot of the sword protruding from the back of the Legionary's skull.
Before he could react, however, the man collapsed straight down into a heap, his ruined face looking curiously intact, except for the bloody, straight line separating one half of his face from the other. It was extremely unsettling, even for a man like Caesar, who had seen so much violent death and destruction to apprehend what was in effect one half of a face, the eye gazing up at him with that surprised expression so many of the dead have, but the other half literally facing in the other direction. This sight rooted Caesar to the ground, until a Centurion, the Quintus Pilus Posterior of the 15th Legion, Quintus Barbatos, nudged Caesar gently. Quickly snapping back to reality, Caesar took in the situation and saw that the outbreak had been contained: the men who had followed him and still survived mopping up the handful of Wa who were now completely surrounded. Studying his general's face, albeit when he thought Caesar wasn't looking, Barbatos was distinctly unsettled by what he saw etched in the older man's face. Not only did he look tired, he looked...Barbatos thought, but couldn't come up with a word that fit, but whatever that look was, it didn't inspire confidence. Apparently sensing eyes on him, Caesar turned from his examination of the situation before him, as the last of the Wa was cut down.
Giving the Centurion a tired smile, Caesar said, "Hot work, eh, Barbatos?"
"That it is, Caesar," Barbatos agreed, feeling slightly better with his general's ice-blue eyes now looking directly into his and experiencing the same queer but pleasant sensation every person who was favored with that look of Caesar's felt.
It was as if he could see into your soul and see your darkest secrets, but accepted them with a slightly mocking, slightly humorous tilt of the head and an upturned lip that was just the hint of a smile. Barbatos saw, if not that identical expression, one close enough that he chided himself for letting his imagination run away with him. Caesar, scared? Rattled? Not likely, the Pilus Posterior silently scoffed, feeling sure that his thoughts would be read by his general.
However, Caesar only said, "This appears to be contained now, Barbatos. But I see you're running thin. I'll have Glaxus and his Century come to relieve you," naming the Hastatus Prior of the Seventh Century.
"Caesar," Barbatos replied, the worry coming back now, "the Seventh is who we relieved. They're cut up worse than we are."
This was when Barbatos realized it hadn't been his imagination, because the expres
sion he thought he had seen earlier now came flooding back over Caesar's features, and now that he was facing his general, Barbatos recognized what he was seeing: Caesar was in doubt, and, in fact, was having a hard time deciding on the best course of action. Everything he had tried, every trick he had learned in the four decades of war that he had waged for Rome still couldn't seem to stem the tide of these Wa. And, he reminded himself, this isn't even the camp where the main assault is focused. His reserve Cohorts had already been committed; he was completely out of artillery ammunition; even as he and Barbatos stood where they had stopped this incursion, he could hear the shouts and screams that his ears told him signaled another breach of the wall. But most troubling of all was that his men had lost heart, that they had turned and run. Well, he thought grimly, I better make them understand there's nowhere to run to. And with that, he dismissed Barbatos with a curt command to continue holding his position, calling for one of the Tribunes, as he strode in the direction of the forum.
Catching up with him, the Tribune at his side first, the Parthian Bodroges, asked for orders.
"I want you to take every slave, every medicus, and any other man you can find and go to the forum and create a breastworks. Use the wagons, use the livestock, use anything that's solid to make a wall. This will be our final position. Do you understand?"
Even a Tribune who wasn't a Roman by birth didn't need to be told the import of this order, on every level, and it was only through a supreme will that his hand was steady as he saluted his general, and his voice was clear and strong, as he replied, "Yes Caesar. I will see to it."
"As soon as it's ready, let me know immediately," Caesar said, but turned his attention away and back to the fighting, before the Tribune could say another word.
Pivoting about, the Parthian dashed deeper into the camp, grabbing every noncombatant that he came across, as he did. Meanwhile, Caesar moved in the direction of the hardest fighting, and, like Titus Pullus, he could never remember feeling this tired. More disturbingly, the idea that this was the day that Caesar was defeated had taken root in what to that point had been rocky soil, the tendrils of doubt and despair starting to burrow their way into his psyche. For Caesar, it was the most disturbing and potentially paralyzing emotion he had ever experienced. Even so, he continued moving toward the far corner of the camp, where the Wa had managed to tear down the rampart and were now pouring through the gap at the corner, where one side of the earthen wall met another. If this is the day I am defeated, Caesar thought, naked sword in hand, then I will give these barbarian scum something to tell their grandchildren about. Without breaking stride, he scooped up a new shield, and hurried to the new breach.
"Balbus is down!"
Even from where Titus Pullus was sitting, on a macabre makeshift couch composed of the dead, he heard that cry above what had become a dull roar of fighting. As if he had been dashed with a bucket of cold water, he let out an audible gasp as he came to his feet, his overwhelming fatigue momentarily forgotten. Looking over to where the Second Century of his Cohort was fighting, Pullus couldn't immediately make any sense of what he was seeing in the mass of moving bodies. The Wa had again managed to create a presence on the rampart, this one numbering perhaps a dozen men, and what Pullus could see was that the line of Romans holding them back was only two deep. Seeing this and understanding what it meant, Pullus whirled to call up the Century that had now gone through three rotations with the Second Century, the Fourth. His initial reaction was anger, thinking that the Princeps Posterior had taken his men back into the camp for some reason, because all that was standing there was perhaps two tent section's worth of men, the Centurion among them. That anger dissolved into a twisting knot in his stomach, as he recognized the sight before him for what it was: the Fourth Century hadn't gone anywhere. This was the Fourth Century, fewer than twenty men. Returning his attention to the fighting, he saw that some of the men in the second line had managed to grab Balbus and drag him out of the fighting, where he was lying just a couple of paces behind the line. Pullus, fighting the fatigue, forced himself to trot over to Balbus, arriving at the same time as one of the overworked medici, who knelt beside the Centurion, feeling Pullus' friend's neck for any sign of life. Just as he reached Balbus, he saw Balbus' head move slightly, and a wave of relief washed through him at the sight, but when he knelt down, the feeling was short-lived. Balbus' eyes were open, and they met those of Pullus, as his friend came into view for him, and when he smiled, it was a gruesome sight, the blood bubbling and frothing at his lips, filling his mouth and dribbling down his cheek. Pullus had seen this too many times not to know that Balbus' lungs had been punctured and that his friend was beyond hope. Nevertheless, seemingly oblivious to the fact that less than a dozen paces away that ferocious fighting was still going on, Pullus reached down to clasp the free hand of Balbus, whose other one clutched vainly at the hole in his chest, where blood was oozing through his fingers in slow, rhythmic pulses, this fluid also alive with tiny, frothy bubbles.
"What have you gone and done?" Pullus asked, his voice choked and hoarse.
"I moved the wrong way," Balbus wheezed, prompting a weak chuckle from his friend. "I thought the bastard was going for a low thrust, but he caught me good and proper. I'm sorry Titus," Balbus' voice was rapidly weakening. "I let........."
"Shut your mouth," Pullus interrupted, not wanting to hear any more. "If you don't, you're on report!"
"It's been a long time since I've been in trouble," the last words were nothing but a whisper. "Titus, tell Scribonius........" but before he could finish, he took a huge, spasmodic breath, holding it for a second as his eyes widened, then with the rattle in his throat that Pullus knew all too well, Quintus Balbus died. For a moment, Pullus remained motionless, feeling his friend's hand growing cold almost instantly.
Then, he laid the hand gently on the chest and told the medicus, "Get a stretcher bearer to take the Pilus Posterior away, out of here."
The medicus for the briefest of moments opened his mouth to argue, intending to tell the Primus Pilus that the stretcher bearers were so overworked as it was that they barely were getting wounded men to the forum to be treated and couldn't waste time on a dead man. Then, he saw the giant Roman's face, and this man, a Parthian, quickly closed his mouth and hurried off to obey. Meanwhile, Pullus stood up and, like Caesar, took in the scene around him. As he was doing so, a huge roar from behind him and to his left suddenly erupted, causing anyone not actually fighting to cast an apprehensive glance over his own shoulder. The surprise Wa force had clearly hit the wall around the main gate. Now everything was in the hands of the gods.
The decision Aulus Flaminius made was one born of equal parts pragmatism and bravado, but it was the luckiest decision he would ever make. With the situation well in hand, with only his frontline Cohorts needed to hold the camp, Flaminius had sent a runner to his colleague in command of the other Legion occupying the camp, the 14th. The 14th's history under Caesar was spotty, to put it mildly, although despite a rough start when, because of the incompetence of the Legate commanding them in Gaul, Aulus Sabinus, they had been wiped out to a man, their performance in this current campaign now lasting a decade had partially redeemed their reputation. Nevertheless, Caesar had never fully invested this Legion with his trust again, hence their position in this camp, the one that Caesar had deemed to be the least likely to bear the brunt of the assault. The Primus Pilus of the 14th, Gnaeus Figulus, had answered Flaminius' query with the answer Flaminius had hoped for, that like his own Legion, they were under no duress. More importantly, Figulus had assured him that he essentially had committed only half his Legion to the fight. From that information and his belief not only in his men but that Caesar, or more likely Pullus, could use every spare man, Aulus Flaminius risked his career by not bothering to consult with the Legate left in charge of this camp, Caesar's quartermaster, the old muleteer Ventidius.
"Go get Pilus Prior Felix," he ordered, naming the commander of the Fifth Cohort, whos
e men were standing idly a short distance away from the rampart. The runner departed, as Flaminius sent another runner to request the presence of Figulus, as well. What he was about to do was a huge risk, he knew, but deep down in his old soldier's bones, he was sure that he was doing the right thing. Once both men arrived, Flaminius wasted no time.
"Since we have the situation in hand, I think we should send our reserves, including the second line Cohorts, to Caesar's camp. I'm sure he could use some help."
The relative silence for the next few moments was profound, but whether it was because they were thinking about what needed to be done to make this happen, or because they thought him mad, Flaminius didn't know.
Finally, Figulus cleared his throat, then asked, "Did you talk to Ventidius about this?"
"Yes," Flaminius said the word even before he could think about it, and he would never be able to put his finger on exactly why he did so. "He thinks it's a good idea. That's why I called you."
For the briefest moment Figulus looked disposed to argue, or even worse, go ask Ventidius himself; but for reasons that, like Flaminius, Figulus would never be able to explain, he shrugged instead.
"Who'll be in command of the detachment?"
"Felix," Flaminius answered firmly, his tone brooking no argument. Again, Figulus opened his mouth, then shut it.
For this was yet another factor in Flaminius' decision. Felix was the best Centurion in the 30th, with the possible exception of Flaminius himself, but a combination of circumstances had seen his best fighting man in charge of the Fifth Cohort only, and not in one of the frontline formations. Still, even if he had his choice of Centurions to lead what he had in mind, Flaminius would still have chosen Felix. The next few moments saw Flaminius doing most of the talking, interrupted by a question or two from the other two men; then, once finished, both Centurions returned to their respective units to make preparations.