by Peake, R. W.
Just before the top, a pain in his side became so intense that, despite himself, he slowed and in slowing saved his life and gave the army a chance at survival. That slight decrease in his pace meant that he heard the shouts of men, not anything associated with fighting, but some sort of orders. At least that's what it sounded like to Artaxades, but what he did know was that it wasn't in Latin, but in the tongue of the barbarians. He heard just enough to come to a stop before his head and shoulders crested the slope, keeping him out of sight. Panting, he paused only for a moment, before turning and heading back a short distance down the slope, then turned to continue his run to the south. He wouldn't be able to take advantage of the road, not yet.
Gaius Porcinus' first sensation was a throbbing pain on the side of his head, which only intensified when he opened his eyes to the sunlight streaming down. His helmet had been pulled off by someone, he didn't know who, and without thinking he reached up to touch the spot on his head, wincing in pain as his fingers touched the matted hair, where a deep gash ran just above his ear. It was several inches long, running from just behind his ear to his temple, but gritting his teeth, he forced his fingers to probe gently for any sign of a fracture. Despite the pain, he heaved a sigh of relief as his fingers found no obvious signs that his skull was broken. Suddenly, the sunlight was blocked by a figure looming over him, and Porcinus' eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden change. Blinking, it took a couple moments for him to recognize the face of his Optio, another Parthian named Oesalces, his swarthy features showing the strain of all that was happening.
"Hastatus Posterior Porcinus! Are you all right sir?" Oesalces had to shout to be heard over the noise of the fighting, which had continued unabated while Porcinus was unconscious.
He had been dragged several paces away from the wall, just far enough to be out of danger, but the din was still almost overwhelming, and Porcinus was sure it added to his already pounding headache. In answer to Oesalces, Porcinus sat up and immediately his head began spinning so violently he was overcome with a wave of nausea. Turning his head to the side, he vomited the remains of his breakfast onto the ground next to him. Staring at the mess, Porcinus struggled to focus, but for some reason his mind was occupied with trying to determine how long ago he had ingested what was now on the ground. It was only when Oesalces put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a hard shake that his attention on that subject was broken.
"Centurion! Are you all right? Can you stand?"
Porcinus forced himself to look up at his Optio, trying to gather his thoughts and consider the answer. After what seemed like a long time, Gaius finally nodded his head, wincing as he did.
"I think so. Help me up," he told Oesalces, holding his hand out, grabbing at the outstretched hand of his Optio, who pulled him to his feet.
For a moment, he thought he would topple over, but Oesalces held his arm as his head cleared. Once he regained his equilibrium, Porcinus turned his attention to the immediate situation.
Looking at his Century, he frowned and asked, "Where's Olympus?"
Oesalces was startled by the question, but it told him that the blow to Porcinus' head was worse than he had thought.
"Olympus was killed, sir. You were standing next to him when it happened. Remember?"
Once Oesalces uttered the words, the image of Olympus' body being hurled down into the mass of Wa warriors came flooding back into Porcinus' mind, causing an involuntary shaking that made his head hurt even more.
"Yes, I remember now. Never mind. How long have I been out?"
"Not that long. We've only had a couple more men go down, one wounded, but he'll make it, and one dead."
"He'll make it, if we survive," Porcinus answered grimly.
The mention of the dead Legionary prompted the realization that he needed a helmet, since the one he had been wearing had been buckled by the blow from the Wa sword. Porcinus could see it on the ground just a couple of steps away, where it had been tossed after being removed from his head by....who? It doesn't matter, Porcinus chided himself. All that matters is getting back in the fight and leading the men. Seeing a discarded helmet lying next to the small row of bodies that had already started to form, Porcinus trotted over to it, scooping up his ruined helmet as he did. His own felt liner was, of course, no good, so the dead man's would have to suffice, and Porcinus put that on first, wincing in pain when he settled it over his injury. Quickly affixing the transverse crest to the new helmet, he stifled a groan of pain as he pulled the helmet down onto his head, tying the chin thong as tightly as he dared.
"Where's my sword?" he asked Oesalces, but his Optio answered that he didn't know, so Porcinus picked among several now scattered about, discarding ones that he could see were cracked or just didn't feel good in his hand. Settling on one, he made a few circular motions with the tip of it as a way to loosen up his arm. Then, turning to his Optio, Porcinus gave him a grim smile.
"Well Optio, let's get back in things, shall we?"
Without waiting for an answer, but knowing his Optio would be hot on his heels, Porcinus strode to the back of his Century, calling out to the men, as he shoved his way to the front.
"I'm back boys and feeling refreshed from my nap! Let's say we kill some more of these cunni!"
Anything else he shouted was drowned out by the added roar of the men of the Sixth Century, Tenth Cohort, as their Centurion resumed his spot at the front. They were more than ready to keep fighting.
"One...two...one...two!"
The command rang out, bellowed by Barbatos, still standing near Caesar who, despite being in overall command, let his Centurions do their job. Barbatos was calling out the numbered commands that the Legions used when staging a fighting withdrawal: at the command of "one", lash out with the shield, pushing the enemy across from you back a step, but instead of moving forward on the second command, take a step back, shield still up, sword still ready. Still, it was a step back and not forward, and all along a steadily shrinking line, the Romans in Caesar's camp moved slowly back in the direction of the forum, where every available man was working feverishly to create some sort of prepared position. Boxes, barrels, sacks of rice, anything and everything that possessed any kind of solidity and weight was dragged or carried to form a rough, circular shape slightly larger than the forum. The tents that were in the way were yanked down and dragged elsewhere, while the guy ropes holding up the large praetorium tent were cut and the poles removed, but only after the desks and other pieces of solid furniture were carried away to be added to the makeshift barricade. Anything and everything that could possibly be used for protection was salvaged from the entire part of the camp to the east side of the forum, still untouched by fighting.
Meanwhile, Caesar was moving rapidly about, just behind the line of fighting men, exhorting his boys to keep their discipline, listen to the count of their Centurions, and lending his sword where needed. While it wasn't the first time he had done such things, never before had Caesar put on such a virtuoso performance; not at Munda, not at Ecbatana, not even in the bitter fighting against the Pandyans on the beaches of that kingdom. It seemed he was literally everywhere, showing up in one spot to give the final sword thrust that stopped a Wa from striking down one of his men and creating a gap in the slowly retreating line. Then he would be at another point, holding onto the harness of a man who was being pressured by the weight of barbarian soldiers who were massed together, trying to buckle the Roman line by sheer weight of numbers. Calling to others, he would stay, until the man's still able comrades came to his aid, only then removing himself to move to another trouble spot. Nobody who saw Caesar in those moments wasn't inspired to fight harder than he ever had before, and despite the seemingly overwhelming numbers of swords and spears slashing and thrusting at them, the lines held.
"One...two...one...two..."
Step by step, Barbatos and the other Centurions assigned to the task along the line called out the count, and for the brief moment Caesar took to catch his breath, he was
gratified to see that the ground behind the mass of Wa still pressing against the shields of his men was covered with bodies. Most of them were Wa, but there was still a disturbingly large number of men clad in the uniform of the Legions, as well.
"Caesar!" The general was disturbed from his examination to see Bodroges', face shining with perspiration, a sign that he hadn't thought himself above the manual labor of constructing the breastworks. If he survives, he may make a good officer, Caesar thought, while still listening to the report of the Parthian.
"The breastworks are finished and ready to be occupied!"
"Good," Caesar answered immediately, but while this was good news, there was one more thing that had to be done that he didn't relish in the least. "We'll be there in just a few moments. Remember that you direct the signiferi to make sure their spacing is enough to cover the entire wall all the way around."
The Parthian saluted, and Caesar turned back to the next task, and as exhausted and drained as he was, he still had enough energy that a sudden, leaden ball formed in his stomach. Ignoring it, he scanned the lines of men, until he saw the man for whom he was looking. Pushing his way close enough so that he could be heard, he called out to the man.
"Barbatos!"
Hearing his name, the Centurion carefully backed away from the front line, before facing his general. Seeing Caesar beckoning him to come to him, Barbatos made his way through the lines of men, but made sure to make a joke or offer a word of encouragement and a slap on a shoulder, causing Caesar an even deeper twinge of regret over what he had to do.
When Barbatos reached his side, Caesar wasted no time, speaking in a low voice, so the men nearby wouldn't hear.
"The breastworks are ready."
Barbatos' face betrayed no emotion, but he gave a brief nod that he understood, and Caesar recognized that Barbatos knew what was coming, and he said as much.
"I can tell you know what needs to be done, and I can think of no better man than you to make sure it's done well, because our survival depends on it."
"You need me to have the first line hold off these bastards long enough for the rest of you to get to the breastworks," Barbatos replied calmly.
Perhaps it was the matter-of-fact tone, the calm acceptance of a fate that meant certain death, but Caesar's vision suddenly became clouded as the tears threatened to come pouring down his face, and it was only through his supreme will that they remained unshed. Swallowing down the lump in his throat, he couldn't speak for a moment, and when he did, his voice was husky with emotion.
"Yes, that's exactly what needs to happen. And I know that I couldn't have made a better choice for the man to do it."
Now it was Barbatos who felt the swell of emotion, and for the remaining moments of his life, the pride that he felt would buoy and sustain him, giving him the strength to do what needed to be done.
"We won't let you down, Caesar," he finally managed to say.
Both men stood for just a moment, then Caesar reached out and grabbed Barbatos by the shoulder, squeezing it hard.
"May Mars, Bellona, and Fortuna bless you and the men," Caesar told Barbatos, but he received only a nod in return before Barbatos turned about, and, without another word, headed back to the fighting.
Caesar took a moment to watch him stride, sword in hand, a proud Roman meeting his fate and his destiny with head held high, and the older man was almost overcome with a wave of sadness and remorse. He had caused this, he knew. These men were here because his thirst for fame and overwhelming desire to outstrip Alexander had brought them here, to this strange land, facing these strange men. And now most, if not all of them would die. Caesar forced himself to push the feelings down, thinking now about his next step. Surveying the men, he found the man for whom he was searching, and headed directly for him, skirting behind the men who were clutching onto the harnesses of those in front of them. Now Caesar had to ensure that the sacrifice of Barbatos and the men of the front line wasn't in vain, that with their deaths they ensured that the remainder of his force was able to move behind the barricades that were waiting for them in the forum.
Centurion Felix waited impatiently as his men caught their breath and sucked greedily at their canteens. The advance Century he had sent out ahead was now standing just below the crest of the slope, staying out of sight, because once atop it, they would be within plain sight of Caesar's camp, a little more than a mile away. Despite his impatience, Felix forced himself to wait, making sure that he could see that the force he was commanding was sufficiently recovered, before they closed the remaining distance to the general's camp. None of the other Centurions commanding this hodgepodge assortment of Cohorts from two different Legions left his spot to come talk to Felix, another sign that this was an unusual development. Felix welcomed the solitude, consumed as he was with all sorts of conflicting thoughts and emotions, and, in fact, didn't blame them for avoiding him as though he had the plague. Like his Primus Pilus Flaminius, Felix felt in his bones that this was the right thing to do, but just like his commander, he was aware that if it wasn't, his career was irreparably harmed. It was true that he would be protected somewhat by following the orders of his superior, but not only had he not hesitated, he had also eagerly accepted Flaminius' judgment that Felix was the most senior of the Centurions in command of these twelve Cohorts and that, he knew, wasn't the case. Therefore, at the very least, he would be guilty of overstepping his authority, but that was more of a nagging consideration than a real fear. Instead, his mind was almost totally consumed with what would be taking place immediately after he and his men crested the slope. He was sure that he would be able to get a better idea of what was happening in Caesar's camp, but that was only half the problem. As certain as he was that he was doing the right thing, he also felt deeply that no matter how desperate Caesar's situation might be, the real key to the battle lay to the north, where the 10th and 12th could even at that moment be in their death throes and needing help desperately. Finally, he spat on the ground in a signal, to himself at least, that the time for thinking and recovering was over.
"All right! Let's go! Caesar's waiting on us!" Felix shouted, without using his cornicen, as he normally would, not wanting to risk alerting the enemy with the inherently loud bass sound of the horn.
He doubted they were within earshot, but they had come too far and didn't need any kind of surprises now. His command was relayed down the column, and within a matter of a few dozen heartbeats, Felix saw the Centurion of the rearmost Century wave his hand to let him know that all was ready. Giving the command to his own Century, Felix resumed the march at the normal pace, but after just a moment he immediately increased the pace back to the quick trot. Thankfully, he and the men had recovered their breath, because the grade of the slope was steeper than it looked, and very quickly Felix could feel the burning in his thighs as they pumped, moving him up the slope, followed closely by the relief force. Keeping his eye affixed on the advance guard, he saw them disappear, and he knew that the next few moments would tell him what he needed to know. If one of the advance party came sprinting back in his direction, even before they told him anything, he would understand that it meant there was a problem in Caesar's camp. The absolutely worst possibility would be that Caesar's camp was already overrun, and that the Wa had spilled out onto the road, blocking Felix and his men from helping either Caesar or the 10th. Every stride took him closer to the top, but still he didn't see any sign from the advance party, and even with the exertion, his heart was beating faster from the anticipation.
Then he was at the top of the hill, and he managed to take an extra gulp of air in relief at the sight of the leading Century, still trotting forward. As soon as the feeling of relief came, he pushed it aside, as he looked over the heads and slightly to the left of the advance party at Caesar's camp, and as much as he thought he had prepared his mind for any possibility, it still took a moment for the sight before him to register its import. Not only was there a pall of dust hanging above the camp, almos
t all the way to where he knew the forum was located, but there were also black tendrils of smoke drifting up into the still air. Knowing that Caesar would never intentionally order anything inside the camp burned, Felix understood that this could come only from the enemy firing up the flammable objects inside the walls. Whether it was intentional or accidental didn't concern Felix; what did was the knowledge that between the presence and location of the dust and the smoke, the walls of Caesar's camp were breached, and Caesar had in all likelihood been forced to retreat to the forum. In short, Caesar's camp was about to fall.
Artaxades was having trouble with his vision, not only because of the sweat streaming freely down into his eyes, but also because his lungs were unable to pull in air quickly enough. Finally, it was becoming more difficult to control where his eyes focused, as they seemed now to have a mind of their own, and if he didn't know better, he would swear that he was looking in two different directions, making it impossible for his brain to interpret what it was receiving from his eyes. The pain in his side that had been the cause of his remaining undiscovered by forcing him to stop before reaching the top of the ridge was back in full force, now that he had moved farther south along the slope, perhaps another mile, before he had turned back up and finished his climb to the top. He glanced back to his right, but thankfully nobody was visible, friend or enemy, and at least now he was running along the smoother surface of the road. Blessed with unnaturally long legs, Artaxades' stride was still smooth and even, despite the intense strain he was under. His breathing would have been audible a hundred paces away, and it was the only sound roaring in the Parthian's ears now, as he pushed his body harder than he ever had before.