by Peake, R. W.
Never in a race had he run this fast, he was sure, and the fleeting thought crossed his mind that it was a shame this event wasn't in the Legion games, because he surely would have left his competitors so far behind that men would talk about it around the fires for years to come: the day that Artaxades had flown faster than Hermes himself. This thought seemed to give him strength, and while part of him rebelled at it, his stride lengthened even further, his legs moving so fluidly and swiftly that the balls of his feet barely touched the ground. It was as if he, in fact, possessed the winged shoes of Hermes, and just the feeling of freedom, of flight and speed made the pain bearable, the ache in his side feeling as though something was about to burst in him, his lungs close to exploding—and yet it didn't matter. Artaxades, in that moment, was sure that he was touched by the gods, blessed by them, as they saw how he was pouring every bit of energy and heart into his mission to save his friends from certain disaster.
Racing down the road, as Artaxades squinted through the pain and sweat, his vision was too blurry for him to make out much more than vague shapes and colors, so when he rounded a slight curve that put him in sight of Caesar's camp, it didn't register as anything more than a darker shape against the sky. And even if his eyes had been clear, his mind was so absorbed with keeping his body moving at the same speed he had been maintaining that it was incapable of any higher thought, such as deciphering what the straight lines of that dark shape meant. But somewhere deep in his mind, a small voice whispered to Artaxades that, since there were no straight lines in nature, this was a sign of something important, and even as his feet continued in a blur of motion, drawing him ever closer to the finish, he puzzled over its significance. He covered another stadium before the answer popped into his head, seemingly out of nowhere. It was Caesar's camp, the finish line! He was almost there! Immediately following that thought was the recollection that there was a reason he had been sent on this mission, yet it wouldn't come to him. Instead, the pain was almost overwhelming, from his feet, to his thighs, to his chest; every part of him throbbing with an agony he had never before experienced. Yet, he still didn't slow down—which was a feat in itself—and even through the pain he could see that he was within the last few stadia. That meant he had to remember the message he was supposed to give whomever he first came into contact with, once he got to the camp.
"One...two...one...two..."
At roughly the same time, the same thing that was taking place in Caesar's camp was being done in the northern camp, but it was Pullus who was moving behind the slowly retreating men, doing the same things Caesar was doing, in much the same way. Unlike Caesar, Pullus didn't hesitate to wade into a fight when he saw that one of the men was having trouble disentangling from the Wa, as the retreating men moved backward. As fatigued as Pullus was, he still wielded his blade with a lethal economy, striking quickly and with a brutal force that brought death to even more Wa. Pullus had no idea how many of the enemy he'd slain; it was well over a hundred, but he could look over the heads of the front rank and see that the barbarians were still several rows deep. There seemed to be no end to them, and despite killing them in the thousands, they showed no sign of despair or fatigue. Still, they came on in wave after human wave, but what Pullus had seen over the course of this fight was the only thing that gave him a sliver of hope.
While the Wa who wielded the swords did so with a skill that Pullus had never encountered in an enemy before, they numbered only perhaps a quarter of the total of the assaulting force. The rest, carrying spears with the teardrop-shaped blades, varied greatly in skill levels; in fact, the majority of them were not much better than the native levies of any of the lands that Pullus and the army had marched through and conquered. The only real question, and one on which any chance of survival this day hinged upon, was how many of those sword-wielding Wa were still left. As he moved to another spot, his eyes scanned the leading ranks of the Wa, trying to determine the ratio of barbarians with swords to those with spears, but the mental energy needed for such complex operations had long since been spent. It seemed to him that every other one of the Wa who were furiously pressing against the shields of his front ranks was carrying a sword, using it to thrust, stab, or otherwise hack his way past the thin wooden wall to get at the men behind them.
One small blessing was that at this point, men had shouted themselves hoarse, so the level of noise was significantly lower than it had been a watch, or even a third of a watch, before. That didn't mean that there wasn’t still an unholy racket assaulting his ears, but compared to earlier, it was blessedly quieter. Finally giving up trying to determine the proportions of the barbarians who were waving their swords about, Pullus instead focused on the things he could control. Moving again, he half-trotted, half-stumbled behind the woefully thin line of Legionaries, only stopping when he found the man he was searching for, his best friend Scribonius. Just like Pullus, his arm was bound tightly, and he had lost sufficient feeling in his hand that he couldn't even grasp a vitus, let alone a shield. Also like Pullus, his face was drawn and spattered with blood and grime, a sign of the desperate fighting that had been raging for most of the day.
"Did you hear about Balbus?" Pullus winced as he blurted out the question, but truthfully, he had neither the energy nor the ability to bring up the death of their friend in a more diplomatic fashion.
Scribonius' face became even more drawn, his mouth turning down in a frown that Pullus knew from long experience was his friend's sign of real grief.
"Yes, I heard," he finally said, not looking Pullus in the eye, as he talked. "Stupid bastard."
Despite himself, Pullus let out a short, barking laugh.
"He was that," he admitted. "But I never thought......."
"Neither did I," Scribonius cut him off. "Just like I didn't think we could ever be beaten."
His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace at this last comment, and although Pullus understood and essentially agreed with his friend, he still felt compelled to put a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"We're not done yet," Pullus said with as much conviction as he could muster. "We don't know what's happening everywhere else, so for all we know Caesar's on his way with help. We just have to hold out a little longer."
Now it was Scribonius' turn to laugh, but his held no humor.
"I really hope you're right, and the gods are listening Titus. But I think we may have come to the end of our string here."
"I don't believe that," Pullus shot back, and to his real surprise, the moment he said it he realized that, while a part of him understood the gravity of the their situation, there was clearly another part of him that still held out hope.
In that moment, Pullus chose to listen to the hopeful part of his being, and he grabbed Scribonius by the shoulder, squeezing so hard it made his friend wince.
"I think we can get out of this," he insisted. "We just have to hold on a little longer. Make these bastards pay for every foot of ground they take from us. Once we get back to the forum, we're going into an orbis, and we're going to hold long enough for help to come. We will hold, do you understand me? We will hold!"
When all was said and done, Sextus Scribonius believed his Primus Pilus and friend mainly because he wanted to believe, but at that moment what mattered was that he did, so looking his friend in the eye, he gave a curt, brief nod.
"We'll do just that Titus. You have my word on it."
Pullus didn't respond and just gave his friend another squeeze of the shoulder before he moved away, searching for the rest of his Centurions to impart the same message to them that there was hope, and to instill in them the same resolve, that the 10th would not fail this day.
Felix was in agony, but not from the exertion of the run. Now that they were within a couple of stadia of Caesar's camp, it was clear that their general needed his help. From the position of the dust cloud itself, Felix could plainly see that the camp had for all intents and purposes fallen, and that his general and the men were now in the area o
f the forum, putting up a last defense. But it wasn't just the dust that told him this: he was close enough now that he could hear the noise of fighting even above his harsh breathing. Up ahead, his advance Century had stopped their trotting advance, coming to the quick step that they normally used when marching. Felix could see the Centurion commanding the advance party turn to look in his direction, clearly waiting for orders. Every sign pointed to the clear-cut decision that it was Caesar's camp that needed succor, recognizing that the relief force hadn't arrived too late to help. But that knowledge didn't bring Felix any sense of relief whatsoever, because of the nagging feeling that, as badly as they might be needed by Caesar, the fort defended by Pullus, Balbinus and their men was in even greater danger.
However, given what he could see at that moment, Felix had no choice but to halt at Caesar's camp. Continuing his trot, Felix and the men following him closed the distance to the main gate of Caesar's camp, and the absence of any men manning the gate was further confirmation of the desperate situation. The advance Century had come to a halt, just as Felix had instructed them, and when Felix reached them, he called a halt to the main column. He was standing within a hundred paces of the gate and was trying to decide the best way to proceed now that they had arrived. Deciding that the best thing to do was to see the situation for himself, he ordered his Century forward, giving instructions to the Centurions of the advance guard and the Centurions of the Centuries closest to the front to remain where they were and wait for his signal to proceed. Leading his Century, Felix approached the gate with a heart that hadn't stopped pounding, even after coming to a stop, so he could hear in his ears the breath coming as if he was still running, such was his tension. Tapping his vitus nervously against his leg as he closed the remaining few paces, the noise now was only partially muffled by the dirt walls of the camp, and the Roman was so close that he could almost make out individual voices and sounds, shouted orders, and the clash of metal on metal.
Eyes fixed on the dirt barrier of the main gate, he drew his sword without conscious thought, made aware of this only by the rasping sound of his men doing the same, following the example of their Centurion. Felix nearly jumped at the harsh noise; it also jerked his attention partially away from the gate, as he glanced back to see his Optio who, for some reason, was looking in another direction. Felix opened his mouth to reprimand his Optio for letting his attention wander, but before anything came out, the other man raised his arm to point in the direction he was looking.
"Centurion! Someone's coming! It looks like one of ours and he's running like Cerberus is about to catch him!"
Artaxades had reached a point where the only thing he was aware of was that his legs were moving, and they were moving fast. Nothing else mattered at this point, and, if the truth were known, he wouldn't have been able to articulate why he was running faster than he ever had in his life at that moment. All he knew was that the finish line was just ahead, marked by a large, dark blur in his visual field that was looming larger with every stride. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew that this was Caesar's camp, and he knew that he had to deliver a message, but for the life of him, at that moment, he couldn't remember what the message was. Whatever it was, first he had to get there, and so his arms were pumping as quickly as he could move them back and forth.
His mouth had long since gone completely dry, every drop of moisture in his body sucked inwards to try to cool it down, but he felt as if he were being baked in the panera oven of the Legions, like a loaf of bread. Caked around his open mouth was a rime of white, chalky material, and while it was normal for him to have this substance around his mouth after a race, never had it been this thick. Now that he was within two hundred paces of the gate, he began to veer slightly off the road in an unconscious attempt to shorten the distance, before he could finally stop. Such was his level of distress and his concentration that it wasn't until he was less than fifty paces away that he heard shouts above the roaring sound in his ears, and he was so surprised that he immediately broke stride. Gone was the smooth, ground-eating lope that he had been using; instead he began stumbling, as his limbs seemed suddenly to grow minds of their own and refuse his directions to continue with the smooth motion that had gotten him to this point. He felt as if the world was suddenly tilted on its axis and that he was in danger of sliding off, so to compensate, he began windmilling his arms in an attempt somehow to counteract the fact that his legs seemed to be sliding out from underneath him. But although he was still propelling himself forward, it was no longer at a run, but in a stumble, and in his confused state he caught just a glimpse of a face, a Roman face with a helmet wearing a transverse crest on top of it, before he went crashing into the ground. The impact drove what little breath there was from his lungs, but he barely felt the effect of the rough ground, as the tiny, protruding sharp rocks tore into his skin, carving deep gashes as he slid to a stop.
For a moment he lay motionless, then somehow found the energy to push himself over onto his back with one arm, where he lay sprawled, face to the sun. His lungs were continuing to suck in air as fast as they could, but they still couldn’t keep up, and Artaxades saw a dark, hazy mist that created a circle all around the edges of his vision, so that the only place he could still see the sky was in the center. Am I dying, he wondered? He had never felt like this after any race, no matter how hard he had run, and the last mile had been an agony that he would never have believed he could have endured, until this moment on the other side, having done it. Thoughts and images were tumbling through his mind, things he hadn't thought about in years, like his home in Ctesiphon, in Parthia. His mother, hard at work as always, preparing a meal, while his sister stood next to her, learning the work of a woman. She was looking up and smiling at him, and while he couldn't hear her words, he could see that she was calling him, probably to taste his favorite dish of spiced lamb, roasted over the spit. Oh, how he would love to have some of his mother's cooking to help him recover from this last race he had run! He was so tired, never before this tired, and it still seemed next to impossible for his lungs to draw in enough breath. Even as his mind tried to puzzle out what that meant, the dark mist continued closing in, ever narrowing into a smaller and smaller circle. But now he could hear his mother calling him.
"Arta! Arta! Come here, you foolish boy! Look what your mother has made for you, even if you don't deserve it! Your father told me he caught you sneaking away to play with those boys again! How are you going to learn how to be a mason, if you do not listen to your father and do what he tells you?"
He wanted to answer her, to assure her that he no longer needed to learn his father's skill, because he had found a home in the army, but he couldn't form the words, and even if he could, his throat was so dry that what did come out of his mouth was nothing but a croaking, raspy moan. Then, the mist came on him, as a roaring sound filled his ears, which for whatever reason seemed to snap him out of his mental daze just long enough to realize that he had failed. He hadn't carried the message that would help his friends.
"He's dead," Felix said incredulously, kneeling by the side of the fallen man and searching frantically for any sign of life. "He can't be! He can't be dead!"
Felix shook the prone man, his attempts to revive him growing increasingly vigorous, as he went from shaking to slapping him across the face. Finally, in frustration and anger, Felix brought his fist down hard on the man's chest, but still nothing happened. This courier, whoever he was, was dead. Felix's Optio, a man of indeterminate origin who claimed to come from Galatia and who had joined the Legion after the first battles against the Parthians, stood watching his Centurion. Though he spoke Latin fluently, it was still with the accent of his home lands, which was one reason that many of the other men doubted his claim to be a Galatian. Hence, his nickname became Odysseus, after the perpetual wanderer of Homer's tale. Now he stepped forward and cleared his throat.
"Centurion? I don't think that's going to bring him back. The man's clearly dead."
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br /> Felix didn't answer, but he did sit back on his haunches, forearms across his knees as he gazed down at the dead man. After a moment he stood and turned to face his Optio.
"I wonder what his message was?" he asked, although he didn't really expect an answer.
Nevertheless, Odysseus replied, "Whatever it was, it was important enough for him to run himself to death."
At first, this didn't register with Felix, as he had already stood and started walking back the very short distance to the gate. When they had spotted the courier, Felix, along with his Century, had actually run past the gate to meet Artaxades, Felix being sure that this man would be carrying a message that would provide him with more clarity about his dilemma. Now, Felix was trotting toward the gate and leading his men, as he navigated through the passageway of the dirt gate. The sounds of the fighting were very loud, and he could clearly hear commands, shouts, curses, and the ringing sound of sword striking sword or some other metal surface, all of it punctuated with the deeper thudding sound, when someone blocked a thrust with his shield. But even as prepared as he thought he was, when he entered the camp at the run, he still came to a complete stop.
By the time Felix arrived, the withdrawal to the hastily prepared fortifications had just been completed, and an appallingly small number of Roman Legionaries were standing on the makeshift parapet, their shields providing more coverage, as they desperately fought the remaining Wa force. Although Felix had no way of knowing it, this assault element was composed of barely a third of the original number of these Wa, but they still outnumbered the remnants of Caesar's command. Taking this sight in, Felix stood there with his Century, unobserved by the Wa, who clearly were not expecting other Romans to show up. They were completely focused on the final destruction of these barbarians who had invaded their land, and after a short lull in ferocity and energy, they were now pouring every last bit they had left into finishing it. That, more than any other factor, made Felix's decision for him.