Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  If the relief force led by Felix thought he had pushed them hard making their way to Caesar's camp, that belief was quickly dispelled by the brutal pace that he was setting now in his attempt to reach Pullus' position. Very quickly men began dropping out of their Centuries, but this didn't stop Felix, who had determined that it was better to arrive more quickly, even if it meant with somewhat fewer men. And, unlike at Caesar's camp, he was sure he didn't have the luxury of slowing the men down to allow them to catch their breath. He would, however, at least have to slow long enough to allow the trailing Centuries and Cohorts arrange themselves from the column they were in now to the standard battle line. As he ran, he tried desperately to keep his composure sufficiently to think through how he would accomplish this feat, finally coming up with an idea. The challenge now was how to accomplish it, and he slowed enough to drop to the side of his own Century, looking for his Optio.

  "Optio," he gasped, and Odysseus veered from his spot at the rear of the formation, and sprinted a few paces to reach his Centurion's side.

  Between gasping breaths, Felix relayed what he planned to do.

  He finished with, "I need you to drop off and make sure that the Pili Priores know what's expected of them."

  Felix knew that he was asking his Optio for a huge effort, one worthy of some form of decoration, if he could pull it off, but the man gave that no thought. Simply put, he knew the stakes involved and without more than panted acknowledgement, he separated from Felix, then slowed down, looking behind him for the next Century.

  His task would have been daunting, even if they had remained in the same order of march when they left their camp, as Felix had prepared for a similar maneuver when they reached Caesar's camp. However, when they stopped and Felix came to his decision, he had made matters a bit more complicated for himself later. Essentially, the decision Felix made between the two choices, saving Caesar's camp, or saving the northern one, was to choose both. Detaching four Cohorts from his force, he included two from the 14th and two from the 30th, putting the most senior Centurion, the Quintus Pilus Prior of the 14th, Lucius Statius, in command. These Cohorts were left behind to come to Caesar's aid, but Felix didn't stay long enough to direct how they should be doing this, leaving it up to Statius as to the best way to go about it. It was true that Felix was now two Cohorts short of a full Legion, but as far as he was concerned, this was really the only choice he could have made. If he had taken all twelve Cohorts with him and saved the northern camp at the expense of losing the commander of the army and the only general any man in the ranks had ever followed, Felix had no doubt that he would have fallen on his sword from the shame. Whatever was waiting for him and the men with him ahead at the northern camp, eight Cohorts would have to be enough to tip the balance.

  Lucius Statius had confronted the problem of how to feed four Cohorts into Caesar's camp by choosing to spread his forces out and have them enter through the main and two side gates. He knew he was violating a basic tenet of warfare in spreading his force, but although he hadn't been with Felix when he entered the camp to see the situation, he had heard the sounds of the fighting and seen the hovering dust. Understanding its import, he was making the gamble that every barbarian in the camp was gathered in more or less the same place in the center, because whoever was commanding them wouldn't risk scattering his force throughout the camp when the battle was in its final stages. If he was right, his Cohorts and those from the 30th would descend onto the unprotected rear of the barbarians, who would be completely focused on the destruction of Caesar and however many men were still left with him. The hardest part was waiting the length of time it took for one Cohort to run the length of the eastern wall, before turning to the left and running the slightly shorter distance to the Porta Principalis Sinistra, the left gate of the camp. The other Cohort from the 30th that was going to enter through the Porta Principalis Dextra didn't have quite as far to go.

  Statius stood, fidgeting by tapping his vitus against his leg, waiting for the third and final blast of the cornu that would tell him it was time for him to lead the two Cohorts of the 14th through the main gate. While he was willing to separate his force, that was as far as he was going to go in throwing away his advantage, and it was imperative that this attack be coordinated as much as possible. Even so, it was extremely hard for every man in that force, knowing that with every moment that passed, more of their comrades might be dying. Statius' Cohort was lined up in a row of Centuries, one behind the other just outside the gate, all of the men in the ranks fidgeting just as much as Statius. Some were rhythmically drumming their fingers on their grounded shields, others clenching and unclenching their sword hands, and still others yawning excessively. All of their ears were attuned to the sound that came at last: the single blast of the cornu from the Cohort at the Porta Principalis Sinistra, followed immediately by the answering blast by the Cohort at the Porta Principalis Dextra. Without hesitation, Statius turned to snap the order to his cornicen to sound the call that would unleash all three forces to the attack, but the man had already begun sounding the notes for the third time.

  Unsheathing his sword, Statius shouted over his shoulder, even as he was moving through the gate, "Follow me boys! Shout it out now! Let Caesar know we're coming! These cunni are going to regret being born! CAESAR TRIUMPHANT!"

  And with that roaring call being shouted by every man, they followed Statius into the camp.

  It didn't take a man as experienced as Titus Pullus was to know that the battle for the northern camp was in its final stages. Between the pressure from the original assault element—as depleted as it may have been—and the surprise attack on the eastern wall, what remained of the 10th and 12th Legions was being squeezed between two jaws by what was, in effect, a huge, bloody beast. In several spots on the eastern wall, the Wa had managed to create pockets containing a handful of warriors, most of them the type armed with swords that Pullus worried about. At the same time, the remnants of the 10th and 12th that had been defending the western wall had retreated to the edges of the forum, while the formerly open area of the forum itself was now jammed with bodies of the wounded, the medici, and the surviving noncombatants of both Legions. While most of the slaves had other roles during the battle—mainly serving as stretcher bearers—now that it was only a matter of dragging a man a few paces back into the center, most of them stood huddled in small groups, shaking in terror as they watched the thin wall of Legionaries slowly whittled down, one by one. Although such complex tasks were no longer within Pullus' power to perform, if he had made the calculations, he would have realized that less than a quarter of both Legions were still standing, and of those still in the fight, perhaps one man in four was unwounded. All he knew at that moment was that his Legion, his beloved 10th Legion, the eagle under which he had been marching since its formation when Gaius Julius Caesar had been a relatively unknown Praetor of a province in Hispania, was in its death throes.

  He no longer harbored any hope that help would be coming, so all that remained for him and his men was to die in a manner that would finish the history and the legend of Caesar's 10th Legion Equestris, the most famous Legion of Rome, as it should end, covered in glory. This was his pervading and really only thought at this point, as he strode around the interior of his lines, which were almost, but not quite, an orbis. Directly across from the eastern wall there was a gap, but while it hadn't been planned that way, neither Pullus nor Balbinus, both of whom were commanding what was in effect one half of a horseshoe, saw any need to close it. Because of the presence of the relief Cohorts, whoever was left in command of the original Wa assault force was unwilling to send any troops into that space, where they would essentially have their backs to Tetarfenus' men. It was a small blessing, and Pullus wearily recognized that ultimately it wouldn't make any difference in the outcome, although it might mean just a precious few more moments, before he and the remnants of the 10th and 12th were finally overwhelmed. Moving from one trouble spot to the next, Pullus seeme
d to be everywhere at once, bashing aside a Wa with a borrowed shield, when the barbarian had knocked one of his men down in one spot, then suddenly, as if by magic, he was on the opposite side of the 10th's area, thrusting his sword into the face of an enemy warrior who had just done the same thing to a Legionary. Covered in blood, some of it his own, but most of it not, Pullus and his Gallic sword were all that kept the last of the 10th from collapsing, not just because of what he did, but because of the example he set in those last moments, giving his men courage and energy that every one of them thought had long since been exhausted.

  For Pullus it was all a blur of motion, color, and noise, where the thousands of watches of practice at the stakes took over, as his muscles seemed to react with a mind of their own, now that his actual mind was too exhausted to give the necessary commands. Since he had enlisted, the number of days when Titus Pullus hadn't devoted at least a third of a watch to his sword work were few and far between, and the tiny corner of his mind that wasn't utterly exhausted thought of how fitting it was that here, in the final watch of the life of the 10th, all that practice should now bear its fruits. Regardless of the heroics, not just of Pullus, but also those of the other surviving Centurions and Optios, along with those of some men of the ranks like Vellusius, the pressure from the Wa was unrelenting, forcing the already compact formation into an ever smaller space. Pullus wasn't sure how it happened, but after he was forced to give the command to take yet another few, shuffling steps backward, he found to his happy surprise that standing next to him was Sextus Scribonius. His pleasure wasn't only because Scribonius was still alive, but that here, in these last moments, he and his best friend would be side by side, swords in hands.

  "Well Titus, here we are," Scribonius' voice was almost gone, but he gave Pullus a tired smile.

  All Pullus could think to do at that moment was to smile back.

  "Yes, Sextus. Here we are."

  "We gave these bastards a good show though, don't you think?"

  Pullus could tell that his friend wasn't asking this lightly, the other man's face creased by an anxious frown as he waited for Pullus to answer. Even if he hadn't thought it to be true, Pullus wasn't going to give his friend any other answer.

  "One they'll never forget," Pullus replied fervently. "And one they'll be telling their grandchildren about."

  "It's just a shame Rome will never hear about it," Scribonius said sadly, his words striking Pullus to his core, because that thought was his own as well, and he viewed it as a tragedy even greater than the actual destruction of Caesar and his army.

  For that was one thing Pullus was sure about; if he and the 10th, along with the 12th fell, he was positive that Caesar and the rest of the army would suffer the same fate. Still, there was a part of Titus Pullus that felt the need to offer his friend some solace, no matter how shaky it might have been.

  "I wouldn't be so sure, Sextus. I think that word of what happened here will spread, and it might be years from now, but Rome will hear about what we did in this gods-forsaken place."

  "I hope you're right," Scribonius replied doubtfully. Shaking his head, he finished, "But whatever happens, I'm just glad that you're here."

  As emotionally spent as Pullus was, he felt his throat tighten at his friend's words, and all he could manage was a choked, "Me as well, Sextus. Me as well."

  With that, there was nothing more to say, and, as it happened, something occurred that tore Pullus' attention away from the moment. A great shout arose, but from the other side of the fighting, amidst the Wa, whose ranks were now the thinnest they'd been since they first threw themselves at the walls of the Roman camp. Still, they were deeper than those of the men opposing them, and it was at the rear of these rows, where the shouts originated, so that even with his height, Pullus was forced to stand on tiptoe to see the cause of the commotion. From his vantage point, Pullus saw a rippling disturbance in the rear ranks of the Wa, men moving aside to make way for something or someone that Pullus at first couldn't see. But then, when the barbarians in the middle of the mass of men stepped aside, Pullus finally saw what it was. It took a moment for the import of what he was seeing to hit him, but when it did, it created in him a surge of emotions that was hard for him to identify. It was equal parts rage and a certain savage anticipation, along with the recognition of what it meant finally to come face-to-face with the Wa general who had so mauled his Legion. At first, all Pullus could see was the top of his helmet, on which were affixed what looked like horns, but made of some sort of metal. Gradually coming into better view, as a small group of warriors who were obviously his bodyguard—all wearing a smaller version of the same helmet and the iron lamellar armor that Pullus had determined marked their version of noblemen—shoved their comrades aside to allow the general to pass. It was only then that Pullus finally got a good look at the man. His face was mostly obscured by the sweeping cheek guards that almost met in front of the mouth, but Pullus could see that not only was he more powerfully built than almost any Wa the large Roman had seen to this point, he was also taller. Although nowhere near Pullus' own height, he nevertheless stood a full head above the other warriors in his army.

  Most importantly, he held a sword in one hand, and even from where Pullus was standing, he could see its quality and the ease with which the Wa commander wielded it. While it was curved in the same way as all the other Wa blades, Pullus could see that this blade was somewhat narrower than what he assumed was normal, and the opposite, or upper edge of the sword, was clearly sharpened for several inches along its length. Still, like the rest of these barbarians, the Wa general disdained the use of a shield, and as Pullus watched him making his way forward, Pullus could see where he was headed. Like any good military man, he had divined where the two Legions met in the orbis, the 12th on one side and Pullus' 10th on the other. How he could tell, Pullus had no idea, but he was sure that it was no accident that this was the point to which he was headed. And Pullus immediately began moving to intercept him.

  "Titus!" Scribonius called out, and although he was about to tell his friend not to go, he instantly understood that not only would his friend ignore him, but also that it was wrong and selfish for him to try to stop his friend.

  As great a Legionary and Centurion Sextus Scribonius was in his own right, he also never held any illusions that Titus Pullus was, simply put, the greatest Legionary who ever marched for Rome, and that to try to prevent him from facing this barbarian would bring shame not only to Pullus, but equal shame to Scribonius for suggesting it.

  "Gut that bastard!" was what Scribonius said instead, to which Pullus gave nothing more than a grim nod before moving to intercept the Wa general.

  Gasping for breath, Felix tried to ignore the steadily growing ache in his side, knowing that, if he felt such pain, so did his men. But he wouldn't let that stop him, the example of Artaxades—whose name he would learn only later, when he asked—clear in his mind and spurring him on. Behind him, the sound of hobnail boots hitting the rocky road surface, clanking bits of metal hitting each other, and the panting of almost an entire Legion of men filled Felix's ears. They were a little more than a mile away from the northern camp by Felix's reckoning, but the only time he had visited the camp in the short period of time they had before the attack, he hadn't thought to memorize the details of the approach. It simply hadn't occurred to him. However, he thought he remembered that there was a dip in the ridge a little less than a mile from the camp, and that once they had traversed down into it and climbed back up, it was less than a half mile to the camp. That's what he thought, at least, but he wouldn't know if he was right until they got there. And that was what was important at that instant: getting there.

  Felix didn't envy the men of the rearmost Cohorts, eating the dust raised by the thousands of running feet ahead, but over the years every man in Caesar's army had occasion to do the same. Never before had it been in such an important cause as this, but at the moment, the dust was just like any other dust that had to be choke
d through and endured, and Felix knew the men would. The other problem that Felix had to sort out was how to deploy the Cohorts with him, on the run and quickly enough, so that the element of surprise wasn't lost. He understood that there wasn't any way to get all eight Cohorts into a single line: not only would it take too long, there also wasn't enough room, and that wouldn't help getting into the camp. Consequently, as he ran, he made the decision to deploy the first four Cohorts in the column in a manner similar to what Statius had done at Caesar's camp, despite not knowing how Statius' attack had transpired. The one difference was that Felix wasn't willing to spare the time to send part of his force to the far, northern gate. Instead, he decided to feed at least the first four Cohorts through the two closest gates, and only then would he have one or two of the other Cohorts make their way to the northern gate.

  Now that he had decided what to do, Felix realized that despite his desperate desire to get to the camp as quickly as possible, he would have to call a halt, to pass on his orders if nothing else. As he thought about it, the more he realized that in order to give this attack the best chance for success, especially since he had no idea exactly what was happening, he would have to make some quick decisions about which Cohorts would be the first into the camp. Just as he came to that determination, the road made a gentle, sweeping bend and tilted downward, and Felix recognized that this was the dip for which he had been waiting. Once he was sure, he immediately slowed down to the normal pace Cohorts used for marching, and since he had forbidden the use of any of the cornu once they had left Caesar's camp, there was some confusion, because each Century almost ran into the back of the preceding one as they slowed. Fortunately, there weren't any major entanglements or injuries, although a few men tripped over their own feet and went sprawling onto the rocky road. Felix wasn't aware of any of this, his mind instead absorbed with what needed to happen next. Reaching the point where the road began to slope back upward, he held up his hand to signal a halt, then stepped to the side of his Century, looking back down the long column. This was going to be the worst and most nerve-wracking time for Felix, because the signal he gave to his Cohort signifer, a raising and lowering of the standard three times in quick succession, had then to be relayed all the way to the last Cohort. That signal was for all the Pili Priores, the commanders of the Cohorts, to come immediately to the front, at the double. But when dealing with a formation of slightly more than 3,000 men, valuable moments inevitably pass, moments Felix was keenly aware could not afford to be lost. But to give this attack the best chance of success, he had to force himself to take the time. After what seemed like a full watch, but was probably no more than a tenth of that, the other 7 Pili Priores were standing in front of him, chests heaving, sweat streaming down their faces.