Caesar Triumphant

  From the gods-only-knew-where, Caesar found that he was infused with a surge of energy unlike anything he had experienced in years, if not decades. Those three blasts of the cornu had sent shivers up his spine, but more importantly, from that moment forward, he moved with the purpose and speed of a much younger Caesar, and the vitality was infectious. Again, he was everywhere at once, sword in hand, offering his blade if needed, but more often offering encouragement and support. His armor, the muscled cuirass that was almost as famous as the general himself, was covered in blood and bits of gore, thankfully none of it his, though he had no idea how that was possible, as many close calls as he had suffered this day. Because Caesar still disdained his helmet, his silver hair, once so blond and bright, was standing out from his head; and between that and the shine of his bald head, in the sunlight he looked very much as though he was wearing a crown touched with fire. No Legionary still alive and fighting within that makeshift barricade, no matter where he came from, was unmoved by the sight of their general who, if not one of the gods, was certainly touched and favored by them.

  As he strode by, on his way to another spot where there was trouble, more than one Legionary, standing in the line holding the harness ahead of him and supporting a comrade one or more rows up who was doing the fighting, used his spare hand to touch an amulet, or finger a small statue in a pouch hanging from the neck, a statue that theoretically would see him executed, if it was discovered. This was their own idol, their own household god, and depending on who had created it, the likeness to Caesar was either remarkable, or bore only a rough resemblance to him because it had two arms, two legs and was clearly male. Either way, in those moments, as they watched their general, more men accepted the idea of his godhead than had in the previous ten years, all because of what they were sure was a miracle occurring before their very eyes. For what else could this be, but a miracle? Less than a sixth part of a watch before, there hadn't been a man among them who didn't believe that today would be the day they died, the only questions then being in what manner and how many of these yellow bastards they would take with them. But now, from three different directions came the wonderful sight of Roman Cohort- and Century standards, accompanied by shouts that at first were indistinguishable over the noise of fighting. Then, as more Centuries entered through the gates, until there were now at least two or three Cohorts spreading around the rear of the Wa attacking the forum, the men in the interior position behind the makeshift wall finally could make out the words that the attacking Legionaries were shouting, over and over.

  "Caesar Triumphant! Caesar Triumphant!"

  Quickly, the beleaguered defenders picked up the cry as well, and like Caesar, men who would have sworn they could no longer lift a sword suddenly found themselves infused with an energy and a reignited desire to kill these savages who thought that they could defeat the men of Caesar's army. The fact that they had come very close to doing exactly that only served to fuel the kindling rage of men who for almost an entire day had been on the defensive, forced to watch comrades, some of them friends closer than brothers, struck down all around them. Each of them, once they had time to reflect on the events of the day would come basically to the same conclusion: that they had been chosen by their gods to witness all that had taken place on this day, to confirm what some of them had been saying privately for varying lengths of time—that their general was a god in man's form.

  For them, there was no other explanation for what happened that day, no matter how much the events would be dissected later, over many campfires, for many, many days, months, and years to come. First, however, was the business at hand, and it was with a savage, renewed energy that men began clamoring to take their spot at the makeshift wall, so eager now to strike out at these barbarians who suddenly didn't act and look as confident as they had just moments before. Now, it was their turn to look over their shoulders in worry at the sounds of the fighting behind them, and there wasn't a man of Caesar's left who didn't take vicious delight in the sight. For the first time in the battle, the men of the Legions found their voice, alternating between shouting what was now the rallying cry that they were convinced would sweep them to victory, and taunting those men who were still trying with desperation to claw and scramble their way up and over the barricade. Perhaps some of them still held out hope that if they could just reach that pale grubworm of a general who was striding around, acting as if he were some sort of god, and strike him down, these other pale grubworms would lose heart. Most of them were simply trying to kill the man across from them, because that was what they were supposed to do, and until someone in authority told them differently, they would continue to do so. Whatever the motivation, the men facing each other were still trying to kill each other, one side trying to keep the other side from creating a breach wide enough for more than a trickle of Wa to pour through, the other understanding that somehow what had seemed to be a sure victory was now slipping out of their grasp. Unless they could kill that grubworm with the silver hair.

  With Pilus Prior Tetarfenus out of action, command of the Cohorts on the southern wall now devolved to the Pilus Posterior, Asinius Severus, who was in command for only a short time before he was struck down by a Wa sword. That meant that the Princeps Prior, commander of the Third Century, should have been in charge, but he had fallen very early in the fight for the southern wall. Consequently, Princeps Posterior Lentulus, Centurion commanding the Fourth Century, who was wounded but still in the fight, held overall command of the Cohorts defending the eastern wall. Because the wound was to his leg and although the bleeding had been staunched with a tourniquet, it crippled his ability to move and direct the other Centuries and Cohorts. Fortunately, every one of Caesar's Centurions had been hand-picked by the general, and their one common characteristic was their ability to think independently and make decisions with a minimum of direction from above. That was the only thing that stopped the incursion started in Tetarfenus' area after he fell, from becoming a full-scale breakthrough of the Roman camp, the Centurions in the immediate area seeing him fall and recognizing the danger.

  Even so, by the time there was an organized response, the Wa had managed to create a bulging pocket of snarling, slashing warriors, most of them wielding the swords that Pullus had worried about. They numbered perhaps two hundred warriors, and very quickly their intentions became clear, as they began to try cutting their way along the wall in the direction of the gate. If they could seize the gateway, it would allow for the passage of the rest of their comrades much more quickly than by climbing the ladders, no matter how numerous they were. As quickly as they started, the Centurions in command of the two Centuries between these Wa and the gate understood their enemy's intent, and slightly changed the facing of some of their Legionaries. In essence, the Romans were being pushed on two fronts, from the Wa warriors still ascending the ladders along the wall, and now from this group. The Centuries arrayed between the knot of Wa inside the walls and the gate were from the Tenth Cohort, composed of a large number of Gayans, Han, and a smattering of Pandyans. Despite their relative lack of experience, just the last watch alone had made them fully blooded veterans, so they didn't hesitate when their Centurions, after a quick conference, made what were unusual dispositions. Taking the last three men from the files in support of the Legionaries fighting on the wall, they quickly moved them into a position perpendicular to their original one, with one Century hard up against the wall, and the other to the left. If viewed from above, with the wall as the vertical axis, it would have looked as if they were forming the letter "L", although not one of the men or their officers ever entertained that thought.

  Instead, they were completely focused on stopping the advance of this small group of barbarians, who had been delayed just long enough for this scratch formation that wasn't in any of the manuals, created by the sacrifice of a thin, single line of Legionaries who had fought ferociously to buy time for their comrades. Now these men were lying at the feet of the advancing Wa, although t
he barbarians had been whittled down in numbers by these fallen men. Still, knowing the stakes and that this was their best hope, the small horde of sword-wielding barbarians didn't hesitate, throwing themselves at the first chance at the woefully thin wall of shields. Immediately the fighting was at a frenzied tempo, as both sides met with terrific force, every man snarling and spitting his hatred for the one across from him, the Roman side using their shields in the manner in which they were trained, the Wa countering with a series of sword thrusts that seemed to come from every direction, all at once. Inevitably, men on both sides fell, but in this battle within a battle, it was the Wa who could ill afford the losses. Nevertheless, despite their best efforts, the men of the two Centuries of the Tenth Cohort found themselves taking a step backward. It was tentative, and hard-fought, but it was a step back toward the gate. Not surprisingly, this step backwards fueled the energy of the Wa, which to the men of Caesar's army already seemed inexhaustible, and their slashes, thrusts, and stabs came even more quickly, their blades flicking out in search of fleshy targets. The men of Caesar's Legions found themselves desperately hiding behind their shields, many of them to no avail, as seemingly inexorably, they continued their backward movement. Finally, the Centurion in charge of the Century nearest to the wall had the barest moment to have a glance behind him, but the moment he did, he wished he hadn't. Not more than a half-dozen paces from the last man of his Century, desperately grasping the harness of the man in front of him who at that very moment was furiously parrying a thrust from the barbarian opposite him, was the opening that was the main gate of the camp. The gate that, if the Centurion and his men lost this fight and left it unprotected, would spell the end of the men in the northern camp and the success of the surprise attack.

  Titus Pullus was immediately at a disadvantage, his mind still reeling from the knowledge that an unknown Legionary had unintentionally imparted to him. Publius Vellusius—one of the two survivors of his original tent group, formed so many years ago, when then-Praetor Gaius Julius Caesar had authorized a dilectus for what would become the most famous and feared Legion in the entire world, Caesar's 10th Equestris—had apparently died. Even as the giant Primus Pilus tried to process this thought, the Wa general charged at the Roman, his blade slashing down in a vicious arc that Pullus barely avoided by twisting to the side. Before he could recover himself back to a proper defensive position, the Wa—his age impossible to tell because of the helmet’s almost completely masking his features, except for his eyes—brought his blade back up in an almost exact reversal of his first stroke. Normally, this would have been nothing more than a quick recovery, but because the top of the barbarian's blade was sharpened for almost half its length, instead of pulling it straight back, he made an exaggerated semicircular arc with the point, the tip aimed with precision just below the brim of Pullus' helmet. His intent was clear: either by cutting a gash in the Roman's forehead, or striking across the eyes, he was trying to blind Pullus. It would have worked, if Pullus had done the natural thing by jerking his head backward, and in fact it might have been a killing blow if the Wa's sword tip had slashed his throat, but this wasn't the first time Pullus had seen this move used, albeit on other men. And what he had seen was that the best of nothing but bad choices was to drop his head to take the blow on the brow of his helmet. In fact, that was why over the years Caesar had demanded that a strip of iron be added just above the forehead, not only to reinforce that area, but also to keep blades from sliding down and into the faces of his men.

  Still, it was far from an ideal defense, and despite the helmet’s being at the outermost limit of the barbarian's reach, there was sufficient force behind the sword tip to make a sound much like a bell being rung, as tiny sparks shot in every direction, the Wa scoring a glancing blow. More problematically, it made similar sparks explode in front of Pullus' eyes, and he heard a gasp of surprise and pain, only dimly aware that it came from him himself. His mind had barely cleared from the news of Vellusius; now he had to shake his head to try to clear it from the blow; yet he still had the presence of mind to keep his shield up, with elbow locked tightly against his hip. It was a good thing he did, because as quickly as the Wa commander recovered his blade back to what the barbarians used as their basic offensive position, he lashed out again with his sword. In fact, the next few moments saw a flurry of thrusts and slashes, all of them from the Wa general, the man a blur of fluid, deadly motion, forcing Pullus to stay on the defensive. As frenetic as the pace of the attack was, no less spirited was Pullus' defense: all he could do during this part of the fight was to keep his shield desperately in front and to move it just enough to block each of the barbarian's attacks. Pullus knew that if he overcommitted in one direction, a man as skilled as his opponent would make him pay for the mistake with his life. Again, all of the watches spent training for times like this were what kept Pullus alive, as it seemed that his head would never clear, there still being a ringing in his ears, and his vision was slightly blurred. Regardless of his current condition, he was thankful it wasn't worse: if he had experienced double vision at that moment, he would already be a corpse. Whatever shape he was in at the moment, he also knew that he couldn't stay on the defensive for much longer, the fatigue in his shield arm growing stronger with every heartbeat. Even as his shield absorbed another blow, the thudding sound was accompanied by a high-pitched cracking sound, telling Pullus that his shield was failing, giving him even less time.

  In fact, this attack by the savage opposite him seemed to Pullus to epitomize how the entire day had gone. From the outset, Caesar's army had been on the back foot, on the defensive, which was bad enough. However, up until this battle, even when Caesar and his men were forced to defend, they had still managed to dictate matters to a certain degree. But not today; all day Pullus had been running from one spot to another, always reacting to some new threat posed by these yellow-skinned men, and now in what he realized were the waning moments of his life, Pullus was being forced to dance to the tune this little bastard was calling. That realization, even more than the idea of defeat, infuriated Pullus to a degree that came as a surprise to him. Another lightning-quick thrust from the Wa struck his shield, this time to the right of the boss and lower down, but it created a crack that moved diagonally up and across his shield, two spidery lines appearing on either side of the metal. Pullus instantly recognized that with the Wa's next strike his shield would fall apart and be useless, both as a defensive and as an offensive weapon, so, not waiting, he finally made his first offensive move. Taking a step forward that was much larger than it would be for most men, thanks to his longer legs, Pullus punched out with his damaged shield. Timing it as he did, just as the Wa general was recovering from his last attack, Pullus' opponent had no chance to cleanly dodge the metal boss that Pullus had aimed right at his face, aided by the barbarian's smaller stature. All the Wa could do was, just like Pullus moments before, try to minimize the damage. While Pullus had ducked his head, the enemy general tilted his head to the side slightly, taking the blow from the giant Roman's shield on the iron cheekpiece of his helmet, instead of squarely in his face. Once more there was a gong-like sound, as the metal from Pullus' shield struck the Wa helmet, and while it wasn't a clean blow by any means, it still contained enough power behind it that it would have knocked a lesser man off his feet. But this barbarian hadn't achieved his rank just by virtue of his birth, earning his position by a combination of that and his prowess in battle. Despite the fact that it was a damaging blow, the Wa kept his feet, and more by instinct than anything else, since he carried no shield to protect him, he made an off-balance, wild swing in an attempt to keep his opponent from following up, more than with any hope of landing a solid blow.

  As poorly aimed as it was, it still struck Pullus' shield, completing the destruction of the Primus Pilus' best defense, pieces of wood exploding in every direction, disintegrating so much that in the instant before he dropped it, all that Pullus was left with was the handle of the shield, even
the boss falling to the ground at his feet. This paused Pullus for a fraction of a heartbeat from his advance, his sword pulled back, ready to deliver a killing blow, but it was enough. Regaining his balance, the Wa general lunged forward, both hands clutching his sword as he raised it above his head. Pullus had seen this attack more times than he could count today, and while every other time it had seemed to be made especially for the Romans' short, thrusting counterattack into the completely exposed belly of the attacker, some instinct warned him that this was what the barbarian was expecting. More importantly, it was what the Wa was hoping for, so instead, Pullus took a hopping step to his right. While this step moved Pullus' own sword farther away from his intended target, it clearly surprised his enemy, who, even as Pullus made this move, had altered his attack by letting go of the sword with his left hand, and by simply dropping his elbow back down to his side, brought his blade into position for a disemboweling horizontal stroke. Like Pullus, the Wa general had observed what these grubworms favored when faced with the overhead attack, and had expected this grubworm, giant though he may have been, to react in the same way. And indeed, if Pullus had done as many a Roman had done so often this day, taking a simple step forward while bringing his sword forward in a sweeping underhand thrust, at the very least his sword arm would have been exposed, as the Wa's blade traveled along its horizontal path. Ideally, the giant barbarian would have stepped forward far enough so that the general's blade would have bitten deeply into the man's side, but, either way, since the man had lost his shield, the fight would have been over. Instead, his blade bit into nothing more than the air, and now it was the Wa who was vulnerable, as Pullus had immediately brought his feet underneath him, keeping his sword at the first position and ready to strike.