by Peake, R. W.
In the time it takes to blink an eye, Pullus did just that: the tip of his sword traveling toward the Wa at a speed that the human eye could barely comprehend. In all of the thrusts he had made, in practice or in battle, over thousands upon thousands of times, Titus Pullus was sure he had never been faster than he was in that moment, on that day. And on any other day, against any other opponent, this fight would have ended right then, because Pullus was absolutely right in his belief: he had never launched a faster or more devastating attack. Against this opponent, however, while Pullus' thrust struck, it wasn't a killing blow, as it would have been with any other foe, because the Wa general desperately twisted his body to one side, moving the part of his lower torso at which Pullus had aimed a few inches. It wasn't enough to avoid being hit altogether, but instead of punching through the lamellar armor the Wa was wearing and the blade entering several inches into his abdomen, it managed only to penetrate the armor and enter perhaps an inch deep. More importantly, the Wa was moving too quickly and violently for Pullus to finish the attack in the normal manner, with either a twisting of the blade to cause more internal damage, or a strong lateral cutting move that disemboweled the victim. Therefore, while the wound was painful and caused the barbarian to expel a sharp, hissing breath of pain, it didn't inflict the damage it should have.
What it did do was put the Wa on the defensive, so sensing that it was at least his opponent's turn to stand on his back foot, Pullus wouldn't waste the opportunity. As he recovered from his thrust, he moved forward to close the gap between himself and his opponent, back to their positions an instant before. As quickly as his arm had drawn back, it lashed out again, but this thrust Pullus not only aimed higher, but he also moved his arm out from his body a bit. Normally this maneuver was discouraged, because it robbed a man of much of the force that came from using the bulk of his body; Titus Pullus was one of the few—not just in the ranks but also in the upper classes, with the possible exception of Marcus Antonius—for whom this rule didn't apply. Moving his arm out in this manner meant that his blade was heading for the Wa at a slightly different angle. With the Roman coming at him from his left, this was a moment where the lack of a shield made the Wa vulnerable, as the point of Pullus' sword seemed to unerringly seek the barbarian's throat. In answer, the only move the barbarian could perform was to whip his sword up and across his body in an attempt to knock Pullus' blade off its path. In this he was only partially successful; instead of the point of the Roman's sword piercing his throat, the Wa managed to knock the blade upward, so that it struck him just above where his helmet flared out, on the rounded portion above the ear. Between the deflection and the smooth surface of the helmet, much of the blow's force was absorbed, but the point of Pullus' sword still tore a ragged gouge in the general's helmet and sliced into the top of the man's scalp. For the first time, the Wa let out a howl of pain, as he staggered sideways, blood almost immediately starting to flow down the side of his face. Pullus felt a savage satisfaction, but he knew that his foe was still dangerous, and, determined not to give this barbarian any chance to recover, he pressed his advantage now. Taking a shuffling couple of steps forward, he closed the distance caused by the Wa's staggering retreat, his blade already back at a modified first position, angled across his body slightly more than normal to compensate for his lack of shield.
The Wa was weaving about; whether it was because he was groggy or it was by design Pullus couldn't tell, but the end result was the same: it made the man harder to hit and forced Pullus to pause. For his part, the barbarian general, while he was reeling from the blow, never took his eyes off Pullus, despite the blood streaming down his forehead and into his left eye. Neither man made a move for the span of a few heartbeats, and while they didn't notice, the warriors around them had moved their own fighting slightly farther away, making a rough circle, as the champions of the two armies continued to battle. Pullus' arm ached from the slashing wound he had received some time before, although he couldn't tell whether the pain came from the wound or the bandage being too tight. During the lull, the Wa, with his free hand, reached up and managed to rip the helmet off his head; only then did Pullus get an idea of the man's age. His hair was long, but pulled back tightly, so that it lay flat against his skull, and Pullus saw that while it was just as black as every other Wa’s the Primus Pilus had seen before, it was also liberally streaked with gray. Now that the Wa was helmetless, Pullus could also partially see the man's features, although one side of his face was obscured by blood, but what Pullus could see was the same seams and lines he himself carried. This was a man who had been exposed to the elements for most of his life, and was clearly as hard as the metal of Pullus' sword. As his mind made that comparison, Pullus was thankful for that strength, once more thanking the gods for the Gallic blade that he had carried for more than two decades.
Now that Pullus could see some of the man's face, it suddenly made this fight more immediate and more personal. This was the man who had at least a hand in the destruction of Caesar's army, and, most important to Pullus, had destroyed his beloved 10th Legion, who had caused the death of one of his best friends, Balbus, and one of his longest-term comrades, Vellusius. Suddenly, Pullus felt a surge of warmth that seemed to start somewhere in his belly, uncoiling itself like a serpent, as it made its way up through his body, and he recognized it for what it was: the return of an old friend, one that he needed now more than ever. That feeling was what distracted Pullus just for the blink of an eye, but it was all the Wa needed as, clearly sensing this lapse in his opponent, he struck with blinding speed. And it was this distraction that caused Pullus to react to the barbarian's sudden strike just a fraction more slowly than normal. Either way, it sufficed to allow the point of the Wa's blade to snake past Pullus' own and, even as Pullus swept his blade up in a desperate attempt to deflect the attack, the point punched through Pullus' mail, burying itself deeply in the Roman's body.
The sight that greeted Felix was the one thing he hadn't prepared for, and it was such a surprise that even with his sense of urgency, he came to a skidding halt. He had just reached the top of the slope, so that the northern camp was now partly in sight around a slight bend in the ridgetop road. Except that the camp was almost completely obscured, not just in a haze of dust, but by the swarming bodies of men, some of them scaling ladders, while more were massed around each one, waiting their turn to ascend. For several long moments, Felix stood motionless, staring slack-jawed at the sight before him, his mind racing as it tried to assimilate this change in the situation. Finally, he whirled around, and sprinted back in the other direction, running only a few paces, before almost slamming into the first rank of his own Century who were laboring up the road behind him.
"Stop!" Felix shouted this several times, in his excitement completely forgetting that "Stop" wasn't part of the lexicon of the Roman drill manual.
Nevertheless, his words had the desired effect as his men slid and stumbled to a halt, although not without the rear ranks colliding with their comrades in front, sending several men tumbling to the ground. The air filled with shouted curses, which Felix ignored, as he moved quickly to the side of his Century so that he could have an unobstructed view of the Centuries and Cohorts following behind his. Waving his hand over his head, his fist clenched in the correct signal, he managed to stop the entire column again, but this time, instead of waiting for the Centurions to make their way to him, he began sprinting down the road, picking a spot to stop roughly halfway in the middle. More quickly this time, he was again surrounded by the Centurions of the relief column, their faces showing a combination of concern and irritation at this disruption in the plan. Quickly, Felix explained what he had just seen, ignoring the gasps and curses of the men around him.
"We're not going to be able to form up the way we'd planned," he went on. "So we're going to shake the men out here, and then we're going to have to double-time from the top of the slope. We have to hit those cunni as fast as we can, before they have a chance to
get organized."
"Did they see you?" asked a Centurion from the 14th.
Felix shook his head.
"I don't think so."
"Don't think so?" the man from the 14th grumbled. "For all we know, they might be forming up themselves and waiting for us."
"So?" Felix shot back. "Even if they are, we're still attacking. Unless you have a better idea?"
When put that way, the other Centurion had no real response, knowing what was going to happen, no matter if the enemy were ready or not. After a moment's silence, he wilted under Felix's glare, only shaking his head in response. With that settled, Felix turned his attention back to the matter. Taking a glance around at the ground on either side of the road, he didn't like what he saw.
"There's not enough room here to get more than two Cohorts on line, so that will have to do," he said grimly. After his rebuke of their fellow Centurion, even if the others were disposed to argue, they weren't willing to do so, and taking their silence as assent, he hurried on, ever mindful that every moment that passed was a moment lost.
"Right, so it will be the Fifth, and we'll line up from there," he pointed to a spot to the left side of the road, "to over by that clump of rocks. And the Sixth of the 14th will shake out from the rocks further out that way." Pausing to stare thoughtfully in the direction he indicated, he shook his head. "Although it looks like your last Century might be squeezed by that bunch of trees. But you'll just have to make do, at least until we get up there. The rest of you will use my Cohort as the anchor on the left. We're going to aim for the corner of the camp, so that the Sixth Century will hit those bastards closest to the corner, and my Century on the other end will hit," he paused as he tried to envision the width of the formation he was going to use and how much of the eastern wall it would cover, "just this side of the Porta Praetoria. I think," he added, with a thin smile.
"Wait, your Sixth Century is going to anchor the left?" interrupted the Pilus Prior of the Seventh Cohort of the 14th. "That means you're going in a single line? With no support?"
Felix bit back the first thing that came to his mind, grudgingly accepting that it was a valid question, even if it was wasting time.
"We need to get as many swords to bear on these cunni as we can, as quickly as we can," Felix explained. "If we go in a single line, at least with the first two Cohorts, we should just about cover their entire line. If we went in doubled up like normal, if their commander is a quick thinker, he can get around our flanks before the rest of you get into position."
"That's a big 'if'," the other Pilus Prior said doubtfully, but before Felix could say anything more, he gave a quick shake of his head. "But I think you're right, it's the only thing to do. So what do the rest of us do?"
Felix gave a quick outline of what he thought was the best plan of attack for the trailing Cohorts, and with that settled, the Centurions hurried to their spots. With a few curses and oaths hurled at men moving a little too slowly for their tastes, the Centurions of the relief force got their Centuries into their correct spots in what Felix was sure was record time, and almost before he had mentally prepared himself, two Cohorts were arrayed in a single line, the men with their javelins ready. Taking a breath, he drew his sword and in a quick stroke downward, launched the attack of the relieving force. Starting at the run, he led his Cohort up the slope, offering up a silent prayer to the gods that he and his men were in time.
Caesar stood motionless, swaying slightly, as for the first time since in what seemed like days, he no longer needed to move from one trouble spot to the next. While he was still within the makeshift barricade, all of the men who were still able had left the protection it had offered, leaping over the barrels, carts, and boxes in pursuit of a now-fleeing enemy. The Wa attack, as furious and nearly overwhelming as any Caesar had faced, had broken suddenly, as the four Cohorts led by Statius had slammed full-force into the rear of the unsuspecting barbarian horde. In those frantic moments, before Caesar and the remainder of his army's eyes, the Wa had gone from snarling, ferocious wolves, ravening for blood, into fearful, whipped curs, suddenly worried only about their own escape and salvation. The panic had started with those barbarians armed with the spears, Caesar had noticed, but the men armed with swords very quickly found themselves isolated, and while a large number of them had chosen to go down fighting, others had soon followed their spear-wielding comrades. The Legionaries of the relief Cohorts, still relatively fresh, had pursued the fleeing Wa with a vengeance, cutting down men without any mercy. Fueled by their example, the battered survivors behind the barricade had somehow found the energy to clamber over the parapet and join in the pursuit.
Although Caesar understood their desire to avenge so many fallen comrades, he also had gained a huge amount of respect for the cunning and guile of the faceless commander who had come closer to defeating Caesar than any other man. With that in mind, he had sent Bodroges to chase down the pursuing Legionaries, ordering them to stop at the camp walls. He had no idea if the Tribune had managed to find whoever was commanding the relief force; Caesar still didn't know the identity of the commander, nor did he know that Statius had fallen. Whereas just a short time before, he had felt more vitality and energy coursing through his body than he had in many years, now it was as if the gods were demanding a repayment, with interest, for the gift they had bestowed on him, when the crisis was at its zenith. Now it was as if the gods had seen fit to add ten more years to his age, as he found it next to impossible even to lift his arms, and the only way he could move about was at a slow, decrepit shuffle. He was just thankful that he was for the most part alone; the men left behind had been wounded and were too absorbed in their own agony to notice their general hobbling about, while the slaves and medici were equally focused on trying to minister to those men they deemed had the best chance to survive.
Caesar's gaze traveled over the cluttered, bloody expanse of ground enclosed by the barricade, noting sadly that those few spots of ground that he could see were almost completely soaked in the blood of his men. Bodies of the dead were stacked a short distance away from the barricade, forming a rough circle that was a gruesome image of the real barricade, and Caesar was struck by the macabre thought that if the barricade itself had been taken, the men could have at least used their dead comrades as a last-ditch protection. Fortunately, it hadn't come to that, but just barely. The roaring noise of battle had subsided, as the fighting moved back in the direction of the western wall, while Caesar's men pursued the fleeing enemy; so he cocked an ear and listened for a moment, the sounds telling him that at a spot near the southwest corner of the camp, where the first breach of the wall had happened, the barbarians had either stopped running to make a stand, or been forced to do so by his men. Either way, he could tell that there was a furious fight going on, and his instinct was to head in that direction. He took no more than a couple of steps, however, before he realized that if he were to do so, it would have to be on horseback, and even then he would have to have help to mount. For all his prodigious talents, Caesar was also endowed with a huge streak of vanity, and it was a mark of pride that even now, at sixty-five, he was able to vault into the saddle without help. This time would be different; the fatigue and ache in his bones was so deep that he knew without a doubt that if he tried, he would fail. And that would be even worse than not trying, he knew, especially now.
For today had demonstrated one thing clearly. Caesar was capable of being fooled, and he also understood the day wasn't over, and while this battle here was won, if the enemy conquered the northern camp, he and his army still faced defeat. Despite his fatigue, Caesar's mind was still active, and as he stood swaying on his feet, he was thinking through the next watches. Squinting up at the sky, he saw with a sinking heart that there was still at least a watch, probably a third more than a watch, of daylight left. This meant that the barbarian commander, if his assault force to the north was successful, still might have time to move south, using the ridgetop road. And if he did, between what
ever he brought with him and the remnants of the force his men were chasing even then, the four Cohorts of the relief force wouldn't be enough to stop them from completing the victory. Yes, he took some grim satisfaction in the knowledge that this would be a victory almost as costly in terms of Wa casualties as a defeat, but starting that morning, he had also seen firsthand that such considerations weren't important to the commander of the barbarian force. After all, Caesar recognized, his counterpart had ordered his men to sacrifice their lives merely to fill a ditch, just so that the rest of his men could scale the walls! That made it highly unlikely the barbarian general would care all that much how costly it was to defeat the invading army. No, Caesar thought sadly, as courageous and motivating as the repulse of the Wa from this camp was, in the overall battle—and ultimately this campaign—it changed nothing in the overall scheme. His only hope, and oh, how slim it was, would be that Pullus and Balbinus had exacted such a heavy price for the taking of their camp that, at the very least, it caused the Wa general to stop for the day to reorganize his forces. Caesar had no real idea of how these strange people conducted military matters, whether they organized their men in units similar to Legions, or whether it was just one big, massed mob of men. But he suspected that these people were at least as ordered and organized as the Romans. So, perhaps there was some hope after all.
With that thought, Caesar gave a short, bitter laugh, aimed at himself. Normally, he would pounce on that slender reed of hope, building on it, as if it instead were a foreordained fact.. And speaking truthfully, until today, he had always viewed such developments as proof of the gods' favor, so it had never occurred to him that he couldn't take full advantage of even that slight a chance. But today had shaken him to his core, since he still vividly remembered the feeling of helplessness and confusion, when he had watched the surprise attack of the Wa springing from the tents of the camp across from his, and how he had had absolutely no idea what to do. That had never happened to Caesar before—not once—and this, more than the savage fighting, more than the appalling losses inflicted on his army, had rocked him to the soles of his feet. Suddenly, he shook his head, trying to banish this train of thought from his mind, forcing himself to concentrate on the moment at hand: if not for my own dignitas and reputation, he thought, then for these men who fought like lions for me today. This idea snapped him from his lethargy, at least mentally, although he still couldn't summon the energy to do much more than stumble about. Instead, he started surveying the ground around him, deciding what needed to be done to prepare for a renewal of the onslaught. Quickly realizing that his northern and eastern walls were still intact, Caesar decided that he needed to concentrate as much of his force as he could spare to those two sides, but not ignore the areas on the western wall that were breached. He briefly considered the southern wall, but almost immediately discarded it as a focus of his attention, knowing that if an attack came today, the barbarian commander couldn't spare the time it would take to move all the way to the south to attack a wall that hadn't already been weakened or breached in some way. Looking about, he tried to find one of his staff, but they were all either killed, or had gone off in pursuit of the fleeing enemy, their bloodlust as aroused as that of any ranker. Ah, to be young again, he thought wryly.