by Peake, R. W.
He was pleased to see that at least some of the medici had moved beyond the barricade to tend to the men of the relief Cohorts who had fallen. Thankfully, those numbers were few, and he watched as two men gently lifted the plank used as a stretcher up and over the barricade, where two other slaves were waiting. On the plank, the wood now stained black with blood from its cargo, was a Legionary that Caesar could see was a Centurion, his helmet still on his head, so the transverse crest was visible. This was unusual in itself; normally, wounded men either yanked the helmet off, or the medici removed it, because it got in the way of their ministrations. Piqued by this odd sight, Caesar walked over slowly, picking a spot where he was sure they would stop and lay the injured man, since it was one of the few clear spots left. Reaching it just before the stretcher bearers, Caesar immediately saw why the medici hadn't removed the man's helmet. He had suffered a ghastly facial wound, and although it was extremely hard to see, because of all the blood, it looked to Caesar as though the hanging cheekguard had been mangled by the blow from a bladed weapon, and while he couldn't say for sure, he had the impression that the edges of the metal had been driven into the flesh and bone of the man's face. Even if this man survived, Caesar knew, he would be horribly scarred and—judging from the way his jawbone seemed misaligned—would either never speak again or have a horrible time of it. Because of the blood, and the way his face was already horribly swollen, Caesar didn't recognize him at first, but then, to Caesar's surprise, the man’s eyes fluttered open, and his head turned slightly as he tried to look about. The effort made him groan, but Caesar had seen enough: he recognized that it was Statius, the Pilus Prior of the Fifth Cohort of the 14th Legion. Kneeling down next to the stricken man, Caesar reached out and gently placed his hand over Statius', who blinked in surprise and turned his head with some difficulty to see that it was his general. Recognizing Caesar, without thinking, Statius tried to raise his head at least, in acknowledgement of his commander, but immediately sank back with a groan of pain. Alarmed, Caesar put a hand on the Centurion's shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him back down onto the stretcher.
"Gods forgive me, Statius! I didn't mean to give you a start! Please, lie back, you've earned a rest now. You and the men of your relief force saved this camp from falling, and I just wanted to thank you for that."
Again, out of instinct and habit, Statius tried to open his ruined mouth to answer his general, but all that came out was a garbled, unintelligible half-groan, half-mumble. Caesar patted Statius again, cursing himself for causing this man more pain.
"That's all right, don't try to talk. I'm going to have my personal physician assigned to your care." Caesar's tone was reassuring, but the thought in his mind at that moment was that he would do so, provided Statius was still alive, "He should have you up and about in no time. Although you may not be as handsome as you once were."
Only Caesar could have made such a joke at that moment, and while there was a low rumble in Statius' throat that could have been a growl of anger, Caesar saw the man's eyes turn down, a sign that he appreciated the jest. Caesar thought for a moment, because as much as he didn't want to cause this poor man any more torment, he needed some information from him, since he was the only Legionary of sufficient rank nearby.
Finally, he came up with an idea and told Statius, "Statius, forgive me, but there are a few questions I must have the answers to. So while I don't want to cause you any pain, I have to ask you some things. But I think I've come up with a way you can tell me what I need to know. What I ask is that you blink once for 'yes', and twice for 'no'. Can you do that for me?"
In answer Statius blinked, one time, and Caesar began.
"I assume that if Ventidius sent you from your camp, that it's still in our hands and, in fact, wasn't hard-pressed. But do you know anything about the southernmost camp and whether it still holds?"
Statius blinked, twice. Caesar suppressed a curse, knowing that it wouldn't do any good to upset his Centurion for something that was out of his control.
Keeping his tone even, he replied, "Very well. We'll find out soon enough. So, Ventidius sent these four Cohorts to help us. Were you the commander?"
Statius' brow furrowed, and he tried to shake his head, and in his excitement forgot that he needed to blink twice just one time, instead blinking very rapidly. At first Caesar couldn't fathom what Statius was trying to tell him, and he bit his lip in a supreme effort not to show his impatience.
"Statius, I'm afraid I've confused you," he said finally, taking the blame on his own shoulders in an effort to avoid the man’s becoming even more upset than he clearly was. "But let's keep this simple, neh? Were you the commander of the relief force?"
Statius blinked twice, this time stopping to ensure Caesar understood. And while his general did, he was slightly confused. He couldn't believe that Ventidius would have sent one of the front line Cohorts, the First through Fourth, to relieve Caesar. Then a possible reason dawned on him.
"Did Ventidius send Cohorts from both Legions there? The 14th and 30th?"
Giving a single blink, Statius also nodded slightly, the relief that his general understood clear in his eyes. Caesar tried to rack his tired brain, thinking about who could possibly be the commander of the relief force, if not Statius. Technically speaking, Felix, who commanded the Fifth of the 30th was the same rank as Statius, but Caesar was sure that Statius' rank predated Felix's, which would have made him senior. But not knowing where else to start, he began there.
"Was Felix named the commander of the relief force?"
Another single blink, and Caesar thought he understood, and nodded his thanks to Statius as he stood.
Speaking more to himself, Caesar said, "Well, as soon as he comes back from chasing those bastards away, I'll have to thank him."
He had turned away, but he was almost tripped as something suddenly grabbed at one of his legs. Looking down in surprise, he saw a bloody hand grabbing at his calf. Statius was trying to struggle upright, despite the attempts of the medici to keep him prone, his mangled visage conveying to Caesar that there was more he wanted to tell his general. Turning back to the wounded man, Caesar knelt again.
"What is it, Statius? What are you trying to tell me that's more important than your recovery?"
Again, a gurgled moan erupted from Statius' mangled mouth, the effort this time so much that it caused a spray of blood to spatter all over Caesar's legs and the hands and arms of the men holding Statius down. Normally, this would have bothered Caesar, who was nothing if not extremely clean, but he could clearly see that there was something of momentous importance Statius was trying to tell him. Statius was no less frustrated, and, in desperation, he mimed writing something so that Caesar instantly understood. Slapping his forehead, Caesar came to his feet.
"Of course! I should have thought of that instead of tormenting you!"
Feeling another slight burst of energy, Caesar moved from Statius' side, his eyes searching the ground, looking for a wax tablet. He quickly realized the difficulty of his task; not only was the ground covered, it was covered with either dead or wounded men. His secretaries, at least two of them, were dead, and he hadn't seen the other two since early in the battle, so he was forced to look about at the men attending the wounded, since many Cohort secretaries doubled as medici or stretcher bearers. Of course, it was extremely unlikely that any of them were still carrying the leather bag with a supply of tablets for their Centurions. But then, Caesar spotted a man with that very thing, still dangling from his waist. Calling him over, Caesar was happy to see that the man still had a tablet, and even better, still had his stylus, although it was caked in blood from where it was thrust into his belt and one of his charges had bled all over it. Returning to Statius, Caesar handed the tablet and stylus to the prone Centurion, trying to conceal his impatience as the man laboriously wrote several lines. The more he wrote, the deeper Caesar's confusion and his concern became. Finally finished, Statius offered his general the tablet, and it w
as only through a supreme effort of will that the older man didn't snatch it from his grasp. Caesar opened the tablet, forced to squint at the almost illegible scrawl. Well, he thought, I don't promote men to the Centurionate based on their handwriting. Very quickly that thought fled, as he deciphered what Statius had written. Trying to restrain himself, Caesar knelt again and grasped Statius by the shoulder.
"Is this all true? That Ventidius sent twelve Cohorts and that Felix is taking the other eight to the northern camp?"
When Statius gave a simple nod, for a brief, horrifying moment Caesar thought he would faint. Could it possibly be true? Was there a chance that this battle could actually be won? Immediately, Caesar began offering prayers to every deity he could think of, including all of the gods he had learned about over these last ten years, only someone with his intellect even capable of remembering them all. Now, he ran through each and every name as he beseeched them to save what was left of his army and to grant success to Felix and those eight Cohorts.
Gaius Porcinus' head still ached abominably, but strangely, he was thankful for the pain, because it kept him from thinking about how tired he was. His Century had been whittled down even more; by his last count he had half the men with which he had started the day. It had been his Century, alongside the Second Century of the Ninth Cohort, that had stood in the path of the Wa warriors trying to cut their way to the gate, and while they had stopped this threat, it had been at a great cost. Now his Century had moved back to the wall, where more than a dozen small pockets of Wa had managed to get over the wall and onto the rampart. The fighting was furious, the pace so high that Porcinus hadn't had a chance to look behind him to see how his uncle and the rest of the 10th were faring. All he knew was that the fighting was still going on, because of the noise, but more than that he couldn't say.
At that moment, all his concentration was focused on the small group of Wa, standing back to back, all of them armed with swords, their blades flashing in the sun, as they lashed out in what seemed to be a rippling pattern that prevented the Legionaries facing them from closing the distance so that they could employ their own weapons. Waiting and watching for his chance to strike, Porcinus suspected that this seemingly random pattern of first one, then another Wa, thrusting or swinging their blades at his men was anything but random, that they probably trained in this way with at least the same diligence with which the men of the Legions stood at the stakes for watch after watch. Finally, Porcinus saw what he was looking for: either out of fatigue or carelessness, the barbarian nearest to him brought his blade back lower than normal, giving the Centurion the opening he needed. With a quick, overhand thrust, the point of his sword shot past the Wa's defense to land a killing blow right between two of the man's ribs, the blade sliding deep into the chest cavity. The Wa stood still for less than a heartbeat, before vomiting blood and collapsing at Porcinus' feet. Because he had remembered the rule of keeping his blade parallel to the ground, he was able to slide it smoothly out of the man's body, and even as the barbarian lay twitching on the ground, Porcinus stepped over him, looking for another target.
From what he could tell, it looked as though for every man he lost, his Century was striking down at least four barbarians. If that held true everywhere along the wall, his hope was that this would be enough to turn back this assault to take the gate, but he had no way of knowing if that would be sufficient to stop the enemy from overwhelming him and his men. He also understood that it didn't matter, because of what was happening behind him: if his uncle and the rest of the men in the forum didn't stop these bastards, then very shortly the Cohorts along the wall would be pressed from front and rear, and it would all be over. So he concentrated on what he had some control over, and that was keeping his Century fighting and killing. It had been some time since he had a moment to take a head count, but by his best estimate, he had just a little more than half his Century still in the fight, and at least a dozen of the men still fighting bearing some sort of wound, including himself. At that moment, the front rank of his Century had managed to cut down what had been eight of the yellow-skinned savages down to four, and there was an instant's pause, when his men were forced to take a breath. Seizing the opportunity, Porcinus raised the whistle hanging around his neck up to his lips, and blew the signal that started the process of relief. Instantly, the men who were within reach thrust their shields out, their goal to strike their opponent and send him reeling just long enough for the Legionary to take a step to the side to allow the man behind him to take his place.
When performed properly, it was like watching a well-oiled machine in operation, and this time would have been no exception, except that these Wa had seen and heard this happen often enough by now to know what to expect. One of them, a more experienced warrior, timing his move perfectly, took a step backward just as the Legionary across from him lashed out. Instead of making contact as he expected, the Legionary's shield struck nothing but air. Preparing for the jarring contact of his shield striking flesh, the Legionary naturally put his weight behind the blow to increase the impact, but when he reached the full extension of his arm and there was nothing there, he was instantly thrown off-balance. If he had been more experienced, in all likelihood he would have been able to compensate and maintain his stance and footing, but this was another Gayan of the Tenth Cohort. The result was a staggering step forward, instead of the step to the side he should have taken, a natural reaction under the circumstances, but one that spelled his doom. The warrior next to the man who had dodged the blow was waiting, and immediately his blade chopped down onto the outstretched left arm of the Gayan. In the blink of an eye, the shield, with the hand and part of the man's arm still attached clattered to the ground, and even before the stricken man could react or cry out, the first Wa struck, as well. Just that quickly, there was a gaping hole in the front line and another man lost from Porcinus' Century. The dead man's body was a natural obstacle to allow his relief to step forward, but it was no impediment to the Wa who had created this opportunity, as he used the Gayan's body as a platform. Swinging his sword in a wide arc, the very threat posed by his blade prevented the Legionaries on either side from making their own thrusts.
Seeing this, Porcinus understood the danger, but before he could move through the ranks of his men, from the opposite side of the formation his Optio Oesalces came charging in. Holding his shield high above him to allow him to move more quickly between the ranks of the Century, Oesalces gave a bellow loud enough to be heard even above the noise of the fighting as he came charging in. Hearing the challenge, the Wa standing atop the dead Gayan's body made a half-turn, and, despite himself, Porcinus marveled at how surefooted the barbarian was on such an unsteady platform. As Porcinus watched, the Wa brought his blade up and over his head, where it seemed to hover for an instant, before slashing down to come crashing down onto Oesalces' upraised shield. Porcinus saw splinters fly from the wooden surface, but his Optio seemed to absorb the blow without any effect, his own blade lashing out in a blurry flash that Porcinus could barely register. Somehow, however, the Wa was able to follow the Optio's attempt, blocking the thrust with his own blade, as had happened so often that day. The Wa immediately countered; in fact, it seemed to Porcinus that he did so as part of the same motion he made to block Oesalces. The enemy's blade seemed to follow just behind that of Oesalces, as if chasing the Roman's shorter sword back to its lair, and it was so quick that the Optio was unable to move his shield across his body in time. As Porcinus watched in helpless horror, he saw the point of the Wa's sword puncture his Optio's chain mail armor as if it weren’t even there, the blade sinking in almost to the hilt. For a brief moment, Porcinus and Oesalces' eyes locked, and the Centurion saw the almost puzzled look on his Optio's face that he had seen more than once on this day, as if the stricken man couldn't quite believe what had just happened. The Wa, still balancing on the dead body, lifted one foot and placed it on Oesalces' chest and, with a brutal kick, freed his sword and knocked the Optio down at the
same time.
And the other raw tirones of Porcinus' Century who were standing less than a couple of paces away, who could have easily struck this arrogant yellow bastard down as he freed his sword, stood frozen in place, their mouths open in shock. The Wa's comrades displayed no such timidity, however, and before any Roman could react, two of them had muscled their way into the now yawning gap created by these two deaths. Almost as quickly, the newly vacated space was filled by Wa who had been poised on the ladder for such an opportunity, and in just that amount of time, all the progress that Porcinus' men had made in stopping this threat was undone. Porcinus couldn't stifle a groan coming from his lips, a combination of grief at the loss of his Optio and frustration at this setback.