Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  The overall commander of the Wa surprise assault force, wearing a helmet of the same style as the Wa who had faced Pullus—except instead of horns, he wore the white wings of a crane—was even then ascending one of the ladders, now that a significant number of his men had made it over the wall. Ironically, this gave him a better vantage point than if he had been on the ground amidst his men, so that he could see that his force still significantly outnumbered this surprise barbarian force. Therefore, he wasn't excessively worried, having been informed by one of the warriors at the top of his ladder who was able to see into the enemy camp that the original assault force surrounded the barbarians inside. His most important decision, he understood, was whether he went on ahead into the camp, or stayed here to lead the fight against the new threat. His subordinate was a capable warrior, he knew, if slightly inexperienced, and he was tempted to let him lead the fight on this side of the wall. After all, he reasoned, the greater glory was in taking the camp. That clinched his decision, and he began to climb the ladder again, directing one last glance back over his shoulder to reassure himself that he was making the right choice.

  What he saw stopped him, as he stared in the direction of the ridgetop road, where it dipped out of sight. Seemingly rising up from the ground, just as he and his force had appeared some time before, was a line of even more barbarians, coming at a fast trot. Suddenly, he no longer felt quite so confident, and he recognized immediately that his place was here, on this side of the wall. In numbers and in the way the barbarians were aligned, it looked as though they had exactly the same composition of the force that was now battling his men. While he still outnumbered the barbarians, the margin wasn't nearly as wide as it had been, but even before he finished descending to the ground, he saw yet another wave of barbarians, exactly the same as the first two! Now, for the first time this Wa general was concerned. He was still confident of victory, but it appeared that it would be much harder fought. Reaching the ground, he shoved his men aside, snapping out an order for his bodyguards to accompany him, then began to push his way to what was now the front, where the fighting was happening.

  The second line of Centuries discarded their javelins as they ran, their Centurions clearly seeing how entangled the lines already were, the men on both sides fighting with a ferocity that came from still being relatively fresh and not at it for the better part of two watches as had been the defenders inside the camp. One hidden benefit of the slight delay following the first line was that it gave the two Pili Priores a chance to survey the situation and see where it appeared they were most needed. As matters stood, it still looked as if there were several thousand Wa arrayed along the wall, and from a distance they looked like a giant black-and-white mass. Hemmed in on one side by the straight line of the wall and on the other bordered by a thin line, grayish-silver tinged with red, that was much, much narrower than the mass of the Wa force, the two Pili Priores instantly saw the spot where the Roman line was the thinnest. Drawing closer, the Centurion commanding the Cohort on the left veered in that direction even farther than the original path steered by Felix. He had seen that whoever was commanding the barbarians had shifted a large number of men from the rear ranks over to the Wa right, where Felix's Sixth Century was being hard-pressed. The enemy's intention was clear: by shifting men to one wing and throwing every available man at this one Century, he was attempting to turn the flank of Felix's formation.

  In fact, even as the Pilus Prior, Gnaeus Labeo, watched, the last several men of Felix's Sixth Century were either cut down or pushed backward by what appeared to be Wa literally throwing themselves at the Roman lines. A gap formed, and through it poured several hundred Wa warriors, who immediately turned to fall on the now outflanked Sixth Century. Breaking out into a full run, Labeo drew his sword as he shouted for his men to follow him, and he aimed his Cohort so that the middle of his formation would come to the aid of the Sixth Century. Startled by the change in course, the Pilus Prior of the other Cohort, Publius Varrus, nonetheless kept moving his men in the original direction, seeing that the Century at the center of Felix's formation was almost as hard-pressed as the Sixth. Following behind the third line came the fourth and final pair of Cohorts, the Pilus Prior of the Cohort on the left following the same path as Labeo. But like Labeo, this Pilus Prior, Gaius Vorenus, was one of Caesar's Centurions, and what he saw was an opportunity. In his judgment, there were enough men to handle the barbarians outside the walls. He needed to get his Cohort and the other one inside the camp, and to that end, he didn't head anywhere near the eastern wall. Instead, he led his Cohort toward the southern gate, the Porta Principalis Dextra. Now his challenge was to get his men inside the camp in time to help.

  None of the men, fewer than three thousand Legionaries of what had been the 10th and 12th Legion who still remained in the fight inside the camp thought it was possible that the barbarians could increase the fury of their attack, but they were being proven wrong. Ironically, it was the sounds of the Roman horns that had spurred the Wa to increase their effort to the point that it now seemed that none of the warriors used any type of technique or tactic to vanquish the invading foe across from them. Instead, the Wa were coming in what seemed to the battered, exhausted Legionaries to be waves, but instead of being made of water, these were composed of flesh, iron, and fury. Slashing and hacking, the Wa poured every last bit of their seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy into what they understood was their last chance to crush these grubworms. The death of their general had come as a great shock, but they didn't need him to tell them that time was running out. What they did need was direction, but the Wa general's subordinate officers were either dead, or too badly scattered around the perimeter of the orbis to issue any orders to the entire force.

  Complicating matters for the Wa further, unlike the Roman Legion, the army of the Wa wasn't trained to the level their enemy was, especially when it came to unit formations and maneuvers. Consequently, the last phase of the fight became a clash of individual warriors picking out one of the Romans across from them, and hurling themselves forward. As ground down and battered as the remnants of the 10th and the 12th were, as jumbled as their Centuries had become, all the endless watches of drill were now paying off, the Legionaries continuing to fight in the manner in which they were trained. Despite their exhaustion, the harsh discipline they so often complained about to each other was what kept the woefully thin, semi-circular orbis intact, no man even thinking of not giving his all when it came his time to fight.

  Still, as many of these barbarians as they had killed, they still outnumbered the Legions by at least a three-to-one margin, and now every single loss of a Legionary was one that couldn't be spared. Consequently, the surviving Centurions were working with lines that were at most four men deep, and that was true only in a few spots in the formation. There were places where the Roman lines had been thinned down to the point that there was only one man standing behind his comrade who was fending off the wild swings of Wa swords or spears. These were the spots where the nearest Centurion would run over and unceremoniously grab a man from those areas that were still four deep with Legionaries, shoving the last man in the line towards the trouble spot with a shouted order. They had been doing this for some time, which accounted for the hopeless confusion among Centuries and even Cohorts. Sometimes though, it had to be the Centurion himself who ran to the nearest threat, sword held high and, if he had the presence of mind to grab one from a dead Legionary as he ran, bearing a shield. Of the 120 Centurions of the 10th and 12th Legion who had started the fight that day, now more than two full watches earlier, barely more than 30 were still standing, meaning that they were spread thinly across the entire orbis.

  One of them had taken himself out of the fight, however, and that was Scribonius, kneeling next to his friend, who was also still kneeling—no accident, as it would turn out. Pullus, though barely conscious, had realized that toppling over in any direction would do even more damage than had already been caused by the Wa ge
neral's sword, which still protruded grotesquely from both front and back of his chest. Blood continued to flow freely, but Scribonius, looking for anything on which to fasten his hopes, saw that it wasn't the bright spray that signaled a severed artery. This meant that there was still hope, at least as far as Scribonius was concerned. Seemingly oblivious to the furious fighting now just paces away in every direction, as what remained of Pullus' Century surrounded their fallen Primus Pilus, Scribonius held onto Pullus' uninjured shoulder gently but firmly, understanding the same thing that Pullus did.

  "Why aren't you in the fight?" Scribonius barely heard this question from Pullus, made even more difficult, because his friend's teeth were still tightly clenched together.

  "Why do you think?" the Pilus Prior asked in astonishment, although a part of his mind understood that his friend was right, that no one man, no matter his rank or status, was more important than the rest of the men still fighting.

  But for the first time in his long career, Sextus Scribonius simply didn't care about his duty, such was his concern for his friend.

  "The men need you, Sextus," Pullus retorted, weakly voiced but no less adamant than Scribonius.

  Understanding that a continued, outright refusal would only agitate Pullus more, Scribonius tried to mollify him by saying, "All right Titus. As soon as the medici get here, I'll go back to the fight."

  Pullus slowly raised his head to survey the scene around them, turning to look first one way, then another with almost comical slowness, and, unbidden to Scribonius' mind came the thought that in that moment his friend looked like a giant tortoise peering about for danger, before taking its next, ponderous step. Done with his inspection, Pullus turned to face Scribonius, and for the first time looked his friend in the eye. That almost unmanned the Pilus Prior, because he had never seen his giant friend with such an ashen pallor, and it was only through a supreme effort of will that he didn't let out a gasp. Scribonius' only slight ray of hope was his friend’s giving him a grimace that he recognized as Pullus' attempt at a grin and he saw no blood in his mouth, the presence of which was normally a sure sign that he had suffered damage internally.

  "We're surrounded, you idiot," Pullus said, "so I don't think the medici are coming anytime soon."

  Only then did Scribonius take his eyes away from his friend and glance around, his heart sinking at the sight and knowing his friend was right.

  Taking a deep breath, Scribonius closed his eyes for a moment in a brief prayer, then replied, "All right. But only if I can try to lay you on your side, understand?"

  Pullus didn't answer, but then his head bobbed once in a grim acceptance of what his friend wanted to do, as he braced himself for even more pain. Standing up, Scribonius used both hands to grasp his friend, trying to shut out the groan that escaped from his friend's lips when Scribonius began tipping him over, onto his left side. Although it seemed to be the worst thing to do, both men had seen wounds like this too many times and they knew from bitter experience that if the Primus Pilus was indeed bleeding internally, the pooling of blood that would occur, as the blood was drawn to the ground. That movement of blood downward would in all likelihood collapse his lungs, and Titus Pullus would die of suffocation, before any chance of help arrived. In addition, the weight of his own body would actually close the edges of the wound around the blade and help staunch the flow of blood. However, there was a tradeoff for this benefit, and that was the excruciating pain caused by Pullus' own bulk pressing down on the damaged tissue. But it couldn't be helped, and Scribonius deafened himself to the groans and gasps as he strained to lay his friend slowly down onto the ground. Once he was as settled as Scribonius could make him, the Pilus Prior rose to go, very reluctantly.

  "Are you all right there?" he asked without thinking, and although the reply was harsh, it fed the tiny, tiny flame of hope that his friend would somehow survive.

  "What, are you tucking me in now?" the prone Primus Pilus growled wheezily. "How the fuck do you think I feel, you idiot?"

  Despite himself, Scribonius let out a laugh, drawing his sword.

  Before he turned back to the fighting, he told Pullus, "Don't worry Titus. We're going to hold these bastards off, until whoever's out there comes to help us."

  "Not if you don't stop talking and get back in the fight," Pullus was, and always would be, a Primus Pilus Centurion of Caesar's 10th Legion, to his last breath.

  Reaching the southern gate, Vorenus led his Century around the dirt barriers of the gate, winding around and through it, emerging into the camp, where he immediately came to a stop. This had been by design, in order to get first his Century, then his Cohort, formed up before throwing them into the fight. But even if it hadn't, the sight before him would have brought him to a halt. The camp was an utter shambles, with smoking ruins of whole rows of Legion streets put to the torch, and looking down the Via Principalis, the street that led from the side gates to the Praetorium and the forum, what he saw staggered him. There were heaps of bodies, and to his experienced eye, the progress of the battle was told by those corpses. Scanning the area to his left and front, while part of his vision was obscured by those few tents that were still standing, he could see how the 12th and 10th had waged a grudging, hard-fought withdrawal back to where they were now, the forum. More accurately, Vorenus could see, they were in just part of the forum, as the barbarians had managed to collapse the orbis of Balbinus and Pullus down to its present size. For some reason, the large tent of the Praetorium of the camp was still intact; Vorenus assumed that whoever was commanding these barbarians understood its purpose and had given orders for it to remain intact, to be plundered at leisure.

  Oddly enough, it was the sight of this tent that fueled Vorenus' rage, brought on by the effrontery of this yellow-skinned savage to be so sure of victory. This, in turn, caused him to start lashing out fiercely at his own men, snarling at them to move even more quickly than they already were. Yet, no matter how quickly they moved—and truly, they were scrambling into their formations with a speed they had never displayed before—the gate was a bottleneck. Vorenus, and every man of his Cohort understood that time was almost as much of an enemy now as the barbarians with their swords, and those who had made it through the gate and fallen into their spot in their Century now added their voices to Vorenus', shouting at the comrades still pouring through the gate to hurry! Why were they moving as if they had all day? The result was that, while it was the most ragged Cohort formation he had ever seen, Vorenus decided it was good enough, even before the men of the last Century had finished forming up. Unlike the relieving Cohorts outside who needed to cover a wider area, Vorenus had decided on the more traditional three-Century front, although by rights he should have waited for the trailing Cohort also to arrive and place themselves side-by-side. However, he hadn't taken the time to look back to see if the last Cohort of the relieving force was, in fact, following him. Which, as it turned out, it wasn't, meaning that if Vorenus had waited for them, as the manual said he should, he would have been too late to save the men of the forum. Instead, he raised his sword, and, without waiting for his cornicen to blow the command, dropped it, as he simultaneously shouted the command to advance. And, as he expected, all eyes of the Cohort had been on him, so just as if they were marching in the forum, Vorenus' Cohort began the advance, heading for the rear of the as yet unsuspecting Wa.

  The last Cohort, the 10th of the 14th, hadn't followed Vorenus for the same reason that Vorenus hadn't followed Labeo. Again, the Decimus Pilus Prior was one of Caesar's Centurions, although of all Caesar's Centurions, he was the only non-Roman. He was also the newest Pilus Prior in Caesar's army, having been promoted to the post just a month before this new campaign began. He was a Parthian named Pacorus, and his promotion to lead a Cohort had caused more than its share of grumbling among the other Centurions; they had barely gotten accustomed to the idea of non-Romans being Centurions, now this? Pacorus knew how his fellow Centurions felt about him, and he also felt the weight of
representing not just the Parthians in the army, but all of the non-Romans, since he was the first non-Roman Pilus Prior. Oddly enough, this was foremost in his mind as, instead of following Labeo, he led his trotting Cohort in another direction. Making a wide enough arc, so that he and his Centuries could safely skirt the lines of men of the other Cohorts now battling with barbarians outside the camp, Pacorus led his men in the direction of the Porta Principalis Sinister, the left-hand and northernmost gate of the camp.

  Being a Centurion in Caesar's army meant that, as in Caesar's camp, Pacorus instantly understood the tactical situation and what would provide the most impact to the fight inside the camp. This was why he led the way to the northern gate now, although he was understandably nervous about making the right decision. Just as at the southern camp, where Statius had understood the need for coordination, Pacorus understood that at this point in the fight, the most important thing was to maximize the force he was leading, as far as its impact on the battle was concerned. If pressed, he couldn't have articulated any of this; it was more a gut instinct than anything else, but the ability to think through a problem rapidly was a trait that Caesar valued in his Centurions almost more than any other, and this was what had recommended Pacorus to him. Now, the Parthian was going to either prove or disprove Caesar's faith in his ability to pick the right man for the right job.

  It didn't seem possible, but in the space of a finger width's of the sun's travel to its home in the west, the Wa general commanding the surprise attack was seeing certain victory turn into defeat with a rapidity that he would never have believed, if it wasn't happening in front of his eyes. His men were still fighting with the same reckless fury they had started with, and the general knew that the battle wasn't lost...yet. But the last warrior he had sent up the ladder to try to catch a glimpse of what was happening in the center of the camp—the ladder being the shortest route to gather information, yet also the most dangerous—had just jumped down to inform him that while the grubworms were being hard-pressed, they were still intact and holding in the center of their camp. However, because he had to take his look while dodging thrusts from grubworm swords, he was unable to tell his general the disposition or the numbers of their own troops still left, other than a very general guess. Cursing the man, the general gave him a cuff on the head for good measure, although he knew that it was impossible to expect more from the limited time his warrior had had, without being skewered. Now he was on the fork of a dilemma; should he stop the assault on the walls and count on the men of the main assault to finish what they had started, in order to fend off the grubworm attempt to save their doomed comrades? Or, should he continue with the mission assigned to him originally and force his way up and over this wall? He would never have thought that the grubworms could have held out as long as they had to this point, and he had to believe that one more good push would crack them. Now that these new barbarians had appeared, he no longer had the luxury of doing both things at once. His hesitation had nothing to do with the idea that the men currently engaged with the newly arrived barbarians along what was now his front line would be sacrificing their lives to allow their comrades closer to the wall to continue the attack on the camp, the main goal. Every man under his command knew his duty and would willingly lay down his life without hesitation, as many had, in fact, already done, in order to fill the ditch in the original attack.