Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  His concern was purely practical: how many men could he afford to leave behind to continue the fighting who would be a strong enough force to hold off the grubworms, as his men continued climbing the ladders? Normally a decisive man, his reputation wasn't as esteemed as that of the general who, still unbeknownst to him, lay dead in the middle of the camp; but he had been selected as second in command because his own renown was still very great. Now, however, he was in a turmoil of indecision, switching his attention from the fighting going on outside the camp to watching with an increasingly anxious eye at his men who were still trying to ascend the ladders. There would be a sudden spurt of men clambering quickly up a ladder, whenever a barbarian behind the wall was struck down and created a gap that allowed one of his men to leap onto the dirt rampart. More than once, his men had managed to carve out a pocket of space to allow their comrades to join them in their attempt to fight their way to a gate and secure it. That was the only method he had at this point of feeding enough troops into the fight and break the back of these grubworms, once and for all. However, his gods had either turned their face away from the Wa or had some design he couldn't fathom that would bring them victory, because despite several promising starts, no Wa force had managed to get to the gate.

  He had briefly considered shifting a part of his force to assault the southern gate, early in the fight, but he had been so confident of victory, so sure that his men would swarm over the wall and crush these insects that it had been only a brief consideration. Now, it was too late. The new force of barbarians had hemmed them in between the walls of the camp and their pitiful wall made of swords and shields. What sort of man would cower behind a small, portable wall anyway, he scoffed? Warriors with sufficient skill had no need for such devices, but, in fact, it was the sight of these pieces of equipment that had led not just this Wa general, but the overall commander of the entire Wa army—who now lay dead inside the camp—to underestimate the potency of this force of pale, strange and hairy creatures. That, the general realized now, had been a mistake. Consequently, he was aware that although he might escape censure for this error—since the tone of the entire campaign designed to expel the grubworms from a land blessed by the gods had been set by his now-dead superior—his error in not committing a force to the southern gate wouldn't go unnoticed. That made it even more imperative, he recognized, that this camp fall, because only then would their emperor forgive him. Still torn, he remained at his spot close to the wall, a small space made for him by his bodyguards, as he tried to force himself to think. And with every heartbeat, his chances for a solution were becoming smaller and smaller. In fact, although he wouldn't become aware of it for another span of time, the moment had passed. This last Wa general, now in command of the assault force on which the entire strategy of this attack had hinged, had just managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

  Looking back, Gaius Porcinus would never be able to determine accurately how much time actually elapsed from the moment the first ladders of the surprise attack had hit the wall and the point where he had had his first inkling that the reserve Cohorts were holding the eastern wall. It was all a haze of pain, fear, and an agony that can come only from watching men under your care, men that you trained to the standards befitting a Legionary of Rome, fall to the flashing blades of this yellow-skinned horde. Barely able to lift a borrowed shield, his head aching abominably, Porcinus nevertheless drove himself to half run, half stumble to wherever his sword and body were needed along his Century front. It was a pitifully shallow Century formation, where he was down to three men standing in their files in most places, and he had determined some time before that even just glancing back at the heaps of bodies of his men that had been rolled down the ramp of the rampart—so that they were out of the way—was a bad idea. Just the sight of more than half of the Sixth Century, Tenth Cohort of the 10th Legion lying enmeshed in a tangle of limbs and torsos was enough to take what little energy he still had.

  Therefore, he resolutely kept his face turned toward the fighting, both as a way to avoid the sight, and, more importantly, to rush to the next trouble spot. Along his Century's front alone stood four ladders, out of what Porcinus—when he risked a glimpse along the length of the wall—reckoned to be more than fifty that this second force had brought with them. Even through his fatigue, he knew that matters were much the same for all the other Centuries along the wall as for what he and his Century were facing, and that, like Porcinus' Century, they were being whittled down. Now that the relief had come, however, the sight of those bobbing poles, on which were affixed wooden placards declaring Century and Cohort, had infused all of them with more energy. This new threat to the barbarians' rear, coupled with the efforts of the men battling on the wall, signaled to Porcinus that the worst was perhaps over. Men were still climbing the ladders, but whenever Porcinus risked leaning out to take a quick look down into the ditch, he saw that the huddle of men gathered around the base of each one, waiting their turn to go up, was smaller.

  "Boys, I know you're tired," Porcinus had long since shouted himself hoarse, his voice now resembling that of a frog in the throes of either agony or ecstasy, forcing him to bellow out his words, "but I think this is the last of it! The bastards have had their own surprise sprung on them by Caesar, and now it's up to us to finish them off!"

  No cheer came at his words, but he didn't expect one, because he knew his men's voices were no less shattered than his own. Besides, they were too tired for any extraneous display of energy, so instead he got a few grim nods or muttered words, which was enough for him. Immediately after saying this, Gaius did risk a glance over his shoulder, except this time it was directed further inward to the fighting in the center of the camp. Initially, he was heartened to see that, somehow, some way, the orbis was still intact. It was smaller, but it was still unbroken, giving Porcinus a sliver of hope that they were going to survive. With that examination of the overall situation, he paused again to look to see if he could spot the giant figure of his uncle down in the forum. He naturally looked to where the fighting was the thickest, knowing that it was the most likely place where the Primus Pilus could be found. Yet, after several heartbeats, as he stared hard at the knots of men tangled together, bashing and slashing away, he couldn't see his uncle anywhere near where he had been the last time he checked. Granted, it had been some time before, but now his eye traveled the entire length of the 10th's part of the orbis, with a steadily increasing sense of worry. Still, no sight of the largest Roman of the Legion, so he turned his attention to the part of the shrinking semicircle that belonged to the 12th, and by the time he was finished, he was almost frantic. With great reluctance, Porcinus turned his attention to the row upon row of men lying so closely packed together that it was almost impossible for the remaining medici to reach a man in their middle. It was only after he searched each row not once, but twice, for sight of his uncle that he forced himself to look at the only other place left, the heaps of bodies that were, from where Porcinus stood, a gruesome attempt at a last-ditch rampart, as men were piled on top of one another like bloody logs, complete with flopping limbs hanging askew on either side. Despite the difficulty of discerning any features of the unfortunates who would serve as the last bastion of the orbis, Porcinus was sure that if he saw the body of his uncle, he would somehow recognize it. Then he shook himself, angry at the time he had just wasted; if his uncle, the Primus Pilus, was dead, his men would never make him suffer the indignity of lying among the rankers. That is when he began searching amid the clutter and debris in the desperately narrow strip between the feet of the men of the last line and where the wounded were gathered. Perhaps fifteen paces, if that, and there were shattered shields, helmets, swords, and men who had just recently fallen, but for whom there hadn't been time for the medici to come assess where they would be taken, jammed side-by-side, or onto the pile.

  As Porcinus' eyes traveled around this ruined patch of ground, for a moment he didn't recognize the sight of a prone
Roman, because the man was extremely close to the fighting, and, in fact, he was nearly completely circled by Legionaries, who appeared to be putting up a desperate and savage fight. Once Porcinus realized what he was seeing, for a brief, horrifying moment, he was sure that the earth beneath him was tilting so violently that he would slide off. There was no mistaking the size of the prone Legionary, even without the helmet lying by his side. The only small blessing for Porcinus at that moment was that he wasn't close enough to see the blade protruding from his uncle's body, but he certainly didn't know this , and now that he had discovered the location of his uncle, he stared hard at him, willing for his Primus Pilus to move—anything to show he still lived. Titus Pullus was the only Primus Pilus Porcinus had ever followed, and with the exception of a very small handful of the senior Centurions, the same was true for the entire 10th Legion. Porcinus could no more imagine a 10th without his uncle leading it than he could envision marching in an army without Caesar leading it. Now, Porcinus offered up a silent prayer to every god he could think of to will his uncle to show some sign of life, any movement, no matter how small. Yet, even after the span of several normal heartbeats, he saw no sign of life.

  "Centurion! Centurion Porcinus!"

  Yanked from his vigil, Porcinus' head turned, slowly and reluctantly, to where his Tesseraurius, a Pandyan named Sutra was pointing to a spot along the wall, where a small group of barbarians had managed to create another foothold. It took a moment for Porcinus to understand why it wasn't his Optio calling his attention to this new threat, but even as he began moving to where the man was pointing, he realized that Sutra was, in fact, now his Optio, because Oesalces was dead, and he was the next in line. Casting one glance back over his shoulder, he saw no change in his uncle's position on the ground, no sign that he was alive, and it was with a deep despair that Porcinus, more out of force of habit than anything else, went back into the fight. If he had just waited a fraction longer, he would have been rewarded with the sight of a "dead" man suddenly raising his arm and beckoning to someone nearby.

  "Philippus! Get over here!"

  Of all the commands that Titus Pullus had uttered in his career, this was undoubtedly the weakest, at least in terms of volume, and he had to repeat it twice, before his intended target became aware that someone was saying his name. Philippus was at the back of the now three-deep line, and when he turned, he was so surprised at the sight of his Primus Pilus weakly gesturing at him that he let go of the harness of the man in front of him. Realizing he was being called to come to his fallen Centurion's side, Philippus had the presence of mind to tap his comrade on the shoulder to let him know he was leaving, then hurried to kneel at Pullus' side.

  "Help me up."

  At first Philippus was sure he hadn't heard Pullus correctly.

  "Are you deaf, as well as stupid? I said help me up!"

  Startled out of his disbelief, Philippus actually started unthinkingly to comply and clasped the prone man's proffered right arm, but fortunately for both of them, he caught himself.

  "Primus Pilus, if I just pull on your arm by myself, I'm more likely to kill you than help you."

  Pullus was about to snap at Philippus, but through the pain he recognized that his man was right.

  "Go get some help," he said grudgingly, his reluctance at admitting this weakness emphasized by the fact that he gave the order through gritted teeth.

  As Philippus hurried off to grab a comrade to help, a part of Pullus chided himself. What are you thinking, you idiot? You've got a sword sticking out of you, and you're in more pain than you've ever been in your life, and that's saying something. But as racked with agony as he was, once Pullus regained consciousness, even from his admittedly limited perspective and vantage point here on the ground, he knew that the 10th still had a chance to survive. He had heard the sounds of the horns outside the camp, and between that and his slaying of the Wa general—whose corpse lay a couple of dozen paces away and was still visible amid the tangle of the legs of both sides of the combatants, Pullus understood that he was needed, now more than ever. Once he had come back to this world, he had been cautiously pleased to see that his body weight had apparently closed the wound around the sword enough, so that the bleeding had stopped, although there was still a large, dark stain on the ground around his upper body, a sign that he had lost a substantial amount of blood. He was still sure that he was going to die, but Titus Pullus had always possessed a formidable will, and it was with this will that he determined that he wasn't done just yet.

  Pullus was alerted to the presence of Philippus and whoever he had brought by the sight of two sets of bare, dirty, and blood-spattered legs. Craning his head to see, the Primus Pilus saw that the first man had returned with his own close comrade, a Parthian veteran who had been in the Parthian army and who, after Phraaspa fell, had chosen to join the victors. Pullus remembered well how suspicious he had been of this man, Artabanos, but the man had long since proven himself, so after Philippus' close comrade had fallen during the invasion of Pandya, he and Artabanos had partnered up. As Pullus recalled, it had been the Pandyan campaign, where Artabanos had, moreover, saved the life of his best friend Scribonius, killing a Pandyan who had managed to get behind the Pilus Prior and was about to bury a blade into his friend's back. Artabanos had been awarded the Civic Crown for that, much to the uproar of a large segment of the army, and it had caused Caesar a number of headaches, but he had steadfastly refused to heed the cries of the Romans in the ranks, including his officers, that this was an honor reserved for citizens of Rome only. What wasn't known, by anyone in the ranks, even now, was that it had been Titus Pullus who had prevailed on Caesar to award Artabanos this decoration, which the giant Roman had never regretted doing. It wasn't just because of gratitude for who Artabanos had saved; Pullus was indeed grateful, but he had a more practical goal. While he had been just as opposed to the full integration of non-Romans into not only the ranks, but also into the customs and benefits that Roman citizenship brought, like Caesar, he had recognized that not only was it vital to keep the ranks full, but that if it was going to be done, it had to be done all the way and not in half-measures. Now it was Philippus and Artabanos who crouched on either side of him, ready to help him up.

  "Primus Pilus, your bleeding has stopped. If we sit you up, it's a certainty that we'll open the wound again," Artabanos' Latin was still accented, but easily understood.

  "That's my worry, not yours," Pullus growled, even as he knew that the Parthian was right.

  However, he didn't have the time to explain and argue that he knew he was going to die, and that he was going to sit up, whether they helped or not. The two men exchanged a glance that Pullus saw, but didn't make any further comment about. With a grim nod to his comrade, Artabanos put his hand, as gently as he could, under Pullus' left shoulder that was pressed into the dirt. Even that slight movement caused a fresh spate of sweat to start pouring down the Roman's face, but he stifled his groan, not wanting to give any reason for the two to hesitate. With Philippus clasping the giant's forearm, the two of them still strained to bring Pullus slowly to an upright, sitting position. Even before they were finished, for a horrified instant Pullus was sure that he would faint, such was the agony, and he felt a sudden gush of warmth on his chest and back, sign that he had indeed started bleeding again. Somehow, he managed to keep his head, as he was hauled to a position where his upper torso was upright and his legs splayed out in front of him. It took a moment for the dizziness to subside to the point where Pullus was reasonably sure that he wouldn't immediately pass out. But he also knew that he was only halfway there, and his jaws were already aching from how tightly clenched his teeth were.

  "All right, pull me up the rest of the way," he finally said, holding up his right arm.

  While he could still wiggle the fingers of his left arm, even that slight a movement caused a paroxysm of agony that Pullus was so certain would cause him to lose consciousness that he made absolutely sure to keep his left
arm as still as possible. With both men grasping his right arm, they nevertheless could barely pull their Primus Pilus to his feet, and, as painful as the last several moments had been for Pullus, this last bit made all that seem a trifle. The sounds of the fighting that he had become accustomed to suddenly seemed to take on an echoing quality, and the bright sunshine present just a heartbeat earlier suddenly fled, as if the gods had chosen to darken the sun in the way they had on a number of occasions during Pullus' lifetime: suddenly bathing the scene before his eyes in an eerie dimness. Still, neither man knew how they had managed it, but Titus Pullus was back on his two feet, weaving as if he had downed an amphora of wine, with the gruesomely odd sight of a sword protruding from both sides of his body. But he was on his feet, and, astonishing the two men even more, he took a very wobbly, tentative step forward. Almost toppling over, he nevertheless waved both men away with a snarled warning that was as close to a whimper as either man would ever hear from his leader.