Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  "Where's my sword?" Pullus' voice was almost unrecognizable, so strained and hoarse was it, but by this point, neither man was shocked by what was happening.

  Just as Caesar had done over the years, Titus Pullus was even then adding to his own legend. But after a quick search of the area around them, neither man saw Pullus' treasured Gallic blade. Thinking quickly, Philippus drew his and offered it to his Primus Pilus, hilt first. Looking down at it, Pullus actually had to try to grasp it twice, because there were two of them and he grabbed the wrong one first. But he did manage, automatically wrapping his fingers around his thumb in the unorthodox grip that was now second nature, not just to him, but also to every man of the 10th Legion, and, truth be known, a fair number of the men marching in the other Legions. Pullus, sweat streaming down his face in rivulets, began surveying the scene around him, eyes narrowed, as he looked for some point in the fighting where he thought his presence was needed. Fortunately for him, he didn't have far to look, or to travel. In a rough semicircle, the men in his immediate vicinity who had formed a protective pocket around what they thought was the corpse of their Primus Pilus were being pushed so hard that in the amount of time it had taken the two Legionaries to help Pullus to his feet, the gap that had been about a dozen paces wide was down to a little more than half that.

  Nodding his head in that direction, Pullus told the two men, "Walk on either side of me, and whatever you do, don't let me fall or I'll flay the both of you."

  Even with the harsh words, both men grinned; this was the Pullus they knew; feared and loved in equal measure.

  "Don't worry, Primus Pilus, we won't let you down," Philippus joked, pleased to see a shadow of a grin on Pullus' face at the play on words.

  Slowly, but steadily, they made their way the short distance to a spot where Pullus was just behind the worst of the fighting.

  "What are you cunni loafing off for? Do you really need me to do everything for you?"

  For a brief moment there was no reaction from the men within earshot, but it was from disbelief, more than from not hearing him, and as the supporting men turned their heads, once Pullus saw that eyes were on him, he raised his borrowed sword high above his head. Only Titus Pullus would ever know the effort and the agony that this simple gesture cost him, but to the men who saw it, it was a sight they would remember for the rest of their lives.

  "Kill. These. Bastards!"

  Pullus roared this, and while he might have known the price he was paying for raising the sword, he never would comprehend where the strength to bellow those words came from, but in that moment, he was the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion his men had followed for all these years. And despite the fact that not one of them had any voice left himself, the answering roar they all gave back rang out so loudly that it echoed off the camp walls. Titus Pullus had risen from the dead; if that was possible, how could they lose?

  Outside the walls, Centurion Felix was startled by what he recognized as Roman voices, shouting in a manner that told his experienced ears that something good had happened. He was too busy to pay it more than passing attention, since at that moment he was thrusting his sword into the gut of a barbarian with a spear who had overstepped and left himself open. His sword was wet the entire length, and there was enemy blood splashed almost up to his elbow, but Felix was still concerned. There were just so many of these bastards! With this latest man dispatched, Felix stepped aside, letting a man relieve him so that he could remove himself from the immediate fighting and move along the back of the formation to get a better idea of what was happening. Even farther away, the dust was thick enough to make it extremely difficult to determine exactly what was going on, so Felix had to use a combination of his ears, his experience, and the alignment of his Centuries to get an idea of the overall situation. Once in position, Felix immediately saw that his Third Century was farther back in the long line than they should have been, to the point where it looked as if their front rank was at a spot that put them about even with the fourth or fifth man in the file of the Century to their left and the third or fourth man of the Century to the right. This made a dangerous bulge in the line, and if the barbarians could push them even farther back, there would be a crack that would allow some of their warriors to squeeze through on either side to attack the rear of the adjacent Centuries. Normally, this would be an easy problem to fix: simply ordering one of the Centuries of the second line to add their weight to the beleaguered Century was usually enough to push the enemy back. But since Felix had put his Cohort into a single line to provide a wider front, there was no second line to provide help.

  As Felix watched, some of the more experienced Wa warriors that were removed from the immediate fight clearly saw this and were hurrying to the same spot, throwing themselves at the Third Century and forcing them yet another step backward. Just as the Wa general on the other side, Felix was seeing what seemed to be a victory suddenly threatened. Unlike the barbarian commander, Felix didn't hesitate. Understanding that it would be impossible to reach one of the other Cohorts to find a Century that their Pilus Prior could spare—even if they weren't as hard-pressed as Felix was at that moment— instead, the Quintus Pilus Prior ran over to where his own First Century was just then pushing forward, closer to the wall.

  Felix pushed his way to the man fourth from the rear on the right hand side of the formation, grabbed the man by the shoulder, and shouted, "Follow me. Pass the word down!"

  Then, repeating the command for each rank behind him, without waiting to see that he was obeyed, Felix trotted back to the Third Century. Within a few heartbeats, the men he had summoned had joined him.

  "Sort this out!" he pointed to the rear of the Third Century, and every man immediately began moving, not needing any further direction.

  Quickly lining themselves up in their normal places in the formation, the added weight of these men, each pushing against the man in front of him had the desired effect. At first it stopped the backward slide, but after a moment Felix saw that the Third was taking a shuffling step forward, forcing the barbarians back toward the wall. Satisfied that this crisis was averted, Felix returned to his own Century, ready to finish the job.

  Hearing the huge roar farther down the line, Sextus Scribonius had too much experience to let it distract him at that moment, since he was in the process of parrying the sword thrust of one of the barbarians. Countering this move, Scribonius responded with a thrust of his own, regretting for perhaps the thousandth time that his left arm was so useless that he couldn't hold a shield, knowing that it would have come in extremely handy at this moment. Finally, after a further exchange of blows, each man blocking the other with his blade, the barbarian overcommitted himself, his sword arm extending out far enough that the distance to his body was such that he couldn't bring the blade back in time to parry Scribonius' hard overhand thrust. Catching him high in the chest, the point of the Roman's sword punched through both the lamellar armor and the breastbone of the Wa, the point severing the Wa's windpipe. Knowing that twisting the blade was not only going to be difficult because of the hard bone of the chest, but that it was also unnecessary, Scribonius made a neat recovery, not bothering to wipe his blade clean, knowing that it was useless to do so.

  He did take a step backward, removing himself, much as Felix did, except he intended to try to determine what the source and cause of the sudden burst of sound was. Looking in the direction from which it came, at first Scribonius was sure that he was seeing things that his mind—so overcome with grief at the death of his friend—tried to protect him from by putting this apparition in his view. In fact, Scribonius reached up and, using the grimy back of his hand, tried to clear his eyes. But when he looked again, his giant friend was still standing there. What told Scribonius it wasn't a vision was that when Pullus turned slightly, Scribonius could clearly see the sword, still jutting from his chest and back. However, the emotion that flooded through Scribonius wasn't relief or joy at the knowledge that his friend still lived. No, it was
anger that instantly coursed through him in a cold wave that was as much fear as it was rage. Suddenly completely oblivious to the situation around him, Scribonius strode in Pullus' direction, his mind filled with all sorts of choice invectives. Yet when he reached his friend's side, all the things he had come up with suddenly fled, as he stared at his friend, whose bone-white face looked at him in what Scribonius knew was Pullus' amused expression, although marred by the pain he was suffering.

  "What...what by Pluto's cock do you think you're doing?" Scribonius spluttered, causing the thin line of Pullus' grimace to twitch.

  "My job?"

  Pullus' voice was back to a hoarseness that belied his condition, but his attempt at humor was completely unappreciated by his friend.

  "If you haven't noticed, you've got a sword sticking out of you," Scribonius shot back. "And you have Centurions to do this."

  "The Legion needs me Sextus," Pullus replied, then his eyes closed for a moment and he started to tilt in one direction, except that Artabanos was there, who put a gentle but firm hand around his Primus Pilus' waist, keeping him upright.

  That sight almost undid Scribonius, and his vision suddenly clouded, but he was past caring about showing this sign of weakness in front of anyone, let alone rankers. Besides, he knew they felt much the same way, from the looks on their faces as they gazed up at Pullus, their expressions showing the strain of their emotions. Scribonius imagined that they were much the same as his own feelings: a combination of pride and grief in equal measure, as they all saw the toll this was taking on their leader.

  "They need you alive, Titus," Scribonius said gently, still hoping to reach his friend with reason.

  Pullus made a sound that was more groan than chuckle, but he was no less adamant than his friend.

  "Alive? I'm not going to survive this Sextus and we both know it. So I might as well be useful as long as I have a breath left in me."

  Words aside, Scribonius recognized the tone more than anything else, and knew that there was no swaying his friend, even if he had summoned an argument that Cicero would have envied. Not trusting himself to speak, Scribonius' only response was a shake of his head. Seeing that his friend had recognized the inevitable, Pullus turned slowly about, looking at the fighting going on all around him. Over where the Third Cohort was, Pullus' eye was drawn to a small group of men, slightly detached from the rest of the orbis, where about a dozen barbarians had managed to penetrate.

  "Help me over there," Pullus commanded the two men. As they made their way toward this threat, Pullus called over his shoulder to Scribonius, "Go back to your men, Sextus. They still need you too."

  Scribonius could only stare at Pullus’ back, before, with a shake of his head, he did as his Primus Pilus ordered, understanding that it was probably the last order he would ever receive from his friend.

  Like everyone else, Porcinus had heard the roar, but had been too busy at that moment to take the time to determine the cause. The incursion that Sutra had brought to his attention had grown in size, and for the first time, Porcinus' Century had started giving ground, the front rank now halfway down the dirt ramp. Glancing desperately about, Porcinus saw that he and his men were on their own: everywhere within his range of vision, the rest of the reserve force was similarly engaged. Although some Centuries were still holding the wall, a number of them were in similar straits to those in which Porcinus found himself. Unlike Felix, Porcinus didn't have the luxury of rank, nor were there sufficient men left for him to get help from another Century to bolster his own lines. He and his men were further hampered by their almost overwhelming fatigue; in fact, every time Porcinus made another thrust, or parried a Wa sword, he was sure it was the last time he would have the strength to do so.

  Yet, the next time he would feel his arm moving, as if it had a mind of its own, repeating the same motions he had spent so many watches perfecting on the wooden stakes. His men were in the same state, but inevitably one of them would be a trifle too slow with his shield, or he would overextend on a thrust, leaving him vulnerable to the slashing blades of a barbarian warrior. Just like with the fighting in the forum, there was a grim pile at the bottom of the dirt ramp that had steadily grown from the first moments the Wa ladders had been thrown against the eastern wall. Porcinus' hopes, suddenly buoyed by the sounds of the horns and the sight of the relief Cohorts, were starting to plummet yet again, as he watched the continued destruction of not just his own Century, but everyone along the wall. He hadn't seen Tetarfenus for perhaps a watch by this point, and could only assume that the Pilus Prior was dead or wounded so severely that he was out of action. In fact, he hadn't seen his own Pilus Prior for perhaps a third of a watch, and assumed he had suffered the same fate as Tetarfenus. At that moment, all Porcinus knew was that he was almost out of men, and the Wa weren't.

  "Centurion!"

  Porcinus had taken a pause, stepping back down the ramp to catch his breath, and the man calling him was a Gayan, whose knowledge of Latin had almost been exhausted with that single word. Turning wearily toward the man, wondering what in Hades could be important enough to claim his attention at this moment, he saw the Gayan pointing. However, he wasn't pointing anywhere along the wall, but back behind the fighting to the right, in the direction of the Porta Principalis Dextra. Following the man’s finger, Porcinus squinted at the flurry of movement he was seeing, and his heart suddenly threatened to seize up at the sight of men pouring through! So great was his fatigue that his initial reaction was that he was seeing his and his men’s doom, so sure that the men now entering at a run had to be those yellow-skinned, black-hearted bastards. But as he stared, it slowly dawned on him that it was extremely unlikely that the Wa would have been carrying shields. Nor would they have been carrying Roman standards!

  As quickly as it had come, the despair was flushed out of him by a new wave of a hope that was so overwhelming that he couldn't restrain himself from letting out a shout of joy. Their troubles were over! Somehow, what looked like a full Cohort of men was coming to their rescue, and now more men were seeing this blessed sight, their shouts of joy mingling with Porcinus' voice. Yet as quickly as it had come, Porcinus' joy fled, not as much by a new onrush of despair as it was by puzzlement, as he saw the Roman relief force streaming by, seemingly ignoring the fighting going on to their left. Recognizing what it meant, Porcinus wasted no time. Shouting over his shoulder at his acting Optio to sound the relief for a line shift, he stumbled down the rampart, hurdling the pile of corpses without a thought, intent only on intercepting the Pilus Prior of this Cohort, whom he could see at the head of his men. Shouting to get his attention, Porcinus finally caused the head of the Pilus Prior to turn, and the sight of a dark face caught the young Centurion by surprise. In his confused and exhausted state, for a brief moment Porcinus thought it might, in fact, turn out to be a barbarian trick, since this man's skin tone had a slightly gold tint to it, and although his eyes weren't the almond shape of the men they were fighting, Porcinus supposed it was possible that there were such men fighting in the Wa ranks. But then he remembered about Pacorus, the Parthian Centurion who had caused such an uproar when he was promoted to run a Cohort, and although Porcinus had only seen him at a distance, he recognized that this was whom he was looking at. Even with his fatigue and the chaos of the overall situation, Porcinus had been thoroughly trained in a manner befitting a Centurion of Rome, so he remembered to render a salute, which the Parthian returned after pausing for a moment, giving a snapped order to his Optio to continue on to the spot Pacorus had pointed out as the place where they would form for the attack on the Wa force surrounding the forum.

  "By the gods, it's good to see you, sir!" Porcinus panted.

  "I'm glad we could make it in time," Pacorus' Latin was extremely good, yet another reason he had come to Caesar's attention, who always had an eye out for men with a facility for languages in the same way Caesar did.

  "I know you're heading for the forum," Porcinus wasted no time. "But we could su
re use some help at the wall," he gestured with a thumb back over his shoulder.

  Leaning slightly to the side, so that he could see more closely, Pacorus surveyed the scene for several moments, his eyes missing nothing.

  Finally he replied, "Yes, I can see that you have your hands full."

  Porcinus wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but this noncommittal response completely threw him for a moment. He was about to make a sharp retort, something about how arriving so late to a fight practically guaranteed that he, Porcinus, and the rest of the men at the wall would have their hands full; but unlike his uncle, Porcinus wasn't naturally a hothead. Besides, he understood that such a comment would only hurt his chances.

  Instead, he tried to match Pacorus' tone, "That we do. I don't know what your orders are, but can you spare us at least a Century? Two would be better," he finished hopefully.

  Pacorus gave a barking laugh at the younger Centurion's wording.

  "Yes, I can imagine," he responded dryly, then it was his turn to jerk a thumb back over his own shoulder. "But I imagine that your Primus Pilus wouldn't take it kindly if one of his junior Centurions diverted part of the force that it looks like they desperately need as much as your bunch does."