Caesar Triumphant

by Peake, R. W.

  Even after events that men are sure have never taken place under the sun before, no matter how cataclysmic or monumental, the sun still sets, ending the day on which these events occur. Such was the case on this day, a day that the fate of an army, and the destiny of a people were forever changed. Normally, the Roman army's activity ceased with the setting of the sun—save for the obligatory guard watches—while those men not on duty retired to their respective tent sections to sit with their comrades and discuss the day or pick up an argument where they had left it off the night before. Not on this night, however; there was simply too much left to do. In the northern camp, the acting Primi Pili of the 10th and 12th Legions, Sextus Scribonius and the Primus Hastatus Posterior of the 12th, Vibius Volusenus, taking the place of Balbinus who had been seriously wounded in the closing moments of the fight, had ordered that not only torches be lit, but that all flammable debris, ruined shields, broken crates, desks from the Cohort and Legion offices that still survived, all of it be placed in several piles and set alight. The resulting bonfires provided a lurid light that allowed the men to continue working on the tasks they had been assigned by their respective Centurions, much reduced in number as they may have been.

  Standing together in the forum, the two Primi Pili were discussing the next steps, and they had been joined by the Centurion who had saved their camp, Felix. The short, stocky Quintus Pilus Prior of the 30th looked as exhausted as the other two men, and in the dancing light provided by a nearby bonfire, the crevices on his otherwise young face made him look as ancient as Caesar. Diagonally across one cheek was a hastily stitched gash, and while the blood that covered the lower half of his face had been washed off, the cut itself looked black from the dried blood caked in the wound. He also had a filthy neckerchief tied high on his left shoulder, and this too was darkened from the blood from a spear thrust that had struck a glancing blow. In fact, none of the men standing there was unmarked in some way: Scribonius had undergone the agony of having the bandage covering the wound on his arm loosened, allowing the feeling to come flooding back, bringing with it a suffering that far outweighed what should have been the toll of the injury itself. But Scribonius was lucky; when the orderly carefully unwrapped the bandage, he had done so with such gentle skill that the wound hadn't reopened, allowing the medicus to stitch it shut, then rewrap it with a fresh bandage. It was fresh only in the sense that it was new to Scribonius. In fact, the medicus had removed it from a man who no longer needed it, having succumbed to other wounds of his body, but the orderly saw no need to tell this Centurion that he was essentially sporting a dead man's bandage. For his part, Scribonius was just grateful that the bleeding hadn't begun afresh, knowing that as lightheaded as he was already, it was probable he would lose consciousness if he shed any more blood. If that happened, he knew from bitter observation that it was unlikely that he would ever wake up. Therefore he wasn't in a complaining mood, and, in fact, was thankful that he had as much of his faculties as he did, because there was so much that had to be done.

  Volusenus and he had sent a joint message to Caesar that, knowing their general as they did, both understood wouldn't meet his requirement for information. While this hadn't been by accident, it had been done only because neither Scribonius nor Volusenus had finished tallying the dead and separating the wounded into the categories that Caesar always required. The simple truth was that the survivors in the northern camp were so few in number and so overcome with exhaustion that they were overwhelmed. Along with the dispatch that said that the camp had held, albeit barely, added to an estimate of effective strength and the supply situation—as far as they knew it, since a great deal of the camp, like Caesar's, had been burned to the ground—they unwittingly made the exact same request Caesar had made of Pollio for more medical help. Now, standing in the forum, the two Primi Pili had been quietly discussing ideas that would help accomplish some of the things that needed to be done, when Felix joined them. Neither man spoke directly to Felix at first, mainly because there weren't words that could adequately express their gratitude. So instead, Scribonius thrust the skin he had been drinking from, and Felix took it with a lifted eyebrow, in a silent question.

  "It's rice wine," Scribonius told him, laughing at the face the other man made.

  Still, Felix lifted the skin in a silent thanks, before bringing it to his mouth, taking a long, deep swallow. Coughing, he handed the skin back to Scribonius with an oath, causing the other men to laugh.

  "Granted, it tastes like horse piss, but it gets the job done," Scribonius said, just before taking another long pull on the skin himself.

  Scribonius and Felix had already conversed a couple of times by this point, the first concerning what Pullus had directed his friend to do, which was to keep Felix from taking the relief force from the northern camp. Fortunately, Felix hadn't put up a fight at all, instantly seeing the sense.

  As he put it, "Until I get a written order telling me otherwise, my last orders were to come to your aid. Flaminius didn't specify that it was only fighting."

  Truth be known, Scribonius was hugely relieved at Felix's words, because he didn't relish imposing his will on others, especially a man who had saved them, the way Pullus was happy to.

  "Do you think they'll come back?" Felix asked the question that was haunting every man, regardless of rank, in the northern camp that night.

  Scribonius shook his head, but not in the way Felix might have liked.

  "I don't know," Scribonius said. "I know if I was their general, or if it was Caesar leading them, we'd scrape up every single man we could find and march up here and finish us. And," he finished grimly, "there's nothing we could do about it."

  The other two men stood digesting this for a moment, both of them knowing that what Scribonius was saying was true.

  Finally, Volusenus grunted, which Scribonius was learning was his prelude to speaking. "Well, there's not much we can do about it. Worrying isn't going to help. We just need to do what we can to get the men rested up."

  "As tired as they are, I doubt there's going to be much sleep tonight," Scribonius replied, as he handed the skin back to Felix, indicating that he should finish it since it was down to the dregs. Again, silence fell, as each man was absorbed in his own morose thoughts. In the quiet between them was the bond forged by shared loss, each of them thinking of close friends they had lost today. Scribonius' first thought was of Balbus, finally coming to grips with his death when he saw the Centurion's body, his scarred face looking oddly peaceful, despite the puckering hole in his chest. Immediately on the heels of that were thoughts of another friend, and it was as if Felix could read his mind, but it took him repeating his question twice before Scribonius was jerked back to the present.

  "And Pullus? Is he still alive?"

  Scribonius shook his head again, but just like the previous time, it wasn't meant in the way Felix took it, whose mouth was even then opening to offer his sympathies to Scribonius on the loss of a man who was a legend.

  Before Felix could say what he wanted to, Scribonius murmured, "I don't know why he's not dead. But no, he's still alive. And you know what?" Scribonius' expression was one that Felix, knowing the other man only by sight and reputation, didn't recognize; but what Scribonius' face said echoed his next words, which was a message of hope. "I think he's going to survive. I don't know how, and I surely don't know why. But I think that if he hasn't died by now, I don't think he's going to."

  It was Volusenus, who opened his mouth to argue, planning to point out that as strong as Pullus was, he was still mortal, and that he had seen the fight and the blow that had felled him, and that his experience told him that Scribonius' hope was a vain one. And, to Volusenus, a foolish one. But before he uttered the words he was distracted by a sound, so like the other two, he turned to see another Centurion approaching. In the light supplied by the fires, Volusenus recognized the tall, lean figure, before he got a clear glimpse of the face, and it was enough to tell him it was Pullus' nephew. Thus,
while Volusenus might have been willing to tell Scribonius the harsh truth, he wasn't about to be that severe with a youngster who was blood kin to Pullus. He didn't need that kind of trouble.

  "Porcinus, I thought I told you that you were supposed to stay with the Primus Pilus!"

  Scribonius' sharp tone was a cover for the stab of fear he experienced when he saw his friend's nephew approach, sure that the only reason Porcinus would leave Pullus' side was that he was no longer needed. But nothing in Porcinus' attitude or expression indicated that this was the case. Instead, he had a look on his face that could best be described as bemusement, which was explained by what came out of his mouth.

  "I know you did, Pilus Prior, but the Primus Pilus outranks you. And he wouldn't let me stay, no matter what I told him. In fact, he tried to throw a cup at me, and he promised that as soon as he's recovered, he'd thrash me good if I didn't go make myself useful."

  For the first, and one of the only times that night, roars of laughter could be heard coming from the northern camp.

  In much the same way that Scribonius couldn't fathom why the Wa didn't come finish what they had started, down in the Wa camps the survivors of their army were huddled together, wondering when the grubworms would stride down the ridge and exact vengeance. However, unlike the Romans, the Wa were even more severely crippled in the area of leadership. Whereas Caesar lived, and even if he hadn't survived, the Legates and Centurions in his army had been trained and encouraged to take the initiative and think for themselves—within limits of course—the opposite was true with the Wa. Romans liked to think they had an extremely rigid hierarchical system, and for the part of the world they came from, they did. But it was nothing like what was developing on this island nation.

  Though it was difficult, there was upward mobility between the strata of classes in Roman society. Titus Pullus was an example of a man who, if he survived and ever made it back to Rome, would be not only wealthy, but would be at least in the equestrian class and, in all likelihood through Caesar's influence, a member of the Senate. This would have been unheard of in Wa society, and, in fact, there was no mechanism of government that could be compared to even the most basic components of Roman governance. There was a class of nobility that formed the warrior core of the army, followed by an extremely small group of exclusively male priests who served as a layer between the nobility and their emperor, who they believed ruled by divine right and was a god sent to them from the heavens.

  The cornerstone of Wa society was unflinching obedience to the divine will of the emperor, and whatever he directed was as much a law as any of those composed by the Senate of Rome and incised on bronze tablets. The warrior and nobility classes of Wa society served as the overseers of the mass of common people, and within the boundaries of the lands which each member of the nobility claimed as their own, their word was law almost as sacrosanct as the word of the emperor himself. And of all the laws that the emperor decreed to be inviolable, the law of obedience was of the highest order. Members of the lower classes not only were not expected to think and make decisions for themselves, but they were forbidden to do so, meaning any show of independence of thought or action was practically a guarantee to draw the wrath of their lord onto the transgressor, at the very least. Or worse, onto the entire family of the offender. The survivors of the great Wa army were overwhelmingly composed of men from the lower class, while their sword-wielding superiors were almost entirely eradicated, each trying to outdo the other in acts of valor and martial ability, in order to bring glory to their family name and draw the attention of their superiors. Although this wasn't all that different an attitude than that of their Roman counterparts, the lengths to which these men went meant that they had been almost completely wiped out.

  Of the perhaps three thousand Wa that were left, just two in ten of the survivors was of the upper class, and of these, almost every one of them was in the more junior subset of their class. Of third or fourth sons—lords, each of whose holding was barely more than the size of the area filled by the ridge where the camps were located—none had ever commanded more than a handful of men at a time, if that. The two generals, the commander and his immediate subordinate, lay dead in a heap of bodies up on the ridge, and scattered throughout all of the piles were the men who acted as their lieutenants. It was a situation crying out for leadership, but again, the idea of showing the initiative that would be required for one of the minor lords to take command was so foreign a concept that it didn't even occur to any of them, at least at first. Instead, they huddled in small groups, the men of the lower class, who were nothing more than fodder for the swords of the Wa's enemies, shaking with terror as they whispered to each other, as if speaking loudly would draw the attention of the grubworms on the ridge. And it was because of this atmosphere that, starting shortly after dark, in one's and two's, men began moving quietly out of the Wa camps, heading back to whatever part of the island from which they came. This exodus was confined almost completely to the spear-wielding lower class, since the small number of nobles left could have never borne the shame of skulking away, at least preferring to die with honor. As the night progressed and the numbers of men left in the camp dwindled, the nobles began their own movement, but this was to coalesce in the northernmost camp, seeking solace and companionship with their own kind.

  And yet, while they didn't run as the peasants had, they were just as terrified at what the next morning would hold. The difference was that no man among them would have uttered a word about his fears, because it would have shamed him in the eyes of his peers. Instead, they swapped stories of the battle, talking in hushed tones of things they had seen the grubworms do. In fact, if there was one prevailing attitude among all of the men left behind, it was confusion. When the sun had risen on this day of battle, every one of them had held the conviction that these pale creatures would be crushed in much the same way that the farmer crushed the grubworm under his heel when he dug it out of the ground. That the Wa were superior in every way was not doubted by any of the nobles in the Wa army. However, now that the sun had set, they had discovered the reality to be far different, and it was this newfound knowledge they found so confusing. Hadn't the divine emperor himself sent this army forward at his command? How could a man who was a god himself have underestimated these pale beings so completely? Their superiors, those very, very few who were allowed to be within the presence of the emperor—and that was only after undergoing a purification ritual that rendered them worthy and protected them from bursting into flame—had relayed the words of the emperor, that this barbarian army was hardly worthy of the massive army gathered for the purpose. Now, that army was shattered, these scared teenagers all that remained. This was how the night passed in the Wa camp, until, despite their best intentions, even the nobles became so terrified that they convinced themselves that, in fact, their duty required them to make haste to the capital, to prepare for a last-ditch defense from this army of grubworms. Therefore, shortly before dawn, unknowing and, frankly, uncaring that the lower classes had departed at least two watches before, the pitifully small remnant of the nobility left of the once-mighty Wa army also left, with only slightly more dignity than their peasant comrades.

  Daylight came, the sun's rays beaming down on a horrific sight, no matter what side you had fought on the day before. After grabbing perhaps a watch of sleep, Caesar was only partially recovered, still badly shaken from all that had transpired the day before. Nevertheless, he had regained enough of his composure to present himself as someone who at least approximated the general the army had followed for ten years. During the night, Caesar had shifted troops around the four camps. Agreeing with Pullus' order to Scribonius—at least by virtue of not countermanding it—to keep Felix and the eight Cohorts there at the northern camp, Caesar summoned the rest of the 14th and the 30th, ordering Ventidius to destroy the camp, before marching to meet with him. Additionally, he had sent couriers to the southern camp, where the 5th Alaudae's new Primus Pilus was lef
t in command—because of Pollio's absence now that he was there with Caesar—ordering the new man, Marcus Macro, to send a reconnaissance in force down the slopes of the ridge far enough to determine whether or not the Wa camp was occupied, and, if it was, the size of the force. Caesar was still concerned that the barbarians might have enough strength left for one more assault of the ridge.

  As always, Caesar mentally tried to put himself in the place of whoever was commanding the barbarians. Knowing so little about the Wa was one aspect of this campaign that had troubled Caesar the most, and one of his first dispatches had been down to the fleet in the bay, summoning Zhang to come to his side. Along with Zhang, Caesar had ordered that every man, no matter what status or job, also be brought to the camp, to help in the thousand tasks that still remained. Once he dispensed with his morning list of matters to be seen to, he paused to take a breath and to break his fast. Never a hearty eater, he had even less appetite this morning, but he also realized that it was likely that he would need all of his strength before the day was out, not knowing what it would bring. As he listlessly chewed on a piece of bread, washing it down with water, the bucinator at the gate blew the signal that a rider was approaching. Knowing that the rider couldn't have been from the fleet, Caesar also didn’t think he came from the southernmost camp. That left the camps on either side, and while he had men stationed on the rampart—which was the first thing that had been repaired as soon as it was light—they hadn't reported any movement from the Wa camp out on the plain. He hoped that this boded well, but he had been fooled the day before, and there was a nagging doubt in the back of his mind that perhaps the barbarian commander had moved his men under the cover of night, taking them to the north of the ridge—where the slight gap lay that was the only passage to the ocean for miles—and from there was launching another assault, directly from the north.