by Peake, R. W.
Knowing there was only one answer to give, both men bowed, the customary way the Wa showed acceptance of orders, similar to the Roman salute.
"Travel partway down the road towards the lake, but before you get within view, go into the trees on the hillside. I need you to tell me what the grubworms are doing, so move as quickly as you can without being observed. Now go," he finished, and neither man hesitated, mounting their ponies with practiced ease, then with a kick to their ribs, moved the mounts past the commander back towards the road.
Walking back, the commander moved as silently as he could, intent on discovering any man who had become impatient, eager to take out his frustration and anger on someone, but he was slightly disappointed to see that no man was moving a muscle. He knew how much it must itch, lying there covered with leaves, branches and debris, but grudgingly he acknowledged that his men were showing excellent discipline. Contemplating returning to his own hiding place, he decided against it, hoping that the scouts would be returning very shortly with news that the barbarians had simply been delayed by the ford and were even now ascending the road to the pass. Instead, he sat on a rock a short distance from the road, looking down in the direction of the lake, waiting. Time passed, and with each moment his alarm increased when there was no sign of his scouts.
He was about to take matters into his own hands and commandeer a pony to go down the road, when his eye caught movement. Perhaps a half mile down a relatively straight section, the road curved out of sight, which was one of the reasons he had chosen this spot, and it was around this bend that he saw his scouts coming at a full gallop. The speed of their advance could only mean one thing, as far as the commander was concerned: the grubworms were not that far behind! Jumping to his feet, he went down onto the road as they came pounding up, pulling to a halt in a spray of dirt that splattered all over the commander's boots, something for which they would normally be punished. But these weren't normal times, and the truth was, he didn't even notice, his mind focused on only one thing.
"Well?" He demanded. "How far behind you are they?"
Before they answered the two men exchanged a glance, snapping the commander's already frayed patience.
"I don't care who it is that tells me! How far behind you are they?" he repeated.
If he had been in a different frame of mind, perhaps the commander would have been given at least a slight warning at the sight of one of the scouts swallowing hard before he spoke.
"They're not coming sir, they...."
Before he could finish, the commander lashed out, his fist catching the unfortunate messenger on the chin, whereupon he dropped to the ground, unconscious before he hit it. The second man, now petrified, held his hands up in a pleading gesture.
"No sir! You don't understand! They're not coming, because they're not there!"
The commander, who had in fact drawn his fist back, stood there for an instant, blinking in surprise.
"What do you mean, they're not there?" he asked slowly, as if trying to make sense of a deep puzzle.
"Their camp is deserted sir! They left the ditch and walls, but everything else is gone!"
"Well, where did they go?"
Now the second scout was confused and unsure of how to respond. How was he supposed to know?
"I can't be sure, sir," he answered, somehow understanding that saying he didn't know could end up being the cause for suffering a fate similar to his comrade, who was still lying at his feet unconscious. Or worse. "We only went to the point where we could see clearly that they were gone and weren't coming this direction. But I saw what looks like a trail that is taking them south along the shore of the lake."
To the south? the commander wondered. Why would they want to go to the south, when the shortest way to the capital lay before them, so invitingly open and undefended? That's when the first tendril of a doubt that would only grow into the certainty that the grubworm commander had outsmarted him began. Shaking his head, as if it would dislodge the qualms that were blossoming forth with every beat of his heart, threatening to overwhelm him, he tried to think through what was the next right move.
Finally, without saying anything he walked over and picked up the reins of the pony belonging to the downed scout. Leaping onto the horse, he gestured with his head to summon the other man to accompany him and immediately went to the gallop down the road. This was something he had to see for himself, yet one more delay and mistake on this worst of days to make such errors.
It took less than a sixth part of a watch for both the 14th and 30th Legions to traverse the low hill that blocked their view of the capital and to descend into the valley of the capital. Although the sun was now up above the ridge, the Roman army was still protected by shadows, and anyone looking in their direction from the walls of the fortifications around the capital would have had a hard time seeing the movement of men as they rapidly descended the hill to get into position. Caesar was putting them in a front, two Legions wide, much narrower than his normal practice of at least three wings, each wing composed of at least one Legion. The reason behind this was twofold: the relatively narrow width of the unfinished fortifications would be covered by both Legions, even on their standard four Cohort front, with three Centuries for each Cohort supported by a Century behind, with room to spare. Also, Caesar was more than aware of the time factor, and while he could see that there were only laborers present at that moment, a lot of them at that, he couldn't take the chance that there were at that moment defenders hurrying to plug the gaping hole in what was otherwise an unbroken line of fortifications. It was true that even that part of the fortifications that were completed wouldn't have presented much of a challenge for Caesar's veterans, but the section of perhaps a quarter mile wide that had only a partially dug ditch, hence a very low wall, was a gift from the gods that couldn't be ignored. Caesar, who had stayed at his current position higher up the hill, supposed that the laborers, who looked to number perhaps 3,000, could have been warriors, in the same manner as his army who built the fortifications and camps that protected them, but he didn't think so. In fact, he was as close to sure that this wasn't the case as it was possible, without its being confirmed as fact by his eyes. Almost with every mile east they had traveled, Caesar had seen a deeper and deeper division between classes, to the point where, by the time they reached the Han empire, it would have been unthinkable for a member of the warrior class to dirty his hands. This didn't go unnoticed by Caesar; it was something he had observed, and like with so many other things over a career that was unparalleled in the annals of history, was stored away to be dissected and studied, and from which every advantage would be taken. His treaty with the Han empire had been one of convenience; he knew that as formidable as his army was, it couldn't have overcome the Han's vast resources. Conversely, the Han emperor had recognized that with all the other troubles he was facing, he couldn't afford to take on these pale barbarians. Hence, the treaty. But both men had plans and designs that centered on this remote island that on one side only a very few knew about, and on the other, only a single man knew.
Everything rested on what happened now, for both leaders, but at the moment this wasn't one of the foremost thoughts in Caesar's prodigious mind. Instead, it was solely absorbed in the task at hand, and as he continued his observation of the scene before him, he was cautiously pleased to see that even with all the activity at the base of the hill in front of him, he couldn't see any sign of alarm on the part of the Wa. As he sat there, the rest of the army came moving up to take their positions just behind the leading Legions. While he was sure that they wouldn't be needed for what was to come, he wanted them available in the event that he was wrong. There was another reason for wanting the rest of the army present. Jerking him from his reverie, that reason announced itself with a great clattering of noise, and he turned to see a wagon, just one, lumbering up the hill from behind him. As far as Caesar was concerned, Pullus was still an important part of this army, and while it was mostly for the men of th
e army, part of his reason was that of all the men who marched for him, Titus Pullus deserved to see the fall of the capital more than any other single man. Watching the wagon rattle past him, only then did Caesar nudge his horse to follow it.
Chapter 11
"Hand me that."
At first Diocles wasn't sure he heard his master correctly, particularly since what Titus Pullus was pointing to was the padded undershirt that was always the first article put on before the rest of his armor.
"What for?" Diocles asked, his face screwed up in suspicion.
"Just hand it to me," Pullus demanded, fixing his stare on the diminutive Greek.
Diocles, however, was accustomed to his master's bluster, and returned the stare.
"What for?" he repeated.
"Because I need it," Pullus snapped, still holding his arm out, trying to ignore the beads of sweat that were suddenly appearing on his forehead, just from that simple effort.
For several heartbeats they were at an impasse, the slave and master glaring at each other, before Diocles, understanding that he would never overcome his master's will, heaved a sigh.
"Fine," he snapped. "But I'm not going to be the one to clean your body for the pyre."
Despite his discomfort and the tension, Pullus grinned at his slave, knowing that Diocles was being obstinate from concern and no other motive.
"Then I guess I'll have to get incinerated dirty," Pullus joked. "Although personally I never saw the need to wash up someone who's about to get burned to ash."
"You blaspheme too much," Diocles grumbled, but did so as he not only handed his master the undershirt but also rose from his spot to help Pullus.
The Han physician, who had been unable to follow the conversation, but clearly understood that some sort of disagreement was taking place, rose in alarm at the sign of Diocles' capitulation. Pointing at the proffered undershirt and the sight of Pullus struggling out of the hammock, he began speaking in a rapid-fire monologue in his tongue that, while neither of the other two men understood the words, certainly conveyed his intent.
"I don't think he's happy," Diocles said, trying to keep a straight face at the sight of the wizened old Han showing more animation in this moment than he had in all the time they had been together.
"There's a lot of that going around," Pullus grunted, but he didn't stop, until he was sitting upright on the edge of the hammock, his feet on the floor.
Sweat was now openly streaming down his face, but this was just the beginning of his travail, as with an effort of which only Pullus knew the cost, he was forced to raise his arms, so that Diocles could put on the padded undershirt. The Han, although he made no move to interfere, continued his harangue, which didn't help Pullus' frame of mind. Neither did Pullus stop his preparations, trying to brace himself for the jolting of the wagon, which was continuing to bounce along the rutted path in the wake of the Legions moving into position. As Diocles lifted, not without effort, the chain mail shirt that had been made to accommodate his master's huge chest, the rent in it repaired at Pullus' instructions, the wagon tilted downward, sign that they were descending down onto the plain. A messenger from Caesar had come shortly before dawn telling Pullus what to expect, that his wagon would be coming with the Legions on their attack to be displayed just behind the rear ranks as a symbol to the men that Titus Pullus was still with them, even if it was in spirit. What Caesar didn't realize was that this was the opportunity for which Pullus had been waiting to put his own plan into effect. As committed to this idea as he was, Pullus nevertheless experienced serious misgivings as, with tightly clenched teeth, he kept his arms above him as Diocles grunted with the effort of lifting the mail shirt over his head, before dropping it onto Pullus' shoulders. As prepared as Pullus thought he was for what was something he had done more times than he could count, the impact of the heavy mail onto his body forced a groan from between his teeth, and a fresh bout of perspiration burst forth. Now Diocles stopped, able to look his master and friend in the eyes as Pullus stayed seated on the hammock.
"Master," Diocles said softly, "Titus, you don't have to do this."
As many times as Pullus had donned his armor, in direct contrast, he could count on one hand, and have fingers left over, the number of times Diocles had used his praenomen, and this more than anything gave Pullus pause. For a moment he tried to meet Diocles' gaze, but found to his shame that he couldn't maintain it.
Dropping his eyes, he murmured quietly to Diocles, "I do have to do this, my friend. I have to do it for me, not for any other reason."
"Why?" Diocles burst out, his patience finally worn through. "To prove what? You've nothing left to prove, Titus! There's not a man who doubts your courage! Not Caesar! Not Scribonius! Certainly not any ranker! So what in Hades do you have left to prove, to anyone?"
"Because I'm afraid that if I don't do it now, I'll be too afraid to, once I'm healed and don't have an excuse!" Titus snapped, some of the volume for which he was famous returning and freezing both Diocles and the Han in their spots.
His words hung in the air for several moments, as the Han stood looking from Diocles to Pullus, trying to understand what was taking place and knowing it was important. The Greek's shoulders slumped, and he dropped his head, so that his face wasn't visible to either of the other two, while Pullus continued to glare at his slave, the sudden rush of blood to his face at this visceral admission of vulnerability causing the sweat on his face to gleam like tiny, pink gems.
"Master," Diocles' voice was now shaking with the emotion he was feeling, a combination of sadness, apprehension, and sympathy for the man whom he had devoted most of his adult life to serving. "I wish I had the words to convince you that, even if that were true, that if you decided that that battle was your last and that you’d never picked up a sword again, there would be no man that would fault you, especially Caesar. You saved not just the 10th, but probably the entire army that day, when you killed their general, and I'd argue that there would be no better last battle than that one. You don't owe anyone anything more than you've given."
Pullus didn't respond for several moments, and after the span of several heartbeats Diocles began to dare that perhaps he had finally summoned the right combination of words that would sway his master and friend. That hope was dashed almost as quickly as it had blossomed.
"I owe it to myself, Diocles. It would be hard to live with the shame, if my nerve fails me, but it would be impossible to live with never knowing. I know you think I have no fear, my friend. I know the men think so too, but let me let you in on a secret."
Despite himself, Diocles found himself leaning forward in anticipation, because in fact it had always been a mystery to him how his master, and his master's friends like Scribonius and Balbus, could throw themselves into battle time and time again without hesitation, even after seeing it take them one at a time, until only Scribonius and his master were left.
"I'm afraid, just like everyone, before a battle. And I'll tell you that it's gotten worse, instead of better, as I get older. I suppose it's because I've seen so much of battle that I know how much luck plays a part in it all. You can do everything right, but if someone who's on your weak side falls, or an enemy gets behind you, you're going to die. It's that simple. So every battle I fight I realize that everyone's luck runs out sometime, and I've been blessed by the gods more than anyone, except for Caesar. It just makes sense that every time I stand ready to fight, especially on this cursed island, it's likely my last time. And this last fight I was never surer of it than in any other battle I've fought. So I am afraid, Diocles, very, very afraid. But the way I get through it, and the way I plan on getting through it today is by asking myself a question. Do I control my fear, or does my fear control me? And I refuse to bow my head to anyone or anything, unless I choose to do so, no matter what it is. That is how I appear to be without fear, by acknowledging that it's there, but never letting it be the master of my soul." Gesturing to Diocles to help him stand erect, made difficult n
ot just by his weakness, but also the pitching of the wagon, he finished, "And the answer to that question I ask myself has never been more important than it is today. If I can't control my fear today, then I might as well end my days here and now and be done with it."
And with that, there was nothing left to be said, and Diocles finished helping his master face the most important test of his life, the one within.
As sturdy and hardy as the ponies of the islands of Wa were, the one being ridden mercilessly by the royal guard commander was perilously close to foundering, as he forced the last bit of energy from it in his attempt to reach the ambush site. While it had helped the pony's reserves of strength that it had been galloped downhill, it had already been taxed by doing essentially the same ride with its first rider, and its muzzle was flecked with foam and its coat was gleaming from sweat as it labored the last distance back up the road to the pass. Every time the beast flagged, the commander savagely whipped its flanks, leaving bloody streaks that were as much marks of its rider's desperation and fury than anything else. The commander had gone farther down the road than his scouts had, close enough to the lake to confirm what the scout had told him: that the grubworms had not only disappeared, but had marched to the south, leaving nothing behind except a ditch and earthen wall. Going even farther to a spot where he could see as far as possible to the south, there was no sign of any marching army, not even a lingering cloud of dust, telling him that these accursed barbarians had stolen a march in the night. Wasting no more time than necessary, he had yanked his mount about to hurry back to his waiting men. Now he was just reaching the spot where the lower deadfall was located, when his mount stumbled, recovered itself to take a couple of strides more before stumbling again, this time crashing to the ground and sending its rider flying headlong. Because of the pitch of the road, the commander slammed into the ground so quickly that he didn't have time to brace himself, leading with his head and smashing into the packed dirt with tremendous force. Only his helmet saved him from instant death, but it didn't save him from being knocked unconscious. Trailing behind him, the scout that had accompanied him watched the catastrophe from the back of his mount, which was only slightly better off than the commander’s pony, now-writhing and trying to struggle back to all fours. Pulling up to the prone man, he quickly dismounted and hurried to his side, kneeling down and checking for signs of life. When he determined that the commander lived, the relief he felt warred with other emotions: worry that he would somehow be blamed for the commander's mishap, but more than anything, confusion about what he should do. For, unlike their Roman counterparts, initiative and thinking for oneself weren't traits valued by the Wa, theirs a rigidly hierarchical society. Compounding this was the fact that the commander hadn't deigned to inform the lowly scout accompanying him what he intended to do, now that he had confirmed that there was no longer an army marching up this road to fall into an ambush. Consequently, the scout merely squatted by the side of the commander, doing what he could to revive the man, while the warriors concealed on both sides of the road, mindful of the dire warning the commander had issued about moving from their spot, only watched, increasing the delay of any type of Wa response to this new development.