by Peake, R. W.
There were no sounds of the cornu during the Roman advance, again by Caesar's order, as the avenging army marched toward the fortifications. From where the leading ranks had formed up to the outskirts of the city, where perhaps four blocks of houses remained before reaching the cleared area where the new wall was located, was barely a mile. The 14th and 30th—the 14th on the right and 30th to the left—had closed about half that distance, before they emerged from the shadows cast by the ridge behind them. It wasn't more than the span of a hundred heartbeats after that, when one of the laborers turned and saw what to him appeared to be some sort of apparition summoned by the demons of his world. Raising a shaking hand, he rubbed his eyes, but the vision was still there, looking to him at first like some multi-legged beast that glittered with glints of silvery gray, like the fish from the lake. Only then did he raise the alarm, but what came out was an incoherent cry that only served to stop the other laborers from their work to look at him curiously. The palace official, one of the eunuchs, assigned to this part of the wall was already in a sour mood, because he had been stuck with the onerous task of mingling with these peasants. His bad mood was exacerbated by the sharp words exchanged with the official whom the royal commander had put in charge shortly before dawn, when he had been informed that the responsibility for failure to complete this part of the fortification by the time the royal commander returned would be on his shoulders. Striding over to where the peasant was standing, his jaw hanging open and his arm outstretched to the south, he was more than ready to take out his frustrations on someone, and this peasant would fit the bill nicely. Picking up a stick lying in a pile of debris, he raised it in preparation to strike this peasant, who seemed to have been struck dumb and who stood like a statue. Of course, it was natural that his eye travel in the direction in which the man was pointing, and it took a few heartbeats for his eye to make sense of what he was seeing. In fact, his first thought was almost identical to that of the peasant, though he had no way of knowing, but he took a couple of halting steps more, before he came to a stop next to the peasant, the hand holding the stick still hovering in the air, waiting to strike. They stood side by side for another moment, both of their mouths open, and then in an instant where class distinctions meant nothing, they exchanged the same, shocked glance. But the palace eunuch, not only more educated but also more intelligent than the peasant, was the first to break the spell, as he pivoted about and went into a full sprint, heading for the unfinished wall. Showing admirable athleticism, he leapt across the point where the ditch was not fully excavated, landing on the other side without breaking stride. Only when he was on the other side did he break the silence.
"Sound the alarm! Sound the alarm! We are under attack from the south! Summon the Chosen Ones and the archers to the southeastern wall immediately!"
"Well, they know we're here," Aulus Flaminius said, watching the sudden scramble of the peasants that were now directly in their path a little more than a mile away.
That was all the attention he could pay to this development, because being on the left of the two-Legion formation meant that with the angle of attack, his Legion would reach the remaining buildings of the southern outskirts of the capital first. As flimsily constructed as these buildings were, they were still substantial enough that they could not only hide waiting warriors, they also couldn't just be knocked down by the marching men. That meant that he had to deploy his Legion into the formation they had perfected for urban combat, which broke down the normally solid line of Centuries and Cohorts into the smaller component parts, starting with the Centuries. Normally, a Century was assigned each block, but that, of course, depended on the number of dwellings or structures in each one. Flaminius saw that these blocks, as neatly arranged as they were, would require at most five sections a block, which also enabled him to further extend his coverage along the same axis as the wall running east-west, without calling the second line to move out to the west. But that took time and effort, so he called a halt, his cornu player sounding the order, bringing the perfectly aligned ranks of Roman Legionaries crashing to a halt as if they were one huge beast. Which, Flaminius thought, is exactly what they are right now. A huge, slavering beast that's about to devour this piddling capital city and any yellow-skinned savage stupid enough to have sought shelter behind these walls. Ordering the call for all first-line Centurions to attend to him, Flaminius took the time—as he waited for them to come running from their spots—to examine the rows of houses before him carefully. It didn't surprise him that he didn't see any signs of life whatsoever; even if they didn't approach from this direction, he couldn't imagine any of the inhabitants staying in their homes with the fortifications being erected just a few blocks away. No, he was sure that they wouldn't find a living soul in those buildings, or any civilian ones at least. Nevertheless, he wasn't about to just have his men advance up the streets in direction of the wall, without checking every house first.
"We're going to use the front line Cohorts for moving through these streets here, before we get to the wall," Flaminius announced to his men, once they had assembled. "I want the second line ready to fold in behind the 14th; they're going to be the first through that gap in the wall, but I want us hot on their heels! The first line will rejoin us only after we're finished clearing the streets and houses."
This was an unusual order, but it was an unusual day, on an unusual island, and during an unusual campaign, so there weren't more than the normal mutterings about this change in what had by now become an established routine for assaulting fortifications. Seeing that there were no questions, Flaminius dismissed his Centurions, who went trotting back to their respective Centuries to pass the orders. As Primus Pilus, Flaminius was responsible not only for the entire Legion and every Cohort, he also still had to run his own Century; but, truthfully, most of the day-to-day business was handled by his Optio, and it was an accepted truth that the best new Centurions in the Centurionate were those that had been Optios of the First Century, First Cohort. Following closely behind them were Optios of all the Pili Priores, who faced the same problem as Flaminius, but on a smaller scale. This freed Flaminius to continue watching as the Legion next to him advanced, slightly envious that because of their position and angle, only perhaps two Centuries of the fourth Cohort to the left of the first line would encounter the houses that the 30th had to push through. As he did so, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye that was at odds with the normal deployment of a Legion. Turning, he saw that it was a lone wagon, rattling in between the space of the rear ranks of the 14th Legion and the Legions that had been designated by Caesar to be in the second Legion line.
"Pluto's cock," Flaminius muttered. "I bet that's Pullus' wagon."
"It is," his cornicen, who at moments like this always stood by his side, waiting for orders, confirmed. "I talked to a friend of mine in the praetorium who heard Caesar say he wanted the Primus Pilus' wagon to be visible to everyone as a sign that he's still with us, even if he can't stand in the line."
Flaminius gave a laugh, but there was a tinge of bitterness to it. Neither Pullus nor Flaminius would have described themselves as friends, but the men respected each other, and while Flaminius, like every other man who had reached the exalted status of Primus Pilus, had a sizable ego of his own, even he acknowledged that Titus Pullus was in a class by himself. If asked, Flaminius would have pointed to his counterpart's vast size and strength as being the primary ingredient that made Pullus the legend that he was, but that was more to soothe his vanity than that he truly believed this. Privately, Flaminius understood that there was much, much more to what made Titus Pullus the man he was and be the symbol to every man walking in the ranks—no matter what Legion's standard they marched under—of not only Rome's unconquerable spirit, but also of their own. As long as Titus Pullus lived, Flaminius knew that most of the men in the ranks held the belief that they would, as well. Flaminius knew that Caesar, perhaps better than any man alive—even Pullus himself—understood the import
ance of the symbol that Pullus was, over and above his actual role as a Primus Pilus of a Legion. That's why he wasn't particularly surprised to see the wagon bearing Pullus. However, he was completely unprepared for what happened next. The wagon slowed to a stop, and Flaminius was just about to turn his attention away from it when he saw a flurry of movement at the back, as the flaps moved outwards. Dismissing it as a fluke of the wind, Flaminius' eye was caught at the sight of someone jumping down, and squinting, Flaminius recognized by size, if by nothing else, that it was Pullus' Greek body slave.
"Probably has to take a piss," he said to himself, but a moment later another figure emerged, this one Flaminius identified as one of those Han physicians—Caesar's most favored, if he remembered right—and he recalled hearing that Caesar had dispatched this old man himself to stay at Pullus' bedside, further sign of Pullus' favor. Unknown to Flaminius, or any of the other actors on the Roman side, for that matter, what happened next was almost identical to what had taken place shortly before, when the peasant had spied the oncoming Legions. Standing open-mouthed, Flaminius watched as the two reached up to help a third man down out of the wagon. Normally such solicitousness from others would have brought the object of the help under a great deal of ribbing for being so decrepit, but Flaminius understood why they were being helpful when he saw that, wearing his armor and helmet, it was Titus Pullus himself who was the recipient of their aid.
"Juno's cunnus, what does he think he's doing?" Flaminius' tone was a mixture of amazement, resentment, and worry at the sight of Titus Pullus, who was clearly not content to play his part in providing a symbol for Caesar's army from the comfort of a wagon.
More than once, Titus Pullus was sure he was going to pass out, but every time the dizziness and nausea threatened to overwhelm him, he stopped in his tracks for a moment to close his eyes and allow his head to clear. It was only then that he would allow either Diocles or the Han to touch him, so, posted one on each side, they would grab him firmly by the arms to make sure he didn't shame himself by losing his balance and collapsing in a heap. Looking for any small victory he could find, Pullus was pleased to see that the effort it took for his head to clear cost less and less time, so that after a few fits and starts, he had reached the rear ranks of the third line of the 14th Legion. He had no intentions of joining the 14th in their assault on the fortifications; in fact, he was saving his energy, because directly behind the 14th, Caesar had placed the 10th, and once the 14th went through the breach, the 10th would be marching to the spot where he was standing. Knowing as he did that he had a finite amount of strength and endurance—especially when compared to his normal boundless founts of both—he was doing whatever he could to reduce the number of steps he would be taking. Whereas before his near-fatal wound he would have walked back and forth, around and through the ranks of his Legion—even as small it was—several times over already, he knew this wasn't possible. But for more than two decades now, whenever the 10th Legion had gone into battle, no matter what the circumstances, Titus Pullus had been there, standing next to the Legion aquilifer carrying the sacred Legion eagle, and he wasn't going to change that now. This had been his resolution when he had first been told by Diocles of the developments that had led to this moment. Now, he stood, shaking off the help of the two men beside him, since his head had cleared, silently waiting for the moment when the 14th would make their move forward and the 10th would move up to meet him. It was natural that some of the men of the last line of Cohorts of the 14th would turn about to see who was behind them; they weren't at intente, so they had the ability to turn and look around. But none of them were prepared for the sight that met their eyes, the presence of a legend most of them had seen only from a distance, or perhaps in passing in one camp or another over the years. It didn't take more than the space of several heartbeats for a buzzing sound to begin whipping through the rear ranks of the 14th, in turn causing the men of the second line to turn to see the cause of the commotion. Before long, there was a dull roar of talk, as men poked each other and pointed in Pullus' direction. The Centurions in charge of the Centuries in the proximity of Pullus were no less amazed at the sight, and in that moment forgot their duties of keeping their men quiet; but those of the second, then first line of the Legion only knew that suddenly the ranks were buzzing for no reason at all. Above the sound of the excited chatter came the enraged roaring orders of Centurions who, as mystified as they were about the cause, knew with a certainty that their immediate superiors would be voicing their own displeasure at this sign of lax discipline. It was only when one of them, in the brief pause as he tried to regain his breath, actually listened to what men were saying that he broke ranks himself to investigate and then discovered the cause for himself. Immediately running to where the standard of the Legion was located, he found the Primus Pilus of the 14th and informed him of the reason for the uproar. Stifling a curse, the Primus Pilus only sent the Centurion back to his spot in the formation, but stayed where he himself was, listening for the command to advance, which he hoped would be coming in the next moments. That was the only way all this excitement would die down, he concluded, even as he wondered what Pullus thought he was up to with this display. Behind him and his Legion, the thinned ranks of the 10th were even now marching to take their spot in the second row, with the 12th to their left. Caesar had no intention of letting these men fight; he was close to certain they wouldn't be needed, and if his suspicions were correct, the capital was unprotected and lay like a virgin, about to be ravaged. And he intended on rewarding his two most beleaguered and battered Legions with the opportunity that men in the ranks dreamed about: the first pickings of what would undoubtedly be the wealthiest part of the wealthiest city on this benighted island. However, he was completely unprepared for what he was seeing, as he rode from the hill to take his place at the front of the formation. He first noticed the wagon's placement with approval, knowing that it was in the perfect spot to be seen by the men of the 10th, as they marched into their spot in the attack formation. Seeing the three figures standing slightly ahead and to the side of the wagon, it took a moment for Caesar to realize what in fact he was seeing, and, like the Primi Pili of the 14th and 30th, he let out a curse as he kicked his horse in the ribs to hurry to reach the trio.
"Pullus, what by all the Furies do you think you're doing?"
Caesar's tone was a mixture of anger and astonishment, but if Pullus was cowed, he showed no sign. It wasn't lost on Caesar, or the other two men how carefully he turned his body to stand facing Caesar, but only Pullus knew what it took to give the perfect salute he rendered to his general, his only accommodation to his condition being that he didn't slam his fist into the left side of his chest, as the regulations prescribed.
"My job, Caesar," Pullus replied, his voice calm and raised enough, so that both the men in the last rank of the 14th and his own men—who had just halted in their designated spot—could hear. "The 10th hasn't marched without me into any battle, and it's not about to start now."
Acutely aware that every eye was on this exchange, Caesar could only mentally salute the large Primus Pilus, because he understood in an instant that he had been outmaneuvered. Any chastisement of Pullus would be heard by the men of his Legion, and another of Caesar's rules that had served him well was that with senior officers, it was politic to praise them in public, but reprimand them in private. There were exceptions, of course: if the offending party was performing his duties in a way that endangered others, Caesar wouldn't hesitate to take whatever action he deemed necessary to correct the situation in the moment. This, unfortunately as far as he was concerned, was not one of those times, because the only one endangered was Pullus himself. Assessing the situation and deciding what to do about it in the space of a couple of heartbeats, Caesar responded first with a salute that resulted in a pandemonium of roaring cheers. Well, so much for the element of surprise, Caesar thought disgustedly, but he knew better than to admonish the men, particularly those of the 10th.
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nbsp; Only after the sound subsided a bit did Caesar speak, bending down to tell Pullus, "Congratulations Pullus. You've outmaneuvered me, but all I can say is, I hope you know what you're doing, because if you die, I'm going to have to punish you."
Knowing that all eyes were on the pair, Pullus made a titanic effort by throwing his head back and laughing, understanding that while the men couldn't hear what was said, they would take their cues visually. Only Caesar, Diocles, and the Han had any idea of the strain it put on Pullus, a fresh burst of perspiration beading on his forehead, even as he showed his appreciation of Caesar's wit. In other words, both men were actors playing out a scene that the men of the 10th had seen before so many battles now, the bantering between two fighting men about to face combat, and the sight of this elicited another cheer.