by Peake, R. W.
Meanwhile, the supreme commander of the royal guard and the force that he had brought with him to the pass had just crested the ridge, going back in the direction of the capital. Normally a harsh commander, the Wa was mercilessly pushing his men the last hundred paces uphill, before they could begin their downhill dash back to the capital. He had sent his remaining mounted scouts galloping to the city to confirm what he was certain was happening: that the grubworms had outsmarted him and were at that very moment in the streets of the capital. While he was sure this was the most likely scene his scouts would come across, he held out a faint hope that the small force he had left behind would fight hard enough to keep the palace from falling— long enough, at least, to allow the emperor to escape. Even as his lungs felt like they were going to explode, as he ruthlessly forced his legs to pump his body the last remaining distance to the top, his mind raced through the various possibilities he and his men might face. In the worst event, the palace would be taken, and while it hadn't been constructed for defense, it was filled with rooms and passageways that would be a nightmare to clear. He reminded himself that his main goal was to prevent the capture of the emperor, and to keep the barbarians tied up long enough for the army from the north to arrive and sweep these grubworms back into the sea. It troubled him that the palace officials hadn't seen fit to let him in on the plan for evacuating the emperor, but he had to trust that they were as committed to the safety of the Divine One as he and his men were. Reaching the top, he paused only long enough to look back down the slope to see how badly strung out his men were, understanding that he had set a brutal pace. To his pride and relief, he saw that there were very few stragglers. Still, they were only halfway, although running downhill would be undoubtedly faster, so he resumed his progress, intent only on reaching the capital in time to be of some use. He understood that no matter what happened, his life was forfeit: he had failed to protect the capital, and failure wasn't tolerated among the Wa, so the least he could do was to redeem the honor of his family and ancestors with a glorious death.
Through the gap in the rear ranks of Pullus' First Cohort came perhaps a half-dozen Wa warriors, all that were left of the more than 20 men who had punched the hole in the Roman line. At their head was the leader of this force, his skill and savagery apparent, as his sword was a blur of motion, cutting and hacking down any Roman in his path. As bad as this was, Pullus was tall enough to see that behind this small group of Wa, more of the barbarian warriors, seeing the gaping hole in their enemy's ranks, began funneling themselves into the breach. Leaving a thin line of men engaging the front rank of Romans, the Wa were essentially sacrificing these men by leaving them unsupported, in a desperate gamble to join their commander and the other five of their comrades who were just then stumbling into the open patch of ground between Pullus' Cohorts and where the remnants of the disgraced nobles surrounded Caesar and his defenders. For the briefest moment, the Wa commander paused, trying to get his bearings and reacquire the sight of his target. In a frozen tableau of time, in much the same way a painter of a fresco captured a moment in a battle, Pullus saw the barbarians gathering themselves to launch a final attack on his general, now protected by only a double line of Legionaries. And he saw that in the space of open ground, perhaps 25 paces, between the barbarians and the spot where the fight around Caesar was taking place there was absolutely nothing to stop them.
Except for him. You fool, he thought bitterly, what have you gotten yourself into this time? There is no way you can stop these cunni. But even as this thought was flashing through his mind, his body was moving seemingly of its own volition, as his hand reached down to draw his sword. The rasping sound it made was oddly comforting, helping to focus his mind enough that he remembered to grab a shield from one of his men who was writhing on the ground, clutching his ruined arm. Pullus had the presence of mind to crouch down to grab the shield, instead of leaning over from the waist, but as his hand grasped the handle, the agony of lifting the shield was almost too much for him. Resigning himself to the idea that his remaining moments on earth would be the most painful in a life filled with them, he still didn't hesitate, bringing the shield up and locking his elbow against his waist. Crossing the remaining distance with a couple of long strides, Pullus placed himself directly in the path of the oncoming barbarians, having just enough time to pivot to face them squarely. Then the quickest of the barbarians was on him, not surprisingly the commander, his blade held high in what Pullus had recognized was their preferred method of attack. Acutely aware that in this position he had placed his back to the barbarians battling with his own men, he knew that his only hope was that they were too occupied to notice him.
Then the leading barbarian was on him, the blade sweeping down in a seeming attempt to split him in half. Having seen this method used so often before, while it had been devastatingly effective the first few times, Pullus and his men had learned the most effective counterattack was tilting the shield up above the head and parallel to the ground while performing a thrusting underhanded stab at the unprotected lower body of the enemy. But even if he could have made the violent motion needed to jerk his shield up in time to meet this blow, somehow Pullus knew that this was what his opponent wanted. Instead, Pullus made a hopping step to his right, which caused him almost as much pain as moving his shield upward. By making the step to the right, he kept his shield between himself and his enemy, who had changed the direction of his slash even as Pullus was moving, twisting his arms to change the direction from a downward to a sideways stroke. It was a vicious, powerful blow, but it was completely absorbed by Pullus' shield; and while the impact caused the Primus Pilus to grunt in pain, the only damage done was to the shield. But while Pullus had made the right move defensively, moving to his right put his sword farther away from the Wa, who at that moment was completely vulnerable to a counterblow, as his sword bounced off violently in a downward direction. That didn't mean Pullus was powerless to retaliate, so gritting his teeth in an attempt to prepare himself as much as he could, he punched out with his shield, striking the barbarian on his right shoulder.
Under normal circumstances, this would have been enough to break the Wa's shoulder, but Pullus' strength was seriously compromised from his wound, both because of the pain and the structural damage of the torn muscles from the sword thrust that had almost killed him. However, it was enough to stagger the Wa, who took a stumbling step in the opposite direction, but before Pullus could follow up, another of the warriors had reached his leader's side. This warrior launched his attack from the same overhead position, but unlike his leader made no attempt to alter the path of his slashing blow. Conditioned by the countless watches of practice, before he could even think about the possibility of being capable of doing so, Pullus' shield arm moved up of its own volition. If it was slower than his norm, it was still quick enough, although it tore a gasp of agony from his lips, though Pullus didn't know if it was from moving his arm so violently or from the impact of the blade. As much in pain as he was, Pullus still kept the presence of mind to perform the most effective counter to this overhand blow. It wasn't his most powerful, nor his best form, but it was devastatingly effective, as his blade, coming at a slightly upward angle from just below his own waist, pierced the lamellar armor of the attacking Wa as if it weren't there, and buried itself fully half its length in the man's body. Giving a savage twist to free it, Pullus withdrew his blade, just in time for the leader, now recovered, to launch his next attack. Pullus' victim gave a great, moaning cry and dropped his own weapon to clutch his stomach; but the Primus Pilus' attention had already left him, the Roman knowing that even if the wound wasn't mortal, this barbarian was out of the fight. As it happened, the natural motion created by his twisting withdrawal allowed Pullus to parry the leader's blow with his blade, instead of his shield, and while it was only marginally better, it still wasn't as agonizing as absorbing the blow through his shield and up his arm.
Even so, the only way he was able to keep his shi
eld in its proper position was by keeping his elbow locked firmly in the bump formed by his hipbone, and he was acutely aware that he had a finite number of moves, such as his block, before his strength finally gave out. Fortunately for him, the other four Wa, seeing their leader and one of their comrades engaging the huge grubworm, had moved past where they were fighting, hurrying to come to the aid of the disgraced nobles. Pullus was only vaguely aware that to his right and rear, the men of his Cohort were falling backward from the ferocious onslaught of this group of barbarians, but he couldn't afford to take his attention away from his opponent. For a brief instant, both men paused, the flat, black eyes of the Wa seemingly devoid of expression as he examined the huge, stinking barbarian in front of him. He noticed that there seemed to be an awkwardness in the way he held the shield he carried, but he had felt the strength behind the parry the grubworm had just performed in his own attack, so he was understandably wary. By this point, despite their continued conviction that these pale foreigners were human only in the sense that they stood upright, not one of the surviving Wa took these beasts lightly. No, they had slaughtered too many of the Wa's countrymen not to be taken seriously, and he found himself still hesitating, before he made a sudden, lunging attack. Whether it was just a matter of luck, or whether somehow the pale giant had divined his thoughts and had predicted what he was about to do, the Wa would never know in the brief span of heartbeats that composed the rest of his life. Just as his blade snaked out, Pullus' own Gallic sword was in motion, moving in a chopping, downward blow aimed at a point just behind the Wa's own now extended sword. It was almost as if he had put his arm out with the express purpose of having Pullus sever it, and that is exactly what happened. Even as the Wa's mind was trying to comprehend the sight of his detached hand lying in the dirt, Pullus made another thrust that punched into the defenseless Wa, right at the base of the throat. Before the man had toppled over to fall to the ground, Pullus had recovered his blade, now dripping with blood from his two kills, and was moving in the direction of his general.
Fighting for his very life, Caesar recognized that once again his confidence had worked against him. In his zeal to give his men an example worth following, he had been foolhardy, and he could now see that his rashness had put not just him, but his entire bodyguard and the generals that had followed him in jeopardy. At first it hadn't seemed to be anything more than a skirmish, and while the barbarians who had burst from hiding had initially caught him—and everyone else on his side—by surprise, he determined that their numbers didn't pose a true threat. But they had surprised him, not only with their single-mindedness in reaching him—which he had very quickly understood was the goal of this foray—but also with their skill in besting his men and, even more alarmingly, their agility in avoiding coming to grips with his Legionaries, so that a fair number of them had managed to reach where his bodyguard had formed a line to protect their general. However, much as Pullus had determined, although the high tide of the Wa attack would come close to Caesar, they just didn't have the numbers needed to get past his Germans and reach him. That was before this new force suddenly appeared from his right. Where they had come from, and how they got so close before he became aware of them, he didn't know. Whichever way it happened, now his concern was growing very real and immediate, as he saw them slicing through what he assumed to be the First Cohort of the 10th Legion. Immediately surrounding Caesar was a thin cordon of Legionaries on foot, but only two men deep, with no more than a dozen of his Germans still mounted after that to protect him. Some of them had merely seen their mounts killed, and were now fighting on foot, but their particular style of fighting was completely unsuited for combat on foot, particularly when mixed with the Legionaries with their short, stabbing swords. His Germans favored much longer blades, which was fine on horseback, but those men on foot were constrained from the kind of wild, undisciplined slashing swing that the German warriors were so fond of, making them next to useless.
No, Caesar recognized, he was in real trouble, but that only spurred him to even greater efforts, fighting the fatigue brought on by his 65 years and the knowledge that his men, his boys, his sons, were looking to him to set the example and to let them know they still needed to fight. Because of his higher vantage point, he was able to see the remnants of the First Cohort crumble, as the new attacking force fought their way to a linkup with the remnants of the original force. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement that was just a bit different from everything else that was taking place, but he couldn't pay any attention at that moment, leaning dangerously far away from his own mount to make a downward stab over the head of one of his Legionaries who had just had his shield shattered and was vulnerable to an attack from the barbarian facing him. Instead, the barbarian found himself on the defensive as Caesar went to the farthest extent of his reach to make a stabbing attack. Despite the fact that it didn't have as much force as he would have liked, Caesar compensated for this by aiming for the barbarian's face, and was rewarded by the point of his sword plunging into one of the barbarian's eyes. Letting out a high-pitched, screeching wail, the Wa dropped his sword to clutch at the ghastly wound, as Caesar turned his gaze to what had attracted his attention. Suppressing a gasped curse, Caesar could only watch as Titus Pullus interposed himself between the onrushing Wa and himself.
"What does he think he's doing?" Caesar said this aloud, but nobody around him was paying attention, each involved with their own fight for survival.
As Caesar watched, Pullus dispatched two of the most aggressive barbarians, but Caesar could easily see that Pullus was hampered in his movements, particularly when it came to the use of his shield. Despite this handicap, from Caesar's perspective, his Primus Pilus dispatched the two barbarians with relative ease, but even before the second man fell, over Pullus' head Caesar saw even more Wa breaking through the line of Legionaries. Before he could shout an order to summon the rest of his German bodyguards, the Wa came rushing in his direction, and only Titus Pullus was there to stop them.
Facing the onrushing Wa, Titus Pullus didn't have the time to think about his predicament, or the pain that was sending shooting stabs of agony from his upper chest down into the rest of his body. Instead, he brought his shield up to the first position and braced himself for the first of the barbarians to reach him. Leading the Wa who had been the second group to break through, one of the members of the royal guard was running at full speed, his sword above his head. Instead of trying to meet the warrior head-on, Pullus instead took a step forward, while dropping to one knee at the same time. Before the Wa could react, he was faced with the choice of running into Pullus' outstretched sword, or trying to hurdle the kneeling Roman. Choosing what seemed to be the least damaging of the two courses, the Wa made a leaping attempt to jump and clear the Roman. Pullus was prepared for this, however, and as the Wa went hurtling over him, he gave a short but powerful thrust upward with his sword. It wasn't normally something he would have done, because the momentum of the barbarian's body was so great that it could have yanked his sword out of his hand. But he had done this before, and was counting on the special grip of his sword to maintain his hold. He managed to do so and was successful enough in keeping his arm rigid, so that his sword ripped through the Wa's vitals as he passed over Pullus' head, showering the Primus Pilus in blood. Knowing that even if the barbarian wasn't dead before he hit the ground that the wound was mortal, Pullus paid him no attention, standing erect as quickly as he had knelt. The next Wa had just seen one of his comrades pay for his eagerness, causing him to try to stop his own rapid progress towards the giant grubworm. But before he could come to a complete stop, he came within a sword's reach of Pullus, which was enough. With his longer reach, he was able to make a hard thrust that met the onrushing barbarian before he could react, and in the space of a half-dozen heartbeats, Pullus had ended two more of the enemy.
There wasn't any time to savor his victories, because following closely behind these Wa were even more, four in nu
mber, but they approached the Roman more cautiously, seeing how easily he had dispatched their comrades. On a grunted word from one of the barbarians, they spread out in a rough semi-circle, two of the Wa armed with spears in the center, standing side by side. Relying on the longer reach of their weapons, they alternated their attacks, in the form of jabbing thrusts that Pullus knew were designed to occupy his attention, while the other two barbarians, carrying swords, tried to circle around him, one from each side. Without waiting, Pullus moved quickly to his right, straight at the sword-wielding barbarian on that side and unleashed a hard overhand thrust designed more to check the barbarian's own attack than to strike a blow. It worked, freezing the Wa in place for just the fraction of time that Pullus needed to suddenly pivot about on his right foot, spinning his body around so that suddenly his shield side was facing the barbarian he had just feinted. Using the momentum created by the spinning of his body, Pullus continued the motion with his arm in a hugely powerful backhand slash that was delivered at just below shoulder level. The Roman had taken a huge gamble in performing this maneuver, because the spot his blade was sweeping toward was empty when he started his movement. But he had seen that one of the spear-carrying barbarians was just beginning to take a step forward into that space, and Pullus' timing and aim were perfect: the tip and first few inches of his Gallic blade connecting with the base of the barbarian's neck. There was so much force and speed behind this blow that Pullus' blade never slowed as it severed the spearman's head from his shoulders, but even before the head was finished on its upward arc, Pullus had completed the revolution to face toward the original swordsman. Taking another gamble, Pullus' sword arm punched out in a straightforward thrust, this one aimed at the spot into which he hoped the Wa was just then stepping, and once more he was rewarded by the shock traveling up his arm as the point of his blade punched into his opponent's chest. The Wa's eyes widened in shock and surprise, as he looked down at the sight of Pullus' sword protruding from his chest, before his knees gave way, and he collapsed to the ground without uttering a sound. Using the momentum of the dead man's body and the hard twist he gave to the blade, Pullus freed his sword while turning his head to watch the remaining two Wa, who seemed to be rooted to the ground in shock.