by Peake, R. W.
Fortunately for them, even more Wa had managed to push their way through the ranks of the First Cohort and were just then scrambling to join the two warriors. During this brief pause, Pullus became aware again of the throbbing pain in his chest, and he ached to drop his shield, if even for a moment, even though he knew he wouldn't have the chance. While he stood watching, his chest heaving as he tried to bring in huge gulps of air, the Wa exchanged a few whispered words, gesturing with their head in his direction. Then, in the same way as the first four, they arrayed themselves in a semi-circle, except this one was composed of eight Wa. Unlike the first group, it was obvious they weren't content to wait, because as soon as they were in position, the Wa in the middle, one of the survivors of the first four, barked a command. Immediately, they began moving toward Pullus, and this time he knew that he had no tricks, and in fact not much strength, left. Still, he hefted his shield into the first position, grunting from the effort, and held his sword ready, the entire length of the blade now slick and shining with blood.
"10th Equestris!!!!!"
The bellow emanated from behind Pullus' right, and even knowing the danger, he craned his head and saw perhaps a dozen of his men, with Sextus Scribonius at their head, running in his direction.
Although they had come desperately close to succeeding, the two separate attacks with the same goal were repulsed, but not after more blood was shed, as the men of both Wa attacks were slain to the last man. Caesar was safe, but at an even greater cost to the 10th Legion. By the time the leading Legions had been made aware of the threat to their general and turned about, the fighting was essentially over. It had been a short, but very sharp, action, which had savaged the ranks of not just the 10th, but also Caesar's German bodyguards, of which there were fewer than a dozen left still mounted. A handful more were still alive but had been unhorsed, forced to fight as infantry. For at least a hundred paces in every direction from where Caesar now stood, finally dismounting from his horse, were the bodies of Wa dead, interspersed with Roman dead and wounded. Perhaps a span of two hundred heartbeats had passed since the last two Wa, standing back to back, snarling their defiance to the last, had been cut down, but the efficient Roman machine was already starting to go to work. The medici of the 10th had already begun moving among the carnage, pulling or kicking the dead barbarians aside to uncover a Legionary that had fallen. Quickly making an assessment, the medici either knelt and began ministering to the wounded man, or moved on. It was not long before they were joined by the medici of the other Legions, who needed no orders to pitch in to help. After the shouting and sounds of battle, it was once again eerily quiet, except for the moans of those wounded who were able to voice their agony.
Titus Pullus was only dimly aware of all this, as he again found himself on his knees, his chin on his chest as he tried to stay awake and at least partially alert. What he knew was that the fighting was over and that his exertions had opened his wound again, the warm, sticky fluid leaking from under the bandage that was beneath his padded tunic and armor to run down his torso. It wasn't long before the part of his red tunic directly below his armor darkened even more, and he occupied himself with idly watching as it spread, wondering if it would stop of its own accord or if he would need to be stitched back up again. Maybe I'll just sit here and bleed to death, he thought dully, and it was a sign of his fatigue and distress that the thought wasn't all that unpleasant. While the throbbing was still present, the pain had lessened somewhat, losing its sharp edges of agony to settle back down to what he would describe as more of an ache. All around him there was activity, but just as it had happened when he suffered the original wound, kneeling beside him was his best friend Scribonius, who was watching him closely for signs that Pullus was about to lose consciousness and topple over.
"You're like a fly buzzing around a sick cow, waiting for it to die so you can start feasting," Pullus finally broke the silence, his voice once again hoarse.
"If you'd stop acting like an idiot trying to get yourself killed every time I turn my back, I wouldn't have to," Scribonius retorted.
Scanning the area, Scribonius spotted the nearest medicus, who was busy attending to another wounded man. Waiting until the medicus finished, once he stood erect, Scribonius called him over.
"You need to help me get his armor off and check his wound. It's bleeding again," Scribonius commanded, but before the medicus could stoop to help, Pullus waved him away with his good arm.
"No. There are men who need you more than I do. I'll be fine."
"You don't know that," Scribonius normally wouldn't have spoken to his friend in such a sharp tone, but he was worn down from a combination of the normal letdown after a fight and worry for his friend.
"Yes I do," Pullus replied calmly, nodding with his head in the general direction of his lap. "I've been watching and the bleeding's already stopped. The stain on my tunic hasn't grown for a bit."
Looking down, Scribonius examined Pullus' tunic for several heartbeats and saw that it indeed appeared that his friend's bleeding had stopped.
"Well," Scribonius grumbled, "that just means you're not going to die right now. You're still not out of danger. But," he turned to the medicus, "I suppose he'll be fine for the moment. Go on about your business."
The medicus hurriedly complied, not wanting to be near the two Centurions, who were still bickering as he went looking for more wounded.
"Shouldn't you be getting this mess sorted out?" Pullus surveyed the scene, watching as Centurions were even then grabbing men belonging to them and shoving them in the direction of the appropriate signifer, most of whom had arranged themselves in the beginnings of a formation of the Legion, the first step immediately after a battle now that the danger was past.
Every man was moving as quickly as he could, although some men were either limping or helping an injured comrade towards his normal spot. It was Roman efficiency at its finest, practiced and honed over thousands of such gatherings, and it was more than just the obsession with efficiency and order that drove this. It was only after the men were formed up that the Centurions could get a reasonably accurate count of casualties, although they would then have to determine which of the missing men were wounded and which were dead. Scribonius followed Pullus' gaze, and heaved a sigh.
"I suppose so. But are you sure you're going to be all right here? I don't want you falling over and opening that up again now that it's stopped bleeding."
"I'll be fine," Pullus promised. "I'll just stay here and rest."
Knowing that any further argument was futile, Scribonius relented and stood, looking about for his own Cohort, forgetting that he was still acting Primus Pilus. Once he walked away, Pullus tried to shift into a slightly more comfortable position, but quickly determined that the pain it would cause wasn't worth the effort.
"I should have had him help me," he muttered to himself.
"Help you with what?"
The sound of a new voice caused Pullus to lift his head again, but this newcomer had approached so that the sun was immediately behind him, forcing Pullus to squint to recognize the man. Although it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, he had recognized the voice, and he wondered if Caesar approaching so that he appeared to wear a blazing halo of sunrays was done on purpose. Whatever the case, Pullus thought, it was appropriate that his general would appear as a god. Maybe I am dying, he joked, but only to himself, not willing to share such sacrilegious thoughts, particularly with Caesar.
"Nothing, sir. Just talking to myself."
Of all the men in this army, Gaius Julius Caesar would have been the last on Pullus' list of people to ask for help. His general, however, was not so easily put off.
"I've never known you to talk to yourself just for the sake of talking. You mentioned something about having someone help you. What is it that you need, Pullus?"
Pullus knew Caesar very well, and he could tell by his general's tone that he was teasing him, something that Caesar seemed to do with annoying frequen
cy, particularly with Pullus, because he knew how uncomfortable it made his giant Primus Pilus. While not in the same class as Caesar, or Scribonius, Pullus did have some wit, and he had long since lost count of the times he had bitten his tongue rather than make a sharp retort that would show the older Caesar that he wasn't the only one with a tongue capable of drawing blood. Later, Pullus would attribute what came out of his mouth next to the amount of pain he was in, and the almost overwhelming fatigue that kept trying to push his eyes shut.
"Well there's a first time for everything," Pullus retorted. "At least when I talk to myself I have an enjoyable conversation."
As soon as the words tumbled out, Pullus was assailed by a feeling of horror at what under any other circumstances would be an unforgivable lapse of discipline, but Caesar immediately threw back his head and began roaring with laughter. It wasn't the kind of laugh that was done out of politeness, but a deep, rumbling bout of mirth that came from his belly. This pleased Pullus, but after a moment when it didn't stop, his initial pleasure began changing to a sense of unease. Caesar was bent over at the waist, gasping for breath as the tears streamed from his eyes, and now Pullus was alarmed, if only because heads were turning in their direction. as the men stared openly at the sight of their general so discomposed. More than the attention, it was the sense that this laughter was not something normal, but seemed tinged with something other than the humor of what Pullus had said. Could it be...hysteria, Pullus wondered? Had this last surprise unhinged his general? Before he could summon the courage to open his mouth again, however, Caesar got himself under control, wiping his eyes as he caught his breath.
Finally, he said, "Pullus, that was one of the funniest things I've ever heard you say. But I'm serious. What can I help you with? It's the least I can do for the man who singlehandedly stopped these barbarians from reaching me. Granted," Caesar hurriedly added, "I probably could have handled them myself. But the fact I didn't have to is because of you."
When put that way, Pullus was hard pressed to continue to refuse, if only because of all the men in the army, he understood how hard it was for Caesar to acknowledge even the barest possibility that he couldn't have fended off this last barbarian attack. At least, Pullus hoped it was the last attack, because he wasn't sure how many more surprises of this nature Caesar's army could take.
"If you could help me get off my knees and sitting down, that would help," Pullus couldn't look Caesar in the eye as he spoke.
Nevertheless, he was greatly relieved when Caesar said, "Of course. But wouldn't you be better off lying down?"
Pullus shook his head emphatically.
"No. If you lay me down I think I'll probably pass out. This way it will be easier for me to stay awake."
He didn't have to add the reason, that he would still be in enough pain that the idea of falling asleep was impossible. Caesar knelt down, and with a fair amount of effort helped Pullus shift his position so that he was seated on the ground, with his legs splayed out in front of him. To help keep him in a semi-upright position, Caesar walked a short distance to pick up a pair of shields, which he propped together in a way that allowed Pullus to lean back against them.
"There," Caesar said lightly, "as good as if you were reclining on a couch at table."
While not exactly true, Pullus was still grateful, and thanked his general for the help.
"Pullus, I wasn't jesting," Caesar replied. "You were the only man standing between me and those barbarians. Once again you've provided me a service that can't ever be repaid. This was the least I could do."
"Well...thank you," Pullus murmured, embarrassed and extraordinarily pleased at the same time.
"Now that you're comfortable, I'm afraid I must go. I have some matters to attend to."
"Yes sir. Of course sir. So, it's over then?"
Pullus again avoided eye contact with Caesar, but this time it was because he feared the answer. Specifically, he was afraid that he would hear his general speak of more battles, that this campaign wasn't over until every warrior on this accursed island was subdued.
"I hope so, Pullus," Caesar said soberly. "In fact, if all goes according to what I have planned, I think that it will be all over and that we'll not have to fight any of these people again, before the sun sets today."
"Thank the gods for that," Pullus replied fervently. Then, his curiosity aroused, he asked, "And what plan is that, Caesar? What new trick can you pull on these savages that will convince them not to throw their lives away trying to defeat us?"
Caesar smiled down at him.
"Well, Pullus. That you will have to see for yourself. In fact, it will be happening fairly shortly, and I want you to be there to see it. So I'm going to have you collected and put in a litter. And Pullus," Caesar finished severely, his lips set in a tight line that Pullus knew was a sign that his general was deadly serious. "I expect you to be in that litter, not walking beside it. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Caesar," Pullus instantly responded, but Caesar wasn't about to be thrown off.
"Yes, I know that you understand. But I also expect you to obey. Am I clear?"
When Caesar was at his most terrifying wasn't when he was roaring at the top of his lungs: it was when he spoke quietly, as he did now. Pullus looked up into the glittering points of ice that were Caesar's eyes, and as sure as he was of his standing in favor with his general, he still had to swallow a hard lump. Instead of saying anything, he gave a simple nod, which Caesar returned, satisfied he had made his point. With that, Caesar spun around on his heel and walked to his horse, throwing himself into his saddle even as he started barking out orders to his generals around him. Pullus was left to observe the army reassembling itself and wonder what was going to happen next.
Whenever Caesar chose, he could stage a spectacle of such pomp and panoply that any of the most ostentatious of the Eastern monarchs he had encountered would be consumed with jealousy at the sight. Because of the time constraints, however, this wasn't one of those times. Still, the procession that rode up into the courtyard of the palace complex was awe-inspiring, if only for the formidable appearance of the grim, blood-spattered men who marched in solid ranks, each of them carrying an unsheathed sword. Contrary to their normal practice, Caesar had ordered every horn player to blow his instrument, not in a normal rhythmic marching tune, but in a seemingly random series of notes and tempos, making for a cacophony of sound that only the iron discipline of the Centurions prevented the men from shouting down in protest. After the first several ranks of marching men rode every member of the Roman army who was mounted. They, too, rode with unsheathed swords, with one exception. In the middle of the first rank of horsemen rode Caesar; but while he was still dressed in his muscled cuirass, instead of his helmet, he wore the oak crown that he had been entitled to wear ever since he had first won the award, when he was barely out of his teens. His scarlet paludamentum was spread carefully across the hindquarters of his horse, and adding to the spectacle, he had adorned his face with the blood-red paint that a triumphing general wore during his parade through the streets of Rome. Truly, if he had been able to procure one or had one made, he would have been riding in the quadriga, the chariot pulled by four white horses that was the conveyance of a triumphant general in Rome.
Instead he chose to ride the offspring of his famous horse Toes who, while blessed with the same strange malformation of the hooves, wasn't as sound a steed as his father. Consequently, Caesar rode him only on ceremonial occasions, knowing how important the symbolism of this horse, also called “Toes,” was to his men. This day, he was counting on it making an impact on the barbarians as well, who were kneeling in precise rows that no Centurion in his army could find fault with: every head bowed so deeply that their foreheads were touching the ground. These were the barbarians who had been rounded up by his men of the 14th, pulled from wherever they were hiding in the outbuildings and the palace, itself. Arranged behind them were men from the 14th, glowering at the bowed backs of the savages that ha
d caused them so much grief and loss. While it was true that these people, almost all men, were obviously not warriors, they were the only representatives of their people currently available. Even now, the rest of the army, save for the 12th and the 10th and one Cohort of the 14th, was scouring the city, searching every house, given very specific orders to kill any warrior they found, but under pain of flogging with the scourge, not to harm the civilians. Unfortunately, at least as far as his generals were concerned, this meant that of all the highest ranking officers, only Caesar was present in this procession. And while most of them suspected, none of them would utter aloud that this was no accident: every one of these men had known Caesar for decades by this point and all of them were sure, for their own reasons, that he was up to something, but not one of them was even remotely close in his guess.
Immediately behind the mounted contingent marched the men of the 10th Legion, but there was one difference—although it was one that the men had become accustomed to over the last week—and that was the presence of a litter, borne by several burly slaves and carrying one very disgruntled Primus Pilus of the Legion. Propped up on pillows, Pullus had revived somewhat, and was now interested enough to continue leaning out from behind the curtains that barred his view. Compounding his irritation, all Pullus was able to see clearly were the rumps of the horses ridden by the remaining German bodyguards at the rear of the mounted formation. However, if he leaned over a bit more and peered through their legs, he caught an occasional glimpse, more of an impression than a full sighting; so he wasn't convinced that he was seeing the kneeling Wa arrayed down each side of the courtyard, which was as large as the forum of the Roman army's camp. Craning his neck, he ignored the pain it caused him, as the litter carrying him advanced more deeply into the large open area, peering around the moving limbs to confirm his initial impression. What he had glimpsed was, indeed, what was taking place: barbarians were all kneeling down in the same fashion as they had in the town the army had taken early in the campaign. When had that been, Pullus wondered? Unlike any campaign in which he had taken part, this invasion seemed as if it had been going on for years, not weeks. Had it really been just a matter of three months since they had sailed from the Gayan Peninsula? Well, he decided, however long it had been, he was content to watch what he fervently hoped was the last act in this drama played out in front of him.