Gasping for breath, Felix tried to ignore the steadily growing pain in his side, knowing that if he felt it so did his men. But he wouldn't let that stop him, the example of Artaxades, whose name he would never know, clear in his mind and spurring him on. Behind him the sound of hobnail boots hitting the rocky road surface, clanking bits of metal hitting each other, and the panting of almost an entire Legion of men filled Felix's ears. They were a little more than a mile away from the northern camp by Felix's reckoning, but the only time he had visited the camp in the short period of time they had before the attack, he hadn't thought to memorize the details of the approach. It simply hadn't occurred to him. However, he thought he remembered that there was a dip in the ridge a little less than a mile from the camp and once they traversed down into it and climbed back up, it was less than a half mile to the camp. That's what he thought, at least, but he wouldn't know if he was right until they got there. And that was what was important at that moment, getting there. Felix didn't envy the men of the rearmost Cohorts, eating the dust raised by the thousands of running feet in front of them, but over the years every man in Caesar's army had occasion to do the same. Never before had it been in such an important cause as this, but at the moment the dust was just like any other dust that had to be choked through and endured, and Felix knew they would. The other problem that Felix had to sort out was how to deploy the Cohorts with him, on the run and quickly enough that the element of surprise wasn't lost. He understood that there wasn't any way to get all eight Cohorts in a single line; not only would it take too long, there wasn't enough room, and that wouldn't help getting into the camp. Consequently, as he ran, he made the decision to deploy the first four Cohorts in the column in a manner similar to what Statius had done at Caesar's camp, despite not knowing how Statius' attack had transpired. The one difference was that Felix wasn't willing to spare the time to send part of his force to the far, northern gate. Instead he decided to feed at least the first four Cohorts through the two closest gates, and only then would he have one or two of the other Cohorts make their way to the northern gate.

Now that he had decided what to do, Felix realized that despite his desperate desire to get to the camp as quickly as possible, he would have to call a halt, at the very least to pass on his orders if nothing else. As he thought about it, the more he realized that in order to give this attack the best chance for success, especially since he had no idea exactly what was happening, he would have to make some quick decisions about which Cohorts would be the first into the camp. Just as he came to that decision, the road made a gentle, sweeping bend and tilted downward, and Felix recognized that this was the dip for which he had been waiting. Once he was sure, he immediately slowed down to the normal pace they used for marching, and since he had forbidden the use of any of the cornu once they left Caesar's camp, there was some confusion as each Century almost ran into the back of the preceding one as they slowed. Fortunately, there weren't any major entanglements or injuries, although a few men tripped over their feet and went sprawling onto the rocky road. Felix wasn't aware of any of this, his mind instead absorbed with what needed to happen next. Reaching the point where the road began to slope back upward, he held up his hand to signal a halt, then stepped to the side of his Century, looking back down the long column. This was going to be the worst and most nerve-wracking time for Felix, because the signal he gave to his Cohort signifer, a raising and lowering of the standard three times in quick succession, had to then be relayed all the way to the last Cohort. That signal was for all the Pili Priores, the commanders of the Cohorts, to come immediately to the front, at the double. But when it's in a formation of slightly more than 3,000 men, valuable moments inevitably passed, moments Felix was keenly aware could not afford to be lost. But to give this attack the best chance of success, he had to force himself to take the time. After what seemed like a full watch, but was probably no more than a tenth of that, the other 7 Pili Priores were standing in front of him, chests heaving, sweat streaming down their faces.

"Right on the other side of this hill we'll be in view of the 10th's camp," Felix announced, glad that he at least had the chance to catch his breath since he was the one talking. "And if I remember correctly, it's a little more than 3 stadia to the Porta Praetoria."

He paused for a moment, but nobody said anything, every Centurion paying close attention to him.

"We need to get into the camp the quickest way there is, and since we don't have ladders, and we didn't bring any hooks to pull the palisade down, we're going to have to go through the gates."

Now a couple of the men exchanged glances, but Felix chose to ignore the dubious looks they were giving each other.

"So I've decided that we're going to crest the hill, in a double column of Cohorts. My Cohort will be on the right, and I want the Sixth Cohort from the 14th on the left. This will give the Sixth a shorter line to the southern gate, while my Cohort heads for the eastern. Right behind me I want the Eighth of my Legion, but I'll let you," Felix indicated one of the Centurions, a stocky, swarthy man with thick eyebrows and coarse black hair that made him look perpetually unshaved, "decide who follows the Sixth."

 His name was Aulus Frontinus, and although he nodded that he understood, he didn't look particularly happy about being given the ability to choose who would support his Cohort. Again, Felix ignored Frontinus' clear misgivings as he continued to pass on his orders.

"While the first two Cohorts are going through their gates, I want the next two Cohorts to head all the way to the northern gate. Ideally I'd like to wait for them to get in place before we go, but I don't think we'll have the time. That is, I don't think the 10th and 12th have the time," he finished grimly. Looking about, he asked, "Are there any questions?"

"Are we all going to be in this double column?"

Felix thought a moment then shook his head.

"No, I don't think it's as important for anyone but the first two Cohorts through each gate. The rest of you can follow us in single column. But remember, the next two Cohorts are going to the northern gate. Let's decide now who it will be."

After a quick discussion, the identities of the next two Cohorts were determined, and all that was left was the disposition of the final two. Felix announced that one Cohort would follow the leading pair to the southern gate, the other to the eastern. Once that was decided, Felix dismissed the men to return to move into position.

"I hope this works," he heard one of the Pili Priores mutter to another.

"So do I," the other man replied, still moving away so that Felix could barely hear the last part.

"Because if it doesn't we're all dead men one way or the other."

Just moments after Caesar heard the three blasts of the cornu, he and his remaining men were rewarded by the sight of Legionaries streaming through the three gates, where they quickly formed up into their Century formations. Although the original plan that Statius had sketched out was to wait long enough for at least three Centuries from each of the lead Cohorts to form up and align side by side before launching their attack, the sight of their comrades in such extremis, surrounded by what was still a few thousand barbarian warriors, quickly dispelled his best intentions. In fact, it was Statius himself who, completely forgetting his own plan, immediately led his own Century headlong into the seething mass of Wa, those in the rearmost ranks just beginning to understand the new threat and turning to face it. In the part of the Wa lines that Statius had chosen, most of the warriors didn't make it, so they were either turned obliquely or still had their backs turned when the Centurion and his men slammed into their midst.

Within the space of a few heartbeats, almost a dozen Wa had fallen or been pushed backward into their comrades, who were just becoming aware of the danger. Jammed together as they were, lending their weight by leaning against the men in front of them, who were doing the same in turn, all the way up to the edge of the makeshift parapet, the Wa of the rear ranks were hampered by the man on either side as they attempted to spin about and face the new threat. Statius and his men took full advantage, and very quickly, Statius' sword was wet almost to the hilt, just like most of his men. Bashing with their shields or punching the points of their swords up and out in short, gutting stabs, Statius and his men punched a huge hole in the ranks of those Wa nearest to the eastern gate where the Romans had entered. Even as they did so, Statius heard another roar, the same cry of "Caesar Triumphant" as the Second Century, or what he assumed was the Second, got organized and threw themselves into the battle. Out of the corner his eye, Statius got a glimpse of a row of Roman helmets, slightly behind him and to his right, the sign that whoever it was had started their own attack and were now engaged.

That was the only attention he could pay to the overall situation before he was occupied by a sudden spear thrust from one of the yellow-faced warriors across from him, the man's face contorted in a mask of fear and rage as he whipped the teardrop-shaped blade upward in answer to Statius' first parry. The move surprised Statius, and he barely avoided having the edge slice upward into his lower jaw by leaning over backwards, but he still felt the disturbed wind on his cheek as the blade slashed by in a blur. Just then the Legionary to Statius' right sidestepped a half-step to the right, aiming his own blade at the spear-wielding Wa, who was in the process of recovering the weapon in preparation to strike again. Now it was the barbarian's turn to twist desperately to the side, but over the other noises Statius heard the man give a shout of pain as the other Roman's blade sliced through the leather lamellar along the man's ribs. In the instant it took for the man to withdraw, Statius could see a long red line marking where his man had scored, and it was this small gap that he aimed for in his own attack. More out of desperation than anything else, the Wa whipped his spear around in a sweeping blow that caught Statius by surprise. Even in mid-lunge, he violently twisted his torso to avoid the slashing spearhead, but he was only partially successful. Almost simultaneously, the point of Statius' sword punched into and through the ribs of the Wa, as the edge of the barbarian's spear sliced diagonally downward, starting at a spot just below Statius' left eye. Statius' head snapped back from the impact, which ironically enough saved his life, although the blade ripped through his cheek, smashed out his front teeth and cleaved his lower jaw in two.

Staggering to the side from the blow, Statius' plight was worsened by the fact that because of the awkward angle caused by his attempt to avoid the Wa's spear, he had violated the primary rule of a thrust to the ribs while keeping the blade parallel to the ground, instead of perpendicular like his sword now was, buried in the chest cavity of the Wa. When the barbarian collapsed the blade was lodged firmly in the man's ribs, caught in the cartilage as if it were in a vise, and Statius felt the sword ripped from his grasp, even as he continued falling to the ground, a gout of blood, and bits of teeth preceding him. Although he was still conscious, he suddenly no longer seemed connected to what had been taking place just a heartbeat before, as if it was no longer important. The sounds were still there, ringing in his ears, and he heard someone shout his name once, then twice, but his mouth couldn't form the answer to the call. Lying partially facedown, he saw a pool of blood slowly form around his ruined mouth, and he was finding it difficult to breathe. All around him he could see feet, some of them clad in the Roman caligae, others wearing what appeared to be some sort of sandal but with a leather strap protruding from between the toes, which Statius found strange. They were dancing about, kicking up dirt, some of which flew into his face, further clouding his vision, but he had the presence of mind to know that the only reason he hadn't felt the thrust of a blade between his shoulder blades is because he hadn't moved and the barbarians thought him dead. Consequently, he forced himself to refrain from reaching up to wipe the dirt from his face and eyes, or to check his injuries, which he knew were serious. Only after his men pushed these bastards back would it be safe to move, so until that moment came, Statius resigned himself to laying still and suffering in silence as the fighting continued to rage around him. He was out of the fight now, and it was up to the rest of the men of these four Cohorts to save Caesar, and as he lay there, he offered up prayers to every god he could think of to make it so.

Time, movement, noise, everything seemed to have come to a stop to Sextus Scribonius as he stood watching helplessly as the Wa general thrust his sword into the chest of his best friend and Primus Pilus of the Legion. Scribonius had become aware that something abnormal was taking place down the line from his spot with his Second Cohort, and in a brief lull in the fighting, he had moved along behind his men who were still in the fight, closer to the source of whatever strange thing was taking place. That's when he had seen Titus Pullus, facing one of the barbarians, in a cleared space as the two men did their best to kill the other one. Scribonius wasn't sure at what point in the fight he showed up, but he did see that for all intents and purposes the men immediately surrounding the two combatants had stopped their own private battles to watch the one between these two champions. In fact, this wasn't all that uncommon; Scribonius had witnessed such scenes personally on two separate occasions, but those fights had involved the enemy king on one occasion, and the crown prince of his people the other.

That was what gave Scribonius the idea that the barbarian that Pullus was facing was of a similar stature to his people, because from his perspective, it looked very much like it was the barbarians who had halted their attack and were content to warily watch the Legionaries across from them, and the two combatants. As far as the Romans were concerned, any respite was welcome, so they were unlikely to disrupt this lull in the fighting. Instead, just like their foes, they were watching their Primus Pilus and shouting encouragement to him as the two men fought. Scribonius wasn't sure what he had missed, but just bare moments after he arrived at his current vantage point, he saw Pullus make his strike that damaged the barbarian's helmet, saw the blood flowing down the man's face as he staggered backward, slashing his sword wildly in an attempt to keep his foe from pressing home his advantage. But for what reason Scribonius couldn't fathom, his friend seemed to hesitate, and in that pause he gave the Wa the chance he needed to discard his helmet.

Scribonius had noticed that Pullus didn't have a shield, and he was too far away to see the remnants of it on the ground, and a part of him worried that his giant friend had once more given in to his own hubris and disdained the use of a shield since these savages didn't carry one. Then, as Scribonius watched in horrified disbelief, the barbarian struck, and this was the moment that seemed to freeze all existence as the Wa's blade struck his friend and just....kept going. Even if he had been close enough, Scribonius probably wouldn't have heard the barbarian's savage shout as he made his lunge, so mesmerized was he by a sight that he truly believed was impossible. Pullus' blade had swept upward, it was true, but he had started his movement too late, so that he barely altered the trajectory of the thrusting blade. But, he did alter it, and the point punched into his body less than an inch below his left clavicle. Still, there was enough force behind the thrust that the point not only penetrated the chain mail in the front, but it continued to travel through Pullus' muscular upper chest and the bone of his shoulder blade, then punch through the mail in back to protrude a couple of inches out of Pullus' back. Scribonius let out an anguished moan, almost as if he was the one struck, and indeed it was almost a physical pain that he felt watching his best friend skewered like a roasted chicken on an enemy blade. At the exact same time, there was a huge, collective gasping moan that was almost immediately drowned out by an exultant roar as the respective sides either mourned or celebrated.

Remarkably, the only one who seemed unaffected was Pullus, who remained standing and in fact just barely rocked backward as the sword entered his body. For the remainder of his time on earth, Sextus Scribonius would never be able to accurately determine just how much time elapsed during a moment that seemed to last longer than any other of his entire life. Everything seemed to be moving in extraordinarily slow motion and despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to move, to run to his friend's aid, he couldn't seem to lift his feet, or move a muscle for that matter. So he was a mute spectator as he watched Pullus standing, the Wa general across from him, one hand still on the hilt of the sword buried in Pullus' body, his body extended with his right foot forward, his arm straight out from his body  in what could have been a painting illustrating the perfect sword thrust. While Scribonius couldn't see Pullus' face, he could see the barbarian's, or the half that wasn't covered in blood, and he got the strong sense that the two men were staring each other in the eye. Then, Pullus' left hand moved, still seemingly very slowly, up to his chest, his hand reaching up as if to feel the wound in his chest, maybe to see if it was real or if like Scribonius, he didn't believe what had happened. Seeing that motion, the barbarian made his own, what Scribonius was sure was his preparatory movement to twist the blade before withdrawing it. But somehow, as slowly as Pullus' hand seemed to move, it still reached the Wa's blade before the barbarian could do as he planned. Pullus' hand closed around the blade, the top of his fist hard up against his mail, and that was when Scribonius saw a change in the expression of the barbarian general. Giving a grim smile, as if to tell Pullus that whatever he had in mind was futile, Scribonius saw the muscles of the Wa's arm tense as he began to remove the blade.

But Scribonius, better than anyone else left alive, could have told this barbarian that while he didn't know it, he was making a vain attempt, because he knew the strength of that grip. When they had been tirones, and they had been trained by their first weapons instructor Aulus Vinicius, he had instructed them in the grip that every man that had been in the First Century, Second Cohort of the 10th Legion, and now every man in this enlistment of the 10th Legion was trained to use. As part of that training, Vinicius had made the recruits in his charge perform a special exercise to strengthen their sword hand. Taking a bucket of sand, they would thrust their hand into the bucket, with their fingers splayed wide apart, and bury their hand up to the wrist. Then they would contract their fingers into a fist, which was still in the sand. Vinicius made his tiros perform this every day for the first three months of their probationary period, but like with anything in the army, there were men who did the bare minimum. Then there was Titus Pullus, and Scribonius remembered very well that this was his first indication that this giant specimen who stood next to him in the ranks wasn't just an overgrown, heavily muscled simpleton. Not only did Pullus do twice the number of repetitions of the exercise prescribed for him, he did the exercises with his left hand as well as his right. When seeing him do this one day, his tentmates teased him unmercifully, but the young giant was undeterred. Unlike the others, Scribonius wasn't the kind to mock others, even when they seemed to be doing foolish things, and one night he asked Pullus why he was doing something for the hand that wasn't going to be holding his sword.

"I might not be holding a sword with my left hand," Pullus had replied, "but I'm going to be holding a shield. And I'll be damned if some filthy barbarian knocks it out of my hand. Besides," he finished with a shrug, "you never know when it might come in handy."

From that day on, Sextus had followed Titus' example, and had been following his example whenever he could, ever since. That conversation was in Scribonius' mind as he watched now, as Pullus' hand clutched the blade of the Wa sword, and the Wa's expression began to change as his level of effort to retrieve his sword increased. Pullus was still looking at the barbarian, still unmoving otherwise, his hand still perfectly immobile hard up against his body. Scribonius was certain that at first the barbarian general, knowing the eyes of all of his men were on him, didn't want to appear to be exerting himself, but now he gave up all pretense of ease to begin yanking at the sword with what had to be tremendous force. Yet, not only did Pullus still hold the sword, Scribonius saw that with every jerk by the Wa, his arm barely moved, even more evidence of his friend's massive strength. Still, Scribonius knew firsthand how sharp these bastards' swords were, and Pullus' hand had to be paying a terrible price as the Wa continued trying to remove the blade. Even as this thought came to Scribonius, he saw the first trickle of blood running down Pullus' arm from his palm. At that same instant, he also noticed something else. Pullus' sword, which he had been holding with the point toward the ground, began moving, making very tiny circles.

Scribonius felt a grim, cautious smile come to his face, having seen that small motion many, many times before, although the times he had seen it he hadn't appreciated it very much. Just like with the exercises, which Pullus continued religiously, he never stopped training with his sword, and his most frequent sparring partner was his best friend. Not once, not ever had Scribonius ever beaten his friend, but he was immensely proud of the fact that on a total of four occasions over the years, he had battled his Primus Pilus to a draw. But every other time, Scribonius had been forced to take his lumps, and the only reason he did was that he knew if he could last any length of time with Pullus, he stood an excellent chance of walking away from every battle he ever fought. The times he knew he was in trouble, however, came when he saw the same thing he was seeing now, Pullus making those tiny little circles with his blade, because it meant that he was toying with his opponent, that he had taken his foe's measure and now was just going to enjoy himself. Titus Pullus wasn't a cruel man, necessarily, but he never wanted to leave any doubt in any man's mind who was the best swordsman in the Roman army.

Now, Scribonius understood, he was about to make this Wa pay, even if Pullus was mortally wounded, which was a thought that Scribonius tried to banish the moment it crossed his mind. Oblivious to what was about to happen, the Wa, for the first and last time in his long career, as illustrious and admired by his own countrymen as Pullus' was, let his pride get the better of him. Infuriated by this......this grubworm who refused to know when he was dead, and had the effrontery to think that he couldn't even retrieve his own sword, the Wa put every bit of his strength into his effort, finally deigning to grasp the hilt with his other hand as well. As he did so, he continued staring into the giant grubworm's eyes, satisfied that at least his face was streaming sweat and was even paler than the barbarians were normally. The giant's jaws were clenched, and despite himself, the Wa general felt a surge of respect as his foe refused to cry out. He couldn't even fathom the pain the barbarian was feeling, and the nagging thought crossed his mind that perhaps these grubworms weren't really human, but just resembled men the way some animals looked similar but weren't the same. Finally, the giant's mouth opened after a particularly vicious jerk of the sword, and the Wa took a savage delight in the idea that at least he would force a howl of pain from this thing. Instead, he heard a string of gibberish that he was sure only his dogs would understand.

"You don't really think that you can defeat us, do you? That you could defeat me?" Pullus asked, even as he knew the barbarian had no idea what he was saying.

But it wasn't his purpose to be understood; his goal was something else entirely. He saw the corners of his enemy's one visible eye crinkle in puzzlement as the barbarian tried to decipher what Pullus was saying, and Pullus watched, wondering if he would die before he saw what he was looking for.

"Your mother's a whore, and I swear after I kill you that I'm going to find your family and fuck your wife, and kill your children," Pullus hissed through clenched teeth, and this time, while the Wa didn't understand his words, there was no mistaking the menace in the tone.

The Wa, wanting to make sure that this grubworm knew who had taken his life, opened his mouth to tell this arrogant barbarian his name and ancestry.

He never saw the sword; even Scribonius, who had just divined what was about to happen, didn't see anything more than a silver blur. One instant, Pullus' sword was pointed at the dirt, still making the little circles, then the point was aimed almost skyward, glistening with blood, brain matter and pieces of skull. Just like Pullus' left hand was hard up against his body still, now his right hand was almost pressed against the barbarian's open mouth, separated only by the hand guard of the sword. The Wa general's eyes, or at least the one that Scribonius could see clearly, was opened wider than he had ever seen from any of these barbarians, such was the man's surprise and shock, the last emotions he would ever experience. That tableau was frozen into Scribonius' mind; Pullus, still grasping the Wa sword embedded in his shoulder, his right arm straight out but slightly lowered because of the Wa's shorter stature, and the man who Scribonius had been sure had killed his best friend dangling from his friend's sword. The Wa general's body had gone slack, and even as strong as Pullus was, the dead weight of the body dragged his arm down, but still Pullus stood for a couple of heartbeats longer, holding a dead man on his sword, and surrounded by a sudden and almost total silence. Then, he dropped his sword arm, kicked the dead man off his blade and still clutching the sword, turned and took a few staggering steps before going to his knees. Only then did the silence break, as it was now the turn of the 10th Legion to roar their defiance and exultation, and the Wa to howl in despair.

Accompanying the sudden sound there was a burst of movement as the fighting immediately resumed, but this time it was the Romans rushing forward, throwing themselves at the Wa, who seemed to be in a collective state of shock that allowed scores of Legionaries to make their easiest kills of the entire battle. Sextus Scribonius was oblivious to all of that, and in fact completely forgot his duties as he went sprinting to his friend's side, who at that moment was being surrounded by his men in a protective cordon while one of the first Legionaries to his side knelt beside his Primus Pilus. Scribonius was there an instant later, his heart pounding not from exertion but fear of what he would find. Pullus was still kneeling, but only because now two men, one on either side, were holding him up, while the giant Roman's head was bowed, his eyes closed.

"Titus," Scribonius gasped as he slid to a stop and dropped to his knees, his good hand reaching out for his friend's shoulders. As he did so he snapped at one of the other kneeling men, "What are you sitting there for? Go get a medici! NOW!"

Turning his attention back to Pullus, he saw that his eyes were still closed, and Scribonius was too scared to feel for a pulse. Instead, he called his friend's name again, and again. With a shaking hand, Scribonius reached up to place two fingers on his friend's neck. It was at that moment that Scribonius heard the same blast from the cornu that Porcinus had, with much the same reaction. However, it stayed his hand as he looked over his shoulder, sure that he was hearing things. Then, the horn sounded again. And Titus Pullus opened his eyes.

All posts by R.W. Peake on blog.rwpeake.com are copyrighted by the author, 2012.