Looking back, Gaius Porcinus would never be able to accurately determine how much time actually elapsed from the moment the first ladders of the surprise attack had hit the wall and the point where he had his first inkling that the reserve Cohorts were holding the eastern wall. It was all a haze of pain, fear, and an agony that can only come from watching men under your care, men that you trained to the standards befitting a Legionary of Rome, fall to the flashing blades of this yellow-skinned horde. Barely able to lift a borrowed shield, his head aching abominably, Porcinus nevertheless drove himself to half-run, half-stumble to wherever his sword and body were needed along his Century front. A pitifully shallow Century formation, where he was down to three men standing in their files in most places, and he had determined some time before that even glancing back at the heaps of bodies of his men that had been rolled down the ramp of the rampart so they were out of the way was a bad idea. Just the sight of seeing what was now more than half of the Sixth Century, Tenth Cohort of the 10th Legion lying enmeshed together, in a tangle of limbs and torso, was enough to take what little energy he still had. Therefore, he resolutely kept his face turned toward the fighting, both as a way to avoid the sight, but more importantly to rush to the next trouble spot.

Along his Century's front alone stood four ladders, out of what Porcinus, when he risked a glimpse along the length of the wall, reckoned to be more than 50 that this second force had brought with them. Even through his fatigue he knew that matters were much the same for all the other Centuries as what he and his Century were facing all along the wall, and that like Porcinus' Century they were being whittled down. Now that the relief had come, however, the sight of those bobbing poles on which were affixed wooden placards declaring Century and Cohort had infused all of them with more energy. This new threat to the barbarians' rear, coupled with the efforts of the men battling on the wall signaled to Porcinus that the worst was perhaps over. Men were still climbing the ladders, but whenever Porcinus risked leaning out to take a quick look down into the ditch, he saw that the huddle of men gathered around the base of each one, waiting their turn to go up, was smaller.

"Boys, I know you're tired," Porcinus had long since shouted himself hoarse, his voice now resembling that of a frog in the throes of either agony or ecstasy, and he had to bellow out his words, "but I think this is the last of it! The bastards have had their own surprise sprung on them by Caesar, and now it's up to us to finish them off!"

No cheer came at his words, but he didn't expect one, because he knew his men's voices were no less shattered than his own. Besides, they were too tired for any extraneous display of energy, so instead he got a few grim nods, or muttered words, which was enough for him. Immediately after saying this, Gaius did risk a glance over his shoulder, but this time it was directed further inward to the fighting in the center of the camp. Initially, he was heartened to see that somehow, someway the orbis was still intact. It was smaller, but it was still unbroken, giving Porcinus a sliver of hope that they were going to survive. With that examination of the overall situation, he paused again to look to see if he could spot the giant figure of his uncle down in the forum.

He naturally looked to where the fighting was the thickest, knowing that was the most likely place where the Primus Pilus could be found. But after several heartbeats as he stared hard at the knots of men tangled together, bashing and slashing away, he couldn't see his uncle anywhere near where he had been the last time he checked. Granted, it had been some time before, but now his eye traveled the entire length of the 10th's orbis, with a steadily increasing sense of worry. Still, no sight of the largest Roman of the Legion, so he turned his attention to the part of the shrinking semicircle that belonged to the 12th, and by the time he was finished he was almost frantic. With great reluctance, Porcinus turned his attention to the row upon row of men lying so closely packed together that it was almost impossible for the remaining medici to reach a man in the middle of them. It was only after he searched each row not once but twice for sight of his uncle that he forced himself to look at the only other place left, the heaps of bodies that were, from where Porcinus stood, a gruesome attempt at a last-ditch rampart, as men were piled on top of one another like bloody logs, complete with flopping limbs hanging askew on either side.

Despite the difficulty of discerning any features of the unfortunates who would serve as the last bastion of the orbis, Porcinus was sure that if he saw the body of his uncle he would somehow know it. Then he shook himself, angry at the time he had just wasted; if his uncle the Primus Pilus was dead, his men would never make him suffer the indignity of laying among the rankers. That is when he began searching amid the clutter and debris in the desperately narrow strip between the feet of the men of the last line and where the wounded were gathered. Perhaps 15 paces, if that, and there were shattered shields, helmets, swords, and men who had just recently fallen but there hadn't been time for the medici to come assess where they would be taken, jammed side by side, or in the pile. As Porcinus' eyes traveled around this ruined patch of ground, for a moment he didn't recognize the sight of a prone man, because he was extremely close to the fighting, and in fact was almost circled by Legionaries, who appeared to be putting up a desperate and savage fight. Once Porcinus realized what he was seeing, for a brief, horrifying moment he was sure that the earth beneath him was tilting so violently that he would slide off. There was no mistaking the size of the prone Legionary, even without the helmet lying by his side. The only small blessing for Porcinus at that moment was that he wasn't close enough to see the blade protruding from his uncle's body, but he certainly didn't know that, and now that he had discovered his uncle, he stared, hard at him, willing for his Primus Pilus to move, anything to show he still lived. Titus Pullus was the only Primus Pilus Porcinus had ever followed, and with the exception of a very small handful of the senior Centurions, the same was true for the entire 10th Legion. Porcinus could no more imagine a 10th without his uncle leading it than he could marching in an army without Caesar leading it. Now, Porcinus offered up a silent prayer to every god he could think of to will his uncle to show some sign of life, any movement, no matter how small. Yet, even after the span of several normal heartbeats, he saw no sign of life.

"Centurion! Centurion Porcinus!"

Yanked from his vigil, Porcinus' head turned, slowly and reluctantly, to where his Tesseraurius, a Pandyan named Sutra was pointing to a spot along the wall where a small group of barbarians had managed to create another foothold. It took a moment for Porcinus to understand why it wasn't his Optio calling his attention to this new threat, but even as he began moving to where the man was pointing he realized that Sutra was in fact his Optio, because Odysseus was dead, and he was the next in line. Casting one glance back over his shoulder, he saw no change in his uncle's position on the ground, no sign that he was alive, and it was with a deep despair that Porcinus, more out of force of habit than anything, went back into the fight. If he had just waited a fraction longer, he would have been rewarded with the sight of a "dead" man suddenly raising his arm and beckoning to someone nearby.

"Philippus! Get over here!"

Of all the commands that Titus Pullus had uttered in his career, this was the undoubtedly the weakest, at least in terms of volume, and he had to repeat it twice before his intended target became aware that someone was saying his name. Philippus was at the back of the now three-deep line, and when he turned he was so surprised at the sight of his Primus Pilus weakly gesturing at him that he let go of the harness of the man in front of him. Realizing he was being called to come to his fallen Centurion's side, Philippus had the presence of mind to tap his comrade on the shoulder to let him know he was leaving, then hurried to kneel at Pullus' side.

"Help me up."

At first Philippus was sure he hadn't heard Pullus correctly.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid? I said help me up!"

Startled out of his disbelief, Philippus actually started to unthinkingly comply and clasped the prone man's proffered right arm, but fortunately for both of them caught himself.

"Primus Pilus, if I just pull on your arm by myself, I'm more likely to kill you than help you."

Pullus was about to snap at Philippus, but through the pain he recognized that his man was right.

"Go get some help," he said grudgingly, his reluctance at admitting this weakness emphasized by the fact the order was given through gritted teeth.

As Philippus hurried off to grab a comrade to help, a part of Pullus chided himself. What are you thinking, you idiot? You've got a sword sticking out of you, and you're in more pain than you've ever been in your life, and that's saying something. But as racked with agony as he was, once Pullus regained consciousness, even from his admittedly limited perspective and vantage point here on the ground, he knew that the 10th still had a chance to survive. He had heard the sounds of the horns outside the camp, and between that and his slaying of the Wa general, whose corpse was laying a couple dozen paces away and was still visible amid the tangle of legs of both sides, Pullus understood that he was needed, now more than ever. Once he had come back to this world, he had been cautiously pleased to see that his body weight had apparently closed the wound around the sword enough that the bleeding had stopped, although there was still a large dark stain on the ground around his upper body, sign that he had lost a substantial amount of blood. He was still sure that he was going to die, but Titus Pullus had always possessed a formidable will, and it was with this will he determined that he wasn't done just yet. Pullus was alerted to the presence of Philippus and whoever he had brought by the sight of two sets of bare, dirty and blood-spattered legs.

Craning his head to see, the Primus Pilus saw that the first man had returned with his own close comrade, a Parthian veteran who had been in the Parthian army and after Phraaspa had fallen chose to join the victors. Pullus remembered well how suspicious he had been of this man, Artabanos, but he had long since proven himself and after Philippus' close comrade had fallen during the invasion of Pandya, he and Artabanos had partnered up. As Pullus recalled, it had been the Pandyan campaign where Artabanos had in fact saved the life of his best friend Scribonius, killing a Pandyan who had managed to get behind the Pilus Prior and was about to bury a blade into his friend's back. Artabanos had been awarded the Civic Crown for that, much to the uproar of a large segment of the army, and it had caused Caesar a number of headaches, but he had steadfastly refused to heed the cries of the Romans in the ranks, including his officers, that this was an honor reserved for citizens of Rome only. What wasn't known, by anyone in the ranks, even now, was that it had been Titus Pullus who had prevailed on Caesar to award Artabanos this decoration, which the giant Roman had never regretted doing. It wasn't just because of gratitude for the identity of who had been saved; Pullus was grateful, but he had a more practical goal. While he had been just as opposed to the full integration of non-Romans into not just the ranks but into the customs and benefits that Roman citizenship brought, like Caesar he had recognized that not only was it vital to keep the ranks full, if it was going to be done, it had to be done all the way, and not in half-measures. Now it was Philippus and Artabanos who squatted on either side of him, ready to help him up.

"Primus Pilus, your bleeding has stopped. If we sit you up, it's a certainty that we'll open the wound again," Artabanos' Latin was still accented but easily understood.

"That's my worry, not yours," Pullus growled, even as he knew that the Parthian was right.

However, he didn't have the time to explain and argue that he knew he was going to die, and that he was going to sit up whether they helped or not. The two men exchanged a glance that Pullus saw, but didn't make any further comment about. With a grim nod to his comrade, Artabanos put his hand, as gently as he could, under Pullus' left shoulder pressed into the dirt. Even that slight movement caused a fresh spate of sweat to start pouring down the Roman's face, but he stifled the groan, not wanting to give any reason for the two to hesitate. With Philippus clasping the giant's forearm, the two of them still strained to bring Pullus slowly to an upright sitting position. Even before they were finished, for a horrified instant Pullus was sure that he would faint, such was the agony, and he felt a sudden gush of warmth on his chest and back, sign that he had indeed started bleeding again. Somehow, he managed to keep his head as he was hauled to a position where his upper torso was upright, his legs splayed out in front of him. It took a moment for the dizziness to subside to a point where Pullus was reasonably sure that he wouldn't immediately pass out. But he also knew that he was only halfway there, and his jaws were already aching from how tightly clenched his teeth were.

"All right, pull me up the rest of the way," he finally said, holding up his right arm.

While he could still wiggle the fingers of his left arm, even that slight a movement caused a paroxysm of agony that Pullus was so sure would cause him to lose consciousness that he made absolutely sure to keep his left arm as still as possible. With both men grasping his right arm, they nevertheless could barely pull their Primus Pilus to his feet, and as painful as the last several moments had been for Pullus, this last bit made all that seem a trifle. The sounds of the fighting that he had become accustomed to suddenly seemed to take on an echoing quality, and the bright sunshine present just a heartbeat earlier suddenly fled, as if the gods had chosen to darken the sun as they had on a number of occasions during Pullus' lifetime, suddenly bathing the scene in front of his eyes in an eerie dimness.

Still, neither man knew how, Titus Pullus was back on his two feet, weaving as if he had downed an amphora of wine, and with the gruesomely odd sight of a sword protruding from both sides of his body. But he was upright, and astonishing the two men even more, he took a very wobbly, tentative step forward. Almost toppling over, he nevertheless waved both men away with a snarled warning that was as close to a whimper as either men would ever hear from their leader.

"Where's my sword?" Pullus' voice was almost unrecognizable, so strained and hoarse it was, but by this point neither man was shocked by what was happening.

Just as Caesar had done over the years, Titus Pullus was even then adding to his legend. But after a quick search of the area around them, neither man saw sight of Pullus' treasured Gallic blade. Thinking quickly, Philippus drew his and offered it to his Primus Pilus, hilt first. Looking down at it, Pullus actually had to try to grasp it twice because there were two of them and he grabbed the wrong one first. But he did manage, automatically wrapping his fingers around his thumb in the unorthodox grip that was now second nature, not just to him but to every man of the 10th Legion, and truth be known, a fair number of the men marching in the other Legions.

Pullus, sweat streaming down his face in rivulets, began surveying the scene around him, eyes narrowed as he looked for some point in the fighting where he thought his presence was needed. Fortunately for him, he didn't have far to look, or to travel. In a rough semicircle, the men in his immediate vicinity who had formed a protective pocket around what they thought was the corpse of their Primus Pilus, were even then being pushed so hard that in the amount of time it had taken the two Legionaries to help Pullus to his feet, the gap that had been about a dozen paces wide was down to a little more than half that.

Nodding his head in that direction, Pullus told the two men, "Walk on either side of me, and whatever you do, don't let me fall or I'll flay the both of you."

Even with the harsh words, both men grinned; this was the Pullus they knew, feared and loved in equal measure.

"Don't worry Primus Pilus, we won't let you down," Philippus joked, pleased to see a shadow of a grin on Pullus' face at the play on words.

Slowly but steadily, they made their way the short distance to a spot where Pullus was just behind the worst of the fighting.

"What are you cunni loafing off for? Do you really need me to do everything for you?"

For a brief moment there was no reaction from the men within earshot, but it was from disbelief more than they didn't hear, and as the supporting men turned their heads, once Pullus saw that eyes were on him, he raised his borrowed sword high above his head. Only Titus Pullus would ever know the effort, and the agony that this simple gesture took, but to the men who saw it, it was a sight they would remember for the rest of their lives.

"Kill. These. Bastards!"

Pullus roared this, and while he might have known the cost of raising the sword, he never would know where the strength to bellow those words came from, but in that moment, he was the Primus Pilus of the 10th Legion that his men had followed for all these years. And despite the fact that not one of those men had any voice left themselves, the answering roar they gave back rang out so loudly that it echoed off the camp walls. Titus Pullus had risen from the dead; if that was possible, how could they lose?

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