It was only because of the shouted
warning of one of his men that Felix turned in time to see one of the
barbarians, this one wearing a helmet mounted with the wings of some white
bird, come lunging at him with a screaming shout and upraised sword. Barely
able to get his shield up in time, Felix just managed to block the massive blow
that shook Felix all the way down to the soles of his caligae. Before he could answer, the barbarian had recovered his
blade and in seemingly one fluid motion changed the direction and angle of his
thrust, going from a high overhand downward thrust to a vicious,
upward-traveling slicing swing that originate from a point beneath Felix's
shield. Somehow Felix managed to deflect the Wa's blade with his own so that it
went flashing diagonally by, across the Roman's body. This put the Wa in a
vulnerable position, and again showing why the Legions of Rome valued the
shield for both its defensive and offensive capabilities, Felix gave a hard
horizontal thrust with his left arm. The shield, its metal boss leading the
way, punched out at the barbarian general, and this time it was the Wa's turn
for a desperate movement, twisting his body backward so that, while the boss
struck him on his right shoulder, by giving way the impact was lessened. Still,
it was a painful blow and Felix was rewarded with a hissing sound exploding
from the barbarian's lips, but he had no time to savor the moment because again
his enemy's blade came flashing at him, this time with the point aimed directly
for his eyes. With a slight turn and dip of his head, the point of the Wa's
blade only struck a glancing blow high on Felix's helmet, but it was enough to
cause lights to explode behind Felix's eyes. Fighting the surge of panic at his
momentary sightlessness, Felix in turn made an overhand thrust at the last spot
he had seen the barbarian just before the Wa landed his blow. While it missed,
having the point of a sharp blade jabbed right at you is enough to disturb even
the most disciplined man, and the Wa's recoiling jump backward gave Felix
enough time for his sight to clear.

Just in time to move his shield to
block yet another strike from his opponent, catching the point with the boss,
making a clanging sound and striking sparks as the blade bounced harmlessly
off. In much the same way that the Wa had recognized the strengths and
advantages of his opponent's style of fighting, a part of Felix was no less
appreciative that these yellow-skinned barbarians were exceptionally skilled,
able to move with a rapidity and fluid grace that Felix wished he, and the rest
of his men for that matter, possessed. Where a Roman would strike with his
sword one time, in that same span of time these barbarians seemed to be able to
do the same at least twice, if not more times, and while Felix had no idea how
they did it, each blow still managed to carry the same amount of force as that
of the average Legionary. Only men like Titus Pullus and a handful of others
could match these men in pure skill, Felix realized, but they lacked the
discipline and teamwork of the Legions. He didn't even want to think of how
formidable these barbarians would be if these two strengths were combined, and
the detached part of Felix's mind hoped that if they survived this day, Caesar
would figure out a way to train his Legions to take advantage of what these
yellow bastards could do with a sword. Both men had paused to catch their
breath, the Wa general glaring at his opponent who stared at him from above the
rim of his shield, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"I will gut you like a
fisherman guts a fish," the Wa general taunted, completely forgetting that
this grubworm wasn't civilized enough to understand language.

Felix, while he didn't understand
the words, clearly comprehended the meaning, and in answer made a motioning
gesture with his sword, inviting the barbarian to do his worst.

"You sound like a pig
grunting," Felix taunted, eliciting the exact same response from the Wa.

Not understanding the words but
needing no translator, the general leaped into the air with a grace that gave
witness to the hundreds of watches he spent practicing maneuvers like this. The
sudden movement caused Felix to react, the point of his sword suddenly striking
out like a snake, but in the delay between what his eyes saw, his brain
commanded, and his arm obeyed, the spot where he aimed his thrust was now
empty. His right arm was now fully extended, and anticipating that this would
be Felix's move, the general had already begun his downward swing, the blade of
his sword arcing in what could only be described as a beautifully precise
semicircle when, in yet another one of those accidents of battle that the
beneficiaries usually attribute to an act of the gods, the warrior next to the
general had just taken a thrust from a Roman sword to the throat and staggered
sideways, bumping into the general just as the sword was perhaps halfway in its
arc of travel. While it would have made a slightly diagonal strike across
Felix's forearm, severing the Pilus Prior's sword arm and probably leading to
his death, instead the general's body was jarred enough that the blade turned
so that it missed Felix's arm by no more than a hand span. But what this also
did was upset the general's stance and throw him off balance, so that in that
instant after his sword missed its target, and before he could recover himself,
the Wa general was vulnerable. And Felix didn't waste the opportunity provided
him.

Bringing his already extended sword
up in a straight line, it brought the edge of his blade up and directly into
the Wa general's throat, the point tearing into the soft flesh directly
underneath his chin. Although there wasn't a lot of force behind it, since his
arm was already extended, it was nevertheless a damaging blow, the Wa's head
snapping back in a spray of blood and exposing his throat. Felix made a leaping
step forward, his arm still extended out before him so that the point of the
blade entered the Wa's body right above his Adam's apple, the Centurion only
stopping when he felt the grate of the bone that supported the man's head. When
he felt that resistance, he immediately moved his arm sideways, slicing through
the carotid artery and most of the muscles of the neck, causing the Wa's head,
weighted down by the helmet as it was, to suddenly tilt grotesquely to one
side. For a couple of heartbeats, the barbarian stood there, blood spraying in
a bright arc as his heart continued beating, his eyes registering the same
shock that almost every man experiences at his own sudden death, before
collapsing in a heap. There was a moment's pause, then the Romans around Felix
erupted in a roar of savage joy, knowing that their Pilus Prior had slain an
important man. Immediately around the Wa general, his men let out howls of
despair, but continued their fight with even more fury than before. Unlike
their leader, they hadn't thought about the larger situation; all they knew was
their job, which was to obey, and to die should their commander order it. And
now that their leader was down, all that was left for them to do was to
continue killing, even though it meant their certain death.

 

The sun, which almost every man of
Caesar's army would have sworn would never, ever set, was now just barely above
the low horizon, and for the first time that day, the prevailing sound was
silence. At least, it was silent when compared to the sound and fury of a
battle that had begun not that long after dawn. In the northern camp, there was
not much other than smoke, ruin, and a level of carnage that nobody in Caesar's
army, not even those veterans of Gaul who had been at Alesia, had ever
witnessed before. If one stood in the middle of the camp and just listened,
they would have sworn they heard the keening of a relentless, lonely wind. But
the breeze was almost nonexistent; taking its place was the sound of thousands
of wounded, on both sides, each of them speaking a universal language of
suffering and pain. Sextus Scribonius stood, as he had been standing for some
time, too weary to move, or to give any orders for that matter. He was afraid
to sit down, sure that if he did he would never be able to stand, so instead he
just.......stood there. His mind was almost as empty as the rest of his body,
barely able to register the sights, sounds and smells around him. All he knew
for sure was that somehow, he had no idea how, the camp hadn't fallen. Anything
more complex than that, even for someone as brilliant as Scribonius, was beyond
him. All around him, men were shuffling as if they were sleepwalking, most of
them doing nothing more strenuous or involved than checking on fallen comrades
to see if they still lived. If so, they would raise a hand and try to call for
the attention of a medici to come and
aid the wounded man they had found. Even this taxed them, as they shuffled from
one pile of bodies to another, bending over and pulling aside the barbarian
bodies, using their dagger on any Wa that showed any sign of life. Scribonius
watched all of this, with a detached interest that was the best effort that he
could muster, watching mutely as men went about their grisly business. Then, a medici, his tunic completely black from
all of the blood in which he had been forced to wade this day, approached him,
with an expression that Scribonius couldn't readily interpret.

"Pilus Prior, can you come
with me?" the medici's accent
betrayed a Pandyan heritage, if his dark skin hadn't already proclaimed it.

Scribonius found it difficult to
summon interest in what this man was saying, but he forced himself to respond.

"Why? Surely you don't need me
to tell you if someone's alive or dead."

The medici hesitated, and something in his manner triggered a slight
spurt of interest in the Pilus Prior.

"It concerns the Primus
Pilus," the medici replied.

"Ah," Scribonius'
curiosity faded, not willing to deal with this detail despite knowing that it
was inevitable. Couldn't these bastards allow a man to grieve for his best
friend for just a few moments, he wondered? "Well, I'm sure there are
other men who need your help more than he does."

The medici's reaction confused Scribonius, because the man hesitated
again, as if there was something more than the routine requirement of deciding
what to do with his friend's body.

"I doubt that," the other
man replied. "He's alive, so he needs us just as much as anyone. More,
probably," the medici added.

Scribonius stared in disbelief; he
was so sure that last conversation with Pullus would be the final time he would
ever speak to his friend, his tired mind unable to fully comprehend what it was
hearing.

"He's...alive?"
Scribonius gasped.

The medici nodded, but his expression was grim.

"Yes, he is. I don't know how,
and I don't know for how long, but yes, right now he's still alive. And he's
asking for you."

 

In Caesar's camp, the general was
in much the same state as his Secundus Pilus Prior of the 10th, but he had the
luxury of being attended by the handful of his slaves and staff that had
somehow survived. Statianus' attack, with his four Cohorts, had shattered the
Wa assault, although it had been at a grievous cost. Even so, these four
Cohorts, along with a scratch force that Caesar had thrown together of what
remained of his forces defending the barricade, numbering about a full Cohort
strong, were pursuing the barbarians. However, Caesar had given strict orders
for the pursuit not to go more than halfway down the slope, because as
shattered as this Wa force was, until he knew what the situation was in the
other camps, his army was still in great danger. As exhausted as he was,
Caesar's mind was still hard at work, directing not just the caring for his
wounded and tallying his losses, but already putting men to work at cleaning
away any debris that might hinder a defense if there was in fact another
assault. Most of the camp was a smoking ruin, especially the half of the camp
between the western wall, where the assault had come from, and the forum. After
thinking about it for a moment, Caesar had ordered that the makeshift barricade
not only stay in place, but improved.

The wall was being repaired as
well, although the ditches were still filled with the bodies of the Wa who had
served the same purpose as the fascines,
the bundles of sticks that were piled on top of each other to fill a ditch.
Unfortunately he couldn't spare the men or the time to toss the bodies out of
the ditch, so that this would enable the Wa to cross with no impediment, but it
couldn't be helped. Someone had found a stool, and although it was something
Caesar normally wouldn't do, taking a seat while his men worked, this time he
was too tired to worry about appearances. However, his men didn't begrudge
their commander on this day, nor did they try to shirk the tasks he had set out
for them, knowing that what they were doing was in their interests. Once the
camp was secure, Caesar had sent couriers to the two camps to the south, and it
was word of their status that he was waiting on now as he gazed out at the
destruction, pain and death around him. Caesar never liked these scenes, but
today it distressed him even more, because he knew that all of what he was
seeing was due to his own ambitions and dreams. Granted, his men followed
willingly, and had been rewarded handsomely, but he wasn't blind to the fact
that as wealthy as his men all were by this point, there wasn't anywhere to
spend it, or anything to buy.

They were strangers in a strange,
very strange, land, and it was in this moment that Caesar's doubts and fears
were their strongest. What had he done, he wondered? Bringing these men so far
away, only to die on this strange, mysterious island? And for what, after all?
To fulfill an ambition that he knew, and had known for some time would never be
fully satisfied? That no new lands, new peoples, would ever be enough, because
he would always hunger for more? For this was Caesar's darkest secret, one that
he would admit only to himself. How could he make these men, who had given so
much, give even more than they had this day? These were the dark thoughts
passing through his mind when one of the surviving Centurions, the Primus
Princeps Posterior, the Centurion in charge of the Fourth Century of the First
Cohort and the only Centurion surviving from the First Cohort of the 15th
Legion, which had been one of the Legions in Caesar's camp, approached him
carrying a tablet. Seeing his general deep in thought, the man, Gnaeus Carbo,
stood waiting for Caesar to notice him, but he showed no sign that he was even
aware there was anyone nearby. Finally, Carbo cleared his throat, and only then
did Caesar look up, causing Carbo's heart to lurch at the sight of his general,
looking older and more tired than he had ever seen him. It was as if he had
suddenly aged ten years, for the first time looking every one of his 65 years.
Still, Caesar managed a smile, grim as it may have been.

"Quite a day, eh Carbo?"

"Quite a day," Carbo
agreed, opening his mouth to say something then thinking better of it.

Instead he simply offered Caesar
the tablet, which his general took with a hand that Carbo pretended wasn't
slightly shaking. Opening it, Caesar scanned the contents incised in the wax,
the lines around his mouth deepening as he read the grim figures.

"Are these accurate?"
Caesar finally asked, hoarse from the titanic effort it was taking to control his
voice.

"They're.....accurate, but
incomplete, Caesar," Carbo finally answered, prompting a harsh laugh from
Caesar that held no humor whatsoever.

"You mean it could be
worse?"

"I'm afraid so," Carbo
said softly.

Without answering Caesar suddenly
bowed his head, and Carbo stood growing more uncomfortable. Seeing his
general's lips move, he realized that Caesar was saying a prayer for all of his
dead men, still filling his role as Pontifex Maximus, a post he had held in
absentia for almost four decades. Finally finished, Caesar looked back up at
Carbo, heaving a sigh that said more to Carbo than any words.

"Thank you Carbo. That will be
all for now. Go and see to your men. As of this moment, you're the Primus Pilus
of the 15th Legion, so that includes taking care of the other Cohorts as
well."

Carbo wasn't sure whether it was
appropriate to thank Caesar at a time like this, and even if it was, he didn't
much feel like celebrating. Like any Centurion worth his salt, Carbo wanted
promotion, and he knew that it was almost always because a man higher up the
ladder fell, but as ambitious as he was, he had no desire to vault up so many
rungs in this manner. Nevertheless, he had a duty to perform and he went off to
see to it, leaving Caesar behind. Not much longer after Carbo departed, there
was a shout at the eastern gate, and one of the surviving buccinators, the horn that sounded signals inside the camp like
changing of the watch, blew the notes that signaled an approaching rider.
Knowing that this was the courier returning, Caesar roused himself from his
spot and began hobbling toward the gate, careful to avoid stepping on the
wounded as he passed across the forum. Normally he would have stopped to offer
some words of comfort to the men lying there, but he needed to know, now, the
status of the other camps.

 

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