In much
the same way that Scribonius couldn't fathom why the Wa didn't come finish what
they had started, down in the Wa camps the survivors of their army were huddled
together wondering when the grubworms would stride down the ridge and exact
vengeance. However, unlike the Romans, the Wa were even more severely crippled
in the area of leadership. Whereas Caesar lived, and even if he hadn't
survived, the Centurions in his army had been trained and encouraged to take
the initiative and think for themselves, within limits of course, the opposite
was true with the Wa. Romans liked to think they had an extremely rigid
hierarchical system, and for the part of the world they came from, they did.
But it was nothing like that which was developing on this island nation. While
difficult, there was upward mobility between the strata of classes in Roman
society. Titus Pullus was an example of a man who, if he ever made it back to
Rome, would be not only wealthy, but would be at least in the equestrian class
and in all likelihood through Caesar's influence, a member of the Senate. This
would have been unheard of in the Wa society, and in fact there was no
mechanism of government that could be compared to even the most basic
components of Roman governance. There was a class of nobility that formed the
warrior core of the army, but there was no layer between the nobility and their
emperor, who they believed ruled by divine right and was in fact a god sent to
them from the heavens. The cornerstone of Wa society was unflinching obedience
to the divine will of the emperor, and whatever he directed was as much of a
law as any of those composed by the Senate of Rome and incised on bronze
tablets.

The
warrior/nobility class of Wa society served as the overseers of the mass of
common people, and within the boundaries of the lands in which each member of
the nobility claimed as their own, their word was law, almost as sacrosanct as
those created by the emperor himself. And of all the laws that the emperor
decreed to be inviolable, that of obedience was of the highest order. Members
of the lower classes not only were not expected to think and make decisions for
themselves, they were forbidden to do so, and any show of independence, of
thought or action, was practically a guarantee to at the very least draw the
wrath of their lord. Or worse. The survivors of the great Wa army were
overwhelmingly men from the lower class; their sword-wielding superiors, each
trying to outdo the other in acts of valor and martial in order to bring glory
to their family name and draw the attention of their superiors had fallen in
much greater numbers. Although this wasn't all that different an attitude of
behavior than their Roman counterparts, the lengths to which these men went
meant that they had been almost completely wiped out. Of the perhaps 2,000 Wa
that were left, less than one in ten of the survivors were of the upper class,
and of these, almost every one of them was in the more junior subset of their
class. Third or fourth sons, lords whose holding was barely more than the size
of the area filled by the ridge where the camps were located, none of them had
ever commanded more than a handful of men at a time, if that. The two generals,
the commander and his immediate subordinate, lay dead in a heap of bodies up on
the ridge, and scattered throughout all of the piles were the men who acted as
their lieutenants.

It was
a situation crying out for leadership, but again, the idea of showing the
initiative that would be required for one of the minor lords to take command
was so foreign a concept that it didn't even occur to any of them, at least at
that point. Instead, they huddled in small groups, the men of the lower class
who were nothing more than fodder for the swords of the Wa's enemies shaking
with terror as they whispered to each other, as if speaking loudly would draw
the attention of the grubworms on the ridge. And it was because of this
prospect that, starting shortly after dark men, in one's and two's, began
moving quietly out of the Wa camps, heading back to whatever part of the island
from where they came. This exodus was confined almost completely to the
spear-wielding lower class, as the small number of nobles left could have never
borne the shame of skulking away, preferring to at least die with honor. As the
night progressed and the numbers of men left in the camp dwindled, the nobles
began their own movement, but this was to coalesce in the northernmost camp,
seeking solace and companionship with their own kind. But while they didn't run
like the peasants had, they were just as terrified at what the next morning
would hold. The difference was that no man among them would have uttered a word
about his fears, which would have shamed him in the eyes of his peers. Instead,
they swapped stories of the battle, talking in hushed tones of things that they
had seen these grubworms do. In fact, if there was one prevailing attitude
among all of the men left behind, it was confusion. When the sun had risen on
this day, every one of them held the conviction that these pale creatures would
be crushed in much the same way as the farmer crushed the grubworm under his
heel when he dug it out of the ground. That the Wa were superior, in every way,
was not doubted by any of the nobles in the Wa army.

Yet,
now that the sun had set, they had discovered the reality to be far different,
and it was this newfound knowledge they found so confusing. Hadn't the divine
emperor himself sent this army forward at his command? How could a man who was
a god himself have underestimated these pale beings so completely? Their
superiors, those very, very few who were even allowed to be within the presence
of the emperor, and that was only after undergoing a purification ritual that
rendered them worthy and protected them from bursting into flame, had relayed
the words of the emperor, that this barbarian army was hardly worthy of the
massive army gathered for the purpose. Now, that army was shattered, these
scared teenagers all that remained. This was how the night passed in the Wa camp
until, despite their best intentions, even the nobles became so terrified that
they convinced themselves that in fact their duty required them to make haste
to the capital, to prepare for a last-ditch defense from this army of
grubworms. Therefore, shortly before dawn, unknowing and frankly uncaring that
the lower classes had departed at least two watches before, the pitifully small
remnant of the nobility that was left of the once-mighty Wa army also left with
only slightly more dignity than their comrades. 

 

Daylight
came, the sun's rays beaming down on a horrific sight, no matter what side you
had fought on the day before. After grabbing perhaps a watch of sleep, Caesar
was only partially recovered, still badly shaken from all that had transpired
the day before. Nevertheless, he had regained enough of his composure to at
least present something that approximated the general the army had followed for
so many years. During the night, Caesar had shifted troops around the four
camps. Agreeing, at least by virtue of not countermanding it, with Pullus'
order to Scribonius to keep Felix and the eight Cohorts there at the northern
camp, Caesar summoned the rest of the 14th and the 30th, ordering Ventidius to
destroy the camp before marching to meet with Caesar. Additionally, he had sent
couriers to the southern camp where the 5th Alaudae's new Primus Pilus was left
in command with Pollio's absence now that he was there with Caesar, ordering
the new man, Marcus Macro, to send a reconnaissance in force down the slopes of
the ridge far enough to determine whether or not the Wa camp was occupied and
if it was, the size of the force. Caesar was still concerned that the
barbarians might have enough strength left for one more assault of the ridge.

As
always, Caesar tried to put himself in whoever was commanding the barbarians.
Knowing so little about the Wa was one aspect of this campaign that had
troubled Caesar the most, and one of his first dispatches had been down to the
fleet in the bay, summoning Zhang to come to his side. Along with Zhang, Caesar
had ordered that every man, no matter what their status or job, be brought to
the camp as well, to help in the thousand tasks that still remained. Once he
dispensed with his morning list of matters to be seen to, he paused to take a
breath and to break his fast. Never a hearty eater, he had even less appetite
this morning, but he also knew it was likely that he would need all of his
strength before the day was out, not knowing what it would bring. As he
listlessly chewed on a piece of bread, washing it down with water, the bucinator at the gate blew the signal
that a rider approached. Knowing that it couldn't have been from the fleet,
neither did he think it was from the southernmost camp. That left the camps on
either side, and while he had men stationed on the rampart, which was the first
thing that had been repaired as soon as it was light, they hadn't reported any
movement from the Wa camp out on the plain. He hoped that boded well, but he
had been fooled the day before, and there was a nagging doubt in the back of
his mind that perhaps the barbarian commander had moved his men under the cover
of night, taking them to the north of the ridge, where the slight gap that was
the only passage to the ocean for miles lay, and from there was launching
another assault, directly from the north. He was pondering this possibility and
the best way to counter it if it indeed proved to be fact, when the rider drew
up a short distance away before dismounting. Trotting over, he rendered his salute
before holding out the tablet. Taking the proffered message with one hand while
wiping the crumbs of his breakfast off his other, Caesar summoned on his badly
depleted supply of resolve, understanding that now more than any other time
under his command, his men needed to see their general in his usual calm and
collected state, treating every new message as if it was exactly what he was
expecting.

"Where is this from?" Caesar asked the man, his heart
suddenly accelerating at the man's reply that it came from the Primus Pilus in
command of the northern camp.

Could
this contain the message that he was dreading? That the attack had been
renewed, out of sight and sound of Caesar and the men in this camp? Opening it
and reading the words, it took a supreme effort of will for him not to sag in
visible relief, knowing this would be just as disconcerting as any sign of
distress to the men nearby. The release of tension that he felt came from two
sources; one that there was no assault taking place, and according to the
Primus Pilus of the 10th, who had sent out a Cohort-sized patrol down the
northern slope into the gap to check for the very thing Caesar was worried
about, there was no sign of the enemy anywhere about. But it was more than just
the contents of the message that made Caesar suddenly feel better than he had
in several watches. It was the barely legible signature at the bottom, that
even for a Primus Pilus' whose writing was barely readable under the best of
circumstances, was the first sign to Caesar that perhaps there was hope. For
the last he had heard, it was extremely unlikely that he would ever lay eyes on
a giant Roman who he had come to regard with something as close to affection as
a man of Caesar's status could have for a man from the ranks. Feeling a smile
crawling across his face, Caesar decided that, while these tablets were
constantly reused, this was one that he would keep as it was at that moment, to
serve him as a reminder that even when things were seemingly at their bleakest,
where there was life there was hope. And he had been reminded of that by what
amounted to nothing but chicken scratches on a wax tablet that served as the
signature of Titus Pullus, who was not only alive, but apparently still giving
the orders in the northern camp.

 

When
Aulus Ventidius arrived at Caesar's camp, at the head of the rest of the two
Legions of his own position, he was still undecided about whether or not he was
going to pursue any action against the Primus Pilus of the 30th, Flaminius.
Although he was acutely aware by this point that Flaminius had acted on his
own, and had even tricked Ventidius by sending him off to fend off a phantom
breach so that he could organize the relief force, Ventidius was equally
cognizant that the Primus Pilus' actions had undoubtedly saved the army from
destruction. The Legate, who was actually 3 years older than Caesar, but like
Caesar carried the vitality of a much younger man, was still fuming at the
insult borne him by Flaminius. However, he was at an age where he was honest
enough with himself to know that his anger was as much about his wounded pride,
that he wasn't the one allowed to take credit for making the decision to send
relief to the other camps, as it was a righteous indignation that Flaminius had
so flagrantly breached the chain of command.

As it
turned out, the decision was made for him, by Caesar, who addressed the matter
as soon as Flaminius and Ventidius were brought to him in the newly erected praetorium, stitched together from
panels of leather from the tents of men who no longer needed shelter. It was
when Caesar had been informed by his quartermaster, Hirtius, who had been sent
down to the fleet for the battle, that even with all the tents burned to
cinders there would be enough tents left to create a new headquarters tent
without putting any man out into the elements that Caesar understood just how
devastating the day before had been to his army. He had already sent word to
dispatch one of the Liburnians back to the island that had served as the supply
depot, where two Legions had been left behind to provide security, with orders
to commandeer any shipping they found and bring all but two Cohorts, one from
each Legion, to their current position. Depending on what his mounted scouts
told him, they too having been aboard ships but were even now beginning to
reconnoiter, Caesar hoped that he and the army would no longer still be here on
this ridge whenever the new troops arrived. It all depended on what lay between
him and the capital, but that he wouldn't know for a couple of days at least,
and putting that matter aside, he turned his attention to the two men standing
side by side.

Now,
with Ventidius and Flaminius before him, he did not say anything for a moment;
as was his habit, Caesar used the time to glean as much information as he could
from the two men, although they were not uttering a word. This was one of
Caesar's greatest talents, the ability to observe other men's body language and
deducing much about them, and by extension whatever matter was being discussed,
before he committed himself by opening his own mouth. Sitting on his stool now,
Caesar concealed his amusement at the sight before him. His Legate, who was
known throughout the army as Caesar's Muleteer, since that's how he had gotten
his start with Caesar in Gaul, was standing rigidly at the position of intente, anger radiating from every part
of him. Even his eyebrows, which many of the men likened to two large
caterpillars, told Caesar that the older man was still fuming, as it looked like
the two caterpillars were glaring at each other eyeball to eyeball over the
bridge of Ventidius' nose. Meanwhile, Flaminius was no less perfect in his
posture, but while he didn't give off the same aura of rage, the sign he was
giving Caesar was one of defiance, tinged with understandable anxiety. While
Caesar's vision wasn't what it once was, it was still sharp enough to see the
beads of sweat on the upper lip of the Primus Pilus, despite the heat of the
day not warranting it. Caesar had seen this many times before, knowing it a
sign of great anxiety, and he supposed that Flaminius had good cause to be
worried. And while Caesar had already decided what he was going to do about
this matter, he was in no hurry to let either Flaminius or Ventidius know it,
even if it was for two totally different reasons.

"So Primus Pilus Flaminius, here we are," Caesar broke
the silence, grimly amused at the visible start the Primus Pilus gave at the
sound. "It appears that you have much to answer for, if General Ventidius
is to be believed, and he's never given me any reason to doubt him."

When Caesar stopped talking for a moment, Flaminius opened his
mouth as if to respond, but then shut it. Caesar sighed, knowing exactly the
game Flaminius was playing. The Stupid Legionary was one of the oldest tricks
in the enlisted man's book, and Caesar couldn't count the number of times he
had seen it played in front of him. Some of the time, he didn't mind playing
along, amused to see how far a man was willing to go down that path. This
wasn't one of those times, however.

"Well? Explain yourself," Caesar snapped, making his
irritation plain for both men to see.

 Ventidius looked relieved,
but whether it was because it was Flaminius drawing Caesar's ire, or the fact
that he himself was escaping Caesar's wrath Caesar didn't know, nor did he
particularly care.

"Yes sir," Flaminius' face reddened, but his tone was
even and clipped, a professional giving his report. "Because we had the
situation at our camp so well in hand, and knowing that the brunt of the
assault was going to be on your camp or on the northern camp, I decided it
might be prudent to send as many men as we could spare to off their assistance.
Sir."

"Yes, yes, I know that," Caesar waved an impatient hand.
"But who gave you the authority to do this?"

Now the sweat that originate on his upper lip began spreading to
his forehead, beading up as Flaminius was clearly growing more uncomfortable.

"Er, nobody. Sir, I assumed General Ventidius would agree, so
I didn't see the need to bother him with a detail that would take more
time."

Ventidius could take it no more, snorting in disbelief, the two
eyebrows now actually touching as he stared down his prodigious nose at his
commander.

"That's an awful lot of assuming," the Muleteer spat.
"And if you were so sure that I would agree, why did you feel the need to
send me off on a fool's errand?"

Caesar turned a decidedly cool gaze on Flaminius; this was a part
of the story he hadn't heard.

"Yes, Flaminius. Please explain that, and perhaps for my
benefit you could explain what 'fool's errand' you sent your superior officer
on?"

When
put that way, even Flaminius could see why Ventidius was still upset, and his
nerves, which were already on edge, now were positively vibrating. Ventidius
was glaring at the Primus Pilus as well, evidently forgetting that he hadn't
been given leave to alter his position of intente, standing with folded arms waiting for Flaminius to explain
himself. Caesar was about to rebuke Ventidius, but chose to let it go. Flaminius
finally spoke again, and while it appeared to surprise Ventidius, it didn't
surprise Caesar at all.

"I have no excuse sir. I knew the risk I was taking, and I
decided to let the dice fly."

Despite himself Caesar felt a smile tugging at the corners of his
mouth at Flaminius' statement, while Ventidius appeared to become even angrier,
which Caesar could understand. Flaminius, you sly dog, Caesar thought, using
the exact same thing I said crossing the Rubicon. Well, at least you have good
taste.

"No, you don't have a good excuse. In fact, you have no
excuse," Caesar agreed, making his tone hard as he stared directly into
Flaminius' eyes.

For his part, Flaminius steadfastly tried to ignore the sudden
shaking in his legs, hoping that it wasn't noticeable.

Caesar paused, deliberately drawing it out, before continuing,
"But although I have every right to have you scourged and crucified,"
his words were all the more chilling because he was so matter-of-fact and his
tone so even, "neither can I forget that your actions saved this army, and
this campaign for total failure. For that alone I should decorate you."

For a moment Caesar thought Ventidius would die of an apoplectic
fit right on the spot, his face turning a purplish hue that Caesar had rarely
seen, so he hurried on.

"But because of your flagrant disregard for the chain of
command, and for issuing orders beyond the scope of your office, I've decided
that the two things cancel each other out. So you will be neither censured nor
commended. No disobedience will be noted in the army diary, but Ventidius will
be given full credit for issuing the command that saved the army."

When
Caesar was finished, he sat silently watching the two men, again amused,
although for different reasons, because this time their expressions were almost
identical. Neither of them looked happy, which to Caesar was his indication
that his decision was fair and equal to the both of them. For while everything
he had said was true, Caesar did in fact hold Ventidius at fault, because he should
have arrived at the decision himself, and sooner. And nothing Ventidius had
told him, nor what he heard from other sources gave any indication that he had
been thinking along the same lines as Flaminius. As much as Caesar faulted
Ventidius, he still valued the older man, and had no intention of criticizing
his lack of initiative and decisiveness either publicly or privately. No, he
mused after dismissing the pair, watching them both walk away with straight
backs and clenched fists, neither of them looking at the other man, this was
the best way. I don't need any more problems than I already have, and the army
doesn't need the distraction that would come from the spectacle of a Tribunal
of a Primus Pilus, which is by rights what should happen. Content with his
decision, Caesar turned his mind to other matters.

 

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