As the day
progressed, the stench from bodies lying in the hot sun grew steadily worse,
and the air was becoming thicker by the moment with all the insects that so
much dead flesh attracted. By the end of the second watch, there was an underlying hum in the air,
even when men weren't talking, created by the rapid flapping of the millions
and millions of tiny wings. Men were still
in the process of dragging the dead bodies of the Wa out of the camp, but even
Caesar's genius for organization was put to its severest test, because never
before had there been so few men to do so much work. Those Cohorts and Legions
that had been lucky enough to be in the two southern camps were bearing the
brunt of the work, something that normally would have caused massive complaints
among the men.

However, in yet
another sign that the battle the day before was unprecedented, all the
bickering and griping stopped as soon as the men marched through the gate of
either Caesar's or Pullus' camp. The sight of what was clearly a ferocious
battle silenced every Legionary who had been inclined to let his displeasure
known, and by the time they were assembled in their respective forums, it was a
somber group of men waiting for orders. As much bickering and rivalry that took
place between Legions, no man in the ranks took any joy in the sight of their
comrades suffering. They had shared too much, endured too much, and spent too
much time together for them not to understand the ordeal the men of the two northern
camps had endured. Sextus Scribonius, standing next to Volusenus, was only
slightly recovered after a fitful night's rest, and had just come from
checking, for perhaps the tenth time since the sun came up, on the condition of
his friend. Pullus was sleeping, aided by the poppy syrup that the medici reserved for the most grievously
wounded. When Scribonius had gone to check on Pullus the last time, he found
that he was being attended to by one of the physicians that had joined Caesar's
army to augment and replace the staff of physicians that had been attached to
his army from the beginning of the campaign.

The identity of
the man, one of the Han physicians, told Scribonius that Caesar was not only
aware but extremely interested in seeing the giant Roman recover. Scribonius
knew there were a number of the men in the ranks who swore these Han knew
sorcery, such was their skill compared to the others, particularly with the
last four Greeks still alive, none of whom looked on their Han rivals with any
favor. The physician, whose name Scribonius didn't know, nor could he have
pronounced even if he had, was given explicit instructions by Caesar never to
leave Pullus' side, and that the Primus Pilus was his one and only patient.
Although Scribonius knew that it was a good sign that Pullus was still alive,
he was also aware that if any foreign material, such as one of the links from
his mail shirt, or the stuffing from the padded undershirt, even a thread from
his tunic, was left behind in the wound, the Han physician would need to call
on every bit of his skills to keep his friend alive. The Han didn't speak
Latin, and Scribonius certainly hadn't mastered their tongue, but somehow
through a combination of gestures and with the help of one of the Gayans
pressed into service as an orderly, Scribonius learned that the physician was
cautiously optimistic. Telling the Pilus Prior that it was normally within the
first day that any sign of corruption began to present itself, the Han
nevertheless emphasized that Scribonius' friend wasn't out of danger. Pullus
had been semi-conscious for that visit, and his head had moved slowly back and
forth as he tried to follow the conversation that was going on around him.
That, to Scribonius, was a better sign than anything the Han could have said. 

Over the years, the Pilus Prior had observed that those men who eventually
succumbed to their wounds universally showed a complete lack of interest in
their own care, as if they already knew the outcome. Pullus’ trying, no matter
how groggily, to follow the dialogue between Roman and Han had lifted
Scribonius' spirits, and he had gone to find Porcinus to tell him of this
development. He found him in the process of working with the two other
Centurions who survived from the Tenth Cohort, reorganizing into units that
were Centuries in name only. Now, just returned from his last check on Pullus,
Scribonius met with the Centurions of the Cohorts that had just arrived,
assigning each Century a specific work detail.

Turning to the
Pilus Prior of the Second Cohort from the 5th Alaudae, Scribonius asked,
"Has Caesar decided what to do with ours yet?"

There was no
need for Scribonius to expand on what "ours" meant, if only because
of where they were standing. Stretching out behind the two Centurions were
now-neat rows of bodies, as cleaned up and made presentable by hiding the
wounds that had killed each man as time and location of the wound allowed. This
was a topic that was very much on the minds of the men in the ranks and of
great concern to all of them. One problem caused by the polyglot composition of
Caesars current army was that that there were so many different customs for
honoring the dead. Much as Rome did with religion, men in the ranks were
allowed to worship their native gods and follow the customs that prescribed how
the dead were honored. While there had been men killed in the ranks, it had
never been on a scale like this, and with the scouts out, it was looking likely
that Caesar would be moving the army, soon. What direction they would head in,
either to the northwest in the direction of the capital, or back to the east
and the bay where the fleet was anchored, this was the subject of much
speculation, and not just with the men.

The Centurions
were just as interested in their next destination as the rankers, yet it had
been a custom of not just Caesar's army but of the armies of Rome for at least two centuries that the army
didn't move, until after the dead had been honored. There was also a more
practical reason; no Roman commander liked marching without every leadership
spot that had been vacated by death or incapacitating wound filled, and that
had yet to happen, as well. Arranging the various ceremonies was always
challenging, but the sheer scope of the numbers of men who had either to be
cleansed by fire, in the Roman way, or buried in the ground like the Pandyans,
or even just left to rot like the Parthians, meant that whatever was being
arranged needed to be done soon. Since the Pilus Prior of the 5th had marched
past Caesar's camp on the way to the northern camp where they were standing,
Scribonius was hoping that the Centurion had heard something, but he replied
with a simple shake of the head. Stifling a curse, knowing it wasn't the man's
fault, Scribonius turned his mind back to the tasks that he could perform at
that moment. His arm ached horribly, and he found it extremely painful to flex
his fingers or make a fist, which of course he found himself doing over and
over as a way to distract his mind from the enormity of the losses.

The final
butcher's bill, as the Centurions had called it, had been completed, and the
10th Legion could field barely more than a thousand men, from its strength of
almost 4,000 when the battle started. Of course, some of the missing ranks
would be filled by the wounded, but it was too early to tell how many it would
be, and even if every man made a miraculous recovery, the Legion still would be
less than half strength. From what Volusenus told Scribonius, this was about
the same for the 12th. Scribonius hadn't heard the numbers for the two Legions
in Caesar's camp, but given what he knew of what happened the day before, he
couldn't imagine they were any better off. Even at this point, more than
halfway through the day after the battle, there were still more questions than
answers, for both the living and the dead.

 

Knowing how
unpopular his decision would be, Caesar nevertheless issued it, knowing that he
couldn't spare the time to properly honor the dead. Truthfully, he had been
wavering about the matter. Until, that is, a courier sent by the mounted scouts
he had sent northwest in the likely direction that the Wa army would take, or
what remained of it, came galloping into the camp. Within moments, the
situation changed dramatically, as Caesar read the message informing him that
there was no sign of any sizable force between him and the army and the
barbarian capital. The report went on to say that the scouts had found the
trail of those Wa nobles who had decided before the sun rose that their only course
of action was to return to the capital to receive further orders.

Naturally,
Caesar had no way of knowing any of this, but what he did know was that
according to the report, this group numbered perhaps a thousand. Even as badly
mauled as Caesar's army was, he had no doubt that the men could sweep aside a
force as paltry as that. But in order to make that happen, they had to move,
and move fast. Still shaken from his experience yesterday, Caesar was acting
out of force of habit more than anything, doing and saying those things that he
knew the Caesar of two days before would do, without hesitation. Perhaps, he
thought, by playing the role of Caesar, I will become Caesar again. But first,
he had to issue this order, and in this order Caesar sought a compromise,
hoping that the men would understand. His decision was that he would honor the
dead, respecting the customs of each nationality, but he would do so en masse,
not individually, as was the custom. Normally, the men of the tent section the
deceased belonged to would perform the ritual cleansing, gather the wood,
cremate the body and gather the ashes, if he were Roman. But now there were
whole tent sections laying in the forum waiting to be sent to the afterlife, and Caesar
simply didn't have the luxury of time to sort out who would tend to them.
Caesar, sitting in what had become his accustomed spot on the stool outside the
praetorium, finished the order that would put this into motion, then handed
it to one of the scribes that had come from the fleet.

"See that this gets to the northern camp," he directed,
then turned to relay the verbal instruction to the Primi Pili standing next to
him. None of the men made a comment, but as with Flaminius and Ventidius
earlier, their body language communicated very clearly to Caesar what they
thought about his idea.

"I know this is......unusual," Caesar decided to be
direct. "But if we can get to their capital quickly, we have the chance to
defeat the army there, before they're joined by other forces that might have
been summoned."

For a long moment, none of the Primi Pili reacted, which puzzled
Caesar more than any irritation he might have felt at the lack of a response.
After an exchange of sidelong glances, the Primus Pilus of the 21st Legion, a
short, stocky Campanian named Papernus cleared his throat in a signal that he
was going to speak.

"Caesar, it's just that we weren't expecting this,"
Papernus said carefully.

Caesar instantly understood the Primus Pilus' meaning that the
"this" he was referring to wasn't the funeral arrangements.

Sitting back, Caesar folded his arms, responding coolly, "Go
on."

Vibius Papernus didn't lack for bravery, but at that moment he
would have much preferred to face the screaming yellow-skinned bastards than
looking into those ice-blue eyes of his general. Nevertheless, he plunged
forward, girded by the sight of the slight nods of the other Primi Pili
encouraging him to continue.

"If we move inland, we're going to be moving away from the
fleet," he began, but before he could go any further, Caesar interjected.

"Yes, Papernus, that's generally how it works. The farther from the shore you go, the farther away your support
is. But that's never stopped us before."

And with that, Caesar gave Papernus the opening he needed, and he
immediately pounced.

"But we've never been in the shape we're in now,"
Papernus argued, making a sweeping gesture with an arm in the direction of
where the wounded were being tended. "What are we going to do about them,
for example?"

Realizing his mistake, Caesar also recognized that the retort that
came to his lips would only make matters worse. Besides, he acknowledged, if
only to himself, he has a point. And they have a right to know that the wounded
will be cared for.

"I've sent for all but two Cohorts from the strategic reserve
we left behind on the island," Caesar explained with a patience he didn't
feel. "They will come here to watch over the wounded."

"But how long will that take?" Now it was another Primus
Pilus who asked the question, the Centurion commanding the 14th Legion, Sextus
Spurius.

"Perhaps two weeks," Caesar replied, and while the other
men initially relaxed, thinking that the men would welcome a respite of that
length after what they had just been through, the more observant among them
were alerted by something in the way their general spoke the words.

"But, we're not going to wait for them, are we?"

Aulus Flaminius, fresh from his escape of Caesar's wrath had
promised himself that he was going to keep silent, but somehow the words
escaped his lips before he could stop them, and he was forced to stifle a groan
as Caesar turned to glare at him.

"No, we're not," the general said after a moment, the
words clipped and short because of his clenched teeth.

There was a shocked silence, before completely forgetting the
proper manner in which to do these things, the Primi Pili began talking at
once.

"We can't leave the wounded unprotected!"

"Caesar, the men need to rest after what they've been
through!"

"If we wait for the relief to arrive, a good number of the
wounded will be recovered enough to march with us."

While the others
were shouting to make their complaints heard above the racket, this last
comment was spoken in almost a conversational tone, but what was said more than
the volume cut through the other noise. Immediately all the men became quiet,
turning their eyes to Caesar, knowing him well enough to know that of all the
objections, this practical one would carry the most weight. And they were
rewarded by the sight of Caesar looking suddenly uncomfortable, while still
managing to shoot a look at Papernus, who had asked this last question, a look
of exasperation and respect in equal measure.

"That's true Papernus," Caesar acknowledged. "But
that will also give the barbarians the time to muster more forces, and they
would be foolish to come and try to assault us here again, when we gave them
such a beating."

"But we don't know that hasn't already started,"
Papernus pointed out. "And they may very well already be gathering at
their capital. And," he added, "we only know the approximate location
of as it is. We could go stumbling into another army of those bastards."

"We've seen nothing that would indicate that there is a
population capable of producing more than one army of the size we just
defeated," Caesar said stiffly, nettled at the open skepticism that was
being displayed by his most senior Centurions.

"It wouldn't have to be the same size," Carbo, the
acting Primus Pilus retorted. "It wouldn't take an army the third of the
size to give us more than we could handle."

Now Caesar was being confronted with yet another new emotion, just
one more in a series of sensations that he'd never experienced before over the
last two days. This was a feeling of desperation, as for the first time in
many, many years, Julius Caesar recognized that he was losing his grip on his
army.

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