by R. W. Peake
“Then,” Scribonius answered grimly, “we’re fucked, and we’ll lose a lot of men. But,” he pointed out, “at least they won’t be raining rocks down on our head if they do.”
Scribonius was acutely aware that this wasn’t much comfort, but it was all he could offer. What neither Scribonius, Pullus, or any Roman had any way of knowing was that, at that very moment, thanks to a Bargosan named Ravidha, who had ignored Memmon’s admonition about how to approach the elephant named Rudra, the Equestrians were about to be given valuable time.
Without anything to obscure or hinder the Bargosan artillery on the southern wall, Spurius’ 3rd Legion was taking horrible punishment, but it was when the ladders touched the wall and the Roman assault began in earnest that the threat from rocks wasn’t just from the enemy catapults. Dropping large stones from above was a common tactic, and all the Primi Pili of the assaulting Legions expected them; however, expecting them didn’t matter much when one came crashing down onto the upraised shield of the first Roman up the ladder. If the Legionary was fortunate, he was either low enough down that, if he blocked the rock with his shield and was knocked off the ladder, he wouldn’t be injured severely, or he was high enough up that the rock didn’t gather so much momentum that he had a chance of knocking it aside with his shield. Compounding their precarious situation was that the walls were twenty feet high, just high enough that it was difficult for most men to generate enough power behind their javelin throw to penetrate the bronze scale armor of the Bargosans. As expected, the Bargosan archers had exhausted their supply of missiles, and while most of them had been blocked, there were wounded men lining the base of the wall in between the ladders, sheltered from further harm for the most part. Spurius, providing the example expected of a Centurion in Caesar’s army by leading from the front, clambered up the ladder he had selected, and he was fortunate because the first rock dropped down from the parapet had actually been tossed so that it arced out away from the ladder, although Spurius felt the disturbed air as it dropped behind him. The second rock, while better aimed, was dropped too late, when Spurius was just two rungs from the top, and while the impact of the rock slamming down onto his shield almost jerked it from his hand, the Primus Pilus was able to rotate the shield to send it bouncing off to his left. Over the roaring noise of the men from both sides, Spurius heard a startled yell down below, and despite the moment, he glanced down to grin at the ranker who had narrowly dodged the caroming rock.
“Glabius, you better keep your head up and your eyes open,” he shouted down. “You don’t have enough brains to spare!”
The ranker, a member of the Second Section of Spurius’ Century said something, but Spurius couldn’t hear over the noise, and he laughed, knowing that Glabius had done so purposely, not wanting his Primus Pilus to hear Glabius cursing at him. Turning his attention back to above him, which was next to impossible while holding his shield over his head, the next blow that came wasn’t from a rock, but a sword thrust made by one of the defenders who had risked leaning out over the parapet, and Spurius saw and felt the point punch through the layers of wood and glue inches from his face. Before the Bargosan could make another attempt, however, something came slashing by Spurius, and he heard the almost simultaneous wet, sucking sound and choked cry, but it was the ranker on the next ladder, who was several rungs down and therefore with a better view who shouted the warning.
“Primus Pilus! Brace…”
While the Legionary didn’t have the opportunity to finish, it was just enough notice for Spurius to tense his left forearm while tightening his grip on both the shield and the ladder as the body of the stricken Bargosan, the javelin that had penetrated his left eye dangling from his skull, fell directly onto Spurius’ shield. Even braced, the shield was almost torn from Spurius’ grasp, but not before his left arm partially gave way so the shield smashed down onto his helmet, although the stiff horsehair crest actually absorbed a good portion of the impact. It was enough to wrench a gasp of pain from Spurius’ lips, but it was the sliding of the corpse off to the side that posed the greatest danger; Spurius was no weakling, certainly, but only Titus Pullus could have kept his shield in position when the dead weight of an armored man fell onto it and slid off. Spurius’ left arm was jerked down and outward from its position directly above him, exposing the Primus Pilus to whatever danger might be posed from above; the fact that he had just taken a solid blow to the head didn’t help matters. But, as any veteran of as many battles as Spurius had survived would readily admit, luck played almost as much of a role as skill in such moments, so that with the removal of his shield blocking his view, he was relieved to see nothing but empty space above him. From the moment the swordsman had plunged his blade down to strike Spurius’ shield to this instant, no more than two or three heartbeats had elapsed, and even as Spurius lifted his foot, placed it on the next rung, then thrust that leg down with all his strength, he knew it still might be too late to take the dead man’s spot before whoever was behind him stepped into it. So quickly did all this happen that Spurius’ feet landed on the stone surface of the rampart less than an eyeblink after the corpse of the Bargosan hit the ground next to the ladder, forcing the men waiting below to dodge out of the way again. This was how Spurius won the wager about who would set foot on the Bargosan walls first, but now he had to survive, and he was already making his first move to ensure that happened. His shield, not suffering for having just absorbed the full weight of a dead man, was pulled in as tightly as he could manage to protect his left, with his attention on the Bargosan directly to Spurius’ front, who was an instant late in stepping up to the parapet to replace the man now lying at the base of the wall. This man, Spurius saw, was actually armed with a spear, but he handled it somewhat awkwardly, thrusting it out in front of him as he rushed towards the Centurion. If the Bargosan had been more skilled in the use of a spear, Spurius would have been in serious difficulty, his only defensive weapon against this attack his sword, but the Centurion deftly twisted his blade while sweeping it upward, striking the spear just behind the shaft then lifting his hand slightly. Because he didn’t use the more traditional method by keeping the blade perpendicular to the ground instead of horizontally, the edge didn’t bite into the wood of the shaft, thereby allowing it to smoothly slide across the iron, the point punching harmlessly into the air above Spurius’ shoulder and in the space between the flange of his helmet and the top of his shield, exactly where he had guided it. And, as the Bargosan discovered in the last heartbeat of his life, it positioned Spurius’ blade, which was at shoulder level, for a blindingly quick but smooth backhand slash that skimmed above his foe’s shield and sliced through the man’s throat. To a disinterested observer, what occurred next would have been seen as one continuous motion, as Spurius brought his blade around in a semicircular motion while bringing his sword down to the first position, before making a thrust at the Bargosan to his immediate right who had just pivoted to confront the new threat on the rampart. It wasn’t meant to be a killing blow, and the Bargosan did catch the point with his shield, but he had been moving into the thrust, which made the impact strong enough to send him staggering backward and lose the ground he had just gained. Only then did Spurius turn his full attention back to his left, just as that Bargosan made a poorly aimed thrust that skidded off the Centurion’s shield, tearing a gouge in the wood and marring the varnished finish. Because the man was clearly expecting this to be a solid blow, he had put his weight into it, and when the point of his sword didn’t stick and stay put in his target as he expected, it caused him to make a stumbling step forward in an involuntary attempt to regain his balance. He never saw the blow that killed him, the point of Spurius’ blade catching him in the side of his neck, severing both large vessels, creating a spray of blood that, if it had been daylight, would have been brilliant scarlet. The only threat this man could pose now was as an obstacle underfoot, but Spurius lifted one leg, then with a brutally hard kick, shoved the man away from himself and directl
y into the path of the next Bargosan, who was armed with sword and shield, and wore scale armor.
“Get up here, Caecus!” Spurius didn’t move his head, bellowing the order to be heard. “I made space for you!”
“I’m already here, Primus Pilus,” Caecus shouted, even as he was pivoting to his right, just in time to arrest the rushing advance of the next Bargosan.
Spurius kept his attention on the men around him, so Caecus couldn’t see his Primus Pilus’ grin, and in the identical manner as Pullus and his Equestrians, the men of the 3rd fought their way onto the rampart of the southern wall. On the eastern and western ramparts, much the same was occurring, the only difference being the timing of when the first Romans landed on the rampart, and with that, another city was in danger of falling to Caesar and his Legions.
It didn’t take long for the Pili Priori of the Cohorts Pullus tasked with retrieving the necessary items from the ships to get organized, with men working in teams to accomplish their assigned tasks. Since manpower wasn’t an issue, half of one section was given the job of prying loose the legs of the scorpions that had been nailed to the deck, while the normal crew for the weapons went below decks to empty the racks storing the bolts. The Legion’s naphtha was stored on one ship, the idea being that, should the substance ignite, while it would incinerate every man aboard, the damage would be limited, something that both crew and passengers were extremely unhappy about. Now this helped speed up the part of the process of bringing crates of the substance up to the dirt rampart; meanwhile, much more quickly than Pullus dared hope, the first scorpion was hauled up onto the dirt rampart with a rope just as the crates of the flammable substance were being distributed. Whoever commanded the Bargosan artillery had ceased loosing, and while Pullus hoped it meant that the enemy was running low on stones, he realized it was just as likely that, thanks to the tents and the fact that the Romans were taking care not to linger in the open area between them and the dirt rampart, the commander was simply being prudent. Whatever the cause, Pullus and his Equestrians were more than happy to accept this as a blessing from the gods, but while things were going well to this point, as any veteran knew, it wasn’t destined to last.
That the moment for matters to turn had arrived was presaged by Scribonius, who suddenly muttered a curse that caused Pullus to turn around, about to tease his friend, who rarely used such language, then seeing his face, asking sharply, “What is it?”
In answer, Scribonius simply pointed around where they were standing, but when Pullus only looked at him blankly, he explained, “The same reason they stopped trying to crush our skulls in, this camp. Where are we going to put the scorpions where they’ll have a clear field to loose?” Pullus stared at his friend, his mind temporarily reeling, not only from the implications that he instantly understood, but how he could have missed it, and it was a sign of how well Scribonius knew his giant friend that he said gently, “I’m the one who suggested the scorpions, Titus, and I completely overlooked it too.”
Even as he spoke the words, Scribonius was certain he would know how Pullus would react, and this was confirmed when Pullus shot back, “You’re not the Primus Pilus, Sextus. I am.” He stood for a moment, seemingly staring blankly up at the northern wall, but his mind was working furiously. Finally, he asked tentatively, “Should we keep them up on the rampart?”
“I think we have to,” Balbus spoke up for the first time, as distressed in his own way as Scribonius as what they both viewed as a failure to serve their Primus Pilus and best friend well.
“But that means we give up all this ground, and there’s not enough room up there for the entire Legion,” Pullus pointed out. He shook his head and said, “I think I’m going to have to order the second line Cohorts back to the boats, put us back on the rampart, and wait for whatever comes next.”
“I don’t know…” Scribonius began, but then he was cut off by a sudden cacophony in the direction of the city.
It was a combination of cornu calls, but they were almost drowned out by the voices of a few thousand men, some of them raised in triumph, but most of them in alarm, so that even as Pullus and the others hurried out from behind the large tent to stand in the road that led to the northern gate and provided the only clear view, they were certain they knew the reason. Nevertheless, knowing it and seeing the gates thrown open, and a massive dark shape emerge from the gateway, was another thing entirely.
Pullus didn’t hesitate, spinning to shout at his Cornicen Valerius who, as much as possible, always stayed by his Primus Pilus’ side, “Sound the recall! Entire Legion! Back towards the dirt wall!”
The first of Abhiraka’s elephants had finally arrived, and as always, their very presence energized the Bargosans who had absorbed and survived the initial Roman onslaught. Now, they were all certain, it was time to avenge the friends and comrades they had lost.
Memmon was leading the line of armored elephants out through the arched stone gateway that was high enough to accommodate both the elephant and the men riding in the box, astride his animal, named Anala for one of the fire gods. Despite the urgency of the moment itself, Memmon refused to hurry Anala, the animal swaying with a ponderous grace as the surviving Bargosans outside the wall scrambled aside. From his perch, Memmon could see the Romans, though not with any level of detail; between the darkness and their using the few hundred round tents that had housed the men tasked with defending the dirt wall and canal, all he could really discern was that they were moving, quickly, away from the city wall.
“Do you see, my friend?” He spoke in the soothing tone that he had learned was the best way to handle Anala in the opening stages before battle. “They are already more frightened than rabbits!”
Rather than press the advantage and send Anala thundering down the road, which provided the only clear path to the dirt wall, Memmon gave the command to halt the animal, which instantly obeyed. Twisting around, he tried to shout above the cheering men but quickly gave up, using his goad to point to his left, making a gesture that the handler behind him recognized and understood, turning his own animal in that direction. When the second elephant moved out of the way, Memmon waved his arm to catch the attention of the third handler, but when he pointed, it was in the opposite direction. It was in this manner that the armored elephants arrayed in a single line, parallel to the northern wall, but elephants weren’t prized as weapons of war for their speed, although they could move with surprising quickness for short distances, and while Memmon had no idea what these Romans had planned for him and his elephants, he was aware that time was their enemy. The longer it took for the animals to deploy, the more time it gave these invaders the chance to come up with something, and Abhiraka had specifically warned him about the Romans’ use of fire. As he waited, Memmon took the opportunity to search the darkness ahead of him for any indication that this group of the enemy planned on using it, which he knew was one of the few weaknesses of the armored elephant. No living creature liked fire, save one, and even then they only liked it when it was strictly controlled, but aside from several spots where glowing cinders from the hurdles that had been hurled by the artillery still gave off a sullen red light, he saw nothing that gave him pause. It was through no fault of Memmon, or any of the Bargosan handlers arraying outside all four walls that they were unaware that what Abhiraka had witnessed was more than just a case of using some sort of flammable substance with which the Bargosans were familiar. In the ensuing confusion of the defeat the forces of Abhiraka’s who were at the first line of defense had suffered, along with the dismay that it engendered, the Bargosan king hadn’t been told the specific details about the weapon the Romans had used, nor did Ranjeet think to send back a man he trusted to inform the king that there was a pernicious, adhesive quality to the substance. Like most educated men, Abhiraka was aware of the substance of naphtha, and even that the Parthians had used it, but it never occurred to him that this new enemy from so far away might adopt it for its own.
“Lord Memmon!”
Jerked from his examination of the ground ahead of him, Memmon looked down to see Bhadran, the man their king had put in command of this force looking up at him. Memmon also noticed that, unlike the majority of the surviving members of his command, Bhadran’s armor wasn’t begrimed or spattered with blood, and while his sword was sheathed, the handler felt certain there was no blood on the blade.
Regardless of his personal feelings, Memmon’s tone was respectful enough as he acknowledged, “Lord Bhadran.”
“We will lead the way to retake the camp, Memmon.” Bhadran pitched his voice so that he could be heard, but not only by Memmon. “You and your elephants will follow us to destroy however many of these vermin survive!”
It was so audaciously foolish that, for the span of a heartbeat, Memmon was certain he had misheard, but he could see by Bhadran’s expression that whatever he had said, he was serious about it, which prompted the handler to ask, “Could you repeat that, Lord?”
“I said,” Bhadran’s voice raised to an even louder volume, his impatience obvious, “you and your animals will support us as we retake our camp and drive these dogs back into the canal!”
Memmon was only slightly aware that the clamoring noise of the swordsmen and javelineers in the immediate area had died down precipitously, but even with less racket, he spoke in a softer tone because he didn’t want anyone but Bhadran to hear him say, “Are you mad, Lord Bhadran? You actually think that our king sent so many of his Harem out just to sit and watch as you try to claim the glory?”
Bhadran’s reaction was almost as if he had been physically slapped by Memmon; his use of the honorific title when he had addressed the handler had been a courtesy only, in recognition of the fact that, for whatever reason, Abhiraka actually respected this old fool.
