by R. W. Peake
“I am in command here,” Bhadran said stiffly, but Memmon wasn’t impressed in the slightest.
“And your command was swept off that wall and pushed all the way back here,” he shot back, then added what, to Memmon, was the most unforgivable sin, “and you lost almost half your men doing it.”
“Come down off that beast, you insolent dog!” Bhadran screamed this, and when he drew his sword, just as Memmon suspected, he saw the blade was clean. “I will have you flogged for your impudence!”
Instead of replying directly to the enraged Bhadran, Memmon suddenly twisted about to address the three men who served as the crew for Anala.
Pointing to one of the men holding a bow, Memmon said coldly, “Aditya, if Lord Bhadran tries to stop us, put an arrow in him. Nothing fatal, but enough to stop him from interfering. Is that understood?”
Memmon’s choice of the younger of the two bowmen wasn’t random; he knew how much the man loathed those belonging to Bhadran’s class, although the term used in this land was “caste.”
Still, Aditya looked uncertainly at Memmon, and the handler said, “You heard the orders our king gave me, did you not?” When the bowman nodded, Memmon pointed down at Bhadran and said, “This man is trying to stop us from fulfilling our king’s orders.”
“Yes, Memmon.” Aditya was reassured, trusting the older man implicitly; besides, he knew that Memmon enjoyed a special bond with Abhiraka because of their common love of elephants. Consequently, he grinned and lifted his bow, smoothly withdrawing an arrow from one of the quivers that were attached to the wooden side of their platform, nocking it then pulling the string back several inches. “I am ready, Memmon.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Despite the defiant words, Bhadran’s manner clearly communicated his belief that Memmon would do that very thing, although the older man wordlessly sat astride his elephant, looking down at him with an expression that eloquently conveyed his contempt. Then, he made a dismissive gesture, saying, “Very well, Memmon. Have it your way. But the king will hear about this.”
“Yes,” Memmon agreed, “he will.” Then, with what seemed to be almost a caress, the handler commanded Anala to begin moving, while Memmon returned his attention to more immediate matters. He didn’t even glance at Bhadran as he said, “Your men will follow us.”
Memmon only moved his animal a few paces, stopping where he could be seen by the handlers arrayed on either side. While Anala had three men riding in his box, the spearman, named Socus, was also trained to use the horn that was of a different tone and pitch than those used by the other Bargosans, which had been developed through trial and error. It was the only such instrument that the elephants’ ears could tolerate without it either distracting, or more commonly enraging them when the sound emanated from right behind their large ears. When Anala came to a stop, Memmon raised a hand, extending a single finger that he and Socus had devised as the signal that he was to serve his second function.
When Socus hefted the horn and informed Memmon he was ready, the handler said calmly, “Sound the advance.”
The notes rang out, and as they had been trained, every elephant raised its trunk and gave its own version of an acknowledgement, which in turn aroused another roar from the swordsmen, the roaring sound letting these Romans know that the tide was about to turn.
Almost all of the scorpions had been placed on the dirt rampart, facing inward, the distribution of the naphtha completed, despite the crowded conditions on the rampart once the second line Cohorts returned and the fact that none of the men who were assigned this duty were inclined to rush. After more discussion with the Pili Priores of the first line, Pullus had decided to compromise somewhat, positioning those Cohorts among the tents that bordered the open area between the camp and the dirt wall. It seemed to work; no rocks had been hurled from the city walls for some time, but none of the men, officers included, were planning on that lasting much longer. Pullus had reluctantly positioned himself on the dirt rampart, right where the road that, before the canal was constructed served as the main artery to the northern part of the Bargosan kingdom and from which the east/west road network branched, giving him a view that wasn’t obstructed by the enemy camp. All that was visible were large dark shapes that hadn’t been present long before, although by the time he ascended one of the ladders all of the animals represented by those shapes had emerged from the northern gateway. He watched them as they arrayed themselves in one long line, then seemed to content to remain there, and Pullus could vaguely make out the mass of smaller figures that he assumed were the remaining defenders, although it was impossible to tell whether they were arrayed in front of the animals or behind them. Well, we’ll find out soon enough, he thought, recognizing this was one more thing he couldn’t worry about in this moment. Instead, he walked a short distance down the rampart, checking on the progress of the men manning the scorpions. The immunes who crewed the ballistae had been returned to the biremes, where they would loose what was a limited supply of stone ammunition, lobbing the missiles over the rampart and into the camp, the outermost range roughly midway through the tents. They would be loosing blindly, although Pullus had ordered a half-dozen men to work as spotters from the rampart, where they would at least provide some sort of guidance on where to send their ammunition. Each piece had twenty smoothed and rounded stones that weighed five pounds, but only ten of the larger ten-pound stones, and while none of them had any experience in such matters, the consensus among the immunes who served as the chief of each crew, along with the Centurions Pullus had asked, was that it was the latter ammunition that had a chance of actually downing one of the armored elephants. The naphtha was a last resort for the ballistae, to be used only in the direst extremity, and even then, Pullus wasn’t certain that he would bring himself to using it, so unpredictable was the substance. However, in another sign of the quality of leadership among Caesar’s Centurions, it was actually Cyclops who had the idea that, ultimately, would prove to be the most valuable. Pullus had stopped to talk to the one-eyed Centurion who was much more than the Octus Pilus Prior, and it was as Pullus’ first tutor and former brother-in-law that the Primus Pilus initiated the conversation.
And, as he tended to do, much like Scribonius, Cyclops seemed to ask idly, “Are there any jars left on the ships?”
Pullus frowned, trying to remember, then answered, “I think at most a half-dozen cases.” He had been staring north, wondering what the delay with the Bargosans was now that the elephants were outside the wall, but he turned to look at Cyclops and asked curiously, “Why do you ask?”
Cyclops shrugged, but it was when he lowered his voice so the men, who had been allowed to sit or kneel in place, couldn’t overhear that Pullus understood his mentor wasn’t just making conversation. “I just had an idea. In case things go to cac, and we need time to get back onto the ships.”
The frown Pullus was wearing deepened into a scowl; he didn’t tolerate what he considered defeatist talk from any of his officers, and the fact that it was Cyclops was even more disturbing, but he stopped himself from chastising him, asking evenly, “What is this…idea?”
“What’s the range of the five-pound stones?” Cyclops asked, rhetorically, since before Pullus could respond, he provided the answer. “About two and a half furlongs, right?”
“More or less,” Pullus agreed.
“And the ten pound stones’ range is just shy of two furlongs,” Cyclops continued. “But what’s the range of the naphtha?”
“Less,” Pullus answered, then added, “a lot less, actually. I think I heard Murena say that it was no more than three hundred paces.”
Cyclops grimaced, but he pointed at a spot a couple rows beyond the nearest line of tents, saying quietly, “That’s about three hundred paces from the ships, would you agree?”
Pullus turned to stare at Cyclops, gasping, “You’re not suggesting that we cut it that close, are you?”
“Titus,” Cyclops answered quietly, “if we need to get back on the ships, we’re g
oing to have to find a way to stop those fucking beasts from stomping us into the dirt. And while I don’t know much about them, I do know they’re like every other beast, including us; they hate fire.”
Suddenly, Pullus was listening intently, but while he understood Cyclops’ reasoning and accepted it for the most part, his mind raced for a way to do as his Pilus Prior suggested, but not in such a dangerous fashion.
“I had the jars brought from the ships because I was afraid that it would be the only way to stop those fucking things,” he began, then shook his head, “but with those tents in the way, it’s just as likely that whoever we send out to throw those jars is going to get burned to a crisp themselves. Besides, I don’t much care for the idea of those fucking things sailing over our heads when they’re loosing blind. But…” Unexpectedly, his face split into a grin, but it wasn’t one with humor as much as a terrible happiness at what he was envisioning, “…I think I have an idea that’s going to help.”
Without another word, he ran to the nearest ladder, scrambling down to the ground, and just as he did so, a strange, wailing horn call drifted across from the city wall, which was immediately drowned out by the sound of men’s voices. Now Pullus realized it was a race against time, and he broke into a full run, heading for where his Cohort was standing.
Abhiraka had returned to the rampart just as Memmon ordered the advance, and for a moment, he debated with himself about running down to join them, but it would mean commandeering an elephant, and he was too experienced with the animals to think that would end well. Besides, he chided himself, this isn’t the only threat to the city; if one of your other commanders needs you and you’re down there in the middle of battle, it could spell disaster for Bharuch. Still, knowing it was the right thing to do didn’t help make it any easier to watch as the long line of elephants began moving at a stately walk, heading for the northernmost edge of the camp. Someone—he was certain that it was Memmon—had positioned his elephant squarely in the middle of the road, which would make him and his animal more of a target, but he didn’t fault the decision. What did concern him was what he could see because of his higher vantage point, and as he watched, that only deepened. The elephants were spaced out more widely than normal, but even so, Abhiraka could see that the outermost elephants weren’t even close to the edges of the camp; a quick count revealed that there were three more rows of tents on the left side, and four rows on the right. Which, he worried, is enough cover for those Romans to get around his animals. Down below, also spread out in a long line that appeared about five to six men deep, Abhiraka watched as the swordsmen began moving, following about fifty paces behind the elephants.
Turning, Abhiraka called to the nearest man, snapping, “Run down to find Lord Bhadran. Tell him he’s to divide his force into two and send them out to the flanks of the elephants! Quickly!”
The man turned and dashed away, leaving the king fuming. This, he thought savagely, is what I get for listening to others and not relying on my own instinct! Bhadran shouldn’t have to be told this, and if he survives there will be a reckoning. Time dragged agonizingly slowly as Abhiraka waited, and he saw the figure of his runner dashing out from the gateway, heading for the spot where Bhadran was most likely to be, on the road directly behind Memmon’s Anala. However, instead of turning to run back to the gate on his way to return to Abhiraka, the king could only watch helplessly as the man ran behind the rearmost ranks to the left, forced to weave his way around the tents on that side of the road. Finally, he reached the very end of the line, but at that distance, it was too dark for Abhiraka to see any details, and he lost sight of the man among the bodies of the rest. His eyes were beginning to water when, at last, a figure detached from the group, but more importantly, the high-pitched wail from the horn used by all of the Bharuch forces except for the elephants played a long note, and while there was a ragged quality that would have made a Roman Centurion lash out with his vitus, the line stopped. Before another heartbeat, there came another horn, which Abhiraka recognized as that used by the elephants, and he frowned as he saw Memmon and the others suddenly stop.
“They must be waiting to see what’s happening behind them,” Abhiraka said this aloud, although even if he’d been heard, no man would have dared to comment, one way or another.
With a growing anxiety, Abhiraka watched as another man he was certain was a runner sent by Bhadran went sprinting towards the center, stopping in the road. Then, a couple of heartbeats later, the long line divided in two, with the men nearest to the road moving quickly in the direction of the flanks of his elephants that was closest to them, and only then did the king breathe slightly easier. It was a delay, certainly, but he felt it was justified, provided that the swordsmen were able to stop their foe from enveloping the animals, and thereby enabling the brutal power of the animals to overwhelm the Romans. It never occurred to him that this second delay was precisely what the Romans needed to counter the threat posed by armored beasts.
Placing two jars of naphtha, one on either side of the road, was a straightforward enough task that was quickly accomplished; finding a spot among the randomly placed tents where they could be seen by at least one of the scorpions proved practically impossible, but they did the best they could. Only because the Bargosan advance stopped for some reason did the men of the 10th have the opportunity to create a line of jars of naphtha before whatever came next. After issuing his orders, Pullus had returned to the rampart, leaving Balbus in command of the First Cohort, which wasn’t actually in its normal spot on the far right of the line, but squarely in the middle, straddling the road. To their left, Pullus had placed the Second, while to the right, Metellus and his Third stood ready, with the Fourth and Fifth on the left and right flanks respectively. That they were all standing in a seemingly haphazard fashion, clustered in groups that was more akin to the kind of mob the Gallic tribes favored was something that almost drove Pullus to distraction, but he knew it was necessary for the moment because they needed to use the obscuring cover of the tents. While the jars were being placed, the men manning the scorpions had begun making strips of cloth, using the cotton tunics of the men who had been slain on the rampart and with a few exceptions, had been thrown down at the base of the rampart. These strips were wrapped around a couple of the bolts and were ready for use, one of the crew holding his tinder box to strike the spark needed to ignite the cotton. Pullus was watching the last half-dozen Legionaries running back in his direction when, for the third time, there was the sound of a horn, and the movement of the Bargosan elephants resumed all across their front.
“All right, boys!” Pullus bellowed. “They’re on their way and I don’t think they’ll stop again! Scorpions!” He turned to the left first, then to his right as he repeated himself. Then, he roared, “Wait for my command!” Finally, he strode across the rampart back towards the canal, shouting down, “Ballistae! Loose!”
Almost immediately came the sounds of torsion arms slamming forward, but when the first of the five-pound rocks soared overhead, to Pullus’ ear, it sounded like it was by no more than two or three feet above his head, and reacting instinctively, he dropped into a crouch, most of the others present doing the same. Moving back to the city side of the rampart, he wasn’t particularly surprised that there was no indication that any of the ballistae missiles had struck a target. So much of what was about to happen depended on the accuracy of the scorpions, particularly those placed where they had a view of the two jars on either side of the road, which to Pullus’ eyes, were already just barely visible in the darkness, and the thought crossed his mind to call for the best marksman among the immunes who were responsible for pulling the long cord that loosed the bolt, but he dismissed it because there wasn’t time. When the moment came, however, it wasn’t accuracy that was the problem.
“Make ready!” Pullus called out to the four scorpions that had an unobstructed view of the pair of jars, having warned them to expect him to react quickly. Over the general noise, he heard th
e sound of the levers that ratcheted back the torsion arms, though his eyes never left the oncoming elephants.
“Ready!”
One by one, the scorpion crews announced their weapon was ready to loose, and Pullus shouted, “Light them!”
He couldn’t hear the noise of flints being struck, but very quickly, every crew shouted their readiness again, and Pullus didn’t hesitate, bellowing, “Loose!”
Almost simultaneously, the four sharp cracks that were the distinctive sound of the Roman scorpion sounded, while Pullus, and every other man in the area, stared intently at the two jars. The rags that had been set alight created a streak of fiery light that made the flight of the bolt easy to track, at least at first, but while Pullus had told himself how unlikely it would be the first volley that ignited them, when there was no sudden burst of flame from either jar, he still felt a stab of disappointment, along with a sense that something wasn’t quite right.
“Again! And hurry, they’re getting close!”
“Did you notice anything about those bolts, Primus Pilus?”
Pullus turned to his Aquilifer, having ordered Paterculus to bring the Legion standard up onto the rampart where it could be more easily seen, snapping, “Noticed what? Ready! Loose!”
“That those rags aren’t staying lit,” Valerius answered, and Pullus immediately grasped that this was what his senses were trying to tell him.
Pullus spun about, but before he could countermand the order, once more, all four scorpions sent their bolts flying. There was a barely audible cracking sound over the general noise an instant after the bolts flew that Pullus interpreted as one of the jars being struck, but again, nothing happened, no spectacular fireball, not even a flicker of light that would indicate that the wind created as the bolt shot through the air didn’t extinguish the flames.
“We can’t waste more time,” he muttered to himself, then turned back to the rampart, searching for something. “I know I saw…There!” Pointing to one of the three boxes containing naphtha that had been placed up against the wooden parapet, Pullus shouted to the nearest Centurion, “Percennius! Bring one of those jars. Quickly!”
