Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul (29 page)

As all this was happening Romulus, standing next to Didius, called out, “Achilles is down!” This elicited a sharp reaction from everyone around us, since we were the only ones at that point to use the nickname.

“Who in Hades is Achilles?” snapped the Pilus Prior as he crouched over to us.

“Er…….I meant Didius, sir. Sorry.”

“You will be, trust me you little
cunnus
. I don’t care if you call him Aphrodite, next time use his proper name so I know who it is. I don’t have the time to learn all your pet lover’s names." Turning to the man checking on him, he asked, “Is he dead?”

Even I was somewhat relieved when the man shook his head. “No sir. It looks like it deflected off his shield first, then his helmet and hit him in the forehead. He’s out cold, but he’s breathing, and it doesn’t look like his skull is broken. In fact, there’s not much of a bump here at all.”

I, along with all my tentmates twisted our heads sharply, exchanging glances, and I know we were all thinking the same thing. However, the Pilus Prior at this point was unaware of Didius’ history and merely ordered, “Then drag him over to the middle behind the breastworks. Maybe he’ll come to and be of some use.”

The man complied, taking care not to rise above the level of the parapet since the missiles were still whizzing around. Grabbing Didius by the harness, he began dragging him, prompting me to look over at my tentmate once he was at a point where I could clearly see his face. He did have a mark on his forehead, a red bump, but there was no bleeding and it did not look terribly damaging. Just as the man pulled him over the breastworks and I continued watching, my heart leapt when I swore, for just a heartbeat, that I saw Didius open his eyes before quickly shutting them again. Immediately I told Vibius what I thought I had seen, and he looked back at Didius who was still lying unconscious, or pretending to, his lips compressed into a thin line of contempt.

“It wouldn’t surprise me at all, the bastard,” he said quietly.

“Do you think I should tell the Pilus Prior?”

He considered, then shook his head. “The Pilus Prior doesn’t know about the ladder, but what he does know is that you two hate each other, so he’s unlikely to take what you say seriously.”

I nodded; he was right. Besides, there were more important things to worry about at that moment besides one coward, and it was coming up the hill towards us. After waiting a few moments for the slingers to try inflicting damage, with only Didius being brought to the breastworks, heartening as it was, the Lusitani began marching up the hill. Speaking frankly, I can use the word marching only in the loosest sense, since it was more of a shambling half-trot, replete with the usual complement of screaming and hopping. The slingers, because of their position downhill, were forced to lift their barrage almost immediately to avoid hitting their own men, and the Lusitani were rapidly approaching the range of our javelins.

“Prepare Javelins!”

At the command, we assumed the position, our right foot back, right arm pulled all the way back with the shaft of the javelin laying on the length of the arm, the hardened point aimed skyward to create the arc that helped it pick up momentum. My arm trembled a bit as I readied my body for the effort, choosing not so much a target but a spot where I wanted it to land, confident that there would be a man occupying that space when it arrived.

“Release!”

The air filled with the black lines that signaled the javelins in flight, and as I followed through, it brought me to a crouched position where I could look directly at the Lusitani. To a man, they all looked up, trying to catch the flight of our rain of death, hoping that they could isolate and focus on the one that posed the most danger to them personally. Some of them were lucky, yet most in the front rank were not, with almost every javelin finding something in which to bury itself. The thuds of our missiles hitting flesh and wood of shields were punctuated by the screams of the men hit, and in turn they caused a slight pause in the uphill climb as the wounded men crashed into one of their comrades, knocking him down or staggering him, with the dead men becoming obstacles to step over. It did not slow them long, however.

The javelins went whizzing just over our heads as we watched them arc and again slice into the advancing Lusitani. Another shudder of more men going down, then we in the front rank stood to fire our last salvo.

“Prepare!”

“Release!”

One of the advantages in being on the hill was that it increased the effective range of the javelin. Normally, both lines would not have been able to launch two salvos before we had to go to the sword, but we used all of the javelins we carried, to maximum effect.

Immediately after we finished throwing our second, the Pilus Prior commanded, “Front rank kneel and draw swords!” The metal made a comforting rasping sound as the blades left the scabbard, even as the second rank discharged their last volley. Quickly estimating that more than two-thirds of our javelins had hit a target and put it out of action, whether it was a warrior or a shield, it still meant perhaps 150 men were either out of action or severely hampered with no protection. This might have been enough to stop the attack, except the Lusitani by this time had learned that we only carried two javelins apiece, and if they absorbed the punishment they would be able to close the distance to fight us hand to hand. That is exactly what happened; after they took a moment to recover from the last volley, a large man wearing one of the high conical helmets and dressed in the fish scale armor that was common of their nobles, waved his sword in the air, moving it in a circle while bellowing a command in their language, before dropping his arm to point at us, the signal for them to stop their steady advance and throw themselves at us at a run.

“Here they come,” someone yelled.

“Oh, really? Thank you for alerting us Hannibal,” Calienus muttered, causing us to stifle a nervous laugh as we braced for impact.

Part of the reason for their delay in the attack was that they had gathered together bundles of wood, or were even using our sacks of forage to throw into the bottom of the ditch, allowing them to cross over without having to climb out of it. Hurling everything they gathered into the ditch delayed their charge, as the thought flashed through my mind that we would have been better served waiting to launch our javelins until that moment, and I had to grudgingly acknowledge that the Lusitani might be smarter than we thought. Crossing over their makeshift bridges, they came at us with the usual crash of shields and swords, roaring their rage at us, smashing against what was nothing more than a wall of thin wood and loosely packed dirt. The wall held, but only just as the Lusitani tried to pull our shields down, clawing at the rims to gain a purchase. A grubby hand appeared in front of my face, curling around the top as I felt the man behind it begin to pull and I suppressed a smug smile, knowing that I was stronger than he was and not worried that he would succeed. Very quickly the smugness disappeared when just a heartbeat after his hand started pulling another hand, quickly followed by another, began tugging as well, and I could feel my grip rapidly weakening under the added pressure. Gritting my teeth, I brought my sword up to hack at the hands, but even with the awkward angle, I was able to lop off several fingers, their screams of agony accompanied by my cry of disgust as the fingers went flying, one of them striking me in the face while another found its way into the gap between my tunic and armor, where I could feel it sliding down to rest above my belt. Bile rose in my throat but I could not indulge myself in vomiting since I had bought only a temporary reprieve. Immediately a spear came thrusting over the top of my shield, which I barely ducked, followed by a second thrust aimed at a different point. This one caught me a glancing blow on the helmet, causing a burst of stars to explode in my head, and for a moment I felt like I was losing my balance and falling backwards, but the man behind me braced me, shoving me back forward.

“Go on Pullus, have at 'em.”

Shaking my head to clear it, I saw the spear come at me for yet a third time, except instead of ducking, this time I grabbed the shaft, thankful that my hand was big enough to maintain the grasp on my sword at the same time even with the Vinicius grip, then gave a mighty yank. Even above the din I could hear a yelp of surprise as I relieved the Lusitani of his weapon, dropping it on the ground next to me. Their initial assault was starting to ebb a bit; we could tell both by the sound and the fact that the hammering against our defenses was slowing as the Lusitani’s energy began to flag. So far nothing had penetrated, yet even as they fell back a little way down the hill to regroup, we knew that another charge was imminent. During the interval, I debated whether I had time to get that damn finger out from under the armor and took a peek, but I saw that they were about to come back. This time they chose not to work themselves into a lather; on some signal that we did not hear or see, they simply launched themselves at us again. Once more there was the smash of bodies and metal, this time accompanied by a couple of grunts of surprise from some of the men not paying close enough attention.

“This would have been a good time to warn us boy,” griped Calienus. I suppressed a smile, turning my attention to bracing myself as someone tried their best to kill me.

We managed to stop the second attack. By this time the sun was disappearing over the horizon, apparently prompting the Lusitani to decide that their best course was to withdraw and rest for the night. Having the advantage of numbers, they could afford to actually build fires and eat, while keeping a small portion of their men on guard at any given time. Unfortunately, we did not have that luxury, instead being forced to keep half the men on watch, with the rest of us chewing our cold rations then trying to get some sleep before relieving the men on guard. The Pilus Prior ordered no fires, both because there was little enough wood and any light could silhouette one of us who might fall prey to an opportunistic slinger. By this time Didius, his new nickname Achilles now an open joke in the Century, helped along by Remus’ spirited retelling of the event that earned it for him, regained consciousness, if he had truly ever been out. Scribonius came to sit next to Vibius and I while we chewed on some salt bacon, quietly discussing our predicament, and we glanced at him curiously; it was not like Scribonius to horn in on others' conversation unless he had something to say, but when he did he was not usually shy to say it, yet this time he seemed to struggle to find the right words.

Finally, he whispered, “Did either of you happen to look at Achilles at all while we were fighting?”

We both shook our head; the last time I remembered glancing his way was right after they dragged him to the breastworks.

“Why do you ask?” At first Scribonius did not answer Vibius’ question, instead staring intently at the ground, his face faintly illuminated by the half moon and the usual cloudless sky. Finally, he shrugged and replied, “It’s just that I could have sworn that I looked his way and he was watching us fighting, just like he was lying in his bunk.”

This caused me to straighten up; so I was not mistaken. Excitedly, I whispered back, “I saw it too. I thought I must have been seeing something, but I swore I saw him peeking at us.”

Sitting there for a moment, all three of us were clearly unable to speak. The implications were enormous; if Didius was accused by us and was found guilty, he would be crucified in front of the entire army, but not before he was scourged first as an example to all of what happened to cowards. As much as I despised him, I was not sure that I wanted the burden of such a horrible death on my conscience.

With that in my mind, I looked at Scribonius and asked, “What do you think we should do?”

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think there's anything we can do.”

This did not sit well with me, or Vibius for that matter and we both spoke up in protest, which Scribonius silenced with a wave of his hand.

“Think about it Pullus. It’s well known that you hate him, and he you. And it’s well known that he threatened you. I went and got Vellusius to split with him as close comrade, so there'll be suspicions about me as well.”

Searching his face in the gloom, it bore no hint of what he had in mind, so I accepted this idea with a shrug, as did Scribonius. With that matter temporarily settled we lay down, pulling our cloaks from our packs to keep out the evening chill, aware that getting as much rest as possible under the circumstances was vital. It was not until I lay down that I was struck by a thought, sitting bolt upright with a curse, startling Vibius and the other men around me.

“What in the name of Dis has gotten into you?” Vibius demanded.