Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 33
Using his shield in the manner of a Roman, the Thracian punched forward with it, hitting me in my right arm, making it go numb its entire length, at the same time pushing with all of his strength to pin me against the wall. The pressure of his weight and strength was enormous, and I was struggling for breath from the crushing pinch. I could hear an enormous roar in my ears, and in my fevered imagination, still flush with my killing rage, I thought it shouts of triumph from the Thracians surrounding my opponent on seeing me pinned and apparently helpless, celebrating what they were sure would be my death. This only fueled my rage even further, but thinking about it afterward, I imagine that the roaring I was hearing came from my own wheezing breath and the resulting lack of air, something I had experienced before. Whatever the source, it gave me what I needed. Despite being pinned, with my left shoulder pushed solidly against the rough wall of the gate, trapping my arm so that my ruined shield was barely dangling from my hand in front of me, I was far from finished. Raising his sword again, this time for a downward thrust in the same manner in which I had dispatched the first man I had pinned, the Thracian grinned at me in triumph, his lips curling back in a smile that promised death. Before he could deliver the fatal blow, with a bellow, I lifted my right arm straight out from my side, pushing against his shield with every ounce of strength I had, and then some. Imagine, if you will, trying to push a horse away from you when it is pressed against the outside of your arm, simply by pushing outward, and this should give an idea of what was required. Although not weighing as much as a horse, the Thracian was pushing against me with all of his own considerable strength, but somehow, I was able to lift him bodily off the ground with just my arm, yet still maintain hold of my sword. My opponent’s feet left the ground, hurtling backward at least two paces, only saved from falling to the ground by the bodies of his own comrades who were still engaged with the other men of the First Cohort. Before he could recover, I whipped my torso around, bringing my left arm across my body but still holding my damaged shield, making a backhanded slash, the jagged wooden edge raking across the Thracian’s face. Letting out a sharp cry of pain when a huge splinter pierced his forehead, ripping a long gash just below the rim of his helmet, he at least had the presence of mind not to drop either sword or shield to grab at his face, something that many men do and die for it. Still, he was now in serious danger, blood spurting from his forehead and down into his eyes. When he shook his head to clear the blood away, I felt the warm spray of it across my own face. Now that I had him on the defensive, I could not afford to let him recover, so with my back now facing the wall, I attacked him at an oblique angle, making it awkward for him to defend my thrusts. Between my angle of attack and his semi-blindness, he was now the one desperately defending, whipping his shield about to stop my blade from reaching him. Even at such a disadvantage, he was still very, very good, and I felt a pang of remorse when I managed to score a hit, getting in just an instant before he could raise his shield. The point of my Gallic blade sliced into the scale armor, and when I withdrew my blade, I saw a scale still skewered on the point. Blood started to flow from just below his collarbone, through his padded tunic and leaking out where the scale was missing, but I knew that the blade had not gone deeply enough. It would weaken him but not kill him, so dropping the remnant of my own shield, I reached out and quickly gave a yank on the inside edge of his, knowing that a pull in that direction would be extremely painful to the damaged muscles of his left shoulder. I was rewarded by a groan of pain, seeing his face go pale, yet he made one last attack, trying to take advantage of my own lack of shield. The point of his sword came at me, but this attack was slower than his previous thrusts and slashes. I managed to twist away without having to use my own blade to parry, yet felt the sword rasp along the links of my mail. Before he could recover, I gave a chopping slash down on his briefly unprotected arm, and despite not having my blade sharpened the night before, the edge was still keen enough to cut deeply into the Thracian’s arm, feeling it grate against the bone. This time he gave a scream and dropped the blade, finally making his last and fatal mistake, by reflex dropping his shield to clutch at his ruined arm. Even as he did it, I saw the despair flash across his face on realizing his error, our eyes meeting one last time as I stepped forward, making a high thrust straight from the shoulder, locking my arm straight and letting my weight do the work. This time the blade did go deeply, plunging into his chest more than half its length, and his eyes rolled back, the breath rattling out of his throat. Before he could fall, I twisted violently on the blade to free it, but he no longer felt it. I heard a low groan from some of the other Serdi, all of whom had been kept at bay by Macrinus and his men to see what had evidently been one of their champions fall. Even in the midst of battle, with the issue still in doubt, I realized that this was a moment that I would remember always, for this man had been the greatest opponent I had ever faced.
Despite knowing the danger, I raised my sword in salute to the fallen Thracian, calling out in a loud voice, in Greek so that the Thracians would understand, “Nobody is to touch this man’s body! Honor him or face me!” Then I turned my attention back to the fighting to see that this fortress was still far from falling.
The First Cohort had only managed to push the Thracians back a few paces from the edge of the breach, with things still much too disorganized on our part to give the men who had been in the leading edge of the assault the chance of relief. Because of this, they were growing tired, but the Serdi were no better off. Men were still milling about behind the first three or four rows of the enemy, unable or unwilling to make their way up to the fighting. Whereas under normal circumstances we had an organized system, the only way these Thracians could get into the fight was by men falling or by pushing their way forward, an act that was almost as dangerous as facing us. My blood was still running hot, yet I could feel the first signs of fatigue coming back, knowing that the other men had to be at least as badly off, if not worse. Macrinus had sweat streaming down his face, along with spatters of blood from the men he had killed, but otherwise seemed fine. Taking the moment of respite my killing of the Thracian had offered, I stepped quickly aside, signaling the man behind me to move forward, which he did without hesitation, his face set and determined.
“Keep your shield up,” I shouted at him as he moved forward, noticing that he was carrying it a bit low, and he nodded in answer before he punched forward with it at another Serdi.
With my height, I could peer above our men’s heads to see that the rubble pile was filled with Legionaries, balancing on the ladders, or having found a perch on a piece of rubble or even one of the timbers, had crouched and were waiting to join the fight. There was no more firing from the Thracians above our heads on the ramparts, and for reasons I could not understand, they had not moved farther back on the ramparts to allow them to shoot down at us. Our own artillery had ceased firing and, back in that direction, I could also see Marcus Primus, with Masala at his side, along with the other Tribunes, sitting on the small rise watching us. I turned back to the fighting, picking up a shield from a man who would no longer need it, suffering what looked like a spear thrust to the throat, then rejoined the fighting. I squeezed next to Macrinus, the Primus Pilus pausing when I reached his side.
“We have to do something to break this up and get some room,” I shouted into his ear over the noise.
“I know,” he replied, his face grim as he watched one of his men, clutching a gaping wound to his thigh, get dragged out of the fight by a comrade.
“But I don’t know what. Do you have any ideas?”
“A Trojan horse.” It was a weak joke, but the best I could think of.
In truth, I was stalling for time, trying to think of the best course of action. Standing on my toes, I looked over the heads and waving weapons of the Serdi to get a better idea of the layout of the fortress. At the far end, hard under the wall that essentially sat in the shadow of the upper reaches of the peak, were a series of five low-roofed buildings that had the looks of barracks, each one housing perhaps two hundred men. Tucked into a far corner were stables, except they were relatively small since this was essentially an infantry outpost. In the opposite corner and extending roughly halfway along what was the northern wall and ending just short of the smaller gate that led directly to Serdica was what was clearly the storehouse, where the garrison supplies were kept. Even though it was expected, I was still disappointed to see that all of these buildings were made of stone, because the one idea I had was to try and fire the buildings behind the massed Thracians, essentially forcing some of the manpower to go and fight the fire. From what I was seeing, the main reason we could not push our way deeper into the fortress was a matter of numbers. There were simply too many Thracians, packed too tightly together for us to make any headway. That idea was not going to work, because despite there being a number of smaller structures scattered about that were made of wood, they were too small and isolated from the other wooden buildings to make the conflagration that would be needed. There was nothing for it but to simply try to wear the Thracians down, and I told Macrinus as much. It may seem surprising, but after the initial onslaught when our two forces first came together and men were cut down, the casualties on both sides were relatively light. In simplest terms, neither side had enough room to work in their own particular manner, and now that the fighting had been going on for the time it takes to walk a mile, men were more or less leaning against each other, making half-hearted thrusts and slashes over, under or between their shields. Gradually, the roar and din of the fighting lessened to the sound of panting, grunted curses, and the occasional shout of a man either scoring a lucky blow, or being unlucky himself. Because of the narrow front, we had less than two full Centuries of the First Cohort actually engaged with an enemy, with another two immediately supporting the combatants by pushing against their backs to brace the men actually doing the fighting. The only spot where there was room that was not already filled was a small pocket where I had originally been standing, next to the ruined gateway on the left side of the breach, tucked around the side of the wall where the rubble had settled more evenly. It was out of sight of the Serdi, but only if men climbed to it from the outside, not using the ladder route, instead scrambling up the far left edge of the pile next to the wall. Pulling Macrinus aside, I kept my voice as low as possible to tell him what I was thinking.
“I want a dozen of your very best men from the entire Legion, as quickly as you can get them,” I told him. Making sure not to make any gestures or in any way indicate what I was thinking and where I wanted the men positioned, I described my plan. I cannot say that he looked overly impressed, or even optimistic that it would work. Still, he left immediately, pushing his way through the men. I turned back to the fighting, stepping forward to help bolster the line where a man had been shoved back a step. He gave a grateful glance over his shoulder, earning a rap on the helmet from me.
“Keep your eyes to the front, you idiot, or I’ll skin you myself.”
Before he snapped his head back around, I saw his eyes go wide, realizing it was me behind him, my presence suddenly seeming to infuse him with new energy. This gave me an idea, and I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of it earlier.
“Is this the best the 8th can do?”
I sounded as scornful as I could, shouting the words out as an insult.
“I guess your Primus Pilus was full of cacwhen he was bragging about you and he said you were the match of any Legion of Rome that ever marched.”
I threw my head back, roaring with laughter, but it was as laced with contempt and scorn as my words had been, and I saw the men in the second and third ranks glaring in my direction, their faces full of anger.
“What I see wouldn’t scare a Cohort of Suburan whores! You’ve been standing here fucking about, letting these cock-sucking pederasts get the better of you!”
Even the Thracians seemed to be surprised at my outburst, momentarily stopping their flailing away at our men, seemingly content to just lean shield to shield against their opponents and gape at the spectacle of a good old-style Roman tongue lashing.
“That’s not true!” I heard someone shout from the rear ranks.
“Then prove it!” I roared. “Prove that you’re worthy of even being mentioned in the same breath as Legions like Caesar’s 10th!”
“You heard the Prefect, boys!”
A Centurion farther down the line, perhaps thirty paces away from my spot, yelled out. “Show him what you’re made of! Kill these cock-sucking sons of whores!”
A low-pitched, guttural growl seemed to rise up from the ground, vibrating through my legs as the men of the 8th suddenly found reserves of energy they did not realize they had, fueled by this slur on their honor. The noise level rose dramatically, helped by the voices of the men, but more from the clashing of metal on metal and wood created by the renewed frenzy of combat. All lethargy and fatigue seemed to have evaporated, and it was not long before the underlying sounds were punctuated by the sounds of men being struck down. Blades were flickering forward in sudden jabs from between the men’s shields, more sensed than seen as the Legionaries renewed the assault. This burst of energy seemed to catch the Thracians somewhat off guard, as it sometimes happens in battle when a lull occurs and men are fooled into thinking that the fight will just peter out, as if each side would lose interest. I know that this has happened on occasion, particularly with barbarian tribes whose blood runs extremely hot, then cools just as quickly. Not with Romans, however; we finish what we start, even if it is more a matter of plodding forward, grimly hanging on, counting on our training and conditioning to wear our enemy down. That was what was finally beginning to happen, as we managed to inflict enough damage that the Thracians were forced backward by the presence of the bodies of their men whom we had dispatched, no longer giving them room to stand. This was a development composed of almost equal portions of good and bad; good because we were wearing the Serdi down, but bad because the men who now stepped in to fill the void in the Thracian line were those previously unable to push their way to the front and therefore were fresh. Fortunately, the Centurions were able to get a semblance of relief organized for our own men, despite it not being nearly as regular as it would normally be, and the sound of whistles blasted above the clashing sound of the fighting. Men pushed off, finally able to stagger back toward the rear to get a chance to rest, many of them with minor and some with serious wounds. It did not help matters that the day was now well advanced and had grown hot, particularly around the breach where the crush of bodies generated even more warmth. I had to mop my brow several times, worrying for what was about to happen, since I could not afford to have my vision obscured at all, but without my helmet liner, there was nothing to soak up the moisture. The relieved men were greedily sucking down the contents of their canteens and, despite being thirsty, I knew better than to ask for a drink. Going into battle, men are instructed to have only water or vinegar in their flasks, no Centurion wanting a drunken man in the line, but it was one of the most ignored and least enforced regulations in the army. If I happened to pick a man who had fortified himself with wine, which was extremely likely, I would technically have to write him up and have him punished. I decided to forego that risk entirely, instead bending down to pick up a pebble from the rubble, the pile having been somewhat packed down from our weight and stomping all over it, and popped it into my mouth to soothe my thirst. Just then, I heard someone call my name, and turned to see Macrinus returning, climbing back up over the ladders, pushing men aside to reach me. Using just his head to keep from alerting the Serdi, still just a few ranks away, he pointed to the small spot tucked just around the edge of the left side of the breach and the ruined wall. Like I had instructed, he had brought men, more than a dozen actually, fifteen in number, and they all looked tough and capable. Because of the small space, they were crowded together, men standing one behind the other, so I could not immediately see every man’s face. There was one Legionary, tall and lean, standing behind all the other men, but for some reason, he was not facing the same way, choosing instead to look back toward the plutei and artillery. I felt my mouth twist into a frown, waiting for this one lone Legionary to turn about so I could give my orders. Finally running out of patience, I snapped, “I hate to tear you away from admiring the view, Gregarius, but you might want to pay attention to what I have to say.”
