Legion

[SofaKing]

The sun hadn’t broken yet when my hands started to shake. I stared at them and marveled at the manifestation of my fear. I took comfort in that it wasn’t terror. Terror was plague to a soldier. It spread fast and hard, jumping from one soldier to the next. It fed on you and made you weak. A man’s body would betray him in a terror. It would make a man abandon his duty and training. A body would run to save itself while friends and brothers were cut down around it. But mine was only fear. It kept me sharp. It kept me alert. It had also kept me awake for another long night with my back pressed up against the last and best wall standing in Cumae. I was not terrified, I told myself again. I think it was true.
I stood and stretched my back. The light was coming up fast, but I could still see the stars. As a boy, my grandmother had pointed up to them and whispered tales of Jove, Minerva, and Venus. She told me that if you looked long enough you could see the outlines of the Gods and get a glimpse of the future they had planned for you. She told me that Mars cried out for me, as he had called out for her father and her brothers. She told me that when I was no longer a boy, the day would come when I would serve Ceasar in the Legion. She told me I would bring glory to the men that had brought glory to Rome. When I took my grandmother’s advice, and stared at the stars, I saw only glowing embers cast from a fire without plan or purpose. I did not hear the voice of Mars or see his words inscribed in the night sky. I thought to ask my parents, but I knew their answer. My parents thought my grandmother was insane.
“There are no gods.”
“They are myths from another age.”
“The old temple is but an empty shell.”
“There is but one God almighty.”
“He is the Lord of Hosts and the Forever King.”
“He will lead us to our salvation and upon our passing from the mortal realm we will join him in his mansion of many rooms.”
The told me all of this. They went to their Cathedral and they chanted it for hours on end. As if they so longed to join him in his mansion that life held no reward for them. They toiled in the fields. They bought their wares in the marketplace. Yet it seemed they only marked the days and seasons and prepared for when God called them to him. The only zeal I ever saw from them was when I told my father I thought he had thrown his life away to worship a lunatic notion, and that I was going to follow Mars by joining the Legion. He showed quite a bit of zeal then. In fact his zeal was such, that the marks across my back lasted the month it took me reach the barracks in Rome.
I was a boy then and foolish as boys often are. I thought I hated them. I thought the choice was living on my knees for their God or charging into battle for my Grandmother’s gods. As I finished buckling on my armor, I knew my parents had made a choice to live their lives the best they knew how. I forgave my father his lash, and I wondered if they forgave me my last hurtful words to them as I left for the Legion. I looked up at the stars and saw their meaning plain. We would die this day. I wondered who would greet me in the next world, my parents or my grandmother. Maybe neither. Perhaps I would only meet the vultures and the worms that would feast on my corpse.
I reached for my helmet and raised it my lips. I drank the last of the rainwater I had collected the day before. I felt the tightness in my stomach that I had become accustomed to in Cumae. There would be no bread today. Since the granary had been destroyed, there had been little to eat. There had been more food recently, as there was few left that still needed nourishment. Those that hadn’t starved had to contend with the cannons. I placed the helm on my head and watched the men around me rouse from the rough slumbers. The barracks had gone shortly after the granary. The only benefit of losing the barracks had been that we lost our commander with it. While he had been a fool, and it was a pleasure to be denied his company, it was also the main source of my fear. Since he had gone, I was in charge. The men looked to me to lead them. They didn’t realize I had no idea where to lead them.
“Gaius! Antony awaits you at the Western Gate. He asks for you to make haste,” said one of the conscripts. I had not seen him until then. As I looked at him, I saw the terror I had looked for in myself. He was not a man yet, but not enough a boy that he had been passed over when the call went out. All able-bodied males had been given pikes and told to defend their families. Of course the definition of “able-bodied” was not as vigorous as it had been in the days before the siege.
“Tell Antony I will be with him in a moment,” I told the manling. Was I ever that young? I had been 16 when I joined the legion. I had been 17 when I received the brand of Mars. It had been done in the half secret manner of the legion. The Republic had embraced Christianity for some time, but the Legion was allowed its traditions.
Walking to the west gate, I could see out across the harbor. It and the Wall were the only things still standing in Cumae. I squinted and was able to see across the strait. Home. Only a short distance, but impossible to reach. The blockade had been in place for years. If Rome had made any attempt to break it, they had failed. We had received no reinforcements or supplies since we had arrived. I couldn’t suppress a melancholic grin. When we had arrived with a battery of catapults we were invincible. We were the 15th Corps. We were the Eternal Legion, a name we earned put the last of Xerxes immortals to the sword. There was nothing that could withstand us. We were wrong.
The sun had broken. It wouldn’t be long now. The shadow of the hill, our only defense, was shrinking rapidly. I turned to see how long we had. The sun hadn’t quite crested the hill. We might have twenty minutes. The hill was another bitter reminder. It was why we were here. It was what allowed us to be Legionaires. It was also killing us by the dozen.
The hill contained the iron that had allowed Rome to survive Xerxes attacks. In fact, it was what allowed Rome to bury him. The Persian Empire had now moved from the maps to the history books. All that remained were a few slaves and a dying bloodline in a few far-flung cities. Yet that hill still stood tall. It was in my opinion the only thing of value of this accursed island. A hill, a desert, and the sea were all that Cumae had. It had been settled a few centuries back as a place to mine the ore. In all those centuries, Governors and officials had grown fat off the bribes and kickback that were the lifeblood of this city. Rome itself was a far off place to them. As long as the ore continued to be pulled from the ground, Ceasar was happy. As long as gold could be pulled out of the citizens, the Governor was happy. There had been a few public works built, but not enough to turn Cumae into anything worthwhile. That had all changed when they arrived. They had turned Cumae into a graveyard, and what could be more worthwhile to a man than his final resting place.
I had been in Antium, when it happened. The stories that filtered back to the mainland were clear. Men on horseback had arrived without warning. They had charged across the fields, capturing the citizens that were constructing the roads and marched them up the hill. As the few soldiers in the city watched, the unlucky souls caught outside were force to build fortifications. Efforts were made to speak with these men, but the had little to say. They were from a far off land, ruled by a half-mad woman who claimed to know the mind of God. They were French and they weren’t planning on leaving. They seemed content to sit in their newly built fortress and simply stop the flow of iron. All attempts at communication with their leader were rebuffed. Ceasar decided to let us communicate for him.
The 15th corps boarded the galley and watched as the catapults were loaded into the hold. We set sail soon after. As we approached the harbor, we saw ships coming over the horizon. I often wondered what would of happened if the ship master had waited another day. Would the French have turned us back to Antium? More likely, my bones would lying amidst the broken timbers of the galley at the bottom of the strait. The question that plagued me was, “Would that have been worse than where we are now?”
As I asked myself that question, the sun finally climbed over the hill and illuminated the rubble that remained of Cumae. The cannons punctuated my musings. As the screams from the Wall chased the cannons angry bellow, I ran. I needed to reach the West Gate. I needed to find Antony.

[SofaKing]

The shells continued to fall. At this point they had little effect for no other reason than there was little else to destroy. I knew this, but it gave me little comfort. The pounding got in your head. The whine of a cannonball passing overhead encouraged me to drop to the ground. I had heard some of the men saying that the only ones that whined were the ones that weren’t aimed at you. IT was the silent ones that killed. How they could ever have determined this and lived to tell was beyond me, so I took the conservative stance of taking cover. A half collapsed building was the recipient of the shell in question, and decided to take the hint and became a fully collapsed building. After a moment I regained my feet, and continued on to the West Gate.
“Gaius, did you stop for breakfast?” called a familiar voice.
“No, you’re wife fed me before I left this morning.”
“Poor you. She’s a god-awful cook.”
Antony was crouched by the remains of the temple. Our banter was consistent, but the humor had gone from it long ago. As hard as the fighting had been on me, it was worse for him. Cumae was my post, but it had been his home. He still had the stocky build and rough hands from his days as a fisherman, but with the French blockade and the call to arms he had been forced to change his occupation. He now led a division of pikemen. The may have been conscripts when they first came together, but they were no longer. The fighting had hardened them and I was glad to be with them.
“Did you see the stars this morning?” I asked.
“Yes, not a cloud in the sky,” he answered.
“There will be no rain today.”
“I told you the rainy season was short. Did you think it would hold them off forever?”
“I wouldn’t have wept if it did. It will be hot today. The ground will dry quickly. I think we can expect an attack from their cavalry,” I told him.
“I think you are right. Their cannons have done nearly all they can do. I think they will try to end this siege soon. Unfortunately, that is not the worst of news.”
“What have you heard?”
“Reinforcements. Reports indicate another division of cavalry and three division of their musketeers.”
“A garrisoning force. They mean to occupy us.”
“It seams so, but damned if I know why. Their armament indicates the have little need of iron, and this island has precious little else,” Antony said.
“Perhaps they are looking to deprive Rome of iron as part of a larger goal. Maybe they know something about this island that we don’t. Or maybe they just want a fight. Regardless, it’s pointless discussion. They are here and they mean stay.”
“You’re right again. What do we do about it?”
“I don’t know. How much longer do you think you can hold?”
The whine of another shell brought pause to our discussion. It hit only a few yards to our left and sent a shower of broken tiles into the air. I looked over to see Antony had taken cover as well. Apparently he shared my disdain of the “Silent Shell” theory.
“Gaius, the time to hold is over. Once those reinforcements get into position, it is finished. My pikemen can hold for another charge or so. We have conscripted another group of pikemen, but the won’t count for much against cavalry,” Antony said. I didn’t bother to ask where he got the equipment to outfit another regiment. The corpses littered in the streets had little use for the pikes they once wielded.
“Gaius, along with the cannons there is a division of Cavalry and a division of musketeers on the hill. As bad as it is, it will never be this good again. You have to take the hill.”
“Antony,” I fumed,” have you lost you mind? They are entrenched in elevated ground with fixed fortifications. God could not take that hill. I feel no shame in saying swords cannot stand against rifles.”
Two more shells hit the harbor area. It took me a moment to realize the hadn’t come from the hill, but rather the French frigates. I hadn’t seen them fire before. Why they had held back before I couldn’t say, but they were holding back no longer. This was going to be it. The French meant to finish it today.
“So that’s it? You want to wait here behind the wall? Gaius, the wall is not going to matter much in another day. We have no other option.”
“I won’t order my men to make an impossible charge.”
“When the 15th corps first came, you were to be our saviors. What happened to the Eternal Legion? I thought hat fool Lucius had you take a position behind the wall because he was a coward. When the cannons finished him off in the barracks, I thought we might finally have a chance. But maybe he wasn’t the coward after all!”
He looked at me coldly. I think he expected me to strike him. But I took no umbrage at his words. What were his words to me? I was a soldier from a day gone passed. I was a man who worshipped fallen gods.
“Sic transit gloria,” I replied in the old tongue.
I turned and walked away. I could feel Antony’s gaze upon my back. I chided myself at how frantic I was to find him this morning as if he would have an answer or a plan to save us from our fate. There was nothing left to say. I would return to my men and order them to prepare themselves. We would prepare a line and wait for the French.
The cannons began to slow. I didn’t think we’d have to wait long.

[SofaKing]

The shelling had shifted from the harbor to the East Gate by the time I rejoined my men. They were gathered in groups of four and five around small fires. Despite this long siege, discipline was still strong. No man was lounging. Armor was being cleaned and blades were sharpened. As I looked at their faces, I saw a casualness that I could not claim. If they were anxious or held any level of fear, it was not shown in their faces. I’d heard it said that there was no art to the construction of a man’s face. His heart is in his chest, and the stranger only sees what he was allowed. Was that true for me as well? Could my men see the dread in my heart? Did they feel my impotence? I looked at the polished armor and the gleaming edges of their weapons. I doubted that French bullets would pay as much attention to these archaic tools. War had moved on. The Legion had not.
A large man looked up at me. He easily moved to his feet without display of the hunger and fatigue that he surely felt. As he walked towards me the other men parted as reeds.
“Commander, are you well this morning?” Prochulus asked.
“Fine, Sergeant. How do we look?” I asked.
“Two more died last night, the gangrenous one and one of the dysentery cases. Three more have reported dysentery as well, but I suspect the number is higher. I’ve noticed at least five others that have made many trips to the privy, but they won’t admit for fear of being taken off duty. The men are ready for whatever comes.”
“I have no doubts about the willingness to fight, but how able are they.”
“Sir, does it matter? Give your orders and they will follow.”
“Prochulus, I asked a question and I want an answer.”
“If I were to give a number, I’d say 60%,” he answered sheepishly. He spoke it as if it was his failure not to have more men for me. This giant of a man seemed to think that he could have sheltered these soldiers from the cannons, or perhaps nursed the starving as a mother nurses her child. His sentimentality was all the more awesome for I had seen him in battle. This man had cut down hundreds in his time in the Legion.
“All right. We’ll take position along the East inner wall. I have spoken with Antony and we expect their cavalry to make a charge. Tell the men to stay low. They’ll need to slow to pass the trench. If they make it pass the outer wall, we’ll have to engage them.”
“Sir, will Antony’s men be at the outer wall again?” he asked.
“Yes, I believe so,” I answered. Prochulus looked at me. There was concern in his face, but he did not voice it. He knew that “I believe so” was not an answer. Antony and I planned each day out to the minute. I’m sure he was curious what had changed today.
“What of the rumor of reinforcements?” He asked. The centurions of the Legion had two loves, battle and gossip. A strange combination, but in Cumae there was no wine and few women. Gossip had to do.
“It’s true. Another division of cavalry and three more of musketeers have landed. The cavalry can be here by nightfall. The musketeers should be in place by tomorrow morning,” I said. I couldn’t think of a way to make the news sound any less disastrous. I couldn’t think of why I would even try. Fate would not be cheated. The French, with their modern guns and modern God, set the pace. They would come when they willed.
“Aye Commander. I will move the men into position along the East inner wall,” Prochulus said as he turned. He had nothing to add. No wisdom or advice to offer his commanding officer, so instead he went about his duty. Walking away, he barked orders to the men. They moved with purpose and confidence. I envied them. They had everything a soldier needs, orders, a weapon, and an enemy. They needn’t care about why or how. They followed orders and when the enemy was in reach, they killed. I thought of the French rifles. Another doubt entered my mind. I doubted if the French would ever be with in reach of our swords, although I knew we would be well with reach of their bullets.

[SofaKing]

The men formed up and began their march to the Eastern Wall. As they moved out of sight a small boy approached me. His face was as filthy as the rags that covered him. In his hand was a piece of charred meat. I could smell it, and my stomach further tightened. In Cumae food was currency beyond value. The meat could only be rat, but that did not diminish its value. Even rats were rare. It had been remarked on in many dark jokes amongst the soldiers. They had mused when the rats were but a memory, how much longer would the ship stay afloat. In actuality, I was quite certain about the cause of the rodents’ disappearance. When the granary fell there was as little for them to eat as there was for us. Unfortunately, for them, the food chain only flowed in one direction. Even, the corpses rotting along the walls weren’t enough to support them against the townspeople’s ravenous needs. I thought there might be a parallel between the rats unenviable position and our own, but I tired of such thoughts.
“Sir, this is for you,” the boy said as he held up the rat. I was amazed. That piece of food might keep him alive for another day or so. Silently, I reached down and accepted his gift. Would a nobler man have refused it? All I knew was that there was no nobility in my belly. I nodded my thanks to him, and he scampered away.
As I chewed this boon, I took a moment to run a rag over my own armor. I had cleaned it during my long night of wakefulness, but the salt air was hell on the leather. I always felt the need to keep it spotless after having been in the command of Lucius. It was a rare day when he hadn’t sported a broken buckle. Even when he had some hapless recruit make repairs, his armor was never oiled. It was dull and dry with cracks spidering all along the back. I still snorted when I thought of his name. It had been midday when the Barracks had collapsed under French fire. We had been lucky. If it had fallen during the night, the entire regiment might have perished. However, every Centurion had been at his post on the Wall. All save Lucius, our noble Commander.
Lucius was rarely on the Wall. He stayed in the barracks most days pouring over maps and charts. On the days he ventured out, he could be found staring across the harbor. I think he believed that if he stared hard enough Roman ships, teaming with fresh troops, would follow his gaze back and save him from this doomed town. Perhaps he hadn’t stared hard enough. Either way, his orders to us were always the same. Hold the line. He was a fool.
Was that correct? A fool? I stopped polishing for a moment and stared at my armor. In the short weeks since I had taken command, what had I been? What had my orders been? Hold the line, I had told Prochulus. Antony had seen it plain. Lucius has felt the same powerlessness that gripped me. He had seen the impossibility of his position, and looked for someone to save him. Maps of terrain and Roman galleys that never came had been his only hope. Why? If he attacked before the French had fortified their position would things have been different. Even then they had the cannons and the high ground. Was that his excuse? Were the fortifications mine? If the barracks still stood, would I be in my quarters now pouring over maps and surveys?
It then was clear. The only thing that separated me from Lucius was my armor. He loved his men as I did. When it ended he wanted to bring them home. But what did I want? I couldn’t hide behind the illusion of home. I couldn’t even hide behind the illusion of tomorrow. Today was all we had.
The time for battle was near. I could smell it like the salt air, heavy and sharp. It was time to take my place on the wall.
I re-buckled my armor, and checked my blade. The edge was as keen. It had served me for many years and would have to do so again. It was what I had, and I would make use of it. I looked up at the clear blue sky. The stars had been banished by the sun. Any clues they held for the future they would keep to themselves until the moon chased the sun from the sky. I would make my own future today. I took of at a jog for the Wall.

[ike0481]

I hate to barge in on your story like this but I just gotta say you are doing one heck of a job. I love it! I have saved this thread to my favorites list and check it frequently so I can see what happens next. Your build to the climax is awesome. Again, sorry to interupt, just wanted to say thanks for a great story.

[SofaKing]

I arrived to see my men had taken their positions. I saw Prochulus in the middle of the line and moved in beside him. The cannons continued to bellow their disdain for us. A shell hit the Wall directly beneath me. The impact shook me, but I kept my feet. The Wall had been constructed in Cumae many years before the siege, and I was eternally grateful to those who made it so well. To call it “The Wall” was somewhat misleading. In actuality it was a series of walls and ditches that completely encircled the town. Two gates, East and West, allowed passage through the Wall. Both had heavy iron portcullis and were shuttered with thick wooden doors. The West Gate opened onto the harbor. The East Gate opened on to the road that lead up the hill to the mines. A third gate had been proposed, but thankfully the bureaucracy had never gotten around to build it. We were stretched thin enough guarding two entrances.
The Wall began fifty yards from where I now stood with a trench, four feet deep and six across. The excavated soil had been used to create a berm just beyond it. At one point it was meant to be a moat, but it, like the third gate, was never completed. A bridge had stretched across the Trench to allow traffic by cart to and from the mine. We had burned it long ago. Nothing came from the hill that we had any intention of letting through. The Trench had been useful against barbarians in the past. It had slowed the charges of warriors and provided time to concentrate defenses. In the previous charges, it had done little good. The French had stopped at the berm and fired at us from there. It provided them more protection than it did us.
Between the Trench and the Inner Wall, twenty yards from the Inner Wall to be precise, stood the outer Wall. It was a stonewall four feet high and a foot thick. It had not aged well through the siege. The French cannons had knocked down sections every eight to twelve feet. To further the damage the recent rains had eroded most of the soil from underneath. If given time, the outer wall wouldn’t last another season of the elements. However, the French were working much faster than the rain. If another charge made it to the outer wall, it would collapse. Still, it provided some cover, and for that the men loved it.
The Inner Wall was where the engineers had demonstrated the mastery of their craft. It was twelve feet high and just as many thick. It was slightly sloped, thicker at the bottom and thinner, perhaps ten feet, at the top. The top was further turreted to provide an additional five feet of cover to the soldiers standing on top of it. This served numerous purposes. It was wide enough to march a full platoon to any point along the wall. The slope allowed for a rapid but safe descent down from the wall in order to pursue retreating attackers and provided an easy field of fire against any who tried to scale it. The scorch marks from the burning oil that had been poured down them in the past were still evident. Also, it was rounded so that there were no straight angles. It was built in a time of catapults, but it had proven itself against the cannon as well. There had been no corners for the cannons to break down and weaken the wall entire. As a result in the long years of the siege, there had been no breach through the Inner Wall.
“Have we seen any movement from the French?” I asked Prochulus.
“Not yet, Sir. Antony has deployed his men, but in an unusual way.” I saw what meant. Antony’s pikemen were few in number, but he had divided them in two positions. Two thirds of them were crouched in the trench. The rest, along with Antony himself were behind the remains of the outer wall.
“What is he doing? His men at the Outer Wall are too far to provide support for the men in the Trench and they are too few to hold back a charge if the Trench falls.”
“Sir, should I relieve Antony of his command?” Prochulus asked. My composure slipped for a moment, but I quickly regained it. I saw in Prochulus’ face that he knew the implications of what he asked. While the Legion was the primary defense of Cumae, the chain of command did not extend to the conscripted pikemen. If Prochulus were to relieve Antony of command, it would be done with his sword rather than my order.
Another cannonball sped towards the Outer Wall. As it smashed through, a span of six feet collapsed. A pikemen was also victim. The shell had demonstrated its trademark cruelty. Death would not come quickly. His screams had a high shrill tone that indicated his head and torso were intact. Since I had seen the shell impact low on the wall, the man was probably staring at the stump that had previously been a foot or a leg. For a moment I thought of the young courier that summoned me to meet with Antony that morning. Of course, I had no way to tell from my vantage point if he had taken the shot. Many of the conscripts were young so the shrieks bore no identifying mark. There was no intimacy among the fallen. They were anonymous collections of shattered limbs and gore that bubbled in to each other. After a few hours they shed their humanity and became part of the terrain, as natural on the battlefield as grass on a meadow.
“Sir, no disrespect to your rank but this must be done. Antony is going to get all of those men killed. He is a fisherman not a soldier,” Prochulus said as he grabbed me by the arm. There was no offense intended and his grip was gentle for a man of his power. Nonetheless, for a soldier to lay hands on his commanding officer was punishable by death in the Legion. Prochulus had been a soldier long before I and I trusted his judgment. Antony was exposing his men and that was an offense that Prochulus would risk his life to redress.
A bugle call echoed down from the hill. It’s warbling note carried clear and the cannons were silenced. It was time. I could here the hoof beats of the cavalry in unison. They would break the brush line in a moment. The French were coming.
“There is no time. Stay with your men,” I replied in the tone of command. I valued Prochulus but I would not allow his to usurp my authority. He removed his had from my arm. I could tell he wanted to say more, but he was too much of a soldier to further question my order. He turned away and went down the line to do a last check on the men.
Antony’s men along the wall squatted, their shields held in front of them, to take maximum protection from the wall. Their pikes were held at the ready pointing to the sky. When they had first taken the field many months ago, it had been a forest of thorns. Now they seemed as formidable as a boy’s first sparse chin whiskers. At least, they seemed more confidant than the men in the Trench. Their pikes were flat on the ground. Once the French took their customary position behind the berm, they would be fruit low on the tree. Easily picked off.
Antony was experienced. While a fisherman he had been, he had received his military training on the very ground he now stood. The fact that he still drew breath was all the evidence needed to prove he had learned his lessons well. I had watched him hold the line before and he had done so with distinction. Whatever honor can be gleaned from battle, he had long ago won. This current positioning showed none of that.
The hoof beats became louder and the cavalry came. Their heads, covered by wide brimmed hats with a single plume attached to the side, appeared over the final cover of scrub. As they passed through, the sun glinted off the gold buttons of their uniforms. In one hand they held the reigns, in the other their rifles. Their horse moved at a trot belying their confidence. These men had no respect for us. They certainly had no fear. They had a thousand yards to cover before the berm. They would be on us in less than a minute.
“Know what you are doing, Antony” I said to myself, “because this is the line for which you will be remembered.”

[SofaKing]

The time for doubts was now over. The task was at hand and my training asserted itself. The French cavalry was preceding slowly down the hill in a column two me abreast. They had made the ride many times, and they knew that they were safe at that distance. They had a decisive upper hand, but still showed care. I should have admired their discipline, but I had discarded my objectivity long ago. Now they were the enemy and admiration had been replaced by hate.
There seemed to be seven score of horses. In their last appearance before the rains, I had counted nine. That had been three weeks ago. That made for the same number of riders. I estimated the regiment of musketeers they had occupying the hill numbered two hundred. Even a very efficient infrastructure would require an additional forty men for support as surgeons, blacksmiths, and cooks. There were also the eighty citizens they had captured. That made for nearly five hundred men, plus mounts stationed on the hill. That would require a large store of provisions. It would also produce a large amount of dung. Along with the rain and the heat, that was ideal for the plagues and fevers that often wreaked havoc on an encampment. That could account for the missing number. It could also mean they hah held back a small reserve. Either way, the cavalry still appeared more than capable. However, I had often been told that no information about the enemy could be disregarded, and I frantically tried to think of someway to take advantage of this observation. Nothing leaped to mind.
“Gluto are you awake?” I cried.
“Mind your business Centurion, and leave me to mine,” squeaked down Gluto from his perch. I could almost hear him scowl. I had met Gluto on the galley from Antium. His name had been Octavian then, but after 2 days in a galley hold with a regiment of Legionnaires, he had come out as Gluto. The nickname had come from his build. To call him wiry would have been a ridiculous exaggeration. He was the scrawniest man any of us had ever seen. He stood over six feet, but couldn’t have weighed more than six score. He seemed genuinely offended by the name, which had made it stick all the more. It had become even more perverse since the Granary went. Now he was little more than a skeleton. Yet while there was little strength left in his body, his eyes were as keen as ever.
“Nine hundred yards and closing,” he screamed down to his men, “Ready on one through four. Five and Six hold for my mark.” The crews were scrambling to make last minute adjustment. Each winch was checked for excess slack. It looked as if one was being loosened. Too little slack would cause them to fall short. Too much would snap the arm.
“Eight fifty and closing. Almost. Be ready,” Gluto cried. He was not the only one who was aware of the distance. The French were beginning to move into a canter. The staggered their column to provide the riders more room to maneuver.
“Eight twenty. Stay focused boys!”
I inhaled sharply and held it. Gluto was skilled at his trade, but the trade was a coin toss at best. Some days it made a crucial difference. Other days it was useless.
“Mars, if you’re going to stand with us this day, start now,” I silently prayed.
“EIGHT HUNDRED! PULL ONE THROUGH FOUR!” Gluto sounded.
The crews yanked their levers as one and the catapult arms snapped forwards. I followed the shot as it arced towards the French. I had to restrain myself from gesticulating wildly to coax its path. When we first arrived we had a large supply of rounded stone that flew as straight as an arrow. Those had run out long ago. Luckily the French cannon kept as well supplied with rubble to fling at them. They weren’t as accurate, but it was what we had.
The Riders also had an eye on the incoming debris. The lead pair broke into a gallop but not as fast as the pair behind them, which swerved out of formation. The shot came down on the third rank, bringing down a rider and his steed in a cloud of dust. More debris landed around them in a rain of stone. The frightened whinnying of the horses carried to the Wall.
“FIVE AND SIX PULL! RELOAD ONE THROUGH FOUR AND FIRE AT WILL! DO IT NOW!!” shrieked Gluto.
The formation had nearly disintegrated into a mob as riders galloped forward to get through the effective range of the catapults. They had been through this before and knew our range was only between eight hundred and five hundred yards. One of the shots went wide and landed forty yards to the right of the riders, but the other soared true. It impacted in a knot of cavalry at the center of the group. Two went down immediately and three more riders were thrown from the saddle when their horses skidded to a halt in order to avoid the fallen pair.
“Yes!” I said through clenched teeth. The bombardment was working. The riders were becoming rattled. The crack of two more catapults sounded and more rubble took flight. I looked to my men and saw them intensely watching the spectacle. If enough of the riders fell, would the French break off the attack? Would Antony survive his moronic deployment? No, I chided myself; we cannot afford any wishful thinking. The French would not break off. Antony and his men would be tested.
Another snap carried through the air, but it was the wrong one. I turned and saw the shattered catapult. Sure enough, it had been wound to tightly. If I had more time, I’m sure I would have pondered the lesson in that.
“Three is gone!” called up the hapless crewman.
“DAMN YOU! MOVE YOUR SHOT TO SIX! SIX HUNDRED EIGHTY AND CLOSING! FIVE, FASTER! ARE YOU WAITING FOR THE FRENCH TO COME AND HELP YOU CRANK?!” shouted Gluto.
Another shot sailed for the French, and was quickly followed by the second. The dust from the Riders was thick and I was not able to see what damage they caused, but I knew it was hitting the end of the formation.
“SIX HUNDRED YARDS! ADJUST FOR RANGE! MAKE THIS COUNT!”
The French were still coming, but their order was gone. It was a stampede. They were low in the saddle and riding hard. I clenched my fist in joy as I saw a horse lose its footing and drop to the rough ground. The horsemen behind leapt over their fallen comrade. The dust obscured my view once again, but I was certain the dashed skull of a Frenchman had made intimate contact with the Cumae soil. The shots continued to fall, but most of the riders were now past the minimum range. A large slab barreled into the chest of one of the final cavalrymen and tore him from his mount, but the other shots landed past them.
“FIVE HUNDRED! CEASE FIRING! TAKE POSITION ON THE WALL AND PREPARE TO REPEL INVADERS.”
I looked up at the emaciated Gluto as he left his spotting perch and hefted a hatchet. How the man was still able to keep his feet was beyond me. His face had a grim determination. His beloved catapults had done all that he had expected of them, but he was not yet through. I don’t think anything would have made him happier than burying his hatchet into a French skull. If he were stouter he would’ve been a fine addition to the Legion.
The French were slowing to a canter, as I knew they would. The catapults had made their mark on them, and tempered their haughty confidence. Still they rode forward. At two hundred yards we would be within range of their rifles. At one hundred, they would be more than effective. At sixty they would dismount and take the berm. The pikemen in the Trench would be massacred. I quickly estimated how long it would take my men to reinforce them. From the Inner Wall to the Trench would be less than a minute. However, it would be over open ground in easy range of the cavalry rifles. No, we had to hold the Wall. The pikemen were on their own.

[SofaKing]

I looked to the outer Wall. The pikemen were still crouched low taking as much cover as possible. A few, the wealthier ones, wore chain mail. The rest wore thick brown jerkins. They wouldn’t serve much protection against an arrow, let alone anything else. Oddly, they all carried large shields. I was surprised it hadn’t occurred to me earlier. The shield was not standard issue. The purpose of the pikemen was, quite plainly, to carry pikes. While, not particularly heavy, the pikes were roughly twelve feet including the two-foot spearheads. They required both hands to set them against a charge. They could make use of either the shield or the pike, but not both. What was Antony up to? Their shields might stop a few bullets, but I doubted they would be enough to keep them alive.
As I scanned the men, I saw Antony at the center. He, like his men, was crouched behind the Wall with a large shield. Unlike his men, he wore a fine white robe. It stood out against the dark brown terrain like a candle at night.
The French were three hundred yards out and continuing forward. Their horses were still at a canter. They would begin to fire soon. They were skilled marksman, and I doubted that had changed in the three weeks since their last assault.
I thought of my prayers to Mars. Were their rifles god enough for them, or did they pray as well? I flashed back to the schoolyard of my boyhood. I remembered watching two children argue over a game. Neither was particularly fierce, so rather than striking each other, their argument was only words hurled back and forth. One boy, the older, claimed his father was strong and would come and smite the other boy. The younder asserted his father was even more powerful and would kill the older boy and his father. As they spoke, one of their fathers, I never knew which, walked by. Hearing their debate, he strode over to them, grabbed each by the collar and proceeded to beat them both. I remembered smirking at the pathetic pair. Yet where was I now? Did I hold the hope that Mars would come down from his mountaintop to thrash the French and their God? No, just as the two boys should have settled their argument themselves, Mars only respected the warrior that stood on his own.
As I thought this, I saw Antony raise himself from behind the wall. He stood tall in his flowing robe. He held his shield in one hand, and his pike in the other. Was he insane? The French were nearly in range. Another moment or two and he would be dead.
“ANTONY, GET DOWN!!” I cried, not being able to keep my composure. He had been a true friend. I thought back to our argument this morning. Would my last words to him be the same as those to my father, filled with venom and anger?
If he heard me he didn’t show it. He only stood staring forward at his impending doom. The French were now in range, and their first shot sounded. I looked and saw one of the riders aiming his rifle with both hands. He was guiding his horse with his knees and my hatred gave way to marvel, but only for a moment. Antony rocked backwards; the shield taking the first shot. Still he stood. Defiance came off him in waves.
“YOU THERE!! PULL HIM DOWN!!” I yelled to the men on the line next to him. They looked back at me for a moment. I could see the conflict on their faces. More shots from the French rang out. They were only one hundred and fifty yards, and more were beginning to fire. Antony’s men turned their backs, ignoring me.
The bullets were coming in swarms now. They were all aiming at Antony, trying to wipe away this mocking figure. One found its mark and Antony fell.
"Mars," I begged, "do not take him. He cannot die thinking me a coward. Should I have agreed with him this morning and charged the hill? Would that have prevented Antony’s suicide? Is this your punishment? Must I watch my friend die?"
No, Antony was climbing back to his feet. His white robe was blossoming the dark stain I had seen so many times in Cumae. Yet he stood. The French rode on, firing as they went. The time they had attacked in the past bullets had rained in all directions, but not now. The French spread out, almost in a line, so that more could fire unobstructed. Antony was a whirlpool, pulling the shots toward him.
His shield exploded on his arm. How many shots had it taken to do that? Seven? Ten?
“ANTONY!”
A shot hit him, and he spun like a child’s toy. Falling forward he collapsed, hanging over the wall. A roar went up from the French. They cheered as I had heard men cheer in the brothels. Hate twisted in me.
"Mars, give me the chance," I prayed, "and I will shed blood for you!"
Antony stirred. My jaw fell open in amazement. Both hands on his pike, he lifted himself to his feet. His white robe was white no longer. This man, not a soldier but a fisherman defending his home, would not die. The French cheer died on the wind. Still the rode forward, but their disbelief was clear. For a moment, they stopped shooting. They were eighty yards away, nearly at the berm. Antony set his pike as to receive a charge.
“COME, DOGS! COME AND BE FED!” he roared. His voice poured through me. It was not the voice of a mortal.
The French surged forward with a scream. The insult was too much for them to bear. There would be no stopping at the berm to take cover. They charged forward at a gallop, heels digging in to their mounts. Faster. Faster they came. Then I knew. Antony had them at his mercy.
More bullets tore in to Antony. He noticed them no more than he had my cries to take cover. One by one, the other men on the Outer Wall stood and set their pikes. They were men who would take cover no more. They would face down their enemies and if they were to go, they would be dragged into Hades, screaming for blood and clutching at their enemies to drag them down.
The French came over the berm. At once they knew their folly.
Antony’s men in the Trench leapt to their feet, pikes at the ready. The scream that erupted from their mouths was the scream of all the Romans who had fallen to the cannons. It was the scream of the Romans who had starved. It was the scream of death and it would not be denied.
The cavalry plunged onto the pikes. The riders, having spread out to fire at glorious Antony, were thrown from their horses. The inhuman shrieks of the skewered beast were enough to tear a hole through Hades. There was blood. There was an ocean of blood.
The men at the outer wall vaulted over it. Their pikes were level to the ground as they charged. These men were trained to defend. They were trained to hold off the enemy until we, the Legion, could close. But, no, they charged. As they ran they saw their vengeance, and they loved it. I knew I would never see anything of the like again.
The riders, whom had not been killed outright, were run through. A portion of the French that had lagged in their charge were rewarded for their cowardice. They reared their horses to a halt, turned, and fled back up the hill. They were beaten.
My men were screaming, the power of the moment too mcuh to keep silent. I realized I was screaming as well. I looked at these men, my brothers, and saw the tears of joy running down their faces. The French were not invincible. They were men and they died as easily as any.
Over our triumphant screams came another noise, a beat that rolled over us. It was a drum sounding from the hill. The men, both on the Wall and on the field, looked up the hill. So intent on the horsemen had we been, we had not noticed them. Musketeers were marching down the hill, two hundred if it was one.
“CENTURIONS! TAKE THE FIELD!” I bellowed.