“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.
“First line kneel, second line prepare javelins!”
I immediately knelt as did the rest of the men on the parapet.
“Release!”
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.”