The 30th had not created a breach of sufficient size, a mark of their inexperience. Undermining a wall is a tricky business, because the tunnel has to be sufficiently small so that it doesn’t collapse. Once under the wall, it has to be widened so that it takes a sufficiently sized chunk of the wall down with it when the pile of wood and rubbish that is stuffed in the space is set alight, so that at least a full section can enter side by side. They had not done this, so the resulting breach was only wide enough for perhaps half a section of men abreast to enter. This meant that it would not take nearly as many men to plug the hole to defend it as it should have, so very quickly the attack bogged down. As we watched, about a half Century managed to crawl up the pile of rubble to enter through the breach before their progress was stopped. The sounds of battle carried across the air towards us, and it was quickly becoming clear that our side was faring badly, the calls and cries growing increasingly panicked. The rest of the 30th could only stand helplessly outside the walls as their comrades tried to push their way into the town, yet after several moments, no progress had been made. By then, the defenders had rallied a substantial number of men to climb to the parapet to begin flinging missiles down on the heads of our waiting men. Testudos were quickly formed, but not before a number of casualties were inflicted. While protected for the moment, the 30th could not stand there for any real length of time before their arms gave out and their shields dropped.
“They need to pull back. They’ve botched it sure enough. Now they just need to cut their losses,” Varus, my Hastatus Posterior, said glumly, and I could only agree.
A few moments later, the cornu sounded the withdrawal. The 30th began moving backwards, staying in testudo until they were out of missile range, their retreat marked by the jeers and insults of the Pompeians lining the wall. Their shame was compounded by the fact that they left those men who managed to push their way into the breach to be taken prisoner.
“They’re dead men,” Metellus spat. “After what we did to those prisoners the other day, there's no way that whoever is commanding the garrison won't exact revenge.”
Again, I agreed with Metellus. Happily, we were both wrong. For reasons we did not understand at first, the men of the 30th were not executed. It was only the next day when a deputation of the townspeople managed to sneak through the breach to approach our lines, asking to see Caesar, that we learned the reason. They were brought into his presence, and it was then that it was learned that the citizens of the town had intervened with the garrison commander on behalf of the captured men. They hoped that it would prove to Caesar that they were acting in good faith by coming to him to offer their conditional surrender. I do not know what terms they asked for, but whatever they were, Caesar deemed them unacceptable, sending them back to the town still under siege.
~ ~ ~ ~
It was about this same time that Gnaeus, realizing he must take some sort of action, moved across the river to build a redoubt closer to the town from which he could launch sorties against us, though with little success. His forces did briefly drive off one of our cavalry outposts before our horsemen rallied, in turn inflicting heavy loss on the Pompeians. Two days after the attempt by the 30th, the garrison commander Munacius rounded up a large number of civilians from the town, then taking them onto the parapet in plain view, executed them in the most barbaric fashion imaginable. Babies were tossed into the air to be caught on the points of spears, while women were defiled, then butchered while their husbands watched, all while we stood by helplessly. Supposedly, this act was perpetrated because of the intervention of the civilians with the garrison concerning our captured men and for the attempt by the town elders to surrender. Once killed, the bodies were pitched over the wall to lie in a heap in plain view of the army. We could not retrieve them to dispose of the corpses properly because they were within missile range of the defenders. What we learned later was that this was a diversion, albeit a bloody one, to allow a messenger from Gnaeus to slip into the town while our attention was occupied elsewhere. No more than one watch after the massacre, the army of Gnaeus left their camp to array for battle, while the gates of the town were flung open as the garrison made a desperate attempt to break through to link up with their comrades. Several sections of Pompeians carried hurdles to throw into our ditch, while other sections carried the long poles with hooks to pull down our palisade. Even more men carried with them bags of silver and other valuables, the idea being that they would strew these about once they had penetrated our lines, counting on the greed of the men to worry more about grabbing the loot than stopping the two Pompeian forces from linking up. As a plan, it was not bad, yet as is so often the case, the gods laugh at our attempts to arrange our affairs, especially in matters as naturally chaotic as war. This time, it was the refusal of Gnaeus’ army to budge from their spot in front of their camp. In order for the plan to work, Gnaeus would have had to attack at the same time as Munacius’ force launched their assault, yet for some reason, despite the fact that this was Gnaeus’ idea and plan to begin with, he did nothing but stand there, watching as the garrison tried to fight their way through our lines. Naturally, they were unsuccessful, being forced to retire back into the town, though not without leaving a fair number of bodies behind, along with prisoners who were promptly executed in retaliation for what had happened to the townspeople. Our casualties were minimal, while the biggest change to the situation came about because Munacius now realized that he had been forsaken by Gnaeus, who in turn had resigned himself to the town being lost. The men of the garrison continued to fight, succeeding in burning one of the towers, but it was clearly a lost cause.
~ ~ ~ ~
The night after this action, Diocles came into my private quarters to inform me that one of the slaves belonging to Caesar’s physician was waiting to speak to me. Knowing that this undoubtedly concerned Didius, I followed him to the hospital tent. No matter how many times I entered this tent my stomach always rebelled at the smells, suppressing a shiver at the sounds of suffering men, some of them mine. I followed the slave to where the physician was standing, a Greek with a suitably haughty demeanor, by virtue of his status and relationship to Caesar no doubt.
Still, his face was sympathetic as I approached. “Your man, Didius isn’t it?” he began in heavily accented Latin, “He is faring poorly, very poorly indeed. His wound has become corrupt, and the rot has spread throughout his leg. Unless I remove it immediately, he will die, but he refuses to let me touch him until he has talked to you.”
While the news was not completely unexpected, it was nonetheless disheartening to hear, and I asked, “How much of the leg do you have to take?”
“All of it,” he said firmly. “Almost to his hip joint. In fact, if we go even another two watches without removing it, the corruption will spread into his internal organs and then he will die. Primus Pilus,” he put his hand on my shoulder as he looked up into my eyes. “His life is measured in thirds of a watch right now, so say whatever you have to in order to convince him that this is his only course.”
Sighing, I nodded that I understood, then stepped through the leather curtain that separated the most serious cases from the rest of the men who were recovering. We referred to that room as “Charon’s Boat,” the vessel that ferries us all across Styx to what lies beyond, and not many men who were carried into that room emerged alive. I bit back a curse, resolving to talk to the physician or the orderly to find out exactly who had moved Didius into Charon’s Boat, knowing that this act alone was as likely to kill a man from despair at the idea that the medical staff had given up on him. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, then to find Didius, who was lying at the far end. It was quiet in here, most of the men being unconscious or so heavily drugged with poppy syrup to ease their suffering that they were already dead for all intents and purposes. As I got closer, the smell of his rotting flesh assaulted my nostrils, requiring a substantial effort of will to keep me from wrinkling my nose or making a face.