R. Peake - Marching With Caesar – Civil War

The 9th began a headlong pursuit, but like the 14th, found to their hazard that the retreat of the Pompeians was not a retreat as much as it was a tactic. Once they reached the slope of the hill leading up to the town, the Pompeians immediately turned. Then, with a speed and efficiency at which we could only marvel, they re-formed to launch a countercharge directly into the 9th, who had just reached the lower slopes of the hill. Immediately the tide turned and now the 9th was on their back heels, trying to maintain their formation while fighting desperately. Standing on the rampart, we could only watch the small individual battles break out, as usually two Pompeians would leap forward to try to engage one of our own men before quickly falling back if they did not see an immediate advantage. Soon enough, the dust obscured the fight near the town and we were forced to turn our attention back to the 14th, who had finally extricated themselves from the mound and now were falling back, leaving the small hill littered with bodies.

The 21st had recovered their composure to a degree; at least, they had fallen back into formation, but they too were still moving backwards, although they did not appear to be under that much pressure. However, the retreat of the 21st and 14th further isolated the 9th, and Afranius was quick to see this. He began sending fresh men from the camp through the ditches to the town walls, where they could launch their javelins down onto the heads of the 9th. Now their existence was threatened, and Caesar chose this moment to launch his cavalry in a bid to rescue them.

Despite the slope and the rugged terrain, Caesar’s Germans wedged themselves between the lines of the 9th and the Pompeians, allowing the 9th to retreat down the hill. The 14th and 21st had halted their withdrawal to wait in support of the 9th, their presence keeping those Pompeians who took the small hill from turning their back to our two Legions in order to harry the 9th as they withdrew. In this manner, our three Legions managed to extricate themselves. Caesar’s attempt to take the small hill had failed; it belonged to the Pompeians.

Our losses were much heavier than any of us had thought they would be; the Primus Pilus of the 14th had fallen. Fulginus was his name, as I recall, a victim of his headlong rush down the hill in the early stages of the battle. In addition, the 14th lost about 70 men, the 9th almost as many, and the 21st about half that. It may not seem like many men when compared to the strength of a Legion. However, it must be remembered that veteran Legions like the 9 th, and the 10 thfor that matter, were nearing the end of our enlistments. We had been fighting and dying for a long time, meaning that every loss at this point whittled us down even further. Our only consolation was that we inflicted at least twice as many casualties as we suffered, so the Pompeian Legions were in much the same state as our own, and could ill afford their losses as well. Still, even with that, the overwhelming topic of conversation that night concerned the strange tactics we had seen the Pompeians employ. The reason for our surprise was that while we expected tribes like the Lusitani to act in such a manner, it was completely unexpected to see men wearing our uniform acting as if they were barbarians.

“It’s just not natural,” Celer spat into the fire outside my tent where I had called a meeting of the Centurions, and for once I found myself in agreement with my normal nemesis. “Romans shouldn’t be fighting like a bunch of barbarian scum.”

Heads nodded in agreement, except for Priscus, who merely stared into the fire. Curious that he did not seem to agree, I asked him what he thought. He glanced up, seeing all eyes on him, the color rising to his cheeks. For a moment he said nothing, then shrugged, “I can’t say I like it, but it certainly makes them more of a challenge to fight.”

This sentiment was met with some agreement, and obviously encouraged, he continued, “Besides, we’ve always prided ourselves on adopting the tactics of our enemies when they prove to be effective.”

“But all that jumping about has never been effective against us,” argued Celer.

“That’s because they weren’t Romans doing it,” Priscus replied quietly and I instantly saw that he had gone to the heart of the matter.

Despite the fact that Celer was right, that the mad dashing about that we had experienced when fighting Gauls and the like never worked against us, the underlying discipline of fellow Romans was the reason that what we saw that day was so disquieting, because ultimately that discipline was completely lacking with the barbarians. When this fluid type of fighting was coupled with the underlying discipline and training of a Legion, it made for a formidable combination.

“You’ve obviously been thinking about this,” I said, and I could tell that Priscus was pleased at the compliment. “So tell us how we beat them.”

His expression changed immediately. His discomfort at being put on the spot in front of his peers obvious to anyone with eyes, but he thought about it for a moment before replying slowly, “Well, I think the only way to counter their tactics is to adopt them for our own.”

Priscus’ statement was met by a snort of derision and when I turned to look, I was not surprised to see that Celer was now openly sneering.

“As if we would lower ourselves to hop about like grasshoppers on a hot rock.”

He looked around to see who appreciated his wit, but I think he was not prepared for what he saw. Instead of laughing or showing any sign of agreement, the others looked more thoughtful than amused.

Seeing an opportunity to take Celer down a peg, I did not hesitate. “I don’t know, Celer,” I said coolly. “It seems like a good idea to us. Perhaps it’s because you’re a little too. . portly to be acting like a grasshopper that’s the true cause of your objection?”

Celer’s spluttered protests were drowned out by the roar of laughter of the others, and I could tell by the deep red flushing of his face that I had scored a telling blow. Celer was a man who loved his luxuries, and our time in garrison had softened him, despite the training regimen that was part of our peacetime life, and we had all taken notice of his spreading waistline. I had never suffered from this problem; even today, I can still fit into my armor. Neither my baldric nor baltea have had new holes cut in them, so it was and is hard for me to be sympathetic. And when it came to Celer, I was not prepared to show any understanding whatsoever.

The day after the battle for the mound, which by this time Afranius had fortified, it started to rain in a torrential downpour that the locals claimed was the hardest rain in living memory. I do not know if this is true, but I do know that it was strong enough to send a raging rush of debris-choked water downriver, once again sweeping the bridges away from behind us. This time, the damage was such that the work to repair them had to start from scratch; even the pilings had been destroyed this time. Also, the rains lasted sufficiently long that the river overflowed its banks for a number of days, effectively cutting us off from resupply and our foraging parties that had been already sent out were now stranded on the wrong side of the river as well. All in all, it could not have been much worse; the only thing that saved us was our experience, having been through situations like this before. The only bridge remaining was the stone bridge that led into the town, but that was firmly in Afranius’ control, and we thought it unlikely that we could dislodge him. Making things even more difficult was the fact that Afranius and his men had already scoured the countryside on our side of the river, snapping up every kernel of grain, pig, chicken, and cow in the region. All we had with us was what we marched in with, augmented by some cattle for which Caesar paid exorbitant prices. Things were definitely looking grim, and they only got worse.