R. Peake - Marching With Caesar - Conquest of Gaul

“Those boys in the 8th have their hands full. I wonder how long before Caesar calls on us.”

Hearing the familiar voice of the Pilus Prior, who had joined us as we watched, I was somewhat surprised that he was not yelling at us for stopping work, but he seemed just as interested in the fighting as we were. The scar on his face gave him a normally grim expression, but his countenance was even graver as he watched our comrades fighting for their lives beyond the front gates. Moving to a spot just on the other side of the ditch we were preparing where we had a better view, such as it was, we were standing there in a small cluster. I was wondering the same thing, yet Caesar had other ideas, probably thinking that the other Cohorts of the 8th would fight harder because it was their closest friends in trouble, with the command going out for the remaining Cohorts to leave the camp and go to the aid of the men fighting. Along with them went a contingent of our cavalry, their pride already stung and eager to avenge their earlier setback. Finally, after an entire Legion deployed in front of the camp the Britons withdrew, but not after inflicting a fair number of casualties, including one of the new Tribunes who had joined us for this campaign, a young man named Quintus Durus. We drew blood as well, the bodies and the wrecks of a couple chariots attesting to that fact out in front of our camp. Settling in for the night, we watched as the 8th mourned their dead and built their funeral pyres.

Next morning, we sent out our normal cavalry patrols, with the Britons falling back on the same entrenched hill we assaulted, before coming down in their chariots and on horseback to engage our cavalry. The results were much the same as the day before, in that neither side inflicted the damage it desired on the other. All morning our patrols engaged with small groups of their mounted troops, and we could track each skirmish by the sudden column of dust rising in the air, borne upward by the small whirlwinds produced by hooves and wheels. Every so often a courier would come galloping in to give Caesar a report of what was taking place, but it did not take a master strategist on either side to know that the tactics currently at play would not produce a decisive engagement. With that in mind, Caesar raised the stakes, ordering out a foraging party, perhaps the most heavily armed in the history of warfare, consisting of the entire cavalry and the 7th, 9th and 10th Legions. Oh, to be sure we did march out of the gates carrying our sickles and baskets, except we marched with the covers of our shields off, ready to change from farmers to soldiers at the first opportunity. Caesar selected Trebonius to command the detachment, still something of an unknown quantity to us. However, we possessed enough confidence in our own Centurions and the experience we had won these years of campaigning. Truth be told, none of us thought that this idea was going to have the results Caesar desired, believing instead that we would come marching back with baskets full of forage for the cavalry, but that was all. And it is just one more reason why he was the general and we were marching in the ranks.

To this day, I still do not easily understand how the Britons decided that this was the opportune time to attack us. Reaching a series of meadows, Trebonius set just the 7th to reaping the grass that would serve as feed for our livestock, while he kept ourselves and the 9th in full battle order, as if we were ready to cross the fields and attack an enemy. Our cavalry was split into two sections, one on either flank, and we were arrayed thus when the Britons came thundering down out of their position on the low hills to throw themselves at us. If they carried the element of surprise with them perhaps it could be understood, but we were positioned far enough away from the nearest line of trees or hills that we had advance warning of their attack. Unlike the day before, when they used a formation spread far enough apart where their speed and mobility was a decided advantage, they chose this day to come in a closely packed mob, in the same manner as almost every other Gallic tribes we fought. Their close formation also gave us a Legionary’s dream of a target for the javelins¸ with no way to miss. Our one regret was that we had not carried two out with us, only hurling one before we went to the sword. Just yards away from us we received the order to countercharge and the two lines went slamming into each other. Metal on metal, flesh on flesh, bone on bone we met, yet it was only a matter of moments before our precision and experience began tipping the scale in our favor. Another factor in our favor was the desire to pay the bastards back for the men they cut down in our ranks, and along with it giving us extra fervor on our part, it also meant that we would give no quarter. Bodies began to pile up along the front line of fighting, and we continued to apply the pressure on their warriors. For a moment, neither side is moving; men are locked in their own private battles, not giving an inch. Then, something happens, and I do not know what it is, but something inside a man tells him to take a step backwards, just one step and no more. Perhaps he tells himself that it is only to open more space in which to fight, it is not really the beginnings of a retreat, and as long as it is just that one man, the outcome is still in doubt, victory is still possible. It is when the man next to him, out of the corner of his eye, sees the man next to him taking that step backwards, leaving him exposed that triggers what is to come. This is especially true if it is the man to his right who is supposed to be shielding him. Perhaps this man wavers for an instant, thinking to himself that he will be accused of giving ground, but there is the nagging worry that if he does not act immediately, he will very quickly find himself surrounded. Then, almost as if acting with its’ own mind, his rear foot takes a step backward, his leading foot immediately closing his stance back up so he does not lose his balance. Now there are two men giving ground, and a small pocket is beginning to form in their front line, which experienced soldiers like we Legionaries of Rome will immediately spot and take full advantage of, pressing our own bodies into the now vacated spot. Now there are two men, on either side of the pocket who are flanked, and it would be nothing short of suicide if they were to stay there without anyone rallying to come to stand by their side to try to dislodge the enemy. This is when training and discipline are their most valuable, and it was obvious that the Britons possessed none of either quality. So the moment when a draw changes to a retreat, then to a rout, happens almost before one can draw more than two or three breaths. Such was the case here, when I could feel the sudden relaxing of the pressure I was putting on the man in front of me, followed by his lunge jerking his harness out of my hand as he began the pursuit of the now-fleeing Britons. Because they chose to attack in such a tight formation the one weapon that was troublesome for us, the chariot, was practically useless in their short-lived assault. Even worse for them now was that men, out of habit I suppose, ran and jumped onto the back of their own chariots, only to be unable to move anywhere because the mass of men fleeing around the horses was so tightly packed that the beasts were standing motionless. Their warriors were screaming at the drivers as we ran by, cutting them both down with a quick thrust to the body. Our cavalry, seeing their own chance for revenge, came pounding into the mass of men, slicing through bodies with their longer swords called the spatha, their faces twisted into savage grins of exultation at this cavalryman’s dream.

Despite the chaos, we maintained our cohesion, running after the Britons in as tight a formation as can be managed running over open ground, cutting down any man who stumbled or faltered. Some of them suddenly seemed to make the decision it was better to die fighting than running and turned to face us, screaming their hatred, their blue faces and spiked white hair making them appear like some sort of dolls all painted up. Again, if they had any discipline and maintained the presence of mind to gather into small groups to make a final stand, although it would not have changed the outcome, it could have made it more costly. Not that I am complaining in any way for that lack in their character, except that perhaps it would have made killing them more meaningful. There is no particular skill, or joy for that matter, in cutting down fleeing men, at least for me. I would much prefer the honor of killing a man face to face, each of us giving our best, rather than the simple task of sinking your blade into a man’s back, especially when he is not prepared for it. But I also knew that any man I let live today could be a man with a score to settle the next battle, so I did not shirk my duty, cutting down my fair share of Britons, adding just another mass of men for which I must offer sacrifice to the gods to appease them.