by C K Ruppelt
Caesar was devastated at the turn of events. He had encountered Lucullus a few times. A fanatical follower of Sulla, the man had shown Caesar what little he thought of his family connections. “I don’t like it, but if you think it best, I will of course go. As to the mission, by the gods, pirates are the scourge of the Mediterranean. I am eager for a chance to get involved.” He averted his eyes, focusing on the desk’s surface. Did it have to be Lucullus?
“I just hope that the man will let me get close to the fighting.”
673 AUC (81 BC), late summer
Mytilene, Island of Lesbos, Greece
Caesar rushed down a major road to reach one of the supply warehouses on the other side of camp. He needed new leather straps for his armor, the old ones were worn. Before crossing the next major intersection, he paused to see if the coast was clear. Lucullus was to be avoided if possible. The legate had treated him with disdain at every opportunity, making several comments within Caesar’s hearing about having to babysit against his better judgment. Thermus’ orders must have been quite clear in their intent, or Lucullus would have sent him back immediately.
“I was just thinking of you, Caesar!” Lucullus called from behind. A groan escaped Caesar’s lips before he could stop himself. He turned around.
The general moved up close. “The sappers just reported that they are nearly done. If their calculations were correct, we will see action tomorrow.” Lucullus cleared his throat and barely turned sideways before spitting on the hardened dirt ground, no more than a foot away from Caesar’s feet.
“Which brings me to you. I have just the right command to keep you away from trouble. I promise you, you will have hell to pay if you mess this up somehow and get in the way of your betters.”
***
Years ago, Demotimos worked as an honest trader following in the footsteps of many family generations. Lately, few goods still flowed through normal channels, and he had barely scraped out a living before the city had decided to ally with a group of pirates, providing them safe harbor, a chance to buy supplies and a market to sell their spoils.
Many of the citizens hated that decision, although, for his family it had seemed a blessing. The city had a new lease on life, and his wife and five children could eat their fill again. Now, the Romans had come, making him wish the city elders had never made their fateful decision.
He drank the last of his water skin and put his helmet back over his dark hair as he walked back to the main plaza to continue his training with other city defenders.
“I’m ready, let’s resume where we left off,” he told his sparring partner. They were both part of the city’s small elite that owned full hoplite suits of armor, handed down from their forefathers. The polished bronze and steel sparkled in the sun, both spear tips and swords well sharpened in expectation of what was to come. As Demotimos moved into a defensive stance to ward off his partner’s attacks, he briefly glanced at the sea, visible from this side of the plaza. How he wished he could board a ship with his family and leave all this behind. “Begin!” he said.
***
Caesar tied his helmet straps amid his men as they finished getting ready. They stood in the small space between two tent rows of the northern army camp. He mulled over Lucullus’ lack of fairness. Of the six cohorts conducting the siege, he was now to lead eighty of the oldest veterans. He was nineteen, and some of these openly sneering men were twice his age. He assumed they thought of him as a spoiled youngster they had to endure. Officially, they were the reserve, and he was acting as their centurion. Unofficially, he was supposed to keep them out of the fight. The siege seemed well in hand, the plan of action laid out by Lucullus long ago. Once the army breached the walls, it would be up to the regular soldiers to storm in and win the day.
It was still early in the morning, though the men seemed ready. He raised his hand. “Let’s march.” As they proceeded towards the camp’s eastern gate they encountered a growing number of legionaries and their officers.
“Have a good rest,” a centurion hollered at his troop. The men standing in an inspection line behind the centurion broke out into hoots and laughter.
A tribune stood waiting for them to pass before crossing the camp road behind them. “I hope you have enough wine and dice with you,” he shouted after them.
By any legion standards these veterans had served long enough to deserve a break and where more than happy to just observe. The motto was always that the greener the soldier, the more fighting he had left to do. The longer the legionary’s service, the better his excuse to stay away, except for situations that required all hands on deck. He just wished he wasn’t the one who had to lead them.
“Let’s move up to the top of this hill!” Caesar shouted at the men. He had scouted the place last evening. Half a mile away from the city wall and the siege works, it gave a good vantage. As they arrived, a few of the men sat down to look at the city in expectation. Others chatted, a few pulled out dice. He walked up to a big boulder to start climbing for the best outlook over the city, only pausing to take off his helmet.
Mytilene was built on a small spit reaching out into the ocean. Located about halfway up the east coast of the island of Lesbos, it had a natural harbor on its south side and a twenty-foot-tall stonewall that had kept its twenty thousand inhabitants safe for centuries. The vista was beautiful in the morning sun, showing whitewashed houses with red clay roofs. He knew this had once been a bustling community with a busy harbor, which had changed because of too many greedy governors over the last two decades. He had heard of overzealous Roman publicani, contractors acting as taxmen, shutting down many honest business opportunities in the provinces. He wondered if this city’s trouble was related. The Roman Republic sent quaestors to assess a territory’s tax value but left the tax collection to the contractors. He heard the system was rife with bribes and corruption, with local populations suffering.
One of the younger veterans climbed up to join him and shared the view with him in silence for a few minutes. “A shame what is about to happen down there,” the man finally commented.
Caesar nodded in agreement, though the idea of financial compensation for a successful capture of the city was exciting for him. Just being part of the sack, even if he only stood here throughout, meant he would receive a part of the spoils. No small thing considering how badly in debt he was, and how much more loans he would need once he became eligible for senate elections.
“Our troops are ready.” He pointed at the lines of men in the nearby northern camp. The two forts were about a quarter mile from the siege works, and about half a mile from each other. Caesar’s hill was west of the northern part of the city wall. He scanned the Roman siege works, which formed a one-mile-long, second wall made from timber, encircling the city’s defenses at a distance of a hundred feet. The Roman wall was built to the same height, with towers to match those of the city, and access stairs every few hundred feet on the inland side to allow fast troop deployment.
A section of Caesar’s view was obscured by smoke blowing out from a mine shaft entrance behind the northern end of the Roman siege wall. The smoke was billowing over to the city wall, dispersing out to sea with every gust of wind.
A deep rumble shook the hill side, accompanying the rise of a huge cloud of dust and debris. A couple of minutes later, he heard cornua and tubae, the ancient traditional trumpets used to relay commands to Roman legionaries, calling for attack. The sappers had been successful, part of the wall had collapsed.
The dust in the air spread, removing all visibility. Caesar looked at the veterans. They should get ready, just in case. He straightened and smoothed his face before addressing them. His voice came out as a whisper and he caught himself, repeating as loudly as he could. “Veterans, I know I am little more than a fresh recruit to you. I cannot change that”—he paused before continuing—”but, it is our job to be reinforcements, so I expect you to stand ready nevertheless. If there is a clear need to move, I will not wait for anybody
. Stragglers will have to deal with disciplinary action afterwards.”
He scanned the men’s faces. Some looked away, though he was sure they had heard him. Others seemed to grumble under their breath, too low for him to make out. He looked at every veteran in turn until the grumbling died down. I might be young and green, but they all know I am aide to the governor. I don’t need a senate commission to outrank them all.
He adjusted the sheath of the gladius on his belt to have it ready for easy drawing.
“Rare, that. Don’t see many officers with a gladius,” the legionary on the boulder with him commented.
“Yes, most prefer the longer spatha,” Caesar said in answer. “I have a nice one of those as well in my tent, a fine blade from Gaul. A spatha’s extra length is handy when you sit on a horse, but I don’t think we’ll see a lot of cavalry action today. Do you?”
The soldier showed him a wide grin. “I’d wager you’re right on that account, sir.” The man stowed his food bag. Caesar felt a pang of regret about the troops having to grab rations of old bread, cheese and stalks of celery thanks to his decision to leave before sunrise, removing any opportunity for the men to enjoy hot porridge or fresh bread made over the tent fires.
The smoke blew out to sea, making the Roman cohorts visible again as they streamed down a previously prepared wooden ramp, allowing for quick descent from the siege works towards the breach in the city wall.
Off the ramp, the legionaries were forming two groups on both sides of the breach. They advanced and changed into battle lines as they climbed over the wall remnants. As soon as the first line moved into the city, the noise grew dramatically. Caesar saw volley after volley of arrows hitting the oncoming Roman line, with many legionaries dropping. From the slow going, he assumed the city defenders had built barricades to deter the attackers. The legionaries formed into the testudo, a formation named after the tortoise, often trained and compact. Only the first rank kept their shields forward while the ranks behind held their shields upward to cover the men from missile fire from above. As the troops advanced into the city from the breach, only the rearmost of the men were visible. Caesar decided to check both sides of the wall and spotted a group of men moving at the farthest edge of the siege works. Only lightly armored, they had climbed up the cliff wall from the rocks below.
“Look!” He shouted at the soldiers around him, pointing. “There are local Greeks coming up the cliffs to the north. Seems around five hundred already, with more coming.” He could see a steady stream of heads popping up over the edge. “They’re heading for our siege wall, surely to trap our troops.”
He closed his eyes and pushed his rising fear into a dark corner. He knew the enemy force climbing the Roman wall could turn the tide, so he could not idly stand by. He untied his plumed helmet from his belt to put it on his head and pulled his gladius. He took a deep breath before he shouted “Follow me!” He started to run down the hill toward the siege wall closest to the breach. Please Jupiter, let the men be behind me.
He did not have the heart to turn around. He relaxed his tight face when the unmistakable clanging of sword sheaths on chainmail and pila on shield rim reached his ears. It was impossible for legionaries to run quietly, especially while they still carried their two six-foot pila inside their big oval shields.
They descended the hill. The defenders’ timing had been impeccable. All the Roman troops had left the siege works, with only a small token force sprinkled along the towers to watch the city’s walls. The dust of the breach had perfectly hidden the defender’s ascent up the cliff.
The Greeks entered the siege wall at the first set of steps before spreading out to quietly take care of the distracted sentries one by one. The battle noise from inside the city masked everything else. Caesar veered away from his original target for a still empty section of the siege wall.
He made it to the wooden staircase and hurried up, finding himself on the other side of the long ramp from the Greeks. Catching his breath, he scanned his men as they came up behind him. The wall was wide enough to allow a six-legionary wide front rank when deploying their shields. With the first thirty or so ready there was no more time to waste.
“Attack! Throw your pilum as soon as you can!” he shouted, running after the men towards the thirty-foot-wide ramp. As his first veterans came close to the enemy, they slowed to throw their legionary spears before forming a shield wall. As enough men for the next rank pulled up, they threw their pila above the heads of the first line. Many of the lightly armored enemy force went down in screams.
Caesar ended up pushing himself into the sixth line from the front. Here, he figured he was close enough to the front for a good view of the engagement without being in the thick of it. “Push! Push them back from the ramp!” he shouted. As veterans, the men did not need any more direction. The first line pushed a step forward, holding their shields edge to edge, making some of the closest enemies fall. Next, they rotated their bodies and shields slightly left, creating an opening wide enough to allow for each gladius to stab out for soft bellies before pulling their sword hands back in. Now, they rotated the shields back, again edge to edge with their neighbors, and took another step forward in unison.
“Inpello! Push through,” the first two lines called out together to keep each step synchronized. The second and third lines were busy dispatching the trampled enemy soldiers underfoot that still showed signs of life. Caesar felt light-headed from the sight. The downed men begged for their lives, quieted only by ruthless stabs into their throats. The metallic stench of blood and the stink of emptying bowels became overwhelming.
His men moved past the width of the ramp. A few hundred Greeks were running for the breach, having made it down the ramp before his century closed the gap.
“Advance halt!” he shouted. “Hold your ground!” He turned around. “Last seven ranks, follow me.”
As they moved down the ramp, he addressed them again, “Stretch out into two long ranks. Close your shields, let’s chase them into the city!” He led his soldiers into the breach. Most of the Greeks had not noticed his small group of Romans advancing on their backs; his men stabbed many from behind.
Caesar saw that the third rank of Lucullus’ original cohorts had detached to face the Greeks in their rear, now trapping them in turn. His own two lines of twenty men each filled the width of the breach, removing any chance of escape.
He laid down his small round officer’s shield and picked up a discarded infantry one from the ground before stepping into the second rank of his veterans. He wondered why he had bothered with his shield at all. Commonly known as bucklers, the officer’s small variant was only good for horse work.
The legionary in front of him received a cut into his leg from beneath the shield and toppled to the ground. Caesar lunged at the enemy who had stepped in for the kill and pushed his gladius up for a stab into the man’s throat, pulling his sword back out as the Greek collapsed. Blood sprayed everywhere, including over his face, his helmet and his breastplate. Half blind, he rapidly blinked his eyes to clear them. There, another warrior tried to take advantage of the opening. Without conscious thought, he stepped forward to push his shield into the man. The hard impact shoved the attacker backward into his own people. Caesar moved up to close the shield line and gagged. Part of the hot blood had run down his face into his open mouth.
A few more steps forward, a few more thrusts with their swords, and the threat was over. Most of the trapped Greeks had been slain, and a few threw their weapons to the ground, wailing, their desperate gamble lost.
Lucullus stood between the Roman lines, about forty feet into the space behind the breach. Caesar started moving towards him, but Lucullus waved him off angrily, shouting for the original third attack rank to change their focus back to the city defenders, which had come out from their barricades in support of their fellow townsmen.
Caesar stopped, baffled by Lucullus’ detestable manners. Turning back to his veterans, he contemplated what to do
next. Then he eyed the siege works in surprise. He had forgotten that the job was not yet finished.
“Reserve, follow me!” he called his soldiers one more time. They hurried back to the ramp and their fellow veterans still fighting on the siege wall. The six ranks he had left behind were reduced to little more than four, but the men had successfully held back the Greek relief force.
“We are back!” Caesar shouted at the men, who whooped in response. The Greeks lost heart when the Romans made one last push to cut down the entire enemy front line. The remainder turned to flee down the length of the wall.
“Let them go, we can’t catch them anyway,” Caesar shouted at the legionaries, too heavy in their armor for effective pursuit.
As he walked back down to the breach, he heard cheers. A runner passed by on his way to camp, shouting about the main force having pushed through the barricades into the open streets behind to search for remaining pockets of resistance.
The older of the veterans talked to each other until they turned and crowded him. What was this about?
His eyes started scanning for a way out when a deep chant started. “Caesar, Caesar, Caesar,” louder and louder. Two of the men dropped their shields to lift him up onto their shoulders. The chant continued until the men were shouting at the top of their lungs. One of the legionaries carrying him looked up and saw his bewilderment. He screamed up at him over the roar. “You saved most of the troops, maybe even all of us when you led us to the wall. Most of us are Roman citizens who are now bearing witness for a Civic Crown.”