by Ben Kane
‘But he’s not with Caesar,’ said Romulus stoutly, feeling a flush of loyalty to the man who’d pardoned him. ‘He has to take the consequences of that.’
Atilius squinted at him, and then a smile creased his lined face. ‘Aye, lad. He does.’
Unfortunately, the senior centurion’s effort at rallying the legionaries’ spirits did not last for long. While the Twenty-Eighth steadied itself, the surrounding cohorts did not. The Numidian attacks grew ever bolder, with squadrons of horsemen riding in with the skirmishers to launch huge volleys of javelins at the Romans. Nervous of being struck down, the inexperienced soldiers clustered together, reducing their ability to fight back as well as making themselves more of a target. On and on it went. There were so many Pompeian troops that they could keep up a constant attack on the beleaguered Caesarean cohorts.
The only things that differed from Carrhae, thought Romulus, were the facts that the enemy javelins didn’t have the penetrative force of the arrows from the Parthian recurved bows, and that the temperature wasn’t quite as hot as the Mesopotamian desert. All the same, thirst and dehydration were beginning to rear their ugly heads. The battle had been going on all day now, and most men’s water carriers were long since empty. They’d had no food since dawn either.
Caesar did not disappoint Romulus. Ordering the cohorts to spread out, he had alternate units turn about so that they faced the Numidian cavalry which was attacking their rear, while the others continued to confront the waves of skirmishers to the front. Atilius and the other senior centurions were entrusted once more with the task of rallying the men’s morale. Then, in a simultaneous action, both parts charged at the enemy, hurling their remaining pila. To the legionaries’ surprise and delight, the Numidians retreated before the ferocity of their attack.
At once the recall sounded.
‘This is the first time we’ve got the fuckers on the run!’ Sabinus cried.
‘Our energy won’t last,’ Romulus explained. ‘When we stop, they’ll turn on us again. This is our chance to get away.’
The bucinae repeated their command, and men’s faces lit up at the chance of escaping the hellhole in which they’d been trapped all day. Forming up, the cohorts began retreating towards Ruspina with the remaining Gaulish cavalry formed up on the flanks as protection. They didn’t get far before enemy reinforcements could be seen approaching from the south. Comprised of cavalry and infantry, the newly arrived Pompeians immediately set out in pursuit of the battered foraging party. Reinvigorated, their exhausted comrades followed close behind.
Seeing the new danger, Caesar had his men halt and turn about once more. Soon afterwards one of his messengers came in search of Atilius. ‘Caesar wants six cohorts to lead a counter-attack, sir,’ he panted. ‘Three from the Fifth, and three from the Twenty-Eighth. Says you’ve earned it.’
Atilius’ chest blew out with pride. ‘Did you hear that, boys?’ he shouted. ‘Caesar has noticed your bravery.’
Despite their cracked, dry throats, the legionaries managed a rousing cheer.
‘What are Caesar’s orders?’ demanded Atilius.
‘He wants an attack three cohorts wide, two deep, sir,’ came the answer. ‘Push the fresh enemy troops back. Give them a bloody nose that they won’t forget. We just need enough time to get back to Ruspina.’ With a quick salute, the messenger was off to the next cohort.
Atilius turned to his men. ‘I know you’re all tired, but give me one last effort. Then we can go home.’ He eyed the Pompeian reinforcements, which were descending from some high ground to the southeast. ‘We’ll need to send them packing back over that. Can you do it?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they mumbled.
‘I can’t hear you,’ Atilius bellowed.
‘YES, SIR!’ the men cried, fired by his enthusiasm and the honour granted them by Caesar. Romulus was particularly stirred by their mission. With no back-up from their cavalry, it was perilous in the extreme. If anything went wrong, they’d be completely on their own. No less a man than Caesar had asked for it, though, and it was a chance to help every one of the tired soldiers in the patrol. Something Romulus had wanted to do, but could not, on the retreat from Carrhae.
The senior centurion smiled. ‘Good.’ Leading the cohort out of rank, he waited as two more picked from the Twenty-Eighth joined them. The Fifth’s position was further to the rear, and its three chosen cohorts were already waiting to one side of the retreating patrol. The senior centurions from the units conferred with each other before Atilius’ cohort took the right flank, while the centre and left flank were formed by two from the Fifth. The three remaining units assembled to their rear, and they set off.
When Atilius returned, Romulus couldn’t help himself. ‘How come we have this position, sir?’ They were in the place normally awarded to the most experienced part of an army; he had expected one of the Fifth’s cohorts to take it.
Atilius looked pleased. ‘The others said that my javelin throw had earned me the honour. Now we all have the chance to win some glory.’
Romulus grinned. Atilius seemed more and more like Bassius as the day went on. It was easy to follow such an officer into battle. Fearless, tough and prepared to take all of the risks that his soldiers had to, Atilius was the epitome of a leader. Romulus had to give Caesar the same credit too. Their general had played a huge part in maintaining his legionaries’ morale, and could still be seen urging on those who were falling behind. Although he was in his mid fifties, Caesar acted like a man half his age.
What more could a soldier ask for?
Determination filled Romulus that he would help drive back the advancing Pompeian troops, or die in the attempt. His leaders and comrades deserved no less.
Atilius glanced to either side, and raised an arm. ‘Close order,’ he ordered. ‘Shields high. Draw swords.’
The distinctive sound of gladii sliding from their scabbards filled the air. Almost no legionaries had any pila left; after an entire day of combat fought back and forth over a large area, most had been damaged or were irretrievable. Their charge would hopefully lead them into close-quarters fighting for the first time. There they could use their deadly swords and the metal bosses of their scuta to exact revenge for the torture they’d been put through by the Pompeians. It was a pleasing prospect for the bitterly frustrated soldiers.
‘Forward!’ bellowed Atilius. He took off at a gentle trot, and six cohorts followed.
Soon they could tell that the enemy reinforcements were predominantly infantry, but were supported by a strong force of cavalry on each wing. Foot soldiers never liked facing horsemen at the best of times, yet all the men present knew of Caesar’s tactic at Pharsalus sixteen months before. This stunning success had been at the root of their general’s victory, and had been drilled into every one of his soldiers since. While they no longer had pila to jab at the riders’ faces, the legionaries had the confidence of knowing that a charge on the enemy riders gave them a chance of breaking the attack. Horsemen were not invincible. That was the theory, anyway.
By the time they had covered a quarter of a mile, the Pompeians were closing fast. The cavalry were keeping their mounts reined in so that they didn’t overtake the foot soldiers, but a swelling roar of anger could be heard from their ranks. These were men who had missed the whole day’s fighting; no doubt their leaders had promised them the glory of winning the battle.
‘Double time!’ Atilius shouted. With an energy that scarcely seemed possible given their ordeal, he broke into a full run. In a clever move, the signifer was right beside him.
Battle madness, which had been lacking in the Twenty-Eighth all day, began to seize control of the men. Keeping silent as they’d been trained, they used the frenzy to push their tired bodies to the same speed as Atilius. It was at times like this when their mail shirts, helmets and scuta became as heavy as lead. Although the soldiers’ muscles screamed for a rest, the cohort’s standard meant nearly as much as the silver eagle. It could not under any circumstances
fall into enemy hands. For it to do so would bring disgrace down on every man’s head, a dishonour which could only be wiped away by its recovery.
Naturally, the other cohorts kept up with Atilius’ men. With the safety of their comrades entrusted to their care, no one was prepared to be left behind. Caesar was watching.
The advancing Numidians were taken aback by the speed and ferocity of the Roman counter-attack. They had been told that after a long day of fighting, their enemies were exhausted and ready to break. Instead, they were confronted by the sight of six cohorts bearing down on them like packs of vengeful wolves. Foot soldiers against cavalry? Surely only madmen would take part in such an assault?
The cavalry slowed noticeably, and the light infantry did likewise.
Atilius saw the Pompeians’ hesitation at once, and acted on it. ‘Stay in close order! Keep your shields high,’ he shouted, increasing his speed and raising his gladius. ‘Remember, aim for their faces!’
Narrowing the gap between Sabinus and the man on his other side, Romulus gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles went white. His comrades were doing likewise, but their pace did not slacken. The Numidian cavalry were only about thirty paces away now, close enough for them to see the mounts’ nostrils flare with nervousness at the line of approaching scuta. To pick out the features of individual riders, and the painted designs on the fronts of their shields. Charging a line of advancing horses was terrifying and Romulus gritted his teeth. If they failed, the remaining cohorts would be routed back to Ruspina. In that case, few men would survive. Everything depended on them.
The Pompeian officers did not react quickly enough to their men’s indecision and their advance had slowed right down by the time the Caesarean troops hit. Screaming like maniacs to scare the horses, Atilius and his men barged into the Numidian cavalry. The faster-moving enemy riders broke open the front of the Roman lines, knocking soldiers to the ground, but most had lost their momentum. Shields slammed into the mounts’ chests and gladii stabbed upwards at their riders. Like all light cavalry, the Numidians wore no armour and carried only a small round shield for protection. They were not the type of troops to meet a charge by heavy infantry head on, and their javelins were unable to punch through heavy scuta. In contrast, the legionaries’ iron blades bit deep into men’s thighs, bellies and chests, injuring and killing Numidians aplenty. Horses were slashed across the neck or stabbed in the ribs, causing them to rear up in terror, spraying blood over everyone within arm’s reach. Ignoring their dashing hooves, Caesar’s men darted into the gaps, disembowelling the steeds or hamstringing them. The next rank of cavalrymen looked panic-stricken at the sight of frenzied legionaries emerging from the slaughter with bloodied gladii and snarling faces. Instinctively, they reined in, and some tried to turn their horses’ heads around. Of course their fear was obvious, and the baying legionaries redoubled their efforts.
Within the space of a hundred heartbeats, the enemy attack on the Twenty-Eighth had come to a standstill. Romulus could see that the Caesarean standards were all still roughly in a line, which meant that the Fifth’s cohorts were achieving the same results. Pushing in behind came the other three units, which kept up their momentum. Exhilaration filled Romulus. After all the fear and setbacks of the day, it seemed that courage and determination were being rewarded at last. Already many of the horsemen were looking to the rear. All they had to do was keep up the pressure, and the Numidians would break and run.
Of course there were always leaders who could pull the fat from the fire. Screaming orders at his riders, an officer clad in Roman army uniform on a fine white stallion managed to drag the Numidians’ rear sections away before the Twenty-Eighth had reached them. Galloping back three hundred paces, he rallied the panicked tribesmen before leading a stinging attack on the side of Atilius’ cohort. Riding in at speed, the whooping cavalry threw their javelins in a thick shower and retreated, as they had all day.
The volley caused heavy casualties among the unprepared legionaries, whose shields were raised against attack from the front, not the side. At once the tactic was repeated, with similar results. Dozens of men were down now, and fear was mushrooming in the rest. It was a shining example of how the course of a battle could be turned around. Romulus watched the scarlet-cloaked Roman officer directing operations and cursed. If this went on, all their efforts would have been in vain.
‘I know him,’ shouted Sabinus. ‘It’s Marcus Petreius, one of Pompey’s best generals.’
Romulus watched Petreius gallop off to the far flank, no doubt to emulate his success here. ‘The bastard’s got to be stopped, or they’ll turn us over.’
‘What can we do?’ Sabinus retorted. ‘He’s out on the open battlefield on a damn horse and we’re on foot.’
Romulus didn’t answer, but a daring idea was coming to mind. Breaking rank, he trotted over to Atilius, who was directing sections of legionaries forward into the Numidian lines. ‘A word, sir,’ he shouted.
The senior centurion looked around, surprised. ‘Make it quick.’
‘Did you see the attack on the cohort’s right flank a moment ago, sir?’
‘Of course I did,’ scowled Atilius. ‘Now the prick has gone off to repeat the same with the rest of his cavalry.’
‘I’ll kill him, sir. Just give me two men,’ Romulus pleaded.
He had all of Atilius’ attention now. ‘What will you do?’
‘Make our way through the mêlée,’ Romulus explained. ‘Pick up some enemy javelins on the way. Somehow get close enough, and bring him down.’
‘Causing panic in his men,’ muttered the senior centurion. ‘With luck, they’d flee.’
Romulus grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’
Atilius scanned the open ground to their right. Apart from a few scrubby bushes, there was hardly any shelter. Waves of Numidian cavalry were sweeping back and forth across it to attack the Twenty-Eighth. ‘It’s a suicide mission,’ he said.
‘Maybe it is, sir. But if someone doesn’t stop the whoreson, they’ll soon break our attack.’
‘True.’ Atilius thought for a moment. ‘Three men less in the cohort won’t save our skins either. Do it.’
Romulus could hardly believe his ears. ‘Sir!’ He snapped off a crisp salute and pushed his way back through the press to Sabinus’ side. Quickly he filled the dark-haired soldier in on his plan.
‘Been praying to Fortuna?’ Sabinus asked sarcastically. ‘We’ll need her guiding every step of the way to stay alive.’
‘Are you with me or not?’ Romulus demanded. ‘We’re defending the rest of the column, remember?’
Sabinus spat a curse and then nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘I heard what you said, comrade. Count me in too,’ said a thick-set legionary wearing a bronze helmet with its horsehair crest missing. He stuck out his right arm. ‘Gaius Paullus.’
Romulus grinned and accepted the grip. ‘Let’s go.’ Shoving through the ebbing and flowing ranks of legionaries, they soon reached the edge of the cohort. Injured men were everywhere here, screaming at the iron-tipped javelins which had struck them in their arms or legs. Those who had been hit in the neck or face sprawled uncaring on the ground, forcing Romulus and his two comrades to step over them. Mentally, he asked their forgiveness. It helped – a little.
Once in the outermost rank, Romulus took in the situation at a glance. There was no sign of an optio or centurion here, which meant that they’d been killed. The Numidian attacks had already left huge gaps in the side of the cohort. It would not be long before the beleaguered legionaries were either overwhelmed or ran away. Time was of the essence, but they also had to wait until Petreius returned from the left flank.
Ducking down behind their scuta, the trio weathered a number of Numidian attacks. There was no chance of defending themselves, just the ignominy of hiding away from the enemy javelins. Eventually, though, Romulus saw the distinctive white stallion reappear behind the regrouping cavalry. ‘There he is,’ he muttered, pointing.
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br /> ‘It’s about three hundred paces,’ muttered Sabinus.
‘A long way,’ added Paullus.
A strange calm fell over Romulus. ‘Leave your shields. Helmets too,’ he ordered. Wiping his bloody blade on the bottom of his tunic, he sheathed it. ‘Take off your mail shirts.’
The other two stared at him as though he were raving mad.
‘We stand out a mile in our gear,’ Romulus hissed. ‘It’s also damn heavy. Without it, the Numidians might think we’re riders whose mounts have been killed.’
Understanding blossomed on their faces and they began to obey. The dazed soldiers nearby looked on uncomprehendingly as the three stripped themselves of all their equipment. Underneath their thigh-length chain mail, their padded russet jerkins were saturated in sweat.
‘Gods, that feels good,’ said Paullus with a grin.
A shower of enemy javelins came scudding overhead and the smile disappeared from his face.
Swiftly they lifted their shields again until the attack had ended. Reaching out carefully, each man picked some Numidian light throwing spears from the dozens which lay scattered amidst the bodies.
Romulus waited until the enemy horsemen had turned around. ‘Now!’ he hissed. ‘After them!’
The trio shot forward like Greek sprinters at a games. The retreating tribesmen did not look back and, as Romulus had hoped, their mounts concealed the trio from the Numidians who were waiting to move forward. The crucial moment would be when the two lines met, and the new wave of attackers rode out.
They had covered about half the distance when Romulus saw horses’ heads appearing in the gaps between the retreating cavalry. ‘Down on your bellies!’ he shouted.
Sabinus and Paullus understood now.
All three threw themselves headlong to the hard ground. Pressing their faces into the dirt, they lay like dead men. Soon they could feel the earth shaking from the cavalry’s approach. Romulus’ heart was hammering in his chest, and he had to stop himself from trying to see what was going on.