by R. W. Peake
“They're taking nowhere near the kind of beating we took,” sniffed Remus, and we all nodded our heads in sage agreement, accepting as fact something we did not have the experience at that point to truly judge. Meanwhile, the rest of the 7th came forward behind the ram, formed in testudos by Century just as we had done attacking the wall, their form drawing further commentary from the men around me. Consequently, the slingers on the front wall had more of a concentrated target than those along the walls around the town, knowing as they did that the Legion was headed for the main gate. Casualties mounted as the 7th advanced, with men beginning to fall out of their respective Centuries, some of them dead, while most howled in pain. Some of the stricken writhed on the ground, calling for help, but others just lay quietly waiting for the slaves and scribes that worked in the headquarters and who acted as stretcher bearers to come get them. One could sense that these men had been wounded before, and knew that there was no sense flopping about, yelling like a cat set on fire. Once the first men fell, all the joking among us ceased; there was nothing funny about seeing one of our own suffer.
The ram made it to the gate to begin its work, while the rest of the 7th sat absorbing the punishment, waiting for their chance to assault the gate. The air was thick with missiles and arrows, most of the arrows having been set alight and targeted at the ram, inevitably meaning that some of the men at the ram fell to them. A few men suffered the further misfortune of catching on fire, causing them to shriek even more horrifically than the other fallen, and we averted our eyes at the sight as those unfortunates staggered about, a couple of them lucky enough or with enough of their wits about them to run the short distance to throw themselves into the ditch and the slimy water to douse the flames. Even as this was happening, the ram began to do its work, with the men heaving it back and forth on its sling, and we could see the dust fly with each impact. Naturally, some of the men began to bet on when the massive oaken gate would give way; there is nothing that a Gregarius will not wager on, and nothing that he will not wager. Wine rations were the most common, since few of us had any coin with us, even after our spoils from the first town; this bounty was promptly deposited with Cordius, our Tesseraurius, who refused to give any of it back, despite the most urgent pleading, the loudest whining, or the vilest threats. That lack of cash meant that anything else of value was used instead. Besides wine and food rations, turns on duties that were considered easy were wagered the most often. Where the line was drawn was with pieces of equipment, since losing anything because of a bet guaranteed a flogging while the rest of the Century watched. Once the gate finally burst open, one who was unaware might have been taken aback that along with the lusty cheers there were scattered howls of protest and disappointment, as the men who picked the wrong number saw something precious to them go to one of their comrades. Almost immediately, a new line of betting was arranged, this one on the amount of time it would take before the town was declared taken. It turned out that nobody won the bet, because it took well into the night before the last Lusitani warrior was subdued. For a period of time we were called to intente and there was some debate about whether or not we would be thrown in to help finish the job, with both Tribunes of the assaulting Legions arguing with Caesar against it, claiming that it would dishonor their Legions since they had not been called to assist us. Or so that was the word that spread around, which we took with smug self-satisfaction, nodding to each other as if it merely confirmed what we had known all along, that nothing could be accomplished without the good old 10th Legion coming in and saving the day. Therefore, we were turned away to sit back down and watch the flames grow higher around the town, the yells and cries of men fighting and dying soon accompanied by the chorus of screams of the women who were unfortunate enough to live there.
Once more we found ourselves staying in one place for a couple of days when it was the turn of the other Legions to nurse their wounds and regroup. Even so, we were being sent out in Century and Cohort-sized patrols while they rested, ranging the countryside looking for both Lusitani and anything worth eating or destroying. Late in the day of our second day in place, our Century and the Second Century was finishing the burning of a farm and surrounding buildings when we were attacked by a mixed force of mounted warriors and infantry. It was only because of the Pilus Prior that, despite being surprised, we were not unprepared, since he had drilled us over and over for just such an eventuality. There is no way to overstate the value of the type of drill that the Roman army does, because it prepares us for just such emergencies, making our reactions as close to second nature as I believe it is possible to get. In this case, the enemy waited until we were finished torching the farm, so that some of the men were occupied with driving the half-dozen cattle while others were carrying freshly killed chickens. Perhaps a third of one Century was thus occupied, while a section scouted ahead on foot and another section acted as rearguard. Caesar’s army during this campaign was hampered by a lack of cavalry and it was because of this deficiency that a body of men more than three times the size of our two Centuries could get close enough to try and ambush us. They waited until we were passing through a heavily wooded section, which the Pilus Prior had pointed out to us as a good spot for an ambush as we passed through, something I believe was a factor in our quick reaction as well. Despite this, it was not enough to save some of us, with the attack signaled by a volley of spears that flew out from either side, a half-dozen of them finding their mark among us. The hissing sounds were instantly followed by thuds as they struck the bodies of our comrades, two or three of them screaming in pain as they were impaled, but the others perhaps were luckier, falling immediately without a sound and I caught a glimpse of a man in the front of the formation transfixed through the chest, his eyes staring vacantly at the sky, his spirit already having fled before he hit the ground.
“Form square!”
The Pilus Prior roared this command and we instantly obeyed, even as the Lusitani descended on us from the surrounding woods, their war cries suffused with joy that they had already struck some of us down. Because of the surprise, we had no time to form in our normal manner, with each section arranged in its usual line of march side by side, so I found myself for a change in the middle of the line instead of on the end, and at the rear of the formation which was not exposed to immediate attack, though soon enough the warriors flowed like water around us on all sides. Risking a quick glance, I saw that once again Vibius was by my side, this time to my right, with a man named Plautius from the third section on my left. That was all the time I had because the Lusitani came throwing themselves at us, using their bodies as just as much of a weapon as any of their spears or swords. They had learned that their best chance to defeat us was to break our formation, and one thing I cannot take away from them is their bravery. There never seemed to be a limit to the number of men willing to sacrifice themselves on our wall so that their comrades would have a space in which to strike at us. Again the continuous drill proved priceless,g when the Lusitani managed to knock a man down a short distance away from me, whereupon he was immediately hacked to death by the howling mob. This was their mistake, because during the time they turned their attention onto the unfortunate Legionary, it gave the man behind him the opportunity to step into his spot. One of our many problems was that we only had a double line, formed in a square twenty-odd men across and two deep, and even in the second line there were a couple of empty spots. It was when we were arrayed in this manner that it was brought home to me that we had lost men in battle already, and any more that we lost would make us that much weaker. Perhaps one of the most difficult things about fighting in square, at least as far as I was concerned, is that you are quickly surrounded and despite the fact you are facing your part of the enemy, you are still constantly aware that there is fighting going on behind you and to the sides, outside of your peripheral vision. Simply put, if there is a breakthrough in those parts, you are very likely to be slaughtered. But one has to have faith in one’s fellow Le
gionaries, just like they have to have faith in you, and for me at least it was this knowledge that drove me in striving never to be the one who subjected my comrades to death. This group of Lusitani, while brave, was not particularly skilled and dressed in a slightly different fashion than what we faced before, a sign that they were from another branch. In quick succession, I dispatched three men facing me, so that it was only a matter of moments before the Lusitani who kept coming had to slow down to scramble over the bodies of their fallen, something that worked to our advantage. My arm began to grow weary, but this is where our training serves us best, because there is no waste motion; unlike our opponents there is no flailing about, screaming and gnashing of teeth, all of which consume energy. That is why the nature of battle is a series of ebbs and flows; at the beginning it is all sound and fury, with each side doing its best to kill each other. Inevitably, the energy levels fall, and then both sides will spend a few moments doing little more than stand several feet apart, glare and curse at each other before recovering enough to do it again. However, the only time that the fury of battle is equal to the opening clash is when one side or another begins to smell that the end is near, with one great effort tipping the scale in their favor. It is during this period where the conditioning of the Roman Legionary is most evident; we are generally the ones with the reserves of energy left to make that final push and finish off our enemy.
This day, the battle unfolded in a similar manner. Once we sustained the initial assault the Lusitani settled into their usual series of rushes of small groups of men, trying first one side of the square then the other, which were easily repulsed. In fact, it seemed to be much easier than it should have been, and it was Calienus who first brought it to our attention.
“Something’s not right,” he muttered from his place in the second rank.
Calienus turned to the Pilus Prior, commanding from a spot in the middle of the square. Lying at his feet were four men who had been wounded thus far, one of them looking as if he would not last the day, which he did not.
“Pilus Prior,” he called out.
“What is it Calienus?”
“Does this seem right to you? I mean, do these bastards seem like they're just trying to hold us in place more than they're trying to kill every one of us?”
The Pilus Prior looked around, taking in each side of the square, his eyes narrowed in thought. Nodding his head, he replied, “You’re right. They’re trying to keep us pinned here while they wait. I don’t know what they’re waiting for, but I don’t want to find out.”
Then he leaned down to examine the wounded men, speaking softly so that what he said could not be heard over the din. One of the men shook his head, while the others grimaced as they pulled themselves to their feet. Turning my attention back to the front, I saw that it was my turn to step forward while Romulus, who had originally been directly behind me, pushed the Lusitani away before stepping to the side so that I could take his place.
“Right," the Pilus Prior's voice rang out clearly above the din, "we’re not going to wait around for whatever these bastards have planned for us, so everyone stand ready. When I give the command, we’re going to march out of these woods and try to find some better ground.”
As we exchanged nervous glances, I felt a shiver of dread; we had practiced marching in square a great deal, but this would be the first time that we would be trying to do it while in combat. As if reading our minds, the Pilus Prior called out, “Remember your training boys. This is no different than on the drill field except we have these little bastards as a nuisance. Think of them as you would a rock or a log in the way.”
This brought a nervous chuckle, one in which I did not share. I have been blessed, or cursed depending on how one looks at it, with an overly vivid imagination, but there was no stretch of it that I could make that turned these sweating, howling madmen waving spears in our faces into logs that just happened to be strewn in our path. Thinking about this evidently showed on my face, because I heard a laugh and glanced back to see Vibius smiling at me.
“By the gods Titus, did you just swallow a bug or something?”
“No, I just don’t like logs that are waving a sword at me,” I growled in irritation, which was compounded when he merely laughed again.
“You’re not turning into an old woman are you, Titus?”
I shot him a murderous glance but said nothing. We got ambushed shortly after we entered the wooded area, making the fastest way to clear and higher ground back the way we came. The problem was that the relative safety of that high ground lay in the opposite direction of our camp. However, the Pilus Prior decided this was the lesser of two evils, so we began moving toward our refuge. Vibius and the rest of us on what had been the rear of the square now became the front, so for us it was a straightforward march ahead, pushing those Lusitani who tried to stop us out of the way, or cutting them down if they tried to fight. It was straightforward in that sense only; the front rank has to make sure they are not moving too fast for the two sides of the square, who are sidestepping as they move, which is obviously more difficult than just walking forward. The biggest risk was that we would open up a gap at the junction of where our lines met, which could be exploited by the Lusitani. At this point they were still making a token resistance, losing a few men before contenting themselves with screaming imprecations at us that we could not understand though we could guess the intent because of the gestures involved. They also hurled the occasional rock, not often, just frequently enough to keep us on our toes. However, as hard as the side files had it, it was even worse for the back ranks, forced to back up the whole way. These Legionaries at the rear of the formation were put under the most pressure by the Lusitani, who were darting in and out trying to make one of the men take a careless step backwards and fall. All of these factors meant that we could not move very quickly. Meanwhile, the Pilus Prior and Pilus Posterior of the Second Century, a man named Vetruvius, along with the Optios, Signiferi and cornici of both Centuries all walked within the square, helping the wounded keep up. Pilus Prior Crastinus was calling out the count, with the rest of the officers exhorting us to keep our cohesion, warning men whose alignment was getting too far off and generally trying to make sure we stayed together. The worst part was that if a man went down and was unable to get up, he was left behind, a fate that all of us feared more than a quick death. There had been Legionaries who fell into the hands of the Lusitani during the campaign, and if the tales told about their fates were true, it was not a fitting end for a beast, let alone a man. However, I also know that these tales may have been made up, because if there is one thing that competes with gambling in the heart of a Legionary, it is gossip and lurid tales, the bloodier the better. Finally making it to the edge of the woods, we could see in the distance a large plume of dust hanging in the still air, there generally being no breeze at that time of day. Despite having perhaps a watch and two thirds of one of daylight left, it now being the height of the summer, we all knew that we were in dire straits indeed if we were forced to stay out overnight without the opportunity of making some sort of camp. Yet at that point it did not look like we were going to be given the opportunity to do anything of the sort. Once we entered the clearing, another source of misery came into our lives; while there was no breeze, when we were under the cover of the trees of the woods we at least had shade, but now there was neither. Almost instantly I felt the sweat start to form, and before we went more than a furlong it was running down my face and into my eyes, which I had trouble keeping open because of the sting of the salt in my perspiration. I could not use my arms to wipe the sweat away either; if I moved my shield I would expose Plautius, still on my left, but if I used my sword arm, the time it took to wipe my brow would obscure my vision. This was just the kind of thing the Lusitani were waiting for in order to make some sort of move or to throw a rock while I was not in a position to duck or dodge. Making matters worse, I was not the only one in this condition, as the curses I heard all around me
attested to, but despite this hardship we continued to trudge along. The Pilus Prior had pointed to the small, low hill that would be where we tried to make some sort of stand about a half mile away. This may not seem like much, but when you are under constant pressure in the way we were, it is the same as making it back to Rome. It was this small hill I was completely focused on, thinking of nothing else when finally someone made a mistake. Unable to see any more, one of the men in the rear rank walking backwards took the risk of trying to wipe the moisture from his eyes, or at least so I was told later by the man next to him. I do not know why, but for some reason he stumbled and fell, but before he could scramble to his feet a rock sailed from the mass of Lusitani, hitting him square in the face.