by R. W. Peake
Only grunting an acknowledgement, my mind was occupied with the details of what was about to happen next. I did not think that Caesar would order us to charge pell-mell, in column, directly into the battle, so I was thinking about what the next command was going to be, guessing that it would first be an order to quick time, our normal marching pace, in order to allow us to catch our breath, followed a moment later by the command to deploy from column into line. When the cornu did indeed sound the call to begin marching, it was followed a moment later by the command to form into a line of Cohorts, which we executed with the practiced precision of veterans, while I mentally congratulated myself for being smart enough to recognize the obvious thing to do. Seeing the Britons alerted by the sound of our horns wheel about to watch us approaching, the sight of the 10th arriving on the scene served two purposes. The 7th was being hard pressed, having actually formed into an orbis, which is only used in the direst of emergencies. With our approach, it gave the 7th sufficient heart to order the redeployment into a more standard aciesduplex as they awaited our arrival and link up with them. For the Britons, this was the signal to break off the engagement, their own strange horns now blowing what was obviously their signal to withdraw. They retreated in good order I must say, leaving the battlefield behind to disappear into the nearby woods, from where they had initiated the ambush. As we were to gather from the events, this was an elaborate trap; the fields that the 7th were sent to reap were not harvested in order to act as bait. The 7th fell into the trap, which was no shame, but apparently their orders were to ground their shields and javelins, doff their helmet, with no guard set, especially in the nearby forest, thereby allowing a surprise attack. We would have jeered them for such laxity, but they carried enough bodies with them back to the camp that we felt they learned their lesson.
With the fleet rapidly being repaired, we still had one more surprise waiting for us. According to Caesar, only a total of twelve ships were totally destroyed and their salvaged parts used to repair the rest of the fleet. Again, I do not wish to dispute the great man, but perhaps my skills at counting are not quite as developed as his were; I counted no less than 20 ships wrecked beyond repair. No matter really, in the end both Legions were transported back to the mainland, but not before the Britons made one last attempt to inflict enough damage upon us to convince us never to return. For several days after the ambush of the 7th the weather was similar, just not as violent, to the great storm that wrecked the fleet, confining us to our tents as the elements lashed us with what seemed to be a never-ending rainstorm. Between the weather and our lack of cavalry, Caesar deemed it prudent to refrain from trying to chastise the enemy for their violation of their oaths of submission, and we sat huddled together, listening to the wind howl and the rain throw itself against our tents. Once again we were reminded of the year before, except thankfully this year our tents held up. Even with the violent weather, the men who volunteered to help repair the fleet, many of them now repenting their choice much to our glee, continued on. Through the wind and rain, they continued to work on those ships that could be salvaged, and we were heartened by their progress to be sure. But the Britons were not quite done with us, giving us one last test before we left this accursed island.
Even as the work progressed despite the weather, the Britons were not idle either. Their summons to battle was only partially answered when they attempted to ambush the 7th during our grain harvesting. However, by this point they had sufficient time to gather in their true strength, and it was with this strength that they appeared on the horizon one day after the spell of weather broke.
“To arms!”
With that command ringing out, the bucina carrying the call throughout the entire camp, for perhaps the hundredth time I found myself thanking Calienus for the early lesson he had given us in the value of placing our gear in the same place, every time, every camp. Automatically pulling on my armor and helmet, then grabbing my harness and quickly strapping it on, I exited the tent to grab my shield, stacked outside along with my javelin. It is in such a manner that a Legion can assemble and be ready for battle in a matter of moments, no mean feat for several thousand men. On the horizon, spreading before us, was the Briton host; chariots, cavalry and foot, all determined to make us pay such a heavy price that we would never venture to set another foot on their island again. It was here that they made their biggest mistake, in daring to fight us in a set-piece battle. Compounding their error, they gave us not only the time to form up, then march out of our camp, but to array ourselves in Caesar’s favorite formation, the aciestriplex, arranging our lines in front of our camp. Seeing the vast horde before us, perhaps it is hubris, but I will tell you that there was not a man among us who held any doubt about the outcome.
“Stupid bastards, aren’t they?” This was asked by Scribonius as we moved into our accustomed position.
Unlike other battles we fought in, there were not three wings but two; even so, we did not have to be told on which side to form up, and we moved into our place on the right, looking out at the Briton host impassively. I had to agree; they were stupid indeed to try besting us by using the tactics that were our strongest. I merely nodded, not saying anything, preparing myself for the slaughter that was about to come.
This battle is almost too inconsequential to write about. The Britons charged us, their chariots churning up clouds of dust as they sped towards our formation, heading straight into our lines as if they planned on running headlong into the front ranks. Suddenly, they turned sharply to parallel our front, with each warrior aboard throwing javelins as fast at us as he could manage. One noteworthy thing was that I finally saw with my own eyes the feats that the others were talking about, when one of the warriors leaped over the front of the chariot, landing nimbly on the wooden yoke attached to the horses. Not done, he took a couple of sure steps farther along the yoke before hopping up to plant each of his feet on the backs of the horses, who obviously had been through this before since they did not falter. Standing thus, he bellowed something I am sure was abusive at the top of his lungs, glaring at us while his driver guided the chariot along our front. His display earned him an ironic cheer from us, seemingly startling him, his face turning a dark red, obviously furious at what he perceived as an insult. It was not really meant that way; enemy or no, what he did was impressive and we Romans always appreciate a demonstration of excellence. Once the chariots expended their missiles, this apparently was the signal for the Britons to begin their pre-battle ritual of foaming at the mouth and hopping about while they screamed their insults at us. A few of them bared their backsides to us, drawing a laugh. Someone in our ranks began to reciprocate the gesture but was immediately persuaded against it by the threat of a flogging. Our men were shifting about, moving from one foot to another, growing bored, and all through our midst could be heard muttered imprecations and exhortations to get on with it.
“Pluto’s thorny cock, what’s taking them so long?” Vibius groaned, and I smiled at his impatience, though I felt it too.
Finally, they seemed to be ready at last, and with the undulating wail from what they call a horn blasting three notes, the mass of men on foot began running towards us, their weapons held high, their shouts ringing in our ears. Immediately after our last volley of javelins was done, the order to counter-charge was given, and we began running ourselves, colliding into the Briton horde at a dead run. No more than several moments later, before I even got a turn at the front, the Britons broke and ran, with both Legions in hot pursuit. Running as fast as I dared while carrying my naked sword over the broken ground, my long legs helped me close the gap, enabling me to wet my blade before sheathing it again. Our small group of cavalry pursued the fleeing men, and despite their small numbers, managed to account for a large number of enemy dead. All told, we killed about 4,000 Britons in the space of perhaps a sixth part of a watch from the time we lined up until we stopped the pursuit, and we did not lose a single man. During our return to the camp, we put to the tor
ch a small village, along with a few small farms and the surrounding fields.
Back in camp, the word went out that the repairs to the fleet were finished and we were told to break down the camp, prompting great jubilation. We had experienced enough of this island, although there was little doubt in our minds that we would be back.
“Caesar’s not going to be satisfied with burning some crops. He’s got to find some villages to plunder and people to enslave to make himself richer than he already is,” Vibius declared as we were packing.
Biting back a sharp reply, partly because I did not want to quarrel, it was also because I knew that Vibius was probably right, and I did not want to give him the satisfaction of reminding me of it when we found ourselves on these shores again. Even as we were striking our tents, another delegation of Britons came to the camp, yet again begging forgiveness for their mistake in attacking us for the third time. And yet again, Caesar gave them pardon, although he doubled the number of hostages he demanded this time around. This was one decision that we did not agree with, but looking at it now, I can see that Caesar really had no other choice. We were packing up to leave and would not be back for several months. If he refused to accept their apology and peaceful overtures, this would warn them that war was coming, whereupon they would spend the winter months in preparation. They may have done that anyway, but with Caesar refusing them, this was a certainty. Accordingly, Caesar made the choice to allow the pretense of peace between us. By the time the delegation left, the camp was stricken, except for the ramparts, which are always last, and we put all the other parts of the camp that used wood to the torch. That done, we pulled up the stakes along the rampart then filled in the ditch before marching down to the beach to load up on the ships and sail back to the mainland.
Leaving the shores of Britannia in the same way we left to get there, we finally shoved off at midnight, heading back to land at the same place where we embarked. Our trip was uneventful, except for the heaving of our stomachs, the prospect of which we simply accepted with resignation as the cost for getting back to Gaul, and we were happy enough when about mid-morning, land was sighted. There before us was the thin green strip that we had expected to see when we first saw Britannia, and as we approached, we began talking about what we hoped to do when were finally safe on dry land. Since the end of campaign season was almost on us; it was now the second week in September, and we would be marching to winter quarters soon, not surprisingly much of the talk and the inevitable wagering centered on where we would be quartered. Nobody thought that we would be staying this far west, in the event there was trouble farther east, but there was much speculation about how far north or how far south. Also, going into our fourth winter, we had developed favorite spots where we wintered before, along with not so favorite spots to which we held no desire to go back. This was how we passed the remaining time before entering the harbor, the men from the other Legions lining the hill of the camp to watch us disembark. Men looked for friends they had made, or sometimes even relatives, in the faces of the 7th and 10th as we went marching past, sharing jokes and insults with us. Unfortunately, I could see the faces of some of the men who did not find who they were looking for, and I knew that there would be mourning around some of the fires in the camp that night.
Not all of us arrived at the same harbor. Two ships, with about 300 men from the 10th, landed further south in Morini territory and the natives got carried away with the idea of attacking the Legionaries and taking their weapons. Luckily for our men they were immediately missed, scouts were sent out looking for them and one of the mounted men saw the Legionaries formed in a square, surrounded by a few thousand men. Galloping back, the camp was alerted, with all of our available cavalry mounted and out of the gate in moments, racing to the rescue of the stranded men. Because we had just arrived and were still in full uniform, we were ordered to follow behind, and since these were men of the 10th we needed no urging, moving at double time down the road behind the cavalry. By the time we arrived at the scene, the cavalry had already driven the Morini off, the Gauls fleeing so hastily that some of them actually dropped their weapons, leaving them scattered on the ground around the Legionaries. Marching back to camp, reunited with our missing men, we arrived only to find out the moment we entered camp that we were going to be leaving the next morning to punish the Morini for their transgression. This order was met by curses and groans, the feeling being that we had done enough, there being other Legions in camp who had been doing nothing all season. Nevertheless, we marched out the next morning as ordered, the 7th also being selected, commanded by Labienus. Marching south, the gods smiled on us in one sense; there had been a drought in that area and the marshes, which the Morini used as refuge before, were now dried up, so we did not have to march in knee deep, slimy muck. It also meant that the Morini had nowhere to hide, and after one very minor skirmish where we lost nobody and they lost a few dozen, they submitted. Again.
Chapter 9- Second Invasion of Britain
Despite our campaigning being done, any hopes we held for a soft winter were quickly shattered. Caesar did not leave us at his normal time, staying with us until mid-November, once we were distributed in our winter camps, the locations of which were another source of complaining. None of us got our wish to be further south; instead, the Legions were distributed throughout Belgae territory, the feeling being, correct as it turned out, that they were still not completely pacified. This winter, however, was not going to be one of our usual routine, because Caesar had plans, ambitious ones at that. He ordered a fleet built, numbering more than 600 ships, requiring each of our camps to be on a river and relatively close to the sea, at a point where the river was wide and deep enough to float the finished ships down. Our particular camp was on the Sequana River, a few miles inland, in the territory of the Veliocasses, who lived on a narrow strip of land inland along the river for several miles. For this project, we all worked as shipbuilders, with Gauls skilled in these matters being brought in to teach us what we needed to do, although they directed the work. I will say that, despite moaning and complaining about performing this kind of labor, it did make the time pass by more quickly, and I for one enjoyed the physical exertion. The ships we built were different than the ones that took us to Britannia and were of Caesar’s design; having seen the difficulties we experienced in going over the side, he ordered that our new fleet be constructed with much lower gunwales to enable easier unloading. They were also wider, with flatter bottoms that enabled them to get closer to shore, improvements we all appreciated, and which I pointed out to Vibius as an example that Caesar truly cared for our well-being, to which he said nothing. When Caesar left us, he went once again to Illyricum, this time because there was trouble brewing. Also leaving the army was young Publius Crassus, not only one of the most liked of the Tribunes and Legates, but also one of the most respected, a rare feat. Labienus we respected yet did not particularly like because of his sour disposition and the fact that he could be excessively harsh in his discipline, but he could fight, and for that we at least respected him. When we heard of young Crassus’ death at Carrhae, from all accounts due to his own father’s incompetence and arrogance, there was true sorrow in the army.
Januarius of the year of the Consulship of Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus and Appius Claudius Pulcher, 456 years after the founding of the Republic marked the beginning of our fifth year in Gaul. I was turning 24 that year, 25 as far as the army was concerned, and I was still happy that I had joined the Legions. Vibius I was not so sure about; he loved being a Legionary as much as I did, but oh, how he pined for Juno. These years apart had not changed their love for each other as far as I could tell; they still wrote each other constantly, and I believe that it was only this enforced separation that marred Vibius’ time in the army. He never let it interfere with his duties, yet there were times at night around the fire that I would glance at him to see him staring at but not seeing the flames, with a melancholy look on his face. Whenever I saw him like this
I did my best to cheer him up, although I do not know whether I was any help or not. As for the rest of my friends, much was the same as before. We had adjusted to the death of Romulus, but we never forgot him, and many a night one of his antics was a topic of discussion around the fire, all of us laughing as hard as if it had happened yesterday. The change in Didius turned out to be temporary; soon enough he was back to his games and his surliness. His presence and attitude became something like a spot on your boots that rubs you wrong that never goes away no matter how hard you try to remove it, until you give up and a callous develops that keeps from rubbing you raw. Having grown accustomed to his ways, while we did not like them we accepted them, mainly because we had no choice. For his part, he learned how far he could push the rest of us and did not cross that line, at least not very often. Atilius’ flogging had scared him straight, if only for a time, although I will say that he was much slyer about his forays out of the camp, and they did happen less often. Vellusius remained unchanged, although he did laugh less than before, something I attributed more to the absence of Romulus than I did to any change in him. Scribonius was, next to Vibius, my closest friend, partly because of our proximity to each other in formations and on marches. Also, I respected his intelligence and his way of thinking things through before weighing in on a subject. Calienus we did not see as much of as we had when he was in our tent, partly due to his duties, but mostly due to Gisela, with whom he spent every possible moment and for which none of us blamed him. He trusted her well enough, but he had no trust in his fellow soldiers, quite rightly I might add. We may kill for each other, and we may die for each other, but I quickly saw that on the subject of women, there were no rules of conduct. If a man wanted a woman and she belonged to another Legionary, the only consideration was whether or not one could defeat the spurned lover in a fight of some sort. Only in the case of very close friends, and sometimes not even then, did the bonds of friendship matter at all. Another happy consequence of doing the work that we did building ships meant that we had less time to get in trouble, with that winter seeing fewer trips to the forum to witness punishments than any other year before this.