Marching With Caesar-Birth of the 10th Legion

by R. W. Peake

  The answer came with probably no more than a few normal heartbeats' of time left before one of us in the front line failed and caused a breach. Instead of disaster, it was one of those accidental events, which, now with my experience in hundreds of battles and skirmishes, has as much to do with deciding the outcome as the tactics and strategy of the generals. The man pushing against Vibius, who looked no older than we were, had been trying to poke Vibius with what appeared to be nothing more than a sharpened stick, thrusting it over the top of Vibius’ scutum as Vibius hunched behind it, dodging every jab. Finally, in frustration, the man dropped the stick to grab the top of Vibius’ scutum with both hands, giving a mighty yank, and succeeded in pulling it almost out of Vibius’ grasp, exposing my best friend to the warriors surrounding him. Feeling a roar of rage burst from my throat as I saw Vibius about to die and finding a strength I did not know I had, I threw the man facing me off with a huge push, staggering him backwards into his comrades, causing a ripple as the men pushing him from behind were knocked backwards as well. Turning my body, I brought my gladius up to strike out at the men threatening Vibius, yet before I could, there was a blur of movement as the man to Vibius’ left also saw him in trouble and used the opening created to strike a blow on his own. His blade entered the neck of the man who dropped the stick and was still holding onto Vibius’ scutum, blood spraying us as the blade was withdrawn just as quickly as it struck. I could not see who was next to Vibius; I reminded myself to find out and thank him later, but Vibius was not out of danger yet as another warrior, this one better armed than the first man, moved his arm forward in a sweeping arc in an attempt to take advantage of the gap that was still there. It is hard to describe events that take place in a matter of heartbeats accurately, yet when in battle, something strange happens, and time seems to stand still. Your mind can track things that are taking place literally in the blink of an eye like they are happening in slow motion, and one at a time instead of simultaneously. All that I am describing here took perhaps five or six normal heartbeats at the most, and still, more than forty years later, I see them as clearly as I see poor Diocles straining to keep up with me! Perhaps even more clearly, since my eyes do not seem to be as sharp as they have been in the past, even a year ago.

  Continuing, I saw that Vibius was still in danger, as one of the few men armed with one of the long Gallic gladii that the Lusitani favored was swinging it down to cleave him in two. Instead of thrusting at the man, I instinctively swung my gladius up in a backhand sweep that started at my waist, with my blade meeting the man’s arm just before his own weapon crunched into Vibius’ head, who had closed his eyes in anticipation of the blow. My blade severed the man’s arm as it moved upward through his limb just below the elbow, the reward being another shower as the severed portion of his arm tumbled end over end, splattering blood and flying just above Vibius’ head to smack the man behind him. It turned out to be Scribonius, the arm hitting him dead in the face while the long gladius clattered harmlessly to the ground as our friend bellowed out a roar of disgust and, despite the gravity of the situation, I felt a grin on my face. Vibius had recovered at this point, his scutum back up in the first position, and he struck a blow of his own, gutting the man whose arm I had removed as he stood there staring dumbly at the stump pulsing blood in rhythm with every beat of his heart.

  Once he went down, between his and the man with the stick’s deaths, we had formed a small pocket of space, and I heard Rufio roar, “Move forward, Pullus. Use your fat ass for something useful.”

  Nodding that I heard him, I stepped forward to meet the man who had originally been opposing me, by now having regained his balance to come back at me. I saw that he held a spear, a wicked-looking thing with a large head that appeared to have barbs on it, in his other hand, the small round scutum they favored, and he advanced warily. I felt Vibius move forward back to my side; it made me feel secure and allowed me to concentrate on the man who wanted to kill me. Even as my foe moved forward, another Lusitani apparently thought to help him and moved next to him, but my opponent snapped something, causing the second man to look angry and make a gesture before turning his attention to Vibius. Now that my opponent was not screaming and acting like he was possessed by a demon, I could see that there was something different about him than the others; he was better dressed, for one, and there was an intelligent, almost humorous look in his eyes. When our eyes locked, he gave me a grim smile before making a short, mocking bow, then attacked. He was weaving the spear back and forth, and despite myself, I followed it with my eyes, exactly what he wanted. Lunging suddenly, he forced me to move my scutum in the direction of the lunge to deflect it, also what he wanted me to do. Realizing my mistake at once, it was nevertheless too late, the head of the spear punching at me as he made a backhand, slashing thrust, causing me to twist my upper body in desperation. My countermove saved my life because instead of striking square, the point struck a glancing blow along my ribs, sliding off my lorica, but still knocking the breath out of me. Even with the protection of the chain mail, I felt a searing pain, making me wonder if he had drawn blood as he instantly recovered to launch another attack, which I managed to block with my scutum this time instead of my body. The Lusitani struck at me again and again, yet despite regaining enough of my composure to defend against him, I was still rattled and did not try to strike back. Being truthful, my pride and confidence were hurt more than my side as I realized that I had been taken in by the constant praise and the belief in me that my comrades displayed, and had convinced myself that I was invincible. Now, this Lusitani had almost proven me and everyone else wrong. Gripping my gladius more tightly, I resolved to make up for my mistake and not do it again, waiting for his next attack. He began the weaving again and I smiled grimly, determined not to make the same error. This time when he lunged, my scutum remained still, not moving to meet his supposed target. Instead, I took a step forward to make a thrust of my own in the instant where the momentum of his lunge created a gap between his own scutum and the shaft of his spear. The point of my blade shot through that small gap, punching into his body just below his breastbone. This time, I remembered to keep the blade parallel to the ground, then twist it to cause more damage before withdrawing. His eyes widened in shock as his knees collapsed, staring up at me, and I thought, you’re not smiling now, are you, you bastard? Vibius, in the meantime, had dispatched his adversary, enabling us to move forward just a bit more, slowly but inexorably giving our section more room to form into a proper formation. Rufio did not have a whistle, so he was forced to bark out verbal orders for us to rotate through, which he did at that point. Vibius and I each gave a heave to the Lusitani we were engaged with before taking the step to the side, allowing Calienus and Scribonius to take our respective places. Backing up, I kept my scutum up since I was on the outside of the formation, then fell behind the last man in the group. I had not realized how fatigued I was, but when I turned to speak to Vibius, I found that no words came because I did not have the breath yet.

  Finally, I gasped, “That was a close one, neh?”

  Vibius was holding onto the harness of the man in front of him and did not answer, keeping his eyes straight ahead, his face flushed with what I guessed was more than effort. He seemed to be embarrassed and I tried to tell him it was of no matter, yet he refused to speak so, irritated, I turned my attention back to what was going on. Advancing across the clearing to the edge of where the first round huts that comprised the beginnings of the town were located, we rejoined the rest of the Century as the Pilus Prior took charge again. We took a moment to collect ourselves and look around; the wall was now breached, and we could see the other Centuries moving down the dirt streets, heading towards the center of the town.

  “All right, boys,” called the Pilus Prior. “We head down that street.” He indicated a dirt track winding in between the rows of cottages that seemed to head in the direction we needed to go. “Keep tight, stay sharp, and by the gods, watch the alleys and space
s between these cacheaps. These bastards are regrouping somewhere, but they probably left some men behind to hold us up.”

  With that admonition ringing in our ears, we began moving down the track, pushing our way into the town. Moving past the first of the native huts like we were ordered, we kept our eyes open for any stragglers or ambushes. Instead of a threat, we saw the women and children of the warriors fighting us and whose fate was being decided as they sat, huddled in abject terror and fear. The sobbing and cries of them as we moved down the muddy street could clearly be heard, and despite knowing that they brought this fate on themselves, I felt my heart lurch at the sights and sounds. We did not run into any resistance, the remnants of the defenders apparently deciding to form up for a last stand somewhere ahead. Although the town was not yet taken, we could already hear the sounds of a city that falls by the gladius. It has been a custom since the gods only know when that a town that resists leaves itself open to the complete destruction and sacking of it. Nothing is safe; no property and no person, and we could already hear some of the Legionaries in the other Cohorts begin taking what was now theirs before the fight was finished.

  Pilus Prior Crastinus heard it too and commanded, “If one of you cunni take so much as a crust of bread until you’re told, I'll personally flog you until there's nothing left but a bunch of bloody meat, understand?” We responded, and he finished, “Just because those bastards don’t have any discipline, it doesn’t mean that we're going to be like them. The Second Cohort isn’t a bunch of fucking rabble, got it?”

  Again, we answered, except I could plainly hear the bitterness and disappointment in some of the men’s voices. Since I had never participated in the sacking of a town before, I had no idea what to expect, and therefore, did not know that I was missing anything, nor did any of my comrades who were tiros. Approaching the town center, we heard the clash of arms from other Cohorts running into resistance before reaching the large clear spot that served as their market and assembly area. It was not dissimilar to my town of Astigi, despite the fact it had not been Romanized, making it more native in appearance than Roman. Smoke was beginning to curl up from different parts of the town where the Legionaries had started putting things to the torch. Forming up just at the edge of the town center, we waited for the rest of the Cohort to join up, and they came streaming out behind us, spreading out in a single line. Facing us, about 150 paces away, were the remnants of the defense, perhaps 500 men all told, many of them clearly already wounded. This time, there was not a lot of their screeching and jumping about, just a grim silence as they awaited their fate, except we were just as silent, from our training and discipline, but also from the deep-seated belief that the end was inevitable and Rome’s army would be victorious once again. While we waited, the Pilus Prior ordered each of the section leaders to do a head count of their tent section, which was quickly done.

  “Anyone seen what happened to Didius and Vellusius?” Calienus asked us.

  “I saw Vellusius go down before we got to the wall,” Remus replied. Glancing back at Scribonius from my place in the rank ahead, he responded with a shake of the head. “I didn’t see it,” he said quietly.

  “What about Didius?”

  Atilius spoke up from his spot two ranks ahead of his normal spot. “I saw him fall off the ladder when we were coming down, but then I got busy.”

  This drew a laugh from us, the sound carrying over to our enemies, and I clearly saw the anger and humiliation on their faces, since I am sure they thought we were laughing at them. That we were doing so at all, no matter what the reason, clearly rattled them a great deal and I have seen such things many times since. It is part of the Roman mystique, if you will; the fact that we can laugh when death is all around is no small feat, and is yet another reason why we are so feared. What kind of man is it who laughs in death’s face instead of shrinking back when it looks at him? I was worried about Vellusius, although it is probably not surprising that I did not have the same feelings for Didius. His death would remove a source of worry on my part, but I was not to be that lucky.

  Once the butcher’s bill was tallied, we were ordered forward once more, and this time we possessed no pila to launch. No more than a third of a watch had passed since we assaulted the walls, and I hoped that we would be finished soon, looking forward as I was to what was about to happen once we were turned loose on this town. First, though, we had to take care of this business and I turned my attention back to the problem at hand. Once we were about fifty paces away, we were halted to have our lines dressed. To our right, arrayed in the same manner, were four Cohorts of the 8th Legion, compared to our five Cohorts, a total of about 2,500 men to maybe 500, and of those 500, many of them were already wounded. Primus Pilus Favonius moved to the front of the line where he could be seen, not only by us, but by the Primus Pilus of the 8th. Next to him was his cornicen, who blasted the signal to prepare for assault, causing a ripple of movement as we crouched down and got ready. Glancing over, I saw that the 8th’s Primus Pilus was holding his gladius in the air in the same manner as Primus Pilus Favonius, both of them watching each other. The moments passed, then the 8th’s Primus Pilus, obviously deciding that the tension was raised to the sufficient level, swept his arm down, followed an instant later by Favonius. Even as the cornicen blew the signal for the attack as well, the sound was almost drowned out by our roar as we began the charge. Adding my voice, I ran forward, following my comrades as the distance closed rapidly. The Lusitani apparently had decided to stand and meet the charge, rather than try to countercharge to create their own momentum, always a mistake. So much of what happens in a battle hangs on that first collision and standing still is a foolish, or desperate, thing to do. Slamming into the Lusitani, the clash by now a familiar sound to me, it was still difficult to listen to the cries and screams of wounded and dying men. Ignoring those feelings, I held onto the back of the harness of the man in front of me as we settled into the rhythm of battle. Now that we were reunited and working as a Century again, we listened for the Pilus Prior’s whistle, so I moved up at each blast, until I was next to go. When the whistle sounded for my turn, I waited for the Legionary in front to push off, then stepped in to see that there were perhaps 300 men left, with a number of bodies lying at my feet and along our front.

  The man I relieved had done a good job because the Lusitani he was facing still had not recovered his balance, so I finished him with a quick thrust. There seemed to be a renewed energy in the Lusitani, except it was that of desperation, the courage of men for who all hope is gone and all that is left for them is to die well. When the next warrior I faced came screaming at me, I noticed that he was one of the few I had seen to that point who was fully armed and armored. On his head was a high conical bronze helmet, and he wore the same kind of armor that I saw on the man who slew the Tribune, a series of scales made of bronze overlapping each other, but unlike the leader, his armor was tarnished and had some scales missing. Carrying the long gladius and customary scutum, he was somewhat darker than the men around him, his face smeared with blood, and I wondered whose it was as he came at me, immediately trying to take my head from my shoulders in a single blow. I took it on the scutum instead, but the impact was fierce; this man was the strongest I had faced to this point. It did at least answer whose blood it probably was on his face, that idea fueling my desire to end him and wreak vengeance. As he recovered, I smashed him with my scutum, expecting the same reaction that I experienced before, except this man met me boss to boss, blocking the blow, although it sent him back a step. This surprised me, and I told myself not to take this man lightly because he possessed the most skill and strength of anyone I had met in this first battle. For the next few moments, we both bashed at each other, desperately seeking an opening, me for a thrust, him for a slash, but neither of us finding one. Finally, we stopped, glaring at each other, panting like dogs on a hot summer day and cursing each other in our own tongue. Because I was younger, I recovered more quickly, but just as I mov
ed towards him, the whistle blew again and I cursed my luck. One more time that day, my pride was stung and I worried that he would not be around to finish our battle, so I pretended that I had not heard the whistle and kept moving forward. Instead of meeting me, he took a step back and I felt some grim satisfaction as I closed the distance; obviously, he had learned that I was not one to be trifled with.