The Silver Eagle

by Unknown

  Superstitiously, Brutus prayed that Dyrrachium would not be repeated here today, at Pharsalus. That he would survive, and be reunited later with Fabiola. With seven cohorts as protection, she, Docilosa and Sextus were safe in Caesar’s camp, nearly three miles to the rear. If the battle was lost, the senior centurion in charge had orders to retreat to the south. It was best not to think of that eventuality, he reflected, hastily burying the thought. Then Brutus grinned, remembering Fabiola’s demand to march out on to the plain and watch the struggle. She was a lioness, he thought proudly. Fabiola had accompanied him everywhere since Alesia and now felt like his good-luck talisman. Discovering that she was also a devotee of Mithras had reinforced this feeling. They had prayed together for victory at dawn, before his departure. In that department, Brutus reflected, everything was going well. Almost everything. He sighed, thinking of Fabiola’s unexplained reticence towards Caesar. Still, it was rarely a problem. Plenty of other officers had used the excuse of the prolonged campaign to bring their mistresses along, diluting Fabiola into the mix.

  ‘Sir!’ shouted one of Brutus’ centurions. ‘It’s begun. Listen.’

  Brutus sat up in the saddle, cupping his right hand to his ear. The sound started as a low thunder, but quickly intensified until the ground shook. Without doubt, it was the noise of hooves. Pompey’s cavalry was attacking, and in response Caesar’s German and Gaulish horsemen trotted forward, to the north-west. There were a thousand of the experienced warriors, with a similar number of specially trained light infantry interspersed between. Yet their task was hopeless. Against more than three times their number all they could do was slow the speed of the enemy attack: a delaying tactic. Brutus’ pulse increased, and he looked around, checking that his men were ready. They were, he saw proudly. Two thousand of Caesar’s finest troops, who would follow him wherever he led.

  The clarion sound of bucinae ripped through the air all along the host. Vexilla, red flags, were also raised and lowered, repeating Caesar’s orders to ensure accuracy. Instantly the rhythmic tread of caligae upon the hard ground added to the noise. Two of the three lines in front of Brutus were advancing. Only one, the third, remained to hold their position. He grinned. Undeterred by the cavalry charge, Caesar was taking the battle to Pompey.

  Brutus and his men waited, watching and listening to the battle commence. Impatient, nervous, none of them enjoyed holding back while their comrades began fighting and dying. Yet this was different. They had to stay put because their mission was all important.

  The first to meet were the two forces of cavalry. Brutus could see the clash in the distance. Sunlight glittered off polished helmets and spear tips, clouds of dust rose and battle cries rang out. Brutus knew what it was like; he had done it before. Within moments of hitting the enemy, all semblance of formation would be lost. The struggle would immediately become a mass of confusing, individual fights, rider against rider, foot soldiers against horsemen. Hack, slash, bend in the saddle. Reassure the horse, wipe sweat from your eyes. Look around, check where one’s comrades are. Dodge a spear thrust. Move forward.

  He turned to look west, wondering why the infantry had not yet met. Roman soldiers advanced towards each other in total silence, but there would still be an enormous crash of weapons against shields when it happened.

  A legionary messenger came from Caesar’s position, to the rear of the third line. ‘Pompey hasn’t allowed his men to advance, sir,’ he panted. ‘They’re just standing there, waiting.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Brutus demanded. No general ever held his troops back like that.

  Grinning, the messenger repeated himself. ‘When our lot realised, they stopped and re-formed.’

  Brutus swelled with pride. With his first and second lines already committed, Caesar would not have been able to give such a command. With astonishing initiative, his soldiers had shown their top quality by regrouping before the combat began.

  A whistling sound filled the air.

  Pila, thought Brutus. A volley from each side at twenty or thirty paces and they’ll hit.

  Screams and cries began ringing out as the javelins landed. A few moments passed. And then, with a noise like thunder, fifty thousand men smashed into each other.

  ‘Caesar orders you to prepare yourselves, sir,’ said the messenger, darting off again. ‘All his trust is in you. But do not advance until his flag signals.’

  ‘Do you hear that, boys?’ Brutus cried to his men. ‘Caesar trusts us completely. And we will repay that confidence. Venus Victrix, Bringer of Victory!’ He roared out the password given to them that morning.

  A great sound of approval met his words, swelling as it moved along the cohorts.

  Brutus smiled. His legionaries’ morale was high. But that could not rid him of the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. Even if Caesar’s hardened veterans in the front two lines won the day against Pompey’s less experienced soldiers, it would all mean nothing when the enemy horse swarmed around their right flank. There were no men on earth who could withstand a cavalry charge from behind. Everything depended on him and his six cohorts. Great Mithras, Brutus thought fervently. Give me courage. Grant me success.

  Dismounting, he had a legionary take his mount to the rear. This task was for foot soldiers only, and Brutus wanted to be in the middle of it. He was no officer to lead from the back. Handed a pilum and a spare scutum, he took his place in the front line, nodding encouragingly to his men.

  They waited in silence, baking in the hot sun.

  An ominous feeling soon took hold of Brutus and he peered into the distance.

  Covered by the Gauls and Germans, Caesar’s light infantry were beginning to retreat. Without this protection, they would be run down and killed to a man. But the cavalry’s discipline was good, Brutus saw with relief. Wheeling and turning to confuse the enemy, the tribesmen hurled the last of their spears into the advancing mass of Republican cavalry. Aware that their mounted comrades could not do this for long, the infantry broke into a sprint, towards the side of Caesar’s right flank. They were aiming to pass to the side of Brutus’ position.

  The Republican horsemen surged forward, pushing ever harder. Lightly armed with spears and swords, few bore shields or wore armour. They were Thracians, Cappadocians, Galatians and a dozen other nationalities, all vying for the honour of turning the tide in Pompey’s favour. Behind them charged thousands of archers and slingers, the next attack wave.

  Brutus chewed a fingernail. This was the most critical point of the battle.

  Losing more and more men, still the Gauls and Germans did not break.

  The light infantry tore around Brutus’ cohorts, and headed east. If everything went to plan, they would re-form with their mounted comrades in a few moments.

  The battered cavalry were perhaps three hundred paces away. Still much too far for an attacking foot soldier to run at a horseman, thought Brutus. Mithras, bring them nearer.

  ‘Close order!’ He shouted at the nearest centurion. ‘Shields up. Ready pila.’

  His order was obeyed at once. Scuta clattered off each other, forming an impenetrable wall. Angled up in the position to throw, his men’s javelins poked forward over the shield wall. Ranks of determined faces peered into the dust cloud before them.

  A hundred and fifty paces separated the remnants of the Gauls and Germans from Brutus’ six cohorts. They could hear the excited shouts and cries of the pursuing Republicans. Faces began to grow nervous, and the officers looked to Brutus for orders.

  In turn, Brutus glanced anxiously at Caesar’s location. He could just see his general’s red cloak amidst the mass of senior officers and bodyguards. But no damn flag. Come on, Brutus thought, his heart thumping in his chest. Give us the command.

  Less than a hundred paces.

  Their cavalry were close enough now for Brutus to see the sweat lathered on their tired mounts, the wounded men barely upright in the saddle, the numerous horses without riders. Respect filled him at the heavy sacrifice t
he tribesmen had made.

  Protected by the horses’ height, the six cohorts were still hidden from the enemy. This was precisely Caesar’s purpose.

  Seventy paces.

  Fifty.

  At the last moment, the Gauls and Germans turned their mounts’ heads and rode across the front of the shield wall.

  Now, thought Brutus. By Mithras, it has to be now.

  Again he looked for the vexillum. This time it was there, a piece of scarlet cloth, urgently bobbing up and down. Typically, Caesar had waited until the last possible moment.

  ‘At the double,’ Brutus screamed, pointing his javelin. ‘Charge!’

  With an inarticulate roar, his men obeyed. Trained relentlessly as new recruits to keep their shields together when running, they presented a fearsome sight to any enemy. Particularly to horsemen, who were never charged by infantry. And for the previous few weeks, Brutus had taught the six cohorts to stab their pila at enemy riders’ eyes and faces. The legionaries were delighted by this novel tactic. As everyone knew, cavalrymen were dandies who thought themselves better than any other soldier.

  Shouting at the top of their lungs, they pelted forward, emerging from the dust like grey, avenging ghosts.

  The Republican cavalry did not know what had hit them.

  As expected, they had driven off Caesar’s horse and light infantry, causing heavy losses. Now the entire enemy rear was exposed and they could break into smaller squadrons, free to ride along it at will. Pompey’s inexperienced soldiers were holding up well, so Caesar’s legions were trapped between a hammer and an anvil. Very soon they would be crushed. Whooping exultantly at the thought of victory, the Republicans trotted forward.

  And were met by a shield wall over eleven hundred paces wide.

  Stunned, they came to an abrupt halt.

  Brutus’ men slammed into them at full tilt. Hundreds of pila stabbed upwards in unison, biting deep into the Republicans’ open mouths, eyes and unarmoured flesh. Plenty of horses were struck too, suffering painful wounds which made them rear up in terror. Keen to cause as much distress to the mounts as possible, the legionaries screamed fierce battle cries. Keeping their scuta locked together, they ripped out the barbed javelin heads and thrust at their enemies again. And again. The shocked cavalrymen quailed before the savage and totally unexpected attack. This was not what was supposed to happen!

  The six cohorts managed to move forward a step. Then another.

  Brutus was like a hound which has just found the scent. They had to keep the advantage that their surprise had granted them. Considerably outnumbered by the enemy horse, causing panic was their main weapon. ‘Forward,’ he screamed, the veins bulging in his neck. ‘Push forward at will!’

  The centurions and junior officers repeated his order.

  Seizing the opportunity, groups of legionaries shoved into the gaps between enemy horsemen. Protecting themselves with their scuta, they used their pila to strike terror into the Republicans’ hearts. Here and there, a slashing sword cut down a soldier, but the impetus was all with Brutus’ cohorts. And a few moments later, he saw the most welcome of sights in a battle. Men’s heads turning to the rear. Fearful expressions twisting faces. Cries of alarm. Turn and flee, you whoresons, Brutus thought fiercely. Now.

  It was like watching a flock of birds change direction. Entirely consumed by terror, the leading Republican cavalry wheeled and urged their horses away from the merciless javelins, which offered nothing but death. Panicked, shouting incoherently, they collided with the squadrons behind, which were dividing up in preparation to assault Caesar’s rear.

  Sick with tension, Brutus held his breath. If there were solid, disciplined officers in the enemy’s ranks, this was the moment to pull back, regroup and then charge them on the flanks and rear. If that happened, all his preparations and Caesar’s hopes would be dashed, and the struggle lost.

  But faced with a retreating wave of terrified and injured comrades, the astonished riders did what most men would do in the circumstances. They turned and fled. In an instant, the Republican cavalry attack had become a rout. Trailing a huge cloud of dust, the horsemen galloped away into the distance.

  Raising his bloodied pilum in the air, Brutus cheered. His cry was echoed by two thousand exhilarated legionaries, but their task was not over, nor the battle won.

  The enemy cavalry’s panic and cowardice completely exposed thousands of advancing archers and slingers, who were there to support the mounted attack. Wails of fear rose up as they saw their protective screen vanish like so much morning mist. Ready for this exact moment, Caesar’s regrouped cavalry and light infantry swept forward again, creating a bloody slaughter that scattered the terrified, lightly armed soldiers across the plain.

  The way to Pompey’s left flank was wide open now, thought Brutus delightedly. Looking around, he saw that his men had realised the same thing. It was time to deliver a hammer blow of their own.

  ‘Come on,’ Brutus shouted, trotting forward. ‘Let’s show those fuckers what real soldiers can do!’

  It was half a mile at least to the Republican lines, but Brutus’ men charged forward like hunting dogs let slip from the leash. As they ran, he was aware of the third line moving on his left side. Caesar was making his final play by committing all his troops to the fray. Its legionaries would provide a much-needed input of fresh energy to the two sections which had now been locked in battle for some time.

  Brutus’ main worry now was Pompey’s response to his attack. Like Caesar, he had probably held back his third line, which meant that his own cohorts’ advantage could be swiftly dispelled by Republican reinforcements. All the more reason for speed, Brutus thought, pushing himself into a sprint. Wearing a transverse crested bronze helmet and mail shirt and carrying a heavy scutum, it was an exhausting effort. The sun had been beating down on the dry plain since dawn and was near its zenith now. The air was hot and still, difficult to breathe. Most men had not drunk for hours and every throat was parched. Yet no one held back.

  It was at moments like this that victory could be achieved.

  And Caesar had placed his trust in them.

  An hour later, and Brutus knew that the day was theirs. In a wonderful stroke of luck for Caesar, Pompey had committed all three lines of his army against his opponent’s two. Presumably an effort to bolster his raw troops, the measured decision had left the Republican leader with no reserves to counter Brutus’ wheeling attack. In addition, his cavalry were scattered to the four winds, and his missile troops butchered. Brutus and his six cohorts had fallen on Pompey’s unsuspecting left flank like wolves on helpless sheep. Driving the soldiers in it sideways, they watched delightedly as the panic spread.

  When Caesar’s third line had crashed against the Republican front a few moments later, the end was nigh. Brutus had to give the enemy legionaries credit – holding their ranks, they fought on, refusing to run. It was a different story with Pompey’s allies, however. When the fate of their cavalry was followed by these further setbacks, they turned tail and fled towards their camp. With renewed courage, Caesar’s legions had pressed home their attack on the Republican legions. Step by step, they advanced, pushing their increasingly demoralised enemies backwards.

  Brutus grinned mercilessly. It always started at the rear, when men who could see that their comrades in front were losing, looked back. Armed with long staffs, optiones and other junior officers were positioned here to prevent any retreat without orders. Thinly spread out though, they had no chance of stopping men from flight when the panic reached a critical mass. Inevitably that was what happened. Preceded by their commander, Pompey’s shattered legions had deserted the field as a disorganised rabble. Reaching the supposed safety of their fortified camp a short while later, they had been horrified when Caesar’s men followed and placed them under siege. After a short, vicious encounter, the gates had been forced, requiring Pompey and his soldiers to go on the run again.

  Urged on now by Caesar himself, the exhausted legion
aries were in hot pursuit of their defeated enemies, who were to be denied rest, water and food. The victory, thought Brutus, would be nothing less than total. Once again, Caesar had stolen victory from the jaws of defeat, this time using one of the most inventive tactics in the history of warfare.

  Swallowing the warm dregs from his leather water carrier, Brutus grinned.

  All they needed was to capture Pompey, and the civil war was virtually over.

  In the event, that was not to happen. Although twenty-four thousand soldiers were taken prisoner, with numerous high-ranking officers and senators among them, Pompey and many others made good their escape that night. Included in this number were Petreius, Afrianus and Labienus, Caesar’s former friend and ally on the Gaulish campaign.

  Early the next day, Brutus stood on a nearby hill, studying the battlefield. Fabiola was by his side, silently aghast. While not as bloody as Alesia, the human cost of Pharsalus had been high: over six thousand Republican legionaries lay dead below them, while Caesar had lost more than twelve hundred. Uncounted numbers of Republican allied troops were strewn everywhere, worthless in death as they had been in life. Clouds of vultures, eagles and other birds of prey already filled the air overhead.

  ‘Will they all just rot?’ asked Fabiola, revolted at that thought.

  ‘No. Look,’ answered Brutus, pointing. Small groups of men could be seen stacking wood in rectangular piles all across the plain. ‘Funeral pyres,’ he said.

  Fabiola closed her eyes, imagining the smell of burning flesh. ‘Is it over then?’

  Brutus sighed heavily. ‘I’m afraid not, my love.’

  ‘But this . . .’ Fabiola pointed at the carnage below them. ‘Have enough men not died?’

  ‘The losses are terrible,’ he agreed. ‘Yet the Optimates will not give up this easily. Word has it that they will take ship for Africa, where the Republican cause is still strong.’