Marching With Caesar-Civil War

by R. W. Peake

  From their spot on the right, the 9th had to run parallel across the lines to try to stem the tide of the retreat started by the 21st. By this time, the 21st had crumbled completely, running in a large mass for the camp. Those of us on the rampart hurried to grab our javelins should Afranius’ troops be foolhardy enough to get that close in their pursuit. As spirited as their chase was, I have no doubt that some of Afranius’ men would have ventured too close, but as it was, their headlong run put them in an untenable position of their own making. By pursuing the 21st, their cohesion was completely gone and that, coupled with the fact that the 9th was now bearing down on their left flank, suddenly put them in mortal danger. The 9th slammed into the Pompeians, who had just a matter of a bare moment to realize the danger, meaning that only a precious few had stopped their pursuit and turned to face the new threat. These men were rolled up like a carpet. In almost a blink of an eye, a disaster of the first proportion turned into at the very least a chance to create a stalemate, depending on how well the Pompeians reacted, and at this point, those tactics that we had witnessed when the 14th took the hill once again showed their effectiveness. Instead of trying to mount a defense, the Pompeians simply melted away in front of the 9th, beginning their own retreat back to the town, which at that point was closer to them than their own camp.

  The 9th began a headlong pursuit, but like the 14th, found to their hazard that the retreat of the Pompeians was not a retreat as much as it was a tactic. Once they reached the slope of the hill leading up to the town, the Pompeians immediately turned. Then, with a speed and efficiency at which we could only marvel, they re-formed to launch a countercharge directly into the 9th, who had just reached the lower slopes of the hill. Immediately the tide turned and now the 9th was on their back heels, trying to maintain their formation while fighting desperately. Standing on the rampart, we could only watch the small individual battles break out, as usually two Pompeians would leap forward to try to engage one of our own men before quickly falling back if they did not see an immediate advantage. Soon enough, the dust obscured the fight near the town and we were forced to turn our attention back to the 14th, who had finally extricated themselves from the mound and now were falling back, leaving the small hill littered with bodies.

  The 21st had recovered their composure to a degree; at least, they had fallen back into formation, but they too were still moving backwards, although they did not appear to be under that much pressure. However, the retreat of the 21st and 14th further isolated the 9th, and Afranius was quick to see this. He began sending fresh men from the camp through the ditches to the town walls, where they could launch their javelins down onto the heads of the 9th. Now their existence was threatened, and Caesar chose this moment to launch his cavalry in a bid to rescue them.

  Despite the slope and the rugged terrain, Caesar’s Germans wedged themselves between the lines of the 9th and the Pompeians, allowing the 9th to retreat down the hill. The 14th and 21st had halted their withdrawal to wait in support of the 9th, their presence keeping those Pompeians who took the small hill from turning their back to our two Legions in order to harry the 9th as they withdrew. In this manner, our three Legions managed to extricate themselves. Caesar’s attempt to take the small hill had failed; it belonged to the Pompeians.

  Our losses were much heavier than any of us had thought they would be; the Primus Pilus of the 14th had fallen. Fulginus was his name, as I recall, a victim of his headlong rush down the hill in the early stages of the battle. In addition, the 14th lost about 70 men, the 9th almost as many, and the 21st about half that. It may not seem like many men when compared to the strength of a Legion. However, it must be remembered that veteran Legions like the 9th, and the 10th for that matter, were nearing the end of our enlistments. We had been fighting and dying for a long time, meaning that every loss at this point whittled us down even further. Our only consolation was that we inflicted at least twice as many casualties as we suffered, so the Pompeian Legions were in much the same state as our own, and could ill afford their losses as well. Still, even with that, the overwhelming topic of conversation that night concerned the strange tactics we had seen the Pompeians employ. The reason for our surprise was that while we expected tribes like the Lusitani to act in such a manner, it was completely unexpected to see men wearing our uniform acting as if they were barbarians.

  “It’s just not natural,” Celer spat into the fire outside my tent where I had called a meeting of the Centurions, and for once I found myself in agreement with my normal nemesis. “Romans shouldn’t be fighting like a bunch of barbarian scum.”

  Heads nodded in agreement, except for Priscus, who merely stared into the fire. Curious that he did not seem to agree, I asked him what he thought. He glanced up, seeing all eyes on him, the color rising to his cheeks. For a moment he said nothing, then shrugged, “I can’t say I like it, but it certainly makes them more of a challenge to fight.”

  This sentiment was met with some agreement, and obviously encouraged, he continued, “Besides, we’ve always prided ourselves on adopting the tactics of our enemies when they prove to be effective.”

  “But all that jumping about has never been effective against us,” argued Celer.

  “That’s because they weren’t Romans doing it,” Priscus replied quietly and I instantly saw that he had gone to the heart of the matter.

  Despite the fact that Celer was right, that the mad dashing about that we had experienced when fighting Gauls and the like never worked against us, the underlying discipline of fellow Romans was the reason that what we saw that day was so disquieting, because ultimately that discipline was completely lacking with the barbarians. When this fluid type of fighting was coupled with the underlying discipline and training of a Legion, it made for a formidable combination.

  “You’ve obviously been thinking about this,” I said, and I could tell that Priscus was pleased at the compliment. “So tell us how we beat them.”

  His expression changed immediately. His discomfort at being put on the spot in front of his peers obvious to anyone with eyes, but he thought about it for a moment before replying slowly, “Well, I think the only way to counter their tactics is to adopt them for our own.”

  Priscus’ statement was met by a snort of derision and when I turned to look, I was not surprised to see that Celer was now openly sneering.

  “As if we would lower ourselves to hop about like grasshoppers on a hot rock.”

  He looked around to see who appreciated his wit, but I think he was not prepared for what he saw. Instead of laughing or showing any sign of agreement, the others looked more thoughtful than amused.

  Seeing an opportunity to take Celer down a peg, I did not hesitate. “I don’t know, Celer,” I said coolly. “It seems like a good idea to us. Perhaps it’s because you’re a little too . . . portly to be acting like a grasshopper that’s the true cause of your objection?”

  Celer’s spluttered protests were drowned out by the roar of laughter of the others, and I could tell by the deep red flushing of his face that I had scored a telling blow. Celer was a man who loved his luxuries, and our time in garrison had softened him, despite the training regimen that was part of our peacetime life, and we had all taken notice of his spreading waistline. I had never suffered from this problem; even today, I can still fit into my armor. Neither my baldric nor baltea have had new holes cut in them, so it was and is hard for me to be sympathetic. And when it came to Celer, I was not prepared to show any understanding whatsoever.

  The day after the battle for the mound, which by this time Afranius had fortified, it started to rain in a torrential downpour that the locals claimed was the hardest rain in living memory. I do not know if this is true, but I do know that it was strong enough to send a raging rush of debris-choked water downriver, once again sweeping the bridges away from behind us. This time, the damage was such that the work to repair them had to start from scratch; even the pilings had been destroyed this time. Also, the rains lasted suff
iciently long that the river overflowed its banks for a number of days, effectively cutting us off from resupply and our foraging parties that had been already sent out were now stranded on the wrong side of the river as well. All in all, it could not have been much worse; the only thing that saved us was our experience, having been through situations like this before. The only bridge remaining was the stone bridge that led into the town, but that was firmly in Afranius’ control, and we thought it unlikely that we could dislodge him. Making things even more difficult was the fact that Afranius and his men had already scoured the countryside on our side of the river, snapping up every kernel of grain, pig, chicken, and cow in the region. All we had with us was what we marched in with, augmented by some cattle for which Caesar paid exorbitant prices. Things were definitely looking grim, and they only got worse.

  A relief column from Gaul was heading our way; a huge column fully two miles long, with a force of archers, cavalry, and, most importantly, wagons of grain and other supplies. Unfortunately for us, it was a Gallic column, meaning that it was not so much led as it was herded along, with no one man in charge. In other words, it was the normal Gallic chaos rolling at its own leisurely pace, covering barely ten miles a day, on a good day. There is no way to hide such a large number of wagons under the best of circumstances, and it was not long before Afranius learned of the convoy. Late one night, he sent a force of cavalry and three of his Legions across the stone bridge to intercept the wagons. By all logic, the train should have been ripe for the plucking, even with the force of archers and cavalry, but somehow, the Gauls managed to survive more or less intact, with the loss of a handful of cavalry who sacrificed themselves to allow the convoy to withdraw to a hill and take up defensive positions. It was a victory for us, but it was hollow. While the supply train survived, it was still unable to reach us because of the state of the river, keeping any work on reconstruction of the bridges from happening. All in all, we were in a tight spot, and as we were to learn later, both Afranius and Petreius were not shy about letting Rome know that they had Caesar ready for the death blow, that it was just a matter of time. Because of the repulse of our assault on the mound and our supply problems, couriers were issued almost every day from the Pompeian camp, hurrying to Rome with what were undoubtedly highly exaggerated claims of our woes. I will not deny that we were in serious trouble; the problem for the Pompeians was that we had been in trouble before and despite our hunger, we had every confidence in Caesar, and before long, that confidence was justified.

  During our time in Britannia, we saw many new and different things. One of those things that we saw on that accursed island, Caesar put to use here. I know not what they are called by the Britons, but they are small, round boats made of hide stretched over a wicker frame. They are extremely light but sturdy craft and are easy to steer. Most importantly, they are easy to make and transport, and these boats proved to be our salvation, thanks to Caesar’s ingenuity and willingness to try new things. He ordered a number of these craft built, then using double wagons and under the cover of night, marched out with five Cohorts of the 10th, including mine, making a hard march to the north, slipping past the town and Afranius’ camp undetected. We moved to a spot almost 20 miles upriver, finally stopping where the river was narrow enough and would provide a suitable site for a bridge. Unloading the boats, we paddled across, taking position on a small hill overlooking the riverbank, with a good command of the surrounding terrain. Immediately, the rest of the 10th was sent for, along with the 7th, and within two days we had built a new bridge across the river. Word was sent to the Gallic column, and they crossed the bridge. Under escort, they made it to our camp. With this stroke, our supply situation was now solved.

  Now that we had regained both sides of the river, Afranius’ foragers were in jeopardy. A party of them was captured by our cavalry, and in Afranius’ attempt to liberate them, he suffered a sharp defeat, losing a full Cohort of men in the process. Just as quickly as the gods turned their faces from us, they now returned their favor to Caesar. It was almost dizzying how quickly things turned around. Somewhere in this time period, Caesar also received word that Decimus Brutus had succeeded in defeating the combined fleet of Massilia and the personal fleet of Domitius Ahenobarbus. It was clear to all, especially the natives, that Caesar’s fortune was restored, thereby making it even more difficult for Afranius to obtain supplies, with all five tribes in the region reaching an agreement with Caesar to supply only us. After the capture of the foraging party, it was almost impossible for Afranius to find volunteers for that duty, and soon men were being turned out of the camp gates at the point of a sword to go forage. Naturally, their hearts were not in it, most of them immediately deserting to us, never returning to Afranius. Still, all was not perfect with our lot. In order to keep the pressure up on Afranius’ foragers, Caesar was forced to run the cavalry ragged; the fact that they had to travel 20 miles to the bridge was a hardship on the men and the horses. To remedy this, Caesar contrived to engineer a crossing of the river by creating an artificial ford at a spot about a mile and a half up the river from the stone bridge. Since Afranius was unable to stop us, he and Petreius realized that their position was now untenable, because the creation of that ford would effectively shut off all foraging attempts by the Pompeians, whose own supply situation had become dire. This move by Caesar convinced them that it was time to shift operations, and accordingly they chose the region south of the Iber River.

  It took some time to create the ford; a series of channels had to be cut that diverted the flow of the Sicoris, lowering its normal level in order to allow both horses and men to cross without fear of drowning. While Caesar was working, Afranius sent word to the natives south of the Iber to make ready to receive the Pompeian army. Unlike the region we were in now, the natives south of the Iber were still firmly in the Pompeian camp, and it was this support that Afranius counted on to help prepare the way. He ordered the native tribes to gather a number of small boats at a point on the Iber where they would be strung together to make a bridge for his army to cross. Although the area was friendly to Pompey, such an endeavor was not going to go unnoticed by our scouts. Once the location of the boat bridge was identified, it was a simple matter of plotting Afranius’ line of march from Ilerda to the bridge. Knowing where the enemy is going is always a huge advantage in warfare, and this occasion was no exception. To prepare for the evacuation, Afranius sent two of his Legions across the stone bridge, where they built a fortified camp. It became a race; Caesar doubled the workforce on the ford, but after a day, it was still just barely suitable for horses to cross and still too risky for the Legions. It would take us too long to march to the bridge upriver, because by that time, Afranius’ evacuation would be complete. Attacking the enemy when they tried to cross the stone bridge was out of the question due to the position of the two Legions already dug in on the eastern bank. Deciding that what was created at the ford would have to suffice, Caesar ordered his cavalry across the river even as Afranius’ men marched across the bridge, forming up in marching order to begin their trek south.

  We stood on the ramparts watching our cavalry dart in and out, looking for vulnerable spots in the enemy’s formation. Despite their best efforts, the Afranius column began marching, although they left a string of bodies behind as they moved slowly across the level plain by the river. It looked very much like the Pompeians would escape and that the fighting would continue.

  I am not sure who started it, but I became aware of a buzz of conversation that was different from the normal background noise of chatter that is typical of the Legions when they are standing idle like we were in the camp. One’s ear becomes attuned to these minute changes, especially as a Centurion or Optio, because more often than not it spells trouble. Turning from watching our cavalry, I saw that a large number of men had clustered together and were engaged in an animated debate of some kind. I looked around for one of my Centurions, but since Celer was the only one nearby and I did not trust him, I d
ecided to go see what the commotion was on my own. Before I could descend the parapet, three of the men left the group and headed in the direction of the Primus Pilus, who was standing farther down the parapet. Wanting to hear, I changed direction and walked to join the Primus Pilus, arriving at the same time as the delegation.

  “Primus Pilus.” I guessed that this man, an Optio from the First Cohort as I recall, was elected as spokesman to approach the command group with whatever these men had in mind. “We want you to go to Caesar for us.”

  That was certainly guaranteed to get all of our attention, and the Primus Pilus looked nonplussed.

  “For what?” he demanded.

  “To convince him to send us across the ford now, so we can end this once and for all.”

  There was a sudden silence. Even the buzzing group of men stopped their talking to hear this exchange. I looked at the Primus Pilus, a man named Torquatus, and while his face was expressionless, I was close enough to see the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. I knew that they had approached the right man. However, he was not about to give in immediately; that just is not how things work in the Legions.