by R. W. Peake
“Well, Celer,” I said in what I hoped was the right combination of joviality and mocking condescension, “I do apologize for rousing you from your beauty rest.” I paused, relishing the laughter of the others. Even in the gloom, I could see the flush rising from the neck of his tunic. “However, if you don’t mind, I was wondering if I could impose on you gentlemen to quietly get your men formed up. It looks like the boys are already spoiling to go, with one exception, of course.”
I looked at Celer and was about to add a comment that perhaps he was not ready because he was not as keen as his men to get after the enemy, but quickly realized that this would be too far over the line, and bit it back. Instead, I waited for them to give their acknowledgment of my orders, gratified to see Celer absolutely sprinting back to his tent to don his gear. I could not help feeling a bit smug at catching him unprepared. That will show you, I thought, smiling to myself as I walked to report to Crastinus that we were forming up. All was right with the world.
~ ~ ~ ~
The men assembled quickly, and I understood that while I did not need to, my failure to go through with an inspection would be taken as an insult. They had spent time that they could have been sleeping or otherwise enjoying themselves making sure that they were turned out in a manner that would bring credit to their Pilus Prior, so for me not to acknowledge that would be as close to giving each of them a slap in the face as I could get. Therefore, despite my impatience to get us marching, I walked through each Century, spending a moment here to point out some imaginary speck of dust, a moment there to share a joke with one of the men. While I believe in discipline as much as any Centurion, I also believe that there are times when it pays to lighten the mood a bit, and I always found that the proper time for that was just before men were about to go off and possibly die. I wanted men to fight for me because they wanted to, not because they feared the consequences, although if forced to, I would use fear, like I had to with Figulus. Speaking of Figulus, that day, when I stood in front of him and inspected him, I praised his efforts, commending him for having gone above and beyond with his gear, loudly proclaiming that he was by far the most outstanding of the men I had inspected to that point. In truth, he was no better or worse than any of the other men, but I wanted to reinforce that what I did to him those months ago was not personal, that I had not been out to get him, and I was rewarded by the look of surprise and pleasure on his face as I stepped away. Almost a third of a watch had passed, the sky beginning to glow pink over the eastern hills when I stepped to the front of the Cohort. Suddenly, I was struck by the thought that the inspection should have taken much longer, but did not because I ran out of men to inspect. I currently had seven men on the sick list, and despite it still being the lowest in the Legion, that meant that there were barely 290 effectives, and that number would probably be lower in just a short while. It saddened me to think about that but I pushed it from my mind, giving the order to move out.
Marching out of the gate of the camp, we crossed the portable bridge that was thrown across the ditch for sorties like ours, with the men from the other Cohorts standing to the side and wishing us luck. They knew the score as well as we all did; they were aware that some of their friends would not be coming back whole, or at all. Still, the men were in good spirits by the way they marched, shoulders back, their chins up, ready to get after the men who hopefully did not know we were coming….yet. But they would soon enough.
~ ~ ~ ~
The ground we marched over was fairly level but was broken and choppy, making maintaining a parade ground precision as we marched next to impossible. Moving along, I could see my shadow grow more and more defined, stretching out before me, making me look like I was 20 feet tall. We were at a point in the line where our works had bulged outward in order to be aligned with the hills, so despite the distance between our works at most points being about a half mile, we had almost a mile to cover. Our mission was to attack the hillfort that at this position was anchoring the southernmost end of Pompey’s works, since he was still trying to extend his own line of entrenchments. His progress was such that he had extended his entrenchments from the hillfort we were assaulting only a couple of hundred feet. Therefore, our plan was to circle around the end of the entrenchments to hit the hillfort from the side, gambling that the fortifications would not be as formidable as from the direct front. Besides inflicting casualties on the Pompeian workforce, our other goal was to destroy the engineering equipment that would undoubtedly be housed in the fort, along with any artillery we found. It was the artillery I was worried about the most, particularly if they had ballistae, since just a few missiles flying through our ranks could tear us apart. That was another reason we were circling around, because it was highly unlikely that if there was artillery it would be deployed on the flanks of the fort. It also meant that speed was of the essence; the faster we covered the ground once we were in range, the less time under fire, and I cursed at the unevenness of the ground. The bad footing really was going to hamper our assault once we picked up the pace. Not only would it slow us down, it was already wreaking havoc with our cohesion, and I continually scanned the bulk of the fort, trying to spot the telltale shape of artillery. Although my mind knew we were closing the distance, my eyes were telling me that we seemed to be marching in place, the fort not seeming to get appreciably closer, and I was thankful at least that the sun was now directly behind us, making it almost impossible for their sentries to spot our advance. Even as that thought passed through my mind, I saw something that made my heart freeze; my shadow was growing dimmer! Risking a glance back, my stomach now joined in the tumult at seeing a large bank of clouds sliding inexorably across the sun.
~ ~ ~ ~
Almost instantly, I heard the thin cry of alarm from the sentry on the wall of the fort, followed immediately by the blaring of their bucina, the detached part of my brain struck by the irony that they used the same calls that we did to sound the alarm. Taking another look back, I saw the grim faces of the men of the First Century, my eyes meeting those of Vibius, marching in the last rank on the outside of the First Century, the first in the formation. Giving me a grimace, he shrugged his shoulders as if to say, we’re in the cac now, what can we do about it? He was right of course; this was how the dice had come up, now all we could do was let them ride and see who Fortuna favored.
Turning back to the fort, I saw a flurry of movement as a number of men clustered together, and now that we were close enough, I could tell that they were huddled around something. Recognizing the shape, I let out a string of curses; it was a ballista. Scanning the rest of the rampart, I was thankful that it appeared that there was only one, although one was bad enough. We were still marching in column; my plan was to keep us this way for as long as possible, since it allowed us to cover ground more quickly. I was counting on the experience of the men, so that when I finally gave the command, the pause in our forward progress when we deployed into line would be minimal. With that moment rapidly approaching, I needed to make a number of decisions. If they had slingers, then the manual called for the formation of testudo by Centuries, since even lead shot is not strong enough to penetrate our shields. The problem was that with a ballista present, forming a testudo was suicide; the heavy iron bolt would not only penetrate through shields, it would pierce several men, and having the men huddled together meant that any hit by the catapult would result in multiple casualties. However, if I dispersed the men into an open formation, despite the fact that it would minimize the casualties from any hit by the iron bolts, it also meant that the men would more or less be on their own, defending themselves from the slings. They would not have the protection of the man to their right whose shield covered his vulnerable side, forcing them to keep their eyes open and prepared to try dodging the slingshot. Although no slingers had appeared as of that moment, Pompey’s army was well known for its extensive use of the sling, a weapon that we in Caesar’s army were not particularly fond of, just as we hated archers. I thought it
was a safe bet that before long there would be men standing on the ramparts of the hillfort, whirling their leather slings over their heads. We were not yet in sling range, but I could see the ballista being prepared to fire, making the decision for me. Giving the commands to move from column to line, followed by the one to open ranks, there was no missing the looks of surprise on the faces of the men, but they reacted instantly, spreading out, with the other Centuries wheeling into place. Starting out, I ordered that we advance in a line of five Centuries, with the Sixth in reserve, and because of their respective placement, the maneuver went smoothly. We advanced just a few more paces when the thwack of the ballista firing its first bolt sounded clearly in the morning air. The Pompeians aimed directly at me, and I did not even have time to react as the bolt shot by me no more than a full arm’s length away. It felt like an invisible hand slapped my face as it flashed by, making a whirring sound, and before I could even flinch I heard a sickening thud, followed by a sharp cry as the bolt meant for me hit another man instead. I turned to see that it was Figulus, the bolt going through his right arm just above the elbow, practically severing it, the limb hanging by little more than a shred of muscle. He stood staring down at his useless arm, blood spurting out in a spray that pulsed rhythmically with every beat of his heart. I knew that if someone did not tie the arm off immediately he would bleed to death, but I could not worry about Figulus; there were another 292 men still whole and marching forward. And in truth, it might be a mercy if Figulus did bleed to death. His time in the Legions was now done, finished in the amount of time it took for that bolt to leave the catapult, and now he would receive only a pittance of his pension, although like all of us he had gotten rich in Gaul. If, that was, he had not gambled, drank and whored it all away, which was fairly likely. Turning away, I shouted to Scribonius to attend to Figulus, then fall back in. Luckily, the bolt that passed through Figulus had not hit anyone else, and I thanked the gods for that small favor. Continuing forward, the Centurions and Optios were roaring at men ranging too far ahead of their line, or falling too far back. Meanwhile, I saw a line of men arraying themselves along the palisade of the hillfort. Approaching sling range, I called out the warning to my Century, the other Centurions doing the same for theirs. This was where it would get interesting, I thought, but there was nothing to be done about it now. We were marching directly at the hillfort, coming to the point where I was going to order a shift to an oblique angle, aiming for the spot where the Pompeians had left off the entrenching work the previous day. Once we made the turn, I would have to give the order to increase speed to double time, because it would then become clear what our intentions were. From that point, it would be a race to see if we could get behind the trench to attack the fort from its vulnerable side. On the parapet, the arms of the men began to whirl around, building up the momentum needed to launch their slings.
“Watch out, boys,” I heard someone cry out, and I snapped at them to shut their mouths, cursing myself for giving in to the pressure I was feeling.
The near miss with the bolt had badly unnerved me; while it was not the first time we in Caesar’s army had faced our own artillery, it was the first time the Second Cohort was exposed to it, and not surprisingly, I liked it not at all. The first volley of slingshot was released, a blur of movement coming streaking towards us, slow enough that our eyes tracked the movement, but too fast for us to do anything about it. The air around me was split with what sounded like thousands of angry bees, and I held the shield I had drawn from stores over as much of my body as I could, cursing my large size. There was a loud cracking sound and I felt a tremendous impact on the upper portion of my shield as one of the shot hit it. The force was akin to someone hitting my shield with a hammer and I felt my arm go a bit numb. Behind me were similar sounds, punctuated by the different thudding sound of some of the shot striking flesh, followed immediately by screams of pain and calls for help from comrades who could not stop for them. It was always this way during an assault like this, and we all knew that once hit, we were essentially on our own until the slaves and clerks who worked as stretcher bearers, or the medici themselves came up behind the Legion. Yet for some reason, that never stopped men from calling out for help, sometimes prompting a man to risk violating orders to stop and help a particularly close friend. Looking back to make a quick check, I saw we had been lucky that first volley, with only a couple of men down. When I scanned down the line to see how the other Centuries fared, it appeared to be about the same. We were at the extreme range of the slings, meaning the next volley would undoubtedly do more damage. Still, we had to endure at least one more volley because we needed to get closer before giving the command to change direction, and I clenched my teeth as I saw the slingers begin to wind up for their next barrage. Again, we were lashed by shot, this time with my shield hit twice, followed by more cries of pain and fear around me as more men were hit. Regardless, we kept marching forward, reaching the point where I issued the command to turn to the left a half-turn, followed immediately by the command to double time. The catapult fired twice more, but I could not tell what the damage was, just thankful that they had shifted their aim and were not shooting at me. Making the turn as quickly as I had hoped, we began to trot, and across the remaining distance, I heard the cries of alarm as the Pompeians saw what we were about to do. Now the race was on.
~ ~ ~ ~
We closed the distance quickly, but it also meant that the range for the slingers was shortening as well, although it was not all good news for them, since now that we were running, we were harder to hit. Our faster step also meant that we could not use our shields as effectively as when marching at our normal pace either, yet speed was now vital, so we would have to take whatever losses came our way. The Pompeian Centurions were now shouting orders and we were close enough to hear them calling for the men on the parapet facing us to shift to the threatened side. The Pompeians obeyed, stopping their onslaught with the slings. Running at the head of my Century, I had placed us on the left to put us closest to the gap, and now when we went from column to line, the other Centuries were required to run across the face of the fort to follow us. That meant the cessation of the sling fire was a good piece of luck, because the trailing Centuries’ flanks were now exposed. Turning to give the order to close ranks back up, as I did so I saw that there were a number of bodies marking our progress, and I bit back a curse. The men closed together on the run just as, in the lead, I reached the leading edge of the ditch, turning parallel to run the hundred feet or so to where the ditch ended. We had not been running long, but I was already feeling winded and I worried at the state of the men, since it is no easy thing to conduct an assault when you are huffing and puffing. Reaching the end of the ditch, I turned past it, and it was only then that I stopped for a moment, directing the men as they moved past me to form back into a more cohesive line. We would have to pause, but it could not be long enough to allow the enemy time to shift enough men to the weak side of the fort, at least so I hoped. Some of my men carried poles with iron hooks attached that they would use to pull down a section of the palisade in order to make our breach there. I was pleased to see that as I suspected, the Pompeians expended most of their time and energy on fortifying the side of the fort that faced directly across from our lines; on this side, it was nothing but a turf wall and palisade, with the ditch only deep enough to construct a spoil of perhaps four feet high. There were men on this part of the wall, and I could see that it would not be nearly enough to stop us, but only if we hurried. Thinking rapidly, I made a decision; I would not wait for the rest of the Cohort, and the men would have to go in without a chance to rest.
“First Century, advance!”
I almost smiled at the startled expressions, but I was proud to see that there was no hesitation, and no grumbling. I think they understood that our best chance was to strike quickly, and they immediately began marching forward. The men with the hooks were ordered to pass them forward, but we had gone only a few paces w
hen I heard a command that chilled my bones.
“Prepare javelins!”
We were about to experience what all the tribes of Gaul had come to fear, and my mind raced. Then I roared out my own command.
“Porro!”
There was no sense in waiting for the volley to land, and the faster we crossed the distance the less chance they would have to throw a second volley. Nonetheless, the sky became streaked with black lines and in the instant before the javelins landed, I had time to thank the gods that there were still just a handful of men throwing them. Still, I heard the thud from a few shields being struck, but thankfully, there were no cries of men being hit, just curses of men forced to drop their shield. Running full speed now, we began roaring out our general’s name as we came pounding up to the wall. Immediately, the hooks were passed to the front, and men began yanking at the palisade stakes, while the men on the rampart tried desperately to stop them. Now it was time for a taste of their own medicine, as I ordered the rear two ranks to launch their own javelins¸ and I was heartened to hear the cries of men being struck down.