Marching With Caesar-Civil War

by R. W. Peake

  Once they were quiet, he began speaking. “Comrades, today is the day for which we have been striving for so long now. We can end this madness today with one more effort. Can I count on the men of the 10th?”

  The men roared their promise to give our general their all. He raised his hand again, then smiled down at us, the radiance of it reminding me why he had the reputation with women that he did.

  “I knew that I could.”

  He turned his attention to me, our eyes meeting as he favored me with a nod of his head, then said loudly so that all the men of the leading Centuries could hear. “Here we are, Primus Pilus Pullus, together again. I remember the day I decorated you for the first time some 16 years ago. I told you then that I expected great things from you, and you haven't disappointed me. Will you give me great deeds again today, my giant friend?”

  Knowing that his words were for the men as much as they were for me, I replied in a tone that matched his. “Yes, Caesar, you can count on me to do whatever is necessary to bring you victory.” I theatrically drew my Gallic blade, raising it so that everyone could see it. “I will soak this blade in Pompeian blood or I will be carried off the field, I swear this on Mars and Bellona.”

  The men again roared their approval, as Caesar answered so that only I could hear, “Let’s hope that it doesn't come to that, Pullus.” He gave me a grin, started to turn away, then turned and asked me, “Have you ever thought of politics, Pullus?”

  I could not suppress my surprise, nor my laugh as I replied, “Gods no. I'm sorry, Caesar, but I'm afraid that my stomach isn't strong enough.”

  He laughed giving a nod of his head as he galloped away to deliver his speech to the rest of the army. I sheathed my sword, shaking my head in amusement at the thought of me in a sparkling white toga, striking the orator’s pose as I begged the masses for their vote. I would rather fall in the field than run for office, I remember thinking. I was about to get my wish.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Once Caesar had finished his speech, the cornu sounded the call to advance, and we began moving towards the waiting Pompeians. When we reached the small stream, it became clear that while it was narrow, a strip of marshy ground on either side extended for several feet, which quickly bogged us down as we sank into the muck. Larger men like me were plunged mid-calf into the stinking mud as our cohesion quickly fell apart, men struggling to extricate themselves with each step. I anxiously watched the Pompeians, sure that they would see us in difficulty and try to gain an advantage by advancing on us while we were vulnerable, but they remained standing at the top of the hill. If the situation was reversed and it had been Caesar standing up there, I have no doubt that he would have seized the moment to strike.

  Fortunately, Gnaeus was neither experienced nor bold enough, so we only had to contend with the sticky mud. It took several moments for us to negotiate the stream, then once on the other side, many of the men were covered in filth from where they had slipped and fallen. All of us were panting for breath from the exertion required to make it across. Caesar had moved from his accustomed spot in the center to ride at the head of the 10th, and seeing the condition of the men called a halt when we reached the bottom of the slope. There was a rumble of grumbling at the halt by some of the men, who had prepared themselves for the lung-bursting madness of the headlong assault uphill at that moment. They chafed at the delay, but Caesar had seen that we were already out of breath and wanted to give us a moment. There was an unexpected benefit as the Pompeians, mistaking our pause for fear of facing them, in turn moved a short distance down the hill towards us, closing the distance. Caesar snapped an order to his cornicen and the command to close ranks sounded, the men automatically tightening together, an order that I did not particularly agree with, because it was a blade that cut both ways. While it meant that our force was concentrated so the impact of our charge would be greater, it also meant that we would be more vulnerable to the javelins that the Pompeians were even now preparing to throw. We could hear the shouted commands of the Pompeian Centurions to ready the javelins, then saw their arms sweeping back. At the same time, Caesar’s cornicen sounded the charge, immediately echoed by the other cornu up and down the line, followed by the verbal commands of our Centurions. I turned to the 10th as I drew my sword, bellowing out something, I do not remember what, then turned back to begin the charge up the hill.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  We had gone only a few steps when the Pompeians released their first volley of javelins, the air turning black with missiles streaking towards us.

  “SHIELDS UP!”

  Javelins slammed into our front line, in a flurry as thick as any I have ever seen and most certainly had been on the receiving end of, yet somehow I was not struck, despite not having a shield. Screams of pain added to the din of the assault, and I could tell by the sounds that we were hard hit by the volley. I turned to look, dismayed to see that my front line was absolutely savaged. It seemed that at least one out of every three men was either hit outright or had their shields pierced, and it was only the first volley. The Centurions and Optios were working feverishly to restore our cohesion and alignment, while in the instant of relative quiet before the next volley, I reached down to grab a shield from one of my men who no longer needed it. We continued up the slope, the second volley slamming into us, stripping more men of their shields and inflicting more casualties. However, instead of demoralizing the men, it made them even angrier, and a low growl began to issue from the ranks. We had waited to get closer before launching our own javelins, and when the cornu sounded the command, we unleashed our own volley, the shorter range meaning that our javelins did more damage, pinning men’s shields together or even passing all the way through one man to lodge in another. Now it was the Pompeians’ turn to cry out in pain and fear, eliciting a savage shout of delight from our ranks. The slope of the hill was steeper than it had looked from a distance, and I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs as I tried to catch my breath for the final charge. Not wanting to lose the momentum gained from our first volley, Caesar ordered the cornicen to sound the final assault rather than loose another, the men dropping their remaining javelin to draw their swords. As soon as all blades were out, we sprinted the remaining distance to where the Pompeians waited for us. I picked out a Centurion standing in his place then headed for him, and we slammed together with terrific force. My weight pushed him back, but only a step before he steadied himself as we bashed at each other with our shields, looking for an opening. All around us were the cracking sounds of shields splintering or metal ringing as blades struck, interspersed with the wet, sucking sound as someone found a fleshy target, followed by howls of pain or cries of despair when the wound was mortal. Men were cursing at each other as both sides poured out their rage and frustration, and at least this time we all understood each other. My opponent was highly skilled, so neither of us could gain an advantage. I was already winded from the sprint up the hill, and I fought back a sense of panic as our private battle wore on, feeling myself growing more and more tired with the strain. The Centurion that I was facing naturally was shorter than I was, but he was older, his skin as brown as old shoe leather and as tough from the looks of it. I remember that he had extremely thick eyebrows that pointed downwards above his nose, giving him the look of a man who was always angry, and now his eyebrows were almost meeting as he did his best to end my days. He was extremely quick, though I was just a shade faster, but I was wearing down while he seemed to be maintaining his strength. It was only one of those strokes of luck that gave me an opening, when the man next to him suddenly fell sideways, crashing into my opponent, causing him to stagger. For just an instant he had to move his shield arm away from his body in order to maintain his balance, but it was enough and I was not about to let the opportunity slip away. I thrust hard with my blade, held parallel to the ground, sweeping upwards to catch him just below the breastbone, the point punching through his mail. His breath whooshed out of his mouth, blasting me with the smell of
vinegary wine and garlic, his eyes widening in shock as he gave me a look I had seen so many times before. He fell backwards as I recovered back to the first position, but before I could take advantage of the hole created, the man behind him stepped over his body and in perfect training ground fashion, lashed out at me with his own shield, sending a terrific shock up my arm. I grunted, not as much in pain but in surprise as I looked over the rim of my shield into the eyes of a youngster who managed to look terrified but determined at the same time.

  “Not bad,” I gasped. “But you should have followed up with a thrust.”

  Before he could say anything, I launched a flurry of attacks, my blade flashing as I probed his defenses while he desperately parried every one of my thrusts. Keeping him on the defensive, I did not give him a chance to try his own offensive move, then inevitably, he made a mistake as his arm started to weaken from the constant pressure I was applying. I could have killed him easily enough, but I was impressed by his determination, if not his technique, so instead of the point, I lashed out with the pommel of my sword, catching him flush on the nose, knocking him cold with a blow. He dropped to the ground as if all his bones had suddenly been removed, and I kicked his sword out of his hand in the event that he woke up. He was not going to have the women chasing after him anymore, not with his nose smashed flat, but he would be alive. I took a step back to catch my breath and to see how the rest of the men were faring. After a quick look to left and right, I let out a curse at what I saw; we were in serious trouble.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The Pompeians may have been raw youngsters, but they were not giving ground, not an inch. They were standing toe to toe with the most veteran army in the history of Rome, giving as good as they got. I do not know what infused them with such a ferocious spirit to resist as vigorously as they did; perhaps it was the knowledge that this was the final battle and all would be decided, or that their backs were literally pressed against the walls of Munda. Whatever the case, we were not experiencing the kind of success that we had assumed would be easily achieved when we started up the slope. There was not much I could do at this point except try to set an example, so taking a couple of deep breaths, I blew the whistle for the third time to signal a relief change, then stepped back into the line myself. With our numbers so depleted, all of the Centurions had to make a decision about the best way to relieve their men. Some Centurions chose to have each man fight a little longer than he would have if we were up to full strength, thereby giving the relieved men more time to rest, while others chose to have their men fight for a shorter period of time but consequently giving each of them a shorter rest period. I chose to use both methods; in the beginning of the fight I let the men fight longer, then as time wore on, I shortened the fighting period. As Primus Pilus, I could have ordered the Centurions to adopt my method, but that was not my style of leadership, as I remembered how it felt to have every decision made for me by my ranking Centurion. Plunging back into the fighting, I took my frustration out on whatever Pompeian I could close with. Still, they refused to give ground. I was growing more and more tired, and so were the rest of the men. That is when it happened. I sensed more than saw that the numbers of my men around me were thinning. When I risked a glance to either side, my heart fell to my stomach. My men, the men of the 10th, the veterans most renowned in the armies of all of Rome, had begun to take that first, tentative step backwards, and if I did not join them, I was going to be quickly cut off and surrounded. I do not believe I ever cursed so bitterly and with such variety as I disengaged from the man I was facing, bashing him with my shield to knock him off of me before stepping backwards, taking care not to trip over the bodies of the men who had already fallen. By the time I had removed myself, the rest of the Cohort, along with the other Cohorts on the front line, had moved a few paces back down the hill to stand, panting for breath. The ground between the two forces was littered with shields pierced by javelins, fallen men, some dead, but most wounded, moaning for help or crawling back to their respective lines.

  “What is the matter with you bastards?” I raged at the men, none of whom dared to look me in the eye, staring sullenly at the ground as their chests heaved. “They’re children, for gods’ sakes! You’re letting yourselves be shamed by children!”

  Nobody said a word, a good thing given my state of mind, as I might have run them through if they had tried to make excuses, I was so angry. Fortunately, the Pompeians seemed almost in as much shock as I was, so did not press the advantage, contenting themselves to stand there hurling insults at us. The entire attack, at least on the right wing, had ground to a halt, while no amount of my scorn and threats could make the men move. That is when Caesar proved again why he is the greatest general in the history of Rome.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  There was a sudden commotion in the rear ranks of the Cohort, as I saw men moving aside to make way for someone moving up to the front. When I saw who it was, I could only stand and gape; it was Caesar, who had grabbed a shield from a man in the rear and was pushing his way to the front of the formation. Following behind him was his gaggle of staff officers, all of them looking panicked. Supposedly, it was from the danger posed to our general, though I suspect that a few of them had not been this close to where the real fighting took place in a long time, if ever.

  Caesar was oblivious to the danger, and when he reached my side, he was visibly furious. “Pullus, what's happening here? Why have the men stopped advancing?”

  I suddenly felt as if I were a tiro all over again, standing in front of Caesar stammering and shaking, not knowing what to say. In fact, I do not remember what came out of my mouth, and he did not appear to be listening anyway.

  Instead, he ripped his helmet off, throwing it on the ground, then stepped far enough away from the front line so that he could be plainly seen by everyone. “Aren’t you ashamed to let your general be beaten by boys?” he roared as he pointed up the hill.

  None of us said anything, just remained standing there, panting for breath.

  When he saw that his words were not having any effect, he turned to his aides, saying, “If we fail here, it will mean the end of my life and the ruin of your careers.”

  Then he turned and began walking up the hill, drawing his sword as he advanced. We stood there as if we were rooted to the spot, the shock of watching our general advance against the enemy alone turning us to stone. The Pompeians seemed to be in as much shock as we were, because all motion, all activity, all noise seemed to cease as every pair of eyes watched Caesar march up the hill. Finally, one of the Pompeian Centurions regained his senses, and I heard him give the command for his men to find some javelins, causing all of us within hearing to let out a gasp.

  “He’ll never survive,” I heard one of the staff officers exclaim.

  As the arms of the Pompeians who had found javelins swung back, I turned away, unable to watch my general’s life end. I heard the whistling sound of the missiles, followed an instant later by the sound of them striking. I winced at the thudding sound of javelins striking the wood of his shield, but it took a moment for it to register that I had not heard the sound of iron striking flesh, nor any cry of pain. Still, I was reluctant to turn to see what had happened. When I did, I could not help gaping at the sight of Caesar standing there, his shield looking like a porcupine, the ground around him sprouting the still quivering shafts of javelins, while the man himself was clearly untouched.

  “By all the gods, it’s a miracle,” someone shouted.

  Miracle or not, none of us were willing to test the favor of the gods again, while Caesar’s example served to move us to action when his words could not.

  Turning back to us, the contempt on his face and in his voice was clear to all of us as he called out, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Shamed by our general, we resumed the attack, charging up the hill to smash into the Pompeians, our fury fueled by the laceration to our pride of seeing our general expose himself to such dan
ger. We fought with renewed energy, and though they tried, the Pompeians could not stand up to our second onslaught. I lost sight of Caesar in the fighting, but I could hear him calling out to the men around him, as we quickly pushed a wedge into the Pompeian line. I cut down any man who tried to stand before me, in moments covered in enemy blood up to my elbow. I felt the fury building in me, reminding me of the first time it had happened so many years ago on that hill further north, and I welcomed the warming flush racing through me, feeling new energy that made me push even deeper into the midst of the enemy. I think that was my great mistake, the joy of battle clouding my senses to the point that I stopped being aware of the situation around me, so I did not see how far ahead of the rest of the men I was getting. Although we were now turning the tide of the battle, the Pompeians beginning to take the inexorable step backwards, they were not through fighting by any means, so a man my size, and a first-grade Centurion at that, made a target that was too much to resist. I suddenly became aware of enemy movement around both my sides. I then realized how far in front of the rest of the men that I was, but it was too late. I was surrounded by Pompeians, so that now I was not fighting for victory; I was fighting for my life. I heard the shouts of some of my men who saw me in difficulty, one of them shouting to me to hold on, that they were coming to my aid. A squat, ugly little man came lunging at me. As I whipped my shield around to deflect his thrust, another man who had worked his way to my left struck me hard in the side, forcing the breath from my lungs in an explosive gasp. The pain shot through my body like a bolt of lightning, but while his blow had broken some of the links of my mail, it had not penetrated. It was still a damaging blow, causing me to struggle to catch my breath, yet before I could recover even a tiny bit, a Legionary to my right saw his own opening. I sensed the blur as his blade flashed towards me, while I desperately whipped my own blade up in a sweeping arc, striking his just as it was about to pierce my side immediately below my ribcage, which would have disemboweled me. Instead, the blade deflected upwards. Although my counterstroke had robbed some of the force from the thrust, it still had enough power behind it to pierce my chest, just below the collarbone, the point driving at least two inches deep into my body. There is no way to describe the pain accurately, yet as bad as it was, the worst effect was that suddenly my arm all the way down to my hand lost all of its strength. I saw but did not feel my sword drop from my grasp. There was a roaring in my ears, yet even with all that noise, I heard the shouts of triumph from the Pompeians around me, though I was still not through fighting. I felt my legs start to shake as my upper body turned wet from the blood pouring from the wound, and I realized that I was going to die, that I was not going to achieve my goals, filling me with a despair I had never felt before. However, with it came a resolve that I would take as many of the enemy with me as possible, that I would die in a manner that men would be talking about around the fires for years to come. All I had was my shield, but in the hands of a Roman Legionary, a shield is just as much of an offensive weapon as a defensive one. Whipping it around, I twisted my wrist so that the shield was parallel to the ground. Because of my height, it was at a level so that when the metal edge struck the man who had stabbed me, it hit him just at the junction of his neck and shoulders. I had put all of my rapidly waning strength into the blow, and I was rewarded by the sight of his head spinning into the air as the stump of his neck spurted blood from his still beating heart, the body slowly toppling over to lie quivering on the ground. Before I brought my shield back to first position, the squat man lunged again, this time striking me low and hard, and as bad as the pain was from the first wound, it was nothing compared to the feeling of a red-hot poker being plunged deeply into my side. Now my legs did give way, as I staggered backwards, still weakly trying to defend myself by keeping my shield up, yet it had become too heavy for me to lift. As I fell backwards, I hit a man behind me, feeling his shield at my back, and I realized that the thrust that killed me would be from behind, the first and only time I would not have a wound in the front, making me want to weep. That is the last thing I remember, falling backwards against someone’s shield with the darkness closing around me, the cries of triumph of the Pompeians ringing in my ears.