by R. W. Peake
While we stood there watching, the enemy troops continued to stream out of the camp to push their way through the mass of men already standing outside the walls, finding their spot in formation.
“There sure are a lot of them.” Valens said this like he was remarking on the weather, but I was struck by the fact that I had been thinking the exact same thing. There did not seem to be any end to them, and now that it was light enough to make out individual men, I began to try making a count, but quickly gave up. “What’s our strength, Primus Pilus?” Valens asked.
I thought for a moment, then replied, “We're at 913 effectives. The 36th is just a few more than 3500. The Deiotarian Legion is almost full strength, but that’s because it’s two under strength Legions combined, so that’s about 4,000 men. Then there are about 1,000 cavalry, and a thousand or so Jews. So all told about 10,000 men, give or take a couple hundred.”
Valens nodded in the direction of the enemy host, still streaming out of the camp. “I’m not the best at doing sums, Primus Pilus, but I'm pretty sure that there’s at least twice that many over there.”
He was absolutely right about that.
~ ~ ~ ~
By the time the enemy formed up, the sun was now fully visible above the hills, flooding the valley with the golden-orange light of a new morning, a morning that would be the last for only the gods knew how many men on both sides. I stood facing the enemy, watching them as the last of them moved into place, their officers striding back and forth in front of them, but my gaze was turned inward as it always was at these moments. I was so engrossed in my own thoughts that I did not hear the bucina sounding the assembly of officers, and it took Valens tapping me on the shoulder before I became aware of my surroundings. Feeling the heat rise to my face, I turned to trot up the hill to where Caesar was standing.
“How kind of you to join us, Primus Pilus,” he said peevishly. “I hope that we're not disturbing anything important.’
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”
That was all I was going to say, but fortunately, he did not press, turning to the business at hand. “Pharnaces certainly didn't waste any time,” he began. “But he's just making a demonstration, I'm sure of it. He's trying to force me to deploy the army and stop us from working on the fortifications, but we'll continue.”
We were facing Caesar, who in turn was still facing the enemy so our backs were to them. That is when I saw Caesar’s eyes narrow as he raised a hand to shield them to squint across the valley, something obviously catching his attention.
Before we could turn to see what it was, he told us, “It seems that Pharnaces has brought his scythed chariots with him. This should be interesting.”
As one man, we all whirled around to look for ourselves, and I heard a number of men mutter curses. An even 40 of them came wheeling out of the camp, arraying themselves on the left of the enemy formation, and I felt my heart shudder. Unless I missed my guess, being Caesar’s most reliable and veteran troops, we were destined for the right wing, just as the 10th had always been, meaning that we would be facing these chariots. Despite the fact that I had experience with chariots during our time in Britannia, the Bosporan chariots are a different breed altogether than those used by the Britons. Much more heavily constructed, instead of being nothing more than a flat platform with wicker sides, the Bosporan chariot has a semi-circular low wooden wall that serves as a parapet to provide protection to the driver and missile troops onboard. But what makes it a weapon that strikes fear in the hearts of those facing it are the long blades attached to the axle, which act in exactly the same manner as a scythe, except that instead of cutting down grain it is cutting down men. Most Briton chariots were pulled by two horses, although there were some pulled by four and I had even seen a couple pulled by three, but the Bosporan chariot was pulled by four exclusively. It is a nasty weapon, and I did not like the idea of one of those things getting into the midst of my men, let alone forty.
“Well, Pullus, it looks like you and your men will have your hands full.”
I nodded; there was not really much to say about it.
Turning back to us, Caesar picked up where he had left off. “As I said, I don't believe that Pharnaces has any intention of actually attacking, so we'll continue to have the 6th standing ready while the rest of the men work. The only change I want to make is to shift the 6th over there,” he pointed to a spot that placed us directly across from the chariots, “so that the rest of the army has room to deploy and we're not overlapping their lines on either side.”
Suddenly, the sound of enemy horns began blaring across the valley floor. Again, we all turned to see what was happening and we were not disappointed. The Bosporan army was moving, albeit at a slow walk, down their hill towards the valley floor.
“They can’t walk in a straight line to save their lives, can they?”
Someone made this comment, bringing a laugh from all of us, including Caesar. They were moving, but we were not concerned, such was our belief and confidence in Caesar’s judgment. Turning back to Caesar, I asked for his leave, explaining that I wanted to get my men redeployed according to his instructions, which he gave. As I trotted towards my men, I saw that they were standing watching the display in front of them, and as I passed by the ranks, I heard the buzz of conversation, the topic being the chariots, and the number of troops facing us. Going to the front of the formation, I turned to face them, yet again struck by the uncomfortable feeling that comes from turning your back to the enemy, no matter how distant they may be. It is a completely irrational response, but I could never fight the nagging suspicion that by turning my back to the enemy that somehow they would manage to suddenly cross whatever distance was remaining between us, in effect all 20,000 of them sneaking up on me. I told you it was irrational, but that feeling never went away.
Using my command voice, I bellowed out a question. “How many of you have faced the scythed chariot before?”
While I suspected I knew the answer, I was still relieved to see that most of the men raised their hands. I knew that the 6th had marched with Pompey when he fought these people before, but I needed to make sure.
“Good,” I said, “because I haven’t. So you can teach me before the day is out.”
It was a feeble joke, but I believe the men appreciated the effort, like I appreciated them making an attempt to laugh. Giving the command to execute a right sidestep, we shuffled into the position that Caesar had designated. Because we were only two Cohorts, we could not deploy into an acies triplex, since that would have given us a frontage of only two Centuries per Cohort. That was not wide enough, but I was not comfortable being in single line either, because that gave us no reserve unless I unbalanced the line by pulling a Century out from each Cohort and placed them to the rear. That did not appeal to me either, therefore I ended up having a narrower frontage than I wanted, but at least I would have each Century in the front line supported by a Century behind it. I was so busy shaking the men that I wanted out into the formation, that I was caught completely by surprise when suddenly it sounded like every horn in the Bosporan army started blaring away, followed immediately by a huge roar as 20,000 men filled their lungs to sound their battle cry. Wheeling around, my jaw dropped; Caesar was wrong. This was no demonstration, although in a sense it was an attempt on their part to keep us from finishing or fortifications. The difference was that their apparent method for doing so was to kill every one of us, because they were attacking!
~ ~ ~ ~
The next several moments were eerily similar to the day those many years ago when we were attacked by the Nervii on the Sabis, as our own cornu started blasting the call to arms, accompanied by the roaring of the Centurions and Optios trying to push men into their proper position. The Bosporan chariots had lunged forward and were now pounding across the remainder of the valley floor that they had not yet crossed, heading right for the men of the 6th. Offering up a quick prayer of thanks to the gods for being ready, at least more ready than the rest
of the army, I snapped a series of orders to my own cornicen, who began blowing the proper combination of notes. Immediately the men opened ranks, spreading out in order to present less of a target for the chariots, while simultaneously gripping their javelins in the underhand grip needed to throw the missile. The pounding of the horses’ hooves made a drumming sound that made it hard to hear even the cornu.
Still, I filled my lungs up to yell as loudly as I could. “Javelins, ready!”
Almost as one, the arms of the men swept back, their leading arm, or shield arm held straight out, angled slightly upward, their rear leg bending at the knee. The ground began to shake as the chariots drew nearer, the vibration traveling all the way up into my thighs.
“Aim for the horses,” I bellowed, though I knew that I did not really have to tell them.
“Release!”
The sky was laced with streaking black darts, the tips pointing skyward before they began to slow, then for just a split second, they hovered in mid-air, almost a thousand of them, before whatever force it is that makes all things that go into the air come back down took control, bringing them down, down, down, picking up speed before smashing into the packed mass of horse and human flesh. Immediately the air was rent with the screams of suffering beasts, four-legged and two-legged, followed by the crashing and splintering of wood and metal as the chariots that escaped unscathed went smashing into the bodies of horses struck down, or into another chariot. Men were catapulted into the air when one chariot hit another that came to a stop because one or more of the horses pulling it had gone down. The charge of the chariots slowed, but it did not stop, the drivers in the rear rank maneuvering their way past the wreckage and carnage of those in front.
“Javelins, ready!”
We had one more volley left, but if we could do the same amount of damage that we did with the first, it should be enough, or so I hoped.
“Release!”
The second volley sliced into the remaining chariots, the men concentrating their aim on those that had escaped unscathed so far, and the effect of that volley was as devastating as the first, so that in a matter of a few breaths, the threat posed by the scythed chariots was ended. Covering the ground in front of us was the wreckage of the chariots, along with their horses, many of them still alive but either pulled down by their harness mates or because of their wounds, their hooves flailing in pain and desperation, making them almost as dangerous as if their chariots were still upright and operational. Horrible sounds, the shrieks of pain of both men and horse, made speaking in normal conversational tones impossible. We remained in place watching the remaining chariots, no more than six or seven, wheel about to flee back to the camp, revealing behind them a formation of men on foot who were still marching towards us. They were trying to stay in formation anyway; forced as they were to pick their way over and around the wreckage of Pharnaces’ force of chariots, any attempt at retaining their cohesion was futile. Because we were out of javelins, I gave the order to draw swords, waiting a moment for the men to prepare themselves and to give the enemy’s front ranks the chance to clear the wreckage, not wanting my men to go slamming into the Bosporans having to worry about the fallen horses or their footing.
Judging the moment to be right, I yelled the order to charge. “Caesar Victorious!”
With that cry on their lips, the men of the 6th hurtled down the hill, slamming into the front ranks of the Bosporans, the royal guard of Pharnaces as it turned out, though we did not know that at the time. I barely had time to wet my blade before Pharnaces’ men followed their chariots, breaking and running for their lives, with us following closely behind, cutting men down as they fled. I considered sounding the halt, as I looked to the center to see that the enemy had not yet broken, although the Deiotaran Legion was pressing them hard, but I decided against it for a number of reasons, not least among them being I doubted the men would heed the call, the walls of the enemy camp being within reach. That meant that just on the other side of the wall lay loot, and my men were not inclined to let the opportunity to be first over the wall slip through their grasp. It was a gamble I was taking, because if the center and left wings did not defeat the Bosporans, we would have a substantial force to our rear, and if that happened it was still possible that these men running for their camp could rally and turn on us. Yet, while I did not know the identity of the force we had just routed at the time, I had seen that they were better equipped and armed than the men fighting in the center, meaning if they had turned and run I was sure that the rest of the Bosporans would be following shortly. Perhaps this is another of Diocles’ rationalizations; in hindsight, it is easy to justify my decision because it worked out well, but who knows how things would have turned out if the rest of the Bosporan army had not turned around to run for their lives in the same manner as their comrades facing us? Either way, the men of the 6th ran after the Bosporans, and when they reached the wall, stopped only as long as it took for a few men to scale it, going on to tear the palisade stakes down to allow their comrades through. The only orders I gave were for other Centuries to move along the wall to create a breach, since Legionaries are lazy by nature and would have simply tried to cram through the single hole created by the lead Century if I had let them. It took a few extra moments, but soon enough we had created three more breaches, enabling both Cohorts to make it into the camp, where the force of Bosporans that we routed had managed to regroup and appeared ready to put up more of a fight now they were in the camp than when they were in the valley. Ripping down a number of tents, they gave themselves more room to form up in a position that blocked our access to the center of the camp. The Bosporans favored the long spear, although every man in the group also carried a sword slightly longer than ours, and curved a bit, but it was the spear that we were facing now, a veritable wall of them as the enemy locked shields and stood waiting for us.
~ ~ ~ ~
Pausing only long enough to get formed back up, the men of the 6th charged into the Bosporans, who put up a fierce resistance for a few moments before they broke, but they bought enough time for Pharnaces and a few members of his retinue to escape on horseback out the opposite side of the camp. There was a blast of a horn, an obvious signal to the royal guard that Pharnaces had escaped, then to a man they stopped fighting, throwing their weapons down. Unfortunately, for some of them, it took a moment to get the men to stop cutting them down, despite the Centurions and Optios doing their best to halt the carnage. After they were disarmed, I assigned a Century to guard them before turning the rest of the men loose to loot the camp, which was all they were really concerned with anyway. The rest of the Bosporan force had crumbled by this time as well, so now the camp was filling with the rest of Caesar’s army. There was the inevitable confusion and squabbling as we Centurions worked out what part of the camp belonged to which Legion. Naturally I had selected the juiciest bit for my men immediately surrounding Pharnaces’ tent, which was being guarded by a couple of sections of my men for Caesar, detailing Felix to command them, knowing I could trust him not to yield to temptation or allow the men to either. Caesar rode into camp, where we hailed him as Imperator three times. He sitting on Toes, smiling down at us and I was struck by a sudden sadness, though to this day I do not know exactly why. Perhaps it was the knowledge that we were through fighting, and that Caesar would be sending the 6th back to Italy, for that is what he had announced as his intention the night before the battle during our final briefing. Oh, I was as anxious as any man to go home; I had a new child and I had not seen my wife in more than a year. While I cannot say that I enjoyed fighting with the same fervor that I did when I was younger and was marching in the ranks, marching to war was what gave my life purpose. I had enough of a taste of peace and garrison duty to know that I did not care for it the way some men did and in fact, found it much more onerous than the hard life of marching camps and campaigning. Gazing up at the man who I had followed for all of my adult life to that point, I felt like something was passing, that
there was a change happening that I could not fully grasp, and I was more than a little surprised and mortified to feel my eyes start to fill with tears. I glanced around to see if anyone noticed, thankful that everyone was more occupied with cheering Caesar. He made a short speech, knowing that he needed to say something, but also knowing that he needed to keep it brief, since the men were only half-listening, the rest of their attention focused on the line of tents that they were about to ransack, mentally adding up the loot in their head. Of course, the amount that they imagined and what they would find were rarely in close proximity to each other, but every night around a fire there are tales told of the lucky Legionary who found a king’s ransom hidden under a bedroll, or a statue painted over to look ordinary but was really solid gold. The fact that none of the men telling the tales were actually those who experienced such a bounty did not dissuade them from the belief that they were true, and I had long since given up trying to convince any of my comrades who engaged in such fantasy that they were just stories told by bored men. Caesar thanked us for our valor, making special mention of the 6th for our work in smashing the chariot attack, and I could see the men were as pleased as if they had found that statue made of gold. I had to suppress a laugh; here were these hard-bitten men, who had marched for Pompey and had been defeated by the man praising them, yet they looked as proud as if they were the prized pupil being singled out for acclaim by their tutor. Despite themselves, and despite the vows I heard many of them make around the fires at night, they now loved Caesar just as much as the men who had been marching with him as long as I had, and they lived for these moments of praise from him. They had been seduced, just like me, and just like Cleopatra, though in truth I think with her it may have been the other way around. Regardless, the men of the 6th were now Caesar’s men. And we would be leaving him to march into an uncertain future.