Marching With Caesar – Civil War mwc-2

by R. W. Peake

  “Centuries 1, 2, and 3 refuse the right flank.” I snapped out the order and the men immediately responded, turning perpendicular to the original line to form a front facing the new threat to our flank, with our own cavalry force blocking the Pompeians from attacking us to allow the Centuries to array themselves.

  It was a desperate, stopgap measure since it was a simple matter for the commander of the enemy forces to feed more horsemen to our side of the formation to keep extending their own line, but I had bought us some time. Even as we were dealing with our own threat, the youngsters of the other Legions were getting themselves into trouble, prompted by their Centurions, who gave in to their desire to inflict punishment on the Numidian skirmishers. First one, then another Cohort would suddenly charge forward after sustaining a barrage of missiles, intent on catching the lightly armed enemy to exact vengeance. This was obviously part of the enemy commander’s plan, for the moment one of our Cohorts ran forward to try and catch the Numidian foot, they were met by a countercharge of enemy cavalry that pinned our men down, forcing them to quickly form square while holding their javelins out to discourage the horsemen from penetrating the formation. At this point, the enemy light infantry dashed around the pinned Cohort flanks, looking for weak spots at which to fling their own missiles, forcing the Cohort to try marching, still in square, back to their place in line. They would be harassed every step of the way by the enemy, at least until the Pompeians came within range of the Cohorts on either side and their javelins. It would have been bad enough if it happened once, but it happened several times, the Pompeians repeating the tactic because our own men kept running after the Numidian foot soldiers. I could not spare much attention to this, since our cavalry screen that was protecting not only my right flank, but the flank of the entire army, was being hard pressed by the Pompeian cavalry. What I could see was that we had precious little time before we were overwhelmed and the enemy would be able to continue its attempt to get around behind us. I had positioned myself at the junction of the main line and that of the three Centuries and looked desperately back to Caesar and the command group, feeling a small sense of relief that he was looking in our direction while issuing orders to a number of aides. It was about then that we learned the identity of the enemy commander that was giving us such fits.

  “It’s Labienus!”

  The name rippled through the ranks, reaching my ears, and I tore my gaze away from Caesar to see a bareheaded figure wearing the red cloak galloping parallel to our lines, just out of javelin range. As he galloped closer, his face became plainly visible and I recognized the familiar sneer under the great beak of a nose. Following his progress was a roar of noise, men hurling curses and insults, the sound rolling towards me in step with Labienus’ mount. Suddenly, Labienus drew up, his horse rearing, though he skillfully controlled the beast. He had always been a superb horseman, even if he was not in the same league as Caesar. Turning to face the men of the Second Cohort, which was next to the First, I heard him call out. I must admit that it was a queer feeling hearing that familiar voice that had issued so many commands through our time in Gaul.

  “What are you doing there, tiro?” he called out to a man in the line and I craned my neck to see who he was talking to, but I could not immediately tell. I just knew that calling one of us a tiro was one of the worst insults one soldier could hurl at another.

  Labienus continued his taunting. “You’re quite the brave boy,” he called in that mocking tone that he used so often that I think it was his normal tone of voice. “Have you been made a fool of by that man over there!” He pointed contemptuously in Caesar’s direction. “He’s put you in a pretty tight spot, hasn’t he? I actually feel badly for you and all your little friends.”

  “I’m no tiro, Labienus,” a voice called back. I assumed it was the man Labienus was addressing, but I was still unable to identify him. “I’m a veteran of the 10th. You remember us, don’t you? We won you enough victories that you should!”

  “The 10th,” Labienus sneered. “I don’t recognize any 10th Legion. It doesn’t exist.”

  “Let me see if this will jog your memory.” There was a sudden motion as the man who had been speaking took several hopping steps forward, his right arm pulled back. I saw the blur of motion as a javelin went streaking skyward.

  Even in the heat of the moment, when I saw who it was, I laughed out loud. “That dumbass Labienus picked on Carbo,” I called out to the men behind me who could not see his identity.

  Gnaeus Carbo was a solid veteran, but his greatest claim to distinction was being the champion of the Legion in the javelin. Before I could finish the sentence, the lance had covered the distance between Carbo and Labienus, the pointed shaft burying itself into the chest of his horse, causing me to wince involuntarily. The horse let out a scream that was almost human, rearing so violently that Labienus was thrown several feet, landing heavily on his back, where he lay motionless.

  “Maybe now you’ll remember the 10th,” Carbo said over his shoulder as he strode back to our lines amidst the roaring cheers of his comrades, myself included.

  Several of Labienus’ cavalrymen came rushing over, dismounting to render aid to their commander who was just beginning to move, his limbs waving groggily about like an insect knocked over on its back. However, while this was certainly good for morale, it did not change the overall situation at all, and finally one of Caesar’s aides came galloping up.

  “Caesar orders you to pull all of your Cohorts back and refuse the line with them in the same manner that you did with the Centuries. The center of the line is going to alternate Cohorts and pull to the rear of the formation and the ones that stay in front are going to single Century line to keep the front covered. Move quickly!”

  I saluted, then began issuing orders. Naturally we could not just turn about to move into the new position without threatening our rear, so we also alternated, but with Centuries.

  “Odd number Century signiferi and Centurions on me!” I ordered.

  Once they were gathered, I pointed to the line I wanted them to form extending our right line, telling them they had to hurry because our cavalry screen was crumbling even as I watched, falling back closer and closer to where the three Centuries of the First were already waiting. I could only assume that the situation was similar on the left flank and that whoever was giving orders over there was doing the same thing that I had because the enemy was not flooding into our rear from that direction. The dust cloud raised by so many horses and men almost completely obscured the center of our lines, but the sounds of battle clearly conveyed that the fighting was desperate. The men moved quickly into position, yet even as they were doing so, our cavalry screen was pushed back into the ranks of my men, making for a terrible confusion of men and horses as both groups struggled to maintain some semblance of cohesion, the men on foot trying to find their standards, the horsemen trying to stay alive. The Pompeian cavalry took advantage of the chaos, forcing a wedge of horsemen into the churning space, hacking down at my men, who in turn jabbed upwards at them with their javelins. The long swords of the Gallic cavalrymen flashed downward, sparks flying when their blade struck the metal shaft of a javelin or the rim of a shield, a grunt or yell accompanying each strike. Men were calling to each other, both to friend and foe, either offering encouragement or cursing and for several moments, the situation was as confusing and unclear as any battle I had ever taken part in, including Pharsalus. Behind me, the Cohorts pulled out of the center of the line were moving into position, while the Centuries of the Cohorts remaining in the front line that had been in the second rank moved into the spaces vacated by the Cohorts, including mine. The odd-numbered Centuries from the 10th had moved into a semblance of the position that I had designated, but there were still a number of enemy cavalry trying to occupy the same spot. Even as I watched, more enemy cavalrymen appeared out of the dust to add to the pressure my men were already under, so that despite their efforts, I saw the rear ranks of the Centuries start
to take a step backwards. The right flank was in immediate danger of collapsing, and with it the possible fate of the army.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  I could not delay moving the rest of my men into position any longer, so I sent for Scribonius, who came running out of the dust, his face streaked with sweat, the front of his armor caked with blood, causing me to look at him in obvious concern.

  Puzzled at first, he followed my gaze then shook his head and grinned. “Not mine. One of those Numidian cunni wasn’t fast enough jumping out of the way. What are your orders, Primus Pilus?”

  I told him quickly that I needed him to take command of the rest of the men and get them into place as rapidly as possible. I had finally divined what Caesar was up to; in effect, he was ordering us to form an orbis, albeit on a larger scale than any we had ever been involved with before. Even as I was relaying the orders to Scribonius, I could see more horsemen were flowing around my men, except now they were not trying to engage them, instead trying to skirt past them to get into our rear. The Cohorts ordered to fill out the final piece of the orbis to protect our rear were moving into position, but were still more than a hundred paces away from being where they needed to be, and it was going to be a race to see whether the enemy could exploit the gap or our own men could close it. Still, as critical as it was, I could not give any more than a passing glance at it, my own situation with the 10th on the right being desperate. So far, we were managing to retain enough unit cohesion that our casualties had been relatively light from all appearances, but when facing cavalry the moment one man breaks ranks and turns to run, he brings on the possible destruction of his unit and the deaths of most of his friends. I had seen some of the men taking that first step back, so I knew that the next moment or two could determine whether we escaped this day with our lives or not. Scribonius saluted, then ran off to begin moving the rest of the men into position while I, having done all that I could do from a command point of view at this time, pushed my way to the front where the fighting was heaviest. All of these events were happening in much less time than it takes for me to describe; perhaps 200 heartbeats had elapsed since I had received Caesar’s orders, and then moved the first of the men into position. I picked out one particularly large Gaul who was slashing down at one of my men with his long sword, which the man on the ground was blocking with his shield. However, I could see my man’s legs shaking, the first sign that they were going to buckle, meaning his life was measured in heartbeats but before the Gaul could land the killing blow, I arrived to thrust my blade into the guts of the horse, its entrails dropping out so quickly that they covered my hand in filth and offal. It reared violently before its rear legs collapsed, sending its rider flailing desperately to keep his balance down into the dust. Before he could roll out of the way, the horse landed heavily on his leg, and I could hear the bone snap from where I stood over both man and beast as their screams mingled together. Shaking my arm as free of the horse entrails as I could, I stepped over the horse, its legs still thrashing feebly, to thrust my blade into the Gaul’s throat, knocking his weak attempt to parry my blade aside with contemptuous ease.

  The immediate threat to his life over, the man I had saved, a ranker named Faculus, I believe, stood grinning at me, pointing to my filth-covered arm. “You’re never going to get all that off, Primus Pilus. That stink is going to be with you for weeks.”

  “True enough,” I said pleasantly. “Just like the stink of the latrines is going to be with you for more than the month you’re going to be cleaning them out.”

  The grin fled from his face as he looked intently at me, trying, I am sure, to determine whether I was joking, which I was, though I was not going to let him know that for a while. Turning back to the fighting, I saw it was little better than a brawl between mounted men and those on foot and that despite the efforts of the Centurions, the enemy cavalry was steadily eroding our cohesion.

  One of the many threats that cavalry can pose to infantry is by virtue of the amount of space a man on horseback takes up. Therefore, the goal of the cavalryman is to force the body of his horse into the midst of a tightly packed formation, the horse’s body acting as a wedge that pushes the men on foot out of position in the formation, thereby allowing another horseman to push himself into the crack to disrupt matters even further. Just like a wedge of iron is used to split wood, that is the nature of the cavalry attack on an infantry formation. Men have a natural fear of any beast larger than they are, making it a natural reaction on the part of any man, no matter how well trained, to get out of the way when something bigger approaches. It takes the iron-hard discipline of the Legions to make that man stand firm instead of move. Whether he stands steady for his comrades, or because he fears the consequences of being charged with cowardice if he turns to flee, provided he survives, matters not. The fact that he stands is what counts. So far, my men were standing but only by the thinnest of threads. Another way a cavalry charge can break a formation is when, as odd as it may sound, the men on the ground successfully defend against the charge by doing what I had just done in attacking the horses. As distasteful as I and a lot of men find attacking essentially innocent creatures, it is the most effective method of nullifying a cavalry charge. The problem is that when you kill or maim a horse, and that horse falls to the ground, it takes up a great deal more space than a fallen man. If the horse and its rider manage to penetrate the first rank of a formation before being struck down and the horse falls where it stands, that is a problem. When it is just one horse it is a manageable problem, but when it is several, the officer in charge often has to make a decision whether to relocate his formation, either in front or more usually behind the pile of dead horses. If he does not do so, then there will be gaps caused by the corpses of horse and rider, which could endanger his unit just as much as if the cavalry wedge is successful, at least if the cavalry is attacking in sufficient numbers. Of course, a commander can also turn the heaps of horseflesh to his advantage by using them as a makeshift parapet, and that is what I did now. During a lull, when the Pompeian cavalry withdrew a few paces to regroup, girding themselves to launch another assault, I had men muscle as many dead horses that we could drag into place in the time allowed, forming a wall of dead animals, using the bodies of a few men as well. This would give my men the space they needed to use their javelins as lances, in the same manner as at Pharsalus, rather than having to rely on their swords while being pressed by animals many times their size. There was a risk that the Pompeian cavalry would simply back away to get a running start, then try jumping the wall to come crashing into us. To counteract this possibility, I had the second rank kneel, with their javelins pointing upwards, ready to thrust them into the bellies of any horse whose rider thought this would be a good idea. By this time, Scribonius had moved the rest of the men into position, and I risked a quick glance around to see that the Cohorts had managed to plug the gap in our rear, but there was still fighting in a number of spots where the enemy was trying to create a breach. However, I had seen enough, so I began to walk about, talking and joking with the men like I did not have a care in the world, acting as if we had already won the battle, which in one way we had. Caesar might not be able to claim this as a victory, but I was now sure that we would survive the day. I called Scribonius, Camillus, and Maecius over to me, and I could see that Scribonius had an expression that was a mixture of puzzlement and worry.

  “Primus Pilus, isn’t it a little early to be celebrating?” he asked.

  I laughed, clapping him on the back as I replied, “No, and you of all people should know that, Scribonius.”

  He still looked puzzled, shaking his head at my jibe, clearly not understanding.

  “Don’t you remember back in Spain, when we were tirones? That time on the hill?”

  “You mean when Didius got hit in the head? And you won your first set of phalarae?”

  I nodded. “Don’t you remember how upset I was when I heard Calienus and Crastinus laughing about something, when we were
surrounded?”

  Scribonius laughed, his face changing as the memory came back to him. “I remember Calienus saying something about you being a girl,” and I felt my face flush a little, though I had to laugh because that is exactly what he had called me.

  “But he also pointed out that the time we should worry is when the enemy concentrated his forces instead of trying to encircle us, remember?”

  I indicated our position, turning all the way about as I pointed. “Which is exactly what these idiots have done. Oh, at first they were just trying to get around us and force Caesar to put us into an orbis, but now do you see anywhere a concentration of men sufficient enough to break through?”

  After looking around, the others agreed that they could not see any spot in our lines where there was an enemy force in sufficient numbers to not only effect but exploit a breach.

  “You’re right, Primus Pilus. But I remember also that the Lusitani did figure that out later that night, and almost overwhelmed us. Hopefully these men won’t, but until they leave and we’re back in camp, I'm going to hold off on celebrating.”

  If this gentle rebuke had come from anyone but Scribonius, I would have been very angry, but he had a way of saying things that made it hard to take offense, because he was invariably right. “True enough, Scribonius. So let’s see what happens next.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  With the army now formed into an orbis, albeit more of a rectangle than a true circle, the Pompeians were forced to stand off again to hurl missiles at us. The day was passing, and it was mid-afternoon when the bucina called an assembly of senior Centurions to attend to Caesar. Leaving Glaxus in charge of the Cohort, I made my way with Scribonius and the other Pili Priores to Caesar’s standard, which was now thrust into the ground roughly in the middle of our large formation, well out of range of even the most ambitious of archers. Caesar was standing bareheaded, as was his custom, even though his hair was now visibly thinning, talking matters over with Hirtius.