by R. W. Peake
Once we were all gathered, he began speaking, his voice hoarse from all the shouted orders he had been giving since the beginning of the battle. “I've decided that we can’t stay out here any longer,” he announced. “We don’t know how long it will take, but we can be sure that Labienus sent for reinforcements, and those reinforcements might be here at any time. And given that there will probably be Legionary infantry in their numbers, I think it's best that we withdraw back to Ruspina.”
I shot a look at Scribonius, who simply shrugged as if to say it mattered not what we thought, this was what we were to do, which was true enough.
“We're going to march in our current formation.”
I had to stifle a groan at this. Being on the side of the formation while having to keep an eye outwards for any enemy thrusts was a tricky proposition under any circumstances, but Caesar seemed oblivious to the desire of one of his Centurions for an easier lot in life.
“But before we can begin, we’re going to have to do something to get some breathing room. So when you hear the attack signal, I want every Cohort to spring forward and go after the enemy across from you. You will engage the enemy and drive them off as far as you can without risking yourselves from being cut off. If we do it in a coordinated manner, the enemy will be too busy to try and exploit any Cohort that strays too far, but just in case, keep an eye on each other to avoid getting out too far. Are there any questions?”
Caesar answered a couple of minor issues and with that, we went back to our men. As I walked, I tried to ponder how I was going to manage what Caesar had ordered, because I had once more outsmarted myself. By creating the parapet of dead horses, I had created an obstacle that my men would have to negotiate while still trying to catch the enemy enough off their guard that we could close with them. As I have said, for a short distance, especially going from a dead stop, a man can actually outpace a horse, but that advantage only lasts a few heartbeats. Once back with the men, I told Scribonius and the others what I had planned, then had them go pass the orders to their respective Centurions who in turn prepared the men. It was perhaps a tenth part of a watch later when the cornu gave the preparatory call to make us ready, followed a moment later by the call to attack. Immediately, the men of the 10th pulled their arms back to launch one of their two javelins, the darts streaking through the air towards the enemy, where most, if not all were going to land short, since the enemy was being careful to stay out of range. Despite knowing that, I was counting on not only man, but most importantly, beast instinctively reacting to the sight of these potentially lethal missiles heading their way. I was rewarded by the sight of lunging horses as men jerked their mounts farther back, the sudden movement of so many animals and men causing inevitable confusion. This was more than enough time for the men as they vaulted over the corpses of the animals and with a roar, launched themselves at the enemy cavalry, now whirling about in their own mass of confusion. We managed to inflict a few casualties before the Pompeians broke contact with us to flee well out of range. Before they could regroup, the recall had sounded and we had trotted back into our spot to begin the march back to Ruspina. But our troubles were not over; in fact, the worst was yet to come.
~ ~ ~ ~
We had marched barely a mile when the scouts came galloping back to Caesar.
“That’s probably not good news,” one of the men said glumly, causing a ripple of chuckles and comment through the ranks.
“Shut your mouths,” Silanus, who was my Optio, shouted. “The next one to say a word is on report!”
I made a mental note to talk to Silanus about being a little freer with the men during desperate times. It had been my experience that letting the men give voice to their fears at these moments, as long as it was kept under control, was not a bad thing. Besides, as it turned out, it was not good news at all. Another mixed enemy force was cutting us off, led by the motherless dog, Petreius, he of the treachery in Hispania that saw a number of our men betrayed and murdered at his hands. The scouts reported a force of about 1,600 men, a mixed force of cavalry and infantry, thankfully not Roman infantry, but more Numidians. While they could not match us in full-on combat face to face, they were definitely proving to be a nuisance, as they moved much more quickly than we did. They also carried several of their light javelins, perhaps a half dozen compared to our two, besides which theirs were not made to bend like ours so they could be reused. I had no doubt that as soon as we marched off, that is exactly what the enemy had done, scampering in to scoop up all the missiles littering the ground to fling at us again. Now we were effectively surrounded again, except by an even larger force, after suffering casualties and fighting for a third of a watch. The 10th’s losses to this point had been light; only a half dozen dead and wounded, all but one of the wounded able to march back with us, but the same could not be said about the other Cohorts from the rest of the Legions. The ground we left behind was littered with bodies and a fair amount of them were ours. We never liked leaving men behind, but since we had marched without wagons, it could not be helped. There would be families who never received the funeral urn from this battle. Unfortunately, we had more pressing matters. We were ordered to a halt, this time forming into a more standard orbis, although it was still very large, with the command group and our wounded in the middle. The Pompeians picked up where they had left off, darting in on horseback and on foot, flinging their missiles at us, then retreating back out of range of our own javelins. The men had been fighting now for at least two watches, and I could see that the constant barrage of enemy missiles was wearing them down, and despite themselves, their shield arms were dropping lower and lower with each volley. Inevitably, some of the enemy javelins began finding their mark and I heard cries of pain, bodies falling out of their spot in the formation, most of them writhing in pain while more than one lay completely still. I could not imagine that the other Cohorts were faring any better, and probably were doing worse, which as it turned out was absolutely true. The situation was so bad around the center of the formation where Petreius’ men, still relatively fresh, were showering the men incessantly with their javelins, that the aquilifer of the 29th turned to flee out of range. As he ran past Caesar, completely unheeding of the shame and disgrace he was bringing onto his Legion and the army, our general had to grab him by the arm to point him back in the other direction, telling him that the enemy was that way. Fortunately, at least this time the aquilifer in question did not try to stab him with his standard like at Dyrrhachium. The sun was setting like it always did, yet it seemed to be moving more slowly than I could ever remember, probably because we needed it so desperately to get dark, for that was the only way that we were going to escape the predicament in which we found ourselves.
One more time, we were summoned to Caesar by the bucina and as we trotted over, Maecius asked me, “Why are you limping, Primus Pilus?”
I looked at him in surprise, not realizing that I had been limping, but when I paid attention, I could feel that he was right and I was favoring my right leg. I frowned in puzzlement; I had not been struck by even a ricochet, despite the enemy’s best attempts to strike down a Centurion, yet there was no mistaking it now and I became aware that my calf ached. Finally, I realized that the wound from the battle on the Nile, which had healed well, had left me with a hole in my calf where the hunk of muscle was torn out, and this spot was aching now. I did not stop, but I experienced the queerest feeling of my life up to that point and I suppose it is strange to say but this was the first time in my life where my body had failed me in any way, the feeling of getting older hitting me like a punch in the stomach. All my life, I had been one of the strongest, if not the strongest man in the Legions and now one of my Centurions was looking at me with sympathy as I was struggling to keep up, and I hated that look with all of my heart. Gritting my teeth, I picked up the pace, making sure that I was the first man to reach Caesar from our place in the line, a completely childish thing to do, but one that made me feel better nonetheless.
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Once everyone was gathered, Caesar wasted no time. “It seems that our friends Petreius and Labienus have no intention of letting us depart in peace,” he said dryly. “So I'm afraid that we must call on the men for one more effort, in the same way as before. This time, however, I'm afraid we can't waste time or the element of surprise by issuing the preparatory call. You must make your men ready for the first sound of the cornu that you hear. Is that understood?”
There were no questions, so we made our way back to our men, where the orders were relayed. I could plainly see the exhaustion etched in the faces of the men of not just my Cohort, but the entire Legion. Yet, they better than any other group of men knew the stakes for which we were playing. The sun was hanging just above the rim of low hills to the west and I calculated that Caesar would wait until the last possible moment, so it was light enough to launch our foray then regroup, but close enough to dark that once we did, we could make our escape in the night. As the moments passed by, the tension increased; the enemy continuing to dash towards us to throw their missiles, which the men continued to try and block. We had already made several rotations of the front line, meaning very few men had shields that were not pierced in several places, the nubs of the javelins sticking out jaggedly from where the shafts were knocked off by our men. A sign of the desperate straits we were in was the complete absence of the normal amount of complaining about the cost that the men would have to incur in drawing another shield from the quartermaster, since the amount for it would be deducted from their pay. I was beginning to think that Caesar either had cut it too fine or even changed his mind when the cornu blast finally came. Fighting through the fatigue, the men leaped forward once again, while I was in the lead, determined that I would not be limping along this time.
~ ~ ~ ~
Dispersing the enemy, we sent them flying once again before hurrying back into formation just as the sun plunged behind the hills. In the quickly growing gloom, we prepared ourselves as much as we could to march quietly, wrapping the bits of gear that tended to rub together with strips of cloth from our neckerchiefs or bandages. I personally inspected the First Cohort, instructing the Pili Priores to do the same for theirs, making sure that the men made their preparations correctly, and I was pleased to see that I did not need to make any corrections. This next bit was going to be tricky, because we could not rely on our normal signaling methods of cornu call or waving of the standards. Instead, Caesar was relying on mounted couriers, galloping back and forth from one end of the formation to the other, passing instructions. We set out shortly after dark, moving as quietly as we could for a group of armed men of that size, none of us making a sound, not even whispering to each other. Marching quickly under the circumstances, we progressed through the darkness, yet we had no contact with the Pompeians. It was only later that we learned that Petreius had chosen roughly the same time to withdraw back to Thapsus, though I do not know why. We made it back to camp at Ruspina shortly before the beginning of third watch, the men throwing themselves down on their cots, not even bothering to undress, only pulling off their sword belt and armor. Naturally, we Centurions did not have that luxury, having to get a final head count then present the butcher’s bill to headquarters. The 10th had lost 15 dead and 30 wounded, while it looked like at least three of the wounded would either die or be so badly crippled they would have to be sent home on a ship returning to Italy as soon as they were able. One of the dead was an Optio in the Third Century, pierced through the eye by a Numidian javelin, so there was the matter of a promotion to attend to at some point as well. When I went to headquarters, my mood was not improved any by the news that first thing in the morning, Caesar had decided that we needed to improve the defenses of the camp.
“We'll construct a ditch linking the camp with the town, so that when supplies come in we can transfer them without being worried that they'll be subject to interception.” Caesar was looking at the survey map of the town and the camp that his engineers had drawn for him, his finger tracing the line that would mark where thousands of men would be sweating the next day.
The lines around his mouth were even deeper than normal, while there were dark circles under his eyes, his features drawn and haggard from the ordeal we had just gone through. I am not the only one getting old, I thought to myself as I looked at him, startled at the sudden insight into how much he had aged in just the last year. He still moved with the same vitality, had the same seemingly inexhaustible energy that made younger men like me envious, but the cares and troubles of the civil war could plainly be seen in the contours of his face. Even as I was studying him, he suddenly looked up, catching my eye, seemingly divining my thoughts and giving me an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders as if to say, “Here we are. What more can we do?”
I turned back to the map, and when it was my turn to say so, I acknowledged the instructions. I made haste to depart so that I could get at least a couple thirds of a watch of sleep, but not before I walked the tent lines to check on the men on guard, who were the only ones up and about. Finally satisfied, I retired to my tent, cursing yet again the absence of Diocles.
~ ~ ~ ~
Next morning saw the beginning of the work on the defenses that Caesar had outlined, with the men of the 10th assigned to digging the section of the ditch immediately next to camp. The men were not happy about the work, meaning that the Centurions were busy with their vitus, making sure that none of them were shirking. Meanwhile, the Legion armorers were put to work creating lead slingshot and javelins, signs that Caesar was going on the defensive.
I was standing with Scribonius, watching his Cohort at work when he motioned to me to walk a few feet away to where the men could not hear. “I think that what happened yesterday shook Caesar up pretty badly,” he said, his face turned towards the men so I could not look him in the eye.
If it had been anyone other than Scribonius, I would have rebuked him sharply, but we had been together too long and he was as staunch a supporter of Caesar as I was. For the first time, I heard doubt in his voice and realized that he was looking for some sort of reassurance from me that the situation was in hand, that Caesar was still master of our fates. Unfortunately, at least for Scribonius, I could not disagree with his assessment, because I had seen something in Caesar’s face the night before that I had never seen before, real worry and even worse, doubt.
I could do no better for Scribonius than shrug my shoulders, replying, “I can’t dispute that Scribonius, I think he was surprised by the number of the enemy and how quickly they showed up.” I turned to him and smiled, hoping that it did not look as false as it felt. “But we’ve been in tighter spots than this and he’s always gotten us out on top, hasn’t he?”
“I’m not worried about all the times in the past; I’m worried about this time. Everyone’s luck runs out and of all the people whose fortune has run longer than normal, Caesar is at the top of the list.”
“Just proof how much the gods favor him,” I retorted.
“But we both know how fickle the favor of the gods is, and how quickly they can turn their faces away.”
I always hated arguing with Scribonius, because he never got upset, nor did he let his emotions rule his tongue. Before he ever opened his mouth on any subject, he thought it through thoroughly, and this time was no different.
Finally, in exasperation, I threw my hands up, signaling that I surrendered. “Scribonius, I'm not sure what you're looking for, but if it’s reassurance that everything will be all right, you said it yourself. Everyone’s luck runs out and this might be Caesar’s time.”
“Thanks,” he said sourly. “If I wanted to feel bad, I would have kept my thoughts to myself.”
His expression was so peeved that I could not help but laugh, and I punched him in the shoulder. “What’s the matter? You wanted to live to a ripe old age or something?”
That got a laugh out of him, rueful as it may have been. “The thought had crossed my mind,” he admitted.
�
�Well, let’s see if we can survive today and the next couple of days, then we’ll worry about that.”
“Fair enough,” he agreed as we walked back to the men, who had taken the opportunity at our inattention to lean on their shovels and picks.
A couple of whacks with the vitus fixed the problem neatly.
~ ~ ~ ~
I suppose at this time it would be appropriate to talk about matters between Vibius and me. He was still Scribonius’ Optio, and even I could see that he was very good at his job. Our relationship was strictly professional, and we treated each other with a coldly polite correctness that would lead an outside observer to think that we did not know each other at all, which I suppose at that point was more true than not. I was secretly pleased to learn that he had actually not been one of the ringleaders of the unrest on the Campus Martius, in fact arguing against the idea of looting the homes on the Palatine, but men like Didius had carried that day. This is not to suggest that Didius was in any way a leader of the mutiny. However, he was more than happy to go along with the idea of grabbing as much loot as he could. Still, I was not willing to make peace with Vibius and he evidently felt the same way, for he never approached me, nor I him, and that was how matters stood between us. Poor Scribonius was the one caught in the middle, since he had managed to maintain his friendship with both of us, in fact serving as something of a go-between for the two of us. For instance, when I learned in a letter from Valeria that Juno’s husband had died in some sort of accident, I casually mentioned this to Scribonius, knowing that the news would make its way into Vibius’ ear. Sure enough, the day after I told Scribonius, Vibius was walking around camp smiling from ear to ear. I almost took a step towards reconciliation that day, because I was not only genuinely happy that Vibius was so clearly pleased by the news, I was also curious to know whether it was because the man who had stolen Juno from him had died, or if she were now free. Perhaps it was a combination of the two, but something kept me from taking that step, so I never asked him. When it came to our official duties, I did not have that much interaction with him, since he reported to Scribonius and Scribonius to me. I think we both liked it that way.