by R. W. Peake
Inevitably, there was some chaos; when men went from neatly ordered ranks to essentially sprinting to a different spot, there was bound to be men colliding with each other, but the Optios and Centurions of the Alaudae were all experienced officers, and they seemed to be everywhere at once, using their viti to untangle men, swatting some men with it and shoving others. It took Batius a moment, one that he knew he didn’t have, to spot the next man he needed.
“Oy! Vetruvius!” He had to bellow the name of his Hastatus Posterior twice for the man to hear him over all the shouting and cursing, but then he came over to Batius at a run, and Batius pointed to a wagon. “That’s the wagon with the siege spears. I want your boys to break them out and bring them to the others.” Unlike everyone else, Vetruvius didn’t move immediately, and Batius bellowed, “Hurry, man, or I’ll have you busted to Gregarius and cleaning latrines with your tongue!”
“What about the Fifth and those boys?” In stark contrast to Batius’ blustering, Vetruvius’ tone was respectful, and while his voice was raised, it was only so he could be heard.
Batius groaned, but it wasn’t in anger at his Centurion but at himself. “You’re right.” He thought for a heartbeat, then said, “Take half of them, but send one of your boys over to the Fifth and tell them I said to do the same.”
This time, Vetruvius did move, except now it was Batius who stopped him. The Primus Pilus had turned back to look to the northeast, and he saw that, no matter how quickly they moved, they weren’t going to be able to arrive in time; the elephants had formed up into what he could just identify as a solid mass, and were already moving directly for where Batius knew the 6th was arrayed as the upper part of the western arm of the quadratum.
“You’re going to have to bring them to us,” Batius decided, then pointed ahead, telling Vetruvius, “You’re going to have to bring them up there. Stay inside the square and move through the baggage.”
Then, without waiting for Vetruvius to acknowledge, Batius began running, and for a man his age, he moved with impressive speed.
He slid to a stop next to his Aquilifer, then using the powerful lungs created by more than two decades wearing the transverse crest, he shouted, “All right, boys! I don’t have to tell you we’re in trouble, but we’re the only sons of whores who have faced elephants before at Thapsus! So I say we go and show these Bargosan scum what happens when they face Romans who aren’t going to cac themselves because of these beasts! Can I count on you?”
Under other circumstances, Batius would have made an issue of what he considered a lukewarm response, but not only was there no time, in his heart, he couldn’t really blame them. Nevertheless, when he gave the command to begin, first at the march, not one man of the Alaudae hesitated.
They had just gone to the trot when, to their right front quarter, there was the sound that, to the uninitiated, might have sounded like some strange horn that produced a high-pitched, scratchy tone but Batius and his men knew was created by elephants, the signal that the Bargosans were now moving to the attack, and while they didn’t pick up speed all that quickly, before a few heartbeats, what was essentially a herd of elephants went stampeding directly for the waiting Romans.
Balbinus was still alive, something that a hundred heartbeats earlier he was certain wouldn’t be possible, but the fact that he was had as much to do with the reality that, without being ordered to, the men of the first file, except for the Gregarius in the First Section who already had his hands full with a man of the Bargosan phalanx, detached themselves from the formation to rush to a spot in front of their Primus Pilus, barely an eyeblink before the onrushing Bargosans came slamming into their shields. The collision was terrific, causing the man directly in front of Balbinus, who was standing slack-jawed in surprise and as motionless as a raw tiro in their first battle, to come staggering back right into him, which actually had a salutary effect, yanking Balbinus out of his state.
Without thought, the Primus Pilus reached out, grabbed the back of the man’s harness, and shoved the man of the Second Section forward as he shouted in the man’s ear, “I’ve got you, Prixus! Now gut that cunnus!”
Naturally, Prixus didn’t turn, though he did bob his head, but even as he did so, he shot his shield out to smash into the smaller, round shield carried by the Bargosan swordsman who had sent him reeling in the first place. Somehow, the makeshift first line withstood the initial onslaught, at least to the point where the men of the next file over detached themselves and came to join their Primus Pilus to provide support.
When he glanced over and saw this happening, Balbinus understood that, while this was a stopgap measure, it couldn’t last, and as he held on to Prixus’ harness, he turned his head so that he could bellow over his shoulder, “Fibulenus! Go tell Macro to bring his boys up to support us!”
Lucius Macro was the Primus Princeps Posterior, commanding the Fourth Century, which was immediately behind Balbinus’ First, and Balbinus’ Optio didn’t hesitate, spinning about to sprint the twenty paces back where the second line of Centuries were waiting, having just been relieved by the first line after their first time rotating through, reliefs not just being between sections, but Centuries as well, another secret of Roman success. From his vantage point, being slightly removed from the fighting, Balbinus had the opportunity to examine this new force of Bargosans, and he saw that their armor was different from the men of the phalanx who, Balbinus understood now, had been giving ground not because they were hard pressed, but because they were luring his boys into this ambush. Their helmets were identical, but the men of the phalanx wore a one-piece cuirass and greaves, with a shield that, while not quite as large as the one carried by the Roman Legionaries, was oval as well but without the curve, with the notch in the top for the spear to rest. The Bargosans who had appeared from the forest only carried swords, the same type as carried by the men of the phalanx, but they wore scale armor that was clearly made of bronze, although their swords were iron. Their shields were much smaller, perhaps half the diameter as their own, while the metal boss was significantly smaller, and it only took a few heartbeats for Balbinus to see that, like many barbarians, these men only used the shield defensively. Thankfully, the sacred eagle standard was now safe; one of Balbinus’ rescuers had paused just long enough to wrench the standard out of the ground, then turn and toss it back into the ranks of his comrades, where the Tesseraurius had taken it up, having now become the new Aquilifer. Balbinus understood that he had to step away from the fighting even further; he was doing no good for his Legion and Cohort by being in the files like a ranker, and when he felt the tap on his shoulder that the men used to communicate their presence, he took a quick step to the side.
“You brace Prixus,” he shouted in the ranker’s ear, but didn’t pause to wait for an acknowledgement, knowing that any man in his Century, Cohort, and Legion knew exactly what to do.
Once he was disengaged, Balbinus stood in the narrow strip of ground that wasn’t covered by the bodies and equipment of the men who had already fallen. Before he checked with his front ranks who were suddenly on the defensive now that the ambush had been sprung and there was no need for the men of the phalanx to continue to fall back, he grabbed a man from the last rank.
“You need to go tell the Legate that we need help!” Even with his mouth next to the man’s ear, he had to shout. “Tell him we need at least another Legion; two would be better!”
When the runner tried to salute, Balbinus shoved him to get him moving, then he began moving as well, dashing along the line of Cohorts, heading for the eastern end of his lines, although he had no intention of going all the way because it was simply too far. His intention was to get a sense of how his Seventh Cohort, which was the last of the Cohorts that were in the front line of the cleared area was faring, and whether the ambush had only been on his side. As he ran in that direction, he also assessed how his other Cohorts were performing, and he saw that they all had shifted their second line of Centuries forward at least once, p
robably more judging from the number of men who were lying in a row behind each Cohort, where the medici were busily working trying to keep men alive. The sheer number of casualties was daunting, but Balbinus had to think like a Primus Pilus, where his responsibility was the entire Legion, so he didn’t slow down for more than a cursory check. Finally, after having covered what he was certain was more than a stadium, he stopped, both to catch his breath and because he could see enough to know that what he had suspected was correct; there had been an identical force hiding in the thick forest on the eastern side. He watched for a long moment, observing as men either came crawling back through the files of their comrades before collapsing or were bodily dragged to the rear, where, like with the Cohorts he had just passed, the medici performed the identical tasks as their counterparts. Balbinus satisfied himself that the Septimus Princeps Posterior, Lucius Macrinus, whose Third Century was in the identical spot on the opposite side of the long line of Cohorts as Balbinus’ First, had managed to move the rearmost sections in the same way he had, where they formed a line, albeit a thin one, that protected the left flank of their comrades in the sections who were still battling with the spearmen, the original force that, Balbinus thought bitterly, was nothing but bait. And, he also understood, with equal self-recrimination that he had snapped at it just as readily as the Legate. Staying for only another few heartbeats, despite the dire circumstances, Balbinus felt an intense pride in how his Centurions, acting on their own, had quickly reacted to the crisis posed by the ambush, and for the first time, he felt optimistic that, while suffering for it, the boys of his 12th would prevail. That feeling lasted as long as it took him to go, not at an all-out run but close to it, back to his Cohort, where he was greeted by the Legionary he had sent to alert Pollio.
This time, the man was on his hands and knees, retching from the exertion, but Balbinus ignored it, demanding, “Well? Who is he sending?”
Since the Legionary was in the middle of a spasm, he could only shake his head, but finally, he managed to gasp out, “He’s not, Primus Pilus.”
Balbinus swore bitterly. “Why not?”
Partially recovered, the Legionary still wasn’t up to more than a single-word answer, and it made Balbinus’ blood run cold.
“Elephants.”
Chapter Six
The impact of the elephants charging into the lines of the 6th Legion was unlike anything Pollio, or any other Roman who witnessed it, had ever seen. The men had done what they could, thrusting their javelins out, while every single man in every single file literally threw their body against the back of their comrade ahead of them to brace for the collision. If it slowed their charge, it wasn’t discernible to Pollio, who had managed to retrieve his own mount, returning Caesar to his rider, and was now positioned in the middle of the square. The instant the beasts were in proximity, the livestock began to panic, making the scene among the baggage train wagons one of utter chaos, as mules brayed their fear and tried to rid themselves of their burdens, in the case of the section mules, or even worse, those oxen hitched to wagons ignored their drivers’ frantic attempts to keep them stationary, lowing with the same kind of panic as their fellow beasts of burden. So compelling was the sight of the elephants, their handlers using short sticks, thicker than a javelin shaft, and on one end of which was an iron tip, similar to a standard’s, and at the other a rounded hook that tapered into a sharp point, which Pollio saw they used as goads by jabbing it into the elephant’s tough hide, a good number of the men, both combatant and non-combatant, seemed frozen in place, unable to do anything other than stare in open-mouthed shock. The javelins that the men had thrust out proved worthless against armored elephants, the soft shafts bending so quickly that most of the hardened triangular points never even penetrated the hide, and those were the ones that didn’t strike the heavy bronze breastplate. If this was all that was happening, with Legionaries being thrown up into the air, arms and legs flailing wildly as they came crashing down into their comrades several ranks back, who in turn were either knocked flat or staggered violently backward, it would have been bad enough. Unfortunately, at the same time, these beasts had three men, two of them armed with bows, loosing their missiles as fast as they could nock, draw, and pull the bowstring, with the third man wielding a spear that he used to protect the archers and the animal from their enemy attempting to leap onto its back or, more dangerously to their animal, dart underneath in order to gut them. It wasn’t with any accuracy; even as he watched in horror, a part of Pollio observed with admiration at how these men managed to remain within the confines of their wooden box platform as the animal under them was moving so violently, but the range was so close that they didn’t need to aim. Before thirty heartbeats had elapsed from the instant the elephant leading the wedge collided with the shields of the Second Century of the First Cohort of the 6th, it was virtually impossible to tell that there had ever been an ordered formation of Legionaries protecting an organized baggage train composed of wagons, pack mules, and noncombatants, and it took nearly all of that time before any of the Legionaries who weren’t immediately in the path of this onrushing destruction recovered their composure to the point where they began hurling their javelins. Screams from both human and animal throats rent the air, seemingly equally divided between shrieks of pain and terror, as the first volley of javelins were aimed at the animals, most of which bounced harmlessly off because they either struck the blanket made of bronze overlapping scales that protected the beasts’ flanks or those that struck the animal didn’t penetrate deeply enough to do anything other than further enrage the beasts.
“Don’t waste them on the fucking animals, you stupid cunni! Take care of those sons of whores riding them first!”
Pollio heard someone shout this, but he couldn’t tell who, nor could he spare the attention as he tried to keep his horse under control while, at the same time, maneuvering through the chaos of the baggage train. His most immediate goal was to get out of the path of the elephants, the first of them having reached the wagons nearest to the 6th, where, without slowing, the leading animal lowered its head and, protected by its bronze headpiece, slammed into the wagon’s side. The driver had leapt from his seat an eyeblink before, but landed awkwardly, and Pollio could only hear the muffled scream as the wagon toppled over and crushed the man underneath it before he could roll away to safety, however temporary. Behind the elephants, Hirtius had managed to regroup his cavalry, but they only hovered around the rear of the mass of larger animals like a cloud of gnats, unable to close because of the Legionaries who were now surrounding the elephants as they plunged more deeply into the Roman formation. Those cavalrymen who carried missiles used them and because they approached from behind, they managed to inflict some casualties among the human Bargosans. Regardless of their efforts, even when combined with those inflicted by the Legionaries who obeyed the unknown Roman who told them to shift their aim, it wasn’t enough to stop the elephants themselves. With the 6th’s cohesion shattered, men were now scrambling to avoid the fate of being trampled underfoot like several of their comrades, these unfortunates now barely recognizable as ever being men, so that the entire force of elephants on Pollio’s side were now in the midst of the baggage train. Any semblance of organization was gone, and now it was nothing more than a mob of men, some braver than others, who darted in and out around the animals, dodging both the missiles of the surviving archers, of which a bit more than half remained atop their animals, and the massive feet and tusks that were capped with bronze, doing their best to inflict damage on the animals themselves. In fact, Pollio was watching in dull horror as one of the Legionaries, thinking to take advantage of some of his comrades’ somewhat coordinated attack from the opposite side of the elephant, went dashing forward on his own, sword held in a high second position, apparently intending to slash at the beast’s throat while its head was turned towards the other men when, with a speed that was jarringly incongruous with the sheer mass of the animal, the elephant swung so that it
appeared as if the Legionary actually ran himself right onto the sharpened point of the bronze cap protecting its left tusk. The end came bursting out of the man’s back as if the chainmail wasn’t even there in a shower of blood and matter, his sword and shield flying out of his hands as he went limp, bent over backwards at an angle that made it clear his spine had been severed. As horrific as this was, what happened next was something that would bring the Legate out of sleep with a terrified shout and streaming sweat for days to come, as the elephant, with a shake of its massive head, clearly tried to fling the dead man off its tusk. For whatever reason, the corpse was stuck, which prompted what even those who had never heard the trumpeting of an elephant could identify as a bellow of rage, and with a violence and speed that just didn’t seem possible, the beast shook its head in a manner that reminded Pollio of a dog shaking a rat, the limbs of the dead Legionary flailing about in a grisly parody of someone wildly trying to get someone’s attention. It took more than one attempt, but finally the corpse went flying through the air, spraying blood in an arc that followed the body, and in further insult, their comrade’s body served to knock two Legionaries off their feet. This was the instant when, from behind Pollio and on the opposite side of the quadratum, the other half of the Bargosan force of elephants came slamming into the ranks of Clustuminus’ 8th Legion.