Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 15
“I have a favor to ask.”
He gave a mock sigh of exasperation, rolling his eyes at me.
“Of course you do.”
“No, this is serious,” I said quietly. “I want you to keep an eye on Scipio. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Scribonius’ smile disappeared, his face turning grim and set. He gave a quick nod.
“I will.”
With that, I turned about, calling for the cornicen.
“Sound the call. Column to Line, drag Legion, followed by the same for the drag auxiliary force. Then, wait for my signal to sound the call to attack.”
Going from marching in a column to line of battle is the most difficult maneuver a Legion can perform, more difficult than the quadratum agmentum even, which is hard to maintain but not hard to get into. However, getting men from marching in a column of Cohorts and Centuries then into an acies triplex or even duplex, is not only the most difficult to accomplish, it is also the most crucial because it usually means that we are being attacked. That is why it is the maneuver we practice the most often, and is one of the few unit maneuvers that we work on even during the winter months, when most men are working on their individual skills and fitness. I was counting on that practice to pay off, thankful at least that we were doing so not because we were being attacked, but instead going on the offensive ourselves. Compounding matters in such a maneuver is the fact that it rarely if ever works out that the Cohorts are in a marching order that would allow them to make this maneuver easier. Over the years, on those occasions when I have found myself talking to civilians about life in the army, I have found one of the most common misconceptions is their belief the order of march is static, that every man knows his place in the column, and therefore automatically goes to his spot, theoretically able to do so blindfolded. Despite the fact this would certainly make things easier to manage, it would not take long for a commander to have a mutinous army on his hands, because there is nothing more miserable on the march than being the last Century of the last Cohort of a marching army. Depending on the conditions, at the end of each day, those men are completely caked in either dust or mud, or sometimes both, and their gear is filthy. Being the penultimate Cohort is simply a more minor version of misery, gradually lessening as one moves up the column. It is particularly trying when the march is configured in the way ours currently was, with the baggage train in the middle. Not only does it mean many stops and starts, when wagons bog down in mud, wheels break, or animals go lame and have to be replaced from the pool of spares, it also means wading, almost literally, in shit. It would be inherently unfair to single out one Cohort in particular for this kind of trial, though I have seen it done as punishment. If there is one thing that the Roman army is extremely fair about, it is making sure that misery is equally shared. That is why there is a system of rotation that I explained some time ago that ensures that every Cohort marches drag before it rotates. Back in Marius’ day, immediately after his reforms, apparently the system of rotation was such that whenever every Cohort marched vanguard, they simply dropped one place in the march the next day, thereby ensuring that the Cohorts to their front and rear always remained the same. I do not know who or how it was discovered, but this created more problems than it was worth, since it led to disputes between Cohorts that were allowed to fester, exacerbated by their proximity to each other day after day. Until, that is, supposedly on one march, a brawl broke out between two Cohorts with some sort of grudge. That is when things were refined, so that the order is constantly being shuffled, which is one of the duties of the Primus Pilus of the Legion.
On this day, the Third Cohort of the 13th was marching drag, meaning that it would be easy for them to form up in their spot in the front line of the acies duplex, the formation I had ordered for this attack, instead of the usual three lines. However, immediately in front of the Third was the Tenth, and in front of the Tenth was the Fifth. In short, it was a huge mess if the 13th was expected to shake itself out in its normal formation. Compounding matters even further would be the presence of the “auxiliaries” that had been marching immediately behind the baggage train and in front of the 13th. More accurately, half of them were marching behind the baggage train. Since we were using them more as slingers than infantry, I had ordered Capito to split the force in two, a thousand men immediately in front, with the rest immediately behind the baggage train. These men would be joining in the attack, except at that moment, they were not true auxiliaries. It had been while I was standing on Ocelus that the idea had come to me. Rather, I recalled Caesar’s idea and decided to adopt it, or a variation of it. I remembered the time when Caesar had ordered his mule drivers to don cavalry helmets and shields from the Legion stores, and used them to draw the Gallic cavalry away, while our real cavalry force stayed behind. This had been done at Gergovia, and despite the fact it had not worked out in the manner Caesar had hoped, it was not due to the idea, so I was doing something similar.
After both Macrinus and Flaminius had told me that they did not feel their single Legion would suffice to ensure a complete victory over the Thracians, I decided to augment the 13th to give them what they needed. I told Macrinus to pick two Cohorts, roughly equaling the number of auxiliaries to the rear of the baggage train. Then, during the rest stop, I had them exchange places. Moving in small groups, using the wagons of the baggage train to conceal their activity, Legionaries moved to the rear while auxiliaries moved to the front. To complete the ruse, when they met, I had ordered them to exchange shields, since that is the one piece of gear that is visibly different between the two forces. The curved, cut-down, rectangular shield had just been introduced as part of the Augustan reforms, while the auxiliaries carried the old-style oval shield. That was what had caused the delay in resuming the march, but still nothing indicated that the Thracians were suspicious. Their vanguard was composed of the same mounted force, in the same numbers, followed closely by a presumably handpicked group of infantry. I had been dismayed to see that, once again, Macrinus had selected the Seventh Cohort and Gaius, along with the Second Cohort, both of them now in place. I judged that we had resumed marching long enough to dispel any suspicion on the part of the Thracians, meaning the boredom of the march would be back in full force.
I turned to the cornicen, giving him a brief nod. Hefting the curved horn onto his shoulder, he drew in a deep breath and began to blow, the deep, bass notes sounding the call for which the men had been waiting. At the same time, I signaled to Libo and the three hundred troopers that we had gathered from the flank security patrols and vanguard to begin moving to the rear, along with the Evocati. This was perhaps the biggest risk I was taking by essentially stripping the army of the ability to be forewarned of an as yet undetected third Thracian force approaching us. Nevertheless, I felt it worth the risk, knowing that should things go according to plan, we would need every trooper to achieve the total victory I was looking for. The Legions would be enough to break the Thracians, or so I believed, but to turn a victory into a rout and completely disrupt this force, we would need as many mounted men as we could muster. Sensing a presence next to me, I turned to see Marcus Primus, his face grim as he watched the sudden flurry of movement.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Prefect. For both of our sakes.”
For once, I was in complete agreement. Marcus Primus and I had the same goal.
“So do I, sir. So do I.”
Excusing myself, I trotted Ocelus toward the rear, knowing that things were out of my hands, but still feeling the need to be near the action. Because of the order of march, I had decided that the simplest way to deal with it was to have the last five Cohorts form the line nearest to the Thracians, the second line composed of the remaining five. The two Cohorts of the 8th that had switched with the auxiliaries were held in reserve, but under my command to feed into the fight when and where they would be needed. As much as I was counting on the cavalry to finish the job, I was counting on these two Cohorts to be the final hammer blow that would make the Thracians crack.
By the time I made it past the baggage train, the 13th was already well under way to shaking themselves out, and I was pleased to see that the Thracians had been slow to react. Their advance party of mounted men were milling about in confusion at the sight of our Legionaries moving in what undoubtedly looked to them like a mass of confusion, yet is in fact a carefully rehearsed maneuver. Signiferi and Centurions are the most important pieces of this maneuver, because each standard-bearer has to run to their correct spot in relation to the aquilifer and the Primus Pilus, in this case Flaminius, who served as the anchor of the right of the front line. From that point moving left, each signifer had to correctly estimate the width of the Century to their right, whereupon the men would begin aligning in the normal twenty-man front, four ranks deep. Watching the men now, I was struck by an extremely odd memory, or so I thought at the time. I was reminded of a native dance I had seen in Alexandria, at Cleopatra’s palace when I had been with Caesar and the 6th Legion, where the dancers moved in what looked like uncoordinated steps when one viewed them individually. But when I stepped back to watch all of the dancers together, I could see that it was in fact an intricate and interwoven performance where dancers meshed, becoming one. This was what I was reminded of watching men pivot about from their standard eight man wide, ten deep marching formation. The second, fourth, sixth, and eighth ranks countermarched, then executed a flank march to move alongside the men of the first, third, fifth, and seventh ranks, all under the supervision of their Centurions and Optios, whereupon they marched in battle formation towards their waiting signifer.
Tearing my gaze away from the sight, I looked over at the Thracians, who were just now beginning to understand what was happening, responding to matters in their own way. I watched their mounted warriors, clearly the leaders of their respective warbands based on the quality of their armor and the number of mounted men trailing behind them, galloping towards the marching Thracians, pointing excitedly, first at us, then at some spot on the ground that I assumed would be their own rally point. Here was when the barbarian disorganization would actually work to their advantage, with men simply running to form a ragged line, the fastest of them finding themselves at the front. Straining my eyes, I thought I could see two slight divisions in the forming Thracian line, assuming this to be a sign of the tribes forming up under their own leaders. Recalling that it is often the case that barbarian tribes hate each other at least as much as they hate foreign invaders, I wondered if the gap I was seeing was due to some sort of intertribal politics. I turned my attention back to the 13th, pleased to see that they were close to being ready to begin the advance, at least until I spotted something. Some of the Centurions had chosen to march their Centuries to the spot where their signiferi were waiting before making the move from column to line, and I cursed bitterly, both at those Centurions who had chosen to do so, as well as at myself for the oversight in forbidding this very thing. Performing this maneuver takes space; making the necessary movements to move into battle formation in the midst of the respective lines about to go into battle meant that space had to be made by those Centuries already in their battle front for those Centuries who were performing the maneuver after they reached the line. Almost instantly, the well-oiled machine that had been the 13th Legion performing the most difficult maneuver known in warfare started breaking down in front of my eyes. Centuries became entangled with each other, with men ordered to march to the flank running into men being moved into their final positions, already in their battle formation. I jerked Ocelus around, and kicking him hard, galloped over to Flaminius, who was standing next to his aquilifer, clearly dismayed at what was happening. I was furious, but my rage was impotent, there being simply nothing I could do at that moment.
“Flaminius, I want the names of those lazy bastards who fucked this up, do you hear me?”
Flaminius did not answer me verbally, giving only a curt nod as he watched the mess unfolding in front of us. Since nothing more could be done at that moment, I looked over to the Thracians, afraid of what I would see, expecting that they would be taking advantage of our confusion to advance on us. Luck was with us, since I refuse to credit the gods with helping our cause in any way, for the Thracians seemed content to wait for us to come to them, a mistake that I still do not fully understand to this day. Seeing that matters were finally being sorted out, with the 13th close to being formed, I galloped Ocelus back to where the cornicen and bucinator had moved closer, preparing to give the order to sound the call to advance. To an uninformed observer, the acies duplex that was facing the Thracians was the same Roman Legion formation as any other. The spacing was the same, the Centurions and signiferi in their same spots, the men marching forward with their shields uncovered, javelins in their hands. What was different was the composition of the Cohorts in each line. Instead of the First Cohort on the right, as was traditional, it was the Third. That in fact was not so bad, since the Third is traditionally in the first line, meaning the men of that Cohort were experienced and knew what to expect. However, next to them was the Tenth, normally the last Cohort in the last line, then next to them the Fifth, normally in the second line. The First Cohort had actually been leading the 13th, making them the last of the second line on the left, but Flaminius had chosen to stay in his normal spot on the right, standing next to the Tertius Pilus Prior. With the advance starting, only the next few moments would tell if the composition of the first line made any difference in how they fought, helped by the ground that I had chosen.
The timing of the advance had not been based just on how long we had resumed marching after our break. I had learned from our scouting party that there was a long, gradual slope coming up, coming out of a heavily wooded area, with a stream tumbling down from the slope that, while not deep, had banks sufficiently steep that it acted as a barrier that ran parallel to our line of march. Several hundred paces across from where the army had just passed was a forested area, so that between the stream and this stand of trees was a natural passageway that had become the main thoroughfare in that part of the country. It was no Roman road, but there was a well-worn path grooved by wagon wheels, the track leading up the hill, where the vanguard, the leading Legion, and the baggage train had just crested the top. We had the advantage of starting our advance uphill, giving us the extra impetus when we made the final charge, while the stream and forest made it difficult for either side to flank the other. Given the circumstances, this was the best I could do to give ourselves every advantage I could think of. In many ways, this battle was going to be the culmination of everything I had learned during my time in the Legions. With the 13th now marching down the hill, in the silence that is customary to the Roman Legion, the Thracians began their own pre-battle ritual, the sound of their shouting and curses rolling up the slope toward us. I was sitting at the top of the slope, watching as Libo, his combined force of cavalry and Evocati, along with Scipio, Lucullus, and Silanus, moved into position behind the second line on the far right. The instant there was room behind the 13th, I had the Second and Seventh of the 8th move to a spot roughly in the middle of the lines, in a spot where their Pili Priores could see me. I wanted to catch Gaius’ eye, but knew I should do no such thing, leaving him to do his job while I concentrated fully on my own, so I managed to refrain. The Thracians had finished forming up themselves, if that was what it could be called, but they did have enough organization that like us, their cavalry was positioned to the rear, there not being enough room to put them out on one wing. The Thracian infantry in the front ranks had formed a shield wall, their oval wooden shields edged with bronze catching the rays of the sun. Most of the men wore the distinctive Thracian helmet with the high, protuberant knob on the top of the helmet, along with a pair of greaves. Bristling from the wall were the glittering points of spears, the Thracian variety being unlike the heavy spears favored by Gauls and Germans, with more slender shafts and lighter points, so they could be thrown more easily and travel farther, yet not with the same amount of force as a German spear. When our front line drew closer, I realized that I had forgotten to remind Flaminius about the difference of launching javelins from a higher point when on a slope, an extremely frustrating feeling. For the first time, I began to get an idea of what it must have been like for Caesar, and every other commander I had served under in battle, unable to do much but watch once the plan you have devised is set into motion. Fortunately, Flaminius accounted for the change in release point, having the call sounded to prepare javelins much earlier than would be normal. I watched the movement of almost two thousand arms sweeping back, looking like rippling water as each Century in the front line was given the order. There was a moment’s pause, then the horn blasted the command, the sky instantly turning black as our men loosed their javelins. I watched them make their arc, marveling as always at how they seemed to pause for a moment before plunging downward, their hardened iron points seeking a fleshy target. The shouts of the Thracian commanders giving the command to raise shields carried across the open ground and, in response, the mass of the enemy suddenly took on the appearance of some sort of giant serpent, each shield looking like a scale of its skin. I smiled grimly, knowing that one of our javelins piercing a shield, while not quite as good as hitting a human target, was the next best thing, making the shield useless after it was punctured, since the soft iron behind the point bent from the weight of the wooden shaft. That extra weight, along with the drag of the shaft sticking into the ground, would make the shield useless, forcing the man bearing it to cast it aside. An instant after the javelins turned earthward, there was the horrible clattering racket of the hardened iron tips punching through the bronze sheeting and into the wood of the shields, accompanied by the screams of pain when some of the missiles inevitably struck flesh. I saw several Thracians topple over in the front ranks, many of them writhing in agony, shafts of our javelins protruding from their bodies, while other men fell, but remained still. Their comrades moved quickly to drag them out of the way as our men prepared another volley. I was pleased to see that Flaminius actually waited to order the release of the second volley, allowing those Thracians whose shields had been pierced to discard them. The shield wall now had gaping holes in it, depriving men of the protection from their own shield or that of the man next to them. The second volley sliced through the air, eliciting a low moan from the massed Thracians, each of them looking skyward, knowing that their lives might be measured by the span of time it took our missiles to descend. Another clash of sound, this one slightly different, with more missiles striking flesh than shields, the howling of pain and anger immediately following, as even more shields were discarded. At the same moment that the javelins were striking their targets, Flaminius ordered the charge; only then did the men of the 13th let out a roar as they went hurtling down the remaining slope to crash into the Thracians.
