Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 16
The impact was tremendous, helped by the momentum from being higher up the slope, a huge crash of our men slamming into the wall of wood and flesh, punctuated by the shouts and cries of men fighting and dying. Items of equipment that were not securely fastened to their owners went flying into the sky from the impact; wine flasks, armbands, helmets, all manner of things thrown upward from that initial impact. Punch with the shield, using the boss to smash into the face of your opponent, sword held at waist level, blade parallel to the ground to thrust under the shield, into the groin or gut of your enemy. Recover the blade; if it lands in flesh, twist the blade to free it while causing more damage. Over and over, the rhythm of death that is practiced by the Legions of Rome. Even now, all these years after I participated in my first fight, I could feel the surge of the love of battle in my veins, burning me like liquid fire, despite the fact that I was not in the line myself. In some ways, I was finding sitting on Ocelus, watching other men do the fighting, harder than actually doing it myself. Even when I had been Primus Pilus, I had been closer to the action, usually participating at some point, but now I could only sit with clenched fists while other men did my bidding.
I watched intently as the Cohorts of the front line began to settle down into the rhythm of relief, each Centurion blowing his whistle in a manner suiting his particular style; some preferring men to fight longer, but in return getting a longer rest period when they were relieved. I preferred shorter shifts, keeping the men from tiring as quickly, although I had used both methods. After the initial charge, with the first line pushing the Thracians backward a few paces, the enemy resistance had stiffened, forcing our advance to stop. This, of course, was not good, yet it was even worse than it might normally be, because I had been forced to have the Cohorts use a single line front, with every Century in the first line. Usually, we lined up on a front of three Centuries per Cohort, with another Century immediately behind, to serve as relief and to provide the extra push at the critical moment. However, I had been forced to use a single line to completely fill the space between the forest and the stream. Now I was faced with a choice; whether to let the first line try to fight their way through this lull in the advance, wearing down the Thracians until they began giving way again, or to commit the second line earlier than I had planned.
Just then, I sensed a presence next to me, and I turned to see Marcus Primus, Masala by his side. The Praetor’s mouth was hanging open, no doubt as unsettled by the sound as he was the sight before him.
“Why aren’t they advancing?” Primus demanded. “Why are they just…standing there?”
“Because the Thracians are fighting back,” I snapped, at that moment not caring how Primus took my words.
“Well, do something about it!”
If only he had not said that. If only I still did not have the same mulish stubbornness that I had been born with and had caused me so much trouble throughout my life. Perhaps if Scribonius had been by my side, or even Diocles, they could have saved me from myself. More importantly, they might have saved all the lives that were needlessly wasted over the next few moments. In fact, I had been about to open my mouth to give the order to send in the second line, when Primus had arrived to make his unfortunate comment. I felt my jaw tighten, my mouth snapping shut, the command dying in my throat.
Instead, I said, “Praetor, I assure you that I have the situation in hand and know what I am doing.”I turned to give him a long, steady gaze.
“In fact, I have been doing this since you were sucking your wet nurse’s tit.”
Primus’ face turned deep red, while Masala glared at me, but neither man spoke. Seeing that nothing more was forthcoming from the Praetor, I turned my attention back to the fighting. The Thracians had taken heavy casualties in the initial charge, except now the bodies of their fallen were actually serving to help them, giving them a makeshift bulwark that acted as an added obstacle to the 13th. Their resistance had stiffened as well, some of their leaders having assumed a semblance of control over their warriors, so they were now standing toe to toe with our men, using their spears and curved swords to inflict their own damage on the Legionaries. Our men were beginning to stream back from the fighting, some of them under their own power, with the more seriously wounded being half-carried, half-dragged back by comrades. These men would be dumped on the slope, the men carrying them returning back to the fighting, some more quickly than others. That was always the case; some men did not have the same appetite for battle as their comrades, being the first to volunteer to carry the wounded, or to relay messages, always slow to return to the fighting. Those men who were medici, along with those who doubled as stretcher bearers, got busy, the orderlies doing an immediate assessment of the wound, then directing the stretcher bearers to carry the more seriously wounded back up the hill the rest of the way to the wagons, where the physician had set up a field hospital. It was rudimentary, little more than his wagon and those designated to carry wounded pulled together in one spot, with an awning strung between them to provide shade and some comfort to the unfortunate.
Sitting on Ocelus, watching all this, I let the fighting continue without giving the signal to send in the second line, despite the signs of fatigue I saw in the men. Ignoring Flaminius’ frequent looks back up the hill at me, I sat there stone faced, trying to show the same composure that Caesar had shown during all of those battles, despite with every fiber of my being longing to jump off Ocelus to join the fight. There seemed to be an actual itch in my hand for my sword, knowing the comfort that would come from feeling the grooved handle formed to fit only my fingers. Men in the front lines had been reduced to standing, just far enough apart that their respective weapons could not reach, panting from their exertions while doing nothing more deadly than hurling curses at each other, glaring over their shields. These lulls in the fighting are normal, and it would have been the right moment to send in the second line, completely fresh and frankly itching to get into the fight, banging their javelins against their shields while shouting encouragement to their friends in the first. But I was still smarting from Primus’ goad, so I remained sitting on Ocelus, not saying anything. Then, there was the blast of a horn from the Thracian side, and the man I presumed to be the overall commander came wading through his men on horseback, pointing his sword at our line, followed by most of the cavalry.
“Pluto’s cock,” I snarled, realizing that I had missed the opportunity to finish the fighting, and could only watch the Thracian cavalry go slamming into our men. Since they had expended their supply of javelins, the men of the 13th could not even thrust them out in front of them in a makeshift porcupine, having to rely only on their shields to protect them from the mass of horseflesh smashing into them. The only blessing was that the Thracians had been unable to reach the full gallop because of the crush of their own men, making the impact not as severe as it could have been. Still, I watched in dismay as our men were shoved back by the point of the wedge, those men actually hit by the Thracian horses being flung off their feet and sent flying into their comrades behind them. Suddenly, there was a bulge in our line, with nothing between the Thracians and the second line but a handful of men of the rear ranks of the Tenth Cohort, which had been the focal point of the Thracian charge. It could not have been much worse; the least experienced men facing the brunt of the Thracian counterattack, only one or two sections of them at that. Honestly, despite it being an alarming development, in terms of the whole battle, this setback was not that serious, because there were still five Cohorts with their full complement of javelins waiting a short distance away should the men of the Tenth fail to contain the Thracians. However, my troubles were just beginning. Marcus Primus, who had retreated a short distance away to sulk after our exchange, now came galloping up, his face a mask of fear and panic.
“Are you satisfied now, Prefect? This is a disaster! An unmitigated disaster! We are losing this battle! I will be captured and Rome will be humiliated, and it will be on your head!”
“Calm yourself, Praetor,” I snapped, but he was too far gone to hear anything I was saying. Completely ignoring me, he whirled about, almost unseating himself from his horse in the process, looking wildly about, making me think he was looking to flee. Instead, he hurried over to the cornicen, and before I could stop him, shouted at the man, “Sound the retreat! Immediately!”
It took a moment to recover from the shock, yet another crucial lapse on my part, as the cornicen, accustomed to obeying to orders instantly, raised his cornu over his shoulder, drew in a breath, and, before I could stop him, sounded the series of notes that signaled a full retreat. Because of his cowardice and ignorance, Primus had just made matters much worse. While there was no need to, the proper call would have been to sound the withdrawal, instead of the retreat, which is a completely different matter. In fact, at that moment, a withdrawal might have been the prudent choice, because it meant continuing to engage with the enemy, yet instead of trying to advance, taking a step backward after the push with the shield instead of forward. However, sounding the retreat was the signal that the battle was over and had been lost, meaning those troops not engaged should immediately turn about to flee, and those who were currently fighting had to essentially fend for themselves. Performing a withdrawal is difficult; managing a retreat is perhaps the ultimate test of a Centurion’s leadership abilities, and Primus’ lapse could not have happened at a worse time, or to a worse unit than the Tenth Cohort of the 13th. They were being hard pressed, that was a fact; the situation was dire, but I had been involved in, and seen the Legions in much greater danger than they were at that moment. This was a localized outbreak, with no real chance of shifting the entire battle, except if we allowed it to happen, yet I also know that when you are the man on the ground, surrounded by comrades fighting for their lives, what is obvious to the commander is much less clear when you watch your friends falling and you know that your life is running its course in front of your eyes. That is why I can assign no real blame to those men of the Tenth who, hearing the call to retreat, were happier to obey that order than any other they had previously heard, even though against cavalry turning their back essentially sealed their fate. Those remaining Legionaries who had been containing the Thracians now turned to run, ignoring the shouts from their comrades along the line to stand their ground. Before I could make my way over to where the cornicen was standing next to Primus, I saw a number of our men cut down with thrusts to the back once they turned to flee, trying to make it up the hill to the second line. Even from where I was, the panic on their faces was plain to see and my heart felt like it was being torn apart, knowing that their deaths were my fault.
“Sound the command to hold,” I roared at the cornicen. “Then sound the call for the second line to advance!”
“You will do no such thing!” Primus snapped at the poor man, who looked from the Praetor to me, then back again, his face reflecting the fear and indecision he was feeling. I knew I was putting the hapless boy in an impossible position, but time was critical, and I was forced to keep an eye on what was happening down the slope.
“Caldus.” I was thankful that I remembered the man’s name. “I don’t have time to argue with the Praetor here. You see those Thracians?”
Caldus nodded, gulping as he looked down the slope where at least one Centurion of the Tenth had kept his wits about him, ordering the back two lines of his Century over to try to plug the hole, and to their everlasting glory and credit, those men had not hesitated. Led by their Centurion, they had thrown themselves at the Thracian cavalry, darting underneath the horses and their flailing hooves, managing to take two horses down. The bodies of the animals were doing as much to plug the hole as the presence of the extra Legionaries. Because of the obstacle, the leading Thracians were now fighting furiously, trying to cut a way around. For the moment, the hole was plugged, yet it was a tenuous blockage that could only hold for a moment. I saw that, much like the Centurion, who I planned on commending if he survived, one of his Thracian counterparts on the ground had seen where the line had been weakened and even now the enemy infantry was throwing itself at the two-deep section of the Tenth.
“If you don’t sound that call right now, they are going to break through.”
“But I have orders from the Praetor, sir,” the youngster stammered nervously.
“That’s right,” Primus shouted, still in a full-blown panic. “We must save the rest of the army! Those men are doomed, and if we don’t move now, we will be as well! Carry out your orders you…you imbecile!”
I had been ignoring the Praetor, knowing that everything hinged on what Caldus would do, so I saw the flash of hatred in the man’s eyes at the Praetor’s insult. Without saying a word, he blew the commands I had ordered, the first being the order for the first line to stand their ground. I was well aware that it might be too late at that point, yet it had to be done.
“I will have you crucified!” Primus screeched at Caldus, who visibly flinched.
“He’s not going to touch you,” I assured him, except there was no real way I could make that promise with any guarantee.
Despite his fear, Caldus then gave the second signal, the second line reacting instantly, as if they had been straining at the leash like one of those hunting dogs that the Gauls love so much. Primus was beside himself, watching the other five Cohorts begin their march, just in time as the Thracian cavalry had finally managed to overwhelm the last of our men. Pushing past the bodies of the men of the Tenth who had sacrificed themselves, the Thracians were now faced with a choice; either turning to slam into the rear of the first line, compressing them between themselves and the Thracian infantry, who were clearly infused with new energy at the sight of their cavalry inflicting damage on us, or facing our oncoming second line. It was for this reason that I had not been excessively worried about the counterattack by the Thracians, for their options were seriously limited. If they took the first and most obvious action of turning to attack the rear of our first line, they in turn exposed their own backs to our second line, which still had yet to loose a javelin. However, if they continued up the hill to engage the second line, they would be facing a fresh force with a full complement of javelins, without having sufficient numbers to punch their way through. All in all, their attack had been a futile gesture, although my own stubbornness and Primus’ panic had made it seem like there was some hope. The day’s surprises were not over, however, because the Thracian commander chose to do neither option that I had foreseen. A horn blew, the Thracians turning immediately about, slashing their way back down the hill to rejoin the main body and their comrades. My respect for the Thracian commander went up a notch for recognizing that he was in a situation that he could not win. I looked over at Primus, making no attempt to hide my scorn, pleased to see him looking shamefaced at the sight of the retreating Thracians. Not saying anything, I kicked Ocelus to move down the slope, following the second line, this time making sure that Caldus came with me. The Thracian cavalry might have withdrawn, but the battle was not over by a long shot.
Flaminius was directing the men of the first line that were still standing and fighting, while his Secundus Pilus Prior led the men of the second line, being the highest ranking. Because the first line was between them and the Thracians, they did not risk loosing the javelins, instead dropping them to go immediately to the sword. The men of the second line had to relieve the Cohorts and Centuries of the first, another maneuver we practiced a great deal, although it was almost impossible to do so under battle conditions. With the first line engaging the Thracian infantry again, the second line moved into position, each Century aligning behind a Century currently fighting. When each Centurion of the first line blew the whistle, the man on front would go through the process of disengaging, pushing off with his shield while trying to land a killing blow before moving to the back of the line as normal. Except, in this case, he would move all the way to the rear of the Century from the second line that was their relief, where their signifer was waiting. The arrival of the fresh Cohorts was enough to regain the ground that had been lost to the Thracian cavalry, and the enemy infantry began sustaining heavier losses. Because they had no system of relief, their men stood on the front lines until they were exhausted or struck down, only giving way when they were no longer effective one way or the other. Bodies had started to pile even higher, forcing our men to step over them as they pushed their way deeper into the enemy formation. Along with the lull in the fighting, there had been an accompanying lull in the sounds of battle, but now the roaring din had restarted, our relieving men shouting their own battle cries, iron ringing against iron with renewed fury. I looked at the men of the first line, dismayed by the losses they had suffered, which were far greater than I had hoped. Only time would tell how many were dead and how many of the wounded would recover, but the medici were working busily, knowing from experience that the more quickly they could attend to a wounded man, the better his chances of recovery. The trick is in knowing which man can be saved for future duty and which would most likely not. At the moment, I could not worry about these matters, but I could feel Flaminius’ glare. I recognized that it would not make him feel any better that I knew exactly what he was feeling at that moment. His hostility and anger was justified, and I did not begrudge him in the slightest. The second line was now threatening to cause the Thracian line to completely collapse. The enemy commander, seeing this, committed his reserve force, numbering about 1500 men, and looking as if they were composed of the bodyguards and chosen men of the tribal leaders of the three tribes facing us. This meant that they would be the most experienced and best-equipped warriors of all the Thracian force. My heart sank, now knowing that the correct command to give was to call for the Second and Seventh of the 8th, meaning Gaius would have to go into the fight. However, I was determined not to repeat the same mistake of letting my emotions rule my decisions, so I ordered Caldus to sound the call for the two reserve Cohorts. They arrived very quickly from their spot further up the slope, and I pointed out the spot where the Thracian commander was sending his own reserves.
