Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 45
"Just keep your eyes out. I doubt they're going to do more than shake their fists at us," I told the Centurion before returning to my spot in the command group.
I tried to remember the layout of Naissus, along with the details of our assault. We had not affected a breach of the city walls; we had used towers and a ram to force open the gate, which Crassus, his bodyguards, and the Evocati, of whom Crassus had appointed me the de facto leader, had galloped through to slam into the defenders, cutting them down as the Legionaries followed us. Unlike a stone wall, which is inevitably weakened by a breach, even after it is patched, a gate can actually be strengthened after the original is battered down, and I was going to operate on the assumption that this was the case with Naissus, particularly after the experience from the time before. My one concern was the time it would take to build at least one tower; two is always preferred, but with the limited manpower available to me, that would take more time than I was willing to spend. This had to be a quick assault; over a three-week march, I could easily finesse at least one and perhaps two extra days, if I invented a cause for delay like a handful of the wagons carrying the money breaking wheels, or even a sickness sweeping through the camp as the result of stopping at a spot where the water was bad. Any longer of a delay than that would be difficult, if not impossible to explain to Norbanus, still the commanding general at Siscia. For most of the march, we had followed beside the Sava, but when we were perhaps ten miles from Naissus, at the confluence of the Sava and another river, we had to find a ford to get across the Sava. Although the Sava turned northwards and led to Naissus, the other river was a rushing torrent, and we had been following along the left bank of the river, meaning that we had to cross the Sava regardless. Right at the junction of the two, on the opposite bank there was a hill that rose up very close by to our ford. It was heavily wooded, and fording a river is the moment when an army is perhaps at its most vulnerable. If the Moesians that had been hiding among the thick undergrowth on the slope had been more experienced, or more patient, they could have inflicted a great deal of damage. Luckily for us, and for me personally, they did not wait for the vanguard to pass by to fall on the main body. Just moments after the Century of the vanguard emerged from the ford, still dripping water from their tunics, the water being waist deep, a force of perhaps three hundred Moesians descended on them from where they had been hiding. The Century cornicen managed to blow the notes that signaled an attack before he was struck down, and I kicked Ocelus immediately, my horse going to the gallop so quickly that I was forced to reach for his mane. I heard the hooves of the others in the command group behind me, and we went pounding toward the crossing, speeding by the leading Cohort of the main body, their Centurions even then bawling out orders for them to change from column to line. I shouted at the Pilus Prior of the Cohort to send his men across the ford immediately to support the Century. Ocelus galloped by, only slowing at the edge of the river, primarily because I was pulling on his reins. It was not that I was hesitant to go splashing across the river, but I was too experienced to go plunging into a situation where I did not have a good idea of what was happening. The same cannot be said for the Tribunes who, despite my shouted warning, went galloping into the river in a fantastic spray of water that almost completely obscured them.
"Stupid bastards," I muttered, irritated that in their eagerness to prove their valor, they were blocking my view of the overall situation.
It was not lost on me that they understood that this was their last chance at glory, but I had more on my mind than enhancing the record of a group of nobles, who would in all likelihood, be leaving the army when we got back to Siscia. In a matter of a few heartbeats, what had already been noisy became even more so, as the shouts of the Tribunes slashing down at their targets, along with the clanging sound of their swords adding to the din. I do not know if I am the only one, but I have always found it difficult to concentrate when the noise level is so loud, and quickly I realized that I would have to cross to get a better idea of what was happening. Ocelus did not hesitate when I gave him a kick, and we went splashing through the river and up the other bank, plunging right into the middle of a fierce fight. The Centurion in command of the vanguard Century had managed to get his men into an orbis, as the numerically superior Moesians came flowing around the smaller formation. Before I reached their side, I thought to pull my spatha, still the same sword that Marcus Crassus had given to me as a gift. Aiming for a group of Moesian spearmen who had swung around to attack the orbis from another side and, in doing so, had turned their back to the river. Ocelus needed no urging. He slammed into their midst, sending two men flying forward, one of whom ended up stabbing one of his comrades in the back with his own spear, while I slashed down at a third man who was just turning as Ocelus' head came into the edge of his vision. The Moesian was just trying to raise his spear when my blade caught him in the middle of his helmet, barely stopping my spatha as it split it in two, along with the upper part of his skull. I barely had time to wrench out the blade before my horse had penetrated all the way up to where the line of Legionaries stood, their javelins poking out as they jabbed them at the Moesians. Pulling on the reins, I barely managed to turn Ocelus in time, but even for a large horse, he was very agile, and he spun about so that his flank was parallel to the Century. Fortunately, I had remembered to turn him to the right, so that my sword offered some protection from the Moesians, but they seemed more interested in scattering out of the way of my horse. Nevertheless, I cut and hacked my way out of the danger, managing to score at least one more serious blow to a man that was not quite quick enough dodging out of the way.
Galloping Ocelus a short distance away, I spun him about to take stock of the situation, which was now even more difficult because of the dust raised by the combination of feet and hooves. Sensing more than seeing, I decided that the Tribunes were actually managing themselves well, staying together in a tight knot and using their horseflesh to give the men of the Century some breathing room. Unfortunately, the Century's formation was disintegrating on the side farthest away from where I was, and I could see several bodies lying in the middle of the formation where they had been dragged out of the way by their comrades. In the middle of the orbis was their signifer, right where he was supposed to be, but I did not immediately see the Centurion. It was a complete and utter mess of a fight, and even in the space of time I watched, I saw a group of perhaps a dozen Moesians exploit the spot on the other side where there were no more Legionaries to step into the line, heading directly for the signifer, who stood over the wounded, holding his standard at the ready. The Roman standard is made of very stout ash, with an iron tip at the ground end, both for making it easy to stab into the ground, but also for what I saw the signifer begin to do, shoving it hard right into the chest of the most eager of the attacking Moesians. Before he could recover, however, three more warriors swarmed around him and I saw an arm draw back so that I caught just a glimpse of the dull silvery-gray of the spearhead as he drove it deep into the signifer's side. I let out a shout of helpless rage and I was not alone, as the men currently on relief, holding onto the back of the man ahead of them, had turned to see the threat to their standard. Even worse, the remaining Moesians who had not attacked the signifer wasted no time in killing the wounded men, although one of the men lying on the ground managed to take a Moesian with him by grabbing onto the spear that had just been thrust into his chest and making his own thrust up into the gut of the Moesian. I looked wildly around the orbis, trying to find someone in command, but I only saw the Optio, who was even then engaged in a desperate fight. Where was the Centurion? I wondered, but there was no time for me to continue my search because as I watched, the group of Moesians, now three men less, was even then withdrawing back out of the middle of our formation. That was when I understood that their goal was not to try and break the orbis; one of the Moesians was holding the standard aloft, and even from where I sat on Ocelus I could hear his shout of triumph over the fighting. This celebration almost undid him, because hearing the Moesian, some of the Legionaries turned to see one of the worst fates that can befall a Roman Century happening and, without waiting for orders, left their spot supporting their comrades to dash across the orbis. Even as they did this, without thinking, I kicked Ocelus, heading him around the fighting in an attempt to cut the Moesian off. It was one of my more foolish decisions, because almost immediately I was surrounded by more spearmen, hemming me in as they tried to jab at Ocelus, who reared and twisted about while emitting what I can only describe as a bellow of rage. In the space of perhaps a half-dozen heartbeats, I was completely surrounded, all thought of trying to retrieve the standard gone as I realized that I was in mortal danger.
If this fight had happened five years earlier, there would have been no way for me to do what I did and still stay on Ocelus' back. But I had become a better than average horseman, not in the class of a Caesar, but perhaps as good as Marcus Antonius. There were two reasons for this; the first was because I had come to enjoy riding Ocelus a great deal, and along with my daily exercises with my sword, I rarely missed a day where I did not take him for a ride. And as my confidence progressed, so too did the things I was willing to attempt with him, so that rarely a ride went by without jumping at least one fence. However, I think the biggest and most important reason was that Ocelus and I had formed a bond of mutual and absolute trust. It is hard for me to explain this, because I had never experienced anything like it with an animal before, and I came to this experience late in life. We knew each other in a way that allowed me at that moment, on the banks of the Sava, to let go of his reins and reach for my longest and best friend, my Gallic sword that was still strapped to my saddle. While it was slightly awkward in my left hand, it was not completely foreign to me; for many years, I had devoted perhaps a quarter of my daily exercises to using my blade left-handed. What did make it more cumbersome was that damn leather sling I wore to protect my little finger, but I had five years of practice with it, so I barely noticed it. Gripping Ocelus with every bit of strength I had in my thighs, it also helped me feel the movement of his muscles and allowed me to anticipate which way he was going to turn, so that between his sudden movements and lashing hooves, and my two blades, one on each side, we managed to not only keep the Moesians at bay, but punish the few who tried to penetrate our defenses. With a sudden movement, dropping his head and shifting his weight onto his front legs, I felt Ocelus launch a powerful back kick with both hooves, both of them connecting with something solid, although I did not know if it was just one Moesian or two. At that moment, I was more concerned by the fact that I was now facing straight down at the ground, over Ocelus' lowered neck, and I felt the grip of my thighs slipping. Before I lost the saddle, however, he righted himself, just in time for me to see an enemy spear lunging at me from the right, at the very edge of my vision. Throwing myself backward, I saw the spear punch right past my chest and, now that my head had turned in that direction, I saw that the Moesian had overextended himself, with one arm fully outstretched in his attempt to stab me from the side. My spatha was below my waist, but I put as much power as I could into an upward stroke, and was rewarded by the sight of not only a severed arm, but a spear shaft sliced into two parts, the head of it clattering into my lap before falling to the ground. Even as I recovered from this blow, Ocelus was spinning to the left to reach his long neck out to clamp his teeth onto the shaft of another spear that had just missed his head. I was no longer surprised when my horse did something like this, and I was struck by the stray thought that it was in fact at Naissus that I had seen him do it the first time. Because of Ocelus' movement, it was natural for me to continue turning my head to the left, just in time to see a man darting towards Ocelus' rear quarter. This man was not carrying a spear; instead, he carried a curved Thracian sword, but I instantly saw that I was not the target. He was going to try and hamstring my horse, except that between his angle of attack and the fact that my Gallic blade was the short, Spanish style sword, I knew I could not reach him, at least in time to stop him.
It was more out of despair than any hope that I shouted, "Ocelus, behind you!"
When I get into Charon's Boat to take my last ride, it will still be with the belief that my beautiful Ocelus, my wonderful champion, understood exactly what I was saying, because once again he dropped his head, but with only one leg this time, launched another kick. Since I was still looking over my shoulder, I was able to see his hoof hit the Moesian squarely in the face, which seemed to explode in a scarlet shower of blood, snot, and teeth. What was the most impressive is how far he flew backward, his body smashing into the two men immediately behind him, sending them all sprawling, the swordsman dead before he hit the ground. Just as quickly, Ocelus recovered, once again spinning around, while I held both swords out at arms' length, the blades angled downward. One unlucky man, who had either not been paying close enough attention, or more likely thought that he could duck and come under my sword to catch me or Ocelus, but misjudged our speed, caught the edge of my Gallic blade across the throat instead, falling in a heap into the dirt. Immediately after making one revolution to the right, Ocelus reversed direction, warning me by the feeling of his muscles bunching as he prepared to swing about, and this time I managed to wound a spearman who had clearly expected Ocelus to continue in the same direction. We were still alive, and we were holding them off, but I could tell that Ocelus was getting tired, while my thighs felt as if I had poured boiling oil on them. I needed just a moment to think and decide what to do, but the Moesians were relentless, and I was reminded of a pack of wolves and how they work as a team, especially with dangerous prey, darting in one at a time in an attempt to wear their quarry down. This was exactly what was happening now, but every time I kicked Ocelus to try and break through, we were faced by a bristling row of spears, jabbing at us. Our only advantage was that the two of us had drawn enough blood that the Moesians were exceptionally cautious, and ironically, that is what saved us.
"Augustus!"
Ocelus had just spun about again when from behind me I heard that name shouted, but I could not turn to see who it was or why they were shouting, because a Moesian, perhaps seeing what was happening behind me, decided to take his chance just then. Perhaps I was distracted; more likely, I was just slow, but whatever the reason, I could not block the thrust he made with his spear. As had happened so often before, I seemed to be watching it in exceedingly slow motion; the only way I can describe it is imagine the difference between the way honey pours on a very hot day, then on a freezing one. I saw very clearly the head of the spear, and even noticed that it already had blood on it, as it pierced the meaty part of my thigh and just...disappeared. It not only vanished into my body, but it kept going, and I honestly could not differentiate between the sound I made and the scream of pain and rage that came from Ocelus. What I could tell was that the pain was excruciating, second only to the wound I received at Munda when it came to the agony of it. Even having my finger bitten off, then cauterized, was not as painful as that spear thrust, and I suppose that what I did next was as much of a spasm in reaction to the distress as it was a defensive move. Whatever the case, I did not lash out at the Moesian, who was still holding onto the spear and I knew that he was preparing to twist the blade, making what I was feeling right then seem like a whisper before someone shouts in your ear. The look on his face was one I have seen often, and I imagine I have worn often; a savage grin of triumph and hatred as you inflict massive damage on a foe, perhaps ending their life. But before he could, my blade swept downward again, not at him, but in just a general, downward motion that sliced right through the shaft of the spear. Things were still moving very slowly, and I clearly saw him make a hard twisting motion, but thankfully for me, he was an instant of an eye blink too late, and in fact, he looked rather ridiculous, looking much like he was wringing his hands. The impact of my blade slicing through the shaft sent a spike of an even greater, but thankfully brief agony, except before I could even comprehend that I had escaped even worse damage, I was suddenly surrounded by a whirling mass of horseflesh. The one slight consolation that I had was that my eyes were still locked on the Moesian who had wounded me, who was staring back, still puzzling over what exactly had just happened as he stood there with essentially nothing more dangerous now than a stick in his hand, when a horse, ridden by Lucullus, as it turned out, slammed into him at full speed. Of all the things I have seen in battle, this was, probably because of the circumstances, one that remains as one of my most vivid memories, of a man suddenly disappearing faster than one can blink, to be replaced by a horse occupying the same space. I never thought to ask Lucullus if he had timed it so that his horse could slide to a dead halt right next to me, but I am thankful whether it was planned or not. I must have sensed that the danger was past somehow, because instead of looking about to see exactly what was happening, I looked down at the spear still protruding from my leg, with about two feet of the shaft sticking out at the point where my spatha had severed it. There's no blood spurting, I thought dully, but truthfully, I was more worried about Ocelus. I could feel him trembling beneath me, and like me, he had stopped his motion and was now standing, his head hanging. I had never seen him like that, and despite the pain, that worried me more than anything else.
"Prefect!" Lucullus' voice was so loud that I thought it would make my ear bleed.
"I'm wounded in the leg; I'm not deaf, you idiot," I snapped at him, only then taking my eyes off of my leg.
The Tribune, the rivulets of sweat cutting muddy channels down his face, gave me a peculiar look.
