by Ben Kane
Wondering where the other Gauls had gone, Romulus glanced over his shoulder. Half a dozen warriors were riding back to the rear. Adrenalin surged through him. ‘He’s sent for the rest of the cavalry and the archers, sir,’ he cried. ‘Must be expecting trouble.’
Atilius gave Romulus an appraising stare. The story of the slave who had been condemned to die in the arena yet instead won his freedom by killing a rhinoceros had travelled through the ranks of the Twenty-Eighth long before Romulus had arrived in Lilybaeum. Because of his previous history, he had been assigned to a different cohort from that in which he’d served before. To give him his due, the young soldier was physically fit, responded to orders well and performed his duties to Atilius’ satisfaction. That made him no different to many of the legionaries under his command, and so the senior centurion was reserving judgement until an opportunity for Romulus to prove his real worth presented itself. ‘So he has. We might have to forget about our grumbling bellies until later.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Romulus could sense Atilius’ coolness and suspected the reason behind it. It was the same, or worse, with a few of his new comrades, who disliked him for receiving what they saw as special treatment from Caesar. There was no outright hostility, just begrudging looks and a lack of camaraderie. Although it was hard, Romulus could cope with that. From the majority, though, he received a kind of reluctant admiration, as well as a good deal of ribbing about being the best man to fight the Pompeians’ elephants, of which there were reputed to be 120. Romulus bore these comments with good humour, knowing that it was an eventual route to gaining their acceptance. With luck, fighting together would accelerate that.
He looked forward to more comradeship. Petronius’ death had hit Romulus hard, accentuating the pain of his split with Tarquinius and reopening the wound of Brennus’ last stand. Although he hadn’t been able to save Petronius, at least he’d tried to. Why didn’t I stay with Brennus? Romulus asked himself repeatedly. Beside that, even his manumission seemed trivial. I could have died with my blood brother, instead of running like a coward. Telling himself that Mithras had meant for him and Tarquinius to escape felt like an excuse – an easy way out.
A few moments after Caesar had ridden off, the bucinae blared from the general’s position. He had issued his orders before leaving.
‘Hear that?’ Atilius grinned wolfishly. ‘Prepare to move out,’ he bawled.
Excitement and a little fear rippled through the ranks. The enemy had to be near.
Readying his pila, Romulus advanced alongside his comrades. His eyes scanned the terrain constantly, especially around the point where Caesar and the Gauls were heading. Soon the horsemen had become nothing more than a dust cloud. For an age, Romulus saw nothing. The tension continued to build. Only so much time could pass on African soil before they met the Pompeians, and now combat was imminent. Every man could sense it.
This feeling was heightened by the sight of the Gaulish cavalry halting at the top of a gradual incline. The legionaries followed Caesar’s tracks up a long, sloping ascent. Nearing the crest, they saw that he had stopped in order to survey the area. Their general was talking animatedly to the Gauls’ commander. His arm stabbed here and there, pointing out important details. Then Caesar turned to see how close his cohorts were. A smile crossed his face.
Instinctively, the soldiers’ pace quickened.
Atilius was a dozen paces in front, so it was he who reached the crest and spotted the Pompeians first. ‘Jupiter above,’ Romulus heard him say.
Soon he was able to see the enemy for himself.
A plain stretched away from where Caesar was sitting on his horse. On the far side of it, about half a mile away, was an immensely wide formation of soldiers. The sheer length of the Pompeian line spoke volumes. There were thousands more men in it than in Caesar’s foraging party. Many legionaries’ faces paled.
Atilius sensed the mood. ‘Caesar is no fool,’ he bellowed. ‘He won’t offer battle against that rabble unless he has to.’
Romulus felt a tickle of unease. It wasn’t certain that any fighting would take place, yet already the men around him were wavering. Not a good start, he thought. He was pleased when Atilius continued talking to his soldiers while raining abuse on the Pompeians. Reassured, the legionaries settled.
While he might not have desired battle, Caesar could not fail to respond to the enemy’s presence so close to his own. Sharp blasts from the trumpeters soon had the cohorts assembling in a long line similar to that of the Pompeians. To match the enemy’s width, however, his soldiers had to form up only one cohort deep. This was a major departure from normal tactics, which saw a minimum of two lines to face any enemy, and caused more uneasiness in the ranks.
‘He must be worried about being flanked,’ Romulus confided to Sabinus, the legionary on his right. They’d become friends over the previous few weeks.
‘I suppose,’ Sabinus grunted. ‘Never mind that we’ve got sod-all cavalry to defend us there.’
A short, black-haired man with a strong chin, Sabinus had been in Pompey’s army at Pharsalus. Like thousands of his compatriots, he had surrendered and sworn loyalty to Caesar. They’d fought well since, in Egypt and at Zela. That had been against foreigners, though, Romulus worried, enemies who’d had nothing to do with the Pompeians. Today it was time to confront troops whom many of these soldiers would have previously fought beside.
Like any officer worth his salt, Atilius realised that his legionaries were still uneasy. First the signiferi and then the aquilifer were brought into the front rank. There were proud reactions when the silver eagle arrived, with loud vows being made that no enemy would ever lay his hands on the legion’s most important possession. Atilius also had a word with his subordinates, who began walking along the ranks, addressing individual soldiers by name. The senior centurion did likewise, pinching men’s cheeks and slapping their arms, telling them how brave they were.
Caesar himself rode along the front of the Fifth Legion, the tribesmen he’d recruited in Gaul and made into Roman citizens because of their loyal service. His exact words didn’t carry through the air, but the rousing cheers that followed did.
Thus prepared, Caesar’s cohorts waited to see what Metellus Scipio would do.
It wasn’t long before the answer came.
To Romulus’ amazement, large parts of what had appeared to be closely bunched infantry in the lines opposite were actually cavalry. Numidians. In a stunning exercise of subterfuge, Scipio had concealed the true nature of his forces until the last moment. Now they began to move, the large squadrons of horsemen galloping out to either side on the flat ground between the two armies. From the middle of the enemy’s position ran thousands of foot soldiers: lightly armed Numidian infantry.
Scipio wanted a battle and, thanks to his clever tactics, he would get it. Despite Caesar’s thinning of the line, his men now had every chance of being outflanked. There was little point in refusing to fight, Romulus realised, because the Pompeians would then harry them all the way back to Ruspina. By standing and fighting, though, they faced the distinct possibility of annihilation. As Crassus had at Carrhae. Bitterness filled him at the thought of serving under two generals who lost through lack of cavalry.
Caesar’s few archers finally came trotting from the rear, their faces lathered with sweat. The 150 men had made the journey from Ruspina at the double in order to catch up with the foraging party. Without a rest, they were sent off in front of the main force. The remaining cavalry also arrived, joining up with the men around Caesar. The patrol was immediately split up, with two hundred Gauls being placed on each flank. It was a trifling number, and Romulus cringed when he looked out at the Numidian cavalry pounding across the plain towards them. There had to be seven or eight thousand in total. Twenty horsemen for each of Caesar’s, and Numidians at that. The world’s best cavalry, which, under Hannibal, had repeatedly helped to butcher Roman armies.
Thankfully, he had no time to dwell on the disparity between the
two sides.
The bucinae sounded the advance.
Caesar’s response to Scipio’s offer of battle was to accept. It was typically brave of the general, but neither he nor his men could have prepared themselves for the onslaught which began moments later.
The cohorts marched forward, each keeping close to its neighbours. Pacing them on the flanks were the Gaulish cavalry. The air was filled with the characteristic sounds of thousands of marching men: the tramp of studded sandals in unison on the ground, the jingle of chain mail, the clash of metal off shields and the shouts of officers. Romulus could hear men coughing nervously and muttering prayers to their favourite gods. Few spoke. He cast his own eyes up to the heavens, wondering if anything would be revealed. All he saw was blue sky. Romulus clenched his teeth, taking comfort from the soldiers on each side of him and ignoring the tang of fear in the smell of their sweat.
This was the worst part: the anticipation before the actual battle started.
‘Keep moving,’ roared Atilius from his position in the very centre of the third rank. ‘Stay in line with the other cohorts!’
Soon they could make out the individual shapes of the Numidian infantry running towards them. Thin, wiry figures with dark hair and light brown skin, they wore short, sleeveless tunics belted at the waist with rope. Like their mounted comrades, they wore no armour, carrying only a small round shield for protection. Their arms consisted of light throwing spears and javelins, and a knife. Barefoot, they danced along the hot ground singly and in groups, closing in on the Roman lines like packs of hunting dogs.
‘Don’t look up to much, do they?’ sneered Sabinus.
His comment was greeted with contemptuous grunts of agreement.
Romulus’ spirits lifted. It was hard to see how the lightly armed skirmishers could have any meaningful impact on their lines. Although the Gaulish cavalry would come off worst, perhaps they, the infantry, could turn the tide in Caesar’s favour?
They were now within a hundred paces of the enemy. Close enough to pick out individual men’s faces. To see their lips twisted back in fury. To hear their ululating war cries.
Romulus licked his lips. It was nearly time.
An instant later, the bucinae sounded the charge.
‘Up and at them, men,’ roared Atilius. ‘Wait for my call to release your pila.’
The Twenty-Eighth surged forward.
Romulus’ caligae pounded off the short grass. He glanced left and right, taking in the bunched jaws, the nervous faces and the downright terrified expressions of a few soldiers. As always, his own stomach was knotted with nerves. The sooner they closed with the enemy, the better. He scanned the figures running towards them, and felt slightly reassured. The Numidians looked puny compared to the heavily armed men all around him. Sabinus had to be right. What chance had these skirmishers of resisting a charge by legionaries?
Half an hour later, Romulus was of a different mind altogether. Rather than meet the legionaries in a clash of shield against shield, and engage in brutal hand-to-hand combat, the Numidians acted almost like horsemen. Fleet of foot, and unencumbered by equipment, they ran in towards the Romans, discharged a volley of javelins, and fled. If they were pursued, they kept running. When the exhausted legionaries stopped to take a breather, the Numidians swarmed back, flinging spears and throwing taunts in their guttural tongue. Nothing the Romans did made any difference. While few men had been killed, there were dozens of injured. It was the same story all along the line.
Here and there, frustrated groups of Caesar’s soldiers had ignored their officers and broken ranks to charge the groups of the enemy that ventured close to their positions. Romulus had developed a healthy respect for the Numidians, whose tactics changed when attacked in this manner. They turned in unison like a flock of birds, but their purpose was altogether more deadly. The pursuing clusters of legionaries were quickly enveloped and overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. Then, before the watching cohorts could respond, the enemy skirmishers were gone again, running back towards their own lines.
Romulus was quite worried. Atilius and his officers had kept most of the Twenty-Eighth in position, but the Numidians’ assaults were whittling away at the men’s confidence. Without the officers’ constant reassuring shouts, and the waving of the eagle, he thought they might have broken and run by now. Romulus could see by the wavering of the other cohorts’ positions that the situation was the same everywhere.
The Gaulish cavalry was faring no better. Driven backwards by the Numidians, they were struggling to remain anywhere near Caesar’s flanks. Already the cohorts on the edges were having to defend themselves against harrying attacks from the javelin-throwing horsemen. Before long, the enemy riders would have enveloped the entire patrol, blocking off its only avenue of escape. Romulus had vivid memories from Carrhae of what befell infantry when that happened. He didn’t mention a word of this to Sabinus or the men around him, but there was no need. They’d heard the story of Curio, Caesar’s former tribune in Africa, who had come unstuck in this manner the previous year. Moreover, they could see what was happening for themselves.
Panic was creeping into the faces of many.
Romulus could feel the first flutters of it in his belly too.
Chapter XVI: Labienus and Petreius
Caesar had seen what was going on. Soon orders were carried by messengers along his entire front that no one, on pain of death, was to move more than four paces from the main line occupied by his cohort. Romulus took great heart from this. Caesar was even roving between units, talking to the legionaries and bolstering their courage. In the cohort next to Romulus, he had seen a wavering signifer turn around and try to flee. Grabbing the man, Caesar had turned him bodily to face back towards the Numidians, telling him, ‘Look, the enemy’s that way!’ It had raised a shame-faced laugh from the surrounding soldiers, and bolstered the other units’ courage.
Caesar’s men held their lines still, but his fighting words could not stop the relentless harrying by the enemy skirmishers and horsemen. By the time an hour had passed, scores of soldiers had been injured in each cohort, and their cries did little to decrease the general unease in the ranks. Something drastic needed to be done if the situation wasn’t going to spiral out of control. Romulus could feel his own determination being drained. Cursing the wraithlike Numidians, he shoved his black thoughts away.
To add to their distress, the Pompeian leader was revealed to be Labienus, not Metellus Scipio. Formerly one of Caesar’s most trusted legates during the prolonged campaign in Gaul, Labienus had changed sides after Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon. Infuriated, Caesar had sent his baggage after him. Like many of the Pompeian leaders, Labienus had taken part in the battle of Pharsalus, but after Caesar’s victory, he had travelled to Africa rather than surrender. An accomplished general in his own right, he now took the opportunity to urge on his own men and to harangue Caesar’s battered cohorts.
Riding bareheaded into the no man’s land between the two armies, Labienus taunted the legionaries with astute barbs that showed his awareness of their inexperience. ‘Greetings, raw soldiers! What are you doing?’ he cried. ‘You’re terrifying me!’
No one replied.
Urging his mount nearer Caesar’s lines, Labienus continued in the same vein. ‘Has Caesar taken you all in with his honeyed words? Look at you now!’ With a sneer, he pointed at their ragged appearance and the number of wounded. ‘What a place your general has guided you all to. I pity the lot of you.’
The exhausted legionaries glanced at each other. Few received any reassurance. Here was one of Caesar’s former leaders, whose men were winning the battle, insulting them with impunity.
Romulus felt differently. Come closer, you bastard, he thought, his fingers itching on the shaft of his javelin. The Pompeian leader was still out of range, though.
Emboldened by the lack of response from Caesar’s men, Labienus moved his horse forward a dozen steps. Then a dozen more. ‘You’re pathetic,’ h
e shouted. ‘Call yourselves Romans? The peasants from the little farms around here make better recruits than you!’
Before Romulus could react, Atilius pushed his way forward. ‘I’m no raw recruit, Labienus,’ he shouted. ‘But a veteran of the Tenth Legion.’
Taken aback for a moment, Labienus quickly recovered his poise. ‘Really? Where’s your standard then?’ he demanded. ‘I can see none for the Tenth.’
Atilius pulled off his centurion’s crested helmet and tossed it to the ground. Staring proudly at Labienus so that he could be recognised, he stuck out a hand behind him. ‘A pilum,’ he ordered. ‘Now.’
Romulus broke ranks to give Atilius his remaining one.
‘I’ll show you what kind of soldier I am, you whoreson,’ the senior centurion roared. ‘One of Caesar’s best.’ Lunging forward, he threw the javelin with all his might at Labienus.
Romulus held his breath.
His pilum hummed through the air to strike the legate’s mount squarely in the chest. Severely wounded, the horse collapsed kicking to the ground. Labienus was thrown free, but landed badly. There was a dramatic silence as he lay sprawled on the ground. Eventually, he picked himself up with a groan.
‘Remember, Labienus, that it was a veteran of the Tenth who attacked you,’ shouted Atilius.
Romulus and his comrades cheered at the tops of their voices.
Labienus did not reply. Holding his left side, he hobbled away with the jeers of the Twenty-Eighth ringing in his ears. His horse was left kicking and bleeding in the dirt.
‘Fine shot, sir,’ Romulus said to Atilius, remembering how he’d once brought down a Parthian archer at a similar range. ‘You taught him a lesson.’
‘It’s a sad day nonetheless,’ replied Atilius quietly. ‘I served under Labienus a number of times. He’s a good leader.’
