Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul mwc-1

by R. W. Peake

  “Release!”

  Our first volley knifed through the sky, arcing out and up before turning downwards, picking up speed as the shafts went slicing into the front ranks of the horde. They prepared themselves to receive our javelins, the front rank raising their shields while the men behind them lifted theirs above their head, in something of a crude testudo, yet I do not think they were truly ready for what happened when they blocked our volley. Because of the soft metal shafts, although the hardened point of the javelins punched through their shields, even if it did not strike a softer target of someone’s flesh the soft metal nevertheless promptly bent. The wooden part of the shafts were now pulled to the ground by their own weight, where the ends stuck, wrenching their shields from their grasp and leaving many of the enemy exposed. I could see there were several men who had interlocked their shields together, and a javelin had pierced both, pinning them to each other. Not all of the volley hit just their shields, as above the roar of the horde came the piercing cries and screams of men who had been skewered. The volley checked the advance for a moment, with bodies tumbling to the ground, causing the men behind who were not quick on their feet to stumble and fall over them, in turn leading to even more of the same. It was like they ran into an invisible wall, and the enemy stopped momentarily while they either dropped their shields or scrambled back to their feet. There was a nice pile of bodies, but it was a drop in a huge bucket and their charge only halted for a matter of heartbeats, long enough for us to receive the second command to throw our next and last javelin.

  “Release!”

  The process repeated, with another volley lancing into the tightly packed warriors, creating much the same effect as before. Now it looked as if fully a third of the men in the front rank had been forced to drop their shield, and would be meeting us with just their main weapon, which was predominantly the long spear.

  “Draw swords!”

  The rasping sound of hundreds of blades being drawn filled my ears, and I felt comforted not only by that sound but by the feel of the sword in my hand, using the grip Vinicius had taught me those two years before. Had it really been two years? I caught myself in surprise; it’s funny the things that run through your mind right before you go into battle. Standing there, poised to launch the countercharge, the front ranks of the Helvetii now no more than 30 paces away, we looked towards the center where Caesar and his standard stood, waiting for the signal to charge. The blood red standard suddenly dipped, the sounds of the cornu blaring out at the same time.

  “Porro!”

  I filled my lungs up, and with a roar followed my comrades down the hill and into the enemy.

  The momentum that being higher up on the hill gave us was a huge advantage, so that when we hurtled into the Helvetii mass, the crashing of bodies and metal slamming into each other at full speed made all the noise before seem like a whisper. Quickly adding to the initial grunts of men having their breath knocked from them were the screams of men whose opponents’ blade found their mark, and it was not long before even in the rear rank where we were, the coppery smell of blood was in our nostrils. Holding onto the harness of the man ahead of me, even this far back in the formation, the vibration and force of the melee in front was clearly communicated into my arm. Peering between the files, I could see the flash of blades as the men in the front rank jabbed at the Helvetii in underhand blows originating from just under our shields, while occasionally a helmet or even a severed limb would fly up into the air, sign that someone had struck home with an overhand blow. Even as I stood there and tried to stay alert, I used my height and position higher up on the hill to see if I could make any sense of what was happening, because there is nothing quite so disconcerting to fighting men as the feeling that one has no idea of the larger picture about what is unfolding. In your area, you may be carrying the day, but if everywhere else your lines are crumbling, you will soon find yourself completely surrounded and your fate is sealed, so it is almost an obsession for men in the ranks to have an idea of what is happening. I could see past the front line to observe that the enemy advance had stalled, the rear ranks of the Helvetii now milling around as they waited for their chance to enter the battle. Farther beyond them, I could make out a huge number of wagons that were being drawn up on a hill, directly across the valley to my right, opposite the Helvetian camp, which was pitched next to a small lake. That camp still had men streaming from it, coming to join the battle, and my heart sank when I saw that even with so many of the enemy heading our way the camp itself was still occupied with a large number of men. I did not know it then, but these were the Boii and Tulingi tribes, allies of the Helvetii who had joined them on their journey. All I knew was there was a good number of the bastards, but to that point they were sitting tight in the camp, for which I was thankful.

  Turning my attention back to the matter at hand, I could see with some surprise that we had already gone through two rotations, making my time to fight closer at hand. Glancing over, I saw that Scribonius had actually moved up a file, indicating that we had lost someone already. In Didius’ file, he was even worse off; he was one place ahead of Scribonius, so we had lost two men there. The Century next to me was faring worse; I could see they already lost a half-dozen men, and thinking this through I became concerned. We were going to run out of people if this kept up. I had no idea what kind of casualties we were inflicting on the Helvetii, yet I saw how many there were, and for a moment I cursed my curiosity, thinking it might have been better not to know. Now the tremors I felt while holding onto the man in front increased in intensity to the point that I had to concentrate on holding on and supporting the man immediately in front of me, the shock of the fighting becoming more violent. Twice I almost lost my grip on the man’s harness as he staggered back and to the side, moved that way when the man in front of him came hurtling backwards. The third time the man in the front rank staggered back, he fell down and did not get up, and as I stepped forward, I looked down to see that he had taken a spear thrust in the eye that had come out the back of his head, judging from the blood pooling underneath it. His good eye stared up in surprise, and I recognized him as one of the men who gave the beating to Didius. At least he doesn’t have to worry about being cheated anymore, I thought, before turning my attention back to business. I was now second in line, and could see that we were making headway as I stepped over some Helvetii dead. This was a good sign, or so I believed, watching more closely to see what kind of skill we were facing. They were certainly courageous, that was clear, but they relied too much on their fury and not enough on technique, although I saw a few men who handled themselves with considerable skill. Their problem was that the skill levels varied widely, and I immediately realized that this was their fatal flaw. If they had taken the time to match men whose skills were roughly equal, then placed them side by side, they would have been formidable indeed and it would not have surprised me if they had carried the day. Instead, one man who was skillful may have a man on either side who was simply flailing about, relying on strength and raw courage instead of technique. When they were facing an enemy like us, where every man is roughly equal in skill, it meant that the mistake of one of the inexperienced men could and would be used in order to exploit the opening available to dispatch the skilled man, who would be engaged with someone else. In other words, they had not learned the value of teamwork; they fought as individual warriors, not as a unit, so that all of the valor in the world would not be enough to stop us. With my time getting closer, I could feel my heartbeat increasing rapidly, and my breathing became quicker as I felt the love of battle start to flow more freely through me, so that by the time my turn came, I was ready to bring destruction to anyone who stood before me.

  Feeling the man in front of me tense at the sound of the whistle before uncoiling his body as he heaved the man he was engaged with off of him, he then stepped aside so that I could step in, and I came forward, looking over the rim of my shield into the wild eyes of a warrior who could not have be
en much older than me. He wore no armor other than a leather jerkin, and if he owned a shield it was gone. His only weapon was a short hunting spear, which he jabbed at me, his face a mask of fear and hatred, but it took no more than a normal heartbeat for me to assess his abilities, and little longer to take his life with a quick thrust. He was immediately replaced by an older man wearing a coat of chain mail similar to my armor except it was fully sleeved and longer. On his head was a helmet in the Helvetian style, adorned with wings of what looked like a raven, and he had both his shield and long spear. This man did not rush me immediately, and I could instantly see the reason why he had lived to see his thirties; he was no wild-eyed youth and this was not his first battle. Additionally, he wielded his spear in an unusual manner, preferring to hold it farther up the shaft than most of the men I faced who used such a weapon. I could not see the value in this until he made his first attack, a lunging blow to my right that I automatically blocked by moving my shield across my body to parry, which is exactly what he wanted me to do. With what appeared to be nothing more than a flick of the wrist, he whipped the other end of the shaft around in a backhand blow that would have smashed into my face, breaking my nose and momentarily blinding me if it had not been for my reflexive action of turning my head so that the hard wood caught me on the ear and cheek guard of my helmet. Stars of a thousand different colors burst in my head as I felt my knees start to buckle, cursing myself for my stupidity, and I believe that it was only my sheer brute strength that saved me from falling, except I now found myself frantically on the defensive, struggling to clear my head as he pressed his attack. Only the many watches of practice and repetition saved me from his onslaught, when as of its own volition, my left arm moved my shield to block his thrusts while my right made half-hearted attempts to find my own opening. Despite myself, I felt myself step back a pace, only stopped by the strong arm of the man behind me bracing me and keeping me from falling over.

  “Kill ‘im Pullus. Gut that bastard.”

  Hearing the shout in my ear, I shook my head again to clear it even as my opponent made a thrust that I only partially deflected, the head of the spear glancing off the metal rim of my shield. There was a slicing pain high on my left arm, just below the shoulder as he cut a deep gash into my flesh. Fortunately the pain had the effect of clearing my head, and I let out a roar as I leaped back forward, catching him full in the face with the boss of my shield. I felt his nose crunch under the metal, and he let out a muffled groan, it now being his turn to step back and go on the defensive. But I was in no mood to give him any quarter; he had almost killed me, and for that he would pay. Now he was the one desperately parrying my blows as he sought to clear his own head, except he did not have the support that I had enjoyed. Even with men crowded around him, none of them thought to brace him or help him in any way; apparently it was against some sort of code of battle they had. More fools them, I thought, making a thrust at his gut that caused him to drop his shield before I gave him another taste of his own medicine, taking the pommel of my sword to smash him in the face, hitting him again on his already injured nose. This time the pain was too much for him to bear and a scream came from his lips as he dropped his shield to grab his face with his free hand, whereupon I killed him with a quick thrust to his unprotected chest. He went to his knees then toppled to the ground, still clutching his face, while I was already wading into the next man, moving a step farther down the hill, followed by my comrades.

  This was the nature of the fighting for perhaps two thirds of a watch, as we continued to chop our way through the Helvetii horde. Our front line was finally relieved by the second line, attaching their files to the rear so that one longer line was created, just in the manner we drilled it so many times, while we removed ourselves to rest. The butcher’s bill for our first shift was a half-dozen men down, although we only knew of two who were killed outright, the others being dragged to the rear. We stood there panting for breath, drinking our canteens dry as we talked about the battle.

  “They’re not very good, but there's so many of them it almost doesn’t matter,” gasped Vellusius as he tried to clean the caked blood off his blade so that it would not pit the iron.

  “I don’t know about that. There was one that almost did Pullus in. He damn near bashed his brains in.” I looked in annoyance at the man who said this, then bit my tongue when I saw that it was Rufio. True as it may have been, I did not want to be reminded of it. Pulling my helmet off, I gingerly touched the spot above my ear, wincing despite myself because of the pain.

  “Can you tell if your skull is broken by feeling on it?” I wondered.

  “The day that skull of yours is broken, I’m packing it in,” Vibius said, the lightness of his tone belied by the worried look in his eyes as he came over to examine the spot I indicated.

  While he prodded on it, I felt compelled to offer some defense. “It doesn’t matter how it starts, it matters how it ends, neh? And I’m still the one standing.”

  Rufio nodded. “Right enough. But you gave me a good scare there for a moment. I’ve never seen anyone handle a spear like that, and I thought you were a goner for sure. But you’re a stubborn bastard, and you ended up the victor. You’re right, that’s all that counts.”

  “I don’t think you broke your skull,” Vibius announced when he was finished. “You’re just going to have a headache for a few days.” He was right about that. “You need to worry more about that cut on your arm.”

  I looked down in surprise; I had forgotten all about it, and I was happy to see that the blood had clotted and despite being a little stiff, the damage was obviously not extensive. To be safe, I wrapped a strip of bandage around it then promptly forgot about it as we used our vantage point higher on the hill to watch what was unfolding.

  After stubborn resistance, the Helvetii began a fighting withdrawal back down the hill in the general direction of their camp. I will say this for them, they did not just turn and run, but made a true fighting retreat, leaving the field scattered with both Helvetii and Roman bodies. Once we had rested some, we were ordered back into formation, closing up behind what was now the first line, with the third line staying in place.

  “Lucky bastards, we should be in the third line now.” Even Didius said something that we agreed with from time to time, and this was one of them and I wondered why Caesar ordered this, but quickly dismissed it as one of those things that a common Gregarius did not need to know, instead just shrugging my shoulders as we moved back into position.

  In doing so, we also made sure that the Helvetii laying there were not still alive; it would not do to have a group of Helvetians faking their death suddenly rising up from behind us. The battle was gradually moving in the direction of the camp while the sun continued to travel through the sky. It was now well past midday, and the fighting showed no signs of letting up, leading us to speculate what would happen when the sun went down.

  “Knowing Caesar, we’ll keep on fighting,” Vibius sighed, something in his tone telling me that he did not mean it as a compliment, though I held my tongue, not wanting to argue about it. The subject of Caesar was becoming increasingly off limits to us, because in my mind Vibius had developed a totally unwarranted view of Caesar and his motives. Shuffling along behind the first line, we continued speculating on our immediate fate until the horn sounded alerting us that we were about to rotate once more, which was met by muffled groans and curses.

  “By Dis, why does it have to be us? It should be those bastards behind us,” Didius complained bitterly.

  Rufio told him to shut up, but we could tell it was half-hearted at best. Despite our feelings, we hoisted our shields and made ready to go back into the fray.

  The Helvetii did not try to get back to their camp, clearly understanding that trying to jam that many men through the camp gates would be a disaster of the first magnitude. Instead, they chose to withdraw to a hill on the far side of the camp, and we followed close behind. As we continued pressing, I heard the Pilus
Prior and Rufio conferring about something, so like all good soldiers, I did my best to eavesdrop without obviously doing just that, stopping and pretending instead to work on a loose piece of gear.

  “I don’t know,” the Pilus Prior was saying, “but something about this doesn’t strike me as being right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look back the way we came,” the Pilus Prior pointed, and I darted my eyes in the direction he was indicating. “See the bodies?”

  “Yeah, I see them,” Rufio replied, clearly puzzled, “so what?”

  “There aren’t that many,” answered the Pilus Prior.

  “Aren’t that many? What are you talking about? There’s hundreds, more than hundreds, there’s a couple thousand at least, not counting ours.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” persisted the Pilus Prior. “You remember what Caesar told us. We’re facing something like 100,000 warriors, and they retreat and act like we’re beating them for a couple of thousand dead?”

  “Maybe they’re not as fierce as they’re cracked up to be,” Rufio said, but I could hear the doubt creeping into his voice while I felt the first icy fingers of dread walking up my spine.

  “Does it seem that way to you?” asked the Pilus Prior quietly. “Do they act like they’re beaten?”

  “No,” admitted Rufio. “So what do you think is going on?”

  “I think that maybe they’re not going back towards their camp for a reason. I think that maybe they’re pulling us up that hill so that the camp is to our back.”

  A lump formed in my stomach as I realized that the Pilus Prior was probably right, and in that moment, my respect for him went up a notch. I finished what I was pretending to do, then hurried on to join the rest of the Century to relay what I had just heard.

  “By the gods, I hope he sends word to Caesar,” Romulus exclaimed.