by R. W. Peake
The immunes labored through every watch, doing their jobs by the light of oil lamps during that brief period of time where it was dark enough to justify the extra light. They were set up in shifts, so that they could snatch some sleep and feed themselves, yet they worked extremely hard nonetheless. Caesar also sent for more skilled workmen, via his fastest galley, and they were soon added to the workforce. In order to prevent a catastrophe of this nature happening a third time, Caesar ordered the construction of an enclosed area, much in the nature of a fort, placed at a point where neither the highest tide nor the most severe storm could wreak any damage. Because of the space needed to contain all of the ships, it was by far the largest project of this type we ever worked on, and even with the labor of 20,000 experienced and willing men, construction of the enclosure took more than three days. Once it was completed, we began the process of moving the ships up off the beach and across the ground, thankfully flat, through one of the gates of the enclosure, of which there were four in the normal manner, except that they were all large enough to accommodate the width of our largest transports. Using huge amounts of grease brought over from Gaul that we applied to a number of logs, we pulled the ships across the rollers into the enclosure, where the men skilled as shipwrights began their work. Day and night, the activity was incessant, and it was of the type that had all of us praying to be selected for guard duty. Normally we abhorred it because it was so boring yet also so easy to find oneself in some sort of trouble. Even so, we felt it was better than the alternative. We were not one of the lucky Cohorts until almost the very end of the project, where we stood on the ramparts gazing out at a large group of Britons who we were told had made it a habit to come watch us work, seemingly fascinated at our activities.
“They think we’re completely crazy,” Vibius commented.
I nodded my head, since this was the same thought running through my mind as Vibius and I stood, watching them watch us, either on horseback or sitting on the platform of a chariot, ready to bolt at the first sign that we would order the cavalry out to pursue them. They were not painted for war, yet we did see something that either escaped our notice the year before, or was evidence of a new tribe entering the picture, because some of the men had done something very interesting to their hair. Using what we would find out later was a mixture of lime and water, they made their hair stand on end in great spiked tufts. Apparently this was designed to strike fear into their enemies, but I am afraid that at least as far as we were concerned, the effect was more of some amusement than anything else. We had long since learned that men adorning themselves in a certain way, or wearing certain clothes did not make them any more or less hard to kill; the only exception to this of course was whether what they were wearing was designed to protect them in a practical manner, like armor. Otherwise, we were singularly unimpressed with the lengths that men went to in order to try and give themselves an extra edge in battle.
Work on the damaged ships continued until the end of the month; finally, we had affected the necessary repairs, and ensured the security of the fleet to an extent approved by the Legions with the construction of the enclosure. Turning our attention back to the Britons, we saw they were not idle either, as it turned out. Like most of the tribes on the mainland, the tribes of Briton have their own internal political struggles and rivalries, their hatred of each other only set aside because their hatred of us was greater. During the time we spent repairing the fleet, they were working on the political front, with an alliance formed between the tribe initially facing us, the Trinovantes, and one of the most powerful tribes, led by a man named Cassivellaunus. It was his warriors with the spiked hair that we saw watching us a couple of days before. Picking up where we left off, a force was left behind to guard the camp and enclosure, with the rest of the army retracing our steps back in the direction of the camp we made earlier in the month. There was one difference this time; the Britons were not going to be content to wait for us to come to them.
Marching in column with our cavalry as a screen around us, the first attacks began, predictably with their chariots and some cavalry. Our horsemen successfully repulsed the attacks, though as was usual with our Gallic cavalry, their passions ran high. When things went well, they were incredibly fierce and aggressive. This time was no exception and they pursued the Briton chariots into some nearby woods, which was their mistake. Almost immediately their shouts of triumph turned to cries of alarm when they were set upon by warriors waiting in the woods. Not more than a handful of moments later, our cavalry came streaming out of the woods, many of the horses without men riding on them. Pressing on, we watched for further attacks, yet the Britons seemed to be content to trail along on our flanks, much like wolves do when they are stalking a herd of animals, waiting for the one that cannot keep up to provide them with their evening meal. Moving over the open ground, we approached the same river as before, to find that for the most part our camp was left largely undisturbed. All that needed to be done was to place the stakes of the palisade and repair some of the ditch that had fallen in, and we immediately set to work, confident that the Britons would refrain from attacking us.
We were wrong, very wrong. While we were repairing on our portion of the camp, close to the PortaDecumana, a great shout arose from the guard Cohorts placed a short distance out from the main gate. Because of the nearby enemy Caesar doubled the guard to two Cohorts, but these were men from the 8th, and despite being veterans, they were not part of the expedition the year before and consequently had not faced the chariots before this. Also, the Britons were more committed this time, and under better leadership by the Briton Cassivellaunus, resulting in the two Cohorts being quickly surrounded by the fast-moving chariots, their warriors leaping off them to run quickly up to the Legionaries to slash and thrust at their selected target, only to dash away back to the chariot when pursued by our men. Along with the chariots came a large number of men on foot using the same tactics, not packed together like they usually were, but in loose order, rushing in and out in a similar manner as the chariots. Caesar quickly ordered two more Cohorts to the aid of the guard, except they were of the 8th as well and did not go out together as one unit, but with an interval of perhaps 200 paces between them. This was enough of a gap to allow the Britons to surround each Cohort in turn, the chariots speeding in between the two, the warriors hurling their javelins at the hurrying Legionaries, some of them inevitably finding their mark, felling several of our men. The battle was barely visible because of all the dust created by the chariots crisscrossing back and forth in front of and around the Cohorts, so it was only in brief snatches when the whirling dust parted for just a moment that we could see our men fighting for their lives. All work had virtually ceased as we all tried to see what was happening, shading our eyes and speculating among ourselves what was happening.
“Those boys in the 8th have their hands full. I wonder how long before Caesar calls on us.”
Hearing the familiar voice of the Pilus Prior, who had joined us as we watched, I was somewhat surprised that he was not yelling at us for stopping work, but he seemed just as interested in the fighting as we were. The scar on his face gave him a normally grim expression, but his countenance was even graver as he watched our comrades fighting for their lives beyond the front gates. Moving to a spot just on the other side of the ditch we were preparing where we had a better view, such as it was, we were standing there in a small cluster. I was wondering the same thing, yet Caesar had other ideas, probably thinking that the other Cohorts of the 8th would fight harder because it was their closest friends in trouble, with the command going out for the remaining Cohorts to leave the camp and go to the aid of the men fighting. Along with them went a contingent of our cavalry, their pride already stung and eager to avenge their earlier setback. Finally, after an entire Legion deployed in front of the camp the Britons withdrew, but not after inflicting a fair number of casualties, including one of the new Tribunes who had joined us for this campaign, a young man named Q
uintus Durus. We drew blood as well, the bodies and the wrecks of a couple chariots attesting to that fact out in front of our camp. Settling in for the night, we watched as the 8th mourned their dead and built their funeral pyres.
Next morning, we sent out our normal cavalry patrols, with the Britons falling back on the same entrenched hill we assaulted, before coming down in their chariots and on horseback to engage our cavalry. The results were much the same as the day before, in that neither side inflicted the damage it desired on the other. All morning our patrols engaged with small groups of their mounted troops, and we could track each skirmish by the sudden column of dust rising in the air, borne upward by the small whirlwinds produced by hooves and wheels. Every so often a courier would come galloping in to give Caesar a report of what was taking place, but it did not take a master strategist on either side to know that the tactics currently at play would not produce a decisive engagement. With that in mind, Caesar raised the stakes, ordering out a foraging party, perhaps the most heavily armed in the history of warfare, consisting of the entire cavalry and the 7th, 9th and 10th Legions. Oh, to be sure we did march out of the gates carrying our sickles and baskets, except we marched with the covers of our shields off, ready to change from farmers to soldiers at the first opportunity. Caesar selected Trebonius to command the detachment, still something of an unknown quantity to us. However, we possessed enough confidence in our own Centurions and the experience we had won these years of campaigning. Truth be told, none of us thought that this idea was going to have the results Caesar desired, believing instead that we would come marching back with baskets full of forage for the cavalry, but that was all. And it is just one more reason why he was the general and we were marching in the ranks.
To this day, I still do not easily understand how the Britons decided that this was the opportune time to attack us. Reaching a series of meadows, Trebonius set just the 7th to reaping the grass that would serve as feed for our livestock, while he kept ourselves and the 9th in full battle order, as if we were ready to cross the fields and attack an enemy. Our cavalry was split into two sections, one on either flank, and we were arrayed thus when the Britons came thundering down out of their position on the low hills to throw themselves at us. If they carried the element of surprise with them perhaps it could be understood, but we were positioned far enough away from the nearest line of trees or hills that we had advance warning of their attack. Unlike the day before, when they used a formation spread far enough apart where their speed and mobility was a decided advantage, they chose this day to come in a closely packed mob, in the same manner as almost every other Gallic tribes we fought. Their close formation also gave us a Legionary’s dream of a target for the javelins¸ with no way to miss. Our one regret was that we had not carried two out with us, only hurling one before we went to the sword. Just yards away from us we received the order to countercharge and the two lines went slamming into each other. Metal on metal, flesh on flesh, bone on bone we met, yet it was only a matter of moments before our precision and experience began tipping the scale in our favor. Another factor in our favor was the desire to pay the bastards back for the men they cut down in our ranks, and along with it giving us extra fervor on our part, it also meant that we would give no quarter. Bodies began to pile up along the front line of fighting, and we continued to apply the pressure on their warriors. For a moment, neither side is moving; men are locked in their own private battles, not giving an inch. Then, something happens, and I do not know what it is, but something inside a man tells him to take a step backwards, just one step and no more. Perhaps he tells himself that it is only to open more space in which to fight, it is not really the beginnings of a retreat, and as long as it is just that one man, the outcome is still in doubt, victory is still possible. It is when the man next to him, out of the corner of his eye, sees the man next to him taking that step backwards, leaving him exposed that triggers what is to come. This is especially true if it is the man to his right who is supposed to be shielding him. Perhaps this man wavers for an instant, thinking to himself that he will be accused of giving ground, but there is the nagging worry that if he does not act immediately, he will very quickly find himself surrounded. Then, almost as if acting with its’ own mind, his rear foot takes a step backward, his leading foot immediately closing his stance back up so he does not lose his balance. Now there are two men giving ground, and a small pocket is beginning to form in their front line, which experienced soldiers like we Legionaries of Rome will immediately spot and take full advantage of, pressing our own bodies into the now vacated spot. Now there are two men, on either side of the pocket who are flanked, and it would be nothing short of suicide if they were to stay there without anyone rallying to come to stand by their side to try to dislodge the enemy. This is when training and discipline are their most valuable, and it was obvious that the Britons possessed none of either quality. So the moment when a draw changes to a retreat, then to a rout, happens almost before one can draw more than two or three breaths. Such was the case here, when I could feel the sudden relaxing of the pressure I was putting on the man in front of me, followed by his lunge jerking his harness out of my hand as he began the pursuit of the now-fleeing Britons. Because they chose to attack in such a tight formation the one weapon that was troublesome for us, the chariot, was practically useless in their short-lived assault. Even worse for them now was that men, out of habit I suppose, ran and jumped onto the back of their own chariots, only to be unable to move anywhere because the mass of men fleeing around the horses was so tightly packed that the beasts were standing motionless. Their warriors were screaming at the drivers as we ran by, cutting them both down with a quick thrust to the body. Our cavalry, seeing their own chance for revenge, came pounding into the mass of men, slicing through bodies with their longer swords called the spatha, their faces twisted into savage grins of exultation at this cavalryman’s dream.
Despite the chaos, we maintained our cohesion, running after the Britons in as tight a formation as can be managed running over open ground, cutting down any man who stumbled or faltered. Some of them suddenly seemed to make the decision it was better to die fighting than running and turned to face us, screaming their hatred, their blue faces and spiked white hair making them appear like some sort of dolls all painted up. Again, if they had any discipline and maintained the presence of mind to gather into small groups to make a final stand, although it would not have changed the outcome, it could have made it more costly. Not that I am complaining in any way for that lack in their character, except that perhaps it would have made killing them more meaningful. There is no particular skill, or joy for that matter, in cutting down fleeing men, at least for me. I would much prefer the honor of killing a man face to face, each of us giving our best, rather than the simple task of sinking your blade into a man’s back, especially when he is not prepared for it. But I also knew that any man I let live today could be a man with a score to settle the next battle, so I did not shirk my duty, cutting down my fair share of Britons, adding just another mass of men for which I must offer sacrifice to the gods to appease them.
This was the last time that the Britons tried to face us in open battle, their defeat being so resounding that the alliance of the tribes collapsed immediately, with men who traveled long distances to fight now simply turning about and going home. Those who survived, at any rate, since we slew a few thousand to be sure, yet we were most pleased to see we did a great deal of damage to the ranks of their charioteers, the shattered hulks of them scattered about serving as witness to our victory. Wasting no time burying the dead, we instead left them for the carrion birds and beasts to continue the march west, since Caesar did not want to lose the momentum our victory won for us. Our own losses were laughingly light; no more than a dozen dead among the two Legions, and a handful wounded. My section was never even put into rotation, so naturally we suffered no losses, although Atilius twisted an ankle on our pursuit stepping in a hole or something. He was much too e
mbarrassed to go to have it looked at by the medici, since that meant he would have to be entered on the sick list, and I suppose he knew that the amount of teasing he would take far outweighed the benefit of any treatment the medici could provide. Passing through the killing fields from the first day, the only other sign of life besides the army were the birds circling overhead, waiting for us to leave. Not one solitary Briton was seen that day, or the next; it was not until our third day after the last battle that our patrols spied a small group of horsemen. What we did not know at the time was the political situation among the tribes, as Cassivellaunus fell back on the hit and run tactics that gave us so much trouble the first times we faced the Britons. The chariot reemerged as his preferred method of attack, but never again would we see hundreds of them like we did that day. Instead, there would be perhaps two or three in a group that suddenly burst out from the cover of the plentiful small forests and glades, darting in close so the warrior could hurl as many missiles as he carried with him, before dashing off with our cavalry in hot pursuit. Sometimes we caught them, but more often than not they would reach the cover of the woods, where our cavalry had already paid such a heavy price and only dared to enter in full force, penetrating less than a furlong into its depths. The ground was very flat, with what passed for hills only being perhaps a hundred feet or so high, meaning that progress was easily made, yet this was one time speed was not foremost in Caesar’s mind.
