Marius' Mules

by S. J. A. Turney

  As soon as the cavalry had cleared the front of the massed legions, the cornicen began to play at the summit of the hill, relaying commands from the general and his staff. Caesar himself stood on one of the wagons, high and visible, shouting words of encouragement that precious few on the battlefield would be able to hear. Fronto, standing in the back row of the Tenth, listened to the call and gave the order for his men to sheathe swords and heft their javelins. Caesar had requested Fronto’s presence among the staff on the crest of the hill, but he had fought for his position as commander of a legion. He had after much argument been allowed to take a place with his men, though not to fight, but purely to lead, direct and encourage. To this end, he carried a sword with his left hand and no shield. This was an important fight, and Fronto needed the best possible morale among the Tenth, hence his camping the previous night among the men.

  The Gaulish phalanx closed inexorably with the front lines of the legions, thousands of long spears thrust from behind a wall of the Gaulish shields. The legions took a few steps forward on the command of the officers, reaching the lower levels of the slope, where a slight ledge allowed the legionaries to defend at a slightly advantageous though not unfeasible gradient. The Helvetii reached the initial slope just as the order was given for javelins to be released.

  Each legionary throughout the army on the slope took a firm grip of one of the two javelins they carried as standard kit. The whole bulk of men shifted position slightly and, as the final cry went out, twenty thousand javelins arced out from the four front legions and into the phalanx moving toward them. The impact was phenomenal. The Helvetian shield wall at the front shattered and disintegrated like painted wall plaster. Javelins tore through shields, sometimes crippling the bearer but always making the shield useless, the soft metal neck of the missile bending and becoming lodged as it passed through the wood and leather.

  As the front lines of the Helvetian offensive collapsed under the hail of missiles, the four legions repositioned, drawing their short swords once more. At the top of the hill, the Eleventh and Twelfth reacted to the signal and released another volley of javelins, arcing way over the heads of the lower units and crashing among the mass of Gaulish warriors.

  As the Tenth moved forward, the other three legions keeping pace to the sides, Fronto settled into step. The Helvetii ahead of them were disorganised and in something resembling a state of panic. Realising that a wall of Roman steel was closing on them, the non-wounded men in the nearest group of Gauls desperately pulled themselves into as solid a front as they could manage. Few had managed to retain their shields due to the javelin volleys; most had cast them aside as useless. The front ranks of the armies met with a crash that shuddered across the Roman lines, but smashed the Gaulish wall. The order to break ranks came from Caesar’s staff cornicen on the summit, and was relayed by each legion’s musicians. By the third note, the shield-wall of the Tenth had broken and the true melee had begun.

  Priscus led the First Cohort from the front of the army, and they spearheaded into the enemy. Once the front line of the Gauls had been broken, the ranks behind were disorganised. Discipline and command passed away from the generals and became the province of the centurions, who controlled their individual groups of eighty men according to a grand plan but with a great deal of individual freedom. Priscus raised his head as high as he could above the men of his century and looked around. The First Cohort was in danger of getting cut off if the enemy managed to organise themselves again. He could see the rest of the Tenth some distance behind, and could hear Fronto’s cornicens relaying commands, but there were now pockets of Gauls between the First Cohort and the rest of the legion.

  Realising the danger, Priscus called his signifer and gave the command for defensive formation. The entire cohort pulled in as close as possible, forming a solid square, with shield walls facing outwards on all sides. Once the formation was complete, he relayed a second set of signals to the senior centurions of the other cohorts to inform them that the First Cohort would hold where it was.

  Suddenly, there was a crashing sound behind him. A number of Helvetian warriors had banded together to try and break through the cohort’s outer wall. The first two came hurtling over the shield wall and crashed onto the heads of the men behind, bringing a whole section down in a heap. The two barbarians, who must have been thrown bodily by their fellows, died within seconds of landing but the damage to the formation had been done. Following on in their wake came a dozen burly Gauls. Having dropped their broad-bladed swords, they were armed only with a dagger in each hand. They smashed through the collapsed shield wall and cut and shredded their way in among the tightly packed Romans at the centre. The legionaries immediately started their work with the short thrusting swords, but the lack of manoeuvring room left them unable to put up an effective fight. While those few barbarians cut at and stabbed whatever they touched in the press of men, other Helvetii were attacking the hole in the shield wall, trying to widen it.

  Priscus bellowed at the top of his voice

  “Close the damn gap, you arseholes.”

  Other centurions within the First Cohort delivered orders and the various centuries on that side of the wall pushed to close the gap. Meanwhile, the centre of the formation was gradually regaining control of the situation and the barbarians were being whittled down until the threat was gone. Unfortunately, due to the large number of dead in the centre of the square there was now a considerable open space, littered with prostrate bodies, and the few remaining Gaulish warriors were making good use of it.

  Priscus raised his head to make out what was happening and saw one of the three remaining warriors, who had rescued shields from among the dead Romans, making straight for him in the press. It was always a dangerous situation; centurions led from the front, and their high visibility made them an obvious target. The centurionate bore a ridiculously high mortality rate, and Priscus was determined not to become just another statistic in the legion’s paperwork. He eyed the wounded, blood-stained warrior who clutched a dagger in one hand, a large Roman shield in the other.

  Reaching out, he gripped the shaft of a standard that one of his signifers held.

  “Give me that.”

  The signifer relinquished the tall, heavy and unwieldy standard reluctantly. It was an honour, though a dangerous one, to carry the standard.

  Swinging the weighted pole above the heads of the men, he brought it down and angled it like a spear. Indeed, there was a spear head on the very tip, above the golden laurel wreath. Bracing himself, he pulled it back. The barbarian sneered and held the large shield over his torso, looking over the top in the manner of a legionary, and picked up pace into a charge. The legionaries held back. Though they could probably have tackled the barbarian, none of his men would dare dishonour the primus pilus like that. The barbarian pushed the shield out forward to ward off the spear head and laughed.

  At the last minute, Priscus braced himself and dropped the point of the standard toward the ground. The spear point jammed deep into the lower leg of the barbarian, who stumbled and tripped, shredding his shin. As the point tore out of the side of his leg, his momentum carried him forward, pitching him into the air. He landed some yards from Priscus, and struggled to get to his feet. His right leg was useless but Priscus had to give him credit as he managed to pull himself upright with his left, leaving the shield on the floor. He turned to face the Roman, snarling, and failed to see the swinging standard in the arms of the primus pilus in time. The heavy bronze and steel weight at the top of the standard smashed into the side of his head with a crunch. Priscus hauled the thing upright and held it out for the signifer to take. The man took one look at the blood-soaked spear tip and the bent and dented decoration.

  “I hope you’re not going to try and take that out of my pay, sir.”

  Priscus snorted. He turned to look at the Gaul, lying on the disturbed turf with a broken face and a shredded leg.

  “If he’s not dead, you can finish him off and
strip him of goods to pay for any damage.”

  He turned to survey the situation. He had lost maybe forty or fifty men in the one brawl, probably nearly a hundred all told. Messy and stupid.

  “Everyone in the second and third lines, get those javelins angled upward. I don’t want anyone else coming through, or over, the front rank.”

  He became aware of shouting in Latin, and scanned the battlefield for the voice. He saw Velius leading the Second Cohort into the depths of the Helvetian force. They drew level with the First Cohort and formed a solid block. Behind them, in the distance, he could see men from other legions manoeuvring in amongst the barbarians. They wouldn’t get to try a trick like that again.

  A second voice from behind them made him turn. Fronto was visible on the lowest slope, with the rest of the Tenth pushing onwards. Priscus knew his commander well enough to realise that Fronto felt his rank demanded he keep a rear position. He knew also that the officer was pushing the Tenth further forward than the other legions in order to get himself involved.

  “Alright lads. We’ve made our in-roads. Now it’s time to form up and carve ourselves some Helvetii.”

  He grinned and waved the signifer forward.

  * * * * *

  The mid afternoon sun beat down on the battlefield as Roman and Gaul alike sweated and fought both the enemy and exhaustion. The main force of the Helvetii had broken around thirty minutes ago after long hours of butchery, and had beaten an ordered, if hasty, retreat toward a hill perhaps half a mile distant. The Romans had given the Gauls little time to disengage, but had been forced to take a few minutes to re-form the legions again for the next regimented push. The Helvetii had raced only minutes ahead of the Roman front line toward the slopes of a second hill. Now the six legions marched along the valley, intent on ending the deprivations of the marauding Gauls.

  In the same basic formation that they had held on the hill, the legions marched three cohorts deep, with the Eleventh and Twelfth forming a rearguard. On the crest of the hill, the baggage remained under guard of the auxiliary units. Now that the Helvetii had drawn themselves into a tight unit rather than a great wide sprawl of men, there didn’t look to be half as many of them. There must, of course, be a great number of their dead strewn across the plain between here and the hill that Caesar had made his own, and the Romans began to heave a collective sign of relief at the whittling down of the enemy.

  Aulus Crispus, commander of the Eleventh Legion and relatively new to the rank of legate, raised his voice above the jingle, clatter and rumble of a legion on the move.

  “Come on men. We need to maintain close proximity to the Ninth, or we shall see no action at all.”

  He still felt uncomfortable giving commands to so many men, including a number who were considerably older than he was. It was easy, he reflected, for Fronto, Balbus and Longinus. They had all had long and often distinguished careers in the military. The men looked up to that, and it had given them the experience to deal with command.

  And, of course, young Crassus had the benefit of family. His father was one of Rome’s most notable generals, and a man that even Caesar respected. Command came naturally to him.

  Crispus had been in the military since Caesar had taken over Cisalpine Gaul. Before that, he’d been in Rome serving in a lower administrative role of the corn dole. His mother had insisted that he was too old now to be stuck in such a low position, and that he should join the army to get himself a little further up the ladder. She was right, of course. If he survived this campaign with no serious harm, he could expect a high administrative post in the city at the very least. And so he’d signed on into Caesar’s patronage (his family had been clients of the Julian family for some time) and accepted the position of a military tribune in Cisalpine Gaul.

  The military tribunes were almost always men of little military experience and great ambition. They were far removed from those staff officers that were given command of legions, who were generally older, wiser and more self assured. Crispus had had barely enough time to become accustomed to his post as tribune before Caesar had summoned both he and Galba and placed them in the position of legates.

  In a way, there was more to be said for the position in this army than elsewhere. It was rare for a legate to be identified with a specific legion. When his father had served in the east, he had been made a legate and commanded three different legions in a fluid role. That was what the position was. The legate was expected to move freely between legions, taking command wherever he was needed at a time. Few generals had taken to the idea of assigning a specific legate to a legion but Caesar, like Crassus and Pompey on occasion, had adopted the practice. In fact, Crispus had gathered, Caesar had been doing this since his earliest commands. Fronto had served with the general before, and had always had a specific legion of his own.

  Galba, on the other hand, was born to this. Crispus had watched his colleague since they were both promoted and had noticed that the dark, stocky and quiet Galba had already gained much the same respect of his men that could be seen in Fronto or Balbus’ legions. The man was obviously meant to command. Crispus just couldn’t see why Caesar had put him in charge of a legion. He was pretty sure that the men made jokes behind his back; ‘mummy’s boy’ or ‘pretty boy’ or some such. He couldn’t really blame them. He knew he was far too young and unassuming to command the Eleventh. An educated poet and rhetorician, he had read much of the tactics of the great generals, and had found himself fascinated with the stories of Alexander the Macedonian, but had never considered that he might make a leader of men himself.

  In front of him, the entire Eleventh spread out over half the field, with the Twelfth on the other side. Somewhere ahead were the Ninth and the Eighth, though he could barely make out the standards. Glancing around, he could see Caesar’s colour party riding behind the legions, some of the cavalry protecting them, and covering the flank and over to the left…

  Over to the left…

  That couldn’t be right.

  Crispus felt the panic flood through him. He had been relieved to discover that he would be held in reserve at the rear, where he wouldn’t need to make any kind of decision or try to impose his will on the legion. From his position, he could continue to observe the tactics and abilities of the experienced legates.

  But now he’d been dropped in it. So far in it he couldn’t see daylight. The Eleventh were the flank and all the Helvetii had been driven before them, so who in the Gods’ name were they? He scanned the low ridge near the road once more, and saw the shapes again, moving mostly hidden behind the ridge. What on Earth should he do?

  He tried to calm down; get a grip. What would Fronto do? Forcing himself to a decision, for good or for ill, he called to his cornicen.

  “Sound the alarm and have the entire legion halt and configure a shield wall facing left. We have company.”

  The cornicen furrowed his brow and followed the pointing finger of the young, fair haired officer.

  “Shit.” The cornicen, his horn still hanging on his shoulder, put his hand over his eyes and squinted toward the road.

  In the grip now of a concern for the whole army, Crispus said sharply ”Soldier!”

  The cornicen pulled himself into an attention stance and saluted.

  “Apologies. I meant ‘Shit, Sir!’”

  Crispus rapped emphatically on the cornicen’s helmet with his knuckles.

  “Let’s forego the formalities, soldier. Just issue the signals now!”

  Nodding, the cornicen unslung his cornu and began to blare out signals. The Eleventh halted in their tracks and obeyed with practiced ease. By the time they had faced left, the second enemy were above the ridge and making their presence known. The flanking Gauls, members of the Boii and Tulingi tribes that travelled as part of the Helvetii, outnumbered the Eleventh Legion by more than two to one. Crispus would need to pull off an impressive manoeuvre to hold this together. He wondered if the Ninth would stop their pursuit and join in the protection of
the flank. Other signals were being relayed across the army.

  Straining to hear, he could make out just enough to understand what was happening. The Helvetii had halted and drawn up into a formation mirroring that with which Caesar had initially held the other hill. The Ninth would be no help to Crispus; they would be engaging the front lines of the Helvetii by now. He wondered briefly whether to send a runner to Galba and the Twelfth, but then realised that the Twelfth would already be swinging out the other way to try and flank the Helvetii.

  Crispus scratched his brow, trying desperately to think. He would have perhaps a minute before the new threat closed on the flank and the Romans would be hemmed in. The Eleventh had no javelins left after the volleys at the hill. Any tactics he could come up with would have to be brutally hand-to-hand. Grinding his teeth, his mind flipped back through ethereal pages of the great battles of the Scipios, Alexander and others.

  He suddenly became aware that although his legion stood alert, tense and awaiting the crash of the charging Gauls, the officers were looking at him expectantly.

  “Maintain the shield wall.”

  It was weak and they knew it. Longinus or Fronto would have come up with a brilliant last-second manoeuvre that unmanned the Gauls. He wasn’t experienced enough; didn’t have the instinctive flair for strategy. He averted his eyes from the glares of the centurions. They might well hold the shield wall, but for how long? How long would they need to protect the flank? Would the Eleventh even exist afterwards? Crispus offered a fervent prayer to Nemesis.

  A moment later, the second front of the Gaulish force smashed into the Eleventh, and the pyrrhic butchering began. There were more than twice as many of the enemy, but the legionaries were better equipped. Both sides would wear down at roughly the same rate, Crispus estimated, and that was unacceptable to his centurions.