‘Where the hell is Plancus with the reserves?’
‘Sir?’ a voice called.
Both Baculus and Galba shouted ‘Yes?’ neither willing to take their eyes from the enemy, as they continued to block blows with their shields and stab and swipe at any flesh they could identify before them.
A legionary appeared behind them.
‘Sir, the wagoners and engineers are marching across the camp, armed like us!’
Baculus laughed.
‘Looks like the reserves are having their job done for them by a load of fat carters! We’re going to be rescued by the support staff!’
Across the gently-sloping camp, three hundred legion-retained civilians, retired legionaries and engineers had dragged swords, shields, helmets and pila from the supply wagons and were marching in an impressive imitation of a legion toward the rear of the Nervii.
At the front, Sabinus and Cicero, freshly arrived at the field and determined to do what they could to salvage the Twelfth, shouted orders and tried to keep their strange, newly-commissioned unit in formation.
The ‘century’ pulled up with reasonable efficiency forty or fifty paces from the enemy, presented a shield wall as the rear Nervian ranks turned to deal with this new threat, and cast their missiles.
Though few of the ancillary staff had any training, the mass of pila arced up and came down among the mass of angry warriors, causing deaths and cries of dismay. With a roar, a group of warriors veered away from the mass and charged the small group of false legionaries.
The men presented a passable wall and planted their feet apart to withstand the crash as the Belgae barged into them, reeling back momentarily and then putting all their strength into holding the line while they stabbed madly at anything they could. There was no finesse or plan to the attack but, in the press of enemy bodies, it was near impossible, even for the untrained, to fail to land a blow.
More of the Nervii began to turn to this new unexpected attack, and within a couple of dozen heartbeats, the support column was being overwhelmed in a similar fashion to the Twelfth. Across the rampart and beyond the battling remnant of the legion, the cavalry began to pull back. The Nervii had finally decided to deal with the incessant gnat-bites that were the cavalry attacks, and had sent a large group of spear bearers to deal with them.
Baculus pulled himself back from the frontline, allowing a legionary to take his position. The general was upright, but being supported by one of the men. The primus pilus, a tall man already, pushed his way to the highest stretch of incomplete rampart, a mere two feet high, but enough to look over the heads of the legion and take in the situation. The hope they’d felt at the arrival first of the cavalry and then of the support staff slipped away as the centurion realised just how little difference it had really made. They were still outnumbered at least ten to one and the legion was losing a dozen men every fifty beats of the heart, despite their defensive stance. The cavalry had been forced to withdraw and were now forming up to charge, though the spear-bearing enemy would make minced meat of them if they tried it. The support staff, brave though the move had been, were now being systematically exterminated by the Nervii rear lines. Even as the primus pilus watched the rear lines of wagoners fled the scene for the relative safety of the wagons, leaving two unknown officers desperately holding together a rapidly disintegrating unit.
He turned to see what was happening elsewhere. The Eighth and Eleventh were embroiled in fierce fighting on the river bank, and their engagement could still realistically go either way. The standards of the Ninth were waving at the top of the hill opposite as Rufus and his men cornered the Atrebates and began to exact a heavy toll on them.
But the standards of the Tenth were descending the hill back toward the river at a run. He smiled and turned to the beleaguered men of his legion.
‘Hold it just a little longer, lads… Fronto and the Tenth are on the way.’
Lucius Vorenus, pilus prior of the Second Cohort in the Thirteenth Legion, growled. A long-serving veteran who had been pulled in to the command structure of the newly-raised Gallic legion, Vorenus was sick to death of his men being sent to nursemaid the baggage, or left to guard the camp. It was clear that the rest of the army saw the two new legions as inferior, and that prejudice extended even to the centurions such as himself, who had more experience than many of the taunting bastards. Vorenus had been there under the elder Crassus fifteen years ago when they’d put Spartacus and his slaves down and now he was leading a unit that were not even expected to truly take part in anything.
And almost a quarter of an hour ago the Thirteenth and Fourteenth had received word that the battle was already happening; that the other legions were in the shit. The staff officers Sabinus and Cicero had immediately ridden off ahead at breakneck pace to see what they could do and to confirm that the reserves were on the way.
And what had ‘commander’ Plancus done about it? Kept them at a steady march so that they were fresh when they got there.
His growl deepened in intensity. The bloody battle would be over when they got there at this rate. The legate of the Fourteenth, currently the only commander in the rearguard and leading both legions, was so concerned over looking good when he arrived that the reserves would be too late. Taking a deep breath, he ran forward to where the primus pilus strode ahead.
‘Pullo?’
As he fell in alongside, he noted an equally sour look on his peer’s face.
‘We’re going to have to do something.’
Pullo nodded.
‘I know. But you’re suggesting we disobey the direct orders of a legate.’
Vorenus grimaced.
‘I’m suggesting we disobey the direct orders of an arsehole. You’re the primus pilus. I’m just the pilus prior. It’s up to you to give the order.’
Pullo sighed.
‘I was enjoying being back in service. Seems a shame to end my career so quickly.’
He took a deep breath.
‘But you're right. We've got to pick up the pace. Get back to your men.’
Vorenus nodded and, as he jogged back along the lines of the First Cohort to the Second, he heard Pullo shout ‘Time to get into action lads. Triple pace, now!’
The Thirteenth Legion surged forward with a rhythmic crashing of arms and armour and thudding of feet.
Somewhere back with the Fourteenth, legate Plancus would be having a fit.
Chapter 17
(Battle of the Selle)
‘Contubernium (pl. Contubernia): the smallest division of unit in the Roman legion, numbering eight men who shared a tent.’
Baculus staggered under another blow and swung wildly with the enemy blade he had ripped from the hands of one of the dying barbarians. Lifting the heavy sword with a bone-weary arm, he used the sleeve of his tunic to wipe away the stream of blood flowing from the wound on his now-unprotected head and blinding his right eye with a crimson veil. He staggered slightly, his leg cut in four places and now with barely enough strength to hold him up.
‘We have to do something. There can’t be more than eight or nine hundred of us left.’
Caesar, having fallen back from the front line and landing occasional blows between the shoulders of his men while supported by another legionary, nodded and glanced at Galba. The legate was as hard-pressed as anyone else here, fighting for his life alongside the common soldiery. It occurred to the general that the greatest leveller among men was a life-threatening situation. In any other circumstance, even in the thick of battle, he would have been required by propriety to haul Baculus over the coals for addressing him in such a manner. In the situation in which the two men currently found themselves, even the idea was laughable.
And, of course, Baculus had fought like a titan.
‘You’re right, of course. Step back from the line…’
Baculus did as he was bade, dragging his leg and barely able to stand. As the man breathed in ragged rasps, and used the great Belgic broadsword as best he could to support himself, the g
eneral collared Galba and hauled him back from the front line.
Legionaries fell forward to replace the two men immediately, desperately defending the diminishing line.
‘I need suggestions’ the general said. ‘We’ve lost three quarters of the legion, most of the officers and standard bearers. With enemies on all sides, the Twelfth is just shrinking and will shortly disappear, with us in the middle.’
Galba shrugged.
‘We need support. But the problem is that even if the reserves show up and attack the Belgae, unless the enemy actually break and run for it, they won’t be able to get to us. We’ll still be gone by the time the relief reaches us.’
Baculus pointed.
‘Looks like the Tenth are coming back across. The Ninth must be in control over there. We’ve got the cavalry trying to help us, the support staff and the Tenth, and the reserves must be nearly here by now. They must have been told ages ago now.’
‘Yes,’ Galba said, ‘but none of them can actually reach us. They can attack the Nervii on another front, but that might not help us at all.’
Caesar frowned.
‘Then we must move the world around us.’
‘Sir?’
The general smiled.
‘If the relief cannot reach our position, we have to move the entire legion mid fight; find a different position.’
‘But sir…’ Galba said, ‘We’re completely surrounded.’
‘Then we’ll just have to push hard. This is my plan: It appears that the Eighth and Eleventh have the enemy pinned against the river. They cannot afford to stop that push, or their own opposition could regroup. But the Eleventh is at this end of the field. If we can link up with them, they can give us support, and we will be the flank rather than on our own.’
‘I can see that, general, but how can we get to them?’
Caesar smiled.
‘The plebeian way… brute force and ignorance.’
Baculus wiped the free-flowing blood from his eyes again.
‘We send all the standards in that direction and reorganise. The northern edge takes the lead and actually pushes through the Nervii until we reach the Eleventh. At the same time, the other three directions go as defensive as possible, almost a testudo, and pull back so that the whole legion gradually moves north until we join up with the others.’
Caesar gave a rare, very genuine grin.
‘That’s the sort of thing.’
Baculus saluted, almost collapsing as he lost the support of his arm.
‘I’ll start moving the standards forward now, sir.’
He turned, but his leg, so pale from blood loss it had taken on a blue tint, buckled and gave way beneath him, causing him to collapse to the floor. He grasped the belt of a nearby legionary and used it to haul himself up.
Caesar looked him up and down and shook his head, smiling.
‘I don’t think you will.’
He rapped a nearby second-line legionary on the shoulder. The man turned irritably and, as he saw who it was, came to a cramped salute in the press of men.
‘What’s your name, soldier?’
‘Naevius, sir!’
‘Well, Naevius… I’m putting you in charge of your primus pilus. He fights like a lion, but he’s so badly wounded he can hardly move. Your task is to make sure he stays calm, away from the action, and alive long enough for me to be able to decorate him when this is over. Got that?’
The legionary saluted again and then grasped the centurion to support his weight. Baculus glared at both he and the general and then sighed and gave up, just before his legs did. Caesar turned to Galba.
‘This will need every ounce of courage and pride your men have, legate. I need you in the middle of things, shouting encouragement. I, on the other hand, will be at the front, with the standards.’
‘Sir…’ Galba shook his head. ‘You can’t do that. You’re the only person on this field that we really cannot afford to lose.’
‘That, legate, is very charming and a little sycophantic. Given our circumstances, if we don’t do something big, it will make no difference how important any of us are.’
Galba nodded. If the slight put-down in the general offended him, he showed no sign.
‘Very well, sir. I shall head to the rear of the column and try to hold the legion together as we move.’
Caesar smiled.
‘Signifers? To me… Rally on me!’
As the general turned and began to push his way through the rapidly-diminishing unit, the standards of various centuries bobbed through the crowd, converging on the northern area of the struggling unit. Once the general had reached a position in the third line of men, he waited for the signifers to arrive. There should have been fifty nine standards throughout the full legion. A quick count and he could see twenty four… no, twenty five. Taking a deep breath, he called out.
‘Call out if you are a signifer for the First Cohort!’
Seven voices replied.
‘And the Second?’
Four men.
‘Third?’
Six voices.
‘Fourth?’
Not a voice was raised above the background din of battle.
‘The Fourth Cohort is gone?’
He sighed. What he had thought he could turn to a rousing speech was, instead, drawing attention to the losses they’d encountered and the danger that none of them would live to see the sun go down. Change of tactic…
‘The Twelfth has valiantly held a flank against overwhelming odds on its own!’
Rousing… it had to be rousing.
‘The Gods themselves would tremble before the spirit and might of this legion, who I have been proud to fight alongside.’
There was a chorus of low cheers.
‘But now, it is time to save ourselves; to preserve what remains of this glorious unit. We must push aside this sea of unwashed and bloodthirsty apes as a stable hand sweeps aside the excretions of a horse, and we must join with the Eleventh. I will lead this push, alongside the signifers of the Twelfth. We will show the Nervii that they may throw a million barbarians at us, but we are Rome, and we will not be snuffed out!’
A massive cheer went up as he finished. In a final, defiant gesture, he jabbed his gladius high in the air, turned and pushed his way into the frontline. The gens Iulia could disappear into obscurity with the death of its greatest son on this bloody field, but if the great Caesar was to die in battle, it would be in the thick of it where he would be remembered. The wound in his leg throbbed and, if he held his leg at certain angles, threatened to collapse him, but he gritted his teeth. Baculus had been fighting with far worse.
‘Push! Make for the Eleventh!’
With no apparent regard to his personal safety, the general gritted his teeth, raised his shield, and threw himself into the fray. To either side, the men of the legion renewed their attacks, heaving with their shields, no longer holding them as steady as possible to fend off blows, but rather to bodily push the lines of the Nervii back away from them. Slowly, almost interminably, the wave of frothing barbarians gave slightly, and the men of the Twelfth managed a single step forward.
‘Again!’
As the men heaved and pushed, slashing and stabbing as room allowed, there was another shift, like the collapse of sections of a cliff into the sea. The legion surged forward a few steps, taking advantage of the opportunity. Caesar stepped forth himself, carefully, aware of the wound in his leg that threatened to fell him with every pace, in line with the front wall of men, ducking and stabbing at a barbarian who lunged for his face. The man howled as the general’s sword slid deep into his chest, grating slightly between the ribs. As Caesar tried to pull the blade back, the front mass of Nervii shifted again and the warrior fell backwards behind his fellows, taking the officer’s very fine blade with him.
‘Damn it!’
The general raised his shield slightly. He could reach round and take a sword from one of the men behind him, but the action might le
ave him open to attack. Instead, he braced his legs, grunting at the pain as the wound on his calf pumped out his precious lifeblood. Ignoring the pain and discomfort, he leaned in against his shield, keeping his head down enough that he could only just see over the bronze edging strip of the scutum below the guard of his helmet. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed ‘Push!’
Trusting to the men beside him to achieve a similar force, the general put every ounce of his weight against the shield, planting his legs behind him and heaving against the turf. Behind him, a quick-thinking signifer took advantage of the fact that the general was ducked and low, and raised the standard with its ornamental spear point, stabbing with it over his commander’s head and impaling the face of one of the barbarians.
‘Good man! Keep going!’
The general, down in the darkness behind his shield where no one could see him, suddenly realised that he was grinning like an ecstatic boy. There was something truly refreshing about the prosecution of a battle when you were one of many compatriots with a simple, straightforward task, no matter how hard that task might be. His mind found a clarity it rarely managed in the knowledge that, right now, all that was required of him was to push and survive until he found there were Romans in front of him instead of barbarians. No plans, no treachery, no bureaucracy or argument. Just men relying on each other and all pushing the same way.
Briefly, for one moment in the heat of battle, Caesar found that he understood men like Fronto and Labienus. There was a simplicity and a purity in battle that held a lure when compared with the thorny complexities of politics and was not always any more dangerous.
‘Come on, men. Just a little further.’
Of course, he had no idea how far they must go; possibly further than was realistically possible, but something had to be done.
Once again there was a roar and the Roman line heaved forward, stepping forward once… twice… three… even four paces. The general risked looking up for a moment, ducking back urgently as a great blade swung past, almost removing the top of his head.
He could see the standards of the Eleventh ahead. Straining, he listened over the roaring of his men and the general sounds of battle. Crispus and his officers were bellowing out commands, and the two legions were slowly converging as the Eleventh tried to push far enough to join with them.
Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Page 87
