Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul

by R. W. Peake

  “How do we get off this damned thing?” Vibius mused as he stared down at the solid wooden side of the boat that came up to above his waist.

  At first I did not understand what he was saying, thinking of course we would get off the same way we got on. That is when the realization of what he was saying hit me. I began looking around at the boat; no, the sides of the boat were smooth and of one piece, and there was no obvious place where somehow the side would magically lower so we could walk down a gangplank. Instantly after this idea hit me was the understanding that there would be no gangplank, since I thought it highly unlikely that the Britons, who we could now see standing on the cliffs watching us, would offer us assistance of any kind. Despite the diplomatic words of their envoys, what we saw arrayed on the cliff looked anything but peaceful.

  “Are those….chariots?” This was gasped by Scribonius, and a moan of apprehension rippled through the rest of the men, a feeling that I must say I shared. We had never faced chariots before, although every Roman child has grown up on stories about their use in war. Our experience with chariots was confined to the races in Rome between the various teams, the Reds, Greens, Blues and whatnot. Even as we watched, with almost contemptuous ease, the men driving the chariots wheeled them back and forth along the cliff, in the same manner as a restless beast of prey paces when put in a cage. This would be what was waiting for us when we got ashore, I thought, as soon as we figure out how to get off the damned boat.

  Sometimes the answer to a problem lies in its simplest form and such was the case here. Once the fleet gathered in the shadow of the white cliffs, shortly after the officers were rowed back to their respective ships from Caesar’s flagship, the current suddenly and mysteriously, at least to us, changed direction to begin pushing us farther north along the coast. The Britons on the cliff saw us leaving, and wheeling their chariots around, darted out of sight, the men on foot with them trailing behind, presumably to move to a different vantage point. Sailing for about another third of a watch before there was a signal that a suitable landing place was spotted, without hesitation the signal to land came from Caesar’s ship, with the transports immediately turning to head straight for the shore. The sight of the island drawing inexorably closer brought us all to our feet, as orders were shouted to make ready. Looking nervously about for some sort of indication that might give us an idea of what was about to happen, to our inexperienced eyes it looked very much as if the plan was just to run these ships straight onto the beach. One of the men in the other Century walked over to ask the man steering the ship, and we could see his face turn white at the answer he was given, although it was drowned out by the sound of the wind whistling past the sail and the water slapping the sides of the boat.

  The Legionary walked back in our direction, saying loudly enough for us to hear, “This crazy bastard is just going to run us up onto the beach at full speed.”

  I can tell you that this caused a bit of a reaction among the lot of us, the men talking excitedly, grabbing at whatever they thought would be solid in preparation for the landing. Clutching the side of the ship, with Vibius next to me, we both leaned out over the side to peer at the beach we were heading towards, and I heard Vibius mumbling to himself.

  Thinking he was talking to me, I leaned closer to hear him. “I still don’t know how we’re supposed to get off this damned thing.”

  I will say the shock was not nearly as bad as we expected, mainly because the bottom of the ship scraped against the seabed before the bow actually made it out of the water, yet while this may have softened the shock, it presented another problem. Once it was clear that we had stopped we ran forward to the front of the ship, where I caught my first glimpse of what was waiting for us. Our first difficulty was that the ship had scraped bottom while the bulk of it was still in the water, so jumping out of it even at the point closest to shore meant we would be jumping into water where we could not see the bottom. Additionally, it was what was waiting for us on the beach that made the prospect of jumping into the water even less appealing, as a multitude of Briton warriors, most of them bare-chested with long flowing mustaches, were standing there. All of them as far as I could see were wearing the same blue paint that the envoys had worn, except this time not just on their faces but chests and arms as well. They stood just a short distance away from the beach, which was not sand but of smoothly rounded stones of varying sizes, and the combination of these two obstacles meant that nobody was willing to jump down into the water. In my case, I was not as worried about the depth as the others because of my height, but for men like Vibius, I imagine that in their minds there was a very real fear of going under the surface and not coming back up again. Now the Britons were roaring their defiance at us, shaking their weapons and their fists, taunting us as the transports all came to a stop along the beach. From what I could see, every other ship was in the same predicament; nobody would be jumping onto dry land, so like our ship, none of the men aboard the other vessels wanted to be the first over the side. We all knew that whoever leaped first would be the center of attention, paid to them by men who looked eager to skewer them. Such was the state of affairs for several moments, as we all glanced sidelong at each other, waiting for someone else to throw caution to the winds and earn eternal glory for themselves and for Rome. I was as hungry for that as the next man, yet I was just as rooted to the spot where I stood as everyone else, and it was growing increasingly clear that we were at a stalemate.

  The impasse was broken when we heard a huge splash, and looking to our left, saw the aquilifer of our Legion, holding the eagle standard, which was silver in those days, over his head as he struggled to stay above water. Fighting the surf, he moved towards the shore as he looked not at the enemy, but back over his shoulder as he shouted something we could not hear. We did not need to hear him; we knew exactly what was being said, and the sight of our most prized possession, the symbol of the 10th that we solemnly made a vow to every Januarius, being carried towards an eagerly awaiting enemy was enough for us.

  “Over the sides boys, we can’t let any of those blue bastards take our eagle,” a man shouted.

  Turning just in time to see him disappear over the bow as he threw himself, shield and javelin in hand, over the side, a column of water splashed up an instant later. Men began climbing over the side, while one man, either overeager or having lost his head, threw himself over the side farther back towards the rear of the ship, sinking like a rock, never to be seen again. Pushing Vibius forward as the men in front disappeared from sight and we waited our turn, we could see that our actions were stirring the enemy into activity. For the first time, we saw how these tribes made use of their chariots. As our men struggled to get out of the water, the missile troops among the Britons began flinging javelins at them, and we could see the men in the water were having a hard time blocking them. With the men on foot flinging missiles, the chariots were doing the same, albeit in a different manner. They turned to run parallel to the shoreline, passing in front of us, with one man driving and another man hurling javelins at us. They made several passes; since there were several chariots, they were heading in both directions and it looked like chaos to our eyes, yet it was something they obviously practiced before because none of the chariots heading in opposite directions collided. The air grew thick with the Briton javelins, and I saw a number of men struck, some of them sinking below the waves and not reappearing, the water where they had been stained red as they slipped from sight.

  Our landing was in serious jeopardy of being repulsed, even as we continued pouring over the sides of our ships to join the men struggling their way up to the beach. The shower of missiles continued, the Britons slowly gaining the courage to pull ever closer to us, until some of their javelins actually struck the sides of the ships. At first they bounced off, but with the enemy moving closer, the missiles began to bury themselves in the timbers of the ships, if we were lucky. Vibius was just ahead of me and as he moved to a now-open spot on the rail, the Legiona
ry next to him, a man from our Century named Ahenobarbus, took a javelin directly in the chest, penetrating his armor to drive several inches deep into his body. The dull thud of the missile striking home was clearly audible, and I was standing at a point where I could see the expression on his face as it turned to a look of surprise, then puzzlement as he tried to climb down off the rail while his body refused to obey his commands, finally being replaced at the last by a look of resignation as he toppled into the surf, despite Vibius’ attempt to catch him. Swallowing hard, my heart in my throat, I stepped into the open spot, just in time to hear Vibius.

  “Death by drowning, death by javelin, some choice,” he muttered as he closed his eyes, took a deep breath and stepped off into the water.

  Hitting the surf with a great splash, he immediately sank from sight, then before I had a conscious thought, I threw myself in after him, intent on saving him from drowning. I went under too, the shock of the cold water almost causing me to open my mouth in a gasp, but I just managed to keep my wits about me. My feet found the bottom and I thrust upwards, my head breaking the surface, the water streaming down my face and temporarily blinding me. Even so, I could clearly hear Vibius spluttering and thrashing about as he surfaced on his own without my help.

  “By Dis this water's cold!”

  Whereas I was standing in water up to the middle of my chest, Vibius’ head was barely above the surface, a fact that actually turned out to be a blessing in disguise since he made a smaller target. Despite trying to keep my shield above my head to keep it from being waterlogged, I was only partly successful, and I could feel the wood soaking up the water as it got heavier with every heartbeat. Now that we had our bearings, we both began to struggle ashore and it seemed that the entire Briton army gathered on the beach selected me as the target for their javelins. One after another they came whistling past my head, some of them close enough that I could feel the breath of them on my face as they hurtled by, seeking my death. Initially holding my shield slightly above my head for protection, it robbed me of my ability to see what was happening, forcing me to drop it low enough that I could see over the rim. My gut twisted; the beach was now packed with Legionaries who were unable to make any headway off the shingle because of the continuing storm of missiles. We were being strictly defensive, which is not only against our nature, but also is in some ways even more tiring than attacking because of the need to constantly move your shield to block a blow as your eyes dart back and forth, looking for another attack. Our men were gathered into small groups, trying desperately to get into some form of cohesive formation from which we could fight, and the Briton cavalry now came into play as men on horseback charged in trying to scatter our small groups. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught movement of a large object and looked over to see Caesar’s galley, along with a pair of other warships, come rowing up as close to shore as they dared before turning broadside to the Britons so the archers and artillery on board could do their work.

  Now it was the turn of the Britons to be put on their heel, as our own missile troops, from Crete as I recall, along with the artillery on board began to return the favor of what we were receiving. Letting out a cheer as the first volley sliced into the tightly packed Britons, I saw several dropping to the ground either dead or wounded. Perhaps now we will get some breathing space I thought, as we plunged forward through the surf, now knee deep. Despite the scene still looking chaotic, order was slowly being restored, men gradually finding their own standards to fall into their accustomed places, finding comfort and a semblance of security in the familiar. I had yet to draw my sword and both of my javelins were either floating somewhere behind me or sunk to the bottom, I did not know which. Our Century formed up quickly, yet as I looked down the length of the beach I could see that this was not the case in the other Cohorts and Centuries. Men were still being assailed, usually from the weak side where they had no comrade to cover them with their own shield, with individual battles breaking out among small groups of fiercely fighting men, one side protecting their homeland, the other side trying to avoid drowning. Since we had received the advantage of Caesar’s galley we were the first to have some of the pressure relieved, so fairly quickly, orders were given for the other galleys to move quickly within range of the fighting going on further down the beach. Across from us the blue-painted men saw that we were organizing and on some command yelled in a language I had never heard before, they came thundering towards us, intent on breaking up our unit cohesion, weak as it may have been. There was no time to throw javelins, which most of us had discarded or lost anyway, so the order went out to draw our blades, followed immediately by a countercharge at the rapidly closing enemy. The impact was ferocious, the Britons throwing themselves at us in much the same way that the tribes of Gaul did, except with even more abandon and savagery than their cousins across the channel. Scrabbling for traction as the mass of men pushed against us, we were further hampered by the water that had soaked up into our shields, making it harder to whip them about to deflect blows with the needed speed. Their increased weight did have one advantage, however; when we did manage to use them offensively, they carried a much greater impact, causing considerable damage when used in this manner. It reminded me of when we used our training weapons and that thought cheered me a bit as we continued battling the Britons.

  The first Briton I ever slew was an average sized man for a Gaul, certainly not ten feet tall, but I must say that the effect of the blue patterns he had painted all over his bare skin was a bit unsettling. Throwing himself against me, he smashed into my shield, yet I did not move backwards an inch, my weight and size giving me a solid footing. In his right hand he was waving the long sword that the Gauls favored, whipping it forward in an overhand stroke, which I deflected with my own blade, the two clanging together with a tiny shower of sparks as I felt my arm take the shock of the impact, immediately starting to turn numb. In training ground fashion I bent my knees, then using my superior size I put my shoulder into my shield to heave him away from it, following up with a punch of the boss to the face, a blow he just managed to duck. My blade sliced out at the same time as he twisted to avoid the shield and I felt the blade plunge deep into his gut, forcing a shrill scream of pain out of him that quite startled me.

  Falling to the ground, his hands dropped his own weapon to clutch his belly, and I heard Vibius. “Did you just kill a woman?”

  Despite the circumstances I let out a spontaneous laugh; Vibius was always likely to say something at the oddest times that would force a chuckle or laugh out of me, and this was one of those times.

  “I’m not sure, he didn’t look like one but he sure sounded like a girl,” I shot back, the part of me that is always detached enjoying the banter, while the other part again performed the moves taught to us those years ago. Another Briton took his place, as it slowly dawned on me that because we were seemingly the best organized group on the beach, we were drawing the most attention from the enemy. Sneaking a quick peek over the head of the man standing opposite me, I saw that we were fighting a group several ranks deep. It is somewhat hard to convey in this manner the speed in which all these things happen. We were probably on the beach no more than a tenth part of a watch, but we still had not made any significant headway off of it. Transports continued being run up on shore and unloaded, while the ones carrying the first wave pulled away from the beach to anchor a distance away. I could hear the welcome sound of our tongue being spoken behind me as more men came to join us, but at that moment we were still horribly outnumbered. A considerable pile of bodies had fallen now that we had come to grips, and they were becoming a bit of an obstacle as we continued to thrust and hack away at the Britons. As far as the Britons went, their ardor had yet to cool, another way in which they are different than the Gauls of the mainland, since by this point in a battle one could usually count on a quick breather as the Gauls broke off the attack to regroup and work their courage back up. Not so with these men, and they kept hammering away at our
very, very thin line, almost penetrating a couple of times when one of us went down and one of the blue devils would leap into the gap. Fortunately our men were just as quick to react, and there would be a sharp but brief struggle as the two fought for the space. When I compare this battle to all the others, the only odd counterpoint was the sounds of the surf, that and the fact that we could not understand a word they were saying. Although none of us spoke any of the Gallic or German languages fluently, we had been in the region long enough to have picked up enough to at least know when we were being cursed at, yet this was a tongue that while sounding somewhat familiar, was different enough that I could not recognize a word of what was being shouted at us.

  Slowly but surely our two Legions became more organized, and it was at this point that the chariot troops began entering the battle, or at least the ones who did not drive. Their drivers would pull the chariot up near the fighting, whereupon the warrior with him would jump off to throw himself into the fray. Then the chariot would pull a short distance off to wait for their man to be victorious or be forced to flee. My arms were beginning to grow tired as we battled; I do not know how many rotations we went through, but it was several. Gradually, the training and discipline began to reassert itself, and the Britons seemed to sense that their chance was rapidly slipping away. The bodies, most of them Britons, though there were a fair number of Romans, were now piling up, making the water just next to the shore almost completely red from the blood spilled. Hearing a roar of pain, I glanced over to see Scribonius had received a good stick to his sword arm, one of the Britons taking the opportunity to strike while Scribonius was engaged with another man. Blood was streaming down his arm, his face a mask of pain and fury as he thrust his sword into the throat of a man, and I remember offering a brief prayer hoping that Scribonius had just dispatched the man who stabbed him. Odd, the things one remembers from battles that happened many years ago. Vibius was beside me, none of us having time to get completely into our normal formation, and I covered his unprotected side with my shield as we both advanced, stepping over the bodies around us, pushing a little deeper into the mass of the Britons. Both of us knew that there was a point at which, by some unseen signal, Gallic warriors will in an instant lose heart, turning to flee so quickly that one is left somewhat bewildered by what just happened. Such was our goal in continuing to press; after a few battles, one learns to sense when that moment is nearing, and both Vibius and I could feel it coming. I do not mean to imply that it was just Vibius and I who had this sense about them; all along our line, men were doing the same thing. Instead of waiting for the enemy to step forward, we were taking it ourselves to press the Britons harder and harder. Despite my fatigue, I continued fighting, even picking up the intensity as I sensed that victory was in our grasp.