Marching With Caesar – Civil War mwc-2

by R. W. Peake

  Needing more of our men up here, I called out, “Vibius, where in Hades are you? Get your short ass up here and give me a hand!”

  Before the words were completely out of my mouth, I had to turn back to face one of the Pompeians, giving a start when I realized that I was facing a fellow Centurion. He was a short, squat fellow, with a lined face that reminded me of Crastinus and again I was struck at the tragedy in which we were involved. If my adversary felt any hesitation as I did, he did not show it as he unleashed a lightning attack, lashing out at me with his own shield. Landing a grazing blow, it still carried enough force behind it to stagger me, but I managed to strike out with my own blade, seeing that I scored a hit as he hissed in pain, a red line appearing just beneath the edge of his armor on his upper arm. It was not a deep cut, but it would make him more cautious, and he took a step back as he looked for an opening. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see more of my men clambering up onto the parapet, with the sound of fighting growing louder, but I was still occupied with my personal battle. Seeing one of the recent arrivals on the parapet start moving towards the Centurion, I shouted at them to stop.

  “Leave him be; he’s all mine.”

  I heard a curse, the voice familiar, but I gave it no more thought as I lunged towards the Pompeian, who whipped his shield around to block my thrust, exactly what I had hoped for, my thrust a feint without my full force behind it. For an instant, his shield was out of position, and my feint aimed low, as he dropped it just a fraction to block, leaving a gap where his throat was exposed. Whipping the blade up, as it thrust home, our eyes met and I saw the despair in them, along with the knowledge that he was bested. Usually I felt a fierce exultation when I killed a man in combat, but I felt nothing but sadness at ending the Centurion’s life. He toppled off the parapet, leaving me to stand there motionless for a moment, absorbed in sorrow that matters had come to this. If any of the Pompeians had their wits about them, they could have ended me right then, but the death of their Centurion shook them as much as it had me, and like me, they remained motionless staring at him for a moment before I heard my name called.

  “Titus, you better pull your head out of your ass,” I looked up sharply at those words that could have earned a man a flogging to see Vibius standing there, looking uncertainly at me. Shaking my head, I shoved him with an elbow and quietly said, “Thanks,” then pushed past him.

  We had made a breach, but we were not done by a long shot.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The Pompeians had lost control of the parapet on this side, yet we still had to clear the side where the ballista was located, and I saw the Pompeians desperately trying to pull up the stakes that stabilized the piece so that they could turn it on us. The Second Century had arrived at the breach, but I saw that our opening was too narrow to feed the rest of the Cohort in with any speed. Once the Second poured through the gap, where I directed them to head for the catapult, I stopped the Third Century, pointing to another spot in the palisade.

  “Open a breach there,” I directed, then indicated another spot, ordering the Fourth Century to attack that.

  Finally, I turned to the bucinator and ordered him to sound the call for the Sixth Century to come to join us. I still planned to keep them in reserve, but I wanted them closer. Returning my attention back to the fight, I saw that the Pompeians were themselves busy; in the small forum of the fort, they were gathering quickly, men either coming from other parts of the wall or disengaging from the fight if they were able to trot back to where their Centurions were calling for them. Scanning the inside of the redoubt, I estimated that they had perhaps half a Cohort, seeing only two Centurions, the third lying dead at my feet. The only problem was that it appeared that they were close to full strength, meaning that they had almost as many men as we did. Despite killing or wounding quite a few, there were still a lot of them left, and we could not allow them to get organized.

  “Niger, hurry your men up, we don’t have all day for you to avoid getting dirty. Tear those stakes down now!”

  His face flushed with anger, but he simply nodded, turning to his men and snapping at them to hurry. I had to get as many of my men into the fort as quickly as possible and I strode further down the parapet to where the Third was doing the same, although they were making better progress, those men beginning to stream through the breach they created. The remaining Pompeians were almost formed up by this point, and I needed to have a force ready to meet them. Yelling to Longus and Priscus, most of their Centuries making it inside the fort, I ordered them to form up at the base of the parapet and prepare to face the counterattack of the Pompeians. The Second was engaged around the ballista, and it appeared that they were gaining the upper hand. I turned my attention to the group of men that were now tramping towards us, their shields thrust out in front of them as they approached. Staying on the parapet to see better, I recognized that there were times where I best served the Cohort when I did not lead from the front and this was one of those times. This was still something I was learning, but it was extremely hard to do. Even by that point in time, I was still nagged by a sense of insecurity, fueled by men like Celer that I was not up to the job of leading a Cohort. At moments like this, when I had to make the choice not to lead from the front did not help, but I had to do what was best for the Cohort. This was one of those times, so instead I stood and directed the men in front of me.

  “Priscus,” I called out, pointing to the Pompeians. “Stop them,” I shouted. “Cut those bastards to pieces!”

  He nodded, throwing a salute before he turned back to his men. “You heard the Pilus Prior, boys,” he roared. “Let’s get ‘em!”

  With a shout, the men of the Second Cohort ran headlong towards the Pompeians, who began their own countercharge. Even from where I stood, I felt the force of the collision as the two groups smashed into each other. Each man went at the one across from them, and for a moment, I could almost imagine that this was nothing more than a training exercise, when we would engage in mock battles against each other, so familiar was the sight of Roman on Roman. Soon enough, however, I saw men fall horribly wounded or dead, and I could not fool myself any longer. The best course for my Cohort was to get this fight over as quickly as possible, with as much overwhelming force as I could bring to bear, prompting me to turn to where Crispus was standing with the Sixth Century, ordering them to enter the fray. Niger’s Century had finally made their way through their breach. I beckoned to him and he walked towards me, his body stiff with anger.

  Ignoring his attitude, I pointed towards the rear of the fort, the side facing the sea and ordered him, “Take your Century around along the back of the fort and circle around and hit those bastards down there from behind. When you’re in position, have your cornu give a blast. Then wait for my return signal.”

  He nodded that he understood and saluted, turning to trot back to his Century. I hoped that my rebuke was enough to ensure that he did not take his time getting his Century into position, since every moment that passed meant that more of our men were getting hurt, or worse. Turning back to the fight, I bit back a curse, not wanting to betray any sense of anxiety to the cornicen and runner standing next to me, but we were not making any headway. The fight was at a stalemate, neither side inflicting any more casualties or giving ground, despite Priscus being prominent in the front rank, cursing at the enemy and his men. Even with the addition of Crispus’ Century, the enemy was holding their own. It seemed the only way to break the deadlock was through Niger, and now we had to wait for him to get into position. Glancing over to where Celer and his Century were mopping up the last resistance on the front parapet, it looked like he was just about through with his part of the job. The parapet was littered with bodies, but from the distance I was standing, it was impossible to tell friend from foe, all of us being dressed alike, so I had no idea what his casualties were.

  Turning to the runner, I said, “My compliments to Pilus Posterior Celer. Tell him that if his Century is still able to fig
ht, I want him to circle around the opposite side of where Niger is.” I pointed to the standard that we could just see bobbing over the line of tents that blocked the men from our view. “When he gets in the same position as Niger on his side, tell him to sound the signal that he’s ready. Then he’s to wait for my signal. Understand?”

  As is our custom, the runner repeated the orders back to me word for word before running across the parapet to relay the orders to Celer. We still had some equipment to destroy, but first we had to get rid of the men defending the fort. Hopefully, we would be done in the next few moments.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Recognizing that I had done all I could do at this point, now I was forced to wait for Celer and Niger to get into place, while I could only watch the rest of my men fighting it out below. There were now four Centuries committed to the fight in the fort, but the Pompeians had their own reinforcements, when survivors of the fight for the parapet, realizing their cause was lost, broke away and went streaming towards the mass of men in the forum, joining the fight on the other side. Consequently, things were still close to evenly matched, with neither side able to gain the upper hand. The sounds of the battle were dying down at a rate equal to the gradual loss of energy. The men were now content to push against each other, snarling and cursing their opponents’ ancestors, mothers, and anything else they could think of before making a token thrust at each other that held little of the force behind it that was present just a few moments earlier. In short, the men were nearing exhaustion and this interlude would end only when one side caught their second wind, or something else happened to break the stalemate. It was then that I heard the blast of the cornu, coming from the side of the camp where I had sent Niger, and I could just see the standard dip to signal that they waited for the response from me. However, I was not ready to unleash them yet, because I wanted Celer to be in position as well, so I held the cornicen in check while we waited. The blast of the horn caused the Pompeians in the rear rank to start looking back anxiously, but from their position on the floor of the fort, they could not see our men approaching, so they reluctantly turned back to the front, although I could see some of them continually peering over their shoulders. Scanning the area where I thought Celer’s Century should be, I searched for the sight of his standard. It took me some time to spot it bobbing along, and seeing it nowhere near the spot I hoped they had reached by that point, for the thousandth time that morning alone, I cursed. It was taking them much too long, and even as that thought crossed my mind, I heard another blast of the cornu from Niger’s Century. Now there was no doubt that the Pompeians had a force behind them, and the back two ranks whirled around to face the new threat. Snapping at my cornicen to sound the charge, not willing to wait for Celer any longer, I also told the player to sound the charge a second time, the moment Celer signaled he was in position, then pulled my blade and leaped down from the parapet. I could not take standing there any longer, and now the die was cast. It was time for me to get back in the fight.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The sound of Niger’s Century’s roar as they charged, energized, the men already engaged, on both sides, all of them knowing that the end was near, one way or another. With renewed vitality, we began laying into the Pompeians, who responded with equal vigor, realizing that they were effectively surrounded. Striding to the front of the melee, I pushed men out of the way, and just before I reached the front, I heard the blast from Celer, followed immediately by the signal to charge from my player. Thrusting myself into the front rank, I began laying into the man in front of me and he fell to my blade in a few strokes. Celer and Niger’s men were howling at the top of their lungs, but the men surrounding me were mostly silent, not wanting to waste any excess energy, as were the Pompeians. The only sound in our part of the fight was the clashing of metal and the thudding of blades striking the wood of the shields, punctuated by grunts, gasps, and moans when men were struck down. This was nothing like our battles with the Gauls, with the howling madness and the raging fury that their race displays. This was a brutal fight between professionals; two highly trained units who waged war because it was our jobs. I found it quite unnerving to fight in almost total silence, but it did not stop me from killing whoever stood in my way. Because of my rank and my size, I drew more than my share of attention and I had my hands full, but I was well protected by the men around me, covering my sword arm as I thrust, parried, recovered, all while doing the same for the man on my left. The Pompeians were now being squeezed from two sides, and I could see that our line was starting to overlap the ends of the Pompeian lines. Shouting a quick order to Priscus to swing a couple of sections down onto one flank of the Pompeians, I then ordered Longus to do the same on the other.

  In immediate response, the lone surviving Centurion of the Pompeians bellowed out, “Form orbis!”

  This is the formation of last resort for a Roman Legion, and it told me that the end was near if we could keep up the pressure. However, it also meant that they planned to fight to the last man, a prospect that I did not relish, for my men and for the Pompeians. I had no desire to slaughter such brave men, nor to lose the men it would take to do so, so I made a quick decision, signaling for my runner.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The cornu sounded the order to suspend the attack, but it took a couple of blasts before all the fighting stopped. Once our men disengaged, they took wary steps backwards, their shields still held in position, blades ready to resume the attack, but the Pompeians did not press, understanding what the call of the cornu meant and seemingly content for a breather.

  I turned to the man next to me, “Do you have anything white? A bandage maybe?”

  He looked at me as if I had grown a third eye, but nervously shook his head. Irritated, I turned around, shouting for someone to produce something to be used as a flag of truce, and it was a moment before I saw something passed through the ranks and handed to me. I looked at it in disgust; it would be extremely charitable to refer to the soiled bandage in my hands as white, but it would have to do.

  Picking up a spent javelin, I stuck it on the end, holding it up and stepping into the space between our two forces, calling out, “I propose a truce and I request to speak to the commanding officer.”

  It was relatively easy to spot who that was, there being only one man left standing wearing the transverse crest of the Centurion, and the Pompeian men immediately looked to him. Reluctantly, he stepped forward, pushing through his men to stand facing me a few feet away. I was surprised to see that he was somewhere around my age. I had become accustomed to being one of the youngest Centurions in Caesar’s army, making it rare to see someone like me in the uniform of a Centurion. He was clearly a man who had seen fighting, having a long, vividly red scar running up the length of his sword arm. Standing stiffly, he waited for me to speak, and I cleared my throat, knowing that what I had to say was as much for his men as for himself.

  “I am Secundus Pilus Prior Titus Pullus, of the Tenth Legion,” I said clearly, hoping that my voice did not hold the tremor that I felt. A lot was riding on my ability to convince this man that it was useless to keep fighting. “Who am I addressing?”

  He did not speak for a moment, then grudgingly answered, “I am Decimus Princeps Prior Quintus Albinus, of Pompey’s First Legion.”

  Raising an eyebrow, I turned back to my men, saying with a smile, “Funny, I thought that the Legions belonged to Rome, not one man.”

  This was met with chuckles from my men, but Albinus apparently did not find it humorous.

  “Pompey Magnus is Rome,” he snapped. “And you are traitors to the Republic.”

  There was a low growl behind me, and I knew that if I did not do something quickly, my attempts at avoiding further bloodshed would be for naught.

  Stepping closer to Albinus, I said so that only he could hear, “Quiet, you idiot! I’m trying to save your life!”

  “Don’t worry about my life,” he shot back. “I’m happy to die today if I can take more of you bas
tards with me!”

  I looked him in the eye, saying quietly, “Do they feel the same way?” With a jerk of my head, I indicated the men behind them. Before he could answer, I continued. “And don’t you have a duty to your men as much as you do to Pompey?”

  I saw the doubt in his eyes, and I was about to say more before deciding that silence was the best approach.

  We stood looking at each other for a moment, then finally, his shoulders slumped and he nodded sadly. “You’re right, Pullus. I do owe them their lives. They fought well today.”

  “That they did,” I agreed, being totally honest. “And we would treat you with honor; all we ask is that you surrender your weapons, and swear a solemn oath to leave the fort and fight no more.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” he protested. “We can’t very well go back and tell Pompey that we won’t fight again.”

  I knew he was right. I shrugged and said, “Honestly, I don’t care what you do once you leave the fort, as long as you don’t try stopping me and my men from what we’re supposed to do. Once you go back to your camp, you can rearm yourselves and we’ll fight another day.” I grinned at him. “And who knows, maybe next time things will be different, and you’ll return the favor.”

  I could tell he did not want to, but he smiled back, saying with heavy humor, “Don’t bet on it. You don’t know our officers. If they’re involved, we won’t have any choice.”

  “Oh, I know them all right. Labienus was our commander, remember. In fact, you tell him that Titus Pullus sends his regards and if I see him on the battlefield, I’m going to cut his balls off and feed them to him for what he did.”

  He gave a startled laugh, then saw that I was perfectly serious, and he swallowed hard before answering, “Well, I’ll give him the first part of the message at least.”