Marching With Caesar - Civil War (23 page)

“Crastinus is dead! They’ve killed the Primus Pilus!”

Immediately after that call, there was a roar of triumph from the Pompeians to my right, followed by an answering roar of rage by my comrades in Crastinus’ volunteers. Turning and looking over my shoulder, I saw the same look of shock on the men’s faces that I felt; Gaius Crastinus was invincible. If he fell, what hope did any of us have? I think for the first time in my life in the Legions, I felt the icy grip of doubt threaten to take hold of me. Oh, I always knew that there was a possibility that I would fall whenever we lined up in battle, but I never truly believed it might happen, until this moment. Gaius Crastinus was my first commander, and I was proud to watch his rise through the Legion, just as I knew he was proud to watch mine. The idea that he could be dead brought home the fact that if he could die, I could just as easily die, and I know that’s exactly what every man behind me was thinking. Well, Titus, if today is the day you fall, I thought to myself, then you will be in good company and you may as well go out covering your name in glory. You have to give these men an example to follow, like Crastinus did.

“All right boys,” I roared, waving my Gallic blade above my head, “I’m going to go join Crastinus. We’re going to share the same rowboat over to Charon. Who’s with me?”

And without waiting for an answer, I waded into the Pompeians in front of me.

~ ~ ~ ~

Over the years, I have been asked by many civilians about the famous battles I have been in, and there is none better known throughout the Republic, now called the Empire, than the Battle of Pharsalus. However, it is a funny thing, because when one is actually standing in the line, fighting as a lowly Gregarius or even as an Optio or Centurion, your perspective is usually drastically different than that of the general or Tribunes who ultimately end up being the men that the historians listen to when they are writing their version of events. That is one reason I have taken on this endeavor, because I have read some of the accounts of our time in Gaul and the civil war and my hope is that my feeble attempt to convey what those of us who actually did the fighting were feeling will be appreciated by you, gentle reader. And on that hot, dusty day on the plains of Pharsalus, I have never been so sure that we were defeated as I was then. Despite managing to push the Pompeian line back a few paces, nowhere along our front did we have the kind of breakthrough that could be exploited by the men of the third line, standing ready for such an occasion. The best it could be called was a standoff, where whatever gains we made were simply not sufficient to carry the day, but where the enemy could not do any better, except that on this day a draw was the same as a defeat for Caesar and the army, and we all knew it. Even with my best attempts to create a breach, I never got farther than a few paces deep into the Pompeians, with my men pushing right behind me, yet it was not enough. All I could tell about the larger battle was from the calls of the
cornu
, so I heard the signal for the Cohorts of the fourth line that Caesar had created to move forward. Regardless, I did not have the time to give it any thought as to whether or not his stratagem worked. However, it did and it worked very well indeed. The men of the fourth line were ordered to lie down in the tall grass that was a feature of the plain, and as our own cavalry fell back under the onslaught of the Pompeian cavalry, the dust raised by the horses’ hooves further shielded them from view of the enemy.

When Caesar ordered the attack of the fourth line, they were barely a hundred paces away from the Pompeian cavalry, and over such a short distance, a running man can close with a mounted man, especially against such a tightly packed mass of man and horseflesh as the Pompeian cavalry presented, and that is what happened. Once they closed with the Pompeian cavalry, rather than throw their javelin, they used them as lances to stab upward at the faces of the cavalrymen, inflicting horrific damage, maiming and blinding whoever was in their path. In a matter of moments, the Pompeian cavalry charge disintegrated, the horsemen wheeling about, intent only on saving themselves, thereby leaving the slingers and archers completely unprotected. Consequently, their slaughter was total, the remainder of our cavalry force now turning back about and running the missile troops down. With both the Pompeian cavalry and missile force disposed of, the men of the fourth line now turned to fall on the left flank of the 1st and 15th, rolling them up like a carpet. From what I was able to reconstruct after talking to some of the men in the fourth line, their charge into the cavalry happened just moments before Crastinus fell, and I have been left wondering if he was not so reckless if he would be alive today. Not that it matters; such thoughts are meaningless, doing nothing but haunting an old man’s sleep. Indeed, at the time, he was doing his duty by setting an example of bravery to give his men courage by leaping onto the wall of shields in an attempt to create a breach, much as had been done during the fight against Ariovistus. Just as he leapt against the Pompeian line, he was struck on the side of the head, knocking his helmet askew and causing him to fall to his knees, as close to a certain death in battle as one can come. Only losing your footing in close combat leaves you incredibly vulnerable, but the blow to his head further robbed him of his awareness so that he kneeled on the ground, weaving about, making no attempt to defend himself, and the inevitable happened. The shield of the man in front of him moved six inches to the side, a flash of silver darted out, the blade of the sword entered his open mouth and punched through the back of his head. Just that quickly, Primus Pilus Gaius Crastinus, hero of the 10th Legion and one of the most respected Centurions in the army, was dead. It was not more than a dozen heartbeats later that the men of the fourth line slammed into the side and rear of the Pompeian left, forcing the Pompeians to start yielding ground. Where I was at, we were only alerted that something had happened by a change in the sounds of battle when our fourth line slammed into them. Additionally, it was at this moment that Caesar also ordered our third line forward. At first, the Pompeian line did not waver, but the unrelenting pressure on two sides became too much and we heard the
cornu
call that signaled a fighting withdrawal. Immediately, the Pompeian front line lashed out with their shields, pushing us back a step to give them the freedom to take their own step backwards, but we immediately moved back in to engage them again. Now their Centurions were calling out the count that we use to pace the formation as they slowly, grudgingly gave ground, even as the added weight of our third line exerted even more pressure.

Inch by inch, then foot by foot, we pushed the Pompeians backward, bashing and smashing, their progress backward marked by bodies of both their fallen and ours, but still they held formation, refusing to break. The sun was now high in the sky, causing both sides to suffer from thirst and exhaustion, but we could not stop putting on the pressure, while they could not stop resisting our advance. Fortunately, while our battle on the right wing was still at something of an impasse, the raw recruits of Pompey’s Legions holding the center were not made of the same stuff as the veterans on the wings, and shortly after the third line engaged with them, their cohesion shattered as they simply turned to run for their lives. The 15th was to our left, next to the Pompeian center, but once they lost the support of the Legions on their right, they too finally broke and fled. Now that the third line was engaged, those of us in the first two lines moved to the rear to catch our breath and I immediately called to my Centurions to give me a tally of casualties. Since we had dropped all of our gear back by the camp, we had also left our water behind, so I ordered some men to go through the bodies of the Pompeians to see if anything could be scavenged. The dust cloud was the most oppressive and obscuring that I had ever seen in battle, making it almost impossible to tell what was going on. However, I could see that the Legions to our immediate left were pushing forward in pursuit of the fleeing Pompeians. If I strained my eyes, I could make out the far left wing where the 8th and 9th was engaged, but could only see that they were roughly in the same position that we were, so it appeared that only the center and the 15th had given way. At that point, that was my total knowledge of the situation, so without thinking, I began to move over to where Crastinus would be with his volunteers to see what his orders were before stopping short. Crastinus was dead; that meant that the Primus Princeps was now in command, a short, squatty little man named Torquatus who had been the Primus Pilus briefly before Crastinus returned, so I went looking for him instead. The men were breathing easier by this point, but I could see that they were close to the edge of exhaustion, yet I knew that we were not through, and I cursed myself for not thinking to make the men bring along their water at the very least. Just before I reached where Torquatus was standing with the rest of his Centurions from the First, through the veil of dust I saw Caesar himself coming, his face covered in dust, except for where rivulets of sweat had streamed down his cheeks. My immediate thought was that he looked like a Narbo whore with her makeup ruined after a hard night’s work, the thought forcing me to bite back a laugh since I did not want my general to ask what was so funny at a time like this.

Stopping where Torquatus was standing, Caesar asked, “Where is the Primus Pilus?”

There was a pause as Torquatus exchanged glances with the other men around him, then said quietly, “Primus Pilus Crastinus is dead, sir. He made good his promise to bring you glory dead or alive.”

Caesar did not respond for a moment; his head bowed, he closed his eyes, and I saw his lips move in what I presumed to be a silent prayer for Crastinus. Then, commander once again, he looked up and said, “Very well. We'll mourn him later, but as of now you're the Primus Pilus and I need you and your men to make one last effort.” He pointed in the direction of Pompey’s camp, and continued, “We have them on the run, except for the 1st here, but the third line has them engaged. I want you to take the remaining Cohorts, circle around, and cut them off, but I don’t think you'll have to engage them. Once they see they're completely isolated, they'll break and run like the rest of them, I’m sure of it. Instead, I need you to push on to the camp. If we stop here, we’ve won a battle. If we take the camp, we’ve won the war. Do you understand, Primus Pilus?”

Torquatus came to
intente
, saluted, and said crisply, “Perfectly, General. We won't let you down.”

Caesar favored Torquatus and the rest of the men standing there with one of his most dazzling smiles and said, “I know you won’t, Torquatus.”

Then he wheeled Toes around and galloped off towards the center, a string of aides hurrying after him, making the dust cloud even worse for a moment, causing me to cough and spit out a glob of mud, cursing this dusty country as I did.

Walking to Torquatus, I saluted, and he said, “Well, you heard the man. Get the men up and ready to move on my command, quickly!”

Trotting back to where my men were waiting, I gave the order to make ready to move again. I could see how tired they were when there was not one word of complaint, instead men just staggering to their feet and picking up their shields.

~ ~ ~ ~

We moved around the 1
^st
Legion, but for once Caesar had misjudged the caliber of his enemy, because they did not panic at the sight of us in their rear. I do not doubt that we could have broken them if we had attacked, but those were not our orders, and it was a suicidally brave or stupid man who disobeyed an order of Gaius Julius Caesar. Torquatus was neither, therefore we continued past the 1
^st
, headed to the camp. The ground along the way was littered with discarded bits of equipment, dead or dying horses, and bodies of men lying sprawled in attitudes that told a tale of headlong flight. Normally in situations like this, while we marched along we would finish off any wounded men we came across, but on this day, we did not do so because these were our countrymen. In the heat of battle we would do our very best to slaughter each other, yet none of us had it in them to slaughter a helpless Roman who under different circumstances could be a comrade with whom we shared the same marching camp. I did have men stop and search for any water that might be lying about, as did the other Cohort commanders, but otherwise we marched steadily towards the Pompeian camp, where a fierce fight seemed to be taking place. On our approach, we saw what appeared to be forces composed of at least two Legions detach itself from the melee at the walls of the Pompeian camp, then begin to march away towards the hills to the northwest of the camp, clearly intent on escape. Even as they did so, we joined the other Cohorts that had made it to the walls of the camp and without waiting for orders we began to shower the men lining the walls with javelins that we picked up on the march, making short work of scouring the walls clear of the enemy.

Immediately thereafter, we assaulted the gates of the camp itself, these actually being made of timber rather than dirt, and without the use of any equipment other than just brute force, we managed to bring the gate crashing down by sheer weight of numbers. Pouring through the gate, we were met by a scratch force of Pompeians, and without hesitation, we threw ourselves at the enemy. My lungs were burning, my legs ached and my arm felt like it was made of lead, but I was a Centurion in Caesar’s army, and I had to give my men an example to follow, so I was one of the first to go crashing into the wall of shields.