Marching With Caesar - Civil War (87 page)

Before he could say anything, I launched a flurry of attacks, my blade flashing as I probed his defenses while he desperately parried every one of my thrusts. Keeping him on the defensive, I did not give him a chance to try his own offensive move, then inevitably, he made a mistake as his arm started to weaken from the constant pressure I was applying. I could have killed him easily enough, but I was impressed by his determination, if not his technique, so instead of the point, I lashed out with the pommel of my sword, catching him flush on the nose, knocking him cold with a blow. He dropped to the ground as if all his bones had suddenly been removed, and I kicked his sword out of his hand in the event that he woke up. He was not going to have the women chasing after him anymore, not with his nose smashed flat, but he would be alive. I took a step back to catch my breath and to see how the rest of the men were faring. After a quick look to left and right, I let out a curse at what I saw; we were in serious trouble.

~ ~ ~ ~

The Pompeians may have been raw youngsters, but they were not giving ground, not an inch. They were standing toe to toe with the most veteran army in the history of Rome, giving as good as they got. I do not know what infused them with such a ferocious spirit to resist as vigorously as they did; perhaps it was the knowledge that this was the final battle and all would be decided, or that their backs were literally pressed against the walls of Munda. Whatever the case, we were not experiencing the kind of success that we had assumed would be easily achieved when we started up the slope. There was not much I could do at this point except try to set an example, so taking a couple of deep breaths, I blew the whistle for the third time to signal a relief change, then stepped back into the line myself. With our numbers so depleted, all of the Centurions had to make a decision about the best way to relieve their men. Some Centurions chose to have each man fight a little longer than he would have if we were up to full strength, thereby giving the relieved men more time to rest, while others chose to have their men fight for a shorter period of time but consequently giving each of them a shorter rest period. I chose to use both methods; in the beginning of the fight I let the men fight longer, then as time wore on, I shortened the fighting period. As Primus Pilus, I could have ordered the Centurions to adopt my method, but that was not my style of leadership, as I remembered how it felt to have every decision made for me by my ranking Centurion. Plunging back into the fighting, I took my frustration out on whatever Pompeian I could close with. Still, they refused to give ground. I was growing more and more tired, and so were the rest of the men. That is when it happened. I sensed more than saw that the numbers of my men around me were thinning. When I risked a glance to either side, my heart fell to my stomach. My men, the men of the 10th, the veterans most renowned in the armies of all of Rome, had begun to take that first, tentative step backwards, and if I did not join them, I was going to be quickly cut off and surrounded. I do not believe I ever cursed so bitterly and with such variety as I disengaged from the man I was facing, bashing him with my shield to knock him off of me before stepping backwards, taking care not to trip over the bodies of the men who had already fallen. By the time I had removed myself, the rest of the Cohort, along with the other Cohorts on the front line, had moved a few paces back down the hill to stand, panting for breath. The ground between the two forces was littered with shields pierced by javelins, fallen men, some dead, but most wounded, moaning for help or crawling back to their respective lines.

“What is the matter with you bastards?” I raged at the men, none of whom dared to look me in the eye, staring sullenly at the ground as their chests heaved. “They’re children, for gods’ sakes! You’re letting yourselves be shamed by children!”

Nobody said a word, a good thing given my state of mind, as I might have run them through if they had tried to make excuses, I was so angry. Fortunately, the Pompeians seemed almost in as much shock as I was, so did not press the advantage, contenting themselves to stand there hurling insults at us. The entire attack, at least on the right wing, had ground to a halt, while no amount of my scorn and threats could make the men move. That is when Caesar proved again why he is the greatest general in the history of Rome.

~ ~ ~ ~

There was a sudden commotion in the rear ranks of the Cohort, as I saw men moving aside to make way for someone moving up to the front. When I saw who it was, I could only stand and gape; it was Caesar, who had grabbed a shield from a man in the rear and was pushing his way to the front of the formation. Following behind him was his gaggle of staff officers, all of them looking panicked. Supposedly, it was from the danger posed to our general, though I suspect that a few of them had not been this close to where the real fighting took place in a long time, if ever.

Caesar was oblivious to the danger, and when he reached my side, he was visibly furious. “Pullus, what's happening here? Why have the men stopped advancing?”

I suddenly felt as if I were a
tiro
all over again, standing in front of Caesar stammering and shaking, not knowing what to say. In fact, I do not remember what came out of my mouth, and he did not appear to be listening anyway.

Instead, he ripped his helmet off, throwing it on the ground, then stepped far enough away from the front line so that he could be plainly seen by everyone. “Aren’t you ashamed to let your general be beaten by boys?” he roared as he pointed up the hill.

None of us said anything, just remained standing there, panting for breath.

When he saw that his words were not having any effect, he turned to his aides, saying, “If we fail here, it will mean the end of my life and the ruin of your careers.”

Then he turned and began walking up the hill, drawing his sword as he advanced. We stood there as if we were rooted to the spot, the shock of watching our general advance against the enemy alone turning us to stone. The Pompeians seemed to be in as much shock as we were, because all motion, all activity, all noise seemed to cease as every pair of eyes watched Caesar march up the hill. Finally, one of the Pompeian Centurions regained his senses, and I heard him give the command for his men to find some javelins, causing all of us within hearing to let out a gasp.

“He’ll never survive,” I heard one of the staff officers exclaim.

As the arms of the Pompeians who had found javelins swung back, I turned away, unable to watch my general’s life end. I heard the whistling sound of the missiles, followed an instant later by the sound of them striking. I winced at the thudding sound of javelins striking the wood of his shield, but it took a moment for it to register that I had not heard the sound of iron striking flesh, nor any cry of pain. Still, I was reluctant to turn to see what had happened. When I did, I could not help gaping at the sight of Caesar standing there, his shield looking like a porcupine, the ground around him sprouting the still quivering shafts of javelins, while the man himself was clearly untouched.

“By all the gods, it’s a miracle,” someone shouted.

Miracle or not, none of us were willing to test the favor of the gods again, while Caesar’s example served to move us to action when his words could not.

Turning back to us, the contempt on his face and in his voice was clear to all of us as he called out, “Well, what are you waiting for?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Shamed by our general, we resumed the attack, charging up the hill to smash into the Pompeians, our fury fueled by the laceration to our pride of seeing our general expose himself to such danger. We fought with renewed energy, and though they tried, the Pompeians could not stand up to our second onslaught. I lost sight of Caesar in the fighting, but I could hear him calling out to the men around him, as we quickly pushed a wedge into the Pompeian line. I cut down any man who tried to stand before me, in moments covered in enemy blood up to my elbow. I felt the fury building in me, reminding me of the first time it had happened so many years ago on that hill further north, and I welcomed the warming flush racing through me, feeling new energy that made me push even deeper into the midst of the enemy. I think that was my great mistake, the joy of battle clouding my senses to the point that I stopped being aware of the situation around me, so I did not see how far ahead of the rest of the men I was getting. Although we were now turning the tide of the battle, the Pompeians beginning to take the inexorable step backwards, they were not through fighting by any means, so a man my size, and a first-grade Centurion at that, made a target that was too much to resist. I suddenly became aware of enemy movement around both my sides. I then realized how far in front of the rest of the men that I was, but it was too late. I was surrounded by Pompeians, so that now I was not fighting for victory; I was fighting for my life. I heard the shouts of some of my men who saw me in difficulty, one of them shouting to me to hold on, that they were coming to my aid. A squat, ugly little man came lunging at me. As I whipped my shield around to deflect his thrust, another man who had worked his way to my left struck me hard in the side, forcing the breath from my lungs in an explosive gasp. The pain shot through my body like a bolt of lightning, but while his blow had broken some of the links of my mail, it had not penetrated. It was still a damaging blow, causing me to struggle to catch my breath, yet before I could recover even a tiny bit, a Legionary to my right saw his own opening. I sensed the blur as his blade flashed towards me, while I desperately whipped my own blade up in a sweeping arc, striking his just as it was about to pierce my side immediately below my ribcage, which would have disemboweled me. Instead, the blade deflected upwards. Although my counterstroke had robbed some of the force from the thrust, it still had enough power behind it to pierce my chest, just below the collarbone, the point driving at least two inches deep into my body. There is no way to describe the pain accurately, yet as bad as it was, the worst effect was that suddenly my arm all the way down to my hand lost all of its strength. I saw but did not feel my sword drop from my grasp. There was a roaring in my ears, yet even with all that noise, I heard the shouts of triumph from the Pompeians around me, though I was still not through fighting. I felt my legs start to shake as my upper body turned wet from the blood pouring from the wound, and I realized that I was going to die, that I was not going to achieve my goals, filling me with a despair I had never felt before. However, with it came a resolve that I would take as many of the enemy with me as possible, that I would die in a manner that men would be talking about around the fires for years to come. All I had was my shield, but in the hands of a Roman Legionary, a shield is just as much of an offensive weapon as a defensive one. Whipping it around, I twisted my wrist so that the shield was parallel to the ground. Because of my height, it was at a level so that when the metal edge struck the man who had stabbed me, it hit him just at the junction of his neck and shoulders. I had put all of my rapidly waning strength into the blow, and I was rewarded by the sight of his head spinning into the air as the stump of his neck spurted blood from his still beating heart, the body slowly toppling over to lie quivering on the ground. Before I brought my shield back to first position, the squat man lunged again, this time striking me low and hard, and as bad as the pain was from the first wound, it was nothing compared to the feeling of a red-hot poker being plunged deeply into my side. Now my legs did give way, as I staggered backwards, still weakly trying to defend myself by keeping my shield up, yet it had become too heavy for me to lift. As I fell backwards, I hit a man behind me, feeling his shield at my back, and I realized that the thrust that killed me would be from behind, the first and only time I would not have a wound in the front, making me want to weep. That is the last thing I remember, falling backwards against someone’s shield with the darkness closing around me, the cries of triumph of the Pompeians ringing in my ears.

~ ~ ~ ~

My next memory is of opening my eyes to see the leather roof of a tent, the flickering light of an oil lamp making it seem as if the roof were dancing about. Within an eyeblink of regaining consciousness, an avalanche of pain emanating from my side and shoulder forced a gasp from my lips, my body spasming as if it had a mind of its own. Yet when I moved, it made the pain even worse and I passed out again. I do not know for how long this time. It was in this manner that I passed the next two or three days. I would regain consciousness for only brief moments before the all-powerful agony of my wounds rendered me senseless again. In those brief moments, I would hear snatches of conversation, and I thought I recognized the voice of Diocles, along with Scribonius, Balbus, and once I even thought I heard the voice of Vibius, yet I could not swear that it was he. During those short periods, a shadowy figure whose face I could never really make out would try to get me to sip some water or some concoction that tasted horribly bitter, which I fought, but thankfully was too weak to successfully ward off his ministrations. It was a world of shadows and smoke, where I would see my dead sister standing by my bedside, next to the one who still lived. Gisela came to visit, and we would talk and laugh as if she had never gone away. Once she even brought Vibi and my baby daughter to see me. I cannot lie, it was very pleasant and I remember thinking that if this was what it meant to be dead, it was not bad at all, particularly when compared to the wretched agony of those moments when I returned to this world. Slowly, the periods of time I remained conscious lengthened, but I was still too weak to talk so instead I listened and learned about my condition and what had happened at the battle. The first sign that I was regaining my strength was when I was able to turn my face to look at more than just the ceiling of the tent, though the effort left me with a pounding head and as exhausted as if I had just done a 30-mile forced march in full gear. That was how I learned that I was in my own tent, that I had indeed heard Diocles, who was sitting on a stool in the corner of the tent. I do not believe he ever left my side, as he was always there whenever I awoke. It was from the expression on his face, the exhaustion etching deep lines in his cheeks and the way his lips were pinched together, one of the surest signs that he was worried, that I determined just how grave my condition was. I finally was able to recognize the man who had been there to force water and medicine down my gullet, and more than Diocles’ manner, his identity told me that I had one foot in Charon’s Boat. It was one of Caesar’s personal physicians, not his chief surgeon, but one of his top assistants; I do not remember his name. I suppose I was unconscious for so long that the two had become accustomed to speaking about me as if I could not hear, which most of the time I could not, yet I vividly remember the first exchange I overheard between them. They were speaking in Greek, but by this time, I had picked up enough to understand what was being said, though I still could not converse very well.