The Road to Rome (33 page)

‘Yes, sir.’ Romulus could sense Atilius’ coolness and suspected the reason behind it. It was the same, or worse, with a few of his new comrades, who disliked him for receiving what they saw as special treatment from Caesar. There was no outright hostility, just begrudging looks and a lack of camaraderie. Although it was hard, Romulus could cope with that. From the majority, though, he received a kind of reluctant admiration, as well as a good deal of ribbing about being the best man to fight the Pompeians’ elephants, of which there were reputed to be 120. Romulus bore these comments with good humour, knowing that it was an eventual route to gaining their acceptance. With luck, fighting together would accelerate that.

He looked forward to more comradeship. Petronius’ death had hit Romulus hard, accentuating the pain of his split with Tarquinius and reopening the wound of Brennus’ last stand. Although he hadn’t been able to save Petronius, at least he’d tried to. Why didn’t I stay with Brennus? Romulus asked himself repeatedly. Beside that, even his manumission seemed trivial. I could have died with my blood brother, instead of running like a coward. Telling himself that Mithras had meant for him and Tarquinius to escape felt like an excuse – an easy way out.

A few moments after Caesar had ridden off, the
bucinae
blared from the general’s position. He had issued his orders before leaving.

‘Hear that?’ Atilius grinned wolfishly. ‘Prepare to move out,’ he bawled.

Excitement and a little fear rippled through the ranks. The enemy had to be near.

Readying his
pila
, Romulus advanced alongside his comrades. His eyes scanned the terrain constantly, especially around the point where Caesar and the Gauls were heading. Soon the horsemen had become nothing more than
a dust cloud. For an age, Romulus saw nothing. The tension continued to build. Only so much time could pass on African soil before they met the Pompeians, and now combat was imminent. Every man could sense it.

This feeling was heightened by the sight of the Gaulish cavalry halting at the top of a gradual incline. The legionaries followed Caesar’s tracks up a long, sloping ascent. Nearing the crest, they saw that he had stopped in order to survey the area. Their general was talking animatedly to the Gauls’ commander. His arm stabbed here and there, pointing out important details. Then Caesar turned to see how close his cohorts were. A smile crossed his face.

Instinctively, the soldiers’ pace quickened.

Atilius was a dozen paces in front, so it was he who reached the crest and spotted the Pompeians first. ‘Jupiter above,’ Romulus heard him say.

Soon he was able to see the enemy for himself.

A plain stretched away from where Caesar was sitting on his horse. On the far side of it, about half a mile away, was an immensely wide formation of soldiers. The sheer length of the Pompeian line spoke volumes. There were thousands more men in it than in Caesar’s foraging party. Many legionaries’ faces paled.

Atilius sensed the mood. ‘Caesar is no fool,’ he bellowed. ‘He won’t offer battle against that rabble unless he has to.’

Romulus felt a tickle of unease. It wasn’t certain that any fighting would take place, yet already the men around him were wavering. Not a good start, he thought. He was pleased when Atilius continued talking to his soldiers while raining abuse on the Pompeians. Reassured, the legionaries settled.

While he might not have desired battle, Caesar could not fail to respond to the enemy’s presence so close to his own. Sharp blasts from the trumpeters soon had the cohorts assembling in a long line similar to that of the Pompeians. To match the enemy’s width, however, his soldiers had to form up only one cohort deep. This was a major departure from normal tactics, which saw a minimum of two lines to face any enemy, and caused more uneasiness in the ranks.

‘He must be worried about being flanked,’ Romulus confided to Sabinus, the legionary on his right. They’d become friends over the previous few weeks.

‘I suppose,’ Sabinus grunted. ‘Never mind that we’ve got sod-all cavalry to defend us there.’

A short, black-haired man with a strong chin, Sabinus had been in Pompey’s army at Pharsalus. Like thousands of his compatriots, he had surrendered and sworn loyalty to Caesar. They’d fought well since, in Egypt and at Zela. That had been against foreigners, though, Romulus worried, enemies who’d had nothing to do with the Pompeians. Today it was time to confront troops whom many of these soldiers would have previously fought beside.

Like any officer worth his salt, Atilius realised that his legionaries were still uneasy. First the
signiferi
and then the
aquilifer
were brought into the front rank. There were proud reactions when the silver eagle arrived, with loud vows being made that no enemy would ever lay his hands on the legion’s most important possession. Atilius also had a word with his subordinates, who began walking along the ranks, addressing individual soldiers by name. The senior centurion did likewise, pinching men’s cheeks and slapping their arms, telling them how brave they were.

Caesar himself rode along the front of the Fifth Legion, the tribesmen he’d recruited in Gaul and made into Roman citizens because of their loyal service. His exact words didn’t carry through the air, but the rousing cheers that followed did.

Thus prepared, Caesar’s cohorts waited to see what Metellus Scipio would do.

It wasn’t long before the answer came.

To Romulus’ amazement, large parts of what had appeared to be closely bunched infantry in the lines opposite were actually cavalry. Numidians. In a stunning exercise of subterfuge, Scipio had concealed the true nature of his forces until the last moment. Now they began to move, the large squadrons of horsemen galloping out to either side on the flat ground between the two armies. From the middle of the enemy’s position ran thousands of foot soldiers: lightly armed Numidian infantry.

Scipio wanted a battle and, thanks to his clever tactics, he would get it. Despite Caesar’s thinning of the line, his men now had every chance of being outflanked. There was little point in refusing to fight, Romulus realised, because the Pompeians would then harry them all the way back to Ruspina. By standing and fighting, though, they faced the distinct possibility of
annihilation. As Crassus had at Carrhae. Bitterness filled him at the thought of serving under two generals who lost through lack of cavalry.

Caesar’s few archers finally came trotting from the rear, their faces lathered with sweat. The 150 men had made the journey from Ruspina at the double in order to catch up with the foraging party. Without a rest, they were sent off in front of the main force. The remaining cavalry also arrived, joining up with the men around Caesar. The patrol was immediately split up, with two hundred Gauls being placed on each flank. It was a trifling number, and Romulus cringed when he looked out at the Numidian cavalry pounding across the plain towards them. There had to be seven or eight thousand in total. Twenty horsemen for each of Caesar’s, and Numidians at that. The world’s best cavalry, which, under Hannibal, had repeatedly helped to butcher Roman armies.

Thankfully, he had no time to dwell on the disparity between the two sides.

The
bucinae
sounded the advance.

Caesar’s response to Scipio’s offer of battle was to accept. It was typically brave of the general, but neither he nor his men could have prepared themselves for the onslaught which began moments later.

The cohorts marched forward, each keeping close to its neighbours. Pacing them on the flanks were the Gaulish cavalry. The air was filled with the characteristic sounds of thousands of marching men: the tramp of studded sandals in unison on the ground, the jingle of chain mail, the clash of metal off shields and the shouts of officers. Romulus could hear men coughing nervously and muttering prayers to their favourite gods. Few spoke. He cast his own eyes up to the heavens, wondering if anything would be revealed. All he saw was blue sky. Romulus clenched his teeth, taking comfort from the soldiers on each side of him and ignoring the tang of fear in the smell of their sweat.

This was the worst part: the anticipation before the actual battle started.

‘Keep moving,’ roared Atilius from his position in the very centre of the third rank. ‘Stay in line with the other cohorts!’

Soon they could make out the individual shapes of the Numidian infantry running towards them. Thin, wiry figures with dark hair and light brown skin, they wore short, sleeveless tunics belted at the waist with rope. Like their mounted comrades, they wore no armour, carrying only a small round
shield for protection. Their arms consisted of light throwing spears and javelins, and a knife. Barefoot, they danced along the hot ground singly and in groups, closing in on the Roman lines like packs of hunting dogs.

‘Don’t look up to much, do they?’ sneered Sabinus.

His comment was greeted with contemptuous grunts of agreement.

Romulus’ spirits lifted. It
was
hard to see how the lightly armed skirmishers could have any meaningful impact on their lines. Although the Gaulish cavalry would come off worst, perhaps they, the infantry, could turn the tide in Caesar’s favour?

They were now within a hundred paces of the enemy. Close enough to pick out individual men’s faces. To see their lips twisted back in fury. To hear their ululating war cries.

Romulus licked his lips. It was nearly time.

An instant later, the
bucinae
sounded the charge.

‘Up and at them, men,’ roared Atilius. ‘Wait for my call to release your
pila
.’

The Twenty-Eighth surged forward.

Romulus’
caligae
pounded off the short grass. He glanced left and right, taking in the bunched jaws, the nervous faces and the downright terrified expressions of a few soldiers. As always, his own stomach was knotted with nerves. The sooner they closed with the enemy, the better. He scanned the figures running towards them, and felt slightly reassured. The Numidians looked puny compared to the heavily armed men all around him. Sabinus had to be right. What chance had these skirmishers of resisting a charge by legionaries?

Half an hour later, Romulus was of a different mind altogether. Rather than meet the legionaries in a clash of shield against shield, and engage in brutal hand-to-hand combat, the Numidians acted almost like horsemen. Fleet of foot, and unencumbered by equipment, they ran in towards the Romans, discharged a volley of javelins, and fled. If they were pursued, they kept running. When the exhausted legionaries stopped to take a breather, the Numidians swarmed back, flinging spears and throwing taunts in their guttural tongue. Nothing the Romans did made any difference. While few men had been killed, there were dozens of injured. It was the same story all along the line.

Here and there, frustrated groups of Caesar’s soldiers had ignored their officers and broken ranks to charge the groups of the enemy that ventured close to their positions. Romulus had developed a healthy respect for the Numidians, whose tactics changed when attacked in this manner. They turned in unison like a flock of birds, but their purpose was altogether more deadly. The pursuing clusters of legionaries were quickly enveloped and overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. Then, before the watching cohorts could respond, the enemy skirmishers were gone again, running back towards their own lines.

Romulus was quite worried. Atilius and his officers had kept most of the Twenty-Eighth in position, but the Numidians’ assaults were whittling away at the men’s confidence. Without the officers’ constant reassuring shouts, and the waving of the eagle, he thought they might have broken and run by now. Romulus could see by the wavering of the other cohorts’ positions that the situation was the same everywhere.

The Gaulish cavalry was faring no better. Driven backwards by the Numidians, they were struggling to remain anywhere near Caesar’s flanks. Already the cohorts on the edges were having to defend themselves against harrying attacks from the javelin-throwing horsemen. Before long, the enemy riders would have enveloped the entire patrol, blocking off its only avenue of escape. Romulus had vivid memories from Carrhae of what befell infantry when that happened. He didn’t mention a word of this to Sabinus or the men around him, but there was no need. They’d heard the story of Curio, Caesar’s former tribune in Africa, who had come unstuck in this manner the previous year. Moreover, they could see what was happening for themselves.

Panic was creeping into the faces of many.

Romulus could feel the first flutters of it in his belly too.

C
aesar had seen what was going on. Soon orders were carried by messengers along his entire front that no one, on pain of death, was to move more than four paces from the main line occupied by his cohort. Romulus took great heart from this. Caesar was even roving between units, talking to the legionaries and bolstering their courage. In the cohort next to Romulus, he had seen a wavering
signifer
turn around and try to flee. Grabbing the man, Caesar had turned him bodily to face back towards the Numidians, telling him, ‘Look, the enemy’s that way!’ It had raised a shame-faced laugh from the surrounding soldiers, and bolstered the other units’ courage.