The Road to Rome (34 page)

Caesar’s men held their lines still, but his fighting words could not stop the relentless harrying by the enemy skirmishers and horsemen. By the time an hour had passed, scores of soldiers had been injured in each cohort, and their cries did little to decrease the general unease in the ranks. Something drastic needed to be done if the situation wasn’t going to spiral out of control. Romulus could feel his own determination being drained. Cursing the wraithlike Numidians, he shoved his black thoughts away.

To add to their distress, the Pompeian leader was revealed to be Labienus, not Metellus Scipio. Formerly one of Caesar’s most trusted legates during the prolonged campaign in Gaul, Labienus had changed sides after Caesar’s crossing of the Rubicon. Infuriated, Caesar had sent his baggage after him. Like many of the Pompeian leaders, Labienus had taken part in the battle of Pharsalus, but after Caesar’s victory, he had travelled to Africa rather than surrender. An accomplished general in his own right, he now took the opportunity to urge on his own men and to harangue Caesar’s battered cohorts.

Riding bareheaded into the no man’s land between the two armies,
Labienus taunted the legionaries with astute barbs that showed his awareness of their inexperience. ‘Greetings, raw soldiers! What are you doing?’ he cried. ‘You’re terrifying me!’

No one replied.

Urging his mount nearer Caesar’s lines, Labienus continued in the same vein. ‘Has Caesar taken you all in with his honeyed words? Look at you now!’ With a sneer, he pointed at their ragged appearance and the number of wounded. ‘What a place your general has guided you all to. I pity the lot of you.’

The exhausted legionaries glanced at each other. Few received any reassurance. Here was one of Caesar’s former leaders, whose men were winning the battle, insulting them with impunity.

Romulus felt differently. Come closer, you bastard, he thought, his fingers itching on the shaft of his javelin. The Pompeian leader was still out of range, though.

Emboldened by the lack of response from Caesar’s men, Labienus moved his horse forward a dozen steps. Then a dozen more. ‘You’re pathetic,’ he shouted. ‘Call yourselves Romans? The peasants from the little farms around here make better recruits than you!’

Before Romulus could react, Atilius pushed his way forward. ‘I’m no raw recruit, Labienus,’ he shouted. ‘But a veteran of the Tenth Legion.’

Taken aback for a moment, Labienus quickly recovered his poise. ‘Really? Where’s your standard then?’ he demanded. ‘I can see none for the Tenth.’

Atilius pulled off his centurion’s crested helmet and tossed it to the ground. Staring proudly at Labienus so that he could be recognised, he stuck out a hand behind him. ‘A
pilum
,’ he ordered. ‘Now.’

Romulus broke ranks to give Atilius his remaining one.

‘I’ll show you what kind of soldier I am, you whoreson,’ the senior centurion roared. ‘One of Caesar’s best.’ Lunging forward, he threw the javelin with all his might at Labienus.

Romulus held his breath.

His
pilum
hummed through the air to strike the legate’s mount squarely in the chest. Severely wounded, the horse collapsed kicking to the ground. Labienus was thrown free, but landed badly. There was a dramatic silence as he lay sprawled on the ground. Eventually, he picked himself up with a groan.

‘Remember, Labienus, that it was a veteran of the Tenth who attacked you,’ shouted Atilius.

Romulus and his comrades cheered at the tops of their voices.

Labienus did not reply. Holding his left side, he hobbled away with the jeers of the Twenty-Eighth ringing in his ears. His horse was left kicking and bleeding in the dirt.

‘Fine shot, sir,’ Romulus said to Atilius, remembering how he’d once brought down a Parthian archer at a similar range. ‘You taught him a lesson.’

‘It’s a sad day nonetheless,’ replied Atilius quietly. ‘I served under Labienus a number of times. He’s a good leader.’

‘But he’s not with Caesar,’ said Romulus stoutly, feeling a flush of loyalty to the man who’d pardoned him. ‘He has to take the consequences of that.’

Atilius squinted at him, and then a smile creased his lined face. ‘Aye, lad. He does.’

Unfortunately, the senior centurion’s effort at rallying the legionaries’ spirits did not last for long. While the Twenty-Eighth steadied itself, the surrounding cohorts did not. The Numidian attacks grew ever bolder, with squadrons of horsemen riding in with the skirmishers to launch huge volleys of javelins at the Romans. Nervous of being struck down, the inexperienced soldiers clustered together, reducing their ability to fight back as well as making themselves more of a target. On and on it went. There were so many Pompeian troops that they could keep up a constant attack on the beleaguered Caesarean cohorts.

The only things that differed from Carrhae, thought Romulus, were the facts that the enemy javelins didn’t have the penetrative force of the arrows from the Parthian recurved bows, and that the temperature wasn’t quite as hot as the Mesopotamian desert. All the same, thirst and dehydration were beginning to rear their ugly heads. The battle had been going on all day now, and most men’s water carriers were long since empty. They’d had no food since dawn either.

Caesar did not disappoint Romulus. Ordering the cohorts to spread out, he had alternate units turn about so that they faced the Numidian cavalry which was attacking their rear, while the others continued to confront the waves of skirmishers to the front. Atilius and the other senior centurions
were entrusted once more with the task of rallying the men’s morale. Then, in a simultaneous action, both parts charged at the enemy, hurling their remaining
pila
. To the legionaries’ surprise and delight, the Numidians retreated before the ferocity of their attack.

At once the recall sounded.

‘This is the first time we’ve got the fuckers on the run!’ Sabinus cried.

‘Our energy won’t last,’ Romulus explained. ‘When we stop, they’ll turn on us again. This is our chance to get away.’

The
bucinae
repeated their command, and men’s faces lit up at the chance of escaping the hellhole in which they’d been trapped all day. Forming up, the cohorts began retreating towards Ruspina with the remaining Gaulish cavalry formed up on the flanks as protection. They didn’t get far before enemy reinforcements could be seen approaching from the south. Comprised of cavalry and infantry, the newly arrived Pompeians immediately set out in pursuit of the battered foraging party. Reinvigorated, their exhausted comrades followed close behind.

Seeing the new danger, Caesar had his men halt and turn about once more. Soon afterwards one of his messengers came in search of Atilius. ‘Caesar wants six cohorts to lead a counter-attack, sir,’ he panted. ‘Three from the Fifth, and three from the Twenty-Eighth. Says you’ve earned it.’

Atilius’ chest blew out with pride. ‘Did you hear that, boys?’ he shouted. ‘Caesar has noticed your bravery.’

Despite their cracked, dry throats, the legionaries managed a rousing cheer.

‘What are Caesar’s orders?’ demanded Atilius.

‘He wants an attack three cohorts wide, two deep, sir,’ came the answer. ‘Push the fresh enemy troops back. Give them a bloody nose that they won’t forget. We just need enough time to get back to Ruspina.’ With a quick salute, the messenger was off to the next cohort.

Atilius turned to his men. ‘I know you’re all tired, but give me one last effort. Then we can go home.’ He eyed the Pompeian reinforcements, which were descending from some high ground to the southeast. ‘We’ll need to send them packing back over that. Can you do it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ they mumbled.

‘I can’t hear you,’ Atilius bellowed.

‘YES, SIR!’ the men cried, fired by his enthusiasm and the honour granted
them by Caesar. Romulus was particularly stirred by their mission. With no back-up from their cavalry, it was perilous in the extreme. If anything went wrong, they’d be completely on their own. No less a man than Caesar had asked for it, though, and it was a chance to help every one of the tired soldiers in the patrol. Something Romulus had wanted to do, but could not, on the retreat from Carrhae.

The senior centurion smiled. ‘Good.’ Leading the cohort out of rank, he waited as two more picked from the Twenty-Eighth joined them. The Fifth’s position was further to the rear, and its three chosen cohorts were already waiting to one side of the retreating patrol. The senior centurions from the units conferred with each other before Atilius’ cohort took the right flank, while the centre and left flank were formed by two from the Fifth. The three remaining units assembled to their rear, and they set off.

When Atilius returned, Romulus couldn’t help himself. ‘How come we have this position, sir?’ They were in the place normally awarded to the most experienced part of an army; he had expected one of the Fifth’s cohorts to take it.

Atilius looked pleased. ‘The others said that my javelin throw had earned me the honour. Now we all have the chance to win some glory.’

Romulus grinned. Atilius seemed more and more like Bassius as the day went on. It was easy to follow such an officer into battle. Fearless, tough and prepared to take all of the risks that his soldiers had to, Atilius was the epitome of a leader. Romulus had to give Caesar the same credit too. Their general had played a huge part in maintaining his legionaries’ morale, and could still be seen urging on those who were falling behind. Although he was in his mid fifties, Caesar acted like a man half his age.

What more could a soldier ask for?

Determination filled Romulus that he would help drive back the advancing Pompeian troops, or die in the attempt. His leaders and comrades deserved no less.

Atilius glanced to either side, and raised an arm. ‘Close order,’ he ordered. ‘Shields high. Draw swords.’

The distinctive sound of
gladii
sliding from their scabbards filled the air. Almost no legionaries had any
pila
left; after an entire day of combat fought back and forth over a large area, most had been damaged or were irretrievable. Their charge would hopefully lead them into close-quarters
fighting for the first time. There they could use their deadly swords and the metal bosses of their
scuta
to exact revenge for the torture they’d been put through by the Pompeians. It was a pleasing prospect for the bitterly frustrated soldiers.

‘Forward!’ bellowed Atilius. He took off at a gentle trot, and six cohorts followed.

Soon they could tell that the enemy reinforcements were predominantly infantry, but were supported by a strong force of cavalry on each wing. Foot soldiers never liked facing horsemen at the best of times, yet all the men present knew of Caesar’s tactic at Pharsalus sixteen months before. This stunning success had been at the root of their general’s victory, and had been drilled into every one of his soldiers since. While they no longer had
pila
to jab at the riders’ faces, the legionaries had the confidence of knowing that a charge on the enemy riders gave them a chance of breaking the attack. Horsemen were not invincible. That was the theory, anyway.

By the time they had covered a quarter of a mile, the Pompeians were closing fast. The cavalry were keeping their mounts reined in so that they didn’t overtake the foot soldiers, but a swelling roar of anger could be heard from their ranks. These were men who had missed the whole day’s fighting; no doubt their leaders had promised them the glory of winning the battle.

‘Double time!’ Atilius shouted. With an energy that scarcely seemed possible given their ordeal, he broke into a full run. In a clever move, the
signifer
was right beside him.

Battle madness, which had been lacking in the Twenty-Eighth all day, began to seize control of the men. Keeping silent as they’d been trained, they used the frenzy to push their tired bodies to the same speed as Atilius. It was at times like this when their mail shirts, helmets and
scuta
became as heavy as lead. Although the soldiers’ muscles screamed for a rest, the cohort’s standard meant nearly as much as the silver eagle. It could not under any circumstances fall into enemy hands. For it to do so would bring disgrace down on every man’s head, a dishonour which could only be wiped away by its recovery.

Naturally, the other cohorts kept up with Atilius’ men. With the safety of their comrades entrusted to their care, no one was prepared to be left behind. Caesar was watching.

The advancing Numidians were taken aback by the speed and ferocity of the Roman counter-attack. They had been told that after a long day of fighting, their enemies were exhausted and ready to break. Instead, they were confronted by the sight of six cohorts bearing down on them like packs of vengeful wolves. Foot soldiers against cavalry? Surely only madmen would take part in such an assault?

The cavalry slowed noticeably, and the light infantry did likewise.

Atilius saw the Pompeians’ hesitation at once, and acted on it. ‘Stay in close order! Keep your shields high,’ he shouted, increasing his speed and raising his
gladius
. ‘Remember, aim for their faces!’

Narrowing the gap between Sabinus and the man on his other side, Romulus gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles went white. His comrades were doing likewise, but their pace did not slacken. The Numidian cavalry were only about thirty paces away now, close enough for them to see the mounts’ nostrils flare with nervousness at the line of approaching
scuta
. To pick out the features of individual riders, and the painted designs on the fronts of their shields. Charging a line of advancing horses was terrifying and Romulus gritted his teeth. If they failed, the remaining cohorts would be routed back to Ruspina. In that case, few men would survive. Everything depended on them.

The Pompeian officers did not react quickly enough to their men’s indecision and their advance had slowed right down by the time the Caesarean troops hit. Screaming like maniacs to scare the horses, Atilius and his men barged into the Numidian cavalry. The faster-moving enemy riders broke open the front of the Roman lines, knocking soldiers to the ground, but most had lost their momentum. Shields slammed into the mounts’ chests and
gladii
stabbed upwards at their riders. Like all light cavalry, the Numidians wore no armour and carried only a small round shield for protection. They were not the type of troops to meet a charge by heavy infantry head on, and their javelins were unable to punch through heavy
scuta
. In contrast, the legionaries’ iron blades bit deep into men’s thighs, bellies and chests, injuring and killing Numidians aplenty. Horses were slashed across the neck or stabbed in the ribs, causing them to rear up in terror, spraying blood over everyone within arm’s reach. Ignoring their dashing hooves, Caesar’s men darted into the gaps, disembowelling the steeds or hamstringing them. The next rank of cavalrymen looked
panic-stricken at the sight of frenzied legionaries emerging from the slaughter with bloodied
gladii
and snarling faces. Instinctively, they reined in, and some tried to turn their horses’ heads around. Of course their fear was obvious, and the baying legionaries redoubled their efforts.