Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul (67 page)

Slowly but surely our two Legions became more organized, and it was at this point that the chariot troops began entering the battle, or at least the ones who did not drive. Their drivers would pull the chariot up near the fighting, whereupon the warrior with him would jump off to throw himself into the fray. Then the chariot would pull a short distance off to wait for their man to be victorious or be forced to flee. My arms were beginning to grow tired as we battled; I do not know how many rotations we went through, but it was several. Gradually, the training and discipline began to reassert itself, and the Britons seemed to sense that their chance was rapidly slipping away. The bodies, most of them Britons, though there were a fair number of Romans, were now piling up, making the water just next to the shore almost completely red from the blood spilled. Hearing a roar of pain, I glanced over to see Scribonius had received a good stick to his sword arm, one of the Britons taking the opportunity to strike while Scribonius was engaged with another man. Blood was streaming down his arm, his face a mask of pain and fury as he thrust his sword into the throat of a man, and I remember offering a brief prayer hoping that Scribonius had just dispatched the man who stabbed him. Odd, the things one remembers from battles that happened many years ago. Vibius was beside me, none of us having time to get completely into our normal formation, and I covered his unprotected side with my shield as we both advanced, stepping over the bodies around us, pushing a little deeper into the mass of the Britons. Both of us knew that there was a point at which, by some unseen signal, Gallic warriors will in an instant lose heart, turning to flee so quickly that one is left somewhat bewildered by what just happened. Such was our goal in continuing to press; after a few battles, one learns to sense when that moment is nearing, and both Vibius and I could feel it coming. I do not mean to imply that it was just Vibius and I who had this sense about them; all along our line, men were doing the same thing. Instead of waiting for the enemy to step forward, we were taking it ourselves to press the Britons harder and harder. Despite my fatigue, I continued fighting, even picking up the intensity as I sensed that victory was in our grasp.

As with the other Gallic tribes, it happened just as I have described it; seemingly one moment you are engaged in a life or death struggle with the outcome very much in doubt, then suddenly you see the back of your enemy as they let out a great howl of despair before turning to flee for their lives. Immediately the scramble began, and no matter how tired we may have been, we knew not to let this moment pass, so we went running after them. The swifter among us caught the slower men, cutting them down with a quick thrust to the back without missing a step. Those men who climbed off their chariots had the advantage, most of them getting away by clambering back aboard. Not all of them, however. Vibius caught a man who, while dressed the same as the other Britons, wore clothes of a much higher quality than the other men around him, along with a gold torq around his neck. Sensing Vibius almost upon him, he turned in desperation, throwing his hands in front of him in a gesture of supplication, but we had no such orders and chances are we would have cut him down even if there were. Once a man gets to a certain level of excitement, and his blood is boiling in his veins, it is no easy matter to suddenly just remove the heat, so to speak and return to a calm and disciplined state of mind. Well-trained we may have been, but once the bloodlust surged through us, the only thing that would satisfy it was sacrifice. Vibius cut him down with a quick thrust, the despair plain to see in the man’s face as he toppled to the ground, Vibius pausing just long enough to relieve the now-dead man of his torq, along with a quick and practiced search through his clothes.

Flashing a grin at me, he held up the torq. “Not bad for a day’s work, eh?”

I did not answer, instead turning to resume the pursuit of the fleeing Britons, partly because it was my duty, but an equal measure being that I did not want to sit at the fire that night empty-handed. Nevertheless, I was to be disappointed; my momentary stop cost me any chance of profit, so I was in a sour state of mind when the
cornu
sounded the recall, signaling a halt to the pursuit. It was at this moment that the cavalry being caught in the storm exacted a price, because Caesar was not willing to continue the pursuit with just his Legions. This was the main thing that cavalry did anyway as far as we were concerned, come swooping in after the hard fighting to take the easy pickings, grabbing all the glory. They might have their uses, yet even now, I would not give an amphora of my piss for a cavalryman.

By this time it was almost sunset and there was still much to do. Once a semblance of order was restored, we began working on the camp, and Fortuna smiled on my section, designating our Cohort to stand watch while the others dug. This was the best assignment one could get; the first watch meant that you would not be called again during the night, and you avoided the drudgery of digging and building the camp. It is a good thing that this duty is always rotated, because I could easily see it costing a great deal of trouble if one Cohort was always selected for the first watch guard. This would be different than other times; having just fought a battle, it kept us exceptionally alert, since it was not out of the realm of possibility that the Britons would see us making camp, reorganize and launch another attack. Thankfully it was not to be, and the camp was built without incident. Although he did so from offshore, Volusenus had chosen well; this was the only high ground for some distance, it was in a clear area, although forests were near enough that it was not an onerous task to chop the wood we would need for the camp and for our fires. It was close enough to the beach to provide protection to the fleet, which we were all very aware was the starting point of our lifeline back to the mainland. Caesar ordered the galleys to be beached, while the tubby round ships that carried us were set out a way and anchored for the night. Our camp, like always, was rapidly erected, so it was shortly after dark when we were relieved and allowed to take care of ourselves.

Nobody in our section was hurt besides Scribonius, who required a few stitches, his arm now neatly bound up. The Century suffered a couple dead, including Ahenobarbus, and a few wounded, though only one seriously enough that his life was in danger. Pilus Prior Pulcher, who we had become accustomed to and admired despite his much different ways than our previous Pili Priores, stopped by the fire to check on us. The scar on his face caused the light of the fire to make it appear even more sinister, yet the moment he smiled, any thought of him being evil in any way instantly vanished.

“So you boys dry yet?” he asked as he squatted by the fire. Laughing dutifully, we talked about the day. “I’ll give them this, those
cunni
certainly know their way around a chariot,” he remarked, the response to this more enthusiastic.

While I had not seen it personally, several men were talking about these Britons and their chariots.

“I saw one of those bastards leap over the body of the chariot and onto the yoke, from a spot where there is no way he could have seen where to land, but he did it just like we hop up and down on the ground.” This came from Vellusius, with Atilius nodding vigorously, and even Didius gave a grunt that we had learned was his form of agreeing with us.

“I saw that too Vellusius. Just as quick as you please, but then he walks out between the horses.” Atilius’ tone emphasized his incredulity. “And these horses were at a full gallop, mind you. I’ve never seen the like.”

He ended with a shake his head, still trying to understand what he had seen. Perhaps it was because I had not witnessed it, but I was not so easily impressed.

“Didn’t help them fight any better though, did it?”

Expecting wholehearted agreement, I was chagrined to see my question, which in fact was more of a statement, met with nothing more vigorous than shrugs and a chorus of quiet comment that could have been either agreement or disagreement. Feeling the heat rising to my face, I was very conscious that the Pilus Prior was present, and here I was their Sergeant, unable to muster any kind of real support. Then I was saved, or at least that was how I looked at it, but not by whom I would have expected.

“You’re right Pullus. It doesn’t matter if those bastards had done somersaults, we whipped them good.” I looked in surprise at Didius, and I was not the only one.

He refused to make eye contact, but instead was staring into the fire, and a thought struck me. Could this be Didius’ way of trying to make peace, I wondered? His obligations done to us, the Pilus Prior bid us goodnight, making his way over to another tent, and truth be told, we were not excessively sorry to see him go. We were uncomfortable around Centurions, especially our own.

The next day was occupied by disposing of the enemy dead while taking care of our own, along with maintaining a strong presence along the ramparts to let the Britons know what waited them if they dared to attack a fortified camp. Early in the day, under the flag of truce, a delegation of the Britons approached the gate, accompanied by the man Commius who Caesar had sent ahead of us. They were allowed in, and the usual silliness occurred; they were sorry, they said. It was the work of young hotheads and firebrands, and not done with the approval of the tribal elders. Caesar, once again demonstrating his clemency, accepted this bald-faced lie of an excuse, making the usual demand of hostages, some of which were handed over right then, the rest promised to be gathered and sent to us by the surrounding tribes. Those warriors that we fought on the beach were ordered to go home, and we sent out Cohort-sized patrols to ensure that this happened. Our vigil we maintained however, knowing full well the treacherous nature of any tribe of Gauls, island or not. Staying more or less in camp for the next four days, until the last day of August, it was then that disaster struck.

Starting with a gale that blew in from the ocean, a violent rainstorm driven by high winds lashed at our tents, reviving memories of that dreadful point the year before when our tents were rendered more or less useless. It was especially miserable on guard duty, since the day the storm struck it was our luck that we were the guard Cohort. For those men in the towers at the corners of the walls, there was at least a bit of shelter, but those of us stuck out on the ramparts huddled beneath our
sagum
, bitterly cursing the Fates that let this happen. What we did not know was that it just so happened that the lost cavalry transports had chosen that very day to try their luck in crossing the channel again. Once more they were swept away by the storm, although they managed to get back to the mainland without losing a ship, man, or beast for that matter. But what we did know was the catastrophe that befell our fleet, the fleet that carried us over and was supposed to carry us back home. I believe I mentioned that while we were trying to flush out the Veneti from their forts, they relied on some trick of the gods that regulates when the oceans rise and the oceans fall. Well, it was this same trick that struck us an almost mortal blow as suddenly, for no reason at all, the level of the sea rose several feet, reaching well past the point where we beached our galleys, thinking that we had dragged them past the highest level that the sea would rise. However, the gods had other things in mind, as the seas, driven by the storm we were sure, rose to a point where the beached galleys now floated and because of the violence of the storm, were flung against the stone beach and broken into pieces. The gods were not through with us however; the storm was violent enough that the cables holding the transport ships at anchor were snapped, and these too were hurtled towards the shore, driven onto the shingle much more violently than when we had landed, so much so that most of the transports were damaged in some way. The day dawned to the sight of the beach, cleaned of bodies yet now littered with wreckage and the damaged ships of our fleet. The fleet that we relied upon to get home.

This sight of our wrecked fleet sent an immediate panic through the camp, so to my dying breath I will believe that it was our own reaction, along with the damage done to the ships that caused the British chiefs who were “guests” in the camp to follow the course of action that they did. There was a constant stream of traffic into and out of the camp by the various tribes on the island, so it was not of sufficient moment to remark on the passage of some of the chiefs who left the camp. It was what they were doing that would cause the mischief. Seeing the wreck of our fleet, and deciding from the size of our camp that we were a relatively small force, the chiefs summoned all the warriors who were dispersed in the days before, telling them to assemble at a site some distance away from our camp. This in and of itself would have been trouble enough, yet the bigger challenge facing us was due to the fact that we were told to travel light, meaning that the heavy tools, of the type needed to work on ships for example, got left behind on the mainland. There was a feeling of desperation that swept through the camp, the prospect of being stranded here on this strange island gripping the imagination of every man, including me. True, we had seen no men ten feet tall, but I was just as convinced as my comrades that there were things on this island of a fantastic and evil nature that we had yet to confront. I held no doubt that were we forced to spend the winter here, we would be faced with these horrors soon enough. There is only one thing that thrives on gossip more than a collection of women and that is an army, and I am too ashamed to recount some of the more fantastic tales that made the rounds during that time. This sense of impending doom was palpable, throughout the camp and both Legions. Two of the most veteran and hard-bitten of Caesar’s Legions were almost paralyzed with the fear of what would befall us on this island.