“The 10th,” Labienus sneered. “I don’t recognize any 10th Legion. It doesn’t exist.”
“Let me see if this will jog your memory.” There was a sudden motion as the man who had been speaking took several hopping steps forward, his right arm pulled back. I saw the blur of motion as a javelin went streaking skyward.
Even in the heat of the moment, when I saw who it was, I laughed out loud. “That dumbass Labienus picked on Carbo,” I called out to the men behind me who could not see his identity.
Gnaeus Carbo was a solid veteran, but his greatest claim to distinction was being the champion of the Legion in the javelin. Before I could finish the sentence, the lance had covered the distance between Carbo and Labienus, the pointed shaft burying itself into the chest of his horse, causing me to wince involuntarily. The horse let out a scream that was almost human, rearing so violently that Labienus was thrown several feet, landing heavily on his back, where he lay motionless.
“Maybe now you’ll remember the 10th,” Carbo said over his shoulder as he strode back to our lines amidst the roaring cheers of his comrades, myself included.
Several of Labienus’ cavalrymen came rushing over, dismounting to render aid to their commander who was just beginning to move, his limbs waving groggily about like an insect knocked over on its back. However, while this was certainly good for morale, it did not change the overall situation at all, and finally one of Caesar’s aides came galloping up.
“Caesar orders you to pull all of your Cohorts back and refuse the line with them in the same manner that you did with the Centuries. The center of the line is going to alternate Cohorts and pull to the rear of the formation and the ones that stay in front are going to single Century line to keep the front covered. Move quickly!”
I saluted, then began issuing orders. Naturally we could not just turn about to move into the new position without threatening our rear, so we also alternated, but with Centuries.
“Odd number Century signiferi and Centurions on me!” I ordered.
Once they were gathered, I pointed to the line I wanted them to form extending our right line, telling them they had to hurry because our cavalry screen was crumbling even as I watched, falling back closer and closer to where the three Centuries of the First were already waiting. I could only assume that the situation was similar on the left flank and that whoever was giving orders over there was doing the same thing that I had because the enemy was not flooding into our rear from that direction. The dust cloud raised by so many horses and men almost completely obscured the center of our lines, but the sounds of battle clearly conveyed that the fighting was desperate. The men moved quickly into position, yet even as they were doing so, our cavalry screen was pushed back into the ranks of my men, making for a terrible confusion of men and horses as both groups struggled to maintain some semblance of cohesion, the men on foot trying to find their standards, the horsemen trying to stay alive. The Pompeian cavalry took advantage of the chaos, forcing a wedge of horsemen into the churning space, hacking down at my men, who in turn jabbed upwards at them with their javelins. The long swords of the Gallic cavalrymen flashed downward, sparks flying when their blade struck the metal shaft of a javelin or the rim of a shield, a grunt or yell accompanying each strike. Men were calling to each other, both to friend and foe, either offering encouragement or cursing and for several moments, the situation was as confusing and unclear as any battle I had ever taken part in, including Pharsalus. Behind me, the Cohorts pulled out of the center of the line were moving into position, while the Centuries of the Cohorts remaining in the front line that had been in the second rank moved into the spaces vacated by the Cohorts, including mine. The odd-numbered Centuries from the 10th had moved into a semblance of the position that I had designated, but there were still a number of enemy cavalry trying to occupy the same spot. Even as I watched, more enemy cavalrymen appeared out of the dust to add to the pressure my men were already under, so that despite their efforts, I saw the rear ranks of the Centuries start to take a step backwards. The right flank was in immediate danger of collapsing, and with it the possible fate of the army.
~ ~ ~ ~
I could not delay moving the rest of my men into position any longer, so I sent for Scribonius, who came running out of the dust, his face streaked with sweat, the front of his armor caked with blood, causing me to look at him in obvious concern.
Puzzled at first, he followed my gaze then shook his head and grinned. “Not mine. One of those Numidian cunni wasn’t fast enough jumping out of the way. What are your orders, Primus Pilus?”
I told him quickly that I needed him to take command of the rest of the men and get them into place as rapidly as possible. I had finally divined what Caesar was up to; in effect, he was ordering us to form an orbis, albeit on a larger scale than any we had ever been involved with before. Even as I was relaying the orders to Scribonius, I could see more horsemen were flowing around my men, except now they were not trying to engage them, instead trying to skirt past them to get into our rear. The Cohorts ordered to fill out the final piece of the orbis to protect our rear were moving into position, but were still more than a hundred paces away from being where they needed to be, and it was going to be a race to see whether the enemy could exploit the gap or our own men could close it. Still, as critical as it was, I could not give any more than a passing glance at it, my own situation with the 10th on the right being desperate. So far, we were managing to retain enough unit cohesion that our casualties had been relatively light from all appearances, but when facing cavalry the moment one man breaks ranks and turns to run, he brings on the possible destruction of his unit and the deaths of most of his friends. I had seen some of the men taking that first step back, so I knew that the next moment or two could determine whether we escaped this day with our lives or not. Scribonius saluted, then ran off to begin moving the rest of the men into position while I, having done all that I could do from a command point of view at this time, pushed my way to the front where the fighting was heaviest. All of these events were happening in much less time than it takes for me to describe; perhaps 200 heartbeats had elapsed since I had received Caesar’s orders, and then moved the first of the men into position. I picked out one particularly large Gaul who was slashing down at one of my men with his long sword, which the man on the ground was blocking with his shield. However, I could see my man’s legs shaking, the first sign that they were going to buckle, meaning his life was measured in heartbeats but before the Gaul could land the killing blow, I arrived to thrust my blade into the guts of the horse, its entrails dropping out so quickly that they covered my hand in filth and offal. It reared violently before its rear legs collapsed, sending its rider flailing desperately to keep his balance down into the dust. Before he could roll out of the way, the horse landed heavily on his leg, and I could hear the bone snap from where I stood over both man and beast as their screams mingled together. Shaking my arm as free of the horse entrails as I could, I stepped over the horse, its legs still thrashing feebly, to thrust my blade into the Gaul’s throat, knocking his weak attempt to parry my blade aside with contemptuous ease.
The immediate threat to his life over, the man I had saved, a ranker named Faculus, I believe, stood grinning at me, pointing to my filth-covered arm. “You’re never going to get all that off, Primus Pilus. That stink is going to be with you for weeks.”