“Let’s get going. We’ve been waiting long enough,” a man called out, to which there was an immediate roar of agreement from his comrades.
I turned about to glare at the men, but it did not seem to have any effect. “Shut your mouths. We’ll move when we’re told and not a moment before,” I yelled as loudly as I could.
“What’s taking so long?” someone else called out. “Let’s end this now!”
Another chorus of approval met this call, then something happened that I had never seen before. Without being told, a cornicen in the 9th, obviously heeding the urging of the men around him, sounded the call to advance. In perfect unison, as if the command had actually been officially given, the men of the 10th, along with the five Cohorts of the 5th, stepped off with the 9th. All up and down the line, the other Centurions and I began roaring at the top of our lungs for the men to stop, but none of the rankers paid any heed whatsoever. I was reeling with shock as I looked over at Glaxus who was nearest to me, and who could only give a helpless shrug. Cursing every one of them, their mothers, fathers, and whoever else I could think of, I ran to catch up to take my place at the front, wondering if this was my last day not only as Primus Pilus, but as a Centurion. I looked over to see Caesar staring at us in astonishment, yet he recovered quickly, turning to snap orders to his own cornicen, who sounded the general advance of the whole army, while Caesar galloped Toes to the front of the line. Turning to see if it had just been the first line to advance, I was relieved that the second line, while farther back than normal, was hurrying to close the gap. The third line was staying put, but that was standard, as they would only come rushing in at the decisive moment to break the enemy completely, or to rescue us if things should go terribly wrong. As we rapidly closed the distance, the archers and slingers assigned to our wing began loosing their missiles, making the elephants their primary targets, and a flurry of arrows and slingshot went flying at the beasts. After only a matter of perhaps two or three volleys, the first of the animals, trumpeting in terror, whirled quickly about, despite its massive bulk, to go stampeding into the poor men standing in formation behind it. Immediately following the last missile volley, the men of the 5th hurled their own javelins, then launched themselves at the now thoroughly frightened animals. Elephants are herd animals, so it was only a few heartbeats before the rest of the huge beasts were following the first one. The carnage they caused was terrific, turning even the hardest stomachs as they impaled men that they thought were standing in their way with their tusks, while at the same time stomping on others, turning them into a mass of jellied meat in the blink of an eye. The chaos was total, the air rent with the panicked screams of the men, along with the trumpeting of the maddened elephants as they went charging back through the gaps of the unfinished camp. Seeing what was essentially their protective screen disintegrate, the Numidian cavalry positioned on the far left simply turned to gallop away, without putting up even a token of resistance. Hundreds of men just on our side of the battle were crushed, as the men of the 5th went after the animals in hot pursuit.
Meanwhile, we stopped long enough to loose one volley of javelins before slamming into the already wavering men of Scipio’s left. Dozens of men were cut down by our missiles even before we broke into a run while drawing our swords. The men of Scipio’s left did not wait to meet our charge, turning to run, thereby sealing their fate even before we smashed into them. It is not much of a challenge to cut down a man from behind as he is running for his life; indeed, the only trick is to run faster than they do, which was not hard under the circumstances. The front ranks of the Pompeians turned to flee back into the skimpy protection of their camp, while the rear ranks were still standing in place, resulting in the inevitable jam of men, most of them closest to us still with their backs turned when we slammed into them. Some turned to try and fight; one Centurion, about my age, was trying to rally his men, and had succeeded in turning perhaps two sections worth about, forming them into a makeshift wedge. They were just getting settled, bringing their shields up as I went slamming into the leading man, relying on my larger size and weight to knock him backwards. He left his feet to go crashing back into the two men behind him, all three of them losing their footing. I was followed closely by men of the First Century of my Cohort, who wasted no time in thrusting their blades into the fallen men, while I reached out with my free hand to grab the rim of the next Pompeian’s shield. I was taking a terrible risk of losing my fingers, and if my adversary had been experienced, I would have lost at least my fingers, if not my whole hand, but I had seen the look of wide-eyed terror above the rim of his shield so I knew that I was facing a scared tiro. Still, I was almost done for, only because when I yanked on his shield with all my strength, he simply let go, causing me to fall backwards, so that I tripped over the body of one of the first men we had dispatched. If one of my men had not caught me, I would have fallen flat on my backside and that could have been all for me.
“Easy there, Primus Pilus,” I heard a voice in my ear as he used his shield to push me back upright. “It wouldn’t do for you to fall on your ass in front of this bunch. It would make us look bad.”
“We can’t have that,” I replied, reversing the shield that I had ripped out of the recruit’s hand, grabbing the handle, then striking the hapless youth with the boss, sending him flying.
Without waiting for him to recover, I focused on my opposite number, the Centurion, who in a matter of heartbeats had watched most of his men be cut down, my own busy while I was falling about. I looked at him over the rim of the shield while my men spread out, surrounding him. Signaling them to hold, I lowered the shield a bit, but kept watching him closely. His face was a mask of despair, knowing that his life was measured in heartbeats at that moment, yet he held his blade in the first position, having picked up one of his men’s shields.
“There’s no need for this,” I called out to him. “I have no wish to kill a Centurion of Rome, any more than you wish to die.”
“How do you know I don’t want to die?” he challenged, though he still dropped his shield a fraction as he talked.
“Because if you did, you wouldn’t have waited. You would have already attacked. And died,” I finished meaningfully.
“Maybe I’m giving you a chance to surrender,” he replied, but while the words were truculent, the tone was not and I had to laugh, as did my men surrounding him.
I liked his spirit; a man who can keep his sense of humor when he is about to die is a good man.
Making the decision, I stood erect, signaling the men to lower their swords, which they did, some of them reluctantly. “Give me your sword, Centurion,” I said. “You'll be under my protection.”