Immediately thereafter, we assaulted the gates of the camp itself, these actually being made of timber rather than dirt, and without the use of any equipment other than just brute force, we managed to bring the gate crashing down by sheer weight of numbers. Pouring through the gate, we were met by a scratch force of Pompeians, and without hesitation, we threw ourselves at the enemy. My lungs were burning, my legs ached and my arm felt like it was made of lead, but I was a Centurion in Caesar’s army, and I had to give my men an example to follow, so I was one of the first to go crashing into the wall of shields.
~ ~ ~ ~
The fight for the camp was furious, yet it was over quickly; I think the heart had gone out of the Pompeians by this point, and once it was clear that our superior numbers made the outcome inevitable, they quickly threw down their weapons to surrender. I did not come out unscathed; sometime during the fight I received a fair-sized gash on my left arm just below the shoulder, due to a moment of carelessness when I dropped my shield too low blocking a thrust. I like to think that it was due to my fatigue and not that the man I was facing bested me, although I exacted my revenge on him with a thrust through his gut. With the main resistance ended, all that was left was to mop up, hunting down survivors and small groups of men who decided to make a stand. Making our way through the camp, it was only then that I got my first inkling of how complete was our victory. The camp had been hurriedly sacked, that much was clear, but since we were the first of Caesar’s men into the camp, the only people that could have been responsible were Pompey’s own men. Before we had a chance to investigate further, the cornu sounded the recall at the main gate, so I rounded up the men, then we all half-trotted, half-stumbled back to find out what was happening. Falling back in once we got back to the gate, it became clear how our numbers had shrunk just since the beginning of the day, but taking a quick head count, I was pleased to see that I had not lost any more men at the fight at the camp. So far, I had 20 dead, twice as many wounded, with roughly the same amount unaccounted for, making the strength of my Cohort less than 200 men. The other Cohorts were in much the same shape, but our work was still not finished.
“One final effort, comrades, one final effort is all that's needed,” Caesar’s voice was almost throbbing with intensity, trying to convey to us the urgency and importance of what he was saying. “We can't stop and plunder the camp right now. The remainder of Pompey’s army has taken position up on that hill over there.” He pointed to the spot where we could plainly see the Pompeians frantically entrenching around the crest of the hill that loomed above the walls of the camp to the northwest. “If we can get around the base of the hill, our scouts have reported that we'll cut them off from the only source of water, but we must hurry before they can dig a ditch down the hill to protect it. I have ordered that every entrenching tool that can be found in this camp be brought to us, but first we must hurry to get into position. One more effort, my comrades. Just one more!”
The fact that we cheered his words at all should be considered a tribute to the leadership of Caesar, because in truth I was not sure the men had the energy for what he was ordering, but I knew that we would die trying.
~ ~ ~ ~
Despite our almost overwhelming fatigue, we marched quickly, although it was more of a stumbling half-run than a march, out of the camp to the base of the hill about six miles from the rear gate by the route we took, swinging around to the north. By this time, the sun was close to setting, meaning we would be working well past dark, and Caesar quickly made his dispositions, placing us in a circle around the hill before ordering us to dig. At first there were not enough spades and picks to go around, something of a blessing in disguise for the men, since it allowed them to work in shifts and get a small amount of rest. Nevertheless, once we began, I sent the men who were not working to fetch water, using their helmet as makeshift buckets. Beginning the job, we had to use our bare hands, but finally men came with mules loaded down with entrenching tools. Once all the men had tools, the work progressed rapidly, despite it being done in the dark. This was the advantage gained from all the digging we had done all over Gaul, Hispania and now Greece, enabling us to work just as quickly in total darkness as if the sun was shining high in the sky. The Pompeians could not see us, but there was no doubt that they could hear us digging, and I am sure it was that sound that compelled a deputation from the Pompeians to come down the hill under a flag of truce, asking Caesar for terms. His reply was that he would only take their unconditional surrender, whereupon the deputation marched back up the hill to discuss the matter. It was a short discussion, and at daybreak the day after the battle started, the remainder of Pompey’s army threw their weapons down, falling to their knees and begging Caesar for mercy. And of course, Caesar showed them mercy, in the same manner he had been doing the whole civil war, ordering us not to molest our prisoners in any way and to respect their property. This did not set well with the men, who felt that they were being cheated of their just reward for all that they had done, especially since the contents of the camp traditionally went to them. Ultimately, I believe that this was the final straw for the men and was a direct cause of what happened next. For it was on this day of Caesar’s greatest victory that came not only the greatest challenge to his leadership, but to mine as well, along with the death of the friendship between Vibius and myself.
~ ~ ~ ~
The details of accepting the surrender of such a large force of men took at least a couple of watches, making it mid-morning before things settled down sufficiently to allow our own men the chance to rest. Once given permission, they finally just dropped to the ground in their normal spot in formation, with adjustments made for our losses. With the men sitting on the ground talking quietly among themselves, I called my Centurions to my side, or more accurately, the Centurions who were still standing. Niger had fallen, victim of a slingshot to the eye that penetrated his brain, killing him instantly. Crispus was down with a serious wound to the thigh, but he would probably recover if the wound remained clean. In their places were their Optios; Niger’s was Gaius Vatinius, a man who was part of my dilectus and in fact had lived not very far away from me and Vibius. In Crispus’ place was Vibius Flaccus, also one of our dilectus, but I do not remember where he came from. We went looking for Torquatus, finding him standing grim-faced with the remaining Centurions of the First Cohort. I could tell by the postures of the men surrounding him that something was amiss, and we soon found out the cause.