Now it was the turn of the Britons to be put on their heel, as our own missile troops, from Crete as I recall, along with the artillery on board began to return the favor of what we were receiving. Letting out a cheer as the first volley sliced into the tightly packed Britons, I saw several dropping to the ground either dead or wounded. Perhaps now we will get some breathing space I thought, as we plunged forward through the surf, now knee deep. Despite the scene still looking chaotic, order was slowly being restored, men gradually finding their own standards to fall into their accustomed places, finding comfort and a semblance of security in the familiar. I had yet to draw my sword and both of my javelins were either floating somewhere behind me or sunk to the bottom, I did not know which. Our Century formed up quickly, yet as I looked down the length of the beach I could see that this was not the case in the other Cohorts and Centuries. Men were still being assailed, usually from the weak side where they had no comrade to cover them with their own shield, with individual battles breaking out among small groups of fiercely fighting men, one side protecting their homeland, the other side trying to avoid drowning. Since we had received the advantage of Caesar’s galley we were the first to have some of the pressure relieved, so fairly quickly, orders were given for the other galleys to move quickly within range of the fighting going on further down the beach. Across from us the blue-painted men saw that we were organizing and on some command yelled in a language I had never heard before, they came thundering towards us, intent on breaking up our unit cohesion, weak as it may have been. There was no time to throw javelins, which most of us had discarded or lost anyway, so the order went out to draw our blades, followed immediately by a countercharge at the rapidly closing enemy. The impact was ferocious, the Britons throwing themselves at us in much the same way that the tribes of Gaul did, except with even more abandon and savagery than their cousins across the channel. Scrabbling for traction as the mass of men pushed against us, we were further hampered by the water that had soaked up into our shields, making it harder to whip them about to deflect blows with the needed speed. Their increased weight did have one advantage, however; when we did manage to use them offensively, they carried a much greater impact, causing considerable damage when used in this manner. It reminded me of when we used our training weapons and that thought cheered me a bit as we continued battling the Britons.
The first Briton I ever slew was an average sized man for a Gaul, certainly not ten feet tall, but I must say that the effect of the blue patterns he had painted all over his bare skin was a bit unsettling. Throwing himself against me, he smashed into my shield, yet I did not move backwards an inch, my weight and size giving me a solid footing. In his right hand he was waving the long sword that the Gauls favored, whipping it forward in an overhand stroke, which I deflected with my own blade, the two clanging together with a tiny shower of sparks as I felt my arm take the shock of the impact, immediately starting to turn numb. In training ground fashion I bent my knees, then using my superior size I put my shoulder into my shield to heave him away from it, following up with a punch of the boss to the face, a blow he just managed to duck. My blade sliced out at the same time as he twisted to avoid the shield and I felt the blade plunge deep into his gut, forcing a shrill scream of pain out of him that quite startled me.
Falling to the ground, his hands dropped his own weapon to clutch his belly, and I heard Vibius. “Did you just kill a woman?”
Despite the circumstances I let out a spontaneous laugh; Vibius was always likely to say something at the oddest times that would force a chuckle or laugh out of me, and this was one of those times.
“I’m not sure, he didn’t look like one but he sure sounded like a girl,” I shot back, the part of me that is always detached enjoying the banter, while the other part again performed the moves taught to us those years ago. Another Briton took his place, as it slowly dawned on me that because we were seemingly the best organized group on the beach, we were drawing the most attention from the enemy. Sneaking a quick peek over the head of the man standing opposite me, I saw that we were fighting a group several ranks deep. It is somewhat hard to convey in this manner the speed in which all these things happen. We were probably on the beach no more than a tenth part of a watch, but we still had not made any significant headway off of it. Transports continued being run up on shore and unloaded, while the ones carrying the first wave pulled away from the beach to anchor a distance away. I could hear the welcome sound of our tongue being spoken behind me as more men came to join us, but at that moment we were still horribly outnumbered. A considerable pile of bodies had fallen now that we had come to grips, and they were becoming a bit of an obstacle as we continued to thrust and hack away at the Britons. As far as the Britons went, their ardor had yet to cool, another way in which they are different than the Gauls of the mainland, since by this point in a battle one could usually count on a quick breather as the Gauls broke off the attack to regroup and work their courage back up. Not so with these men, and they kept hammering away at our very, very thin line, almost penetrating a couple of times when one of us went down and one of the blue devils would leap into the gap. Fortunately our men were just as quick to react, and there would be a sharp but brief struggle as the two fought for the space. When I compare this battle to all the others, the only odd counterpoint was the sounds of the surf, that and the fact that we could not understand a word they were saying. Although none of us spoke any of the Gallic or German languages fluently, we had been in the region long enough to have picked up enough to at least know when we were being cursed at, yet this was a tongue that while sounding somewhat familiar, was different enough that I could not recognize a word of what was being shouted at us.
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.