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.