“Those bastards saw our ships wrecked and decided to throw the dice,” gasped Scribonius as we ran towards the melee in front of us.
Only grunting an acknowledgement, my mind was occupied with the details of what was about to happen next. I did not think that Caesar would order us to charge pell-mell, in column, directly into the battle, so I was thinking about what the next command was going to be, guessing that it would first be an order to quick time, our normal marching pace, in order to allow us to catch our breath, followed a moment later by the command to deploy from column into line. When the cornu did indeed sound the call to begin marching, it was followed a moment later by the command to form into a line of Cohorts, which we executed with the practiced precision of veterans, while I mentally congratulated myself for being smart enough to recognize the obvious thing to do. Seeing the Britons alerted by the sound of our horns wheel about to watch us approaching, the sight of the 10th arriving on the scene served two purposes. The 7th was being hard pressed, having actually formed into an orbis, which is only used in the direst of emergencies. With our approach, it gave the 7th sufficient heart to order the redeployment into a more standard aciesduplex as they awaited our arrival and link up with them. For the Britons, this was the signal to break off the engagement, their own strange horns now blowing what was obviously their signal to withdraw. They retreated in good order I must say, leaving the battlefield behind to disappear into the nearby woods, from where they had initiated the ambush. As we were to gather from the events, this was an elaborate trap; the fields that the 7th were sent to reap were not harvested in order to act as bait. The 7th fell into the trap, which was no shame, but apparently their orders were to ground their shields and javelins, doff their helmet, with no guard set, especially in the nearby forest, thereby allowing a surprise attack. We would have jeered them for such laxity, but they carried enough bodies with them back to the camp that we felt they learned their lesson.
With the fleet rapidly being repaired, we still had one more surprise waiting for us. According to Caesar, only a total of twelve ships were totally destroyed and their salvaged parts used to repair the rest of the fleet. Again, I do not wish to dispute the great man, but perhaps my skills at counting are not quite as developed as his were; I counted no less than 20 ships wrecked beyond repair. No matter really, in the end both Legions were transported back to the mainland, but not before the Britons made one last attempt to inflict enough damage upon us to convince us never to return. For several days after the ambush of the 7th the weather was similar, just not as violent, to the great storm that wrecked the fleet, confining us to our tents as the elements lashed us with what seemed to be a never-ending rainstorm. Between the weather and our lack of cavalry, Caesar deemed it prudent to refrain from trying to chastise the enemy for their violation of their oaths of submission, and we sat huddled together, listening to the wind howl and the rain throw itself against our tents. Once again we were reminded of the year before, except thankfully this year our tents held up. Even with the violent weather, the men who volunteered to help repair the fleet, many of them now repenting their choice much to our glee, continued on. Through the wind and rain, they continued to work on those ships that could be salvaged, and we were heartened by their progress to be sure. But the Britons were not quite done with us, giving us one last test before we left this accursed island.
Even as the work progressed despite the weather, the Britons were not idle either. Their summons to battle was only partially answered when they attempted to ambush the 7th during our grain harvesting. However, by this point they had sufficient time to gather in their true strength, and it was with this strength that they appeared on the horizon one day after the spell of weather broke.
“To arms!”
With that command ringing out, the bucina carrying the call throughout the entire camp, for perhaps the hundredth time I found myself thanking Calienus for the early lesson he had given us in the value of placing our gear in the same place, every time, every camp. Automatically pulling on my armor and helmet, then grabbing my harness and quickly strapping it on, I exited the tent to grab my shield, stacked outside along with my javelin. It is in such a manner that a Legion can assemble and be ready for battle in a matter of moments, no mean feat for several thousand men. On the horizon, spreading before us, was the Briton host; chariots, cavalry and foot, all determined to make us pay such a heavy price that we would never venture to set another foot on their island again. It was here that they made their biggest mistake, in daring to fight us in a set-piece battle. Compounding their error, they gave us not only the time to form up, then march out of our camp, but to array ourselves in Caesar’s favorite formation, the aciestriplex, arranging our lines in front of our camp. Seeing the vast horde before us, perhaps it is hubris, but I will tell you that there was not a man among us who held any doubt about the outcome.
“Stupid bastards, aren’t they?” This was asked by Scribonius as we moved into our accustomed position.
Unlike other battles we fought in, there were not three wings but two; even so, we did not have to be told on which side to form up, and we moved into our place on the right, looking out at the Briton host impassively. I had to agree; they were stupid indeed to try besting us by using the tactics that were our strongest. I merely nodded, not saying anything, preparing myself for the slaughter that was about to come.
This battle is almost too inconsequential to write about. The Britons charged us, their chariots churning up clouds of dust as they sped towards our formation, heading straight into our lines as if they planned on running headlong into the front ranks. Suddenly, they turned sharply to parallel our front, with each warrior aboard throwing javelins as fast at us as he could manage. One noteworthy thing was that I finally saw with my own eyes the feats that the others were talking about, when one of the warriors leaped over the front of the chariot, landing nimbly on the wooden yoke attached to the horses. Not done, he took a couple of sure steps farther along the yoke before hopping up to plant each of his feet on the backs of the horses, who obviously had been through this before since they did not falter. Standing thus, he bellowed something I am sure was abusive at the top of his lungs, glaring at us while his driver guided the chariot along our front. His display earned him an ironic cheer from us, seemingly startling him, his face turning a dark red, obviously furious at what he perceived as an insult. It was not really meant that way; enemy or no, what he did was impressive and we Romans always appreciate a demonstration of excellence. Once the chariots expended their missiles, this apparently was the signal for the Britons to begin their pre-battle ritual of foaming at the mouth and hopping about while they screamed their insults at us. A few of them bared their backsides to us, drawing a laugh. Someone in our ranks began to reciprocate the gesture but was immediately persuaded against it by the threat of a flogging. Our men were shifting about, moving from one foot to another, growing bored, and all through our midst could be heard muttered imprecations and exhortations to get on with it.
“Pluto’s thorny cock, what’s taking them so long?” Vibius groaned, and I smiled at his impatience, though I felt it too.
Finally, they seemed to be ready at last, and with the undulating wail from what they call a horn blasting three notes, the mass of men on foot began running towards us, their weapons held high, their shouts ringing in our ears. Immediately after our last volley of javelins was done, the order to counter-charge was given, and we began running ourselves, colliding into the Briton horde at a dead run. No more than several moments later, before I even got a turn at the front, the Britons broke and ran, with both Legions in hot pursuit. Running as fast as I dared while carrying my naked sword over the broken ground, my long legs helped me close the gap, enabling me to wet my blade before sheathing it again. Our small group of cavalry pursued the fleeing men, and despite their small numbers, managed to account for a large number of enemy dead. All told, we killed about 4,000 Britons in the space of perhaps a sixth part of a watch from the time we lined up until we stopped the pursuit, and we did not lose a single man. During our return to the camp, we put to the torch a small village, along with a few small farms and the surrounding fields.