“They think we’re completely crazy,” Vibius commented.
I nodded my head, since this was the same thought running through my mind as Vibius and I stood, watching them watch us, either on horseback or sitting on the platform of a chariot, ready to bolt at the first sign that we would order the cavalry out to pursue them. They were not painted for war, yet we did see something that either escaped our notice the year before, or was evidence of a new tribe entering the picture, because some of the men had done something very interesting to their hair. Using what we would find out later was a mixture of lime and water, they made their hair stand on end in great spiked tufts. Apparently this was designed to strike fear into their enemies, but I am afraid that at least as far as we were concerned, the effect was more of some amusement than anything else. We had long since learned that men adorning themselves in a certain way, or wearing certain clothes did not make them any more or less hard to kill; the only exception to this of course was whether what they were wearing was designed to protect them in a practical manner, like armor. Otherwise, we were singularly unimpressed with the lengths that men went to in order to try and give themselves an extra edge in battle.
Work on the damaged ships continued until the end of the month; finally, we had affected the necessary repairs, and ensured the security of the fleet to an extent approved by the Legions with the construction of the enclosure. Turning our attention back to the Britons, we saw they were not idle either, as it turned out. Like most of the tribes on the mainland, the tribes of Briton have their own internal political struggles and rivalries, their hatred of each other only set aside because their hatred of us was greater. During the time we spent repairing the fleet, they were working on the political front, with an alliance formed between the tribe initially facing us, the Trinovantes, and one of the most powerful tribes, led by a man named Cassivellaunus. It was his warriors with the spiked hair that we saw watching us a couple of days before. Picking up where we left off, a force was left behind to guard the camp and enclosure, with the rest of the army retracing our steps back in the direction of the camp we made earlier in the month. There was one difference this time; the Britons were not going to be content to wait for us to come to them.
Marching in column with our cavalry as a screen around us, the first attacks began, predictably with their chariots and some cavalry. Our horsemen successfully repulsed the attacks, though as was usual with our Gallic cavalry, their passions ran high. When things went well, they were incredibly fierce and aggressive. This time was no exception and they pursued the Briton chariots into some nearby woods, which was their mistake. Almost immediately their shouts of triumph turned to cries of alarm when they were set upon by warriors waiting in the woods. Not more than a handful of moments later, our cavalry came streaming out of the woods, many of the horses without men riding on them. Pressing on, we watched for further attacks, yet the Britons seemed to be content to trail along on our flanks, much like wolves do when they are stalking a herd of animals, waiting for the one that cannot keep up to provide them with their evening meal. Moving over the open ground, we approached the same river as before, to find that for the most part our camp was left largely undisturbed. All that needed to be done was to place the stakes of the palisade and repair some of the ditch that had fallen in, and we immediately set to work, confident that the Britons would refrain from attacking us.
We were wrong, very wrong. While we were repairing on our portion of the camp, close to the PortaDecumana, a great shout arose from the guard Cohorts placed a short distance out from the main gate. Because of the nearby enemy Caesar doubled the guard to two Cohorts, but these were men from the 8th, and despite being veterans, they were not part of the expedition the year before and consequently had not faced the chariots before this. Also, the Britons were more committed this time, and under better leadership by the Briton Cassivellaunus, resulting in the two Cohorts being quickly surrounded by the fast-moving chariots, their warriors leaping off them to run quickly up to the Legionaries to slash and thrust at their selected target, only to dash away back to the chariot when pursued by our men. Along with the chariots came a large number of men on foot using the same tactics, not packed together like they usually were, but in loose order, rushing in and out in a similar manner as the chariots. Caesar quickly ordered two more Cohorts to the aid of the guard, except they were of the 8th as well and did not go out together as one unit, but with an interval of perhaps 200 paces between them. This was enough of a gap to allow the Britons to surround each Cohort in turn, the chariots speeding in between the two, the warriors hurling their javelins at the hurrying Legionaries, some of them inevitably finding their mark, felling several of our men. The battle was barely visible because of all the dust created by the chariots crisscrossing back and forth in front of and around the Cohorts, so it was only in brief snatches when the whirling dust parted for just a moment that we could see our men fighting for their lives. All work had virtually ceased as we all tried to see what was happening, shading our eyes and speculating among ourselves what was happening.
“Those boys in the 8th have their hands full. I wonder how long before Caesar calls on us.”
Hearing the familiar voice of the Pilus Prior, who had joined us as we watched, I was somewhat surprised that he was not yelling at us for stopping work, but he seemed just as interested in the fighting as we were. The scar on his face gave him a normally grim expression, but his countenance was even graver as he watched our comrades fighting for their lives beyond the front gates. Moving to a spot just on the other side of the ditch we were preparing where we had a better view, such as it was, we were standing there in a small cluster. I was wondering the same thing, yet Caesar had other ideas, probably thinking that the other Cohorts of the 8th would fight harder because it was their closest friends in trouble, with the command going out for the remaining Cohorts to leave the camp and go to the aid of the men fighting. Along with them went a contingent of our cavalry, their pride already stung and eager to avenge their earlier setback. Finally, after an entire Legion deployed in front of the camp the Britons withdrew, but not after inflicting a fair number of casualties, including one of the new Tribunes who had joined us for this campaign, a young man named Quintus Durus. We drew blood as well, the bodies and the wrecks of a couple chariots attesting to that fact out in front of our camp. Settling in for the night, we watched as the 8th mourned their dead and built their funeral pyres.
Next morning, we sent out our normal cavalry patrols, with the Britons falling back on the same entrenched hill we assaulted, before coming down in their chariots and on horseback to engage our cavalry. The results were much the same as the day before, in that neither side inflicted the damage it desired on the other. All morning our patrols engaged with small groups of their mounted troops, and we could track each skirmish by the sudden column of dust rising in the air, borne upward by the small whirlwinds produced by hooves and wheels. Every so often a courier would come galloping in to give Caesar a report of what was taking place, but it did not take a master strategist on either side to know that the tactics currently at play would not produce a decisive engagement. With that in mind, Caesar raised the stakes, ordering out a foraging party, perhaps the most heavily armed in the history of warfare, consisting of the entire cavalry and the 7th, 9th and 10th Legions. Oh, to be sure we did march out of the gates carrying our sickles and baskets, except we marched with the covers of our shields off, ready to change from farmers to soldiers at the first opportunity. Caesar selected Trebonius to command the detachment, still something of an unknown quantity to us. However, we possessed enough confidence in our own Centurions and the experience we had won these years of campaigning. Truth be told, none of us thought that this idea was going to have the results Caesar desired, believing instead that we would come marching back with baskets full of forage for the cavalry, but that was all. And it is just one more reason why he was the general and we were marching in the ranks.