To this day, I still do not easily understand how the Britons decided that this was the opportune time to attack us. Reaching a series of meadows, Trebonius set just the 7th to reaping the grass that would serve as feed for our livestock, while he kept ourselves and the 9th in full battle order, as if we were ready to cross the fields and attack an enemy. Our cavalry was split into two sections, one on either flank, and we were arrayed thus when the Britons came thundering down out of their position on the low hills to throw themselves at us. If they carried the element of surprise with them perhaps it could be understood, but we were positioned far enough away from the nearest line of trees or hills that we had advance warning of their attack. Unlike the day before, when they used a formation spread far enough apart where their speed and mobility was a decided advantage, they chose this day to come in a closely packed mob, in the same manner as almost every other Gallic tribes we fought. Their close formation also gave us a Legionary’s dream of a target for the javelins¸ with no way to miss. Our one regret was that we had not carried two out with us, only hurling one before we went to the sword. Just yards away from us we received the order to countercharge and the two lines went slamming into each other. Metal on metal, flesh on flesh, bone on bone we met, yet it was only a matter of moments before our precision and experience began tipping the scale in our favor. Another factor in our favor was the desire to pay the bastards back for the men they cut down in our ranks, and along with it giving us extra fervor on our part, it also meant that we would give no quarter. Bodies began to pile up along the front line of fighting, and we continued to apply the pressure on their warriors. For a moment, neither side is moving; men are locked in their own private battles, not giving an inch. Then, something happens, and I do not know what it is, but something inside a man tells him to take a step backwards, just one step and no more. Perhaps he tells himself that it is only to open more space in which to fight, it is not really the beginnings of a retreat, and as long as it is just that one man, the outcome is still in doubt, victory is still possible. It is when the man next to him, out of the corner of his eye, sees the man next to him taking that step backwards, leaving him exposed that triggers what is to come. This is especially true if it is the man to his right who is supposed to be shielding him. Perhaps this man wavers for an instant, thinking to himself that he will be accused of giving ground, but there is the nagging worry that if he does not act immediately, he will very quickly find himself surrounded. Then, almost as if acting with its’ own mind, his rear foot takes a step backward, his leading foot immediately closing his stance back up so he does not lose his balance. Now there are two men giving ground, and a small pocket is beginning to form in their front line, which experienced soldiers like we Legionaries of Rome will immediately spot and take full advantage of, pressing our own bodies into the now vacated spot. Now there are two men, on either side of the pocket who are flanked, and it would be nothing short of suicide if they were to stay there without anyone rallying to come to stand by their side to try to dislodge the enemy. This is when training and discipline are their most valuable, and it was obvious that the Britons possessed none of either quality. So the moment when a draw changes to a retreat, then to a rout, happens almost before one can draw more than two or three breaths. Such was the case here, when I could feel the sudden relaxing of the pressure I was putting on the man in front of me, followed by his lunge jerking his harness out of my hand as he began the pursuit of the now-fleeing Britons. Because they chose to attack in such a tight formation the one weapon that was troublesome for us, the chariot, was practically useless in their short-lived assault. Even worse for them now was that men, out of habit I suppose, ran and jumped onto the back of their own chariots, only to be unable to move anywhere because the mass of men fleeing around the horses was so tightly packed that the beasts were standing motionless. Their warriors were screaming at the drivers as we ran by, cutting them both down with a quick thrust to the body. Our cavalry, seeing their own chance for revenge, came pounding into the mass of men, slicing through bodies with their longer swords called the spatha, their faces twisted into savage grins of exultation at this cavalryman’s dream.
Despite the chaos, we maintained our cohesion, running after the Britons in as tight a formation as can be managed running over open ground, cutting down any man who stumbled or faltered. Some of them suddenly seemed to make the decision it was better to die fighting than running and turned to face us, screaming their hatred, their blue faces and spiked white hair making them appear like some sort of dolls all painted up. Again, if they had any discipline and maintained the presence of mind to gather into small groups to make a final stand, although it would not have changed the outcome, it could have made it more costly. Not that I am complaining in any way for that lack in their character, except that perhaps it would have made killing them more meaningful. There is no particular skill, or joy for that matter, in cutting down fleeing men, at least for me. I would much prefer the honor of killing a man face to face, each of us giving our best, rather than the simple task of sinking your blade into a man’s back, especially when he is not prepared for it. But I also knew that any man I let live today could be a man with a score to settle the next battle, so I did not shirk my duty, cutting down my fair share of Britons, adding just another mass of men for which I must offer sacrifice to the gods to appease them.
This was the last time that the Britons tried to face us in open battle, their defeat being so resounding that the alliance of the tribes collapsed immediately, with men who traveled long distances to fight now simply turning about and going home. Those who survived, at any rate, since we slew a few thousand to be sure, yet we were most pleased to see we did a great deal of damage to the ranks of their charioteers, the shattered hulks of them scattered about serving as witness to our victory. Wasting no time burying the dead, we instead left them for the carrion birds and beasts to continue the march west, since Caesar did not want to lose the momentum our victory won for us. Our own losses were laughingly light; no more than a dozen dead among the two Legions, and a handful wounded. My section was never even put into rotation, so naturally we suffered no losses, although Atilius twisted an ankle on our pursuit stepping in a hole or something. He was much too embarrassed to go to have it looked at by the medici, since that meant he would have to be entered on the sick list, and I suppose he knew that the amount of teasing he would take far outweighed the benefit of any treatment the medici could provide. Passing through the killing fields from the first day, the only other sign of life besides the army were the birds circling overhead, waiting for us to leave. Not one solitary Briton was seen that day, or the next; it was not until our third day after the last battle that our patrols spied a small group of horsemen. What we did not know at the time was the political situation among the tribes, as Cassivellaunus fell back on the hit and run tactics that gave us so much trouble the first times we faced the Britons. The chariot reemerged as his preferred method of attack, but never again would we see hundreds of them like we did that day. Instead, there would be perhaps two or three in a group that suddenly burst out from the cover of the plentiful small forests and glades, darting in close so the warrior could hurl as many missiles as he carried with him, before dashing off with our cavalry in hot pursuit. Sometimes we caught them, but more often than not they would reach the cover of the woods, where our cavalry had already paid such a heavy price and only dared to enter in full force, penetrating less than a furlong into its depths. The ground was very flat, with what passed for hills only being perhaps a hundred feet or so high, meaning that progress was easily made, yet this was one time speed was not foremost in Caesar’s mind.