I will say that the Gallic warriors did not take much convincing, and almost before we could realize exactly what was happening, our army was in trouble. Caesar sent orders for the Tribune Sextius, left behind in the second camp with five Cohorts of the 13th on guard, to bring the men out to form a line farther down the slope than where we were presently standing. Their directions were to wait and pounce on the right flank of the enemy if they began to pursue our army at the walls, who at that very moment were beginning to take steps backward. Following Caesar, the 10th moved down the slope to perhaps 100 paces from the outer wall, while he waited further developments. One Century was at one of the town gates, their Centurion leading an attempt to tear it down when he was overwhelmed by a counterattack of the enemy. Surrounded by Gauls the Centurion, Petronius was his name, fought savagely to keep the enemy at bay while ordering his Century to retreat. At first they refused, but finally they withdrew down the hill, leaving Petronius behind to die a glorious death, taking as many of the Gauls with him as he could. As this was going on, Caesar moved us into a position that was almost perpendicular to the outer wall, in the anticipation of being able to descend on the flank of the enemy should our men turn back, and the Gauls decided to pursue. Our men at the wall were engaged in a ferocious battle, as now the final trick the gods held in store for us came into play. Looking to their right, to the east, our men saw the Aedui column ascending the hill in their own diversionary attack. I believe with all of my heart that, had the men at the wall not been so hard pressed, they would have had the presence of mind to remember that this could only be the Aedui launching their assault and were in fact part of our force. Unfortunately, in their embattled state, with every man fighting for his life, what they saw was another Gallic army heading more or less in their direction, and this was enough to break the dam and release the flood.
Our men, beginning with those on the right nearest to the advance of the misidentified Aedui, turned and began running down the slope, triggering an effect much like a cascade, with each successive Century either sensing or seeing the Century to their right suddenly turning and running. Caesar was rapidly marching us east now, to a small rise that served as the outer edge of the rest of the army’s retreat. Using faultless logic, he quickly determined that fleeing men will automatically take the easiest escape route available, and would therefore not bother with running up the side of a hill, however small, if there was a way to avoid it. The configuration of the slope was such that it served to act as a funnel between two small rises, just bumps really, but it was between those bumps that the vast majority of our army headed. The 10th was on the small hill on the eastern side, still facing perpendicular to the outer wall, with Sextius and his five Cohorts opposite us on the other. The Gauls, seeing the backs of a Roman army for the first time in their lives were in hot pursuit, the troops of Vercingetorix, by this point alerted to what was happening in their rear, now leading the chase. Like an avalanche, our army went streaming down the slope, heading for a clear and level area where they could form up again, except if we and the men of the 13th did not stop the pursuit of Vercingetorix’s men, they would have no chance to regroup. It was of the utmost importance that we stop the enemy’s headlong pursuit, so to that end, we arrayed ourselves in a single line of Centuries to give all of us a chance to assault them as they went running by. The enemy came closer and closer, not seeming to notice us standing on the slopes of the small hill, so intent were they on the destruction of the other Legions.
“Prepare Javelins!”
The familiar command rang out and as one, we pulled our arms back.
“Release!”
Like an invisible hand, our first volley knocked men down, those being struck crashing into the man next to them, slowing the headlong pursuit for a moment. However, the momentum built up by some 30,000 men running downhill, trying to finish the first victory against Rome which any of them had ever been part of, was more than enough to restart them almost immediately. A second volley followed, but while the momentum slowed again, it did not stop.
“Draw swords!”
Then a heartbeat later, “Porro!”
Then we were on them, using the advantage of the slope to help build our own momentum, and I went roaring down the hill to smash into a Gaul who wore a look of extreme surprise on his face, reveling in the feel of my blade sinking deep into his gut. Giving a twist before I withdrew, I left the man screaming in agony from being disemboweled in my wake. Wading into the mass of Gauls, they were just beginning to realize the threat to their flank and stopping their pursuit to face us, but not before I killed two more men. Completely forgetting my responsibilities as Optio, I was once more a Gregarius concerned with nothing more than killing the man in front of me, and I roared my delight and joy at being set free to do what I knew best. My Gallic blade made a distinctively different sound when it clashed against another blade, one that seemed to me to be a note of the most wonderful music, and I reveled in the song as I thrust, parried and hacked my way through the enemy. It did not matter to me whether or not they carried sword or spear, whether they held a shield or had mail armor like mine. All it meant was that the manner in which I killed each of them was slightly different. What mattered was that they faced death, and that I was victorious. There is something intoxicating about imposing your will on another man, to the point where you take their lives from them at your whim. Perhaps it is evil, or wrong, but I would merely ask, how could something that is evil feel so wonderful? Everywhere around me similar contests raged, and the Gauls started to reel back from our onslaught. I was vaguely aware that barely 200 or 300 paces away, our comrades of the 13th were meting out the same type of destruction, and it was between these two inexorable forces that the Gauls found themselves. Under such intense pressure, it was not long before the first Gaul, a man once flushed with victory, bursting with the idea that at long last they had defeated a Roman army, now found himself taking that first, inevitable step backwards. What I knew at that point, and it was all that I knew, was that my blade was singing a song, and I wanted it to continue. Step forward, wait for them to make the first move, parry it, then strike quickly. First position, despite it being awkward without a shield and feeling slightly ridiculous offering nothing in defense but my left arm, yet it never ceased to amaze me how one’s opponent would always lunge to make that first strike, even if it was only my left arm. Twice a Gaul hit their mark, albeit with glancing blows, so my arm was now covered in blood as I held it out like an offering to the gods, daring my next opponent to strike it. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was all over. One instant I was surrounded by snarling Gauls, the next they were moving back up the hill, with a considerable number of bodies heaped in front of us. Standing there for a moment, panting for breath, my right arm began shaking from the effort and my left started to burn, the by now-familiar feeling that liquid fire had been poured in a couple of lines along my forearm. I remember thinking to myself after inspecting my left arm that I was going to need stitches and that my arm was getting increasingly scarred, yet before I could spend too much time on such notions, the Pilus Prior’s voice penetrated through my fog.