By the time we inevitably burst out of the woods, the dawn was now fully upon us, but even if we had not been given the order to halt so that we could dress the lines, we probably would have staggered to a stop anyway at the sight that greeted us. Although it was not a battle line of Helvetian warriors like we expected, it was not much better; it was the largest camp any of us had ever seen. As far as the eye could see there were clusters of wagons, each cluster grouped together to form some sort of barrier, except as we were to learn, the Helvetians did not sleep within their protection, however meager. They chose instead to sleep on the ground, huddled together in groups around fires, with only the meanest shelters of skins lain over poles above them to provide protection from the elements. The fires and the smoke from them, as the people designated to restart them in the morning had begun stoking their particular fire, spread so far along the bank of the river that it was impossible to estimate just how large the camp was. Perhaps even more disturbing was not the camp on this side of the river, but the one on the other side, no more than two hundred paces away on the opposite bank.
“By Dis, I think we’re in trouble,” I heard Calienus gasp, and it was only when I turned in his direction and saw he that was not looking at the scene before us, instead following his gaze that I saw what had caused such a reaction. The camp on the other side was a camp in name only; in area it was a city the size of Corduba at the least.
“There must be a million of ‘em,” this was from Scribonius, who was not one to normally be so flustered by such things, but then, none of us had ever seen anything like this.
In the moment I took to gaze across the river, I saw a single bridge made of two lines of boats side by side with rough-hewn planks laid across, stretched across the water, allowing perhaps two wagons at a time to cross. This sight at least explained why they had not yet all made it over the river, but that bridge posed a serious problem for us, because it enabled the Helvetians on the other side to come to the aid of their fellow tribesmen. And since we were closest to the river, it also meant that we would bear the brunt of the attack. In the moment it took for all of this to sink in on me, my friends saw the same thing and reached the same conclusion.
“We are all going to die,” Rufio said, not bitterly, but as a simple statement of fact.
We should have had more faith in Caesar. Anticipating such a condition, Caesar had expressly put us on the side where he expected the most problem. However, he gave Labienus orders for us that were slightly different from the other two Legions. Once the order to advance sounded, instead of moving on the camp, we were instead led straight to the bridge, forming a box formation with the First and Second Cohorts facing the bridge and the opposite bank, while the Third formed on one side of the bridge and the Fourth on the other. Behind each of our Cohorts was another in support, forming a box two Cohorts deep. Men were designated from both of the Cohorts facing the bridge to gather one javelin apiece from the other Cohorts and bring them to us to use for covering fire, while the two spare Cohorts were given orders to gather combustibles to fire the bridge. Meanwhile, the other two Legions were to assault the camp, sparing no one.
To this day, it is a mystery to me how this all worked out as well as it did; despite the fact that the sun had already started to rise, and the noise we made crashing about in the woods, we still seemed to achieve complete surprise. Afterwards, the men from the other Legions relayed to us how a large number of the people they killed were still lying in their makeshift beds as our men went sweeping through the camp. I can only surmise that the idea of us marching through the night and appearing like some sort of numens out of the dawn was so preposterous that the Helvetii never recovered from the shock of being wrong. The Helvetians on the other side were little better; it took them a full sixth part of a watch before a force of a size large enough to threaten us was gathered to try to storm the bridge, but by that time it was too late. Despite the futility, they valiantly made several attempts to get across, even after the fire was lit and went sweeping across the river towards them. For our part, neither the First nor Second Cohorts even pulled our sword, instead wearing our arms out throwing our javelins at anyone who got close enough. The closest the Helvetians on the other side of the river came to getting across was when a small force of horsemen ignored the bridge to swim across. Even they were cut down before they made it to the opposite bank, their horses looking more like porcupines, so full of shafts were they, floating downstream or sinking out of sight, along with their riders. I could hear the sounds of the “battle” if it could be called that, behind me, yet I refused to look around, telling myself that my duty lay in front. The truth was that I heard the mingled screams of women being killed, or worse, accompanied by the shrieks of terror from children and the cries of babies as they were put to death, making it much more than duty that kept my eyes averted. It is the part of soldiering that I hated, and still hate to this day, and as much of it as I have done myself, I have never taken the joy in it that some of my comrades have.
The affair was over in two thirds of a watch, with barely a loss to us, aside from some minor wounds. The bridge went up in flames, leaving the Helvetians on the other side shaking their fists at us, screaming imprecations in their language that we needed no translator to understand. Once it became apparent there was nothing they could do for their fellow tribespeople, they packed up their camp and made preparations to begin the march anew. On our side of the river, once I did finally turn to look, it was a scene of staggering devastation. Bodies lay in large heaps, some of them horribly mutilated, having been cut to pieces fighting, some with a single wound to the throat or chest. Thousands upon thousands of them; men, women, young children, teenagers my age, babies still in swaddling clothes, old crones who gaped with toothless mouths open to the sky, their eyes as wide as their maws, staring in that shocked expression that is common to people who die suddenly. That noxious stench of blood and death was already clearly palpable, and by the end of the day was so overpowering that we began to wear our scarves around our lower face to keep out the foul humors in the air, except it did not help much. The 8th and 9th were swarming over the field, looting the wagons and finishing off the wounded. From underneath piles of bodies people would be found who had escaped harm, and these were rounded up under guard to be sold into slavery, though not before the women among them were sampled by the soldiers who found them. Despite not taking part in the assault on the camp, we were still allotted a section and turned loose to loot it, Vibius and me pairing up as always. It is in times like these that all the camaraderie and good feelings one holds for fellow Legionaries is put under the most severe test; greed has a way of doing that. The customary method is for a tent section to lay claim to one particular house, or wagon in this case, and the others are supposed to respect that, especially this time since there were plenty of wagons to go around. However, it was a matter of who claimed it first, and invariably, there would be two or more groups who would spot an unmolested wagon simultaneously then make claim to it. This is where the Centurions come in, and why they always get a larger share of the spoils from each of us, along with the first pick of the most prized booty. They are the judge and jury of the system and whatever they say is law, which we accepted. Where things get complicated is when the dispute is between Centuries, or even worse, Cohorts, and then seniority is often used, although this is not universally accepted. Worst of all is when it is between Legions, and that is when matters can get violent; I have seen men killed in such disputes, squabbling over a bolt of silk, or in one case, a copper bracelet that perhaps cost a sesterce. That is also when things take a more official turn, with the Centurions involved in the dispute taking their complaints to their respective Tribunes, who then meet and work things out and come to a fair settlement. Of course, that is the theory, but like all things in our system, it comes down to who is willing to give the biggest share of the spoils to the man adjudicating the dispute. Perhaps it is not the most just system, but it works.