“We have to do something. There can’t be more than eight or nine hundred of us left.”
Caesar, having fallen back from the front line and landing occasional blows between the shoulders of his men while supported by another legionary, nodded and glanced at Galba. The legate was as hard-pressed as anyone else here, fighting for his life alongside the common soldiery. It occurred to the general that the greatest leveller among men was a life-threatening situation. In any other circumstance, even in the thick of battle, he would have been required by propriety to haul Baculus over the coals for addressing him in such a manner. In the situation in which the two men currently found themselves, even the idea was laughable.
And, of course, Baculus had fought like a titan.
“You’re right, of course. Step back from the line…”
Baculus did as he was bade, dragging his leg and barely able to stand. As the man breathed in ragged rasps and used the great Belgic broadsword as best he could to support himself, the general collared Galba and hauled him back from the front line.
Legionaries fell forward to replace the two men immediately, desperately defending the diminishing line.
“I need suggestions” the general said. “We’ve lost three quarters of the legion, most of the officers and standard bearers. With enemies on all sides, the Twelfth is just shrinking and will shortly disappear, with us in the middle.”
Galba shrugged.
“We need support. But the problem is that even if the reserves show up and attack the Belgae, unless the enemy actually break and run for it, they won’t be able to get to us. We’ll still be gone by the time the relief reaches us.”
Baculus pointed.
“Looks like the Tenth are coming back across. The Ninth must be in control over there. We’ve got the cavalry trying to help us, the support staff and the Tenth, and the reserves must be nearly here by now. They must have been told ages ago now.”
“Yes,” Galba said, “but none of them can actually reach us. They can attack the Nervii on another front, but that might not help us at all.”
Caesar frowned.
“Then we must move the world around us.”
“Sir?”
The general smiled.
“If the relief cannot reach our position, we have to move the entire legion mid-fight; find a different position.”
“But sir…” Galba said, “We’re completely surrounded.”
“Then we’ll just have to push hard. This is my plan: It appears that the Eighth and Eleventh have the enemy pinned against the river. They cannot afford to stop that push, or their own opposition could regroup. But the Eleventh are at this end of the field. If we can link up with them, they can give us support and we will be the flank rather than on our own.”
“I can see that, general, but how can we get to them?”
Caesar smiled.
“The plebeian way… brute force and ignorance.”
Baculus wiped the free-flowing blood from his eyes again.
“We send all the standards in that direction and reorganise. The northern edge takes the lead and actually pushes through the Nervii until we reach the Eleventh. At the same time, the other three directions go as defensive as possible, almost a testudo, and pull back so that the whole legion gradually moves north until we join up with the others.”
Caesar gave a rare, very genuine grin.
“That’s the sort of thing.”
Baculus saluted, almost collapsing as he lost the support of his arm.
“I’ll start moving the standards forward now, sir.”
He turned, but his leg, so pale from blood loss it had taken on a blue tint, buckled and gave way beneath him, causing him to collapse to the floor. He grasped the baldric of a nearby legionary and used it to haul himself up.
Caesar looked him up and down and shook his head, smiling.
“I don’t think you will.”
He rapped a nearby second-line legionary on the shoulder. The man turned irritably and, as he saw who it was, came to a cramped salute in the press of men.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Naevius, sir!”
“Well, Naevius… I’m putting you in charge of your primus pilus. He fights like a lion, but he’s so badly wounded he can hardly move. Your task is to make sure he stays calm, away from the action, and alive long enough for me to be able to decorate him when this is over. Got that?”
The legionary saluted again and then grasped the centurion to support his weight. Baculus glared at both he and the general and then sighed and gave up, just before his legs did. Caesar turned to Galba.
“This will need every ounce of courage and pride your men have, legate. I need you in the middle of things, shouting encouragement. I, on the other hand, will be at the front, with the standards.”
“Sir…” Galba shook his head. “You can’t do that. You’re the only person on this field that we really cannot afford to lose.”
“That, legate, is very charming and a little sycophantic. Given our circumstances, if we don’t do something big, it will make no difference how important any of us are.”
Galba nodded. If the slight put-down in the general offended him, he showed no sign.
“Very well, sir. I shall head to the rear of the column and try to hold the legion together as we move.”
Caesar smiled.
“Signifers? To me… Rally on me!”
As the general turned and began to push his way through the rapidly-diminishing unit, the standards of various centuries bobbed through the crowd, converging on the northern area of the struggling unit. Once the general had reached a position in the third line of men, he waited for the signifers to arrive. There should have been fifty nine standards throughout the full legion. A quick count and he could see twenty four… no, twenty five. Taking a deep breath, he called out.
“Call out if you are a signifer for the First Cohort!”
Seven voices replied.
“And the Second?”
Four men.
“Third?”
Six voices.
“Fourth?”
Not a voice was raised above the background din of battle.
“The Fourth Cohort is gone?”
He sighed. What he’d thought he could turn to a rousing speech was, instead, drawing attention to the losses they’d encountered and the danger that none of them would live to see the sun go down. Change of tactic…
“The Twelfth has valiantly held a flank against overwhelming odds on its own!”
Rousing… it had to be rousing.
“The Gods themselves would tremble before the spirit and might of this legion, who I have been proud to fight alongside.”
There was a chorus of low cheers.
“But now, it is time to save ourselves; to preserve what remains of this glorious unit. We must push aside this sea of unwashed and bloodthirsty apes as a stable hand sweeps aside the excretions of a horse, and we must join with the Eleventh. I will lead this push, alongside the signifers of the Twelfth. We will show the Nervii that they may throw a million barbarians at us, but we are Rome, and we will not be snuffed out!”
A massive cheer went up as he finished. In a final, defiant gesture, he jabbed his gladius high in the air, turned and pushed his way into the frontline. The gens Iulia could disappear into obscurity with the death of its greatest son on this bloody field, but if the great Caesar was to die in battle, it would be in the thick of it where he would be remembered. The wound in his leg throbbed and, if he held his leg at certain angles, threatened to collapse him, but he gritted his teeth. Baculus had been fighting with far worse.
“Push! Make for the Eleventh!”
With no apparent regard to his personal safety, the general gritted his teeth, raised his shield, and threw himself into the fray. To either side, the men of the legion renewed their attacks, heaving with their shields, no longer holding them as steady as possible to fend off blows, but rather to bodily push the lines of the Nervii back away from them. Slowly, almost interminably, the wave of frothing barbarians gave slightly, and the men of the Twelfth managed a single step forward.