The Silver Eagle

Superstitiously, Brutus prayed that Dyrrachium would not be repeated here today, at Pharsalus. That he would survive, and be reunited later with Fabiola. With seven cohorts as protection, she, Docilosa and Sextus were safe in Caesar’s camp, nearly three miles to the rear. If the battle was lost, the senior centurion in charge had orders to retreat to the south. It was best not to think of that eventuality, he reflected, hastily burying the thought. Then Brutus grinned, remembering Fabiola’s demand to march out on to the plain and watch the struggle. She was a lioness, he thought proudly. Fabiola had accompanied him everywhere since Alesia and now felt like his good-luck talisman. Discovering that she was also a devotee of Mithras had reinforced this feeling. They had prayed together for victory at dawn, before his departure. In that department, Brutus reflected, everything was going well. Almost everything. He sighed, thinking of Fabiola’s unexplained reticence towards Caesar. Still, it was rarely a problem. Plenty of other officers had used the excuse of the prolonged campaign to bring their mistresses along, diluting Fabiola into the mix.

‘Sir!’ shouted one of Brutus’ centurions. ‘It’s begun. Listen.’

Brutus sat up in the saddle, cupping his right hand to his ear. The sound started as a low thunder, but quickly intensified until the ground shook. Without doubt, it was the noise of hooves. Pompey’s cavalry was attacking, and in response Caesar’s German and Gaulish horsemen trotted forward, to the north-west. There were a thousand of the experienced warriors, with a similar number of specially trained light infantry interspersed between. Yet their task was hopeless. Against more than three times their number all they could do was slow the speed of the enemy attack: a delaying tactic. Brutus’ pulse increased, and he looked around, checking that his men were ready. They were, he saw proudly. Two thousand of Caesar’s finest troops, who would follow him wherever he led.

The clarion sound of bucinae ripped through the air all along the host. Vexilla, red flags, were also raised and lowered, repeating Caesar’s orders to ensure accuracy. Instantly the rhythmic tread of caligae upon the hard ground added to the noise. Two of the three lines in front of Brutus were advancing. Only one, the third, remained to hold their position. He grinned. Undeterred by the cavalry charge, Caesar was taking the battle to Pompey.

Brutus and his men waited, watching and listening to the battle commence. Impatient, nervous, none of them enjoyed holding back while their comrades began fighting and dying. Yet this was different. They had to stay put because their mission was all important.

The first to meet were the two forces of cavalry. Brutus could see the clash in the distance. Sunlight glittered off polished helmets and spear tips, clouds of dust rose and battle cries rang out. Brutus knew what it was like; he had done it before. Within moments of hitting the enemy, all semblance of formation would be lost. The struggle would immediately become a mass of confusing, individual fights, rider against rider, foot soldiers against horsemen. Hack, slash, bend in the saddle. Reassure the horse, wipe sweat from your eyes. Look around, check where one’s comrades are. Dodge a spear thrust. Move forward.

He turned to look west, wondering why the infantry had not yet met. Roman soldiers advanced towards each other in total silence, but there would still be an enormous crash of weapons against shields when it happened.

A legionary messenger came from Caesar’s position, to the rear of the third line. ‘Pompey hasn’t allowed his men to advance, sir,’ he panted. ‘They’re just standing there, waiting.’

‘What did you say?’ Brutus demanded. No general ever held his troops back like that.

Grinning, the messenger repeated himself. ‘When our lot realised, they stopped and re-formed.’

Brutus swelled with pride. With his first and second lines already committed, Caesar would not have been able to give such a command. With astonishing initiative, his soldiers had shown their top quality by regrouping before the combat began.

A whistling sound filled the air.

Pila, thought Brutus. A volley from each side at twenty or thirty paces and they’ll hit.

Screams and cries began ringing out as the javelins landed. A few moments passed. And then, with a noise like thunder, fifty thousand men smashed into each other.

‘Caesar orders you to prepare yourselves, sir,’ said the messenger, darting off again. ‘All his trust is in you. But do not advance until his flag signals.’

‘Do you hear that, boys?’ Brutus cried to his men. ‘Caesar trusts us completely. And we will repay that confidence. Venus Victrix, Bringer of Victory!’ He roared out the password given to them that morning.

A great sound of approval met his words, swelling as it moved along the cohorts.

Brutus smiled. His legionaries’ morale was high. But that could not rid him of the anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach. Even if Caesar’s hardened veterans in the front two lines won the day against Pompey’s less experienced soldiers, it would all mean nothing when the enemy horse swarmed around their right flank. There were no men on earth who could withstand a cavalry charge from behind. Everything depended on him and his six cohorts. Great Mithras, Brutus thought fervently. Give me courage. Grant me success.

Dismounting, he had a legionary take his mount to the rear. This task was for foot soldiers only, and Brutus wanted to be in the middle of it. He was no officer to lead from the back. Handed a pilum and a spare scutum, he took his place in the front line, nodding encouragingly to his men.

They waited in silence, baking in the hot sun.

An ominous feeling soon took hold of Brutus and he peered into the distance.

Covered by the Gauls and Germans, Caesar’s light infantry were beginning to retreat. Without this protection, they would be run down and killed to a man. But the cavalry’s discipline was good, Brutus saw with relief. Wheeling and turning to confuse the enemy, the tribesmen hurled the last of their spears into the advancing mass of Republican cavalry. Aware that their mounted comrades could not do this for long, the infantry broke into a sprint, towards the side of Caesar’s right flank. They were aiming to pass to the side of Brutus’ position.

The Republican horsemen surged forward, pushing ever harder. Lightly armed with spears and swords, few bore shields or wore armour. They were Thracians, Cappadocians, Galatians and a dozen other nationalities, all vying for the honour of turning the tide in Pompey’s favour. Behind them charged thousands of archers and slingers, the next attack wave.

Brutus chewed a fingernail. This was the most critical point of the battle.

Losing more and more men, still the Gauls and Germans did not break.

The light infantry tore around Brutus’ cohorts, and headed east. If everything went to plan, they would re- form with their mounted comrades in a few moments.

The battered cavalry were perhaps three hundred paces away. Still much too far for an attacking foot soldier to run at a horseman, thought Brutus. Mithras, bring them nearer.

‘Close order!’ He shouted at the nearest centurion. ‘Shields up. Ready pila.’

His order was obeyed at once. Scuta clattered off each other, forming an impenetrable wall. Angled up in the position to throw, his men’s javelins poked forward over the shield wall. Ranks of determined faces peered into the dust cloud before them.

A hundred and fifty paces separated the remnants of the Gauls and Germans from Brutus’ six cohorts. They could hear the excited shouts and cries of the pursuing Republicans. Faces began to grow nervous, and the officers looked to Brutus for orders.

In turn, Brutus glanced anxiously at Caesar’s location. He could just see his general’s red cloak amidst the mass of senior officers and bodyguards. But no damn flag. Come on, Brutus thought, his heart thumping in his chest. Give us the command.

Less than a hundred paces.

Their cavalry were close enough now for Brutus to see the sweat lathered on their tired mounts, the wounded men barely upright in the saddle, the numerous horses without riders. Respect filled him at the heavy sacrifice the tribesmen had made.

Protected by the horses’ height, the six cohorts were still hidden from the enemy. This was precisely Caesar’s purpose.

Seventy paces.

Fifty.

At the last moment, the Gauls and Germans turned their mounts’ heads and rode across the front of the