Quietly, During the Battle

Caesar, had not ridden with a sense of joy like this in a long time, as he rode along the lines exhorting the men, arranging with commanders his specific orders at his rare opportunity to perhaps finish this most uncivil of civil wars. They were hungry, rough, and unkempt. Only their weapons remained spotless. Too long on barley, versus wheat. Too long relitigating this senseless war. Yet here they were, standing ready to fight in the cool morning air. Set faced. Ready to fight for him, with him.

Quickly as that feeling came it was followed by new sensations and smells. Smelting metal, sharp and strange, it cut through the off shore breeze, a rising wave of nausea hit him like a four horse chariot. Then his visage tilted, slanting disorientated. The Tenth stood at arms at a sharp impossible angle. They receded rapidly. He wheeled his horse in desperation. ‘Take me, the falling sickness is upon me.’ He gasped.

Horses closed around him on all sides, restricting the sideways distress of his steeds nervous prancing, someone took his reins, others kept him upright. They raced to a nearby tower. All the while he saw distant arms reach for him, as a heavy cold bubble swelled in his stomach, rushed up his throat, stealing his breath.

‘Wait, wait on the atta..gunhgaah..’ Was all he could manage. His tongue felt thick and heavy, trapped behind teeth that had begun to chatter against a sudden phantom chill. Glancing over his shoulder the battlefield was miles away or so it seemed.

The warming sun smashed jagged light into his pupils. Forming pulsing halos. It bleached his vision, the landscape, red was black, sand, rock and grass were white as sun bleached bone. Somewhere copper burned in a brazier and blood tasted upon his lips. His back arched in pain. Spasms wracked his body.

Officers, and assistants attended to him, ‘water, no wine,’ said one, ‘a damp cloth’ someone else shouted. A make shift divan was set up. Helmet removed, armor loosened.

Then a lone horn sounding the advance.

Everyone froze around Caesar.

Except Caesar. His eyes momentarily focused a numb grimace formed. A strangled gurgle. Then he slumped back.

The Tenth stepped off, then more trumpets sounded. Caesars army advanced.

‘Felicitas’ he gasped. Eyes closing.

He could hear echoes of elephants trumpeting. Horses neighing. The distant thud of sandals on hard ground. Caesars vision swam. Then zoomed in, causing him to lurch forward. Arrows and slingshots zipped by him, elephants reared in fear in front of him. He flinches as a trunk reaches for him. Then his Legionnaires step in slashing and cutting, just as they had been trained to do. Contemptuous now of the slow beasts, deliberate in their attacks up the thick hides. Fearless in front of the armoured elephants, calm cavalry rear and dart in between the lumbering beasts. Terror is in the eyes of the beasts now as they rampage through their own lines. They kknew not what to do other than break ranks and run! Turning on one another, the elephants are heedless of their riders’ attempts at control. Destroying their own ranks, casting bodies to and fro, disorder reigned.

The he could see the Tenth. His veterans, his beloved ragged, loyal Tenth, race in behind them, taking advantage of teh chaotic moment. Loosing pila, among the disordered ranks, a devastating rain of death. His vision swims, now telescoped out. The sun, now brilliantly bright sears his vision, or so it seems.

He sees the Tenth at a distance now, charging in with a roar, drawing gladius and then locking scutum.

Roman against Roman.

Caesar sees the urgency on his Legionnaires faces up close, the anger. This is not Pharsalus this fleeting thought struck him. These men had won this war time and time again. They faced yet again the same enemy. The same usurpers. It was time for all of them to die, he felt it, he saw it, in his men’s faces. Rage boiled there.

Caesars vision swam again. Dizzy, spinning to the left. The Thirteenth and Fourteenth were ferocious also. Pressing hard, this was no battle that had been fought before, the sweat of hard labour poured from under Celtic inspired bronze helms. Beneath their lorica they were drenched. Yet they fought with a savagery borne of desire to end the madness of Civil War.

Once and for all.

Caesars bones ached. His heart swelled in pride.

Moorish cavalry seeing the Elephants turn tail, also turned to flee. They were among the first to run. Then the Tenth press home their advantage. Caesars fists clench, and unclench.

The slaughter continues in front of him, Caesar sees it all. As if in a dream. Up close, and from a mile in the sky all at once. The epileptic throes abusing his mind and body as his eyes behold his men’s most savage fighting. He feels the blows. The vibration of gladius upon scutum shaking his very core. Gladius upon gladius, scutum to scutum. Boss’s smashing faces, thigh slashes, throats gouged, arms sliced.

Jab, parry, thrust, twist. Rend. Faces torn in pain. Underneath it all a rage spurred by the fire of hunger, hardship and pride. Fueld by the frustration, the primal urge to live one more day. Caesar groans, hands shaking, legs tensed. Reaching. Willing his men to finish the job.

As the dust settles across the battlefield, Caesar is once more upon his steed, composed.

Riding with his guard through the carnage. Before him, 10,000 dead lay, broken, trampled, empty misshapen husks. Roman blood soaks the ground he rides upon.

Now recovered but exhausted. A sadness replaces the earlier joy he felt at the onset of his fit.

This is Roman blood shed by Roman men. Casting about his eyes seek an answer he cannot find. A tattered standard of a now lost Legion flutters in the sea breeze.

Turning back towards the camp, now the prisoners must be dealt with. More death. No more mercy, despite his misgivings.

Would things have been different if he had not had this falling fit?