Caesar's Legion: The Epic Saga of Julius Caesar's Elite Tenth Legion and the Armies of Rome Read Free Page A

of young Pompey’s preparations for action outside Munda.
    Standards held high, Caesar’s legions marched in step across the plain with a rhythmical tramp of sixty thousand feet and the rattle of equipment. Discipline was rigid. Not a word was spoken. On the flanks, the cavalry moved forward at the walk. Caesar and his staff officers rode immediately behind the 10th Legion’s front line.
    As they advanced, the men of the 10th would have warily scanned the landscape ahead. All around them were rolling hills, but here on the valley floor the terrain was flat, good for both infantry and cavalry maneuvers. But first they had a five-mile hike to reach the enemy. In their path lay a shallow stream that dissected the plain. They would have to cross that then traverse another stretch of dry plain to reach the hill where the other side waited. Because he’d chosen the battlefield, young Pompey had taken the high ground. For added support, the town of Munda was on the hill behind him, surrounded by high walls dotted with defensive towers manned by local troops.

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    As they narrowed the distance between the two armies, the legionaries of the 10th could see that Pompey’s wings were covered by waiting cavalry supported by light infantry and auxiliaries—six thousand of each.
    The men of the 10th would have been anxious to make out the identity of the legion on the flank directly facing them, hoping it wouldn’t be their brother Spaniards of the 8th. The 10th and the 8th had been through thick and thin together over the past sixteen years. It would not be easy to fight and kill old friends. But they would do it. For Caesar. The men of the 10th understood why their hard-done-by comrades of the 8th had defected, and as they had in the past, they sympathized with them. But when it came down to it, the legion’s loyalty to Caesar would prevail.
    As Caesar’s men broke step and splashed across the stream, then reformed on the far side and continued to advance at marching pace, their commander realized that Pompey expected him to come up the hill to come to grips with his troops. There was nothing else to do. It was either that or back off. When his front line reached the base of the hill, Caesar unexpectedly called for a halt. As Caesar’s men stood, waiting impatiently to go forward to the attack, Caesar ordered his formations to tighten up, to concentrate his forces, and limit the area of operation. The order was relayed and obeyed.
    Just as his troops were beginning to grumble that they were being prevented from taking the fight to the opposition, Caesar gave the order for
    “Charge” to be sounded. The call was still being trumpeted when the standards of his eighty cohorts inclined forward. With a deafening roar, Caesar’s lines charged up the hillside.
    With an equally deafening roar, Pompey’s men let fly with their javelins. The shields of the attackers came up to protect their owners. The missiles, flung from above, scythed through the air in unavoidable masses and cut swathes through Caesar’s front-line ranks, often passing through shields. The charge wavered momentarily, then regained momentum.
    Another volley of javelins blackened the blue sky. And another, and another. The attackers in Caesar’s leading ranks, out of breath, with their dead comrades lying in heaps around them, and still not within striking distance of the enemy, came to a stop. Behind them, the men of the next lines pulled up, too. The entire attack ground to a halt.
    Caesar could see defeat staring him in the face for the first time in his career. Real defeat, not a bloody nose like Gergovia, Dyrrhachium, or the Ruspina Plain, or the skirmishes among the Spanish hills over the past few weeks. He’d broken all the rules—only an amateur would make his men march five miles, make them ford a river, then send them charging c01.qxd 12/5/01 4:50 PM Page 5
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