Marcus
Cassius Scaeva is one of the most celebrated warriors of all time. His martial
skills and sheer bloody-minded determination to achieve victory at any and all
costs are legendary and have lasted an amazing test of time. He was a highly
decorated Centurion in Caesar’s 8th Legion, who risked his life by training
with professional gladiators in his down-time and went on to make his own
history and legend.
‘The Battle of Dyrrachium (or Dyrrhachium) fought on 10 July 48 BC was a
battle during Caesar's Civil
War that took place near the city of Dyrrachium (in what is now Albania). It was fought between Julius Caesar and an army led by Gnaeus Pompey who had the backing of the majority of the Roman
Senate. The battle was a victory for Pompey, albeit
not a decisive one. The battle preceded the Battle of
Pharsalus which was the decisive battle of the
Civil War.’ (Wikipedia)
During
the Battle of Dyrrhachium between Julius Caesar and Pompey, the senior
Centurions of his Cohort had all been killed or injured, so Marcus Cassius
Scaeva took command of it himself. Fighting in the front ranks as usual, he
took an arrow in the eye and the injury was so severe it could have left him
permanently blinded and could have even proved fatal. Despite this horrific
injury which would have felled most men, Marcus delivered his battle-cry,
removed the arrow and fought-on with an increased ferocity. A little later, he
was struck by two more arrows and it’s believed that one pierced his throat and
the other his knee. It was noted later that two hundred arrows bristled from
his shield but Centurion Marcus even under those unbelievable conditions and
injuries continued to hold the line and kept fighting from the front. Inspiring
his men in this way, they managed to drive Pompey’s attacking troops back into
the city. When Caesar eventually arrived at the battlefield, he was so
impressed with Scaeva he promoted him to Primus Pilus; Commanding Centurion of
his infamous 10th Legion.
Centurion
Marcus Cassius Scaeva was also mentioned in despatches and decorated for his
bravery at the River Thames crossing in Caesar’s second invasion of Britain in
54 BC. Here follows my fictional interpretation of Scaeva’s action that day,
which happened more than two thousand years ago!
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* * * *
Excerpt from my trilogy; Iron Blood &
Sacrifice (Return of the Yellow Dog)
‘Unobserved
by Caesar or his officers, a group of auxiliary soldiers had been pushed
further downriver by the current and had clambered onto a small islet, braving
the swiftly rushing waters in the narrow channel that remained. They had
unwittingly left themselves open to attack from the Prittans however, who
splashed into the water and looked to surround the small island. These handful of soaking wet Roman soldiers
were fortunate to be in the company of a Centurion of note from the 10th
Legion; one Marcus Cassius Scaeva and as the big man drew his gladius with a
war-like roar, he was dismayed to see the men around him flee. Deserting him,
they all dived into the river to escape the Prittans who were now clambering up
onto the grassy top of this little islet to face him.
Marcus
had often shared with the members of his close family; the other Centurions in
this assembled army the events of the day he had found the Legion, or perhaps
it was when the Legion had found him. He had been inspired by the dazzling,
God-like recruitment Centurion who those years ago had stood so proudly before
the SPQR drumhead, set-up in the market square of his Umbrian village. It had
drawn such a crowd of the young men of the district, it became difficult for
Marcus to draw near to it. He was as patient as an oyster though, for as a boy
he had cared for his sick mother for many years before she had passed to the
next world and it was there, that he had learned to take control of the inner
man and exercise a great and very tender patience at times and it had formed a
permanent part of his complicated personality.
Once
the crowd had died away somewhat that hot summer’s day so long ago and in a
different life, he had gathered up enough courage to push his way through the
gang of local boys and approach this fantastic armoured and glimmering warrior.
Marcus was as ready as he had ever been for anything, in all his short and painful
life and he had taken his fate in both hands that day and stepped-up to the
dazzling warrior. The tall and terrifying Centurion had suddenly become a
mortal man, when he smiled at him and asked him a few pertinent details about
his age and what skills he had, as if Marcus was just another normal person. The
Centurion hadn’t even noticed the rags he was dressed in, let alone mention
them and almost immediately the young man had been baited; hook line and sinker.
The Centurion had drawn him aside perhaps seeing past the poverty, the harsh
features and the wounded eyes, to perceive something deep within him; a quality
that Marcus didn’t know himself existed at that inspirational moment. At the
end of that brief recruitment summary of army life, the Centurion had advised
him gravely; ‘If you don’t stand for something lad, you’ll fall for anything.’
Marcus had taken the pledge to join as a Probatio in the following heartbeat.
Many
years of blood, sweat and toil had ensued, punctuated by long periods of
boredom peppered with hard work, short periods of dire peril and even shorter
periods of rest and recuperation. Marcus had more than once in his career
proved the recruitment officer’s acuity that day, as he had not only risen to
the same rank in remarkable time, he had come to surpass that inspirational
Centurion’s achievements before he was half his age. It was his martial
excellence and his attention to detail which had got him noticed and promoted
quickly but what had elevated him faster still, was his unbelievable ferocity
in battle. It had been in the battle of Dyrrhachium where he had ultimately proved
his worth and had discovered the pitiless and unmatched warrior, who had lain
inside him so long undiscovered.
He
was the most decorated Roman soldier currently in service and he would
demonstrate why to these uncivilised barbarians this day, those who dared to
recklessly surround him on this rock surrounded by grey rushing water. Scaeva
had earned his position in the hot bloody crucible of frontline Roman battle
time and time again and without a moment’s hesitation, he charged the emerging
Prittans and set about them with an uncontrollable fury, slaughtering them as
they climbed up to fight him. A dozen or more grisly spearmen rose up from the
water all around him but Scaeva was past caring, as he was beside himself with
his rage at the auxiliaries’ cowardice. It demeaned him, his position and this
whole army, even Rome herself and the Centurion became incandescent in his
outrage. Shouting his oath to Mars, he was determined to seek out those
deserters and bring them to his withering justice but first, he had to deal
with these barbarian amateurs.
The
first Prittan was on his knees, streaming water from his ragged woollen
clothing and clambering to his feet, when he looked up and that is when Marcus
took his head. His anger had been supressed by the cold, detached and
professional soldier of such thoughtless prowess within him, and Marcus heard
the head of this first victim splash into the river as he swept aside the spear
of the next and slew him with a simple thrust to the throat. A wooden spear
bounced off his right shoulder plate with a clank,
coming from behind him and it zoomed off into the river. Spinning around,
Marcus sneered at the Prittan who had launched the weapon at him, and who was
now following-up his attack with a reckless charge, his long-sword raised. The
barbarian ran onto the tip of Marcus’ gladius as he ducked under the whooshing
blade and then thrust upwards firmly, cleaving the man’s heart and killing him
instantly. Ripping free his sword, Marcus roared ‘Mars!’ once more and charged
the next group of enemy approaching.
Splashed
with the bright gore of his outclassed and wide-eyed enemy, this magnificent,
screaming denizen cleared this little islet of enemy attackers, slaughtering
them all without mercy and with each kill, he roared out the name of his God of
war. Once the blood-spattered but still infuriated Centurion had secured the
ground and killed all who had dared oppose him, he dived into the river himself
and went in implacable search of those auxiliaries who had abandoned him, as he
was now in a fine killing mood.
roman-centurion-portrait-2-by-andrea-mazzocchetti
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