March 23, 698
They were through. The Romans had smashed Parisiorum’s wooden gates thoroughly and were now pouring into the town. The dam had broken but still choked the flow of water. Indeed the mass of Romans on the outside had to be funneled 10 men abreast and then come face to face with a ready and determined enemy. It was a situation that no Roman general wanted to meet. The orderly rows of archers firing into the town did little to ease skeptical minds.
The two forces were both desperate. The Romans were desperate for victory and the Parisians were desperate for supplies. It had been a rough winter and it still hadn’t begun to recede. The armies were ragged and worn down. Once proud and shining legionaries had lost their pride and optimism. Gone were the times of celebration, merriment, and adventure, here to stay were men cursing their forbidden environment and wanting the civilization that Rome brings. Roman generals were sure that the barbarians weren’t too much better off. No town, no matter how barbaric, could survive long term when a hostile army sat outside its gates during winter. Because of the small size of the Roman army, some food was bound to make it in, but not much. So it was decided by the top Roman leaders to attempt a risky assault hoping to succeed and restore honor.
Condition of the Roman Army
However, the way the battle started to swing told a different tale. Despite the common knowledge on barbarians, the elder of Parisiorum had thought the situation out. Runners from Atrebates had brought the news of Julius Caesar’s defeat and even though the Nervii were defeated right outside his gates by another Roman general, the elder still had the hope, which eluded many Roman minds.
If, by some mean, another defeat were inflicted on Julius Caesar and his campaign, Julius would have no choice but to withdraw from Gaul and accept the consequences. A defeat to the Romans by the Gauls is barely tolerable, but two would be unimaginable. With that thought in mind, the town elder put what seemed like weak defenses, stationing the frayed and the sick on watch duty, making the Roman scouts think that the Parisians were succumbing. These same scouts would report to their superiors stating victory as certain. In turn, the superiors would be more likely to commit to an assault against an enemy that was beginning to yield.
From Julius’s vantage point 200 yards away, the battle turned in a blood bath. The Romans still had control of the gate, but for how much longer it wasn’t known. The Parisians had waited for a good number of Romans to breach the gate before acting. When the time came, a gigantic charge by the barbarians almost pushed the Romans out of the gate. It was sheer discipline deep within Roman minds that kept the battle from going sour in the first few seconds.
It wasn’t good enough for Julius hardly anything was nowadays. He gave a slight nod to Mark’s and his bodyguard. The men who received the nod knew what it meant but still held confused looks on their faces. Not waiting until the look could be wiped off; Julius galloped outright towards the gap. Nothing but victory could be settled for. Almost reluctantly, the bodyguards followed.
First, the archers made way for the cavalry and then the foot soldiers, anxious to have someone else fight their battle. Julius didn’t mind. He maneuvered himself and the cavalry through the crowd of infantry slowly working themselves towards the front. It was havoc as the men pushed against each other’s backs trying to squeeze everyone through the gates. When they saw the cavalry, they pushed against the horses, anything so the battle could progress. The noise was deafening as soldiers moaned under the pressure.
After an eternity, Julius made it through the gate and it didn’t look any better on the other side. A small Roman bridgehead was barely hanging on. Julius looked around, noticed some of his bodyguard close, and signaled to them. They worked themselves close to the front, dismounted, and smacked the horse’s hindquarters with the flat of their sword sending the horses careening into the Parisian line. A small gap was created with which a few Romans filled them, but it was not enough.
Extreme pressure was being put on flanks of the bridgehead. The Parisians were trying to squeeze the neck of the Roman army. To encourage the Romans to fall into their trap, the barbarians gave some ground at the front allowing soldiers to move up. Romans weren’t able to capitalize on the brief moment where they could have put more men in the bridgehead, and now Parisians who had a plan, sealed it up. They had effectively surrounded the bridgehead.
Valeroius, outside the wall, realized that his commander was surrounded, and so urged his companions to save him, but it wasn’t enough. Julius realized that he was cut off and he yelled encouragement at the top of his lungs, but it wasn’t enough. Mark, who had stayed behind on the vantage point, ordered reserves hastily down the hill, but it wasn’t enough. Publius, with his great battleaxe at the gate, tried furiously to hack a wider opening, but it wasn’t enough. Servilia sat, whimpered, and prayed, but it wasn’t enough. Everyone now knew the fate of the Northern Legions.
The rest of the battle passed in a blur. Julius dismounted to avoid the hail of arrows from his own troops. He could see some of his men running, but not getting very far before they dropped. Dead. He watched helplessly…. But a certain kind of reassurance started to swell within him. If there were a way to die at this point, it would be this way. To die an honorable death during the heat of battle, cut off by overwhelming odds. His family, or the rest of it, would be spared the ridicule of his defeat. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he relished the idea of dying rather than living.
The campaign had started with such optimism. The old idea that one Roman equaled ten barbarians still held on strong. Julius was the most popular general in Rome. But as they headed north, their luck ran south. It should have been clear to everyone that even though victory after victory added to the prestige the army couldn’t replenish itself this far north. Numidian reinforcements couldn’t wholly correct the job of attrition either. It was a death sentence for the ambitious Julius Caesar; it was only a matter of when.
So there was a man, who only cared about the welfare of his country, that sickly smiled as a foreign sword pierced his heart, ending his life and dream.
They were through. The Romans had smashed Parisiorum’s wooden gates thoroughly and were now pouring into the town. The dam had broken but still choked the flow of water. Indeed the mass of Romans on the outside had to be funneled 10 men abreast and then come face to face with a ready and determined enemy. It was a situation that no Roman general wanted to meet. The orderly rows of archers firing into the town did little to ease skeptical minds.
The two forces were both desperate. The Romans were desperate for victory and the Parisians were desperate for supplies. It had been a rough winter and it still hadn’t begun to recede. The armies were ragged and worn down. Once proud and shining legionaries had lost their pride and optimism. Gone were the times of celebration, merriment, and adventure, here to stay were men cursing their forbidden environment and wanting the civilization that Rome brings. Roman generals were sure that the barbarians weren’t too much better off. No town, no matter how barbaric, could survive long term when a hostile army sat outside its gates during winter. Because of the small size of the Roman army, some food was bound to make it in, but not much. So it was decided by the top Roman leaders to attempt a risky assault hoping to succeed and restore honor.
Condition of the Roman Army
However, the way the battle started to swing told a different tale. Despite the common knowledge on barbarians, the elder of Parisiorum had thought the situation out. Runners from Atrebates had brought the news of Julius Caesar’s defeat and even though the Nervii were defeated right outside his gates by another Roman general, the elder still had the hope, which eluded many Roman minds.
If, by some mean, another defeat were inflicted on Julius Caesar and his campaign, Julius would have no choice but to withdraw from Gaul and accept the consequences. A defeat to the Romans by the Gauls is barely tolerable, but two would be unimaginable. With that thought in mind, the town elder put what seemed like weak defenses, stationing the frayed and the sick on watch duty, making the Roman scouts think that the Parisians were succumbing. These same scouts would report to their superiors stating victory as certain. In turn, the superiors would be more likely to commit to an assault against an enemy that was beginning to yield.
From Julius’s vantage point 200 yards away, the battle turned in a blood bath. The Romans still had control of the gate, but for how much longer it wasn’t known. The Parisians had waited for a good number of Romans to breach the gate before acting. When the time came, a gigantic charge by the barbarians almost pushed the Romans out of the gate. It was sheer discipline deep within Roman minds that kept the battle from going sour in the first few seconds.
It wasn’t good enough for Julius hardly anything was nowadays. He gave a slight nod to Mark’s and his bodyguard. The men who received the nod knew what it meant but still held confused looks on their faces. Not waiting until the look could be wiped off; Julius galloped outright towards the gap. Nothing but victory could be settled for. Almost reluctantly, the bodyguards followed.
First, the archers made way for the cavalry and then the foot soldiers, anxious to have someone else fight their battle. Julius didn’t mind. He maneuvered himself and the cavalry through the crowd of infantry slowly working themselves towards the front. It was havoc as the men pushed against each other’s backs trying to squeeze everyone through the gates. When they saw the cavalry, they pushed against the horses, anything so the battle could progress. The noise was deafening as soldiers moaned under the pressure.
After an eternity, Julius made it through the gate and it didn’t look any better on the other side. A small Roman bridgehead was barely hanging on. Julius looked around, noticed some of his bodyguard close, and signaled to them. They worked themselves close to the front, dismounted, and smacked the horse’s hindquarters with the flat of their sword sending the horses careening into the Parisian line. A small gap was created with which a few Romans filled them, but it was not enough.
Extreme pressure was being put on flanks of the bridgehead. The Parisians were trying to squeeze the neck of the Roman army. To encourage the Romans to fall into their trap, the barbarians gave some ground at the front allowing soldiers to move up. Romans weren’t able to capitalize on the brief moment where they could have put more men in the bridgehead, and now Parisians who had a plan, sealed it up. They had effectively surrounded the bridgehead.
Valeroius, outside the wall, realized that his commander was surrounded, and so urged his companions to save him, but it wasn’t enough. Julius realized that he was cut off and he yelled encouragement at the top of his lungs, but it wasn’t enough. Mark, who had stayed behind on the vantage point, ordered reserves hastily down the hill, but it wasn’t enough. Publius, with his great battleaxe at the gate, tried furiously to hack a wider opening, but it wasn’t enough. Servilia sat, whimpered, and prayed, but it wasn’t enough. Everyone now knew the fate of the Northern Legions.
The rest of the battle passed in a blur. Julius dismounted to avoid the hail of arrows from his own troops. He could see some of his men running, but not getting very far before they dropped. Dead. He watched helplessly…. But a certain kind of reassurance started to swell within him. If there were a way to die at this point, it would be this way. To die an honorable death during the heat of battle, cut off by overwhelming odds. His family, or the rest of it, would be spared the ridicule of his defeat. In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he relished the idea of dying rather than living.
The campaign had started with such optimism. The old idea that one Roman equaled ten barbarians still held on strong. Julius was the most popular general in Rome. But as they headed north, their luck ran south. It should have been clear to everyone that even though victory after victory added to the prestige the army couldn’t replenish itself this far north. Numidian reinforcements couldn’t wholly correct the job of attrition either. It was a death sentence for the ambitious Julius Caesar; it was only a matter of when.
So there was a man, who only cared about the welfare of his country, that sickly smiled as a foreign sword pierced his heart, ending his life and dream.
