Marching With Caesar-Revolt of the Legions

by R. W. Peake

  “You two get cleaned up as best you can, but you better not take too long doing it,” I said with a straight face, “because Arminius himself might be out there somewhere, and he’ll be quick to snatch up a couple of laggards.”

  I knew that of the two, Centho would actually take this seriously, glancing nervously into the dense foliage just a dozen paces away, while Trigeminus simply spat the mud that had gotten into his mouth and growled, “Let that dog-fucker come and I’ll end this nonsense right now!”

  Shoving Centho, Trigeminus stepped to the side, both of them grabbing their spare neckerchiefs out of their pack to begin rubbing themselves relatively clean, while the column resumed its progress. Such was the nature of this march; the only difference being the identity of the Century in the rear, since ours was rotated out soon after this. Of course, once we were back ahead of the baggage train, that did not mean the complaining about the ordeal stopped; all it did mean was that it was a normal day on the march.

  We knew, at least in a general sense, that the camp at Novaesium would not be comparable to ours, but when we emerged into the cleared swathe of land to get our first glimpse of what would be our new home for the foreseeable future, there were simply not enough viti among the Centurions to beat the dismay and bitter curses out of the men. Although it was true that the auxiliaries were not living under canvas, that is perhaps the kindest thing that can be said about matters. The only building of any substance was the Praetorium, which reminded me of the one at Ubiorum back when I first arrived to take my post with the 1st, and from a distance at least, it looked to be the standard size and configuration. Otherwise, what greeted our eyes in terms of the housing for not just the rankers, but the Centurions and Optios, resembled the hovels and shacks that were outside the gates of Ubiorum; indeed, just from appearance, it was as if some god had managed to pick up that miserable collection, transport it here to Novaesium, and the only difference was they were neatly arranged in the normal grid pattern of a Roman army camp, although this was where the similarity to Ubiorum ended. Regardless of the appearance, I will say that the Centurion in command of the auxiliary Cohorts was thoroughly professional, although Sentius did not appreciate it very much, requiring our commander to stand outside the gate while the orders he had brought with him were examined. Frankly, I cannot say any of us took it well, but I ascribe that more to the natural disdain for auxiliaries we in the Legions hold for them.

  “What do they think we are?” Structus grumbled. “A bunch of Germans wearing…”

  He did not finish, picking up on the obvious before I could point out that what might have been considered outlandish just a matter of a few weeks before was now not only in the realm of possibility, but could be considered a very real threat.

  Nevertheless, I could not resist rubbing it in a bit. “Yes, Structus, exactly that. We could be Germans dressed up as Romans.”

  “I figured that out already, Centurion,” he grumbled, but he was nothing if not a bit stubborn, and he pointed out, “but hardly any of us are wearing beards or have hair in braids! And you know much those German cunni love those things!”

  “That’s true,” I agreed, or seemed to, until I pointed out, “but somehow, I think that Arminius would be able to convince them to shave and cut their hair, considering he managed to get all those tribes to stop killing each other and focus on us instead.”

  Structus did not reply to this, although it was likely that it had more to do with the fact I was his Centurion than because he recognized he had been outmaneuvered, but it did not matter, since we finally resumed moving immediately after this, entering the camp. Once inside, the process of settling into the huts that had been vacated just watches before when the auxiliary Cohorts had departed for their new posting began, which quickly degenerated into a situation that prompted an emergency meeting.

  “These fucking auxiliaries live like pigs,” the Tertius Pilus Prior Servius Maluginensis informed Sentius, who had been summoned from his meeting in the Praetorium. “My boys refuse to go inside those fucking hovels, let alone spend a night in them.”

  “Same with ours,” Macer offered, which was certainly the truth with my Third, and I saw the other Centurions of the Fourth were nodding their heads.

  Honestly, I had not yet had the opportunity to inspect any of the huts assigned to my Century, but since every section had done so, and the opinion was unanimous that these were the filthiest quarters they had ever encountered, I believed they were telling the truth. Even if they were not, it did not really matter all that much, because this was one of those occasions where the mood of the men was what mattered. Sentius, understandably in my eyes, seemed completely nonplussed, while the Centurion commanding the auxiliaries, a man of perhaps forty years who might have once had a muscular build but was now running to fat, stood there looking very much as if he was praying that the ground swallow him up.

  “My boys,” he finally spoke up, speaking with an accent that was familiar to my ears, having heard my Avus and some of the other veterans from Hispania, “aren’t the best at keeping their areas tidy…”

  If he was going to continue, he did not have a chance, when Maluginensis cut him off with a barking, incredulous laugh that was lacerating, then repeated scornfully, “‘Tidy’? Your men are fucking filthy animals! I wouldn’t put my dog inside one of these shacks!”

  This stirred the Centurion to anger, and he jabbed a finger back at Maluginensis as he shot back, “Oy! Centurion! We aren’t the same as the Legions, but we do the best we can with what little we’re given! Besides which,” to my surprise, and to the others, the auxiliary commander actually took a step towards the Pilus Prior as he hammered back, “we’ve been standing continuous fucking watch since we got our orders and heard about the Praetor! So I made the decision that things like hut inspections could wait until later, until after we had a fucking idea if we were going to live through the winter!”

  “And,” Sentius took this opportunity to step in, and I must say I was impressed with how smoothly he handled what was growing into a confrontation, “we are thankful that you did your duty. We’re just happy that those German bastards didn’t come swarming down on our heads from your direction. Now,” he spun and pointed at Maluginensis, “while I understand your concerns,” his voice hardened, “frankly, I don’t give a brass obol if things aren’t up to your men’s standards of cleanliness. Tell them if they want spotless accommodations, they’re welcome to apply to the fucking Praetorians. But until then,” he finished by pointing his vitus in the general direction of the Cohort areas, “you and your men are going to get settled in and I don’t want to hear any more whining about it. Is that clear, Pilus Prior Maluginensis?”

  Now, I must make mention of the fact that there was already no love lost between Sentius and Maluginensis, and this certainly did not help matters, but the lower ranking Pilus Prior knew an order when he heard one, stiffening to intente and replying in a monotone, “I understand, Pilus Prior, and I will obey.”

  Without waiting to be dismissed, he spun about and stalked away, leaving Sentius to turn to where Macer and I were standing, but my Pilus Prior was by no means a stupid man, so when Sentius snapped, “Well, Macer? You have something to say?” he merely saluted and replied cheerfully, “Not a word, Pilus Prior.”

  As the six of us went back to the section of the camp that had been assigned to us, there was not much talk, but while I do not remember who said it, they summed matters up perfectly.

  “I have a feeling that this winter is going to be fucking miserable.”

  If anything, this was an understatement.

  We passed an uneasy night all crammed into the camp, but Clepsina’s Fifth and the auxiliaries were gone at dawn the next morning, whereupon the men began the task of making our habitations, if not satisfactory, at least habitable. In my case, it meant that Alex performed the manual labor, but in this respect, we were both lucky, since the Centurion’s quarters I had been assigned were not in the same
condition as the rankers’ huts. Unfortunately, that was where our good fortune ended, because while it was essentially clean, the construction of the building was so slipshod that, despite Alex’s best efforts, there were simply too many cracks and gaps to effectively plug them all. Very quickly, one thing became clear to all of us, officers and men alike: the amount of firewood, and more importantly, charcoal we would need was significantly higher than we had anticipated. Thus began one of the predominant features of this winter that men of the Second, Third, and our Fourth would be talking about for months afterward, the almost daily battle to march out of the camp and gather enough wood for both the purposes of the open fires that we kept blazing around the perimeter of the camp, and to make charcoal. Thankfully, Sentius had the foresight to send men farther out in the beginning of what would be a months-long ordeal, then work our way back to the camp, although those of us who were among the first to provide the labor for this critical task were not all that appreciative. Such was our state of mind that there were never less than three Centuries sent out to perform the actual gathering of the wood; one Century did the work, while the other two stood watch in a protective ring around the laborers. So important was this task that, while our slaves certainly participated, in much the same way only Legionaries are allowed to construct a camp, they just performed the more mundane tasks of loading, then driving the wagons that carried the wood back. A semi-permanent addition was made to the western end of the camp, with the dirt wall partially torn down, then an enlarged space was created where the huge clay amphorae that are an integral part to making charcoal were placed. Before a full week had passed, two things had occurred: the first was a heavy snowfall that did not melt and which marked the true beginning of our winter, and the realization that aside from worrying about the Germans appearing, we would have to put considerable effort into simply surviving.

  “The huts are finally clean, but they’re as bad as sleeping under canvas!”

  While I do not recall who said it, this statement was a troublingly accurate one, and as soon as I heard it, I realized that the same thought had crossed my mind, as I tried to compare the memory of the winter campaign with Tiberius shortly after I was transferred to the 1st a few years before, and the sensation of what it was like to wake up inside a building, yet still have to break ice out of the wash basin sitting on the chest in my room. And, when I speak of sensation, I am actually speaking of the lack thereof, particularly in my extremities; honestly, I spent an inordinate amount of my time staring down at my feet as I wiggled my toes, needing the visual reassurance of seeing the movement, since I could not feel a thing in them most of the time, and that was wearing fur-lined socks. So dire was the situation that there was actual, serious discussion about whether or not the men would be better served to return to living in their tents, for the simple belief that, while the walls and roof might be made of fabric, they were at least whole in their construction, with waterproofed seams that helped insulate from the cold somewhat. Although this was seriously considered, Sentius decided that the only way this would work was either by enlarging the camp, tearing down the existing huts, or pitching the tents in the streets, none of which was feasible. Ultimately, all of us, regardless of rank, did what they could to chink the cracks, with men trying a variety of materials, none of which proved to be successful for anything but a short time. Mud from the river was favored, until, of course, the riverbank froze, but even this proved to be a temporary fix, lasting for at most three or four days before it dried out, and the constant force of the wind made it crumble and fall out. Some men tried using bits of cloth, but they quickly learned that not only was it not particularly effective, there were gaps in most of the huts that were of such a size that it would have required men to use more than just a spare neckerchief, meaning that they would have had to sacrifice a tunic. Not surprisingly, since most men were now wearing both tunics, and no man in a section was willing to make this sacrifice, this did not work either. The most successful material turned out to be leather, from the sheets that are part of the supply the leatherworking immunes keep on hand, but it quickly became apparent that there was not enough leather to both allow men to make their huts more livable and for the immunes to keep our leather gear, particularly our caligae, in good repair.

  “I’m not going to let the men use the leather then have them walking around barefoot before the winter’s out,” Sentius told us flatly, and while we knew this would not be viewed with any favor by our men, it was also the correct decision.

  It was Maluginensis who suggested, “What about letting the Centurions have a sheet of leather for our own huts?”

  There was no way for me to be certain, but I sensed that this was more an attempt by Maluginensis to force Sentius to make a decision that might ruffle the feathers of his fellow Centurions, since I saw more than one head bobbing up and down at this idea. Glancing over at Macer, I was happy to see that he was not one of them, and I suspected our thoughts were aligned on this; while I cannot lie and say I was not tempted by the idea of doing something that would make my quarters more livable, given the overall situation, I felt certain it would cause more trouble than it was worth. The mental condition of the rankers, which was exacerbated by their shared physical misery, was a dangerous mix of disgruntlement and, if I am being honest, fear, making for a situation that I had certainly never encountered before, nor had I ever heard of anything like this. Thanks to my Avus’ account, however, I was perhaps a bit better prepared, because when I looked around at my men and listened to their conversations, I was reminded of the part of his account that described the campaign in Parthia under Marcus Antonius. Without having been there personally, this is something of a guess, but what I was witnessing firsthand were men who had been shaken to their very core, much like the men of Antonius’ army as they marched across the wastes of Parthia, having suffered horrible losses, most crucially the entire baggage train. The one difference was also the most important reason for the mental state of the men, and that was, while Antonius’ army suffered heavy losses, relatively few came from a Parthian arrow, lance, or gladius. Most of those who never made it out of Parthia fell because of illness, exposure, or a combination of both, but the same cannot be said about the Legions slaughtered by the Germans. Knowing that three Legions had been wiped out by an army that, if I am being honest, we had always sneered at as being nothing but a collection of barbarians who, while individually brave, were unable to behave as a cohesive entity like the Legions of Rome, was perhaps the largest contributing factor to the state of collective shock, dismay, and fear that infected every man. Somewhat paradoxically, as days turned to weeks, with not even a sign of activity on the opposite riverbank, rather than beginning to relax the men and officers, the tension increased on an almost daily basis. This was exacerbated by the lack of information coming from Ubiorum, although later we learned it was not because Germans were intercepting couriers, but matters were in such a state of uproar and panic that, once Tiberius returned to Rome, the men he left in command simply either forgot or did not think it important to keep us informed of developments. Not surprisingly, there were men, not just in the ranks but in the Optionate and Centurionate, whose natural tendency to view such matters in the direst light exacerbated matters, declaiming at every opportunity that there was only one possible reason why we were not receiving any couriers. All of these things contributed to the tension remaining at a level that, while I cannot prove it, I believe had as much to do with the inordinately high number of men who did not survive the winter.

  It is inevitable that men under the standard are at least as susceptible to falling ill as any other citizen; indeed, as my Avus observed, and my own experience supports, it is more likely for a Legionary to be stricken by the type of malady that seems to arise when we are in enforced closeness. While I do not fault Sentius, what I will say is that his standards for cleanliness for the men was inferior to that imposed by Crescens, but I also believe that the combination of an ex
traordinarily harsh winter and the aforementioned tensions had at least as much to do with the plague that struck the camp around the Ides of December. That it happened during the coldest part of the year is why I believe there was more involved than just the latrines overflowing because the channel that had been cut to run water from the river froze solid. When I discussed it with older veterans, none of us could recall experiencing or even hearing about the plague striking this late in the year, yet we could all recall the camp sewer freezing several times over the past winters. The first man to die was in the Fifth of the Third, but he had been struggling the previous week with a cold, which weakened him to the point that, frankly, it was not a surprise. And, if I am being honest, the next half-dozen deaths were of a similar nature; men who had already been on the sick and injured list for some reason succumbed first, but this is not unusual, although over previous winters, it had been men who were wounded during the campaign season. It was when the deaths did not stop with those already weakened that we all began to grow alarmed, despite the fact that it was not until the new year began before any man of the Fourth Cohort fell ill. That we had managed to last that long without suffering our first loss I attribute to the work of the gods, and, perhaps, my relating to Macer my Avus’ conviction that frequent bathing, despite the frigid cold, had something to do with it as well. Unfortunately, when it became clear that the Fourth Cohort was consuming more charcoal than the others, Sentius put a stop to our practice of heating water for purposes other than cooking alone. Macer unsuccessfully argued with Sentius that, if anything, the other Cohorts would be better served to follow our practice, since even by this point in Januarius, we still had had less men stricken at all, let alone succumb. But in this, Macer was thwarted by the simple but powerful fact that it is impossible to prove that making the men do more than just a scraping with oil was the reason for our better condition compared to the others.