Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul mwc-1

by R. W. Peake

  Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul

  ( Marching With Caesar - 1 )

  R. W. Peake

  R. W. Peake

  Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul

  Prologue

  When you are old, you dream a great deal. Some of these dreams are pleasant, but for an old man who marched with Caesar and spent forty years under the standard, just as many of them are the type that leaves you screaming awake, your nightclothes drenched in sweat. And there is one in particular that haunts me the most.

  I am once again a young Gregarius, standing in the ranks of the First Century, Second Cohort of the 10th Legion, Caesar’s Legion. Because of my size I am standing on the right end of the last rank, while Sextus Scribonius is in his usual place to my left. Farther down the line is my childhood friend and close comrade Vibius Domitius. We are formed up, standing silently in the growing light of a dawn morning, staring at the smoldering fires of a large camp, filled with the forms of sleeping men, women and children. These are the Usipetes and Tencteri, two tribes from across the Rhenus (Rhine) who have openly defied Caesar’s orders, and they are about to be punished for that defiance. I stand, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, and even in my dream I can feel the twisting of my stomach that always happens before we are about to see action. A line of cold sweat is trickling down between my shoulder blades, despite the chill in the early September air; we are farther north and east than we have ever been to this point, and winter comes early in those parts. In other words, in most ways it is the normal sensations one experiences before battle, but this time will be very, very different.

  We have drawn up in a line of Cohorts side by side, in order to surround the camp, spending most of the night moving into position, as quietly as possible for an army of our size. We are now just 300 paces away, all of the enemy sentries placed around the camp having been silenced by men selected for their stealth and skill in the silent kill. Caesar, in his red paludamentum, the scarlet general’s cloak, is barely visible astride his horse Toes, who is now almost as famous as his rider is. He is positioned in front of the 10th, as we are his favorite Legion, a fact that we take great pride in and the other Legions resent a great deal, which pleases all of us to no end. All of our eyes are on Caesar, waiting for him to raise his sword and unleash the Furies down onto the unsuspecting heads of these Germans. Because of my height, I have an unobstructed view of our general, so I see him as he draws his sword and I feel my hands tightening their grip, one on my shield, and one on my javelin. He raises his weapon into the air, while turning to address his cornicen, the man carrying the great curved horn that will send the blast of notes that signals those men who cannot see Caesar in the pre-dawn from where they are ringed around the camp. The sounds of those notes will be the first idea these Germans get that the moment of their death has arrived, Caesar giving very strict and explicit orders that no man, woman or child is to be left alive. The thought strikes me, as I stand waiting, what a queer feeling it must be to go from sound sleep to the realization that your life can be measured in a finite fashion, that you only have a certain number of breaths to take, a certain number of heartbeats left. Of course, all of our lives are finite but when that number is down to a veritable handful, what a strange feeling that must be.

  My rumination is interrupted by the sight of Caesar’s sword swinging downward in a silver blur, to end pointing at the camp, as almost simultaneously the cornicen fills his lungs and blows the horn on his shoulder. The heavy bass notes blast through the air, but only for a moment are they audible, instantly replaced by the roaring of thousands of men, all of us shouting at the top of our lungs as our Centurions give the order to begin the assault. Normally, we would approach at a steady march, in complete silence until the last moment, but as usual Caesar has been very thorough, being ordered to make as much noise as possible and to start at the dead run. All of this is done in order to maximize the surprise and confusion on the part of the Usipetes and Tencteri, in the hope that they are disoriented to the point where they are slow to react. We will arrive at the camp a bit winded, it is true, but for what we are about to do it should not be a problem. It does not take all that much effort to plunge a sword or javelin into the bodies of sleeping or just-roused people.

  As expected, the surprise is total, as we come pounding into the camp itself, our roar now being met by the cries of surprise and shock from the Germans lying at our feet, clustered in small family groups around a fire. Unlike we Romans, the tribes of Gaul and Germany disdain the use of defenses like a ditch and rampart, preferring instead to draw their wagons together to form a makeshift barrier, but curiously, they do not sleep within its protection. Instead they choose to sleep in the aforementioned family circles, just outside the meager protection of the wagons. I suppose their idea is that their sentries will give them enough warning to allow them to rise and make their way behind the wagons, which is true enough, if their sentries had still been alive. Now these wagons are little more than minor obstacles around which we must navigate, with the front ranks of each Century and Cohort leading the way deeper into the camp. We all know that the key is to penetrate as deeply into the camp as quickly as possible, so our comrades in the front ranks of each Century bypass the first groups of sleeping people, counting on us in the rear to deal with them. My rank comes across our first small bunch of people, most of them just beginning to sit up, their looks of surprise and fear etched in my memory as we fall upon them. I begin using my javelin, my first victim a man of indeterminate age, bearded and heavyset, who is fumbling for his spear next to him. Using an overhand grip, I plunge my javelin directly into his throat, feeling the hardened point scrape against the bone of his neck as I watch his eyes widen in shock, and I remember to twist the javelin as I withdraw it, both to cause more damage and to free it in the event it has lodged in the bone itself, as the man falls away. I am barely conscious of the sound of the woman lying across the fire from the man screaming, but it registers enough that I now turn on her, and using the javelin in the same manner, plunge it deeply into her breast. This time, the softer metal shaft of the javelin, on meeting the stronger resistance of her breastbone, bends a little, though the point still penetrates as it plunges directly into her heart. Letting out a shriek the woman, who I can now see is actually young and very pretty, grabs at the shaft of the javelin, clawing at it in a vain attempt to pull it from her body while her eyes lock with mine. I expect to see hatred and fear there, but instead I see only a great sadness as she looks up at me, dying on the end of my javelin. Although our javelins are specifically designed to do what has just happened and bend, so that once they strike a target after being thrown they are useless to throw back, it means that I must discard it and now draw my sword. Releasing the javelin, I leave it protruding from the chest of the young woman to draw my sword, called the Spanish sword because the Legions of Rome adopted it after facing the tribes in Hispania many, many years ago. It feels good in my hand as I turn my attention away from this fire, looking for other targets, my comrades having taken care of the other people around it.

  The air is now filled with the screams of the Usipetes and Tencteri, the full horror of what is happening to them becoming apparent. This also means that some of their men have managed to rise and grab weapons, except instead of banding together, they do the natural thing and stand to defend their own small group. It is a normal instinct to defend one’s own family first, but in truth it just makes our job easier. It is much less of a challenge to defeat one or two men at a time than dozens or hundreds.

  We are now moving through the camp from fire to fire and it is not long before my swor
d is wet almost to the hilt from the blood of the people I have slaughtered. So far I have been lucky because I have yet to come across any children; I take no pleasure in the slaughter of young ones. I do not enjoy killing women for that matter, but there is something less disturbing about killing an adult than a child, at least to me. Many of my comrades have no such problems with that distinction, and I can see them killing everything in their path without mercy or distress. The German men can now be seen standing with their weapons at their fires, sometimes just one, but most of the time two, three and sometimes four men standing to protect their families who are huddled behind them. Surprisingly, most people seem content to stay put, counting on the protection of their warriors, but it is still early in the assault and I am sure that once they see their men being cut down, they will begin to try to run and escape, or hide. Heading for the nearest group bypassed by the front ranks, I am thankful at least that these men did not have the wit to turn on my comrades who had moved past them to fall onto their unprotected backs, instead choosing to stand and fight.

  Calling to Scribonius, Vibius and the rest of the men in my rank for help, we head for the group of men. There are three of them, all warriors, one older man and two about my age or a little older. The older man has a long sword, the other two spears, and all three have thought to pick up their shields. I wait for a moment for my own comrades to catch up, then form a single line, shield to shield, with me in my usual spot on the far right. This means I do not have the protection of a shield to my right, but my placement here is no accident; I am not boasting when I say that I am far and away the best man with a sword out of my rank, or my Century and Cohort for that matter. So it is with confidence that I walk side by side with my comrades towards the waiting men. By this point, some of the wagons have been set alight, and despite it now being sunup, the forest in this part of the world is so thick that the light from the flaming wagons is still strong and lurid, making shadows dance and adding to the atmosphere of menace and destruction. The men await us, their faces set and determined and I can see over their shoulders that there are at least a dozen other people, huddled together, their arms around each other as they call out to their men in their tongue. I have no doubt they are exhorting their warriors to protect them, but their men do not answer, each of them completely concentrating on us. Stopping a few paces away, for a strange moment, nothing happens. All around us there is chaos, mayhem, blood and destruction, yet we are locked in our own little world, almost like we are encased in some sort of bubble. Despite the noises of the slaughter taking place, I can somehow hear my breathing, each side seemingly waiting for some signal. Our eyes are locked on each other; I am staring at the older man with the sword, while he does the same, probably drawn to me because of my size. Then, surprising even myself I am moving forward and I can hear a roar, realizing that it is coming from my lips as I lead with my shield. Moving quickly for a big man, this is both a blessing and a curse, because it catches not only my foe but my friends off balance, so it takes an instant for my comrades to realize that the fight has begun. The older man also hesitates, but that at least was my goal; moving first, striking the first blow in battle cannot be overestimated in its importance, and he has barely enough time to bring his own shield up as I smash into him, relying on my size and strength to push him off balance. However, he somehow stands his ground but thankfully before either of the younger warriors can react and turn on me, my comrades are on them. Outnumbering them more than two to one, I nonetheless call to my friends to leave the older man to me; in those days, I was always anxious to prove myself as the best. For a moment, we stand shield boss to shield boss, glaring at each other over the rim of our shields, he trying to strike me with an overhand blow, using his long sword, as I come underneath with my shorter Spanish sword. Because of the length of his sword, he is trying to end me with a slash, but we Romans have long since learned that the point always beats the edge. I hear his blade whistle past my ear as I move my head to the side, wincing as it strikes a glancing blow off of my shoulder. My mail, which is reinforced in that area, absorbs the blow, so that a few links break but otherwise I am unharmed. Meanwhile, the point of my own sword flickers upward from beneath my shield and I feel the point strike into the flesh of his thigh. We are close enough that I hear the hiss of pain escape his lips, eyes narrowing in agony and hatred, but he does not yield an inch. I realize he is fighting for his family, that this gives him the courage of the doomed, so rather than try to continue pressing him, I suddenly step backward, hoping to draw him off balance. He is too experienced to fall for that, instead choosing to recover himself. Meanwhile, his two comrades, who I assume to be his sons, are still desperately standing back to back, surrounded by my friends, who are alternating in their attacks on the pair. No matter what is happening with them I cannot pay any attention to their battle, and I renew my attack, not wanting to give the older warrior any respite. His left leg is now soaked in blood, and he is clearly favoring it, but is still refusing to yield an inch as I thrust my shield out, using the boss in an attempt to smash his nose flat. We are to use the shield in a manner that makes it as much an offensive weapon as a defensive one, so that my move takes him by surprise, but he manages to bring his own shield up to meet my attack, and I smile grimly, because that is exactly the reaction for which I am hoping. Bending my knees while maintaining the pressure of my shield against his, I whip my blade around parallel to the ground, in a wide sweeping arc so that the edge is now traveling back toward me, except that his left knee is between me and the blade. This is one of our most effective attacks, known as the third position, and is the only time where we favor the edge over the point. It is also why we do go to the trouble to sharpen both edges of our swords. Normally, it is enough to cut the two tendons at the base of the hamstring, but as I said, I am a very strong man and my blade is very sharp, so I can feel the shock travel up my arm as the blade cuts through his leg all the way to his kneecap. My blade continues through so that I sever his leg completely, and I can feel the spray of blood splash on my arm as he lets out a shriek of unbearable agony, collapsing immediately to the ground. The sight of their father defeated stuns both of the other warriors so completely that they suddenly drop their shields to just stand there defenseless as my comrades cut them down. Standing over my foe as he stares up at me, his face a picture of despair and agony, one hand clutching the stump of his ruined leg, I can read in his face the knowledge that he has failed to protect his family. All I feel is a savage exultation that I have bested another man, giving him a smile that holds nothing but cruelty as I plunge my sword into his throat.

  All around us, similar scenes are being played out as the Legions of Rome go about their business of slaughter. With the three warriors dispatched, I turn to face the remaining group of people. There are four women, one older with iron gray hair and a seamed face, probably the woman of the man that I dispatched, and from the way she is gazing down at the bodies of the two young men, their mother. She stands protectively in front of the rest of her family, arms outstretched despite the fact she has no weapon. Even as I move toward her, before I can get to her another of my comrades, Spurius Didius, steps close enough to run his sword into her stomach before twisting the blade savagely, disemboweling her in one practiced motion. His move is met with disgust and contempt by the rest of us; we may be under orders to kill everyone, orders that we would readily obey, but that did not mean that we had to make defenseless people suffer needlessly. However, that is in his character; he is the cruelest among us, and renowned for some of the actions he has taken, mostly against defenseless or helpless people. The woman lets out a blood-curdling scream as she collapses to the ground, her intestines slowly oozing out to lie in a glistening pool next to her.

  “You stupid bastard, you punctured her bowels. Now we have to smell her shit,” Vellusius, another member of our tent section complains, but Didius just grins. The sight of the matriarch of this group savagely cut down finally spurs the oth
ers to action, and they turn to run away, scattering in every direction.

  “See what you made them do?” I hear Scribonius shout as each of us start off in pursuit of one of the fleeing Germans.

  Without thinking, I choose one of the other women, a younger one who I had noticed snatching up a bundle lying near the fire. She was wrapped in a cloak, but quickly shrugged it off since it slowed her down, and I can see she has fiery red hair that streams behind her as she runs, still clutching the bundle. I chase after her, and despite being much faster, she is damnably quick, changing direction whenever she senses that I am within reach, so that in moments I am not only out of breath, I am getting very angry. The pursuit continues in this manner for some time, with her darting around and through the small knots of Romans and Germans who are still trying to put up a fight. By this time, others like her have realized that it is pointless to fight, and begin their own headlong flight, each of them seeming to choose a different direction in which to escape. Wagons are ablaze, the air growing hot and close from the flames, making my lungs burn even more. The girl is making me look the fool, and I can just imagine that the others are getting a great laugh from the sight of my large frame chasing this slight girl about like a dog chasing a chicken. She is now heading for the river bordering one side of the camp, along with what now appears to be several hundred other Usipetes and Tencteri. Some of them are much closer and much slower than this girl, meaning I could easily stop chasing her to concentrate on an easier target, but I refuse to be drawn off. Finally she starts to tire, her sudden changes in direction becoming less frequent, until I have now closed with her so that I can reach out and give her a shove that sends her sprawling. The bundle she has been carrying goes flying from her hands to land a few feet away from her, but before I can pin her down to finish her, she scrambles up, leaving me to curse bitterly, as much as I can with my lungs on fire. Gasping for air, I am prepared to resume the pursuit, but for reasons I cannot understand at first, instead of trying to get away, she runs straight to the bundle, picking it up.