Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul mwc-1

by R. W. Peake

  “What did you think?” He eyed me curiously as he asked me, yet all I could think to say was, “He gives a good speech. Why, what did you think?”

  He frowned, something I noticed that he did a lot, then shook his head. “I don’t know, really. All I do know is that I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t remember where.”

  The bucina cut our conversation short, and I thought no more about it.

  By the time we made our second stop, I was beginning to feel true fatigue, and the weaker men like Artorius were clearly at the end of their tether, barely managing to make it to this point because their fear of the wrath of the Centurions was greater than their fatigue, yet I could not help wondering how much longer that would last. As we rested again I looked over at the general, standing talking to the Primus Pilus of our Legion, who had fallen back to talk to him, I supposed, from his place up in the vanguard. Neither of them seemed to be in the slightest bit fatigued, something that angered me more than anything else. How could they appear as if they were just out for a daily stroll, without a care in the world? Well, I was determined that I would not falter in front of them, no matter what! When we set out for the final leg of our march, I was grimly determined to appear just as fresh as they did now, no matter how much of a sham it might have been. The idea that they would even notice a lowly tiro in his private struggle never occurred to me; like all youngsters, I was still of the opinion that somehow the world revolved around me.

  It was with a great amount of relief to the tiros when we arrived at the site of the evening camp, which the advance party had already marked and staked out. That feeling was short-lived, however, when after just a few moments’ respite we were told to ground our gear, and the real work began. The Centurions and Optios began running about as each Century of each Cohort was assigned with a task. To our inexperienced eyes it was chaos, yet as we were to learn, that was deceiving; everyone had a role to play, and once assigned their tasks, the seeming chaos would disappear.

  The Pilus Prior, after a brief conference with the command group, came to us and said without any ceremony, “Right, we’ve been assigned the ditch,” which was greeted by groans from the experienced men, to which the Pilus Prior snarled, “Shut your mouths, you lazy bastards! Now, I expect the Sergeants to take their tent section and give these fresh young things a quick lesson on what they're to do. I’ll give you some time to explain and then,” he pointed with his vitus to a point a distance away where some stakes were placed, “get to work. That’s our section. I’ll be around to make sure that you don’t make a complete mess of things.”

  And with that he strode off to do whatever it was that Centurions do while the rest of us worked, which as I was to learn, was to walk about keeping a sharp eye out for the inevitable lagging. Sergeant Calienus stood in front of us. “You’ll need your turf cutter and your spades,” he said simply, waiting while we pulled them from our baskets. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder once we produced them, as he headed over to the area that the Pilus Prior had pointed out. “All right, what we’re going to do is to dig our section of the ditch.”

  As he talked, each tent section was receiving its instructions all around us, so it was somewhat difficult to understand him over the babble of other voices, but it soon became clear what was expected of us. Our section was going to be one of the ones digging; another tent section was tasked with carrying the dirt that we produced in their wicker basket to create the rampart that formed the internal boundary of the camp. Another group was tasked with collecting our two stakes apiece, which were loaded on our pack mule, to form the palisade. While this was all new to us, this is the manner in which Roman camps have been constructed for as long as anyone could remember, and soon enough it would become second nature for us.

  Turning to our task, we first used the turf cutter to cut out squares of sod. These would be used as foundations for some of the structures in the camp, along with serving as the surface of the rampart. Once that was done, we began to dig. Despite my fatigue, this was work that I was used to, but some of the others began having trouble, the most surprising to me being Vibius. However, as he explained later, working as a tanner did not involve the use of a spade or turf cutter. There was one piece of luck, although we would not understand it for some time to come. As I explained earlier, Caesar required the ditches to be deeper and wider across than any other general; fortunately for us, we did not know any better, so the work we were doing did not seem to be any more onerous than what any other Legion endured. It took us the better part of two parts of a watch to make our section of ditch, no more than ten feet of the total, the proper depth and width and we were utterly exhausted, but as I turned around, what I saw amazed me. The wall, made of the combination of our stakes and the spoil from the ditch, was almost completely up in our sector, with the men in that area putting the finishing touches on the rampart. Other parties who went out into the surrounding area came back with enough timber to create the guard towers that are placed on each corner of the camp, and although not finished, their form was plainly visible. Despite the dust, noise and bustling activity, it was clear that we knew what we were about, or at least our leaders did. At this point we were no more than just brute labor, although after a few more of these camps, as we rotated in our duties, we would all learn our parts and by the end of a year, each of us would be able to build one of these camps in our sleep.

  Finally finished, we staggered back to our area, at least knowing where we were located in the camp because it was the same as back at our home base. The slaves of each tent section in the Century, working together, had erected our tents and dragged our equipment into them, placing our gear in our accustomed place, knowing where to put it by the names inscribed on the leather covers of our shields. They had also started a fire, and Sergeant Calienus proceeded to show us how to turn our rations of grain into bread, this being the first time it was not baked for us. Each of us took our ration and ground it in our section’s grinder before contributing it to the community pot, where Sergeant Calienus showed us how to make bread, using the panera that we had been issued. I know I was looking forward to falling into a deep sleep as soon as we were finished eating, but my hopes were dashed by the Pilus Prior, who came and announced that we were the guard Cohort for the night. We all groaned, prompting the Pilus Prior to walk among us, lashing out with his vitus and snarling at us to keep quiet. His progress was marked by the same sounds as he relayed the word to the rest of the Cohort, something that gave us a little solace that we were not the only whiners.

  I was never more thankful for Vibius than that evening on watch, because without him I would surely have fallen asleep on guard duty, though I think he was as thankful for the same reason. Even so, a decent number of tiros were caught asleep, and if it had happened in enemy territory it would have meant death, but since it was in training it still called for a flogging. Luckily, only one poor soul was selected for that punishment, which was administered when we returned to base camp, only because he had been caught not once but twice. Since it was our first such march, I guessed, the Centurions were content with administering a particularly severe session with their vitus to the men caught asleep. In our case, Pilus Prior Crastinus, Optio Vinicius, and even the Tesseraurius, a man named Titus Cordius who was our designated man to receive the challenge and password every day, came to check on us at regular intervals. Somehow even Artorius managed to stay awake, by virtue of being paired with Scribonius I expect, so that we were one of the few tent sections who did not have anyone fall asleep.

  The next morning, if that is what it could be called, it being at least two parts of a watch before first light, I was as sore as I had ever been during my training with Cyclops, and judging from the slow movements and groans of my comrades, I was not alone. I had used muscles previously unstrained, at least to this extent, and I was hard pressed to determine where the soreness came from, the marching or the digging. Either way, we were awakened by the call of the b
ucina, whereupon we got up and packed the gear that we would be carrying, leaving the striking of the tents to the slaves, who performed this task while we ate our morning meal. We were now going to march back to the base camp, except this time we would not be in the lead. It was our turn in fact to take up the rear; it is in this manner that no Cohort can complain that they are mistreated. Everyone shares equally in all the unpleasant duties in the army, which is one of the things that makes us stronger and bonds us together as much, if not more than, combat itself. There is no glue like shared misery.

  The march back was going to be an ordeal, since we were still sore from the day before, the only slightly cheerful thought being that because the camp back home already existed, at least we would not have to dig. At least, so we thought, until we were informed that before we began the march back we were going to go to the spot where we had dug the ditch the day before, and fill it back in. This was not a punishment, because every other Century involved in digging the ditch was doing the same thing. Fortunately it did not take nearly as long to fill it in as it did to dig it. As we marched away, the early morning sky was lit by fire as the guard towers and the wooden structures that were not part of the palisade made by our carried stakes was put to the torch. It was on the occasion of this first march that we were introduced to this practice, one that if the truth be known, bothered us probably more than anything. On the march during a campaign, we never left a camp intact, and despite the fact we could all see the sense in doing so, it still pained us to see the fruits of our sweat and labor destroyed, every day. Speaking only for myself, it was something I never became accustomed to, despite the hundreds, maybe thousands of times I have done so.

  It was on the way back that Artorius fell out of the ranks and despite the curses of the Pilus Prior, could not be induced to keep his place in the march. Finally, he was abandoned, to the disgust of the Pilus Prior, Optio and, truth be known, the rest of us. Weakness is not tolerated in the Legion, and no matter how we might have sympathized to a degree, none of us were doing any more or any less than Artorius. The fact that he was weak physically was not his crime, at least in my mind. It was his mental weakness that I found most damning. I know now that I was being unkind; I tended, and still tend, to view others as if they were me, that they were born as big and strong as I was, and that is not usually the case. It is a failing, the gods know, and I hope that I have mellowed with age. It also did not help that we were the tail end of the column, eating the dust of the rest of the Legion, yet I suspect that he would have fallen out even if we were in our place of the day before. He finally came staggering into camp a full third of a watch after we arrived, and he was warned that two more such failures would result in his dismissal from the Legion, a fate that he did not seem to be entirely unhappy about. Our general, meanwhile, had marched at the head of the Legion both days, never showing any sign of fatigue, and as we were to learn, this was not just a case of Caesar showing off. He would always walk when we walked, and lived as we live, as much as it was possible for him to do so; being a general there are certain requirements when dealing with others that elevate him above the rest of us. However, he ate what we ate, drank what we drank, and in his actions began to form a bond with us that is famous to this day. Never before, even in the days of Pompey Magnus or the great Scipio Africanus, has a general been loved in the way we in the 10th loved Caesar, and the foundation for that love was formed on that first march, and strengthened in the months to come. Although as it would turn out, not all of us shared the same feelings about our general.

  Our training continued; we learned the battle formations, the acies triplex, the aciesduplex, down to the formations that only Centuries used, such as the famous testudo, which is known and feared throughout the world. Our weapons training continued as well, now with the shield, and we also began work throwing the javelins. Once we got over the slight bump in the beginning of our relationship, Optio Vinicius and I seemed to form a bond. Perhaps he recognized in me someone as devoted to the learning of the skills of arms as he was, yet whatever the reason, I became his star pupil, something that did not please Didius. I was still constantly scrutinized and criticized, but not only had I become accustomed to it, I recognized what it meant. However, along with the status came the responsibility. I was always the subject for the new lessons to be learned so that I took the bumps and bruises first, something that was lost on Didius. He began muttering choice names for me under his breath, loud enough for the others to hear but not me, some of them finding what he was saying witty enough to laugh. Growing more and more in my dislike for Didius, I consoled myself with the idea that soon enough, we would be squaring off one on one with the wooden sword. Then we would see who was laughing.

  Proving that the Optio was not oblivious to what was going on, the very first day that we finally had progressed enough that we could begin beating on each other, he pitted me against Didius. Of course, the way it was expressed to us was not that we had progressed, but that Rome could not afford to wait the ten years it would take us to know the sharp end of a sword before we continued in the pursuit of our enemies.

  Still, when the Optio beckoned to me and Didius and told us to square off, he whispered in my ear, “I’m not deaf. The only thing I’ll tell you is that you’re forbidden to kill him. Understand?”

  I nodded, but I had to swallow down the lump that suddenly formed in my throat. Despite my confidence, any time you face an adversary that you have never faced before, there is some trepidation. I cursed myself that I had not paid any attention to Didius’ work on the stakes so that I would have an idea of his weaknesses, but that vessel was already broken and could not be mended now. For his part, Didius did not appear to be his usual, blustery confident self, for which I was grimly satisfied. Approaching each other, both of us in the first position, I instantly saw that Didius showed a weakness in his grip of the shield, holding it in a slightly tilted manner and not in the direct vertical way that we were taught. I tucked that away, because I had decided that I did not want a quick kill. No, my goal that day was to completely dominate him, embarrass him and leave no doubt who was the master.

  Looking back on that decision now, with the blessing of hindsight and age, I wonder if I had been satisfied with just a straightforward end to our bout whether things would have been different. Somehow I think that Didius and I were destined to clash, but the truth is that this might be the wishful thinking of an old man; only the gods truly know. In the moment, however, I slowly circled Didius, taking the role of the attacker, and observing him I could see he was actually afraid.

  Grinning, I called out to him loud enough for the others to hear, “Ave Didius. How long will it take me to make you my whore?”

  This taunt brought a chorus of gasps and chuckles, and I saw Didius’ eyes narrow in anger.

  “Why don’t you come and find out, you cunnus?” he snarled, to which I laughed and replied, “Be careful what you ask for, Didius.”

  And before I finished saying his name, I struck. Despite the fact I am not as quick as Vibius, I am very fast, deceptively so, probably because of my size. Using the shield I banged into Didius hard enough to send him stumbling back a few feet, while I pressed the attack, slashing with the wooden sword instead of thrusting in the manner we were taught, smacking him hard on the arms and shoulders, causing him to roar in pain and anger. Lashing out wildly, he attempted to restore his equilibrium as I parried his blows contemptuously with my wooden sword, not even bothering to use my shield.

  This drew a comment from the Optio, “Careful about showing off, Pullus,” he said evenly, “It’s sloppy and it can become a habit.”

  Nodding that I heard him, I relented enough to allow Didius to regain his position, happy to hear that the cheering from the others was clearly in my favor. I decided to use that to my advantage.

  “Hear that, Didius?” I asked, while I continued to circle him, “it sounds like your comrades don’t care for you too much.”

 
“What do I care about those cunni for?” he growled, which was met with the howls of derision that I expected it would invoke.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I kept my tone casual, “maybe because one day you’ll have to rely on them to save your life.”

  Again, as I finished speaking I attacked, but this time Didius was prepared, managing to bring his shield up to meet mine and we crashed into each other, shield to shield, neither of us giving an inch. He was strong, I had to give him that, and I resolved that I would go ahead and show him that I was indeed stronger. Dropping my hips a bit before uncoiling my whole body, I let out a roar as I did so, and once again Didius went backwards, except this time instead of stumbling he fell flat. Immediately I leaped astride him, putting the point of the wooden sword under his throat.

  “You make this too easy,” I told him contemptuously, then stepped away to turn to my comrades, raising my arms as if I were a victorious gladiator.

  The blow was completely unexpected, and I dropped to my knees, my lower back on fire from where Didius had hit me hard along the kidneys. I would piss blood for a week from the blow, but he made a fatal mistake in not following it up, allowing me to get to my feet. Spinning around, I was angrier than I think I had ever been to that point, and there was complete silence as we faced each other.