by R. W. Peake
As we moved, we were given orders to send flanking parties ranging out farther than their normal mile or two, going three and four miles in either direction, perpendicular to our line of march. His intent was to find all sign of life, particularly in the form of flock and fields, Caesar’s purpose being twofold. One was to feed us, since an army of our size takes massive amounts of food and water to power, while the other, more strategic purpose, was to wreak havoc on the island and demonstrate the might of Rome, which we did with a vengeance. By this time we had developed a healthy dislike for the island and the people on it, partly due to the nature of our enemy, with their blue paint and chariots, but also because we came to believe that this island was truly cursed. How else to explain the storms that caught us not once, but twice and so devastated the fleet that we were forced to devote a good portion of the season just to repair the damage? Never before had we faced chariots, nor seen men with blue faces or white, spiked hair. However, perhaps the most compelling reason for such hatred among the ranks was due to those men we call the Druids, of whom I have not spoken of for a reason, nor do I intend to devote much time to now. It is enough to say that the entire army, myself included, saw the powerful magic that these men possessed. Setting aside their foul practices and despicable rites, to most of the men in the army they were considered the prime reason that this island of Britannia was, and is cursed even today. This is another reason why we took to our task of ravaging the land with such enthusiasm, thinking that anything we could do to hurt the Druids was a good thing for us in the long run. Our progress on each day’s march could be followed by the columns of black smoke marking the farmsteads and fields that we found, while our quartermasters were kept busy slaughtering all the livestock that we gathered up, though to be sure there was grumbling about the prevalence of meat in our diet compared to our daily bread. I was one of the few who did not complain, it being reminiscent of my childhood when Lucius had been such a sorry excuse for a farmer that he could not provide much for us other than what grazed on our farm. Still, I sat and pretended to be sympathetic as we sat around the fire, listening to the rest of my friends bemoaning the fact that not only was our bread in short supply, but our supply of olive oil was running low.
“Look at me, I’m wasting away,” Vellusius complained, pulling up his tunic to pinch the skin around his waist.
It was true that there was not very much there to grab, if there was any at all, yet he did not look to me like he was any lighter than he had ever been. But I was learning by this time that it is better to allow the men to complain about the small things such as this because if you put too much effort in trying to stop it, when they are complaining about really important or sensitive matters, your arsenal of tricks has been used up. So I contented myself by smiling sympathetically as the others picked up his complaint.
“I swear to Dis if I have to eat cow, or sheep, or anything else that was running around the day before, I’m going to……to….well, I don’t know what I’m going to do exactly, but it’s not going to be good,” Atilius pronounced, provoking more laughter than agreement.
“So, if it’s been dead more than a day, then it’s all right?” Vibius teased, prompting a rock to be thrown at him by Atilius, which instead bounced and hit Didius in the shin. “By the gods……”
“We know, Achilles, you’re going to gut us, and make us sorry,” Atilius cut him off, causing an eruption of laughter, which even Didius, while not exactly joining in, did not see fit to argue about, giving us a grimace that I guess passed as a smile for him.
This was about the fourth day of our march to the west, while we relaxed around the fire, knowing that the next day promised little more than much of the same. A sudden blaring of horns somewhere along the column, a burst of activity as the cavalry was summoned to the spot from where the ambush was launched, followed by the briefest of clashes before the Britons dissolved back into the woods to wait for another moment. The best we could hope for was that one of the chariots would be slow, either from one of the horses going lame, or the driver letting his mind wander. Only then would the men on foot have a chance to strike back, and it did happen occasionally, but more often than not all we had to show for our efforts was a Century or so of panting Legionaries and a couple of men wounded, or worse. We understood why Cassivellaunus adopted the tactics that he did, and I have no doubt that in his place most of us would have done the same. That did not mean we respected it however, and I have often wondered if he did what he did actually believing that he could wear us down in such a manner, or was it simply because he did not know what else to do?
On the sixth day of the march, we reached a river that is now called the Tamesis (Thames), and is one of the main waterways that the Britons use to carry the goods they acquire from the mainland deeper into the island. This river also marks the southern boundary of the territory of the tribe of Cassivellaunus, so it probably should not have surprised us to find him once again arrayed on the opposite bank, at the only fordable spot for several miles in each direction. Our cavalry had managed to round up a small number of prisoners who claimed to be deserters trying to go back to their own lands, having their fill of life with their army. They told our scouts that not only was this the only ford but submerged just below the water were a series of sharpened stakes, pointing outwards toward the middle of the river, designed to stop our assault across it. Since we were not the vanguard Legion this day, the task fell to the 9th to storm across the river, while we were ordered to ground our gear in place and draw up in formation in case our support was needed. Before we even made it to the riverbank to our designated spot, however, the affair was over. Caesar ordered the cavalry to dash across first, but the men of the 9th acted so swiftly in forming up for the assault that the effect was that a combined force of horse and men entered the river at the same time, despite the water being up to some of the men’s necks. Whatever courage they had mustered up that caused them to make this stand immediately deserted the Britons, all of them turning to flee, with the cavalry pursuing a short distance and inflicting some casualties. After retrieving our gear, both the 9th and 10th re-crossed the river and continued the pursuit.
Cassivellaunus, falling back on his old tactics, harassed us every step of the way as we entered the land of the Trinovantes, who came ahead to meet with Caesar to submit to him, giving up not only hostages but enough grain to supply the army with a day’s ration. Despite relentlessly following Cassivellaunus, he managed to send word back to some of the tribes in our rear to assault our naval enclosure, gambling that the Legion left behind would not be enough to stop a determined assault, especially given its size. Not for the first, nor last time, was he wrong. That assault was handily repulsed, not without loss, yet not only did it secure the fleet that would take us home, it also raised the standing of the 12th in our eyes. Consequently, the submission of the Trinovantes triggered the surrender of a number of other tribes, and just like the snows in the Alps, Cassivellaunus’ support was melting away before his eyes. Nevertheless, he himself refused to give up, still ambushing us when he could, shadowing our army on the march. We became quite accustomed to the sight of a few dozen chariots, their horses slowly walking at the same pace as the army, the Britons onboard watching us just out of range of our cavalry or missile troops. They gave up trying to taunt us and for that at least we were thankful; mainly, we found it irritating, although it certainly did not unnerve us like they hoped, which I believe they came to realize. Either that or their voices finally gave out. Whatever the case, we welcomed the relative silence, the sounds of the march back to the more accustomed tramping of feet, jingling of metal bits clinking together and constant buzz of conversation as we passed the miles away talking.
Envoys from the surrendering tribes soon brought news of the location about the whereabouts of the stronghold of Cassivellaunus, and deeming the information credible, Caesar gave the orders to make the slight change of direction necessary to close on it. By now, Cassivellaunu
s had lost the support of all but his own tribes and some hotheads from the others, although it still totaled around 10,000 men, and about 4,000 chariots. However, by choosing to make a stand Cassivellaunus negated his most useful weapon, the chariots themselves, because they would be of no use in the defense of a stronghold of any kind. Personally, I believe that he simply came to the realization that he was not going to do enough damage using his tactics to make us go away, and most likely out of desperation, determined that he would make a final stand. His stronghold was barely a day’s march away from the spot where we forded the Tamesis, despite his leading us on a merry chase before turning and heading for his fort. Reaching a spot perhaps two miles from the stronghold on a small plateau, we could see that it was protected by marshy ground along the banks of a river that followed the contours of the base of the height. The southeastern approaches was covered in thick woods, ground that did not favor us because of the dense growth, besides which the enemy would know every inch of the land. Walking into those woods meant certain death, and on the two remaining sides that were not protected by natural defenses, the Britons had erected a rampart, before which was a wide and deep trench, filled with sharpened stakes. It was made of earth, obviously dug up from the ditch, much in the nature of our own marching camps, and would not require the use of any siege equipment except for scaling ladders. Arriving at the spot designated as the site for our camp at the end of the day, we went through the normal process of preparing it, then settled in to get some rest before we began the assault the next day.
The plan for the assault was simple; we would not even unlimber the artillery, relying instead on the Cretan archers to keep the heads of the Britons down while we rushed the two approachable sides with assault ladders. The 9th, because of their resolute action crossing the river, was selected along with the 10th to be in the first wave of the assault, with the 7th and 8th in support and the 11th in reserve. Forming up before first light, Caesar and the rest of us had learned never to underestimate the impact on your enemy’s psyche of being greeted with the rising sun and the sight of a veteran army standing there silently, ready to begin the day’s work. That was what met the eyes of the Britons, and I believe that more than any battle we ever fought, this one was won by that very tactic. Even from a distance, the howls of despair and fear were clearly carried over the otherwise still morning air, and we could see the women of the tribe join their men on the ramparts, as if to see for themselves the doom that approached. Despite their obvious distress, Cassivellaunus was stubborn and there was no offer of surrender at that point, so the cornu sounded the advance and we marched in silence towards the walls. Following closely behind were our archers, who began loosing arrows at the men on the walls the instant they were in range, and we heard the whizzing of the missiles flying over our head, streaking towards the defenders and making a comforting sound. They may not have struck many men down, especially after the first volley or two, the Britons quickly learning the value of keeping their head below the parapet, yet that was almost as good because it prevented their own men from using slings and javelins. Almost completely unopposed, we went through the now-familiar steps of placing the ladder and I was one of the first up, just being beaten by a man in the Fourth Cohort farther down the wall. Instead of taking the first step onto the rampart, I vaulted over while kicking one of the men with the white spiky hair in the head, sending him flying off the parapet, howling in pain and rage all the way down. Now with a spot to land I wasted no time, lashing out with my shield even as my feet touched the earthen ramp, catching another blue demon square in the jaw, dropping him unconscious at my feet. I recall thinking to myself that I needed to remember finishing him off at the first opportunity so that he did not rouse himself while my back was to him as I stepped away from the ladder to allow Vibius, who was right behind me, to join me on the rampart, but he did the job for me. Cutting and hacking a space away for the rest of our comrades, we began spreading quickly along the ramparts, the Britons falling before us like we were cutting wheat. The din of the battle was of its usual deafening quality, and we made quick work of the few men who dared to stand before us and fight. It was no more than a few moments' effort before we cleared the rampart and jumped down to work our way through the fort. This was not a town, despite having several buildings, most of them serving as a combination of barracks and stables, while there was a large cleared area where the unhitched chariots were left, arranged in a neat pattern that I did not take the time to appreciate. Despite the fact it was not a proper town it was obviously meant as a refuge, the muddy strips that passed for streets between the low-slung buildings choked with women and children, all of them now screaming in panic as they fled to the opposite side of the fort, their goal making it to the relative safety of either the woods or marsh. Many did, but a large number did not, the lucky ones being cut down, the others taken prisoner to be sold as slaves. There was the usual mayhem when taking any fortified position, be it town or stronghold like this, and the screams of the women who did not escape rang out through the air as we began to round up all the livestock, bitterly cursing the sight of the storehouses empty of any grain. Putting everything to the torch, the column of black smoke was clearly visible for miles away as we crushed the last spark of fight that Cassivellaunus and his people had in them.
Retiring to our camp, before the next day was out Cassivellaunus sent emissaries to negotiate a surrender, one that was very brief. Caesar offered the same terms that he did to every vanquished foe; unconditional surrender and the mercy of Caesar, since his clemency by this time was well known. I believe that more than one cunning native chief made the calculation that it was better to resist Caesar, even if for a short time, then receive his mercy, rather than just capitulating without putting up any resistance, because it seemed that the vanquished profited more with Caesar than some of his allies. Whatever the case, the Briton surrendered, giving up the usual hostages, which by this time had swelled to form a small army in itself and was an increasing burden on the army to support. This was particularly true since most of the hostages were nobles who demanded to be treated and fed in the style to which they were accustomed, and to be fair, which Caesar took great pains to accommodate. This large host of prisoners also meant another problem; even with as much of the fleet being repaired as possible, we still lost a fair number of ships. Because we were packed to the brim on the trip over, and had not suffered many losses, it was now impossible to carry the army and the hostages over in one trip. It took a few days for us to march back to the coast, taking the same route by which we came inland, the land still in smoking ruin from our initial passage, and it was at the end of the month of August that we found ourselves reunited with the 12th, ready to make the voyage home. I cannot say that it was a profitable trip, as far as booty and loot were concerned, except that we made history and most of us were content with that. The first trip back to the mainland contained all of the prisoners, along with the 11th and 12th to guard them, and they made it back to Gaul with no incidents, the entire fleet intact and landing at Portus Itius. However, the gods were not through with us just yet, having one last trick to play, the beginning of the winter weather earlier than usual, with the wind turning contrary and keeping the fleet from making it back to us. For the next several days we stayed on the beach, passing the time in the same manner as when we left for the island, confined to our areas in camp waiting for a break in the weather. It was very much beginning to look like we would be stuck wintering on the island; in fact, that very day, Caesar called a meeting of Centurions to announce that it was time to start planning on spending the winter here, when the weather broke and the winds turned favorable once again. However, not all of the fleet made it back to the island, but instead of making yet another trip, Caesar determined to get us all across, packing us as tightly as salted fish to make it back. Thank the gods the weather was mild, so the crossing was not particularly rough, but being cheek to jowl in this manner guaranteed that if one man got
seasick, everyone around him was going to suffer because of it, and as I learned the hard way, it only takes one to start an outbreak that spreads like the plague. I fervently believe that the sound of our retching could be heard all the way back to Britannia. Nevertheless, we made it back safely, and it was with not a little surprise when we considered that even with the fickle weather on both years, and the damage wreaked by the storms we were in, we still suffered not one man lost in any crossing. As we pulled away, some of us roused ourselves from our misery long enough to take notice of those strange white cliffs, which I have not seen now for the rest of my life. And I do not miss them a bit.
Chapter 10- Revolt in Gaul
Returning to Gaul, we found it in a high state of unrest. Despite Caesar quelling one possible source of revolt with the death of Dumnorix, there were still many Gallic chieftains harboring similar designs. They were chafing under Roman rule, and Caesar’s absence in Britannia only gave them the encouragement and opportunity to resume plotting. Another factor leading to the discontent was the fact that the harvest that year was exceptionally poor, so from a Gallic point of view, it was going to be hard enough to sustain their own people, let alone feed eight hungry Legions with all the attending mouths attached to it. Understanding this, Caesar ordered that for the first time, the army be widely dispersed around the whole of Gaul. Adding to Caesar’s own troubles was news of the death of his daughter Julia, an event that the army observed with great sorrow, such was the affection we held for our general. She had been married to Pompey, and while we did not know it at the time, this was the beginning of the end of the friendship that had sustained Caesar and Pompey against all their political enemies. At that moment, it was just another tragic event in a life full of such tragedies, and soldiers, hard as they may be, are not without feeling. Also, some of the men had begun having children of their own, so they felt the loss more acutely than callow youths like myself. More pressing, from our perspective at least, was the prospect of a hard winter, yet before we could worry about that, the Gauls had other plans for us.
