Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul mwc-1

by R. W. Peake

  Once the army was assembled, minus the 14th down in the woods, we were given our final orders and instructions. Much to our initial chagrin, Caesar ordered the 10th to stay in reserve, although it turned out to be a move blessed by the gods. Command of what would be the assault element was by Caesar, who would stay for the time being with the reserves, and his orders were clear; the primary goal of the operation was to separate the army of Vercingetorix from the town proper. Only if the opportunity presented itself in an open gate or some other favor of the gods was the assault to continue into the town. I very distinctly remember that Caesar placed an emphasis on the Legions not stopping to plunder the camps of the Arverni army, but instead sweep them from the area between the two walls before maneuvering into position behind the enemy army, who by now looked like they were completely convinced that an assault from the west was imminent. Supporting our belief was the fact that Vercingetorix shifted the remainder of his troops to the expected main line of resistance, urging them to improve the fortifications in anticipation of our assault. In other words, the ruse worked perfectly, and all was ready for us to spring the trap to stop that bastard here and now.

  In my mind, the only thing more fickle than Gauls are the gods themselves, which is why I have severed all ties with them now. In the beginning, Caesar’s plan worked brilliantly; on a blast from the cornu, along with the waving of Caesar’s standard that was relayed back to the main camp, the assault began just as planned. Springing from the gates of the small camp, four Legions quickly assembled in the relatively open and flat ground to the east, or to the right of the front gate as we were facing Gergovia, quickly and efficiently, a move that was practiced both in training and in battle hundreds of times. We of the 10th exited the camp as well, and were standing on the slope of the hill watching our comrades begin their march up the opposite incline. The slope rose northward before bending slightly west to form the saddle between the plateau and the hills where Vercingetorix was waiting for an assault that would never come, at least from the direction he was expecting it. Quickly, the Legions marched up the hill and with almost contemptuous ease, quickly crossed over the outer wall, knocking it over in many places as the Legionaries discovered that it was just loosely piled rock, with no mortar to hold it together. Attacking three separate camps of the enemy, the only men they found defending them were the sick, lame or lazy as we said in the army. Or in one case, the bodyguard of one of the kings of the Nitiobriges, who was forced to flee naked on his horse while his bodyguard stayed and died to buy him time. The sight of his white, puny body astride his horse galloping away gave us much cause for mirth, and I had tears streaming from my eyes as I watched him flee. Little did I know that before this day was through I would be crying again, if for different reasons.

  I cannot say exactly what went wrong, or where it went wrong, although I have my suspicions. Oh, the reason things went sour in a hurry was clear enough; once they swept through the camps, Caesar ordered the cornu to sound the recall, apparently so that the Legions would re-form back up to face the inevitable counterattack from Vercingetorix once he was aware that there was a Roman army in his rear, except I do not think that is where things went bad. To my dying breath, I believe that the men in the assault element heard the recall, but chose to ignore it. Instead, they were pushed on by Centurions like a man named Lucius Favius, who apparently was on the sick list when Avaricum was sacked and therefore did not receive any share of the spoils. This day, the initial success was so easy and so overwhelming that he convinced the men of his Century to continue to the walls of the town proper, his goal being getting into the town first to grab his share of loot. Once a Century moved in that direction, the others, not wanting to miss out on the chance of spoils, were quick to follow. Before any orders could be given or relayed, the whole army was charging toward the walls of the town. The first Century to arrive naturally was that of Favius, who was boosted onto the walls by his men, whereupon he immediately pulled some of them up to the parapet. Elsewhere along the walls of the town, we could see women beseeching the Romans not to enter, some of them even throwing themselves down to the men to be ravished by them in a vain attempt to assuage their lust. I cannot speak of their fates, but I think it sufficient to say that I hope that any man left alive who was part of what happened suffers nights of tormented sleep because of it. Initially, everything was going our way, while the sight of Romans at the walls of the town created a panic among the townspeople and the garrison of the town. Even the Legion designated to fortify the hill vacated by Vercingetorix, the main objective of this operation, now looked and saw what appeared to be a town falling under our arms. Dropping what they were doing, they hurried to join their comrades, who were now at the base of the town wall trying to help each other get up and over it. Then, the tide began to turn as the people within the town started to realize that as formidable as our army was, what faced them was only a fraction of it, and besides that, our men were still vastly outnumbered by the Gauls on the other side of the wall. Within moments, the fighting became fierce, with more defenders appearing in answer to the cries of the women and children, while some of the women were brandishing their babies in front of their defenders in an obvious attempt to convince them to repel our men at the walls.

  I will say that the Gallic warriors did not take much convincing, and almost before we could realize exactly what was happening, our army was in trouble. Caesar sent orders for the Tribune Sextius, left behind in the second camp with five Cohorts of the 13th on guard, to bring the men out to form a line farther down the slope than where we were presently standing. Their directions were to wait and pounce on the right flank of the enemy if they began to pursue our army at the walls, who at that very moment were beginning to take steps backward. Following Caesar, the 10th moved down the slope to perhaps 100 paces from the outer wall, while he waited further developments. One Century was at one of the town gates, their Centurion leading an attempt to tear it down when he was overwhelmed by a counterattack of the enemy. Surrounded by Gauls the Centurion, Petronius was his name, fought savagely to keep the enemy at bay while ordering his Century to retreat. At first they refused, but finally they withdrew down the hill, leaving Petronius behind to die a glorious death, taking as many of the Gauls with him as he could. As this was going on, Caesar moved us into a position that was almost perpendicular to the outer wall, in the anticipation of being able to descend on the flank of the enemy should our men turn back, and the Gauls decided to pursue. Our men at the wall were engaged in a ferocious battle, as now the final trick the gods held in store for us came into play. Looking to their right, to the east, our men saw the Aedui column ascending the hill in their own diversionary attack. I believe with all of my heart that, had the men at the wall not been so hard pressed, they would have had the presence of mind to remember that this could only be the Aedui launching their assault and were in fact part of our force. Unfortunately, in their embattled state, with every man fighting for his life, what they saw was another Gallic army heading more or less in their direction, and this was enough to break the dam and release the flood.

  Our men, beginning with those on the right nearest to the advance of the misidentified Aedui, turned and began running down the slope, triggering an effect much like a cascade, with each successive Century either sensing or seeing the Century to their right suddenly turning and running. Caesar was rapidly marching us east now, to a small rise that served as the outer edge of the rest of the army’s retreat. Using faultless logic, he quickly determined that fleeing men will automatically take the easiest escape route available, and would therefore not bother with running up the side of a hill, however small, if there was a way to avoid it. The configuration of the slope was such that it served to act as a funnel between two small rises, just bumps really, but it was between those bumps that the vast majority of our army headed. The 10th was on the small hill on the eastern side, still facing perpendicular to the outer wall, with Sextius and his five Cohorts oppos
ite us on the other. The Gauls, seeing the backs of a Roman army for the first time in their lives were in hot pursuit, the troops of Vercingetorix, by this point alerted to what was happening in their rear, now leading the chase. Like an avalanche, our army went streaming down the slope, heading for a clear and level area where they could form up again, except if we and the men of the 13th did not stop the pursuit of Vercingetorix’s men, they would have no chance to regroup. It was of the utmost importance that we stop the enemy’s headlong pursuit, so to that end, we arrayed ourselves in a single line of Centuries to give all of us a chance to assault them as they went running by. The enemy came closer and closer, not seeming to notice us standing on the slopes of the small hill, so intent were they on the destruction of the other Legions.

  “Prepare Javelins!”

  The familiar command rang out and as one, we pulled our arms back.

  “Release!”

  Like an invisible hand, our first volley knocked men down, those being struck crashing into the man next to them, slowing the headlong pursuit for a moment. However, the momentum built up by some 30,000 men running downhill, trying to finish the first victory against Rome which any of them had ever been part of, was more than enough to restart them almost immediately. A second volley followed, but while the momentum slowed again, it did not stop.

  “Draw swords!”

  Then a heartbeat later, “Porro!”

  Then we were on them, using the advantage of the slope to help build our own momentum, and I went roaring down the hill to smash into a Gaul who wore a look of extreme surprise on his face, reveling in the feel of my blade sinking deep into his gut. Giving a twist before I withdrew, I left the man screaming in agony from being disemboweled in my wake. Wading into the mass of Gauls, they were just beginning to realize the threat to their flank and stopping their pursuit to face us, but not before I killed two more men. Completely forgetting my responsibilities as Optio, I was once more a Gregarius concerned with nothing more than killing the man in front of me, and I roared my delight and joy at being set free to do what I knew best. My Gallic blade made a distinctively different sound when it clashed against another blade, one that seemed to me to be a note of the most wonderful music, and I reveled in the song as I thrust, parried and hacked my way through the enemy. It did not matter to me whether or not they carried sword or spear, whether they held a shield or had mail armor like mine. All it meant was that the manner in which I killed each of them was slightly different. What mattered was that they faced death, and that I was victorious. There is something intoxicating about imposing your will on another man, to the point where you take their lives from them at your whim. Perhaps it is evil, or wrong, but I would merely ask, how could something that is evil feel so wonderful? Everywhere around me similar contests raged, and the Gauls started to reel back from our onslaught. I was vaguely aware that barely 200 or 300 paces away, our comrades of the 13th were meting out the same type of destruction, and it was between these two inexorable forces that the Gauls found themselves. Under such intense pressure, it was not long before the first Gaul, a man once flushed with victory, bursting with the idea that at long last they had defeated a Roman army, now found himself taking that first, inevitable step backwards. What I knew at that point, and it was all that I knew, was that my blade was singing a song, and I wanted it to continue. Step forward, wait for them to make the first move, parry it, then strike quickly. First position, despite it being awkward without a shield and feeling slightly ridiculous offering nothing in defense but my left arm, yet it never ceased to amaze me how one’s opponent would always lunge to make that first strike, even if it was only my left arm. Twice a Gaul hit their mark, albeit with glancing blows, so my arm was now covered in blood as I held it out like an offering to the gods, daring my next opponent to strike it. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was all over. One instant I was surrounded by snarling Gauls, the next they were moving back up the hill, with a considerable number of bodies heaped in front of us. Standing there for a moment, panting for breath, my right arm began shaking from the effort and my left started to burn, the by now-familiar feeling that liquid fire had been poured in a couple of lines along my forearm. I remember thinking to myself after inspecting my left arm that I was going to need stitches and that my arm was getting increasingly scarred, yet before I could spend too much time on such notions, the Pilus Prior’s voice penetrated through my fog.

  “Pullus! Get me a butcher’s bill immediately.” Automatically I answered, my mind struggling with what needed to be done next.

  Ah yes, I thought, the butcher’s bill, the list of casualties, dead and wounded. I remember thinking to myself that it should not be a very long list; I had fought in enough battles to sense how hard the fighting was on our side, and this one was going to be fairly light. And it was, in a manner of speaking. In other ways, however, it was one of the most costly battles we ever fought.

  Moving among the Century, I asked each Sergeant for their list of dead and wounded, and as I thought, the list was very short. It was only as we were forming up that I noticed a spot missing in the formation, my heart resuming its hammering in my chest at the sight of the empty place. Our wounded were already carried off, and I was sure I had an accurate count of them; only four men were wounded severely enough to need a litter. I began moving along the line where our Century had been fighting, but it was only after I moved some bodies of Gallic dead, along with one wounded Gaul who I finished off, that I found him. Calienus was already dead; his eyes staring openly at the sky, a gash across his throat making it look like he had an extra mouth. I have mentioned before the problem with the Gallic long sword, that it is a slashing weapon, not a stabbing weapon, and being such it means that there are relatively few spots where a slash can kill instantly. Somehow, an either incredibly skilled or incredibly lucky Gaul found his mark, and now Calienus was dead. Beloved Calienus, my first Sergeant and a good friend, a man who had been through so many battles and skirmishes that I could not count, had somehow been slain. Without thinking, and in truth without much caring, I let out a cry of anguish while falling to my knees. My tentmates, hearing me, broke formation to come rushing to my side and when they saw who was lying there, joined me in our moment of anguish. I felt tears running down my face, except for some reason I was unashamed of them at this moment, perhaps because I was not alone, as I looked up to see both Scribonius and Vibius across from me, their faces marked by the anguish I felt. Even Didius knelt beside us, his tears mingling with the rest of ours in our grief at the loss of this man, this veteran who was our first and best friend when we were tirones, raw youth with nothing more than a dream of being a Legionary. It was Calienus who took the time to explain the reasons for some of the things we were forced to do, who commiserated with us when we needed commiseration, and had been harsh with us when we needed that. Now, he was dead, and I was stunned to find how much it actually hurt.

  Despite running from the wall, the men from the other Legions stopped on their own once they reached the point the ground got level to re-form and were now standing there, waiting for the charge of the Gauls. However, the enemy had experienced enough and were already streaming back up the hill, stopping only long enough to shake their weapons at us, shouting cries of exultation that rang bitterly in our ears. The men of the 13th and the 10th were ordered to march back down the hill once it was clear that the Gauls were done for the day, and it was an incredibly quiet and somber army that returned to the main camp via the double trench. It was no surprise; while the 10th’s casualties were extremely light, no matter how painful they may have been to some of us, the Legions that took place in the assault could not say the same. An incredible number of Centurions, 46 total, along with some 700 Gregarii were killed. The rest of that day and all that night were spent in sending our slain brothers to the afterlife, followed by the inevitable reorganization that came from having so many officers slain. Some Optios from our Legion were promoted and transferred to the junior Coho
rts of the other Legions who had suffered, in order to fill the slots for each Century. I was not considered, having been Optio barely two years, yet it still stung a little that I was not selected, such was my hubris. The remains of our dead were consigned to the flames, a heavy pall of black smoke hanging over the camp, which was fitting because it matched our mood. This was the first time we had ever tasted defeat, and even we in the 10th retched from its bitterness. The Gauls were openly celebrating; even from a distance we could see large fires lit as they feasted and congratulated each other for doing what had always been deemed impossible, especially by us. In our area, we held our own ceremony for Calienus, making offerings to the gods of a white lamb as a sign of how highly we thought of him. I do not know why, but by some unspoken consent the rest of the Century designated that I would be the one to tell Gisela, and it triggered in me a most confusing flood of feelings. I was genuinely heartbroken at the loss of Calienus; it was the death that hit me the hardest up to that point out of all the men we lost. Yet I cannot deny that there was a sudden thrill of excitement when I was told that it should be me telling Gisela the news. It was in this state of confusion that I left the camp on a pass signed by the Primus Pilus, late that night. Our work was done; Calienus’ ashes were interred in the burial urn, along with the four other men who died from our Legion that day, but the other Legions were still going on with their rites, the night sky lit by their funeral pyres, creating dancing shadows as I walked, lost in thought. I was not sure what I was going to say, even less sure where exactly to find her. The shantytowns that spring up outside a marching camp are never as neatly arranged or organized as the camp itself, although people did tend to place themselves more or less in the same area from one camp to the next. There were even streets of sorts between the tents and makeshift shelters attached to the wagon of someone or another. Gisela was traveling as a barmaid for the same wine shop that she had been working for the last couple of years; her cousin was the owner, as I recall. During a siege, or any protracted stay in one place, the more permanent the structures used for shelter and which did double duty as shops during business hours became. It mattered not; within a watch of the word that camp was being broken, the village would disappear, a line of wagons, mules, men, women and children then materializing, ready to march. All of this was virtually ignored by Caesar, along with every other commander of a Roman army, if he knew what was good for him. Not only did these people provide valuable services; the mending and replacing of lost items that would otherwise be drawn from army stores, the washing and mending of clothes that gave us the time for other duties, while relationships formed between the men in the army and the women who were part of this group that the Legionaries viewed as solid a bond as any official marriage. All that was asked of the camp followers was that they stay out of the way and not impede us on the march, neither of which they ever did. Now, I was walking along on my way to tell one of those women that her man was dead and passing through the gates, I realized that I was hardly alone. An unusually large number of men, most of them Optios like me, were walking towards the civilian encampment. I could tell by their grim expressions that they were on the same errand as I was. Without anyone saying anything, we all banded together so that we were walking in a group, almost like we were in formation. Approaching the camp, I thought to myself that the finding her part might be easier anyway, because just like we banded together, there was a large gathering of women standing at the edge of their camp, watching us approach. It was then that I realized that this must be old routine for them by now. Just because it was my first time to make this trip, it did not mean it was theirs. I will never forget the different expressions the women wore on their face as they watched us approach. Some were fearful, clutching their hands tightly together, their mouths clearly trembling. Others stood there as if they were waiting for confirmation of something they already knew, with a look of resignation that screamed out “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” But what surprised me was that more than one woman stood there looking angry, their hands on their hips, glaring at us as if daring us to be headed to them.