Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul mwc-1

by R. W. Peake

  “Titus,” he said once we walked away to chat in private, “I've got no desire to be an Optio. This is as far as I want to go. I’ve got a little more than six more years to go, and then I’m going home to start my life. This isn’t my career like it is yours. I may have thought so at one time, but I know that although I love the army, I’ll be ready to go home when my time is up.”

  There was no way to adequately express my relief at his resolution of this one dilemma, yet I still faced others ahead of me, and we both knew it. I have sometimes thought that the main reason Vibius said he did not want to become Optio is to help spare me at least one of the trials that lay ahead.

  My meeting with the other Centurions did not start auspiciously, since I was late to my own conference, although I do not remember the reason for my tardiness. The five other Centurions were gathered in my tent, all of them rising to intente as I entered, startling me. My reaction caused a couple of smirks, and my heart sank at this sign that I was already making a hash of things. It is probably a good idea now to give the names, along with the Centuries they commanded, of the first Cohort I was to command. Gaius Domitius Celer was the Pilus Posterior of the Second Century; a squat, ugly little man with a nose broken so many times it was just a misshapen lump protruding from his face. Normally, he would have been the leading candidate for the position I now held, but Celer possessed a tendency to drink a bit too much, and I guessed that this was the main reason he was passed over. He clearly did not see it that way and would prove to be the most obstinate of the Centurions in the Cohort when it came to accepting my authority gracefully. Titus Flavius Priscus was the Princeps Prior, leader of the Third Century. Priscus was a good man, even if just to look at him he did not present the sight of what one would think of as a Legionary, let alone a Centurion, but this was deceiving. He was of average height, several inches shorter than I, of medium build, with plain regular features and a strong jaw that slightly jutted out his only distinguishing characteristic. The Centurion in charge of the Fourth Century was Princeps Posterior Marcus Arrius Niger, a dark swarthy Capuan who got his start in Pompey’s army and was a crony of Celer’s, to the point where he mimicked the other’s attitude in everything, including how he viewed me. He bore a long scar down the length of his arm that he earned in our battle with the Nervii, but he was a brave enough man and a decent leader. Marcus Julius Longus was the Hastatus Prior, the Centurion in charge of the Fifth Century, and was a man to watch because of his apparent fondness for finding reasons to punish his men. There were plenty enough men like Longus in the Legions who completely forgot what it was like to be a Gregarius and therefore decided to rule by fear. While I have no problem with using fear in itself, there had long been whispers that Longus was using these punishments to enrich himself. Once I got settled in and reviewed the Cohort diary, in which every activity and punishment is recorded every day, I was struck by the fact that, despite leading the Cohort in writing his men up, the rate of those accused of charges serious enough to earn some sort of corporal punishment, like a flogging, was the lowest in the Cohort. The vast majority of the infractions for which he wrote his Legionaries up were of the variety that called for monetary fines and it was this I found disturbing, although discovering the problem would have to wait for a while. First, I had to get the idea in their head that I was leading the Cohort, whether they liked it or not. Finally, there was Marcus Antonius Crispus, the Hastatus Posterior, Centurion of the Sixth and final Century. At that time I did not know much about him; what I did know amounted to the mutterings of his men that I overheard. He was the oldest of all of us, and I believe he had either accepted or resigned himself to the idea that this was as high as he would go and no higher. Here they all were, standing before me, technically subordinates to me, but I could already tell that there were a couple of them who were going to pose a problem. Clearing my throat, I began by offering them some wine, an offer which they all accepted. Zeno, who was actually more experienced in matters of this type than I was had already prepared for this meeting, presenting a tray with six cups. In his will, Pulcher left me a number of amphorae of Falernian wine, though at the time I did know why, but I suspect now that he had a hunch that I would be his replacement. Because I had no real interest in wine, he probably figured that I would not worry about using it in a profligate manner. In fact it was Zeno who casually informed them that what they were being offered was Falernian, and I saw a number of different reactions, ranging from surprise on the face of Priscus, a hint of anger that was in a clear struggle with desire on the face of Celer, to a look of concern on the face of Niger, who kept glancing at Celer to gauge what reaction he should be having. Unfortunately, Celer was torn between the idea of refusing the drink, which I suspected was part of the plan he hatched with Niger, thereby drawing a clear line of battle, yet was taunted by the spirit of Bacchus that resides in every wine lover’s soul, and in the end Bacchus won. Giving Niger a slight shrug, he licked his lips thirstily as he reached for the cup. Once their cups were charged, I offered a salute.

  “To the Tenth, and to the best Cohort in the Legion, led by the best Centurions. Second Cohort!”

  “Second Cohort!”

  They echoed my toast, and we all tossed back the cup of wine.

  “Congratulations on your promotion, Pilus Prior,” said Longus, in a tone and manner that oozed insincerity. However, I made no comment, choosing to accept his words at face value for which I thanked him politely. Now that the formalities were out of the way, I motioned for the Centurions to take a seat on the stools. Since Pulcher held many meetings in his tent, there were more than enough stools to go around, and I took one, although I faced them. They sat, hands on knees, none of them speaking, all waiting to hear how I would approach this. The truth was that despite agonizing over it, I still had no idea what would come out of my mouth; the only thing I could control at this point was the manner in which I spoke, so I tried to remain as calm and unemotional as I could.

  “Gentlemen,” I began, “thank you for your kind wishes. I'm extraordinarily proud and more importantly, humbled by the trust that Caesar has placed in me.”

  These were not idle words; I wanted to introduce Caesar’s name as quickly as possible, to reinforce the point that it was he who promoted me and nobody else.

  “I can only hope that I live up to the high honor he's given me, but with you helping me, I know that the Second Cohort will acquit themselves with as much glory and devotion to duty as we have in the past. I look to the example you've already set, and I'll do my utmost to meet that standard.”

  Heads nodded; I was not saying anything particularly surprising at this point and it has never ceased to amaze me how susceptible to flattery Legionaries of all ranks are, and I include myself in that group. We love to be praised, and I could see my honeyed words were striking home with at least a couple of them.

  Forging ahead, I continued, “As you all know, we’re in the process of reorganizing the army, and then we’ll be dispersed to winter quarters.”

  This was common knowledge, yet what I hoped to do was to impress them with something they did not know.

  “Perhaps you'd be interested to know where the 10th is going to be stationed this winter." My words created the desired effect, because to a man they sat forward on their chairs. Waiting for a moment, I savored the undivided attention I was being paid, before I told them, “Narbo. We’re going to be going back to Narbo.”

  This was met with a round of cheers; Narbo had been our home for two years and we carried fond memories of the town. Perhaps it was because of the milder climate than the other places we stayed in, although I think it had more to do with the friendly townsfolk, particularly the females.

  “Now that you know, we can begin the work of getting the Cohort ready to receive the orders. Whether the men know where we’re going or not, we’re going somewhere, since it’s close to the end of the season and for all intents and purposes the war is over.”

  My last senten
ce raised some eyebrows. Raising his hand, Crispus asked warily, “Excuse me Pilus Prior, but what do you mean ‘for all intents and purposes’? The war’s over, we all know that. Are you saying that something's afoot?”

  I hesitated, because the truth was that I had heard no such rumors; my feeling that there would be more fighting was mine and mine alone, putting me in a bit of a dilemma with this question. If I tried to add to the veracity of my beliefs by fabricating some sort of information I was supposedly privy to, then nothing else happened, I would be seen as someone who at the very least exaggerated, if not outright lied. However, if I were to tell the complete truth, that this was merely a feeling I had, how would it be received by these men who, in their eyes at least, were more senior than me, if not by rank than at least by virtue of time in service? My mind raced as I tried to decide the best tactic.

  Suddenly, I was inspired. “What I’m saying Crispus is that how many times have Gauls done the stupid thing? What I’m saying is that as long as there's a Gaul alive, given their unpredictability it’s only prudent that we be prepared for another attack at any moment.”

  I saw Crispus digest this, and as I would learn about him, despite not being a particularly quick thinker, he inevitably would arrive at the most logical conclusion if given time. Celer and Niger were not willing to even go that far, however, with Celer choosing this moment to make his first overt stab at me. “So, Pilus Prior, you’re not saying this because you…..know anything specific, correct?”

  While I did not like the way he inflected the word ‘know’, I could not really argue the point, so I merely nodded. Celer smiled, but it was not a friendly smile as he continued “While your reasoning is certainly sound, Pilus Prior, if I could be so bold to suggest, as a man who's been a Centurion for some time, that it would be a good idea to refrain from that kind of speculation where there are ears that can hear. You know how the Gregarii are; washerwomen have nothing on them when it comes to gossip.”

  He finished with a laugh, and I saw Niger try to smother a smirk, but I was not going to be cowed that easily. “Of course, Pilus Posterior, but I’m speaking to my Centurions, not to the men. Are you suggesting that I need to be wary of what I say in front of my officers?”

  Looking about in mock surprise, I stared at each of them in turn as if I were trying to determine to whom Celer could possibly be referring. His face turned a satisfying shade of red, and he spluttered, “Of course not! I'd never dare to suggest something like that. I’ve served with these men for a long time, and I trust each of them with my life.”

  “As do I,” I replied evenly. “But I’m glad that we settled that question early on. Thank you very much for your insight, Pilus Posterior.” I managed to keep my face completely blank, but it was a struggle.

  Before we were marched off to our respective winter camps, the army was assembled one last time, for the final decoration ceremony. My friends were correct; once again I was singled out for decoration, another set of phalarae, causing them to joke that it was lucky I was as big as I was or I would not have room for the decorations. I was one of 20 men of the 10th who were decorated, while there were probably a total of more than 200 decorations given out to the Legions and auxiliaries, particularly the cavalry, the German cavalry most especially. Awarding so many decorations meant that we were standing there for a very long time, and my legs were still very shaky because I was not totally recovered from my wound. In fact, I would never fully recover, at least in the sense that I was never again as limber in some ways, unable to twist my body like I was able to before it happened. Finally I went to the Legion doctors who told me that scars of this nature form a tough tissue with no flexibility that covers the torn muscle, and that I would just have to live with it. Therefore, I stood as still as I could as each Legion received their awards, then each eagle was garlanded with the traditional ivy as a sign of our triumph. Once all that was done, we hailed Caesar as imperator three times, and he was presented with the ivy crown as symbol of his status. I know that a few years later his thinning hair got to the point that he wore it all the time, but he still had enough hair then that he did not feel the need. He did wear it the rest of the day, then put it away.

  In the wider world, while the rebellion was essentially crushed, there were still embers of resentment smoldering among the tribes. The 10th was indeed sent to Narbo, the farthest south of any of the Legions. Because of that, we experienced a quiet winter, and somewhat depressingly a quiet next year. The other Legions were not so lucky; before the end of that year Caesar was on the march again, first against the Bituriges, taking the 11th and 13th into the field. It was not much of a rebellion, Caesar realizing that it was more out of desperation than for any other reason because their lands had been ravaged, making them desperately short of food. It took little more than Caesar marching into their lands for the rebellion to collapse where, in order to keep the peace, Caesar did not exact any punitive punishment. Instead of the normal custom of taking hostages and allowing the Legions to enrich themselves by plunder, he paid the troops a bounty out of his own pocket of 200 sesterces per Gregarius, and 2,000 per Centurion as compensation, leaving the Bituriges unmolested. Less than a month later, the Carnutes did the same thing, so Caesar called for the 14th to join him, along with one of Pompey’s Legions that Pompey lent Caesar almost a year before that was in garrison and had not marched with us much, the 6th Legion. I would come to know the men of the 6th very well indeed, but that was still in my future. Caesar forced the Carnutes to flee from the town of Cenabum, as once again the Legions occupied the homes in the town, with the Carnutes forced to live off the land, hiding in the woods and foraging for food in the middle of winter, meaning it was not long before they submitted like the Bituriges. Then, just a couple of weeks later, it was the turn of the Bellovaci, except this was a larger threat than either the Bituriges or Carnutes presented, because the Bellovaci was one of the two tribes that held back from joining with Vercingetorix, so they did not suffer in the same manner as the other Gauls. Now, Caesar called the 7th, 8th and 9th, and despite the fact we knew it was only because we were so far away, this did not sit well with the Legion. We were accustomed to being the Legion that Caesar relied on and now sitting in camp far away, we could not help feeling like this was a slight on our honor. Consequently, I will believe to my dying day that this was when the seed was planted that blossomed a few years later, when the 10th mutinied during the civil war. The one benefit of all this activity was that I was proven right in my prediction, which quieted down Celer and Niger, if only for a bit.

  This was the pattern for the next whole year; a local rebellion would flare up, and Caesar would go rushing off with first one group of Legions then another stamping it out. In almost every case he acted with his usual clemency, but only on one occasion did he make an example of the rebels and I believe that it was a sign of his frustration and growing anger at the intransigence of the Gallic tribes that he did so. It was at the town of Uxellodonum, and as you no doubt know, gentle reader, Caesar ordered the hands of the entire garrison chopped off then thrown in a pile outside the town walls as a sign to all of Gaul that Caesar’s patience and mercy had its limits. Meanwhile, the 10th sat in garrison throughout all of these small campaigns, and I have already mentioned what I believe the end result was, but it had an impact on a more personal level, in a number of ways. Professionally, the lack of opportunity for combat was problematic in asserting my authority over the Cohort, since it was on the battlefield that I truly felt in my element, and where I bowed my head to no man. Whenever I was fighting, I suffered no doubts, no hesitation, and never questioned myself about whether I was doing the right thing. Handling a Cohort in garrison presented a different set of challenges than commanding them in battle, but were just as difficult, perhaps more so, at least in their own way. Celer always looked for subtle ways to try to undermine my authority, usually focusing on things that emphasized my youth, which as I discovered seemed to be the main source of content
ion. My battle record during my time in the Legions was perhaps not the most notable in the entire army, yet I do not think it is hubris when I say that my name would be among those mentioned as contenders, so those Centurions giving me problems were wise enough not to comment on that aspect of my leadership, since above all things, rankers respect fighting ability. They instead concentrated on my overall life experience, or lack thereof, word of which filtered back to me through my friends.

  “I have more gray hairs on my head than the days that Pullus has been shaving,” was one of the more memorable comments.

  What they did not realize was that although it was irritating, it was equally as amusing to me, just as it was to Vibius, because we were the only two who knew that I was in fact only 26, not the 27 that was my official age. Still, these attempts were just one more thing I had to worry about, along with keeping my men out of trouble, a full-time occupation in itself. Legionaries are funny creatures; as much as we grumble about the constant marching, the back-breaking work of making a camp and the dangers posed in battle, we quickly become bored by peace, and Caesar’s army more than any other in Roman history, I believe, suffered most acutely from this malady. We were constantly in action for eight years, as a result losing our taste for a peaceful life. Although in some ways it was similar to when we were new Gregarii, young and full of energy, eager to show the outside world how tough we were, now it was a much more dangerous proposition. Before, it was as much boyish exuberance that fueled our confrontations with the civilians in the surrounding area; now it was simply that we were so inured to killing that it seemed to be just as suitable a solution to a dispute as settling things peacefully, or even with one’s fists. We had killed so much that now it held all the emotional impact on us of making a fire, or cooking a meal. In short, the ability to inflict violence on another man was simply a skill, in the same manner as being a carpenter, or being a good orator. Naturally, this attitude was a guaranteed way of causing problems with the civilians in the town, so that I found myself heading into Narbo every few days, carrying a purse heavy with coin, my mission to buy off an enraged father whose son was stabbed to death over a dicing dispute, or a family left destitute by the killing of the husband and father of the family. What I always found interesting was how quickly most people’s rage turned to calculation when they heard the jingle of the coins, to the point that within a few moments the weeping invariably stopped and the haggling began, with a man’s life reduced to a number of coins, the only point of contention now being the relative value that the life held to the injured party. All of the money that I spent was my own, although it did not make much of a dent in my fortunes, since I decided to sell both of the slaves I was awarded. But not every situation could be salvaged with gold, and I will never forget the day that I heard Vibius call for me outside of my room. The tone of his voice immediately told me that something serious was afoot, so I did not bother to make myself look more official by belting my tunic the way I was supposed to, bidding him enter instead.