Marching With Caesar-Birth of the 10th Legion

by R. W. Peake

  “Yes, sir.”

  It seemed crystal clear to me that this was the only answer I could give, especially since I held no doubt whatsoever that he was completely serious, and capable of doing what he promised. I could handle myself and more with the barbarian tribes, but I harbored no illusions how long I would last with a man like Crastinus. Just as quickly, he switched back to a human being and clapped me on the shoulder.

  “Good. And we'll speak no more about it. I know I won’t have to.”

  Making my way back to my section’s gear, I passed the area where the bodies of our dead were laid out, and I am somewhat ashamed to record the relief that I felt when I saw faces I recognized, but none from my own Century. There were nine men on the ground, and as I moved on, I saw an even larger group, all of them in varying degrees of distress from their wounds. One man was moaning while the medici who was assigned to us did what he could to make him as comfortable as one can be when the only thing keeping one’s guts inside their body is a linen bandage. It will be ten dead at least, I thought as I walked past, then I spotted Romulus sitting on the ground, a bandage on his head obscuring one eye. It struck me with dread at the thought that he might be maimed and unable to continue in the Legions, except I was too timid to ask him, so I decided I would ask Remus when I saw him, since he would undoubtedly know. I found my tent mates seated by their gear, eating their morning meal. Vibius, looking up and seeing me, smiled and rose to his feet, then the others saw me, whereupon they too stood. I slowed as I got near; this was not how I was usually greeted.

  Vibius stepped forward and, ignoring the gore that was still caked on me and my gear, embraced me, and whispered, “You crazy bastard. If the Lusitani hadn’t killed you, I swore I was going to for scaring me so badly. But now when I see you, I’m just happy that you’re still alive.”

  “Me too.”

  There was nothing more said before the rest of my comrades were on me, pounding me on the back and congratulating me. Only two men hung back; Didius, which did not surprise me, but Calienus was the other, which did, and I was mystified by the reception.

  “Everyone in the Century is talking about it,” Scribonius explained. “You single-handedly saved both Centuries last night. Those bastards had broken through and it was you who stopped them and saved all of us.”

  I did not know what to say, but in truth, I was not of a mind to dispute what was said. When you are young and dream of glory, how hard are you going to argue when such honors are laid at your feet?

  The Lusitani had withdrawn; they approached under a flag of truce while I was asleep early in the morning asking to retrieve their wounded, which the Pilus Prior granted. They left behind almost 300 dead, out of an original force estimated to be between 500 and 600 strong. My tent mates claimed that there were less than a hundred unscathed, the rest being wounded to various degrees. Our butcher’s bill ended up with ten dead, twelve wounded that would return at some point to full duty, and another nine whose wounds were disabling to the point where they would be put out of the Legion on permanent disability. Added to that were the four men we lost when we moved to the hill. It did not matter whether they were killed outright, or had been too seriously wounded like the man who grabbed at Calienus’ ankle; once they fell, they were dead men. I was just happy that Romulus was not one of those too badly wounded to continue under the standard, sustaining a serious wound just above his eye, while the eye itself was spared. The scar he carried gave him the look of a pirate or brigand of some sort, except much to our surprise and chagrin, we discovered that it seemed to be a point of attraction to the ladies, who would coo and flutter about him, asking him how he got it. It was not long before some of us were hoping that we could someday be mutilated in the face to enable us to become the object of the same kind of attention.

  Even as the Lusitani were finishing up the gathering of their wounded and making preparations to retreat, a column of dust started drifting towards us, the sign that Crastinus had been correct; help was indeed on the way. While we waited for the relief column to arrive, the Pilus Prior sent small groups of men out foraging for wood to build funeral pyres, and some sort of animal, preferably a white goat or sheep, to sacrifice during the funeral rites. Although the latter group came back empty handed, it turned out that it did not matter. As usual, Caesar thought of everything so that when he dispatched the column in relief, he sent along the proper animals for sacrifice, knowing that we would have had casualties. It was also a subtle message to all of us that said he knew the only reason we could possibly be delayed was because we were locked in desperate battle. The remaining men were detailed to dig a pit to throw in the bodies of the Lusitani, with a small number of men standing guard. Between the beating we had just given them, and the sight of the column, Crastinus was convinced that the Lusitani would not do anything foolish and just be content instead to limp off with their tails between their legs. I was exempted from duties as a reward for my antics the night before, yet after a few moments, I could not watch my friends digging without getting up to help, so I pitched in. It also helped pass the time, and gave us a chance to recount the events of the day before. In between shovelfuls, Atilius gave a running commentary on everything that happened as he saw it, with the others adding in their own obol’s worth.

  “Yeah, I thought we were well and truly fucked,” he said as he threw another spade’s worth of dirt out of the hole, “because I couldn’t see a damn thing and all I could hear was that abominable screeching they do when they attack.”

  “I was pissed because I'd just gotten off light duty,” added Vellusius, still working at a disadvantage because although the bone was healed, he had lost some range of motion in his arm, making activities like shoveling painful. “I thought, by the gods, if I get wounded again and put back in the hospital, I'll go mad.” His face was red and he was dripping sweat at a much faster rate than the rest of us, and despite doing his best to hide it, we all saw how much strain this was putting on him. However, when we suggested that he could stand down to let the rest of us dig, he refused. “I’ve been lying about long enough. I need to pull my weight just like everyone else.”

  I do not know if it was meant in the way it was taken; all I do know is that immediately after Vellusius spoke those words, every eye shifted to Didius, who as usual was doing more leaning on his shovel than actually working with it. Of course, he noticed immediately and scowled at us collectively, with extra malice towards Vellusius. However, he was wise enough this time to keep his mouth shut. The bump on his head was still noticeable, but only just, and was certainly not enough of a justification to put himself on the sick list, although I was a bit surprised that he did not try.

  Atilius, who was sporting a massive bruise on his thigh just above his knee, courtesy of a bouncing rock from a sling and so was hobbling a bit, added, “I got knocked down, and I knew I had had it. ‘Atilius old son,’ I said to myself, ‘if you get out of this one, it'll be because of the divine intervention of Fortuna herself. You better show her how grateful you are if she sees fit to spare you.’”

  “Well, she obviously did, so what kind of sacrifice are you going to make?” Vibius asked.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about that.” Atilius stopped digging for a moment. “I don’t know what’s appropriate. What do you boys think?”

  This engendered a debate on what would be a proper measure of gratitude, before we finally decided on a white kid goat.

  “How much do those cost, I wonder?”

  Scribonius supplied a guess. “I shouldn’t think more than twenty sesterces.”

  Atilius almost choked. “Twenty sesterces! By Dis, I’m not THAT grateful. She’ll have to do with something less than that, then.”

  We laughed at that, prompting a visit by the Pilus Prior to bark at us, saying that if we had breath to laugh, we were not working hard enough. The section all stood at intente, faces made of stone and with hearts as pure as the Vestal Virgins’ until he stalked off, whereu
pon we picked up where we left off, just more quietly this time.

  The grave was dug, with the grisly task of pulling bodies over and throwing them in the pit falling to us as well, and we paired up. Vibius and I worked out a system whereby we alternated grabbing the legs or the arms, because holding the legs in most cases is the least unpleasant since you are farther away from the gore of the wounds that killed them. Sometimes, though, the bodies were in pieces and we would find ourselves carrying some limbs, or just a torso, which was the worst. The sun beating down ensured that it did not take long for the stench to get to a point where it was not only noticeable, but was becoming hard to bear, spurring us on to finish as fast as we could. Once all the bodies and parts were collected and thrown into the ground, we covered them up with dirt. It is a strange sensation when one looks down into a hole and sees a face staring back up at you, with open eyes and a mouth still set in the expression they were wearing when death claimed them. For some, it was a look of surprise; for others it was a look of terror, and still others a look of pure anger and hatred. It was these last that I did not mind throwing dirt over to hide their visage, while for the others, I felt a sort of sadness as I interred them, and I remember wondering what sights their eyes would be missing from that point on. They would never see their women again, or their children grow up. They would not revel in another sunrise or sunset, or stare into a fire and think the private thoughts that all men have at some point in their lives. But they had chosen their path, I thought, and this was where it led them. Pity is not an emotion in which a Legionary can indulge, and I resolved to myself that I would banish such unseemly feelings from me, no matter how hard it might be.

  While we were busy digging the grave and filling it up, the Second Century, now being aided by the Second and Third Cohort that had been dispatched to come to our aid, built funeral pyres for our dead, using the scented oils for such ceremonies that were sent along with our rescuers. The fact that we actually needed no rescue was a source of great pride to all of us, and it gave us a bit of a swagger from that day onwards. The news of our stand spread throughout the army and I would be remiss if I did not add that it was at this point my name first became known to more than just the men in my Legion. Our dead were laid on the pyre, their bodies and uniforms cleaned up, then wrapped in linen, as is our custom. One of the priests attached to the Legion was sent along with the Cohorts to perform the ceremony, and we stood in formation as the pyres were lit and our comrades consumed by the cleansing flames. We had been so busy that none of us had time to clean up our own gear, but that could not be helped and, once the fire died down, their ashes were collected, the ashes from each put into ten urns that would be sent to their families. With that duty performed, we formed up to march back to the main camp. Our Century was given the place of honor, just behind the vanguard, while our wounded were loaded on the wagons brought by the relieving force. As we marched away, none of us could stop ourselves from giving a last glance back at the little hill where we had made our stand. The dirt wall was still there, the breached part of the wall clearly visible, and there was still the normal debris strewn around that signifies a battle has taken place; only the bodies were missing, but one could still clearly see the darkened splotches where men had fallen. It was on that hill that we truly became veterans, and from that day forward, the First Century of the Second Cohort of the 10th Legion was no longer treated as if we were still new Gregarii. We had been in the Legions a total of four months and two weeks.

  Our return to camp was also the occasion of my first face-to-face conversation with Caesar. Since Caesar ordered that we would stay in the same camp for an extra day, we were given time to clean and mend our gear, which in my case meant a lot of vigorous scrubbing, using a stiff horsehair brush to get the caked blood and gore from between the links of my lorica, a process that took the better part of an afternoon by the time I felt presentable. The next morning, after our morning meal and formation that was held whenever we were not packing up to march and where the orders of the day are passed along, the Pilus Prior held me back while dismissing the others.

  He looked at me critically, eying me up and down, reaching out to make an adjustment here and wipe off some speck of something there, before he said curtly, “Follow me.”

  Then he turned to head toward the Praetorium, slowing enough for me to catch up and walk beside him, unusual in itself and increasing my anxiety. The thought that perhaps my transgression was not forgiven flitted through my mind, but I instantly dismissed it. I was sure that I would have sensed that the Pilus Prior experienced a change of heart at some point before this, yet that only lessened my anxiety a fraction. For such is the nature of the ordinary Gregarii that any type of summons to headquarters is enough to send the stomach down to one’s feet and one’s heart up into the throat. Even for someone like me, who had decided that he did not want to be just one of the faceless masses of men who were in the Legions, it was still a cause for concern.

  “Right, now listen up,” the Pilus Prior spoke quietly so that only I could hear. “I turned in my report to the Legate, who forwarded it on to Caesar, who interviewed me himself. He wants to meet you.”

  It is hard to describe which emotion I felt first, or the strongest between exhilaration and fear. The best way to put it is that it was not dissimilar to the feeling one gets before going into battle, and I swallowed down the lump in my throat.

  “So what should I do?”

  He looked at me sharply. “Do? You don’t do a damn thing. You answer his questions with a Yes, Sir or No, Sir, and otherwise, keep your mouth shut. Got it?”

  I nodded, except I was still troubled. “What if he asks me a question that doesn't have a yes or no answer?”

  The Pilus Prior puffed out his cheeks impatiently, and snapped, “Then you answer the damn question, but use as few words as you possibly can.”

  Nodding again, I was about to say something else, but knowing the look that the Pilus Prior had on his face, I kept my mouth shut. Approaching the guards, we were stopped and the Pilus Prior stated our business. One of them entered the headquarters tent, returning a moment later to motion us in. The Pilus Prior removed his helmet, placing it under his left arm, and I followed suit, then he took a breath, squared his shoulders, and marched inside, with me following behind him. The tent was brightly lit with many lamps, and there were a number of scribes, all of them with their own desk, copying out orders of one sort or another. Tribunes were hurrying about carrying wax tablets, looking their normal officious selves and, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Doughboy engaged in conversation with another Tribune slightly younger than he was. I had seen him before, but did not know his name, and made a mental note to ask the Pilus Prior about him. He was a little unusual for a Tribune in that he had an air about him that betrayed a sense of competence, and the few times I was around him, I also noticed that he did not speak to us Gregarii as if he thought his cac did not stink.

  Crastinus and I made our way across the outer room and into the section that acted as Caesar’s office, separated by a doorway made from a leather flap that could be pulled aside. I am not sure what I was expecting, but it was not what I saw. Knowing that Caesar was a patrician from an old family, I expected his office to reflect his status and be filled with all sorts of luxury items and ornate decorations. Instead, there was a simple desk directly across from the flap, noticeable only because it was larger than the other two in the room, those against each wall of the tent, and each with its own scribe. Caesar was standing behind his desk, reading from a scroll while simultaneously dictating to the scribes and it was here that I got my first glimpse of one of the things that most people know about him today and made him the greatest man of our age, or any other, for that matter. He would dictate a sentence to the scribe on his left, who would begin writing rapidly, and while waiting for him to finish, he turned to the scribe on his right, dictating yet another sentence on a totally different topic, all the while his eyes nev
er leaving the scroll that he was reading. He only stopped when the Pilus Prior and I approached, with the both of us halting the prescribed distance from his desk to give him our best parade ground salute.

  “Secundus Pilus Prior Gaius Crastinus, of the 10th Legion, reporting with Legionary Gregarius Titus Pullus as ordered, sir.”

  Caesar laid the scroll on the desk to acknowledge our salute with the same solemnity and gravity that it was given. For a moment, he said nothing, just inspecting the two of us, spending more of his attention on me as I kept my eyes locked at a point above his head, yet even so, knowing that I was being inspected by the general commanding the entire army ignited in me the queerest feeling I had ever experienced in my life to that point. It was a mixture of pride, apprehension, exhilaration, and not a little bit of anxiety, all while I tried to remember the Pilus Prior’s instructions. His inspection done, Caesar smiled, then walked around the desk to face me, doing something that I will never forget.

  Extending his hand, he said with a smile, “Salve, Gregarius Titus Pullus. The Pilus Prior has told me of your valor in your engagement, and I wanted to offer you my hand in thanks.”

  I did not know what to do; this was so far out of anything I had contemplated that I was flummoxed, but the habits of a lifetime saved me and, more importantly, Caesar any real embarrassment, as before I could even think about it I extended my hand and we shook hands in the Roman manner, clasping each other’s forearms. His hand was warm, and I could feel the calluses formed by many hours practice with the gladius. Most importantly, his hand was not like a wet and clammy fish, his grip instead strong and dry. Before I could stop myself, I looked down at him, meeting his eyes, yet despite my horror at this slip in discipline, he did not seem to take any umbrage whatsoever. His eyes carried a measure of warmth that I was not expecting, with none of the disdain I saw in those of men like Doughboy when talking to their social inferiors. It was the appreciation of one fighting man to another, and I am not ashamed to say that in that moment, I became Caesar’s man forever.