Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul

by R. W. Peake

  He was right; we had been briefed about the penalties for striking blows to the head and face of a fellow Legionary in training. For a moment, my stomach began to twist.

  “There are also rules against striking a fellow Legionary when he’s not prepared,” replied the Optio calmly. “You had been knocked down, tiro Pullus bested you and the bout was over.”

  “I didn’t capitulate,” Didius protested angrily, and now I could see that the Optio was beginning to get irritated himself.

  “More fool you,” Vinicius retorted, “because Pullus had finished you. The fact that you’re too stupid to know it isn’t his or my fault. Now, follow me to the medici.”

  He turned to lead Didius away, and as Didius was passing he stared at me with undisguised hatred. “This isn’t over,” he hissed, although it was hard to understand him because he was still clutching his face.

  I merely smiled and replied, “Any time you want another beating I’m more than happy to oblige.”

  He did not say anything else, instead following the Optio to the quaestorium where the doctors and medici were constantly busy patching men up. Our training is supposed to be bloodless combat, and our battle bloody drills, but sometimes, at least with the former, accidents happened and blood did flow.

  As we watched them leave, Scribonius said quietly, “I’d watch your back if I were you.”

  I nodded, and Vibius answered for me, “I’ll be there to do it, don’t worry about that.”

  The pace of training picked up; we began doing a march three times a week, both to condition us and also to teach us how to make a camp, rotating the various jobs of building so that we learned everything we needed to about building one. We also began battle drills, Century against Century, which we all enjoyed the most, despite it also giving us the most bumps and bruises. Slowly but surely we were beginning to look more like a real Legion and not a great gaggle of fools who happened to be wearing the uniform of a Legionary. That was not the message that was being relayed to us by our Centurion, yet even so we could detect the slightest change in his tone with us. We were not raw tiros anymore, but not quite full Gregarii either, yet for most of us, the idea had become solidified that we would make it to the final swearing in ceremony. Most of us, anyway.

  Artorius was still struggling mightily, and while he seemed to willingly put in the extra work to correct his deficiencies, of which there were many, I for one suspected that he was going through the motions rather than putting any real effort into his training. However, when I asked Vibius this question he bristled at the suggestion; apparently he had taken his tutoring of Artorius to heart.

  “I believe he’s putting everything he has into his extra work,” Vibius snapped, his swarthy face flushing darker. “He can’t help it if he’s not as strong as you Titus. Not everyone is; in fact, few people are, yet you seem to think everything should come as easily to them as it does to you.”

  That surprised me quite a bit. In my mind I was struggling just as much as anyone else, and this was the first I learned that there was a perception that the opposite was true. I could not hide my surprise when I answered, “Edepol! Who says that things come easily to me? I have to work just as hard as anyone else.”

  Vibius looked at me steadily for a moment before replying quietly, “I know you think you do, but I don’t think you have the slightest idea just how much stronger and better you are than the rest of us. Haven’t you seen not just us, but the other men in the Century stop to watch you when you’re going through the drills?”

  I shrugged. “What of it? I’m sure that they’re just watching me because I stick out, being so large.”

  And that is truly what I thought at the time; I had been stared at most of my life because of my size, and it was simply something to which I had become accustomed. Vibius shook his head vigorously, and using his finger for emphasis, pointed to my chest and replied, “That’s not why at all, Titus. You make these drills look easy. I know; I hear the other men talking. There are even men betting on how many barbarians you’ll kill in our first battle.”

  Now I was shocked. It is true that men in the Legions will bet on absolutely anything, but I had no idea that the others, including the veterans apparently, saw me in this light. My chest constricted as the thought settled into my mind and I realized the implications of it. Suddenly, I had a reputation to uphold, and I had yet to fight my first battle!

  This revelation from Vibius rocked me, so I began surreptitiously watching others when they looked in my direction, trying to discern what their true thoughts were. I began feeling an enormous amount of pressure, whether it was warranted or not and soon found myself fretting about what might happen when we actually did go into battle. There had been rumblings for some time that the Legions were about to move out and begin campaigning. It was already late May, and the campaigning season was open for some time now, meaning a late start for us, but Caesar was forced to spend that time training us because we were a new Legion. Despite that, the word around the fires was that we would be moving soon, and it would be north, into the wilds of Hispania north of the Tanis River, to pacify the remaining tribe in the area, the Lusitani, who had revolted again. To that end, we were finally equipped with our real weapons, the sword that most of us would carry for as long as it lasted, and our two javelins, along with our shield, emblazoned with the symbol of the 10th Legion, the bull. My first thought was how ridiculously light the weapons were compared to the training weapons we had been using, but that is the point of our training. As I examined my blade, still unmarked from where I would work it with the sharpening stone to put as fine an edge on it as I could, I hefted its balance, trying to imagine thrusting it into the body of another man, rather than a stake. Glancing about, I could see all of my tentmates doing the same thing, and I wondered if I wore the same grin on my face.

  It was about that time that Artorius fell out of his third march, despite Vibius’ almost frantic efforts to help him keep up, even as it caused the Pilus Prior to give Vibius a good thrashing for doing so. It did not help; less than halfway along our march back to our base camp Artorius fell out. We had suspected this as a likely event, it becoming clear to all of us that the effort of the extra training, along with the burden of our normal regimen was steadily wearing him down. He was barely able to eat the evening meal, sitting listlessly and chewing his bread with the same vigor as a cow chewing its cud. The next morning as we broke camp and made ready to begin the march back, he moved like a man sleepwalking, and it was so noticeable that the Pilus Prior came over to him to smack him in the face. That seemed to stir him a bit, and he was responsive when we formed up to begin the march back, then at some point after the first break he dropped from the ranks. Vibius did not notice straight away, but when he did he immediately fell out himself, trotting back to find Artorius, despite the cursed warning directed at him by the Pilus Prior. Optio Vinicius then went back to retrieve both of them and he returned shortly, along with Vibius carrying his own pack and Artorius’ as well, trying to balance both furcae, one on each shoulder, his face shining with perspiration from the exertion and strain. Artorius was being dragged by the arm by the Optio, who was trying to use encouragement instead of the threats that the Pilus Prior favored. All of this was taking place amid the normal noise and chaos of a march; the dust swirling all around from the tramping of thousands of feet, the clinking and clanking of gear as it bounced against each other, the steady underlying hum of the men talking to each other in snatched conversations, trying to pass the time. I will say that even for me it was hard to breathe and I was higher up than Artorius, so I could imagine how choking it was in his spot, which could not have helped. Looking over at him, I could see that his face was white as chalk, with a clammy look about it that we had learned indicated someone who was having trouble coping with the heat. His mouth hung open as he gasped for air, while his eyes would seem to focus for a moment, as if he was conscious of his surroundings, then begin wavering before rolling back in
his head, whereupon he started stumbling again. The Optio would shake his arm, he would snap back to the present, then after a moment would drift off again. It was almost like he was falling asleep as he walked, something I had never seen before. Over the years, I would be on marches where all of us looked like that, but to that point he was the first to exhibit these signs, and I was morbidly fascinated.

  By the time we made it to the second break, Artorius was nowhere to be seen, even when the bucina sounded the signal to begin the start of the last leg of the march. Vibius stood to the side until the last moment, looking to the rear of the column before getting another whack from the Pilus Prior and a snarled order to get into the ranks. Vibius was obviously hoping that Artorius would somehow come staggering up, but he did not. Continuing on, we finished the march, almost all of us not very fatigued from the effort except for Vibius, who had carried Artorius’ gear most of the way back. The last few miles Romulus and Remus, the nicknames we gave to the Mallius brothers, tried to relieve Vibius of his load, but he would have none of it and in fact got downright nasty about it.

  “I don’t need any of you cunni helping me,” he snarled at Marcus, who we called Romulus, and I swear that if Vibius did not have his hands full he would have punched Romulus in the face. For his part, Romulus did not appreciate having his offer spurned in such a manner.

  “Prick! I’m sorry I asked,” he snapped back, “and see if I ever offer to help you again.”

  He turned away to complain to Remus about Vibius’ brutish behavior, the whole exchange drawing the jeers and catcalls of the men around us, prompting the Pilus Prior to suddenly appear in our midst and lash out with his vitus. There were times I really wanted to take that thing away from him and break it over his head.

  Artorius was brought in on one of the wagons of the baggage train, a Centurion in the Cohort marching behind it having thrown him in the back. By this time we were already finished with our evening routine, having our bath and meal, and were in fact just a few moments away from the call to retire. I began to treasure these quiet moments around the fire, listening to the wild tales of the veterans and watching the inevitable dice game which was a feature at almost every tent. I always thought it somewhat interesting that men would almost always gamble with other tent sections but not with their own tentmates, unless there was no other choice. The only exception to this was Didius, but he was already starting to be shunned by our section and was therefore forced to look elsewhere. I believe that for most of the men, besides Didius, it had something to do with the idea of not wanting to cause any bad blood between such close comrades. Whatever the reason, the idea seemed to be that fleecing men from other Legions was always best; if not other Legions, then other Cohorts, and if not other Cohorts at least other Centuries. However, many times not even this was possible, and nothing stops a Legionary from gambling, so it was inevitable that there would be disagreements among the closest of friends. Personally, I was never much for gambling. It is not that I had anything against it; I could take it or leave it, not to mention I had big dreams that only a large amount of money would fulfill so it was not a fever with me the way it was with other men like Vibius, who I swear would wager on anything, no matter how ridiculous. For a while, he was trying to make wagers on which of the men in the tent would break wind next, yet soon enough he found out that there was cheating going on, because in the dark one cannot tell whether the sound was true or made by using our mouth and he was terribly put out that we ruined such an exciting game for him. However, there was nothing exotic this evening; it was dice, and as usual the next day’s wine ration was up for wager, something that was strictly forbidden but always ignored, when Artorius came stumbling up. He was not wearing his helmet or armor, carrying them instead, and his head was down as he approached, refusing to meet our eyes. There was an awkward silence as he approached, because we had already been told that since this was his third failure he was being dismissed from the Legion. He came to get all of his gear and return it to the Legion quartermaster, where he would be issued a civilian’s tunic and shoes, then given a small amount of money along with a document that he was to carry with him that detailed his disgrace. Because he had committed no crime, unless one considered failing to make it as a Legionary a crime, as I did, he was not punished in any way other than having to carry the shame of his failure back to his family, if he did indeed go back to his family. Many young men were too ashamed to do so, making their way to the nearest big city to try and seek some sort of life there. Despite feeling badly for him, there was also a sense of relief that we would not have to worry any longer about whether or not he would hold up in the trials of combat. It also created some relief to the problem of space in our tent, now having one less body to shift around. Still, it was difficult; we did not know what to say to him, only offering a sympathetic pat on the back instead. While he looked relieved, there was also a new look of fear in his eyes, undoubtedly caused by the dread of what was facing him, the uncertainty of a life that no longer held any particular value to the rest of the world. His only hope lay in his father forgiving him and both of them patching up their differences; otherwise he was all alone in the world, with no real skills. Knowing what I know now, I should have realized that he would most likely turn to a life of crime. He was not cut out to be a highwayman, the type of hard man that lays in wait for unsuspecting travelers. Because of his temperament and his slight build, he probably went into a life of petty crime, stealing what he needed to survive, at least until he got caught. Most of those types eventually do, and ours is not a forgiving society like some of the others I have encountered in my travels. Once he gathered up his gear, Optio Vinicius escorted him to the quaestorium, our last view of him struggling to carry all his equipment, with the Optio walking beside him.

  Before we went into the final phase of our training, we held the lustration ceremony, a sacred rite that calls for the gods’ favor onto the standards of the Legion and the Legion itself. Because of its sacred nature, I cannot speak of it. I will say that it is a rite that is usually performed at the beginning of the new campaign season. However, since we were new tiros it was not seen as fitting for us to participate until we were deemed worthy of being called Legionaries. After the ceremony for the rest of the army, we tiros were ordered to remain in our places in formation, where we were faced by the Praetor who was standing on the rostra, dressed in his armor and his general’s paludamentum, the scarlet cloak of general rank. Arrayed in front of him, also facing us, was all 60 of our Centurions, all wearing their dress uniforms, with their phalarae, torqs, and other badges of office and decoration gleaming with the strength of a hundred suns.

  “Soldiers,” Caesar addressed us, causing a stir in our ranks because this was the first time we were spoken to in this manner, and it took a moment for the meaning to sink in. We had done it! We were being addressed as soldiers by Caesar because that is what we were. All of the pain and sweat of the last almost four months was as if it never happened, just like the last mist of a bad dream dissolving when you awake because of the brilliance of the new day.

  “Today is a great day for you, and for Rome,” he continued, using what I would learn was his oratorical voice, which he pitched higher when addressing large crowds so that it would carry farther.

  “You are about to be entered into the rolls of the brave men who have served Rome so well in the past, covering both our eternal city and themselves in glory.”

  He indicated the Centurions standing in front of him.

  “Perhaps some of you will elevate yourself to the glory and rank of the men you see standing before you. Perhaps not.”

  He paused for a moment before continuing in a way that sounded as if he was speaking quietly, yet somehow still pitching his voice loud enough for all to hear, at least in the first few ranks.

  “What is certain is that some of you will die, if that is the will of the gods.”

  This had our complete attention.

  “But if
it is the will of the gods that you die, it is still up to each of you to choose how to die. And in dying well, you add even more glory and fame to Rome, to your tribe, to your family, and to yourselves.”

  It is a curious characteristic of young men, at least in my lifetime, so I suppose that it has always been so and always will be. As Caesar talked of the possibility of death, while I was at the position of intente I still looked at the others out of the corners of my eyes, and I remember thinking to myself, poor bastards, I wonder which of them will die? As I was to learn later when we talked about the speech, every one of my comrades claimed that they had the exact same thought, for it never occurs to the young that they might be one of those unlucky souls who fall before they live to a ripe old age. It is not until one of us actually falls that it becomes real, and from that moment nothing in one’s life is the same. But at that moment we were still young, full of bright hopes and brash courage, and it was the greatest sense of pride I had ever known in my short life when we finished the oath to finally become Miles Gregarii¸ the common Legionary in the service of Rome. We were dismissed for the rest of the day, as those of the Legion who were veterans came to congratulate us. Perhaps the biggest shock was the change in the demeanor of Pilus Prior Crastinus, who was the first man to stand us to a round of drinks at one of the shabby, ramshackle inns that had been thrown up outside the camp.