by R. W. Peake
“It’s over, thank the gods,” he whispered, then kissed me on both cheeks.
I returned the gesture, although I had to bend down to do so, which hurt a bit. The rest of my comrades came to surround me, even Didius among them, and without a word we stood huddled together, the tears flowing freely among all of us now. We had survived.
The funeral pyres burned throughout the night and into the next morning, all over the camp. Our casualties were heavy, particularly in the 10th and the 8th Legions, and my Century, First of the Second Cohort, along with the First and Second of the First Cohort, suffered the most. Primus Pilus Favonius had been killed, along with a total of nine Centurions of the 10th, meaning that there would be promotions. By mid-morning, our dead were burned, their ashes interred in the urns that would be sent to each of their families, their designated comrades taking care of their wills and disposing of property as the deceased deemed fit. Before noon, the bucina sounded the signal that a party of Gauls was approaching the camp; it was emissaries of Vercingetorix, offering his surrender. Despite this being expected, the reality of it created a huge amount of excitement and joy, the men congratulating each other, happy in the victory and that they survived it. Soon after, word was passed to assemble in the forum in two thirds of a watch, in full dress uniform, in order to witness the surrender of the leader of the Gauls. This presented a bit of a quandary for me since my armor was pierced and there was no time to have it repaired, nor to clean it, so I sent Vibius over to the quartermaster and although I had to pay a premium, he returned with new armor, already oiled and ready for inspection. He helped me to don it since I was so stiff it was almost impossible to lift my arms over my head. In fact, all of my comrades came to help me, polishing my leathers, shining my phalarae, and combing out my horsehair plume. I had to turn away to hide the tears I felt welling in my eyes at the sight of my friends helping me.
“You know,” Vellusius commented, “you’re probably going to get decorated again.”
I was surprised at this, and asked why he thought so.
“Because you’re such a big bastard, whenever you do anything everyone notices. If you fart you get decorated for it,” Didius declared, yet for some reason, I knew that he was not insulting me, as did the rest of my friends. In fact, this caused a roar of laughter, Vibius slapping Didius on the back in recognition of his jest. I do not know who was grinning more broadly, me or Didius.
“Seriously,” Vellusius continued once the laughter died down, “you were everywhere. You fought like Achilles, and we all saw it.”
There was a chorus of agreement, and if I never got another decoration the rest of my life, I thought, this would be enough. Medals and awards are fine things, but the recognition of one’s friends and comrades is so much finer, it is beyond comparison.
I did not know what to say, and finally all I could manage was a lame, “Well, someone had to do it. You flat-footed bastards were standing around with your thumbs up your asses.”
There was a round of mock jeers at this, and in high spirits, we went to form up for the ceremony.
All in all, it was something of an anti-climax, at least until the very end. Caesar commanded that every chief of the Gallic tribes that took part of the rebellion present themselves to him, while he sat on a raised dais in the forum, surrounded by his Tribunes and Legates, Labienus and Antonius most prominent. I have spoken much of Labienus, but Antonius, over the last two years distinguished himself as well, and the early impression of him as a man’s man and a friend of the Gregarii was reinforced during that time, so we were glad to see him in a place of honor. One by one, the Gallic chiefs approached, riding their horse and dressed in their finest armor, then dismounted and dropped to their knees before Caesar.
Then one of his staff, Hirtius I believe, would announce the name of the chief and the tribe of which he was chief, then ask Caesar, “What would you have of him?”
Most of them were stripped of their chieftainship, although a surprising number were allowed to retain their freedom, causing a bit of muttering in the ranks. At first, it was all very interesting, but once we saw how things were to go, it became quite boring, quite quickly. Finally then, there was only Vercingetorix left, and any boredom we suffered evaporated as he came riding into view. Everyone strained to get a look and once again I found reason to thank the gods not only for my height, but for my place in the First Century, especially since now that I was acting Pilus Prior, my place was in front of the men. I must say that he was an impressive looking man, wearing a helmet of the Gallic style, from which sprouted the wings of a raven. His armor glittered, inlaid with gold and silver, and he wore the long mustaches common to the Gauls, yet even so, it did not conceal his youth. He’s not much older than me, I thought in astonishment, but despite his age, he bore a look of regal command that was clear even from a distance. Mingling with my hatred of him for what he put us through I found myself admiring him as well, because even as he dismounted his horse, a beautiful white stallion, to surrender to Caesar, his bearing carried a dignity that told us all that even though he was surrendering his body, his spirit remained unconquered. Every eye followed him as he walked slowly, with ponderous dignity, towards Caesar, before ever so slowly sinking to his knees, then offering up his sword with both hands, bowing his head as he did.
“Vercingetorix, of the Arverni, self-styled king of the Gauls,” Hirtius intoned with what I felt was unwarranted malicious glee, putting special emphasis on the words “self-styled”.
He was king of all the Gauls, I thought, there was no self-styling about it. Only he was able to unite all but one of the tribes, and nobody before him had done that. As these thoughts went through my mind, I heard angry mutters at my back and I could tell that I was not the only man who felt this way. Despite our anger towards him for causing the death of so many friends, we recognized his greatness, and indeed, by belittling him our victory over him was being diminished. The muttering quickly became mumbling, sweeping through the ranks, and I could see Hirtius’ eyes widen in surprise, our anger and displeasure clear for him to hear. Caesar remained impassive, though I swear I could see the corners of his mouth turn up a bit, as if in approval at our displeasure, which made some sense because it was diminishing his own victory by applying such demeaning terms.
Hirtius hurriedly finished with the “What would you have of him?” and we quieted down.
Caesar did not answer for a moment, and when he did, he spoke so softly that we could not hear, but instantly Caesar’s personal standard bearer dipped it down in front of Vercingetorix, forcing him to kiss it in a symbol of obeisance. Hirtius stepped forward, taking Vercingetorix’s sword from his outstretched hands, then handed it to Caesar, who immediately passed it to another member of his staff.
Standing from his chair, Caesar looked down at Vercingetorix, and announced in his oratorical voice, “Vercingetorix, king of all the Gauls,” his omission of Hirtius’ term was a clear rebuke, and I could see his aide’s face turn bright red, “you have risen in rebellion against Rome. Your rebellion failed, and under the rules of war, you and all of those who followed you into rebellion are now subject to disposition as we, the conquerors see fit. You, Vercingetorix, will accompany me to Rome, to be part of my triumph for the conquest of Gaul. As for your followers, I give your common soldiers, and any wives and children with them to my army, at the rate of one slave per Gregarius, to do with as they please, two for all Optios, and four for all Centurions. The remainder of the common people will be sold in a lot, with the money disbursed among myself and my fellow officers. The noblemen and their families will be allowed to return to their lands, but only after giving oaths of loyalty and surrendering of hostages. That is my judgment.”
Nodding to the two Centurions standing on either side of Vercingetorix, he finished, “Take him away to confinement.”
The two Centurions, both from the 8th, grabbed Vercingetorix roughly, pulling him to his feet, then proceeded to strip him of all his armor an
d his clothes, leaving him completely naked. Then, they placed a rope around his neck as a symbol of his bondage, leading him away to the jeers of the assembled army. Once he disappeared, an excited buzz swept through the formation, the import of what Caesar had just done hitting us. A slave is perhaps the single most valuable commodity that one can own, and would bring a lot of money, if their new owners decided to sell them. I would have two of them and I began to think excitedly about the possibilities. Would I sell both, or keep one for myself, as a status symbol? Of course, that meant that I must feed and clothe them, so perhaps that was not the best thing to do. I shook my head; it was all too much to take in at once. We were dismissed, and we headed back to our areas to talk about the sudden increase in our prospects.
With that piece of business out of the way, the next thing to be taken care of was filling the positions of Centurions, Optios, and the lesser ranks that were vacated because of death or serious wounds. It was with some trepidation that I waited to be informed who would be our new Pilus Prior, but nothing happened for some time, which in itself was extremely unusual. I thought that it must have to do with the fact that such a large number of Centurions and Optios were slain and that made deciding who was going to fill what spot more difficult, yet as the first day passed and announcements were made in other Cohorts, it became more and more of a puzzle. However, I was happy to learn that our new Primus Pilus was none other than Gaius Crastinus, replacing the slain Favonius. Despite this, still no word arrived of who our new Pilus Prior would be, and with the day dragging on, the speculation among the men of the Century became more urgent. Not once did I hear, nor did I myself consider my name as a possible candidate, so that when Primus Pilus Crastinus appeared and summoned me to follow him, I was completely confused about what was happening. Despite my best attempts, Crastinus, even in light our former relationship, refused to give me any kind of hint about what was going on, so the closer we got to the Praetorium, the more my heart raced as I tried to think of what reasons there could be to discipline me in some way. Again, despite being an Optio for a few years now, I still sometimes thought like a Gregarius, and that is always the first thing that goes through a ranker’s mind when they are summoned to stand tall before the general. By the time we reached the flap of the tent, I was as close to panic-stricken as I think I had ever been. Stone-faced, Crastinus stopped and with a jerk of his head, indicated that I should enter.
“You’re expected,” was the only thing he said as I passed, and it was all I could do to keep from fainting dead away.
Stepping inside, I immediately stopped, not only to let myself adjust to the dim light, but to compose myself. Then, approaching the orderly’s desk that stood guard outside the door into Caesar’s office, I saluted the bored looking Tribune.
“Optio Titus Pullus, First Century, Second Cohort of the 10th, reporting to Caesar as ordered,” I rapped out in what I hoped was my most official voice.
The Tribune was busy chewing on an apple, apparently thinking that the study of it was of the utmost importance as he studiously ignored me, fascinated by the piece of fruit. However, I had been in too long to be thrown by such tricks, knowing that this was the only way a pup like the boy in front of me could feel like he had any control over a wolf like me, so I stood impassively at intente, waiting him out. Once he determined that I was not going to fidget, he sighed, exasperated at being bested at his little game and got up, waving at me to wait. He stepped inside and I heard him announce me, then he reappeared, and said curtly, “Caesar will see you now.”
Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and stepped inside, unsure of what fate awaited me.
Caesar was seated at his desk, examining some papers in front of him. Nearby, sitting on the corner of a table was none other than Marcus Antonius, also chewing on an apple while he conversed idly with Labienus, who was sitting on the other side of the table with his feet propped on it. Hirtius was there as well, sitting at a smaller desk off to the side, along with the usual contingent of slaves and scribes busily scribbling away at the mountain of paperwork composing most of Caesar’s day. Ignoring them, I marched to Caesar, stopped and saluted, intoning the same salutation I offered the orderly outside. Unlike the Tribune, however, Caesar stopped writing to acknowledge my salute, then leaned back in his chair, fingertips pressed together with his index fingers against his chin as he looked at me, saying nothing. Whatever composure I had managed to gather was rapidly melting away, and I felt my knees beginning the faintest tremor, my mind racing with the portents of this meeting. Finally, Caesar spoke, in a neutral tone that told me that he was neither happy to see me, nor displeased. I was simply a matter of business, which was even more unsettling, since my contact with Caesar had always been an occasion for happiness and pride.
“Your Pilus Prior was killed in action, as you know.”
I was not sure what response was expected, so I merely nodded and responded, “Yes sir.”
“And we have yet to name a replacement. I’m sure you’ve noticed that almost every other Century and Cohort that needs a replacement has already been seen to, correct?”
“Yes sir.”
“So why do you suppose we have been waiting to name a replacement for your Century?”
I was flummoxed; I had no idea, and it indeed was the topic of speculation, yet I was not about to blurt out the various theories that my comrades had thrown out. “I….I really have no idea, Caesar,” was the best I could manage, a faint look of surprise coming across his face.
“Really?” his mouth quirked at the corners, as if he was fighting a smile, deepening my confusion, “You don’t know that there has been a huge debate raging about the suitability of one of the names being considered for the billet?”
Just the faintest hint of a dawning began to register in my brain, but I immediately put the thought out of my mind, dismissing it as hubris. There was no chance I was going to utter the name that popped in my head, so I decided to continue playing dumb, which fortunately was not very hard. In answer, I instead just shook my head this time, not verbally responding.
Caesar turned to Labienus, asking conversationally, “Labienus, would you care to utter that name?”
It was immediately clear that whoever it was, Labienus was against him, because his hawkish face turned dark, his irritation clearly visible and I marveled at the impunity of such a thing in front of his commanding officer. However, as I was to learn, Caesar was not much for formality behind closed doors, actually encouraging his Legates, Tribunes and even senior Centurions to voice their opinion without fear of repercussion.
Finally, Labienus muttered the name, but so softly I could not hear it, evoking a hearty laugh from Antonius, who poked at Labienus with a finger, “Come on man. The boy can’t hear you.”
I bridled at that a bit, since he was no more than a year or two older than me, yet that was how officers viewed us. A raw Tribune no more than 25 regularly called a Gregarius twenty years older “boy”; at least the dumb ones did. Antonius was not dumb, he was just nobly born and apparently that gives you 20 extra years' experience the day you are born.
“Optio Pullus.”
You could have heard a gnat fart in the silence that followed, and there was a roaring in my ears as for a horrified moment I thought I was going to faint. Immediately following this was the stirring of anger; I was sure that these fine gentlemen decided to have some fun at my expense. Of course, why they would pick me out of the 35,000 people in the army to choose from was not something I put any thought into, all I was sure of was that I was the butt of their joke. My surprise was evident to all, yet only Caesar seemed able to tell what I suspected.
“No, he's not joking Pullus. I know that this is somewhat unusual, that normally if you were promoted to Centurionate rank that you would be made a Junior Centurion and serve in the Tenth Cohort, or perhaps the Ninth. But it's not unheard of, and given the high casualty rate among the Centurions, when we looked at a list of candidates, your name
was at the top of the list.”
Before I could respond, Caesar added, “That’s not to say that everyone,” and he looked over at Labienus, who was still fuming, “agreed. But I saw what you did when Vercingetorix’s men tried to breach the wall. You fought like ten men, and that's what convinced me that I'm making the right choice.”
Because I was not sure what the proper response should be, the best I could manage was, “Thank you sir, I won’t let you down.”
“You’d better not, or I'll never hear the end of it from Labienus,” Caesar replied mildly. He stood then, and offered his hand.
“Congratulations, Pilus Prior Pullus.”
Leaving the Praetorium in a daze, I found Crastinus standing there waiting for me, his earlier reserve gone, a broad smile on his leathery face.
He slapped me on the back, exclaiming, “Congratulations you big bastard.”
