by R. W. Peake
He paused for a moment to let all of this sink in. I cannot say I was surprised that we would be the first over the wall but it was still a frightening prospect. Continuing, “There's also been a slight change from what I described to you last night. Instead of acting as our reserve, the 9th is going to march to the far side of the hill, in order to ensure that there's not a sortie by the enemy from the rear gate, or any escape when we take the town.”
This last piece of news caused some heads to turn as we looked at each other, aware of the import of what he had just said. It did not appear that we were going to let anyone escape if we could help it. Sometimes defenders are allowed to flee, in order to avoid facing an enemy that will fight that much harder knowing that certain death or slavery awaited them. Giving them an open escape route meant that there was an alternative for them, and would encourage them to give up the fight more easily. However, because these people were technically in rebellion, Rome declaring this region pacified some years ago, these people were not going to be given that option. In such ways are examples made that discourage those people foolish enough to think that they can escape Rome’s dominion.
“So tonight, when we're victorious,” his eyes narrowed and his voice took on a hard quality, even more than his norm, “and we will be victorious, we’ll be spending the night under a roof, in a nice bed, and maybe there'll be a woman beside you. Willing or not,” he finished with a wolfish smile. The Cohort burst out into a cheer, then we were dismissed to go don our armor and gather ourselves for the coming trial.
Once we were prepared, we assembled in the forum, both the 9th and 10th Legion, where the Legates for both Legions were standing on the rostra. Legates are the nominal commanding officer of the Legion; while the sub-command is rotated by the six military Tribunes, the position of Legate is more permanent and is appointed by the Praetor, although in Caesar’s army Legates were moved about as well. Both of them gave short speeches, but I honestly do not have any idea what they said. In fact, I have been trying as I dictate this to remember the name of our Legate back then, but for the life of me I cannot, he was that unremarkable, though I believe that was due more to Caesar’s presence than any real shortcoming of his own. Once they were done inspiring us, we marched out of the camp to array ourselves, shortly before first light, where Caesar’s design became clear. He wanted these Lusitani to wake up, rub their eyes and look out to see the might of Rome arrayed before them, ready to strike and wreak a type of havoc they could not possibly imagine. The artillery had been rolled out of the camp earlier and was already in their position, with the ballistae arrayed so that they focused on the front gateway. The scorpions had just finished being pushed up a small hill to the southeast of the town, about two hundred paces away. They were accompanied by a Century to serve as a guard in the event the Lusitani made a sortie to try and destroy the artillery. Back then each Legion only carried four scorpions apiece, but Caesar put great store in artillery, so when we began the campaign in Gaul the number of both scorpions and ballistae were doubled. Each of the scorpions has a two man crew drawn from their respective Legions, and while each of us had practice fired both the scorpion and ballistae in training, those who showed the greatest aptitude were designated as artillerymen, working almost exclusively with the weapons until such time that artillery was no longer called for, whereupon they took their place back in the ranks. As the sun rose, another facet of Caesar’s genius became clear to us. The town’s gates were arranged along the customary north/south axis, with the front gate facing north and the rear to the south. In terms of terrain, other than the small hill previously mentioned, there was not much variation, which was what made the establishment of this town on this hill so sensible. Since there was no real advantage offered by terrain; the area immediately surrounding the town out to at least a quarter mile was cleared of vegetation that might hide an advance of a large body of men, Caesar used something else to our advantage. By choosing to assault the east wall, he not only took advantage of the only other high ground in the area, where he placed his scorpions, but arrayed as we were, we had an even more powerful ally in the sun rising behind our backs, forcing the Lusitani to stare straight at it in order to watch our advance. Another advantage, and one that I did not appreciate at the time but learned to as I gained a better understanding of how men thought, was in the symbolic gesture made by this approach. Caesar chose to ride over to join our side of the assault, partly I am sure because he had already spoken to the other element while they were still in the camp, which explained their roaring earlier. The other reason became plain when we saw him sitting on his horse, motionless, his paludamentum in all its splendor resting on his shoulders, rippling gently in the soft breeze that was blowing, facing the fort bareheaded but dressed in his ceremonial armor, a glittering cuirass made of silver and chased with gold with matching greaves. It was as if he was a god, which I now know was precisely the effect he was hoping for, so that as the Lusitani rose that morning and saw before them this glittering army, headed by a man whose very essence seemed to be framed by the sun, it had to be a devastating blow to their morale. Rome had come, led by a part man, part god, and all who stood before him quaked in fear.
Apparently, however, their morale was not damaged enough to see reason. Before launching the assault Caesar sent a Tribune, under a white flag, to parley with the occupants of the town. We watched him approach warily, stopping about a hundred feet short of the gate, on the rutted road leading into it. Even though the Tribune tried his best to sit stock still, his horse was obviously very nervous, hopping and skipping about and acting very skittish. As I learned later, he had been sent by Caesar with one last offer to submit to Rome, showing their good faith by the payment of a tribute and giving of hostages, the customary measures with such matters. The Tribune sat on his horse, obviously listening as a man stood on the wall above the gate, actually climbing onto the crenellation so he was standing in plain view, pointing down at the Tribune and then gesticulating back towards the town. This man was obviously of some importance, wearing what appeared to be armor made of some sort of golden scales, and a high, conical helmet. He looked to be a fairly large man, although that may have been because he was standing on the wall.
“Come on, let’s get on with it,” muttered Scribonius, and I wholeheartedly agreed.
Despite being scared out of my wits, the waiting was even harder, and I could only imagine the tension the next time if this parley was successful and the Lusitani in the town gave up without a fight. We would march on, something like this would happen again, and we would again find ourselves arrayed and ready to do battle. As far as I was concerned, it was just time to get it over with.
Luckily for us, unluckily for the Tribune, the parley was unsuccessful. Our first inkling that our terms were rejected came when suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, we saw what looked like a sliver come slicing down to strike the Tribune in the chest, almost knocking him from his horse as he reeled with the impact. Obviously, it was not a sliver but a spear, and from the combination of the height and the obvious strength of whoever threw it, the spear transfixed the Tribune and we could clearly see the bladed end protruding from his back. Almost before this could register, a number of other such darts struck him down from his horse, leaving it to gallop away in a panic, a short spear lodged in its flank, streaming blood. Despite our discipline, seeing the death of the Tribune brought a collective gasp from all of us, and I am sure across all the ranks of men who saw what happened. Shock was immediately followed, at least in my case, with a terrible anger. The flag of truce was clearly on display; there could be no mistake in what they had seen, but they still murdered one of our Tribunes in cold blood. Even as we were absorbing that act, the gate was flung open, two men came dashing out and before we could do anything more than shout a protest, they dragged the bloody body of the Tribune, now looking like a pincushion with multiple shafts sticking from his body, back into the town, shutting the gates. Then, a moment late
r the man on the wall reappeared, except this time in his hand he was waving as a trophy the head of the Tribune, dripping blood and gore from the severed neck. His call of defiance was drowned out by the roar of more than 20,000 men, all of them screaming with rage. It was absolutely deafening; I felt more than heard myself screaming out in inarticulate fury and I could feel the ground vibrate under my feet from the sound. I had reached yet another new level of anger in my life to that point, and it was clear I was not alone.
Caesar remained motionless, his only visible sign of distress in the clenched fist that he struck against his thigh over and over. It was when he turned to face us, riding in our direction, that we could see his lips thinned in rage, but once he got close enough it was his eyes that arrested all of us. They were like glittering points of ice, and it was with a start I realized that this was the first time I had been close enough to see the color of his eyes, a bluish-grey that looked like an angry sea. Drawing his sword then waving it over his head to get our attention, slowly we stopped our invective to listen to his words. In the brief silence before he began speaking, we could hear the Lusitani, chanting on their own, working up their own courage since they could have held no illusion what was facing them now. They had cast their die, and were trusting their skill to avert the righteous vengeance that they deserved. I for one vowed to myself that they would need more than skill this day.
“Soldiers,” Caesar’s voice rang out clearly, and even using his oratorical voice, his outrage was plain to hear, and we could tell that it was unfeigned, “you have just witnessed one of the most abominable acts any supposedly civilized nation can perform, the slaughter of a defenseless emissary under a flag of truce.” Suddenly dropping his sword and pointing directly at the 10th Legion, he roared, “What do you propose to do about it?”
Our answering cry once again shook the ground, except this time we replied not just with voice, but with pounding our javelin against our shields in a rhythmic manner that lasted for a couple of moments before he motioned us back to silence.
“Very well,” he called, “I have your answer. Now,” he pointed to the wall “show me your answer in deeds. I will give” with his left hand he pulled a leather purse that looked as if it were bursting with coin, “one hundred sesterces to the first man over the wall, along with the reward of a coronamurales.”
One hundred sesterces! That was a fortune! How could one man possibly spend that much money, I wondered? I laugh now at my naiveté; I have wasted a hundred sesterces in a single night’s debauchery since, but for the country boy from Baetica I was back then, I could not comprehend such riches. Finished with us, he raced off to the 8th to make the same offer, while his command staff distributed themselves among the Legions to take nominal command. My heart sank when I saw none other than Doughboy approaching, and my sentiments were echoed by the muttered curses of the men around me.
“Gods, why us?” I heard Calienus groan.
Trying to remain optimistic, I ventured, “Maybe he’ll be smart enough to let the Primus Pilus give the orders.”
“Gerrae! You know better than that Pullus.”
I shrugged. He was right, but one could always hope. Doughboy marched up to where the Primus Pilus, Pilus Prior Crastinus and some of the other Centurions were gathered. Even from a distance we could see the barely disguised contempt on the face of the Centurions, something Doughboy either ignored or was too stupid to see.
“Well, men,” he called out in a loud voice, thinking, I guessed, to inspire us with his words of wisdom. “Are we ready to go over the wall and spill some Lusitani guts and get our hands wet, eh?”
“Of course sir,” answered the Primus Pilus smoothly, without a hint of mockery in his voice, “as long as we know that you'll be the one leading us over the wall.”
Doughboy’s face blanched, before he realized he was letting his feelings show.
“Pardon me, Centurion?” he started but got no further.
“That’s Primus Pilus, if you please sir,” the Primus Pilus responded, his voice a mask of formal politeness. “It’s just that I worked hard to get here, sir, and well, it’s my proper title.”
Doughboy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he glared at the Primus Pilus, trying to decide if he was being toyed with, but the Primus Pilus was cowing young Tribunes since before Doughboy had been expelled from his mother’s womb, and was the picture of rectitude and respect. Obviously deciding to drop the matter, Doughboy started again.
“Forgive me, Primus Pilus. You're correct, of course. Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “back to what you were saying earlier.”
“Yes sir,” the Primus Pilus replied cheerfully, “as I was saying, we’ll follow you anywhere you choose to lead us. Isn’t that right sir?”
Now Doughboy looked nonplussed; how could he answer this in a way that let it be known he had no intention of being the first to anything other than the food line, and not expose his cowardice? Therefore, he apparently decided that silence, accompanied by a thoughtful nod of the head and stroking of his chin, as if seriously considering the remarks, was the best course.
The silence dragged on for a few heartbeats, before the Primus Pilus continued helpfully, “It’s just that you’re a young man on the rise sir. Nothing makes a young patrician’s career like being the first over the wall. Besides,” for this he turned to his companions, “that sort of thing is a young man’s game, isn’t it boys?”
This was greeted by a chorus of agreement, each of the Centurions looking at Doughboy with wide eyed innocence.
Clearing his throat yet again, Doughboy looked at the ground as he murmured, “It’s just that, if I’m first over the wall, I won’t be able to assess the overall situation, you see? I thought it would be better for me to remain in a place,” he looked up at the Primus Pilus earnestly, “close to the wall of course, not completely out of danger, but far enough back so I can have an idea of what’s going on.”
The Primus Pilus pursed his lips, slowly nodding his head in thought.
“I do see your point sir. Indeed, I’m not sure of these things, so you're no doubt correct. I’m sure that you've read many more manuals than I have on the subject,” despite what I guessed was his best effort, the Primus Pilus could not entirely conceal the scorn with this last remark and just barely remembered to finish with, “sir.”
Doughboy’s ears turned a roasting red yet there was really nothing he could do because there was nothing objectionable in the Primus Pilus' words, despite knowing that it was an insult.
Cutting his losses, he muttered, “Right. Well then, carry on.”
Whereupon he stalked off down the line to station himself in the proper place to avoid the appearance of cowardice, while not exposing himself to much danger. The other Centurions, during this last exchange, were all feverishly studying the ground but we could see their shoulders shaking with silent laughter, threatening our own composure. When the Primus Pilus turned and saw that we had witnessed and heard the whole thing, his only response was to grin and give us all a wink, destroying all remnants of our façade and we laughed heartily.
Our barrage started immediately after that exchange, the sound of the ballista snapping against the cross bar causing a crash, followed by a whirring sound as if a flight of birds was taking off, and we all looked up to watch the stone arc through the air. The first shot landed short, the stone thudding into the ground with a spray of dirt before its momentum took it skipping to where it smacked into the base of the wall just next to the main gate on the north side, which we could see from our spot on the far right of the line. This was immediately followed by a stone that actually hit the wall, and even from where we stood, we could see the dust fly as the timbers vibrated. One after the other, the stones hit the area around the front gate, and in the pause as the ballistae were reloaded, we could hear the cries of the Lusitani raising the alarm that the assault had begun. It was just about a third of a watch past dawn, and now we would wait while the artillery either did its
work, or did nothing more than raise some dust. While we were told to remain in formation, we were allowed to stand at otiose, meaning that we could turn, talk to the men around us and bend our legs and so forth, but not leave our position in ranks. The customary way it is observed is that as long as your left foot stays in position, you can pivot around to talk to the others. I turned to face down my rank and Vibius immediately caught my eye.
With a completely straight face he asked, “Do you have it in a safe place?”
Reaching down, I grabbed a clod of dirt and threw it at him then we both laughed. Grabbing my crotch to make an obscene gesture, I answered, “Oh yes, it’s in a safe place all right. It’s right here. I used it to wipe my ass this morning.”
“You mean you’re smart enough to wipe your own ass now?” he shot back. “I guess it’s true that the Legions can teach ANYONE if they can finally teach you.”
I promised that I would make him regret his words, to which he answered with an obscene gesture of his own.
“All right you bunch of women. Shut your mouths,” this came from Optio Vinicius, who was standing next to me, and I turned in time to watch him yawn then scratch himself as if we were standing around camp. “I’ve heard you two going back and forth about that damn will for too long now. Can’t you talk about something else?”
Indignantly I pointed to Vibius and protested, “Don’t yell at me, yell at him. He’s the one who keeps asking.”
“Yes, and you keep answering him, so who’s the bigger fool? The fool who asks or the fool who answers?”
I really was not sure what to say, because with Vinicius it was always very hard to tell whether he was being serious or not, especially since he looked like the messenger of death all the time. As I was starting to form an answer, I saw just the corner of his mouth twitch in a gesture that I had learned was his version of a smile. Rolling my eyes, I looked back to the front and kept my mouth shut.