by R. W. Peake
“Pullus,” my comrades cried out.
Smiling, I took my normal place next to Vibius, where we exchanged a long look at each other, not saying a word yet communicating our mutual relief that we were both alive. I told them that I had seen Vellusius, which was greeted by cheers all around and they all laughed when I passed on his last message, except I left out the part about Didius, thinking him dead. Calienus was in charge of dividing up the spoils, such as they were, there being just a small pile of coin. However, most of the valuables were in the form of jewelry of one sort of another, and there was some bickering about the value that Calienus assigned each piece as he distributed it out. I saw the pile for Vellusius, which was going to be watched by his newly designated mate Scribonius. Scribonius had originally been the close comrade of Artorius, but to both Vellusius and Scribonius’ relief, Artorius’ dismissal from the Legion meant that Scribonius needed a new one, and Vellusius was originally forced to partner with Didius. Immediately after Artorius left, Scribonius and Vellusius approached our Sergeant, who was as aware as all of us the loathing in which we held Didius and vice versa. Didius did not take the rejection well, making his usual dire threats to Vellusius, which so far were unfulfilled. Thinking of that event, it in turn led me to the fate of Didius, and I was unsure how to broach the subject. While the rest of my tentmates knew how I felt about him, I still did not want to make my feelings for him too obvious, especially if he were dead. I noticed that there was a pile for him as well as Vellusius, except that did not necessarily mean anything. It is the custom that in the event of death, the spoils taken would be sent to the slain man's family, if he had one, or put into the funeral fund that is kept to pay for the proper sacrifices and rituals that are observed when a Roman Legionary dies, along with paying for an appropriate monument.
Finally, my curiosity could not be quelled any longer, so I cleared my throat then asked, “So, what about Didius?”
I was not sure what reaction I expected, but it was certainly not the one I got. Nobody said anything; instead there was a silence where the prevailing attitude, if I am any judge of facial expressions, was one of disgust.
“I’m in here. Why Pullus, did you miss me?”
Though muffled, it was still clearly the voice of Spurius Didius, who apparently was in our tent. This puzzled me, but when I looked to the others for the story they steadfastly refused to speak, in turn looking at Calienus, who tried to ignore them. Finally sighing in exasperation, he said in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “Didius was injured on the way down the ladder. He took a serious fall.”
This news was followed by what sounded like a cough, and I glanced over to see Remus staring at the ground with what I thought was a grimace, except that his cough seemed to ignite a fit of sounds. Finally he could not contain himself any longer and began openly laughing, which as it tends to do, started a conflagration of the same behavior, soon becoming a riot of guffawing hilarity that I was swept up in despite having no idea why.
“Quiet, by the gods, or I'll come out there and gut every one of you,” I heard Didius roar, just making things worse as far as the laughter.
Our refusal, or inability, to subside prompted him to appear, but it was the way he did so that ignited a fresh round of laughter. He was hopping on one foot, his other leg dangling off the ground.
“I told you to be quiet or all of you will pay,” I know he meant this to be a threat that we would take seriously, except it came out as a petulant whine. “I bet that if any of you had happen to you what happened to me, you'd have been doing the same thing.”
I was still unclear on why it was so funny that he was hobbling around, until Calienus finally explained. “It seems that our dear Didius, when he jumped off the ladder, landed on a nail that went into his foot.”
Amid the continuing hooting, I asked, “Why didn’t he pull it out?”
This triggered even more mirth, as now some of the boys were literally rolling on the ground, tears streaming from their eyes. “Because he couldn’t; he was too squeamish,” this came from Romulus, eliciting a roar from Didius who hopped closer to the fire to shake his fist at all of us. “It was in too deep, I tell you! None of you would have been able to pull it out if it had been in your foot.”
Remus got up to reenact what Didius had done. He jumped up to begin miming going down a ladder but when he landed, he immediately fell to the ground, screeching, “By the gods, I've been shot! I'm dying! Oh gods, the pain… the pain….” Remus was now rolling around on the ground, clutching his foot, whimpering and carrying on, so that quickly I was laughing as hard as the rest of them.
“I tell you, it was all the way into the bone,” Didius made one last attempt at restoring what was left of his shredded dignity. “By the gods, you'll all pay for your insults…..”
Before he could finish, Calienus shot back, “Oh do be quiet, Achilles. Go rest your foot.”
And this was how Didius earned the nickname he was to carry for the rest of his time in the Legions.
The next three days were spent resting, cleaning our gear, and mourning our fallen. In our Century, we had lost three men dead, including Optio Vinicius. Vinicius’ replacement Rufio had been judged to have avoided messing things up enough to warrant him losing the title, so Rufio became our new Optio. However, there was a surprise for all of us, when the Pilus Prior came to find me lying on my cot in our tent, dozing. I was awakened by a kick to my feet, opening my eyes to see the Pilus Prior standing there, with his vitus and the invisible man with the turd back on duty as well. Jumping to intente, I tried not to wince at the pain in my side from the sharp movement, but the Pilus Prior had been around too long to be fooled.
“Side still bother you?” he asked gruffly.
“Not much, Pilus Prior. Only when I move suddenly.”
That prompted a bark that passed for his laugh. “Well, you’ll be doing plenty of that. I’ve decided to make you our weapons instructor in place of Vinicius. Rufio agreed that you’re the best choice.”
Stunned, I opened my mouth to protest, then thought better for a moment and shut it. There was a silence as he watched me, and mentally cursing myself, I plunged in anyway.
“That's a great honor, Pilus Prior,” I began but he cut me off.
“I don’t give a fucking brass obol if you think it’s an honor. It’s an order, and the only response I expect is ‘Yes, Pilus Prior’ or ‘Yes sir’.”
I should have shut up then, yet I couldn’t, I just had to keep going. “But sir, why me? I thought after what happened on the wall when I forgot to draw my sword you'd realize that I’m not ready for this. Maybe someday……”
I got no further; now the Pilus Prior was truly angry, and he stepped close enough that I could smell the posca he had consumed for breakfast on his breath.
“Are you doubting my judgment, Gregarius?”
Despite saying this in a deceptively quiet voice, I had learned this was the sign that I had truly angered him, along with addressing me by my rank and not my name. Trying to remain solidly at intente, I could nevertheless feel myself leaning backwards as he thrust his face up at mine, although it was even with my chest. It was the disconcerting feeling that must come from a wolf leaping up at your throat, and I could not have been more terrified.
“N-n-no, Pilus Prior,” I cursed myself again for stammering like Artorius. “I just….I just…..nothing, Pilus Prior. I'll do my absolute best, sir.”
Just as quickly, he changed back to his normal hard-ass self and clapped me on the shoulder. “Good, it’s settled then. You won’t be expected to start training the others until you’re completely healed.”
Turning to leave, he then stopped to face me once again and said quietly, “I know you can do this, Pullus. I have faith in you, which is why I picked you. I know you won’t let me down.”
Whereupon he turned heel and walked out, leaving me a mass of confusion. How was it possible to want to kill a man and die for him, all in the same instant? Such
is the nature of a great leader that he can inspire those feelings; it was a lesson I never forgot and did my best to emulate when my turn came, however poorly I may have done so.
After our recovery period, we broke camp to continue heading north, and once we were deep into Lusitani lands, Caesar gave the order to start laying waste to the countryside. It was not harvest time, so the crops were still young and green, making them somewhat harder to burn, and we were forced to get inventive. One method was to line us up, with each man standing on a row, armed with their shovel. When we were given the signal, we walked forward, using the shovel to pull out the young shoots by the roots, as we were followed by slaves who gathered them up to use as forage for the livestock. It was somewhat time consuming, but in our Century, the Pilus Prior made a contest of it, offering an extra ration of wine to the first five finishers.
“I joined the Legions to get away from the farm,” Romulus grumbled one day as we worked side by side.
“Look at the bright side,” I told him, “at least you’re not planting crops, you’re pulling them up.”
“Like that’s a big difference.”
I laughed as he kept mumbling to himself. The livestock were kept to feed all of us; it is amazing how much an army eats, and I think another secret to the success of the Roman army is that a large part of the effort and organization to sustain the army in the field revolves around feeding us, and truth be known, we ate much better than a lot of us ever had before, myself included. For the first time in my life, bread was as plentiful as meat, although I still found it funny that for most of the men, if you gave them a choice between a nicely roasted haunch of beef or pork, or a loaf of bread with some olive oil, most of them would take the bread. My tentmates always gave me grief about my taste for meat, yet I did not mind, because it meant that there was more for me. However, I do not want to give the impression that our activities in spoiling the countryside went unopposed or unmolested. The Lusitani were experts in hit and run tactics, suddenly appearing out of nearby woods to attack small groups of men, or slow-moving targets like wagons that were sent out to round up supplies of one sort or another. Our losses were small, but it was aggravating and nerve-wracking nonetheless, and it meant that none of us ever really felt we could relax, except when we were in our marching camp. Regardless of this harassment, we continued to march northward, torching every single farm or small village that we found, rounding up the inhabitants to be sold into slavery. As far as loot went, the pickings were slim to say the least, and we began to look forward to another sizable town to take and hoped that the Lusitani would be as stubborn as before.
A little more than a week later, we approached the city known as Conimbriga, which is a Roman colony built on the site of a Lusitani village. The city is near the Muna (Mondego) River, and is about a day’s march from the ocean, sitting on a plain at the foot of the hills that ring the city from the south. The scouts reported that this town had gone over to the Lusitani, but without any shedding of blood of the Romans who were living there, which was a bit unusual. Calienus thought that it was a sign that their hearts were not really in it, and the citizens of the town did not want to do anything to provoke Caesar. The word of what we had done to the first town and of our scorching of the land that we passed through naturally preceded us. Thus, when we arrived, the townspeople immediately sent a deputation of the Lusitani who were involved in the rebellion to surrender the city immediately. Caesar accepted the surrender, demanding that hostages be given by the noble Lusitani families, and a fine be paid for rebelling, even if it was one in name only, since it went directly into Caesar’s chest instead of being sent to Rome. Thus satisfied, we continued to march northward.
This set the pattern for the next few weeks; we would march through territory, destroying everything that we could not carry or consume, and whenever we approached a town, the example set by our first attack was sufficient to convince the Lusitani to quickly capitulate and offer up whatever Caesar demanded. Initially, this was fine with us, but the monotony of marching and digging, followed only by more marching and digging was beginning to get to us. We began to grumble among ourselves when we were sure the Centurions could not hear us.
“How are we supposed to make any money on this campaign?” was how Calienus put it. “When I marched with Pompey, we took a pirate town or city a week almost, and they were all taken by storm, so we had a share of the spoils. And those pirates were rich!”
It might be appropriate to relate how Calienus’ remark pertained to our situation. For as long as anyone could remember, and is still certainly the accepted practice, there is a method by which the average Gregarius can expect to enrich himself and begin a climb to higher status, which as I have already related, was very important to men like me. The custom is that if a town falls by assault, the spoils of what is taken from the town in the form of loot and slaves is divided equally among the men who participate in the sacking. However, if a town capitulates on its own, then whatever payment the general demands, whether it be in gold or other forms, particularly in confiscated slaves, goes directly to the general himself. I imagine the logic behind it, although nobody ever bothered to explain it to us, was that it is usually due to the general in command's persuasive powers that convinces a city to surrender without bloodshed, and therefore he deserves all that comes with that. Since by this time we had subdued at least a half-dozen such towns in this manner, Caesar had made a tidy sum of money. The gossip at the time was that he had accrued enormous debts, which was one reason why he was so keen to convince the towns to surrender.
“He’s the only one getting rich,” Vibius grumbled, and I must admit I was surprised, at least at first, that Vibius spoke in this manner. Before this moment, he had uttered nothing but good things about Caesar as a general and as a man. This was the first time I could remember where he said something critical, though it was not going to be the last, something I would find out much to my dismay.
“He uses his skills as an orator to talk them out of putting up a fight, just so he can keep all the money,” Vibius continued, and just when I was prepared to argue the point I could see that most of my tentmates agreed with him, or at least seemed to since they were all nodding their heads. Accordingly, I kept my mouth shut and held my own counsel, except the way I saw it, he was keeping us alive. What was the sense in wearing us down when we all knew that the further north we went, the worse the terrain and the more vicious the enemy? Still, I have to admit that I was beginning to get a little itchy myself for something to break the monotony of what we had been doing. Despite there being numerous skirmishes, and even a couple of engagements that involved more than one Cohort, we had not seen any of that action since the taking of the town. And like any young man, the horrors that one swears they would never want to endure again fade quickly as the days go by, so that by this point, it was not only my scar that needed scratching.
Continuing north, it turned out that Caesar was not blind and deaf to the rumblings of his army, and he took steps to mollify the men. Leaving the 8th Legion behind in Conimbriga to patrol the surrounding area and remind the inhabitants of their promise to him, this left him with the 7th, 9th, and us. After a three day march we arrived at the walls of another town and once again, a deputation ran out to greet him, falling all over themselves to do so. However, they were in for a rude surprise, because Caesar gave them terms that were so exorbitant that it would have bankrupted every person in town. He further insulted them by demanding that whatever slaves they owned were to be handed over to him to dispose with as he saw fit, and if the number of slaves did not meet with his satisfaction, he would demand that the leaders of the town turn over some of their citizens to make up the supposed shortfall. The Lusitani could not agree to this, something Caesar knew very well, and to add further insult to injury, when the deputation made to return to the town, Caesar had them seized and held as prisoners. Consequently, the Lusitani were left with no choice but to fight. Because the 10th was the assa
ult element in our first town, this time we acted as reserves while the 7th and 9th got their chance to attack. The same stratagem was used on this town, with the 7th using the ram on the main gate, and the 9th going over the wall. One difference was that, unlike the first town this one did not have a natural defense like being on a hilltop, forcing the inhabitants to go to greater lengths to fortify their town, starting with a ditch several feet wide and several feet deep. Implanted in the ditch, on the bank nearest the town wall, were rows of sharpened stakes pointing outwards, while the ditch was half-filled with water that had gone stagnant, and was covered in a green slime. As in the first town, all brush and other matter that could provide even the most modest form of cover was removed, leaving a killing field of at least 200 paces in a swath around the town wall. The wall itself was again made of wood, but was even taller than the first town’s since it did not have the advantage of a hill, and was about 15 feet high. What I found curious is that there were no trees visible in the surrounding area that would have qualified to be included as part of the wall, making me wonder where the ones that made up the wall came from, and in such number. I would have understood if I had at least seen stumps that indicated that this place was forested at one time, but there was nothing like that. I asked Calienus, who shrugged, obviously never having thought of such a thing before.
“I guess they dragged them here from someplace else.”
Acting in our capacity as the reserve we were split into two, five Cohorts each, acting as support for the assaulting Legions. Our section supported the 7th assaulting the gate, giving us a front row seat to watch what the 8th had done from a different view. Positioned where we were, on a small rise perhaps a furlong from the walls and slightly to one side of the gate, it also meant that we could act as judges on how the other Legions did their business, and it would probably not surprise anyone to know that we found them seriously wanting. We were allowed to sit on the ground, still in formation of course, and watch the artillery go to work. This time the scorpions were evenly divided between the two sides because there was a significant enemy presence on the parapet above the gate and immediately surrounding it. The 7th formed up, with a Century pushing the ram, once again covered in green hides, which we could easily smell from our positions. As further protection, the hides were liberally doused with water so that the ram was dripping as it was pushed forward. Two tent sections, eight to ten men on each side, pushed the ram forward, with the rest of the Century following in testudo creeping along behind it, waiting for a man to fall. Whenever that happened, one of the men in the testudo would leave the formation, run to the vacated spot, yank out the fallen man’s shield to lay his own on the rack provided on the ram, then start pushing. In this manner, the ram never slowed down for any length of time. To further protect the men, the ram was constructed so that the roof jutted out above them, with the hides working as cover from the missile fire as they approached the walls. On the parapet, there was the usual array of men, dressed in their usual array of armor, or lack thereof, some of them armed with slings and a few even with bows, something that we had not run into before. Our scorpions kept up a steady rain of bolts, occasionally hitting something besides the wood of the wall, thereby consistently forcing the men on the wall to keep their heads down for more than a brief instant.