by R. W. Peake
Before we left, Scribonius asked the doctor quietly, “Will he live?”
The doctor shrugged. “Only the gods know right now. If he survives the next day, then he has a good chance, but only about half of the men who are scourged do.”
“Couldn’t you be a little more optimistic?” snapped Vibius.
The doctor’s face reddened, and he was clearly about to make a sharp reply, but then he saw our faces and his look softened. “He’s your comrade, then?”
“He’s our friend,” Vibius replied firmly, making sure that the doctor knew that just because Atilius was guilty of a crime did not mean we were willing to minimize our relationship with him. The doctor stifled a smile before continuing, “Well at least he has that going for him. Most of the men who receive this kind of punishment are dragged in here and dumped by their so-called friends, then they get out of here as quick as they can. It’s good to see men stick by their friends.”
His kind words mollified our anger at him for his earlier callousness, and we left it that we would be back to visit the moment the doctor sent word it was possible, which he promised to do. Walking back to our tent, the formation had since been dismissed, but the rack still remained in place, and it would for the rest of the day as a reminder to all of us what awaited those who fell afoul of the rules. Atilius’ blood was spattered in a semicircle around the rack, extending a good two or three feet away, yet despite our best efforts, we found our gaze pulled to stare at the rack and its gore as we walked by.
Atilius did make it through the next day, but only just, and he was weak as a newborn babe for several weeks. His back would carry the hideous scars for the rest of his life, a symbol that he had broken the laws of the Roman army and been punished, a fact that he did whatever he could to hide, only very reluctantly taking off his tunic, and only in front of us. As far as his behavior, he was not allowed to leave camp for the rest of the winter, since there were still hard feelings with the townspeople who did not think that his punishment was harsh enough. There were other incidents after that, until Vesontio was made off-limits to all Legionaries, who were then forced restrict themselves to the shacks of the camp followers located outside the walls of the town, a fact that suited the pimps, whores and purveyors of swill that they called wine perfectly well. Of course, the army has many men like Atilius who just seem to have a problem following some of the simplest rules, something that I could never understand. If I was told to stay out of a town or city, I stayed out, yet for some men the lure of the forbidden was just too strong, and it became a regular occurrence for us to be trooped out to witness a punishment almost once a week. What puzzled me was why this was happening so often, when the two years we were at Narbo men obeyed the rules much more readily and we had a punishment formation perhaps once a month, if that.
“You’re no longer tiros,” explained Calienus, and he saw by my expression that I did not understand. “When you first joined as a tiro you were scared to death of all the rules and regulations, right?”
I nodded that I understood this.
“But now you know all the rules, and you’ve seen most of the punishment that the army will dish out to someone who fucks up,” he continued. “Add to that now you’ve faced death dozens of times, so that you’ve lost your fear of most things, including being punished.”
Despite not feeling that way personally, I could see how others might, and I nodded again as I thought about this. Perhaps that was true; after all, we knew death in a way that very few people do, and it had visited men we knew, so that we recognized in a way that most people cannot that death visits us all. Once the fear of death is gone, it removes a major obstacle in one’s path, and in some cases, the path that these men were following meant that being caught in town was not of major importance to them.
One person it did impact in a way that surprised us was Didius who, while not changing into a new man exactly, did become much more circumspect in his attempts to find new victims to fleece, even going through a fairly substantial losing streak for a few weeks. That part of his behavior may have changed, but not his hatred of me and the rest of his tentmates, his surliness driving the rest of us to the point where he became an outcast in our hut. I do not know how it started, but I do know that there was no plot; suddenly one night, everyone had enough of his mouth, and while I was at the Praetorium turning in some paperwork, the rest of the men bodily dragged him away from our hut to dump him in the Cohort street. When he tried to return, such dire threats were made that he ended up seeking shelter in another hut for several nights, not showing his face for anything other than official duties. Once he returned, he was careful to remain silent and not say anything that would draw our ire, but his silent hatred permeated the hut whenever he was in it, and we just learned to tolerate it.
Nothing else of note happened that winter; our main struggle was coping with the weather, but soon enough we adjusted. Although Gaul, or at least this part in Central Gaul was pacified, we still carried out patrols in the area, once a month doing a three day march, choosing a different direction each time and marching rapidly to a point Labienus chose to investigate. Nothing terribly suspicious was ever found, but we all took notice of the somewhat sullen faces that stared as we would march by. Nobody was overtly hostile, yet it was still a far cry from the welcome we received when we first marched to Vesontio, or when we came back from campaign. It was about mid-winter when we heard the first rumors of secret meetings being held between tribes that were supposedly friendly to Rome and tribes like the Belgae, who had refused to submit in any way. Their lands were farther to the west, the rumors being that they were exchanging oaths of mutual assistance and hostages with tribes in the region we occupied, which unsurprisingly was the topic of all the campfire gossip. Meanwhile, Caesar was busy doing whatever it is that governors do down south in the Province, and when he got a dispatch from Labienus that reported all that was going on, he immediately raised two more Legions, the 13th and 14th. During this period, he sent word back to prepare the army to march, so that once again we went from inactivity and idleness to a flurry of activity where there was not enough time in the day to get things done. This was my first turn as a Sergeant in preparing to break winter camp, and I learned the thousands of details that I had to make sure my tentmates saw to, in addition to taking care of my own gear, all while putting in my time as Century weapons instructor. It was not uncommon that I found myself staggering into our hut a full watch after the rest of my friends were asleep, only to have to rouse myself first so that I could wake them up. There was many a day where I began to wonder if being a plain old Gregarius really was not the best deal around, yet whenever I found myself faltering in my goal, I would remind myself of the life I was trying to make, not just for myself but for my sisters, along with Phocas and Gaia. I was determined that one day, not only would they have their freedom, they would never have to work another day in their life as a reward for all that they had done for me. This is what kept me going when I came close to giving up.
Chapter 7- The Belgae
At the first sign that the snows in the passes had melted enough, Caesar sent the new Legions marching to us, led by a new Tribune, Quintus Pedius. Overall, the situation was rapidly deteriorating, with more news of defections by tribal leaders to the cause of the rebels reaching us every day. By the time March arrived, we felt like we were surrounded by enemies, and while this was the first time, it would not be the last that we were witness to the fickle nature of the Gauls. We had already seen how quickly their passions became inflamed when we faced them in battle; now we also witnessed how quickly their morale and spirit fled at the first sign of adversity. With the passing of time, I finally reached the conclusion that the Gauls are very much like large children; their delight knows no bounds, while their despair knows no depths. They had no discipline, and probably still do not; I often wonder how much we have managed to civilize the Gauls in the years since Caesar conquered them. Despite living among them now, and l
iking them very much as people, I also have come to realize that I will never understand them. Ultimately I just think that the Gauls have a natural dislike for peace and quiet, preferring noise and chaos because they find it exciting. Truly, I can think of no other real reason for their behavior, especially in those early years when we had not laid waste to much of the countryside and most tribes finally were at peace, not just with Rome but with each other and more importantly, with the tribes across the Rhenus for the first time in living memory. Perhaps that was the problem; things had gotten boring for them. Whatever the cause, not a day went by where a dispatch rider did not come in with news of some new intrigue or development in the ever-changing scene of tribal politics. Alliances were seemingly made and broken in the blink of an eye, and it was not unheard of for one rider to inform Labienus, in the same report, of an alliance made and broken within the space of a watch or two. It was easy to see why Caesar was so alarmed, since he not only raised two more Legions but came as early in the spring as he did, following the arrival of the first Legion he raised by no more than a single week. After his arrival at Vesontio, he quickly gave orders to march, so that within three days the entire army, minus a detachment of auxiliaries and a couple of Cohorts left to guard the camp, went marching out the main gate, headed northwest. By this point we were now an army of eight Legions, the largest force that Caesar had commanded to this point, with the resulting train going on for miles, and no matter how much it chafed at him, our progress was that much slower because of the larger force. While it might not have made Caesar happy, we in the ranks were ecstatic, since it meant that we would not be pushed to our limits the first few days after our time in winter quarters, the way we had the year before. In turn, this kept our spirits up during the march, and when men have good morale, it helps pass the time as we plod along, singing marching songs and swapping stories. Caesar had no such problems staying occupied; indeed, his hands were full dealing with the constant stream of Gallic tribes who came to meet with Caesar, each of them pledging their loyalty to him. The fact that some of these envoys were from the very tribes who were linked to the secret alliance with the Belgae was not lost on any of us, and did not help to raise the Gauls in our esteem any.
“Not one of them can be trusted with a brass obol,” Vibius muttered when one such delegation came trotting by, the men decked out in their tribal finery.
I had to agree, since nothing I saw from the Gauls at this point would lead me to argue the point he had made. Things had been somewhat strained between the two of us over the winter, yet I could not quite put my finger on the cause. I did not think he was jealous that I was promoted because he seemed to be just as happy for me as I was myself. Vibius had taken to writing to Juno at least once a week, sometimes more, and he was always overjoyed when he got a letter back from her. She was still remaining true to him, though I knew that he worried about it constantly. Juno was, after all, many, many miles away and was well past the normal age that women marry, yet she remained adamant that she would wait. My feelings for Juno, while not changed, had at least cooled somewhat; my heart no longer beat faster at the thought of her or mention of her name. I still cared for her, but I recognize now that at some point I must have come to a realization that she would always love Vibius more than she could ever love me, and had since we were children. Only recently had I begun to think of the idea of finding a woman like Juno to settle down with, but those thoughts were still intermittent, and whenever they popped into my head I would immediately dismiss them. During that particular conversation, I turned my mind back to the problem with Vibius, even while we continued to chat about some topic long forgotten. Could it be that he was jealous after all? Vibius was as brave as any man in the Legion, and he was a skilled soldier in his own right, but could all the attention I was receiving have rubbed him raw and made him resent my success? Almost opening my mouth to bring it up with him, I then thought better of it. There are just some things that are better left unsaid, I mused, and whatever was wrong between Vibius and I would work itself out over time, I assured myself. We had been friends much too long to let anything ruin that. Or so I hoped at least.
After almost two weeks we arrived at the banks of the river Matrona (Marne), at the edge of the territory of the more hostile branches of the Belgae, in the middle of the territory held by the Remi branch of the tribe. Even as slow as the march seemed to us, at least when compared to past marches with Caesar, we once again arrived so rapidly that the Belgae were caught by surprise at the sight of an army our size sitting in their territory, poised to strike. The Remi in particular, whose territory we were now in, made a quick calculation that their chances were better with Caesar than against him. Consequently, two of their leaders, Iccius and Andebrogius, came to Caesar to offer their assistance, promising to help provide the army with supplies, and most importantly information about the enemy tribes who were aligning to face us. These Remi had originally been part of a two tribe confederation, led by one chief named Galba, who was the chief of the other branch, the Suessiones, and the Remi had tried to persuade the Suessiones that their best interests lay with Caesar. They were not successful; in fact, the primary chief Galba was unanimously named by the other tribes aligned against us to be the overall commander of their host, and quite a host it was. It did not take long before the clerks in the Praetorium, who were our chief source of information, even if it was in a roundabout way after it had passed the lips of many other men, told their friends in the Legions that the Remi were able to provide Caesar with an exact count of the warriors that we would have to defeat. The Bellovaci were the largest contingent, promising 50,000 picked men out of an available army of 100,000 men; the Suessiones led by Galba were to provide another 15,000 men. So were the Nervii, while the Atrebates would send 15,000 men; the Ambiani 10,000; the Morini 25,000; the Menapii 7,000; the Caletes, Veliocasses and Viromandui 10,000 men each; the Aduatuci 19,000 men. Finally, the Condrusi, Eburones, Caeroesi, and Paemani would send a combined 40,000 men. All told we would be facing an army numbering a little short of 300,000 men, compared to our strength of around 37,000 Legionaries, 5,000 cavalry and about 10,000 auxiliary troops. If we faced a host this large the year before, I shudder to think how the army would have performed, given how shaky morale was before we faced Ariovistus. However, our confidence now was such that it did not shake us in the least. In fact, hearing these numbers had the opposite effect, the men mentally tallying up how much booty we could expect to gain from defeating an army of this size.
“Let’s just say that each of those barbarians has the equal of one gold denarius on him,” mused Romulus as we sat by the fire the night we heard the size of the Belgae army. “And you know some of their nobles will be carrying a lot more than that, right?” There was general agreement to this as we sat and listened to Romulus, who was growing enthused the more he talked. “So that’s at the very least 300,000 gold denarii just waiting for us to take.”
Turning to me, he asked, “What did you say our strength was again, Pullus?” After I told him the number relayed to me, he sat there with his face screwed up as he tried to calculate the sum in his head.
Finally, he just shrugged and finished, “Well, it'll be a lot of gold pieces for each of us is all I know.” His face turned red as we laughed at him, while Scribonius supplied the answer.
“It’ll be about six gold pieces for each of us, give or take,” he said, eliciting looks of astonishment that he was able to work such huge sums in his head.
Romulus’ eyes narrowed in suspicion and he blurted, “That can’t be right. It’s a lot more than that.”
“No, I promise you that it’s just a little shy of six pieces per man, using your example,” Scribonius pronounced this with a confidence that convinced me that he was right, but Romulus was having none of it.
“How is that possible, that you say out of 300,000 gold pieces, each of us would only get six?”
I could tell that Romulus was really getting worked up over
this, and I began to have a nagging worry that this might turn into a full-blown quarrel. Scribonius and Romulus got along well enough, yet they had nothing whatsoever in common, and were opposite in temperament as well. Romulus was quick to laugh, although he did much less of that since Remus died, except he was equally quick to take offense. Romulus loved nothing more than to be with his friends getting into all sorts of mischief, whereas Scribonius was much more thoughtful and deliberate, always thinking things through carefully before opening his mouth.
Now, Scribonius was clearly doing his best to be patient, sighing as he tried to explain. “You’re worrying about the zeros for nothing, Romulus, that’s why you’re not working it out right. Look,” he squatted in the dirt and drew the number thirty and the number five in the dirt. “All you’re really doing is seeing how many times five will go into thirty.”
I was confused as well, so I kept my mouth shut, but I instantly saw what he meant. Romulus still was not convinced. “Thirty,” he snorted, “where did you get thirty from? We’re talking 300,000, not thirty.”
Shaking his head, Scribonius replied with a thread of impatience that I hoped only I could detect. “It doesn’t matter. All right then, let’s try this. Tell me how many times 50 will go into three hundred.”
Finally, here was a cipher that Romulus could understand, and I suppressed a smile as I saw his face run the gamut of emotion, going from irritation to the dawning of understanding the correct answer, then quickly back to irritation again as he realized he was in the wrong. He stood there, his lips pressed into a thin line as he scowled at the dirt, arms crossed.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he mumbled, “Six. The answer is six.”
Scribonius, bless him, did not pursue his victory over Romulus in any way, instead nodding his head enthusiastically as he exclaimed, “Exactly! You got it! The zeros in this problem are meaningless. Good job, Romulus. I knew you’d figure it out.”