by R. W. Peake
“If they ever learned how to conduct a proper siege, we’d be in trouble,” the Pilus Prior observed after we got a look at their walls up close. This time we did not face any of the same derision or ridicule that we had in the past when building our siegeworks. Our reputation was well known, so it was nothing but anxious faces looking down on us from the walls of the city as we worked.
This was going to be the largest, most involved siege to date, and it was clear that we would be here for the next few weeks, which actually played into our enemy’s hands. The tactics of Vercingetorix were beginning to be felt, with our foraging parties forced to go farther afield than normal, only to be ambushed by the Gallic forces. To combat this, we had to send out larger foraging parties in order to bring back anything at all. Then, they began to return empty-handed, as well as in smaller numbers than when they went out, causing our supply situation to become very serious. We began subsisting on the livestock that the foraging parties came back with, in lieu of bread. Once again I quietly thanked the gods that such a diet did not disagree with me the way it did with many of my comrades. It seemed that whenever our diet switched to mostly meat, men began suffering all types of intestinal problems, and it was not unheard of for men to fall seriously ill and die because their systems could not tolerate it for whatever reason. One thing I remembered from my childhood was Gaia’s absolute insistence that the meat be thoroughly cooked, and I did notice that the men who seemed to have the most problems were the ones that were the most impatient, snatching their share off the fire before it was fully roasted. Now that I was Optio, I could enforce on the whole Century the practice of thoroughly cooking their meat, and while this was met with some resistance at first, once it was clear that we had less men ill than the other Centuries, I no longer had to order the men to do so, they happily did it on their own. Still, there was much grumbling about the absence of bread, yet it was the dim prospects of fixing that problem that worried us the most.
“What happens when we run out of cattle?” Calienus mused as we sat by the officer’s fire one night.
I shrugged; to me, the answer was simple. Either the siege would have to be lifted, or we would stick it out and take the town so we could eat the food within. From everything our spies told us, the people of Avaricum were still well supplied, yet who knew how accurate that was? Whatever the case, we continued working on the two large terraces. Once we constructed enough of a foundation to support the requisite weight, towers were built that housed our artillery, particularly the scorpions, and it was with these that we kept the Bituriges from stopping us as we moved closer to the wall. This ramp was different from the other we built previously because it was designed to allow not only the rolling of the tower, but on either side several series of mantlets, joined end to end that led to the base of the wall, where men would then work to dig under the wall and undermine it, causing it to collapse. Working day and night, in shifts, it was still a huge amount of work, meaning that our progress was slow, and our supply situation did not help. After a week of nothing but meat, morale and the overall health of the army began to flag, and I confess that I felt as discouraged as my friends. But I was an Optio, so I had to maintain a professional detachment, and it was during the siege at Avaricum that I was forced to discipline one of my tentmates for the first time.
Being Optio for a year now, I had been forced to discipline several men in the Century, yet somehow I managed to avoid being forced to confront what faced me now. When I speak of discipline, I am not referring to the unofficial sort, the type that was administered to us as tiros; I broke more than one vitus over the backs of many of the men in my Century, including my tentmates and on one occasion Vibius, who did not like it but understood. However this was the first time that one of my tentmates did something serious enough to be punished in a formal manner, and in the context of what we were facing, it was an extremely grave offense. Atilius was caught offering his food ration for wine to one of the camp followers, the exchange being witnessed by a Centurion in the Fourth Cohort, who dragged Atilius to our area in the camp to deposit him at my feet.
“I caught this bastard trading his ration for some wine,” growled the Centurion, a squat Campanian whose name I forget, as he died at Alesia not long after this.
Atilius’ expression was as much of an admission of guilt as I needed, though it did not really matter. Whenever a Legionary of a senior rank, particularly of Centurionate status, makes an accusation, that is enough to presume guilt, especially in the absence of any other witnesses. Because the other man with Atilius fled into the labyrinth of thrown together huts and hovels that followed us wherever we went, it was therefore essentially decided already. The punishment was equally clear in such a matter; instead of the usual bread ration, the offender was put on a diet of bread made from barley, which is usually reserved for the livestock, horses in particular. What made this so serious was that we did not even have barley at this point, meaning that in this case, the man was essentially cut off from food of any type, for a period of five days. If we were in winter quarters, with only slack duties, it was probable that Atilius would have survived, not easily, but he would live to see another campaign season. But here, already weakened by the short rations, with the kind of brutal labor that we were performing, this was as close to an outright death sentence as one could receive. And when a Legionary is on punishment, then falls ill because of that punishment, he is not considered eligible for reporting on the sick list, and in fact would face a flogging if he missed a day of duty. Such are the rules, and harsh as they may be, they are well known throughout the Legions, so Atilius knew the risk he was running for a flask of wine. Still, I felt my throat tighten as I looked into his face, knowing his probable fate, though I kept my face a cold hard mask and ordered him to his feet. Telling Atillius to follow me, I went to find the Pilus Prior to inform him of what had transpired. I found him supervising the rest of the Century, just starting their shift working on the ramp. Pulcher sized up the situation at a glance; me walking towards him, my back stiff, vitus under my arm, face hard, with Atilius following behind, shoulders slumped and head down, not willing to look up at his comrades, all of whom had stopped working when they saw us. Doing my best to avoid meeting the eyes of any of my tentmates, despite my intentions Vibius caught my eye, his face clearly asking the question. I could only shake my head gravely as I kept walking.
Saluting the Pilus Prior, I spoke in my official voice, “Pilus Prior, I bring you Gregarius Atilius, who was caught by Quartus Princeps Prior So-and-So trying to trade his ration for wine. I haven't yet written up the charge to enter into the Legion diary, since I thought it best to bring him to you first.”
The Pilus Prior’s face turned grim, his lips turned down into a frown as he stared at Atilius, tapping his vitus into his other palm. He did not say anything for several moments, but once he did, his voice was as cold and hard as the glaciers in the Alps.
“Very well, Optio. Take Gregarius Atilius to the orderly tent and have his punishment entered in the Legion diary, then escort him back here.”
I saluted again, turned about and with a curt nod of my head, motioned Atilius to follow me. Once we were out of earshot, Atilius cleared his throat, speaking for the first time since this sorry business had begun. “Pullus, I’m…” I let him get no farther.
“Shut your mouth,” I snapped. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. You know the rules, and you knew what would happen if you were caught.”
Atilius said no more.
The business of entering his crime in the Legion diary done, I returned Atilius to begin work, my anger at him still far outweighing any pity I felt for him, because now it was my job to make sure the punishment was carried out in the proper manner. That meant that I had to watch Atilius at all times during our off duty time to make sure his tentmates¸ my closest friends, did not sneak him any of their rations. If they did and were caught they would have to join Atilius, and if that happened, it would
be because I was the one who caught them. It was this thought that occupied my mind as I watched Atilius shamble over to his comrades, Vellusius handing him a spade and saying a quiet word. As he did so he glanced over his shoulder, saw me staring at him, so he looked quickly away, guilt written plainly on his face. I could only hope that my catching him stopped him from doing something stupid.
“Are you all right?” The quiet voice of the Pilus Prior startled me, and I turned to see him looking at me, his concern plain to see. I was somewhat taken aback, not sure what to say.
“This is your first time to punish one of your tentmates, isn’t it?”
I nodded, still not speaking. This did not seem to bother the Pilus Prior, who continued talking quietly so the rest of the men could not hear. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t get any easier,” I was not sure if he was trying to make me feel better, but he was not doing a good job. “But hopefully, what'll happen is that the rest of them will know that you’ll do what’s necessary, and they’ll watch themselves and each other more closely.”
I could only hope this to be true, yet I was glad the Pilus Prior had at least said something.
Work continued despite the hardships, with our situation now exceedingly desperate, and it was because of these straits we were in that Atilius was saved. He did well enough the first day; the second day he was in morning formation and made it through a full day of work, but all of us could plainly see that if he was able to rise out of his cot the next morning, it would be a miracle, a short-lived one at that. His face was pinched, his eyes hollow, burning holes in his face as he stared out at the world and despite my anger with him, I found my stomach turning in knots at the sight. Then there was a miracle of sorts, formed out of our desperate situation. At the end of the second day of Atilius’ punishment, as Vellusius and Scribonius walked on either side of him to help him stay erect, technically a violation of the rules regarding his punishment but one I overlooked, the Pilus Prior and the other Centurions were ordered to the forum for a meeting with Caesar. When Pulcher came back, I was puzzled by his expression. While he looked grim, there was a look in his eye that told me that not all the news was bad.
“We’re going on half-rations in the morning,” he told me. I nodded, this having been expected. What was not expected was what he said next. “And Caesar has decreed that all men on punishment are hereby forgiven, and their punishment is rescinded. Atilius can begin eating again.”
He smiled as I grinned back, genuinely pleased at this development, despite what some might view as the slackening of discipline. Do not mistake me; I am a firm believer in the need for discipline in the army, and I have accepted the rules and regulations as the manner in which I live my life, yet none of us want to watch men we consider friends suffer, and this was one of those occasions where the gods smiled on Atilius, despite the fact that the rest of us would have to tighten our belts, literally.
Three days later, we were put on quarter rations. Things had never been this bad, as now even the strongest men, myself included, began feeling the effects of slow starvation. Accordingly, the pace of our work slowed; it was now the eighteenth day of the siege, and it was during that day, about noon, when Caesar appeared among us, moving from one Legion to another. Before we knew what was happening, he joined us, a quick formation being ordered a short distance away from our worksite. Despite moving as quickly as we could, even under the eyes of Caesar our weakness was apparent in the lethargy of our movement. We were sluggish in everything but our minds; in the moment we thought we were moving as quickly as we always did, but it was clear that this was an illusion. Once we were settled and at intente¸ we were ordered to stand at ease, and for a moment Caesar said nothing, just gazing at us sadly.
“Comrades,” he finally began, “I cannot bear to see you suffering in this manner any longer. You have made my heart swell with pride at the way you have continued in your duties, despite the incredible hardships you are facing. But you are as my children are to me, and I can no longer bear the sight of your suffering.”
We began to stir uneasily, stealing glances at one another. Catching the eye of the Pilus Prior, he just shrugged, shaking his head to tell me that he had no idea of what was happening.
“Therefore,” Caesar continued after a pause, “I have decided that we are going to lift the siege. We will march back to Agedincum, where we will resupply and regain our strength.”
For a moment, there was complete silence as our benumbed brains tried to comprehend what he had just said. Then, somewhere towards the rear of the formation, then quickly sweeping forward, began what started out as a low moan but just as quickly grew into a roar of protest. Looking around, I was slightly bewildered, thinking that this news would be greeted with much joy and approbation, but I was wrong. Over the mumbling roar, a voice rang out, again from the rear of the formation.
“No, Caesar! Please don’t give that order! We won’t let you down, we swear it!”
This triggered a flood of similar shouts, and now the scene was one of utter chaos, men beginning to openly beseech Caesar to change his mind. At that moment, I was watching Caesar closely and with more exposure to him than most of my comrades, I was more familiar with his countenance, so I swear even to this day that I saw the ghost of a smile flash across his face, as if he was actually getting what he wanted. Instantly, it was replaced by a look of astonishment, then he held his hands out to the formation, signaling them to quiet down, which took a few moments. Finally, when he could be heard again, Caesar gave a great sigh, shaking his head as he announced, “Very well, comrades. I fear that I am making a grave mistake, but your valor and fortitude have humbled me. I am ashamed that I made such a suggestion.”
Immediately after these words, his head shot back up erect, and we were once again faced with the commander who led us to so many victories, his face a study in cold determination as he finished, “We will stay here and finish what we started, and as always, I will count on the 10th to lead the way.”
He said something else, which was completely drowned out by the cheers. Glancing up as the noise swelled and rolled over us to see Gauls standing on the wall watching what was taking place, even from this distance, I could see their bodies slump in defeat at the sounds of our cheering. It was not until later that night when we were back in camp that we learned that Caesar had made the same speech to every Legion, and gotten the same response. I could not help but shake my head in admiration for the man; he knew how to play us like a Greek plays the flute.
The tactics of Vercingetorix were not having an effect on just us; even the enemy was feeling the pinch of hunger. As we were nearing the completion of our work at Avaricum, Vercingetorix moved his army closer to us, and according to some prisoners, then left the infantry behind in his camp while bringing his cavalry closer to try to inflict more damage on our foraging parties, along with finding forage for his own army. Caesar decided to seize the opportunity and risk ending the rebellion in one stroke by stealing a march to attack the bulk of the Gallic army while their leader was absent. The location of the camp was about ten miles to the northeast, and the 10th, 9th and 8th were given orders to prepare to march at midnight. In order to keep from alerting the Gauls in Avaricum that something was in the air, we were kept at our job of constructing the ramp, so that we were especially tired when we marched quietly out of camp. I suspect that is why Caesar chose his Spanish Legions, knowing that we were hardened enough to be able to handle this added strain, albeit not without difficulty. Traveling light, without artillery or other baggage, it enabled us to close the distance rapidly, despite having to stop numerous times either to rest or when we ran into Vercingetorix’s patrols. Our German cavalry accompanied us, and even in our limited time with them, we respected them more than we ever did our normal Gallic cavalry. Arriving just short of the enemy camp immediately after first light, we saw that it was on a small hill, surrounded on all sides by extremely swampy ground, with what looked like two causeways that gave access to
the hill through the morass. In the growing light, we could see that the enemy had destroyed the causeways, making the only way of assaulting the hill by wading through the swamp while under fire from their missile troops. This was one of the few times I saw Caesar in a state of seeming indecision, as we stood there for almost a third of a watch while he seemingly was making up his mind on what to do. Presently, a meeting was called for all the officers, Optios included, and we moved to Caesar’s standard. He was standing there, waiting for us to assemble, and once we were all present, he spoke.
“Comrades, after seeing the tactical problems that we would have to overcome in attacking this position, I have decided that we will not hazard an assault.”
He barely finished before we let out an instinctive howl of protest. To this point in our campaigning, we had never failed at anything we set out to do, making this the first time we would be forced to turn back without accomplishing our goal. Crying out to Caesar to let us take the risk of the assault, we told him that we were willing to suffer however many casualties we needed rather than turn back. He stood for a moment, not speaking, letting us voice our protest, before putting up a hand to quiet us, bringing instant silence.
“Comrades, do not worry about your reputation for valor, it will remain as untarnished as always. The failure here is mine, not yours.”
If he thought that this would quell our importuning, he was mistaken. If anything, our protests became more vehement, all of us trying to make our voices heard. The din caused by our display reached back to the ranks, and I could see the men in formation becoming restive as they began talking openly to one another, speculating about the cause of this disturbance.