Marching With Caesar-Birth of the 10th Legion

by R. W. Peake

  “Pullus, you idiot. You’re too far out in front,” I recognized the roar of Pilus Prior Crastinus.

  Immediately looking around in surprise, I gasped in shock at the sight. I was several feet in front of the rest of the line; my opponent was not scared, he had taken my measure. He saw I was a young, prideful fool and had drawn me out. Instantly after this recognition, I was attacked by a man to my left, who, fortunately for me, was armed only with a short spear instead of their usual long one. The point of his spear embedded in my scutum and it was only because of my strength that I was able to wrench the spear out of his hand while keeping my scutum up, despite the awkwardness of having the shaft sticking out of it. My original opponent then saw his chance, leaping at me to slash in a great, sweeping arc, trying once again to separate my head from my shoulders. Desperately parrying with my own blade, the grip that Vinicius taught us saved my life, because the momentum of his heavier blade would have knocked it from my hand if I was holding it in the standard fashion. Even so, my arm instantly went numb and I almost dropped the gladius anyway. At that instant, there was a roar of rage and I sensed a blur to my right launching at the man, getting inside his guard before he could recover. There was a flash of a blade, the point punching the man in the throat to go through his neck and out the other side for an instant before being withdrawn. Even before the man wielding the gladius hit the ground, I dispatched the owner of the short spear, then stepped back past the front of the line and moved to the back, wrenching the spear out of my scutum as I did so.

  When I passed the Pilus Prior, he caught my eye and growled, “You and I will talk about this later.”

  I gulped and answered him, continuing to the rear. There to greet me was Vibius, who said, “Now we’re even.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “That was you? You moved so fast I couldn’t tell who it was.”

  “I’ve always been faster than you,” he shot back, then smiled at me.

  Grinning back, I saluted him. “You’re right. Now we’re even.” Then we turned back to the fighting.

  It took two more rotations before we finished off the last stand of the Lusitani in the town, but that did not mean the fighting was over, as hundreds of warriors melted into the town, most of them hurrying to their families. That was where they were found; in their huts, weapon in hand, determined to protect their families to the death, which was what they did. While we rested in the town square, Caesar and his command group rode up and we were called to intente, the Primi Pili giving their report to him. Once they were finished, he addressed us, sitting astride his horse.

  “Comrades,” he called us, the first time that he ever did so, explaining why with his next breath, “for that is what you have become today. We have shed blood and had our own shed. Undoubtedly, you will have comrades who have been killed, or may Fortuna smile, been wounded, and that is a bond that can never be broken. Today, we become comrades in arms, the most precious connection any man can share, even more precious than the bonds of family. As a salute to your bravery and as a gift, I give you this town and all that is in it, to do with it as you will!”

  Finishing with a sweeping flourish of his arm to indicate the expanse of the town around us, we cheered him lustily before he rode away to address the other men scattered about the town.

  The Pilus Prior stepped up to bellow in his command voice, “All right, boys, you heard Caesar. The town’s yours.”

  Cheering again, some more loudly than others, for truly, we new Gregarii had no idea what that meant. Oh, we had been told stories around the fires by the veterans, but just like battle, describing it and living it are two different things.

  “Here’s how it will work,” he continued. “You new veterans,” we cheered his acknowledgement, however faint, that we were no longer mere tirones, “will follow the older men’s lead. Do what they do. And you’re going to do it,” he indicated the path we followed into the town, “in that area we just came through. You take what you can carry and that’s it. And don’t forget,” he added in warning, “that you have to clear the houses before you can take anything. You can hear that the fighting’s not over; it looks like a fair number of their warriors are still about and in the houses, so be careful. And remember, the more you leave alive, the more slaves there'll be for sale.”

  With that, we were dismissed and Calienus called us together, pointing to an area. “Let’s get going before these selfish bastards take everything worth taking.”

  Then he started trotting towards the huts, with the rest of us tagging behind. Vibius and I exchanged a glance, to which I shrugged. I had no idea what to expect; Cylops never talked about this aspect of war to us. I soon found out why. As often as I have done it since, the first time I participated in the sacking and destruction of a town was an experience that will never be forgotten, as much as I try. I also wish I could tell you that the troubling feelings I experienced struck me while we were doing it, yet in the heat of the moment, after facing death and dealing it out, I felt nothing but a wild exultation as I did my share of all that comes with the taking of a town and putting the inhabitants to the gladius. As much as I learned of combat that day, I learned as much and more about the darkness that we all carry in our hearts, being tutored in the finer points of pillage and rape. Following Calienus into the first hut, we found a family of four, with nobody to defend them, just an older woman and her three children, all of whom we killed, leaving their bodies where they fell. He showed us where people were likely to hide their valuables; under a loose stone in the hearth seems to be the most common, and how to leave no possibility, however unlikely, unexamined. As we left each hut, we marked it with a symbol, etched into the doorway that designated it as being searched by our Century. It was not until the third hut that we met resistance; a warrior came screaming at Calienus as soon as he kicked in the flimsy door, but Scribonius and Romulus were standing on either side, cutting him down immediately with thrusts to the body. He collapsed, yet did not die immediately, and as I stepped over him, I saw the absolute despair and anguish on his face.

  “Well, well, I can see why he was so keen to fight us,” Calienus laughed, pointing to a figure huddled in the corner of the one room.

  It was a young woman, obviously the man’s wife, and Calienus was right. She was a rare beauty and instantly the mood in the room changed as we all looked at her hungrily. She had raven-colored hair, offsetting her smooth white skin, but even with the dirt on her face, it could not disguise the fine nose and high cheekbones, and while her eyes held fear, there was a hint of pride and disdain there that only served to inflame us further. Nobody said a word; nobody had to say what was on his mind because we were all thinking the same thing.

  Finally, Scribonius spoke up, saying nervously, “Maybe we should leave her be. She’ll fetch a good price as a slave, won’t she?”

  Calienus laughed again.

  “That may be, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have a taste first. It’s not like she’s a virgin, right? That was obviously her man we just did for, so there’s no harm in taking a sample.”

  As he said this, he was unbuckling his belt and harness, dropping it to the floor. The woman tried to shrink even further into the corner, it being clear to her what Calienus was about to do. Looking over his shoulder at us, he grinned. “This is one time I’m pulling rank, boys. You can have a go after me, but don’t mark her up because that'll hurt her price. Got it?”

  Nobody said anything, just nodded in agreement, whereupon Calienus turned back to the woman, who began whimpering in fear. Our Sergeant approached her and she made a desperate lunge to get past him, but he was more experienced at this game than we were. Laughing, he stuck a leg out as she ran past so that she fell to the dirt floor with a thud. I could not seem to tear my eyes away, despite feeling a sense of shame at what was going on, but it was not strong enough for me to try and stop what was happening. Calienus fell on the woman, his weight pinning her down, and I sensed a movement behind me, turning arou
nd in time to see Vibius leave the hut.

  I followed him, while Romulus and Remus jeered and laughed at me, Romulus saying, “You lose your place in line if you leave, Pullus.”

  I did not answer, feeling a flush rise to my face. Leaving the hut, I stood by Vibius, who was looking down the street, watching other Legionaries as they carried loot out of the huts, some of it in the form of screaming women tossed over their shoulders. The smoke was intensifying as more and more of the town was put to the torch and, over it all, we could hear the sounds of fighting, women screaming, the harsh laughter and shouts of men sating their lusts.

  For a short time, neither of us spoke, then Vibius said, without looking at me, “I can’t do something like that, Titus. I swore to be true to Juno, but it’s not just that. When I looked at that woman, I saw Juno. How would I feel if that happened to her?”

  I did not know what to say, yet I tried anyway. “But that would never happen to Juno. She’s a Roman, Vibius. Nobody will ever beat us.”

  He looked at me with a sad smile, and replied simply, “And that bothers me too.”

  Resuming our silence, it was only broken when Romulus came out, a huge grin on his face as he buckled his harness back up. “Your turn, Pullus,” he called out cheerfully. “We left enough for your share.”

  I could not look Vibius in the eye as I turned and went back into the hut.

  By the time the sun was going down, the town that we assaulted no longer existed, nor do I remember its name. The surviving Lusitani were bound in chains, destined for the slave markets that would send them to Rome and the Republic. Seeing the bound prisoners as they were led away, I was troubled by a thought; was this how Phocas and Gaia had come into my life? It had never occurred to me to ask how they came to be slaves, and I found that thought troubling. All of us were filthy; for the first time, I noticed that my hands were caked with blood, and I remembered thinking that they were sticky at some point during the attack, but it never occurred to me to look down to see why since I was too busy. Now when I looked down, it surprised me to see that not just my hands were covered, but almost every inch of me was spattered with other men’s blood, and I dully wondered how long it would take to get it out between the links of my lorica. It was only then that I became aware that my side still hurt, so I struggled out of my lorica, the effort making me gasp in pain as the dull ache increased to a sharp stabbing pain. Feeling something warm starting to seep down my side, soaking my tunic even more, I did not want to look. Instead, I used my fingers to explore, touching the area gingerly, then feeling around the edges of what was a gash perhaps two or three inches long along my right side. Needless to say, it was extremely tender to the touch, made even more so because the blood had dried my tunic to and around the wound.

  Bracing myself, I was just about to yank it free when I heard Calienus call out sharply, “Don’t do that. It'll make it bleed even more.”

  Turning to see him behind me, he was already shed of his lorica and headed for the baths when he obviously saw me poking at myself.

  Walking up to me, he smiled. “I guess I have to show you new boys everything, including how to take care of yourself.”

  Looking at the gash, he pursed his lips. “This is more serious than I thought. You’re going to need to get it cleaned up and stitched. I can do the cleaning part all right, but you'll have to go to the medici to get it stitched up.”

  I was dubious, to say the least, since I had never been injured to the point where I needed to have anything stitched up, and I was none too keen on the idea. However, Calienus ordered me to go, so I went to the quaestorium where the medical section was located.

  I wish I had not. This had been a day of firsts, and this was one I wished I had never seen, not just because I did not like to see my fellow Legionaries suffer. The knowledge that it had only been a matter of luck that I was not one of them, moaning in pain while trying to will it away was sobering, to say the least. Or I could have ended up worse; of all the things I learned that day, it was that I was not nearly as skilled and invincible as I thought, and I vowed that I would never take my skills lightly, nor would I ever stop training with dedication and focus. Of all the vows I have made in my life, this is the one that I can say I abided by more closely than any others.

  The interior of the large tent was lit with numerous lamps, the heat from them making the atmosphere stifling, not helping the stench, and I was forced to fight back a gag. The aftermath of a battle, whether one wins or loses, is horrible. Some men’s wounds are too horrific to describe, so the medici are just as busy putting men who cannot be saved out of their misery as they are stitching up wounds and setting bones. Some wounds have to be cauterized, and this more than any other smell made my stomach lurch. Because I was one of the walking wounded, I was not a priority; once I was assessed, I was told to go sit on the ground and wait with others in similar condition. There were almost a hundred men like me, and with a staff of maybe twenty medici ordinarii, some of them physicians, although most were orderlies, it meant I was in for a long wait. Finding a spot, I made myself as comfortable as possible, trying to avoid eye contact with the other men around me, not being much in the mood for talking, especially to strangers. Luckily, they all seemed to be of the same mind, so we contented ourselves with trying to shut out the screams of men as their wounds were cauterized or their bones set. Almost as frequently, two orderlies would carry a man out who had not survived, and all of us scanned the faces of the men on the stretchers to see if we knew them. Some of them it was impossible to tell, as their wounds were to their head and facial area.

  At one point, I heard a man gasp as the orderlies carried a body out, then heard him mutter, “Well, that makes our tent roomier. Poor bastard.”

  Finally, I was seen and my wound cleaned, albeit a bit roughly for my taste, except I was determined not to give the orderly a hint of the pain I was feeling as he pulled the tunic from the wound, starting a fresh bout of bleeding. Once cleaned, my wound was stitched up, the orderly obviously proud of his handiwork, but I was an indifferent audience. Just as I was leaving the tent, I heard someone call my name and I looked at the rows of men lying on cots who had been treated, finally seeing someone wave to me. Walking over, once I recognized him, I smiled in genuine pleasure at the figure of Vellusius, lying on a cot with a grin equally as broad.

  “Vellusius, I thought we had lost you, old son.”

  He gestured to the bandage that was awkwardly wrapped around his right shoulder and across his chest diagonally. I noticed that his arm was immobilized as well, and he explained. “I got hit by one of those cursed missiles, right on my collarbone.” He grimaced even as he said this. “It broke it, but it also slowed the damn thing down so it just lodged in my shoulder.”

  “Did they get it out?”

  He nodded, making a face. “And that hurt like Dis, I can tell you, but I’m feeling all right now. They gave me some wine and some sort of herb mixed in that tasted like the butt end of a mule, but I’m feeling pretty good right now. Wait, I said that already.”

  He laughed, and I could not help but join in, partly out of relief at seeing him alive, yet also because of the woozy smile he was giving me.

  Turning serious, I asked him, “What about your wound? It’s not going to put you on disability is it?”

  He shook his head. “No, they said I should be good as new in a few weeks, as soon as the bone knits.”

  Vellusius smiled the smile of a man who has beaten the system, even if it is temporary.

  “You know that that means, right, Pullus? No digging, no guard duty, no marching about.” He smacked his lips. “Yes, I could definitely get used to that.”

  I laughed again and bade him goodnight, promising to tell the others the good news.

  “Be sure you tell those thieving bastards to stay out of my stuff. Especially Didius,” he called to my retreating back, which I acknowledged with a wave.

  Making my way back to the tent, I stopped just long eno
ugh to get some porridge dished up from the section pot, then went to the baths to get clean, taking a fresh tunic and loincloth. Despite feeling clean physically afterwards, in some ways I still felt dirty, in a manner that is hard to define. By the time I returned, I was completely exhausted and thankful that we had been given the next two days off from normal duties. The fires from the town still cast a glow that gave the camp an orange pall, which would be intensified shortly when our dead were cremated. I was curious about whether we would be required to attend the funerary rites since it appeared that Didius was dead, given that I had not seen him at the aid tent. I also wondered if the fact that I would not grieve meant that I was a bad person. Getting back to the tent, the others were gathered around, with a pile of loot that was being divided out evenly.

  “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 tent mates 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.