by R. W. Peake
Marching With Caesar-Conquest of Gaul
R.W. Peake
Published by R.W. Peake
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 R.W. Peake
Cover Art by Marina Shipova
Cover Artwork Copyright 2012 R. W. Peake
For Bri
My Touchstone
Foreword
Like all such works, this is a labor of love, but I won't go into all the sacrifices I made during the four year odyssey to get this done. Nor will I talk about the fact that I bought the complete kit of a Roman Legionary and tromped around the wastelands of Big Bend National Park in order to get a feel for what it might have been like to be one of those men that Caesar used to change not just his world, but the world we live in today. (I will mention that I used Big Bend not as much for its rugged terrain but for its remoteness, and because the likelihood that one of the drug runners I might encounter was carrying a camera was very small. There are some things better left unseen.)
What I will say is that, again like all such works, this would not have been possible without the unwavering support of my family, consisting as it does of my mother and daughter, and although small in number, they are mighty in the power of their love. To them, particularly to my Mom, I owe a debt of gratitude that I can only hope this effort of mine goes a small way to pay. Also, I would like to thank Dr. Frank Holt of the University of Houston, for his unwitting role in introducing me to ancient Rome, and by expressing his passion for the subject he was teaching, imbuing in me a sense of curiosity that drove me to delve more deeply into that world myself. Finally, thanks to Dr. Janet Lucas of Peninsula College for her help with editing and encouragement at a time when it was really needed.
I have endeavored to make this work historically accurate, and to portray the lives of the men in this novel in as authentic a manner as possible. When I began my exploration of Ancient Rome, starting with the classics before going on to the excellent series by Colleen McCullough, I noticed something that bothered me a great deal. As I expanded my reading of the fiction genre covering Ancient Rome, what I discovered was that, while there were a number of authors who portrayed the lives of common Legionaries (Simon Scarrow's Macro and Cato series most notably), they all focus on the time period after the reforms of Augustus. However, all of the works of historical fiction that cover the Late Republic are all focused on the "movers and shakers" of the day, and not on the lives of the men in the ranks. This is not surprising, when one thinks about it, simply because of the amount of material detailing the lives of the people, particularly those men in the Legions, is so much more abundant when compared to the time period known as the Late Republic. But I think that this does a grave injustice to the memories of those men who marched with the original Caesar, particularly because his actions, and by extension theirs as well, had the most impact on what Rome would become than any other figure from Roman history. Without Caesar, there is no Octavian, and there are no Caesars.
That is the motivation behind this work. One day, as I was reading about Caesar, the thought struck me; what was it like for his men? What was it like to be standing in the ranks, facing the Gauls of Vercingetorix, or looking over your shield on the dusty plains of Pharsalus? What were their lives like when they weren't fighting? What did they talk about as they sat around the fire at night? It was from this idea that Marching With Caesar was born. But what was more important to me than the story itself was the accuracy of the research behind it. This is probably due to my training as a History major and the rigorous belief in the use of primary sources drilled into me by my professors. Of course, there is a dearth of sources when it comes to documenting the everyday life of a Roman Legionary in the 10th Legion, of the enlistment raised by Gaius Julius Caesar in 61 BC. This is, pun slightly intended, a sword that cuts both ways. While it gives me as an author some freedom and flexibility to create a world that fits my narrative goals, it also requires me to strike a very fine balance if I want to adhere to my number one goal, authenticity. Fortunately for my research purposes, but not necessarily my pocketbook, there was a revival of interest in the exploits of Caesar in the late 18th and 19th centuries, spawning a number of excellent works on the period. Much of that scholarship was based on the work of the tireless Col. Stoffel, under the auspices of Napoleon III for his own work on Caesar. Out of this body of work from the 19th century, I relied most heavily on the work of T. Rice Holmes, and in fact, the maps that are part of this book are from his works "Caesar's Conquest of Gaul" and "Ancient Britain and The Invasions of Julius Caesar". Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I was able to "walk" about the battlefields of Gaul, most notably the site of Caesar's second battle with the Helvetii outside Toulon sur Arroux, his desperate fight with the Nervii on the Sambre River, and of course, Alesia, all of this done using Google Earth's 3D view.
But perhaps the most valuable part of my research was not found in the written material, but in my experience as a career Infantry Marine. Because although the technology might change, the essence of the fighting man and those things that are important to him never do. One only has to read the first-person accounts from any war through the ages to know that life for a "grunt", no matter what era they come from, is boiled down to its most basic essence. Food, sports, women, the stupidity of officers, women, the harshness of NCO's, women, the brutal work, women, and what surprises most civilians, humor. A lot of humor, although it is almost all tinged with cruelty, but even in the harshest conditions, under the most trying of circumstances, fighting men find ways to laugh, mostly at each other, but at themselves as well. If this is true for the men who fought at Antietam, Waterloo, or even Agincourt, I don't think the conversations would be all that different sitting outside a tent in a Roman military camp. Whether it's about the chances of the USC Trojans being in the BCS Championship game or which chariot team is the best, the Greens or Blues, the essence remains the same; anything but the pervasive fear that tinges the inner thoughts and nightmares of men in combat. I do think that one slight difference between today's warriors and their Roman counterparts lies in their attitude towards the politics of the day. The average Roman citizen was much more involved politically than their modern counterparts, but I think this has more to do with the idea that Roman politics, particularly of the era covered in Marching With Caesar was just as much of a bloodsport than any contest in the arena.
I have also chosen something of a hybrid approach between two extremes. Anyone who has read the McCullough series will probably recall that whenever possible, she used the proper Latin terms and colloquialisms, while most other authors in the genre have Anglicized everything, including the curse words. I have chosen to use a sprinkling of expressions and words in Latin that I found particularly evocative, but for the most part have chosen the latter route in everything else. The other exception is in my use of the proper Latin terms for ranks, which I do for a number of reasons. Probably the most important one is that, perhaps counter-intuitively, I believe using the Latin ranks is less confusing. For example, most semi-serious students of Roman history know that the Primus Pilus is the Senior Centurion of a Legion, and that has been Anglicized as First Spear. But where it gets confusing, at least for me, is how to characterize, for example, the Centurion in command of the Fourth Century, Fifth Cohort. Characterizing it as such seems very awkward to me, and I think the Latin rank of Quintus Princeps Posterior is actually easier on the eye, once one learns the rank structure. To make that easier, I have included a Glossary, with these ranks and some of the other terms with which casual readers may be unfamiliar.
For serious Romanophiles who might spot what they see as inaccuracies or inconsistenc
ies, for the most part these are intentional. While I will not go into detail about my reasons for doing so here, what I will say is that most of these differences between the account of battles that can be found in Caesar's Commentaries, for example, and what my characters experience is my way of illustrating how different a battle can look, depending on one's perspective. For a man in the ranks, fighting for his life and the life of his comrades, what his commander might see as a complete victory can easily look like a resounding defeat to the blood-spattered and weary men of the Legions. Also, while the rules and regulations of the Roman army are fairly well-known, that knowledge primarily covers two distinct and separate eras. First is what is known as the Polybian Legion, followed by the Legions of the Empire, particularly the Late Empire. While there are many similarities between the two, there are also key differences, most of them coming about as part of the Augustan reforms. Smack dab in between these two extremes are those Legions of the Late Republic, and for which very little documentary evidence exists. Again, this is both an opportunity and a challenge, and anyone interested in a more in-depth explanation and analysis of some of these differences, a complete bibliography of my sources, along with a more detailed map that shows all of Gaul and the tribal territories, please visit http://www.marchingwithcaesar.com.
Finally, I hope you enjoy reading about Titus Pullus, Vibius Domitius, Sextus Scribonius, and all of the other men of the tent section that comprised part of the First Century, Second Cohort of Caesar's 10th Legion as much as I did bringing them to life.
Semper Fidelis,
R. W. Peake
March, 2012
Marching With Caesar- Gaul
Prologue
When you are old, you dream a great deal. Some of these dreams are pleasant, but for an old man who marched with Caesar and spent forty years under the standard, just as many of them are the type that leaves you screaming awake, your nightclothes drenched in sweat. And there is one in particular that haunts me the most.
I am once again a young Gregarius, standing in the ranks of the First Century, Second Cohort of the 10th Legion, Caesar’s Legion. Because of my size I am standing on the right end of the last rank, while Sextus Scribonius is in his usual place to my left. Farther down the line is my childhood friend and close comrade Vibius Domitius. We are formed up, standing silently in the growing light of a dawn morning, staring at the smoldering fires of a large camp, filled with the forms of sleeping men, women and children. These are the Usipetes and Tencteri, two tribes from across the Rhenus (Rhine) who have openly defied Caesar’s orders, and they are about to be punished for that defiance. I stand, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, and even in my dream I can feel the twisting of my stomach that always happens before we are about to see action. A line of cold sweat is trickling down between my shoulder blades, despite the chill in the early September air; we are farther north and east than we have ever been to this point, and winter comes early in those parts. In other words, in most ways it is the normal sensations one experiences before battle, but this time will be very, very different.
We have drawn up in a line of Cohorts side by side, in order to surround the camp, spending most of the night moving into position, as quietly as possible for an army of our size. We are now just 300 paces away, all of the enemy sentries placed around the camp having been silenced by men selected for their stealth and skill in the silent kill. Caesar, in his red paludamentum, the scarlet general’s cloak, is barely visible astride his horse Toes, who is now almost as famous as his rider is. He is positioned in front of the 10th, as we are his favorite Legion, a fact that we take great pride in and the other Legions resent a great deal, which pleases all of us to no end. All of our eyes are on Caesar, waiting for him to raise his sword and unleash the Furies down onto the unsuspecting heads of these Germans. Because of my height, I have an unobstructed view of our general, so I see him as he draws his sword and I feel my hands tightening their grip, one on my shield, and one on my javelin. He raises his weapon into the air, while turning to address his cornicen, the man carrying the great curved horn that will send the blast of notes that signals those men who cannot see Caesar in the pre-dawn from where they are ringed around the camp. The sounds of those notes will be the first idea these Germans get that the moment of their death has arrived, Caesar giving very strict and explicit orders that no man, woman or child is to be left alive. The thought strikes me, as I stand waiting, what a queer feeling it must be to go from sound sleep to the realization that your life can be measured in a finite fashion, that you only have a certain number of breaths to take, a certain number of heartbeats left. Of course, all of our lives are finite but when that number is down to a veritable handful, what a strange feeling that must be.
My rumination is interrupted by the sight of Caesar’s sword swinging downward in a silver blur, to end pointing at the camp, as almost simultaneously the cornicen fills his lungs and blows the horn on his shoulder. The heavy bass notes blast through the air, but only for a moment are they audible, instantly replaced by the roaring of thousands of men, all of us shouting at the top of our lungs as our Centurions give the order to begin the assault. Normally, we would approach at a steady march, in complete silence until the last moment, but as usual Caesar has been very thorough, being ordered to make as much noise as possible and to start at the dead run. All of this is done in order to maximize the surprise and confusion on the part of the Usipetes and Tencteri, in the hope that they are disoriented to the point where they are slow to react. We will arrive at the camp a bit winded, it is true, but for what we are about to do it should not be a problem. It does not take all that much effort to plunge a sword or javelin into the bodies of sleeping or just-roused people.
As expected, the surprise is total, as we come pounding into the camp itself, our roar now being met by the cries of surprise and shock from the Germans lying at our feet, clustered in small family groups around a fire. Unlike we Romans, the tribes of Gaul and Germany disdain the use of defenses like a ditch and rampart, preferring instead to draw their wagons together to form a makeshift barrier, but curiously, they do not sleep within its protection. Instead they choose to sleep in the aforementioned family circles, just outside the meager protection of the wagons. I suppose their idea is that their sentries will give them enough warning to allow them to rise and make their way behind the wagons, which is true enough, if their sentries had still been alive. Now these wagons are little more than minor obstacles around which we must navigate, with the front ranks of each Century and Cohort leading the way deeper into the camp. We all know that the key is to penetrate as deeply into the camp as quickly as possible, so our comrades in the front ranks of each Century bypass the first groups of sleeping people, counting on us in the rear to deal with them. My rank comes across our first small bunch of people, most of them just beginning to sit up, their looks of surprise and fear etched in my memory as we fall upon them. I begin using my javelin, my first victim a man of indeterminate age, bearded and heavyset, who is fumbling for his spear next to him. Using an overhand grip, I plunge my javelin directly into his throat, feeling the hardened point scrape against the bone of his neck as I watch his eyes widen in shock, and I remember to twist the javelin as I withdraw it, both to cause more damage and to free it in the event it has lodged in the bone itself, as the man falls away. I am barely conscious of the sound of the woman lying across the fire from the man screaming, but it registers enough that I now turn on her, and using the javelin in the same manner, plunge it deeply into her breast. This time, the softer metal shaft of the javelin, on meeting the stronger resistance of her breastbone, bends a little, though the point still penetrates as it plunges directly into her heart. Letting out a shriek the woman, who I can now see is actually young and very pretty, grabs at the shaft of the javelin, clawing at it in a vain attempt to pull it from her body while her eyes lock with mine. I expect to see hatred and fear there, but instead I see only a great sadness as she looks up at me
, dying on the end of my javelin. Although our javelins are specifically designed to do what has just happened and bend, so that once they strike a target after being thrown they are useless to throw back, it means that I must discard it and now draw my sword. Releasing the javelin, I leave it protruding from the chest of the young woman to draw my sword, called the Spanish sword because the Legions of Rome adopted it after facing the tribes in Hispania many, many years ago. It feels good in my hand as I turn my attention away from this fire, looking for other targets, my comrades having taken care of the other people around it.
The air is now filled with the screams of the Usipetes and Tencteri, the full horror of what is happening to them becoming apparent. This also means that some of their men have managed to rise and grab weapons, except instead of banding together, they do the natural thing and stand to defend their own small group. It is a normal instinct to defend one’s own family first, but in truth it just makes our job easier. It is much less of a challenge to defeat one or two men at a time than dozens or hundreds.
We are now moving through the camp from fire to fire and it is not long before my sword is wet almost to the hilt from the blood of the people I have slaughtered. So far I have been lucky because I have yet to come across any children; I take no pleasure in the slaughter of young ones. I do not enjoy killing women for that matter, but there is something less disturbing about killing an adult than a child, at least to me. Many of my comrades have no such problems with that distinction, and I can see them killing everything in their path without mercy or distress. The German men can now be seen standing with their weapons at their fires, sometimes just one, but most of the time two, three and sometimes four men standing to protect their families who are huddled behind them. Surprisingly, most people seem content to stay put, counting on the protection of their warriors, but it is still early in the assault and I am sure that once they see their men being cut down, they will begin to try to run and escape, or hide. Heading for the nearest group bypassed by the front ranks, I am thankful at least that these men did not have the wit to turn on my comrades who had moved past them to fall onto their unprotected backs, instead choosing to stand and fight.