Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul

by R. W. Peake

  “Welcome home, boys,” he roared, the color of his face showing a hint to us that he may have started the celebrations ahead of us.

  Passing among us, he shook each of our hands, gave us a slap on the back and made some sort of comment about something we did in training that had either amused him or angered him, although he still relayed the latter with a laugh.

  When he got to me, he looked up at me and shouted, “Well! Here’s the hero! Hasn’t seen a battle yet but he already has those Lusitani cunni shaking in their tracks!”

  I could feel the blush moving up my neck to my face, and I quickly glanced around. Of course, I was the center of attention but I could not determine what the looks I was receiving meant. Some of the men were grinning at me, apparently delighted at my discomfort; some were not smiling yet still looked friendly. There was only one whose countenance I could not mistake; Didius glowered at me, the bruises under his eyes still slightly visible, making him look like he badly needed a night of sleep. Seeing his displeasure made me feel somewhat better and I grinned, first in his direction then back down to the Pilus Prior.

  “I certainly hope that I can live up to your belief in me Pilus Prior,” I said honestly.

  He laughed and replied, “You will, boy. You will. I have no doubt of that. Once I saw you working the wooden sword, I knew that you'd be one to watch. Just save some for the rest of the boys, eh?”

  With another slap on the shoulder, he moved on to the next man, leaving me to stare bemusedly into my wine cup. I was glad that he possessed no doubts; that made one of us. Vibius saw my thoughtful expression and came over to me, leaning against the wall of the rude hut that served to shelter all of the carousers who found their way there every night.

  “Aaah,” he cried cheerfully, “quit moping about, you big ox. You’ll be fine and you know it. He’s right, you’ll probably kill so many of those barbarians that there won’t be enough left for the rest of us.”

  Despite his jovial tone, I was still not willing to give up my contemplative mood.

  Shrugging, I could only reply, “I hope it works out like that. But the truth is, none of us really know, do we? I mean,” I continued, lowering my voice, “nobody truly knows how they’ll react until it happens, neh? So for all I know, I may find that my knees turn to water, and I piss myself like a girl.”

  Having gotten it out at last, I hurriedly took a swallow of my wine so I could hide my face and shame at having made such an admission.

  “That much is true,” a quiet voice sounded next to me, and I swiveled my head to see Calienus standing there.

  Obviously he had heard what I said, so I saw no point in pretending otherwise. He examined me with a kindly expression, one that I imagined a big brother would use when his little brother came to confide in him some wrong done to him. Without waiting for me to answer, he continued, “Nobody really knows what they’ll do the first time they face the enemy, unless they’re a liar or fool like him,” he jerked his head in the direction of Didius, who had managed to draw a crowd around him, no doubt boasting of the glory he was going to earn. “All you can do is this; rely on your training, and put your trust in the man next to you.” Grabbing me by the shoulder, he turned me about so that he could look me in the eye as he spoke. “The rest will come much easier than you think. When the moment comes, trust me, you’ll know what to do.” Turning to Vibius then, he finished, “And both of you need to watch each other’s back at all times.”

  “All right, Sergeant, but we haven’t started the fighting yet,” protested Vibius with a laugh, which died in his throat when he saw that Calienus was not joining him. “I wasn’t talking about the Lusitani,” he replied in a voice pitched just loudly enough to be heard over the din but not any farther than where we were standing. “I’m talking about with him.”

  He nodded his head, again in the direction of Didius. Perhaps it was a coincidence, perhaps not, but when we looked over in the direction that Calienus had indicated, we both saw Didius drinking from his cup, staring straight at us.

  I had never drunk so much in my young life as I did that night, and truthfully, I do not remember much of what transpired. However, I vividly remember the next day, when we were roused by the Pilus Prior, who amazingly seemed none the worse for wear, and was in his normally loud state.

  “On your feet you cunni,” he roared when he shoved his face into our tent, his customary morning greeting. If we were expecting that the goodwill that he had shown to us the night before would be present this morning we were disappointed. Indeed, as the day progressed it was as if the day before never happened, which we found not only puzzling, but a little disturbing.

  Going to Calienus for guidance, he explained to us, “It’s going to be like this a little while longer, at least until we’re blooded. The Pilus Prior is going to keep pushing us until he knows exactly what we can do in battle. If we do well, then you’ll see more of what you saw last night, though not as much.”

  I for one, despite understanding what he was saying, still did not like it. We were Gregarii now after all; that is what the whole ceremony had been about the day before, and I expressed this to Calienus, who shook his head.

  “What happened yesterday was unusual. Normally you'd have completed your four months of training before swearing in, but Caesar's anxious to move because it’s already late. So he had you sworn in earlier than usual. It didn’t sit well with some of the Centurions, I’ll tell you that.” Before we could ask the question, Calienus added, “The Pilus Prior wasn’t one of them though. I heard him telling the Optio he thinks our Century is ready to go right now. Second Century,” he rolled his eyes and we laughed, “is another story.”

  The conclusion of our training was a forced march of all the Legions, the 7th, 8th 9th and 10th, culminating in the creation of two marching camps, followed by a mock battle the next day with two Legions against two Legions, along with the cavalry and auxiliaries, now numbering about another 5,000 men, split evenly between the two sides. Particular emphasis was placed on the changing of formations; from column into line, then moving as quickly back into column as we could, simulating the march to contact, with a battle, then a pursuit of a withdrawing force. The last thing that we practiced was how to stage a fighting withdrawal, and much was made by the Centurions that although we would never likely use this, it was still good to know. We wholeheartedly agreed, taking their word for it that we would never use it, the veterans among us openly scoffing at the idea.

  “I haven’t taken a backward step on the battlefield yet,” barked the Pilus Prior, “and with you bastards with me, I don’t plan on it ever happening.”

  This brought a roar of approval from us, and it was clear to all of us that we were ready to march, for real this time, against a real enemy.

  Chapter 4- Campaign in Lusitania

  We were given two days in which to arrange our affairs, deposit excess baggage into stores, and put finishing touches on our weapons and uniforms. All last-moment items like the replacement of thongs that tied pieces of gear to us that had broken, or javelins that had become unserviceable were taken care of, in anticipation of leaving the camp for good, or at least for the rest of the season. Spirits were running high, as were tempers, and there were a number of minor skirmishes among Legionaries from different Legions, Cohorts and Centuries, yet that was to be expected. At least that is what Calienus told us.

  “I don’t know about you,” he remarked as we were waterproofing our shield covers, “but I've had enough of training. It’s time for some real work.”

  Every one of us barked our approval at this, yet even as I joined in, I felt my stomach do a twist at the thought. Supposedly, at least according to the other men, I was the most ready of all of us and the most likely to attain glory, so why did I feel so apprehensive? If I was as good as they said I was should I not truly be looking forward to this without any doubts or fears, which is certainly not how I felt now? These were the thoughts crammed into my head as I busied myse
lf packing, making sure that varnish was properly applied to straps, buckles were polished, all the myriad things that occupy an army before it moves. The camp was a swarm of activity, with men running this way and that; scribes and Tribunes were marching about carrying scrolls and wax tablets, all of them trying to look like the message or order they carried involved the fate of the Republic itself. Up to this point, we had little to do with the Tribunes, but they were slowly becoming more visible as they gained a little confidence and we advanced in our training. The smart ones and being honest, there are precious few of those in the army at any given point, let the Centurions run the Legions and mostly stayed out of the way. However, there were an officious and arrogant few who, having read a manual thought themselves the experts in all manners relating to the military arts. Not surprisingly, their attitude was met with barely disguised contempt by the Centurions but fortunately for us, Caesar was the type of general who made sure that his Tribunes knew their place. Nonetheless, high and noble birth apparently makes some men a bit thickheaded, as a few, thank the gods a precious few, still sought to establish their authority over us.

  There was one in particular, and being honest I do not remember his true name; there have been so many Tribunes pass through my Legions in the last 40 years that they all seem to blend together. Relatively few ever stick out in my memory, and those that do are because they are either spectacularly good at their job or spectacularly bad, and unfortunately the latter outnumbered the former by a huge margin. While I do not remember his true name, I do remember what we called him however; Doughboy. He was named that by Scribonius I believe, and it was an apt name for many reasons. For one, he had the pasty complexion of the kind of dough that graces the finest tables, while his body betrayed a fondness for sweets and pastries. It was more than just his physical attributes that led to his nickname, because he was about as useful as a lump of dough, and when heat of any sort was applied he would puff up, just like a loaf of leavened bread, falling back on his status as a patrician of one of the old families of Rome. He was an Appius, I believe, yet for the life of me I cannot remember his name; it is funny how the memory works sometimes as one grows older. On that day, he was the acting commander of the Legion, because in those times it rotated daily among each of the six Tribunes assigned to our Legion, and since it was his day this meant that there would be more than the usual silliness. He was constantly stalking among us, snapping at us about things like not coming to intente as he walked by, forcing us to constantly stop packing or working on our gear since he seemed to do nothing but walk in circles around and around our part of the camp. Compounding matters, he would insist on stopping to inspect our gear then berate us for not having everything ready, polished and packed, apparently simply because he thought we should have been finished by that point.

  “Doesn’t he have anything better to do?” Vibius muttered in his wake, after Doughboy chastised him for not having his leathers properly varnished. Despite still being new, we had been in long enough to know that doing something stupid, like pointing out that we could only do one thing at a time, would have gotten us in more trouble than the momentary satisfaction was worth, so Vibius simply responded in his best parade ground manner, “Absolutely correct, sir. No excuse sir. Won’t happen again sir.”

  Apparently expecting something else, Doughboy stood there nonplussed for a moment, his mouth hanging open, causing his second chin to quiver slightly, a sight that threatened to make me laugh so much that I was forced to bite the inside of my mouth until it bled. Finally snapping it shut, Doughboy replied in a tone I am sure that he thought was very officer-like, but to us reeked of his uncertainty, saying, “Very well then. Just make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

  Then he stood there for what seemed like a full watch, though was just a few heartbeats, as if unsure what he was supposed to do next. Finally he said, “Right. Well then. I must go, there are many duties to attend to.”

  Doughboy then went wandering off, leaving us staring at his retreating back.

  “Apparently no, he doesn't have anything better to do,” I spat a bloody gob on the ground. “But just make sure it doesn’t happen again,” I finished, in my best attempt to mimic Doughboy, which set us both to laughing as we turned back to our work,

  At last, all was ready, giving us the opportunity to lie where we were to catch some sleep before we started out on the march, a real march heading towards a real enemy, making the energy definitely different than our training jaunts. One other thing that made it different was that we were all required to wear our dress uniforms. For we Gregarii that was not much more than the horsehair plume, which I hated because if the wind was coming in the wrong direction it would whip around and hit me in the face. It was the Centurions and the officers that had the most to worry about; rather, their slaves did. Still, it was a sight! The glittering array of the eagles and standards, the panoply and pomp as we were led out of the gate by Caesar himself for that first time, followed by the officers of the Legions, was a sight that will be with me until the day I die.

  Wondering that Caesar would be at the very front, without a vanguard of any type, I asked Calienus who replied, “That’s only for the first mile or so. Then he and the others will pull to the side, and let the 7th lead the way.”

  For that is how it was that first day; we marched in the order of our numbers, so that we walked drag, ahead of only the baggage train and the rearguard. When an army of that size is on the march, it does not make any sense for the trailing Legions to even start forming up for the first watch or so, which is why once the initial formation was dismissed and the march began we were allowed to break ranks to go stand by the gate to watch the procession. None of the veterans bothered; they lay down and immediately fell asleep again, using their packed gear as a pillow, but for those of us for whom this was the first campaign, we could not be drawn away from the spectacle. When you are young, things like sleeping or eating can be made up later, but it would not be long before we learned one of the most valuable lessons of being a soldier, that when you have the chance, you sleep, and eat. However, we did not know that yet, so I stood with the rest of my tentmates watching the first Legions go marching by.

  There was the usual banter and jeering among us, the men of the 7th calling out to us, “That’s right 10th. In the rear with the gear where there is no fear!”

  “They’re just saving the best for last,” someone shot back, which of course we cheered as the wittiest retort ever made, while the men of the 7th did the opposite.

  I cannot help but think back to that day, when despite our bickering we were all comrades, none of us knowing the great struggle that lay ahead, where we would be looking over our shield across at some of these same men, preparing to kill or be killed. Such is the fickle nature of the gods and the Fates I suppose, yet despite knowing that we are subject to their whim, it is still hard to understand how we came to that place. However, that was far in the future, and on that day, even the gods seemed pleased. The sacrifices had been made, the auspices taken, and there were eagles sighted flying over the camp in the direction of our march, so for everyone, it was seen as a sign that the gods were with us. That day the weather was glorious, at least to me. Consequently, I reveled in the feeling of the sun on my face as I watched men just like me go marching by, and when I looked at Vibius, my grin could have split my head wide open.

  “This is what we’ve been waiting for Vibius,” I crowed, “since we were boys. We’re on the march with the Legions. Can there be anything more glorious?”

  Vibius shook his head in agreement, replying “I don’t think so Titus. I don’t think so.”

  It was almost two parts of a watch before it was our turn to set out, and when we marched the few men who were remaining behind, those too sick to march and a few of the marginal men who it was felt would be better suited to keep the camp open and running, were all that remained as our audience when we exited the gates. The worst part now was the horrible dust
that hung in a pall over us, making the sun appear as just a hazy orb in the sky that you could actually look at without hurting your eyes, it was so heavily obscured. This meant that the choking, coughing and cursing began at almost the same time, and despite the Centurions telling us to shut up and quit whining, soon enough they were choking, coughing, and cursing along with us, especially the cursing. Another thing that makes walking drag so unpleasant is that marching behind first the cavalry, then the officers means that no matter how careful you are, before a couple of miles go by, your feet are covered in the deposits of dung left behind by the thousands of animals. The combination of the freshness and the heat also did not help with the smell, so it was not long before some of the more delicate stomachs were heaving, beginning a chain reaction of sorts. All in all, it was a miserable experience.

  Because we could only march as fast as the baggage train, with the drag Legion being charged with guarding it and the train being slower than the rest of the Legions, the one small blessing was that this meant that the other Legions got to do the work of making the marching camp. The camp outline, the ditch walls and palisade were already finished when we arrived, with the streets and tent areas all staked out and ready for the pitching of the tents. Filing in, we were followed by the wagons, entering through the Porta Decumana, the rear gate of the camp, then marching to our area to erect our tents. Since there was not a bath like at our permanent camp, we had to make do the best we could to clean off the filth of the march by just oiling down and being scraped clean where we stood, performed on our section by Lucco. The one piece of good news was that we would be the vanguard the next day, so we would not have to go through the same ordeal that we endured that day. Such is the way of the Roman army, and one of the many small reasons we are so great. Everyone shares equally in both the easy duties and the onerous tasks; it is all a matter of time before it’s your turn for both. The only exception is latrine duty, which is reserved for Legionaries on punishment, and I thanked the gods that there were enough men who fell afoul of the rules and regulations that it never became a regular duty, although at one point or another we all took turns mucking out the stables. For some reason, the idea of cleaning up the cac of an animal is not nearly as loathsome as that of a human’s and although I have no idea why this is so, I just know that it is.