Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul

by R. W. Peake

  It would not be right to say that we were caught by surprise, but what did startle us was the speed at which they advanced, coming at us at a full run, covering the gap between us so quickly that we had no time to throw our javelins.

  “Draw swords!”

  Immediately dropping our javelins, we were just able to draw our blades before the Germans came slamming into our lines, knocking our front rank back, causing such a shock that I felt it ten rows back, causing my heels to dig in as I pushed hard against the back of the man in front of me. Even so, I felt my feet sliding backwards, while around me I could hear the grunts and gasps of the men as they felt the same strain. Up front, the Germans threw themselves into our lines with such fervor that their back ranks pinned the men in front against our shields so that both lines were standing, shields pressed tightly against the other, neither side giving the other enough room to use their weapons. For several moments, the battle was little more than men looking into the eyes of their enemy, inches away, snarling, spitting and cursing at them in impotent rage. In such a case, it is no longer a contest of skill but of weight and number, meaning it would not be long before our strength failed and our line collapsed under the sheer mass being forced upon us. Even as this thought crossed my mind I could feel my legs beginning to shake from the strain, the sweat dripping freely from my face and I glanced over at Scribonius, whose face was twisted with the effort he was putting into providing support, except he was clearly slipping backwards, then began to churn his feet in an attempt to gain a purchase in the ground.

  “Something better do something quick, or we’re all dead!” I am not sure who said this, but it was the truest thing said that day, and my mind began whirling with the idea that we might be finally facing defeat.

  Then, the deadlock was broken by one man in the second rank, soon joined by others following his example, as these men leapt over the crouched figures of the men straining in the front rank to come crashing down onto the shields belonging to the men in their immediate front. The weight of the first man’s body wrenched them from the grasps of both the Germans and the Legionary opposite him, that momentary gap freeing enough space for the man next to the Legionary in the front rank to use his sword. Darting out like the silver tongue of a serpent, he stabbed quickly before retracting a blade covered with blood. The German who had his shield wrenched from him went down in a heap, landing on top of the Legionary who started the whole thing by making his leap and who had not yet scrambled to his feet. In the momentary space that the dead German provided, more Roman blades lashed out, striking two other men before any of the foe could think to plug the gap. Finally, the Legionary on the ground extricated himself, rolling out from under the body of the larger and heavier German, albeit with some difficulty, then on hands and knees crawled back to his place in the second rank, covered in the blood of the dead man. Others who saw his example began to follow suit so that soon there were bodies leaping into the deadlock, crashing into the Germans and forcing gaps in the line that gave us room to use our swords. Within a few moments, bloody holes were opening in the tightly packed mass of Germans and before our very eyes they began changing from the fierce, snarling killers we had been warned about to just a large bunch of scared men who see their doom approaching. By the time it was my turn in the front, their ranks were considerably thinned by the tactic of leaping onto their shields, giving me plenty of room to work. In the space of just a moment, I was able to dispatch three Germans and I thought with grim satisfaction that they died just as easily as the Helvetii, or even the Gallaeci back in Hispania. My fourth and final opponent this first shift was a man who bested my height by at least two inches, and was perhaps twenty pounds heavier, with a huge barrel chest that was bare and laced with scars. He carried a weapon I had yet to face, a double bladed axe, which he swung wildly above his head as he came at me, his eyes wild with fury, the spittle hanging in long strings from the corners of his mouth. With a beard and yellow hair like the German I saw at the mound, that detached part of my brain wondered if they were related, even as he swung the axe downward in a clear attempt to cut me in half. Jumping to the side, I plainly heard the wind whistling as the blade sliced through the air to land with a thud in the turf. I’ve got you, I thought, except he was damnably quick, so that before I could make a lunge, he freed the axe and with contemptuous ease, parried my blade with the head. Despite the fact he did it as if swatting a fly, the shock carried up my arm, jarring me so badly that I thought I would lose my sword, but the grip Vinicius had taught me saved me again that day. Before I could recover, he swung the axe again, this time at waist level, in a horizontal stroke that was meant to disembowel me, and I moved my shield just in time to block the blow, but the blade of the axe cut all the way through the wood so that it came protruding through the back, inches from my hand. This time, however, the axe stuck for a moment, except a moment was all I needed, and I gave a quick thrust that he only partially blocked with his own shield, the blade of my weapon glancing off the edge to jab into his upper chest just below the collar bone. It was not a clean blow, but it was enough to cause him to roar in pain, his face contorted with rage as he finally wrenched the axe free from my shield, almost jerking it from my grasp. The German took a step back, then we both stood there for a moment, gasping for breath and staring at each other, completely oblivious to what was going on around us, locked in our own private battle. This man was by far the strongest man I had ever faced, yet I could tell by the look in his eyes that he had been unprepared to meet someone who matched him as equally as I did. Once he began to close with me again, it was with more caution, and I swallowed a glimmer of satisfaction at the sign of respect he was showing, telling myself to save my self-congratulations for later because I was not the victor yet. As he closed, he began weaving the axe back and forth, and despite knowing better I found my eyes following the double-bladed head moving sinuously in front of me. Then he leapt forward with astonishing speed, and I realized that this was exactly what he wanted me to do, my heart sinking with the knowledge that I was bested. In desperation, instead of taking a step back to try opening the gap between us back up, I made my own leap forward, so that now it was his turn to be surprised as our bodies crashed into each other, and I ignored the feeling of the shaft of his axe slamming into my shield. Feeling the breath rush out of my lungs with the impact, I understood that I would have to fight through that and dropping my shield I reached up with my left hand, grabbing the German around the throat to squeeze with all of my might. His eyes widened in shock as in turn he immediately let go of his axe, grabbing me to try wrenching my hand off his throat, so that my wrist felt like it was being crushed by a horse stepping on it, yet I knew that if I lost my grip on his throat he would regain the initiative, and I ignored the pain. His face, inches from mine, turned a bright red, his eyes bulging out as they stared at me wildly, his mouth opening and shutting like a fish out of water, then he began flailing at me with his shield, slamming it into my back and forcing a grunt from me with the pain of every blow, yet I grit my teeth, refusing to give in. His face was purple now, and I could feel his grip on my wrist weakening, then I sensed his knees begin to buckle, facing me with a choice I did not care to make. If he collapsed, I was going to have to either release my grip or go down with him to finish him off, and in battle the absolute worst place to be is off your feet for any reason. But he had almost bested me and I could not afford the risk of letting him go while he still held a breath in his body, so as he began to topple backwards, his eyes rolling back in his head, I fell with him, landing heavily on top of him. Hearing a couple of his ribs crack, he nevertheless gave no reaction and finally his grip on my wrist loosened, his hand falling limply by his side. Regardless, I was not willing to let go until I was sure that he was dead, so I continued to lie on top of him, still squeezing his throat until I smelled his bowels release. Only then did I accept that he was finally gone, except I remained on top of him, gasping for breath, but before I could regain
my senses, I felt a hand grab at my harness as someone tried to pull me up. I was much too heavy, so I staggered to my feet to see Vibius standing there, his sword in his sheath while keeping his shield up in a defensive position as he came to my aid.

  “You crazy bastard, you should know better than to hit the ground,” he yelled at me, but I could just stare at him for a second, his words not really registering.

  After a moment, my head began to clear; only then did I realize that there were men streaming past me, and I looked about to see that the entire German left wing had collapsed, with the men of the 10th in hot pursuit. Retrieving my shield, I cursed when I saw that it was ruined, split in half by the German’s axe; the cost to replace it would be docked from my pay.

  Things went well on our side of the battlefield, but the same was not the case on the left wing, where the men of the 7th and 12th were threatened with being overwhelmed by the German right wing. Caesar writes that it was only due to the sheer weight of numbers, and again, despite the fact I do not like to disagree with the great man, the numbers were not any greater than what we in the 10th faced, but I suppose that’s just an old soldier’s pride speaking. Regardless of the reason, the outcome of the overall battle was still very much in doubt, so the horns sounded to call off our pursuit of the Germans we had routed. These men were running for their lives, some of them heading back to the wagons, while most streamed past them heading north. However, it is hard to re-form when the men’s blood is up and they are hot on the heels of their enemy, so it took precious moments before we began to gather in some semblance of a formation. Luckily, young Publius Crassus, who was the commander of the cavalry at that point, kept his head about him, and seeing the looming disaster, ordered the entire third line of all six Legions to head to the aid of the 7th and 12th. Moving quickly, they slammed into the flank of the Germans who were now wrapped around the two Legions, almost completely surrounding them. Before our eyes, what was shaping up to be a disaster for us quickly turned around into total victory, and it was not long before the rout was complete, with all of the surviving Germans now fleeing for their lives. Meanwhile, the Legions in the center, the 8th, 9th and 11th, had entered the camp and were eliminating the last shreds of resistance from the German warriors who retreated back there to defend their families. Again we could hear the cries and shrieks of the women watching their men slaughtered before the Legionaries turned their attention to them. By this time, we in the 10th were fully formed up, so Caesar commanded us to move north after the fleeing Germans, in the event that some of them had the presence of mind to regroup into a large formation. At the same time Caesar sent the cavalry to harass and cut down as many stragglers as they could find. Finally the cavalry provided some worth to the army, their pressure keeping Ariovistus or any of his commanders from rallying their warriors. Marching for a third of a watch in a single line of Cohorts, we were ready to confront any group of Germans who decided to stop to make a stand, but it soon became obvious that they were not stopping for anything. Once this was clear, we halted for a brief rest before turning and marching in column back to the battlefield to check for our wounded and dead.

  Somehow, Ariovistus managed to escape, getting across the Rhenus in a small boat, but the rest of his family was not so fortunate. He had two wives, both of whom were slain, along with one of his two daughters, the other being captured and sold into slavery. Luckily, both Metius and Procilus were found still alive, although a little worse for wear, having been roughed up a bit by the Germans while being held captive. But the threat posed to the Aedui, Sequani, and other tribes by Ariovistus and his Germans was permanently removed, earning the gratitude of the tribes, at least for a while. Our losses in the 10th had been pleasantly light; in our Century nobody had been killed, with only a couple being seriously wounded and who would return to duty after only a couple of months’ recuperation. The 7th and 12th were not so fortunate, suffering heavy losses when they were surrounded by the Germans, but at least now both the 11th and 12th were veteran Legions like us. Despite it still being early to end the campaign season, the fact was that there was nobody left for us to fight. In the space of one abbreviated season, we had crushed the Helvetii and Ariovistus, so Caesar decided to send us to winter quarters early, marching us back to Vesontio, where the camp was awaiting us to make the necessary improvements for winter quarters. When we marched back to the town, the citizens lined the road to cheer us as we went marching by.

  “Not as good as marching in a triumph, but it’s better than nothing,” grumped Vibius, who seemed to be determined to not be impressed or pleased with anything.

  This was a trait of his, and I could not decide whether it was becoming more pronounced, or I was just growing weary of it. Despite his sour words, I caught him smiling from ear to ear at the accolades from the people lining our path. The small city had swelled in population; somehow the word that this would be our winter quarters was known by the camp followers long before we heard, so that all the various tradesmen, pimps, wine merchants and whores were there to greet us, along with the proper citizens of Vesontio. Beginnings of a shanty town were already springing up outside the camp gates, and the men started to talk excitedly of finally being released to spend the booty we had earned, some of it on whores, some of it on wine, although most of it would be lost to dice or other games of chance. As for myself, I was still smarting over having my pay docked for my ruined shield, so I had no plans on losing any other part of my money in the same manner as my comrades. It was not that I was a prude, or disapproved in any way the various pleasures of the flesh, and I knew myself well enough to know that despite my best intentions some of my money would end up in the purses of the purveyors of vice. However, I still had ambitions and plans, plans that called for money. Despite my visit home and the admonition from Phocas and Gaia about the folly of trying to buy their freedom from my father, I was determined that I was going to do just that, one way or the other. I also resolved that I was going to make more of an effort to write, although I wish I could say it was for selfless motives. This would be my third winter in garrison and I had learned how boring it was, so I was looking for new ways to pass the time, and for this winter I decided that I was going to pursue learning to read better. Now that I was a Sergeant, I was going to have to start doing paperwork, the bane of every soldier above the rank of Gregarii's existence; I knew of several men who would have made fine Optios or Centurions but chose to stay in the ranks just to avoid paperwork.

  Before Caesar left for the Province to resume his normal duties as governor, a formation was held where decorations were awarded, and it was here that I earned my first corona civica, for saving Scribonius against the Helvetii. It came as a total shock to me; I had not known that I was even being considered, but the evening before the formation, the Primus Pilus once again showed up in front of our tent, bringing the Pilus Prior with him.

  “This is becoming a habit Pullus,” he joked, which I laughed at dutifully, although I did not find it particularly amusing.

  Despite my record and my hunger for glory, I still possessed the ordinary soldier’s suspicion of being singled out. Every time I was summoned, even if I was told the reason, I was sure that it would turn out to be for some sort of chastisement or punishment. I think it was this insecurity that made me such a good Legionary; no matter how hard I worked, I never thought I was deserving of any praise, preferring to focus instead on the things I did wrong and convincing myself that I had been found out.

  Continuing, he said, “You’re being decorated tomorrow morning, so I don’t have to tell you that your gear better be perfectly polished. The Pilus Prior will inspect you first thing in the morning, so you better get to it.”

  Standing there for a moment, I tried to figure out what this was all about. I could not think of anything I had done that was especially noteworthy, so I asked, “Sir, if it’s not too much to ask, would the Primus Pilus care to tell me what it is I’m being decorated for?”

  H
e shrugged. “Can’t say that I know myself. All I know is that you better be standing tall and ready for inspection an hour after morning call.”

  I knew better than to argue or keep pressing, so I just said, “Yes sir,” and returned to the tent to begin polishing my gear.

  That next morning, I and about 40 other men from the 10th Legion were recognized for bravery, while I was one of two from the Legion to be awarded the corona civica. Since it is worn on the head, it is necessary to remove your helmet, and it was only when I received the order to do so that I got an inkling of what I was about to receive. My mind raced; we had not assaulted any towns in either campaign, so it could not be a corona muralis, and we had not relieved any besieged force. Anyway, I was not of sufficient rank to receive a corona vallaris. Caesar stepped forward, Labienus and the Primus Pilus next to him, the Primus Pilus holding a pillow of some rich fabric, on which lay a simple grass crown. My throat tightened; winning this award for saving the life of a fellow Roman citizen is considered the highest honor a man can receive, and here I was barely 20 years old and I was being awarded this honor. Tribune Labienus unrolled a scroll, reading the citation aloud in his braying, parade ground voice, describing the event for which I was being decorated. It was for my rescue of Scribonius that day against the Helvetii, and the instant Labienus spoke the words, I was transported back to that moment, seeing the Helvetii warrior about to plunge his spear into Scribonius’ unprotected face. Feeling a warmth flow through me, I thought how happy I was that it was Scribonius that I saved, because I considered him a true friend, a good man and a good Legionary. For another time I found myself looking down at a beaming Caesar, then bowed my head to save him from being forced to stand on tiptoe to place the corona on my head. It was very light, the woven grass tickling my closely shaven scalp, and I was barely conscious of the words Caesar spoke to me.