Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul

by R. W. Peake

  “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.

  “Silete!”

  I recognized the voice of Primus Pilus Favonius, and we did quiet down, although it took a few moments before it was quiet enough for him to be heard. Once we were still again, the Primus Pilus turned to Caesar, saying loudly enough for all to hear.

  “Caesar, don't you realize that any damage to your dignitas is just as damaging to the men of your army who have followed you all these years?”

  We roared our agreement with the statement of the Primus Pilus; once more, Caesar put his hand up for silence, and it did not take nearly as long for us to shut our mouths when Caesar demanded it.

  “Primus Pilus, your words move me, they truly do. But as important as my dignitas may be to me, and I will not deny that it is, the lives of my soldiers, who are like sons to me, is of exceedingly more importance.”

  There was really no response to this, and we were smart enough not to try to argue with him. As kind as Caesar could be, he had a nasty temper when provoked, no matter who it was trying his patience. Seeing that there would be no more argument, Caesar dismissed us to pass the word back to the rest of our comrades.

  It was with some grumbling, but we turned back around quickly enough to march back to Avaricum, the sounds of the jeering from the enemy on the hill ringing in our ears not making the march back any more pleasant. What we were not aware of was that this bloodless victory actually caused Vercingetorix almost more problems than if we actually carried out the assault. Upon Vercingetorix’s return to his camp, he was confronted by members of his army who accused him of treason. Their reasoning was that his absence from the camp was because he planned on betraying his army to Caesar; why else would he be gone when Caesar and his army showed up? But Vercingetorix was a canny bastard, I have to give him that. While out foraging he captured some of our camp followers and put them on starvation rations, and now he dragged them out to perform for his accusers. They were prompted to say they were Legionaries who had deserted because they were starving, and that Caesar had informed the army that if the siege was not resolved within three days it would be lifted. Vercingetorix finished by pointing out that it was his tactics of attrition that was on the verge of achieving this result, just like it was his leadership that united the tribes. This show of unity had brought the Romans to the point that, should Caesar be forced to lift the siege, it would not be the end of his problems, since all the tribes in the region pledged to Vercingetorix that they would offer no aid to Caesar or his army. True to their fickle nature, those Gauls who were just clamoring for the head of Vercingetorix were so won over by his words that they now reaffirmed his status as commander in chief, proclaiming him to be the greatest general in their history. Another development from that meeting was the decision to try getting another 10,000 men into the town of Avaricum, although nothing ultimately came of that.

  At the site of the siege, work was progressing, albeit with great difficulty. Because of the cut in our rations, we were ordered to abandon work on one of the ramps, instead concentrating all of our efforts on the remaining one. The Bituriges did everything in their power to stop us, so that as much of the work that we did in those final days was to repair the damage done in their counter-siege efforts as it was in advancing the siege itself. Compounding our misery, the weather turned nasty, forcing us to spend most of our time wet and cold which, when added to our hunger, made for the worst conditions we had faced to date during our time in Gaul. We looked and acted like we were already dead; stumbling around, our eyes hollow with hunger and fatigue, and as lean as we may have been starting the siege, we were now beginning to look like walking skeletons. The Bituriges showed a lot of ingenuity and energy in their attempts to destroy the ramp. Using their experience in mining, they tried to undermine it, forcing us to dig our own counter-mines to intercept them. The fights inside those close, dark spaces under the earth were by all accounts vicious, nasty affairs, taking place in almost total darkness. This was another time I was thankful for my size, although it was the first time I was glad because it kept me out of a fight. I have no love for enclosed spaces, finding it hard to breathe and to keep a calm head. Vibius was not so lucky, his diminutive size making him a perfect candidate to go down into the dark holes in the ground to kill other men. Every time he went down into the ground I was almost beside myself with worry until I saw him emerge, grimy and often spattered with blood, none of it his thank the gods. The efforts of the enemy were not confined to subterranean methods; it became commonplace for the gates to be thrown open, whereupon a band of men armed with torches and small flaming pots of pitch would come pouring out, heading for the ramp and tower to hurl the pots at anything they thought flammable. Their success was limited; nothing was damaged to the point where we had to start over, but they were certainly successful in delaying us. As the ramp raised in height, so would our towers where the artillery was stationed. To further combat our efforts, the enemy erected a series of turrets, similar in construction to our towers, covering them with green hides that made burning them almost impossible, and was where their missile troops were stationed. Whenever we raised our towers, they would correspondingly raise the level of their turrets, building another level on top of the original one. By this point in the siege, all of the usual interaction between the two sides; the Bituriges jeering down at us from their spot on the walls, our rejoinders to them which I believe most of us on both sides enjoyed and looked at as a diversion, had long since ceased. Between our weakness from hunger, the weather, and the actions of the Bituriges, all sources of levity were gone. Conversations were almost non-existent, being seen as useless expenditures of energy, so that all over the camp and the siegeworks a pall of grim silence hung in the air like the mist that greeted us every morning.

  It was on the twenty-fifth day of the siege, or night more accurately, when the Bituriges made their final and most determined bid to destroy the ramp. We had reached the most difficult part; the bridging of the last section which, as I have mentioned before, is filled in with basically whatever we can get our hands on just before the assault. The mantlets that we used for this last part had to be of the strongest construction, because they would literally be directly beneath the walls, where the largest stones could simply be rolled off the parapet to fall onto their roofs. They also had to be fireproof, and usually the roofs were covered with either clay shingles or green hides. It was at the beginning of the third watch when the alarm was sounded and I rolled out of my cot, our Century just relieved perhaps a third of a watch before, grabbing my gear and running out to see what the problem was. Our camp was perhaps two furlongs from the beginning of the ramp, so in the gloom it was impossible to see what was happening, yet men were running past heading in that direction, calling out to each other as we all tried to determine what was going on. Finding the Pilus Prior, he grabbed Scaevola and was bellowing for the Century to
rally on the standard, a call that I picked up so within a couple of moments, we were gathered and could begin trotting towards the wall.

  “Do you know what’s going on?” I gasped to the Pilus Prior as we ran along. I was cursing myself for my weakness; there was no way under normal circumstances that I should be out of breath after a run of less than a furlong, yet it showed me just how much a toll the reduced rations and the work had taken out of me. My next thought was that if it were this bad for me, how bad must it have been for the others?

  I was snapped out of my head by the Pilus Prior. “Look!” He pointed and I followed his finger, cursing at what I saw.

  The ramp was on fire, not smoldering like before in the earlier attempts by the Bituriges, but well and fully aflame. In the light of the growing blaze, we saw the silhouettes of men running in every direction, and just a few paces later we began to hear the cries and sounds of fighting. In accordance with our usual practice, two Legions were standing guard during the night, and they were fully engaged with the sortie that the Bituriges sent out. It was a well-planned and well-coordinated attack; the firing of the ramp accomplished by a mine that finally got through to the underlying timber and taking hold, while the sortie was timed so that it did not begin until the fire was well and truly started. Now, we were faced with a choice; do we fight off the attack, or do we put out the flames? Compounding the problem, the walls were lined with Bituriges hurling down their own flaming pots of pitch. Some of the pots hit men instead of the ramp, turning them into blazing, screaming human torches until one of their comrades took mercy on them and killed them with a quick thrust, their corpses adding to the lurid light of the flames. Reaching the base of the ramp, we found Caesar there giving orders as Centurions came reporting in with their respective units, the general pointing them to where he wanted them to take their men followed by what he wanted them to do. Our Century came running up, slowing to a halt, the Pilus Prior saluting Caesar and asking for our orders, just like we were on the parade ground and not in the middle of chaos. Caesar was clearly illuminated by the flames, which were now beginning to climb through the first layers of logs on the ramp, and I could not help giving a worried glance up at the walls, thinking that rarely had our enemies had such a clear shot at our general. Just as calmly, Caesar pointed to the ramp, ordering us to go help deal with the flames, so I gave the order to ground shields and javelins, then trotted over to the ramp to help put out the fire.

  The battle raged through the night, both against the Bituriges and the fire threatening to engulf the ramp. Our towers were dragged safely out of the way, so that now the real work was trying to quell the flames, which we did with a combination of water and dirt thrown into the spaces between the logs in an attempt to rob the fire of air to breathe. Scorpions in the small towers kept up a steady fire, trying to keep the Bituriges from raining their flaming missiles and bombs down on our heads. For the most part they were successful, yet there were inevitably casualties. A Sergeant in the fourth section of the Century, a man from Gades named Fabius was one of the unfortunates who took a direct hit from one of those savage weapons, going up in flames like a dry field from a lightning strike, and he screamed in agony as he ran crazily in circles before the Pilus Prior could get to him and put him out of his misery. His shrieks stopped abruptly, enabling us to hear the cheering of the Bituriges raining down on us, building a terrible hatred in us and a thirst for vengeance. Nearly as difficult to deal with as the flames was the smoke, billowing thick and choking from whatever holes in the ramp that it could find, blinding us and making us gag as we gasped for clean air. The smoke also served to obscure our vision in a wider sense; it was only with our ears whereby we could track the progress of the battle. One moment it sounded like the Gauls succeeded in pushing up to the edge of the ramp, then it would recede as our men fought back, driving them in the direction of the gate. I remember thinking at one point that if there is truly a Hades, it must be very much like the scene that night; the cacophony of screams from pain and fear, the clashing of metal on metal, the roaring sound the flames made, the fire creating a dancing, lurid light that the smoke diffused in such a way that made for a world of more shadow than substance. It was only because of the toughness and experience gained over the years that we did not falter that night, managing instead to put out the flames and beat the enemy back inside their walls by first light the next morning.

  Most of the next day was spent repairing the damage done from the night before, mainly in shoring up the spots on the ramp where the fire did enough damage that there was a risk of collapse. On the other side, Vercingetorix apparently recognized the hopelessness of the situation, and smuggled in orders by way of the swamp to evacuate all the fighting men from the city that very night, under cover of darkness. It would have been a challenge, even if we were not alerted to the plan. Although it was not particularly unusual that we found out, the way that we discovered the plot was, because it came from their very own women. When the order was given that only fighting men would be evacuated, the women of the town began pleading and wailing for their men not to leave them to our mercy. This siege had gone on long enough, the last few days seeing enough bitter fighting that they were under no illusions about the fate that awaited them. They ran after their men as they gathered in the streets of the town to organize their escape, begging them to stay, while the men were equally determined to break out. Seeing that they were not having any success, some of the women ran to the walls to begin yelling at us, waving their arms and crying out to us in their tongue. Those women raised a racket to be sure; once their words were translated, the alert was sounded throughout the camp, and the cavalry was ordered out to surround the sides of the town at the edge of the marsh to warn us when the breakout began. I have often wondered whether or not these women were truly trying to save themselves and their children or, having recognized that their fate was decided, were determined that if they had to suffer the men should as well. After all, if you listen to women talk, all of the wars and killing since the dawn of time have been started by men, not women, and I suppose that there is some truth in that. Whatever their motives, they ensured that the men defending the town would not make good an escape from Avaricum, thereby suffering the same fate as everyone else in the town.

  The order for the assault came during third watch that night, after the threat of the breakout was quelled and the damage repaired, the attack to be launched shortly after first light. Given the nature of the siege, Caesar deemed that some subterfuge was in order, so shortly before dawn, those men of the 10th and the 7th taking part in the first wave of the assault were given the order to quietly assemble, then under cover of darkness and aided by a heavy downpour, move into the mantlets that lined the ramp. However, when the light finally grew strong enough for the defenders to see the immediate area, they were greeted by the sight of what appeared to be nothing but our normal routine. Legionaries from our Cohorts not participating in the attack and the other Legions began the day in the same way we had for the previous three weeks, trudging out in the rain to continue the work of filling in the last section of the ramp. The ramp was now built to a height where the wall could be scaled not just with the towers, but with ladders as well. These we dragged into the mantlets with us where we waited, crouching in discomfort, the sound of the rain beating down on the roof drowning out our heavy breathing and attempts at muttered conversation. The Pilus Prior had asked for our Century to be in the lead group and we were a bit surprised when the request was granted, until we discovered that he promised his personal share of the spoils to the Primus Pilus for the privilege, a fact that raised him in our esteem all the more when we found out about it. So now here we were, waiting for the signal to come out from under the cover of the mantlets and begin scaling the wall. The ramp was more than a hundred paces in width, giving us several points where we could scale the walls, and we had previously decided the spot where we would place the ladder, just a few dozen feet from the mantlet itself.
The rain continued, yet even over the din we could hear the rumbling that signaled the advance of the tower and the beginning of the assault.

  Seeing us burst out from the mantlets, our artillerymen in the towers immediately began a furious barrage, sweeping defenders from the wall. In quick order, the ladders were thrown up, and without waiting, I took my place as the first man up, with the Pilus Prior climbing the other ladder. The tower was rolling into place, even as men began climbing to the top level to wait for the ramp to drop, while the cries of alarm and panic rang out from the defenders on the wall now that they understood that the assault was finally beginning in earnest. Climbing the ladder, I was intent on what was happening at the top so that I would have some warning if one of the Bituriges pushed the ladder away to send me tumbling down. Seeing a set of hands grasp the top of the ladder, I felt it begin to move when a blur of motion streaked by at the edge of my vision, the hands disappearing as a bolt from a scorpion found its mark. Reminding myself to thank the men on the scorpions, I continued climbing, leaping over the parapet in the manner that had become my preferred method of mounting a wall. My sword was out and ready, but I felt naked without a shield, although it would have been a real impediment with the climb in the rain. A Bituriges warrior, perhaps in his thirty’s, came roaring at me with a lunge of a spear from which I just managed to twist away. When he withdrew for another thrust, I struck downward with all my strength, the Gallic blade of the sword slicing through the heavy wooden shaft like it was a twig. My opponent’s eyes widened in astonishment, and even I was a bit taken aback at the ease with which the blade cut through the wood, yet I recovered more quickly, making a quick thrust to the throat. The man who tried to push the ladder was already dead on the rampart, the bolt having gone clean through him. Hearing someone land behind me, I moved a step over to make room as we consolidated our position on the rampart. Another man came at me with an axe that he wielded overhand, drawing it back to deliver a blow that would have cut me in two lengthwise, except I took a quick step forward, punching my blade into his body right underneath his sternum. Letting out a gurgling shriek, he staggered backward, colliding with another man who was running to the attack, knocking him off balance and giving me the opportunity to cut him down as well. Within the first few moments, the area around us was cleared of Bituriges, at least of the kind who were still breathing. Looking around, I could see that this seemed to be the case all along the wall, which surprised me, given the bitterness with which they were battling to stop the siege these past days. Nevertheless, they had not completely given up yet as we saw what they were attempting to do. Deeming the loss of the walls a foregone conclusion, the Bituriges apparently decided to try to make an organized stand in the streets of the town, where they gathered in small, compact groups, their shields forming a barrier akin to our testudo. Every main street in the town soon had such formations, and we all stood on the parapet, looking down while there was a discussion among the senior Centurions about the best course of action. With more and more men joining us on the walls, we began to spread further along its circumference, with Legionaries moving to encircle the town. Seeing that we would not come down, but also seeing the spread of our army along the top of the wall, the Bituriges panicked, obviously worried that we would cut off their last line of escape into the swampy area. Without any warning, their formations suddenly dissolved, men throwing their weapons down to begin fleeing back towards the center of the town. With a roar, and with no command given, we leaped down into the muddy streets and gave chase. The slaughter was on.