Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul

by R. W. Peake

  The fighting continued with this intensity, as I found myself running from one spot to the next along the parapet wherever I saw Gauls get a foothold and our men hard pressed. The Gauls fought with the intensity of wild animals trying to escape a trap, which in a sense was exactly what they were, and we quickly discovered that the only way to give ourselves a chance of survival was to match them in their fury. My arm was heavy from constantly using my sword, but it was my side that bothered me most, the blood continuing to seep and now running down my leg. Our wall was breached in several areas by this point, with the Gauls still climbing up onto the parapet and there were a number of small skirmishes all along the wall between the redoubts. The bucina sounded the call for reinforcements, yet I was not optimistic that they would arrive in time. Immediately after the call I looked over to see a couple of our men leap down from the parapet, retreating from the Gauls. They were men from my Century, and I was overcome with a sudden fury, even as the Gauls gave a triumphant roar. One of them turned back to his comrades down below, indicating that the breach had widened where he stood, and was quickly joined by another man. Before I could stop to think about the folly of what I was doing, I let out a bellow of my own, rushing at the men who forced my comrades to retreat for the first time ever, determined to redeem our reputation. I must have looked like I was coming from the gates of Hades, covered both in my blood and the blood of the men I had slain up to this point. Feeling my lips pulling back in a savage grin, I saw my enemy’s eyes widen in fear at the sight of my approach. Even before they could bring their shields up I slammed into both of them, using a shield I had picked up from a man who no longer needed it despite having no memory of doing so, sending them both reeling backwards. The two men bounced into the Gauls behind them that were just climbing to stand on the parapet, causing several of them to tumble in a heap at my feet. There was a mess of arms and legs as they tried to scramble back upright, with the men on top looking up at me in terror, trying their best to protect themselves. I thrust and slashed with my blade, along with using the edge of the shield as another weapon, so that the cries of triumph that they were sounding a heartbeat before turned into screams of pain as my blade found its mark over and over. I could feel the razor sharp blade cutting into flesh and bone as I severed a man’s arm above the elbow when he held it up in a futile attempt to protect himself, while in the same instant I chopped down with the metal edge of my shield to cleave into another Gaul's skull. Blood splashed all over my legs and torso while the men on the ground flailed at me with their own weapons, all of which I easily blocked with my shield or parried with my blade. In a matter of moments, what was just a threat an instant before was nothing more than quivering, steaming chopped meat, and I could feel their blood on my face and arms, my chest heaving and legs trembling from the exertion.

  Turning to the two men who were still standing below the parapet, their faces blank with shock as they watched what I had done, I pointed at them with my sword and snarled, “You two bastards are on a charge. You better hope you die because I’m going to flay the both of you.” Without waiting for any reply, I ran off, looking for the next danger point.

  Hearing the clanking and pounding of boots approaching before I actually saw reinforcements arriving, a total of seven Cohorts were sent to help, and they turned the tide of the battle fairly quickly. Once Vercingetorix saw that there was little chance of creating a breakout at our positions, the Gallic horns sounded again, the remainder of his force hurrying away, this time heading to the northern edge of the works, where the relief force was still furiously attacking the camp and redoubts Twenty-Two and Twenty-Three. As suddenly as it started, the fighting ceased in our sector, the sounds of battle disappearing to be replaced by the moans of the wounded and dying. Standing for a moment, I fought the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm me, brought on by the combination of my exertions and loss of blood. Luckily, the bleeding finally stopped, but it had dried, caking my armor all down my side, making movement difficult and I knew that any violent movement would tear the clots free and the bleeding would start again. Regaining my breath, I surveyed the damage, feeling my stomach tighten at what I saw. Every inch of the parapet in both directions was covered with bodies, and although most of them were Gauls, it was not by much of a majority. Even as I stared at the sight, the earth of the parapet seemed to move, with wounded men either struggling to pull themselves upright, or going through their death throes before they succumbed to their wounds. For a moment I did not know what to do or what direction to head, instead trying to decide the best place to start finding all the men of my Century, since I did not see the Pilus Prior anywhere about. Finally determining that it was best, and easier on me to stay where I was and call the men of the Century to rally on me, I tried to use my command voice, yet found the effort made me extremely lightheaded. Instead, I called for our cornicen to sound the assembly, but he did not answer. Cursing, I took a few breaths then bellowed out the call to assemble, almost keeling over in the process and only then men began to gather. I was relieved to see Vibius, covered in blood not his own, along with Scribonius, Vellusius and even Didius. Atilius did not show up, nor did almost a third of the Century, and it took a moment for the import of this to register. Yet the biggest shock was yet to come; the Pilus Prior was nowhere to be found, even after I sent men to search through the bodies. We had come to respect and admire Pulcher a great deal, despite the differences between our two previous Centurions, and I hoped that he was alive. Whatever his condition, we did not have time to dwell on it, because once more the cornu sounded, this time giving the signal to advance. Looking over, I saw Caesar jump up to the parapet from Toes, and he called out to us.

  “Comrades, this is the moment we have been waiting for! I know that you are tired, I know that you are hurting from your wounds and the friends you have lost, but now is the moment when we can end this! Vercingetorix has turned his back on us, and he will pay for that mistake, I swear it to Jupiter Optimus Maximus!”

  Pulling his own sword, he lowered it in the direction of the enemy and called out, “Porro!”

  Making our way across the ditch, we formed up quickly, trying to ignore our fatigue and our diminished numbers, because we knew that Caesar was right. It was a mark of the desperation of Vercingetorix that he turned his back on us; perhaps he thought that he had inflicted enough damage on us that we would not be willing or able to take any offensive action, and it was this idea that inflamed our anger even higher than the loss of so many men. Beginning the advance at the quick step, as I was stumbling along behind the Century, Scaevola stopped and turned, calling to me.

  “Pullus, get up here! You’re the Pilus Prior now. Take your place!”

  Despite being startled, I realized that he was right, so it was somewhat sheepishly that I moved up to the spot that Pulcher normally occupied. Once we closed the distance, the cornu sounded the command to begin double time, and I was concerned that the Gauls would hear it, yet they were so absorbed in their attack on the men of the 8th that they did not notice. Trotting closer, we drew within the range where we normally stopped to launch our javelins, but since most of us did not have any left and Caesar did not want to ruin the element of surprise, the command to charge with the sword was given immediately. With a roar composed of equal parts rage and triumph, we broke into a run. It was only then that the men in the rear ranks of the Gauls realized the danger that was upon them, but before they could turn to face us we slammed into them. Breaking out into a run ripped the clots in my side loose, so despite myself I let out a cry of pain, feeling warm liquid begin to run down my side again. Regardless, I gritted my teeth and started to hack and thrust my way through the now panicked Gauls.

  The rout was total, and it did not take long to make happen. Within a matter of moments, the Gauls were running around the end of our lines, fleeing back to the town, most of them throwing down their weapons and shields so they could run faster. We only pursued a short distance because we were exh
austed, although they needed no pursuit to keep them fleeing for their lives. While we were pressing the attack on the besieged army, our cavalry, circling around behind the relieving army, launched an attack on the rear of the Gauls on the outside of the walls. Labienus and the reinforcements he brought with him kept up the pressure in the front at the same time, so it was not surprising that the Gauls could not withstand it. The relieving army disintegrated, men being cut down by the cavalry, and Vercassivellaunus was captured, along with 74 enemy standards. Only the cavalry was in any shape to pursue the fleeing remnants of the Gallic army, the chase continuing well past midnight. The battle was over; all that was left was the aftermath of finding our wounded, burning our dead, and burying theirs. I could barely stand, my legs shaking so badly that I was worried that I was going to collapse in front of the men. Somehow, I found the reserves of strength to order them to form up, thankful that at least this last phase of the battle caused us no casualties. Marching back to our original positions, we saw that the men who worked as stretcher bearers were still busy, the medici for the Legion performing a quick assessment on our fallen men. The dead were already being laid out, waiting for their comrades to identify and claim the bodies to take them back to camp to prepare for their funeral rites. We were missing 15 men from our Century; I found six of them already laid out waiting for us, though none of them was Atilius. He was found being attended to by a medici as he sat, blood-spattered, with the faraway look one often sees in wounded men. The medici was working on his right hand and when I approached, I saw that he was missing two fingers, the little and third finger, the stumps protruding perhaps an inch from the base of his palm, the bone gleaming through the blood and torn flesh. While it may not seem like it, he was lucky; if it had been three fingers, or even his first two fingers instead of his last two, he would be discharged because of his inability to hold his sword. I called to him and for a moment he did not respond, then turning his head he saw me, a look of vague surprise on his face.

  “Salve Pullus,” he called out woodenly, and I responded, trying to sound lighthearted.

  “Well, you lucky bastard. You won’t be pulling any duty for awhile,” I told him, and a flicker of a tired smile crossed his face.

  “I suppose not, now that you mention it. But Pluto’s cock, I can think of other ways I’d rather get out of duties. This hurts like Dis,” he replied.

  “I can imagine,” and even as I said this, I became aware of the pain in my side again, suddenly not feeling very well myself.

  Regardless of how I felt, I still had to find the Pilus Prior, and I asked Atilius if he saw him go down. For a moment, Atilius acted like he had not heard me, staring off in the distance, and I was about to repeat myself when he raised his left hand, pointing to a place where the wall was breached.

  “I saw him fall into the ditch over there,” he said quietly, then met my inquiring gaze with a shake of his head. “I don’t think you’re going to like what you find over there, Optio. He fell right in the middle of a pack of Gauls, and they tore him to pieces.”

  Gulping, I tried to keep my face impassive, nodding my thanks. Telling him that I would see him soon, I stumbled over to where Atilius indicated, steeling myself for what I would find. Mounting the rampart, I gazed into the ditch, and as much death and killing as I had seen, I still felt my stomach lurch. There was a heap of bodies, yet I could see scattered among them bits and pieces of what obviously had been a Roman Centurion and I felt my jaw clench as I stepped down into the ditch, trying to keep the contents of my stomach down. Atilius was completely accurate; the Pilus Prior had indeed been hacked into pieces, and even today, the thought of what I saw makes my stomach lurch as I break out into a cold sweat. Fighting against my revulsion, I forced myself to gather his remains, placing each piece of him that I found up on the rampart, despite being forced to leave some of him behind because those parts were so badly mangled I could not tell exactly whether or not it was him or a Gaul. Nonetheless, I managed to recover most of his body, and calling the stretcher bearers over, I ordered them to place him on a stretcher to carry him over to where the dead lay. At first they balked, before I convinced them that their fate was going to be very close to his if they refused, so they sullenly piled him onto a stretcher and carried him over, depositing his remains alongside those of our dead who had not yet been moved. Only then, did I sit down, or more accurately fall down, and a medici, seeing my distress came over to examine me. I do not remember much more than this, as I fell backwards, my last memory looking up at the sky.

  Waking up in the field hospital, my sudden movement into consciousness almost caused me to faint again. Waiting for my head to stop spinning, I sat up slowly, looking around as I tried to determine what time it was. Through a flap in the tent I could see it had turned dark; I must have been out almost a full watch. My side felt like it was enclosed in some sort of vice, and I looked down to see a bandage tightly wound around my torso, although it was stained red. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to clean my blood off of me, but I still looked like half of me was dipped in it. My next thought was about my sword; it would be worth a small fortune for anyone sly or stupid enough to steal it. Feeling underneath my cot, I found to my relief that it, along with my blood-encrusted armor, helmet, and harness were there. Giving a short prayer of thanks to the gods, I carefully swung my legs over the edge of the cot, bringing myself to a sitting position. Despite my care, my head began to swim and I was sure that I would pass out in a dead faint, grimly holding onto the sides of the cot with my hands until my head cleared. Then I stood up, feeling my legs shaking but immediately ignored the tremors, telling myself that they were shaking earlier as well. Then with a bit of effort, I dragged my gear out from under the cot, where I almost pitched over again from bending over. That is when it hit me that my Century was without a leader, the memory of what happened to the Pilus Prior flooding back into my head, and I was forced to close my eyes to fight the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me.

  “Here now, Optio,” an accented voice called out, and I turned to see one of the Greeks who worked as a medici hurrying towards me, a worried look on his face. “You’re not well enough to be out of bed just yet,” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing to my cot, his meaning clear. If only he had not snapped his fingers at me, I probably would have listened and obeyed him, but his officious manner made me angry, and I was damned if I would let some civilian give me orders.

  “Go fuck yourself, freedman,” I snapped, causing him to stop dead in his tracks, his face a study in surprise and not a little fear, making me feel better. “I’m going back to my Century, and if you try to stop me, I’ll cut your fucking throat,” I tried to growl in my best impersonation of Pilus Prior Crastinus. Despite it sounding false to me, it clearly gave him enough of a pause that he reluctantly nodded his head. However, while he would not stop me, he would also not expose himself to some sort of punishment. “Very well, Optio,” he replied reluctantly, “but if you insist, I must demand that you sign yourself out. Wait here and I'll bring the necessary paperwork.”

  I could not help but groan out loud, and I saw a shadow of a malicious smile cross his face at my consternation. Was there no escaping paperwork, I thought to myself, even when all I want is to go back to duty? One would think that the army would like to see such dedication in their officers, but apparently not. Nevertheless, I signed out and carrying my gear, walked slowly back to our area, having to stop several times when the dizziness threatened to overwhelm me, one time being forced to sit on a barrel to catch my breath. Clearly I had lost more blood than I thought, but I was still completely focused on getting back to the Century to help prepare our dead for cremation. It is hard to describe how important it is to a Legionary to properly honor our dead, and I imagine that part of it is from a desire that if and when the time comes and it is your turn, that your comrades will give you the same attention and respect. Except it is deeper than that; it is the last way we can honor our friends
and comrades, and it is also our chance to say goodbye, so it is extremely important that we do so in the proper manner. The final butcher’s bill for the Century was a total of seven dead, including the Pilus Prior, and eight wounded, three of them so severely that they would either die before dawn, or if they did survive, their days of marching under the standard were over. Once the rest of the men recovered, we would be marching with 50 effectives; just a bit more than half strength from what took the final oath out of the original dilectus in Hispania, and about two-thirds strength of what started the campaign in Gaul. Now I was acting Pilus Prior, although I did not even consider that the position would be made permanent. The men were gathered around the dead in small groups, each tent section working on their own dead comrade, carefully, indeed one could say lovingly cleaning the body, wiping the blood from the corpse, and doing what they could to close the wounds that killed them. Somehow, by some miracle, the men of my original tent section had again escaped death, the only serious wounds being that of Atilius, and I guess if I counted, myself as well. Vibius saw me approach and in that moment, all the difficulties and disagreements dropped away, his eyes filling with tears at the sight of me. He came running to me and we embraced, holding each other, squeezing tightly despite the pain in my side.