Marching With Caesar- Conquest of Gaul

by R. W. Peake

  “Rabble we may be,” he countered, “but we’re citizens, and we have the right to vote. Rome has been invaded by foreigners, and they’re a large part of the mob now,” he was really warmed up now, “and their influence is equal to that of freeborn Roman citizens like me,” to which he hastily added, “and you, Titus. Surely you see that.”

  In fact I did not see, and even if I did, I did not care. What I cared about was the same thing that I had cared about when I had lied about my age to join the Legions; the opportunity to improve myself and my family’s standing in our society. That and the chance to win glory, for the sake of glory alone. The rest of it, at least as far as I was concerned, was unimportant, and I could not conceal that indifference from my best friend, who found it infuriating.

  “Don’t you see?” he cried out in frustration, “This isn't what our ancestors wanted for us when they drove the kings from Rome. The Republic, as it was first formulated, is the perfect form of government! There's none better anywhere in the known world. If we continue the way we are, we might as well be Greeks!”

  He finished his last statement by spitting into the fire to show his contempt. There are few insults worse for a Roman than being called a Greek, something I always found somewhat puzzling, given that most of the nobles considered their education to be incomplete until they had spent time in Athens or Delphi. As Vibius finished, I remember making a mental note that one day, I would like to visit Greece. Little did I know that I would get my wish, just not in the way I hoped.

  However brutal Caesar’s actions may have been, they did serve to quell the appetite of the Germans to cross the Rhenus, since they now knew that the days of easy plunder were over. To emphasize the point, Caesar marched us to the banks of the great river, whereupon he performed perhaps his greatest feat of engineering. To be fair, his praefecti fabrorum were the ones who did the brunt of the work, but Caesar possessed a keen mind for problems involving engineering, and it was on crossing the Rhenus to which he turned his attention. On the opposite side lay the hordes of Germania, from where the incursions into Gaul that so disrupted the peace emanated. Caesar made the decision to give the Germans an example of what Rome could do if it chose, commanding the building of a bridge. The spot chosen was at a point in between two islands, the river being about two furlongs wide at this point, and despite being a good distance, was still the narrowest point where the ground on both sides was suitable. Immediately put to work, the entire army, save the 14th which served as a guard, chopped down the trees necessary to construct a bridge sufficiently large to allow the passage of the army and all its baggage. We were lucky that this area was heavily forested; indeed, the trees were so thick that there was a permanent gloom that was present no matter the time of the day within the confines of the forest, just like the lands of the Morini. Such trifles are not enough to stop an army of Rome and we were set to the work, which we performed with a will, knowing that we were part of history in the making. There had never been a bridge across the Rhenus, and this was yet another demonstration of the superiority of Rome that we were only too happy to demonstrate to the Germans across the river, their scouts watching in dismay from the opposite bank at the work being done. One day more than a week later, the bridge was completed, stretching the distance over the river, originating about 50 paces on our side, and terminating about 50 paces on the opposite bank. Being Caesar’s favorite Legion, we were given the honor, after Caesar himself and his cavalry bodyguard of course, of being the first to march across, and all of us, Vibius included, did so with a large amount of pride. This bridge was living proof of the might of Rome, the tromping of our boots only serving to emphasize that point. The next two weeks were spent burning the crops in the fields that were just beginning to ripen, and putting every farm we found to the torch, while killing every Sugambri, the tribe that lived in that region, within our reach. We did not follow the stream of Germans that we saw fleeing into the great forest at our approach, for the same reason as always. Once Caesar deemed we set enough of an example, we marched back to the bridge, crossing back to our side of the Rhenus, whereupon Caesar ordered the bridge to be partially destroyed, leaving the approach and piers supporting them on our side of the river intact as a warning that we would not hesitate to come back.

  With the end of the campaign season not far away, it led to speculation among us that Caesar would deem our subjugation of the Usipetes and Tencteri, along with our foray across the Rhenus enough, but he still had things for us to do. For yet another time we found ourselves marching back west, but the farther we marched the more rampant the rumors grew about where we were headed, and as seasoned as we may have been by this time, as confident in ourselves and our leader as we were, it was not without some trepidation on our part with which we faced our immediate future. Crossing back across the Mosa, the river by now seeming like an old friend, we continued marching west, making our way through the rough hills and forests of our old enemies the Nervii, for the second time that season marching past the battleground at the river. Once through the hills, the land grew flatter and flatter, though there were still huge stands of forests that this time we negotiated a path around rather than through, making our progress even slower. After it appeared that we put the forests behind us, we began passing through land that seemed to have a river or stream of some sort every mile, with much of the terrain in between being marshy, which of course we had to steer clear of because of our wagons. None of the Centurions said anything, yet there was a clear sense of urgency that made every delay, no matter how short, an occasion that brought out the best cursing that our officers had to offer. This did not help the mood of the army any, the speculation and rumors becoming more and more pointed and focused on one, and only one possibility. One night, Vibius finally spoke out loud what we were all secretly thinking, and dreading.

  “Caesar wants to sail to Britannia,” Vibius announced at the evening meal.

  We had just finished a particularly trying day that saw us move into an area of ground that, on the surface, looked normal yet was incredibly soft and spongy. By the time the decision was made to change direction to find firmer ground, two Legions, including the 10th, found ourselves ankle deep in some sort of muck that proved incredibly difficult to clean off. The moment Vibius said it, it was as if we all let out a collective breath at the same time, like some invisible dam just burst, with all of our thoughts and concerns pouring out. There was a babble of voices as all of my tentmates sought to contribute whatever nugget of information they had heard at some time in their lives about Britannia.

  “It’s a myth; there’s no such thing,” Atilius was adamant about this. “It’s a tale put out by a band of pirates who prey on anyone stupid enough to believe it exists and go looking for it.”

  “If that’s true, where exactly are these pirates hiding? They’re not anywhere on the coast of Gaul or we’d have heard about it.” Scribonius could always be counted on to think things through.

  This flummoxed Atilius for a moment, then he shrugged and retorted, “I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. It’s still a myth.”

  We mercilessly hooted at this, but Atilius was nothing if he was not stubborn; it was not often that he ventured an idea of his own, so when he did he was not going to let something as trivial as logic get in the way.

  “It exists all right, but the reason nobody has ever set foot on it and lived to tell the tale is because of the huge monsters that are between the coast of Gaul and Britannia. If they don’t get you going over, they get you coming back.” Vellusius was no less certain than Atilius, and this idea had the merit of not being overtly ridiculous. We all knew as a matter of course that there are huge monsters that roam the waves, preying on those unfortunate souls who wander too far from the sight of shore. That is why so few who venture far out to sea return.

  “That’s all nonsense,” this was Calienus, who had dropped by our tent to chat with his old friends. He still carried a slight limp from the wound he had suffe
red, but it did not slow him down and if it pained him, he kept it to himself. “There’re no monsters at sea. It’s on the island itself. The men of Britannia are giants, the shortest is more than ten feet tall.”

  “And how could you possibly know this?” demanded Vibius, who apparently was none too pleased that the thunder of his announcement was taken over by speculation about the fate that awaited us. The fact was that we absolutely believed him. All of us were convinced that Caesar was intent on going to Britannia, so we had moved onto the next logical subject, and that was what awaited us when we got there.

  “From Gisela,” Calienus said seriously.

  Gisela was a girl who had joined the camp followers in the last year. She was a Suessiones, and was much different than most of the other women who were part of the contingent of people following the army. Where they were dark, she was extremely fair, with hair the color of copper and freckles sprinkled across her nose, which unlike our proud Roman noses was more snubbed, although for some strange reason it enhanced her beauty rather than detracted from it. She had a wondrous figure, but her most striking feature were her eyes, a green that was almost as rich and deep as the grass that grew in her country. She was a sensation, and could have had her choice of any man in the Legion, Tribunes included, except for some reasons that none of us could understand, she chose to be Calienus’ woman. We regularly cursed his luck.

  “She had a kinsman who married a woman from the Menapii tribe, and they do business with the people on the island. He told her, and she told me. She said that he told her that they’re all huge, and they practice a religion that requires them to sacrifice a human being on special days.” That struck us to silence; although we had heard of peoples who practiced such rituals, we had not heard of what he described next. “After the person is sacrificed, every one of the tribe has to eat a piece of the flesh of the person.”

  There were exclamations of disgust at that, and I searched Calienus’ face intently for a clue that he was trying to put one over on us, but his face was deadly serious. With that piece of good news, he bade us goodnight to ponder our fates.

  Reaching the coast at a point far to the north of Samarobriva, the army took notice that we were the farthest west and north than we had been in the three almost full years of campaigning in Gaul to that point. I mentioned some time ago that our principal observation was that winter comes earlier the farther north you get, though for what reason I cannot say, and now we had the added element of the wind coming off of the ocean. We were told that this spot we were at was the point closest to Britannia, and we waited there a few days as Caesar sent word to find every available transport ship. At the same time he sent one of his Tribunes, Gaius Volusenus, to reconnoiter the coast of Britannia to find a suitable landing area. Caesar’s fame always preceded him wherever he went, and this time was no exception. The camp was abuzz with the news that a ship arrived, carrying emissaries from the tribes that lived on the island, and we all sought excuses to be near the Praetorium when they were presented to Caesar. It should not surprise anyone to know that, with men dropping all pretense of work to come running to examine our guests, there was spirited wagering going on about their appearance. That story of the ten foot tall men was about to be put to the test; surely, men argued, that if there were such specimens of manhood to be found on the island the Britons would send these men as the emissaries to Caesar. There was the usual announcement at the gate that there were visitors on official business, requesting an audience with Caesar, which was promptly granted. The gates swung open, with the men standing on the tips of their toes to be one of the first to glimpse the delegation. After all, there was now money at stake and such is the nature of man that each of us feel we must be the first to know which way the dice falls when we have coin riding on it. The delegation was mounted, if one could call it that, on some of the smallest horses we had ever seen, with great shaggy coats and long unkempt tails. In dress, I could see the similarities between themselves and their Gallic cousins, but that is where the resemblance ended. Meanwhile, the crowd of men alternately let out groans of disappointment or yells of exultation, depending on which way they bet, because they were by all appearances normal-sized men, not a giant in the lot. This racket clearly confused our guests, who peered at us with what looked like mild concern at our behavior. Primus Pilus Favonius started bellowing out orders to disperse, and we quickly returned to our normal duties. What struck me and my friends the most was not so much what they wore in the way of clothes but the way in which they decorated their faces. We would come to know this style very well over the course of the next two seasons, but this was the first time we saw any men who put designs on their face and chests using some sort of blue paint.

  The emissaries had gotten wind of Caesar’s intentions, via traders and I suspect spies among the Gallic tribes along the coast who had developed a lucrative partnership with the Britons on the island and did not want to see it disrupted. These Britons offered their obedience to Rome, which Caesar accepted, while in order to assure their good faith, he sent back with them to Britannia a Gaul named Commius. Caesar had selected Commius as king of the Atrebates and considered the man a friend who supposedly carried some influence with the tribes of Britannia. Also working in our favor was the submission of the Morini, the tribe in whose lands we were camped, and who fought us the year before. They were now coming as supplicants begging forgiveness, claiming that they were led astray by the firebrands and hotheads in their tribe. This was a welcome development, since it did not make any of us sleep easier knowing that we were surrounded by a tribe that had been our bitter enemy not so long ago. While these diplomatic events were taking place, the shipping that Caesar needed to accomplish his goal was being assembled, except it was not of sufficient numbers to carry the whole army, in one trip anyway. Five days after he departed, Volusenus’ ship sailed back up the estuary and into the harbor that our camp overlooked, reporting to Caesar that he had found a suitable landing for the Legions that Caesar would bring with him. There was much speculation, and much wagering, on which Legions would be asked to accompany Caesar on this momentous event, and it is fair to say that the 10th considered their inclusion to be as close to certain as possible. This did not make us any more popular with the rest of the army, yet they were forced to accept, however grudgingly, that Caesar trusted us above all others in his army, a fact that we were always quick to point out whenever we had the opportunity. Many a brawl was started in this manner during the winter months.

  The most Caesar could muster was 80 transports for a total of two Legions, with ourselves and the 7th being selected. The 7th had acquitted themselves with distinction under young Crassus down south, so their reward for their valor was to be included in this historic event. I cannot lie; there were considerably mixed feelings about being selected to accompany Caesar. On the one hand, we were aware it was a tremendous honor. On the other, our fear and superstitions were given free rein, and I believe it was with some malice that the men of the other Legions did what they could to fan the flames of our doubt. As was his habit, Caesar did not tarry; Volusenus was back in port less than a full day when he gave the order that we would be embarking during the next night. We were told not to pack like we were going to be gone long, and it was with some trepidation that we left non-essential items behind with the invalids and shirkers who would be staying behind to guard our gear. What the army deemed non-essential items tended to be things that we valued and cherished the most, for a variety of reasons, thereby making them more valuable to our fellow Legionaries. Packed up, we marched down to the harbor to begin the process of loading onto the transports. Caesar was also bringing a few hundred cavalry, although they were destined to never show up on the island, thanks to storms that drove them further down the coast to seek shelter. Loading the transports was an irksome and boring process, with each transport only carrying at the most two Centuries. Each Century had to troop up the gangplank onto the ship then arrange themselves accordi
ng to the wishes of the master of the ship before it moved out into the harbor to await the others. Fortunately, or so we thought at the time, we loaded by Cohort, so that the Second was early in the loading process. What we did not take into account was the fact that until everyone was aboard we would have to wait, the only difference being whether it was onboard ship or not, and we gave the men who crewed our vessel great cause for amusement as most of us began to get sick almost immediately.

  “If your stomach can’t handle the harbor, we’re going to have our hands full when we put out into the channel,” laughed the senior man of the ship, whose title I do not know.

  His jest we did not find amusing in the slightest, although he was right. Once we reached the open sea, which the crew of the ship took great delight in telling us was really just a relatively protected channel, we were even sicker than in the harbor, something I did not think possible. This was far worse than our experience on the barges during the campaign in Lusitania, we unanimously agreed, with men continually running to the side to empty the contents of their stomach. It was in this state that we began our great adventure.

  The ships carrying us sailed through the night, while some of the warships holding not only Caesar but the contingent of archers and the artillery that we were taking pulled far ahead. These artillery pieces carried by the warships were mounted so that they could fire from the ships. To the galleys went the honor of being the first to sight the isle of which we had heard so much yet knew so little. Meanwhile, behind them sloshed the transports, bucking and pitching as they fought through the current that seemed to be conspiring against us. With the dawn approaching, we roused ourselves from our stupor to gather along the sides of the boat to peer anxiously towards the west, wagers being made about who would be the first to sight land. Finally, about the first part of the watch after dawn, a shout arose as the sharpest eye among us pointed to his find, and money or markers changed hands. Naturally, we all strained our eyes and could just make out what appeared to be a…….white line? In our limited experience, land would show up as a black or perhaps green line on the horizon, except Britannia was different. We could make out a white line that we were sure were not the whitecaps of waves and immediately wagering began on whether what we were seeing was snow. While we could not credit the idea that snow would be falling this early in the year, there was no denying what we were seeing, and I was among those who were sure that this Britannia was a land that was perhaps encased in perpetual ice and snow. How else could one explain why so few people had visited?