by R. W. Peake
“Pullus! Get me a butcher’s bill immediately.” Automatically I answered, my mind struggling with what needed to be done next.
Ah yes, I thought, the butcher’s bill, the list of casualties, dead and wounded. I remember thinking to myself that it should not be a very long list; I had fought in enough battles to sense how hard the fighting was on our side, and this one was going to be fairly light. And it was, in a manner of speaking. In other ways, however, it was one of the most costly battles we ever fought.
Moving among the Century, I asked each Sergeant for their list of dead and wounded, and as I thought, the list was very short. It was only as we were forming up that I noticed a spot missing in the formation, my heart resuming its hammering in my chest at the sight of the empty place. Our wounded were already carried off, and I was sure I had an accurate count of them; only four men were wounded severely enough to need a litter. I began moving along the line where our Century had been fighting, but it was only after I moved some bodies of Gallic dead, along with one wounded Gaul who I finished off, that I found him. Calienus was already dead; his eyes staring openly at the sky, a gash across his throat making it look like he had an extra mouth. I have mentioned before the problem with the Gallic long sword, that it is a slashing weapon, not a stabbing weapon, and being such it means that there are relatively few spots where a slash can kill instantly. Somehow, an either incredibly skilled or incredibly lucky Gaul found his mark, and now Calienus was dead. Beloved Calienus, my first Sergeant and a good friend, a man who had been through so many battles and skirmishes that I could not count, had somehow been slain. Without thinking, and in truth without much caring, I let out a cry of anguish while falling to my knees. My tentmates, hearing me, broke formation to come rushing to my side and when they saw who was lying there, joined me in our moment of anguish. I felt tears running down my face, except for some reason I was unashamed of them at this moment, perhaps because I was not alone, as I looked up to see both Scribonius and Vibius across from me, their faces marked by the anguish I felt. Even Didius knelt beside us, his tears mingling with the rest of ours in our grief at the loss of this man, this veteran who was our first and best friend when we were tirones, raw youth with nothing more than a dream of being a Legionary. It was Calienus who took the time to explain the reasons for some of the things we were forced to do, who commiserated with us when we needed commiseration, and had been harsh with us when we needed that. Now, he was dead, and I was stunned to find how much it actually hurt.
Despite running from the wall, the men from the other Legions stopped on their own once they reached the point the ground got level to re-form and were now standing there, waiting for the charge of the Gauls. However, the enemy had experienced enough and were already streaming back up the hill, stopping only long enough to shake their weapons at us, shouting cries of exultation that rang bitterly in our ears. The men of the 13th and the 10th were ordered to march back down the hill once it was clear that the Gauls were done for the day, and it was an incredibly quiet and somber army that returned to the main camp via the double trench. It was no surprise; while the 10th’s casualties were extremely light, no matter how painful they may have been to some of us, the Legions that took place in the assault could not say the same. An incredible number of Centurions, 46 total, along with some 700 Gregarii were killed. The rest of that day and all that night were spent in sending our slain brothers to the afterlife, followed by the inevitable reorganization that came from having so many officers slain. Some Optios from our Legion were promoted and transferred to the junior Cohorts of the other Legions who had suffered, in order to fill the slots for each Century. I was not considered, having been Optio barely two years, yet it still stung a little that I was not selected, such was my hubris. The remains of our dead were consigned to the flames, a heavy pall of black smoke hanging over the camp, which was fitting because it matched our mood. This was the first time we had ever tasted defeat, and even we in the 10th retched from its bitterness. The Gauls were openly celebrating; even from a distance we could see large fires lit as they feasted and congratulated each other for doing what had always been deemed impossible, especially by us. In our area, we held our own ceremony for Calienus, making offerings to the gods of a white lamb as a sign of how highly we thought of him. I do not know why, but by some unspoken consent the rest of the Century designated that I would be the one to tell Gisela, and it triggered in me a most confusing flood of feelings. I was genuinely heartbroken at the loss of Calienus; it was the death that hit me the hardest up to that point out of all the men we lost. Yet I cannot deny that there was a sudden thrill of excitement when I was told that it should be me telling Gisela the news. It was in this state of confusion that I left the camp on a pass signed by the Primus Pilus, late that night. Our work was done; Calienus’ ashes were interred in the burial urn, along with the four other men who died from our Legion that day, but the other Legions were still going on with their rites, the night sky lit by their funeral pyres, creating dancing shadows as I walked, lost in thought. I was not sure what I was going to say, even less sure where exactly to find her. The shantytowns that spring up outside a marching camp are never as neatly arranged or organized as the camp itself, although people did tend to place themselves more or less in the same area from one camp to the next. There were even streets of sorts between the tents and makeshift shelters attached to the wagon of someone or another. Gisela was traveling as a barmaid for the same wine shop that she had been working for the last couple of years; her cousin was the owner, as I recall. During a siege, or any protracted stay in one place, the more permanent the structures used for shelter and which did double duty as shops during business hours became. It mattered not; within a watch of the word that camp was being broken, the village would disappear, a line of wagons, mules, men, women and children then materializing, ready to march. All of this was virtually ignored by Caesar, along with every other commander of a Roman army, if he knew what was good for him. Not only did these people provide valuable services; the mending and replacing of lost items that would otherwise be drawn from army stores, the washing and mending of clothes that gave us the time for other duties, while relationships formed between the men in the army and the women who were part of this group that the Legionaries viewed as solid a bond as any official marriage. All that was asked of the camp followers was that they stay out of the way and not impede us on the march, neither of which they ever did. Now, I was walking along on my way to tell one of those women that her man was dead and passing through the gates, I realized that I was hardly alone. An unusually large number of men, most of them Optios like me, were walking towards the civilian encampment. I could tell by their grim expressions that they were on the same errand as I was. Without anyone saying anything, we all banded together so that we were walking in a group, almost like we were in formation. Approaching the camp, I thought to myself that the finding her part might be easier anyway, because just like we banded together, there was a large gathering of women standing at the edge of their camp, watching us approach. It was then that I realized that this must be old routine for them by now. Just because it was my first time to make this trip, it did not mean it was theirs. I will never forget the different expressions the women wore on their face as they watched us approach. Some were fearful, clutching their hands tightly together, their mouths clearly trembling. Others stood there as if they were waiting for confirmation of something they already knew, with a look of resignation that screamed out “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?” But what surprised me was that more than one woman stood there looking angry, their hands on their hips, glaring at us as if daring us to be headed to them.
Once we drew closer, one of the other Optios muttered, “I hate this cac. And I’ve got three women to tell tonight.”
We gave him a look of sympathy; that was an unusually high number. Without any order being given, the whole group stopped, still several paces away from the women, and for a moment both
sides stood there, staring at each other, neither side wanting to do what had to be done.
“Let’s get this over with.”
It was the same Optio who had spoken first, just before he broke from the group, calling out a woman’s name, followed by the name of the man with whom she was associated. This triggered the rest of us and we waded into the group, as I used my height to see if I could see the red head of hair that belonged to Gisela. It was not long before there was a shriek of unspeakable grief, followed by sobbing, and that was just the beginning. By the time I searched through the crowd of women to see that she was not there, I was surrounded by women wracked with grief, some falling to their knees, some offering support to others, all of them crying.
Grimly making my way through the group, I tried to get my bearings and remember what part of the encampment the wine shop usually occupied. While most of the other merchants, once they had established a clientele, more or less picked the same spot so that their customers could find them easily, the same was not true for wine shops. Experience taught them that off-duty men are not particularly loyal to one shop or another, preferring to just drop into the first one that is suitable for their tastes and budget. That meant that there was always a scramble among the wine shop merchants for the most lucrative locations, so I was not particularly optimistic that Gisela would be in the last place I saw her in the last camp spot I visited. Nevertheless, I had to start somewhere, so I headed in that general direction. Behind me, the wailing and mourning was picking up in intensity, as more women were informed of the fate of their men. Not all the women were there; like me, I spied a few other men prowling the streets, calling out a woman’s name. Deciding that I would only start yelling Gisela’s name if I did not have initial luck in finding her, I continued walking, arriving at where I thought she might be. Coming to a stop, I heaved a sigh of relief; hanging above one tent was the sign for the wine shop. Apparently they weren’t worried about their location, I thought, walking towards what served as the front door of the shop. Before I got there, however, a figure stepped out and while I recognized that it was a woman, it took me a moment before it registered that it was Gisela. Once I recognized her, I stopped abruptly, my call to her dying in my throat before it left my mouth. What was I going to say? It did not matter; coming out for a breath of fresh air, as she was giving a casual glance up the street before she walked back in she turned and saw me. Holding the flap back, she was illuminated by the lamps within, so I saw her standing there staring at me, and I watched the progression of emotion play across her face. Looking puzzled for a brief instant, she started to smile when she recognized me, then just as quickly, the smile vanished as she realized why I was there. I had yet to say a word but she already knew, her hand dropping the flap as she took a staggering step backward before some inner voice got her back in hand. Stopping where I was, I watched even as she received and understood my message before I began walking towards her. Despite my resolve, I heard my voice shake, as I began what I had prepared in my mind to say.
“Gisela, I've come to tell you……..”
I got no further, because I could not keep my composure, once again feeling hot tears running down my face. The shame of crying in front of a woman washed over me, only making things worse and I lost sight of her as my tears blinded me, so I jumped a bit when I felt her hand on my arm, touching the bandages lightly as she stepped closer towards me.
“He’s gone, Gisela,” I blurted out, shaking my head in sadness, my vision clearing a bit so I saw that while her eyes were liquid and shiny, the tears had not started running yet, and she had not yet said a word.
Finally, she spoke and her voice, while composed, betrayed the effort she was making to keep it so. “Thank you Titus Pullus, for coming here to tell me this news. I…..”
She got no further, the dam suddenly bursting and she began sobbing, collapsing into my arms. By reflex, I put my arms around her, savagely trying to repress the thought that this was the most natural thing in the world, that it was as if she were made to fit in my arms. Self-loathing filled my soul, yet it only made me cry more, and there we stood, for how long I know not, emptying our grief into each other.
After we regained possession of ourselves, we entered the wine shop and I found myself repeating the news to the owner, who burst into tears himself. Calienus was well loved, his death a cause of grief to many people. I sat at a table, with Gisela automatically bringing wine and two cups. Then to my surprise, she sat down with me, pouring herself a cupful.
Once our cups were full, we paused for a moment, and then I said quietly, “To Calienus. One of the best friends I ever had.”
Even as we clinked our cups together in salute, I felt the tears coming again, but I just managed to blink them back. It was bad enough that I unmanned myself in front of Gisela, I was not about to do it in front of anyone else. Instead, I cleared my throat and continued, perhaps a bit too gruffly, “Well, I suppose you’ll be going back to your people then.”
She did not say anything for a moment, just regarding me quietly before shaking her head. I could not help noticing a teardrop falling to land perfectly in the middle of her wine cup. Appropriate, I thought. Waiting for another moment, I then opened my mouth to speak but she broke the silence first.
“I cannot go back to my people, Pullus. They will not have me.”
I was surprised at this, but pleasantly so, I am ashamed to say. I made no attempt to hide it, either, at least the surprised part. “Really?” I asked. “Why’s that? You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I gave myself to my people’s enemy, Titus,” she replied softly, with more than a tinge of bitterness.
“Surely they’ve accepted Rome by now, haven’t they?” I know now how naïve a question it was.
What could be described as scorn flitted across her face, but since she could tell I meant no harm, her expression softened. “No Titus, they have not accepted it. Nor, I fear, will they ever accept it.”
“Then, why did you join up with us? Why do you follow us?”
She shrugged, still staring at the table. Finally, she answered simply, “I fell in love.” I was confused, and seeing it, she continued. “I came to see the Romans for myself because I had heard so much about them. At first, I thought you were puny little men,” she laughed, “not you of course Titus. But you are almost a giant among your people. So I will admit that at first I was not impressed. Then, my cousin opened this shop, and I decided to spend some time working here so that I could understand Romans better.”
This was nothing short of astonishing to me, and I could not resist blurting out, “But how did you get to do this? Surely your father didn’t approve.”
She laughed again, and I felt better that I was at least making her laugh at this time.
“Titus, Gallic women are much different from Roman women. We can choose who we marry, for example.”
While I had heard this, I never credited it as true, yet here was a Gallic woman telling me so!
“And I was always my father’s favorite. Besides, I told him that I was only working here to learn the habits of our enemy, and that one day that information would be put to good use. Then,” the laughter in her ceased, sadness descending once more, “this man named Calienus came into the shop. And he talked to me like no other man had ever talked to me.”
Despite myself, I leaned forward in order to glean any information that might help me win her heart. It is hard to describe the conflicting emotions that were running through me. Calienus’ ashes were barely cool, yet here I was, trying to find a way to win her for myself. Immediately another part of my mind answered, why not? Why not you, because you know that there will be men sniffing around her first thing tomorrow. You at least know her and treasure her for who she is, and not just because of how she looks. Or so I told myself anyway. Completely oblivious to my inner turmoil, she continued.
“He did not talk to me the way a man talks to a woman he wants to sleep with.”
To my horror, I could feel a flush creeping up my face at these words. She either ignored or did not see it.
“No, he talked to me as if I were an equal, a person whose opinion he valued, not just as some trophy that he could brag to his friends about.”
As she said this, I realized it was true. In fact, it was how we learned that Calienus had a woman, not because of what he said, but what he refused to talk about. And when someone, even in jest, spoke too lewdly about her Calienus would be all over them in an instant. This is good to remember, I thought to myself as I listened, although it puzzled me. There is nothing a man likes more than for his woman to brag about him to other women, yet apparently this is not so with women.
“So, he would come in, and we would just talk.”
“Talk about what?” I was intensely curious about this.