The Noise of War

by Vincent B Davis II

  “You are mistaken,” I shouted out. “We are Romans, and we have no master.”

  Marius arrived below the walls along with his guard, and hollered up at us. “Who is it?”

  “The Teutones, I believe, General. They want to talk with you.” The Gaul turned to the others and whispered a translation of my words.

  Marius deliberated for a moment, and then gave the signal for the gates to be opened.

  “Bows at the low ready.” I passed the word down the wall to our auxilia bowmen, who each notched an arrow but kept it hidden from our enemy.

  “Why have you come here?” Marius said, halting before them, several guardsmen on either side with a hand on their swords.

  “We wish to offer you one last chance to surrender,” one of the Teutones said, his words translated by the Gaul.

  “We will not surrender. Have you any other offers?” Marius replied quickly, not pausing to consider.

  “King Teutobod would like to meet with you. Will you accept his generous offer?”

  Now Marius took a moment to consider his answer.

  “When?”

  None of us knew why he didn’t refuse the offer outright, and perhaps Marius didn’t either. Maybe it was simply curiosity.

  “This evening. We can share a cup of your wine before we shed your blood,” the Teutone ambassador replied.

  It might not sound like it, but this was quite an insult. If they had access to our wine, it meant that they had attacked and destroyed one of our allies.

  “I will meet with your king,” Marius said, and turned at once, his cape whipping in the wind behind him.

  “Tell me, Tribune, is it a trap? You know them better than anyone,” Marius asked me as I joined him in his quarters.

  “I don’t know, sir. I wasn’t in their camp. I do know they met with Maximus before the battle of Arausio, and showed no signs of betrayal until Caepio attacked them.”

  Marius sat back in his chair and allowed Volsenio to lather his face with oil and begin shaving him.

  “It is risky,” one of Marius’s legates said, but Marius was already lost in his own thoughts.

  “Tribune Sertorius, I’ll have you attend the parlay with me. Perhaps the Teutones speak with a tongue similar to the Cimbri.”

  “I don’t believe they do, sir,” I said. I hadn’t been able to understand a word the barbarian ambassador had spoken.

  “Regardless. You survived Arausio, now you’ve infiltrated the Cimbri camp, saved eight prisoners, and made it back alive… You seem to have powerful gods watching over you. If I am to enter the lion’s den, I’d prefer to have someone with friends like that with me,” he said as Volsenio finished shaving his neck. “Equus, you too. I want you to command my guard. Your father will be displeased with me for this, but he knew the risks when he allowed you to join me.”

  “Yes, General,” Equus replied, unperturbed.

  “Go, all of you.” Marius flung his hand toward the exit. “Shit, bathe, and shave. We will leave at the ninth hour.”

  I followed Marius’s orders, but took more time to pray than anything. I spoke with my father and brother, and with all our household gods, who now seemed so far away. I feared that soon they would become impatient with my pleading for safety in ludicrous, impossible situations. But they had protected me thus far.

  I fixed a saddle on Sura, and led her to the gates for the first time since we’d met the Tectosages in battle. I scratched behind her ear to offer some comfort, but I could tell by her jitters that she expected more of the same.

  “Into the mouth of Cerberus, then,” Equus said as we met up outside the gates.

  “Leave your Greek myths in the city,” Marius said. “We enter the Teutone camp. It’s much more intimidating than a three-headed dog, if you ask me.”

  “You don’t seem so intimidated, General,” Equus said, not dissuaded by the rebuke.

  “I am. But not as intimidated as they should be of me,” Marius said. “Ya!” he whipped his horse to a gallop, and we hurried to follow after him.

  I was shocked by how quickly we arrived. It was no more than an hour or two’s ride. The sun was still high in the sky as the Teutones’ vast outfit poured into view.

  “Should we advance?” Equus asked.

  “No. If they want to meet, they’ll do so on my terms,” Marius replied. “Lift your flag high, boy,” Marius said to the banner carrier of his guard.

  We waited for some time, wondering whether or not they had spotted us.

  “Are you nervous, Tribune?” a member of the guard asked Equus. He himself was visibly shaking in his lorica.

  “Not in the slightest. I’ll die when I die. I can’t add one moment to my life by worrying, any more than I can make hair grow on my head,” Equus said, generating a laugh because, even though not yet twenty years old, there was a bald spot atop the crown of his head. “If I had the choice, I think I’d take the hair.”

  After hours of waiting, we saw a detachment of horsemen separate from the endless throng of Teutone warriors.

  “I can’t see, is that something?” Marius asked, squinting to make out the shapes in the distance. Even with two operating eyes, his vision was poorer than mine.

  “It is, sir. That’s them.”

  Only four riders approached us. They clearly weren’t as intimidated as Marius believed they ought to be.

  I identified King Teutobod immediately. Although I had never seen him, his authority was undeniable. Even bobbing on his horse, there was a certain swagger that caught my eye. On top of that, the quality of his golden breastplate, which burned orange in the fading sunlight, was finer than all the rest. He clearly took the first and the last of their spoils, whatever suited him best.

  Among the others, he stood the largest, his arms sculpted and his legs shaped like tree trunks. I guess, in a culture like theirs, you don’t last long as king unless you can defend yourself.

  His eyes shone with curiosity and perhaps humor as he sized us up. He was already imagining if he could fit into our breastplates or gauntlets.

  “Greetings from King Teutobod,” he said. One of his men translated. How he knew Latin, I do not know.

  “I am Consul Gaius Marius, leader of the freed people of the Roman Republic.” Marius didn’t look to the interpreter but kept his eyes fixed on the king.

  “Our ambassadors said you will not surrender. Is this true?”

  “The Romans never surrender,” Marius said. A few of the Teutones chuckled and exchanged playful glances.

  “Perhaps you should. The Romans should learn when they are beaten.”

  “The Romans are never beaten.” Marius was unconcerned by their response. I was afraid his tender dignitas would be offended, and he might fly into one of his famous rages. But here, atop his black stallion, he remained cool and composed.

  “What have you come to propose?” the king asked.

  Marius nodded and considered his reply for a moment. “That you return to Spain. Enjoy the spoils of those lesser tribes. Find some land to settle in, plow your fields, and have your women. But do not try to fight Rome again.”

  The Teutone king tilted his head sidelong as if confused by what he heard, but I felt certain the interpreter had translated Marius properly.

  “I plead with you,” Marius said again, “return to where you came from. I did not come with trebuchets and war horses. I did not come to kill you. I’ll allow you to live this once. But if you come a foot closer, I will kill you all.” Marius’s eyes were locked with the king’s.

  The Teutone king now let his head back, allowing his laughter to pour out freely. It echoed across the rolling hills of the Rhône valley.

  “I will see you in battle. I’ll have your head on the tip of this spear”—Teutobod hoisted the point of his weapon—“then I will plow your land, and have your women.”

  Teutobod wheeled his horse around and galloped off toward his army.

  We stood still for a few moments.

  “Well, th
at was unproductive,” Equus said on an exhale.

  “More productive then you might think,” Marius said, turning his horse and beginning to trot back toward camp.

  “How so?”

  “I hope he relays my message.” He turned and looked at each one of us. “Now they have a choice.”

  23

  Scroll XXIII

  One day before the ides of March 652 ab urbe condita

  The Teutones began to move the next day. I couldn’t help but climbing to the guard tower to steal a glance. Their numbers were endless: spear tips and golden helms shone farther than my eye could see.

  Marius had situated our camp on a narrow hilltop in between the Rhône and Isère Rivers. To most, it would have been a position of strategic value, but as I watched the Teutones massing in the distance—and saw the furious rapids of the Rhône to one side and the Isère on the other—I remembered Arausio, and felt the rush of the cold waters as they engulfed me that day.

  An assembly was called for the officers. We meet in Marius’s praetorium, as was his custom.

  “If they desire battle, they could be upon us by sundown,” Marius’s new second-in-command, Manius Aquillius said, a grieved look on his face. He had a narrow face with thin, pursed lips as rigid as his posture. Aquillius’s eyes were deep set and seemed sad, but I never recall him expressing emotion of any kind. He was a man cut from the same cloth as Marius: discipline and order in all things.

  “We shall not give it to them,” Marius said, equally as grim.

  Lucius and I stood to the back of the room and watched as the men poured over a map, little blue flags indicating the known locations of the enemy, a silver eagle designating our fort.

  “All due respect, General,” Equus said, “but I’m not sure they require our permission to initiate contact.” Tribunes were allowed to attend such meetings, but Equus hadn’t yet learned that war councils were for the legates and the generals—we were allowed entry for procedure and ceremony more than anything else. I could see that some of the legates were unhappy, but Equus’s point was well taken.

  “They can initiate contact all they like. But these walls are strong,” Marius retorted.

  “So if they assault the walls, we will not retaliate?” Aquillius asked, as concerned as Cinna was.

  “No, we will not.” Marius’s gruff voice boomed out, making it clear that he would receive no pushback on the matter. “We aren’t yet prepared to meet them.”

  I could tell by the faces of others that we all shared the same thoughts: What are we waiting on, then? If we aren’t ready now, when will we be?

  “Where is our quaestor? Somebody find me the damn quaestor!” Marius shouted. Lucius hurried out of the tent to find him.

  As we waited for his arrival, Marcus Marellus appeared. He was still recovering from his time in the Cimbri camp, so he swayed from fatigue as if he were drunk. Regardless, his bone-thin frame was clad in a legate’s armor. He’d insisted on being restored to his position, and Marius had eventually agreed.

  “Sorry I’m late. The medicus was supposed to wake me,” Marcellus said.

  Marius seemed displeased. Perhaps not as much with Marcellus as with himself for allowing the man to take over a legion in such a condition. But who could refuse the man after he had endured so much?

  “Anything?” Marcellus asked again, but no one answered him.

  The quaestor entered and gave a panicked salute. “Sir!”

  “How is our water supply?” Marius asked.

  “Water supply? Adequate, sir.”

  “Gather all the surplus water we have and take it to the gates. They’ll come with fire, and we’ll need something to quench it. Leave only enough to last us the week,” Marius said.

  The quaestor stood by helpless for a moment, wanting further clarification.

  “What did I just say? Go!” Marius shouted, and the quaestor sprinted away as if the Reds were after him.

  I wondered if Marius had gone mad. Had all of the tales about him been embellished? How could we remain in our fort while a horde of angry warriors careened toward us?

  I could see hesitation in the general’s eyes. I could tell he, too, was concerned. But his choice had been made. We would wait them out.

  “Now, all of you, listen to me. Go to your men. Tell them to array atop the walls. I want them to look into the faces of their enemy and see who it is that we fight. We’ll repel the Teutones with arrows and pila, but nothing more,” Marius said. “Inspect our men and their weapons and ensure they’re prepared for whatever lies ahead. Leave the cavalry in the stables. We have no use for them now.”

  We could already hear the stamping of a hundred thousand angry Teutones in the distance as we exited the praetorium.

  “I hope they don’t have siege equipment,” I said to Lucius as we walked.

  “They don’t. They can’t. Those barbarians? All they know is to rush at our walls like water on rock,” he said, ever faithful to Marius. I didn’t mention the fact that the Teutones had broken through Maximus’s walls at Arausio, but I didn’t have to. I knew my friend well. And I could tell by his darting glances and the trembling of his hands that he was as concerned as I was.

  We split up and I made my way to the Seventh Legion headquarters. I found First Spear Centurion Herennius there receiving the final report from his optio.

  “Centurion,” I said.

  “Ready to give report, sir,” he replied with a formal salute.

  “Give the report.”

  “Thirty-three men down, sir,” he read from the optio’s report. “Eight from flux, four from self-inflicted wounds, three in the brig, ten with dysentery, eight with a pox.”

  “Good, nearly full capacity. Have the centuries line up by rank.” I gave a salute. Before I could turn to leave, he leaned in.

  “Sir, tell me about the meeting. Is it time to give the Reds one up the arse?” he asked with a sinister grin. He was a grizzled old centurion, and this waiting around didn’t suit him.

  “No. We will be massing on the walls. Prepare the men,” I said. His face scrunched like he had bitten into something sour, but saluted and turned to give the order.

  The ramparts weren’t broad enough to fit all of us, so Marius instructed those who hadn’t seen battle to take the first rank atop the walls, while the veterans remained in position beneath. I stood with the centurion of the Seventh Legion atop the south wall. We stood silently. All that was heard was the nervous shaking of recruits in their leather sandals, and the pitter of rain on our helms.

  The Teutones moved forward methodically as one rhythmic force. Thunder cracked in the distance beneath angry clouds. Every few moments, a strike of Jupiter’s lightning illuminated both the gray sky and our enemy before fading back to darkness. It was midday, at the latest, but it felt as if night was descending on us with every stomp of the Teutone front line.

  “Everyone understands what we are doing?” I asked. It wasn’t rhetorical, but the trembling recruits responded as if it were, with silence. “We stand at attention. We let them know we are Romans and we will not be intimidated. We’ll repel them with javelin but will not meet them on the field of battle,” I said, turning toward the enemy, attempting to still my own heart. “Your sword will be wet with blood soon enough. Until then, we stand tall, and we stand together.” Before I was finished speaking, war drums began to boom in the distance.

  “They have siege equipment,” Centurion Herennius said, leaning close enough that I alone would hear him.

  I strained my eye to make out the enemy machinery in the distance but found nothing.

  “Where? How do you know?” I asked.

  “I can hear it.” He tapped the sagging lobe of his ear. He was old for a soldier but had enough experience that I didn’t distrust him.

  “Steady, men,” I said as the rain poured harder against us, water falling over our helms.

  I exhaled as I smelled the stench of urine and terror behind me, but no one said anything. I rem
embered how overwhelmed I was at Burdigala, and my heart ached for them.

  The Teutones now came close enough for us to see the etches of their facial features. Each one wore a scowl, many with missing teeth. Pale scars stretched across their faces and hid beneath thick beards. I stole a moment’s glance at the young mules behind me, and realized that we were an army of boys…fighting an army of men.

  “The walls will protect us,” I said. “Roman engineering will best barbarian steel every time.” I spook with feigned confidence. Even as I said this, I spotted the wooden catapults in the distance rolling on massive rocks hewn into wheels.

  The men released a collective gasp as they saw it. And then all was silent for a moment of realization and anticipation. The marching Teutones halted, and the war drums ceased.

  We looked down at the silent enemy below, hoping it was a bluff.

  Then a violent humming stretched through the air. As soon as I spotted it, the massive rock cracked into the walls with a crash to challenge the thunder.

  I lost my footing and balanced myself on my shield, the entire fort trembling beneath us.

  Then another struck the east wall, and another nearer to us.

  The Teutone drums beat three times in succession, and the Teutones roared out as they sprinted forward.

  “Pila! Pila, men!” the centurion shouted beside me as he grabbed me by my lorica and pulled me into the ranks of his men. The recruits stepped forward and raised their pila overhead.

  The grizzled veteran pushed me as far from the precipice as he could, but strained over the edge to see how close the Teutones were.

  We glanced over our shoulders and saw yellow flags waving from the guard towers.

  “Bring them down! Let loose!” The centurion’s voice was drowned out by the war cry of the Teutones who were now beneath us.

  The first rank approached the wall and struggled to balance their shields while they launched their pila at the hordes below. The rain and awkwardness of the wall hindered the men’s form, but the tip of a spear is the tip of a spear. After each volley, the barbarians’ cries rose to greet us. Their grimy hands scratched at the broken pila in their chests, unable to pry them free. The uninjured Teutones trampled over their fallen brethren to get to the wall.