The Noise of War

by Vincent B Davis II

  As the first rank fell back, allowing the second to take its place, their eyes were lit up. They had never been more alive. I knew the feeling well. Terror, sheer terror, but they didn’t know if they liked it or not.

  “Auxilia!” The centurion shouted, hearing the whistles from the guard towers. Our Gallic allies sent down stones and arrows into the Teutones. Hundreds among them collapsed, but more warriors simply pulled the shaft or stone from their flesh and continued hammering against the wall with renewed relish.

  I noticed movement in the clouds above us, another massive stone from the catapult.

  “Centurion,” I managed to say, my voice weak.

  “Shields up!” he shouted. The men along the wall hunkered down beneath their shields and crouched together, I along with them. The shadow of the massive stone passed through the light in between our shields. Then, the cry of many Romans carried up from the ranks behind us on the ground.

  As we rose again, and our pila volley continued, I stole a glance at the Seventh Legion centuries beneath us. The stone was large enough to clutch a few men beneath it, but it had rolled and taken out several more. Dozens lay mutilated with helmets, limbs, and swords strewn out among them. Romans were flattened like poorly baked bread, unidentifiable even to those closest to them.

  The mules around them were shocked and horrified.

  “Reform, reform!” the centurion’s optio shouted, whipping them with his hastile. They attempted to reform the line amid the carnage of their friends, just as another stone crashed against the walls.

  The force of it sent most of us to the ground. A few of the mules landed on top of me.

  I patted myself to make sure I hadn’t been a casualty of the rock, still breathing by sheer adrenaline. I was fine, save an inch-long cut from the scabbard of a mule to my forearm. I was grateful that the rock had been down the line from us, but this rock was the first to create a massive hole in our walls.

  Like soldiers, wooden walls, no matter how brilliantly constructed, have their breaking point. The wood splintered and crumbled, taking dozens of men with it. They fell, screaming in sheer terror, into the group of massive Teutone beasts. If they did not die upon impact, they were quickly swarmed and met a far harsher end at the tip of barbarian steel.

  “Steady, soldiers! Eyes front!” the centurion barked, seemingly unaffected by the carnage. I knew from experience that it became easier to feign such composure the longer you had been around it.

  The last rank approached the edge and sent down their pila, more violently than their predecessors, enraged by the deaths of their comrades.

  The cries of the Teutones rose to take the place of their war chants. We were out of pila, and they were out of energy.

  The rain continued.

  “Reform now, reform along the walls,” the centurion said, more softly now.

  The auxilia continued to notch their arrows, but now the Teutones hoisted their rounded shields to meet them, seeing that their attempt to cut through Roman engineering was futile.

  We were close enough now, and the tumult somewhat stilled, so that we could look over the edge into their eyes. They were exhausted and panting but still wore hatred in their eyes and scowls on their lips.

  A horn sounded in the distance, and the men began to back up in unison, never taking their eyes off our walls. They wouldn’t win this day, but the looks on their faces revealed they believed they would. And soon.

  24

  Scroll XXIV

  Eleven days before the kalends of April 652 ab urbe condita

  That was the first day of several. The rest were just like it. We continued to mass on the walls, forced to watch our howling enemy approach in silence. The Teutones came with fresh fury every morning and battled until the midday sun wore them out. They taunted us, doing everything they could to provoke us to leave our walls and meet them.

  The rain continued to fall in greater and greater quantity. It dripped from our helms, found its way into each crevice of our chain mail, and settled into the leather of our sandals. I can tell you from experience that dampness rusts men like swords, more slowly perhaps, but just as deeply.

  At night, we retreated to our tents in an attempt to rest and recover our strength. But how could we, with the Teutones howling at our gates? Even if we could, though, the barbarians didn’t give us that chance. Every few hours, just when things would become quiet, the Teutones would send a small force to assail our walls. The bugles would sound, and each legionary would groan as he rolled from his bed and attempted to don his armor in the darkness. After three nights of this, we were painfully aware of what our enemy was doing, but Marius insisted that the entire army amass every time, vowing that his legions would not be butchered in their sleep because the enemy had lulled them into a false sense of security.

  “Can’t these bastards just give us a little rest?” one of the mules from the Seventh Legion asked, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. I was just as irritated as him, but it was good to see that the men were simply exhausted and annoyed, rather than shaken by terror, as they were on the first day.

  “They’re doing it on purpose, half brain,” one of the mule’s companions said derisively, “and Marius is determined to let them have their way.”

  “If they can’t break down the walls in the light of day, what makes the old general think they could topple them in the shroud of night?” the first legionary asked. I assumed they couldn’t see my rank in the dark. Even so, I didn’t care to admonish them for their disrespect. I had been a mule too, not so long ago, and remembered that grumbling was simply part of the culture, and a necessary part.

  “A better question is why we haven’t met them in battle,” a third legionary said, still tightening his lorica at his rib cage.

  “Yeah,” added another, his voice thick with a southern Italian dialect, “does he think we’re weak? Eh? He think we’re too green to take them?”

  The war cries of the Teutones echoed throughout the camp as they hammered against the base of the walls.

  “Some of us are,” the first mule added. “I’ve got nephews tougher than Third Century.” The men laughed in unison. That was a positive sign.

  “Up the stairs, men.” I stopped at the base and directed them up. “Find your positions quickly, and don’t say a word when you’re on the walls.”

  “We’re getting used to the routine, sir,” one of them barked. The rest fell silent, fearing they had earned themselves an extra guard shift or two for their lack of discretion.

  After a few hours of summoning up whatever tumult they could, the small Teutone band, maybe a few thousand strong, would retreat to their camp at a leisurely pace, with enough time to get some good rest before the morning duel.

  “Down!” the centurions would shout when the signal was given. We’d wait for some time on the walls, nestled in shoulder to shoulder with the men beside us, until each man descended. In the dull flickering torchlight, I made my way back to the tribunes’ quarters.

  “I’m looking forward to fighting the Teutones. I believe it will be very enjoyable,” Equus said with as much frustration as I had ever seen in him.

  “‘Fight’ doesn’t begin to describe it. I’m going to obliterate those bastards,” Lucius grunted as he untied his sandals. My old friend could endure hunger, the wind, the rain, bitter cold or blazing heat…but he couldn’t handle a lack of sleep.

  “By Hera’s cunt, do not light that torch!” one of the other tribune’s shouted to another, who hung his head and moved away from it. “Undress in the dark, and then everyone shut their mouths.” He seemed as ornery as Lucius. I was exhausted too, but I’ll admit the absurdity of the situation was a bit humorous. I found myself stifling a smile as I laid my head back on my pillow.

  I had learned by then that there was no sense in undressing. I took only my helmet off, and didn’t bother to get under the blankets or otherwise make myself comfortable. I crossed my legs and closed my eye. After three days with very litt
le sleep, it didn’t take long to drift into a haze, but little time passed before that dreadful bugle sounded again, followed by the moans and curses of a tent full of tribunes.

  This continued on for a week. By the end of it, we had men falling asleep in formation, nearly tumbling from the top of the walls until another mule grabbed them.

  The mind plays all kinds of tricks when you’re that tired. Sometimes I’d strain my eye, during the day as well as at night, to ensure the man across from me wasn’t a pelt-wearing Teutone. I heard the war drums and the clashing of rocks against our walls even when there were none. And I believe I experienced the least of these effects. Our medicus tent was filled up with those who had been hurt by the catapults or Teutone projectiles, but there were as many or more who were sent there by order of the centurion for showing signs of psychosis.

  The water, too, was running short. Orders were given for us to be abstemious with our consumption, but when one is awake nearly all hours of the day, he can consume far more fluids that he would under normal circumstances. We placed empty barrels near the walls to collect the rainfall, and yet we were still short.

  Because of all this, we were very pleased when the Teutones approached our walls and didn’t attack. There was a narrow strip of land to the east, flanked by the fort on one end and the Rhône on the other. It was here that the Teutones approached and then passed our camp.

  As the enemy narrowed down to a few men abreast, their forces stretched back for miles.

  “Cowards!” the Reds cried.

  “Stand up and fight, Roman dogs!” some of them shouted in crude Latin, which they had presumably picked up from traitors and prisoners.

  “Have any word for your wives? We shall soon be with them!” others shouted. This was unequivocally their most common insult, and it had the desired effect. We were furious. The thought of those sweaty barbarians raping and pillaging, sweaty and thrusting in a frantic lust, was enough to turn our stomachs.

  The discontent of the men reached new heights.

  “Say, Tribune,” some of them began to probe me as we were standing atop the walls and watching as the barbarians moved past us, on to Italy.

  “No talking on the walls,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  “Tribune, you lend an ear to Marius, don’t you? Why won’t he let us fight? Does he think us weak?” These questions had been circulating for a while now, but had usually been spoken in insecurity and shame. Now, it was anger that bore them. They were hungry to fight the Teutones. They wanted to prove themselves.

  “Silence, soldier,” I said. I believe I would have actually given him an answer if I had one. But I did not. The officers had altogether stopped talking about it. None of us knew what was going on in the old general’s mind.

  It took six full days for the Teutones to pass us by. Marius ordered that we should not leave the walls until they had had finished passing, but after the first several hours, even he agreed that this was impractical. He allowed different centuries to switch out, allowing others to rest, as if this were simply an extravagant guard shift.

  Despite this mercy from the consul, there were Romans atop those walls for six days, watching as the Teutones filed past him, hurling insults about what they would do to his wife and daughters.

  When the final barbarian passed us by at last, the bugles sounded and the flags waved again, and for once the orders weren’t to rally on the ramparts.

  I passed the order along for the men to line up in formation in the center of the camp. All three legions amassed, at close rank so that we could all fit.

  “They’re finally gone, the bastards?” one of the men who had been sleeping asked.

  “The first of them are halfway to Italy by now,” one of them grumbled.

  “Any sense of what’s next, Tribune?” Centurion Herennius asked me.

  “No idea, Centurion.” I shook my head. The rains continued to pour over us.

  “I’m so damned tired of being wet,” one of the mules complained.

  “You’re at attention, soldier,” Herennius said, a bit more understanding than he usually was.

  We stood in silence for some time, and the longer we remained, the more men began to stumble from their sleep deprivation. At last, the general appeared before us. He alone had eyes that weren’t bloodshot with fatigue. He was spry on his feet, appearing as if he had just risen from a good night’s rest. We all knew that wasn’t true, however. He had slept less than perhaps any of us. General Marius was simply the man who could endure the most, and that was the kind of man we all wanted to follow, even if we doubted his orders.

  “The Teutones have departed. It’s now time to follow them. We have no time to lose, if we don’t want their threats to be made true. Deconstruct the camp,” Marius said.

  “What?” a few of the men grumbled.

  Even the most resolute among the ranks were vocal in their disapproval.

  “That’s it?” others asked.

  Marius did not seem to hear it, although it was impossible that he did not. He moved at a brisk pass back to his praetorium, where he himself would help take it down. No further word was given, and no more rest was allowed either.

  Our walls had withstood a weeklong assault from the Cimbri, and we deconstructed it within four hours.

  We departed the moment the last plank of wood fell to the ground.

  25

  Scroll XXV

  Two days before the kalends of April 652 ab urbe condita

  We marched just behind the Teutones for a week, following them like a hunting dog on the trail of a doe. Thankfully, I was able to ride Sura, which gave my leg a rest from the rigors of stomping for hours on end. More than a few times, I nodded off to the rhythmic sway of the mare beneath me, allowing her to carry me in step with the rest of the cavalry. Lucius didn’t have as much experience riding, so he was far less comfortable. Unable to doze off, he spent most of the time complaining to me about the chaffing of his inner thighs, unconcerned that I didn’t reply in my slumber.

  Despite our pursuit of the barbarians, we were given time to sleep at night. Even the barbarians stopped for a bit of sleep, drinking, and intercourse. We had no time for the latter two, because Marius ordered that a fort be constructed every night to protect us, but by the gods, we enjoyed the former. We slept like well-fed babes, although well fed we were not. We also weren’t adequately hydrated. Our water supply was running dangerously low, and we were rationed a single skin of water per day, despite the thirst that comes from thirty-mile marches.

  But the seventh day after we departed our camp proved to be a fateful one.

  The tail end of the Teutone army was but a few miles away, and we settled in atop a hill, our enemy in the distance below. We were a handful of miles from the Roman settlement Aquae Sextiae. This heightened our sense of urgency even further, for they could have burned the settlement to the ground at any point, if they so desired, taking Roman ladies and children in the process.

  Waterskins were generally passed out upon completion of the day’s march, but word spread quickly that there was no more water to be had.

  The officers immediately panicked, and the mules let out torrents of discontent. We would all die here, they feared.

  But just when we reached the height of our anguish, the order was given to line up in formation—not to construct camp, not to march farther still, but to mass in formation.

  The grumbles stilled as the cohorts and centuries lined up abreast atop the hill.

  Marius, on his massive black stallion, rode out before us, alone.

  His steed bucked with anticipation, the emotion shared by all of Marius’s men, but the general himself remained silent for a while, staring over his shoulder down the hill.

  “Three paces forward, march!” Marius shouted. The mules took collective steps toward him. “Do you see what I see?” he asked.

  “It’s the Teutones!”

  “It’s the Ambrones!” The men among the front ranks pushed word back t
o those who couldn’t see.

  At the base of the hill, tens of thousands of the barbarians were wadding in a stream, paddling through the currents in luxurious ecstasy, and drinking freely. I could tell from those still dressed along the banks that it was the Ambrones, the strongest ally of the Teutones. They must have been able to see us atop the hill, but they had grown complacent after being able to see us for so long. Thank the gods Marius hadn’t allowed us to do the same.

  “You,” Marius began, “you men have stared into Pluto’s arse for weeks now.” Despite his stern tone, the men roared with laughter. “You’ve looked into the eye of evil, and you’ve stood tall. At first, you were wary—terrified, even. But you aren’t now, are you?”

  “No!” everyone shouted in unison.

  “I didn’t think so. Some of you are tired.” He paused so the men could grumble in agreement, which the centurions allowed. “Some of you need sleep. Well, soon you shall have it.” His blade sung as he pulled it from the scabbard, pointing it to the base of the hill at the bathing Ambrones. “But we shall not have sleep until we cast our enemy into the eternal sleep!”

  After remaining in silence, either standing atop the walls or marching along behind the enemy, the legions roared out.

  “Some of you are thirsty,” Marius said, nodding in sympathy. He paused for some time, and scanned the faces of his men. “Some of you are thirsty—well, there is your water. Let’s go and take it!” The men shouted louder still, and the officers (myself included) stirred in sudden fear that the men might charge forward without the order. “You want sleep, you want water, but the price for it shall be blood. But never fear, comrades, we shed it for Rome. For Rome!”