John Roberts - Nobody Loves a Centurion

“Please bear with me, Commander, since I have just arrived. There is no barbarian army outside the walls, so I presume the Helvetii are still treating with us. How can they do that while sending raiders to harass us?”

“These aren’t coastal Gauls who know how to conduct themselves like civilized people,” Caesar said. “Their envoys speak for the people as a whole, but they think it is to be understood that some of the young warriors will come out at night to send arrows and javelins into the camp. To them it’s no more serious than a spirited horse vaulting a fence into another man’s field.”

“They like to catch sentries and roving patrols,” said Titus Vinius, the First Spear. “They’re head-hunters, you know. You’ll find big heaps of skulls in the deep woods where their holy groves are.”

He was a typical old soldier trying to scare the new recruit, but he was wasting his time. I had seen far worse than that in Spain.

“Decimus Varro,” Caesar said, “the state of provisions, if you please.” I noted that Caesar spoke in a brisk, clipped fashion, quite different from the languid style he affected in Rome.

“Stores of grain, preserved fruit, fish, and meat are sufficient for ten more days, twenty at half-ration. The supply train from Massilia is due at any time.”

“Decius, did you pass a supply train on your way here?”

“No, Proconsul.”

“Quaestor, increase purchases from the local farmers. I don’t want to be caught short of provision when the Helvetii make up their mind to attack.”

“They will demand exorbitant prices for inferior produce, sir.” The quaestor was a serious-looking young man who was vaguely familiar to me.

“Pay them with a minimum of haggling,” Caesar said. “The state of the treasury means nothing to fighting men. The state of their bellies means everything.”

“Yes, Caesar.” The name of the quaestor came back to me: Sextus Didius Ahala. He had held the same office in Rome a year or two before and I did not envy him the position. Proconsul’s quaestor is a responsible position, but it is the dullest work imaginable, managing the accounts and contracts of a province and its military establishment.

After about an hour of hearing reports, issuing commands, passing the watchword, and so forth, the meeting broke up. Caesar indicated that I should remain behind, along with Vinius.

“First Spear, we need a place to put Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger. Where do you suggest?”

The man looked me over with the casual indifference professional soldiers usually show for amateur junior officers. Only proficiency in battle ever won any respect from the likes of this one.

“We already have more officers than we need, Proconsul. What we do need is more legionaries.”

“We shall lose a few of both before much longer,” Caesar remarked. “In the meantime, Decius needs a battle station.”

Vinius stooped and picked up his helmet from where it lay beneath the table. “The cavalry,” he said. He wanted me out of his way, for which I could hardly blame him. Inexperienced officers, especially green tribunes, are the bane of a centurion’s existence. I might have told him that I was not unacquainted with military life and campaigning, but he would not have been impressed.

“Excellent. Decius, you may report to the praetorian ala . Their present commander is a Gaul named Lovernius, but he needs a Roman superior. As a praetorian you are attached to my personal staff, so you will probably spend a good deal more time with me than with your ala .”

“I don’t suppose they are Spanish cavalry?” I had a good deal of experience riding with Spaniards.

“Gauls,” Caesar said. “But deadly enemies of the Helvetii.” Which didn’t mean much since all the Gauls feuded with each other constantly. Well, any cavalry had to be better than Roman cavalry, which historically had been as pitiful as our infantry had been formidable. Like seafaring, mounted warfare is just one of those things for which we have no aptitude.

“Proconsul, with your leave, I’ll go and inspect the watch.” Vinius tied the laces of his cheekplates beneath his blue-shaven chin. His helmet was as plain as the others I had seen in this legion, except for its horsehair crest, which ran from side to side instead of front to back, another distinguishing insigne of the centurionate.

“Do so,” said Caesar, returning his salute. When the man was gone, he turned to me again.

“You allow him much latitude, Caius Julius,” I said, able to be less formal now that we were alone.

“I allow all of my centurions more latitude than I allow most of my officers. Centurions are the backbone of the legions, Decius, not the political time-servers in the sashes. Oh, a few like Carbo and Labienus are excellent soldiers, but my centurions, I know I can depend upon.”

“Can you depend upon anyone else?”

He understood my meaning exactly. “What was the word in Rome when you left?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly in Rome. The City is unhealthy for me just now, so I was on my father’s Tuscian estate just before. .”

Caesar waved this aside impatiently. “I don’t care if you were in Athens. You are a Caecilius Metellus and you know what’s being said in the Forum. What is it?”

“That your enemies in Rome gave you this extraordinary command in full confidence that you would fail. That Crassus and Pompey rammed this command through the Assemblies and past the Senate for the same reason. That you and your army are going to wither and die up here in the wilderness like grapes on a vine when moles have gnawed away the roots.”

He looked at me with deep-sunken eyes. “I am not ready to be a raisin yet. The first part is true enough, but not the rest. I have the full support of Pompey and Crassus, never fear.”

“But what of that, Caius Julius? You know how Pompey operates. He’ll let you do all the fighting and then take away your army at the last minute.”

Caesar smiled frostily. “But that is politics, and I am far better at politics than Pompey.”

“Well-that is true enough,” I allowed.

“Decius, why do you think I worked so hard to secure this proconsulship?”

“Because the Gauls have been stirring up trouble for years and are probably allowing Germans to cross the Rhine,” I said. “It’s the only big war in the offing and war is where the glory and loot and triumphs are to be found.”

He now smiled a bit more warmly. “That is blunt enough. You don’t think patriotism is my motive?”

“I wouldn’t insult your intelligence by saying so.”

“Good. Most of my tribunes are lickspittles.” He stepped close and took my arm. “Decius, there is far more to this command than just dealing with the Helvetii. There are tremendous opportunities here in Gaul! Back in Rome, people think it means nothing except whipping some brutish, half-naked savages, but they are wrong. Crassus wants a war with Parthia because he thinks only conquering wealthy, civilized enemies will enrich him and Rome. He is wrong too.”

“I fully intend to avoid Crassus’s war, when he gets it.”

“Good. Stay with me here in Gaul. I am telling you, Decius: the men who support me here these next five years will dominate Rome for the next thirty years, as those who supported Sulla have dominated her for the last thirty!” These were vaunting words, delivered with intensity.

Of course, he was not speaking to me. He was speaking to gens Caecilia, whose support he desperately wanted. His appeal was none too subtle, either. My family had been among Sulla’s supporters, with consequent beneficial effects upon our political prominence.

“You know I am not much of a soldier, Caius.”