R. Peake - Marching With Caesar - Conquest of Gaul

“Prepare Javelins!”

The familiar command rang out and as one, we pulled our arms back.

“Release!”

Like an invisible hand, our first volley knocked men down, those being struck crashing into the man next to them, slowing the headlong pursuit for a moment. However, the momentum built up by some 30,000 men running downhill, trying to finish the first victory against Rome which any of them had ever been part of, was more than enough to restart them almost immediately. A second volley followed, but while the momentum slowed again, it did not stop.

“Draw swords!”

Then a heartbeat later, “ Porro !”

Then we were on them, using the advantage of the slope to help build our own momentum, and I went roaring down the hill to smash into a Gaul who wore a look of extreme surprise on his face, reveling in the feel of my blade sinking deep into his gut. Giving a twist before I withdrew, I left the man screaming in agony from being disemboweled in my wake. Wading into the mass of Gauls, they were just beginning to realize the threat to their flank and stopping their pursuit to face us, but not before I killed two more men. Completely forgetting my responsibilities as Optio, I was once more a Gregarius concerned with nothing more than killing the man in front of me, and I roared my delight and joy at being set free to do what I knew best. My Gallic blade made a distinctively different sound when it clashed against another blade, one that seemed to me to be a note of the most wonderful music, and I reveled in the song as I thrust, parried and hacked my way through the enemy. It did not matter to me whether or not they carried sword or spear, whether they held a shield or had mail armor like mine. All it meant was that the manner in which I killed each of them was slightly different. What mattered was that they faced death, and that I was victorious. There is something intoxicating about imposing your will on another man, to the point where you take their lives from them at your whim. Perhaps it is evil, or wrong, but I would merely ask, how could something that is evil feel so wonderful? Everywhere around me similar contests raged, and the Gauls started to reel back from our onslaught. I was vaguely aware that barely 200 or 300 paces away, our comrades of the 13th were meting out the same type of destruction, and it was between these two inexorable forces that the Gauls found themselves. Under such intense pressure, it was not long before the first Gaul, a man once flushed with victory, bursting with the idea that at long last they had defeated a Roman army, now found himself taking that first, inevitable step backwards. What I knew at that point, and it was all that I knew, was that my blade was singing a song, and I wanted it to continue. Step forward, wait for them to make the first move, parry it, then strike quickly. First position, despite it being awkward without a shield and feeling slightly ridiculous offering nothing in defense but my left arm, yet it never ceased to amaze me how one’s opponent would always lunge to make that first strike, even if it was only my left arm. Twice a Gaul hit their mark, albeit with glancing blows, so my arm was now covered in blood as I held it out like an offering to the gods, daring my next opponent to strike it. Then, as suddenly as it began, it was all over. One instant I was surrounded by snarling Gauls, the next they were moving back up the hill, with a considerable number of bodies heaped in front of us. Standing there for a moment, panting for breath, my right arm began shaking from the effort and my left started to burn, the by now-familiar feeling that liquid fire had been poured in a couple of lines along my forearm. I remember thinking to myself after inspecting my left arm that I was going to need stitches and that my arm was getting increasingly scarred, yet before I could spend too much time on such notions, the Pilus Prior’s voice penetrated through my fog.

“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.