R. Peake - Marching With Caesar - Conquest of Gaul

The rout was total, and it did not take long to make happen. Within a matter of moments, the Gauls were running around the end of our lines, fleeing back to the town, most of them throwing down their weapons and shields so they could run faster. We only pursued a short distance because we were exhausted, although they needed no pursuit to keep them fleeing for their lives. While we were pressing the attack on the besieged army, our cavalry, circling around behind the relieving army, launched an attack on the rear of the Gauls on the outside of the walls. Labienus and the reinforcements he brought with him kept up the pressure in the front at the same time, so it was not surprising that the Gauls could not withstand it. The relieving army disintegrated, men being cut down by the cavalry, and Vercassivellaunus was captured, along with 74 enemy standards. Only the cavalry was in any shape to pursue the fleeing remnants of the Gallic army, the chase continuing well past midnight. The battle was over; all that was left was the aftermath of finding our wounded, burning our dead, and burying theirs. I could barely stand, my legs shaking so badly that I was worried that I was going to collapse in front of the men. Somehow, I found the reserves of strength to order them to form up, thankful that at least this last phase of the battle caused us no casualties. Marching back to our original positions, we saw that the men who worked as stretcher bearers were still busy, the medici for the Legion performing a quick assessment on our fallen men. The dead were already being laid out, waiting for their comrades to identify and claim the bodies to take them back to camp to prepare for their funeral rites. We were missing 15 men from our Century; I found six of them already laid out waiting for us, though none of them was Atilius. He was found being attended to by a medici as he sat, blood-spattered, with the faraway look one often sees in wounded men. The medici was working on his right hand and when I approached, I saw that he was missing two fingers, the little and third finger, the stumps protruding perhaps an inch from the base of his palm, the bone gleaming through the blood and torn flesh. While it may not seem like it, he was lucky; if it had been three fingers, or even his first two fingers instead of his last two, he would be discharged because of his inability to hold his sword. I called to him and for a moment he did not respond, then turning his head he saw me, a look of vague surprise on his face.

“ Salve Pullus,” he called out woodenly, and I responded, trying to sound lighthearted.

“Well, you lucky bastard. You won’t be pulling any duty for awhile,” I told him, and a flicker of a tired smile crossed his face.

“I suppose not, now that you mention it. But Pluto’s cock, I can think of other ways I’d rather get out of duties. This hurts like Dis,” he replied.

“I can imagine,” and even as I said this, I became aware of the pain in my side again, suddenly not feeling very well myself.

Regardless of how I felt, I still had to find the Pilus Prior, and I asked Atilius if he saw him go down. For a moment, Atilius acted like he had not heard me, staring off in the distance, and I was about to repeat myself when he raised his left hand, pointing to a place where the wall was breached.

“I saw him fall into the ditch over there,” he said quietly, then met my inquiring gaze with a shake of his head. “I don’t think you’re going to like what you find over there, Optio. He fell right in the middle of a pack of Gauls, and they tore him to pieces.”

Gulping, I tried to keep my face impassive, nodding my thanks. Telling him that I would see him soon, I stumbled over to where Atilius indicated, steeling myself for what I would find. Mounting the rampart, I gazed into the ditch, and as much death and killing as I had seen, I still felt my stomach lurch. There was a heap of bodies, yet I could see scattered among them bits and pieces of what obviously had been a Roman Centurion and I felt my jaw clench as I stepped down into the ditch, trying to keep the contents of my stomach down. Atilius was completely accurate; the Pilus Prior had indeed been hacked into pieces, and even today, the thought of what I saw makes my stomach lurch as I break out into a cold sweat. Fighting against my revulsion, I forced myself to gather his remains, placing each piece of him that I found up on the rampart, despite being forced to leave some of him behind because those parts were so badly mangled I could not tell exactly whether or not it was him or a Gaul. Nonetheless, I managed to recover most of his body, and calling the stretcher bearers over, I ordered them to place him on a stretcher to carry him over to where the dead lay. At first they balked, before I convinced them that their fate was going to be very close to his if they refused, so they sullenly piled him onto a stretcher and carried him over, depositing his remains alongside those of our dead who had not yet been moved. Only then, did I sit down, or more accurately fall down, and a medici , seeing my distress came over to examine me. I do not remember much more than this, as I fell backwards, my last memory looking up at the sky.

Waking up in the field hospital, my sudden movement into consciousness almost caused me to faint again. Waiting for my head to stop spinning, I sat up slowly, looking around as I tried to determine what time it was. Through a flap in the tent I could see it had turned dark; I must have been out almost a full watch. My side felt like it was enclosed in some sort of vice, and I looked down to see a bandage tightly wound around my torso, although it was stained red. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to clean my blood off of me, but I still looked like half of me was dipped in it. My next thought was about my sword; it would be worth a small fortune for anyone sly or stupid enough to steal it. Feeling underneath my cot, I found to my relief that it, along with my blood-encrusted armor, helmet, and harness were there. Giving a short prayer of thanks to the gods, I carefully swung my legs over the edge of the cot, bringing myself to a sitting position. Despite my care, my head began to swim and I was sure that I would pass out in a dead faint, grimly holding onto the sides of the cot with my hands until my head cleared. Then I stood up, feeling my legs shaking but immediately ignored the tremors, telling myself that they were shaking earlier as well. Then with a bit of effort, I dragged my gear out from under the cot, where I almost pitched over again from bending over. That is when it hit me that my Century was without a leader, the memory of what happened to the Pilus Prior flooding back into my head, and I was forced to close my eyes to fight the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me.

“Here now, Optio,” an accented voice called out, and I turned to see one of the Greeks who worked as a medici hurrying towards me, a worried look on his face. “You’re not well enough to be out of bed just yet,” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing to my cot, his meaning clear. If only he had not snapped his fingers at me, I probably would have listened and obeyed him, but his officious manner made me angry, and I was damned if I would let some civilian give me orders.

“Go fuck yourself, freedman,” I snapped, causing him to stop dead in his tracks, his face a study in surprise and not a little fear, making me feel better. “I’m going back to my Century, and if you try to stop me, I’ll cut your fucking throat,” I tried to growl in my best impersonation of Pilus Prior Crastinus. Despite it sounding false to me, it clearly gave him enough of a pause that he reluctantly nodded his head. However, while he would not stop me, he would also not expose himself to some sort of punishment. “Very well, Optio,” he replied reluctantly, “but if you insist, I must demand that you sign yourself out. Wait here and I'll bring the necessary paperwork.”