R. Peake - Marching With Caesar - Conquest of Gaul

I could not help but groan out loud, and I saw a shadow of a malicious smile cross his face at my consternation. Was there no escaping paperwork, I thought to myself, even when all I want is to go back to duty? One would think that the army would like to see such dedication in their officers, but apparently not. Nevertheless, I signed out and carrying my gear, walked slowly back to our area, having to stop several times when the dizziness threatened to overwhelm me, one time being forced to sit on a barrel to catch my breath. Clearly I had lost more blood than I thought, but I was still completely focused on getting back to the Century to help prepare our dead for cremation. It is hard to describe how important it is to a Legionary to properly honor our dead, and I imagine that part of it is from a desire that if and when the time comes and it is your turn, that your comrades will give you the same attention and respect. Except it is deeper than that; it is the last way we can honor our friends and comrades, and it is also our chance to say goodbye, so it is extremely important that we do so in the proper manner. The final butcher’s bill for the Century was a total of seven dead, including the Pilus Prior, and eight wounded, three of them so severely that they would either die before dawn, or if they did survive, their days of marching under the standard were over. Once the rest of the men recovered, we would be marching with 50 effectives; just a bit more than half strength from what took the final oath out of the original dilectus in Hispania, and about two-thirds strength of what started the campaign in Gaul. Now I was acting Pilus Prior, although I did not even consider that the position would be made permanent. The men were gathered around the dead in small groups, each tent section working on their own dead comrade, carefully, indeed one could say lovingly cleaning the body, wiping the blood from the corpse, and doing what they could to close the wounds that killed them. Somehow, by some miracle, the men of my original tent section had again escaped death, the only serious wounds being that of Atilius, and I guess if I counted, myself as well. Vibius saw me approach and in that moment, all the difficulties and disagreements dropped away, his eyes filling with tears at the sight of me. He came running to me and we embraced, holding each other, squeezing tightly despite the pain in my side.

“It’s over, thank the gods,” he whispered, then kissed me on both cheeks.

I returned the gesture, although I had to bend down to do so, which hurt a bit. The rest of my comrades came to surround me, even Didius among them, and without a word we stood huddled together, the tears flowing freely among all of us now. We had survived.

The funeral pyres burned throughout the night and into the next morning, all over the camp. Our casualties were heavy, particularly in the 10th and the 8th Legions, and my Century, First of the Second Cohort, along with the First and Second of the First Cohort, suffered the most. Primus Pilus Favonius had been killed, along with a total of nine Centurions of the 10th, meaning that there would be promotions. By mid-morning, our dead were burned, their ashes interred in the urns that would be sent to each of their families, their designated comrades taking care of their wills and disposing of property as the deceased deemed fit. Before noon, the bucina sounded the signal that a party of Gauls was approaching the camp; it was emissaries of Vercingetorix, offering his surrender. Despite this being expected, the reality of it created a huge amount of excitement and joy, the men congratulating each other, happy in the victory and that they survived it. Soon after, word was passed to assemble in the forum in two thirds of a watch, in full dress uniform, in order to witness the surrender of the leader of the Gauls. This presented a bit of a quandary for me since my armor was pierced and there was no time to have it repaired, nor to clean it, so I sent Vibius over to the quartermaster and although I had to pay a premium, he returned with new armor, already oiled and ready for inspection. He helped me to don it since I was so stiff it was almost impossible to lift my arms over my head. In fact, all of my comrades came to help me, polishing my leathers, shining my phalarae, and combing out my horsehair plume. I had to turn away to hide the tears I felt welling in my eyes at the sight of my friends helping me.

“You know,” Vellusius commented, “you’re probably going to get decorated again.”

I was surprised at this, and asked why he thought so.

“Because you’re such a big bastard, whenever you do anything everyone notices. If you fart you get decorated for it,” Didius declared, yet for some reason, I knew that he was not insulting me, as did the rest of my friends. In fact, this caused a roar of laughter, Vibius slapping Didius on the back in recognition of his jest. I do not know who was grinning more broadly, me or Didius.

“Seriously,” Vellusius continued once the laughter died down, “you were everywhere. You fought like Achilles, and we all saw it.”

There was a chorus of agreement, and if I never got another decoration the rest of my life, I thought, this would be enough. Medals and awards are fine things, but the recognition of one’s friends and comrades is so much finer, it is beyond comparison.

I did not know what to say, and finally all I could manage was a lame, “Well, someone had to do it. You flat-footed bastards were standing around with your thumbs up your asses.”

There was a round of mock jeers at this, and in high spirits, we went to form up for the ceremony.

All in all, it was something of an anti-climax, at least until the very end. Caesar commanded that every chief of the Gallic tribes that took part of the rebellion present themselves to him, while he sat on a raised dais in the forum, surrounded by his Tribunes and Legates, Labienus and Antonius most prominent. I have spoken much of Labienus, but Antonius, over the last two years distinguished himself as well, and the early impression of him as a man’s man and a friend of the Gregarii was reinforced during that time, so we were glad to see him in a place of honor. One by one, the Gallic chiefs approached, riding their horse and dressed in their finest armor, then dismounted and dropped to their knees before Caesar.

Then one of his staff, Hirtius I believe, would announce the name of the chief and the tribe of which he was chief, then ask Caesar, “What would you have of him?”

Most of them were stripped of their chieftainship, although a surprising number were allowed to retain their freedom, causing a bit of muttering in the ranks. At first, it was all very interesting, but once we saw how things were to go, it became quite boring, quite quickly. Finally then, there was only Vercingetorix left, and any boredom we suffered evaporated as he came riding into view. Everyone strained to get a look and once again I found reason to thank the gods not only for my height, but for my place in the First Century, especially since now that I was acting Pilus Prior, my place was in front of the men. I must say that he was an impressive looking man, wearing a helmet of the Gallic style, from which sprouted the wings of a raven. His armor glittered, inlaid with gold and silver, and he wore the long mustaches common to the Gauls, yet even so, it did not conceal his youth. He’s not much older than me, I thought in astonishment, but despite his age, he bore a look of regal command that was clear even from a distance. Mingling with my hatred of him for what he put us through I found myself admiring him as well, because even as he dismounted his horse, a beautiful white stallion, to surrender to Caesar, his bearing carried a dignity that told us all that even though he was surrendering his body, his spirit remained unconquered. Every eye followed him as he walked slowly, with ponderous dignity, towards Caesar, before ever so slowly sinking to his knees, then offering up his sword with both hands, bowing his head as he did.