R. Peake - Marching With Caesar - Conquest of Gaul

The conclusion of our training was a forced march of all the Legions, the 7th, 8th 9th and 10th, culminating in the creation of two marching camps, followed by a mock battle the next day with two Legions against two Legions, along with the cavalry and auxiliaries, now numbering about another 5,000 men, split evenly between the two sides. Particular emphasis was placed on the changing of formations; from column into line, then moving as quickly back into column as we could, simulating the march to contact, with a battle, then a pursuit of a withdrawing force. The last thing that we practiced was how to stage a fighting withdrawal, and much was made by the Centurions that although we would never likely use this, it was still good to know. We wholeheartedly agreed, taking their word for it that we would never use it, the veterans among us openly scoffing at the idea.

“I haven’t taken a backward step on the battlefield yet,” barked the Pilus Prior, “and with you bastards with me, I don’t plan on it ever happening.”

This brought a roar of approval from us, and it was clear to all of us that we were ready to march, for real this time, against a real enemy.

We were given two days in which to arrange our affairs, deposit excess baggage into stores, and put finishing touches on our weapons and uniforms. All last-moment items like the replacement of thongs that tied pieces of gear to us that had broken, or javelins that had become unserviceable were taken care of, in anticipation of leaving the camp for good, or at least for the rest of the season. Spirits were running high, as were tempers, and there were a number of minor skirmishes among Legionaries from different Legions, Cohorts and Centuries, yet that was to be expected. At least that is what Calienus told us.

“I don’t know about you,” he remarked as we were waterproofing our shield covers, “but I've had enough of training. It’s time for some real work.”

Every one of us barked our approval at this, yet even as I joined in, I felt my stomach do a twist at the thought. Supposedly, at least according to the other men, I was the most ready of all of us and the most likely to attain glory, so why did I feel so apprehensive? If I was as good as they said I was should I not truly be looking forward to this without any doubts or fears, which is certainly not how I felt now? These were the thoughts crammed into my head as I busied myself packing, making sure that varnish was properly applied to straps, buckles were polished, all the myriad things that occupy an army before it moves. The camp was a swarm of activity, with men running this way and that; scribes and Tribunes were marching about carrying scrolls and wax tablets, all of them trying to look like the message or order they carried involved the fate of the Republic itself. Up to this point, we had little to do with the Tribunes, but they were slowly becoming more visible as they gained a little confidence and we advanced in our training. The smart ones and being honest, there are precious few of those in the army at any given point, let the Centurions run the Legions and mostly stayed out of the way. However, there were an officious and arrogant few who, having read a manual thought themselves the experts in all manners relating to the military arts. Not surprisingly, their attitude was met with barely disguised contempt by the Centurions but fortunately for us, Caesar was the type of general who made sure that his Tribunes knew their place. Nonetheless, high and noble birth apparently makes some men a bit thickheaded, as a few, thank the gods a precious few, still sought to establish their authority over us.

There was one in particular, and being honest I do not remember his true name; there have been so many Tribunes pass through my Legions in the last 40 years that they all seem to blend together. Relatively few ever stick out in my memory, and those that do are because they are either spectacularly good at their job or spectacularly bad, and unfortunately the latter outnumbered the former by a huge margin. While I do not remember his true name, I do remember what we called him however; Doughboy. He was named that by Scribonius I believe, and it was an apt name for many reasons. For one, he had the pasty complexion of the kind of dough that graces the finest tables, while his body betrayed a fondness for sweets and pastries. It was more than just his physical attributes that led to his nickname, because he was about as useful as a lump of dough, and when heat of any sort was applied he would puff up, just like a loaf of leavened bread, falling back on his status as a patrician of one of the old families of Rome. He was an Appius, I believe, yet for the life of me I cannot remember his name; it is funny how the memory works sometimes as one grows older. On that day, he was the acting commander of the Legion, because in those times it rotated daily among each of the six Tribunes assigned to our Legion, and since it was his day this meant that there would be more than the usual silliness. He was constantly stalking among us, snapping at us about things like not coming to intente as he walked by, forcing us to constantly stop packing or working on our gear since he seemed to do nothing but walk in circles around and around our part of the camp. Compounding matters, he would insist on stopping to inspect our gear then berate us for not having everything ready, polished and packed, apparently simply because he thought we should have been finished by that point.

“Doesn’t he have anything better to do?” Vibius muttered in his wake, after Doughboy chastised him for not having his leathers properly varnished. Despite still being new, we had been in long enough to know that doing something stupid, like pointing out that we could only do one thing at a time, would have gotten us in more trouble than the momentary satisfaction was worth, so Vibius simply responded in his best parade ground manner, “Absolutely correct, sir. No excuse sir. Won’t happen again sir.”

Apparently expecting something else, Doughboy stood there nonplussed for a moment, his mouth hanging open, causing his second chin to quiver slightly, a sight that threatened to make me laugh so much that I was forced to bite the inside of my mouth until it bled. Finally snapping it shut, Doughboy replied in a tone I am sure that he thought was very officer-like, but to us reeked of his uncertainty, saying, “Very well then. Just make sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

Then he stood there for what seemed like a full watch, though was just a few heartbeats, as if unsure what he was supposed to do next. Finally he said, “Right. Well then. I must go, there are many duties to attend to.”

Doughboy then went wandering off, leaving us staring at his retreating back.

“Apparently no, he doesn't have anything better to do,” I spat a bloody gob on the ground. “But just make sure it doesn’t happen again,” I finished, in my best attempt to mimic Doughboy, which set us both to laughing as we turned back to our work,

At last, all was ready, giving us the opportunity to lie where we were to catch some sleep before we started out on the march, a real march heading towards a real enemy, making the energy definitely different than our training jaunts. One other thing that made it different was that we were all required to wear our dress uniforms. For we Gregarii that was not much more than the horsehair plume, which I hated because if the wind was coming in the wrong direction it would whip around and hit me in the face. It was the Centurions and the officers that had the most to worry about; rather, their slaves did. Still, it was a sight! The glittering array of the eagles and standards, the panoply and pomp as we were led out of the gate by Caesar himself for that first time, followed by the officers of the Legions, was a sight that will be with me until the day I die.