R. Peake - Marching With Caesar - Conquest of Gaul

Nobody said anything, just nodded in agreement, whereupon Calienus turned back to the woman, who began whimpering in fear. Our Sergeant approached her and she made a desperate lunge to get past him, but he was more experienced at this game than we were. Laughing, he stuck a leg out as she ran past so that she fell to the dirt floor with a thud. I could not seem to tear my eyes away, despite feeling a sense of shame at what was going on, but it was not strong enough for me to try and stop what was happening. Calienus fell on the woman, his weight pinning her down, and I sensed a movement behind me, turning around in time to see Vibius leave the hut.

I followed him, while Romulus and Remus jeered and laughed at me, Romulus saying, “You lose your place in line if you leave Pullus.”

I did not answer, feeling a flush rise to my face. Leaving the hut, I stood by Vibius, who was looking down the street watching other Legionaries as they carried loot out of the huts, some of it in the form of screaming women tossed over their shoulders. The smoke was intensifying as more and more of the town was put to the torch, and over it all we could hear the sounds of fighting, women screaming, the harsh laughter and shouts of men sating their lusts.

For a short time neither of us spoke, then Vibius said, without looking at me, “I can’t do something like that Titus. I swore to be true to Juno, but it’s not just that. When I looked at that woman, I saw Juno. How would I feel if that happened to her?”

I did not know what to say, yet I tried anyway. “But that would never happen to Juno. She’s a Roman, Vibius. Nobody will ever beat us.”

He looked at me with a sad smile, and replied simply, “And that bothers me too.”

Resuming our silence, it was only broken when Romulus came out, a huge grin on his face as he buckled his harness back up. “Your turn Pullus,” he called out cheerfully. “We left enough for your share.”

I could not look Vibius in the eye as I turned and went back into the hut.

By the time the sun was going down, the town that we assaulted no longer existed, nor do I remember its name. The surviving Lusitani were bound in chains, destined for the slave markets that would send them to Rome and the Republic. Seeing the bound prisoners as they were led away, I was troubled by a thought; was this how Phocas and Gaia had come into my life? It had never occurred to me to ask how they came to be slaves, and I found that thought troubling. All of us were filthy; for the first time I noticed that my hands were caked with blood, and I remembered thinking that they were sticky at some point during the attack, but it never occurred to me to look down to see why since I was too busy. Now when I looked down it surprised me to see that not just my hands were covered, but almost every inch of me was spattered with other men’s blood, and I dully wondered how long it would take to get it out between the links of my armor. It was only then that I became aware that my side still hurt, so I struggled out of my armor, the effort making me gasp in pain as the dull ache increased to a sharp stabbing pain. Feeling something warm starting to seep down my side, soaking my tunic even more, I did not want to look. Instead I used my fingers to explore, touching the area gingerly then feeling around the edges of what was a gash perhaps two or three inches long along my right side. Needless to say, it was extremely tender to the touch, made even more so because the blood had dried my tunic to and around the wound.

Bracing myself, I was just about to yank it free when I heard Calienus call out sharply, “Don’t do that. It'll make it bleed even more.”

Turning to see him behind me, he was already shed of his armor and headed for the baths when he obviously saw me poking at myself.

Walking up to me, he smiled, “I guess I have to show you new boys everything, including how to take care of yourself.”

Looking at the gash, he pursed his lips. “This is more serious than I thought. You’re going to need to get it cleaned up and stitched. I can do the cleaning part all right, but you'll have to go to the medici to get it stitched up.”

I was dubious, to say the least, since I had never been injured to the point where I needed to have anything stitched up, and I was none too keen on the idea. However, Calienus ordered me to go, so I went to the quaestorium where the medical section was located.

I wish I had not. This had been a day of firsts, and this was one I wished I had never seen, not just because I did not like to see my fellow Legionaries suffer. The knowledge that it had only been a matter of luck that I was not one of them, moaning in pain while trying to will it away was sobering, to say the least. Or I could have ended up worse; of all the things I learned that day, it was that I was not nearly as skilled and invincible as I thought, and I vowed that I would never take my skills lightly, nor would I ever stop training with dedication and focus. Of all the vows I have made in my life, this is the one that I can say I abided by more closely than any others. The interior of the large tent was lit with numerous lamps, the heat from them making the atmosphere stifling, not helping the stench, and I was forced to fight back a gag. The aftermath of a battle, whether one wins or loses, is horrible. Some men’s wounds are too horrific to describe, so the medici are just as busy putting men who cannot be saved out of their misery as they are stitching up wounds and setting bones. Some wounds have to be cauterized, and this more than any other smell made my stomach lurch. Because I was one of the walking wounded, I was not a priority; once I was assessed, I was told to go sit on the ground and wait with others in similar condition. There were almost a hundred men like me, and with a staff of maybe 20 mediciordinarii , some of them physicians though most were orderlies, it meant I was in for a long wait. Finding a spot, I made myself as comfortable as possible, trying to avoid eye contact with the other men around me, not being much in the mood for talking, especially to strangers. Luckily, they all seemed to be of the same mind, so we contented ourselves with trying to shut out the screams of men as their wounds were cauterized or their bones set. Almost as frequently, two orderlies would carry a man out who had not survived, and all of us scanned the faces of the men on the stretchers to see if we knew them. Some of them it was impossible to tell, as their wounds were to their head and facial area.

At one point I heard a man gasp as the orderlies carried a body out, then heard him mutter, “Well, that makes our tent roomier. Poor bastard.”

Finally, I was seen and my wound cleaned, albeit a bit roughly for my taste, except I was determined not to give the orderly a hint of the pain I was feeling as he pulled the tunic from the wound, starting a fresh bout of bleeding. Once cleaned, my wound was stitched up, the orderly obviously proud of his handiwork, but I was an indifferent audience. Just as I was leaving the tent I heard someone call my name and I looked at the rows of men lying on cots who had been treated, finally seeing someone wave to me. Walking over, once I recognized him I smiled in genuine pleasure at the figure of Vellusius, lying on a cot with a grin equally as broad.

“Vellusius, I thought we had lost you, old son.”

He gestured to the bandage that was awkwardly wrapped around his right shoulder and across his chest diagonally. I noticed that his arm was immobilized as well, and he explained. “I got hit by one of those cursed missiles, right on my collarbone,” he grimaced even as he said this. “It broke it, but it also slowed the damn thing down so it just lodged in my shoulder.”

“Did they get it out?”