R. Peake - Marching With Caesar - Conquest of Gaul

The Lusitani had withdrawn; they approached under a flag of truce while I was asleep early in the morning asking to retrieve their wounded, which the Pilus Prior granted. They left behind almost 300 dead, out of an original force estimated to be between 500 and 600 strong. My tentmates claimed that there were less than a hundred unscathed, the rest being wounded to various degrees. Our butcher’s bill ended up with ten dead, twelve wounded that would return at some point to full duty, and another nine whose wounds were disabling to the point where they would be put out of the Legion on permanent disability. Added to that were the four men we lost when we moved to the hill. It did not matter whether they were killed outright, or had been too seriously wounded like the man who grabbed at Calienus’ ankle; once they fell they were dead men. I was just happy that Romulus was not one of those too badly wounded to continue under the standard, sustaining a serious wound just above his eye, while the eye itself was spared. The scar he carried gave him the look of a pirate or brigand of some sort, except much to our surprise and chagrin, we discovered that it seemed to be a point of attraction to the ladies, who would coo and flutter about him, asking him how he got it. It was not long before some of us were hoping that we could someday be mutilated in the face to enable us to become the object of the same kind of attention. Even as the Lusitani were finishing up the gathering of their wounded and making preparations to retreat, a column of dust started drifting towards us, the sign that Crastinus had been correct; help was indeed on the way. While we waited for the relief column to arrive, the Pilus Prior sent small groups of men out foraging for wood to build funeral pyres, and some sort of animal, preferably a white goat or sheep, to sacrifice during the funeral rites. Although the latter group came back empty handed, it turned out that it did not matter. As usual, Caesar thought of everything so that when he dispatched the column in relief, he sent along the proper animals for sacrifice, knowing that we would have had casualties. It was also a subtle message to all of us that said he knew the only reason we could possibly be delayed was because we were locked in desperate battle. The remaining men were detailed to dig a pit to throw the bodies of the Lusitani in, with a small number of men standing guard. Between the beating we had just given them, and the sight of the column, Crastinus was convinced that the Lusitani would not do anything foolish and just be content instead to limp off with their tail between their legs. I was exempted from duties as a reward for my antics the night before, yet after a few moments, I could not watch my friends digging without getting up to help, so I pitched in. It also helped pass the time, and gave us a chance to recount the events of the day before. In between shovelfuls, Atilius gave a running commentary on everything that happened as he saw it, with the others adding in their own obol’s worth.

“Yeah, I thought we were well and truly fucked,” he said as he threw another spade’s worth of dirt out of the hole, “because I couldn’t see a damn thing and all I could hear was that abominable screeching they do when they attack.”

“I was pissed because I'd just gotten off light duty,” added Vellusius, still working at a disadvantage because although the bone was healed, he had lost some range of motion in his arm, making activities like shoveling painful. “I thought, by the gods, if I get wounded again and put back in the hospital, I'll go mad.” His face was red and he was dripping sweat at a much faster rate than the rest of us, and despite doing his best to hide it, we all saw how much strain this was putting on him. However, when we suggested that he could stand down to let the rest of us dig, he refused. “I’ve been lying about long enough. I need to pull my weight just like everyone else.”

I do not know if it was meant in the way it was taken; all I do know is that immediately after Vellusius spoke those words, every eye shifted to Didius, who as usual was doing more leaning on his shovel than actually working with it. Of course he noticed immediately and scowled at us collectively, with extra malice towards Vellusius. However, he was wise enough this time to keep his mouth shut. The bump on his head was still noticeable, but only just, and was certainly not enough of a justification to put himself on the sick list, although I was a bit surprised that he did not try.

Atilius was sporting a massive bruise on his thigh just above his knee, courtesy of a bouncing rock from a sling and so was hobbling a bit, added, “I got knocked down, and I knew I had had it. ‘Atilius old son,’ I said to myself, ‘if you get out of this one it'll be because of the divine intervention of Fortuna herself. You better show her how grateful you are if she sees fit to spare you.’”

“Well, she obviously did, so what kind of sacrifice are you going to make?” Vibius asked.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about that,” Atilius stopped digging for a moment. “I don’t know what’s appropriate. What do you boys think?”

This engendered a debate on what would be a proper measure of gratitude, before we finally decided on a white kid goat.

“How much do those cost I wonder?”

Scribonius supplied a guess, “I shouldn’t think more than twenty sesterces.”

Atilius almost choked. “Twenty sesterces! By Dis, I’m not THAT grateful. She’ll have to do with something less than that then.”

We laughed at that, prompting a visit by the Pilus Prior to bark at us, saying that if we had breath to laugh we were not working hard enough. The section all stood at intente , faces made of stone and with hearts as pure as the Vestal Virgins until he stalked off, whereupon we picked up where we left off, just more quietly this time.

The grave was dug, with the grisly task of pulling bodies over and throwing them in the pit falling to us as well, and we paired up. Vibius and I worked out a system whereby we alternated grabbing the legs or the arms, because holding the legs in most cases is the least unpleasant since you are farther away from the gore of the wounds that killed them. Sometimes though, the bodies were in pieces and we would find ourselves carrying some limbs, or just a torso, which was the worst. The sun beating down ensured that it did not take long for the stench to get to a point where it was not only noticeable but was becoming hard to bear, spurring us on to finish as fast as we could. Once all the bodies and parts were collected and thrown into the ground, we covered them up with dirt. It is a strange sensation when one looks down into a hole and sees a face staring back up at you, with open eyes and a mouth still set in the expression they were wearing when death claimed them. For some, it was a look of surprise; for others it was a look of terror, and still others a look of pure anger and hatred. It was these last that I did not mind throwing dirt over to hide their visage, while for the others, I felt a sort of sadness as I interred them, and I remember wondering what sights their eyes would be missing from that point on. They would never see their women again, or their children grow up. They would not revel in another sunrise or sunset, or stare into a fire and think the private thoughts that all men have at some point in their lives. But they had chosen their path, I thought, and this is where it led them. Pity is not an emotion in which a Legionary can indulge, and I resolved to myself that I would banish such unseemly feelings from me, no matter how hard it might be.

While we were busy digging the grave and filling it up, the Second Century, now being aided by the Second and Third Cohort that had been dispatched to come to our aid, built funeral pyres for our dead, using the scented oils for such ceremonies that were sent along with our rescuers. The fact that we actually needed no rescue was a source of great pride to all of us, and it gave us a bit of a swagger from that day onwards. The news of our stand spread throughout the army and I would be remiss if I did not add that it was at this point my name first became known to more than just the men in my Legion. Our dead were laid on the pyre, their bodies and uniforms cleaned up then wrapped in linen as is our custom. One of the priests attached to the Legion was sent along with the Cohorts to perform the ceremony, and we stood in formation as the pyres were lit and our comrades consumed by the cleansing flames. We had been so busy that none of us had time to clean up our own gear, but that could not be helped and once the fire died down, their ashes were collected, the ashes from each put into ten urns that would be sent to their families. With that duty performed, we formed up to march back to the main camp. Our Century was given the place of honor, just behind the vanguard, while our wounded were loaded on the wagons brought by the relieving force. As we marched away, none of us could stop ourselves from giving a last glance back at the little hill where we had made our stand. The dirt wall was still there, the breached part of the wall clearly visible, and there was still the normal debris strewn around that signifies a battle has taken place; only the bodies were missing, but one could still clearly see the darkened splotches where men had fallen. It was on that hill that we truly became veterans, and from that day forward, the First Century of the Second Cohort of the 10th Legion was no longer treated as if we were still new Gregarii . We had been in the Legions a total of four months and two weeks.