R. Peake - Marching With Caesar - Conquest of Gaul

Our return to camp was also the occasion of my first face to face conversation with Caesar. Since Caesar ordered that we would stay in the same camp for an extra day, we were given time to clean and mend our gear, which in my case meant a lot of vigorous scrubbing, using a stiff horsehair brush to get the caked blood and gore from between the links of my armor, a process that took the better part of an afternoon by the time I felt presentable. The next morning, after our morning meal and formation that is held whenever we were not packing up to march and where the orders of the day are passed along, the Pilus Prior held me back while dismissing the others.

He looked at me critically, eying me up and down, reaching out to make an adjustment here and wipe off some speck of something there, before he said curtly, “Follow me.”

Then he turned to head toward the Praetorium , slowing enough for me to catch up and walk beside him, unusual in itself and increasing my anxiety. The thought that perhaps my transgression was not forgiven flitted through my mind, but I instantly dismissed it. I was sure that I would have sensed that the Pilus Prior experienced a change of heart at some point before this, yet that only lessened my anxiety a fraction. For such is the nature of the ordinary Gregarii that any type of summons to headquarters is enough to send the stomach down to one’s feet and one’s heart up into the throat. Even for someone like myself, who had decided that they did not want to be just one of the faceless masses of men who were in the Legions, it was still a cause for concern.

“Right, now listen up,” the Pilus Prior spoke quietly so that only I could hear. “I turned in my report to the Legate, who forwarded it on to Caesar, who interviewed me himself. He wants to meet you.”

It is hard to describe which emotion I felt first or the strongest between exhilaration and fear. The best way to put it is that it was not dissimilar to the feeling one gets before going into battle, and I swallowed down the lump in my throat.

“So what should I do?”

He looked at me sharply. “Do? You don’t do a damn thing. You answer his questions with a Yes, Sir or No, Sir and otherwise keep your mouth shut. Got it?”

I nodded, except I was still troubled. “What if he asks me a question that doesn't have a yes or no answer?”

The Pilus Prior puffed out his cheeks impatiently, and snapped, “Then you answer the damn question, but use as few words as you possibly can.”

Nodding again, I was about to say something else but knowing the look that the Pilus Prior had on his face, I kept my mouth shut. Approaching the guards, we were stopped and the Pilus Prior stated our business. One of them entered the headquarters tent, returning a moment later to motion us in. The Pilus Prior removed his helmet, placing it under his left arm, and I followed suit, then he took a breath, squared his shoulders and marched inside, with me following behind him. The tent was brightly lit with many lamps, and there were a number of scribes, all of them with their own desk, copying out orders of one sort or another. Tribunes were hurrying about carrying wax tablets, looking their normal officious selves, and out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Doughboy engaged in conversation with another Tribune slightly younger than he was. I had seen him before but did not know his name, and made a mental note to ask the Pilus Prior about him. He was a little unusual for a Tribune in that he had an air about him that betrayed a sense of competence, and the few times I was around him, I also noticed that he did not speak to us Gregarii as if he thought his cac did not stink. Crastinus and I made our way across the outer room and into the section that acted as Caesar’s office, separated by a doorway made from a leather flap that could be pulled aside. I am not sure what I was expecting, but it was not what I saw. Knowing that Caesar was a patrician from an old family, I expected his office to reflect his status and be filled with all sorts of luxury items and ornate decorations. Instead, there was a simple desk directly across from the flap, noticeable only because it was larger than the other two in the room, those against each wall of the tent, and each with its own scribe. Caesar was standing behind his desk, reading from a scroll while simultaneously dictating to the scribes and it was here that I got my first glimpse of one of the things that most people know about him today and made him the greatest man of our age, or any other for that matter. He would dictate a sentence to the scribe on his left, who would begin writing rapidly, and while waiting for him to finish, he turned to the scribe on his right, dictating yet another sentence on a totally different topic, all the while his eyes never leaving the scroll that he was reading. He only stopped when the Pilus Prior and I approached, with the both of us halting the prescribed distance from his desk to give him our best parade ground salute.

“Secundus Pilus Prior Gaius Crastinus, of the 10th Legion, reporting with Legionary Gregarius Titus Pullus as ordered sir.”

Caesar laid the scroll on the desk to acknowledge our salute with the same solemnity and gravity that it was given. For a moment he said nothing, just inspecting the two of us, spending more of his attention on me as I kept my eyes locked at a point above his head, yet even so, knowing that I was being inspected by the general commanding the entire army ignited in me the queerest feeling I had ever experienced in my life to that point. It was a mixture of pride, apprehension, exhilaration and not a little bit of anxiety, all while I tried to remember the Pilus Prior’s instructions. His inspection done, Caesar smiled then walked around the desk to face me, doing something that I will never forget.

Extending his hand, he said with a smile, “ Salve, Gregarius Titus Pullus. The Pilus Prior has told me of your valor in your engagement, and I wanted to offer you my hand in thanks.”

I did not know what to do; this was so far out of anything I had contemplated that I was flummoxed, but the habits of a lifetime saved me and more importantly Caesar any real embarrassment, as before I could even think about it I extended my hand and we shook hands in the Roman manner, clasping each other’s forearms. His hand was warm, and I could feel the calluses formed by many hours practice with the sword. Most importantly, his hand was not like a wet and clammy fish, his grip instead strong and dry. Before I could stop myself I looked down at him, meeting his eyes, yet despite my horror at this slip in discipline, he did not seem to take any umbrage whatsoever. His eyes carried a measure of warmth that I was not expecting, with none of the disdain I saw in those of men like Doughboy when talking to their social inferiors. It was the appreciation of one fighting man to another, and I am not ashamed to say that in that moment, I became Caesar’s man forever.

Withdrawing his hand, he continued, “It's good to know that Rome will be served by young men such as you in the coming years. I fear that she will have more need of your services than either of us would like.”

I was confused as to the proper response; this was not a question. Did he want me to comment? The best I could do was to say, “And I'll be ready sir, whenever Rome needs me and wherever I'm needed.”

He smiled again, nodding his head as if I had passed some sort of test. “This is what I wanted to hear. I must confess, when I was told that a young Gregarius was being selected as the weapons instructor for their Century, I was a little hesitant to approve. But the judgment of the Pilus Prior has been confirmed in a way that leaves no doubt in my mind.”