Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul (15 page)

Before we went into the final phase of our training, we held the lustration ceremony, a sacred rite that calls for the gods’ favor onto the standards of the Legion and the Legion itself. Because of its sacred nature, I cannot speak of it. I will say that it is a rite that is usually performed at the beginning of the new campaign season. However, since we were new
tiros
it was not seen as fitting for us to participate until we were deemed worthy of being called Legionaries. After the ceremony for the rest of the army, we
tiros
were ordered to remain in our places in formation, where we were faced by the Praetor who was standing on the rostra, dressed in his armor and his general’s
paludamentum
, the scarlet cloak of general rank. Arrayed in front of him, also facing us, was all 60 of our Centurions, all wearing their dress uniforms, with their phalarae, torqs, and other badges of office and decoration gleaming with the strength of a hundred suns.

“Soldiers,” Caesar addressed us, causing a stir in our ranks because this was the first time we were spoken to in this manner, and it took a moment for the meaning to sink in. We had done it! We were being addressed as soldiers by Caesar because that is what we were. All of the pain and sweat of the last almost four months was as if it never happened, just like the last mist of a bad dream dissolving when you awake because of the brilliance of the new day.

“Today is a great day for you, and for Rome,” he continued, using what I would learn was his oratorical voice, which he pitched higher when addressing large crowds so that it would carry farther.

“You are about to be entered into the rolls of the brave men who have served Rome so well in the past, covering both our eternal city and themselves in glory.”

He indicated the Centurions standing in front of him.

“Perhaps some of you will elevate yourself to the glory and rank of the men you see standing before you. Perhaps not.”

He paused for a moment before continuing in a way that sounded as if he was speaking quietly, yet somehow still pitching his voice loud enough for all to hear, at least in the first few ranks.

“What is certain is that some of you will die, if that is the will of the gods.”

This had our complete attention.

“But if it is the will of the gods that you die, it is still up to each of you to choose how to die. And in dying well, you add even more glory and fame to Rome, to your tribe, to your family, and to yourselves.”

It is a curious characteristic of young men, at least in my lifetime, so I suppose that it has always been so and always will be. As Caesar talked of the possibility of death, while I was at the position of
intente
I still looked at the others out of the corners of my eyes, and I remember thinking to myself, poor bastards, I wonder which of them will die? As I was to learn later when we talked about the speech, every one of my comrades claimed that they had the exact same thought, for it never occurs to the young that they might be one of those unlucky souls who fall before they live to a ripe old age. It is not until one of us actually falls that it becomes real, and from that moment nothing in one’s life is the same. But at that moment we were still young, full of bright hopes and brash courage, and it was the greatest sense of pride I had ever known in my short life when we finished the oath to finally become
Miles
Gregarii
¸ the common Legionary in the service of Rome. We were dismissed for the rest of the day, as those of the Legion who were veterans came to congratulate us. Perhaps the biggest shock was the change in the demeanor of Pilus Prior Crastinus, who was the first man to stand us to a round of drinks at one of the shabby, ramshackle inns that had been thrown up outside the camp.

“Welcome home, boys,” he roared, the color of his face showing a hint to us that he may have started the celebrations ahead of us.

Passing among us, he shook each of our hands, gave us a slap on the back and made some sort of comment about something we did in training that had either amused him or angered him, although he still relayed the latter with a laugh.

When he got to me, he looked up at me and shouted, “Well! Here’s the hero! Hasn’t seen a battle yet but he already has those Lusitani
cunni
shaking in their tracks!”

I could feel the blush moving up my neck to my face, and I quickly glanced around. Of course, I was the center of attention but I could not determine what the looks I was receiving meant. Some of the men were grinning at me, apparently delighted at my discomfort; some were not smiling yet still looked friendly. There was only one whose countenance I could not mistake; Didius glowered at me, the bruises under his eyes still slightly visible, making him look like he badly needed a night of sleep. Seeing his displeasure made me feel somewhat better and I grinned, first in his direction then back down to the Pilus Prior.

“I certainly hope that I can live up to your belief in me Pilus Prior,” I said honestly.

He laughed and replied, “You will, boy. You will. I have no doubt of that. Once I saw you working the wooden sword, I knew that you'd be one to watch. Just save some for the rest of the boys, eh?”

With another slap on the shoulder, he moved on to the next man, leaving me to stare bemusedly into my wine cup. I was glad that he possessed no doubts; that made one of us. Vibius saw my thoughtful expression and came over to me, leaning against the wall of the rude hut that served to shelter all of the carousers who found their way there every night.

“Aaah,” he cried cheerfully, “quit moping about, you big ox. You’ll be fine and you know it. He’s right, you’ll probably kill so many of those barbarians that there won’t be enough left for the rest of us.”

Despite his jovial tone, I was still not willing to give up my contemplative mood.

Shrugging, I could only reply, “I hope it works out like that. But the truth is, none of us really know, do we? I mean,” I continued, lowering my voice, “nobody truly knows how they’ll react until it happens, neh? So for all I know, I may find that my knees turn to water, and I piss myself like a girl.”

Having gotten it out at last, I hurriedly took a swallow of my wine so I could hide my face and shame at having made such an admission.

“That much is true,” a quiet voice sounded next to me, and I swiveled my head to see Calienus standing there.

Obviously he had heard what I said, so I saw no point in pretending otherwise. He examined me with a kindly expression, one that I imagined a big brother would use when his little brother came to confide in him some wrong done to him. Without waiting for me to answer, he continued, “Nobody really knows what they’ll do the first time they face the enemy, unless they’re a liar or fool like him,” he jerked his head in the direction of Didius, who had managed to draw a crowd around him, no doubt boasting of the glory he was going to earn. “All you can do is this; rely on your training, and put your trust in the man next to you.” Grabbing me by the shoulder, he turned me about so that he could look me in the eye as he spoke. “The rest will come much easier than you think. When the moment comes, trust me, you’ll know what to do.” Turning to Vibius then, he finished, “And both of you need to watch each other’s back at all times.”

“All right, Sergeant, but we haven’t started the fighting yet,” protested Vibius with a laugh, which died in his throat when he saw that Calienus was not joining him. “I wasn’t talking about the Lusitani,” he replied in a voice pitched just loudly enough to be heard over the din but not any farther than where we were standing. “I’m talking about with him.”

He nodded his head, again in the direction of Didius. Perhaps it was a coincidence, perhaps not, but when we looked over in the direction that Calienus had indicated, we both saw Didius drinking from his cup, staring straight at us.

I had never drunk so much in my young life as I did that night, and truthfully, I do not remember much of what transpired. However, I vividly remember the next day, when we were roused by the Pilus Prior, who amazingly seemed none the worse for wear, and was in his normally loud state.

“On your feet you
cunni
,” he roared when he shoved his face into our tent, his customary morning greeting. If we were expecting that the goodwill that he had shown to us the night before would be present this morning we were disappointed. Indeed, as the day progressed it was as if the day before never happened, which we found not only puzzling, but a little disturbing.

Going to Calienus for guidance, he explained to us, “It’s going to be like this a little while longer, at least until we’re blooded. The Pilus Prior is going to keep pushing us until he knows exactly what we can do in battle. If we do well, then you’ll see more of what you saw last night, though not as much.”

I for one, despite understanding what he was saying, still did not like it. We were
Gregarii
now after all; that is what the whole ceremony had been about the day before, and I expressed this to Calienus, who shook his head.

“What happened yesterday was unusual. Normally you'd have completed your four months of training before swearing in, but Caesar's anxious to move because it’s already late. So he had you sworn in earlier than usual. It didn’t sit well with some of the Centurions, I’ll tell you that.” Before we could ask the question, Calienus added, “The Pilus Prior wasn’t one of them though. I heard him telling the Optio he thinks our Century is ready to go right now. Second Century,” he rolled his eyes and we laughed, “is another story.”

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.

Chapter 4- Campaign in Lusitania

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.