Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul (16 page)

“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.

Wondering that Caesar would be at the very front, without a vanguard of any type, I asked Calienus who replied, “That’s only for the first mile or so. Then he and the others will pull to the side, and let the 7th lead the way.”

For that is how it was that first day; we marched in the order of our numbers, so that we walked drag, ahead of only the baggage train and the rearguard. When an army of that size is on the march, it does not make any sense for the trailing Legions to even start forming up for the first watch or so, which is why once the initial formation was dismissed and the march began we were allowed to break ranks to go stand by the gate to watch the procession. None of the veterans bothered; they lay down and immediately fell asleep again, using their packed gear as a pillow, but for those of us for whom this was the first campaign, we could not be drawn away from the spectacle. When you are young, things like sleeping or eating can be made up later, but it would not be long before we learned one of the most valuable lessons of being a soldier, that when you have the chance, you sleep, and eat. However, we did not know that yet, so I stood with the rest of my tentmates watching the first Legions go marching by.

There was the usual banter and jeering among us, the men of the 7th calling out to us, “That’s right 10th. In the rear with the gear where there is no fear!”

“They’re just saving the best for last,” someone shot back, which of course we cheered as the wittiest retort ever made, while the men of the 7th did the opposite.

I cannot help but think back to that day, when despite our bickering we were all comrades, none of us knowing the great struggle that lay ahead, where we would be looking over our shield across at some of these same men, preparing to kill or be killed. Such is the fickle nature of the gods and the Fates I suppose, yet despite knowing that we are subject to their whim, it is still hard to understand how we came to that place. However, that was far in the future, and on that day, even the gods seemed pleased. The sacrifices had been made, the auspices taken, and there were eagles sighted flying over the camp in the direction of our march, so for everyone, it was seen as a sign that the gods were with us. That day the weather was glorious, at least to me. Consequently, I reveled in the feeling of the sun on my face as I watched men just like me go marching by, and when I looked at Vibius, my grin could have split my head wide open.

“This is what we’ve been waiting for Vibius,” I crowed, “since we were boys. We’re on the march with the Legions. Can there be anything more glorious?”

Vibius shook his head in agreement, replying “I don’t think so Titus. I don’t think so.”

It was almost two parts of a watch before it was our turn to set out, and when we marched the few men who were remaining behind, those too sick to march and a few of the marginal men who it was felt would be better suited to keep the camp open and running, were all that remained as our audience when we exited the gates. The worst part now was the horrible dust that hung in a pall over us, making the sun appear as just a hazy orb in the sky that you could actually look at without hurting your eyes, it was so heavily obscured. This meant that the choking, coughing and cursing began at almost the same time, and despite the Centurions telling us to shut up and quit whining, soon enough they were choking, coughing, and cursing along with us, especially the cursing. Another thing that makes walking drag so unpleasant is that marching behind first the cavalry, then the officers means that no matter how careful you are, before a couple of miles go by, your feet are covered in the deposits of dung left behind by the thousands of animals. The combination of the freshness and the heat also did not help with the smell, so it was not long before some of the more delicate stomachs were heaving, beginning a chain reaction of sorts. All in all, it was a miserable experience.

Because we could only march as fast as the baggage train, with the drag Legion being charged with guarding it and the train being slower than the rest of the Legions, the one small blessing was that this meant that the other Legions got to do the work of making the marching camp. The camp outline, the ditch walls and palisade were already finished when we arrived, with the streets and tent areas all staked out and ready for the pitching of the tents. Filing in, we were followed by the wagons, entering through the
Porta Decumana
, the rear gate of the camp, then marching to our area to erect our tents. Since there was not a bath like at our permanent camp, we had to make do the best we could to clean off the filth of the march by just oiling down and being scraped clean where we stood, performed on our section by Lucco. The one piece of good news was that we would be the vanguard the next day, so we would not have to go through the same ordeal that we endured that day. Such is the way of the Roman army, and one of the many small reasons we are so great. Everyone shares equally in both the easy duties and the onerous tasks; it is all a matter of time before it’s your turn for both. The only exception is latrine duty, which is reserved for Legionaries on punishment, and I thanked the gods that there were enough men who fell afoul of the rules and regulations that it never became a regular duty, although at one point or another we all took turns mucking out the stables. For some reason, the idea of cleaning up the
cac
of an animal is not nearly as loathsome as that of a human’s and although I have no idea why this is so, I just know that it is.

Falling asleep easily that night, the talk was held to a minimum by our fatigue, and this began the pattern of the next several days as we moved northwest to confront the Lusitani. Drawing closer to the enemy, the terrain became more difficult, consisting of rolling hills that were not particularly high, yet whose slopes were steep, so that we felt the effort even if it did not take particularly long to crest each hill. Crossing the Anas (Guadiana) River, we were told this marked the southern border of the Lusitani territory, and was the home of the Turdetani and Lusitani branches. While they were reputed to be the more civilized of the tribes; it was the Celtici and particularly the Vettones who were the most savage back then, the Lusitani and Turdetani were still supposed to be formidable warriors. Crossing the river took the better part of a day, there being only one narrow ford and the river bottom was sandy, meaning that the lucky lads immediately in front of the baggage train got to push and pull the wagons when they inevitably got stuck. While we were happy to march as the vanguard that second day, it also meant that we would have the most work to do constructing the camp. Now that we were officially in enemy territory, we were ordered to be even more vigilant, and part of that vigilance included making our camp more secure. The depth of the ditch was deepened a foot more, and widened another foot, making the rampart that much higher. Also, the guard was doubled, and it was also our turn for that duty, so that we made up for the easy day we had as far as eating dust and not stepping in
cac
by getting less sleep. As I said, it all evens out.

Since this was our first night in what was considered to be enemy territory, there was little trouble staying awake during our turn on the walls. The fact that there had been a sighting of the enemy as the camp was being completed just made it all the easier, not that it amounted to much. It was Rufio, one of the veterans in our Century who spotted them first and raised the alarm. There was a bit of a hubbub as his shout got all of us scrambling for our shields and javelins; we were already wearing our helmet, though this was not standard when we made camp but we were ordered to do so because we were in enemy territory. Normally we wore our sword and dagger at all times, on pain of punishment ranging from a flogging to execution. As it turned out, the sighting was a huge army of three men, sitting their horses on the nearby ridge as they watched us work. They were some distance away, so it was impossible to make out details, yet I for one felt my pulse race. It did not matter that there were only three of them, there they were! The enemy, the barbarian horde, the feared Lusitani, the scourge of Hispania! I could tell that my friends were just as excited and even Calienus seemed to be a little more than his usual placid self. It was enough of an occasion that the Pilus Prior did not immediately start thrashing us when we stopped working to stand watching the men observing us. After a moment, we heard him yelling something about our sorry asses getting back to work, so we returned to our respective labors. This day it was my turn to carry dirt, a job that I detested until, that is, I realized that it was a good way to keep working on my strength by trying to carry more than the others. Also, it was a chance to show off a little, I must admit. I could not help being born bigger and stronger, but I saw no reason why I should not demonstrate it from time to time, for which my tentmates would roundly jeer me. However, I could tell that they were secretly proud of the fact that I was already considered one of the strong men of the Legion. Just before we set out, we had held games, including wrestling bouts with men picked by their comrades from each Legion facing each other. Naturally I was picked, despite never having wrestled a day in my life, and it was only due to brute strength that I won my first two matches, advancing to the penultimate round, where I was thrashed soundly by a man much smaller than I but who was an experienced wrestler. While I had not shamed myself or my Legion, I was still determined that I would avenge that loss, deciding that when the campaigning season was over I would learn to wrestle. If I lived at least.

As we were breaking camp the next morning, the alarm went up once again. This time, however, it was not just three men, but several hundred, all of them mounted and who watched us from the same spot as the first three. Again there was a stir among all of us, since this was obviously not just a scouting party, even though there was no way that they could match us in strength and were extremely unlikely to attack us. Because of the presence of these men, who one of the scouts confirmed were Lusitani, we marched out in a column of squares called an
agmentum
quadratum
, which is an extremely difficult formation to control on the march, except I think it was more just to show the Lusitani that we had seen them and were prepared for anything they cared to throw at us than from a fear of being attacked. We were told to continue carrying our shields on our back but to remove the covers so that they were instantly ready should we need them. It turned out that we did not; instead, the horsemen were content to shadow us as we marched, always staying just out of reach of a sudden attack by our cavalry screen. After about two parts of a watch, the column was halted, and we were shaken out into our standard marching formation, with our Legion in the middle this time. Again, because of my normal marching place on the outside of the column, I was able to pass the time watching the men on the horses, who were split into two groups, with one group on each side of the column. Even with my lack of experience then, I could at least tell that these men were born to ride a horse; indeed, it was hard to tell where the man stopped and the horse started. Perhaps, I thought, they are really centaurs, and I let this thought occupy my mind as we marched; it is in such ways that one learns to pass the monotonous watches of marching, staring at the back of the man in front of you.

It was shortly before we were to stop for the day when it happened. Suddenly, from behind us came the blaring of
bucina
, and then the
cornicen
, the curved round horn with a deep bass voice that carries a great distance and is used to relay orders in battle, instantly telling us that something important was going on. Craning our necks to look to the rear, it was still impossible to see, and indeed, as we learned later the sounding of the horns that we heard were merely the relayed signals sent up to the front. Whatever happened had occurred far to the rear, although we did not know that then.