Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul (94 page)

“
Salve
Pullus,” he called out woodenly, and I responded, trying to sound lighthearted.

“Well, you lucky bastard. You won’t be pulling any duty for awhile,” I told him, and a flicker of a tired smile crossed his face.

“I suppose not, now that you mention it. But Pluto’s cock, I can think of other ways I’d rather get out of duties. This hurts like Dis,” he replied.

“I can imagine,” and even as I said this, I became aware of the pain in my side again, suddenly not feeling very well myself.

Regardless of how I felt, I still had to find the Pilus Prior, and I asked Atilius if he saw him go down. For a moment, Atilius acted like he had not heard me, staring off in the distance, and I was about to repeat myself when he raised his left hand, pointing to a place where the wall was breached.

“I saw him fall into the ditch over there,” he said quietly, then met my inquiring gaze with a shake of his head. “I don’t think you’re going to like what you find over there, Optio. He fell right in the middle of a pack of Gauls, and they tore him to pieces.”

Gulping, I tried to keep my face impassive, nodding my thanks. Telling him that I would see him soon, I stumbled over to where Atilius indicated, steeling myself for what I would find. Mounting the rampart, I gazed into the ditch, and as much death and killing as I had seen, I still felt my stomach lurch. There was a heap of bodies, yet I could see scattered among them bits and pieces of what obviously had been a Roman Centurion and I felt my jaw clench as I stepped down into the ditch, trying to keep the contents of my stomach down. Atilius was completely accurate; the Pilus Prior had indeed been hacked into pieces, and even today, the thought of what I saw makes my stomach lurch as I break out into a cold sweat. Fighting against my revulsion, I forced myself to gather his remains, placing each piece of him that I found up on the rampart, despite being forced to leave some of him behind because those parts were so badly mangled I could not tell exactly whether or not it was him or a Gaul. Nonetheless, I managed to recover most of his body, and calling the stretcher bearers over, I ordered them to place him on a stretcher to carry him over to where the dead lay. At first they balked, before I convinced them that their fate was going to be very close to his if they refused, so they sullenly piled him onto a stretcher and carried him over, depositing his remains alongside those of our dead who had not yet been moved. Only then, did I sit down, or more accurately fall down, and a
medici
, seeing my distress came over to examine me. I do not remember much more than this, as I fell backwards, my last memory looking up at the sky.

Waking up in the field hospital, my sudden movement into consciousness almost caused me to faint again. Waiting for my head to stop spinning, I sat up slowly, looking around as I tried to determine what time it was. Through a flap in the tent I could see it had turned dark; I must have been out almost a full watch. My side felt like it was enclosed in some sort of vice, and I looked down to see a bandage tightly wound around my torso, although it was stained red. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt to clean my blood off of me, but I still looked like half of me was dipped in it. My next thought was about my sword; it would be worth a small fortune for anyone sly or stupid enough to steal it. Feeling underneath my cot, I found to my relief that it, along with my blood-encrusted armor, helmet, and harness were there. Giving a short prayer of thanks to the gods, I carefully swung my legs over the edge of the cot, bringing myself to a sitting position. Despite my care, my head began to swim and I was sure that I would pass out in a dead faint, grimly holding onto the sides of the cot with my hands until my head cleared. Then I stood up, feeling my legs shaking but immediately ignored the tremors, telling myself that they were shaking earlier as well. Then with a bit of effort, I dragged my gear out from under the cot, where I almost pitched over again from bending over. That is when it hit me that my Century was without a leader, the memory of what happened to the Pilus Prior flooding back into my head, and I was forced to close my eyes to fight the nausea that threatened to overwhelm me.

“Here now, Optio,” an accented voice called out, and I turned to see one of the Greeks who worked as a
medici
hurrying towards me, a worried look on his face. “You’re not well enough to be out of bed just yet,” he said, snapping his fingers and pointing to my cot, his meaning clear. If only he had not snapped his fingers at me, I probably would have listened and obeyed him, but his officious manner made me angry, and I was damned if I would let some civilian give me orders.

“Go fuck yourself, freedman,” I snapped, causing him to stop dead in his tracks, his face a study in surprise and not a little fear, making me feel better. “I’m going back to my Century, and if you try to stop me, I’ll cut your fucking throat,” I tried to growl in my best impersonation of Pilus Prior Crastinus. Despite it sounding false to me, it clearly gave him enough of a pause that he reluctantly nodded his head. However, while he would not stop me, he would also not expose himself to some sort of punishment. “Very well, Optio,” he replied reluctantly, “but if you insist, I must demand that you sign yourself out. Wait here and I'll bring the necessary paperwork.”

I could not help but groan out loud, and I saw a shadow of a malicious smile cross his face at my consternation. Was there no escaping paperwork, I thought to myself, even when all I want is to go back to duty? One would think that the army would like to see such dedication in their officers, but apparently not. Nevertheless, I signed out and carrying my gear, walked slowly back to our area, having to stop several times when the dizziness threatened to overwhelm me, one time being forced to sit on a barrel to catch my breath. Clearly I had lost more blood than I thought, but I was still completely focused on getting back to the Century to help prepare our dead for cremation. It is hard to describe how important it is to a Legionary to properly honor our dead, and I imagine that part of it is from a desire that if and when the time comes and it is your turn, that your comrades will give you the same attention and respect. Except it is deeper than that; it is the last way we can honor our friends and comrades, and it is also our chance to say goodbye, so it is extremely important that we do so in the proper manner. The final butcher’s bill for the Century was a total of seven dead, including the Pilus Prior, and eight wounded, three of them so severely that they would either die before dawn, or if they did survive, their days of marching under the standard were over. Once the rest of the men recovered, we would be marching with 50 effectives; just a bit more than half strength from what took the final oath out of the original
dilectus
in Hispania, and about two-thirds strength of what started the campaign in Gaul. Now I was acting Pilus Prior, although I did not even consider that the position would be made permanent. The men were gathered around the dead in small groups, each tent section working on their own dead comrade, carefully, indeed one could say lovingly cleaning the body, wiping the blood from the corpse, and doing what they could to close the wounds that killed them. Somehow, by some miracle, the men of my original tent section had again escaped death, the only serious wounds being that of Atilius, and I guess if I counted, myself as well. Vibius saw me approach and in that moment, all the difficulties and disagreements dropped away, his eyes filling with tears at the sight of me. He came running to me and we embraced, holding each other, squeezing tightly despite the pain in my side.

“It’s over, thank the gods,” he whispered, then kissed me on both cheeks.

I returned the gesture, although I had to bend down to do so, which hurt a bit. The rest of my comrades came to surround me, even Didius among them, and without a word we stood huddled together, the tears flowing freely among all of us now. We had survived.

The funeral pyres burned throughout the night and into the next morning, all over the camp. Our casualties were heavy, particularly in the 10th and the 8th Legions, and my Century, First of the Second Cohort, along with the First and Second of the First Cohort, suffered the most. Primus Pilus Favonius had been killed, along with a total of nine Centurions of the 10th, meaning that there would be promotions. By mid-morning, our dead were burned, their ashes interred in the urns that would be sent to each of their families, their designated comrades taking care of their wills and disposing of property as the deceased deemed fit. Before noon, the
bucina
sounded the signal that a party of Gauls was approaching the camp; it was emissaries of Vercingetorix, offering his surrender. Despite this being expected, the reality of it created a huge amount of excitement and joy, the men congratulating each other, happy in the victory and that they survived it. Soon after, word was passed to assemble in the forum in two thirds of a watch, in full dress uniform, in order to witness the surrender of the leader of the Gauls. This presented a bit of a quandary for me since my armor was pierced and there was no time to have it repaired, nor to clean it, so I sent Vibius over to the quartermaster and although I had to pay a premium, he returned with new armor, already oiled and ready for inspection. He helped me to don it since I was so stiff it was almost impossible to lift my arms over my head. In fact, all of my comrades came to help me, polishing my leathers, shining my phalarae, and combing out my horsehair plume. I had to turn away to hide the tears I felt welling in my eyes at the sight of my friends helping me.

“You know,” Vellusius commented, “you’re probably going to get decorated again.”

I was surprised at this, and asked why he thought so.

“Because you’re such a big bastard, whenever you do anything everyone notices. If you fart you get decorated for it,” Didius declared, yet for some reason, I knew that he was not insulting me, as did the rest of my friends. In fact, this caused a roar of laughter, Vibius slapping Didius on the back in recognition of his jest. I do not know who was grinning more broadly, me or Didius.

“Seriously,” Vellusius continued once the laughter died down, “you were everywhere. You fought like Achilles, and we all saw it.”

There was a chorus of agreement, and if I never got another decoration the rest of my life, I thought, this would be enough. Medals and awards are fine things, but the recognition of one’s friends and comrades is so much finer, it is beyond comparison.

I did not know what to say, and finally all I could manage was a lame, “Well, someone had to do it. You flat-footed bastards were standing around with your thumbs up your asses.”

There was a round of mock jeers at this, and in high spirits, we went to form up for the ceremony.

All in all, it was something of an anti-climax, at least until the very end. Caesar commanded that every chief of the Gallic tribes that took part of the rebellion present themselves to him, while he sat on a raised dais in the forum, surrounded by his Tribunes and Legates, Labienus and Antonius most prominent. I have spoken much of Labienus, but Antonius, over the last two years distinguished himself as well, and the early impression of him as a man’s man and a friend of the
Gregarii
was reinforced during that time, so we were glad to see him in a place of honor. One by one, the Gallic chiefs approached, riding their horse and dressed in their finest armor, then dismounted and dropped to their knees before Caesar.

Then one of his staff, Hirtius I believe, would announce the name of the chief and the tribe of which he was chief, then ask Caesar, “What would you have of him?”

Most of them were stripped of their chieftainship, although a surprising number were allowed to retain their freedom, causing a bit of muttering in the ranks. At first, it was all very interesting, but once we saw how things were to go, it became quite boring, quite quickly. Finally then, there was only Vercingetorix left, and any boredom we suffered evaporated as he came riding into view. Everyone strained to get a look and once again I found reason to thank the gods not only for my height, but for my place in the First Century, especially since now that I was acting Pilus Prior, my place was in front of the men. I must say that he was an impressive looking man, wearing a helmet of the Gallic style, from which sprouted the wings of a raven. His armor glittered, inlaid with gold and silver, and he wore the long mustaches common to the Gauls, yet even so, it did not conceal his youth. He’s not much older than me, I thought in astonishment, but despite his age, he bore a look of regal command that was clear even from a distance. Mingling with my hatred of him for what he put us through I found myself admiring him as well, because even as he dismounted his horse, a beautiful white stallion, to surrender to Caesar, his bearing carried a dignity that told us all that even though he was surrendering his body, his spirit remained unconquered. Every eye followed him as he walked slowly, with ponderous dignity, towards Caesar, before ever so slowly sinking to his knees, then offering up his sword with both hands, bowing his head as he did.

“Vercingetorix, of the Arverni, self-styled king of the Gauls,” Hirtius intoned with what I felt was unwarranted malicious glee, putting special emphasis on the words “self-styled”.

He was king of all the Gauls, I thought, there was no self-styling about it. Only he was able to unite all but one of the tribes, and nobody before him had done that. As these thoughts went through my mind, I heard angry mutters at my back and I could tell that I was not the only man who felt this way. Despite our anger towards him for causing the death of so many friends, we recognized his greatness, and indeed, by belittling him our victory over him was being diminished. The muttering quickly became mumbling, sweeping through the ranks, and I could see Hirtius’ eyes widen in surprise, our anger and displeasure clear for him to hear. Caesar remained impassive, though I swear I could see the corners of his mouth turn up a bit, as if in approval at our displeasure, which made some sense because it was diminishing his own victory by applying such demeaning terms.