Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul (25 page)

At one point I heard a man gasp as the orderlies carried a body out, then heard him mutter, “Well, that makes our tent roomier. Poor bastard.”

Finally, I was seen and my wound cleaned, albeit a bit roughly for my taste, except I was determined not to give the orderly a hint of the pain I was feeling as he pulled the tunic from the wound, starting a fresh bout of bleeding. Once cleaned, my wound was stitched up, the orderly obviously proud of his handiwork, but I was an indifferent audience. Just as I was leaving the tent I heard someone call my name and I looked at the rows of men lying on cots who had been treated, finally seeing someone wave to me. Walking over, once I recognized him I smiled in genuine pleasure at the figure of Vellusius, lying on a cot with a grin equally as broad.

“Vellusius, I thought we had lost you, old son.”

He gestured to the bandage that was awkwardly wrapped around his right shoulder and across his chest diagonally. I noticed that his arm was immobilized as well, and he explained. “I got hit by one of those cursed missiles, right on my collarbone,” he grimaced even as he said this. “It broke it, but it also slowed the damn thing down so it just lodged in my shoulder.”

“Did they get it out?”

He nodded, making a face. “And that hurt like Dis I can tell you, but I’m feeling all right now. They gave me some wine and some sort of herb mixed in that tasted like the butt end of a mule, but I’m feeling pretty good right now. Wait, I said that already.”

He laughed, and I could not help but join in, partly out of relief at seeing him alive, yet also because of the woozy smile he was giving me. Turning serious, I asked him, “What about your wound? It’s not going to put you on disability is it?”

He shook his head.“No, they said I should be good as new in a few weeks, as soon as the bone knits.”

Vellusius smiled the smile of a man who has beaten the system, even if it is temporary.

“You know that that means, right Pullus? No digging, no guard duty, no marching about.” He smacked his lips. “Yes, I could definitely get used to that.”

I laughed again, and bade him goodnight, promising to tell the others the good news.

“Be sure you tell those thieving bastards to stay out of my stuff. Especially Didius,” he called to my retreating back, which I acknowledged with a wave.

Making my way back to the tent, I stopped just long enough to get some porridge dished up from the section pot, then went to the baths to get clean, taking a fresh tunic and loincloth. Despite feeling clean physically afterwards, in some ways I still felt dirty, in a manner that is hard to define. By the time I returned, I was completely exhausted and thankful that we had been given the next two days off from normal duties. The fires from the town still cast a glow that gave the camp an orange pall, which would be intensified shortly when our dead were cremated. I was curious about whether we would be required to attend the funerary rites since it appeared that Didius was dead, given that I had not seen him at the aid tent. I also wondered if the fact that I would not grieve meant that I was a bad person. Getting back to the tent, the others were gathered around, with a pile of loot that was being divided out evenly.

“Pullus,” my comrades cried out.

Smiling, I took my normal place next to Vibius, where we exchanged a long look at each other, not saying a word yet communicating our mutual relief that we were both alive. I told them that I had seen Vellusius, which was greeted by cheers all around and they all laughed when I passed on his last message, except I left out the part about Didius, thinking him dead. Calienus was in charge of dividing up the spoils, such as they were, there being just a small pile of coin. However, most of the valuables were in the form of jewelry of one sort of another, and there was some bickering about the value that Calienus assigned each piece as he distributed it out. I saw the pile for Vellusius, which was going to be watched by his newly designated mate Scribonius. Scribonius had originally been the close comrade of Artorius, but to both Vellusius and Scribonius’ relief, Artorius’ dismissal from the Legion meant that Scribonius needed a new one, and Vellusius was originally forced to partner with Didius. Immediately after Artorius left, Scribonius and Vellusius approached our Sergeant, who was as aware as all of us the loathing in which we held Didius and vice versa. Didius did not take the rejection well, making his usual dire threats to Vellusius, which so far were unfulfilled. Thinking of that event, it in turn led me to the fate of Didius, and I was unsure how to broach the subject. While the rest of my tentmates knew how I felt about him, I still did not want to make my feelings for him too obvious, especially if he were dead. I noticed that there was a pile for him as well as Vellusius, except that did not necessarily mean anything. It is the custom that in the event of death, the spoils taken would be sent to the slain man's family, if he had one, or put into the funeral fund that is kept to pay for the proper sacrifices and rituals that are observed when a Roman Legionary dies, along with paying for an appropriate monument.

Finally, my curiosity could not be quelled any longer, so I cleared my throat then asked, “So, what about Didius?”

I was not sure what reaction I expected, but it was certainly not the one I got. Nobody said anything; instead there was a silence where the prevailing attitude, if I am any judge of facial expressions, was one of disgust.

“I’m in here. Why Pullus, did you miss me?”

Though muffled, it was still clearly the voice of Spurius Didius, who apparently was in our tent. This puzzled me, but when I looked to the others for the story they steadfastly refused to speak, in turn looking at Calienus, who tried to ignore them. Finally sighing in exasperation, he said in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “Didius was injured on the way down the ladder. He took a serious fall.”

This news was followed by what sounded like a cough, and I glanced over to see Remus staring at the ground with what I thought was a grimace, except that his cough seemed to ignite a fit of sounds. Finally he could not contain himself any longer and began openly laughing, which as it tends to do, started a conflagration of the same behavior, soon becoming a riot of guffawing hilarity that I was swept up in despite having no idea why.

“Quiet, by the gods, or I'll come out there and gut every one of you,” I heard Didius roar, just making things worse as far as the laughter.

Our refusal, or inability, to subside prompted him to appear, but it was the way he did so that ignited a fresh round of laughter. He was hopping on one foot, his other leg dangling off the ground.

“I told you to be quiet or all of you will pay,” I know he meant this to be a threat that we would take seriously, except it came out as a petulant whine. “I bet that if any of you had happen to you what happened to me, you'd have been doing the same thing.”

I was still unclear on why it was so funny that he was hobbling around, until Calienus finally explained. “It seems that our dear Didius, when he jumped off the ladder, landed on a nail that went into his foot.”

Amid the continuing hooting, I asked, “Why didn’t he pull it out?”

This triggered even more mirth, as now some of the boys were literally rolling on the ground, tears streaming from their eyes. “Because he couldn’t; he was too squeamish,” this came from Romulus, eliciting a roar from Didius who hopped closer to the fire to shake his fist at all of us. “It was in too deep, I tell you! None of you would have been able to pull it out if it had been in your foot.”

Remus got up to reenact what Didius had done. He jumped up to begin miming going down a ladder but when he landed, he immediately fell to the ground, screeching, “By the gods, I've been shot! I'm dying! Oh gods, the pain... the pain….” Remus was now rolling around on the ground, clutching his foot, whimpering and carrying on, so that quickly I was laughing as hard as the rest of them.

“I tell you, it was all the way into the bone,” Didius made one last attempt at restoring what was left of his shredded dignity. “By the gods, you'll all pay for your insults…..”

Before he could finish, Calienus shot back, “Oh do be quiet, Achilles. Go rest your foot.”

And this was how Didius earned the nickname he was to carry for the rest of his time in the Legions.

The next three days were spent resting, cleaning our gear, and mourning our fallen. In our Century, we had lost three men dead, including Optio Vinicius. Vinicius’ replacement Rufio had been judged to have avoided messing things up enough to warrant him losing the title, so Rufio became our new Optio. However, there was a surprise for all of us, when the Pilus Prior came to find me lying on my cot in our tent, dozing. I was awakened by a kick to my feet, opening my eyes to see the Pilus Prior standing there, with his
vitus
and the invisible man with the turd back on duty as well. Jumping to
intente
, I tried not to wince at the pain in my side from the sharp movement, but the Pilus Prior had been around too long to be fooled.

“Side still bother you?” he asked gruffly.

“Not much, Pilus Prior. Only when I move suddenly.”

That prompted a bark that passed for his laugh. “Well, you’ll be doing plenty of that. I’ve decided to make you our weapons instructor in place of Vinicius. Rufio agreed that you’re the best choice.”

Stunned, I opened my mouth to protest, then thought better for a moment and shut it. There was a silence as he watched me, and mentally cursing myself, I plunged in anyway.

“That's a great honor, Pilus Prior,” I began but he cut me off.

“I don’t give a fucking brass obol if you think it’s an honor. It’s an order, and the only response I expect is ‘Yes, Pilus Prior’ or ‘Yes sir’.”

I should have shut up then, yet I couldn’t, I just had to keep going. “But sir, why me? I thought after what happened on the wall when I forgot to draw my sword you'd realize that I’m not ready for this. Maybe someday……”

I got no further; now the Pilus Prior was truly angry, and he stepped close enough that I could smell the
posca
he had consumed for breakfast on his breath.

“Are you doubting my judgment,
Gregarius
?”

Despite saying this in a deceptively quiet voice, I had learned this was the sign that I had truly angered him, along with addressing me by my rank and not my name. Trying to remain solidly at
intente
, I could nevertheless feel myself leaning backwards as he thrust his face up at mine, although it was even with my chest. It was the disconcerting feeling that must come from a wolf leaping up at your throat, and I could not have been more terrified.

“N-n-no, Pilus Prior,” I cursed myself again for stammering like Artorius. “I just….I just…..nothing, Pilus Prior. I'll do my absolute best, sir.”

Just as quickly, he changed back to his normal hard-ass self and clapped me on the shoulder. “Good, it’s settled then. You won’t be expected to start training the others until you’re completely healed.”

Turning to leave, he then stopped to face me once again and said quietly, “I know you can do this, Pullus. I have faith in you, which is why I picked you. I know you won’t let me down.”

Whereupon he turned heel and walked out, leaving me a mass of confusion. How was it possible to want to kill a man and die for him, all in the same instant? Such is the nature of a great leader that he can inspire those feelings; it was a lesson I never forgot and did my best to emulate when my turn came, however poorly I may have done so.

After our recovery period, we broke camp to continue heading north, and once we were deep into Lusitani lands, Caesar gave the order to start laying waste to the countryside. It was not harvest time, so the crops were still young and green, making them somewhat harder to burn, and we were forced to get inventive. One method was to line us up, with each man standing on a row, armed with their shovel. When we were given the signal, we walked forward, using the shovel to pull out the young shoots by the roots, as we were followed by slaves who gathered them up to use as forage for the livestock. It was somewhat time consuming, but in our Century, the Pilus Prior made a contest of it, offering an extra ration of wine to the first five finishers.

I laughed as he kept mumbling to himself. The livestock were kept to feed all of us; it is amazing how much an army eats, and I think another secret to the success of the Roman army is that a large part of the effort and organization to sustain the army in the field revolves around feeding us, and truth be known, we ate much better than a lot of us ever had before, myself included. For the first time in my life, bread was as plentiful as meat, although I still found it funny that for most of the men, if you gave them a choice between a nicely roasted haunch of beef or pork, or a loaf of bread with some olive oil, most of them would take the bread. My tentmates always gave me grief about my taste for meat, yet I did not mind, because it meant that there was more for me. However, I do not want to give the impression that our activities in spoiling the countryside went unopposed or unmolested. The Lusitani were experts in hit and run tactics, suddenly appearing out of nearby woods to attack small groups of men, or slow-moving targets like wagons that were sent out to round up supplies of one sort or another. Our losses were small, but it was aggravating and nerve-wracking nonetheless, and it meant that none of us ever really felt we could relax, except when we were in our marching camp. Regardless of this harassment, we continued to march northward, torching every single farm or small village that we found, rounding up the inhabitants to be sold into slavery. As far as loot went, the pickings were slim to say the least, and we began to look forward to another sizable town to take and hoped that the Lusitani would be as stubborn as before.