Marching With Caesar: Conquest of Gaul (70 page)

We ended up waiting three weeks, the wind continually blowing from the northwest and making sailing in that general direction impossible. Being prepared to embark at a moment’s notice, since the wind in this region is notoriously fickle, we were more or less confined to our Cohort area for days. Naturally the waiting got very tiresome, the army more than ready to depart, so it was not long before we were at each other’s throats. I had to break up more fights than I can remember, despite the fact that I was just as raw as everyone else and wanted to leave just as badly. I think this marked the point when I finally accepted the burden of keeping my personal feelings completely hidden and separate from the actions I was taking, because I secretly agreed with the malcontents; I was just as ready to go as they were, although I could not act in such a manner. In the past I struggled with this feeling but now, finally, I fully accepted it. I made sacrifices to the gods in control of such things as wind and tides almost daily, yet neither my supplications nor those of the rest of the men were answered for almost a month.

The waiting was not just hard on us; the delay obviously wore on the Gallic chiefs who were accompanying us to the point Dumnorix of the Aedui finally decided that he had enough waiting. Just a day before we ended up embarking, he left the camp, despite Caesar’s express orders to the contrary. Caesar could not allow this kind of flagrant disobedience, so he sent a detachment of cavalry to catch up with Dumnorix and bring him back to the camp but he refused to cooperate, choosing instead to fight, whereupon he was cut down by our cavalry. The other Gauls in the camp were enraged by Caesar’s action, yet could do nothing about it, although their sullen expressions and hostile attitude was a clear enough message for all of us that we had to watch them closely the entire expedition. Commius was coming with us again, along with a Trinova named Mandubracius. Perhaps the potential unrest was the reason that Caesar chose Labienus to stay behind, since he was considered Caesar’s most able Legate. Whatever the case, it was on the sixth day of the month now named for Caesar that we began the loading of the army, and it was during the loading process that I had my first brush with a new Tribune accompanying the expedition. His name was Marcus Antonius, and even now, all these years after his death I still have mixed feelings about the man. When I first laid eyes on him, I saw he was just a couple of years older than I was; he was an incredibly handsome man, and despite the fact he was not nearly as tall as I was, his physique closely matched mine. Heavily muscled in the chest and arms, tapering down to a narrow waist, with strong thighs and huge calves, he radiated an animal magnetism that was clear to see even then. He had curly dark hair, and his facial features were strong, with a thoroughly Roman nose, thick full lips, strong jaw and somewhat dimpled chin. Hearing him before I saw him, he was roaring in laughter at a joke that I did not hear, and I first saw him standing on the docks, waiting to board with the 10th. Surrounded by rankers like me and my friends, their faces were split in wide grins at whatever jest he found so hilarious. Antonius was a man’s man; carelessly thoughtful, extremely generous to his friends, and preferring the company of the common soldier than to those of his class, at least in those days. He could also be petty and extremely vindictive; just ask poor Cicero with his hands nailed to the door of the Senate house. Antonius was also extremely unpredictable, yet even with his faults I found it extremely hard to dislike him, even many years later, after he changed so drastically, but I am getting ahead of myself. In that moment on the docks, Vibius was taken with him immediately, having left our section to wander over to see what the fun was about. Also accompanying us on this voyage was the younger brother of the aforementioned Cicero, along with Gaius Trebonius, yet another feckless, faithless bastard who owed his rise to the man he later helped slaughter. But all these events I was happily unaware of; instead I was just relieved that we were finally about to sail back to Britannia to do the job properly.

It was not until the late afternoon of that day that we were finally ready to set sail for the island, turning to the northwest to begin our journey. Just like our trip the year before, it was not going to be easy, with the currents and wind once again seeming to conspire against our best efforts and we began drifting farther north than where we were supposed to land, roughly the same beach where we landed at the year before. Another of the refinements to the transports that Caesar ordered was that we were not completely powered by sail; holes were drilled in the sides of the boats to allow the use of oars, and the signal was given for us to break them out to begin rowing back to the southwest toward the beach. There was the usual cursing and groans, punctuated by muttered comments that we had not signed on in the army to be sailors, but the Centurions and Optios quickly put a stop to this, and we set to the task. Fairly quickly, the spirit of competition began to set in amongst us as, without any order given, we began rowing at a pace that allowed us to keep pace with the war galleys. Before long the galleys noticed us catching up with them, so they began to quicken their rhythm. It was not a few moments later that we were in an all-out race for the landing beach, putting everything we had into at the least keeping up with the galleys, if not overtaking them.

Because of the tricks of wind and current, we did not begin the landing process until around midday of the seventh. With our disembarking, the changes to the design of the transport made unloading go much quicker and more smoothly, while the advance party went out to find a spot to camp. One pleasant surprise was the absence of any Britons waiting for us, although we were sure that they knew we were coming; it is impossible to keep secret a fleet of almost 800 ships, between the newly constructed vessels and the ones that we used the year before. Whatever the cause, we were thankful that we did not have to fight our way off the beach again, this landing going much more smoothly than the year before. Part of the advance party came back to guide us to the spot chosen for the camp, a little more than three miles to the northwest from the beach. Even as we were marching to the campsite, cavalry scouts went out ranging through the area, capturing some prisoners. From them it was learned that we were indeed seen and expected, the Britons actually forming up to fight us on the beach. Then, upon seeing the huge size of our army, they decided that discretion was the better part of valor, retreating instead to some high ground nearby. Caesar was determined to press the attack immediately, so leaving about ten Cohorts chosen from each Legion behind to guard the fleet, which was brought up onto the beach, he ordered us to throw the camp up as quickly as we could, since he was determined to march that night to meet the Britons.

“We’re supposed to put up a camp, then immediately start marching again? What kind of madness is that? We’ll be so tired by the time we find those bastards we won’t be able to do anything more than curse their ancestors,” Vibius complained, supported by the others, who all agreed vociferously.

“You’ve gotten pretty soft, Vibius,” I countered, “Are you scared of a little hard work?”

Because I used the tone of voice that told him that this was not his friend but his Sergeant speaking, Vibius refrained from retorting, yet I could see that my barb found its mark, his face turning red. Instead of speaking, he turned back to the digging of the trench, attacking the sod in front of him like it was one of those blue devils we would be facing shortly. The others followed suit, but it was with a sullen silence that told me that their sentiments were with Vibius, not me. Our camp was on what passed for a hill in this area, barely 20 feet high, while the ground around us was wide open, with the nearest cover in the form of a small forest more than a mile away. Finishing about a full watch before the time we would be departing, it gave us some time to rest before we were to set out at midnight, so we gobbled down our meal to give us as much time as possible to catch some sleep. That is, the others did; I had a number of duties to attend to, so by the time I was finished, I decided that the amount of sleep I might get would actually make me feel worse. Instead I sat outside the tent, staring up at the sky, lost in thought. It is a strange thing, but the farther north one goes the longer the days, so at this time of year there is really never a true night. It is still somewhat light at midnight, fading away to what we think of as dusk for perhaps two thirds of a watch, before the sky begins to get light again. It was this phenomenon that allowed us to start the march at midnight without stumbling around in the dark.

Promptly on time, we marched out of the camp, leaving behind the ten Cohorts to guard it and the fleet, heading almost due west towards the higher ground where the Britons were supposedly gathered and waiting for us. Marching for perhaps ten or eleven miles, our scouts came galloping back to report that they spotted a force of cavalry and chariots that had chosen to occupy a line of high ground overlooking a river running from the southwest to the northeast, with the intent of contesting our crossing. However, Caesar sent our cavalry force around their right flank to force them from that position, making the Britons retreat to a line of even higher ground, protected by thick woods, where they threw up some hasty earthworks, felling trees to form a series of abatis to block our advance. Their position was a strong one, and because of the abatis, a funnel was created through which only one Legion at a time could have a chance of success. Therefore, because they were in the vanguard of the advance and able to deploy the quickest, Caesar ordered the 7th to assault the position. Immediately they went in, formed up in a series of
testudo
, with the Britons sending a shower of missiles and rocks at them as they advanced. The 7th carried bundles of sticks with them to throw into the ditch that the Britons dug, piling them up until the ditch was filled. Once it was, the men of the 7th came out of their
testudo
s to unleash their own volleys of javelins before rushing across the bundles and over the rampart, sweeping away the Briton defenders. Despite the Britons putting up a brief fight, they quickly saw that their cause was lost and began melting into the woods, with the 7th in hot pursuit. Caesar was worried about unleashing his men into terrain which he knew very little about, so the recall was sounded and since it was late afternoon already, orders were given to build a camp in a cleared area on the edge of the woods. We were told that we would pick our pursuit back up in the morning, but with all of our stakes, tents and other equipment back at the main camp, we had to make do with deeper ditches than was normal even for Caesar. Spending the night under the stars, we were wrapped only in our
sagum
, though thankfully the weather held.

That next morning, Caesar divided us into three columns, with a contingent of cavalry assigned to each one, the idea being that the cavalry would either pin the fleeing enemy down while we hurried up to finish them off, or they would circle around the enemy and drive them back into us. He chose to stay behind with the Cohort left guarding our temporary camp to wait for the situation to develop. Marching out of the camp, we picked our pursuit back up, hurrying along, carrying just our weapons and a canteen. Fairly quickly, we spotted the rearguard of a group of the enemy and were just beginning to double time when we were alerted by the shouts of the men in the rear of the formation that there was a courier approaching. Finding the Tribune in nominal command of our column, the courier relayed the order to turn around and head back to the coast, stopping at our camp only long enough to pick up our gear. Once again, Neptune had been harsh with us; another great storm had arisen, wreaking havoc on our fleet one more time. Because of this development Caesar ordered that we head back to the beach with all haste, taking care to maintain security and giving us the permission to defend ourselves if attacked. All three columns received this order, so we reversed our march to head back to the camp of the night before. Grabbing our gear, we did not even stop to destroy the camp in our normal manner, beginning the trek back to the beach, wondering if the gods were trying to give us a message that we could no longer ignore.

The sight of the ravaged fleet, the ships laying in various stages of damage, with debris scattered among them as witness to the severity of the storm, was a sobering sight. There was a feeling that we were once again being tormented by the gods and there were mutterings among us that perhaps at least one legend about this island, that it was cursed, was true. Those Cohorts left behind were already clearly busy, the Centurions organizing them into working parties to begin the operation of repairing the fleet. We were Caesar’s men, meaning if there was one thing we learned under his command it was that of all the enemies we faced, the greatest one was time. It was well into summer, so there could be no delay in repairing the fleet because we had already witnessed the severity of the weather in this channel once it got later in the year. Caesar had no choice but to put offensive operations on hold, not only from the viewpoint that it was the strategically sound thing to do, but also because we in the ranks would constantly worry about how we were going to leave the island. It would have dominated the conversations around the fire every night, as well as the watches of marching, so it was wise of Caesar to put these fears to rest. Of course, nothing was said openly on this topic, since it would give an indicator that we did not have faith in our general. Nevertheless, there was a silent sigh of relief when our orders were confirmed that we would be working on the fleet until further notice. The men designated to perform certain tasks the winter before now went back to them, and very quickly, work began to repair the fleet.

The
immunes
labored through every watch, doing their jobs by the light of oil lamps during that brief period of time where it was dark enough to justify the extra light. They were set up in shifts, so that they could snatch some sleep and feed themselves, yet they worked extremely hard nonetheless. Caesar also sent for more skilled workmen, via his fastest galley, and they were soon added to the workforce. In order to prevent a catastrophe of this nature happening a third time, Caesar ordered the construction of an enclosed area, much in the nature of a fort, placed at a point where neither the highest tide nor the most severe storm could wreak any damage. Because of the space needed to contain all of the ships, it was by far the largest project of this type we ever worked on, and even with the labor of 20,000 experienced and willing men, construction of the enclosure took more than three days. Once it was completed, we began the process of moving the ships up off the beach and across the ground, thankfully flat, through one of the gates of the enclosure, of which there were four in the normal manner, except that they were all large enough to accommodate the width of our largest transports. Using huge amounts of grease brought over from Gaul that we applied to a number of logs, we pulled the ships across the rollers into the enclosure, where the men skilled as shipwrights began their work. Day and night, the activity was incessant, and it was of the type that had all of us praying to be selected for guard duty. Normally we abhorred it because it was so boring yet also so easy to find oneself in some sort of trouble. Even so, we felt it was better than the alternative. We were not one of the lucky Cohorts until almost the very end of the project, where we stood on the ramparts gazing out at a large group of Britons who we were told had made it a habit to come watch us work, seemingly fascinated at our activities.