Nobody Loves a Centurion

3

That afternoon we rode out in full strength, something just short of a hundred troopers. From the camp we passed through the long earthworks into the grassy, brushy lakeside plain beyond. We conducted a sweep to catch any ambitious Helvetian warriors who might try to work themselves close enough for an ambush after dark. We spread out in a wide line and rode slowly forward, paying special attention to the frequent areas of good cover.

Several times we flushed two or three young, blue-painted braves from a clump of brush and my men would give chase, whooping and hallooing like men hunting hares. And the Gauls ran like hares, too, their colorfully clad legs flashing as they leaped and dodged, actually laughing as the horsemen chased them down. I have never liked seeing warfare treated as sport, but it was sport played in earnest. A couple of my men rode back with fair-tressed heads hanging at their saddles.

In the middle of all this we saw a party of Gauls riding in, preceded by white-robed heralds bearing rods wreathed in ivy. These were the Helvetian envoys come to treat with Caesar. They rode with impressive dignity, ignoring the veritable human fox-hunt as it swept by them. Among them I noticed a few that didn’t look like the usual Gallic aristocrats: They were bearded men in white robes and wearing silver diadems, and others, also bearded, but wearing animal skins. These last might almost have been Gauls, but Gauls are clean-shaven except for their mustaches, and these were neither tattooed nor painted.

I rode up to Lovernius. “Who were those other men with the envoys?”

“The graybeards in the white robes are Druids,” he told me. I had heard of these priests and soothsayers but these were the first I had seen. “The others are Germans, Ariovistus’s men.”

“Isn’t he the king of the Germans? I heard his name mentioned in a Senate debate. What are his men doing on this side of the Rhine?”

“Is that all they know in Rome?” He laughed bitterly. “Captain, Ariovistus and about a hundred thousand of his warriors have been living west of the Rhine for a number of years now.”

“What! How did this come about?” A great dread lowered itself over me like a shroud.

“Surely you knew that most of Gaul is divided into two factions, one led by the Aedui, my own people, and the other led by the Averni, who live along the Rhine?”

“That much I knew. And I heard that you Aedui were winning until the Averni brought in some German mercenaries on their side. That was one reason why Caesar got this extraordinary command. But nobody said anything about a hundred thousand savages and their king! What possessed the Averni to do such a thing?”

“They were losing and men will do desperate things at such a time. Besides,” he shrugged his mailed shoulders, “they and the Germans are cousins.”

Perhaps I should explain something here. We Romans usually assumed that everyone west of the Rhine was a Gaul, everyone east was a German. That was roughly but not completely true. The fact is, they could be difficult to tell apart. They had been living in close proximity for centuries, and in the border areas they intermarried and swapped customs. In one place you might find a village where the people wore colorful clothes and tattoos and mustaches but only German was spoken. Likewise, in some areas the Gauls were bearded and wore animal skins.

You see this sort of thing all over the coastal areas surrounding our sea, where over the course of four centuries people of many lands have adopted the customs, grooming, and dress of the Greeks. More recently, we see imitation Romans everywhere. Primitive people often find a more sophisticated culture attractive and seek to join it, while those who feel their race has lost its warrior virtues will sometimes adopt the customs of a more primitive but more fierce and manly culture.

“An oddly mixed party,” I commented. “Why Druids?”

“They will be advisers to the Helvetii. They are consulted on all matters of importance.”

I guided my horse around a mud hole. “We do the same. It is always a good idea to consult the augurs for signs and make sure all the proper rituals are observed before you commit yourself to crucial action.”

“It isn’t quite like that. The Druids serve as advisers in worldly matters and they retain the history and lore and traditions of the people.”

This was the first I had heard that the Druids were anything more than priests. “Are they politically influential?” I was not sure how a Gaul would interpret such an expression.

“The kings listen to them.”

“Even German kings?”

He laughed. “Never! The Germans have only fierce gods they can see: the sun and the moon, lightning and thunder and the storm.”

Then we started up another group of warriors and were off on another chase.

When we returned to camp that evening, we found that a pack of merchants had arrived and a veritable market day was in progress. The camp’s forum had sprouted booths and the off-duty soldiers were allowed, a cohort at a time, to go there and purchase necessities or waste their money as they saw fit. I dismissed my ala and the men who had taken heads rushed away to show them off to their friends. Gauls set great store by these grisly trophies and even decorate their shrines and homes with them. They fancy the head to be the repository of many virtues such as courage and wisdom. We Romans hold that these qualities reside in the liver. Personally I am neutral, but I would regret losing either of them.

That evening Caesar entertained the envoys at dinner and I got a good look at them. The Helvetii were elders dressed in richly patterned cloaks and a profusion of massive, golden jewelry. The Druids, differing from the usual Gallic fashion, had long beards, white in the case of the two elder priests, short and red on a younger man. Unlike the other two he wore no silver diadem around his temples, so I took him to be an apprentice or acolyte. All three had slender, long-fingered hands that had never been hardened by labor or practice at arms. In their long, white gowns and holding their staffs they might have been heralds.

The three Germans were tall, burly men, whose hair and beards ranged from dark gold to near white. Their pale complexions were reddened and roughened by constant exposure. The evening had turned cold, but they wore only brief tunics of wolfskin and fur leggings that came no higher than their knees. Longswords hung at their belts and they leaned on spears forged entirely of steel. They gazed about them with fearless eyes that were of a blue so pale that you almost took them for blind men until that eagle gaze fastened on you.

Once, in the big, stone amphitheater at Capua, I had seen a Hyrcanian tiger, the first ever brought to Italy. When it ambled into the arena, I was struck by its great beauty, but its size and the way it ignored its surroundings made it seem as slow and lazy as a big, male lion. Then it noticed the massive fighting bull that had been matched with it. Like a streak of golden light it was across the arena and had the much larger animal down so swiftly that it looked like magic. The tiger was a sensation and fought there for many years. To me, it was feral deadliness personified.

When I saw those Germans, I thought about that tiger. These were not the semi-Gallicized Germans who dwelled along the river. They were the real thing; savages from the deep forests far beyond the Rhine.

The dinner was somewhat less austere than that of the evening before, but it was not exactly a banquet. A few delicacies had been purchased from the merchants and a hunting party had brought in a wild boar, but the envoys had no taste for olives and seemed to be repelled by our fermented fish sauce. Well, there is no accounting for tastes. I noticed that the Druids ate no animal food, not even eggs.

When the dinner was over, Caesar held audience. First to speak was the head of the Helvetian delegation. He wore a voluminous cloak woven in a dazzling pattern of checks and lines that intersected and overlapped bewilderingly. He had it wrapped about him against the chill of the evening. It was fastened at his shoulder by a golden brooch at least eight inches in diameter. His speech was translated by a respected Roman merchant who had lived in Gaul all his life, but I kept Lovernius close by me to make sure that the translation was accurate.

I will not try to reproduce here the many and extravagant images, figures of speech, and circumlocutions employed by the envoy, for the Gallic love of rhetoric exceeds even the Roman fondness for that art. Instead, I shall convey the gist of his words, which shortens his speech tremendously.

“Honored Proconsul of Rome, I, Nammeius, chieftain of the Helvetii, speak to you here on behalf of the glorious, the powerful, the ever victorious nation of Helvetia; ever just in her dealings with other nations, vigilant in peace and fierce in war, fair of face and form, sonorous of voice, generous, noble, and proud.” From this you may imagine how tedious it would be if I wrote down everything he actually said.

“Rome listens.” Caesar’s vividly contrasting acknowledgment was in that spare, laconic style with which we were all to become so familiar. Nammeius was nonplussed. He had expected something more fulsome.

“Noble Caesar, for a final time, I protest that your interference with our migration is unjust and uncalled for. We are a nation of true men, and only persons lacking in manliness and spirit dwell in a single place forever, wearing out the land and fighting only the same neighbors. In the honored tradition of our ancestors we intend to burn our towns and farms behind us and pass through the land of the Allobroges and through your province into the territory beyond, where Rome and her allies have no interests.

“We promise to undertake this migration peacefully, and to cause no damage to the lands through which we must pass. No one will be killed or enslaved, no property will be stolen or harmed in any way. We have no need of plunder, for our movable goods will be on our wagons. We need not forage for provisions, for we will carry with us all the grain we need for the march. You must permit this, Caesar. Already, the smoke of our towns, our oppida, and our farmsteads rises to the heavens. Already the wagons are loaded and the folk have massed along the river. The season draws nigh when we must begin our migration, or it will be too late when we arrive at our destination.

“Caesar, when last we spoke, you asked for time to consider our request. This seemed reasonable to us and we granted you this interval. Now we find that you have employed this time in building a great rampart, the sort of thing for which you Romans are famous throughout the world. I must urge upon you the futility of this thing, for we are not Greeks to be terrified by a wall. When the Helvetii move upon their chosen path, no little heap of earth and logs will slow them in any way, for they sweep all obstacles before them like chaff before the wind. Once again, Caesar, and for the final time, I urge that you remove yourself from before us.” With this the envoy resumed his seat.

“Honored Nammeius, I have considered your nation’s proposal with great patience, despite the many provocations that I, and the friends of Rome, have received from your warriors. To begin with, I find your reasons for undertaking this migration to be totally unreasonable.

“Aeneas, son of the goddess Venus, whose son, Julus, was the founder of my house, led his people from a city burned by his enemies. He did not burn it himself.” That was Caesar; always reminding people of the divine origins of his family. “Romulus, descendant of Julus, founded Rome 696 years ago. We have not budged since that time and feel no less manly for it.” He smiled and the Romans present laughed at his witticism. I could see what the Gauls were thinking: that we had simply expanded our territory and founded colonies instead of migrating. But it was not their turn to speak.

“Your assurances that you can accomplish this movement of a nation through the territory of several others without causing harm I cannot accept. You are, as you have so eloquently stated, a nation of warriors, and while you can lead your warriors, you cannot control them. They will be in force in the land of ancestral enemies and will never be able to restrain themselves from plunder, rapine, and slaughter.

“As for the feebleness of my rampart, it is true that a ditch and a heap of earth are not daunting to athletic young men. And the wooden palisade atop the wall is not more than can be scaled by spirited warriors. But behind that palisade you will find the ultimate barrier: the Roman soldier. All the nations of the world have learned that his shield is the firmest of ramparts, and all enemies fall before his sword. Boasts will avail you nothing should you dare to match arms with him.”

The other Helvetian envoy stood. “I am Verucloetius, war chieftain of the Helvetian canton of the Tigurini. I do not fear the Romans, and neither do my people. When the consul Lucius Cassius marched against us, we killed him and his army passed beneath our yoke!”

Caesar’s face reddened but his voice rang low and cold. “Forty-nine years ago all Gaul was on the move, not just a single people. It was one reason we determined never again to allow such movements near our territory. You will find that our military organization has much improved since that time. My uncle, Caius Marius, saw to these improvements personally and he tested them by putting your kinsmen to the sword.”

The Gauls reacted to the name of Marius as if they had been slapped. Two Gallic nations simply ceased to exist when they tangled with Marius, and several others were badly shredded. His was a name with which the Gauls frightened small children into obedience.

One of the Germans indicated that he wished to speak. Caesar nodded and the man stood. His wolfskin tunic was encircled by a belt six inches wide studded with bronze nails, and it creaked as he rose and hooked his thumbs into it.

“First Spear,” Caesar said, “summon your interpreter.”

Vinius clapped his hands, producing a sound like a large catapult hurling a missile. I smiled in anticipation, expecting to see the German slave girl. Great was my disappointment when instead the ugly, gnomish, fox-haired slave I had seen standing in the doorway of Vinius’s tent walked through the guarded opening in the praetorium wall. He stood by the envoy and the man looked down his long, German nose as at a toad or other lowly, unattractive creature, and said something in a language that sounded like wolves fighting for leadership of the pack.

The slave translated, grinning insolently, displaying a mouth in which teeth and gaps associated equally. “Is this proper? My people drown all such creatures at birth.”

Caesar laughed richly. “In a truly well ordered world, nothing so ugly would be suffered to live. However, we live in the real world, not in Plato’s. Sometimes uncomeliness must be overlooked in favor of utility. Molon was a slave east of the Rhine for many years, so he is fluent in your language. He fears the whip too much to tamper with the translation. He will render our words with precision. Pray continue.”

After this the Germans behaved as if the slave was not there. “I am Eintzius, nephew of King Ariovistus, and with me is my brother, Eramanzius.” Again, these are at best approximations of their names. “For some time now my king has been in contact with the councilors of the Helvetii and it has been agreed among us that our cousins, the Harudes and the Suebi, are to move onto the land vacated by the Helvetii. Those tribes are already on the move and preparing to cross the Rhine. If the Helvetii are not permitted to migrate, severe hardship will result. The Harudes and the Suebi will be greatly angered.”

I heard a hiss beside me and Lovernius muttered: “I thought so! Those Helvetii aren’t migrating because they have itchy feet. They are being pushed! These Germans have told them to clear out or be exterminated.”

Caesar leaned forward in his proconsul’s folding chair, his arms relaxed along its elaborately carved arms. “Honored envoy, I am not pleased by this news. Rome is not pleased. Rome has two policies which are not to be flouted and which I am here to enforce: the tribes of Gaul are to stay within the borders of their own ancestral territories; and the Germans are not to cross to the west bank of the Rhine.”

“Caesar, we are already west of the river, and have been for years, and intend to stay.” For all his barbaric aspect, Eintzius spoke with the effortless authority of an envoy of the Senate ordering some Oriental despot to cease and desist from whatever activity displeased Rome. Between him and Caesar I sensed a collision of two implacable forces. Suddenly, the Helvetii did not seem to be such a threat. I could almost pity them, caught between the millstones of Rome and Germania.

“That I will deal with when the matter of the Helvetii has been settled,” Caesar said.

The other German stood. “Go fetch more men. What you have here will not provide a morning’s amusement for us.” For a skin-clad savage, Eramanzius was unbelievably arrogant. Of course, it helped that he was close to seven feet tall. People that tall tend to assume far more importance than they actually possess.

Nonetheless, both of them were intimidating in the extreme, in a way that the colorful Gauls were not. Partly, it was their outlandish habit of wearing furs. Gauls, and Romans visiting cold climates, sometimes wear fur inside their clothing, for warmth. But Germans wear it on the outside, as if they were trying to imitate the appearance of their totem animals. Among civilized people this is done only for purposes of ritual, as with the leopard-skin capes of Egyptian priests and Greek Bacchantes, or the lion, bear, and wolfskin worn by legionary standard-bearers. It is unsettling in the extreme to see people wear animal skins as their everyday attire.

Caesar regarded the man coldly. “Do not provoke me. There is no power on earth like Rome. From the soil of Italy the legions rise up like grain after the spring rains. If you truly wish it, we will provide you with entertainment up to your highest expectations, although we must forego the pleasure of hearing your applause afterward.”

These were fierce words for a man with a single legion and some auxiliaries, but Romans love to hear that sort of talk. Even knowing the reality of the situation, I felt a jolt of good old-fashioned Roman steel stiffening my somewhat nervous backbone.

Nammeius stood, and with him stood the Gallic contingent. “We have accomplished all that words may accomplish, and it has been nothing. Henceforth, we shall speak with arms.”

The Gauls and the Germans swept out. Last of all went the Druids, who had not spoken a single word. Caesar glared angrily after them, but I saw that his most malevolent expression was not directed at the chieftains. It was reserved for the Druids. When they were gone, he addressed the officers.

“Gentlemen, from now on we may expect serious hostilities. However, work on the rampart is now complete and we are receiving daily reinforcements of troops levied from the Provincials. These will man the strongpoints along the rampart. The legionary guard is to be doubled. Go now and rejoin your units and prepare for action.”

I got up to leave with Lovernius, but Caesar beckoned me.

“Decius Caecilius, attend me.”

I waited while the other officers left. Titus Vinius favored me with an ugly smile as he walked out with his even uglier slave. Caesar went into his tent and I joined him there. It was divided into two sections, the smaller being Caesar’s sleeping quarters, the larger containing a long table for staff conferences when weather should preclude holding them outdoors. A silver pitcher stood in the middle of a platter with cups and at Caesar’s gesture I poured for us. It was first-rate Falernian. Caesar wasn’t denying himself all of the pleasures of life while on active service.

“Word has come to me of your little run-in with Titus Vinius,” he said without preamble.

I had been expecting it. “A legion is like a small village. Everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

“In this Province there is only my business,” he said. “You are not to interfere with my centurions in the performance of their duties.”

“Duties! Caesar, the brute was flogging a boy, a client of mine, for no reason whatever. I could not permit it.”

“That was no boy, nor is he your client. He is a Roman soldier, bound by his oath of service like every other legionary. When he returns to civilian life in some twenty years, he will become your client again. In the meantime, he is under the authority of his centurion, unless he attains the centurionate himself and gets to flog his own subordinates. I’ll not have Vinius provoked. He is my most valuable soldier.”

“He is an oversensitive man, where his property is concerned.”

Caesar smiled faintly. “Ah, you’ve met our Freda, I take it. A stunning creature, is she not?”

“She is that. Why do you permit him to keep her in camp? He is so jealous he needs his own personal executioner to follow her around and behead gawkers.”

“I permit my centurions a certain latitude, including a small number of personal slaves, even mistresses.”

“Every general does, but in barracks and winter quarters, not in a marching camp.”

“When we march, they walk with the baggage train. If they can’t keep up, they are abandoned. Not that there is much danger of that happening with Freda. I suspect she can outrun a racehorse.” He waved a hand to dismiss the subject. “I did not call you here to justify my policies, Decius. I have duties for you. I mentioned when you arrived that you would have more work here in the praetorium than with your ala.”

“Whatever you command,” I said, always alert for a nice, cushy staff job while other people were out slogging through the mud, getting things stuck in them. Heroes belong in poems and old myths, not in the boots of Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger.

“Soon I will be leaving for Italy by the most direct route, over the mountains. Labienus will be in charge during my absence. My fine, ringing defiance of the barbarians will prove most hollow without the legions to back them up. I am going to find them and drag them up here by the nose if I have to.”

“A couple more legions would be a comforting presence,” I agreed.

“While I am away, I want you to organize my dispatches to the Senate. I intend to provide a detailed history of the campaign for the Conscript Fathers, as Cicero likes to call them, and you are the only man here with the education to be of assistance. Also, I know that you detest the Asiatic style of rhetoric as much as I do, so you won’t be tempted to throw in a lot of nymphs and obscure Paphlagonian deities and salacious affairs of Zeus.”

So I was to be a glorified secretary. No argument there. At least I would be under a roof when it rained. “You speak as if it will be a long campaign.”

“Why do you think I wanted five years to finish it? The Helvetii were already on the move when I reached Gaul. Now the Germans are involved. Before I am done, I may have to subdue Gaul all the way from the Rhine to the Pyrenees. I may have to go all the way to Britannia.”

I almost choked on my Falernian. “That is a large chunk of territory to take on. Not to mention a large population of extremely warlike barbarians.”

He shrugged. “Alexander used to take as much territory in a year.”

There it was: Alexander again. I wished the little Macedonian bastard was alive so I could kill him all over again. Just one such maniac in all of history and he inspired fools forever after. Well, Macedonia is part of the Roman Empire now, which ought to teach people something.

“Gauls aren’t Persians.”

“No, and I thank Jupiter for it. I doubt that Persians would ever make good citizens.”

It was as if he had abruptly switched to a language with which I was not conversant. “I don’t believe I follow you, Caesar.”

He fixed me with that intense, lawyer’s gaze. “Rome needs new blood, Decius. We are no longer the people we were in the days of Scipio and Fabius. Once, we could raise ten strong legions from the regions within two or three days’ march around Rome. Now we have to scour all of Italy to make up three or four good legions. In a generation or two we may not even have that. Where, then, will we find our soldiers? Greece? That is absurd. Syria; Egypt? The idea is laughable.”

What he said was not totally unreasonable. “If we could just clear the multitude of foreign slaves out of Italy and put natives back to work on Italian soil, we would not have this problem,” I asserted.

He shook his head. “Now you sound like Cato. No man can undo history. We must seize the moment and bend the present to our will. You have served in Spain. What is your impression of the Iberians?”

“Wild and primitive, but they make first-rate soldiers.”

“Exactly. And many of them are Gauls of a sort. I think these people of the Gallic heartland can be civilized. If they can be made to give up their seminomadic habits, settle down and stop fighting one another, and acknowledge the mastery of Rome, they could contribute immeasurably to our strength and prosperity.”

This was radical thinking. To conquer barbarians was one thing: everyone approved of that. But make citizens of them?

“They can’t even make good wine, although I admit their racehorses and charioteers are as good as any bred in Rome.”

“I knew I could depend on you to have a firm grasp of the essentials.”

“But, Caesar, not so long ago we fought a bloody war over the right of Italian communities to hold the franchise! Those were our cousins, most of them Latins or at least Oscans who shared most of our customs and traditions. If it took a war to give those people full citizenship, what would it take to convince Romans that Gauls deserve the honor?”

“Good sense, I would hope,” he said impatiently. “That, and fear of the Germans.” He had a point there. “You know as well as I do that they are not howling savages, they just look and sound like it. They are marvelous artificers and halfway decent farmers. They even have rather attractive architecture, although they don’t build in stone. But they are politically primitive, still in the tribal stage, feuding endlessly with one another.”

“And they have no writing,” I pointed out.

“No, they do not. What they have instead is Druids.”

“I fail to make the connection.”

“How powerful would a priesthood be if it had a monopoly on literacy, Decius? Think about it. I know that you are not as dense as you pretend.”

It was flattery of a sort. “You mean like the Egyptians before they learned Greek writing?”

“Something like that. But imagine a society in which only the priests could read and write while even the nobles and the kings were illiterate. The Druids have a position almost like that.”

“Lovernius told me they were repositories of law and tradition as well as intermediaries between the Gauls and their gods.”

“Exactly. And as such they are arbiters on all matters of contention between the petty kings and chieftains, not that they stop much of the fighting. They wield great influence where the Gauls must cooperate to deal with a non-Gallic people such as the Germans. Or Rome. There are twenty or more major Gallic nations and a hundred petty chieftains and their tribes, with no unity among them. But there is a single cult of Druids from the Pyrenees to Britannia all the way to Galatia. They are the sole unifying force among the Gauls. If I am to subdue the Gauls, I may first have to break the power of the Druids.”

Well, I held no brief for the Druids. Hereditary priests have always struck me as a parasitical lot. Our forefathers showed great foresight in making the priesthoods a part of political office.

“Good riddance to them, then,” I said.

Caesar sat and leaned forward. “And, Decius, they are not just bards and lawgivers. Their religion is a dark and bloody one. Their great festivals involve human sacrifice. In their groves they erect great effigies of men and beasts made of wicker. At important rituals these are filled with men and women and animals and set afire. The screams are said to be appalling.”

I felt the thrill of horror that we usually feel when the subject of human sacrifice is mentioned. Of course, the Gauls would have to exert themselves to come up with human sacrifices as horrifying as those of our old, implacable enemies, the Carthaginians. But these wicker immolations would certainly suffice to characterize the Gauls as savages. Our own very rare human sacrifices were always carried out with great dignity and solemnity, and we used only condemned criminals for the purpose.

“Your plans do not lack grandeur,” I admitted. “But then, ambitious men predominate in Rome just now, not safe, conservative plodders like my own family.”

“Nonetheless, I would welcome the support of the Caecilians.” This was the Caesar I knew; the Forum politician who was so adept at building a coalition to back his schemes.

“You are talking to the wrong one. I am by far the least of my family. Nobody listens to me.”

He smiled. “Decius, why must you always behave like a dutiful boy? The great men of your family are getting old and soon will step down from public life. By the time you hold the praetorship, you will be high in the family councils. Bonds forged in the field are lasting, Decius.”

It was a fine sentiment but not altogether true. Old soldiers cherished a certain good fellowship, but only as long as their ambitions did not clash. Marius and Sulla and Pompey had all been great comrades-in-arms in many campaigns. Until they vied for power, at which time they became deadly enemies.