Marching With Caesar-Conquest of Gaul

By R.W. Peake

This is the Second Edition of the bestselling Marching With Caesar®-Conquest of Gaul.

Marching With Caesar-Conquest of Gaul is a first-person narrative, written in the form of a memoir as dictated to a scribe of Titus Pullus, Legionary, Optio, First Spear Centurion of Caesar's 6th and 10th Legion. The memoir is written three years after his retirement as Camp Prefect, when Titus is 61 years old.

Starting with the first volume in the series, Marching With Caesar®-Birth of the 10th Legion Titus, along with his boyhood friend Vibius Domitius, have joined the 10th Legion in the draft of 61 BC, when Gaius Julius Caesar is the governor of Spain.

Titus and Vibius endure the harsh training, and participate in their first campaign, the suppression of a rebellion by the Lusitani tribes of Hispania. With this campaign completed, the 10th Legion is marched to Narbo Martius, their new permanent home.

Three years after joining the legions, the 10th is called on again, this time to be part of the subjugation of Gaul, one of the greatest feats of arms in any period of history. During the subsequent campaigns, the 10th cements its reputation as Caesar's most favored and trusted legion, and is involved in most of the major actions during this period.

This second book of a completed series closes with Caesar crossing the Rubicon, and the 10th preparing to march to war, this time against fellow Romans.

Critical praise for Marching With Caesar-Conquest of Gaul:

"...Peake’s exhaustive research shows on every page, but always fascinating, never tedious... the dialogue crackles with realism, and of course Pullus is right there to watch history unfold. Fans of Roman historical fiction—or military fiction just in general—shouldn’t miss what looks to be one heck of a series."
~The Historical Novel Society

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.W. Peake
• Release date: Mar 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476184746

R.W. Peake

I am a 63 year old retired Infantry Marine, born and raised in Texas and currently living on the Olympic Peninsula in Washington state. I have been writing since my first novel, written at the age of 10, when my friends and yours truly fought off the Soviet hordes, who just happened to pick my block to launch their invasion. That was their big mistake.But like a lot of dreams, it got sidetracked until recently, when I decided to focus my passion on an era and subject that interested me a great deal. Like my characters in Ancient Rome, I have served as the pointy tip of the spear of our nation's policy, and it is with this perspective that I tell the story of Titus Pullus and his friends.Marching With Caesar-Birth of the 10th Legion was my first published novel, and is the first in a completed series that covers the career of Titus Pullus, his adopted son Gaius Porcinianus Pullus, grandson Titus Porcinianus Pullus, and his great-grandson Gnaeus Volusenianus Pullus. The most recent release is Volume XIX, Marching With Caesar-Catualda the Usurper.I also have a completed alternate history series, Caesar Ascending, that imagines a world in which Gaius Julius Caesar survives the Ides of March, embarks on his historical campaign against Parthian...then keeps going. Originally it's a bid to outstrip the Macedonian King Alexander by reaching the Ganges River, but evolves into a decade-long campaign that finds Caesar and his Legions marching to the end of the known world in the form of the mysterious Islands of Wa, modern-day Japan.Finally, in 2020, I began The Titus Chronicles, with Volume I titled Eagle and Wyvern, which tells the story of a descendant of Titus Pullus, (though he's unaware of any connection), named Titus of Cyssanbyrig, who at the age of fourteen answers the fyrd sounded by the Saxon King Alfred, marching with Alfred and his army to confront the Danish King Guthrum, culminating at the Battle of Edington. Blessed with the same prodigious size and strength as his ancestor, young Titus learns he is the recipient of a darker gift, and in his first battle earns the nickname The Berserker.The Titus Chronicles mark the first of an extended genealogy of the original Titus that will extend across the ages as the story of a line of men who have been born and bred for war, and are witnesses to some of the great historical events of the ages.

Book preview

Also by R.W Peake

Marching with Caesar®- Birth of the 10th

Marching with Caesar-Civil War

Marching with Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra, Parts I & II

Marching With Caesar-Rise of Augustus

Marching With Caesar-Last Campaign

Caesar Triumphant

Critical praise for the Marching with Caesar series:

Marching With Caesar-Antony and Cleopatra: Part I-Antony

"Peake has become a master of depicting Roman military life and action, and in this latest novel he proves adept at evoking the subtleties of his characters, often with an understated humour and surprising pathos. Very highly recommended."

Marching With Caesar-Civil War

"Fans of the author will be delighted that Peake’s writing has gone from strength to strength in this, the second volume...Peake manages to portray Pullus and all his fellow soldiers with a marvelous feeling of reality quite apart from the star historical name... There’s history here, and character, and action enough for three novels, and all of it can be enjoyed even if readers haven’t seen the first volume yet. Very highly recommended."

~The Historical Novel Society

"The hinge of history pivoted on the career of Julius Caesar, as Rome’s Republic became an Empire, but the muscle to swing that gateway came from soldiers like Titus Pullus. What an amazing story from a student now become the master of historical fiction at its best."

~Professor Frank Holt, University of Houston

Marching With Caesar®

Conquest of Gaul

Second Edition

By R.W. Peake

Marching with Caesar Conquest of Gaul by R.W. Peake

Copyright © 2014 by R.W. Peake

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover Art by Marina Shipova

Cover Artwork Copyright © 2012 R. W. Peake

All Rights Reserved

All maps reprinted from Caesar's Conquest of Gaul-An Historical Narrative by T. Rice-Holmes Oxford University Press; London, 1911

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Bri

My Touchstone

Marching with Caesar- Conquest of Gaul

Foreword

Like all such works, this is a labor of love, but I won't go into all the sacrifices I made during the four-year odyssey to get this done. Nor will I talk about the fact that I bought the complete kit of a Roman Legionary and tromped around the wastelands of Big Bend National Park in order to get a feel for what it might have been like to be one of those men that Caesar used to change not just his world, but the world we live in today. (I will mention that I used Big Bend not as much for its rugged terrain but for its remoteness, and because the likelihood that one of the drug runners I might encounter was carrying a camera was very small. There are some things better left unseen.)

What I will say is that, again like all such works, this would not have been possible without the unwavering support of my family, consisting as it does of my mother and daughter, and although small in number, they are mighty in the power of their love. To them, particularly to my Mom, I owe a debt of gratitude that I can only hope this effort of mine goes a small way to pay. Also, I would like to thank Dr. Frank Holt of the University of Houston, for his unwitting role in introducing me to ancient Rome, and by expressing his passion for the subject he was teaching, imbuing in me a sense of curiosity that drove me to delve more deeply into that world myself.

I have endeavored to make this work historically accurate, and to portray the lives of the men in this novel in as authentic a manner as possible. When I began my exploration of Ancient Rome, starting with the classics before going on to the excellent series by Colleen McCullough, I noticed something that bothered me a great deal. As I expanded my reading of the fiction genre covering Ancient Rome, what I discovered was that, while there were a number of authors who portrayed the lives of common Legionaries (Simon Scarrow's excellent Macro and Cato series most notably), they all focus on the time period after the reforms of Augustus. However, all of the works of historical fiction that cover the Late Republic are all focused on the movers and shakers of the day, and not on the lives of the men in the ranks. This is not surprising, when one thinks about it, simply because of the amount of material detailing the lives of the people, particularly those men in the Legions, is so much more abundant when compared to the time period known as the Late Republic. But I think that this does a grave injustice to the memories of those men who marched with the original Caesar, particularly because his actions, and by extension theirs as well, had the most impact on what Rome would become than any other figure from Roman history. Without Caesar, there is no Octavian, and there are no Caesars.

That is the motivation behind this work. One day, as I was reading about Caesar, the thought struck me; what was it like for his men? What was it like to be standing in the ranks, facing the Gauls of Vercingetorix, or looking over your shield on the dusty plains of Pharsalus? What were their lives like when they weren't fighting? What did they talk about as they sat around the fire at night? It was from this idea that Marching with Caesar was born. But what was more important to me than the story itself was the accuracy of the research behind it. This is probably due to my training as a History major and the rigorous belief in the use of primary sources drilled into me by my professors. Of course, there is a dearth of sources when it comes to documenting the everyday life of a Roman Legionary in the 10th Legion, of the enlistment raised by Gaius Julius Caesar in 61 BC. This is, pun slightly intended, a sword that cuts both ways. While it gives me as an author some freedom and flexibility to create a world that fits my narrative goals, it also requires me to strike a very fine balance if I want to adhere to my number one goal, authenticity. Fortunately for my research purposes, but not necessarily my pocketbook, there was a revival of interest in the exploits of Caesar in the late 18th and 19th centuries, spawning a number of excellent works on the period. Much of that scholarship was based on the work of the tireless Col. Stoffel, under the auspices of Napoleon III for his own work on Caesar. Out of this body of work from the 19th century, I relied most heavily on the work of T. Rice Holmes, and in fact, the maps that are in the book are from his works Caesar's Conquest of Gaul and Ancient Britain and The Invasions of Julius Caesar. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I was able to walk about the battlefields of Gaul, most notably the site of Caesar's second battle with the Helvetii outside Toulon sur Arroux, his desperate fight with the Nervii on the Sambre River, and of course, Alesia, all of this done using Google Earth's 3D view.

But perhaps the most valuable part of my research was not found in the written material, but in my experience as a career Infantry Marine. Because although the technology might change, the essence of the fighting man and those things that are important to him never do. One only has to read the first-person accounts from any war through the ages to know that life for a grunt, no matter what era they come from, is boiled down to its most basic essence. Food, sports, women, the stupidity of officers, women, the harshness of NCO's, women, the brutal work, women, and what surprises most civilians, humor. A lot of humor, although it is almost all tinged with cruelty, but even in the harshest conditions, under the most trying of circumstances, fighting men find ways to laugh, mostly at each other, but at themselves as well. If this is true for the men who fought at Antietam, Waterloo, or even Agincourt, I don't think the conversations would be all that different sitting outside a tent in a Roman military camp. Whether it's about the chances of the USC Trojans being in the BCS Championship game or which chariot team is the best, the Greens or Blues, the essence remains the same; anything but the pervasive fear that tinges the inner thoughts and nightmares of men in combat. I do think that one slight difference between today's warriors and their Roman counterparts lies in their attitude towards the politics of the day. The average Roman citizen was much more involved politically than their modern counterparts, but I think this has more to do with the idea that Roman politics, particularly of the era covered in Marching With Caesar was just as much of a bloodsport than any contest in the arena.

I have also chosen something of a hybrid approach between two extremes. Anyone who has read the McCullough series will probably recall that whenever possible, she used the proper Latin terms and colloquialisms, while most other authors in the genre have Anglicized everything, including the curse words. I have chosen to use a sprinkling of expressions and words in Latin that I found particularly evocative, but for the most part have chosen the latter route in everything else. The other exception is in my use of the proper Latin terms for ranks, which I do for a number of reasons. Probably the most important one is that, perhaps counter-intuitively, I believe using the Latin ranks is less confusing. For example, most semi-serious students of Roman history know that the Primus Pilus is the Senior Centurion of a Legion, and that has been Anglicized as First Spear. But where it gets confusing, at least for me, is how to characterize, for example, the Centurion in command of the Fourth Century, Fifth Cohort. Characterizing it as such seems very awkward to me, and I think the Latin rank of Quintus Princeps Posterior is actually easier on the eye, once one learns the rank structure.

For serious Romanophiles who might spot what they see as inaccuracies or inconsistencies, for the most part these are intentional. While I will not go into detail about my reasons for doing so here, what I will say is that most of these differences between the account of battles that can be found in Caesar's Commentaries, for example, and what my characters experience is my way of illustrating how different a battle can look, depending on one's perspective. For a man in the ranks, fighting for his life and the life of his comrades, what his commander might see as a complete victory can easily look like a resounding defeat to the blood-spattered and weary men of the Legions. Also, while the rules and regulations of the Roman army are fairly well known, that knowledge primarily covers two distinct and separate eras. First is what is known as the Polybian Legion, followed by the Legions of the Empire, particularly the Late Empire. While there are many similarities between the two, there are also key differences, most of them coming about as part of the Augustan reforms. Smack dab in between these two extremes are those Legions of the Late Republic, and for which very little documentary evidence exists. Again, this is both an opportunity and a challenge, and anyone interested in a more in-depth explanation and analysis of some of these differences, a complete bibliography of my sources, along with maps that show all of Gaul, the tribal territories, and the various battles please visit http://www.marchingwithcaesarbookseries.com.

My hope with this Second Edition is to achieve two things: The first is to correct a rookie mistake I made when I chose to edit this book by myself. Of all the many topics the independent author community debate, the only subject where I have seen unanimity is on the need for a professional editor. Hopefully, fixing those structural problems has been accomplished with this Second Edition. The second goal is to make this series more palatable to those readers who are daunted by works over a certain length by essentially cutting what was the original Conquest of Gaul in half. In doing so, I added a part of Titus’ story that I had cut out shortly before I published the first book. By adding the story of Titus’ childhood, containing the full story about how his friendship with Vibius Domitius began, and how their training for the Legions started at a young age, and combining it with what was Part I of the original Conquest of Gaul, I created Marching with Caesar®-Birth of the 10th Legion. Now the first volume of the series numbers about 400 pages in print, compared to the 660 pages of the old first volume, while this one is about 450 pages. Hopefully, these changes will make for a more pleasurable reading experience, and make Titus a more fully developed character.

Finally, now that the Titus Pullus series is approaching its second anniversary of publication, I want to thank all of you readers again for not just embracing the series, but in spreading the word to other readers. It’s because of you that Marching with Caesar® is the success that it is.

Semper Fidelis,

R. W. Peake

January, 2014

Marching with Caesar- Conquest of Gaul

Prologue

Chapter 1-Campaign against the Helvetii

Chapter 2- Ariovistus

Chapter 3- The Belgae

Chapter 4- The Veneti

Chapter 5- Second Invasion of Britain

Chapter 6- Revolt in Gaul

Chapter 7- Rebellion of Vercingetorix

Chapter 8- Gergovia

Chapter 9- Alesia

Chapter 10- Rubicon

Prologue

When you are old, you dream a great deal. Some of these dreams are pleasant, but for an old man who marched with Caesar and spent forty years under the standard, just as many of them are the type that leave you screaming awake, your nightclothes drenched in sweat. And there is one in particular that haunts me the most.

I am once again a young Gregarius, standing in the ranks of the First Century, Second Cohort of the 10th Legion, Caesar’s Legion. Because of my size, I am standing on the right end of the last rank, while Sextus Scribonius is in his usual place to my left. Farther down the line is my childhood friend and close comrade, Vibius Domitius. We are formed up, standing silently in the growing light of a dawn morning, staring at the smoldering fires of a large camp, filled with the forms of sleeping men, women, and children. These are the Usipetes and Tencteri, two tribes from across the Rhenus (Rhine) who have openly defied Caesar’s orders, and they are about to be punished for that defiance. I stand, shifting nervously from one foot to the other and, even in my dream, I can feel the twisting of my stomach that always happens before we are about to see action. A line of cold sweat is trickling down between my shoulder blades, despite the chill in the early September air; we are farther north and east than we have ever been to this point, and winter comes early in those parts. In other words, in most ways, it is the normal sensations one experiences before battle, but this time will be very, very different.

We have drawn up in a line of Cohorts side by side, in order to surround the camp, spending most of the night moving into position, as quietly as possible for an army of our size. We are now just 300 paces away, all of the enemy sentries placed around the camp having been silenced by men selected for their stealth and skill in the silent kill. Caesar, in his red paludamentum, the scarlet general’s cloak, is barely visible astride his horse, Toes, who is now almost as famous as his rider is. He is positioned in front of the 10th, as we are his favorite Legion, a fact that we take great pride in and the other Legions resent a great deal, which pleases all of us to no end. All of our eyes are on Caesar, waiting for him to raise his sword and unleash the Furies down onto the unsuspecting heads of these Germans. Because of my height, I have an unobstructed view of our general, so I see him as he draws his sword. I feel my hands tightening their grip, one on my shield and one on my javelin. He raises his weapon into the air while turning to address his cornicen, the man carrying the great curved horn that will send the blast of notes that signals those men who cannot see Caesar in the pre-dawn from where they are ringed around the camp. The sounds of those notes will be the first idea these Germans get that the moment of their death has arrived, Caesar giving very strict and explicit orders that no man, woman, or child is to be left alive. The thought strikes me, as I stand waiting, what a queer feeling it must be to go from sound sleep to the realization that your life can be measured in a finite fashion, that you only have a certain number of breaths to take, a certain number of heartbeats left. Of course, all of our lives are finite, but when that number is down to a veritable handful, what a strange feeling that must be.

My rumination is interrupted by the sight of Caesar’s sword swinging downward in a silver blur, to end pointing at the camp, as almost simultaneously, the cornicen fills his lungs and blows the horn on his shoulder. The heavy bass notes blast through the air, but only for a moment are they audible, instantly replaced by the roaring of thousands of men, all of us shouting at the top of our lungs as our Centurions give the order to begin the assault. Normally, we would approach at a steady march, in complete silence until the last moment, but as usual, Caesar has been very thorough, being ordered to make as much noise as possible and to start at the dead run. All of this is done in order to maximize the surprise and confusion on the part of the Usipetes and Tencteri, in the hope that they are disoriented to the point where they are slow to react. We will arrive at the camp a bit winded, it is true, but for what we are about to do it should not be a problem. It does not take all that much effort to plunge a sword or javelin into the bodies of sleeping or just-roused people.

As expected, the surprise is total as we come pounding into the camp itself, our roar now being met by the cries of surprise and shock from the Germans lying at our feet, clustered in small family groups around a fire. Unlike us Romans, the tribes of Gaul and Germany disdain the use of defenses like a ditch and rampart, preferring instead to draw their wagons together to form a makeshift barrier, but curiously, they do not sleep within its protection. Instead, they choose to sleep in the aforementioned family circles, just outside the meager protection of the wagons. I suppose their idea is that their sentries will give them enough warning to allow them to rise and make their way behind the wagons, which is true enough, if their sentries had still been alive. Now, these wagons are little more than minor obstacles around which we must navigate, with the front ranks of each Century and Cohort leading the way deeper into the camp. We all know that the key is to penetrate as deeply into the camp as quickly as possible, so our comrades in the front ranks of each Century bypass the first groups of sleeping people, counting on us in the rear to deal with them. My rank comes across our first small bunch of people, most of them just beginning to sit up, their looks of surprise and fear etched in my memory as we fall upon them.

I begin to use my javelin, my first victim a man of indeterminate age, bearded and heavyset, who is fumbling for his spear next to him. Using an overhand grip, I plunge my javelin directly into his throat, feeling the hardened point scrape against the bone of his neck as I watch his eyes widen in shock, and I remember to twist the javelin as I withdraw it, both to cause more damage and to free it in the event it has lodged in the bone itself, as the man falls away. I am barely conscious of the sound of the woman lying across the fire from the man screaming, but it registers enough that I now turn on her and, using the javelin in the same manner, plunge it deeply into her breast. This time, the softer metal shaft of the javelin, on meeting the stronger resistance of her breastbone, bends a little, although the point still penetrates as it plunges directly into her heart. Letting out a shriek, the woman, who I can now see is actually young and very pretty, grabs at the shaft of the javelin, clawing at it in a vain attempt to pull it from her body while her eyes lock with mine. I expect to see hatred and fear there, but instead I see only a great sadness as she looks up at me, dying on the end of my javelin. Although our javelins are specifically designed to do what has just happened and bend, so that once they strike a target after being thrown they are useless to throw back, it means that I must discard it and now draw my sword. Releasing the javelin, I leave it protruding from the chest of the young woman to draw my sword, called the Spanish sword because the Legions of Rome adopted it after facing the tribes in Hispania many, many years ago. It feels good in my hand as I turn my attention away from this fire, looking for other targets, my comrades having taken care of the other people around it.

The air is now filled with the screams of the Usipetes and Tencteri, the full horror of what is happening to them becoming apparent. This also means that some of their men have managed to rise and grab weapons, except instead of banding together, they do the natural thing and stand to defend their own small groups. It is a normal instinct to defend one’s own family first, but in truth, it just makes our job easier. It is much less of a challenge to defeat one or two men at a time than dozens or hundreds.

We are now moving through the camp from fire to fire and it is not long before my sword is wet almost to the hilt from the blood of the people I have slaughtered. So far, I have been lucky because I have yet to come across any children; I take no pleasure in the slaughter of young ones. I do not enjoy killing women, for that matter, but there is something less disturbing about killing an adult than a child, at least to me. Many of my comrades have no such problems with that distinction, and I can see them killing everything in their paths without mercy or distress. The German men can now be seen standing with their weapons at their fires, sometimes just one, but most of the time two, three, and sometimes four men standing to protect their families, who are huddled behind them. Surprisingly, most people seem content to stay put, counting on the protection of their warriors, but it is still early in the assault and I am sure that once they see their men being cut down, they will begin to try to run and escape, or hide. Heading for the nearest group bypassed by the front ranks, I am thankful at least that these men did not have the wit to turn on my comrades, who had moved past them to fall onto their unprotected backs, instead choosing to stand and fight.

I call to Scribonius, Vibius, and the rest of the men in my rank for help, and we head for the group of men. There are three of them, all warriors; one older man and two about my age or a little older. The older man has a long sword, the other two spears, and all three have thought to pick up their shields. I wait for a moment for my own comrades to catch up, then form a single line, shield to shield, with me in my usual spot on the far right. This means I do not have the protection of a shield to my right, but my placement here is no accident; I am not boasting when I say that I am far and away the best man with a sword out of my rank, or my Century and Cohort, for that matter. So it is with confidence that I walk side by side with my comrades towards the waiting men. By this point, some of the wagons have been set alight, and despite it now being sunup, the forest in this part of the world is so thick that the light from the flaming wagons is still strong and lurid, making shadows dance and adding to the atmosphere of menace and destruction. The men await us, their faces set and determined, and I can see over their shoulders that there are at least a dozen other people, huddled together, their arms around each other as they call out to their men in their tongue. I have no doubt they are exhorting their warriors to protect them, but their men do not answer, each of them completely concentrating on us. We stop a few paces away and, for a strange moment, nothing happens.

All around us there is chaos, mayhem, blood, and destruction, yet we are locked in our own little world, almost like we are encased in some sort of bubble. Despite the noises of the slaughter that is taking place, I can somehow hear my breathing. Each side is seemingly waiting for some signal. Our eyes are locked on each other; I am staring at the older man with the sword, while he does the same, probably drawn to me because of my size. Then, surprising even myself, I am moving forward and I can hear a roar, realizing that it is coming from my lips as I lead with my shield. I move quickly for a big man; this is both a blessing and a curse, because it catches not only my foe, but my friends off balance, so it takes an instant for my comrades to realize that the fight has begun. The older man also hesitates, but that at least was my goal; moving first, striking the first blow in battle cannot be overestimated in its importance, and he has barely enough time to bring his own shield up as I smash into him, relying on my size and strength to push him off balance. However, he somehow stands his ground, but thankfully, before either of the younger warriors can react and turn on me, my comrades are on them. Although we outnumber them more than two to one, I nonetheless call to my friends to leave the older man to me; in those days, I was always anxious to prove myself as the best. For a moment, we stand shield boss to shield boss, glaring at each other over the rim of our shields, he trying to strike me with an overhand blow, using his long sword, as I come underneath with my shorter Spanish sword. Because of the length of his sword, he is trying to end me with a slash, but we Romans have long since learned that the point always beats the edge. I hear his blade whistle past my ear as I move my head to the side, wincing as it strikes a glancing blow off of my shoulder. My mail, which is reinforced in that area, absorbs the blow, so that a few links break, but otherwise, I am unharmed.

Meanwhile, the point of my own sword flickers upward from beneath my shield and I feel the point strike into the flesh of his thigh. We are close enough that I hear the hiss of pain escape his lips, eyes narrowing in agony and hatred, but he does not yield an inch. I realize he is fighting for his family, that this gives him the courage of the doomed, so rather than try to continue pressing him, I suddenly step backward, hoping to draw him off balance. He is too experienced to fall for that, instead choosing to recover himself. Meanwhile, his two comrades, who I assume to be his sons, are still desperately standing back to back, surrounded by my friends, who are alternating in their attacks on the pair. No matter what is happening with them, I cannot pay any attention to their battle, and I renew my attack, not wanting to give the older warrior any respite. His left leg is now soaked in blood, and he is clearly favoring it, but is still refusing to yield an inch as I thrust my shield out, using the boss in an attempt to smash his nose flat. We are to use the shield in a manner that makes it as much an offensive weapon as a defensive one, so that my move takes him by surprise, but he manages to bring his own shield up to meet my attack, and I smile grimly, because that is exactly the reaction for which I am hoping. Bending my knees while maintaining the pressure of my shield against his, I whip my blade around parallel to the ground, in a wide sweeping arc so that the edge is now traveling back toward me, except that his left knee is between me and the blade. This is one of our most effective attacks, known as the third position, and is the only time where we favor the edge over the point. It is also why we go to the trouble to sharpen both edges of our swords. Normally, it is enough to cut the two tendons at the base of the hamstring, but as I said, I am a very strong man and my blade is very sharp, so I can feel the shock travel up my arm as the blade cuts through his leg all the way to his kneecap. My blade continues through so that I sever his leg completely, and I can feel the spray of blood splash on my arm as he lets out a shriek of unbearable agony, collapsing immediately to the ground. The sight of their father defeated stuns both of the other warriors so completely that they suddenly drop their shields just to stand there defenseless as my comrades cut them down. Standing over my foe as he stares up at me, his face a picture of despair and agony, one hand clutching the stump of his ruined leg, I can read in his face the knowledge that he has failed to protect his family. All I feel is a savage exultation that I have bested another man, giving him a smile that holds nothing but cruelty as I plunge my sword into his throat.

All around us, similar scenes are being played out as the Legions of Rome go about their business of slaughter. With the three warriors dispatched, I turn to face the remaining group of people. There are four women, one older with iron gray hair and a seamed face, probably the woman of the man that I dispatched, and from the way she is gazing down at the bodies of the two young men, their mother. She stands protectively in front of the rest of her family, arms outstretched despite the fact she has no weapon. Even as I move toward her, before I can get to her, another of my comrades, Spurius Didius, steps close enough to run his sword into her stomach before twisting the blade savagely, disemboweling her in one practiced motion. His move is met with disgust and contempt by the rest of us; we may be under orders to kill everyone, orders that we would readily obey, but that did not mean that we had to make defenseless people suffer needlessly. However, that is in his character; he is the cruelest among us, and renowned for some of the actions he has taken, mostly against defenseless or helpless people. The woman lets out a blood-curdling scream as she collapses to the ground, her intestines slowly oozing out to lie in a glistening pool next to her.

"You stupid bastard, you punctured her bowels. Now we have to smell her cac," Vellusius, another member of our tent section complains, but Didius just grins. The sight of the matriarch of this group savagely cut down finally spurs the others to action, and they turn to run away, scattering in every direction.

See what you made them do? I hear Scribonius shout as each of us start off in pursuit of one of the fleeing Germans.

Without thinking, I choose one of the other women, a younger one who I had noticed snatching up a bundle lying near the fire. She was wrapped in a cloak, but quickly shrugged it off since it slowed her down, and I can see she has fiery red hair that streams behind her as she runs, still clutching the bundle. I chase after her, and despite being much faster, she is damnably quick, changing direction whenever she senses that I am within reach, so that in moments, I am not only out of breath, I am getting very angry. The pursuit continues in this manner for some time, with her darting around and through the small knots of Romans and Germans who are still trying to put up a fight. By this time, others like her have realized that it is pointless to fight, and begin their own headlong flight, each of them seeming to choose a different direction in which to escape. Wagons are ablaze, the air growing hot and close from the flames, making my lungs burn even more. The girl is making me look the fool, and I can just imagine that the others are getting a great laugh from the sight of my large frame chasing this slight girl about like a dog chasing a chicken. She is now heading for the river that borders one side of the camp, along with what now appears to be several hundred other Usipetes and Tencteri. Some of them are much closer and much slower than this girl, meaning I could easily stop chasing her to concentrate on an easier target, but I refuse to be drawn off. Finally, she starts to tire, her sudden changes in direction becoming less frequent, until I have now closed with her so that I can reach out and give her a shove that sends her sprawling. The bundle she has been carrying goes flying from her hands to land a few feet away from her, but before I can pin her down to finish her, she scrambles up, leaving me to curse bitterly, as much as I can with my lungs on fire. Gasping for air, I am prepared to resume the pursuit, but for reasons I cannot understand at first, instead of trying to get away, she runs straight to the bundle, picking it up.

That’s a foolish thing to do, girl, I gasp. No amount of money or whatever you have in there is worth dying for.

I know she cannot understand me, so instead she just stands there looking at me, with an expression on her face that I need no translator to interpret for me. My heart is pounding, and I realize that it is not just from the exertion; she is really very beautiful, her cheeks flushed from our chase, her red hair spread around her face like fire. I feel a stirring in my loins that I do not expect, and I take a step toward her, our eyes locked together. Just as I am about to reach her, she says something in her tongue, then thrusts the bundle out in front of her. That is when I see a pair of the deepest blue eyes I have ever seen, staring at me from within the bundle. A round face, with a wisp of the same color red hair on its head, the babe does not seem frightened at all, just stares at me with an intense curiosity. I feel like I have been dashed with a bucket of cold water, my member going limp immediately from the shame of what I was about to do, followed immediately by the return of the anger. Anger at this woman for trying to use her child as a shield to spare her life, counting on whatever it is in the human heart that wants to protect a helpless infant; anger at being put in this position in the first place, knowing that my orders are very clear and very strict. Most of all, I am angry at myself for this feeling that is in me, a sense of shame at what I am about to do that I interpret as weakness. Looking over the head of the babe into the mother’s eyes, I can see in that instant she knows that there is no mercy to be had. Not from me. Not from Caesar. And not from Rome. For I am a Legionary of Rome, and I do as I am commanded. At least, that is what I tell myself as I plunge my sword through the baby and into her mother.

That is when I always wake up, soaked in sweat with a pounding heart, despite it being almost forty years since that day that we destroyed the Usipetes and Tencteri tribes as we were conquering Gaul, while marching with Caesar.

Chapter 1-Campaign against the Helvetii

Now that I have refreshed myself, and my poor scribe Diocles has recovered, I will pick up my tale where I left it. The 10th had been stationed in Narbo Martius for the previous two years, after completing our first campaign in Hispania under the command of Gaius Julius Caesar, putting down the rebellion of the Lusitani tribes in the far western part of the province.

My best friend, Vibius Domitius, with whom I joined the Legion in the dilectus held that raised the 10th, along with the surviving members of my original tent section, had quite frankly been chafing at the boredom brought by peacetime. Adding to the difficulty was the grief that struck us when a plague swept through the camp, claiming one of our section. His name was Quintus Mallius, but we had nicknamed him Remus, and his brother Marcus Romulus, and I, for one, was struck by the bitterness of seeing us survive our first campaign intact, only to have an enemy that we could not see strike one of our number down. Marcus, or Romulus, was never really the same after his brother died, which was understandable. All in all, it was a very trying time, but our lives were about to change dramatically.

Caesar’s sent for us!

The word shot through the camp like a lightning bolt striking a tree and making its way to ground, with the effect being almost the same. After two years of routine and boredom, we were convinced that the return of Caesar meant that we would be put to use and see action again. At the time, there was no evidence of this other than our belief in Caesar, but it was not long before that faith was justified. After serving as Consul, Caesar was given the governorship of what at that time were two of the Roman provinces in Gaul: Transalpine and Cisalpine, along with the province of Illyricum, for a then-unheard of period of five years. Once it was confirmed that this was no idle rumor as was so often the case, the camp went into an immediate hubbub of activity as we tidied up, repainting the huts, and otherwise showing Caesar that we were still soldiers. The two years in garrison had seen other changes, besides the inevitable softness and slacker discipline that was the opposite of the first campaign season in the Legions. For my part, I had filled out even more, my frame heavily muscled throughout the chest and arms, along with bulk added to my thighs. According to Vibius and the others, I had also grown at least two more inches, standing more than four inches over six feet. As part of my training, I began concentrating more on technique than just brute strength, so that during the Legion games, I was able to avenge my loss in the wrestling match to become Legion champion, and second place in the army, something I was intent on correcting at the earliest opportunity. If anything, I was even more confident than when I joined the Legions, the difference being that I had learned that as talented as I might have been, I was still not invincible. I had learned that the hard way, with the scars to prove it. It was the result of this knowledge that saw me train more than almost any other man in the Legion, using every spare or idle moment not only working on my technique, but watching other, more experienced men, looking for moves that I thought might be valuable.

There was also a change that impacted our entire Century, however, coming about as a result of the sickness that had hit the army. Not just ordinary Gregarii were struck down, and because of the death of a Centurion in the First Cohort, Pilus Prior Crastinus was promoted to the First Cohort, and was now the Primus Hastatus Posterior, the Centurion of the Sixth Century. In those days, whenever there was a vacancy in other Centuries in a more senior Century or Cohort, the normal procedure was that the Centurion in the next most junior Century moved up one slot. Therefore, the Primus Princeps Posterior, the Centurion of the Fifth Century of the First Cohort, who was the man who died, was replaced by the Primus Hastatus Posterior, with our Pilus Prior moving up to the Sixth Century to replace the Centurion moving up. For us, this meant that the Secundus Pilus Posterior now became our Pilus Prior. His name was Aulus Vetruvius, and he was competent enough, yet I would be lying if I said that we felt the same towards him that we did for Pilus Prior Crastinus. To be fair, Vetruvius was in a very tough situation filling his predecessor’s boots, a fact that Rufio kept reminding us about. For his part, Rufio at least was staying put, since he had not been Optio long enough to be considered for one of the junior Centurion spots in the Tenth Cohort. Being selfish, that was fine with all of us, because it was difficult to adjust to the styles of two new officers. Tesseraurius Cordus left us as well, being promoted to Optio of the Sixth Century in the Tenth Cohort, but our signifer Scaevola also remained with us. Although he technically should have been considered for one of the Centurion slots in the more junior Cohorts, Scaevola was one of those men who, despite being a great fighter and a solid man to have relaying orders, had not developed into the leader that was expected of a Centurion. Even so, I could think of no man besides Vibius who I wanted pressed against my back should things go badly in battle. And courtesy of the Helvetii, Caesar handed us a war that would go down in the annals as one of the greatest feat of arms in the history of Rome.

Caesar ordered the 7th, the 8th, and the 9th to prepare to march from their base in Aquileia, planning on sending them northwest towards the Helvetii. By the time one of Caesar’s Tribunes arrived in our camp, we were well into the packing up of all that would be required for the upcoming campaign, Caesar having sent word ahead that we were needed. Interspersed with all the various tasks to be done, the Centurions increased the pace of our training, having us go on twice as many forced marches as normal, with the difference being that the two extra were half-day affairs so that we could still do all of the other things that had to be done to prepare to move. For example, our artillery had to be refitted with new torsion ropes, with every other piece of equipment having to be inspected for wear; even in garrison, equipment suffers wear and tear just through our constant training. And truth be told, there is a huge difference between having everything adequate for training purposes and for going to war. Vibius stayed busy repairing or making new bits of leather gear, while I pushed the men of the Century harder than ever during our weapons training, making sure that nobody left the training field without fresh bruises and cuts, myself included. No matter how hard I pushed them, nobody except Didius and a couple other men like him in other sections complained, since everyone knew by this time that more work put in here meant the better chance of seeing another sunrise after a battle. Once more, we prepared to leave camp to go on campaign, except this time was more difficult for a lot of the men. Now that they had set down some roots and were starting families, it was all that much harder to leave them behind, which was why a good number of their women and small children refused to be left. The day we formed up in the forum of the camp to begin the march north to face the Helvetii, there was a second, albeit smaller and worse equipped army waiting immediately outside the gates.

(Diocles: To ensure accuracy, my master has instructed me to use Caesar’s account of the campaigns against the Gauls to provide the relevant facts and dates that are crucial to his account of his experiences with Caesar.)

The whole problem with the Helvetii started because they had decided to move from their homes to find new places to live. One difficulty posed by this idea was that the place they were interested in moving to already had people in it, and they were people that we were told had asked for Roman protection. The Helvetii had already begun the process of migrating, burning their own towns, farms, and fields in order to ensure that they would not lose heart and turn back. The other consequence of this decision was that they were not liable to be persuaded, either by reason or force, a fact that we would soon discover when we faced them. First, however, we had some distance to cover to face them; being honest, the first three or four days marching at the pace Caesar had ordered was almost enough to do in almost all of us. I was just as exhausted at the end of the day as the rest of my comrades, barely having the energy to speculate about what we were marching into as we listlessly chewed our evening meal. One of the more valuable lessons I took from this experience was that, no matter how hard you may train in garrison, there is still a large gap between the type of fitness and endurance that the army tries to maintain in peacetime, and what is needed to survive and thrive during a campaign season. Some of the hardest hit were the immunes who were excused from normal training duties, the result being that they were in even poorer condition than the rest of us. Poor Vibius looked more dead than alive at the end of the first day’s march, as I literally had to force him to eat his meal, shoving his bread down his throat and commanding him to chew. I am convinced that even as he complied, he was asleep while doing so, and was only marginally improved the next day. Regardless, he did not fall out as a straggler, ending every day’s march with the rest of us, for which I was very proud of him.

The country we were introduced to was different from anything I had ever seen in my life. Even in the far north of Hispania, the land is not nearly as lush and green as what we passed through. These provinces were prosperous and peaceful, with everyone giving us a cheerful greeting and a wave as we passed by, the only exception to this being men with daughters, who, despite their best efforts, would lose some of them to the allure of the Legion tramping by. It never failed that people, not just girls, but young boys and some men as well, would attach themselves to our column as we moved, using the Legion in the same manner one would hitch a ride on a bypassing cart to take them somewhere else. For our part, this would engender endless speculation on the motives of these people. Not so much with the boys, it being a foregone conclusion to us that they were lured by the romance of life as a Legionary, a fact at which we all heartily laughed, conveniently ignoring the fact that, for many of us, it was the same siren call we had heard. Such is the easy disdain those on the inside show for those on the outside of something like the army. However, for the girls and women who joined the camp followers, it was harder to understand, but their actions helped pass many watches spent on the road as we discussed the topic. Not that we were complaining, since almost all of these women either became the women of formerly unattached Legionaries at best, or whores servicing the rest of us at worst.

Fortunately, much of the march was on good Roman roads, so our progress was rapid, although to hear the cursing, it was hard to tell. As we had experienced and would learn until it was ingrained as an expectation that we had for ourselves, nothing was fast enough for Caesar. If we marched twenty-eight miles in a day, it should have been thirty; if thirty, then it should have been thirty-five miles. Despite learning this was his nature, some of us never grew accustomed to it, and one of them was Vibius.

There’s no pleasing that man, he muttered one day.

The 10th was now a week into our march, and we were within two or three days’ march of the latest place we had been told to be by Caesar. We were barely into the first watch of the march when Vibius made his comment, but I knew the reaming we had taken from the Primus Pilus that morning was still fresh on his mind, as it was with everyone. Seemingly out of nowhere, with our Cohort waiting our turn to start the march, the Primus Pilus spent that time telling us how disgraced he was at our sightseeing pace and how we were letting Caesar down. This was not only shocking to us, it was bewildering, and our confused glances at each other confirmed I was not the only one who felt this way. We could only go as fast as the pace set for us and since our Cohort was not in the lead the day before, we were not sure where this was coming from. As we learned later, the same tongue-lashing was given by the Primus Pilus to every Cohort, along with the cavalry and the men who ran the baggage train. It made us feel somewhat better, at least as far as our feelings, yet the pace set that day was cracking and we instantly knew it was going to be a hard one. Glancing over at Vibius when he made his comment, I could see that even so early, he was struggling more than he should have been. I could only hope that the gains he had made in his fitness over the last few days did not dig so deeply into his reserves that he would have to drop from the march. His face was already red, and the sweat dripped from his nose in a steady stream, despite the coolness of the day. I replied, but even as I did so it was with some surprise, being sure I knew whom he was referring to, and it was not the Primus Pilus.

He’s just trying to get us there as fast as he can because he wants his best to send into battle, I reasoned.

Fat lot of good it'll do, if when we get there, we’re too exhausted to pick up a javelin, let alone throw one, he snapped, impatiently swiping at the sweat rolling into his eyes.

For my part, after the first few days of struggle, I adjusted fairly easily back into the campaigning rhythm, which I suspected was another reason for Vibius’ irritation. I shrugged, knowing by this time that there were times to argue with Vibius and times not to, and this was the latter. He had made up his mind that Caesar was the cause of his misery, and nothing I could say would change that. It was in this frame of mind that we kept moving, the only sound for many miles the thud of our boots and the jingling of our gear bouncing around. One thankful aspect of this country, I mused, was that it did not kick up as much dust as it did in Hispania, something a Legionary learns to appreciate. Also, the nights were much colder than even in Narbo, so we woke up every morning shivering, and it was not unusual that there was a thin skin of ice on the water buckets that were used to water the livestock. Marching up the valley of the Rhodanus (Rhone), we passed through a number of towns and bypassed the larger ones if possible.

Reviews for Marching With Caesar-Conquest of Gaul

[oparaxenos · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This was an excellent story in desperate need of an editor. While I thoroughly enjoyed the yarn about life in the legions from the standpoint of the ordinary solider, the clumsy syntax and sloppy grammar were a constant irritant. Notwithstanding, it says something for the quality of the story that I was spellbound through all 600 pages.

[darleneewilliams · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Published 2012, Smashword Edition, 652 pages Marching with Caesar is the historical fiction story of Titus Pullus, as dictated to his scribe and companion, told from a legionary’s point-of-view commencing when Titus is 16 and determined to enter Rome’s legions. It is his sole dream, one that is nourished by his brother-in-law, Cyclops, a former legionary, who trains Titus and his best friend, Vibius, for a military career. Titus Pullus is a big boy, standing over 6 feet tall and heavily muscled. This size is both a downfall and a blessing. The downfall is his father despises him because his mother died giving birth to such a large baby. The blessing becomes apparent when he becomes a soldier in the ranks of the legions, although it does make him a target for the enemy who want to kill such a large foe. Fortunately, for Titus, he has two loving sisters and a slave couple who raised him. Yet, this is not enough to protect him entirely from his father’s hatred. Residing on a fallow farm with his alcoholic father, Titus fantasizes about the day he can leave forever. Although he is underage by one year, the promise of never seeing his son again and a belly full of booze convinces his father to swear to officials Titus is 17 years old, the minimum age Rome legions will accept tiros for training. Titus is smug and full of pride at his size and his fighting capabilities. His time with Cyclops has him convinced he knows pretty much all there is becoming a legionnaire. His smugness quickly evaporates the first day when harshly disciplined by his superior for minor infractions. Rome’s strength was the absolute obedience of its legions regardless of whether they agreed with commands. Titus, Vibius and their tent mates complete their intensive training and are now ready for action under their new Praetor, Gais Julius Caesar, in the newly raised 10th Legion. Caesar will rely heavily on the 10th Legion in the years and campaigns to come. Marching with Caesar is 652 pages long. Fortunately, Caesar was a busy, ambitious man building an empire. In conquering such an empire, Caesar is forced to repeatedly subdue tribes in Gaul bent on rebelling against Rome’s rule. Marching with Caesar details the daily lives of legionnaires, complete with the killing lust, comradeship, vulgarities (Peake has a glossary of Latin terms, a few of which made me laugh out loud), harsh punishments dealt for infractions and the joy of victories. Peake makes no excuses for actions that would be viewed as atrocities, in that day and today. It was what it was. I won’t go into any detail of the plot, as to do so would contain spoilers. Marching with Caesar is not just a man’s book. Peake captivated me throughout this entire epic work. I marched in the mud, huddled in wet misery, dug trenches, brutally killed enemies and massacred villages, buried bodies, built and destroyed Roman camps with incredible efficiency, was the enemy’s target, lost and loved with Titus. I was present at his every move compliments of Peake’s superior prose. My recommendation is to read the foreword. It contains vital information which assists in understanding military operations, formation of legions and ranks.