“Let’s just say that each of those barbarians has the equal of one gold denarius on him,” mused Romulus as we sat by the fire the night we heard the size of the Belgae army. “And you know some of their nobles will be carrying a lot more than that, right?” There was general agreement to this as we sat and listened to Romulus, who was growing enthused the more he talked. “So that’s at the very least 300,000 gold denarii just waiting for us to take.”
Turning to me, he asked, “What did you say our strength was again, Pullus?” After I told him the number relayed to me, he sat there with his face screwed up as he tried to calculate the sum in his head.
Finally, he just shrugged and finished, “Well, it'll be a lot of gold pieces for each of us is all I know.” His face turned red as we laughed at him, while Scribonius supplied the answer.
“It’ll be about six gold pieces for each of us, give or take,” he said, eliciting looks of astonishment that he was able to work such huge sums in his head.
Romulus’ eyes narrowed in suspicion and he blurted, “That can’t be right. It’s a lot more than that.”
“No, I promise you that it’s just a little shy of six pieces per man, using your example,” Scribonius pronounced this with a confidence that convinced me that he was right, but Romulus was having none of it.
“How is that possible, that you say out of 300,000 gold pieces, each of us would only get six?”
I could tell that Romulus was really getting worked up over this, and I began to have a nagging worry that this might turn into a full-blown quarrel. Scribonius and Romulus got along well enough, yet they had nothing whatsoever in common, and were opposite in temperament as well. Romulus was quick to laugh, although he did much less of that since Remus died, except he was equally quick to take offense. Romulus loved nothing more than to be with his friends getting into all sorts of mischief, whereas Scribonius was much more thoughtful and deliberate, always thinking things through carefully before opening his mouth.
Now, Scribonius was clearly doing his best to be patient, sighing as he tried to explain. “You’re worrying about the zeros for nothing, Romulus, that’s why you’re not working it out right. Look,” he squatted in the dirt and drew the number thirty and the number five in the dirt. “All you’re really doing is seeing how many times five will go into thirty.”
I was confused as well, so I kept my mouth shut, but I instantly saw what he meant. Romulus still was not convinced. “Thirty,” he snorted, “where did you get thirty from? We’re talking 300,000, not thirty.”
Shaking his head, Scribonius replied with a thread of impatience that I hoped only I could detect. “It doesn’t matter. All right then, let’s try this. Tell me how many times 50 will go into three hundred.”
Finally, here was a cipher that Romulus could understand, and I suppressed a smile as I saw his face run the gamut of emotion, going from irritation to the dawning of understanding the correct answer, then quickly back to irritation again as he realized he was in the wrong. He stood there, his lips pressed into a thin line as he scowled at the dirt, arms crossed.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he mumbled, “Six. The answer is six.”
Scribonius, bless him, did not pursue his victory over Romulus in any way, instead nodding his head enthusiastically as he exclaimed, “Exactly! You got it! The zeros in this problem are meaningless. Good job, Romulus. I knew you’d figure it out.”
Romulus’ head shot up at Scribonius’ last words, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he stared at the other man, clearly trying to determine whether or not Scribonius was mocking him in any way, but that was not in Scribonius’ nature. He was truly happy at being able to teach Romulus something, and Romulus obviously saw that, so that he began to smile, beaming with pride just like he was a student in class who had been called on and given the correct answer.
“Yes, I see now. The zeros don’t matter,” he nodded.
I let out a silent sigh of relief, happy that things had not turned ugly. The instant I had the chance, I pulled Scribonius to the side to thank him for the way he treated Romulus, then made a request of my own.
“Do you think you can show me some of those tricks?” I asked. “It’s just that I’m having to do a lot of counting and addition and such, and it takes me forever to do the accounts I’m supposed to turn in.”
Scribonius frowned, and for a moment I thought he would refuse me, yet that was the farthest thing from his mind.
“They’re not tricks Pullus, they’re…..rules. It’s just like the army. Once you learn the rules, it’s easy.”
I immediately saw the sense of that, and I told him so.
“How about this instead?” he asked, catching me a bit by surprise. “Why don’t I sit with you and I can do your reports for you, while you watch and learn how I do it? That way, you don’t have to worry about writing all that nonsense, and you’ll learn how the rules work.”
This made eminent sense to me, as well as pleasing me that I would have one less burden on my shoulders, and I thanked him for his offer.
“Pullus, it’s the least I can do,” he replied quietly. “Remember, if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here now.”
I did not know what to say, trying to laugh it off with some lame joke, but his words touched me. We parted as I went to make my nightly report to the Pilus Prior, and again I was thankful that I had done what I did that day against the Helvetii.
Scouts brought word that the Belgic host was drawing nearer, so Caesar ordered the camp broken down and we went on the march, this time moving north to another river called the Axona (Aisne), crossing over it by the one bridge in the area. Then, with the river to our back to protect us, Caesar directed the camp to be built a short distance away. This was the most elaborate marching camp we ever created up to that point, with Caesar seeking to make the best use of the terrain. There was another small river a short distance to the north that branched off the Axona, the area around its banks a swampy mess. Caesar positioned our camp on a low hill running roughly northwest to southeast, with the southern wall of the camp a short distance from the Axona. Instructing us to make the ditch extra wide, it was 18 feet compared to his normal 15, thereby making the earthen portion of the rampart eight feet, with the stakes for the palisade adding another four in total height. In addition, he had us dig a trench extending along the axis of the Porta Praetoria of the camp further north down the hill, extending for almost a half mile beyond the walls, where a small fort was constructed with a scorpion and catapult for protection, manned by a Century. He had another trench dug running along the axis of the PortaDecumana to the south down the opposite slope towards the river, the same length and armed in the same manner. The bridge was fortified as well, and was located perhaps a mile and a half from the main gate to our southwest. The orientation of the camp was built so that the Belgae would have to pass directly across our front to get to the bridge, which was the only way across the river for several miles. If the Belgae wanted to attack the camp directly, they would have to negotiate the morass along the smaller river, while under fire from the northernmost fort. It took us most of the day to complete the work, and it was only due to the size of the army that we were able to accomplish all that in a single day. The fort at the bridge was under the command of a Tribune named Sabinus with four Cohorts and a squadron of cavalry. It was within these fortifications that we waited for the Belgae to sweep south.