We ended up waiting three weeks, the wind continually blowing from the northwest and making sailing in that general direction impossible. Being prepared to embark at a moment’s notice, since the wind in this region is notoriously fickle, we were more or less confined to our Cohort area for days. Naturally the waiting got very tiresome, the army more than ready to depart, so it was not long before we were at each other’s throats. I had to break up more fights than I can remember, despite the fact that I was just as raw as everyone else and wanted to leave just as badly. I think this marked the point when I finally accepted the burden of keeping my personal feelings completely hidden and separate from the actions I was taking, because I secretly agreed with the malcontents; I was just as ready to go as they were, although I could not act in such a manner. In the past I struggled with this feeling but now, finally, I fully accepted it. I made sacrifices to the gods in control of such things as wind and tides almost daily, yet neither my supplications nor those of the rest of the men were answered for almost a month.
The waiting was not just hard on us; the delay obviously wore on the Gallic chiefs who were accompanying us to the point Dumnorix of the Aedui finally decided that he had enough waiting. Just a day before we ended up embarking, he left the camp, despite Caesar’s express orders to the contrary. Caesar could not allow this kind of flagrant disobedience, so he sent a detachment of cavalry to catch up with Dumnorix and bring him back to the camp but he refused to cooperate, choosing instead to fight, whereupon he was cut down by our cavalry. The other Gauls in the camp were enraged by Caesar’s action, yet could do nothing about it, although their sullen expressions and hostile attitude was a clear enough message for all of us that we had to watch them closely the entire expedition. Commius was coming with us again, along with a Trinova named Mandubracius. Perhaps the potential unrest was the reason that Caesar chose Labienus to stay behind, since he was considered Caesar’s most able Legate. Whatever the case, it was on the sixth day of the month now named for Caesar that we began the loading of the army, and it was during the loading process that I had my first brush with a new Tribune accompanying the expedition. His name was Marcus Antonius, and even now, all these years after his death I still have mixed feelings about the man. When I first laid eyes on him, I saw he was just a couple of years older than I was; he was an incredibly handsome man, and despite the fact he was not nearly as tall as I was, his physique closely matched mine. Heavily muscled in the chest and arms, tapering down to a narrow waist, with strong thighs and huge calves, he radiated an animal magnetism that was clear to see even then. He had curly dark hair, and his facial features were strong, with a thoroughly Roman nose, thick full lips, strong jaw and somewhat dimpled chin. Hearing him before I saw him, he was roaring in laughter at a joke that I did not hear, and I first saw him standing on the docks, waiting to board with the 10th. Surrounded by rankers like me and my friends, their faces were split in wide grins at whatever jest he found so hilarious. Antonius was a man’s man; carelessly thoughtful, extremely generous to his friends, and preferring the company of the common soldier than to those of his class, at least in those days. He could also be petty and extremely vindictive; just ask poor Cicero with his hands nailed to the door of the Senate house. Antonius was also extremely unpredictable, yet even with his faults I found it extremely hard to dislike him, even many years later, after he changed so drastically, but I am getting ahead of myself. In that moment on the docks, Vibius was taken with him immediately, having left our section to wander over to see what the fun was about. Also accompanying us on this voyage was the younger brother of the aforementioned Cicero, along with Gaius Trebonius, yet another feckless, faithless bastard who owed his rise to the man he later helped slaughter. But all these events I was happily unaware of; instead I was just relieved that we were finally about to sail back to Britannia to do the job properly.
It was not until the late afternoon of that day that we were finally ready to set sail for the island, turning to the northwest to begin our journey. Just like our trip the year before, it was not going to be easy, with the currents and wind once again seeming to conspire against our best efforts and we began drifting farther north than where we were supposed to land, roughly the same beach where we landed at the year before. Another of the refinements to the transports that Caesar ordered was that we were not completely powered by sail; holes were drilled in the sides of the boats to allow the use of oars, and the signal was given for us to break them out to begin rowing back to the southwest toward the beach. There was the usual cursing and groans, punctuated by muttered comments that we had not signed on in the army to be sailors, but the Centurions and Optios quickly put a stop to this, and we set to the task. Fairly quickly, the spirit of competition began to set in amongst us as, without any order given, we began rowing at a pace that allowed us to keep pace with the war galleys. Before long the galleys noticed us catching up with them, so they began to quicken their rhythm. It was not a few moments later that we were in an all-out race for the landing beach, putting everything we had into at the least keeping up with the galleys, if not overtaking them.
Because of the tricks of wind and current, we did not begin the landing process until around midday of the seventh. With our disembarking, the changes to the design of the transport made unloading go much quicker and more smoothly, while the advance party went out to find a spot to camp. One pleasant surprise was the absence of any Britons waiting for us, although we were sure that they knew we were coming; it is impossible to keep secret a fleet of almost 800 ships, between the newly constructed vessels and the ones that we used the year before. Whatever the cause, we were thankful that we did not have to fight our way off the beach again, this landing going much more smoothly than the year before. Part of the advance party came back to guide us to the spot chosen for the camp, a little more than three miles to the northwest from the beach. Even as we were marching to the campsite, cavalry scouts went out ranging through the area, capturing some prisoners. From them it was learned that we were indeed seen and expected, the Britons actually forming up to fight us on the beach. Then, upon seeing the huge size of our army, they decided that discretion was the better part of valor, retreating instead to some high ground nearby. Caesar was determined to press the attack immediately, so leaving about ten Cohorts chosen from each Legion behind to guard the fleet, which was brought up onto the beach, he ordered us to throw the camp up as quickly as we could, since he was determined to march that night to meet the Britons.
“We’re supposed to put up a camp, then immediately start marching again? What kind of madness is that? We’ll be so tired by the time we find those bastards we won’t be able to do anything more than curse their ancestors,” Vibius complained, supported by the others, who all agreed vociferously.