Once we were prepared, we assembled in the forum, both the 9th and 10th Legion, where the Legates for both Legions were standing on the rostra. Legates are the nominal commanding officer of the Legion; while the sub-command is rotated by the six military Tribunes, the position of Legate is more permanent and is appointed by the Praetor, although in Caesar’s army Legates were moved about as well. Both of them gave short speeches, but I honestly do not have any idea what they said. In fact, I have been trying as I dictate this to remember the name of our Legate back then, but for the life of me I cannot, he was that unremarkable, though I believe that was due more to Caesar’s presence than any real shortcoming of his own. Once they were done inspiring us, we marched out of the camp to array ourselves, shortly before first light, where Caesar’s design became clear. He wanted these Lusitani to wake up, rub their eyes and look out to see the might of Rome arrayed before them, ready to strike and wreak a type of havoc they could not possibly imagine. The artillery had been rolled out of the camp earlier and was already in their position, with the ballistae arrayed so that they focused on the front gateway. The scorpions had just finished being pushed up a small hill to the southeast of the town, about two hundred paces away. They were accompanied by a Century to serve as a guard in the event the Lusitani made a sortie to try and destroy the artillery. Back then each Legion only carried four scorpions apiece, but Caesar put great store in artillery, so when we began the campaign in Gaul the number of both scorpions and ballistae were doubled. Each of the scorpions has a two man crew drawn from their respective Legions, and while each of us had practice fired both the scorpion and ballistae in training, those who showed the greatest aptitude were designated as artillerymen, working almost exclusively with the weapons until such time that artillery was no longer called for, whereupon they took their place back in the ranks. As the sun rose, another facet of Caesar’s genius became clear to us. The town’s gates were arranged along the customary north/south axis, with the front gate facing north and the rear to the south. In terms of terrain, other than the small hill previously mentioned, there was not much variation, which was what made the establishment of this town on this hill so sensible. Since there was no real advantage offered by terrain; the area immediately surrounding the town out to at least a quarter mile was cleared of vegetation that might hide an advance of a large body of men, Caesar used something else to our advantage. By choosing to assault the east wall, he not only took advantage of the only other high ground in the area, where he placed his scorpions, but arrayed as we were, we had an even more powerful ally in the sun rising behind our backs, forcing the Lusitani to stare straight at it in order to watch our advance. Another advantage, and one that I did not appreciate at the time but learned to as I gained a better understanding of how men thought, was in the symbolic gesture made by this approach. Caesar chose to ride over to join our side of the assault, partly I am sure because he had already spoken to the other element while they were still in the camp, which explained their roaring earlier. The other reason became plain when we saw him sitting on his horse, motionless, his paludamentum in all its splendor resting on his shoulders, rippling gently in the soft breeze that was blowing, facing the fort bareheaded but dressed in his ceremonial armor, a glittering cuirass made of silver and chased with gold with matching greaves. It was as if he was a god, which I now know was precisely the effect he was hoping for, so that as the Lusitani rose that morning and saw before them this glittering army, headed by a man whose very essence seemed to be framed by the sun, it had to be a devastating blow to their morale. Rome had come, led by a part man, part god, and all who stood before him quaked in fear.
Apparently, however, their morale was not damaged enough to see reason. Before launching the assault Caesar sent a Tribune, under a white flag, to parley with the occupants of the town. We watched him approach warily, stopping about a hundred feet short of the gate, on the rutted road leading into it. Even though the Tribune tried his best to sit stock still, his horse was obviously very nervous, hopping and skipping about and acting very skittish. As I learned later, he had been sent by Caesar with one last offer to submit to Rome, showing their good faith by the payment of a tribute and giving of hostages, the customary measures with such matters. The Tribune sat on his horse, obviously listening as a man stood on the wall above the gate, actually climbing onto the crenellation so he was standing in plain view, pointing down at the Tribune and then gesticulating back towards the town. This man was obviously of some importance, wearing what appeared to be armor made of some sort of golden scales, and a high, conical helmet. He looked to be a fairly large man, although that may have been because he was standing on the wall.
“Come on, let’s get on with it,” muttered Scribonius, and I wholeheartedly agreed.
Despite being scared out of my wits, the waiting was even harder, and I could only imagine the tension the next time if this parley was successful and the Lusitani in the town gave up without a fight. We would march on, something like this would happen again, and we would again find ourselves arrayed and ready to do battle. As far as I was concerned, it was just time to get it over with.
Luckily for us, unluckily for the Tribune, the parley was unsuccessful. Our first inkling that our terms were rejected came when suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, we saw what looked like a sliver come slicing down to strike the Tribune in the chest, almost knocking him from his horse as he reeled with the impact. Obviously, it was not a sliver but a spear, and from the combination of the height and the obvious strength of whoever threw it, the spear transfixed the Tribune and we could clearly see the bladed end protruding from his back. Almost before this could register, a number of other such darts struck him down from his horse, leaving it to gallop away in a panic, a short spear lodged in its flank, streaming blood. Despite our discipline, seeing the death of the Tribune brought a collective gasp from all of us, and I am sure across all the ranks of men who saw what happened. Shock was immediately followed, at least in my case, with a terrible anger. The flag of truce was clearly on display; there could be no mistake in what they had seen, but they still murdered one of our Tribunes in cold blood. Even as we were absorbing that act, the gate was flung open, two men came dashing out and before we could do anything more than shout a protest, they dragged the bloody body of the Tribune, now looking like a pincushion with multiple shafts sticking from his body, back into the town, shutting the gates. Then, a moment later the man on the wall reappeared, except this time in his hand he was waving as a trophy the head of the Tribune, dripping blood and gore from the severed neck. His call of defiance was drowned out by the roar of more than 20,000 men, all of them screaming with rage. It was absolutely deafening; I felt more than heard myself screaming out in inarticulate fury and I could feel the ground vibrate under my feet from the sound. I had reached yet another new level of anger in my life to that point, and it was clear I was not alone.
Caesar remained motionless, his only visible sign of distress in the clenched fist that he struck against his thigh over and over. It was when he turned to face us, riding in our direction, that we could see his lips thinned in rage, but once he got close enough it was his eyes that arrested all of us. They were like glittering points of ice, and it was with a start I realized that this was the first time I had been close enough to see the color of his eyes, a bluish-grey that looked like an angry sea. Drawing his sword then waving it over his head to get our attention, slowly we stopped our invective to listen to his words. In the brief silence before he began speaking, we could hear the Lusitani, chanting on their own, working up their own courage since they could have held no illusion what was facing them now. They had cast their die, and were trusting their skill to avert the righteous vengeance that they deserved. I for one vowed to myself that they would need more than skill this day.