“Soldiers,” Caesar’s voice rang out clearly, and even using his oratorical voice, his outrage was plain to hear, and we could tell that it was unfeigned, “you have just witnessed one of the most abominable acts any supposedly civilized nation can perform, the slaughter of a defenseless emissary under a flag of truce.” Suddenly dropping his sword and pointing directly at the 10th Legion, he roared, “What do you propose to do about it?”
Our answering cry once again shook the ground, except this time we replied not just with voice, but with pounding our javelin against our shields in a rhythmic manner that lasted for a couple of moments before he motioned us back to silence.
“Very well,” he called, “I have your answer. Now,” he pointed to the wall “show me your answer in deeds. I will give” with his left hand he pulled a leather purse that looked as if it were bursting with coin, “one hundred sesterces to the first man over the wall, along with the reward of a coronamurales.”
One hundred sesterces! That was a fortune! How could one man possibly spend that much money, I wondered? I laugh now at my naiveté; I have wasted a hundred sesterces in a single night’s debauchery since, but for the country boy from Baetica I was back then, I could not comprehend such riches. Finished with us, he raced off to the 8th to make the same offer, while his command staff distributed themselves among the Legions to take nominal command. My heart sank when I saw none other than Doughboy approaching, and my sentiments were echoed by the muttered curses of the men around me.
“Gods, why us?” I heard Calienus groan.
Trying to remain optimistic, I ventured, “Maybe he’ll be smart enough to let the Primus Pilus give the orders.”
“Gerrae! You know better than that Pullus.”
I shrugged. He was right, but one could always hope. Doughboy marched up to where the Primus Pilus, Pilus Prior Crastinus and some of the other Centurions were gathered. Even from a distance we could see the barely disguised contempt on the face of the Centurions, something Doughboy either ignored or was too stupid to see.
“Well, men,” he called out in a loud voice, thinking, I guessed, to inspire us with his words of wisdom. “Are we ready to go over the wall and spill some Lusitani guts and get our hands wet, eh?”
“Of course sir,” answered the Primus Pilus smoothly, without a hint of mockery in his voice, “as long as we know that you'll be the one leading us over the wall.”
Doughboy’s face blanched, before he realized he was letting his feelings show.
“Pardon me, Centurion?” he started but got no further.
“That’s Primus Pilus, if you please sir,” the Primus Pilus responded, his voice a mask of formal politeness. “It’s just that I worked hard to get here, sir, and well, it’s my proper title.”
Doughboy’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he glared at the Primus Pilus, trying to decide if he was being toyed with, but the Primus Pilus was cowing young Tribunes since before Doughboy had been expelled from his mother’s womb, and was the picture of rectitude and respect. Obviously deciding to drop the matter, Doughboy started again.
“Forgive me, Primus Pilus. You're correct, of course. Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “back to what you were saying earlier.”
“Yes sir,” the Primus Pilus replied cheerfully, “as I was saying, we’ll follow you anywhere you choose to lead us. Isn’t that right sir?”
Now Doughboy looked nonplussed; how could he answer this in a way that let it be known he had no intention of being the first to anything other than the food line, and not expose his cowardice? Therefore, he apparently decided that silence, accompanied by a thoughtful nod of the head and stroking of his chin, as if seriously considering the remarks, was the best course.
The silence dragged on for a few heartbeats, before the Primus Pilus continued helpfully, “It’s just that you’re a young man on the rise sir. Nothing makes a young patrician’s career like being the first over the wall. Besides,” for this he turned to his companions, “that sort of thing is a young man’s game, isn’t it boys?”
This was greeted by a chorus of agreement, each of the Centurions looking at Doughboy with wide eyed innocence.
Clearing his throat yet again, Doughboy looked at the ground as he murmured, “It’s just that, if I’m first over the wall, I won’t be able to assess the overall situation, you see? I thought it would be better for me to remain in a place,” he looked up at the Primus Pilus earnestly, “close to the wall of course, not completely out of danger, but far enough back so I can have an idea of what’s going on.”
The Primus Pilus pursed his lips, slowly nodding his head in thought.
“I do see your point sir. Indeed, I’m not sure of these things, so you're no doubt correct. I’m sure that you've read many more manuals than I have on the subject,” despite what I guessed was his best effort, the Primus Pilus could not entirely conceal the scorn with this last remark and just barely remembered to finish with, “sir.”
Doughboy’s ears turned a roasting red yet there was really nothing he could do because there was nothing objectionable in the Primus Pilus' words, despite knowing that it was an insult.
Cutting his losses, he muttered, “Right. Well then, carry on.”
Whereupon he stalked off down the line to station himself in the proper place to avoid the appearance of cowardice, while not exposing himself to much danger. The other Centurions, during this last exchange, were all feverishly studying the ground but we could see their shoulders shaking with silent laughter, threatening our own composure. When the Primus Pilus turned and saw that we had witnessed and heard the whole thing, his only response was to grin and give us all a wink, destroying all remnants of our façade and we laughed heartily.
Our barrage started immediately after that exchange, the sound of the ballista snapping against the cross bar causing a crash, followed by a whirring sound as if a flight of birds was taking off, and we all looked up to watch the stone arc through the air. The first shot landed short, the stone thudding into the ground with a spray of dirt before its momentum took it skipping to where it smacked into the base of the wall just next to the main gate on the north side, which we could see from our spot on the far right of the line. This was immediately followed by a stone that actually hit the wall, and even from where we stood, we could see the dust fly as the timbers vibrated. One after the other, the stones hit the area around the front gate, and in the pause as the ballistae were reloaded, we could hear the cries of the Lusitani raising the alarm that the assault had begun. It was just about a third of a watch past dawn, and now we would wait while the artillery either did its work, or did nothing more than raise some dust. While we were told to remain in formation, we were allowed to stand at otiose, meaning that we could turn, talk to the men around us and bend our legs and so forth, but not leave our position in ranks. The customary way it is observed is that as long as your left foot stays in position, you can pivot around to talk to the others. I turned to face down my rank and Vibius immediately caught my eye.
With a completely straight face he asked, “Do you have it in a safe place?”
Reaching down, I grabbed a clod of dirt and threw it at him then we both laughed. Grabbing my crotch to make an obscene gesture, I answered, “Oh yes, it’s in a safe place all right. It’s right here. I used it to wipe my ass this morning.”