“Right, now listen up,” the Pilus Prior spoke quietly so that only I could hear. “I turned in my report to the Legate, who forwarded it on to Caesar, who interviewed me himself. He wants to meet you.”
It is hard to describe which emotion I felt first or the strongest between exhilaration and fear. The best way to put it is that it was not dissimilar to the feeling one gets before going into battle, and I swallowed down the lump in my throat.
“So what should I do?”
He looked at me sharply. “Do? You don’t do a damn thing. You answer his questions with a Yes, Sir or No, Sir and otherwise keep your mouth shut. Got it?”
I nodded, except I was still troubled. “What if he asks me a question that doesn't have a yes or no answer?”
The Pilus Prior puffed out his cheeks impatiently, and snapped, “Then you answer the damn question, but use as few words as you possibly can.”
Nodding again, I was about to say something else but knowing the look that the Pilus Prior had on his face, I kept my mouth shut. Approaching the guards, we were stopped and the Pilus Prior stated our business. One of them entered the headquarters tent, returning a moment later to motion us in. The Pilus Prior removed his helmet, placing it under his left arm, and I followed suit, then he took a breath, squared his shoulders and marched inside, with me following behind him. The tent was brightly lit with many lamps, and there were a number of scribes, all of them with their own desk, copying out orders of one sort or another. Tribunes were hurrying about carrying wax tablets, looking their normal officious selves, and out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Doughboy engaged in conversation with another Tribune slightly younger than he was. I had seen him before but did not know his name, and made a mental note to ask the Pilus Prior about him. He was a little unusual for a Tribune in that he had an air about him that betrayed a sense of competence, and the few times I was around him, I also noticed that he did not speak to us Gregarii as if he thought his cac did not stink. Crastinus and I made our way across the outer room and into the section that acted as Caesar’s office, separated by a doorway made from a leather flap that could be pulled aside. I am not sure what I was expecting, but it was not what I saw. Knowing that Caesar was a patrician from an old family, I expected his office to reflect his status and be filled with all sorts of luxury items and ornate decorations. Instead, there was a simple desk directly across from the flap, noticeable only because it was larger than the other two in the room, those against each wall of the tent, and each with its own scribe. Caesar was standing behind his desk, reading from a scroll while simultaneously dictating to the scribes and it was here that I got my first glimpse of one of the things that most people know about him today and made him the greatest man of our age, or any other for that matter. He would dictate a sentence to the scribe on his left, who would begin writing rapidly, and while waiting for him to finish, he turned to the scribe on his right, dictating yet another sentence on a totally different topic, all the while his eyes never leaving the scroll that he was reading. He only stopped when the Pilus Prior and I approached, with the both of us halting the prescribed distance from his desk to give him our best parade ground salute.
“Secundus Pilus Prior Gaius Crastinus, of the 10th Legion, reporting with Legionary Gregarius Titus Pullus as ordered sir.”
Caesar laid the scroll on the desk to acknowledge our salute with the same solemnity and gravity that it was given. For a moment he said nothing, just inspecting the two of us, spending more of his attention on me as I kept my eyes locked at a point above his head, yet even so, knowing that I was being inspected by the general commanding the entire army ignited in me the queerest feeling I had ever experienced in my life to that point. It was a mixture of pride, apprehension, exhilaration and not a little bit of anxiety, all while I tried to remember the Pilus Prior’s instructions. His inspection done, Caesar smiled then walked around the desk to face me, doing something that I will never forget.
Extending his hand, he said with a smile, “Salve, Gregarius Titus Pullus. The Pilus Prior has told me of your valor in your engagement, and I wanted to offer you my hand in thanks.”
I did not know what to do; this was so far out of anything I had contemplated that I was flummoxed, but the habits of a lifetime saved me and more importantly Caesar any real embarrassment, as before I could even think about it I extended my hand and we shook hands in the Roman manner, clasping each other’s forearms. His hand was warm, and I could feel the calluses formed by many hours practice with the sword. Most importantly, his hand was not like a wet and clammy fish, his grip instead strong and dry. Before I could stop myself I looked down at him, meeting his eyes, yet despite my horror at this slip in discipline, he did not seem to take any umbrage whatsoever. His eyes carried a measure of warmth that I was not expecting, with none of the disdain I saw in those of men like Doughboy when talking to their social inferiors. It was the appreciation of one fighting man to another, and I am not ashamed to say that in that moment, I became Caesar’s man forever.
Withdrawing his hand, he continued, “It's good to know that Rome will be served by young men such as you in the coming years. I fear that she will have more need of your services than either of us would like.”
I was confused as to the proper response; this was not a question. Did he want me to comment? The best I could do was to say, “And I'll be ready sir, whenever Rome needs me and wherever I'm needed.”
He smiled again, nodding his head as if I had passed some sort of test. “This is what I wanted to hear. I must confess, when I was told that a young Gregarius was being selected as the weapons instructor for their Century, I was a little hesitant to approve. But the judgment of the Pilus Prior has been confirmed in a way that leaves no doubt in my mind.”
My chest swelled, and for a brief instant I wished that by some miracle my family could be there to hear his words, even my accursed father. Perhaps then he would relent in his hatred of me, I thought. Concluding the meeting, Caesar finished, “Well, I just wanted to meet the young Gregarius I had heard so much about in the last couple of days. I will be keeping an eye on you, Pullus. I expect great things from you in the coming years.”
I did not even try to hide my pleasure. We were dismissed, and I felt I was a foot taller than when I had walked in. As we walked back to our area, the Pilus Prior grumbled, “Don’t go getting a big head now, boy. I'll still knock the cac out of you if you mess up.”
Despite the harshness of his words, I could tell by his tone that he was as pleased and proud as I was, so all I said was, “Yes Pilus Prior.”
Continuing our northward push, the army entered the lands of a tribe known to be particularly warlike and never fully accepting of the Romanization of Hispania to that point. They were called the Gallaeci, and were supposedly a branch of the Lusitani, yet to the Gregarii like me, it did not really matter much. They were enemies to be defeated because that was what Caesar, and by extension Rome, wished, so it would be done. There was one material difference between the rest of the Lusitani and the Gallaeci, and it was in their use of horses. While we had seen and been harassed by Lusitani cavalry before, the Gallaeci took it to another level, specializing in using missiles, either throwing something similar to our javelin or using bows. Although this was not unique, what made them different was in the way they would employ their cavalry, their warriors having learned the art of galloping around in a large circle, providing them with the security of constant motion and making them extremely hard to hit. When they were in part of the loop nearest to us, they would launch their missile attack, then keep riding in the loop to repeat it over and over again, until they either ran out of missiles or we found some way to drive them off. By this point in our campaign, Caesar had partially rectified the dearth of cavalry on our side by having cavalry auxiliaries sent to him. There was an ala of auxiliary cavalry, consisting of ten turmae attached to each Legion, so the ala consisted of a total of about 300 men at full strength. The trick was to use our cavalry properly as a screening force and as exploratores, but not send them out so far that they could not be recalled quickly to repel attack by the Gallaeci horsemen. The closer we approached the Durius (Douro) River, with the last Roman colony at the time being Portus Cale, the more lurid the tales became of the skill and devastating accuracy of these mythical horsemen. I believe that in every Legion there is a group of men determined to paint the grimmest picture that they can, and they foretell our defeat and slaughter in every upcoming battle. Why they do so I have no idea, but they are always given more credence than I think they deserve, and as I was to find out a few years later, their dire outlook could infect a whole Legion if the Centurions did not put an end to it.