I Am Rome, page 11
“Yes, clarissime vir.”
Skip Notes
* “Romans, do you want to start sending over some of your women? Because soon they will be ours.”
Ἐπορεύοντο δ’ἐγγύς, πυνθανόμενοι τῶν Ῥωμαίων μετὰ γέλωτος, εἴ τι πρὸς τὰς γυναῖκας ἐπιστέλλοιεν· αὐτοὶ γὰρ ἔσεσθαι ταχέως παρ’αὐταῖς.
And they marched close to the camp, inquiring whether the Romans had any messages for their wives; “For,” said they, “we shall soon be with them.”
—Plutarch of Chaeronea, Parallel Lives, Marius, XVIII, 2
XVI
Memoria in Memoria
The King’s Challenge
Roman camp beside the Fossa Mariana
102 B.C.
It was the third day of Teuton provocations outside the Roman camp.
The consul was awoken at dawn.
The Teutons had presented the ultimate challenge.
“What is it this time?” Gaius Marius asked the military calones who had come in to tighten the strings of his armor.
But neither Sertorius nor any of the other tribunes dared to give him a precise explanation.
“They are insisting…with the individual battles, clarissime vir,” Sertorius said, and the vagueness of his response led Marius to think that there was something more.
He didn’t ask any further. It was clear that his most trusted tribune wanted Marius himself to evaluate the situation from the top of the wall.
When they neared the vallum, Marius saw hundreds of legionaries leaning over the top, looking out onto the plain. He thought to himself with a smile that perhaps the Teutons had rolled out a giant wooden horse, and in that case, all they’d have to do was burn the horse with the Teutons inside. But as he reached the top of the wall, the consul forgot about The Iliad and his smile faded. Out in front of the huge barbarian army stood a single warrior in silver armor that glimmered in the morning sun. He was gripping a long sword and brandishing a green, oval-shaped shield with golden rivets that shone even brighter than his breastplate. Only a high-ranking barbarian would flaunt such ostentatious weapons and defensive armor.
“Who is that?” the consul asked without taking his eyes off the fierce, imposing man.
“He claims to be…their king,” Sertorius responded.
Gaius Marius nodded. He could see where this was going, and he didn’t like it. He considered ordering all his men except the sentinels down from the wall. A few days prior he had invited his legionaries to lean over the vallum and see the enemy for themselves. But now he wished more than anything for them to look away from the enemy. The man who claimed to be the Teuton king shouted his challenge, and the consul wished that his men were unable to hear the enemy as well. But it was too late for that. It was obvious that Sertorius and the other officers had roused him because the Teuton king had already proclaimed his challenge several times, in Latin, with a strong Germanic accent, but fully comprehensible to all the legionaries.
“Ego, Teutobod, Teutonorum rex, deposco romanum consulem Caium Marium
ad singularem pugnam! Si uirtutem habet et socors non est!”[*1]
All the legionaries atop the wall had heard it loud and clear and were already repeating it to their comrades craning up from the foot of the vallum. Soon, the entire Roman army had heard about the Teuton king’s challenge for their consul, their leader. Would the clarissime vir, chief commander of the Roman legions deployed to the North, remain impassive in the face of such a direct challenge?
Gaius Marius was as still and silent as a marble statue.
The Teuton king repeated his challenge once again. He didn’t want the Roman consul to be able to claim he hadn’t heard or understood him. When he pronounced his new challenge, Teutobod looked to the Roman slave who had translated for him. The slave nodded, confirming for the Germanic king that he’d correctly pronounced the Latin phrase he’d memorized the night before.
Teutobod scanned the Roman troops as they observed him from their protected position behind the defensive wall. He could see that the legionaries’ heads were all turned toward a specific point on the vallum where a corpulent figure, without a helmet but with a gleaming breastplate and gray hair, stood surrounded by several officers, staring down at him. The Germanic king was certain that this was the enemy consul.
Though outwardly calm, Gaius Marius’s mind raced.
And his blood boiled. Why deny it? He had a blazing urge to go out and fight, the same desire that had been consuming his men for days. Noreia, Burdigala, Arausio. Three brutal defeats. Tens of thousands of legionaries dead. Rome had been shaken to the core, humiliated, almost annihilated. Every fiber of his being screamed out for revenge.
Upon identifying Gaius Marius’s position, the Teuton king took several steps to situate himself directly in front of the consul, yet still too far for the enemy arrows to reach him.
From there he decried his challenge one last time, now looking directly at the immutable Roman leader.
“Ego, Teutobod, Teutonorum rex, deposco romanum consulem Caium Marium
ad singularem pugnam! Si uirtutem habet et socors non est!”
Gaius Marius could feel his officers, his legionaries, the slaves, everyone, all looking to him. He knew that he had to do something, and he knew what his gut was telling him to do. But he was also very conscious of what his calculated military mind, the mind of an astute commander, was telling him. Discipline, in the truest sense, begins with the self. If that event had occurred fifteen years earlier, he would’ve put on his helmet, tightened his breastplate, and unsheathed his sword. But time had taken its toll. He was fifty-five, with infinite experience, but his strength and reflexes weren’t what they’d once been. He carefully scrutinized the Teuton king: How old was that monarch from the North—thirty, at most? He looked young, strong, virile, quick, and agile, with muscular arms and a powerful torso. A man at the height of his physical potency. Gaius Marius swallowed: the duel, if he chose to accept it, was as good as lost for him. He didn’t have to be a genius to see that. But he had to do something. He couldn’t let this challenge go unanswered.
“Sertorius,” he finally said.
“Yes, clarissime vir,” the man quickly replied, welcoming anything besides silence from his leader.
“Call Ahenobarbus,” Marius ordered.
Sertorius didn’t understand. “Ahenobarbus?” he asked, confused. “The military trainer?”
Gaius Marius wasn’t accustomed to giving explanations, only orders. He turned slowly and, with a look, conveyed his irritation at the question. He didn’t need to say anything more.
Sertorius bowed and took off quickly in search of Ahenobarbus, the fierce centurion, primus pilus, who, at thirty-four years old, had been awarded many medals of valor for his various feats in battle. He was, by far, their best warrior in hand-to-hand combat and the head trainer of the consular army at Fossa Mariana.
Moments later, Ahenobarbus was seen making his way down a path through the crowd of legionaries, Sertorius at his heels. He reached the wall and ascended the steps to present himself before the consul.
“Breastplate, helmet, sword, and shield. Arm yourself well, Ahenobarbus,” the consul ordered. “You will answer the Teuton king’s challenge in my stead.”
There was a deathly silence among the officers gathered around. But no one dared to say a word.
The trainer nodded, turned around, and went to fetch his weapons and armor. Shortly thereafter, the main door of the wall opened and Ahenobarbus, sword at the ready, shield held high, left the Roman fortification prepared to battle the enemy king to the death.
Teutobod observed the armed Roman officer, strong, mature, like him, but not old, and surely his equal in individual combat. But this was not the consul; this was not the leader of the enemy army.
Ahenobarbus walked briskly, almost at a run, and stopped a few paces from the Germanic monarch.
Teutobod looked from the Roman fighter to the top of the wall from where the consul stood observing the scene.
The Teuton king shook his head several times, spit in the dirt, and threw his sword and shield against the soil of Gaul with a loud clang. He shouted an insult in Latin. It was not a phrase he’d learned from an interpreter; it was the term that the Teutons often used to refer to the Roman soldiers: “Socors! Socors! Socors!”[*2] he barked, staring up at the vallum.
He turned around and rejoined the ranks of his warriors, raising his arms in a gesture of victory, shouting that insult over and over: “Socors! Socors! Socors!”
The king’s slaves picked up his weapons and rushed after him.
Ahenobarbus, now alone and confused, looked up at the wall, where the consul stood immobile. The fierce warrior had no one to fight, so he simply returned to the safety of the Roman fortification.
There would be no individual combat between the Teuton king and the Roman consul.
That night, as the legionaries sat cooking their dinner over the bonfires, they heard, in an almost imperceptible but constant murmur: socors, socors, socors…
Inside his tent, Gaius Marius sat alone sipping wine. It seemed to leave the sour taste of cowardice in his mouth. But then again, maybe it was the bittersweet tang of wisdom.
Sertorius entered the tent to get the new password for the sentinels and night patrols.
“Victory,” said Gaius Marius.
Sertorius couldn’t suppress a half smile that he turned his head in an attempt to hide, but the consul noticed anyway.
“You think I’m a coward too, don’t you?”
Sertorius did not respond.
“Your silence is telling, tribune,” Marius decreed. “Leave me to sit alone, since alone is how I feel.”
Sertorius left the tent but stopped short outside. He felt as if he had betrayed his superior. But he shook his head and walked off to communicate the password to the officers on the night watch.
Inside his tent, Gaius Marius served himself a second cup of wine, which tasted more bitter than the first: even his most loyal officer believed him to be a coward. How quickly they’d forgotten his victories of the recent past; what a short memory the legionaries, centurions, and tribunes had. Yes, they all thought he was a coward: his men, but also the Teutons—in particular, the enemy king. From that day forward, Teutobod would always underestimate him, that much was certain.
That meant that Teutobod would underestimate his ability to achieve victory.
But all in due time.
Gaius Marius smiled as he poured himself a third cup of wine.
One day very soon, he would surprise the Teuton monarch. But not yet. First the barbarians would attack.
The veteran Roman consul sipped his wine. It tasted much sweeter.
Skip Notes
*1 “I, Teutobod, king of the Teutons, challenge the Roman consul Gaius Marius to individual combat. If he has the courage and is not a coward.”
*2 “Coward! Coward! Coward!”
XVII
Memoria in Memoria
The Teuton Attack
Mouth of the Rhône River
Southern Gaul
102 B.C.
Plains beyond the Roman encampment
Just as the Roman consul had predicted, Teutobod soon unleashed his full fury. The very next day, the Teutons began to charge at the Roman fortification with all their might. It wasn’t a particularly well-planned attack. The enormous confidence they’d built over the past several days insulting and humiliating their cowardly enemy had lulled the northern king into a false sense of security. Not only did he believe this Roman army to be just as weak as the ones he’d already defeated in Noreia, Burdigala, and Arausio, but it was plainly obvious that their commander was a coward.
Roman camp
Gaius Marius returned to the vallum to supervise the defense.
“It’s not just another provocation,” Sertorius commented quietly. “They’re giving it everything they’ve got. He doesn’t care if we come out or not—he’s trying to break through the defenses and destroy us, clarissime vir.”
“Yes, that’s his aim. He’s truly coming for us now,” Marius agreed, calm and impassive despite the tens of thousands of Teutons and their thousands of allies advancing on the wall.
But the Romans had spent many months strengthening their defenses under the consul’s orders: digging trenches and pits to the point of exhaustion, lining the bottoms with sharpened stakes, and covering the openings with dry brush. They’d fortified the wall and built watchtowers, now crowded with auxiliary archers, to reinforce any point more vulnerable to attack. And all along the vallum, the legionaries had thousands of pila ready to be launched at the consul’s command. The men were still angry and disappointed with their leader, but the barbarians were now attacking in full force and it was their job to follow orders. The consul couldn’t simply sit still anymore. He’d have to fight, launching arrows and javelins and everything they had at the enemy. And, by all the gods, each and every one of the legionaries burned with the desire to slaughter those cursed barbarians who had taunted and humiliated them. They could only kill from a distance for now, but the Roman soldiers held out hope that, faced with the enemy’s brutal charge, their consul might finally order them to march out and enter into hand-to-hand combat.
Teuton army
The Teutons advanced, fierce yet disorganized, toward the wall of the Roman fortification.
And they began to die. Many fell into the trenches and pits hidden by brush; their screams of pain reached the ears of the legionaries armed to the teeth atop the wall.
Teutobod, never on the front line but near the head of his huge invading army, looked on as more and more of his fighters fell into the Romans’ traps. The deaths tallied up. He’d expected to see losses, having known about those fatal pits from their previous attacks, but he was willing to lose as many men as necessary to force the cowardly Romans into battle. His pride had been wounded by the enemy consul’s refusal to accept his challenge. He was now out for vengeance and would stop at nothing short of razing that fortification to the ground before marching onward to Rome. He had thousands and thousands of warriors, many more than the Romans. He could afford to lose some. But he himself kept a prudent distance from the vallum, not prepared to risk his own life. Individual combat with the enemy leader was one thing, but he would not see himself senselessly impaled by an arrow thrown from on high.
The Teutons fell by the dozens, then by the hundreds. But, once their comrades had exposed most of the traps, they managed to reach the wall.
Roman camp
Marius observed the scene and finally spoke.
“Launch your pila! Do not stop! By all the gods!” he shouted from atop the wall.
Sertorius and the other officers felt the consul’s order like a soothing balm; for a moment they’d thought their leader might keep his mouth shut for the entire battle.
The Roman auxiliary forces began firing their arrows from the towers, and the legionaries launched hundreds of javelins at the front lines of Teutons approaching the base of the wall.
Soon there were too many enemy corpses to count.
Sertorius looked at the consul without a word. Admiration was finally beginning to replace the disappointment of recent days—the consul’s self-control had clearly shaken the Teuton king to such an extent that he was incited to attack at a clear disadvantage.
Teuton army
Despite the great many losses on his side, Teutobod refused to cease his brutal attack. He’d breached other Roman fortifications in the past and, in hand-to-hand combat, his men had always proven superior to the Romans. It was just a matter of reaching the top of that wall. From there, his victory was assured.
Roman camp
The first Teutons began to scale the vallum on ropes cast upward from the base of the wall. The legionaries tried to cut down these makeshift ladders, but the Teutons clustered at the base of the wall with so many men and so many ropes that many of them managed to climb up despite the rain of Roman arrows and javelins.
“The slingsmen,” Gaius Marius said calmly, even as the Teutons began to ascend the wall directly beneath him and his officers unsheathed their gladiī.
At the base of the vallum, on the Roman side, the slingsmen now replaced the archers and javelin throwers who had been forced into hand-to-hand combat. The terrifying whistle of their glans plumbea sling bullets filled the air as the legionaries flung the deadly lead balls over their comrades atop the wall, ensuring that a mortal rain of lead and iron fell ceaselessly upon the enemy’s head.
Teuton army
Teutobod watched from his privileged position, safely removed from the enemy projectiles. Many of his men had fallen in their attempt to reach the Roman fortification, but many had made it and were now fighting atop the wall.
