by Eoin Staunton, St Flannan’s College, Ennis
Junior category - Second Prize

The wind howled like a pack of rabid wolves. Lightning stabbed erratically like an assassin of his head on hashish. Thunder crashed like a heavy metal band falling down the stairs. Rain blew horizontally like a hail of arrows. And through the raging storm rode a lone figure on horseback.

The horseman rode through the night until he reached an army camp on top of a hill. He dismounted and staggered through the door of the largest tent, calling out with a ragged breath, “I got those biscuits you wanted, sir.”

Some people say it’s not easy being a great man. I, however, have my own interpretation of this saying. I say, ‘It’s bloody difficult being a great man’s servant.’ Perhaps I should explain myself. My name is Claudius Minimus (Claudius Maximus is my big brother). I am a citizen of the Roman Republic and for a few short years had the rather dubious honour of being personal servant to that greatest of generals, Julius Caesar. Caesar has become something of an urban legend in recent times, probably due to his recent assassination at the hands of Brutus and Cassius (a cowardly act that I had ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH, despite what rumours may say about me.

Since the late, great Caesar had bucket-loads of propaganda prepared for just such as event, I am writing this, the true account of the Gallic Wars. This is the story of how it really happened, known only to me and the few hundred soldiers who will never tell of it due to the embarrassing roles they played in it. So now, without further ado, let us begin.

Yes, folks, that’s me, the beloved Claudius Minimus, personal servant and delivery boy for the great Caesar. As I walked through the mess hall, I saw nothing but an orgy of alcohol and violence. Men were quaffing jarfuls of wine, some missing their mouths entirely and drowning men behind them. Men were fighting booze-driven duels to the death and serving-girls were being harassed by the dozen. All in all, just you’re average night in the last Roman fortress in Gaul. And standing in the middle of this frenzy of over-consumption and violence; with a bottle of wine in one hand and a highly suspicious cigarette, that I sincerely doubt was made of tobacco, in the other, reigning magisterially as if he owned the place (which he technically did), was my lord and master, the great Julius Caesar.

Caesar was not a big man, despite what the accounts he himself wrote may say. In fact, it must be said that Caesar was a very small man. To be perfectly honest, the man was a dwarf. Caesar stood at precisely three feet and nine inches tall. Caesar was very touchy about the subject of his height and should some poor idiot start ridiculing him he was liable to attack in the highly unorthodox methods available only to the vertically challenged. As Caesar himself once said to me, “When his hands are level with your head, your teeth are level with his groin.”
Caesar eventually noticed me and called out, “Mini, did you get those Jaffa Cakes I sent you out for?,” to which I replied, ‘But sir, you asked me to get you Jammy Dodgers.’
“Mini, you know as well as I do that I’m allergic too Jammy Dodgers. I’d hardly send you off to get something that could kill me, would I?”
‘Well sir, all I know is that you asked me to ride out and get you Jammy Dodgers. If you want Jaffa Cakes, I got three packs the other day and you never touched them. They’re still in the store tent.’
“Thank you, Mini, now clear off. The ladies will be driven away if they see me talking to the likes of you.” The fact that no woman would touch him with a barge pole just hadn’t occurred to Caesar.

We had been camped in Gaul for two years. In that time nearly a third of our men had died from liver poisoning. We had only been sent on this accursed campaign in the first place because the Senate needed to get Caesar out of the way for a while. Caesar had recently been charged with bribing the Senate and being blind drunk in the middle of the forum at 2pm. When asked why, in the name of Jupiter, had he done such a stupid thing he merely said, “Pompey bet me ten Denarii that I couldn’t drink a gallon wine with my lunch but I showed him.” And so to prove that he was, “A man of character, not as my critics say, an idiot incapable of taking charge of a village,” Caesar gathered his army and marched off to Gaul, taking me with him against my wishes. When we realised that the natives in this area were peaceful farmers, we quickly set up camp and never left.

The party progressed as usual, with three livers exploding and a centurion accidentally losing an eye because he stood in front of the dartboard. However, as we approached midnight, about the time people’s livers started to catch fire due to the sheer quantity of pure, highly flammable alcohol being drunk, a shout rang out from the sentries, “Caesar, trouble approaching!”

As I have said already, this was a peaceful region of Gaul that we were inhabiting. However, the sentries had been posted for a very important reason. Caesar, in a moment of uncharacteristic sobriety, had decreed that sentries should be posted away from the drink to serve as designated drivers in the event that (horror of horrors) we were attacked and had to make a quick exit. This was a very intelligent decision for Caesar because if a man can’t walk a straight line, he’s hardly going to do any better driving a chariot loaded up with soldiers. Anyway, when the sentries said that trouble was approaching, they were deadly serious. A huge army of Gauls was marching up the road towards the camp.

These Gauls definitely meant business. They were marching with a definite purpose in mind. They certainly were not innocently on their way to a party. None of them was less than six feet tall and each carried a sword, at least as large as himself, across his back. This was in addition to a battleaxe in each hand. They were all fitted out with chain mail and leather and they all had pointy helmets on.

One of them, the largest, ugliest brute of the lot, stepped forward and called out, “My name is Bracketix and I am the leader of this army. My men shall fall upon yours and destroy you all unless the one called Caesar comes out and fights me to the death.” At this point, one thought passed through the minds of ever soldier in the camp, “We are all going to die.”

I charged through the camp in a panic, hunting desperately for Caesar. When I eventually found him, he was (surprise, surprise) passed out on the floor. He still had the cigarette between his lips and when I checked his eyes, his pupils were like coins. That was Caesar out of the fight anyway.

I knew someone had to go to fight Bracketix because if his army attacked, at least half of our boys would probably stab themselves by accident unsheathing their swords. No one in this army had any fighting experience or training. They had all joined up in the strange belief that the uniform would impress the ladies, not to fight people. And so, knowing that this was an act of stupidity worthy of Caesar himself, I armed myself and marched out to avoid death for as long as possible.
‘Are you ready to meet your death, Barbarian?’
“I’m not going to die, you are.” And with this elegant comeback, he flung himself at me.
For ten minutes, I miraculously dodged his attacks. He was getting dangerously overexcited. Finally, he eventually had me cornered. When he raised his oversized sword for the final blow, a clicking noise echoed through the expectant silence and he stiffened and fell over, with a roar of, “Me back’s gone again!”
Being the honourable Roman warrior that I am, I immediately dropped to the ground beside him and started hacking his head off. His last agonised words were, “Why didn’t you use the sharp end of that thing, idiot?”

Caesar finally woke up two days later and had the story explained to him. Realising that he needed to have some results to tell the Senate other that 30,000 of our own men dying of acute liver failure, he immediately pounced on the story and took all the credit for my achievements. Typical Caesar. But still: Veni, Vidi, Vici…..whatever the official biography says.