Marius' Mules

by S. J. A. Turney

  “You go find big men in Seventh Legion!” He held his hands out showing seven fingers to emphasise the point.

  “Tell them to come here!”

  The rider grinned and said something unintelligible in his own language.

  Another voice cut in.

  “Belay that order.”

  Crassus turned to see Caesar astride his white horse.

  “General. We need my legion in support.”

  Caesar smiled.

  “I’ve heard. I’ve brought you half of my cavalry and the third line of infantry is wheeling left. They should be with you in a few minutes.”

  He gestured to the edge of the field, where hundreds of horsemen were appearing from behind a copse.

  Crassus glared at Caesar.

  “General, when I need reinforcements, I can call them myself, and I would have started with my own legion. I dismissed prefect Varus from the field and he insulted me and disobeyed my order. I shall be requesting the harshest of punishments for him.”

  Caesar sighed and pointed into the distance.

  “D’you see that, Crassus? That is a dangerously thin front line, near to breaking point. If you fail to hold that line, the German cavalry will have a clear run at our flank and our rear. Have you any idea what that means?”

  “General, I…”

  “It’s a rhetorical question, Crassus… I’m known for my rhetoric. You’re an able enough legionary commander I suppose, though too harsh. In time, you could even be a great commander, but you need to forget your pride, swallow your fear of failure and trust in your men. You’re in danger of losing me half my cavalry and that man,” he pointed at Varus, hacking away among the Germans, “is the only one holding that line together. Take the reserve cavalry into battle; I’m going back to push our advantage on the right. Win me the left, Crassus.”

  Grinding his teeth, Crassus nodded curtly. Behind him, he could see several thousand heavy infantry. He’d have to risk everything now to save face. As Caesar cantered back toward the remains of his wing, Crassus shouted out to one of the regular cavalry officers with the reserve force.

  “Prefect! Order the reserve forward, then take charge of the infantry support and bring them up to the front as fast as you can.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The prefect saluted, turning to the reserves, as Crassus squared his shoulders and drew his sword. Nodding to the servant who held his gear for him, he retrieved his shield. With a deep drawn breath, he rode for the front line.

  He saw Varus straight away. His attention was, however, drawn by an impressive fountain of blood and an airborne lower arm. He grumbled again, knowing that he had to make a magnanimous show here, or he was in danger of losing all the men’s respect to Varus. Gritting his teeth, he rode directly for the prefect. The urge to ‘accidentally’ remove the man from the grand picture flashed momentarily through the legate’s mind, but then professionalism took over. Waiting a moment for a gap to open, the legate hefted his blade and rode in alongside the prefect.

  “Varus. Take all the men to your right and reform. I’m taking the left and the reserves are going to bolster the centre.”

  Varus heard the legate’s voice and glanced around in surprise in time to see Crassus lean forward over his horse’s neck and drive his blade through a German footman. The prefect grinned maniacally.

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  The legate pushed forward, his bright, ornate armour now spattered with viscera. Looking out across the line, he saw the reserves almost upon them and the third line of infantry closing at the back. Turning his horse, he rode along the line toward the edge of the field.

  “Left flank! Reform on me!”

  Slowly the cavalry detached and withdrew to the commander. The Germans tried desperately to make the most of the gap left by the two forces separating, but those who rushed ahead to widen the breech merely came face to face with the reserve cavalry, fresh from the opposite wing. Not enough of their countrymen had seen the opportunity and rushed to seize it. As the few who had sought the advantage met their fate at the hands of cavalry swords, the third line reached the scene. Eight thousand heavy infantry; the trained elite of the Roman world, marched in unison, bearing the standards of six different legions. For the first time on the left of the field, the Germans knew panic.

  Varus grinned as his men hacked, stabbed and slashed at the enemy, trying to carve an inroad into the main force. While he was under no illusion that Crassus actually trusted him, the legate had once more authorised his command. He raised himself as high as he could in the saddle and tried to look over the immediate area. The German wing was gradually beginning to give ground. He couldn’t see the other wing, but the presence of half of Caesar’s cavalry on this side could only mean that the right had punched through Ariovistus’ defence. From here, Varus could see the centre and the advancing Roman line. The German infantry were giving ground with every moment and only a few hundred cavalry lay between him and them. He shouted to his men.

  “Push hard and push right. Try and join up with the Seventh!”

  Sending some of the cavalry who were free of the melee toward the right hand side, Varus began to push for the main mass of Ariovistus’ force.

  As the Roman infantry finally hit the front line, the cavalry in the centre disengaged and moved to the sides to join Varus and Crassus. The infantry reserve, led by Quintus Tullius Cicero, smashed into the Germans like a hammer on an anvil. The power with which they hit threw many a German rider from his horse and Ariovistus’ men finally gave ground, unable to bear the weight of such a heavy force.

  Separated now by the infantry reserve, the two cavalry forces on the left fought independently, Varus pushing for the centre of the field and the main mass of the enemy, Crassus harrying their flank and pushing them from the field.

  Varus caught only one more glimpse of his commander as Crassus, his shiny white and bronze armour now stained and spattered with blood and gore, wheeled his horse and fought off a German spearman. The man finally looked like the soldier he should be as far as Varus was concerned.

  As the German cavalry finally gave, riders at the back fleeing the field, accompanied by their footmen, Varus could see the mass of the Seventh Legion only ten yards away.

  “Let the reserves deal with the centre. We need to clear these bastards away from the edge, then we can start work on their infantry; give our lads a bit of a break.”

  He looked around. The mass of German cavalry was now well and truly broken. The rear half of them had turned and were fleeing for their lives. Footmen were being trampled as their cavalry escaped. Those that were left at the front were no longer even attempting to push forward; they fought for their life and nothing less.

  On the very edge of the field he could see Crassus’ men harrying the fleeing cavalry. They were already half way off the battlefield in their pursuit.

  “What the hell’s he doing now? The battle’s still happening!”

  Returning his attention to the task at hand, he spotted a small knot of German riders at the rear of the enemy cavalry, jeering at their companions as they fled. They were surrounded by footmen with long spears, but they wore a great deal of gold and bejewelled and decorative armour. Blinking at a close call from a German spear and retaliating without even thinking, he shouted above the din to his unit.

  “There are chieftains at the back. Push for them… I want prisoners!”

  As he kicked his horse forward, a number of his regulars and a host of Gaulish auxiliaries joined him. It was tough and bloody work hacking their way through the remaining milling cavalry, but slowly and relentlessly they closed on the small knot of German commanders. Varus couldn’t believe his luck. It was very unlikely Ariovistus was among them, but to take captive chieftains was not only a very lucrative move on a battlefield, but would also break the Germans’ spirit and increase the likelihood of a permanent surrender.

  As the last horsemen in front of them broke away or died, Varus and hi
s small unit reached a charge and spread out enough to allow a sword swing. He had to give credit to their opponents. The chieftains did not run, merely readying their weapons for combat. The footmen, presumably their own guard, levelled their long spears. As he bore down upon them, Varus recognised the danger. The bristling long spears would wreak havoc with a charge. Pulling hard on the reins, Varus stopped in his tracks, shouting out a halt to the rest of the unit. The regular cavalrymen reined in sharply after their commander, as did many of the auxilia. Some of the Gauls, eager and undisciplined charged straight at the group.

  Varus turned his head away from the grisly sight. He hated to waste men or horses. Both were valuable.

  Glancing around, he could see the situation was turning grave for the German chieftains. To his left the reserve force and a few of the cavalry were driving the German wing from the field. To his right, the German mass was being forced back into the ‘U’ of their wagons. Varus turned and lowered his blade.

  “Do any of you speak Latin?”

  One of the horsemen manoeuvred his horse out ahead of the others.

  “I talk little.”

  Varus nodded.

  “You are finished here. Over. Understand?”

  The German grinned a defiant grin.

  “Many of us. Much left.”

  Varus shook his head.

  “You are finished. Surrender now. There’s no need for you all to throw away your lives. Surrender and I’ll guarantee I will do my best to see that you return to your lands across the Rhine.”

  There was a great deal of conferring among the barbarians, and then the spokesman stepped his horse further forward.

  “We not surrender to you. You fight us.”

  Varus sighed. So much for diplomacy. He called out a number of orders very quickly in Latin; too quick, he hoped, for the German to have followed him. Behind him the regulars and some of the Gauls formed up with their swords at the ready. The rest of the auxiliaries moved out to the edge and levelled their spears.

  “One more time. We don’t need the bloodshed. Will you surrender?”

  The barbarian chieftain merely snarled in response and threw his horse forward into a charge. Varus, disciplined as always, waited for the man, neatly sidestepped his mount and swung with his sword. The Chieftain continued on between the regular cavalry as he slowly topped forward over his horse’s mane and then slid from the saddle and bounced along the ground before coming to a rest finally in a broken and painful position.

  Varus turned back to his men.

  “Release!”

  The Gaulish auxiliaries cast their spears in unison at the footmen protecting the chieftains. As many of the missiles struck home, the protective ring around the men fell away.

  Varus held the chieftains in his gaze. Without a glance at his men, he gave the order in a low, quiet voice.

  “Take them.”

  Varus merely sat astride his horse, viscera still running down the blade of his sword and dripping to the turf. The cavalry swarmed past on either side, bearing down on the chieftains, intent on destruction. Varus knew when to take the lead and when to let his men off the leash. There were times when soldiers needed a free hand to take out their anger and hatred over the loss of comrades or personal injuries. He looked up only once at the destruction ahead of him. Afterward they would loot the bodies and carry the gold back to their camp for their own personal funds. Such was the way of things. Varus would go back empty handed and face the judgement he’d called down. For all Crassus’ change, Varus had disobeyed orders and had insulted a senior officer, and was under no misconception of what that would mean.

  As his eyes gradually focused on the grisly scene, he noticed something he hadn’t been able to see between the horses and the men. A Roman. A man in a military tunic among the few survivors still fighting for their lives against his men. A momentary worry caught him and he called out at the top of his voice; a halt to the fighting.

  As the cavalry drew back, surprised, the three remaining German warriors took the opportunity to drop their swords and surrender. Between them the Roman stood, his tunic dirty and bloody and torn, his arms tied together behind him. Varus rode forward, gesturing to his men to deal with the prisoners. He frowned at the Roman.

  “Who are you?”

  The man struggled to stand proud, though painfully and was still hampered by the way his arms were tied.

  “I’m Marcus Mettius. Staff officer of Caesar.”

  Varus stared. Everyone knew of Mettius and of Procillus and their capture by Ariovistus, but no one had ever expect to see them alive again.

  “What of Procillus?”

  Varus dismounted and approached the officer.

  “I don’t know whether he lives or not,” the man replied. “We were separated immediately. I must report to Caesar.”

  Varus smiled as he reached round and cut the man’s bonds.

  “Caesar’s chasing men halfway to the Rhine by now. I think you’d best come back and see the medicus before the general returns. Use my horse. I’ll lead him and we’ll get you some clean gear.”

  Mettius smiled a relieved smile.

  “Thank you, but I can walk. As we go, you can tell me who you are and what’s happened since I was taken.”

  * * * * *

  Fronto had left Caesar and ridden round the back of the infantry to the centre where the third line of the Tenth had been massed. By prior arrangement with the other officers and much to Fronto’s personal dislike he had agreed that, since he would be scouting for Caesar’s staff, he would take position with the third line and command the reserves when they went in. As such, he had stood by his horse, holding the reins and talking to young centurion Pomponius throughout the entirety of the assault on the German line. He seriously doubted they would need the reserves. This was it. Almost certainly the last action this campaigning year, and he’d missed out. The legate spat on the floor and grumbled.

  Pomponius waited until Fronto was looking away and then rolled his eyes skywards. He was getting sick and tired of the legate complaining. Most soldiers were happy to wait in the reserve. The chances of being skewered or sliced were so much slimmer.

  “Sir, if you’re bored why don’t you go and see the support staff. I’m sure they’re at least doing something, so you could get involved.”

  Fronto glared at Pomponius.

  “I’m not so desperate to shout at people that I want to watch quartermasters and medics screwing things up.”

  Pomponius merely smiled and arched one eyebrow. He may be relatively new to the ranks of the centurionate, and even relatively new to the Tenth, but like all the officers of the legion, he knew the legate very well by now. Fronto saw the raised eyebrow and sighed.

  “Alright, I’ll go and see the support. If anything remotely exciting happens, have someone come and get me. At least someone back there’s going to have some wine.”

  As Fronto stomped off toward the rear, Pomponius smiled again and contemplated what life could have been like with a commander who didn’t care.

  Fronto wandered into the makeshift hospital where the action was already fast and revolting. The battle had been going for less than half an hour and casualties were not in short supply. Probably in the same amount of time the battle would be over, not like that protracted siege with the Helvetii. He cursed again and tapped irritably on his sword hilt. He was surveying the general carnage when his eyes lit on a familiar face.

  Titus Balventius, primus pilus of the Eighth, sat on a slight hummock in the grass with a distressed capsarius tending to some kind of wound. Fronto grinned and made his way toward the battered old centurion. The man was covered in blood and clearly a lot of it was his, though beneath the crimson stains the man was as pale as a Vestal virgin at an orgy.

  “Balventius. Been in the wars?”

  He slumped to the grass next to the wounded man.

  “Some bastard German got me when I wasn’t looking.”

  Fronto smiled again.


  “I take it he doesn’t look as well as you.”

  The legate glanced over the centurion’s shoulder to examine what the capsarius was doing.

  “Sweet Fortuna, that’s deep!”

  As Balventius nodded, the capsarius tutted irritably.

  “If you keep jerking around like that I’m going to end up sewing your lung to your heart, now will you keep still!”

  The centurion glanced up at Fronto from his slightly hunched position.

  “Are the Tenth not moving?”

  Fronto gave his customary growl.

  “Most of them are, but I’m commanding the reserve.”

  Balventius turned his head, causing muttering from the medic.

  “How long are you going to be? I’ve got a unit out there with no commander.”

  The capsarius almost dropped his last stitch.

  “You must be bloody joking. You’ve lost enough blood to fill an amphora. You’ll be lucky if you can walk fast without fainting. And there are twenty six stitches across your shoulders with a long, deep wound. The first time you swing or lunge, you’ll rip ‘em all out and I’ll have to start again from scratch. And that’s if you don’t lose enough blood to drop dead on the journey back. You’re out of it centurion, I’m afraid.”

  With an exaggerated tug that caused Balventius to wince, the capsarius finished sewing the wound.

  “Does that mean you’re done?”

  “I’ve just got to bandage you now.”

  Fronto leaned forward and spoke to the medic.

  “I’ll help and, for the record, this man’s almost certainly had worse wounds.”

  Balventius nodded.

  “Sorry, doc. There’s no way I’d be staying back here unless I was missing a leg or something. Just get me bound.”

  He looked up at Fronto again.

  “If you rally want to do something useful, sir, could you find one of these waste-of-good-air quartermasters and get me another mail shirt?”

  Fronto nodded and, standing, wandered away from the valetudinarium until he found one of the quartermasters directing several immunes in unloading weapons and armour from a cart. Spotting mail shirts passing around, his eyes lit on a shirt of fish-scale mail.