Marius' Mules IX: Pax Gallica

by Turney, S. J. A.

  A man at the front of the testudo suddenly took a violently lucky strike that managed to press through the gap between the shields, slamming into his throat. As he gurgled and dropped, the formation fell apart, for another legionary tripped over the fallen man, knocking the side walls as he went down. A moment later the testudo had dissolved into a rough oval of men forming a desperate shieldwall around the tangle of fallen legionaries. Fronto felt a thrill of panic, but it quickly transpired that they had broken through the mass of the enemy and left a wide swathe of destruction behind them. Fronto grinned to see two more testudos fall apart, one due to heavy losses, but the other to a cry of ‘Melee!’ from its centurion. Good call.

  ‘Melee!’ Fronto bellowed. They would never be in a better position. The formation now broke up, the men marking their targets in the confusion and stabbing out swiftly, putting the nearby Begerri down. It was like a sweep of a scythe taking out an arc of wheat. And before the enemy could recover, he shouted again ‘Pull back and form shieldwall on me .’

  The men, accustomed to blind obedience, did just that , disengaging from their individual fights and backing toward Fronto who was now in a clear area, just a public square and a number of houses behind him. The shieldwall formed in moments and Fronto managed a quick headcount. Twenty eight. His heart fluttered at the realisation that he had lost in excess of half of his unit since breaking cover of the trees. Still, who could ever have conceived that they’d last this long against sixteen to one odds. The cohort had pushed through the enemy host and out the other side. Now, the six shattered centuries were in the heart of Biguro, and the remains of the Begerri were between them and the rampart across which they had so recently surged.

  Another call in the native tongue drew Fronto’s attention as he was about to begin marching the century forward again, back into the fray , and the Begerri pulled back from the legionaries , reforming in the open . The legate peered across the crowd, trying to pick out Arruntius, as his century stabbed and lashed out at any Begerri who came close enough to strike. Similar scenes were playing out across the open space as the two sides separated.

  Two of the centuries moved to follow, but Arruntius’ voice rang out with the command ‘Hold your ground.’

  Slowly, the remaining Begerri pulled back , retreating like a tide back into the open space of Biguro ’s trampled and ruined vegetable gardens, the furrows now sown with the dead . Various small knots of the enemy remained in position but , as the legionaries shouted jeers, those remaining men bellowed ‘Pax Gallica’ to confirm their allegiance and hurried to fall in with the Romans . Fronto watched as the enemy retreated and the space opened up between the two sides. Now would be the perfect time to bring up reinforcements and pincer-grip the tribe , but there were none to bring , the rest of the legion remaining in camp two miles away. He estimated the enemy numbers to have dropped to somewhere between two and three thousand, and while the cohort’s numbers had roughly halved, they had picked up allies among the enemy which actually made the attacking force more numerous than it had been at the start. Now they would number somewhere between five and six hundred by Fronto’s reckoning, and while any general with half a brain would think twice about five to one odds, to have brought it down to that from sixteen to one was a feat worthy of legend.

  ‘The enemy are massing under their leaders,’ Arruntius shouted across the rag-tag remains of his force. ‘ Remember that these people were not always our enemy. They are the brothers and sons and fathers and friends of our allies in this place, and they fight us because they are driven to do so. We must charge them again, brothers, but this time we will break them for good, because we are going to ignore the Begerri warriors and make for their leaders. We will kill their chiefs and nobles and remove the yoke from their necks. Break into contubernia of eight men and each form in line to make a solid front eight men deep. We’re going to march into them, and then each contubernia will pick a noble and go for the throat. Got it?’

  There was a roar of agreement.

  ‘And everyone knows the name of their thunder god, I expect. Make him your chant, for they’re frightened and close to breaking.’ To add divine approval, the gods sent an almost simultaneous flash of white and boom of thunder, and Fronto shuddered at the sight of the blood-caked centurion holding his sword aloft in the storm as though daring Jupiter to just try it.

  ‘How much are your shares worth now?’ Arruntius grinned, and then took a breath. ‘Form cont ubernia!’

  * * *

  The cohort surged forward at Arruntius’ whistle. Few of the centuries numbered more than half their original complement, yet they attacked with a ferocity and sureness of which Fronto felt proud to be a part. The Begerri were losing heart with every passing moment, and Fronto noted with satisfaction how, even in the face of their nobles’ haranguing, the enemy were pressing back as the legionaries approached, as if trying to push through their own force to safety. Their weapons were brandished almost defensively, a ridiculous thing given that they still outnumbered the Romans by five men to one.

  Yet superstition was doing its work. The Romans seemed unaffected by the storm, the rain simply making their armour that little bit shinier, their russet tunics turning the colour of blood with the wet, the gore spattered across them running down in fearsome rivulets. Fronto could imagine how terrifying they looked even in small numbers, especially given that the fewer there were, the more fierce and warlike they seemed to become. By comparison, relatively few of the enemy wore helmets, and not more than one in ten sported a mail shirt. Thus, the enemy were becoming bedraggled and waterlogged and thoroughly despondent, certain that their gods were furious with them for their hubris. Their hair and bear d s were running with water, plastered uncomfortably to their skin , and their wool tunics and trousers clung to them as they moved.

  The units of eight men had formed remarkably quickly and efficiently, giv en that not a single contubernium had survived above half strength from the start, though here and there units of six, seven or nine were telling that these were not reg ular units but hastily cobbled together in the thick of battle.

  Fronto’s contubernium, pressed between others formed as randomly, hit the enemy like an enraged beast – like the bull that adorned the flags of all Caesar’s units. The legate , at the rear of his unit, peered across the press as they struck the crowd , looking for tell-tale signs. Here and there he spotted a wolf or boar standard held aloft, or a carnyx or some other flag or emblem . None were close enough to their unit, and other contubernia would fix on them. Then, as he was clucking with irritation, he caught a red plume not unlike his own through the crowd. Rising, he craned his neck to peer above the press, where the front two rows of men were busy carving their way into the enemy. Sure enough, though he lost it for a moment, he once more spotted that plume . It was a Roman plume – an officer’ s helmet, a nd certainly there wo uld be no Romans among that mob so the nature of the red horsehair on display before him was clear . Some bastard had taken the helmet as a prize from a butchered Roman officer.

  Fronto had his target, and it suddenly mattered not whether the bastard beneath the crest was a noble, a warrior or just a suborned farmhand, Fronto would see the man suffer for what he’d clearly done .

  ‘Directly ahead – a man with a red plume. He’s mine.’

  There was a surge of acknowledgement, and the men pressed forward with a little more vigour.

  ‘Not ours ,’ Fronto clarified. ‘You can kill who you want, but that prick’s mine!’

  And with that Fronto heaved. Another flash illuminated the scene and the corresponding crash of thunder rang out across Biguro as the Roman force burrowed into the mass of men before them.

  Begerri were fleeing. Fronto couldn’t see much more than the sweaty, soaked ranks of legionaries in front of him and the surging, ebbing, groaning mob of the enemy beyond, but he didn’t need to see to know that they were fleeing. At the periphery, he knew , men would be breaking for the open and running fo
r cover of the houses. Others would be climbing the slope of the rampart and dropping over the far side, away from the butchering blades of Rome. And the rest were divided. Some pressed back, trying to get away from what was coming, pushing through their own ranks where, inevitably, their leaders had them killed for fleeing. Others desperately fought off the serried ranks, largely in vain.

  Men were dying on both sides, but the numbers were drastically tipped in Rome’s favour. Fronto watched the man at the front of his column fall, then a second, and eventually a third, and the same was happening all across the front of the Roman force. But for every Roman that fell, three or four Begerri were dropping to the sodden earth, chopped, flayed, minced and broken.

  The fourth legionary fell, and Fronto suddenly caught sight of the red plume again. Other soldiers and officers along the line were now closing on their targets and the Roman formation broke up here and there, moving from a single line into individual arrow heads that cut through the meat of Biguro, aiming for the heart s and souls of the tribe – their leaders .

  Fronto felt that old familiar battle-mist falling upon him , and fought against the simplicity of Mars’ hand on his hea rt. It made a man a killing god but robbed him of all sense in the process, and sense was what was needed right now more than mindless violence. A s his remaining three men began to spread out into a wedge with the legate behind the lead man, Fronto locked his mind on that red plume, ignoring all else.

  Another push and a stagger two steps forward and the man in front of him cried out in agony, a Begerri sw ord ripped back and raised high in bloody triumph. The legionary fell, gurgling, clutching his neck, and Fronto was left with no option but to simply trample over the mortally wounded man. Battle was a harsh mistress and left little room for pity or respect . The howling warrior instantly regretted raising his sword in victory as Fronto’s blade slammed into his armpit, twisted and withdraw n in the fluid move of a practi s ed killer. A torrent of blood followed the extracted blade , and the man fell. Fronto snarled as he saw that red plume again, just behind the next man. His shield came up a foot or so and he braced, slamming out forward and throwing every bit of his weight into it.

  An entire sectio n of the enemy mob reeled under the sudden push , men falling under their comrades’ feet, and the warrior he’d battered squawked and fell to one side where Fronto’s companion stabbed at him.

  The man in the red plume had almost fallen with the shield-barge, staggering and trying to right himself. He was a man roughly Fronto’s age, with grey moustaches and beard hanging from a lined, experienced face with an oddly sad expression. The man wore silver arm rings and a simple torc of copper . His mail shirt was of Roman manufacture – though missing the shoulder doubling through damage, Fronto could see the bronze hook arrangement where it should be fastened. The sword the man bore was long and Gallic in style, and he had no shield.

  And h e was a dead man.

  One thing Fronto knew from his years of experience was that a long sword in a tight space was less use than a fist. As he pulled back his own shorter stabbing blade, the veteran Begerri warrior before him struggled, trying to pull up his blade in the press. The tip hit Fronto’s shield and bounced away again, unable to rise to a useful height. There was only one thing the man could do, and Fronto knew it, for he had done much the same in his time.

  As the warrior dropped to a crouch to use his long blade among the legs where it was trapped, Fronto snarled ‘Oh no you don’t,’ and slammed his shield down, angled slightly forward. The bronze edging of the heavy board smashed into the toes of the warrior’s boots, mangling their contents through the thick leather. As the warrior screamed, his face tipping upwards to look at Fronto, the legate’s sword stabbed down, entering the open mouth and scything through it and into the neck and chest below.

  Fronto had no time to celebrate his triumph, as ‘red plume’ disappeared beneath the feet of the press and the legion pushed on. Of Fronto’s two remaining men, the one on the left gave a sudden cry and fell away, leaving the legate open to the enemy. This was it. For all their heroics, they were about to lose, in the end simply outnumbered. Aurelius would curse him even at his tomb-side for his foolishness .

  A figure was suddenly at his shoulder, and Fronto glanced left to see a hairy native with a fur cloak roaring, his black hair plastered across half of his face as his axe rose and fell, lopping the raised arm from one of the enemy.

  ‘Pax Gallica!’ the man bellowed, grinning madly at Fronto as he cleaved his way into the crowd. All along the line, Begerri were now among the legionaries, pushing at their own.

  Fronto grinned and, faced with few options, surrendered to the war beast inside.

  * * *

  Fronto leaned on a stone trough, watching with fascination as the tiny drops of crimson plipped from his nose, chin and various other places into the water, only to be lost in the endless spots and ripples of the rain as it battered the surface. His latest – his last – victim lay by the trough clutching his throat even in death, his hands crimson, the last feeble pulse pumping out between blue-grey fingers.

  Fronto’s fury had run its course, but it seemed that his ire had outlived the Begerri’s will to fight. Even as that warrior had slid down the side of the trough, gurgling and clawing, Arruntius’ shrill three whistles had shrieked out through the downpour, signalling the legion to disengage.

  Drip.

  Red among the clear falling water and the green-ish contents of the trough.

  Drip.

  The blood of the Begerri spilled unnecessarily because of some mad king in the peaks.

  Drip.

  A man who seemed to follow a very Roman dream of conquest and assimilation.

  Drip.

  Was what Fronto was feeling something that had course d through the Samnites as their world came to an end in the face of Roman iron?

  Drip.

  ‘Legate Fronto?’

  He turned his weary face without rising. Arruntius stood close by, a thing from nightmare. Barely a hand ’s -breadth of the man’s entire body was free of gore, and Fronto could see half a dozen small flesh wounds as yet untended. The centurion looked angry.

  ‘I know. I was to stay at the back. I have no business fighting in your unit. I should know better. What would happen if… et cetera, et cetera. Can we just pretend you’ve ranted at me for half an hour and I’ve valiantly defended my desire to serve Rome? I’m too tired to do it now.’

  A number of odd expressions crossed the elderly centurion’s face and, most unexpectedly, it settled on a grin.

  ‘I don’t believe we set the terms of the bet.’

  ‘Bet?’

  Arruntius put on an expression of hurt innocence. ‘You didn’t believe a cohort could take Biguro. I thought otherwise. I’m sure I’m due at least a skin of wine. ’

  Fronto, exhausted though he was, chuckled. ‘I have a large jar of Alban in the baggage carts I was saving for a big occasion piss-up. I could maybe spare half of that ? Or perhaps , given what we’ve achieved today, you’d like to help me share it with a few choice officers and men in the comfort of my tent later?’

  Arruntius snorted. ‘That’ll do. You alright, sir?’

  ‘Miraculously unwounded, apart from a cut on the brow and a few bruises,’ Fronto said, though as he rose, his knee gave way and he staggered for a moment. The centurion peered down in concern, but Fronto shrugged. ‘Old wound. Still bad when it’s damp, and it’s rarely as damp as this.’

  ‘We owe our success to that damp,’ Arruntius muttered, reaching out to help Fronto steady himself. The legate bit down on a defiant urge to refuse help from an older man. Arruntius was not your ordinary old man. ‘No bows among the enemy,’ he noted.

  ‘And Vulcan’s hammer broke their spirits. On a nice day we’d still be fighting to the death now. But their warriors thought they were in the wrong. Thought the gods were angry, and by Juno, they were right. We killed more than two thousand by best estimates today, and we lost jus
t over three hundred men. Leonidas of Sparta would be nodding at us.’

  Fronto smiled. He could hear the cheerful shouts and even singing of the legionaries. Their shares would be rather large. Each man who settled here would be a wealthy man.

  ‘It’s a good job their spirit is broken, though,’ Arruntius said, quietly. ‘If they got it into their heads that this wasn’t over we could still be massacred. There are over two thousand of them left, disarmed but simmering. On the bright side we have more than a thousand of theirs who turned to join us and helped us win the day.’ Arruntius pointed and Fronto followed the man’s gaze. In the town’s square not far away, a few natives were scrubbing the gore and stains from the Pax Gallica altar that stood there. ‘And there are eighty nine intact legionaries with just scars and bruises like you. And around fifty walking wounded. The rest won’t make it or are already being moved into the dead piles. ’

  ‘What are your plans with the place and the settlers.’

  Arruntius frowned in incomprehension.

  ‘Well you’re the ranking officer among the settlers, ’ Fronto replied ‘ so I’ll leave it to you to plan what happens now.’

  The centurion barked out a laugh. ‘I’m not settling here, Legate.’

  ‘But you led the group of settlers. You organised the money. You’ll be even wealthier now.’

  ‘Bollocks, sir. I led the fight because I wanted to prove it was possible, not because I was ready to stop.’

  Fronto shook his head. ‘I don’t want to be indelicate, Arruntius, but with your age as it is, you know Caesar will just pension you out anyway if you return to the army. Might as well make the most of it here with the added bonuses.’

  ‘Oh I’ll settle. If nothing else, I cannot be bothered to walk back across the breadth of Gaul to the general’s camp. But I’ll settle when it’s over. When this smiling king is hanging from a cross. Then I’ll open a little tavern or something. Until then, I’m with you.’

  ‘And I’ll be glad of your company,’ Fronto smiled.