Marius' Mules XI

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Ready,’ roared the centurion again.

  ‘Now.’ Another blast of whistles.

  The legion came to a sudden halt, the front rank, having levelled their weapons easily in the open order, launching them even as their leading foot stamped into the ground. The added momentum of the sudden drop in pace gave the missiles an extra burst of speed, and hundreds upon hundreds of iron points hurtled out along the battle lines, falling with pleasing accuracy among the Pompeian lines.

  The result was instant and gratifying. All along the line shields were punctured, the pila punching through the boards and lodging there. Others managed to sneak between shields and drive into chain shirts or even flesh, given the more densely-packed ranks of Pompey’s larger force.

  An answering whistle chorus broke out along Pompey’s ranks, and the men of the Caesarian legions raised their shields in response.

  But Atenos was shrewd. He had calculated effective distances for the weapons in his head as they marched into battle. The added momentum of the run had given the Caesarian missiles just that little boost in distance and made them truly effective. Pompey’s men had no such additional power and the enemy pila launched along the lines with far less efficiency. A few of the better shots from the stronger men struck legionaries in the front ranks, but the vast majority fell to earth just in front of Caesar’s army. The legionaries roared and, at a series of swift commands, the front two ranks rotated. Another whistle and they were off again.

  Five more paces, this time at standard march, and another call. The ranks stopped and the second volley of pila hurtled out, this time without the momentum but at an acceptable range. Once more, they punched deep into Pompeian soldiers, creating carnage and chaos. But the cries of agony and terror among the green recruits there were brief, the lines moving forward s to fill the gaps, while their answering volley was more effective than the first, striking Caesar’s legionaries all along the line.

  Again, Caesar’s men shuffled forward s , filling the ranks, and Salvius now found himself in the third row, replacing a man who had taken a pilum to the side and now lay, thrashing on the floor next to Atenos, who calmly leaned down and used his sword to finish the poor bastard off swiftly.

  Another whistle . The line surged forward s . Only three paces and the call came for double time.

  Three more paces and the ‘ charge ’ was issued. With a roar, Caesar’s legions hurled themselves over the last dozen or so pace s and into the waiting arms of Pompey’s forces. Salvius swiftly found himself moving forward s and into the melee. The familiar surge flooded his veins as Mars possessed him and he gave himself over to the war god in his entirety, surrendering himself to the urge to kill, mercilessly.

  His sword bit into flesh and he exulted.

  This was where he was meant to be; what he lived for.

  * * *

  Galronus watched the two infantry forces close, exchange pila, and then clash, but only out of the corner of his eye, for he had his own problems to attend to. Even as the two armies met, the huge throng of Pompeian horse raced for his own meagre collection of cavalry. He kne w nothing of the enemy’s mettle but , even assuming they were poor at best, still it was a lost cause. At best he could hope for a three to one kill ratio, and even that was pushing the boundaries of credibility . Realistically, he figured his men could manage to shrink the enemy force by a thousand or even fifteen hundred before his own losses became so heavy he would be forced to flee or fight to extinction, and the plan called for the former.

  ‘For Caesar,’ Galronus bellowed, a cry repeated by Volusenus and Quadratus, though not one that would resonate too strongly with the horse. Yes, they were Caesar’s men, but they were still, in truth, Gauls and Germans before anything else. There was a surge of noise in support. They might not roar at serving the republic, but a powerful general could earn their respect, and Caesar was most definitely that.

  ‘For Taranis and Thunor and Mars. For v ictory!’

  This time the noise rose to a roar. He could hardly invoke national pride with so many disparate peoples serving side by side, but each man would know the gods of war and thunder, and all would respect them, and every warrior could throw his voice into a cry for victory.

  As they rode at the vastly superior enemy, bellowing invoca tions to a dozen different gods but all uniformly to victory, officers among the enemy were shouting things about Pompey and the republic, and the lack of response from their men spoke volumes. Labienus of all people should know better than to try to appeal to their Romanitas , for they had none.

  A moment later the two forces met.

  Galronus, at the front as any good leader should be, slammed his spear into a charging figure in gleaming bronze scales, angling the tip at the last moment so that it aimed dead centre at the man’s chest. The easterner had aimed his own spear out to the side, trying for Galronus arm or ribs , where the chain shirt would provide less protection. The Remi simply leaned slightly in the saddle as the two clashed. Leaning was not easy in a four-horned saddle, but there was just enough give that the easterner’s longer spear brushed past his arm, drawing a thin line of red but doing no real damage. Conversely, Galronus’ spear could not hope to penetrate that fish-scale armour dead on , but that had not been his aim and he had leaned heavily into the blow.

  The spear tip slammed into the man’s armour and failed to punch through, but the simple momentum plucked the rider from his saddle, his useless spear falling from twitching fingers , his strange eastern saddle lacking the support of the rear horns. The screaming man disappeared into the press and a moment later Galronus was fighting for his life. Swords came at him from every side and his Roman shield, oval and bearing painted designs of gods, took a relentless beating as he shifted it this way and that, preventing those deadly points from digging into him. At the same time his own sword arm twisted and shifted, lashing out with the blade and then parrying. Mostly parrying, in fact. There were so damn many of them .

  He could feel his arms numbing and tiring with the constant fighting even only fifty heartbeats into the battle. The effort of swinging and stabbing, along with the battering on his shield arm, were wearing him down. His knees guided his horse, Roman style, though in truth there was precious little guiding to do. In this thick press he was barely moving.

  His s word bit into a man in leathers who shrieked, but a moment later he was gone and replaced by two more men. Swords and lances, shields and daggers. Something punched into his left leg and he didn’t even have time to look. There was a momentary flash of extreme pain and then a worrying numbness. He could not move or even feel his left leg, but there simply was no chance to look and see if it was wounded, broken or even still there. A spear grated off his helmet with a noise that made him shudder and would certainly leave a dent. Pieces of his shield were flying like airborne kindling, and he knew it would offer precious little protection now, for it was little more than a collection of shredded boards, loosely held together with torn linen and ruptured bronze edging.

  He felt a score of pain across his right arm, but managed to swing his heavy blade and respond to the blow with a slash that divided the man’s face in two. In a worrying moment the enemy surged around him , but the unexpected arrival of several warriors of the Senones at his side gave him a chance to breathe.

  He looked down even as he discarded the ruined shield and drew his dagger as paltry parrying prot ection. His leg was still there but was soaked red from mid-thigh downward, so drenched that he could not make out where the wound was. Damn it, but he’d have to do something or he’d bleed to death in the saddle.

  ‘Get to a medicus, sir,’ shouted one of the riders, and Galronus almost nodded. But no. He couldn’t. This was the critical fight. No matter what else happened on the field, this fight had to go right. Pompey had to see his cavalry win convincingly and sweep on to flank the Caesarians.

  Allowing th e fresh riders to take the fore Galronus retreated, backing up his horse through the press with the
skill that only a life-long rider could attain. Once he was out of the worst danger, his men protecting him, he jammed his twin blades under his armpit and with some difficulty removed his neck scarf. He couldn’t manage the brooch that fastened it without dropping the weapons, so he simply tore the scarf free, losing the expensive pin that Faleria had given him somewhere in the press. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the scarf under his wounded thigh and briefly discovered how welcome the numbness had been as the wound opened like bloody lips and agony coursed through him again.

  Tears streaming down his cheeks, he forced the scarf into place above the wound and tied it so tight it made him wince. He couldn’t see any visible difference, but with luck it would keep enough blood in him to see him through the next hour or so.

  Time to take stock.

  He gripped his weapons once more, and made the mistake of trying to rise in the saddle to see better, which caused a little extra blood loss and an awful lot more pain. Sweating and gritting teeth, he looked around. His men were doing better than he’d expected. Losses seemed to be relatively low, all things considered. Of the empty saddles he could see, more than two thirds were eastern ones, and more of the bodies on the floor wore odd bronze scales or white linen than Gallic chain. Still, they were being thinned out, and they wouldn’t hold for much longer even if t he y fought to the end .

  He resisted the temptation to give the signal. Not yet. He had to fight until they could not realistically hold. If only he had those infantry he’d trained fighting in among the cavalry, it might have made something of a difference. But those men were now with Fronto, and they had their own task.

  Turning, he moved forward s into the press once more. Briefly, he caught sight of Prefect Volusenus struggling with a Cappadocian. He felt the pang of dismay as he saw the easterner’s sword come down and slam into the prefect’s shoulder, separating his sword arm, and cleaving deep through bone and muscle and into organ s. Volusenus died in the saddle but remained there, flopping about horribly amid the press . His killer lasted only moments longer before he too was gouged deep with a Gallic blade.

  All was the stench of death and bowels, overlaid with fairly strong equine odours. Briefly, the Remi noble wondered how things were going with the infantry. Then his attention returned to his own task. He had to fight on until he judged they could hold the line no longer. With a roar, Galronus launched himself into the fray once more.

  * * *

  Salvius Cursor was blind. Blood from his latest victim had sprayed free of a terrible neck wound and covered the tribune’s face with warm, wet, iron-tinted life. He could feel it running down his cheeks and when he blinked, which he was doing repeatedly, it filled his eyes. He felt, as he did occasionally but would never admit out loud, a tiny thrill of panic. Blind was not a thing to be on the battlefield.

  Something knocked into him from the left and he staggered, Reaching down with his free hand – tribunes were not expected to fight and so did not habitually carry shields – he grasped the cloth he kept tucked into his scabbard’s fasteners for cleaning his blade after a fight. Lifting it, he wiped the worst of the gore from his face and blinked a dozen times to clear his vision.

  He was just in time to parry a powerful blow from a grizzled legionary whose face was more scar tissue than skin. One of Pompey’s few true veterans. Roaring defiance, Salvius slammed the man’s blade down and let his cloth fall away, gripping the edge of the veteran ’s shield with his left hand and head-butting him with every ounce of strength he could muster. He felt the man’s face shatter beneath the elegant and elaborate embossed brim of his helmet.

  Before the howling, broken veteran fell away, Salvius gripped the shield all the harder. He had to hack at the dying man’s wrist twice before the shield came away, hand still gripping the cross bar. It was even more work to prise the severed hand from the shield, but he managed, gripping the thing just in time to block the next blow.

  He had lost all sense of time and place. Deep down he knew several important facts. First and foremost that he was committed to driving a wedge through the First Legion to get to the treacherous general at its rear. Secondly that he was countermanding Caesar’s orders by doing so, and unless he fell back into his position at the rear, the Tenth were effectively leaderless. Thirdly that he was so caught up in the fighting that he might well be ahead of his own men now.

  The simple truth, though, was that he didn’t care about any of that . He knew he should . He knew that it made him both a bad tribune and a potential liability to the army. But the truth was that he had no control. Once he sur rendered himself to the war god everything else, no matter how important, necessarily slid into the background.

  With an incoherent cry of rage, he dispatched the legionary who’d just struck his shield, then put the great board in the path of another blow while he dropped low and drove his sword point into the groin of a man to his right, scything through muscle and organ under the hem of his chain shirt.

  Mars flowed through him once more, driving out all other concerns.

  Briefly, he was aware of other scenes around him , though, as he killed and maimed .

  Atenos was there in the surge, just for a moment, seemingly larger than life – a Titan rising above the press with a gladius in one hand and a vine staff in the other, simultaneously driving the point of the former into a man’s neck while smashing another round the side of the head with the latter, denting the bronze of the man’s helmet agonisingly into his ear.

  To the far side, Crastinus was less lucky. The impressive centurion, who had infused his troops with the desire to fight, had killed so many men that his soldiers called him ‘Bloody Flux’ behind his back, but his reign of terror among the Pompeians came to an end in that moment. A legionary caught him a lucky blow, punching a gladius into the centurion’s face so hard that the sword slid into Crastinus’ mouth and burst out through the back of his neck. It lodged there, the gagging, dying centurion falling away into the press, but the ma n who let go of his sword, thrilling at having killed one of Caesar’s infamous centurions, went to Hades only a moment later, punched into the torso with three different blades by a handful of vengeful legionaries.

  Similar sce nes were playing out everywhere b ut Salvius Cursor caught them only peripherally , like some sort of dance routine at the bath house while he was personally more intent on scraping off the dirt with a strigil.

  He punched, stabbed, sliced, kicked, butted, and even bit his way into the press of Pompey’s men. With every step forward s , he half expected to burst from the rear of the enemy lines and find the fat old general standing in front of him. That vision spurred him on and he continued to carve a path, hoping that his men were following and that he was pressing a wedge into the enemy rather than being cut off within them.

  His advance ended suddenly. His blade slammed deep into the side of a legionary and he took two more blows on the great, heavy shield, but then something smashed into his helmet and everything went red and then white and then black in agonising flashes . The battle disappeared entirely as his hearing was flooded with an all-consuming shrill whining sound. A s those flashes vanished, a ll he could see was blackness with occasional hints of colour. His head felt as though he had stuck it inside a bell just as someone rang it.

  For just a moment, Salvius wondered if he was dead. Then his strength failed and he sank to his knees.

  * * *

  Galronus knew his force was on the cusp. He had been pushing forward s and fighting like a madman periodically, then pulling bac k when the effort became too much, the pain in his leg intense. But every time he pressed forward s there were fewer of his men around him, and every time he withdrew it became clear that the enemy were gaining ground. Briefly, he caught sight of the infantry off to the left and the sight confirmed how far back they had been driven. Those legionaries were fresh and neatly lined up, as yet untested. At the initial clash of horse they had been level with the army’s front line.

  Pompey’s cav
alry were succeeding. Their remit, as he’d heard from their officers in their own camp, no less, was to ham mer through the Caesarian horse and then turn upon the infantry’s flank, massacring the Tenth and then ruining the army until they broke and lost.

  They were remarkably close to doing just that.

  He resolved not to personally move forward s once more. The time was almost upon him, and he needed to be ready. Leaving the press of struggling horsemen, he deftly angled his horse out obliquely. He’d had to discard his dagger and take to using his left hand on the reins, since guiding the beast with his knees had become impossible, every press of his left leg causing blood to well up into the agonising wound.

  After what felt like half a lifetime of guiding his steed through the struggling cavalry, he reached the southern periphery of their fight and surveyed the general situation.

  Caesar’s infantry were hard pressed, but the fight must be going well enough, for the third line had not yet been committed. Certainly they were in a terrible melee. The cavalry were in trouble, though that was only to be expected. Had they fought enough?

  Just for a moment, he caught sight of a man in a senior officer’s uniform across the far side of the field, bellowing rage, exhorting his men to greater martial feats. Oddly, it was easy to see now, from this peripheral viewpoint, how much of a difference the styles of command and organisation had made.

  His men had survived better than he could have hoped for at this point. He couldn’t take an accurate count, but from what he could see, he’d be willing to wager that between six and seven hundred of his thousand men still remained in the saddle. More than half, certainly. And it was impossible to tell the difference in the enemy numbers, given how huge the force was, but just from what he’d seen in the press, his men must have on average killed at least two Pompeians apiece. So the enemy must have lost a thousand. Possibly more.