Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules)

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Crassus’ wild eyes flashed dangerously.

  “You dare to threaten me in my own camp?”

  His voice had a high pitched tone that the officers recognised. Varus had moved forward next to the legate and Felix and Brutus joined him, reaching a position where they could prevent anything untoward happening.

  The druid shrugged.

  “You are invaders and, while many of our kin advocate a policy of fighting you until the last of us breathes and bleeds out, we are not all so short-sighted. We have the chance to coexist and avoid the bloodshed that others see as inevitable.”

  Crassus continued to glare silently as the druid continued.

  “Despite the arrogance of your sending collectors out to take the food from our children’s mouths to feed your hateful army, we are willing to negotiate terms.”

  “Negotiate?”

  Crassus’ voice had risen another notch and the warning signs were there for all to see.

  “Yes, Roman. Last year when you beat the armies we sent out, you took many of our sons and daughters as hostages. Now we have done the same with your officers. Send our people back to us in peace and we will consider sending you the supplies you so desperately need as well as those men we have. Send our people back and we will extend to you the same courtesy.”

  Crassus had gone pale and Brutus noted Varus’ hand hovering near the man’s elbow, ready to restrain him if necessary. The druid shrugged again.

  “You will never subdue the Armorican tribes by force, but you may yet do it through respect and care. It is your choice, Roman.”

  Falling silent, the man folded his arms and stood quietly, watching the expressions racing around Crassus’ face.

  The legate pointed at the watch centurion.

  “Have these two thrown in the stockade and send word to the provost to execute one hostage in ten.”

  Varus grasped Crassus’ elbow and reached across to whisper something to him, but the legate wrenched his arm free and turned his back on the visitors, opening the headquarters’ door and entering, allowing it to slam behind him.

  As the centurion and his men surrounded the two Gauls, Varus, Felix and Brutus exchanged worried looks.

  “This is a major cock up of a situation” Felix said flatly.

  “Understatement of the year” added Varus.

  Brutus glanced back to catch the expressions of the two Gauls as they were pushed away down the street. There was no fear there; just defiance.

  “Go with them and make sure they’re treated well and for Gods’ sake don’t let the centurion carry out that execution order or we burn our last bridge. I have to talk to Crassus.

  * * * * *

  “You did what?” Crassus screeched.

  Brutus gripped the back of the chair behind which he stood, his knuckles whitening as he tried to restrain his temper.

  “I stopped your execution order.”

  The fire of anger danced in Crassus eyes and for a moment Brutus wondered just how far this man could be pushed before he did something truly dangerous.

  “I would remind you, Brutus, that you are under my command at this time. Without Caesar’s countermanding orders, what I say goes here and I can not and will not have my orders disobeyed and countermanded by my lessers!”

  Brutus ground his teeth and took several deep breaths before he trusted himself to open his mouth again.

  “What’s done is done, Crassus. I have stopped the order and if you change it again, you’ll look either indecisive or idiotic, so leave it be.”

  Crassus’ eyes took on that dangerous sparkle again and Brutus continued while he had the chance.

  “Look, Crassus… there is an opportunity here to build a bridge and try to get things settled in Gaul. All you need to do is grant their paltry request. The hostages were a good idea when the war was just concluding last year, but we won’t need them if we can conclude a proper alliance with the tribes. If you just aggravate them, however, things could flare up here again and we’ll end up in the same situation as we were when the Belgae revolted last year. That almost cost us the Twelfth Legion!”

  “No, Brutus. The reason last year caused you all so much trouble is that you left it too long. You let it build into a proper rebellion and you all paid the price by having to put it down again. I conquered this land myself with just one legion, and I will instil peace the same way. If they want to rebel, then let them. We are already in their lands and ready to put them down.”

  Brutus shook his head.

  “That’s not a clever approach…”

  “Be quiet!”

  Brutus blinked. Crassus may temporarily outrank him in this particular place and time, but there was no less nobility, power and rank behind Brutus than the commander.

  “Speak to me like that again, Crassus, and when you leave this building it will be with a limp; do I make myself clear?” Brutus hissed through clenched teeth.

  It was Crassus’ turn to blink in surprise. Brutus was, to Crassus’ mind, one of those soft, boyish officers, who had come out to war like a child on an outing, wanting to see how things were done. Brutus had nothing really to gain from his command, while he, as son of the great Marcus Licinius Crassus, needed to stamp his coins with victory slogans. He needed the prestige. Money was half the battle in Rome these days, but without Patrician blood, no matter how rich and how influential a man was, people always looked at you as though you were in some way lacking. Military victory and a triumph was the way round that.

  “Listen, Brutus. You don’t need this victory but I do. It’s as simple as that. I can’t have this taken away from me. I won’t have this taken away from me!”

  Brutus raised his eyebrows; it was like dealing with a petulant child.

  “You had a victory last year and you’ll have the opportunity for others. Now is a time for conciliation.”

  “No. We’re past that. I will stand on their neck until they beg to go to Rome in chains.”

  Inwardly, Brutus sighed. There would be no persuading the commander and he could see that now. He would have one last try and then have to take matters into his own hands.

  “At least inform Caesar. Let him have his say. It is, after all, his army; paid for with his money.”

  Crassus narrowed his eyes.

  “And have Caesar pull my backside out of the flames? Or worse still, blame me for this fiasco and remove me from command? Hardly, Brutus. Mark my words: I shall have this fledgling revolution stamped out within the month and will inform Caesar of events only when I have them firmly under control once more. Now you’ve done enough damage for the day. Don’t you have anything better to do? I have to think.”

  Brutus glared at him for a moment, stood and, saluting in the most half-hearted fashion possible, turned and left the room, taking care to allow the door to shut quietly. Slamming doors and stamping feet in a childish tantrum was best left to the great Imperator Crassus.

  Angrily, he marched on down the street toward the north gate, where the prisoner stockade lay. He could see it from the slope; a mini camp in itself, with its own palisade, divided into sections and surrounded by defences and guards. The number of Gauls in there seemed to grow every time he looked, and every one of them would be a nobleman of one local tribe or another.

  At the bottom of the hill, just inside the decumana gate, Varus and Felix were returning from delivering the prisoners. Brutus waved at them until he got their attention, and then pointed to a small, almost hidden garden off the main street. As soon as he was sure they’d seen, he strode off down that side passage and into the peaceful tranquillity of the Celtic garden.

  Unlike the ordered rows and graceful arcs of a Roman garden, this small, irregularly-shaped space was a muddle of jumbled shrubs, flower beds and fruit trees, with a small pond and a rustic seating area. It was in no way an organised formal garden and should be a mess, yet it had been created with such an instinctive knowledge of nature that everything fitted perfectly, blending in with the feature
s around it to such an extent that, when taken as a whole, the effect was charming and relaxing.

  That was what Brutus needed a little of right now: charming and relaxing. Crassus was neither.

  He was just musing over what benefits Rome could reap through the infusion of a little Gaulish thinking when Varus and Felix rounded the corner and entered the garden. Brutus beckoned to them.

  “Have a seat. I think we have a problem.”

  Varus nodded as he strode across and collapsed onto one of the benches.

  “I didn’t think you’d have much luck with Crassus. He’s a stony-faced and stony-hearted imbecile.”

  Brutus shook his head sadly.

  “No, he’s far worse than that, Varus. He’s a six year old with an inferiority complex. His daddy is rich and powerful and all his peers are more noble than him. He’s desperate to be better than the rest of us. I think your argument with him back near the Rhine after the Ariovistus affair made him realise that being one of the nobiles was no replacement for a noble lineage. He will lead us into the wolf’s mouth and watch the whole army burn rather than admit he can’t manage something.”

  Felix nodded sourly.

  “I can quite believe it. I served under his father fifteen years ago when that Thracian dog Spartacus was roaming around Italia with his gladiators and slaves. The old bastard had two legions decimated for cowardice, because they lost the field to Spartacus. He was a nasty piece of work and clearly the apple has not fallen far from the tree.”

  “The question then” Brutus sighed “is what we can do about it?”

  Felix shrugged.

  “He’s the commander. If he wants to take the legions to crush the local tribes, we can hardly say no, no matter how much we might disagree. One of the prime requisites for being a primus pilus is obedience to the chain of command.”

  Brutus stared at the grass.

  “It’s a delicate situation. I’ve pushed about as far as I dare and there’s no way I can stop Crassus from carrying out his little punitive war.

  He straightened and flexed his shoulders.

  “But I can put a little cushion in place for us to fall back on. Its possible Crassus is right, I suppose. He might be able to nip any insurrection in the bud and solve it all before it becomes a major problem. I very much doubt that’s the case, but I can’t ignore the possibility…”

  Varus and Felix turned their expectant faces on him.

  “But I can give him a month to try, and I can use that time to get things ready in the event he fails.”

  “Like what?” asked Varus suspiciously.

  “Well firstly, I have to send a letter. I need to make Caesar aware of what’s happening.”

  Felix shook his head.

  “That’s just going to land you knee deep in the shit. When Crassus finds out, he’ll have you cut to ribbons for going behind his back and, to an extent he’ll be justified. It’s damn near mutiny.”

  “Not quite. I shall write my monthly letter to my mother; she likes to be kept informed of my activity and also that of the general. They’re friends, you see. The Julii and the Junii go back a way, and Caesar is actually a distant cousin. I shall ‘accidentally’ drop a few hints about what Crassus is doing. You can guarantee that within a week of mother getting hold of the letter, Caesar will know everything.”

  Varus shook his head.

  “That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Brutus. And anyway, what if Caesar’s not in Rome, but in Cisalpine Gaul or Illyricum or somewhere else?”

  “Then she’ll make sure that word gets to him. She knows Fronto’s mother quite well and Fronto’s in Rome at the moment with Priscus and Crispus. Word will get back.”

  Felix smiled a curious smile.

  “Priscus and Crispus. Every time anyone says that it sounds like two characters from a Plautus comedy to me!”

  “Anyway” Brutus went on, sparing a glare for the primus pilus by his side “on a serious note, the next thing we need to do is anticipate the trouble we’re going to be in when Crassus fails.”

  “You thinking of raising your own legions, Brutus? I’m not sure the general would approve of that.”

  “Not exactly. That would be even closer to mutiny, but the tribes we’re dealing with here are sailors born and bred. The Veneti almost live at sea and all these tribes centre around coastal fortresses and towns. What we need is naval support; to have access to the tribes by land and sea. If Crassus pushes us into open war, we’ll be at a serious disadvantage otherwise, and I doubt he’ll even think about the possibility of naval action.”

  Varus frowned at him.

  “I don’t know much about the navy, but is it feasible to get the nearest fleet all the way from Italia to here in time to help?”

  “Probably not. Plus I have no authority over them and even Caesar would have to apply to the senate for control of them. No. But we can build a fleet and man it ourselves in plenty of time.”

  Felix laughed.

  “Madness. How are you going to build the fleet without Crassus knowing? You’ll need to use the legions and Crassus will find out what you’re up to in no time. Then there’s manning the ships, even if you got them built. How many sailors do you know?”

  Brutus smiled at the primus pilus.

  “We can start constructing a fleet at Turonum. It’s only a day’s march from here, with a mercantile harbour on the Loire, which has naval access all the way to the sea. I’m sure we can siphon a few of the men away from the army to work on them. So long as we can get a few engineers who know what they’re doing, we can recruit the locals to do a lot of the basic labour. I can organise remuneration for them; the Junii are not short of a few denarii as I’m sure you’re aware. As for the crew, we’ll have to send to Narbo. The province is Caesar’s anyway, and the whole land is full of fishermen and sea traders, so we shouldn’t have any problems raising up a crew from there.”

  He turned to Varus and grinned.

  “If I supply you with the appropriate letters and finance, can you organise a few discreet cavalry officers to ride to Narbo and put things into motion?”

  Varus shrugged.

  “If you’re taking the responsibility for this, I can provide whatever you need.”

  Nodding, Brutus turned to Felix.

  “And how about engineers? Think you can spare a few good men from the Eleventh?”

  The primus pilus grinned.

  “You mean give them the option of continuing to dig latrines for the camp or go help design and build a navy away from our illustrious commander? They’ll bite my hand off.”

  “Good” Brutus nodded. “And Galba’s coming any day now with the Twelfth. We can probably rely on some men from him, since Crassus has no idea about the Twelfth’s strength as it is.”

  He stood, stretching.

  “And I think that later I might swing by the headquarters of the Tenth. I don’t know their new primus pilus very well, but people say he’s got his head screwed on right and if Fronto trusts him, then it’s worth seeing if he can spare a few men.”

  He rolled his shoulders a couple of times and then smiled.

  “Well, I shall see you fellows later on, at the tavern? I have to go write a letter home.”

  Chapter 3

  (Ianuarius: Rome. The house of the Falerii on the Aventine)

  “Not long now, Gnaeus, and the general will be back.”

  Priscus sighed and looked at Fronto over the top of the cup.

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend the winter in Illyricum. From what I hear, the whole place is just mountains, goats and toothless women.”

  Crispus frowned disapprovingly.

  “Ah, now Gnaeus, that’s hardly fair. Illyricum is an ancient region with a rich history and a distinct culture.”

  “Bollocks. It’s a vaguely Greek toilet that never achieved anything notable other than becoming Roman. Name me one great person or thing that ever came from Illyricum.”

  Crispus fell silent
and frowned, his head angling slightly. There was a long moment’s silence.

  “See? Goats, mountains and toothless women.”

  Crispus shrugged with a laugh.

  “I simply cannot find an argument; no fault in your logic.”

  Priscus grinned.

  “Anyway, I’ll be pleased when Caesar does come back, cause he’ll drag you two off onto the next mad war he’s planned and I’ll finally be free of people calling me ‘leftie’ and making jokes about me being limp.”

  Fronto nodded, his face suddenly sombre. His former primus pilus was putting a brave face on things and he knew it well. Priscus would be smarting over the situation. His combat career was over and, while he might settle into the role of camp prefect in time, he was on a year’s enforced convalescence and was forbidden from joining the legions until the general’s personal surgeon decided otherwise.

  The three men, along with Galronus of the Remi, had returned to Rome before the winter set in. Crispus had been to visit his family for a while and the other three had descended upon Fronto’s family townhouse, causing his sister to fuss and complain about the lack of warning. Priscus had stayed with them, given that he had no surviving family, and the winter months had been among the most relaxed and interesting that Fronto could remember.

  Every day saw something new. The three Romans showed Galronus the delights of the great city and introduced him to expensive wine and racing in the Circus Maximus, following which the Belgic auxiliary officer had begun his descent into the world of gambling, racing and late night tavern visits. Fronto’s sister Faleria had initially taken a fancy to the striking foreigner, but the lustre had soon worn off when she realised that Galronus was more like her brother than she’d originally imagined and she now treated him with the same loving contempt.