Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  Balbus returned the nod.

  As Longinus left, Balbus leaned out of the tent flap. Glancing around, he could see Velius giving commands to a group of guards.

  ‘Centurion Velius, if you please.’

  The grizzled man turned and made his way to the tent.

  Once he was inside and alone with the legate, the older man dropped the leather flap into place. Beckoning Velius to the rear of the tent, he bade him sit.

  ‘Centurion. You are in the Second Cohort, are you not?’

  Velius nodded.

  ‘I thought so. I want you to take the chief centurionate for your cohort. It’s a field commission, but I feel fairly sure that Fronto will make it official when he’s back in the morning. Do you accept?’

  Velius nodded curtly.

  ‘Good. No false humility. Just what I expect. You do realise what you’ve let yourself in for, yes?’

  Velius’ face took on a look of puzzlement.

  ‘Not sure I understand what you mean, sir?’

  Balbus smiled a humourless smile.

  ‘That puts you third in line. Fronto’s more and more busy with staff duties, and I think your primus pilus is getting used to commanding the legion. That makes you second in command rather often. It’s not a nice duty, but I think you can handle it. Still want it?’

  Velius nodded. ‘I can do it sir, and I want to get this sorted.’

  ‘I know you can do it. First job’s a little unpleasant though. You need to staunch any hint of a rumour about what happened tonight. I mean every hint. Understand?’

  Again, Velius nodded.

  ‘You need to get to the legion’s chief surgeon as soon as I leave. Get some of his orderlies to collect the body and keep it out of sight in the hospital. Circulate the word that Cominius died tonight of a seizure. Get the surgeon to support you. We don’t want word of assassins leaking out.’

  Another nod.

  ‘Finally, when I leave here, I’ll send Fronto and Priscus back. You need to make sure they’re seen in the camp in full control. I would suggest you get a few of the officers together and have a small drink before retiring. Fronto will need it and we need to staunch any rumours of his demise. In the morning the two of them are to join us in Longinus’ tent, and you are in charge of the Tenth. Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’ Velius nodded a final time and pulled himself rigidly to attention.

  ‘Alright. Get someone to deal with this man’s effects. You’ll have to arrange a cremation in the morning.’

  Balbus removed the spear gently from the still shape of Cominius and turned to leave. As he walked briskly down the Via Decumana toward the gate, cavalry spear held in hand, he could hear Velius behind him, bellowing out orders from the command tent.

  He heaved a sigh and glanced at the spear. A Roman spear, meant for a Roman officer. There could be all sorts of reasons a member of a Gaulish tribe serving with the cavalry might want to kill a successful general. It was war after all, but it did not make it right or acceptable. It had been many years since the civil war and Balbus had no wish to live through another time like that. War should be up-front and above board, not sneaking and murdering.

  He found Longinus in the camp of the Ninth and persuaded the man to join him for a walk down by the stream. As the two officers strolled along the bank, moonlight flashing off the rippling water and the constant rush and babbling filling the air, Balbus felt himself relax for the first time in over an hour.

  ‘We need to talk about this.’

  Longinus turned his head and nodded, almost imperceptibly in the darkness. Balbus went on.

  ‘I’ve had word circulated that Cominius died of a seizure. I know that won’t fool the assassin, but I don’t want to set panic or suspicion among the legions. We don’t want any word of assassination going out, or the killer will go to ground. One thing’s sure: by morning he’ll know he failed to kill Fronto.’

  ‘He probably already knows that.’

  Balbus shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think so. If he’s a recently recruited Gaul, he won’t know one officer from another apart from his own unit. He wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Cominius and Fronto at speed in the dark. No. He’ll be feeling self-satisfied tonight.’

  Longinus nodded.

  ‘I suppose so. There’s not much we can do right now, but I’ll have a think on the matter and see what I can come up with.’

  ‘Plenty of time tomorrow, while we move. You’re going to have to keep those Gaulish cavalry under a watchful eye, though.’

  Chapter 7

  (Deep in Aedui land)

  ‘Burial Club: A fund looked after by the standard bearer that each legionary pays into to cover costs of funerals and monuments to fallen colleagues.’

  ‘Signifer: A century’s standard bearer, also responsible for dealing with pay, burial club and much of a unit’s bureaucracy.’

  ‘Magna Mater: The Goddess Cybele, patron of nature in its most raw form’

  The funeral of Cominius took place the next day not long after sunrise. The signifer had doled out appropriate funds, men of Cominius’ century under the supervision of Velius had cut plenty of timber and erected a funeral pyre and the unit’s stonemasons had hastily cut and chiselled a tombstone in memory of the fallen man. Cominius had been a popular officer, and only a small amount had to be drawn from the burial club, the stonemasons labouring several hours for free. His worldly goods remained packed in his tent, ready to be distributed as his will attested.

  The smoke from the burning pyre drifted across the ranks, the acrid yet sweet smell of burning meat filling the nostrils of the watching soldiers. Red dress uniform crests were being worn atop every helm in the watching crowd, with the exceptions of Velius and Fronto, both of whose skulls remained too tender to allow the press of metal.

  Fronto had been the one to light the pyre, and had stepped forward from the Tenth, where he stood as their legate, the torch extended in his hand. Unhooking one of the medals from his dress harness, he had attached it to the flaming mass, extended the burning tip the kindling and watched it spring into life, the flames quickly spreading around the wooden bier.

  Now, a quarter of an hour later, the pyre was starting to collapse. Most of the legionaries in the surrounding circle had a tear in their eye, though more from the stinging cloud than from emotion.

  Fronto was itching to move. The legions were packed and ready and after the funeral they would move on, leaving a burial detail to finish off. The fact that a colleague had been taken, not in the heat of battle but by the blade of a murderer, irked Fronto, but the thing that made him fume most was the almost imperceptible way that his friends and colleagues were tiptoeing around him. Since last night, he had had only a few hours alone while he slept and even then he had heard Priscus, Velius, Balbus and Longinus at different times during the night, never more than a few feet from his tent. Against his wishes, the legate’s guard had been assigned to watch his tent (a traditional honour for senior officers that Fronto had long since dispensed with.)

  His eyes continually strayed across the pyre to Longinus and his cavalry officers. The legionary cavalry were here out of respect for Cominius, though the auxiliary cavalry, under a few trusted officers, were maintaining their pursuit of the Helvetii. Balbus and Longinus had had a long argument about the necessity of keeping the auxiliary cavalry under the watchful eye of the mounted legionaries. Fronto had listened in on the conversation from the other side of the leather tent wall and could appreciate both points of view. Yes it was necessary, particularly after the attack last night, to keep the auxiliaries under close scrutiny, but Fronto could also, surprisingly, see Longinus’ point of view. He had specific orders from Caesar to follow the Helvetii, yet wanted the legionaries to honour the death of one of their own, so splitting them was necessary.

  As the flames turned to embers and the mound of burning timber fell in on itself like a collapsing building, Fronto realised that Caesar was looking po
intedly in his direction. He stepped out in front of the Tenth and called the legion to attention. They had, theoretically, been at attention for the duration of the previous hour and a half but had, over time, slipped into a more relaxed pose. At times of personal reflection, some leeway was afforded the troops, and Fronto was more sympathetic than most.

  As soon as the legion had fallen in properly, Fronto turned to face them.

  ‘Centurions, give the order.’

  Around the field, commands rang out, letting the units know they were dismissed. The Tenth was first to fall out, though the other legions were close behind.

  As Priscus turned once again to face his commander, Fronto indicated with an inclined head that he wanted a word.

  Priscus watched a moment longer to make sure the legion had fallen out properly and then walked alongside his commander, who had already made his way toward the pyre.

  ‘Sir?’

  Fronto continued to face the pyre, his primus pilus behind him.

  ‘Gnaeus, what do you think of the general.’ He cast the other man a sidelong glance.

  ‘Off the record, I mean.’

  Priscus hesitated a moment, not because of whom he was with, but watchful for anyone else within earshot.

  ‘You’re only asking me that because you’ve already made your mind up about something and you want me to confirm it for you. Are you sure you really want me to answer?’

  Fronto nodded, still not facing his second in command.

  ‘Well, sir, I think he’s a political weasel. Vicious, heartless and cold. He’ll use any resource he can find to in order to achieve his goals.’

  ‘Much my thoughts on the subject. He’s trying to groom me into the position of some kind of senior strategist for the staff, which will mean removing me from the command of the Tenth.’ He growled. ‘And I’ve had it up to here with senior staff.’

  Fronto made a throat-cutting motion.

  ‘I don’t trust him and, if I remain on his staff, he’ll stop trusting me pretty soon too. Once that happens, I’ll be in serious trouble, and the Tenth could suffer too. I’m not good at this political game. If I was, I’d have made more of a try for the cursus honorum. I actually do need your advice, not just confirmation.’

  Priscus coughed gently, as the smoke of the pyre had shifted in their direction. They began to walk, side by side and hands clasped behind their backs, away from the smoke.

  ‘You may be right. You could be in trouble. We could be in trouble. Frankly, I wouldn’t worry about that. We’re deep in hostile territory, chasing a pretty nasty enemy with unsure allies around us, possibly with years of blood and guts campaigning ahead of us and you’re worrying about political squabbles?’

  Priscus took a deep breath, a look of concentration on his face and Fronto knew what that meant: his primus pilus was about to say something offensive, ignoring any proprieties of rank.

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid, Marcus! You can’t go running away from responsibility every damn time. You’ve backed out of everything you’ve ever done that could secure your future. Unless you want to end up like us in the centurionate: dead at forty, or lying in a ditch in Rome with one leg begging for a coin, or living out your last years as a farmer on a soldier’s pension, you damn well take everything Caesar offers you.’

  Fronto stopped, turned on his primus pilus and raised a warning finger. Priscus gave him no opportunity to interrupt.

  ‘No, Marcus. You wanted a straight opinion, and you’ll get it. I’d jump at the chance to make such a position in the world. One day my kids might inherit a shop or an inn. If I had what you’re being offered, they might inherit an estate in Umbria. They might even have been a Consul for Gods’ sake. If Caesar asks you to be his personal arse-wiper, you do it. You owe it to those of us who’ll never get the chance.’

  Fronto frowned.

  ‘But I disagree with him. I think he’s wrong more than half the time.’

  ‘All the more reason! As one of his senior officers you’re in the position to at least have a say in what happens, and the higher up you get, the more say you’ll have. If you hadn’t been where you are, d’you think we’d have found and beaten the Helvetii last time? No. ‘No’ is the answer you’re too wrapped up in your own uncertainty to see. The problem is: you’re one of us. Maybe too much one of us for your own good. You’ll never be a proper commander, because you think too much like your men. It means you’ll never be comfortable and happy, but it serves us well. Our lives get better, safer and more comfortable with people like you tempering Caesar’s decisions. I can’t understand how a high-ranking noble family managed to bear someone like you. You’d have been more at home with my family, baking bread in Nola. Now go and see the general and wipe his arse!’

  Fronto smiled at Priscus.

  ‘You have a strange way, Gnaeus. You can be deferential when you need to, but you could make a King feel like an irresponsible child when you chastise him.’

  The smile was returned. Priscus patted his superior officer on the shoulder as if mollifying a minor.

  ‘Never mind sir, one day you’ll look back on this and sob like a small boy.’

  Priscus stopped in his tracks and saluted Fronto before turning and making his way back to the Tenth, who were assembling on one side of the grassy depression that had been chosen for the funeral. The legion gathered around the packs and wagons, securing ropes and tightening the straps on their equipment.

  Fronto wandered off in the direction of the command unit. Caesar and his staff officers stood upwind of the smoke on the bank, watching the legions making their preparations. Already the burial detachment was formed up next to the pyre; the tombstone, urn and tools at the ready, waiting for the mass to finish its slow collapse.

  As Fronto approached the colour party, Balbus came jogging toward him, carrying the cavalry spear from the night before. Stopping in his tracks, Fronto turned to face the older legate. Balbus was fighting for breath and, as he came to a halt, he thrust the spear into the ground and bent over forward with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

  Fronto smiled. Balbus complained often about the restrictions his age placed on his physical involvement with the army, but Fronto could only hope that he were as fit and active when he reached that age. There were a number of legionaries and lesser officers in the Tenth that Fronto knew would have trouble making that distance across the field in the time the Eighth’s legate had made it.

  ‘Out of breath? Why didn’t you send a runner? That is what they’re there for.’

  Balbus straightened up, still puffing heavily.

  ‘I … I don’t think this is a … messenger job.’

  He indicated the spear.

  ‘Have a look.’

  Fronto looked in puzzlement.

  ‘I’ve seen it Quintus. Quite close, remember?’

  The older man nodded impatiently.

  ‘Yes, yes. But did you really have a proper look at it?’

  Fronto shook his head.

  ‘It’s a cavalry spear. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen a thousand.’

  Balbus shook his head and wrenched the spear from the turf, slamming it back in a hand-width from Fronto’s foot.

  ‘Use your eyes man.’

  Fronto leaned forward, making a close examination of the spear. It was a normal, ordinary, dull cavalry spear.

  Except for the marks.

  The marks.

  He bent his head closer.

  ‘What the hell are they?’

  Balbus shrugged.

  ‘My guess is some kind of Gaulish markings, maybe religious, or political, or even just a curse or something. I didn’t want to take it to one of Longinus’ Gaulish men; after all, we don’t want to alert the man that we’re on to him. I have a couple of men in the Eighth that can speak their language with reasonable skill; the result of being stationed in Transalpine Gaul for so long. I do remember seeing marks similar to that though, carved or painted in various places like graffiti.’


  Fronto smiled.

  ‘So we want to find out what it says, and maybe see if we can find the matching one of the pair among Longinus’ men.’

  Balbus nodded and once more, pulled the spear from the ground.

  ‘I’ll speak to a couple of people about it tonight while things are quieter.’

  Fronto smiled.

  ‘Thanks, Quintus. We’ve got to get this psychopath. Can’t have Gaulish assassins hiding in the legions.’

  The two clasped hands and then went their separate ways.

  * * * * *

  Aulus Ingenuus was a lesser cavalry officer, a decurion, who had volunteered for this duty because it got him out in the open. Who could have preferred to be back in that hollow with the choking smoke of burning flesh filling his throat and making him gag? Better by far to be out here, even if it meant the danger of meeting the Helvetii, and the constant smell of Gaulish auxiliaries who seemed unable to grasp the most rudimentary concepts of bathing.

  Six regular legionary cavalry decurions had been chosen to keep the auxiliaries in line during this morning’s pursuit and reconnaissance mission. Obviously, most of the regulars, including the true cavalry prefects, were back in the dip, respectfully choking in the smoke of that centurion from the Tenth. The auxilia had no such restraints placed on them and had been assigned this morning’s duties. It was Ingenuus’ first chance at an independent command. Six alae of cavalry, numbering five hundred men apiece, commanded each by a regular officer, temporarily filling in as a prefect.

  With the way Caesar’s cavalry contingent was expanding on a weekly basis, Ingenuus was looking forward to speedy promotion, and taking every opportunity to command and to shoulder responsibility would be a helpful step in that direction.

  The day was bright and clear, and the yellow globe hanging mildly over the horizon promised a warm afternoon. The smell of flowers, grass and all the Magna Mater’s bounteous gifts assailed him. Today was a good day to be alive.

  He had drawn the Fourth Ala that rode along the eastern side of the valley floor, heading toward a crest where the ground fell away and beyond which would be the Helvetii. The Fifth, slightly further east, rode parallel with them along the ridge and somewhere out of sight beyond them would be the Sixth. The First, Second and Third mirrored their positions off to the west.