Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  In order to give Nonus as much cover as possible, he grabbed a handful of pebbles from below the rock face and, clambering round the side of the boulder, hurled the pebbles at head height among the Gauls. The shouts suggested his aim had been accurate, and the missiles aimed at Nonus slackened for a moment.

  Velius held the shield up to ward off a number of blows and, moments later, Nonus was by his side. As he made a few tentative strikes with his sword, Nonus grabbed a handful of pebbles and repeated the earlier gesture. The two continued to harass the Helvetii as much as they could, and finally Curtius arrived at the rock, his sword arm hanging limp at his side, clearly broken. Jamming his shield into the gap with his good arm, he leaned toward Velius.

  ‘Anyone seen Albius?’

  ‘No. He can’t have made it. Are the troops moving yet?’

  Curtius glanced around and over his shoulder.

  ‘They’re on their way.’

  Velius breathed deeply. This was it. The legions surged up the slope like locusts over a lush field, bearing down on the beleaguered and now doomed Helvetii.

  Balbus, who had been at the rear of the legion, jogged forward to reach the primus pilus. Balventius led, as all the centurionate did, from the front. The Eighth was closing in, slowly but surely, on the Helvetian baggage. On the other side of the baggage train, Crispus’ Eleventh was closing the trap. There was no escaping the encircling Romans, but the Helvetii had formed a makeshift rampart from their wagons and were fighting with spears from beneath and behind the vehicles.

  Balbus knew as he felt Crispus must, that one quick rush would overwhelm the survivors, but would cost the legions dearly. Instead, both legates were maintaining a careful attitude to the assault. The wagons were surrounded by a Roman shield wall, and every cycle of the horns a different century or two were sent forward to push at one of the wagons. The tactics were working. The Roman losses had been negligible, but the Gauls were gradually being thinned out, and the defences of their makeshift wall were becoming dangerously stretched.

  Balventius stood dangerously close to the enemy, in front of the Eighth, wielding only his vine staff and with his shield propped against his leg. One well-aimed shot from the Gauls could kill him outright.

  The man would never learn. Balbus sighed. He had now known some of the Tenth for a few months, and their primus pilus, Priscus, reminded him strongly of Balventius. It must be something about the position. To become a centurion took a certain fearlessness and strength of character; indeed to want to become a centurion indicated a certain audacity. To survive as long in the centurionate as Balventius had suggested invulnerability. Balventius was due his honesta missio at the end of this year, and would probably leave the legion to go farm somewhere in Cisalpine Gaul. Good for him; bad for the Eighth. They would have to promote a new primus pilus, and change was never that good. Balbus reached the front of the Eighth, legionaries respectfully making way for him, and motioned Balventius aside.

  ‘Titus, you sent for me. What’s up?’

  Balventius smiled at his commander. His face was a patchwork of scars, and one of his eyes was filmed over with a milky white, the result of an action against bandits near Geneva early last year. The smile was disturbing in such a face. Balbus wondered what the enemy felt when they saw him, as the sight made even him shiver occasionally.

  ‘Sir, it’s nothing vital, but I would think we’re going to break through in the next couple of pushes, and I thought you’d want to see.’

  Balbus nodded.

  ‘Absolutely. I can see how thin their defences have become. Well done. A marvellous job. I shall say so to Caesar when I see him.’

  Balventius turned his evil features toward the Eighth again.

  ‘Fabius! Petreius! Your turns. Get your centuries moving and see if we can break them this time.’

  Two sets of horns blared and the signifers signalled the advance with their standards. A hundred and fifty men moved out of the shield wall at a steady pace, keeping formation. The two centuries, side by side, moved in toward a wagon that had been turned on its side. Five bodies in the kit of the Eighth lay before the wagon, but dozens of Celtic bodies littered the ground around and behind it. The wagon was defended by little more than two dozen men now.

  Balbus, his hearing sharp as he carried his helmet under his arm, could hear the two centurions speaking to each other and to their men as they moved forward.

  ‘Alright lads, we’re not making a bit of a push. We’re not stopping until we’re in the centre of the baggage, you got that?’

  The rumbling affirmative noise from the troops radiated enthusiasm. The men of the Eighth were itching for a fight after being held back for so long.

  As Balbus watched, the two centuries picked up speed on their assault, finally hitting the wagon at a run. After his earlier discussions with Balventius they had decided on a slow and steady advance each time, gradually wearing the enemy down. Nowhere in their discussions had there been mention of a mad charge.

  The front wave of legionaries leapt and climbed, surging over the wagon and into the Gauls, heedless of the blows they received from the defenders. Among them the two centurions were in the first few men over the barricade. Once they were clear and fighting in open ground, the second wave hit, putting their shoulders to the wagon and heaving it back onto its wheels. As they trundled the wagon aside to leave a gap in the wall, the rest of the centuries swept past and into the defenders.

  Balbus turned to Balventius.

  ‘I think you might as well sound the general advance.’

  Balventius cupped his hand round his ear as the signal to break formation blared out.

  ‘Way ahead of you sir. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some Gauls to disembowel. Can’t let the rest of the lads get there first, or they won’t leave me any.’

  With a quick salute and without waiting for a reply, Balventius turned and ran toward the defences, his sword in one hand, vine staff in the other and shield left forgotten, lying in the dirt. Balbus shook his head again. The man should be given his honesta missio for his own good, before he got himself killed.

  Glancing at the rest of the Eighth as they moved in, he realised that Balventius was not alone. The legion screamed and roared like the crowd at an amphitheatre as they hurtled in an unruly mass toward the wagons. Even the signifers were running, bloodlust contorting their faces.

  It struck him again how much good the campaign was doing his legion after their long sojourn in Massilia. He sighed, flicked the point of his sword with his thumbnail, and placed his helmet on his head. Ah well. If he was going to go today, nothing he could do about it. Time to join the lunatics.

  As he turned and charged, his shouts were lost among those of his men.

  Chapter 12

  (The Aedui town of Bibracte)

  ‘Praetorium: The area in the centre of a temporary camp reserved for the tent of the commander and where the legion’s eagle and the signifers’ standards were grounded.’

  ‘Immunes: Soldiers excused from routine legionary duties as they possessed specialised skills that qualified them for other duties.’

  The staff officers, legates and military tribunes sat in the command tent facing the general. Caesar wore the same self-righteous smile that had graced his visage since the middle of the night, when the last of the Helvetii on the field had surrendered, and the legions had stood down from battle status. Fronto kept having to avert his eyes, watching the other legates. Every time he saw that smug look it made him angry. Caesar had seriously underestimated the enemy, planned the attack badly and turned what should have been a foregone conclusion into a desperate and dangerous battle. If it had not been for the tactical knowledge and the quick thinking of young Crispus, the army might have been entirely destroyed.

  Word had quickly passed round the officers of what had happened yesterday, though most of the troops had been either dealing with their wounds, attending to the dead, or collapsed through exhaustion. No official account h
ad been taken, and now the officers had been called together for just that purpose.

  Longinus was wrapping up his account as Fronto turned his attention once more toward his colleagues.

  ‘…so I sent two alae of cavalry after them. It seems that the rest of the tribe were waiting about a mile away from the hill, staying out of the way of the battle. There must have been about ten or fifteen thousand survivors from the battle, and they hooked up with the women and children and headed away up north. One of the Aedui cavalry commanders informs me that they’re probably headed for the land of a tribe called the Lingones, as they’re likely to be sympathetic. All in all, we can estimate somewhere from a hundred to a hundred and fifty thousand of the tribe have got away, but we’ll keep them tracked. They can’t get away. Most of their warriors are gone.’

  Longinus stood for a moment longer and then took his seat. Caesar nodded at Balbus, who struggled to his feet.

  ‘Sir, the Eighth and the Eleventh acquitted themselves well at the Helvetian baggage camp. I’m sure you’re aware, as all the officers are, of the part legate Crispus played in this victory, so I’ll not go into detail. Suffice it to say that we had to kill most of the defenders before the remaining few would consider surrender. We took just over a thousand captives and they are currently being held under guard in a specially constructed stockade within Bibracte. Perhaps more importantly, I am informed that among the survivors are two of the children of Orgetorix, the man who tried to pull off a coup early this year, before the Helvetii left. We have all the Helvetii goods and baggage. In all, we suffered grievous losses during the mid-phases of the battle, numbering…’

  Caesar raised his hand.

  ‘Don’t bother with the statistics, legate. I have had Sabinus collect all the figures, so we’ll hear from him afterwards. It is enough that we know how the legions acquitted themselves.’

  As Balbus sat, Caesar motioned to Fronto, who sighed and stood.

  ‘As you’re probably already aware Caesar, we lost a number of men in the assault on the hill. It was Velius and some of his more idiotic men who broke the stalemate. Not how I would have preferred it, but he did get it done. We captured a little over a thousand ourselves, and they’re in the stockade with Balbus and Crispus’ captives. Nothing more to say, I think.’

  He sat down and smiled. He knew his offhand manner would irritate Caesar, and the thought that he might get on the general’s nerves soothed him. Someone had to be a thorn in the great man’s side, and it often fell to Fronto.

  Caesar cleared his throat in annoyance and gestured to Sabinus. The officer got to his feet and opened a series of wax tablets.

  ‘I’ve received the totals from each legion and totted them up. We suffered a loss of a little over five thousand men, and another six thousand wounded, walking or otherwise.’

  Fronto whistled through his teeth. An entire legion’s worth of dead and a legion’s worth of wounded. That was critical.

  ‘Taking into account the losses we had already suffered before yesterday, I felt it prudent to have a headcount made for each legion. The results are a little disturbing. Counting the walking wounded toward the surviving totals, the Seventh Legion are currently operating nearly a thousand below strength, the Eighth: one and a half thousand, the Ninth: a thousand, the Tenth: one and a half, the Eleventh: two thousand, and the Twelfth: five hundred. All in all, the army is currently down seven and a half thousand regulars, including the drastically injured, with a further four and a half thousand currently unavailable due to injury.’

  Sabinus sat back.

  Fronto and Balbus exchanged perturbed glances.

  Caesar tapped his chin, deep in thought for several long moments, before he spoke.

  ‘We cannot move from this location at the current time. It’s going to take a few days to stabilise all the wounded and to bury the dead. Longinus, I would like you to arrange a courier for me. I want a message taking to these Lingones. Tell them that if they give any sort of help at all to the refugees, we will do to them what we did to the Helvetii. I refuse to play around any longer. The Helvetii are to be given two choices. Either they come back to Bibracte immediately and surrender, or we will follow them and bring war to them again, killing the two thousand survivors we have here in the meantime. Make sure they understand, Longinus. I will not pursue them any more. If I have to chase down the rest of them, I will kill them all, sparing no one.’

  Longinus stood, saluting.

  ‘I will take care of this myself, sir. I’ll take an honour guard and deliver your terms.’

  Caesar nodded.

  ‘Very well. In the meantime, we must tend to the wounded and the dead and deal with the trial of Dumnorix. I will not call this campaign short, and I won’t return to the province to resupply or bolster the legions. I will have a dispatch rider sent to Aquileia, telling the garrison commander to begin recruiting and training men ready to join us during the winter break in campaigning. In the meantime, we press on with the numbers we have.’

  He looked around once more at the officers.

  ‘I want volunteers to sit at the trial of Dumnorix. Fronto and I are attending, but we will need another eight volunteers. Anyone from the rank of tribune up will be acceptable. I realise this is none of your idea of a relaxing time, but I will be personally grateful for your attendance. If you are interested in attending the trial in three days, come to my tent between now and the evening watch. Other than that, I believe we’re done here. Dismissed, gentlemen.’

  As the officers poured out of the tent, Fronto collared the other five legates.

  ‘Unless you have anything serious to attend to, I suggest we go into the town and find that nice little tavern with the shady garden. I don’t know about you, but it’s been a long night, and I need a drink.’

  Balbus and Longinus nodded wearily. Crispus smiled.

  ‘Perhaps a couple before I turn in.’

  Balbus grinned at him.

  ‘I think you earned it, Aulus.’

  Galba declined, claiming exhaustion, and Crassus shook his head.

  ‘I have more important matters to attend to. Thank you.’

  Balbus stretched and grasped Fronto’s shoulder, noticing the blazing irritation in his eyes as he glared at Crassus.

  ‘If we’re going to do any kind of celebrating, we need to get a few others here. Priscus and Velius, Balventius and Sabinus… and Tetricus?’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Why not, and there’s someone else, too, but I’ll find him. I’ll see you at the tavern in about half an hour.’

  As the others went their own ways Fronto wandered wearily, stretching as he walked, to the camp of the Tenth. Spotting Velius shouting at a couple of legionaries in the praetorium, Fronto stood patiently behind him and waited for the ranting to subside. As the two legionaries went off shamefaced, Velius turned, inhaling, on the man standing behind him, ready for a second outburst until he realised who it was.

  ‘Sir.’

  Fronto smiled at him.

  ‘Yes. Sorry to disappoint you but I want you to go and wake Priscus. You’re both going off duty with me, coz there’s drinking to be done.’

  Velius beamed at his commander.

  ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I’ll meet you back here in a hundred beats.’

  As Velius headed off toward Priscus’ tent, rubbing his hands gleefully, Fronto wandered up to the signifers who stood in a small knot, talking among themselves.

  He motioned to Petrosidius, the senior signifer, and took him to one side.

  ‘You organised the head count after the battle, didn’t you?’

  The signifer shrugged.

  ‘I combined and correlated the figures, sir, yes.’

  Fronto frowned.

  ‘Can you find out if a young recruit called Florus from the First Cohort is still alive? He might be in the Second Century, but I’m not sure. If he’s still breathing, I owe him a drink.’

  Petrosidius smiled.
>
  ‘Florus? Yes, I know him. He’s still alive. He took a bit of a battering on one shoulder, but he’s been asking the staff every few moments if it’s possible to see you. I think the doc’s about to put him to sleep!’

  Fronto returned the smile.

  ‘Thanks. I think I’ll go and rescue him.’

  Wandering off in the direction of the medical tents, Fronto’s mood began to darken again. Littering the grass to either side of the path were men clutching an assortment of severed or damaged limbs. In a number of places the grass was slippery and red, and amputated limbs lay in a heap not far from the main surgical tent, awaiting burning. Sickened, Fronto tried to put on a sympathetic face as he passed the wounded, wondering how many would be sent back to Rome pensionless. He was prepared for losses in battle and a variety of horrifying wounds but had rarely seen anything on this scale, even during the most brutal battles in Spain. Caesar’s lack of strategy had certainly left its mark on the legions.

  As Fronto made for the tent flap, a medical orderly barred his way.

  ‘I’m sorry legate, but the medical staff has enough to contend with right now. Please be good enough to call back tomorrow, when the worst cases are dealt with.’

  Fronto scowled.

  ‘I just want to find a legionary called Florus.’

  The orderly narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Are you legate Fronto?’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘In the name of Fortuna, yes. I know Florus. He’s been asking for you ever since he came in. You’ll find him just up the hill behind the tent, mixing up some poultices for us. We had to put him to some use to shut him up.’

  A smile crept back across the legate’s face. This was why he was in the army: the down sides may be horrifying, but the entire army was one big family. Edging round the tent, keeping as far away as he could from the stinking pile of limbs, he made his way up the slope.

  Florus was not easy to spot. Fronto had only met him that one night. Asking around the preparation area he was eventually directed to a corner where Florus stood, naked from the waist up, mixing a large tub of something evil-smelling with one hand. His other shoulder was bandaged and a flower of red blossomed in the centre, the result of some wound from the battle. Around the bandage, a huge black and blue bruise was coming slowly to the surface.