Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Forget changing your animals, Aulus, there isn’t going to be time. You’re all armed and you all have horses. Give the order to form up and get one of them to give me a sword.’

  As Ingenuus nodded, unhappy at the idea, Fronto looked around for Velius and drove in closer to him.

  ‘Lucius. Take your men back to the column and get them mounted up on the ala’s horses. Do it quick and get them moving toward Vesontio. Ingenuus and I are going to deal with our pursuers.’

  For a moment, he thought the centurion was going to argue with him. Velius tended to ignore rank at times like this and had his own very set ideas of what a legion’s commander should do. Instead, the grizzled veteran nodded once and turned his own horse toward the front of the Roman column, gesturing to the other legionaries as he did so.

  Fronto was sure he heard the man say ‘Idiot!’ as he left.

  He looked back at the cavalry, who had formed into a spearhead formation and slowed enough to maintain the line. Ingenuus, at the head of the unit, gestured Fronto to join him. As the legate pulled into his place in the formation, Ingenuus held out a spare cavalry long sword. Fronto took it and gave it a few experimental sweeps. The weight and balance were so different to the standard gladius that he almost lost his grip on the blade. He wished he had had time to retrieve his own sword. Despite the fact that the army was trained to use it in a stabbing motion, the shape and sharpness of the gladius made it reasonably effective in a slicing motion. Ah well.

  The Germans were closing on the column. Velius and his men were a little ahead of them, shouting orders. All along the hill there was activity as wagons were set rolling and men climbed onto the unfamiliar steeds of the cavalry, who would have to move right now or the Germans would be among the cohort. Ingenuus let forth a cry and the ala charged at the barbarian riders down the very slight incline.

  The ala hit the Germans from the side. The effect could have been devastating had they been correctly armed and armoured and on their own steeds. Equipped as they were, however, and with no element of surprise, the impact on the mass of Germans was soon dealt with. A few of the scouts tried to pull out to the other side and continue after the cohort, but Ingenuus had sent off a third of the ala around the front to head off any such attempt. The Germans ground to a halt, unable to pursue the column, and began to take out their frustration on the Roman cavalry.

  A big man wearing a strangely horned bronze helmet and a breast plate of the same material over a rough woven shirt rose up on his steed and held a large Celtic sword above his head, ready to bring it down on Fronto who was looking the other way. One of the troopers shouted a warning and the legate, turning just in time to see the man begin his downward sweep, pulled his horse in close and ducked. The sword, aided by gravity and its weight came down wide; Fronto was too close for the clumsy blade. Instead, the man’s balled fists and the hilt of the sword smashed into his shoulder.

  An explosion of pain and blinding white light went off in his head. He had had such little experience recently of proper combat that he had almost completely grown used to his delicate arm, desensitised to its steady, constant throb. A heavy blow to it, however, brought back all the pain he had felt all those months ago. His arm felt as though it had been dipped in a vat of hot oil. Fortunately he had, over the intervening period of convalescence, taken to wielding blades with his left arm, so the blow did not disarm him.

  The trooper was rushing in to help him against the big German, but he would not get there in time. Grunting with the pain, Fronto looked up to see the German leaning back in the saddle and raising the sword for another downward stroke that would surely cut him in half.

  Wincing, Fronto brought up the heavy blade with his left arm, wishing once again that he had his own sword with him. With immense effort, he thrust the sword at the German in a stabbing motion that strained the muscles of his arm. Unable to manage an accurate thrust with such a heavy blade, the blow went awry. Shaving a piece of metal from the side of the breast plate, the blade passed through only the very edge of the man’s abdomen, drawing blood but not inhibiting him.

  Fortunately, the surprise threw the German’s blow off-target again and the heavy sword swept down a mere finger-width from Fronto’s head. The blade cut deep into the leather horn at one corner of the legate’s saddle and drew blood from both Fronto’s leg and the horse’s back. Fronto held his breath for what seemed an eternity, expecting the horse to collapse with a broken back or to buck with the pain of the blow. Instead, the beast kept its composure, most of the blow having been absorbed by the saddle. A look of surprise crossed the German’s face, and Fronto suddenly realised that the blade had jammed in the saddle and the brawny man was trying to wrench it back out.

  The legate tried moving his right arm, gripping his hand into a fist. He could close his fingers though there was precious little strength evident in the grip. His arm moved, so nothing had apparently been re-broken. His shoulder may have been chipped, however. There was immense pain as his arm came anywhere near shoulder height. There was no hope then of using his right hand to take the blade off the German. Instead, he swept the long cavalry blade back and down, and then rolled his shoulder, bringing his left arm over his head in an arc. The sharp, sweeping cavalry blade came down with less force than the German’s blows had, but so much sharper. The big man stared in horror as the top half of his arm wrenched free and sprayed his precious lifeblood over the Roman. The lower arm remained attached to the blade jammed in the Roman’s saddle.

  Fronto had just enough time to register, with satisfaction, the look on the barbarian’s face, before the man toppled backwards from his horse, out of sight. Wincing again, he grinned at the cavalry trooper who had come to help him, but had not been in time to interfere.

  ‘Big bastard, wasn’t he.’

  The trooper grinned back.

  ‘Best have the capsarius have a look at that when we get back to the column.’

  Fronto nodded and held out the cavalry blade.

  ‘Hold that for me.’

  With a working free hand, the legate prised the fingers free from the hilt of the German sword and let the severed arm fall to the grass. He suddenly became aware of how he must look. Soot-blackened and now liberally covered with sticky drying blood he would hardly be recognisable as the commander of the Tenth, which explained why the trooper had not been addressing him as sir. Fine by him. He did not really feel like a legate right now anyway. With a great deal of effort, he levered the Celtic blade from the saddle horn. Below, a thin stripe of red betrayed the minor wound received by the horse. He smiled and, retrieving the cavalry sword, sheathed it at his side, hefting the German’s Celtic blade with his left hand. Now this was a heavy blade.

  He smiled at the trooper again, weighing the sword.

  ‘Looks like I’m starting to collect these!’

  It took him a moment to realise that the cavalryman was no longer paying attention. He had turned away from Fronto and was urging his horse on into the fray. The legate glanced around him. There had been perhaps two hundred German scouts; maybe two hundred and fifty. The ala had numbered three hundred, so the results were not entirely predictable. The mass of horsemen were now hard to distinguish from one another. The regular cavalrymen wore red and a light leather colour with no armour so that, in the poor light, it was hard to tell who was fighting who. Fronto squinted into the mass until he spotted a man who was clearly a German hammering blows at a Roman.

  The legate made for the attacker, sweeping the Celtic broad sword back and out to one side. He doubted he would have the strength required to deliver an overhead blow with it like the Germans did. Coming within reach, Fronto swept the blade around in a wide arc. The edge caught the unarmoured German in the lower back, smashing through ribs and almost certainly severing the spinal cord. A single, violent spasm wracked the man’s body, and his blade toppled from his fingers.

  Fronto wrenched the sword out of the man’s back and, with a sickening crunching no
ise, the man’s top half fell forward, all but severed, onto the horse’s neck. Fronto pulled his gaze away from the horrible sight and looked around. The worst of it was over, with pockets of fighting still going on, but the majority of the cavalry had assembled on the nearby rise. Fronto made for the group.

  It took him moments to spot Ingenuus, also drenched in blood; some of it his own. The man was laughing and talking to one of his men. Fronto trotted his horse up to the cavalry prefect.

  ‘Good evening.’

  A number of the cavalrymen nodded nonchalantly.

  Ingenuus raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Some decorum please, lads. This here’s legate Fronto of the Tenth and the general staff.’

  The cavalry pulled themselves to attention.

  ‘Don’t worry about it lads. I wouldn’t recognise me right now either.’

  Laughter rippled through the ranks as more of the troopers joined the knot on the hill. The fighting was effectively over. Fronto tried to do a rough count but gave up.

  ‘Ingenuus. What’s the damage to the unit d’you reckon?’

  The prefect made a swift move and jumped up onto the saddle with the practised ease of one of the equine entertainers that occasionally preceded a race at the hippodrome in Rome. Standing on his saddle, he scanned the crowd around him and then dropped back into a seated position in another fluid action.

  ‘I’d estimate about fifty sir; seventy five at the most.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  It was more than Fronto liked but considerably less than they deserved. A quarter as many casualties as the enemy.

  ‘Let’s catch up with the cohort. We should be able to get ahead of the Germans in no time now.’

  Ingenuus nodded.

  ‘I’ll have a detachment round up spare horses. We might as well take them with us.’

  Chapter 16

  (The city of Vesontio)

  ‘Tribunal: A platform, carefully constructed in forts, or temporarily made from turf or wood, from which a commander would address or review troops.’

  ‘Praetorian Cohort: personal bodyguard of a general.’

  Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus pounded up the main street of the town. The street ran from the great bridge through most of the length of the place up to the massive hill that, with the horseshoe of the Dubis River, surrounded the city; the hill that was where the citadel stood and where Caesar had made his headquarters these last few days.

  He was starting to understand why Fronto liked to be in among the soldiers and involved in the lower levels of command and activity. Since the legate had been away swanning about impressing German leaders, Priscus had been called to Caesar’s headquarters almost every day and often more than once. Where he used to send a subordinate to run messages and errands, now he found himself running everywhere. No wonder Fronto was always either running or drunk. The appeal of a quiet jug of wine was tangible.

  Glancing to the sides of the street as he ran, he could see the large piles of goods that Caesar had acquired from the city. Much of it had, in all fairness, been purchased, though more had been seized. A lot of it had been moved into the camps on the other side of the river where the six legions rested. Indeed, the supplies allocated to the Tenth were all stored away in appropriate places. The other legions were an entirely different matter however. The other legions…

  Priscus redoubled his pace, panting with effort as the incline of the street became more and more pronounced the closer he got to Caesar’s headquarters. Finally he burst through the stockade gate at the top and came to a rest, his hands on his knees, puffing and panting as sweat poured from his forehead and on to the ground. The guards approached him to give the password, though half-heartedly. They all knew Priscus very well by now and they also knew he had to regain his composure before entering the building. He would give the password as soon as he caught his breath.

  Priscus waved them away, still bent double, and stuttered out the password. Remaining where he was, he drew a scarf from beneath his harness and wiped his forehead and hair with it, smoothing the damp locks back down with his hands. He nodded at the officer of the guard, who acknowledged the gesture, and then walked across the courtyard and into the building.

  As always, the headquarters was full of people, all busy and all irritable. The army had only been at Vesontio for four days. How on Earth the staff had managed to accumulate the clutter and records they had was a mystery to Priscus. He wondered if Fronto knew anything about it. Making his way down the long hall, he knocked on one of the doors and the guard opened it for him. In the large, well-lit room sat Caesar along with a number of his senior staff officers, Balbus, Crassus, Crispus and Longinus, and some of the senior centurions. Balbus nodded at him and he returned the greeting. Caesar smiled at him.

  Priscus bowed, hurriedly and not particularly respectfully. Caesar waved the pleasantries aside.

  ‘Priscus. Your report on the Tenth?’

  The centurion cleared his throat.

  ‘They’re still standing to, general. I’ve got a full guard and no visible problems from the men, but I do hear things. I’ve not pulled anyone up on it yet, ‘cause I’m pretty sure that would just be the spark that sets them off. I’ve called a meeting of all the officers of the legion as soon as I return, and I’ll sort ‘em out then.’

  Priscus looked around. Not only was Fronto’s absence still notable, but this time there were no Rufus or Galba either. Half the legions’ commanders being absent was not a good sign. Caesar gestured at Sabinus with a finger.

  ‘You see? That’s a legion. That’s my glorious Tenth. They’re understrength by an entire cohort, missing their commander and their training centurion and they still maintain order and discipline. The rest of the legions could learn a thing or two from the Tenth, as I’ve always said.’

  Priscus lowered his head. A comment that embarrassing to the other commanders could cause resentment, and Priscus was damned if he was going to look smug in front of them. From his lowered eyes, he could see legionary commanders shuffling uneasily. Crassus was the first of them to speak.

  ‘Caesar, it’s not a matter of maintaining order and discipline among the men. The rank and file are frightened of the prospect of facing unreasonable odds. All the reports we’ve received have given the German army as considerably larger than ours. Word has spread of the unpleasant practices of the Germanic tribes, their sacrifices, the fact that they are driven on by blood drinking Druids eight feet tall. All a fiction, I understand, but a fiction designed to terrify our cowardly lower ranks.’

  As Priscus looked up once more, peeved at such comments from a man he already did not like, Balbus beat him to the retort.

  ‘Crassus, these ‘cowards’ you speak of are your own men, Romans, and the backbone of the army. They’ve been building and maintaining our empire since all our families were farm owners. If the men are losing courage and morale, strength needs to come down from above. That’s what the centurionate and the tribunes are for.’

  Before Crassus could open his mouth, Balbus turned to face Caesar.

  ‘General, I have noticed among the Eighth that there is an air of despair and worry among the legionary tribunes. Some of the centurions have fallen to the same attitude, but others haven’t. Balventius, for instance, stands steadfast in his control and confidence. As a result, the First Cohort is still pulling its weight. In fact, due to the failure in morale with several of the other cohorts, the First is pulling more than its weight, and is moving and storing all the supplies for the entire legion. I firmly believe we have to pull the officers together.’

  Crassus snorted.

  ‘Don’t be naïve, Balbus. The officers are despairing because they can only do so much with nonresponsive troops. I know my officers are trying their best. I’ve had six men beaten today and their century is back to work as we speak.’

  Again, Priscus opened his mouth to speak, but was beaten to it by Crispus, legate of the Eleventh, this time.

  ‘My dear Crassus
, brutalising your men is hardly a shortcut to improving morale. Balbus is quite correct in his suggestion that the problem has to come down from the apex of the command structure. It is not to us that the troops look for potency, nor is it to the tribunes. The men look to their own commanders; to the centurions. The two most active and dedicated legions present are those whose primus pilus stands akin to a rock upon which the barbarian tide must break. I refer of course to the terrifying Balventius of the Eighth and the daunting Priscus of the Tenth. The path that we should be taking is that of a meeting of the centurions, just as Priscus has organised. If we can re-establish a dedicated chain of command, then the men will fall in readily.’

  Several of the officers began to talk at once, and Priscus stood, still near the door, wondering how anything ever got done in command meetings. They just seemed to argue for the sake of it. Caesar’s voice cut through the cacophony.

  ‘Quiet!’

  The racket died down immediately, leaving Crassus and Balbus glaring at each other angrily. Before anyone could speak again, Caesar, red faced and fuming, called a halt to the meeting.

  ‘Get out. All of you. Priscus will let me know how things go with the Tenth this afternoon and I will then decide what course of action is to be taken by the rest of you. If any one of you dares defy me or open his mouth to object, I will send you back to Rome and replace you. A legate is not a permanent appointment, remember? Now go!’

  Priscus turned to exit, and was quickly followed out by the others, mostly wearing a sheepish expression. He was amused to see Balbus and Crispus following Crassus out. The looks on their faces and poise of their bodies suggested that murder might be done soon. He gestured to the two of them.

  ‘Gentlemen.’

  Balbus had forbidden him from calling any of them sir over a week ago, since he was the effective commander of a legion. The two legates stepped out of the line of departing officers and joined Priscus in the courtyard.