Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  The two officers trotted off past the cavalry and up the hill among the scattered trees.

  ‘Wish I had a man called Felix in my legion.’ Fronto muttered. ‘Could do with a bit of luck!’

  Crispus smiled.

  ‘Perhaps not. Despite having carefully pored over all of the records of my officers, I can never recall the man’s real name. Everyone calls him Felix, though I rather get the impression that it is sarcasm. I don’t believe in luck anyway, Marcus. The centurion is first-rate at his job, and I hold that it is fate and choice that make or break.’

  He glanced sideways at Fronto and smiled.

  ‘Although it is men like you that make me doubt my creed on occasion!’

  Fronto grinned back at him.

  ‘Look at me. Do I really look lucky?’

  ‘Everyone to whom I speak believes that you may be the luckiest man in the Roman military!’

  ‘Huh!’

  ‘Or do you make your own luck, Marcus?’

  Fronto growled.

  ‘Aulus, I’m not very wealthy. I’m not very talented in anything but killing. I’ve not got enough patience for the cursus honorum and position in Rome. My sister and my mother think that I’m a waste of family blood and that the line will die with me. Indeed, the line probably will die with me, as the closest I’ve been to a good woman in years are ladies of low morals in Tarraco or Aquileia. I’ll most likely die in a fountain of blood on a field hundreds of miles outside Roman territory.’

  He realised he was starting to feel angry and that Crispus might get the impression it was aimed at him, but the ball was rolling downhill now.

  ‘You and Balbus and the others have a chance. Balbus has his family back in Massilia. You are a very educated man and will go a long way in Rome. Longinus will retire some time to Spain or Umbria and live with his horses; his one passion. Galba will probably own a gladiator Ludus in the end. Crassus will probably rule the empire unless Caesar beats him to it. Me? I’ll be up to my elbows in blood and guts and drunk every night.’

  He was worried for a moment that he had gone too far. Crispus’ face was mortified. The young legate looked as though one of the Gods had died in front of him. Then he smiled slowly.

  ‘I’m stuck for words to describe adequately how I feel about that, Marcus, so let me borrow some from one of your men: Shit! Absolute unadulterated drivel. I know you better than you think I do, Marcus Falerius Fronto. You may not be from a ludicrously wealthy family like Crassus, but your family are not poor. After this campaign is over, you will return to Italy a very wealthy man. You have enough reputation that you could secure a very nice post by then. You could be a governor. Perhaps Spain, since you know it well. Balbus has told me several times what his daughters thought of you. You can have any future you choose Marcus, and I won’t listen to any more self-deluded rubbish.’

  Fronto blinked. For a long moment, he stared, and then he laughed; laughed so hard he almost unhorsed himself.

  ‘Well I can see the other legions from here and they’re just standing there. Let’s get back to our units and let them stand at ease for now. Ariovistus isn’t coming until after lunch.’

  * * * * *

  The early afternoon sun beat down on the defences where Tetricus chewed on a strip of pork, leaning on one of the ballistae. Squinting across the field, he stopped chewing, the pork forgotten for a moment. His eyes strained, unsure whether there was anything out there or whether heat haze and bright sun were playing tricks with his mind and his eyes. Swallowing the mouthful, he leaned across the mechanism to the optio who controlled the ballista.

  ‘Optio, look over toward the Germans. Can you see anything?’

  The soldier leaned forward and strained his eyes, raising his hand to ward off the sunlight.

  ‘Don’t think there’s… Wait. Cavalry.’

  Tetricus followed suit to confirm the soldier’s report.

  ‘Shit.’

  Thousands of cavalry were hurtling across the grass. They had left their camp and marshalled their force before their charge, all unknown to the Roman defenders due to the hazy conditions. Now they would reach the defences in moments. Tetricus ran to the cornicen.

  ‘Sound the alert.’

  As the notes trumpeted out across the camp, the sudden sound of thousands of heavy infantry falling in filled the air. The Tenth and Eleventh would be very lucky to have a reasonable force in position to defend the camp. Glancing to the far left, Tetricus heaved a sigh of relief as Longinus and the cavalry swept around and forward toward the enemy. All they had to do was buy enough time.

  The German force was massive. Perhaps not the full weight of Ariovistus, but certainly a sizeable part of it, greatly outweighing the Roman defenders. Again, the cavalry came at the front, supported by swift warriors on foot, one running with each horseman. Behind them came the mass of footmen, all armed and armoured according to their own individual whim and status.

  Tetricus had been confirmed as commander of the artillery and had three ballistae set up on platforms along the front rampart. In between, the first reasonably prepared centuries of the Tenth and Eleventh moved up to the rampart and into position. With a quick glance back at the camp, he could see Fronto and Crispus and the various higher officers manoeuvring their men into place.

  The men now in position on the wall watched the two cavalry forces hurtling toward one another. There were cheers and shouts of encouragement all along the walls as the Roman and German cavalry hit each other with a sound like a collapsing building. The dust raised by both groups of horse was phenomenal, and for long moments the entire engagement was lost to view at the defences. Then, gradually, the cloud settled and just a thin haze remained with the occasional small billow as horses manoeuvred for position.

  As Tetricus scanned the battle, he spotted Varus, the cavalry prefect from the Ninth, slashing maniacally to left and right with his long cavalry sword. The prefect was causing such devastation that the Germans were starting to give him a wide berth. Tetricus grinned. Without having had to give the order, the crews had loaded the ballistae and moved all the ammunition into ready position. He would love to start them loosing, but it would be too dangerous at the moment, with the Roman cavalry so mixed in the melee. He took another look behind him, to see that the legions were now almost in position. Nodding briefly to the cornicen, he jogged to the other end of the artillery platform, to where Longinus had stationed his signal group.

  ‘Time to sound the cavalry recall, I’d say, centurion.’

  The man nodded and moments later the call blared out across the field. The cavalry began to return to the camp as soon as they had enough room to turn round in the melee. Varus and two other cavalry officers formed them up and restored the line as soon as they were detached, retreating slowly, but in formation, to the end of the fortifications.

  Tetricus scanned further across the field. Still perhaps a third of the cavalry were involved in close and heavy fighting, not having enough freedom to disengage and return. He chewed his lip, wondering whether to seek permission from his commanding officer, but a tribune was a senior officer and should be allowed to make command decisions when he deemed fit. Besides, the trapped cavalry were running out of time.

  ‘Ready the ballistae. Be very careful and very accurate. I want you to loose into the mass and try and give our cavalry some room to manoeuvre. If any one of you hits one of our men, I’ll personally kick you up and down the wall.’

  With grim, determined expressions, the ballista crews began to loose their shots, taking considerably longer than was customary. To begin with, their shots fell largely wide or short due to the care they were taking to avoid Roman casualties. Slowly, the shots began to pick their targets and here and there, hard-pressed Roman cavalrymen found room to turn and retreat as Germans were plucked from their horses and hurled into the mass, leaving a vapour trail of blood through the air.

  Tetricus became aware of someone standing next to him on the platform. Fronto’s voice
was low.

  ‘Well done, man. They’re as accurate as I’ve ever seen. Where’s Longinus?’

  ‘I don’t know sir. Haven’t seen him yet.’

  Fronto frowned.

  ‘Why does the bastard always have to lead from the front? That’s what the centurionate do, not senior staff officers.’

  Tetricus smiled at the legate.

  ‘Nothing you’d do at all then sir?’

  Fronto grunted.

  ‘There he is!’

  The tribune followed Fronto’s gesture. Longinus had carved a path through the German cavalry and was behind them, among the non-mounted warriors. Now he was making for the edge of the force. Though he was too distant to see clearly, he was obviously unhurt, as his sword rose and fell like a bird of prey swooping down for the kill. Moments later, he was out and riding along the edge of the German force, occasionally taking a swipe as he made for the defences.

  All along the front of the enemy mass, cavalrymen had fallen, both Roman and German, though many had made it to the safety of the walls.

  Fronto grinned along the line of the tenth.

  ‘Ready yourselves lads. It’ll be our turn in a few moments and we have to hold this wall.’

  The tense, expectant feel among the men was tangible as the legate turned once more to face the Germans. A small party of Ariovistus’ cavalry had broken off from the main force and were chasing Longinus as he ploughed his way toward the south corner of the fort. Fronto felt his heart falter for a moment as a thrown spear passed by Longinus close enough to shave with. He turned and slapped his hand on the ballista.

  ‘Tetricus, get this thing trained on that group and give him some support.’

  As the tribune and his men reoriented the weapon, Fronto returned his gaze to the chase. There were seven of them. Longinus had come out of the German force on a different side to the majority of his men, and had been far too deep among them to receive sufficient support. He was on his own, racing for the fort and nothing anyone on the wall could do would help. Even Tetricus’ ballista would be unlikely to hit such fast-moving targets.

  He felt himself swallow nervously as the watched and realised that everyone around him had fallen silent. He whispered under his breath, too quiet for the men to hear.

  ‘Come on you bastard… come on!’

  Suddenly from behind the fort’s south corner, two more cavalry troopers appeared, making a bee-line for the German pursuers. Fronto thought he recognised Varus, but the other was unknown. The two raced toward Longinus, but they would not reach him in time. Though Longinus’ favourite black Galician was a beautiful horse, the German horses were larger and faster. With a fresh wave of horror, Fronto realised what he was doing.

  Longinus, with no hope of outpacing his pursuers, reined in and turned to face them. The two supporting cavalrymen pushed their steeds as hard as they could to reach their commander. Four more cavalry were now leaving the safety of the fort to support him. The commander, as was his wont, bore no shield but, as Fronto watched, he drew his pugio dagger with his second hand and rode at the Germans.

  The legate barely dared breathe as he watched. Longinus hit the front two Germans with tremendous force, their horses smashing into each other. As the horses fell and rolled, Longinus was first to his feet, though one of the Germans had apparently died in the clash. Longinus’ dagger glinted red and the body lay on its side, curled tight. The other German pulled himself to his feet and reached for his fallen sword. He looked up just in time for Longinus’ blade to cut clean through his neck, and his head rolled away across the grass.

  The five other Germans were on him now, though Varus and his companion were only moments away. The first German to reach him received a slash across the stomach that threw him from the horse. Almost simultaneously, his dagger found the leg of the next, plunging deep and ripping open the man’s calf.

  Turning to face the next, drenched in blood, Longinus failed to see the man behind him; the one with the torn leg. The German wheeled his horse round. Fronto stared in horror as the man brought his huge Celtic blade down in an over arm sweep and cleaved deep into Longinus’ shoulder. The commander cried out in pain so loud that Fronto swore he could hear it even over the din as the dagger fell from Longinus’ useless hand. He staggered and turned, raising his sword to the wounded German, blinded by blood and rage. His sword swung, off-target, and a spear thrown by one of the remaining pursuers caught him beneath his shoulder blade. The commander jerked straight, his sword toppling from his fingers, twitching violently, as the one with the wounded leg smiled a vicious smile and brought down his blade once again, ending the life of Gaius Longinus, Master of the cavalry.

  Mere moments later, before even the commander’s body had hit the floor, Varus and his companion fell upon the Germans, carving them repeatedly, driven by rage and grief. The other four cavalrymen joined them and the sight of their rage being taken out upon the bodies of German warriors already dead sickened even the most veteran of the watching legionaries. For a moment it looked like the troopers were going to ride on and attack the entire German force, though Varus motioned them back. He was the last to leave the site, dismounting, heaving the body of his commander on to the Galician and leading it back with his own horse.

  Fronto, stunned and shocked, realised that he was standing like a gawping idiot while the Germans were already engaging further along by the Eleventh. Here by the Tenth, they were still thirty feet or so away. He turned, wiping his face, and looked down at the pale and anguished face of Priscus.

  ‘Do you feel like defending today?’

  ‘No bloody way sir.’

  He shouted above the noise of the oncoming Germans.

  ‘Cornicen: sound the advance!’

  The musician, taken by surprise, put the long, curved horn to his mouth and blew the call.

  Crispus heard the bleating over the sounds of combat and glanced to the other end of the wall in surprise. The Tenth were swarming over the wall and toward the Germans. That was not the plan; they were to defend the fort. Longinus and his men had done their job well, and the legions had been prepared. The Eleventh had been hit by them a couple of moments ago, but why the hell would Fronto abandon the plan and go for such foolhardy actions?

  For a moment Crispus was dumbfounded, totally unsure what to do with this change of plan. He knew that the Roman position was strong; that they could hold the wall for ages without falling and that a march into such a large army against unknown odds was risky at best. All of his knowledge of tactical histories urged him to sound the Tenth’s recall. For some reason, though, he found himself shouting at his cornicen ‘Sound the advance!’

  The Eleventh, deep in the bloody business of Roman frontline warfare, heard the call. Despite their situation, the shield wall pulled a little tighter together and, slowly, smashing at German arms and faces with their huge, bronze shield bosses, they pushed the mass back from the slope.

  Crispus smiled. Fronto would not be alone. The Eleventh would be there to defend his flank, as they always were. He had disagreed with everything Fronto had said this morning and was damned if he was going to see the man lying dead on this field due to lack of support.

  All along the fortifications, the legions had swept forward into the Germans. Fronto had been the first down the bank, in front of the Tenth’s leading centurions. He had been the first member of the Tenth to take a German life. After almost an hour of brutality the news had reached Crispus, standing on the wall behind his troops and cheering them on, of the death of Longinus. He had been ashamed later for having temporarily left his legion, but he had to see. Varus, the cavalry prefect, had brought the body back, and had laid it on one of the platforms, where the body was in full view of the field. Crispus had looked down at the corpse and had felt something harden inside; a knot of twisted pain and cold anger.

  The young man had fought in the engagements of the Eleventh before, but had fought carefully and calmly and usually at the edge or the rear, when on
ly rarely the enemy actually reached him. Now white, cold, icy fire flowed through his veins and his senior officers, tribunes and centurions alike were shocked to see the young, educated, well-spoken and noble Crispus hauling his own soldiers out of the way in order to get to the enemy, growling like a starving wolf.

  Fronto and Crispus met up as the sun began to sink behind the hills. The Germans were finally retreating into the safety of their camp, though many of their army’s rear ranks had returned considerably earlier. Countless dead of both sides lay strewn across the battlefield and as they walked, the two legates had to stumble and sidestep the grisly remains. The two, blood-soaked and grimy, walked stiffly, tired and with no smile playing across their lips.

  With the centuries of their legions moving slowly, victorious, across the field back to their camp, the legates paused at the embankment. Varus sat on the platform next to the body of his commander, drinking unwatered wine directly from the jug. He looked up as he saw the two approach and held the jug out wordlessly. Crispus reached out and took the container, upending it and pouring the wine into his mouth and across his face in a torrent, washing the blood from his skin. He threw the empty jug onto the platform. Fronto looked around at the Tenth, dragging themselves back to camp, and grasped the mail shirt of one of the immunes legionaries.

  ‘Find me wine. Plenty of wine.’

  The soldier took one look at Fronto’s face and hurried off into the camp as the legate turned back to see Crispus crouched by the body. He tore a long strip of blood-soaked tunic from the commander’s corpse and tied it round his upper arm. As Crispus turned back, there was a tear in the corner of his eye. The legates of the Tenth and Eleventh dropped heavily to the turf platform.

  * * * * *

  The sound of hundreds of hoof beats distracted Fronto from his train of thought, and his voice trailed away. He dropped the wine jug to the turf, and he, Varus and Crispus all turned to look at the new arrivals. Caesar sat astride his white charger, with Crassus beside him and Ingenuus with a number of the cavalry.