Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Push hard and push right. Try and join up with the Seventh!’

  Sending some of the cavalry who were free of the melee toward the right hand side, Varus began to push for the main mass of Ariovistus’ force.

  As the Roman infantry finally hit the front line, the cavalry in the centre disengaged and moved to the sides to join Varus and Crassus. The infantry reserve, led by Quintus Tullius Cicero, smashed into the Germans like a hammer on an anvil. The power with which they hit threw many a German rider from his horse and Ariovistus’ men finally gave ground, unable to bear the weight of such a heavy force.

  Separated now by the infantry reserve, the two cavalry forces on the left fought independently, Varus pushing for the centre of the field and the main mass of the enemy, Crassus harrying their flank and pushing them from the field.

  Varus caught only one more glimpse of his commander as Crassus, his shiny white and bronze armour now stained and spattered with blood and gore, wheeled his horse and fought off a German spearman. The man finally looked like the soldier he should be as far as Varus was concerned.

  As the German cavalry finally gave, riders at the back fleeing the field, accompanied by their footmen, Varus could see the mass of the Seventh Legion only ten paces away.

  ‘Let the reserves deal with the centre. We need to clear these bastards away from the edge, then we can start work on their infantry; give our lads a bit of a break.’

  He looked around. The mass of German cavalry was now well and truly broken. The rear half of them had turned and were fleeing for their lives. Footmen were being trampled as their cavalry escaped. Those that were left at the front were no longer even attempting to push forward; they fought for their life and nothing less.

  On the very edge of the field he could see Crassus’ men harrying the fleeing cavalry. They were already half way off the battlefield in their pursuit.

  ‘What the hell’s he doing now? The battle’s still happening!’

  Returning his attention to the task at hand, he spotted a small knot of German riders at the rear of the enemy cavalry, jeering at their companions as they fled. They were surrounded by footmen with long spears, but they wore a great deal of gold and bejewelled and decorative armour. Blinking at a close call from a German spear and retaliating without even thinking, he shouted above the din to his unit.

  ‘There are chieftains at the back. Push for them… I want prisoners!’

  As he kicked his horse forward, a number of his regulars and a host of Gaulish auxiliaries joined him. It was tough and bloody work hacking their way through the remaining milling cavalry, but slowly and relentlessly they closed on the small knot of German commanders. Varus could not believe his luck. It was very unlikely Ariovistus was among them, but to take captive chieftains was not only a lucrative move on a battlefield, but would also break the Germans’ spirit and increase the likelihood of a permanent surrender.

  As the last horsemen in front of them broke away or died, Varus and his small unit reached a charge and spread out enough to allow a sword swing. He had to give credit to their opponents. The chieftains did not run, merely readying their weapons for combat. The footmen, presumably their own guard, levelled their long spears. As he bore down upon them, Varus recognised the danger. The bristling long spears would wreak havoc with a charge. Pulling hard on the reins, Varus stopped in his tracks, shouting out a halt to the rest of the unit. The regular cavalrymen reined in sharply after their commander, as did many of the auxilia. Some of the Gauls, eager and undisciplined charged straight at the group.

  Varus turned his head away from the grisly sight. He hated to waste men or horses. Both were valuable.

  Glancing around, he could see the situation was turning grave for the German chieftains. To his left the reserve force and a few of the cavalry were driving the German wing from the field. To his right, the German mass was being forced back into the ‘U’ of their wagons. Varus turned and lowered his blade.

  ‘Do any of you speak Latin?’

  One of the horsemen manoeuvred his horse out ahead of the others.

  ‘I talk little.’

  Varus nodded.

  ‘You are finished here. Over. Understand?’

  The German grinned a defiant grin.

  ‘Many of us. Much left.’

  Varus shook his head.

  ‘You are finished. Surrender now. There’s no need for you all to throw away your lives. Surrender and I’ll guarantee I will do my best to see that you return to your lands across the Rhine.’

  There was a great deal of conferring among the barbarians, and then the spokesman stepped his horse further forward.

  ‘We not surrender to you. You fight us.’

  Varus sighed. So much for diplomacy. He called out a number of orders very quickly in Latin; too quick, he hoped, for the German to have followed him. Behind him the regulars and some of the Gauls formed up with their swords at the ready. The rest of the auxiliaries moved out to the edge and levelled their spears.

  ‘One more time. We don’t need the bloodshed. Will you surrender?’

  The barbarian chieftain merely snarled in response and threw his horse forward into a charge. Varus, disciplined as always, waited for the man, neatly sidestepped his mount and swung with his sword. The chieftain continued on between the regular cavalry as he slowly topped forward over his horse’s mane and then slid from the saddle and bounced along the ground before coming to a rest finally in a broken and painful position.

  Varus turned back to his men.

  ‘Release!’

  The Gaulish auxiliaries cast their spears in unison at the footmen protecting the chieftains. As many of the missiles struck home, the protective ring around the men fell away.

  Varus held the chieftains in his gaze. Without a glance at his men, he gave the order in a low, quiet voice.

  ‘Take them.’

  Varus merely sat astride his horse, viscera still running down the blade of his sword and dripping to the turf. The cavalry swarmed past on either side, bearing down on the chieftains, intent on destruction. Varus knew when to take the lead and when to let his men off the leash. There were times when soldiers needed a free hand to take out their anger and hatred over the loss of comrades or personal injuries. He looked up only once at the destruction ahead of him. Afterward they would loot the bodies and carry the gold back to their camp for their own personal funds. Such was the way of things. Varus would go back empty handed and face the judgement he had called down. For all Crassus’ change, Varus had disobeyed orders and had insulted a senior officer, and was under no misconception of what that would mean.

  As his eyes gradually focused on the grisly scene, he noticed something he had not been able to see between the horses and men. A Roman. A man in a military tunic among the few survivors still fighting for their lives against his men. A momentary worry caught him and he called out at the top of his voice; a halt to the fighting.

  As the cavalry drew back, surprised, the three remaining German warriors took the opportunity to drop their swords and surrender. Between them the Roman stood, his tunic dirty and bloody and torn, his arms tied together behind him. Varus rode forward, gesturing to his men to deal with the prisoners. He frowned at the Roman.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The man struggled to stand proud, though painfully and was still hampered by the way his arms were tied.

  ‘I’m Marcus Mettius. Staff officer of Caesar.’

  Varus stared. Everyone knew of Mettius and Procillus and their capture by Ariovistus, but no one had ever expected to see them alive again.

  ‘What of Procillus?’

  Varus dismounted and approached the officer.

  ‘I don’t know whether he lives or not,’ the man replied. ‘We were separated immediately. I must report to Caesar.’

  Varus smiled as he reached round and cut the man’s bonds.

  ‘Caesar’s chasing men halfway to the Rhine by now. I think you’d best come back and see the medicus be
fore the general returns. Use my horse. I’ll lead him and we’ll get you some clean gear.’

  Mettius smiled a relieved smile.

  ‘Thank you, but I can walk. As we go, you can tell me who you are and what’s happened since I was taken.’

  * * * * *

  Fronto had left Caesar and ridden round the back of the infantry to the centre where the third line of the Tenth had been massed. By prior arrangement with the other officers, and much to Fronto’s personal dislike, he had agreed that, since he would be scouting for Caesar’s staff, he would take position with the third line and command the reserves when they went in. As such, he had stood by his horse, holding the reins and talking to young centurion Pomponius throughout the entirety of the assault on the German line. He seriously doubted they would need the reserves. This was it. Almost certainly the last action this campaigning year, and he had missed out. The legate spat on the floor and grumbled.

  Pomponius waited until Fronto was looking away and then rolled his eyes skywards. He was getting sick and tired of the legate complaining. Most soldiers were happy to wait in the reserve. The chances of being skewered or sliced were so much slimmer.

  ‘Sir, if you’re bored why don’t you go and see the support staff. I’m sure they’re at least doing something, so you could get involved.’

  Fronto glared at Pomponius.

  ‘I’m not so desperate to shout at people that I want to watch quartermasters and medics screwing things up.’

  Pomponius merely smiled and arched one eyebrow. He may be relatively new to the ranks of the centurionate, and even relatively new to the Tenth, but like all the officers of the legion, he knew the legate very well by now. Fronto saw the raised eyebrow and sighed.

  ‘Alright, I’ll go and see the support. If anything remotely exciting happens, have someone come and get me. At least someone back there’s going to have some wine.’

  As Fronto stomped off toward the rear, Pomponius smiled again and contemplated what life could have been like with a commander who did not care.

  Fronto wandered into the makeshift hospital where the action was already fast and revolting. The battle had been going for less than half an hour, and casualties were not in short supply. Probably in the same amount of time the battle would be over, not like that protracted siege with the Helvetii. He cursed again and tapped irritably on his sword hilt. He was surveying the general carnage when his eyes lit on a familiar face.

  Titus Balventius, primus pilus of the Eighth, sat on a slight hummock in the grass with a distressed capsarius tending to some kind of wound. Fronto grinned and made his way toward the battered old centurion. The man was covered in blood and clearly a lot of it was his, though beneath the crimson stains the man was as pale as a Vestal virgin at an orgy.

  ‘Balventius. Been in the wars?’

  He slumped to the grass next to the wounded man.

  ‘Some bastard German got me when I wasn’t looking.’

  Fronto smiled again.

  ‘I take it he doesn’t look as well as you.’

  The legate glanced over the centurion’s shoulder to examine what the capsarius was doing.

  ‘Sweet Fortuna, that’s deep!’

  As Balventius nodded, the capsarius tutted irritably.

  ‘If you keep jerking around like that I’m going to end up sewing your lung to your heart, now will you keep still!’

  The centurion glanced up at Fronto from his slightly hunched position.

  ‘Are the Tenth not moving?’

  Fronto gave his customary growl.

  ‘Most of them are, but I’m commanding the reserve.’

  Balventius turned his head, causing muttering from the man.

  ‘How long are you going to be? I’ve got a unit out there with no commander.’

  The capsarius almost dropped his last stitch.

  ‘You must be bloody joking. You’ve lost enough blood to fill an amphora. You’ll be lucky if you can walk fast without fainting. And there are twenty six stitches across your shoulders with a long, deep wound. The first time you swing or lunge, you’ll rip ‘em all out, and I’ll have to start again from scratch. And that’s if you don’t lose enough blood to drop dead on the journey back. You’re out of it centurion, I’m afraid.’

  With an exaggerated tug that caused Balventius to wince, the capsarius finished sewing the wound.

  ‘Does that mean you’re done?’

  ‘I’ve just got to bandage you now.’

  Fronto leaned forward and spoke to the man.

  ‘I’ll help and, for the record, this man’s almost certainly had worse wounds.’

  Balventius nodded.

  ‘Sorry, doc. There’s no way I’d be staying back here unless I was missing a leg or something. Just get me bound.’

  He looked up at Fronto again.

  ‘If you really want to do something useful, sir, could you find one of these waste-of-good-air quartermasters and get me another mail shirt?’

  Fronto nodded and, standing, wandered away from the valetudinarium until he found one of the quartermasters directing several immunes in unloading weapons and armour from a cart. Spotting mail shirts passing around, his eyes lit on a shirt of fish-scale mail.

  ‘What’s the chance of me getting hold of one of those?’

  The quartermaster snorted derisively and then turned and realised he was speaking to a senior officer.

  ‘Sorry sir. All the scale’s spoken fer. Very popular with officers sir, and ‘arder to get than chain. I can let yer ‘ave some chain right now though. ‘Ow many d’yer need?’

  Fronto grinned.

  ‘How many shirts have you got put aside to make a little packet on, though? Two? Three?’

  The quartermaster, a slightly overweight centurion assigned to the Seventh, looked taken aback and wounded for a moment before a brief flash of guilt made it to his face.

  ‘Well, I suppose I could let yer ‘ave one o’ the reserve stock, sir, but I’d ‘ave ter buy another one in ter replace it, and they ain’t cheap.’

  Fronto nodded and grinned.

  ‘I think I can probably cover it. You know me, yes?’

  ‘Yer legate Fronto o’ the Tenth. I seen yer sir.’

  Fronto smiled again.

  ‘Then put my mark against the shirt. I’ll take it now and drop the money off after the battle.’

  The quartermaster ummed and ahhed and dithered for long moments, contemplating being left one shirt down by Fronto, then sighed and reached over. Picking up the shiny scale shirt, he passed it to Fronto.

  ‘Don’t go getting’ yerself killed today, sir. Yer owe me fer a good scale shirt.’

  Moments later, leaving the unhappy quartermaster grumbling as his men continued to stockpile gear, Fronto wandered back in to the valetudinarium, the heavy armour, scales of steel sewn over leather and chain, draped over his arm. He wandered around until he found Balventius, fully bandaged, struggling to pull a tunic down over his ruined shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know how you expect to fight when you can even dress.’

  The centurion grunted.

  ‘It’s just a bit tight with these bandages on. The bloody capsarius refused to help me. Said he wouldn’t help me hasten my own death. That’s a nice shirt. What do I owe you?’

  Fronto grinned.

  ‘I’ve got a fair bit put away at the moment, so call it a gift.’

  Balventius glanced out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Oh yes, the wager money from you and that Gaul. I made a packet myself. Well thanks. Soon as I’m suited up I’m off to the front again. You coming sir?’

  Fronto shrugged and winced. It had been months since he had suffered his wounds to the Gaul in the ring, and they still ached most of the time and hurt like hell some of the time. He could not imagine what Balventius was made of to want to go back in like that.

  ‘I guess so. I hate missing a good fight. You sure you want to go?’

  Balventius nodded.

  ‘Gotta sh
ow ‘em you’re indestructible when you’re a primus pilus. Otherwise the moment you scratch yourself, all the other centurions start jostling into position for your job!’

  Fronto laughed.

  ‘Priscus once said something very similar to me.’

  He helped the older man into the scale shirt and began to tighten all the fastenings. The capsarius, unwilling to leave until the primus pilus was definitely no longer his concern, stood close by, frowning and muttering to himself. Balventius looked round at the man and tossed him something. The capsarius looked down in horror at the lump of meat and gristle in his hand. Balventius grinned.

  ‘See if you can put him back together!’

  Fronto coughed.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s a windpipe. Looks funny when it’s not tucked away inside, doesn’t it?’

  Fronto swallowed. Balbus had told him that Balventius was a madman on the battlefield and he could quite believe it. A thought crossed his mind.

  ‘You ever given any thought to what to do when you finish your next term?’

  Balventius shrugged.

  ‘Frankly I’m always surprised when I finish a campaign year. Never really occurs to me to think beyond that.’

  Fronto fastened the last strap.

  ‘Balbus thinks you’d make a good camp prefect.’

  ‘Hah!’

  The legate arched his eyebrow.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Camp prefects get to shout a lot and do too much record keeping. They get fat and slobby, coz they never leave the camp. They get rusty and weak coz they never get into a fight. I couldn’t cope with being stuck that far from a fight.’

  Fronto sighed.

  ‘You’re probably right. Better that than killed though.’