Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  All this flashed through Ingenuus’ mind for only moments. He was too busy staring at the dozen or so soldiers that had come out together. They had separated once they were in the safety of open grass and the presence of the auxilia. Between them, sheltered and harboured among allies, stood a man in a military tunic and boots. Fashionable Roman hair style now ravaged and wild, boots worn, tunic dirty and torn, he still looked every inch the Roman Patrician.

  As the men moved out of the way, and the prefect got a better view of the prisoner, he realised that the man’s hands were shackled behind him. Dangling down by the side, Ingenuus could make out a triple-thickness chain, the three strands wound around one another. They had not meant him to escape. Ingenuus drew himself up and saluted, his bloody bandaged hand dripping onto the horse and the turf.

  ‘Aulus Ingenuus, prefect of the Eighth.’

  The Roman officer nodded, unable to raise his hand.

  ‘Gaius Valerius Procillus, officer of Caesar’s staff. Forgive me for not returning the gesture. No…’ he interrupted as Ingenuus lowered his arm, ‘you’d be better keeping that up. You’ll lose a lot of blood with it down.’

  Ingenuus grinned.

  ‘Procillus. Amazing, sir. How long have you been held by them? Must be weeks now. And you’re still alive and relatively well.’

  The ragged officer smiled wearily.

  ‘Relatively, yes. Borderline starvation I think, but I’m lucky. They won’t do anything without the say so of their Gods and the old crones checked the auspices three times but still said no. Good job, really. They were going to burn me to death. I think they were trying to take me back across the Rhine to bargain with later.’

  Ingenuus nodded.

  ‘Seems likely. I take it that was your voice that I heard silenced in the woods then, sir?’

  ‘That’d be me, yes. I need to get back to camp. Can you give me a horse?’

  Ingenuus grinned.

  ‘I’ll do better than that. Caesar’s less than a quarter of an hour away, so I’ll take you to him. Then we’ll get someone to crack those chains for you and I’ll escort you back to camp personally. I need to have a medicus look at my hand, anyway.’

  Several miles away, Varus kicked his horse to a greater turn of speed. Around him his own unit and one of the auxiliary alae raced for the river. They could see the small group of refugees ahead of them at the river’s edge, pushing off in three small boats. Other, more desperate Germans were leaping into the strong, dangerous currents of the wide, powerful Rhine and trying to swim across. A few were making it; most were not. He could still hear the clash of weapon on weapon and the cries of the wounded and dying not far behind.

  Crassus and his wing had chased down many of the fleeing survivors from the battle and had come across a large collection of German warriors that had turned and prepared to give their pursuers a fight. With the odds as they were, Varus could not in good conscience call it a battle. It was a slaughter and, to give him his due, Crassus had given them the opportunity to surrender. It had been in the depths of combat when he had realised why the warriors had given them such fierce resistance. Alone on the edge of the fray with only a couple of the auxiliary troopers, he had spotted a small knot of well-dressed and equipped men and women moving as unobtrusively as possible toward the river, covered by the fighting behind them. He had pointed them out to the auxiliaries, and one of them, a Sequani warrior fighting alongside the Romans had identified them as the Royal party.

  They had been so close to the river by then that Varus had no time to draw this to the attention of Crassus and had instead gathered all of the regulars and auxiliaries he could find at the edge, racing off in pursuit of Ariovistus and his family.

  Concentrating, he slowed his horse as they reached the edge of the river. He did not dare ride into the current. Looking up and down the bank for other boats, he was disappointed. Presumably the Germans had not expected to have to flee across the Rhine and had been woefully unprepared. With an irritated growl, he realised that the King had escaped.

  Suddenly a number of spears whistled over his head, crashing into and around the boats. Turning angrily, he saw a number of the auxiliary troopers hurling their weapons into the boats.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing? You can’t kill them all, and many of them are women!’

  One of the auxiliaries looked down at him in surprise.

  ‘They kill our women!’

  Varus turned back to look at the boats and noticed that a few of the spears had, in fact hit home. The man Varus presumed to be Ariovistus himself stood nobly in the prow, shouting defiance in his guttural tongue. Slumped nearby were three women and two men.

  Angrily, the prefect picked up a stone from the river bank and cast it after the boats, only to watch it fall short and sink into the water. Turning, he gestured to the men around him.

  ‘He’s gone. Back to your units.’

  Varus mounted his horse once more and, with a last, longing look out at the small boats diminishing into the distance, sighed and wheeled his horse.

  On the ride back across the hill and into the fray he kept berating himself for not having realised that the fight was a delaying tactic earlier. Had he been a little sharper, they could have caught Ariovistus on the way to the river, and he would now be in chains on his way back to Caesar and, eventually, to Rome to be paraded before the public. Damn.

  He looked up as they crested the hill and the bile rose in his throat. He was confronted with a scene of devastation. Without doubt the German warriors had surrendered, presumably when they had realised that the King was either safe or they had failed. There was not a single warrior offering any resistance and, too proud to run from Crassus’ ‘no survivors’ policy were being cut down where they stood or knelt. With further horror, Varus realised that the auxilia was sat ahorse in formation watching the grisly scene. The perpetrators were the regular cavalry. His ala was murdering surrendering men.

  His fury rising, he kicked his horse into a gallop and made for the commanders, Crassus and several prefects and decurions sitting in a group in the centre of the field. He tried not to look around as he rode, but could not fail to see the line of prisoners, a score or more, on their knees being beheaded systematically by his men. He fought the urge to draw his sword as he made for Crassus.

  ‘What in the name of Mars, Jupiter and Fortuna is going on? These people are surrendering, Crassus. We need slaves, not corpses!’

  Crassus merely turned his cold stare on the prefect and gestured to the officers around him. Obediently they rode away to attend to the butchery. Once they were alone, the commander trotted across to Varus.

  ‘Don’t ever speak to me like that in front of the men, prefect. It doesn’t do for junior officers to question the judgement of their seniors, particularly in public.’

  Varus stuttered, unable to believe the arrogance of the man.

  ‘I’m not questioning your judgement, Crassus, I’m questioning your sanity! They’re valuable property now, and they’re people. Murdering them solves nothing.’

  Crassus rounded on him.

  ‘I am in command of this cavalry, Varus, not you, no matter how much you wished for it and angled for it. You may have been Longinus’ pet, but you’re an officer of the equestrian class, whereas I am one of the nobiles and a senior commander. I will not be questioned by my junior.’

  Varus growled.

  ‘Nobilis only tells us that someone in your family was great. It does not give you the right to treat the rest of the people as cattle. Without the Equestrians, the Plebeians and even the slaves there would be no Rome. No army; no merchants; no builders. What good would your rank be without them?’

  Crassus smiled a dead smile.

  ‘Exactly what I would expect one of your sort to come out with. Drivel. You don’t understand how it works.’

  Varus reached out between the horses and grasped the military scarf around Crassus’ neck, hauling him closer and almost from his horse.
Crassus’ sudden look of surprise and, Varus thought, of fright was soon replaced by his usual arrogant and complacent smile. The prefect resisted the urge to punch him.

  ‘Crassus, I am one of the Patrician class, not an equestrian. My father sat in the senate and so shall I one day, so don’t you dare tell me I don’t know how it works. To hell with you and your nightmare command.’

  He let go of his commander and turned the horse.

  ‘Men of the Ninth!’

  Amid the slaughter, cavalrymen looked up at the prefect, blood still running from the tips of their swords and daggers.

  ‘Form on the hill!’

  He turned once more to face Crassus.

  ‘My men will have nothing to do with this and neither shall I. I’ll see you in the camp. This isn’t over.’

  Leaving a stunned commander sitting amid a field of bodies, Varus joined his men on the hill and began the ride back to camp.

  Chapter 23

  (Epilogue)

  ‘Corona: wreath or crown awarded as military decoration.’

  ‘Phalerae: (sing. Phalera) set of discs attached to a torso harness used as military decorations.’

  Fronto glanced around the room happily before his attention returned to the table. Last time the legions had been in Vesontio, he had been in the middle of nowhere with one mounted cohort and had missed the place entirely. Priscus had told him it wasn’t up to much, but had pointed out a bar that he said was quite reasonable halfway up the main street. And so he was now here. He had left messages with several people in the huge camp at the bottom of the hill to say where he would be if anyone wished to join him and had been most surprised when he actually found the place and strode in through the door to find Balbus and Crispus already seated close to a window. Fronto sighed contentedly as he dropped into the seat. He was able to hobble for short distances, but soon began to sway and topple if there was no one there to give him support.

  Crispus stirred and put down his drink.

  ‘The proprietor doesn’t serve at tables, so I should be delighted to procure a drink for you, Marcus.’

  Fronto smiled and reached out a restraining hand to stop the young legate from standing.

  ‘He’ll serve me, lad, don’t you worry.’

  Reaching down to his side, Fronto retrieved a leather purse and held it over the table. He upended the container and a large quantity of coinage dropped out, much of it in silver and some of it in gold. The ringing of coin on coin had certainly attracted the attention of the barman. Fronto smiled up in his direction.

  ‘I’ll have what these two are drinking. All drinks served to a Roman while I’m here go on my bill, and you can take it in silver and gold, with a little extra if you’ll serve at tables. Ok?’

  The barman nodded eagerly.

  ‘Oh yes sir. I’ll ‘elp you s’much as I can.’

  Fronto looked over at Crispus.

  ‘What are you drinking anyway?’

  Crispus smiled.

  ‘It’s a local brew. A little potent, but nicely tart and with a pleasing aftertaste. I rather favour it.’

  Balbus snorted as he took a swig.

  ‘Youth of today.’

  Fronto grinned.

  ‘You never cease to amaze me, Aulus. I take it you know about the award?’

  Crispus nodded with a certain ambivalence.

  ‘I cannot see how I particularly deserve it. I performed my duty to the same degree as everyone else. To be honoured above others such as the two of you makes me a trifle uneasy.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. You’re still new to this game and already pulled a few manoeuvres that’ve got you a bit of a reputation. Be proud of that. Balbus and I already have awards from past campaigns. You’ve an empty harness. Time you got that corona. You did save the army after all.’

  Crispus shook his head.

  ‘Yes but what about all you’ve both done for this army?’

  Balbus smiled at him.

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, Aulus. Caesar dangled awards in front of Marcus here, but he’s refused them.’

  ‘Refused? Why?’

  Fronto shrugged.

  ‘I’d rather they go to the men below me. They need them more. For me to be decorated above others more deserving isn’t the sort of thing I do.’

  Crispus nodded.

  ‘For certain. I’ve have heard tell that both Velius and Priscus will receive phalera. Tetricus also, I believe.’

  Fronto sighed.

  ‘I’ve had the full list reeled off to me. I was one of the four who went through them with Caesar deciding on who was worthy of reward. Those three indeed, and you. Balventius is lined up for phalera, as are Ingenuus, Baculus of the Twelfth and your own primus pilus, Felix whatever-his-name-is.’

  ‘Felix? Good. He assuredly deserves it. I have the niggling feeling at times that he tries to protect me. It can be a touch unnerving. For when is the ceremony planned, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  Fronto shrugged once more.

  ‘Some time tomorrow. Can’t remember exactly. We’ll only be here a couple of days now and then it’ll be time for us all to piss off back to our families for a while.’

  ‘I…’

  Crispus’ voice trailed off and he stood suddenly and smartly at attention. Balbus hauled himself slowly to his feet and nodded respectfully. Fronto craned his head and slumped slightly further down. The door stood wide open in the warm late summer air and the general had entered unannounced. As he walked toward the table, Caesar gestured at the table for them to sit. He smiled sympathetically at Fronto.

  ‘Is the heel still causing you trouble, Marcus? I thought you’d be sprinting by now.’

  Fronto grunted and then turned his head again.

  ‘Apologies, general. Please take a seat. The drinks are free at the moment and I suspect he’s got wine if he looks hard enough.’

  Caesar squared his shoulders and then unfastened his red cloak, folding it neatly and placing it on a bench near the fireplace. Behind him, three men entered and made their way over. Sabinus and Labienus were no surprise, but the inclusion of Varus in the general’s entourage caused raised eyebrows around the table. Balbus nodded at them.

  ‘Gentlemen. Please join us. I must say that I’m surprised to find you all frequenting a place like this.’

  Sabinus laughed.

  ‘Follow Fronto and you’ll always end up in one of the best local drinking pits; this I’ve learned over the last half a year! As it happens, Caesar wanted to speak to you, so I just looked for your primus pilus. He always knows where you are. What’s all the cash on the table?’

  Fronto shoved the coins into a neater pile.

  ‘It’s our drinking funds. Should cover us all for however long we want to drink.’

  He drew their attention to the barman who was standing helpfully and expectantly next to the table, waiting for orders. He was slightly pale, since he knew who the tall man with the receding hairline and the prominent nose had to be, Fronto guessed. As Sabinus ordered the drinks for the newcomers, Caesar took a seat and gestured for the others to do so.

  ‘Marcus, I’ve deliberated further on awards and I’ve a couple of thoughts. One of them’s really just a confirmation, but for the other I want your opinion and that of Varus.’

  Fronto nodded and glanced at Varus, who just looked tired.

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘Well the second matter is that of young Ingenuus. I expect everyone is aware by now that I probably owe my life to his quick thinking and his selfless bravery.’

  There were nods all-round. The young prefect had been the subject of a great deal of conversation after the battle. Saving Caesar’s life, capturing a daughter of their enemy and rescuing Procillus, the young man had earned praise and respect from a great many sources. Fronto had wondered really whether even two phalerae were a gracious enough demonstration, when the lad probably deserved a corona. He looked up as Caesar continued.

  ‘Varus, you’re a long-serving cavalry
officer and a commander of note. I have it on good authority that Longinus favoured you a great deal and his opinion of cavalry always swayed me. What is your opinion of the prefect?’

  Varus stretched and took a swig of his drink.

  ‘General, the lad’s got the makings of a great commander. Possibly one of the best. I think another year of command in that position will be the telling point though. He has a tendency to leap into the fray both feet first and get himself into trouble, and he’s very lucky he hasn’t fallen foul of his own bravery yet. Basically, I think the wound he received was unfortunate. He’ll never effectively wield a sword again in the saddle unless he has it strapped to his hand.’

  Caesar nodded and turned to Fronto.

  ‘You’ve served with him. What do you think?’

  Fronto shrugged.

  ‘He’s actually got his head screwed on a little better than I think Varus gives him credit for. He’s only got the same urge to do stupid things as the rest of us. And after this battle, he’s reached the status of ‘hero’ among the men, so any accolade you care to give him will go down well with the troops. What are you proposing? Corona? Appointment to the staff?’

  Caesar smiled.

  ‘Actually, I’m thinking of transferring him to my personal guard as their commander. I would say that’s a fairly high-status position.’

  Fronto whistled through his teeth.

  ‘I’d say so, yes. Probably a good man for the job, though.’

  Varus nodded.

  ‘I’d concur. It’s a position I suspect he’ll excel in.’