Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  Sabinus pointed at Fronto while addressing the two latecomers.

  ‘This man knows how to relax. You’ve been training solidly for weeks. Take a rest. You’ll need it, because you won’t be here long.’

  He turned to the others.

  ‘Look after them.’

  Crispus frowned.

  ‘Caesar’s pulled all the legions back to Vesontio?’

  Sabinus nodded.

  ‘All but the Seventh, of course. Things are in motion, Marcus. Won’t be long now. ‘He gestured at the mug in front of the legate.’ Make the most of that. I doubt the Belgae will be as hospitable!’

  Fronto mumbled something and then took a deep pull from his mug.

  Galba and Rufus entered the yard as Sabinus gave a nod and wandered on up the street to report to the general. After a brief discussion, they collected a table between them and, carrying it over, butted it up against the one at which their companions sat. Retrieving the benches, they sank gratefully to the oak seats. Balbus grinned and banged heavily on the table.

  The Gaulish innkeeper came scurrying out of the doorway. As soon as he saw his two new customers, he rushed back inside and returned with two more jars of wine and two more goblets, which he distributed appropriately round the table.

  Galba sighed with relief and poured a drink for himself and his companion.

  Labienus regarded them with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘You two been overworked? You look exhausted.’

  Rufus shrugged lightly.

  ‘Crassus set a pretty heavy training schedule for the forward camps this last month.’ He glanced at his companion. ‘And Galba here is determined not to be outdone, so he’s driven his men to work twice as hard as that!’

  Galba nodded.

  ‘We’re still a new legion, and when we get into the thick of it this year, I’m determined the Twelfth are going to weather it with the best of them. Most importantly, I’m bloody damned if that humourless dick is going to prove a better legate than me, just because he was born with a golden rod up his arse.’

  Rufus gave a tired chuckle.

  ‘And of course, if Crassus is pushing his men to the edge to prove they’re best, and then Galba starts doing the same on the other side, what am I supposed to do in the middle?’

  He let out a small laugh.

  ‘Actually, I gave my men an easy run of it compared with these other two, but then the Ninth has always had a good reputation anyway.’ He raised his goblet to Fronto. ‘You’ll remember that, I guess, since you’re responsible for a lot of it.’

  Fronto smiled. There was something vaguely sad about Rufus. He could not define exactly what it was, but even when the young man was smiling and passing on a compliment, it felt like he was delivering cheerless news. There was a permanently haunting look about that young face that made him turn away, back to his drink.

  Clearing his throat, he looked back up, this time at Galba.

  ‘Far be it from me to question another commander’s methods…’

  He paused for a moment as he noticed the scathing look in Labienus’ eyes and ignored it as best he could.

  ‘You should be careful about taking your cue from Crassus. That man’s bad news. For us; for you; but most of all for his own men!’

  ‘Fronto…’

  He flicked his eyes across to Labienus, who was giving him a warning look.

  ‘No. I’m right. Crassus is a dangerous man. He’s got the drive, the ambition and the ruthlessness of Caesar…’ he ignored Labienus’ frantic motions to shut up. ‘But he doesn’t have Caesar’s redeeming features. Caesar’s a showman and tactically sound. He knows what to do and when to do it, and he knows how to make his men love him. Crassus is just making his legion resent him, and that’s never a good thing.’

  Irritably, he pushed Labienus’ waving hand down to the table.

  ‘Mark my words: Crassus is going to find himself in trouble out there in the west. He’s got one legion. They’re a good legion, and he’s had them training like mad, but still, even with his auxiliaries and support, there can’t be more than seven or eight thousand of them.’

  He waved his arm in a sweeping motion to indicate the whole of northwest Gaul, knocking Crispus’ mug in the process so that the young legate had to grab it quickly to prevent spillage.

  ‘But there’s hundreds of thousands of Gauls out there.’

  He waited for that to sink in during the silence that followed.

  ‘Eight thousand versus more than a hundred thousand. That’s the odds if it comes down to a fight against all the tribes up there. And, let’s face it: Crassus is going to push something until it breaks. He’s as diplomatic as a turd stew.’

  Labienus grasped his waving hand and forced it down.

  ‘Fronto, there are soldiers out in the street who can hear all this. For Jupiter’s sake shut the hell up!’

  Fronto growled at him.

  ‘Shan’t!’

  He pulled his wrist free.

  ‘And even if he manages to maintain peace, I wouldn’t trust his men not to revolt against their commander. He treats them like slaves.’

  ‘For Gods’ sake Fronto, shut up!’

  Fronto pushed Labienus’ arm aside.

  ‘And the worst thing? Absolutely the worst thing that could come of any of this? What if Crassus somehow pulls this round and makes himself look good? You know as well as me that there’s only one possible reason Caesar sent him out to be surrounded by those odds with only one legion? It’s a bloody death sentence; that’s what it is!’

  He became aware that Galba and Rufus were staring at him in disbelief and that Crispus had joined in the arm motions encouraging him to calm down. For a moment, he wondered whether he’d had too much to drink, but the drink-fuelled courage told him that was stupid, and he had an important point to make. Can’t back down now…

  ‘A waste though, don’t you think? Sacrificing a veteran legion just to get an inconvenience out of the way?’

  There was a crunch and Fronto’s world went black.

  Balbus rubbed his balled fist and sank back down to his seat as the unconscious form of his best friend slid gracelessly from the bench. Crispus stared, his head snapping back and forth between the equally startled Galba and Rufus, the heap that was Fronto, and finally to the silent crowd in the street who had, to a man, stopped whatever they were doing to stare into the tavern yard. Sighing, Crispus stood and turned to look over the wall.

  ‘I am going to count to three!’ he shouted. ‘And any man I can still see when I get there is on latrine duty until they get pensioned out!’

  The street burst into life as men ran this way and that to clear out of the furious young legate’s gaze. Balbus looked up at him.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Labienus stared at Balbus and slowly began to smile.

  ‘No, Quintus. Thank you!’

  ‘He’s just had a little too much. No harm done, eh?’

  Labienus gave a pointed look to everyone round the table.

  ‘No… no harm done. Just jesting, eh?’

  With a sigh, Balbus stood and gestured toward the heap of legate opposite him.

  ‘Crispus? Give me a hand getting him to his quarters would you? I think I may have damaged my fist.’

  As the two men collected Fronto and dragged him up, draping him between them, Balbus clenched and released his fist several times. Each time he did, there was an unpleasant crunching sound and he winced with pain.

  ‘Damn, that man has a hard jaw!’

  Crispus tried not to laugh.

  ‘I think you must have a pretty hard hand, Quintus. I hope you haven’t broken him. His nose is a funny shape.’

  Balbus shrugged.

  ‘You know Fronto. I can’t believe this is the first broken nose he’s ever had.’

  Quietly they lifted Fronto and, with a wave of acknowledgement to their companions, left the tavern yard and walked out and down the street toward the bridge and the military compounds
beyond.

  * * * * *

  Fronto was still unconscious as the two legates dumped him unceremoniously on his bed, though whether through his injury or substantial consumption of alcohol was a matter for debate. They had collared a legionary at the entrance to the camp of the Tenth, telling the guards that their legate had had an accident and to call for a capsarius.

  Crispus looked up at Balbus from where he sat on the edge of the cot, his face filled with concern.

  ‘Do you think he’s alright? I thought he would have woken by now.’

  Balbus shrugged.

  ‘He’s still breathing. You can hear that from the nasty bubbling sound!’

  The younger legate tried, unsuccessfully, not to smirk. They’d had to shut Fronto up, clearly. His mouth had seriously run away with him in a public place, but when it came right down to it, Crispus was convinced the man was right. Moreover, he was sure the same was true of Balbus and the others and, indeed, every legionary that had been in the street. Still, casting aspersions about the morals and the ability of some of the highest members of the patrician class was a career breaking move, guaranteed.

  And Fronto, while his rank indicated he was from a patrician family, from everything else, it was just as clear that they were one of the less noble and haughty families and even that Fronto held most of his own class in particularly low esteem. That was one of the things that truly fascinated Crispus about the unconscious bloody mess snoring noisily next to him. Until he had been appointed to the Eleventh, he was ashamed to admit, he had hardly ever even spared a thought for anyone of a rank lower than equites. And now, a year of friendship with this man had changed him so much that often he found himself considering the results of any potential action on the common people before his own. Such an un-Roman viewpoint, it constantly amazed him.

  His attention was brought sharply back into focus by a knocking on the door. Balbus, leaning against the tall cabinet by one wall and wiping his forehead with his scarf, turned and called out.

  ‘Come!’

  The door opened. Crispus was surprised to see not a medicus, but a legionary in his armour, without weapon, shield or helmet.

  The young capsarius bowed curtly.

  ‘Sirs.’

  Balbus smiled benignly at the young man.

  ‘Florus, yes? I remember you. I take it the medicus was otherwise occupied?’

  Florus smiled weakly.

  ‘Errr… Sort of, sir.’

  A raised eyebrow.

  ‘He said he wasn’t going to treat the legate for another drink-related injury and that I could handle it, sir!’

  Balbus’ grin widened.

  ‘What does he do to get this kind of reputation with the medical service?’

  Florus gabbled hurriedly ‘It’s alright though, sir. I’m well trained. I almost certainly can handle it, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you can.’

  Crispus had been sitting frowning as he looked the young soldier up and down. Young? Ha. There was probably only a couple of years between the two of them. With a flash of memory, he suddenly remembered where they’d met. After the battle against Ariovistus last year, when Fronto’d had that bite wound on his heel. He joined Balbus in the smiling.

  ‘I suspect your legate has a broken nose. Apart from that, he should be fine, other than a nasty bump from where the bench hit him in the back of the head…’

  Florus wandered over to the cot and knelt to examine his commander. The nose was, indeed, distinctly misaligned.

  His tongue poking gently from the corner of his mouth, Florus reached down to his belt and unfastened his small medical pack, which he dropped to the floor beside him. Professionalism taking over, he looked across to the young legate sitting next to him.

  ‘Could I ask that you hold the patient very steady?’

  Crispus nodded and reached across, holding Fronto down by the shoulders.

  ‘I think you will find that he’s fairly anaesthetised anyway; in fact, he’s been anaesthetising himself for around five hours now. You could probably amputate his leg without waking him.’

  Florus gave a curious little half-smile.

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time.’

  Crispus glanced sharply at the young man, who smiled widely.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I just mean that the legate’s nose has actually been misaligned for years. A decade or more probably. Must have had a nasty break some time. I’ve been dying for an excuse to straighten it.’

  Behind him, Balbus gave a deep belly-laugh.

  ‘Most of Fronto’s charm comes from his oddities, medicus.’

  ‘On three?’ said Florus. Crispus nodded.

  ‘One.’ The young man settled over the legate and reached down to his face.

  ‘Two.’ Gritting his teeth, he grasped Fronto’s nose carefully but firmly.

  ‘Three!’

  As Crispus held Fronto tightly down, and Balbus looked on expectantly, the legate’s nose returned to a perfectly straight position with a crack and a small spatter of blood that caught Crispus across the upper arm. Fronto never even flinched, though the pitch of his snore changed instantly.

  ‘Apologies, sir.’

  Crispus laughed.

  ‘I’ve been covered in more than that in my time with the Eleventh. And there’s more coming yet, soldier.’

  Florus smile faded slightly.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  As silence fell, Florus carefully wiped up the blood from around the break.

  ‘Is that it?’ Crispus asked in surprise.

  ‘That’s it, sir. Set it back and wait.’

  ‘But do you not have to apply splints or pack the nose or anything?’

  Florus smiled again.

  ‘It’ll heal on its own sir, in good time. Tomorrow it’ll swell and the bruising will come. I’ll only start to worry about complications if it’s not back to almost normal in a week. It’ll be tender for a while though. And…’ He looked up at the two legates in the room. ‘And it’ll be obvious that he’s got a broken nose, sirs. No one will believe he had an accident.’

  He frowned as he looked carefully at Balbus.

  ‘If it’s not an impertinent question, sir…’

  Balbus smiled.

  ‘Go on…’

  ‘Is it vaguely possible that during the legate’s… erm… difficulty, he accidentally fell nose-first onto your hand?’

  Behind him, it was Crispus’ turn to laugh out loud.

  Balbus frowned.

  ‘Only,’ the capsarius added quickly, ‘it looks like that was a very heavy blow and if that was the case, I really ought to check your hand over for fractures, sir?’

  Balbus sighed.

  ‘I’d rather it didn’t go racing round the camps that one of their commanders had to break the nose of another, Florus, if you get my drift?’

  The young man nodded.

  ‘Of course, sir. I am the very soul of discretion.’

  Before he let go of Fronto, however, he gently rolled him to one side and examined the back of the legate’s head. There was a bloody patch but, as he gently probed the wound, he found no sign of a break or anything more serious than cuts and bruises.

  ‘Legate Fronto will be fine,’ the young man said as he gently lowered his patient back to the bed. ‘I’ll check on him from time to time, though I suspect he’ll be out for a while yet.’

  He walked over to Balbus and gestured to the campaign chair nearby. The older legate sat with a sigh of relief and held his hand out open, palm down. Florus took it gently and started manipulating it, lifting the fingers gently one by one and folding them back toward the palm. As he reached the middle finger, he heard a gasp from his patient and looked up to see Balbus’ eyes watering.

  ‘Sorry sir.’

  ‘Don’t be. I take it that’s broken.’

  Florus nodded.

  ‘Not badly, though, sir. I could bind and bandage your fingers or your entire hand, but it would be fairly obvious
to everyone how the injuries had occurred.’

  As Balbus frowned, Florus smiled.

  ‘Or you could just be very, very careful sir and let it heal as is. Without binding it to another finger, you run certain risks of later troubles or diminished movement.’

  Balbus grunted unhappily.

  ‘How long will it take to mend?’

  Florus shrugged.

  ‘A week or two and it should be strong enough to use for ordinary everyday purposes. There will be a little bruising, sir, but with it being that finger, it shouldn’t be too bad. The medicus has a paste, sir that seriously decreases bruising and dramatically reduces healing time, but he doesn’t dole it out unless it’s critical. It comes from some kind of tree and gets imported through Arabia or Egypt from past the Parthian Empire, so it’s very hard to get hold of and extremely expensive.’

  Balbus’ jaw took on a firm set.

  ‘I think I can persuade him to part with some of it. We may be back in action in a couple of weeks and both Fronto and I need to be at full fighting fitness before then.’

  Florus stepped back and stood up.

  ‘I had heard we were marching north, sir. Against someone called the Belgae?’

  Balbus nodded.

  ‘I think so. Possibly even all of the Belgae.’

  Florus frowned.

  ‘Are they worse than the other Gaulish tribes, sir? People seem to be frightened of them.’

  Crispus cleared his throat. In his mind he pictured the map of the tribes.

  ‘Actually, they’re not Gauls at all, Florus. They’re separate, like the Germans. And they’re split into their own tribes like the Gauls and the Germans are. The Geographies I read always refer to the Gauls, the Belgae, the Germans and the Aquitanii as ‘peoples’ and then the subdivisions as ‘tribes’.’

  He thought for a moment.

  ‘Though I rather fancy that these are names that were given them by our own geographers many years ago and that they use their own names. The Gauls, for instance, call themselves ‘Celts’. It’s all a little complex and jumbled really.’