Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Septimius… you know the tribes of Gauls and Belgae, yes?’

  The prefect nodded soberly.

  ‘Most of them.’

  ‘And these Belgae are supposed to be the most dangerous, violent and warlike of the lot, yes?’

  ‘Them and the Germanic tribes, yes. When they’re not fighting someone else, they fight themselves. It’s all they do: fight.’

  ‘So…’ Lucilius frowned. ‘It shouldn’t be too hard to goad them into a fight then?’

  Septimius laughed.

  ‘I suspect it would be harder to force them to stand still.’

  ‘Alright, then.’ The commander smiled. ‘Let’s go give them a fight. Sound the advance.’

  The prefect saluted and returned to his men. Moments later the musician on his horse at the rear blew out the call to advance and the alae walked their steeds forward. Lucilius remained stationary until the line reached him and then kicked his horse into action, falling in with the front line. Slowly, like the inexorable tide, the cavalry poured down the gentle slope toward the flat open ground before the Belgic lines.

  Manoeuvring carefully in order to maintain formation, the cavalry stepped onto the flat, rotating into blocks that fitted the terrain.

  ‘Here we go’ muttered Lucilius quietly to himself as they moved into the damp, glinting grass. The first fifty paces or so were tentative, each rider warily watching the shallow pools and trickles as they walked their horses.

  Lucilius glanced ahead, squinting to make out the lines of the Belgae. The barbarians were rushing around, gathering several men deep in a front line. As the prefect watched, spears were raised defensively. Any direct attack could be very short and very unpleasant.

  His confidence grew as the cavalry trotted through the shallow puddles and pools and splashed across small streams. Varus had been right: the ground between the marsh and the river had dried out fairly well in the last few weeks.

  The decision made, he smiled a determined smile and turned to the officers beside him.

  ‘Sound the charge but rein in at a hundred paces for a volley. Pass the word; and no calls on the horn in case anyone there knows our signals.’

  The officers nodded and shouted the commands down the line to their decurions, who relayed beyond. Within a few moments the entire cavalry broke into a run, the front lines pulling away first, but the rest gradually falling in and catching up like a landslide. Lucilius laughed as he rode. This was the kind of mad stunt that old Longinus used to pull.

  Rapidly, the intervening space between the two armies narrowed and the commander found himself so into the rhythm of the charge that he almost shot out ahead as his troopers reined in to a sudden halt. Clicking his tongue in irritation, Lucilius turned his mistake into a show, wheeling his horse sideways and flicking an insulting hand gesture at the Belgae. To either side of him along the lines of horsemen, the front two ranks let fly with their javelins.

  The Belgae, confused as to why the Romans had halted their charge so suddenly, stared wide-eyed at several hundred javelins that suddenly arced out from the front lines. All along the wall of men, warriors shrieked as they were pierced and flung back into the crowd with the force of the blows. They were so tightly packed the Romans could not have missed.

  The front line of the Belgae bulged ominously. Lucilius smiled. One volley and they were already wanting to break their lines and attacks. With a widening grin, he turned to his officers.

  ‘Let’s repeat the process a few times and see how fast we can get it. I want to piss these barbarians off enough that they’ll do anything.’

  Nodding, the prefects and decurions passed down the orders, and the entire cavalry turned their back on the enemy and rode peacefully back across the wet, grassy ground.

  Once they reached the slope at the far end, Lucilius waved his arm.

  ‘Same drill. No orders or calls. Everyone knows what they’re doing. Those men who’ve now cast their javelins to the back and make way for the next rows. This time I want that volley the moment you stop. Then straight back. Don’t give them a target!’

  The men around him grinned in anticipation.

  ‘Alright. Charge!’

  This time he allowed the troopers to charge past him and took a position at the rear, where he could observe the results.

  True to their training and efficiency, the cavalry thundered across the open space and came to a sudden halt, a volley of hundreds of deadly shafts arcing out from the lines and dropping with horrifying accuracy into the mass of Belgic warriors. Without waiting to see the results, the cavalry wheeled and rode back to the far end of the grassy stretch.

  Once again, the line of the Belgae bulged, this time in three places. Lucilius rubbed his chin reflectively. They’d get one more charge or maybe two before the barbarians decided they couldn’t take it any more and broke formation.

  ‘Again, but quicker!’

  This time, he stayed on the lower reach of the slope and observed from a distance. The Belgae had best attack soon anyway. They only had enough javelins for probably three more volleys.

  He watched with satisfaction as the same manoeuvre produced the same result: hundreds of dead warriors and bloodthirsty pushing and shoving as the Belgae nobles fought to prevent their tribesmen running after the Roman horsemen. With a grin he surveyed the ground near the enemy line while his troopers returned. The repeated charges had churned up the wet grass leaving slick and dangerous mud. That should be helpful. A cavalry trooper would be much more stable in that mess than a foot soldier.

  He smiled at the officers as they steered the mounts with their knees and readied for another charge.

  ‘They’re ready to break. A dozen or so followed you last time. But I don’t want them following right across the field. Same drill again, but this time, when you’ve released the volley, retreat fifty paces, form up for action and draw swords.’

  The officers saluted and relayed the orders to their men.

  With the fourth charge, Lucilius accompanied the cavalry once more. The charge reached the churned mud, the horses whinnied to a halt, the javelins arced out, and the Belgae, with a deafening roar, broke their line and ran forward waving spears, swords and axes. As ordered, the cavalry pulled out of reach and formed up to await the onslaught.

  Clearly, the barbarian warriors had broken the orders of their chieftains. The boar-head standards and horns and the shining golden helmets of the few visible noblemen remained tightly in position. But hundreds had been unable to contain their rage any longer and had run forward.

  As they ran, screaming, Lucilius watched with keen interest, bordering on mirth. The warriors reached the churned mire left by the hooves of the Roman cavalry, and many slid, tripped or fell. As they climbed to their feet, they were forced to move slowly and painfully through the thick, sucking mud, hauling their feet out and then sinking them back with a squelch. The entire bloodthirsty attack had slowed to an embarrassing plod.

  ‘Take them.’

  The men to either side walked their horses forward and began to swing with their longer cavalry blades, arcing like bloody scythes left and right, maiming and killed the desperate Belgae wherever they found them. It was a massacre, plain and simple; a harvest of living bodies.

  Lucilius watched as the barbarian attack dissolved into pure butchery. Within a hundred heartbeats the only Belgae who were left standing were the lucky few at the rear of the attack who were now fleeing the field back to their own line as quickly as the mud allowed. A few of the more eager troopers were advancing to take the stragglers.

  ‘Call for regroup!’ Lucilius shouted.

  The cornu rang out a moment later, and the troopers wheeled their horses and returned to their alae. With a satisfied smile, Lucilius calculated the numbers. He could assume at least a hundred dead from each of the four javelin volleys, and at least a couple of hundred more here in the mud. Six hundred Belgae dead at a highly conservative estimate.

  He laughed out loud as he sur
veyed the muddy mess.

  For eight Romans. Now that was going to please the general. Mars be praised, it certainly pleased Lucilius.

  ‘Sound the withdrawal. There won’t be any more barbarian pushes for a while now. Time to head back to camp and report.’

  A decurion nearby laughed.

  ‘And maybe we can resupply with javelins and have another go!’

  As the cavalry reached the top of the slope, Lucilius smiled in surprise and saluted. Varus returned the gesture and eyed the returning cavalry with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Had fun, Lucilius? Looks like you hardly got dirty?’

  ‘We’ve given them a fairly bloody lip, sir. I’ll tell you all about it on the way back.’

  Varus nodded as the two cavalry forces fell into formation together and began the trek back to Caesar’s camp.

  It was hours later when the third cavalry group finally came into sight of the main gate. Varus leaned over the parapet where he had been waiting anxiously for word of his men and waved at the lieutenant.

  ‘What did you find?’ he asked, eyeing with interest the tired but apparently undamaged cavalry force as they slowed to a walk.

  ‘Nothing, sir’ the prefect reported, sighing. ‘We’ve been miles and miles and miles. No sign of anything. Just in case, I sent one ala off with orders to do a sweep over a ten mile radius beyond where we were, but if there’s more Belgae coming, they’re at least a day away.’

  ‘Did you have a more exciting time, sir?’

  Varus laughed.

  ‘It’s been a good day. We’ve dented the Belgae and confirmed we’re safe from reinforcements as yet. Get yourselves into camp and rest. I need to inform the general.’

  Chapter 8

  (Caesar’s camp by the Aisne River.)

  ‘Lilia (Lit. ‘Lilies’): defensive pits three feet deep with a sharpened stake at the bottom, disguised with undergrowth, to hamper attackers.’

  Fronto grumbled under his breath and leaned forward over the table, fixing Caesar with a steady gaze. As so often happened, the other officers in the room had melted into the background, trying to blend in with the tent leather in an attempt not to become involved in the argument.

  ‘But it’s a waste to play a defensive action now. We need to press the advantage we have!’

  The general glowered at his senior legate. His brow had furrowed, and he had become quite pale; a sign that he was deeply angry and reaching the end of his tether.

  ‘We don’t have an advantage, Fronto. They outnumber us about five to one. Only an idiot charges into those odds!’

  The legate’s rumble rose to a steady growl, and he barked back at his commander.

  ‘It’s five to one now! Wait until you’ve faffed for a while building walls and shuffling the legions around and you could find it’s ten to one. The advantage I’m talking about is that is not more than five to one! We should strike while the iron’s lukewarm!’

  Caesar’s eyelid flickered alarmingly. Tetricus, standing behind Fronto, could see the warning signs in the general’s demeanour, though Fronto apparently either could not tell or did not care. Either way, this had to stop. Tetricus stepped forward to intervene, but the two arguing commanders ignored him.

  ‘Fronto, I put up with your astounding insolence because you really are one of the best legionary commanders Rome has to offer, but I’m rapidly reaching breaking point with you. There will come a time when you are more trouble than you’re worth.’ He snarled. ‘Pray it’s not today!’

  ‘You…’ Fronto drew a deep breath, ready to launch into a tirade. Tetricus reached out and grasped his shoulder, hauling him to the side and defusing the building stress in the man by slapping him so hard on the back he was momentarily winded.

  ‘Caesar,’ the young tribune said calmly. ‘I believe we can put together adequate defences in a few hours. I propose a compromise. Fronto may well be correct in his estimate that the Belgae will only get stronger, but I also see the wisdom in being as prepared as possible.’

  He glanced sideways at Fronto, who was staring angrily at him.

  ‘All we need is something we can fall back into if we run into serious trouble. Instead of fully enclosing stockades and gates, towers and so on, which would take more than a day, I propose this:’

  He leaned on the table where Fronto had previously been and drew an imaginary map of the terrain with his finger.

  ‘We’re sort of on a loop in the river here. In front of us is a nice flat area where we can marshal the troops. All we need is one good defence across it… say a nice deep and wide trench with just two or three causeways crossing it. Might even put some lilia in place.’

  Caesar shook his head.

  ‘That’s not enough. If the Belgae come in force, they’ll just swarm over it. I will not allow my army to be destroyed in detail after all I’ve achieved.’

  Tetricus shrugged.

  ‘Once the ditch is there, and I think we can have a deep ditch that crosses the flat ground from riverbank to riverbank in about five hours, we can look at raising a palisade perhaps. More than that, if we install a small fort at each end of the ditch, we can have a marvellous cross-storm of missiles in the middle.’

  Balbus stepped forward from the shadows around the edge of the tent.

  ‘He’s right, general. If we put our artillery in emplacements at either end, there won’t be a finger width of flat land that’s out of range of a shot. Once that’s done, we can look at the possibility of marching on the Belgae, but we know we’ll have a good safe line to fall back to.’

  Caesar rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his impressive nose.

  ‘Alright. I will concede to a reduction in the planned defences, but I have no intention in engaging in combat until we are clear that the advantage is ours, and there is no viable alternative.’

  He turned to Tetricus.

  ‘You seem to be full of ideas, tribune. Gather your engineers and get to work.’

  As Tetricus saluted and made for the exit, the general regarded his legates.

  ‘I want every spare man working on this to get the defences as tight as possible and as fast as possible. While that’s happening, have your artillery from each legion taken to the left and right of the proposed site, so that they’re ready to move into place as soon as the platforms are ready.’

  He gestured at the door, and the officers saluted, nodded and filed out.

  ‘And the cavalry, Caesar?’

  The general looked up to see Varus hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Form your men on the plain in front of the works. The entire infantry is going to be occupied with the construction, so the cavalry are the main defence against any sudden assault.’

  Varus nodded professionally, though Fronto noted the brief flash of disapproval on the man’s face.

  The general turned to the only figure remaining in his headquarters tent.

  ‘And you? Just get out of my sight!’

  Fronto saluted half-heartedly and muttered under his breath ‘gladly!’

  As he allowed the tent flap to drop back into position, he breathed deeply of the air outside the headquarters and then strode across the grass to where Labienus and three other members of the senior staff stood in deep conversation.

  Fronto wandered up and stood next to Labienus.

  ‘Maybe we should just go attack them anyway.’

  Labienus raised his eyes to the sky.

  ‘Fronto, your mouth is going to open too wide and swallow the rest of your head one day. I swear it must already have swallowed your brain. Crassus can get away with talking to Caesar like that, because he’s richer and his daddy is so important.’

  He gestured up and down at Fronto.

  ‘But you? Your command is all you really have. Don’t mess it up.’

  There was a chorus of nods from the others and Labienus laughed weakly.

  ‘I, for one, don’t relish the thought of fighting the rest of this campaign without your help.’

/>   Fronto kicked at the turf.

  ‘We need to persuade Caesar to attack; we can’t wait until every barbarian north of the Alps is gathered together against us. He’s too worried about how this all looks at home and not worried enough about what might happen right here.’

  Labienus shrugged.

  ‘Problem is, even if we could persuade him to attack, the ground around here is just not suitable for a battle. I couldn’t even begin to decide how to go about it.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘I know. Can’t just take an assault to them because of the marsh. Not enough room either side of the marsh to take seven legions without stringing them all out and making it easy for the Belgae. Can’t lure them onto the plain in front of the fort, cos they’ll not come. They’re just waiting and growing in numbers. The only option would be to actually decamp and move to see if we can find somewhere that’s less defensive.’

  He frowned.

  ‘Why did Caesar choose somewhere like this? There was never any hope of conducting a proper battle here. It’s a place just made for defence.’

  Labienus shrugged.

  ‘Maybe Caesar never intended to fight here?’

  Fronto slapped his head in irritation.

  ‘That’s it. Should have realised the old bastard had something up his sleeve.’

  He realised the others were looking at him in expectation.

  ‘He’s waiting for something. He’s not bothered about the growing strength of the Belgae. Only an idiot would wait while they got stronger… unless he’s waiting for something more important, and whatever it is must be important enough that he thinks it’ll make this battle either easy or unnecessary.’

  With a smiled, he patted Labienus on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m going to find out what it is.’

  The senior staff officer grasped Fronto by the shoulder.

  ‘Be careful and deferential. If you go blundering in there with accusations and demands, you’re going to find yourself shipped off back to Rome by the end of the day.’