Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘Sir?’

  Varus pointed at the far side of the battlefield.

  ‘Those men who attacked the wagons and got driven back? Most of them rejoined their nearest group, but a few fled into the woods.’

  ‘I didn’t see sir. But they’ll eventually get caught. Even hiding in the woods.’ The man sighed. ‘Unless we lose, of course…’

  Varus grunted.

  ‘This is the narrowest and shallowest stretch of the river for miles, yes?’

  The man nodded. ‘That’s what I heard, sir.’

  ‘Think we can find another way across?’

  The trooper looked unsure. ‘Who knows, sir? But we could have a look? Better than sitting here and waiting for them to see us.’

  Varus nodded. That was certainly true. They were hidden here, but for how long?

  ‘Pick a direction. Upstream or down?’

  The trooper shrugged.

  ‘Down, I guess, sir. That way, if we can get across, we might be able to find those runaways you saw.’

  ‘Then downstream it is.’ Varus turned and addressed the assembled riders in tones just loud enough to hear but quiet enough to not provoke the interest of the Belgic reserves.

  ‘Alright lads. We’re going to pick our way through these woods. I know it’ll be tough, but if the Belgae can hide great log contraptions in there, there’s likely room for us to work our way through. And once we reach the far side, we’re going to descend the slope to the water’s edge and head downstream until we can find a way to cross.’

  There was a silent chorus of nods. None of the men wanted to wait in the eaves of the wood to be spotted by wandering barbarians. As quietly as possible, the three dozen cavalrymen began to step their mounts through the woodland.

  The trees were well spaced and the undergrowth almost entirely removed or trampled down by the Belgae. The going was surprisingly easy, as long as they kept their heads down and watched where they walked.

  The journey seemed to last forever, each man holding his silence and most holding their breath. Gradually the sounds of desperate battle faded with distance and the dampening effects of the trees, until Varus decided they’d travelled far enough west and turned to move down the slope. All was eerily quiet, save the whispering of the leaves and the rustling of the occasional creature.

  The trooper behind Varus risked speaking in a low voice.

  ‘What do we do if we break cover and they’re there waiting for us, sir?’

  Varus shrugged.

  ‘We fight like madmen, and we die like Romans.’

  The gradient gradually increased as they descended and slowly the trees began to thin out until finally Varus stepped his horse out onto open turf and looked up to the blue sky. Behind him the other troopers quickly and quietly left the woodland, dropping down toward the water.

  The commander frowned as they approached the barrier, and he examined the river with an eye to its crossing. It was deeper and faster here; that was clear from one look at its dark, glassy surface. But it was also too wide to jump. They would have to find another place further downstream to try.

  He scanned the riverbank, but further ahead the woods came down to the water’s edge and barred the path to cavalry. He growled. No way forward and no point in sneaking back up through the woods to where they had been trapped in the first place. They’d have to make their way slowly back along the water’s edge toward the battle and hope they could find a crossing point before they ran into the Belgic reserves.

  Today was turning out to be a very bad day. Maybe Fronto was right, placing his faith in Nemesis, rather than Fortuna.

  Chapter 16

  (Battle of the Selle)

  ‘Pilus Prior: The most senior centurion of a cohort and one of the more senior in a legion.’

  Fronto grinned at Balbus and Crispus.

  ‘It’s stupid. It’s dangerous; even suicidal and totally stupid.’

  Balbus smiled at his friend.

  ‘You like it.’

  ‘You’re damn right I like it. We’ve got to do something to break this, or we’re going to end up just overwhelmed by sheer numbers.’

  He frowned.

  ‘Are you going to try the same thing?’

  Crispus shook his head.

  ‘I don’t think so. We’ve got the reserve force facing us as well. If we break the Viromandui, they’re going to turn and run straight into the Nervian reserves and then we’ll end up fighting both lots at once. We have to wait until you succeed, then you can get behind the reserves and we can push the Viromandui. If it all works we can end up surrounding them and pushing them into the river.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Then I’ll see you when it’s over.’

  As his two fellow legates turned and headed back toward their struggling legions, Fronto strode across to the small force of reserves from the Tenth who were standing tensely waiting to plug any desperate gaps.

  ‘Find the primus pilus and centurion Velius and tell them I need to speak to them immediately.’

  As men saluted and pushed off through the crowd to find the officers, Fronto spotted Labienus and waved to him. The commander strode over.

  ‘I was thinking perhaps I ought to be getting my hands dirty, Fronto, rather than standing here like a fifth wheel.’

  ‘I’ve a more important request for you. I’m about to do something suicidally reckless, and you need to take command of the Tenth again for a while.’

  Labienus frowned.

  ‘What are you up to?’

  Fronto laughed. ‘I hate repeating myself, so I’ll wait until Priscus and Velius are here. I can see them coming now.’

  The two centurions pushed their way out of the press of men and marched up the gentle incline to the waiting officers. Fronto looked them up and down. Hardly an inch of them was not dented, dirty and covered in blood. Velius strode with his hands behind his back. Fronto frowned and, as the centurion came to a halt in front of him, he drew his hands out in front.

  ‘Can I give you a hand, sir?’

  Fronto and Labienus stared at the severed appendage in the grizzled veteran’s hand as Priscus exploded into laughter. Velius grinned and cast the article to the ground nearby before straightening to attention.

  Fronto sighed.

  ‘Your sense of humour leaves something to be desired, Velius. I’ve got a plan.’

  Priscus raised an eyebrow.

  ‘And naturally, whatever idiocy you have in mind includes us?’

  The legate nodded.

  ‘I’ve been speaking to Crispus, and he’s come up with an idea. We can see the standard of the enemy. He says they’re the Atrebates on this flank. Don’t know how he knows that, but he does. There are three groups of standards out there, and that means their leaders are likely beneath those animal heads. We think that maybe, if we can wipe out their commanders, we can break their spirit and make them run. The standards are relatively close to our lines, so we’ll have to go straight head-on, rather than try to flank them and come from behind.’

  Priscus shook his head.

  ‘It’s bloody dangerous. It relies on men actually getting through the enemy, surviving long enough to kill what will likely be tough royal bodyguards, and then the Belgae actually being sensitive enough about it to run. Even if we succeed, it might just make them angrier.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘That is a possibility, as is death. But the thing is: we’re screwed anyway if we don’t do something. Three groups, each led by one of us, while Labienus takes over the Tenth.’

  The commander stared.

  ‘The whole reason we have a chain of command, Fronto, is so that vital officers can delegate this kind of thing to the people who are trained and paid to do it.’

  Fronto grinned.

  ‘There are precisely three people in the Tenth that I trust to pull off this kind of manoeuvre, and I am one of them.’ He turned to the chief training officer of the legio
n. ‘I’d have liked to choose the most dangerous men we have, Velius, but there isn’t time. What do you think?’

  Velius shrugged.

  ‘Pick any century. They’re all full of madmen. You’re infectious, you know.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Then pick a century each. Velius, you take the standard on the far left; Priscus, the centre. I’ll take the right, as I want to signal Balbus and Crispus when we’re done.’

  Labienus shook his head.

  ‘You know this is mad, Fronto.’

  The legate nodded.

  ‘Mad and necessary. Have fun.’

  He turned and strode off to the right flank of the Tenth. Scanning up and down the ranks for a centurion, he spotted the familiar white hair of Lucretius wiping his brow, his helmet off. Lucretius’ century were in the rear line and currently unoccupied.

  ‘Lucretius!’

  The centurion turned and saluted, coming to attention.

  ‘You and your century want to join me on a suicide mission?’

  ‘Is that really a choice, sir?’

  Fronto laughed.

  ‘Not really. We’re going to break out of the line, make for the nearest enemy standard, and kill their leaders.’

  The centurion grinned.

  ‘That’ll shake ‘em, sir.’

  Without waiting for orders, he turned.

  ‘Sixth Cohort, First Century: Report to the rear!’

  The seventy or so remaining members of Lucretius’ century fell out of the line and assembled in formation and at attention in the open space of the camp’s interior. As they did so, Fronto strode to the rear line directly opposite the standard he could see wavering, bronze and shining, above the enemy, and accosted the closest legionary.

  ‘In a moment, the whole line will have to part to let a century through. We’re going to push out of the line. Pass the word down to be ready.’

  The soldier saluted and spoke hurriedly to the men around him, as Fronto turned back to the century behind him. Lucretius was standing to attention with his men.

  ‘Alright, here’s what we’re going to do’ he announced. ‘The line’s going to open as we march through toward the front. As soon as we’re three men back from the enemy, I want the century to drop into testudo formation, four men wide. Lucretius and myself will take central positions at the front. The moment we’re in formation and the front line opens, I want a charge, maintaining that formation. We can’t afford to open any gaps, as we’ll be surrounded by the enemy. That means the rear will have to take position and walk backwards…’

  He gestured at the optio. ‘That’s your position. Bear in mind you’re going to have to charge backwards. Can you do it?’

  The optio shrugged.

  ‘Can’t guarantee the line will stay closed while we charge, sir. We’ll do our best, but I can guarantee that as soon as we slow to a march, any gap will close.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Do whatever you have to. They’re a dense mass, so they probably won’t have room to drop to the ground and attack under the shields. We just need to get there. Once we’re there we kill anyone well-dressed, armoured, or holding a standard. If we can do that, we form up and hold tight until the legion marches to meet us. If this works, Labienus will push the legion forward as soon as he sees the standards go down. If we’re lucky, we’ll still be alive when they get to us.’

  The soldiers of Lucretius’ century continued to stand, stony faced, not a single man showing a hint of fear. It always made Fronto proud to see the quality of his men.

  ‘Alright. Form up, four abreast.’

  He collected one of the spare shields from the armament piles behind the ranks of men, stepped next to the centurion and smiled.

  ‘See you in Elysium then, eh?’

  Lucretius nodded.

  ‘Hopefully a few years away, yet, sir.’

  Fronto gritted his teeth and raised the shield, drawing his sword.

  ‘Open ranks!’ he called to the Tenth, and the lines of men pulled aside like a tide retreating over wet sand, leaving a space for the column to march through. As the two officers led the column into the lines of legionaries, the discipline of the Roman military once more impressed itself on him. Row after row of densely-packed legionaries stepped aside and opened a path as they advanced forward through the ranks of the Tenth.

  After what seemed like an eternity of marching, Fronto saw the fighting ahead, the front ranks of his men lunging, stabbing and shield-barging; even head-butting where the opportunity presented itself. As he watched, lucky barbarian blows landed between the shields and figures fell, only to be replaced by a legionary from the rank behind, causing a line of men of that cohort to step one rank forward.

  And then there were so few men in front of him that he could see the contorted, hungry faces of the enemy as wool-clad or naked warriors swung with swords or stabbed with spears.

  ‘Testudo!’

  With a crash of shield upon shield, the century fell into formation, four shields forming a front wall, with each man along the side creating a solid shield wall down the side. Unusually for a testudo, there were not enough shields to create a complete roof, but this particular manoeuvre was unlikely to come under arrow shot. Fronto held his sword up and ready to shove through the narrow gaps afforded by the curvature of the rounded-rectangular, bull emblem shields.

  Suddenly the front ranks of the Tenth opened and Fronto found himself face to face with a screaming, naked, blue-painted Celt.

  ‘Charge!’

  The century, still in formation, picked up to a fast pace and slammed into the enemy who were trying desperately to make use of the sudden opening to break the shield wall.

  The sheer momentum of seventy heavily-armoured men running with shields to the front carried them into and through the first few ranks of the enemy, Belgic warriors staring in surprise and panic as they were quite literally battered to one side and ploughed out of the way.

  After a moment’s initial push, however, the pace of the testudo began to slow, as the momentum waned and the mass of enemy bodies around them increased. Now began the work that was the forte of the legion. As the testudo moved forward at a slow, heavy plod, Fronto began to lash out with his blade through the available narrow openings. He could barely see what he was attacking, his view was so restricted by the protective shields, but he felt the blade bite into flesh time and again.

  Slowly, pace by pace, the century moved on, deeper into the mass. Legionaries would be dying, he knew. They’d be lucky if they lived long enough to reach the standard, let alone kill the men around it. Of course, the discipline and training of the Roman military meant that each time a soldier fell, he would be replaced by his nearest compatriot. The testudo would gradually shrink as their numbers fell, but the wall of shields would close after each death.

  Fronto felt something clatter off his helmet. Damn, that was close.

  Behind him to the left there was a shriek, and for just a moment he felt the ominous expanse of air where a man had been, and then a moment later another man was in that place, and there was the reassuring ‘clunk’ of a replacement shield slotting into the gap.

  How long would this take? He could not spare the time to look around and see how far they’d come and, even if he could, he would not have been able to see past the rows of legionaries with shields and the press of barbarian warriors beyond.

  He would…

  Suddenly the world next to him opened up to chaos. A well aimed blow had landed between the curved shields and had carved a great gouge in Lucretius’ face. The centurion was dead before his knees buckled and he hit the ground. Fronto and the other front man to his right swung their weapons like madmen to prevent the assailant from managing to pull apart their formation and then thankfully, suddenly, the soldier from the second row managed to step forward over the fallen officer’s body and slot his shield into place.

  Fronto grimaced. The loss of any man was always unfortunate, but the los
s of a good veteran centurion was particularly lamentable, though common, given the impressive mortality rate among the centurionate.

  Suddenly, through the narrow gap between shields and over the heads of wild, screaming barbarians, Fronto saw a golden boar on a pole waving back and forth. They were almost there.

  ‘I see it lads! Push!’

  With renewed vigour, the depleted century barged and heaved their way forward through the enemies and suddenly Fronto found himself face to face with a man in a bronze breastplate and a strangely-horned helmet, screaming wilding and gesturing with his sword. The area around the leaders of the Atrebates was relatively open, giving them enough space to deal with the job of commanding their army, such as it was.

  ‘Now, lads!’ he cried. ‘We’ve got ‘em. Open up and form a protective circle.’

  As Fronto moved his own shield to the side and prepared for straight combat, the remaining men of the century opened up behind him in a crescent, pushing their way in among the Atrebates’ command party while maintaining a curved line of shields against the rest of the enemy.

  Fronto kept his eyes on the nobleman or bodyguard or whatever he was, but cast a quick, satisfied glance past him to see that other men were already engaging another well-dressed man and the standard bearer.

  The warrior, a bulging-eyed man with red cheeks and an impressive moustache, screamed violently and lunged with his sword, too restricted by the sudden press of Romans to make a good swing with it. Fronto threw the shield in the way, and such was the power of the man’s blow that the blade tore through the shield and wedged in among the fractured wood and leather. Almost contemptuously, Fronto twisted the shield and ripped the sword from the surprised barbarian’s hand.

  As the man stared and then reached in a panic for the smaller blade at his belt, Fronto took the opportunity of an undefended opponent and lashed out twice, quickly, with his gladius. The first blow caught the man in the belly, the second in the arm as he spun. The chief or guard was as good as dead now. He would certainly be dead within the hour at the latest, but this whole push was all about the look of things. The Belgae had to see their leaders die, ignominiously and in pain.