Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  ‘Listen, Brutus. You don’t need this victory, but I do. It’s as simple as that. I can’t have this taken away from me. I won’t have this taken away from me!’

  Brutus raised his eyebrows; it was like dealing with a petulant child.

  ‘You had a victory last year, and you’ll have the opportunity for others. Now is a time for conciliation.’

  ‘No. We’re past that. I will stand on their neck until they beg to go to Rome in chains.’

  Inwardly, Brutus sighed. There would be no persuading the commander, and he could see that now. He would have one last try and then have to take matters into his own hands.

  ‘At least inform Caesar. Let him have his say. It is, after all, his army; paid for with his money.’

  Crassus narrowed his eyes.

  ‘And have Caesar pull my backside out of the flames? Or worse still, blame me for this fiasco and remove me from command? Hardly, Brutus. Mark my words: I shall have this fledgling revolution stamped out within the month and will inform Caesar of events only when I have them firmly under control once more. Now you’ve done enough damage for the day. Don’t you have anything better to do? I have to think.’

  Brutus glared at him for a moment, stood and, saluting in the most half-hearted fashion possible, turned and left the room, taking care to allow the door to shut quietly. Slamming doors and stamping feet in a childish tantrum was best left to the great Imperator Crassus.

  Angrily, he marched on down the street toward the north gate, where the prisoner stockade lay. He could see it from the slope; a mini camp in itself, with its own palisade, divided into sections and surrounded by defences and guards. The number of Gauls in there seemed to grow every time he looked, and every one of them would be a nobleman of one local tribe or another.

  At the bottom of the hill, just inside the decumana gate, Varus and Felix were returning from delivering the prisoners. Brutus waved at them until he got their attention, and then pointed to a small, almost hidden garden off the main street. As soon as he was sure they had seen, he strode off down that side passage and into the peaceful tranquillity of the Celtic garden.

  Unlike the ordered rows and graceful arcs of a Roman garden, this small, irregularly-shaped space was a muddle of jumbled shrubs, flower beds and fruit trees, with a small pond and a rustic seating area. It was in no way an organised formal garden and should be a mess, yet it had been created with such an instinctive knowledge of nature that everything fitted perfectly, blending in with the features around it to such an extent that, when taken as a whole, the effect was charming and relaxing.

  That was what Brutus needed a little of right now: charming and relaxing. Crassus was neither.

  He was just musing over what benefits Rome could reap through the infusion of a little Gaulish thinking when Varus and Felix rounded the corner and entered the garden. Brutus beckoned to them.

  ‘Have a seat. I think we have a problem.’

  Varus nodded as he strode across and collapsed onto one of the benches.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d have much luck with Crassus. He’s a stony faced and stony hearted imbecile.’

  Brutus shook his head sadly.

  ‘No, he’s far worse than that, Varus. He’s a six year old with an inferiority complex. His daddy is rich and powerful, and all his peers are more noble than him. He’s desperate to be better than the rest of us. I think your argument with him back near the Rhine after the Ariovistus affair made him realise that being one of the nobiles was no replacement for a noble lineage. He will lead us into the wolf’s mouth and watch the whole army burn rather than admit he can’t manage something.’

  Felix nodded sourly.

  ‘I can quite believe it. I served under his father fifteen years ago when that Thracian dog Spartacus was roaming around Italia with his gladiators and slaves. The old bastard had two legions decimated for cowardice, because they lost the field to Spartacus. He was a nasty piece of work and clearly the apple has not fallen far from the tree.’

  ‘The question then’ Brutus sighed ‘is what we can do about it?’

  Felix shrugged.

  ‘He’s the commander. If he wants to take the legions to crush the local tribes, we can hardly say no, no matter how much we might disagree. One of the prime requisites for being a primus pilus is obedience to the chain of command.’

  Brutus stared at the grass.

  ‘It’s a delicate situation. I’ve pushed about as far as I dare and there’s no way I can stop Crassus from carrying out his little punitive war.’

  He straightened and flexed his shoulders.

  ‘But I can put a little cushion in place for us to fall back on. Its possible Crassus is right, I suppose. He might be able to nip any insurrection in the bud and solve it all before it becomes a major problem. I very much doubt that’s the case, but I can’t ignore the possibility…’

  Varus and Felix turned their expectant faces on him.

  ‘But I can give him a month to try, and I can use that time to get things ready in the event he fails.’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Varus suspiciously.

  ‘Well firstly, I have to send a letter. I need to make Caesar aware of what’s happening.’

  Felix shook his head.

  ‘That’s just going to land you knee deep in the shit. When Crassus finds out, he’ll have you cut to ribbons for going behind his back and, to an extent he’ll be justified. It’s damn near mutiny.’

  ‘Not quite. I shall write my monthly letter to my mother; she likes to be kept informed of my activity and also that of the general. They’re friends, you see. The Julii and the Junii go back a way, and Caesar is actually a distant cousin. I shall ‘accidentally’ drop a few hints about what Crassus is doing. You can guarantee that within a week of mother getting hold of the letter, Caesar will know everything.’

  Varus shook his head.

  ‘That’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Brutus. And anyway, what if Caesar’s not in Rome, but in Cisalpine Gaul or Illyricum or somewhere else?’

  ‘Then she’ll make sure that word gets to him. She knows Fronto’s mother quite well, and Fronto’s in Rome at the moment with Priscus and Crispus. Word will get back.’

  Felix smiled a curious smile.

  ‘Priscus and Crispus. Every time anyone says that it sounds like two characters from a Plautus comedy to me!’

  ‘Anyway’ Brutus went on, sparing a glare for the primus pilus by his side ‘on a serious note, the next thing we need to do is anticipate the trouble we’re going to be in when Crassus fails.’

  ‘You thinking of raising your own legions, Brutus? I’m not sure the general would approve of that.’

  ‘Not exactly. That would be even closer to mutiny, but the tribes we’re dealing with here are sailors born and bred. The Veneti almost live at sea, and all these tribes centre around coastal fortresses and towns. What we need is naval support; to have access to the tribes by land and sea. If Crassus pushes us into open war, we’ll be at a serious disadvantage otherwise, and I doubt he’ll even think about the possibility of naval action.’

  Varus frowned at him.

  ‘I don’t know much about the navy, but is it feasible to get the nearest fleet all the way from Italia to here in time to help?’

  ‘Probably not. Plus I have no authority over them and even Caesar would have to apply to the senate for control of them. No. But we can build a fleet and man it ourselves in plenty of time.’

  Felix laughed.

  ‘Madness. How are you going to build the fleet without Crassus knowing? You’ll need to use the legions and Crassus will find out what you’re up to in no time. Then there’s manning the ships, even if you got them built. How many sailors do you know?’

  Brutus smiled at the primus pilus.

  ‘We can start constructing a fleet at Turonum. It’s only a day’s march from here, with a mercantile harbour on the Loire, which has naval access all the way to the sea. I’m sure we can siphon a few of the men away from th
e army to work on them. So long as we can get a few engineers who know what they’re doing, we can recruit the locals to do a lot of the basic labour. I can organise remuneration for them; the Junii are not short of a few denarii as I’m sure you’re aware. As for the crew, we’ll have to send to Narbo. The province is Caesar’s anyway, and the whole land is full of fishermen and sea traders, so we shouldn’t have any problems raising up a crew from there.’

  He turned to Varus and grinned.

  ‘If I supply you with the appropriate letters and finance, can you organise a few discreet cavalry officers to ride to Narbo and put things into motion?’

  Varus shrugged.

  ‘If you’re taking the responsibility for this, I can provide whatever you need.’

  Nodding, Brutus turned to Felix.

  ‘And how about engineers? Think you can spare a few good men from the Eleventh?’

  The primus pilus grinned.

  ‘You mean give them the option of continuing to dig latrines for the camp or go help design and build a navy away from our illustrious commander? They’ll bite my hand off.’

  ‘Good’ Brutus nodded. ‘And Galba’s coming any day now with the Twelfth. We can probably rely on some men from him, since Crassus has no idea about the Twelfth’s strength as it is.’

  He stood, stretching.

  ‘And I think that later I might swing by the headquarters of the Tenth. I don’t know their new primus pilus very well, but people say he’s got his head screwed on right, and if Fronto trusts him, then it’s worth seeing if he can spare a few men.’

  He rolled his shoulders a couple of times and then smiled.

  ‘Well, I shall see you fellows later on, at the tavern? I have to go write a letter home.’

  Chapter 3

  (Februarius: Rome. The house of the Falerii on the Aventine)

  ‘Not long now, Gnaeus, and the general will be back.’

  Priscus sighed and looked at Fronto over the top of the cup.

  ‘I can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend the winter in Illyricum. From what I hear, the whole place is just mountains, goats and toothless women.’

  Crispus frowned disapprovingly.

  ‘Ah, now Gnaeus, that’s hardly fair. Illyricum is an ancient region with a rich history and a distinct culture.’

  ‘Bollocks. It’s a vaguely Greek toilet that never achieved anything notable other than becoming Roman. Name me one great person or thing that ever came from Illyricum.’

  Crispus fell silent and frowned, his head angling slightly. There was a long moment’s silence.

  ‘See? Goats, mountains and toothless women.’

  Crispus shrugged with a laugh.

  ‘I simply cannot find an argument; no fault in your logic.’

  Priscus grinned.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll be pleased when Caesar does come back, cause he’ll drag you two off onto the next mad war he’s planned, and I’ll finally be free of people calling me ‘leftie’ and making jokes about me being limp.’

  Fronto nodded, his face suddenly sombre. His former primus pilus was putting a brave face on things, and he knew it well. Priscus would be smarting over the situation. His combat career was over and, while he might settle into the role of camp prefect in time, he was on a year’s enforced convalescence and was forbidden from joining the legions until the general’s personal surgeon decided otherwise.

  The three men, along with Galronus of the Remi, had returned to Rome before the winter set in. Crispus had been to visit his family for a while, and the other three had descended upon Fronto’s family townhouse, causing his sister to fuss and complain about the lack of warning. Priscus had stayed with them, given that he had no surviving family, and the winter months had been among the most relaxed and interesting that Fronto could remember.

  Every day saw something new. The three Romans showed Galronus the delights of the great city and introduced him to expensive wine and racing in the Circus Maximus, following which the Belgic auxiliary officer had begun his descent into the world of gambling, racing and late night tavern visits. Fronto’s sister Faleria had initially taken a fancy to the striking foreigner, but the lustre had soon worn off when she realised that Galronus was more like her brother than she’d originally imagined and she now treated him with the same loving contempt.

  Priscus left the house rarely to begin with, unsure of his ability to walk any sustained distance. The first few months, however, had seen a tremendous change as his leg strengthened. He still limped, his foot angled uncomfortably inwards, and occasionally had to stop and rest against something, but Fronto was convinced, with great relief, that by the end of his convalescence, his old friend would be mobile, if uncomfortable. As Priscus put a brave face on his injuries, so did his companions help by turning the horrific wounds of the previous year into a source of endless humorous jibes.

  ‘I’m sort of getting used to being back home and not facing screaming Gauls and biting women and having to take a shit in a bucket while the latrines are being dug. I have to admit I’m starting to dread the call in spring.’

  Crispus turned to look at Fronto, frowning.

  ‘You fool nobody Marcus. If I said such a thing, you would believe me. You, however, have a vine staff for a spine. I have watched you many times, and you’re only truly happy when you stand facing a screaming enemy with a sword in your hand.’

  Fronto winced.

  ‘Don’t say things like that near Faleria. She already has enough ammunition for making my life difficult without you providing a character reference!’

  Priscus slugged down the last of his wine.

  ‘Where is Galronus, anyway? I thought we were going to the Circus Flaminius for the camel racing?’

  ‘I imagine he’s only just now waking up with a thick head in the bed chamber of some delightful young lady in the subura. He’ll be here in plenty of time. He’s never late for the first race, you know that.’

  Priscus opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted when the door opened with a polite knock. The shiny, wrinkled, olive pate of Posco, the house’s chief slave, poked round the door.

  ‘Master Marcus? There are visitors for you. I have shown them into the atrium.’

  Fronto frowned. He and Posco had known one another long enough that he knew the little Greek’s signals; the two were far more friends than master and slave these days and Posco rarely even told Fronto about his visitors, dealing with the various irritating issues himself without bothering his master. The stress he laid on the word ‘visitors’, however, meant that these particular people were out of the ordinary.

  ‘Would you like them shown through or to meet them there?’

  Fronto frowned.

  ‘I think you should lead them on in, thank you, Posco.’

  With a nod, the little man exited the room and shut the door.

  ‘Visitors?’ Priscus raised an eyebrow. ‘Can’t be the general. He won’t be back here for a few weeks. Who then?’

  Fronto shrugged.

  ‘We’re about to find out.’

  The three waited a few moments, listening intently. A number of voices out in the corridor became gradually louder. Posco and three others. One had a deep and rich voice, one somewhat miscellaneous. The third…

  ‘That’s Cicero!’

  Fronto turned to Crispus.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I know that voice. Heard it often enough in camp.’

  The pair fell silent as the footsteps reached the far side of the door and stopped. Posco swung the portal open and stepped through with a slight bow.

  ‘Masters Marcus Caelius Rufus, Quintus Tullius Cicero, and Marcus Tullius Cicero.’

  Fronto stared.

  Quintus he was familiar with from the last two years of campaigning, Marcus Caelius Rufus was prominent enough to be a household name as praetor, tribune and public speaker. Marcus Cicero was something of a surprise: the great orator was not the most favourable advocate of Caesar and deigning to visit one
of the general’s senior officers seemed out of character.

  ‘Gentlemen? To what do we owe this pleasure?’

  The elder Cicero brother shot questioning glances at Crispus and Priscus and then let his gaze fall on Fronto.

  ‘What we have to say, Fronto, is rather private.’

  Fronto raised his brow.

  ‘Unless you’re here to tell me that you slept with my sister or something, these two can stay. Even then, since they’ve met Faleria…’

  Cicero frowned meaningfully at Fronto, but his younger brother tapped his shoulder.

  ‘I know them, Marcus. I’ve fought alongside them. Trust Fronto; he knows what he’s doing.’

  Fronto’s stomach began to churn. Politics. This had the stink of politics all over it.

  ‘Come on, then. What brings three such eminent folk to my house?’

  He gestured to the various spare couches and seats in the room and the three men filed in and sat. Cicero manoeuvred his toga into a more comfortable position.

  ‘I was, to be frank, rather hoping that Caesar would be here. I hear rumours that he is returning to Rome from Illyricum.’

  Fronto shrugged noncommittally and Cicero steepled his fingers, gazing over the tips and addressing his host in that deep and rich tone.

  ‘It seems that a viper has arisen in Rome these years past.’

  Fronto laughed.

  ‘A single one? A nest, I would have said.’

  The orator glowered at him but otherwise ignored the comment.

  ‘This particular viper has struck time and again and is causing troubles for the more reasonable men in Rome. I fear we have mutual enemies.’

  Fronto laughed.

  ‘All my enemies are wild, hairy men that paint their faces and run around naked trying to kill Romans. A bit like the senate, but with better hygiene.’