Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  His gaze rested for a long moment on the shattered remains of the headland stronghold, it’s buildings pulled down, walls dropped into the sea, the thicker areas of vegetation fired and still showing from this distance as columns of smoke, and the grass salted to ruin it for generations to come… if there were to be any future generations, that was.

  Fronto sighed again and pulled up the front of his breeches, fastening the drawstring. Before he turned away, he made sure to spit once on Draco’s name, a habit rapidly becoming a tradition in the Tenth. Glancing quickly at the sky, which threatened heavy rain again through the night, he strode back across to Tetricus’ tent. The warm glow and murmur of good-natured conversation from within welcomed him.

  Pulling the tent flap back, he entered once more and made his way across to his seat among the cushions on the floor.

  ‘I just don’t see what he expects us to do?’

  Brutus gestured irritably with one arm before swigging from the cup in the other.

  ‘I mean…’ he paused, rubbing his eyes, ‘the simple fact is that our ships can’t go out to sea to follow them in those choppy conditions, and they can’t get close enough to land to follow them along the coast. All we can do is keep watch. Even when we do get near them, they’re both faster and higher than us.’

  Tetricus shrugged.

  ‘Then you’re going to have to find a way to bring them to your level. To even the odds a little.’

  ‘Easier said than done, my friend.’

  Tetricus nodded.

  ‘The time will come. In the meantime, how many of these damn strongholds do we have to take before we can pin them down?’

  Fronto sat heavily and reached for his own wine.

  ‘I have to admit I am heartily sick of Armorica. For a few days when I got to Vindunum I was actually glad to get out of Rome and back into the field. For the life of me I cannot fathom why!’

  Balventius and Carbo shared a look and then the primus pilus of the Eighth smiled.

  ‘It could be worse.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You could be with one of the other armies.’

  Fronto frowned, and Balventius spread his hands wide.

  ‘You could be with Labienus suffering the worst of both worlds. He has the climate of Gaul and the boredom of no action. He’s just digging aqueducts and teaching the locals the value of Rome while his boots fill with rain.’

  Carbo nodded and leaned across in front of him.

  ‘Or you could be with Crassus… actually, that’s enough on its own. You could be with Crassus!’

  Fronto chuckled.

  ‘I wonder how everyone else is getting on?’

  He leaned back and took another swig.

  ‘Remember the last couple of years? Those times we sat in that nice little tavern in Bibracte?’ He grinned meaningfully at Balbus. ‘Or that charming little place in Vesontio where you broke my nose? I can’t remember there being rain. All I remember when I think back is warm sunshine, bees and the smell of wildflowers.’

  Carbo snorted.

  ‘That’s because you went to Spain for the winter. You should have seen the conditions at Vesontio in November. It was like camping in the bottom of a latrine.’

  Fronto shrugged with a laugh.

  ‘Fair enough. It’s just this constant rain is beginning to wear my patience away, particularly when combined with our inability to nail the Veneti down. It just feels like we’re wasting our time out here while the Gods piss on us for fun. The only time it stops raining is when the bloody thunder clouds need time to gather to give us yet another storm.’

  Brutus nodded.

  ‘But that can’t go on forever. At least if the weather clears up the fleet might have more of a chance to prove itself. We’ve been sat pretty much port-bound for the last fortnight.’

  Balbus smiled and leaned forward.

  ‘We need a plan. We need to trap the Veneti and their fleet in the same place with no means of escape. If we can do that, we can force a conclusion to all this.’

  He reached up and thumped himself a couple of times gently on the chest before wincing and sliding his unfinished cup of wine back onto the low table.

  ‘You alright?’ Fronto asked, his brow furrowing.

  ‘Just heartburn. It’s this cheap and nasty wine, and the quantity of it, of course.’

  Tetricus raised his eyebrow.

  ‘Cheap and nasty? You have no idea how much I had to pay Cita to get that. It’s some of his special reserve store.’

  Balbus grinned at him.

  ‘Still tastes like a gladiator’s sandal!’

  ‘You’re just sore because you haven’t won a game of dice in three days.’

  Fronto leaned back with his wine and let the ensuing good-natured argument wash over him like a warm bath, soaking him in comfort. Grimacing for a moment, he shifted his supporting weight to his right arm. His left had made an almost full recovery after the spear wound last year, but prolonged pressure still made it ache painfully.

  Funny how many things had changed in just over two years. When they were chasing the Helvetii, the people in this tent would have been so different, with Priscus, Velius, Longinus and others. No Carbo or Brutus in those days, though. The seasons changed and, along with them, so did the people around him, but the central fact never changed: these were the core of people that made Caesar’s army what it was.

  He smiled sadly at the recollection of friends gone and currently absent and realised, with surprise, that events had taken such a turn that he’d never had the opportunity to review the situation of promotions within the Tenth’s centurionate. Clearly Carbo had settled into the role of primus pilus comfortably, and Fronto was hardly about to put that under review. The permanently happy-looking Carbo had a strange and yet infectious sense of humour and a wicked mind for practical jokes, as Fronto was starting to discover after the third night in a row of waking with a start next to a frog that sat staring silently at him.

  But the need for a training officer had slipped his mind, perhaps due to the pain that thoughts of Velius still brought. He frowned and noticed that Carbo was watching him intently across the tent, past the laughing and arguing officers.

  ‘Carbo? Mind if I pick your brain for a moment?’

  The centurion smiled and shuffled across the carpeted floor until he sat close to the legate.

  ‘By all means. You’ll have to find it first, of course…’

  Fronto laughed quietly.

  ‘Have you thought about how we fill Velius’ place?’

  Carbo nodded.

  ‘I assumed this would come up some time, but I didn’t want to push anything. I’ve had the job shared between the three most capable centurions in the Tenth as an interim measure, but I also have a shortlist of three candidates I was going to put to you.’

  Fronto shook his head in exasperation.

  ‘You’ve been prepared all this time? Why did you not speak to me, or even just sort it yourself?’

  Carbo smiled.

  ‘Velius was your friend. The time wasn’t right yet. Now, it clearly is. And it’s not my place to assign promotions in the centurionate; that has to come from you or a tribune.’

  Again, Fronto laughed.

  ‘You promoted yourself!’

  ‘That was different. Anyway, I’ve three men in mind, as I said. I’ve not approached any of them, but the position’s likely to appeal to them all and, well… without wanting to blow our own buccina, the Tenth has a good reputation. People are always watching for transfer opportunities. You may have noticed we’re rarely far below full strength. We’ve had almost a hundred inward transfers in the past month. I think it’s starting to piss the other legates off, but it’s good for us.’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘Go on then. Who’ve you got down?’

  Carbo counted them off on his fingers.

  ‘Well they’re all from outside the Tenth. Nobody truly fits the bill here. Firstly, there’s Aquilius. He’s t
he obvious choice, given his experience.’

  ‘Aquilius?’ Fronto’s brow furrowed. ‘But he’s already a chief training officer in the Eighth. Why would he change?’

  Something unreadable passed across Carbo’s face for a moment; fleeting and then gone, chased away by a smile.

  ‘We can offer him an identical role in the Tenth, with the same rank, position and pay. You see, Aquilius is a perfectionist. Not like the hard bugger Velius was, but a real professional, and I suspect he’d be excited to get a chance to get his teeth into the Tenth. He’s got the Eighth just how he wants them, and there’s no challenge there any more. He might not accept, but I’ve a feeling he would.’

  Fronto shook his head.

  ‘Perhaps, but I’d rather not strip a good man from Balbus’ legion if I can avoid it. Who else have you got?’

  ‘Well there’s a man called Bassianus in the Eleventh that I’ve been watching for a while too. He’s no experience as a chief training officer, but he’s done more than his fair share of training and drilling, and he’s a long term veteran with a reputation for being hard as a whore’s heart. He actually served with the Ninth in Spain under your command a long time ago.’

  Fronto nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Don’t recognise the name, but then it’s been a long time. You think he can do the job?’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend someone who couldn’t’ Carbo grinned.

  ‘Alright. So who’s the third?’

  Carbo’s smile widened disturbingly.

  ‘You’ll love this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A centurion called Atenos.’

  ‘That’s not even a Roman name?’ Fronto frowned.

  ‘No. Atenos is a Gaul from the Thirteenth Legion. He’s my outside chance, just in case, but I can’t help thinking that, even though he appears at first to be the least appropriate, he might just be the best choice.’

  Fronto shook his head and waved his arm.

  ‘No, no, no. Any Gaulish centurion in the Thirteenth is a lower ranking one, you know that. All the senior roles were given to Roman veterans. Hell, all the centurions were Roman veterans until they started dying off. That means that this Atenos only has a year behind the eagle. He’s practically still one of the enemy!’

  Carbo laughed.

  ‘Bollocks. He’s signed on for the full term, taken the oath and served with distinction for a year. Besides, you’ve not queried his experience.’

  Fronto barked a laugh.

  ‘What experience? Ten years of fighting naked and covered in paint and then a year with the legions?’

  Carbo’s grin became a little defensive.

  ‘Hardly. Atenos has a long and distinguished military history… as a mercenary, I’ll grant you, but it all counts.’

  Fronto blinked.

  ‘A mercenary?’

  Yes. When his people were displaced by the Helvetii about fifteen years ago, he went south and signed on with any army that would pay and feed him. He may have fought with the slaves, though he denies it, but he definitely served with Pompey’s fleets against the pirates, then turned and fought with the King of Pontus against Pompey and then joined him again when he marched on Jerusalem. Quite a pedigree.’

  Fronto stared at his chief centurion.

  ‘Carbo, the man’s fought against us as often as he’s fought for us. Are you mad?’

  The primus pilus shrugged.

  ‘It’s your decision. But think what a man with all that varied experience could bring to the Tenth if he were given the opportunity to train them?’

  Fronto shook his head.

  ‘You are mad. But I’ll have a look at them all and give you my opinions in a few days.’

  ‘Good. Gives you something to get your teeth into and stop you moping around.’

  Fronto glared at Carbo, but that grin was just too infectious to stay irritated at.

  * * * * *

  The legate of the Tenth looked up once more at the sulky grey sky. Last night it had delivered yet another torrential downpour, accompanied by crashes, flashes and grumbles and it looked very much like things were gearing up for a repeat performance tonight. He performed a quick calculation on his fingers as he walked.

  By his reckoning, they had been campaigning again for just over eighty days, and dredging his memory as deeply as he could, he could only recall eight days that had not involved rain of some kind and those eight had, instead, been filled with high winds and freezing cold. What had happened to this country? Not for the first time this year, he found himself wondering why Rome would actually want this place at all.

  Turning his thoughts away from the depressing weather, he instead set his sights on the man standing by the rocks close to the cliff edge. There was the sound of men working nearby, hammering stone with their picks.

  Fronto was not sure what he was expecting from centurion Atenos but, whatever it was, it wasn’t this. The centurion stood in a traditional Roman pose, vine staff in hand and the other arm behind his back as he rocked gently back and forth on his heels. Fronto could not see his face, as the man had his back to the approaching legate, but he was an impressive enough sight from the rear. Clearly a head taller than anyone Fronto even knew, the man was a virtual giant, probably six and a half feet tall, or even more, though thin and lithe, rather than bulky. His yellow hair was coarse and longer than tradition held, but lacking the traditional braids of the Gaulish. His concessions to Roman equipment were otherwise total.

  A stick cracked under Fronto’s foot, and the man turned sharply.

  His face was strong and proud, with high cheekbones and a tidy moustache. Fronto was surprised to note, given the man’s short service history, the four phalera and single torc hanging from the man’s harness. He must have had an eventful year.

  ‘Morning’ he said, as casually as possible, cursing his dubious talents at duplicity.

  The centurion saluted.

  ‘Good morning, Legate Fronto. You’re a long way from the Tenth?’

  Fronto nodded, unable to come up with a convincing reason for his presence. Instead, he ignored the comment and nodded toward the five legionaries who repeatedly smashed at a flat, heavy rock perilously close to the edge of the cliff.

  ‘Mind if I ask?’

  The centurion nodded.

  ‘Sick of having to cross the camp for a crap, sir. Decided to build a proper latrine here. Got ‘em cutting bum-holes in the rock.’

  Fronto looked confused for a moment.

  ‘Can’t they just crouch over the pit like everyone else?’

  The Gaul turned to face him, a strange smile on his face.

  ‘No pit. Going to have it perched over the edge. Sea will take it all away… no smell and no mucking out.’

  Fronto stared.

  ‘You’re actually going to sit on a home-made bench, bare-arsed and leaning out over the cliff for a crap?’

  The centurion nodded.

  ‘Perfectly safe, sir. Rock solid, you might say. Even had our engineers’ approval. I’ve offered the lads first try, since it’s all their own effort, but they gave me the same look as you did. Looks like I might have my very own latrine.’

  There was nothing Fronto could do but continue to stare at the man incredulously, his eyes sliding first to the seat the men were manufacturing, and then to the precipitous drop into the sea. He shuddered.

  ‘Well there’s no denying the bravery of the centurionate. That’s for sure.’

  The man laughed.

  ‘So if you’re not here for a crap, sir, mind if I ask why you are here?’

  Fronto ground his teeth. He was no good at this subtlety.

  ‘You were pointed out by one of my officers as a man to watch. Frankly, I was intrigued… and I think I still am.’

  The centurion raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You on the hunt for transfers, sir?’

  Fronto shook his head, not in answer to the question, but in fascination.

  ‘Perhaps. From what I�
�ve been told, I’d guess you were one of the Aedui? Or the Lingones?’

  Atenos shook his head.

  ‘Close, though, sir… for a Roman. One of the Leuci actually originally.’

  Fronto nodded thoughtfully. He knew the name, of course, but could not have placed the tribe without a map.

  ‘You speak Latin flawlessly, without even a trace of an accent. But from what I hear of your past, that’s perhaps not a surprise.’

  The huge Gaul smiled down at him. The longer Fronto stood next to him, the smaller he felt. It was like being at the bottom of a well.

  ‘My Latin is good, legate. My Greek has a strange twang, I’ve been told, reminiscent of a Galatian. My Persian is barely comprehensible, but I know how to talk to barmen and dancing girls.’

  Fronto stared.

  ‘Persian?’

  ‘Spent a year in Commagene when I got my honesta missio after that business in Judea. Strange place over there, though; and all the sand, rock and dust make a man homesick for some good, honest wet grass.’

  Fronto laughed.

  ‘Then you’ve done well! I’ve never seen wetter grass than this stupendous Gaulish summer.’

  The man nodded and fell silent; a silence that remained for a long moment, backed only by the hammering of picks on stone.

  ‘You’ve been a busy man prior to joining the Thirteenth… fighting for all sorts of different people, if I hear correctly?’

  Atenos shrugged.

  ‘A man has to make a living, sir. I’d have signed on with the legions a decade ago if it were legal, but I’m not a citizen. Happy now, though, since Caesar found a way around that particular rule.’

  The legate’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Really? Even though we’re here fighting your fellow Gauls?’

  Atenos shrugged again.