Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  The staff officer stood close to the steering oars and the trierarch, watching the attack with a glassy stare. The enemy that leapt from the two ships were not what he had been expecting. There were traditional Celtic warriors among them, certainly, but this attack was something different; something sad and horrifying. The vast majority of the boarding enemy were women, children and old men, wielding whatever weapons they could find aboard their vessel, down to even sharpened sticks.

  These were no Gallic army, but the desperate refugees of Darioritum, and yet they launched themselves into a violent attack that would end with them all dead, just in a last effort to destroy the Roman flagship and ruin the pride of Caesar’s fleet.

  Madness.

  And yet it looked very much as though they might succeed. The Aurora’s accompanying vessels were even now reversing their oars and moving slowly back to the fight but, even when they arrived alongside the enemy vessels, they would not be in a position to help the flagship until they had first secured the two Veneti vessels, the former being trapped and squeezed between them.

  The Roman crew were largely well-trained and well-armed, particularly the marines, a detachment drawn from the Ninth, but experience and equipment was only of so much use against odds of at least five men to one, which was Brutus’ estimate as he watched.

  The last of the Veneti leapt down into the fray, their own vessels now abandoned to fate. The commander watched in amazement as the melee seethed across the deck ahead. The sheer number of people aboard the Aurora was making it impossible to see how things were going. There were so many bodies heaving back and forth that hardly any deck space was visible. And the fighting was spreading.

  Spreading his way.

  Brutus blinked. The far end was already secured, with little or no activity around the ship’s bow. Yet there had been but a moment ago. And now the fighting was getting dangerously close.

  The young officer shook his head in realisation as he drew the sword from the expensive, decorative scabbard at his waist. Not only were the Veneti targeting the Roman flagship for a symbolic victory, they were well aware of where the ship’s commanders would be and what a Roman officer looked like.

  The fighting was getting ever closer, and the bow was now empty simply because the Veneti were trying to reach Brutus and the trierarch. A really symbolic action if they could defiantly present their conquerors with the head of the fleet’s commander.

  Close by, the trierarch drew a blade and stepped toward him, the celeusta joining them. A group of four marines broke from the fighting and ran toward them, forming up in front as a small shield wall.

  Brutus closed his eyes for a moment and offered up a silent prayer to Juno. For all the expensive training he had, he’d very little experience in actually using his sword in combat. Staff officers rarely found themselves in life or death situations. People like Fronto and Balbus, who were just as at home in personal combat as they were on a horse giving out orders, were a rarity even in the modern army. Brutus was a strategist, not a gladiator.

  Opening his eyes once again in response to a loud, guttural cry, he saw the first of the Veneti burst through the mass toward them. The action was still moving this way and the Roman forces were clearly still horribly outnumbered, a thin line of armed oarsmen fighting madly to hold the Veneti away from the stern.

  The first man who broke out had been quickly and efficiently put down by one of the marines from the Ninth and Brutus looked down at the spindly figure of the old man. Ridiculous. The Gaul must have been a sixty year old civilian, and he had attacked Roman legionaries with a belaying pin!

  There was little time for more than a passing glance, though, as three more men burst out of the press. This time, two were civilians, but the third was a warrior, armoured in mail and wielding both a heavy axe and a stolen Roman gladius.

  The three attacked the marine shield wall and Brutus watched in horror as the big warrior felled one of the marines instantly with a double blow. Another Roman disappeared to the deck beneath two young Veneti lads who combined their attack to butcher the screaming legionary with their daggers. Quickly, the remaining two marines reacted to the situation and once more got things under control. The legionaries dealt with the warrior and then leaned down and swiftly dispatched the two young men, though not quickly enough to save their compatriot, who lay on the deck in a spreading crimson pool, stabbed a dozen times and staring lifelessly at the sky.

  Brutus rolled his shoulders. Was this to be their fate? Lying untended on a deck, staring at the Gods and testament to the rebellious nature of the Gauls?

  Four more of the Veneti lunged through and, as they did, the remaining cordon of Roman sailors that had been keeping the fight away from the officers broke, the whole screaming melee flooding toward them.

  Brutus steadied himself. The Veneti were now coming in force. The five men, two legionaries and three naval officers, retreated to the heavy rear rail of the ship, the last refuge. Among the bellowing Gauls running toward them were occasional Roman sailors or legionaries, hacking madly at the men, women and children around them, largely ignored by their victims who, in a lust driven by desperation, fixed their sights on the officers.

  The trierarch watched the oncoming flood of Veneti and turned to his commander.

  ‘Get overboard, sir.’

  ‘What?’ Brutus stared at him.

  ‘We’re dead men now. Even if the other crews are on their way, they’ll never be in time. You need to go overboard now.’

  Brutus shook his head. He may not be prepared for, or any real use in, a fight to the death, but he was damned if a Roman fleet commander was going to be seen fleeing the scene. Better to die honourably than to run away.

  ‘Just pay attention to them, not me.’

  The trierarch held the officer in his gaze for a long moment. He’d always assumed that he would die aboard a ship, and at least they had won the war, even if they lost this particular battle. The rest of the squadron would take their revenge on these bastards, but they could not be allowed to take the head of the commander first.

  Brutus set himself in the stance he’d seen Fronto take, preparing for the clash.

  He was totally unprepared when the trierarch smashed a sword pommel into his bared head, driving the consciousness from him instantly. Morpheus enfolded him in his arms and together they sunk into blackness.

  The trierarch halted the officer’s fall and gestured to the celeusta. The rowing officer nodded, dropping his sword and grabbing Brutus, hauling him easily up. Turning his back on the attacking Gauls, he heaved the officer over the rail and watched as the young man plummeted heavily into the water, the cuirass pulling him instantly beneath the waves.

  Moments later, the celeusta hit the water, his buoyancy guaranteed by his lack of armour, and he kicked down into the cold deep until his hands touched the cold steel of the officer’s chest plate. Looping his arms beneath Brutus’ shoulders, he kicked for the surface.

  As he broke into open air, gasping, he wrestled with difficulty with the man’s shoulder and side straps until the cuirass came away and disappeared into the deep. A small rivulet of blood bloomed on the officer’s head where he had been struck by the trierarch.

  The celeusta looked back up toward the deck above. The sounds of violent melee were clearly audible, but his fight was over for now. His job was to get the commander to safety.

  Turning his back on the Aurora as its last Roman occupant fell to a scything blow, the celeusta secured his grip on Brutus and began to swim for the shore.

  Chapter 12

  (Quintilis: Below the headlands at the entrance to the bay of Darioritum)

  White light…

  Painful white light…

  The taste of bile and salt…

  The roaring of unbearable noise…

  A smiling face.

  Brutus shook his head and stared.

  ‘Is this really the time and the place to be going for a swim?’ Fronto grinned.

/>   ‘Whurr?’

  The capsarius who was tending to the cut on his head tutted and pushed him back against the hard surface below. Brutus closed his eyes and tried to think back and organise his thoughts. Everything swam around rather unpleasantly when he closed his eyes.

  ‘Whurr…’

  Fronto’s grin took on a note of comprehension.

  ‘We’re on the deck of the Excidium; on our way to shore.’

  Brutus continued to shake his head in semi-confusion.

  ‘Wha? Can’ think.’

  The face of the Tenth’s legate took on a slightly more sombre look.

  ‘No survivors, I’m afraid. Other than you and the man who dragged you to the Excidium, that is. Good man there… suspect he’ll be in line for a bonus, eh?’

  ‘No survivors?’

  ‘Not one. The Veneti were pretty ruthless with the crew of the Aurora. They were still sawing the bodies to pieces when the two relief crews arrived. I haven’t asked, but I somehow doubt there were any survivors on their side, either. I gather the captains of the Excidium and the Accipiter took the attack and the death of their colleague sort of personally.’

  Brutus shook his head again and winced.

  ‘But they were women and children, Marcus.’

  Fronto allowed a certain unconcern to show on his face.

  ‘They were an enemy who showed you no mercy. I won’t mourn them, and neither will you.’

  Brutus sat up slowly with the aid of the capsarius, who nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘Nothing a rest won’t sort out now, sir, but go slow til you find your strength.’

  As the man hurried off to tend to other casualties, Fronto reached down and helped the bedraggled officer slowly to his feet. Brutus wobbled uncertainly and grasped the rail for support. For the first time, he took stock of their surroundings.

  ‘Where are we now?’

  ‘At the north side of the channel. Once the captain here found you and dealt with the remaining Veneti, he came across to pick me up. Now we’re on our way to collect Balbus and then he’s ferrying the three of us back to Darioritum to Caesar. I’m assuming that things are settled there.’

  Brutus nodded uncertainly.

  ‘They should be. We left enough ships to deal with the rest of their fleet and it looked as though Caesar’s forces had control of the city. Oooh…’

  For a moment he wobbled forward, sagging against the rail.

  ‘I feel rather unwell.’

  Fronto grinned.

  ‘I feel like that on board most ships. But at least it’s nice and calm here, and in an hour we’ll be back among the lads, and I can find Cita and requisition enough wine to half-drown you again.’

  Brutus gave him a weak smile.

  ‘Then it’s over. The Veneti are quashed.’

  ‘Hopefully. Strangely, though, I’ve been hating this place since we returned, with all the wet and the wind and the storms. Now that it’s settled and becoming quite nice, I’m getting used to it again. We’re about to dock… hold tight.’

  The trireme pulled slowly up to the small jetty that marched out into the bay below the fort. A small group of armoured men with red cloaks stood in a knot at the far end. Fronto watched with interest as the Excidium came to a stop and ropes were thrown ashore and then tied.

  The small group began to move slowly down the jetty, and Fronto’s face tightened. Something was wrong. A lump in his throat, he focused on the small knot of men as they strode toward the trireme. He did not know the centurions and optios of the Eighth that Balbus had taken with him, let alone the legionaries, but he could see the figure of the ageing legate in the centre.

  Fronto closed his eyes and threw a prayer out.

  Balbus did not look good.

  The legate was being helped along the jetty and, though fully armoured and on his feet after a fashion, he was paler than many corpses Fronto had seen. Paying no further heed to Brutus or the crew of the ship, Fronto leapt over the rail to the jetty and ran along the boards to the men.

  Balbus smiled weakly at him.

  ‘Hell.’ Fronto’s voice was like lead.

  The older legate’s face had a faintly blue tint and Fronto shook his head desperately.

  ‘Stop, stop, stop!’ he barked at the men.

  Balbus sighed, and Fronto noted how he winced and shuddered when he did so.

  ‘Oh shit. Show me your hands!’

  The legate of the Eighth, confused, but too weak and pained to argue, held out a hand, the other still being grasped for support. Fronto looked down at the pale blue hand. The finger nails were bulging and wide, to the point of being unsightly. The legate of the Tenth grasped Balbus and gently took the strain, brushing the soldiers aside as he gained sole support of his friend.

  Pausing long enough to give the older legate a breather, though that breath was shallow and came in gasps, he took his arm across his shoulder and began to help him slowly along the jetty, waving the other soldiers away.

  Balbus smiled at him again and opened his mouth to speak, but the effort was too much and he sighed.

  Fronto grimaced and took a deep breath.

  ‘Get those ropes in and prepare to sail as soon as we’re aboard. I want to get back to the army faster than Mercury himself.’

  The trierarch of the Excidium took one look at the legate and his burden and nodded, barking out orders. As the two men closed on the rail, Brutus, now largely recovered from his bleariness, reached out and helped the older legate aboard.

  As they planted their feet on the deck, the hammering of a fast rhythm began, and the oars began to dip. Brutus helped Fronto support the legate of the Eighth across to a free rowing bench and lowered him to it. As Fronto held him steady, the young staff officer grabbed a barrel and moved it closer to serve as a backrest.

  ‘Is he…’ Brutus tried to find a way to be circumspect in front of Balbus but, failing, gave up. ‘Is he dying?’

  Fronto gave him a sharp glance.

  ‘Not as long as I’m here, he damn well isn’t! But I want to get him to a proper medicus as soon as possible.’

  Brutus frowned as he examined the ailing man.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think he’s slowly getting his colour back.’

  ‘Good. But that might not be the end of it.’

  Brutus turned his frown on the legate of the Tenth.

  ‘Don’t tell me you know medicine, Fronto?’

  ‘Hardly. But I recognise this. Happened to my dad three times in a year and the third one took him from us for good.’

  He ground his teeth and glared at Balbus before smashing his fist so hard on the bench he left a crack.

  ‘I should have damn well seen it coming. I should have spotted it!’

  Brutus shrugged.

  ‘You couldn’t have.’

  ‘Yes I bloody could. Three times he’s complained recently of heartburn. That’s how it starts. It’ll come to you as no surprise that my father was a lover of the vine. We thought nothing of his increased indigestion and heartburn, but then this started to happen: the collapsing; the blue skin and the fat fingers.’

  ‘But he’s clearly recovering, Marcus. Look: his colour is returning rapidly and his breathing’s steadying.’

  Fronto shook his head angrily.

  ‘Yes, but this will have weakened him for good. Once it starts, it sets off a decline.’

  He turned and grasped Balbus by the shoulders, pushing him a little more upright, and stared into the older man’s face.

  ‘You mad old bastard. You knew something was wrong. You knew you weren’t well, and you volunteer to go personally invading a fort at night? Are you crazy?’

  Balbus blinked and shook his head gently. The blue had faded. He was pale as could be, but better than before. With a sad smile, he opened his mouth and took a deep breath.

  ‘Marcus? Couldn’t let you have all the fun.’

  ‘You mad old bastard. Don’t you dare do this to me. I lost Velius last year and Longinu
s the year before. I’m not losing anyone this year. Gaul’s had its last taste of my friends.’

  Balbus chuckled quietly and wearily.

  ‘I’m not dead, Marcus. Far from it… just overexerted myself a little.’

  Fronto continued to stare in saddened anger at him.

  ‘Rest. Stop speaking and rest. The medicus will sort you out.’

  Balbus nodded and sank gratefully back to lean against the barrel. Fronto shot a meaningful look at two sailors who stood nearby furling ropes and gestured to the older legate. The men nodded and, dropping the ropes, leaned down to take hold of the weakened officer, supporting him as he sagged into a relieved doze.

  Fronto marched angrily across the deck to the far rail and smashed his fist on the wood once again, wincing at the pain. Brutus followed him over and placed his hand gingerly on the legate’s shoulder.

  ‘He might be alright yet, Fronto? Just because it happened to your father more than once, doesn’t mean it will to Balbus.’

  Fronto shook his head.

  ‘It will. Might be years before it happens again, but it will. And each time it’ll weaken him until he just can’t fight it anymore. After my father I… consulted several physicians. Balbus might be around for years yet, but not with us.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s the end of his military career. Can’t continue to command the Eighth. He’ll have to go back to Massilia for Corvinia to look after. She’ll be beside herself when she finds out.’

  Brutus sighed and turned to lean on the railing, gazing out to sea.

  ‘I can’t imagine the staff without his input. You know the younger officers and tribunes call him ‘granddad’? Not as an insult, mind you. He’s probably the most popular officer in the army. More so than you!’

  Fronto snorted derisively.

  ‘I’m not popular. I piss too many people off.’