Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  As he waved to his own standard bearers with their dragon-headed banners and Celtic horns, ready to give them their orders, Crassus watched the auxilia pull back and reassemble to the rear, the legion shifting to present a solid shield wall.

  Horns were blown across the hillside, and the cavalry pulled back in their four groups to a distance from which to observe events. Galronus watched them and then frowned in surprise as Crassus rode forward, approaching the rear lines of the legion, an enterprising optio giving hasty commands and having a passageway opened for the legate.

  Crassus nodded at the man and rode between the ranks of the Seventh until he reached the front, where he turned his horse and looked down at the men.

  ‘Our Aquitanian and Spanish friends appear to be a little nervous?’

  A ripple of laughter spread out across the crowd.

  ‘How do we reward their resistance?’

  A deep, raspy voice from somewhere amid the ranks called out ‘death?’

  Crassus pointed in the man’s direction.

  ‘Death is a start, but even heroes die. You and I will die some day. How do we reward these cowards trembling behind their fake Roman walls for closing their gates to the Seventh?’

  A lighter voice muttered something and one of the centurions on the front rank raised his vine staff over his head.

  ‘Obliteration, gutting, burning, dismantling and salting the land, sir!’

  Crassus laughed.

  ‘I fear you missed the looting from your list, but good man nonetheless!’

  This time the laughter raced around the army in a roar.

  ‘So do we go back and prepare for a siege, men?’

  The negative murmur was clear indication of the feeling of the troops. Galronus smiled to himself. This was a Caesarean speech if ever he’d heard one. Fronto rarely made speeches of this kind; his men were so tightly bound to him they would follow him into Tarterus if he asked. Caesar, however, relied on his oratory to goad his men and stiffen their resolve, like the public speakers Galronus had heard urging the crowds in Rome. Remarkably, it seemed to work and, more remarkably yet, the young legate seemed to be turning into a shadow of the general himself. The mood was suddenly tingling and electric, like the air between a crash of thunder and the flash of the lightning.

  ‘Or do we march on and flatten that camp and every last living thing in it?’ the legate bellowed.

  A roar arose from the crowd, and Crassus allowed his horse to rear up and paw at the air a couple of times heroically before settling back down as silence returned.

  ‘Good men. Let’s go and show them a taste of true Roman power!’

  As he turned and rode his horse back through the narrow passageway to the rear, the Seventh Legion cheered, and men reached up to try and touch the passing legate’s boot or harness for luck. Galronus had had to force himself not to cheer along.

  Really there was so little to cheer about, he thought as he set his gaze on the strong defences awaiting them at the top of the slope.

  * * * * *

  Crassus hauled on his reins and turned his horse to get a better view of what was happening along the left flank.

  The approach was brutal, and he knew it. The men knew it as well, but they were professionals and had marched forward with the pride of Rome glowing in their eyes to take the fortress. A particularly astute soldier at the front had called a warning as they approached the causeway leading to the gate, noticing the tell-tale depressions that spoke of lilia pits waiting to cripple anyone who dared take the easy approach.

  The first task was to cross the ditches, three of them in all, cut to the perfect angle to inconvenience infantry. The First Cohort of the legion had managed, with some difficulty, and no small number of casualties, to cross the first ditch and had formed a solid shield wall between the first and second, under the constant barrage of defensive missiles. As soon as they were in position, however, the auxiliary archers had rushed across and dropped down behind them before rising to send their own repeated volleys at the walls, pinning down the defenders.

  It irked Crassus immensely to watch his glorious Seventh reduced to the status of a gigantic shield, while the auxilia did the bulk of the work right now, the archers crippling the enemy defences and the spearmen bringing forth bundles of foliage and sods of earth to infill the ditch, enabling the remaining five cohorts to cross.

  But then, the auxilia were there to use and he was sure his veterans would be happier playing shield wall than carrying the turf.

  As he watched, tensely, a new wave of defenders appeared all along the fort wall, armed with heavy darts, rocks, slings and bows. The resulting sudden intense enemy attack punctured holes all along the shield wall, forcing reinforcement legionaries to run across the partially filled ditch to take their place, less than half of whom made it across alive.

  The plan was solid, though. In a few hours the ditches would be no obstacle. Of course, there were bound to be lilia below the walls too if they were following the Sertorian model, and the defences themselves would be difficult enough to take, but the whole thing could be over by nightfall, depending on what these clever little barbarians had prepared within the camp itself. He would be prepared to bet there were a few nasty surprised in store when they got that close.

  He ground his teeth as the fresh wave of defenders was pushed back down behind their defences again by concentrated attack from the auxiliary archers. The problem was that in the time it took to get his men into that fortification, he may only have half his army left.

  The alternative, of course, was to march the legion blindly across the ditch with no further delay and try to take them in a straight assault, since there was no chance of getting siege engines up that slope in a hurry. That would be a greater gamble still, though. This way, the battle was drawn out over a longer period, extending the time to which his men were subject to enemy attack, but at least they were in a good defensive position. If he charged them and opened them up to the full strength of enemy attack as they tried to cross the ditches…

  It didn’t even bear thinking about.

  He couldn’t lose this battle, and he couldn’t lose the whole action. His father had spoken at length in his last letter of the likelihood of attaining a gubernatorial posting next year, which would mean that he himself would likely be recalled to Rome at the end of this season and, if that was the case, he needed victory beneath his belt to assure him of a good position in the city when his father left.

  In all, this meant that not only did he have to destroy the benighted Aquitanian alliance, but he would have to do it with such force, pomp and show and with enough of a surviving force to drive the idea of resistance and rebellion from the minds of all. The Gaulish cavalryman had been right to counsel mercy down on the plains, but this was different. This had to be a statement.

  Noting with satisfaction that the first ditch was now fully traversable with little difficulty and that the cornicen was sending out the orders to advance the shield wall and archers to the next intervallum, he turned and frowned.

  He had not spared a thought for the cavalry for the past half hour and had seen little of them, skirting the edge of the field as they were. And yet, as he scanned the periphery, past the lines of legionaries waiting for the order to advance, there was Galronus, cresting the hill from the west with a small party of riders at his back. The man was in a hurry.

  Patting his restless, prancing steed calmingly on the neck, Crassus watched as the cavalry officer bore down on him, and hauled on the reins as he closed.

  ‘I assume you’ve kept yourself busy patrolling the periphery?’

  Galronus grinned.

  ‘Something like that. I think I have some good news for you.’

  Crassus nodded soberly. Good news would be welcome about now.

  ‘The southern approach?’ Galronus smiled, pointing at the fort. ‘I told you about the pitiful ditch there? Well it would appear that they’ve stripped the bulk of the defence from that
wall to bolster this one. Clearly they’re aware that the legion is concentrating here.’

  Crassus nodded again, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Stripped by how much?’

  Galronus grinned.

  ‘Give me a drunken circus crowd and I could probably get in there.’

  The legate bit his lip.

  ‘I cannot withdraw from here, or they will become wise to the situation and even up their defences again. But then you cannot take that approach with purely cavalry.’

  Galronus nodded, pointing across the valley.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Yes, the four cohorts in reserve.’

  Crassus squared his shoulders and turned to spy the small group of tribunes gathered nearby with the signifers and cornicen.

  ‘Rusca? Ride back to the camp with this man.’

  As the tribune rode over to join them, his head cocked to one side quizzically, Crassus gestured to the pair of them.

  ‘A joint force of cavalry detachment and four cohorts, led by the two of you.’ He pointed at Galronus. ‘Your men know the area now. Lead them round by a distant route; the most hidden you can find. I don’t care how you do it, but get those men to the southern approach without being seen. We will continue to prosecute the main fight here and draw their attention as much as possible.’

  He took a deep breath.

  ‘Be as fast as you can, but do not sacrifice secrecy for speed, or all is for naught. You know what to do when you get there?’

  Rusca looked vaguely uncomfortable, but Galronus nodded.

  ‘Get inside the walls and cause mayhem!’

  ‘Mayhem, indeed. Good. Juno watch over you both. Now go.’

  He watched the two men ride off, the small group of riders at their heels, and took a deep breath.

  ‘Juno watch over us all!’

  * * * * *

  Rusca peered around the bole of the tree and squinted into the distance.

  ‘So how are we going to do this?’

  Galronus shrugged.

  ‘I’m a cavalry man, tribune. Siege is not my forte.’

  Rusca nodded and, turning, waved the senior centurion forward.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I want your thoughts on how we assail that place.’

  The centurion frowned.

  ‘Direct and fast, sir. Not much in the way of a ditch to stop us, so we can be at the walls at a run in a few moments. There’s not many defenders, so we need to get control before they can draw reinforcements to the wall.’

  Galronus pursed his lips.

  ‘Will you go over the wall or through it?’

  ‘Both have merits’ the man shrugged. ‘To bring sections of the palisade down is a slower job and would delay the assault, but we’d be inside en masse a lot quicker. Scaling the walls would give us speed and surprise, but it would be a while before we had any kind of force inside.’

  He smiled and spread his hands.

  ‘What I’d do, sir, is both at once.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘Yessir. There’s a lot of powerful horses here that can’t do anything until they can get inside. The First Cohort attacks, climbs the walls, cuts the palisade binding and secures ropes, then passes them to the cavalry. The horses can probably pull that palisade clean out of the ground one stake at a time. As soon as there are a few small holes, the other three cohorts come in, take the rest apart quickly and then get inside. Soon as we’re in and there’s a sizeable hole, the cavalry can do their bit too, sir.’

  Rusca frowned.

  ‘Where do you think we might find ropes at such short notice?’

  ‘Brought them with us, sir, along with a lot of other trenching tools, caltrops and more. Never know what you might need, sir.’

  Galronus grinned at the tribune.

  ‘The plan has merit. Shall we?’

  The tribune swallowed nervously.

  ‘I suppose. Whatever we do, we need to do it fast.’

  The Remi commander nodded at the centurion.

  ‘Get the men moving. I’ll marshal a group of cavalry to haul the ropes for you.’

  As the two men ran off toward their respective units, Gaius Pinarius Rusca sighed and ran his eyes once more across the wall top. He was acutely aware that he was entirely unsuited to this job. A few weeks ago, Crassus would have pondered deeply before assigning him to anything more deadly than stocktaking in the supply wagons, but then his reputation seemed to have blossomed after that incident with the ambush. For some reason just because he’d fought with the desperation of a cornered beast and ended the day covered head to foot in gore, the men had cheered him, and the officers assumed that he was some sort of crazed killer contained in a small bureaucratic frame.

  He was not.

  Yet now he was nominally in charge of the most important assault in the battle and the responsibility was immense. Oh, clearly Galronus and the centurion knew what they were doing, but his was the accountability.

  He shrank back behind the tree trunk, peering at the defences a few hundred paces away. Already, he felt that worrying loosening in his bladder area again.

  ‘You alright, sir? You’ve gone really pale.’

  Rusca almost shouted out in shock and turned, his heart racing, to discover that a legionary had taken position by the tree next to him, others moving up all through the woodland, the cavalry gathering in a clear area not far back where they were hidden from the fort by the woodland.

  He felt like a child, out of his depth and on the verge of panic. Before he could stop himself, he found his mouth was busy, working independently of his brain and blabbing his worst fears to this ordinary soldier. In horror, he clamped his mouth shut and tried to think of a way to downplay what he had just admitted, but the legionary shrugged.

  ‘It’s natural to be scared a bit, sir. Only a complete nutcase would feel no fear. Trick is to go piss your heart out in the woods first. Start every battle with an empty bladder and an empty bowel, sir. Me? I’d piss myself soon as I got within arrow reach otherwise!’

  Rusca stared at the man.

  ‘Sorry sir. Didn’t meant to speak out of turn.’

  Slowly, a smile spread across the tribune’s face.

  ‘Which bit of the palisade are we aiming for then, soldier?’

  The legionary pointed at a stretch where a slight hump in the ground caused the palisade to rise and fall.

  ‘Good’ Rusca smiled. ‘Should be easier to get to the stakes. Think I’ll pop off and relieve myself before we go.’

  The legionary grinned.

  As Rusca trotted off through the advancing ranks of men until he found a convenient spot, he chewed on his cheek. It was right to be nervous. Of course it was… so long as the fear did not stop you, it did not control you, and the only answer was to tackle it face on.

  Sighing with relief, he fastened his breeches again and made his way back through the ranks of men to the front, where it took a few moments to locate his original position and the man who had spoken to him. The lump in the palisade, however, guided him true.

  As he fell into place behind the tree, he became aware that the centurion off to his right was waving an arm. Rusca was still waiting for the cornu to blare out the call in response when the men sprang from their hiding places and ran out into the open. Of course! The element of surprise was paramount. Why would they use musicians?

  Biting his lip, he ducked out from the bole of the tree and drew his sword. Stretching out his legs ready to run, he became aware that the centurion was shaking his head. Yes, an officer should be dignified. No running.

  Close to the centurion, Rusca strode out into the open ground with a purposeful gait. Ahead, the legionaries of the First Cohort were running for the wall, eerily quiet, roughly one man in every twenty carrying a rope.

  The whole situation was so strange. The minimal number of defenders on this side had been so unprepared to witness any action and had spent the past hour or more staring at nothing, becoming bored beyond enduran
ce, that they took far too long to react to the sudden rush of silent men. Moreover, the whole assault was so quiet that the overriding sound was that of Crassus’ assault on the far side of the large camp.

  The running legionaries were almost at the contemptible excuse for a ditch by the time the cry went up from the scant defenders on the wall. Rusca ground his teeth as he marched along behind the assault, next to the centurion. Time was now very much of the essence. Once that cry had gone up it was a race to see whether the four cohorts could break in and consolidate their position before the defenders sent reinforcements to the wall.

  The tribune strode forward, his heart racing, as the men of the First Cohort ahead reached the earth embankment below the palisade and threw themselves against the timbers, scrambling for holds and pushing one another up, climbing precariously with one hand and a sword in the other, or with both hands and a pugio clamped between their teeth.

  By the time Rusca reached the ditch, fighting was already occurring at the wall top, men falling with pained cries back down to the turf outside. The number of men on the walls appeared to have grown, but only a little; presumably a number of warriors had been standing by to support them in case of just such an event: enough to make the assault harder, but not enough to change the course of the battle, certainly.

  He altered his stride to jump across the pitiful little ditch. Around the other three sides of the fort, the ground on the slope was turf with deep earth beneath, or grit that could easily be carved and dug. Here, the rocky bones of the spur neared the surface and had made the digging of the ditch near impossible, resulting in a channel hacked through the rock with great difficulty, a mere two feet wide and two feet deep. Barely enough to slow a running man.

  A cry ahead drew his attention. One of the men had managed to achieve the wall walk and was busy fighting off warriors on both sides while his companions climbed up behind him. His task was hopeless, fighting on two sides and with no shield, and he disappeared with a shriek as a barbarian raised a huge spear in two hands and then brought it down behind the palisade, ending the legionary’s life out of view of the tribune.