Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1

by S. J. A. Turney

  A Gallic warrior, bare-chested and with a large, heavy sword held in his two hands, raised it and stepped forward.

  Fronto pointed at him.

  ‘That means you too!’

  The Gaul glanced up at him in confusion.

  ‘I know some of you understand me, if not all. Now disengage. Stop this stupidity at once!’

  The Gauls stared, and low conversation broke out in confused tones. Fronto became aware that Cantorix and Carbo were both looking up at him expectantly.

  ‘This is quite enough. Lower your weapons, all of you.’

  Here and there, warriors allowed the tips of their swords to descend to the turf.

  ‘Right. I knew some of you understood. Who’s in charge there?’

  There was a good deal more conversation and argument and finally a warrior with a mail shirt and a spear, a torc around his throat, standing somewhere in the centre, looked up at Fronto as a circle opened around him.

  ‘You? Good. I don’t care whether you’re a king, a chief, a druid or whatever. This fight is ridiculous, as is this whole rebellion. You spent over a year living quite happily alongside the Roman forces at Nemetocenna, less than fifty miles from here. I expect you traded with them? It’s very likely that soldiers from the garrison there have been helping construct important structures on the borders of your lands: aqueducts? Drainage channels?’

  He paused and realised that all conversation had stopped as they listened.

  ‘And now you revolt, like sheep following the other tribes of the north. The Veneti have a problem with the commander in their region and discontent spreads out like ripples in a pond until over here on the opposite side of Gaul, you throw off the imagined yoke of a non-existent oppression and rise up in pointless anger.’

  He gestured in irritation at the armed men from both forces before him.

  ‘We came to settle things, and in your first attack you lost so many men that you’ve done nothing but run around in the forest picking at us and jabbing at us like an irritating mosquito. You cannot win this, as I’m sure you are all now very well aware. All you are doing now is putting off the inevitable end of this uprising, and with every day you drag it out, you make a conclusion favourable to yourselves less and less likely.’

  He pointed back along the track.

  ‘The general can be a merciful man if he is given the room to be so, but often he is pushed to the edge and has no choice but to punish. Don’t make him punish you just because you were foolish enough to rise up for something that wasn’t your cause to begin with. I came here today to take away your supplies and try to force a quick end to this, but that is clearly not the way it must be done. I see that, with boundless stupidity, you would rather starve yourself to death than make peace, so I must force the issue a different way.’

  ‘Here is what will happen now. I state this for a fact since, though you will initially argue, in time you will see that there is no other logical choice. The soldiers present with me will return to our camp. We will leave your supplies here and do no further damage.’

  He glared at the leader.

  ‘In return for us leaving you your food and your lives, you will pack up and return to your lands and your farms, live like sensible and peaceful people, raise your children, grow your crops and go back to trading with general Labienus and his garrison at Nemetocenna, for which he will continue to protect you from Germans crossing the great river and standing on your neck like they used to.’

  He fell silent and folded his arms.

  An uneasy quiet descended, broken only by the lowing of the cattle and the twittering of birds. No one moved. Fronto sighed and waved his arms in a dismissing motion.

  ‘Go home!’

  He dropped from the wagon to the rear of the legionaries and shrugged as Carbo frowned at him.

  ‘Get the men formed up and take them back to the camp. Hopefully the other century will turn up some time soon. If they appear at the enemy camp and attack, we could be in the shit, so we’d best send the rest of the scouts out to find them. In the meantime, I fear I have to go and explain a few things to the general.’

  The centurion laughed.

  ‘I’m not sure what he’ll say about this, sir.’

  ‘Neither am I, Carbo. Neither am I.’

  * * * * *

  ‘He did what?’

  Brutus stared over the rim of his goblet, choking.

  Carbo grinned.

  ‘He told them to go home. It was like watching a parent telling off their boisterous children.’

  Brutus shook his head.

  ‘He never ceases to amaze me.’

  ‘What amazed me was the way they actually listened to him and did what he said. I swear that as I looked across at them, even big hairy bastards with an axe that could split a tree down the middle managed to look uncomfortable and embarrassed. It was a sight to behold.’

  Brutus laughed and sat back, taking another swig of his wine. Across the tent, Crispus smiled as he poured himself a drink.

  ‘People think Fronto is simple and straightforward, but the longer I know him, the more I come to realise that you just cannot predict what he will do next. He is not a simple man.’

  ‘It was just funny. I had trouble not laughing, but that would have sent them the wrong message.’

  Brutus nodded.

  ‘Might have detracted from the message a little.’

  The centurion was about to reply when the tent flap was thrown back, and the Tenth’s legate strode in and collapsed onto his cot, immediately beginning to unlace his boots.

  ‘Drink?’ Crispus prompted.

  Fronto stopped his work for a moment and looked up.

  ‘An amphora full if you have it.’

  As he took off the first boot and rubbed his foot, Crispus poured him a drink and, leaning over, placed it on the chest next to the cot. Brutus frowned.

  ‘What did he say, then? You’ve been hours.’

  ‘He took some convincing at first, but he was surprisingly open to the possibilities. He’s as eager to finish this and go home as most of us, and I think he’s almost at the point where he’d pay a lot of good money just to keep this land calm. We’ll be staying here for the next week or so, pending the next move of the Morini and Menapii. If they show up in peace at the edge of the forest anywhere along the line, Caesar’s given the order that they should be allowed to pass and return to their lands. The scouts report that they’ve located the other century of men, about three miles north of where they should have been. I’d have a go at them, but to be honest I’m just too tired and relieved that it seems to be over.’

  He let his second boot drop and gave that foot a quick rub before reaching for the goblet, draining it in one large mouthful and pushing it back meaningfully toward Crispus.

  ‘So we should be going home in a week or two then?’

  Fronto nodded.

  ‘If all is well, we should, yes. I can’t see these lot causing any more trouble. We’ve battered them a bit and hopefully made them see the futility of it all. When we head south, we’ll have to stop in at Nemetocenna and make sure Labienus is aware of the situation, so that he can keep an eye on them, but the man is a born diplomat. The Belgae are rapidly becoming allies largely because of the way he’s treating them.’

  Brutus nodded.

  ‘And then we head back to Rome. Not the legions, though. Where will they go?’

  Fronto finished undoing his cuirass and let it fall unceremoniously to the floor with a clank.

  ‘They’ll be posted somewhere in the north. Probably not around here though, or it would work against our potential peaceful relations. Maybe back toward Armorica, or toward the Rhine.’

  Brutus smiled and leaned back.

  ‘And then we go south to Italia and the warmth of home.’

  Fronto turned a wicked grin on him.

  ‘Not you, I fear. You still have a fleet to attend to. Caesar was talking about them, wondering whether to leave them anchored in
the west, or bring them up to the north coast, or even take them back to the Mare Nostrum. You could have the fun of leading them through the Pillars of Hercules!’

  Brutus glared at him.

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘Not meant to be. But it is.’

  He ignored the dark look on the man’s face and reached for his refilled goblet.

  ‘I, on the other hand, probably along with the general and any senior officers returning to Rome by land, will head for Massilia and check in on Balbus. I can’t wait to see the old sod again and make sure he’s alright.’

  Carbo shook his head sadly.

  ‘It’s been a very long time since I saw Rome.’

  ‘You must be due leave?’ Fronto frowned. ‘I could always arrange it for you? Your second can keep the legion in order while you’re away.’

  The primus pilus laughed.

  ‘It would be nice, but not right now. When the campaign’s definitely over, and the legions are pulled south, I’ll take the time. For now I need to stay with the Tenth.’

  Fronto smiled.

  ‘Ever the professional.’

  ‘One of us has to be!’ Carbo grinned.

  Crispus leaned back and sighed.

  ‘Do you think that’s it? Is Gaul finally pacified?’

  ‘For now’ Fronto replied with a shrug. ‘We can just hope it stays this way. Rome could do with these people, you know? I’ve watched the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions, with all their Gaulish legionaries, and Galronus’ cavalry, and they bring a certain something to the army that it was lacking. I don’t know what you’d call it? Inventiveness? Freshness? Spirit? I don’t know, but whatever it is, we needed it.’

  Brutus nodded and raised his cup.

  ‘To Gaul and Rome… to Roman Gaul.’

  Chapter 20

  (Octobris: the hills above Massilia.)

  Fronto reined in and took a deep breath, half in relief and half in nervous anticipation. He almost jumped in the saddle as the general’s hand fell gently on his shoulder.

  ‘You go on first, Fronto. I doubt it would be conducive to good health to have the entire sweaty, travel-worn officer corps follow you in. We will stay here and break our fast until you are ready for company.’

  Fronto looked around into the general’s serious, sympathetic gaze and nodded quietly. He wasn’t at all sure about this, now. It had been months since Balbus had left the army and been taken south, pale and gaunt.

  After Fronto’s escapade in the Belgic forests, the northeast had settled remarkably swiftly. From the rumours he had heard that next week in camp, the Menapii and Morini had returned to their lands in triumph, considering their resistance a success and claiming to have held off the might of Rome, yet they had notably resumed their peaceful life and trade with the garrison at Nemetocenna while conveniently forgetting about the large Roman army camped in the centre of their territory. Caesar had been irritated by the locals’ attitude, but had been relieved enough that the last resistance in Gaul had finally settled that he had overlooked the situation and allowed them to claim their petty victory, while he prepared to end the season’s campaign.

  Early the next week, the army had been sent along the coast to winter there under the steady and stable command of Sabinus, while many of the senior officers prepared to travel back to Rome or to their estates in Cisalpine Gaul, Illyricum or Italia.

  The two week journey across the length of Gaul had been swift and purposeful, every member of the group itching to return to their homes, supported by Caesar’s cavalry guard under Aulus Ingenuus, while the baggage train trundled along many days behind under heavy guard. All the way, Fronto had been almost twitching with the need to see his old friend and confirm for himself that everything was truly alright and yet now, as he sat ahorse on the hill above Balbus’ rural villa, the churning waters of the Mare Nostrum and the hectic bustle of Massilia below and beyond, he finally had pause to worry.

  Had Balbus even made it back here? There had been no word; the ageing legate would not have sent couriers to Caesar anyway, given the likelihood the entire army would have moved on long before then. What if he had reached this place and then the final boatman had come for him before Fronto arrived? If he was in fine health, would he even be pleased to see Fronto?

  The legate shifted uneasily in his saddle and became aware that the gathered officers of Caesar’s army, particularly the longer-serving ones, were watching him intently.

  ‘Best go, then’ he said, his voice cracking slightly, and he kicked his horse into life and walked Bucephalus slowly down toward the villa.

  The outbuildings were quiet, the orchards heavy and laden with unharvested fruit, the grass long and wild, causing a nervous lump to appear in Fronto’s throat as he rode past them and toward the main house. It would have been easiest to approach through the orchard at the rear of the house, but certain proprieties had to be maintained.

  The front of the villa was exactly as Fronto remembered from their brief stop on the way to Gaul. The roses that had been lovingly grown and carefully trained grew up the white walls, reaching toward the red tiled roof and providing just the right splash of colour to make the place look truly homely. No group waited at the gate to speak to him this time.

  Fronto took a deep breath as he rode to the front gate and dismounted slowly and nervously. There was no movement in the doorway or the few external windows as he tied the reins to the post and walked quietly down the path.

  The door stood firmly shut and again Fronto hesitated as he reached it. Biting the inside of his cheek, he reached out finally and gave three sharp raps on the wood. There was silence and his heart rose into his mouth as he stood in the sweet smelling garden watching for any movement out of the corner of his eye.

  He actually jumped a little when there was a heavy metallic click and the door swung inwards. A house slave, thin and tall and likely as old as his master looked Fronto up and down and gave a curt bow. The legate faltered again. The man bore such a serious expression.

  ‘Marcus Falerius Fronto to see your master’ he finally said and hoped he’d managed to keep the rising worry out of his voice.

  The man gave him a sad look and then stepped to one side.

  ‘If you would care to follow me, sir, I shall lead you to the summer triclinium. The sunlight this time of year brings the room to life.’

  Again, the legate faltered as he followed the slave into the house.

  ‘Master Fronto?’

  He stopped, his brow raised in surprise as he turned to look down the corridor to the peristyle garden and its covered walkway. Balbina, the household’s youngest daughter, had stopped as she appeared in the corridor from a side room and was staring at him, the glass of water in her hand suddenly forgotten.

  Fronto smiled, and the slave came to a halt as he waited patiently. The sight of the young lady was a welcome one; a sign that something of ordinary life went on in the house.

  ‘Balbina?’

  ‘Oh, master Fronto. We wondered whether you would ever come?’

  Again, the legate’s heart skipped a beat. Was there something hidden in that?

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. Father has been getting more irritable as the season wore on. He was sure you would be here before the summer’s end.’

  A massive weight suddenly left Fronto’s chest, and he felt himself relax almost to the point of collapse.

  ‘Everything was so quiet… I thought…’ he shook his head. ‘Where is your father?’

  The girl wandered across to him, and he crouched to meet her smiling countenance.

  ‘He is in the store room. The merchant in Ostia has sent him the wrong wine and he is busy checking each amphora, just in case.’

  Fronto laughed.

  ‘Obviously I had more effect on him that I realised. Can you take me to him?’

  The slave cleared his throat.

  ‘Pardon, my lady, but I thought to escort legate Fronto to the summer triclinium bef
ore I fetched your father?’

  Fronto narrowed his eyes at the stressed words, but spun back to Balbina as she replied with a smile ‘Ah, yes the summer triclinium. A perfect idea. Keep him company Caro, while I fetch father.’

  Fronto straightened, his frown still deep as the young lady danced off down the corridor whence she had come. Turning his suspicious frown on the slave, he nodded.

  ‘Lead on, then, Caro.’

  What the slave had said about the summer triclinium had been an understatement. The arcade of windows that looked out into the central garden gave a stunning view of the apple, orange and lemon trees outside in their varying stages of ripeness, but the real effect was that caused by the golden sun lighting the red tiles of the veranda opposite and its columns of yellow African marble and the reflected glow this brought to the room.

  It was a beautiful sight, and yet Fronto found his attention drawn more to the figure lounging on one of the couches by a low table laden with fruit.

  ‘Lucilia?’

  The knowing looks on the faces of slave and young girl alike suddenly fell into place as Balbus’ older daughter looked up, her eyelashes fluttering masterfully, her fingers teasing the bunch of grapes. Fronto suddenly felt warm and extremely uncomfortable.

  ‘Thank you Caro. I shall entertain our guest until father returns.’

  Fronto’s mind ran through a number of reasons to protest, but failed to find his voice before the slave had bowed and retreated from the room.

  ‘The Gaulish air seems to suit you, Marcus. You appear in fine health. Ruddy, even.’

  Fronto silently cursed the colour rising in his face.

  ‘You look… nice, Lucilia. How are you enjoying country life?’

  She laughed, and the sound sent a tingle up Fronto’s spine. He collapsed heavily onto one of the couches.

  ‘I tire of fruit and fields, to be honest’ she said, her face slightly lowered in such a careful way as to accentuate her piercing blue eyes with their kohl-blackened lining. Fronto swallowed.