Marius' Mules: Prelude to War

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Marius’ Mules:

  Prelude to War

  A collection of three short tales

  by S. J. A. Turney

  Smashwords Edition

  “Marius’ Mules: nickname acquired by the legions after the general Marius made it standard practice for the soldier to carry all of his kit about his person.”

  For Paul.

  I would like to thank those people instrumental in bringing this work to fruition. Jenny and Lilian for their initial editing, Tracey for her ongoing support. Dave for the excellent cover work. Prue, Gordon, Robin, Nick, Kate, Paul, Mike and innumerable other fab folk for their support.

  Cover design by Dave Slaney.

  All maps and photos are copyright the author of this work.

  Published in this format 2014 by Victrix Books

  Copyright - S.J.A. Turney

  Smashwords Edition

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Also by S. J. A. Turney:

  Continuing the Marius' Mules Series

  Marius’ Mules I: The Invasion of Gaul (2009)

  Marius’ Mules II: The Belgae (2010)

  Marius’ Mules III: Gallia Invicta (2011)

  Marius’ Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (2012)

  Marius’ Mules V: Hades’ Gate (2013)

  Marius’ Mules VI: Caesar’s Vow (2014)

  The Ottoman Cycle

  The Thief's Tale (2013)

  The Priest's Tale (2013)

  Tales of the Empire

  Interregnum (2009)

  Ironroot (2010)

  Dark Empress (2011)

  Short story compilations & contributions:

  Tales of Ancient Rome vol. 1 - S.J.A. Turney (2011)

  Tortured Hearts vol 1 - Various (2012)

  Tortured Hearts vol 2 - Various (2012)

  Temporal Tales - Various (2013)

  For more information visit http://www.sjaturney.co.uk/

  or http://www.facebook.com/SJATurney

  or follow Simon on Twitter @SJATurney

  Cenabum: The fire arrow

  The winter thus far had been remarkably mild, with just a damp hint of a chill to separate most of the endless repetitive days from those of autumn.

  Caius Fusius Cita leaned on the hard lip of a barrel and let the latest stream of complaints and irritations wash over him like the small reedy island he could see straining in the strong current of the wide Liger River. He’d stopped listening to the details anyway. He’d learned a week ago that with this lot it was only worth listening for the first dozen heartbeats - all the important information in any of their conversation was passed across then. After that it was just muttered complaints and bitter invective.

  His eyes strayed from the small green island to the far bank, where the Roman depot stood - though even the word ‘depot’ was perhaps too grandiose. An old stone structure that had apparently been something to do with the local druids but had fallen into disrepair some years ago had been repaired and reroofed with local thatch to form a large storage shed, while two more wooden structures - lean-tos really - had been added to either side, then a small barrack room of rough-hewn timber installed, along with a larger accommodation block for the numerous ‘passers-through’. The meagre collection was bounded by a wooden stockade which ran between each building to form a ‘fortified’ enclosure. The only real fighting platform was at the gate, and that was little more than a mound large enough to hold two men.

  But then this was a supply depot, not a fort. And had a grand garrison of eighteen: two contubernia of legionaries, along with an optio, and Cita himself - Caesar’s senior supplies officer and chief quartermaster for the Gallic legions.

  The enclosure stood on the south bank of the strong river, at the far end of a wooden bridge of native construction that Cita had been initially doubtful would even take the weight of an empty wagon. It was perhaps three hundred paces long, seemed to be constructed mostly of rope, and swayed alarmingly in a strong wind. Still, the locals seemed satisfied with it, and no one had died on it this week.

  At the near side of the river, the bank was less rambling and overgrown on its slope than its far twin, and the area near the bridge was revetted and recessed to create a quayside for the fishermen of Cenabum and the numerous Corbitae trade vessels and barges that ran goods upriver from the west coast and downriver all the way from the Liger’s upper limits near the border with Roman Narbonensis.

  Beyond this bank - behind Cita, and across the seemingly featureless flat plain of the middle region of the Liger River - the Carnute tribe’s oppidum stretched, its defences low but strong, its main gate facing the bridge, staring resolutely across the rushing waters at the small Roman enclave.

  And here, between the two settlements, stood the undefended quayside upon which Cita waited amid the organised chaos that was endemic of any situation where military stores were reliant upon civilian trade.

  A passing bird relieved itself of a burden on his left boot, spattering his shin with something that struck Cita as an excellent metaphor for the entire Godsforsaken region.

  He was quite regretting coming to Cenabum.

  The problem was that since he had returned to Caesar’s army after a hiatus of more than a year in Rome, he had discovered that Priscus, with a typical centurion’s directness, had messed about with the entire supply system to such an extent that Gaul would likely be settled and in no need of an army long before he managed to get the supply routes back in order. And while he could leave certain matters in the hands of subordinates, others needed his personal attention. Back at Samarobriva, as well as at Vesontio, Durocortorum and Gesoriacum, the entire business of supply, transport and storage was in the hands of the military and Cita could be reasonably certain that all was proceeding appropriately without the need for personal appearances.

  But here…

  ‘…so I really must put my foot down, Prefect, and demand accommodation on a level that befits our status as citizens of Rome. Not to mention the need for a bath house.’

  Cita heaved in a breath of damp river air and squeezed it back out as a patient, long-suffering sigh as he pointed at the rushing torrent before them.

  ‘The Gods have provided you with a more than adequate bath - constantly refreshed water supply included. If you’re not fussy it even doubles as a latrine! If you can’t work out what to do with it I’ll happily have one of the men throw you bodily in. I daresay what you need to do will come back to you sharpish!’

  The merchant, standing huddled in a thick wool cloak against the very temperate winter weather, bridled and his eyes flared.

  ‘I am a citizen of Rome, as are my peers here, and I will not be spoken to in such a manner by a soldier.’

  Despite having promised himself that he would not rise to the comments of these fools, Cita found himself turning at the tone applied to the word, his own eyes narrowed and his ire beginning to rise.

  ‘Listen to me, citizen of Rome: I am equites - a knight of Rome, whose lineage includes consuls, praetors, generals and quaestors. If I choose to have you thrown in the river, I will do so, with little regard for your moneyed status, and I will feel no remorse if the
hard-earned gold in your pockets drags you down to the deadly, sucking mud at the bottom.’

  The merchant leaned back in the face of the prefect’s anger and his face paled.

  ‘You are free to leave any time you desire, citizen Titus Brocchus. Hop aboard one of your corbitae and head deep into Gaul… or brave the winter seas - though I doubt you’ll find a sailor who’ll take you beyond the river’s mouth until the spring. You are here, like all the rest of the vultures, because you smell profit.’

  Straightening, Cita’s lip curled into a small sneer.

  ‘This region is abundant in the summer, gold with crops, filled with enough grain to stuff every mouth in Rome for months on end. The Gauls’ cattle are fat and healthy and their eggs yellower and richer than yours. The army could rely on forage alone if it so needed, so bear in mind that you are involved in these lucrative affairs on my sufferance alone!’

  That was a bending of the truth at best, of course. The army could live on the goods available here, but only if the natives starved and the legions took a near one hundred per-cent tax of all goods. He needed these merchants, but it was better that they didn’t know that.

  ‘Because it is our policy to Romanise these natives, it is our wish to introduce as much Roman trade as possible. That is why you are here: because it profits you, while it serves our designs. You will supply us with grain throughout the winter and spring months, taking your huge, ungainly profits, and then, when the harvest comes and there is abundance here, you will take one third of all our taxed and donated grain and sell it at your even higher costs to the merchants in Rome. It works well for you, as you’ll make more profit in one season than in three normal years, and for us. Since we will not be required to maintain so many winter stores and will be less reliant on our granaries, allowing the legions freedom of movement.’

  The merchant started to recover himself. ‘Yes, well…’

  ‘You have a bunk, sharing your room with only one other civilian, unlike my men who are four to a room, and even I share with my native factor. Space is at a premium. If you are unhappy with the arrangements, I suggest you spend some of your mounting profits on accommodation in the Carnutes’ oppidum. I imagine someone will give you a hut, and probably a blade in the gut while you sleep.’

  The merchant peered fearfully over his shoulder, his face paling again. The Carnutes were dealing with the Roman merchants as respectfully as necessity demanded, but there was no social interaction, and everyone - right down to the children, the women and the elderly - glared evilly at the Romans in their midst. Even Cita had to admit that he felt about as popular as a turd in a bath house here. The Carnutes - and their neighbours the Senones - had been quietly seething over the months since the chieftain Acco had been scourged to death in front of the leaders of Gaul in a showpiece of Roman savagery. Whatever Caesar had intended to come from such an act, what it had actually done was to infuriate the tribes, causing an ever widening rift between them and their would-be conquerors.

  Not for the first time, Cita wondered why he’d been foolish enough to come to Cenabum himself. At the time of planning, he had become convinced that the presence of a small Roman depot and the overshadowing threat of six legions less than a hundred miles away at Agedincum would prevent any trouble arising from the tribes’ bitterness.

  Every time he saw the steely glint in the eye of a local, he became less certain, and things seemed to have been getting colder and less friendly by the day. Now…

  His eyes narrowed.

  Something was wrong.

  The quayside was still filled with men working, but it didn’t take much observation to note that all the grunting, sweating labourers were Romans, or Romanised Gauls from Cisalpina or Narbonensis. Not a single local was visible among them. And the men at whom Brocchus had been fearfully looking were busy returning to their houses, moving up inside the defences of Cenabum.

  Cita’s heart skipped a beat. The noise and activity hadn’t changed. There was no smell or sight of anything alarming. But Cita had served in Gaul since they’d followed the Helvetii. And he had a sense for these things. The atmosphere had changed entirely.

  ‘Brocchus…’

  ‘I apologise if I seem demanding and unreasonable, Prefect, but…’

  ‘Brocchus, gather your friends and have your men start moving back towards the enclave across the river.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re in trouble. Get across that bridge.’

  The merchant frowned, his brow wrinkling as he failed to understand the officer’s order.

  ‘Listen, Prefect…’

  But Cita was now ignoring him entirely, having turned his attention to the landscape. A narrow strip of land, some fifty paces across, separated the defences of Cenabum from the river and its bridge to the Roman stockade. A narrow clear area for the convenience of the quay users and which was currently filled with Roman merchants and their men. Out to either direction, along the bank, the land hereabouts was uniformly flat farmland.

  Thus the figures were clearly visible even at some distance, partially because there were no undulations in the landscape and no woodlands to obscure them, and partially because of the number of them.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Prefect, I really must…’

  Cita, without turning back, reached out a hand and grasped Brocchus by the shoulder, hauling the man closer as his own chubby finger pointed off into the scrubby, ridged fields, separated by hedgerows and shrubs, ditches and paths. Hundreds of figures were visible moving towards them.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They, Brocchus, are the enemy.’

  ‘The enemy?’

  ‘The Carnutes, or the Senones, or their friends. Time to move.’

  As the merchant peered off into the distance with narrowed eyes, Cita turned, already expecting what he saw next. Far from shutting the oppidum’s gates and lining the defences in preparation to receive an enemy, the population of Cenabum were moving through the streets towards the gate. Having drawn back like a wave that has struck the beach, unarmed and passive, the Carnutes were now washing back towards them, this time bristling with a spume of blades.

  ‘Across the bridge!’

  He was already moving as his eyes now took in the smaller groups on the far side of the river. There were fewer attackers on the far bank, but still enough to deal with less than a score of Romans. They were moving in from all sides, tightening like a noose on the stockade depot.

  ‘We should make for the ships!’ Brocchus shouted at him as he ran. ‘We can flee downstream!’

  Cita paused as he found his aide and factor, Bennacos, marking off scratches on a wax tablet as the merchants’ men unloaded amphorae from a small barge into a Roman cart. Slapping the Boii auxiliary on the arm, he gestured at the groups of men closing in on them.

  ‘Get across the bridge.’

  Bennacos needed no further words of encouragement, nodding and secreting away his tablet as he ran. Cita turned to see panic and indecision on the faces of Brocchus and the other merchants.

  ‘Across the bridge!’ he reiterated.

  ‘We should leave on the ships!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid - you don’t have time to put to the water. Get across the bridge.’

  Some of the merchants were already moving, the combination of familiar command and urgency in Cita’s voice enough to ensure their capitulation. Five of them were making for the bridge, bellowing for their teamsters, labourers and aides to follow. Men began to drop their crates, amphorae and bales and pound on desperate feet along the quay toward the end of the rickety wooden bridge.

  Brocchus, along with a number of the others, was dithering, looking this way and that between the swarm of warriors pouring across the fields, the gateway to the oppidum - towards which more enemy warriors ran - the smaller groups closing in on the Roman stockade across the river, and finally the trade ships and barges.

  They broke, making for the boarding planks. Cita shook his hea
d at the madness. They saw only immediate danger, with the eyes of civilians, believing the vessels a safe haven and a route away from here. Cita knew the truth: there was no way away from here.

  Disregarding the ships, that left only the stockade. Against more than a thousand angry Carnutes, what chance did a score of Romans stand, even with a stockade? But at least there they would be armed. They could make a stand, and it would take the Gauls a short while to get the bulk of their men across the narrow bridge, so that would buy them some time.

  He was at the end of the bridge a few heartbeats later, diving between two men in pale yellow tunics from the port of Narbo, running as fast as the press of men on the narrow bridge would allow. Almost a third of the way across he stopped, moving to the side and letting the desperate men pass him. One of the merchants - a fat man with a hare-lip - paused next to him.

  ‘What do we do?’ he begged in a nasal, frightened tone.

  ‘Get everyone into the stockade and find the optio. Everyone needs a shield, a helmet and a sword. Armour will be too time consuming, but everyone can be armed in moments.’

  The merchant stared. ‘What?’

  ‘Get yourself armed and ready to face a siege.’

  ‘But we’re not legionaries!’

  ‘Would you rather be legionaries or corpses? I fear that’s your choice.’

  As the man stared, bulge-eyed, Cita pointed back the way they’d come. The last men were rushing for the bridge, but already the enemy had issued from the gate in the defences of Cenabum and were overtaking them. Even as Cita watched with a sinking heart, a Roman merchant fell, his leg smashed to pieces at the knee with a sweep from a heavy, long blade. His limb mangled beyond repair, the merchant screamed and tried to raise himself onto his one good foot, but already two of the Carnutes were on him, one hauling him up by the hair while the other began to hack and slash at him. Cita felt his blood run cold as he watched the screaming man’s mutilation. None of the blows were deep enough to kill. They were torturing him - shredding him for amusement. A grisly echo of what Rome had done to their own leader, Acco.