FIELDS OF MARS

by S. J. A. Turney

  Marius’ Mules X

  Fields of Mars

  by S. J. A. Turney

  1st 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 Liz and Mark.

  I would like to thank Jenny for her help in making Marius' Mules ten legible. Thanks also to my beautiful wife Tracey for her support, and my two children Marcus and Callie for keeping me smiling during my busiest times.

  Thanks also to Garry and Dave for the cover work.

  Cover photos by Hannah Haynes, courtesy of Paul and Garry of the Deva Victrix Legio XX. Visit http://www.romantoursuk.com/ to see their excellent work.

  Cover design by Dave Slaney.

  Many thanks to the above for their skill and generosity.

  All internal maps are copyright the author of this work.

  Published in this format 2017 by Victrix Books

  Copyright - S.J.A. Turney

  First Edition

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

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  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)

  Marius’ Mules: Prelude to War (2014)

  Marius’ Mules VII: The Great Revolt (2014)

  Marius’ Mules VIII: Sons of Taranis (2015)

  Marius’ Mules IX: Pax Gallica (2016)

  The Praetorian Series

  The Great Game (2015)

  The Price of Treason (2015)

  Eagles of Dacia (Autumn 2017)

  The Ottoman Cycle

  The Thief's Tale (2013)

  The Priest's Tale (2013)

  The Assassin’s Tale (2014)

  The Pasha’s Tale (2015)

  Tales of the Empire

  Interregnum (2009)

  Ironroot (2010)

  Dark Empress (2011)

  Insurgency (2016)

  Invasion (2017)

  Roman Adventures (Children’s Roman fiction with Dave Slaney)

  Crocodile Legion (2016)

  Pirate Legion (Summer 2017)

  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)

  A Year of Ravens - Various (2015)

  A Song of War – Various (Oct 2016)

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

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

  or follow Simon on Twitter @SJATurney

  Maps

  Prologue

  Fronto kicked irritably at an errant stone, which skittered along the wooden boards of the walkway and disappeared into the azure water with a plop. The motion of the kick momentarily sent him off-balance on the slippery timbers and he had to grab one of the waist-high wooden piles to prevent himself following the guilty pebble into the water.

  Why Caesar would choose such a place was beyond him. Almost a decade ago, when he had first marched north with the general to chastise the Helvetii on the first leg of a campaign that had taken nearly a quarter of his life now, he and the Tenth had been camped close to Cremona in their winter training quarters. Cremona was sensible. It was a walled, thriving little town deep in the flat arable lands of northern Italia. Food and goods were abundant. It was on a river with good fishing. It was on a trade route – two actually – which meant there was always access to whatever you needed.

  And Caesar had traditionally held his court in Aquileia during his time as Proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul. Aquileia. Flat and abundant. Arable land and farmers. Trade from east and west and every amenity.

  What Ravenna had to offer was beyond him. Ravenna, which he’d never had cause to visit during his long life, was on no great trade route, save the long coast road which ran close by. It had plenty of flat land. It was just that a great deal of it was several feet below the water, either in the form of troublesome marshes that provided endless insects or small lagoons that came up by surprise. There was plenty of fish, mind. Too much, if you asked Fronto.

  And no walls. You couldn’t wall Aquileia. The whole place sprawled across the lagoons in two equally ill-conceived forms, to Fronto’s mind. Each small island in the lagoon was packed with houses and shops, almost like a self-contained village, usually close enough to the next occupied island that a man could throw a stone from one to another. But in recent years, what passed for the town’s council had engaged on a project of drainage, draining some areas of marsh and filling others in, all in an attempt to marshal these various population centres together into one great whole.

  The place already was one great hole, Fronto grunted to himself as he peered across at the other ridiculous form of housing. There was not enough room on the islands for the entire population – hence partially the drainage and consolidation scheme – but that had led to numerous families building their houses on wooden piles sunk into the shallow water and raised above the lapping surface on timber platforms. As was almost always the case with constructing something in a swamp, most of these had acquired a lean over the years. Some almost critically, such that it must be hard walking about inside without falling over. These houses were connected with the land by wooden walkways that resembled jetties.

  The whole place stank of salt and of decaying fish. The whole place either leaned, was slowly sinking, or was slippery and dangerous. Fronto hated a lot of things. He was free and unabashed with his hatred. He had to admit that Ravenna was coming close to the top of his list, along with the red, itching insect bites he had acquired from the place.

  But, he had to admit, there were three advantages for Caesar in Ravenna.

  One: it was in his safe territory, Cisalpine Gaul, a longstanding supporter of his.

  Two: it was very close to the coast road and to the border with Italia proper, and so very handy for communication.

  Three: no one in their right mind would seek to attack him there.

  And given the vast swathe of enemies the general had picked up in his time, this last was always worthy of consideration. And as for communication? Well, that had certainly come into play over the winter. Endless to-ing and fro-ing of messengers to Rome, to friends, enemies and those neutral folk playing their dangerous game.

  Actually, it was much the same conversation going on over and over again, and just over a week ago Caesar had sent his latest proposal. His latest ‘last chance’. That both he and Pompey lay down their commands and put their fate in the hands of the Roman people. Of course, Caesar was the darling of the population, while Pompey could call on the senate’s backing, so there was little chance the fat, knob-nosed old psychopath would allow those terms to be agreed.

  Behind Fronto, Hortensius snorted.

  ‘Need a hand there, Marcus?’

  ‘No thank you,’ he snapped back as he skittered on along the damp timbers toward their destination. The new y
ear had begun only days ago, and winter still gripped Cisalpine Gaul in her glittering, chilly hand. Nothing was safe to walk on, sit on, or stand on.

  Ahead stood the only part of Ravenna that could be considered any sort of hub, where a tiny forum square was surrounded by important-looking buildings, which meant that they didn’t lean too much. The largest of these buildings – a basilica of sorts – had been taken on by Caesar as his headquarters while in the city. The nobles and mercantile class of the place had fawned around their proconsul, granting his every wish. And so most of this central island was temporarily under his command.

  Of course, they fawned after the general largely because he was here and with a legion close enough to smell the boot oil and the late night farting contests. Fronto had no doubt that had Caesar been away for a while, their vocal opinions would change a great deal. They would be less respectful about a man who was these days often seen as opposed to the authority of the Roman senate. Fronto wondered what was said behind closed doors, and how many of them kept a knife by the bed just in case.

  The smoke pouring from the flues around the large building’s roof at least suggested that the place would be warm, which was more than could be said for the house that Fronto, Galronus and Masgava shared. Galronus would be there already, as would most of them. Fronto would be late, of course, but there was a level of tradition to keep up here, after all. If he were to be on time for Caesar’s meetings the old man would expect it on every occasion. Besides, he could blame Hortensius this time.

  He was intrigued, though. It would be nice to see Brutus again.

  Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus was one of the few men on Caesar’s staff throughout most of the past decade who Fronto felt he could trust implicitly and liked unreservedly. He’d missed Brutus’ company since the younger man had been off in Rome conveying messages and carrying out duties both official, and less than official, on behalf of the general. News of Brutus’ arrival at Ravenna had set tongues wagging in the past hour.

  The small square was largely empty at this early hour and the air clear and crisp, since the sun was yet to climb high enough to warm the lagoons and marshes and release the clouds of mist that would envelop Ravenna for most of the morning. Two of Caesar’s Praetorian guardsmen stood at the door of the large building, though they did not move to stop Fronto and Hortensius. Normally, Fronto would challenge them on their lack of care in letting anyone past without a password, but they were late and he knew Caesar well enough to know that the man had likely given the guards specific orders to chivvy him on.

  Sure enough, as he entered the large hall with its twin rows of pillars and its statue at the far end that supposedly represented Jupiter, but looked to Fronto suspiciously like many of the statues he had seen in Gaul, the staff of Caesar’s province and army were all gathered.

  ‘Good of you to join us, Fronto,’ the general said, looking up from a table spread with a map and tokens. ‘I trust we did not interrupt your beauty sleep too much? We know how much you need it.’

  There was a ripple of chuckles around the room, some genuine, some dutiful. Caesar had aged since the day he had led the legions north against the Helvetii. Those who saw him regularly probably did not notice so much, but when you really looked at him and dredged your memory, you could see the difference. The skin had become like parchment, the lines more pronounced, with worry rather than humour. The eyes were more deep-set and the form slightly more aquiline. And the hair? Well, it was now a flecked white-grey and began somewhere around the top of his ears, receding by the year. Still, there was a power and an energy about the man, and no dullness of the wit in those sunken eyes. Only a fool would think Caesar less of a power because he had aged. If anything, Fronto would take more care around him.

  ‘My apologies, Caesar. Hortensius’ rather dull slave has lost his belt and so he came to borrow one from me. We assumed we would be better a few moments late than on time but with his tunic flapping around his ankles.’

  The challenge in his eyes met Caesar’s and held them for a moment, before the general waved the matter aside with his palm. He tapped the table a couple of times and straightened. Fronto peered at the great chart. The tokens on the map had moved for the first time in weeks.

  The Seventh, Eleventh and Fourteenth legions were still scattered around central Gaul in the Aedui and Arverni region, the Sixth, Ninth and his own beloved Tenth were near Narbo in the west of the province, close to Hispania, and the Thirteenth where they had been all winter: half a mile from Ravenna, camped close to the road. But the Fifth, Eighth and Twelfth had been moved. They were no longer in the north and east of Gaul – Vesontio, Samarobriva and Durocortorum. Names that evoked memories of slaughter and trial for Fronto. No, now those three veteran legions were in the valley of the Rhodanus, close to the Alpes. Close enough to march into Italia in days if called. Had news of that reached the senate yet? A provocation, for sure. Fronto tore his gaze from the map as Decimus Brutus stepped into the open space. He looked tired, and not just from travel.

  ‘Now that we’re all listening,’ Caesar gestured to the younger man, ‘what news of Rome?’

  Brutus sighed. ‘Little has changed, and that little not for the better, sadly, General. Your former legates Galba and Rufus were considerably less receptive to your overtures than we had hoped. Galba had stood for the consulate this year, but he feels that his connection to you cost him his chance and will likely forever deny him high office. And Rufus, while he does not believe you should be prosecuted and has spoken against that, refuses to countenance any move against what he calls ‘the legitimate senate’. They have closed their doors to us.’

  ‘What of Marcus Calidius?’ Caesar prompted.

  ‘He does speak against trouble, but will not speak directly for you, General. Though he did try to persuade for a bill to send Pompey from Rome to his province and remove all the growing military presence in Italia. He believes that if that happened, a general solution could be achieved. He might be correct, but we will never know. He was shouted down by so many senators I went deaf for hours. The consul Marcellus – the elder Marcellus, now – was as vocal as his cousin and brother in opposing you, and the senators fawn to him just as they did to them. I bear a message from the senate, General. I do not know its contents, but they will not be favourable.’

  ‘Read it.’

  Brutus shuffled uncomfortably. ‘That is not my place, General. And this may be something for private consumption.’

  Caesar shook his head. ‘Every man here has seen the pains to which I have gone to try and reconcile with the senate, and that I am blocked at every move by the spiteful and the short-sighted. There will be nothing the senate has to say to me that I need to hide. Read it.’

  The younger officer cracked the seal on the scroll and unfurled it, drawing breath.

  ‘To the Proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul, Gaius Julius Caesar, greetings. The senate has met in session under the Consuls Claudius Marcellus Major and Cornelius Lentulus to consider the troublesome matter of your replacement and the military situation in the north. It is the decision of this senate of Rome that you are required to disband all your legions before the Kalends of Februarius, when your place will be taken in Cisalpine Gaul by the Praetor Marcus Considius Nonianus, and the new province of Transalpine Gaul will be governed by Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus.’

  ‘Domitius Ahenobarbus?’ coughed solid Trebonius, leaning against one of the columns, interrupting in surprise. ‘The man is a dangerous one to put in command of a province. Headstrong and unpredictable. He will probably cause a new Gallic revolt within the year.’

  There were nods from the knowledgeable few in the room.

  ‘But he is favoured by the senate, a friend of Marcellus and his lips are almost stuck to Pompey’s arse,’ Fronto muttered, earning a few humourless chuckles.

  ‘The senate goes on,’ Brutus said loudly, over the murmur. ‘If you do not accede to the will of the senate in disbanding your army and returning to Rome, t
his august body will consider you an enemy of the Roman state, with all the disadvantages that implies. This order signed and sealed this day, one day after the Kalends of Januarius, by Furcus, secretary to Considius Nonianus on behalf of the Senate and the People of Rome.’

  ‘It’s official, then,’ Fronto sighed. ‘No more bandying of words. You have a month and then you’re at war with the senate.’

  ‘No longer a month,’ Caesar replied. ‘Three weeks now. They wasted no time. The consuls had been in power for less than a day before the senate produced their ultimatum. All aristocratic channels for me in Rome are cut. Pompey and the consuls have everyone cowed. The people will still support me, but they do not control Rome.’

  Brutus shrugged. ‘Marcus Antonius and Quintus Cassius tried to prevent it, as did I, but it was like three pebbles trying to dam the Tiber, Caesar. And as for the people, yes they do love you, but not even the lowliest beggar will support you at the moment, for Pompey has flooded Rome with his retired veterans and those on furlough. No one dare speak for you in case the man standing next to him is a veteran killer who owes Pompey his career. You simply would not believe the tension and discomfort in the city.’

  Brutus gestured to the map. ‘It may even be that word has reached the city of your army moving south from Gaul. Rumour in Rome places four of your legions in Cisalpine Gaul, not one. I refuted it whenever I heard such a thing, but now I see that they are close enough that they could piss on Cisalpine Gaul from their camp latrines. Pompey has been raising levies all around Latium, and his military power in Italia grows, even with his seven veteran legions far off in Hispania. And the tribunes have quit Rome in fear of their lives. Marcus Antonius is rumoured to be in Ostia, where he can take ship urgently if required. The situation is dire, Caesar. I can see no way forward that does not involve drawing a blade.’