Marius' Mules VI: Caesar's Vow Read online

  Marius’ Mules VI:

  Caesar’s Vow

  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 Dave & Lisa.

  I would like to thank those people instrumental in bringing Marius' Mules 6 to fruition and making it the book it is. Jenny and Lilian for their initial editing, Tracey for support, love and a steady stream of bacon sandwiches. Leni, Barry, Paul, Robin, Glynn, Alun, Neil & Stu for their beta reading and catching a few eye-watering bloopers – you saved me some real trouble there.

  Thanks also to Garry, Paul and Dave for the cover work. Prue, Gordon, Robin, Nick, Kate, Mike and innumerable other fab folk for their support.

  Cover photos 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 all three for their skill and generosity.

  All internal maps are copyright the author of this work.

  Published in this format 2014 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)

  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

  Dramatis Personae

  For ease of reference, the most commonly used name in the text is emboldened. Not all characters in the story are here referenced, but the principle ones carried forward from previous volumes are, as well as a few new characters of import. Other names will be introduced in the text appropriately.

  The Command Staff:

  Gaius Julius Caesar: Politician, general and Governor.

  Aulus Ingenuus: Commander of Caesar’s Praetorian Cohort.

  Quintus Atius Varus: Commander of the Cavalry.

  Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus: Camp Prefect of Caesar’s army.

  Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus: Legate and favourite of Caesar’s family.

  Marcus Vitruvius Mamurra: One of Rome’s most famous engineers.

  Lucius Minucius Basilus: Lesser staff officer.

  Gaius Rufio: Staff officer.

  Seventh Legion:

  Lucius Munatius Plancus: Legate.

  Eighth Legion:

  Gaius Fabius Pictor: Legate.

  Ninth Legion:

  Gaius Trebonius: Legate.

  Grattius: Primus Pilus, once in sole command of the Ninth.

  Ianuarius: Senior artillerist.

  Petreius: Senior artillerist.

  Marcius: Junior artillerist.

  Tenth Legion:

  Marcus Crassus ‘The Younger’: Legate, younger son of the triumvir.

  Lucius Fabius: Tribune, former centurion & friend of Priscus & Fronto.

  Tullus Furius: Tribune, former centurion & friend of Priscus & Fronto.

  Servius Fabricius Carbo: Primus Pilus.

  Atenos: Centurion and chief training officer, former Gaulish mercenary.

  Eleventh Legion:

  Quintus Tullius Cicero: Legate and brother of the great orator.

  Titus Mittius ‘Felix’: Camp Prefect for the 11th & former Primus Pilus.

  Quintus Velanius: Senior Tribune.

  Titus Silius: Junior Tribune.

  Titus Pullo: Primus Pilus.

  Lucius Vorenus: Senior centurion.

  Twelfth Legion:

  Titus Labienus: Lieutenant of Caesar. Currently legate of the 12th.

  Gaius Volusenus Quadratus: Tribune.

  Publius Sextius Baculus: Primus Pilus. A distinguished veteran.

  Lucius Annius Gritto: cavalry decurion.

  Thirteenth Legion:

  Lucius Roscius: Legate and native of Illyricum.

  Biorix: Gallic-born legionary & engineer.

  Fourteenth Legion (reconstituted):

  Nasica: Surviving soldier of the 14th and now aquilifer (eagle-bearer) of the reconstituted legion.

  Other characters:

  Marcus Falerius Fronto: Former Legate of the Tenth.

  Masgava: Former gladiator and confederate of Fronto.

  Palmatus: Retired Pompeian legionary & confederate of Fronto.

  Marcus Antonius: Senior officer and close friend & distant relative of Caesar.

  Quintus Balbus: Former Legate of the Eighth, now retired. Close friend of Fronto.

  Faleria the younger: sister of Fronto.

  Lucilia: Elder daughter of Balbus & wife of Fronto.

  Balbina: Younger daughter of Balbus.

  Galronus: Belgic officer, commanding Caesar's auxiliary cavalry.

  Marcus Licinius Crassus: Caesar’s partner in the triumvirate. Currently in Syria.

  Gnaeus Pompey Magnus: Caesar’s partner in the triumvirate. Currently in Rome.

  Publius Clodius Pulcher: Powerful man in Rome, client of Caesar and conspirator.

  Gaius Fusius Cita: Former chief quartermaster of Caesar’s army.

  Vercingetorix: Gallic chieftain & rebel, referred to also as ‘Esus’.

  Ambiorix: Eburone King who recently destroyed the 14th Legion.

  Cativolcus: Eburone King.

  Indutiomarus: Treveri chieftain.

  Prologue

  ‘I will hear nothing more of it, Priscus.’

  Caesar drummed his fingers irritably on the table top as his brow twitched, leaden-cold eyes locked challengingly on the man before him. The general, Priscus noted, looked more tired than ever, yet there was something about him that had been lacking in evidence this past year or two: a fire. A purpose. Something had changed in Caesar, and it revolved around the missives he had sent to and received from Rome.

  Priscus scratched his chin - bristly and none-too-clean - reflectively, wondering how far he could push the general this morning before he was properly upbraided. The state of his chin brought him back once more to a regular theme in his musings: just how much it seemed he was becoming Fronto. When he’d borne the transverse crest of a centurion the very idea of a morning unshaven would have stunned him. A three-day growth would have been unthinkable - he’d slapped month-long latrine duties on soldiers for less. And here he was, looking like some callow Roman youth emerging from his debauched pit after the Lupercalia festival, eyes red-rimmed with t
oo much wine, wreathed in a smell faintly reminiscent of old dog. He would have to make a short sharp visit to the baths when he left here and get himself in shape.

  ‘With respect, General, you’ve sent for reinforcements. You will command the biggest army Rome has raised since that Thracian gladiator stomped up and down the countryside freeing slaves. Gaul is unsettled and troublesome - more than ever - and now is not the time to concentrate on small things, but to look to the security of the fledgling province as a whole.’

  Caesar glared at him and he took a steadying breath, aware of how close to the edge he was treading. ‘I will hear nothing more of it’ was a warning sign.

  ‘Again, respectfully, you could stand on the throat of all the Belgae tribes with just eight legions; nine if you really feel the need to flatten them. All I ask is one legion. Even a green, untried one as long as the officers are competent. I’ll take one legion and unpick this whole damn land until I’ve revealed every sign of trouble. We do know that Esus…’

  He stopped abruptly as Caesar slapped his palm on the table angrily, his face contorting with a snarl.

  ‘Enough with this damned ‘Esus’, Priscus. I am sick to the back teeth of hearing about mythical Gallic rebels who consort with druids and foment discord behind the scenes. If he exists, how come we have discovered nothing about him in over a year of campaigning?’ He pointed at the officer before him, denying Priscus the right to reply. ‘Simply because he is a fiction! Or if not a fiction, then the emphasis that you and your pet spies place upon him is vastly overrated. If he does exist, most likely this Esus is Ambiorix.’

  Priscus prepared himself. He had bent the reed just about as far as it would go and it was clear what would happen unless he acquiesced now. Sadly, a dishevelled appearance was not the only thing he seemed to have inherited from Fronto. A pig-headed unwillingness to halt in the face of trouble seemed to have taken hold in his spirit too.

  ‘I do not think that is the case, Caesar. Ambiorix was a small scale rebel…’

  ‘Small scale?’ snapped Caesar. ‘That piece of Belgic filth wiped out a legion, lost me two veteran commanders - of Senatorial rank, no less - and endangered the rest of the army, almost finishing off Cicero in the process. And despite our timely arrival in force, still the mangy dog escaped us. Now he runs around free once more, gathering warriors to his banner in defiance of Rome. Get out of my tent, Priscus. Go bathe yourself in wine and forget all about your Gallic demi-God and his machinations. This army has a purpose at this time, other than the simple pacification of tribes: vengeance, Priscus. Simple revenge. Now go see to yourself and your fellow officers.’

  Priscus winced at the sharpness in the general’s voice. Caesar was controlling his temper by a fine thread at best, and another word could snap it. Not even risking an apology, the officer simply bowed curtly, turned and left the tent.

  Gaius Julius Caesar, Proconsul of Cisalpine Gaul and Illyricum, governor of Transalpine Gaul, beloved of the Roman people and descendant of Venus, pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to ignore the blinding headache that was rising in his temple with every crunch of Priscus’ footsteps crossing the frosty grass away from the tent.

  Gaul was killing him by degrees.

  Every morning he felt slightly more worn, as though the very act of waking up in this rebellious world abraded a little of his spirit and body both. He had always reproached Fronto for his drinking habits, and had taken to doing so with Priscus, and yet was forced to admit to himself that his own consumption had risen drastically the past two years. Once upon a time, he had rarely slept, working through the hours of darkness and taking but a few hours of rest before launching into the coming day with renewed vigour. Not so these days. The wine helped him sleep of course, but also the days seemed to press on him so much now that rest was becoming more of a necessity.

  Gaul had to be settled.

  Straightening, he stalked across the tent to the door, pulling aside one of the hanging leather flaps. Two of Aulus Ingenuus’ horse guard stood at attention outside, one to each side. Other than that the nearest activity was a collection of senior officers - including Priscus - chattering away by the water tank near the camp prefect’s tent.

  ‘I am not to be disturbed,’ he announced to the bodyguards, who saluted without tearing their eyes away from the camp and any potential trouble. Ingenuus was always serious about his task, and that professionalism filtered down through his men.

  With a nod of satisfaction, Caesar returned to his tent and allowed the leather flap to drop back behind him. Ignoring the table with its huge map of Gaul and collection of tablets and scrolls, the cupboards and desks that held all his records and correspondence, the chairs and banners, standards and trophies, he turned to the door in the dividing wall.

  Caesar’s tent was, needless to say, the largest in the camp by a sizeable margin, given the fact that it served as both his private apartments and the army’s headquarters. The front room was large enough to comfortably accommodate a briefing of twenty officers, and that was only a third of the whole structure.

  The Illyrian slave who stood folding Caesar’s tunics ready to place them in the shelves turned at the general’s sudden entrance, bowing low and then replacing the linen and scurrying over to his master. Caesar frowned. For some reason he couldn’t remember the slave’s name. He’d had a series of miscellaneous house and body slaves during the campaign, but they never seemed to be up to the task and in the end they were all sent on to other duties, some not even hanging around long enough to remember their face. The latest seemed to be obsessed with neatness, which was fine, but was never there when Caesar discovered he needed him.

  ‘Leave me.’

  The slave bowed respectfully, and then scurried towards the other doorway that led into the general’s sleeping chamber.

  ‘Not that way. Outside. Go and wash something.’

  Nodding nervously, the young Illyrian shuffled through the room and disappeared into the public area and then outside. Caesar sighed and allowed himself to sag a little as solitude enfolded him in its comforting embrace. It was an unfortunate consequence of public life and military command that he rarely ever found himself alone unless he was actually asleep. Privacy was a precious commodity, though he’d had a little more of it these past few months, since Labienus was away east with his legion keeping the Treveri busy and some of the more vocal and time-consuming officers were either back in Rome or gracing the fields of Elysium.

  Soon, that respite would vanish. A couple of months of wintering with the troops had brought its own hardships, but at least there had been a certain level of inactivity. No one campaigned in the winter. But the weather was perceptibly changing, and in a matter of weeks the first hints of spring would show, which meant that ships would start to sail and Antonius would arrive in Gaul with a new herd of eager officers. Then the business of command would become fraught once more.

  His eyes fell upon the thing to which he must now tend - the reason he had dismissed the slave and sought privacy.

  The altar.

  Most of the officers had brought small altars on campaign with them, replete with portable divine figures cast in bronze or sculpted from wood or ivory. The Olympian Gods graced shrines in every officer’s tent, and even the common soldiery would carry miniature figures of their chosen deities with them to pray before.

  The general’s, of course, was something a little grander. A full-size altar of carved marble shipped with his personal gear from Rome, decorated with scenes of the Goddess granting favours - and dallying with Mars of course - painted in bright colours with the care and skill of a true artist. Atop the altar - a flat surface surrounded by delicate scroll-work - stood the statue of the Goddess herself. Unusually for her divine portrayals, this particular Venus was clothed for modesty, though her shapeliness showed through the diaphanous gown, and her languid pose suggested less than modest pursuits.

  The various offerings he had found cause to place upon the altar t
op around the lady’s figure remained in situ. The slight bowl-shaped depression between her toes was stained a deep dark red from old dried wine libations. Small piles of ash abounded - all that remained of silver frankincense, brought from Arabia via Rome at the cost of a legionary’s yearly pay for each shipment. Tiny bronze, orichalcum, silver and gold charms commissioned from Gallic smiths for the honour of the Goddess were scattered here and there. All in favour of Venus Genetrix, the mother of the Julian family line and patron divinity of the general.

  This shrine, with its altar, statue and offerings, represented an outlay of money that would make even Crassus wince. And while Caesar only had passing time for Gods as a whole, preferring to trust his own abilities and knowledge, he was careful to keep the family Goddess appeased and on his side.

  Yet, despite this, his grand plan seemed to be foundering.

  When he had initially secured his command and the Proconsulship - hurriedly, after the end of his Consular term - he had imagined that by now he would be back in Rome, reaping the rewards of his campaign and securing a previously undreamed of level of power for his descendants.

  And now here he was in his sixth year of Gaul, on his second extended term of governorship, still struggling to keep the tribes under control, his mother perished in a conflagration, his daughter passed away without issue and taking with her all hopes of peace and reconciliation with Pompey, the senate beginning to speak against him and even his beloved mob of plebs questioning his ability to control Gaul.