Marius' Mules Anthology Volume 1 Read online

  Marius’ Mules I: The Invasion of Gaul

  by S. J. A. Turney

  2nd 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 my beautiful wife Tracey, who has done nothing but encourage me. So it’s mostly her fault!

  Also for my grandfather Douglas, who is responsible for my irrepressible love of history.

  I would like to thank those people instrumental in bringing Marius' Mules to fruition and making it the success it has been, and those who have contributed to the production of the Second Edition, in particular Leni, Jules, Barry, Robin, Kate, Alun, Nick, two Daves, a Garry and a Paul. Also a special thanks to Ben Kane and Anthony Riches, who have greatly encouraged me towards the improvements in this edition.

  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 2013 by Victrix Books

  Copyright - S. J. A. Turney

  Second 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.

  Book 1 Dramatis Personae

  Marcus Falerius Fronto – Legate of the Tenth Legion

  Gaius Longinus – Legate of the Ninth Legion

  Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus – Primus pilus of the Tenth Legion

  Lucius Velius – Centurion & chief training officer of Tenth Legion

  Quintus Lucilius Balbus – Legate of the Eighth Legion

  Aulus Crispus – Legate of the Eleventh Legion

  Titus Balventius – Primus pilus of the Eighth Legion

  Aulus Ingenuus – Lesser officer of Eighth Legion’s cavalry wing

  Tetricus – Junior Tribune attached to the Seventh Legion

  Florus – Young legionary in the Tenth Legion

  Quintus Atius Varus – Prefect of the Ninth Legion’s cavalry wing

  Quintus Titurius Sabinus – Senior staff officer

  Titus Atius Labienus – Senior staff officer and lieutenant of Caesar

  The maps of Marius’ Mules 1

  PART ONE: ACTS OF AGGRESSION

  Chapter 1

  (Tenth Legion’s Summer Camp at Cremona)

  ‘Cursus Honorum: The ladder of political and military positions a noble Roman is expected to ascend.’

  ‘Tarpeian Rock: Cliff on the Capitoline Hill of Rome from which traitors were hurled.’

  ‘Latrunculi: Roman board game involving stones of two colours on a board, resembling the Chinese game of Go.’

  Marcus Falerius Fronto trudged through the mud between the headquarters pavilion and his tent, kicking in irritation at errant stones, which disappeared into the dark with a skittering sound. He would have given good money to be back at the winter quarters in Aquileia, on the warm Adriatic. For all that Cremona was a reasonably sized town with all the facilities and amenities a Roman gentleman could enjoy, the camp itself, almost a mile away, was much the same as any practice camp throughout the empire: cold, damp and dirty. Like many of the mighty general’s senior officers, Fronto’s quarters were considerably closer to the centre of command than he would truly wish. Though the concentration of the officers made for better organisation and a certain camaraderie, the great Caesar slept little and late and had a tendency, when thoughts occurred in the dark of night, to wander among the tents of his officers and seek out their opinions of grand designs and obscure schemes. It was said by some of the men that Caesar never slept, though Fronto knew the truth, having just removed the cup from the general’s hand, emptied the dregs outside the tent and draped a blanket over the figure slumbering in the folding campaign chair.

  Fronto’s mind wandered back over the briefing earlier in the evening and the array of maps on the campaign table that he had tidied and gathered up before he left. Some of the officers present had had the foresight to heavily water their wine, knowing how generals tended to drag out these meetings for many hours, considering every minute detail. Those who were unprepared had begun to doze hours ago and would be looking to the security of their careers in the morning. The general himself, as always, drank a half and half mixture of good Latin wine and water, remaining sober until most of his officers had left, and never drinking enough to lose control of his tongue. This was a man with many secrets, Fronto was reminded.

  There had been much speculation among the officers over the last couple of days as to why Caesar had come to Aquileia at all, yet alone to a practice camp for three legions in the hinterland. He had been quietly settled in Rome ever since his governorship had been confirmed and had shown no significant interest in the troops under his command. Then suddenly he had arrived in camp with an entourage of his favourite staff officers and a wagon full of maps and supplies. Fronto had been apprised of the imminent arrival of a party of soldiers by the sentries, had immediately recognised the standards and the man in the red cloak on the white horse, and had alerted the other officers without delay. He had his own theories concerning the general’s presence.

  Caesar had had a command tent raised and with barely a nod of recognition to the officers with whom he had served before, called for a meeting and disappeared within. An hour later, the general had briefed all present on the nature, geography and politics of Gaul and the Gaulish tribes, though still no one had been enlightened as to the reason for this meeting and the information divulged.

  The ordinary civilian back in Rome tended to label anyone from north or west of Roman territory a ‘Gaul’ though, in truth, the land to the north was held by the Helvetii, above them the Belgae and the Germanic tribes and to the far west, by the sea, the Aquitani peoples. The Gauls consisted the tribes that lay between these others.

  Still, sometimes a sweeping generalisation made things easier. And no true Roman could think of the Gauls without a thread of bitterness weaving into his heart. Even the two and a half centuries that had passed since those barbarians had broken the walls of Rome and desecrated the holy places had not dampened the ardour of many a Roman nobleman. Fronto had a suspicion. He would not dare voice it yet, but the nagging feeling remained that the general planned to take the legions into Gaul and, despite the worries and implications of such an act, he could not ignore the quickening of his pulse when he thought of Romans wreaking long awaited vengeance on these uncivilised brutes. These days people said that the Gauls were a different people; that they had a culture. To Fronto, they were just another enemy; to Caesar, a stepping stone.

  His mind wandering from subject to subject, deep in concentration, Fronto realised with a sudden jolt that he had walked far past the officers’ quarters and almost to the edge of the camp. There were very few soldiers outside at this time, and most of those were going about their various night time duties. None of them, of course, caught the eye of the senior officer walking in their midst. Fronto looked up at the moon. Late. Very late. By rights he should be abed now like the rest of the officers and yet sleep was far off. Reasoning that lying staring at the roof of the tent was unlikely to help him pass into the arms of Mor
pheus, Fronto reached out and grasped a passing legionary by the arm. The startled boy, who could not have been more than eighteen, stammered a respectful greeting that the officer waved casually aside.

  ‘Is there anywhere open in the town that serves a reasonable wine at this time?’

  The young soldier’s brow creased. ‘I believe there’s an inn down near the river sir, which stays open almost ‘til dawn.’ He suddenly pulled himself to a semblance of attention. ‘Not that I’ve been in such a place of course, sir.’

  Fronto smiled. ‘Relax, lad. I’m not looking for infractions of the rules, just a drink.’ He patted the boy on the shoulder and flipped a small coin into his hand. ‘Next time you get there, have a drink on me. I have a feeling you won’t be seeing the place for much longer.’

  He walked off in the direction of the west gate, leaving the puzzled-looking soldier standing in the street, staring at the coin in his hand.

  Passing through the gate with only a brief question from the duty centurion, Fronto left the camp and started down the hill toward Cremona and its warm and friendly drinking establishments. There were few locals around at this time, and those that he encountered were generally drunk and semi-conscious. He made his way down to the river, his mind once more on the great general he had left a mere quarter of an hour ago.

  Caesar was a man who had been acclaimed as a hero and an advocate of Roman expansion for his deeds in Spain. Indeed, to the general himself none of the officers would say differently. Many personal journals, however, would give another impression. Those who had had the dubious honour of accompanying the general on his rise through the cursus honorum could see a side of the great man of which the public would never learn. The man was a genius; of that, there could be no doubt. A modern-day Scipio, or Gracchus, matched today only by the great Pompey or Crassus. He had come from a noble family, though not a particularly wealthy one, and had risen rapidly through the shrewd borrowing of money and the skilful manipulation of the general mass at Rome. In this Fronto could see unlimited ambition; had seen it time and time again in the general’s plans and actions. It was largely this ambition, smouldering scarcely concealed beneath the surface that led Fronto to suspect what was coming. Like a number of the other officers in Caesar’s command, Fronto had served with the general in Spain, on the campaign that had given Caesar a piece in the great game, and yet put him in extreme danger of prosecution for war crimes. There was no doubt in his mind that Caesar’s campaigns could be a path to glory, but they could also be a path to damnation.

  Fronto turned a corner and saw a sign for a tavern. Here in Cisalpine Gaul, the influence of Roman civilisation had all but wiped the Gaulish culture from the land, and the street and tavern could easily have been on the outskirts of Misenum or Puteoli, his home town. After three days of almost constant rain, one could only wade through these badly paved streets and, as Fronto reached the front door, under the swinging, rusty sign, he took advantage of the boot scraper by the door, leaving large clods of earth. The inside, lit only by three small oil lamps, was dingy and only four men sat around the room, sipping wine or swigging beer. Fronto ordered a good wine and took a seat in a dark corner. His thoughts turned once more to the people known as the Gauls. It was a misnomer really. The innkeeper who had served Fronto’s drink was theoretically a Gaul, though Fronto could hardly compare this Latinised man with his slight Etrurian accent to the Gauls that had broken Rome so long ago. Nor, for that matter, with the feared Belgae or Helvetii, hardened by centuries of war among themselves and against the Germans across the Rhine.

  Still, the Helvetii would be the ones to watch. Not only were they just over the border from here, but there had been rumours emanating from their territory for a long time now. Roman merchants had made a killing there, buying up food stocks and carts and pack animals and all manner of other goods. Each officer had his own opinion on the activities of the Helvetii, ranging from an expansion into Sequani territory, to crossing the Rhine and claiming land in Germany, to invading Gaul. There was no doubt that the Helvetii loved to make war, and the only question really was against whom. One thing that all were sure of was that the Helvetii, warlike as they were, would never consider attacking the might of Rome. And yet two things nagged at Fronto. First was Caesar’s sudden fascination with Further Gaul and its tribes, and the other was a conversation he had had yesterday with a local merchant. The man, from whom many of the officers had been purchasing items for months, had been packing all his worldly goods onto a cart when Fronto came across him. Upon being asked why, the man had replied ‘Have you never seen the birds fleeing the forest when a predator enters?’ and had refused to be pressed further.

  Matters to think on; Fronto pondered as he drained the glass. He purchased another at the bar and then returned to his dingy table. The general was renowned for his ability to think problems through obliquely. Was it possible that the general had already taken stock of what had happened and used it to create a hypothesis of events in the near future? Did Caesar actually think that the Helvetii would invade Roman territory? Were it from anyone else Fronto would have laughed off such an idea, but from the general? Fronto had played the man at Latrunculi several times and considered it a personal mark of glory that he had once won a game. Fronto was at least as well versed in the rules of the game as any other well-bred Roman, and better than most, but Caesar was another matter entirely. He had a disturbingly clever habit of having calculated every possible combination of moves at least seven turns ahead. It was this gift for strategy that made Caesar as dangerous in the field as he was on the board.

  In response to his unsettled feeling, Fronto had put his command, the Tenth, on a state of alert within moments of Caesar’s arrival at the camp. There had been plenty of complaints from the senior centurions of course, but Fronto had silenced them with a look. He had commanded legions before, under this general and others. The senior men of the Tenth knew that; they also knew that something was in the wind. Fronto also had a habit of being prepared.

  He sighed and wondered whether he would be a legionary officer all his life. He had served in a number of theatres and commanded a number of legions as and when he had been required. Commanding a legion had always been a temporary post at the whim of the army’s general, and in those days Fronto had been keen and continually seeking a new challenge. Caesar had broken tradition in many ways, including his tendency to leave an officer in command of a legion for long periods. Thus in Spain, Fronto had commanded the Ninth for a considerable time, becoming very familiar with its officers and their quirks. In fact long-term command had permanently changed Fronto’s views and attitudes toward the military, and he could see the benefit of building a rapport with a legion.

  His command in Spain had perhaps tied him a little too closely to Caesar, and he had narrowly escaped prosecution along with the general, after which he had tried to dabble in political circles at Rome as the cursus honorum demanded. A dull and incomprehensible two years in Rome had given Fronto enough of a taste of Rome’s political life to know that his place was in the field, and he had applied to the senate once more for a command. For over a year he served in various locations, never tied to a unit for more than a month, his reputation constantly growing, until he heard of his old patron’s appointment as governor of Illyricum and Cisalpine Gaul. Sure of his path, he had visited Caesar and asked the general if there was a place in Gaul for him. Caesar had smiled and, without hesitation, sent him to Aquileia to command the Tenth, whose current commander was returning to Rome.

  He was fated to the soldier’s life. He would never sit in the senate; he may never make a provincial governor, and he was resigned to that. Only two things still ate away at him late at night. Firstly there were the young, go-getting officers, just starting off on the cursus honorum, who could not comprehend why a man would backtrack down the rungs of the ladder. Fronto suspected that they laughed about him behind his back. The other was, of course, his family. Neither his mother nor his sister
had ever forgiven him for his abortive political career, when he had been expected to make Senator at least. He knew he was bright enough, as did the womenfolk, but he preferred the clear-cut blacks and whites of military command to the soul-destroying greys of politics. Throwing back the last of his second unwatered cup faster than he probably should, Fronto stood, thanked the barman, and made his way out of the tavern.

  The streets of the town were muddy, dark and deserted, and Fronto carefully picked his way through the murky alleys until he came out near the bridge. So deep in thought was he that he almost knocked down the figure entering the alley as he left it. Gnaeus Vinicius Priscus, the Tenth’s leading centurion, staggered against the wall, righted himself quickly and saluted Fronto. The officer waved the salute aside and growled, covering his own embarrassment.

  ‘Priscus, what the hell are you doing sneaking around down here at this time of night? Haven’t you got duties in camp?’ He grasped the centurion by the shoulder fastenings of his mail shirt and turned him around, walking him out of the alley.

  Priscus looked momentarily taken aback and for a moment a fleeting and knowing smile crossed his face before professionalism took over. ‘Sir. I was, in fact, looking for you. One of the gate guards told me you had come down here. We intercepted a messenger coming to the camp. I thought you would want to know before word reached the other officers.’

  ‘A messenger?’ Visions of Gaulish hordes sweeping south across the empire’s borders ran unbidden through his mind. ‘A messenger from whom?’