Marius' Mules Page 10

  Priscus grinned an evil grin and looked around to make sure that there was no one within earshot.

  “Sir, in the last year, you’ve ridden that horse a grand total of three times, and two of those were when you had that hip wound last September. How the hell am I expected to know when you’re going to want it next? You’re quite lucky really. The cook wanted to serve it up at the last do we had.”

  Fronto stood for a moment, his jaw opening and closing, but no words coming out. It was true. He hated riding. He was good at it, but it made him feel like an idiot trotting along gently on a horse, when five thousand others were walking. Truth be told, Fronto hadn’t actually laid eyes on the mare in weeks, and if Priscus hadn’t been keeping it fed and groomed, no one would have done.

  “Gnaeus?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  * * * * *

  Balbus rode proudly at the head of the Eighth. Throughout the journey, he had periodically ridden forward to join Fronto at the head of the Tenth, and once back to join Longinus and the Ninth. Caesar and his staff officers had ridden at the head of the column and Fronto was often called to join them. Balbus had laughed as his fellow legate had trotted off forward, muttering and grumbling under his breath. Fronto had even, apparently, tried to persuade Caesar that Balbus would make a better staff officer and strategist, though the general had remained adamant.

  The legate of the Eighth was happier than he had been for a long time. Oh there were downsides of course, but they were outweighed by the positives. There had been the parting with his wife; tears and pride mixed, as she had set off in the carriage toward Massilia and the Mediterranean coast, to their villa close by the Eighth’s permanent installation. His two girls, the light of his life, had dealt with the news in their own way. The eldest had cried and refused to talk to her father until the carriage was ready to leave, but had rushed into his arms at the last minute. His youngest had saluted him and told him she was proud of him before kissing him and climbing into the carriage. She would be telling all her friends that her father was conquering the barbarians by now.

  The only other irritation of joining Caesar’s army was the constant reminder of his advancing years. His joints ached with the morning dew, and his backside felt lashed raw every night after riding for a day. He was beginning to understand Fronto’s views on riding, though he had to admit it was better to be on horseback, with his head above the dust cloud created by the stamping feet of thousands of men.

  Still, life was good. Here he was riding to glory with the Eighth at his back. The officers and men of the legion had been equally pleased to be moving out on campaign. Of course, a lot of that had to do with the potential for spoils of war and other personal gain at the whim of Caesar, though there was a genuine spirit of camaraderie and many of the traditional military marching songs had rung out in the dusty air on the journey.

  The Eighth had been in a rut for a long time now. Their situation at Massilia and Geneva with no aggressive or dangerous enemies to face had made them a little soft. The legate had done what he could with them, instituting daily training, exercises in the mountains and valleys, mock gladiatorial combats and many other regular activities. And yet the legion had felt as though it were atrophying, wasting away through lack of use. The recent flurry of activity and the spirit of the men had confirmed Balbus’ suspicion that the sense of neglect was not through choice, but rather through lack of choice.

  The battle at the lakeshore had done a lot to improve the spirit of the Eighth, and Fronto and Caesar had both commented on the strength and spirit of the unit, complimenting Balbus on keeping a legion in such good fighting order despite the many years of peaceful policing they had endured.

  The morning after the battle, the Eighth had been in a fine mood. They had not returned to their camp at Geneva, but had gathered around the redoubt nearest the lakeshore gate. With their legate’s permission, a huge feast had subsequently taken place, nearly five thousand men eating in the open air and on the beach by the lake.

  Balbus had never fought alongside any of these other officers, and yet he felt as though he had known both Caesar and Fronto all his life. Fronto was a man cast in much the same mould as himself, and the general was much like any of the great figures of Rome’s military history. He was gracious while being hard; supported his officers and troops as any man could, while nailing to the post anyone who crossed him or endangered the army. And yet, Balbus couldn’t shake the feeling that the general would sacrifice each and every one of them if it were required for his personal advancement. As long as the army was his willing and useful tool, they would be well positioned. He just wondered what would happen to the legions when Caesar no longer needed them.

  Last night at their rest stop, Balbus had invited Fronto and Longinus to join him for a drink and a meal in his own tent. He had briefly considered inviting Crassus, but had decided against it, keeping the group to a veteran level. The night had started a little stiffly, with the other two legates polite and distant, but wine had brought them closer together and, by the end of the evening, the three of them had laughed so loud that the animals in their pens had woken and begun to bellow.

  Longinus was an enigma. Balbus had heard of the Ninth’s legate a number of times before they had met, and the opinion the entire military seemed to share of him was uniformly unflattering. Furthermore, the man obviously had a history with Fronto. Still, he had distinguished himself on the field of combat and everyone had recognised it. The man was obviously a born cavalry commander, and would be forever wasted as a legionary legate. And yet he was unlikely to relinquish his control of the legion in favour of a less prestigious and less well-paid position as a cavalry prefect. Longinus had, in fact, confided with them on the matter of his strengths. He had always been a good cavalry man, and had been woefully unprepared for command of a legion, especially a legion who had just lost one of the great legionary commanders of the modern Roman military. There had been no way he was ever going to impress them with his abilities as a legate after Fronto, and so he had not really tried.

  After the battle at the wall, Longinus had made a command decision and called his primus pilus to a private meeting. The legate would continue to make general command decisions for the legion and would take permanent command of a unit of cavalry formed from the Ninth and the auxiliary horsemen. Day to day control he would leave in the hands of Grattius, including full command during combat while the legate was with the cavalry. The primus pilus would then relinquish control whenever the legate returned to the legion. Grattius had agreed and would make all decisions in the name of Longinus. The legion had a newfound respect for their legate, and he would not allow that to fall away.

  In fact, Balbus had come to find that he quite liked the man. He seemed to be different now somehow. Perhaps he had achieved a hitherto unknown degree of self-respect. Whatever the cause, he had lost a lot of the bluster that he had exhibited on his arrival at Geneva, replacing it with a much more level attitude. In return, Balbus had begun to treat Longinus like the equal he should be, and even Fronto had joked a little with the man. The long-standing antagonism between them seemed not to have disappeared, more to have changed into something else. Last night had made that clear. The two legates had hurled many of the same comments and insults at each other that they had before, though often through a smile. The insults had become more and more lewd and outlandish as the night wore on until Fronto’s comment comparing Longinus’ face with Crassus’ rear end had caused them both to collapse into hysterics.

  All in all, things felt lighter and clearer now and Balbus planned to get Aulus Crispus and Servius Galba, the newly installed legates of the Eleventh and Twelfth, to a get-together. He had discussed them with Fronto yesterday and they had come to the conclusion that the two new legates had been treated as inferiors by Crassus, while Fronto, Balbus and Longinus hadn’t offered them much support. They should be treated as full legates, in order to help them ga
in the respect of the troops. He had only met Crispus, a fair haired and tall young man with a fixed, serious expression, and Galba, a stocky man in his mid twenties with a barrel chest and a permanent five o’clock shadow, a few times and was consequently unsure of their talent, though they had carried out their duties adequately during the journey from Geneva.

  Balbus smiled and, looking ahead at the rear ranks of the Tenth, saw the horseman coming along the line toward them. With a nod to his primus pilus, Balbus trotted his horse out of the line and off to the grass by the side of the dirt road. In minutes the rider, one of Caesar’s staff officers, reached him.

  “Legate, the general requests that you move the Eighth out at double speed to the right and onto the grass verge. Keep your column length and formation as it is now, but move forward and form up alongside the Tenth. Longinus has reported a sizeable force of barbarians off the road about six miles ahead. The other four legions will be pulling forward and moving three abreast directly behind you. The baggage trains and siege wagons will be placed between your two legions and the other four to protect them from raiders.”

  The officer pointed off ahead and into the distance.

  “Can you see that tall hill with the double point to the right?”

  Balbus nodded.

  “That’s where they are at the moment. We’ll have to pass quite close to them and they’ll almost certainly try to use both surprise and the advantage of height to hit us hard and fast. Thanks to the cavalry we’ll be prepared. The Eighth and the Eleventh can hold the centre, with the Seventh and Twelfth behind them. The Tenth will move ahead at the last minute and turn the flank on them, as will the Ninth from the rear. We’ll have them between the horns of the bull, and Longinus will bring his cavalry in from behind to trap them. Are you in agreement?”

  Once more, Balbus nodded.

  “We’ll hold the centre well enough; the men are itching for more action. A good plan, I think. The general’s determined not to play the defensive game any more, isn’t he?”

  With a grim smile, the staff officer wheeled his horse and cantered off along the line in the direction of the Eleventh.

  Balbus pulled his horse in alongside his primus pilus.

  “Centurion, send word down the line. We’re moving at double pace and pulling out to the right alongside the Tenth. The Gauls are coming and I’ll give you the details once we’re in our allocated position.”

  The primus pilus saluted and began to bellow orders out to the troops following him. In less than five minutes the entire legion was moving out beside the Fronto’s unit. The officers and men of the Tenth cheered them on as they ran past, armour clinking and crashing, dust clouds filling the air.

  Balbus saw Fronto on the hill to the right hand side of the saddle, standing next to his horse and watching the legions move with his hand to his brow, shading his eyes from the glaring sun. Knowing that he had a little over five minutes until the Eighth were in position, Balbus rode up the grassy slope to meet the other legate.

  “Balbus. Come to watch the fun?”

  The older man swung himself off the horse and, holding the reins, stood next to Fronto.

  “Nice day for it.”

  He looked down from the slope and saw the legions moving. The manoeuvre was so slick and fluid, it resembled a choreographed dance. The Eighth were moving alongside the Tenth at double speed. The wagons were already moving toward their allocated space in the centre with and the various auxiliary units gathered around them as guards. The Seventh, Eleventh and Twelfth were moving up at double speed to march just behind the carts, and Longinus’ Ninth, again under the command of Grattius, held back to play rearguard. The dust cloud was increasing in size and density by the minute. The organisation had to be completed now. If the manoeuvres were carried out in sight of the enemy, they would know they had lost the element of surprise and the plan wouldn’t work.

  Balbus looked down at the centre and a thought struck him. “Fronto, I presume the Scorpions will be in place with each legion, but do you think the four Ballistae that’ll be at the centre will fire from the top of the carts?”

  Fronto scratched his chin.

  “I remember some trials we had when I was with the Ninth in Spain. The Ballista would work, but the cart needs to be fairly well anchored, and the crew would have to be protected by a shield wall on the top. We tried firing an onager from a cart once, but the movement of firing threw the cart over forwards. My advice would be to put baggage carts on either side of the Ballista carts. It would give it better stability and allow a base for a number of soldiers to protect the crew.”

  He turned and grinned at Balbus.

  “It would certainly frighten the hell out of the enemy.”

  Balbus smiled back.

  “We’d have to keep them covered with tent leather until the last minute, of course, and not fire them until the flanking legions are in place, or the game would be up.”

  Fronto straightened and stretched his shoulders.

  “I think I’ll pop back to the Command unit and have a little word with Caesar. Would you like to arrange that little surprise? I hear your siege crews were rather good at the lakeshore, so let’s give them the opportunity to show off a little.”

  * * * * *

  The barbarians were not Helvetii, but their local allies, though at first glance Fronto couldn’t tell the difference. A confederation of the Centrones, Graioceli and Caturiges, the Gauls came rushing down the hill like a landslide. There were several thousand of them and, with the advantage of charging downhill and a falsely perceived element of surprise on their side, they closed the gap with the Roman column in surprising time. The Gauls had forsaken the mounted element of their army, which would be dangerous to both their riders and the rest of the army when manoeuvring down such a slope, just their few chieftains remaining on horseback and carefully navigating the terrain.

  The legates were well primed for the onslaught, however, and the barbarian cries of rage and victory soon turned to shouts of alarm as the Ninth and Tenth Legions came around like closing doors, boxing the charging Gauls in. There was precious little the attackers could do, their momentum carrying them inevitably forward and into the waiting arms of Caesar’s army.

  The legions were a lot more prepared than they had initially appeared. By the time the Gauls were a hundred yards from the lines of the Seventh and the Eighth, the front ranks had locked themselves into a shield wall. Their javelins were raised to shoulder height and, at fifty yards, cast. A thousand javelins rained down into the mass of Gauls, causing chaos and panic. At the same time, though a few of the barbarians had managed to peel off and engage the enfolding arms of the Ninth and Tenth, the javelins cast from their ranks kept the confused mass moving generally forward.

  By the time the Gauls had begun to reorganise themselves, the army pouring over the bodies of their own dead, they were entirely within the enfolding ‘U’ shape of Caesar’s bull-horn formation. The Gauls hit the front ranks of the legions like a steamroller, buckling the shield wall in a number of places, though failing to punch through it. In the intervening moments, the legions had drawn their short, thrusting swords and began their bloody and efficient business.

  The butchery at the front caused panic to ripple through the ranks of the Gauls. The rear of the barbarian army began to stumble and drift apart, some of the Gauls turning and attempting to flee the field. Within minutes, they were a mess; the front ranks fighting for their lives, unable to retreat or manoeuvre due to the press of their own army at their back and the tightly packed legions to each side. The centre of the mass pushed this way and that, confused and able to reach neither enemy nor safety. The rear of the army was now in full retreat, staggering up the steep slope as fast as they could.

  Not giving the Gauls time to pull their army into a sense of order, Balbus spoke quietly but hurriedly to the trumpeter by his side. The signal blared out across the field and crews in the centre of the Roman army pulled the leather covers off
the Ballistae, anchored to four wagons for stability. The crews took positions, protected by their own personal shield walls provided by the Eleventh and Twelfth. Long iron bolts began to whiz through the air, pounding into the Gauls, pinning warriors to the ground and occasionally to other men.

  Another horn blast rang out and, as the first of the fleeing Gauls reached the top of the rise, Longinus’ cavalry hove into view, swords out and swinging; spears levelled. With nearly four hundred mounted legionaries and over a thousand auxiliaries drawn from Cisalpine Gaul, armed and armoured in much the same manner as the enemy, Longinus’ unit was an awesome sight. Moving like heated metal through snow, the cavalry cut their way through the fleeing barbarians, though not pushing down too far into the mass for fear of rendering the Roman missile fire ineffective. Longinus had been clear; his job was to prevent the army fleeing the field.

  In the centre of the army, three Gauls clearly showed above the mass, mounted on powerful horses. Fronto singled them out from his position by the Tenth. With a shout, he had a runner take a message to Balbus. The messenger reached the legate and there was a sudden bout of activity below the siege engines. Balbus climbed up onto a baggage cart behind the shield wall.

  “The leaders are in the centre, on the horses. Earn your pay, men, and pick those barbarians off before they can do anything.”

  The Ballista crews reloaded and began to fire with more accuracy and less speed, gradually gauging the distance and drop to reach the mounted men, picking off a number of warriors in the process.

  After a minute or so of firing, the deadly iron bolts found their first target, the barbarian chieftain plucked from his horse with the strength of the blow and hurled ten feet back into the mess. Cries of dismay rose among the remaining Gauls, doubling in force and volume as a second bolt struck its target. Another chieftain, caught in the shoulder, was spun bodily into the air and thrown from his horse.