Marius' Mules

by S. J. A. Turney

  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 second 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?”

  Priscus stumbled on the dark road; looked up in time to see that they were emerging into the faint circle of light cast by the torches on the camp’s walls.

  “One of our friendly merchants, up on the frontier, near the Helvetii. It seems big things are happening over the border. His message was for the officer commanding, but I got a few hints. There’s been some kind of failed coup in the tribe’s leadership.” Priscus held up his hand and signalled to the guards, who swung open the great wooden gates to allow them entry.

  Fronto smiled. “You did well, Gnaeus; very well. Caesar will almost certainly call another staff meeting, and it stands the Tenth in good stead if we appear to be well prepared. Get back to the others and call up all the officers of the Tenth. As soon as I’ve seen the General, I’ll want to call a private meeting.”

  Priscus saluted again and turned as they reached the gate, giving the agreed password to the guards. As the gates swung shut and the centurion made for the Tenth, Fronto called out after him “Oh and Gnaeus, get some of the good wine out of storage. This might be a long meeting and a long night.” Priscus grinned and set off at a jog.

  Fronto made his way through to the commanders’ tents and, reaching his own, examined himself in the large bronze mirror he had recently purchased from a vendor in the village. Generally presentable, though with muddy boots and some very serious-smelling horse dung on the hem of his red cloak. He looked around the tent for his spare boots and laid eyes on them where he had left them beneath his small table. Muddy, but better and, with a bit of hasty rubbing, the dried mud would come off. The sounds of activity outside heralded the fact that the news had reached the General. Fronto hastily cleared off the worst of his boots and contemplated what to do about the cloak. He couldn’t present himself to the general smelling like a livery stable. In a rush now, he opened his travel chest and retrieved a crimson cloak from inside, neatly folded the way only his sister could have done. How long had it been since he had worn it? So few occasions to dress up these days. Needless to say, some of the others would take every opportunity to rib him about this over the next few days, but the smell of horse shit would be a stronger fuel for their jibes.

  Moments later a breathless messenger reached his tent and knocked on the wooden post at the door. “Sir, the General…”

  Before he could finish the summons, Fronto was out of his quarters in full dress and marching toward the command tent. Over his shoulder he called back “Yes soldier, I know.”

  * * * * *

  Fronto had been the first to arrive at Caesar’s tent by a clear minute and, though he was now waiting outside the flaps, he knew that his promptness would have been noted. As several of the lower ranks passed by in the torchlight, the officer was sure he heard a few badly-concealed sniggers. Ignoring them, he kept his eyes on the tent’s entrance, waiting for Caesar’s attendant to call him. Footsteps behind told him that the other senior officers had arrived.

  A jolly voice behind him said “Why, who is this joining us for the briefing? Could it be the great Scipio? Or perhaps Apollo himself is deigning to lighten our lives with his radiant presence.” Slightly subdued laughter rippled down the line behind Fronto.

  Without turning his head, Fronto addressed the voice.

  “Longinus, you missed your chance for a career on the stage. What are you doing here, among these serious and talented military types? Have you tired of talking to your mule?”

  He heard Longinus’ intake of breath, ready to launch into a diatribe on the nature of Fronto’s family and their resemblance to certain species of amphibian. The new commander of the Ninth resorted to this subject in every one of their arguments whenever he ran out of clever things to say. Fronto suspected that the slightly portly officer resented the fact that his command of the Ninth had come only because Fronto had resigned his commission with that unit on his return with Caesar to Rome. Moreover, the Ninth still held Fronto in esteem since he had been with them throughout their time in Spain.

  Before Longinus could get his comment out, Caesar’s servant appeared at the doorway.

  “Gentlemen, the General will see you now.”

  As the officers filed into the tent, Fronto took the only seat he knew to be comfortable. Once the eleven men were seated, a curtain to the left was pulled aside, and Caesar himself strode in. The officers stood as one, saluting and bowing. Caesar acknowledged them and sat, followed by the others. As his servant poured a glass of wine, the General opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. His eyes had fallen on Fronto. A warm smile spread across Caesar’s face.

  “My dear Fronto, did my summons catch you on your way to anywhere glamorous and important? How inconvenient of me.” Fronto could feel the colour rising in his cheeks as laughter filled the room.

  He carefully folded back the sides of the cloak so that the red lining covered the worst of the golden images on the outside. His sister had had the cloak made to order by one of the best men in Rome to celebrate Fronto’s triumphant return from Spain a few years ago. The golden gods and victories cavorted with mythical creatures and horses, covering most of the plain red. A single gold thread hung from one shoulder where Fronto had, after one particularly drunken evening, unsuccessfully tried to unpick a representation of Pegasus. He gratefully accepted the proffered glass from Caesar’s servant and sank his face into it. After a moment’s steadying he lowered the glass and, in a gesture that he felt sure few of the other officers would dare match, fixed Caesar with a warming smile, holding his eyes.

  “General, as you know the history of this cloak, you know it has only ever been worn once in public, and it places upon your revered self a mark of great distinction that I would don it for your presence.”

  Caesar’s smile faltered and Fronto wondered for a moment if he had gone too far. A moment later, however, the General laughed uproariously. Some of the officers joined in, though Longinus retained a frustrated silence. The General slapped his knee and wiped a tear from his cheek.

  “Fro
nto, you are well named. You have more front about you than any man I know. Very well, honour me with your priceless cloak and pray that the next time I see your charming sister I do not tell her what you really think of this ostentatious piece of apparel.” He took a sip of wine and sat up straighter.

  “To business gentlemen. Your orders and your explanation. You will immediately, upon leaving this briefing, return to your legions or other duties, and see that the entire camp stands to. I want all three legions ready to march at an hour’s notice. Paetus, you will have the camp made ready for the army’s march. Cita, get all the necessary provisions and pack animals for two weeks in the field. Almost the entire camp will be leaving, including the cavalry.”

  Looking around, Fronto counted the faces registering surprise with satisfaction. He returned his eyes to the General.

  “Now, I expect you’re all aware by now that a messenger reached the camp tonight. He has come from the north, where he was accompanying a trader dealing with the Helvetii. There has been something of a disturbance among the tribe’s leadership. Some of you may remember the name of Orgetorix from earlier briefings. He has evidently tried to arrange a coup for control of the tribe, in association with other ambitious men of the Aedui and Sequani tribes. I rather gather that this failed, as Orgetorix committed suicide four days ago whilst on trial for the attempt. In the normal flow of events, this would stand well for Rome. The man was obviously a rabble-rouser and could conceivably have united three tribes into a confederation on our border. Unfortunately the latest news, from two days ago, is that villages and towns of the Helvetii are burning across the length and breadth of the mountains. Those of you who have studied this particular tribal area will be aware that the Helvetii are by far the strongest group, and are unlikely to have been bested very quickly by anyone bar us.” He paused for a moment, smiling.

  “However, it is a strange custom of these peoples to destroy what they leave behind. Not, like us, to prevent them being used by erstwhile enemies, but to help bind the tribe together and provide the added impetus needed to keep such a group collected and moving with purpose.” Again the General paused to make sure he was being followed.

  “Gentlemen, the Helvetii are moving. The whole tribe.” At a gesture from Caesar, his servant unrolled a map on the low table between them all. The map covered the territories of Cisalpine and Transalpine Gaul and the surrounding areas.

  “As you can see, the Helvetii are bordered to the east by Lake Geneva. To the north lie the Rhine and the powerful German tribes. To the west there is only a narrow route between the Jura Mountain and the Rhone, through unstable territory held by other tribes. And of course, to the south: Rome. Wherever the Helvetii plan to go, if they are bringing their whole tribe and all of their possessions, they cannot realistically attempt any route other than through our lands. They have two days’ advantage on us if we want to meet them in battle in open land, but they are burdened and slow. I will be leaving for Geneva some time tomorrow morning, and taking a few key personnel with me. I have sent word to Massilia to have the Eighth Legion march and they will meet me there. The three legions here will move out two days after I do, and will make for Vienna on the Rhone. They will wait there as long as necessary until I send the signal. The force I shall take to Geneva should be more than sufficient to turn the Helvetii away, given the terrain. I want the other legions in reserve at Vienna as a reserve in case the Helvetii make their way around us, and in such as position as to be able to move anywhere along or across the border in the shortest time possible” Caesar sat back, while the others continued to pore over the map.

  Fronto frowned and leaned forward.

  “Sir. If, as you say, the Helvetii are coming south, why do we need to keep reserves? Surely we would be better on the forced march to Geneva with you. Then we could meet them in open battle straight away and finish them.”

  Caesar smiled.

  “Fronto, I have planned ahead. One legion and associated auxiliaries should be able to hold them off at Geneva should they not acquiesce to our demands. After that, they will have no choice but to head west along the river and the Roman military will be waiting there for them too. I shouldn’t worry too much about missing all the fun, Marcus, as you’re one of the key personnel I’m taking with me to Geneva.” He turned back to the others.

  “On a more personal note, the Helvetii are one of the most powerful tribes in all the Gauls, and have become complacent and over-familiar in recent years. They constantly cross our border in small groups for mercantile reasons. They seem to have no respect for the frontier and no fear of the might of Rome. Regardless of the tribe’s intentions, I will not countenance their crossing into Roman territory and, should they make any attempt to do so, I will meet such a move with equal force.”

  Caesar’s voice began to drone in the ears of Fronto. He spent some time calculating the amount of time he’d now spent awake. It was, by his rough estimate, somewhere around four in the morning. He had been up at dawn to oversee the drill on the siege engines and had eaten only once, at lunchtime, despite the tasty morsels being offered at the briefing. Moreover, the other officers had caught up on at least an hour, as had the general himself. Almost twenty four hours solid. No wonder things were starting to run together. With a start, Fronto realised his hand had slipped sideways and dark wine had dripped onto his cloak. Prying his eyes open, he forced himself to concentrate on the commander. With a second jolt, he realised that the General had finished.

  Caesar leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “I think that’s all, gentlemen… unless there’s anything you wish to ask?” The officers remained silent, some shaking their heads until, at a dismissive gesture from the General, they bowed in turn and made their way out of the tent.

  As Fronto stood and bowed, trying hard not to let the ornate cloak fall over his head, Caesar gestured to one side. Obediently, Fronto stepped to the side of the tent and waited until the other officers had filed out. With a word, the general also dismissed the two servants, who left through a different flap and into separate quarters. Once they were alone, Caesar heaved a sigh of relief and gestured Fronto back to a chair.

  “For the sake of all that’s good and sacred, Fronto, please take that cloak off. It’s as distracting for me as it is annoying for you.” Caesar reached down to the table by his side and poured two more goblets of wine. Fronto set his eyes on the goblet as he unfastened the last catch of the cloak, and wondered exactly how much wine he had drunk tonight. Certainly more than he should have done on a duty night. And yet his head felt surprisingly clear, if tired, perhaps due to all the exercise, concentration and fresh air. With a smile, he let the cloak drop to the floor and accepted the goblet. Almost as an afterthought, and with pictures of an irate sister swimming in his head, he retrieved the cloak, folded it carefully and placed it by his side.

  “Caesar, I appreciate, as always, your private invitation to talk, but I really should be returning to the Tenth and having them stand to.”

  The General cast his eyes over the slightly ruffled officer and a smile played around his lips.

  “Marcus, how long have we known each other now? I would think the best part of ten years, yes?”

  Fronto nodded. “I would think so sir, yes.”

  “In all the time I have seen you in command of a unit, that unit has never been unprepared for anything. I would lay a hefty wager that the Tenth are already standing to. It’s not entirely unreasonable to suspect that your juniors are already having the tents pulled down and stowed. I’m well aware that you were half-expecting something like this tonight, especially since you were standing outside in answer to my summons almost before I had sent it. That Priscus is a good man. If only he were a man of standing and property, he would be a good choice, I think, to step into your shoes when you try for Senatorial power.”

  Fronto growled; a low growl, but nevertheless, Caesar must have heard it. “I’ll never make a politician. I don’t have your gift with pe
ople.”

  Caesar smiled. “No, perhaps not. But your family will never rest until you achieve some kind of position. Still, in time we may be able to do something about that. You stick with me Marcus, and we’ll both go a long way.”

  The General stood for a moment and wandered around the tent, casually pausing by the main door and glancing out into the night, before letting the flap fall closed.

  “There is no doubt in my mind Marcus that you are exceptionally intelligent and astute for a ‘career’ soldier. I tend to keep an eye on your behaviour, as it tells me whether I am being too open or too closed, too friendly or too harsh. I also understand that you either know or suspect a great many things that have flown like a flock of geese over the heads of the rest of my command. The time has come to be very frank in our discussions, Marcus. If you will talk straight with me, I will extend you the same courtesy.”

  Fronto’s eyes darted around the tent nervously. This was the sort of situation that had seen a number of loud-mouthed officers fall from grace in the past few decades. Still, he had known Caesar for a long time, and better to open oneself than to be thought secretive.

  “Very well sir.”

  Caesar once more took his seat, and refilled the goblets. “Tell me what you suspect and I will confirm and clarify for you.”

  Fronto swallowed and took a deep breath. “Here we go,” he thought, “time to leap from the Tarpeian Rock.” He leaned forward to narrow the distance between the General and himself and spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice.

  “General, we go to war against the Helvetians tomorrow, do we not? I know there is a thin veil of embassy over the campaign, but let’s see this as soldiers. I cannot believe that you have set up this elaborate trap for anything less than a definitive military action. Permit me to speak very freely, sir?”