Marius' Mules

by S. J. A. Turney

  A cheer rose up from the crowd. Fronto turned to the other three and lowered his voice a little.

  “Longinus, your legion will take the left flank, Galba the centre, Priscus the right. The cavalry will stretch out in a horseshoe behind us all. I want the legions within sight of each other and close enough that they can close up and form a solid line when we sight the enemy. Everyone’s moving at double time tonight. I want to reach the Saone in two hours at most.”

  The others saluted and returned to their units.

  Gulping in air, aware of the risk and the awesome responsibility he had taken on, Fronto raised his arm and dropped it as his signal.

  “Move out.”

  * * * * *

  Longinus was, as usual, the first to find the enemy, riding out ahead with a scout party of twenty cavalry. He crested the rise at a gallop and reined in alongside Fronto, his horse sweating.

  “They’re just ahead, on the other side of that hill. We came in from the side and almost blundered straight into them. Didn’t realise they were so close. They’re crossing at the narrowest point in boats, but they’ve only got a dozen, so it’s taking them a hell of a long time.”

  He sighed. “We appear to have arrived a little late. Most of the army’s across, but there’s maybe a quarter of the tribe still on this side. They’re in a dip, so we could turn this into a slaughter. Permission to alert the other legates and get the ball rolling sir?”

  Fronto grinned a wicked grin.

  “A quarter of the tribe will do nicely Longinus. They should present no real problem, and we’ll thin their army out by a quarter. Caesar will be pleased. By all means let the others know. I don’t want anyone cresting the hill until the horn sounds, so get them in position, but make sure they stay out of sight. Tell them to fan out and form a solid line. We want to trap them, remember?”

  Longinus saluted and kicked his horse into movement, taking half his scouts toward the Ninth, while the other half went to inform the Twelfth.

  Fronto turned and trotted down the hill to Priscus.

  “Legate…”

  Priscus bridled.

  “I asked you not to call me that.”

  “Tough. That’s the job you’re doing, so that’s what I’ll call you. Spread the line out to meet up with the other legions, and march up to the crest of the hill. I want you to stop before you’re visible down below. We’ve got a quarter of the tribe trapped before the river. Time to cull some barbarians.”

  Priscus nodded and turned to face the Tenth while Fronto rode to the top of the hill and dismounted. Creeping forward, he took a brief look. The Helvetii were marshalled in a huge force on the other side of the river, though a large group remained on the near shore.

  He could see why the Helvetii had chosen this as their crossing point. While other parts of the Saone would have been narrower, here the river flowed so slowly that the wake from the boats was the only disturbance he could see on the surface. He looked up. A few clouds dotted the night sky, but the moon was bright and late, hanging over the horizon like a distant lighthouse. Dawn was not far off, and the light would be useful, but by the time the conditions were perfect, the tribe would be across the river and gone. Now or never, he thought.

  Looking back, he surveyed the landscape and saw the last of the troops falling into position. Waiting for the line to join, he waved a signal at the trumpeter close by. The horn sounded and the legions moved forward at a fast but steady pace, the line solid as they advanced.

  The panic among the Helvetii was phenomenal and expected. The sight of over fifteen thousand heavily armed men moving in perfect unison over the crest of the hill would terrify any adversary, but the Helvetii had more to fear than most. The legions came down in a horseshoe shape, advancing on the tribe from all three sides, pressing them towards the river. Those boats that had reached the far side were sent back urgently, and the archers and spearmen among the Helvetii began to cast their missiles across the river to aid their unfortunate, abandoned colleagues; a useless gesture at best since few of the shots actually managed to cross the river and those that did occasionally found a target among their own tribe. The army on the near bank hurriedly formed a battle line, chanting and shouting. Searching for a weakness in the Roman attack, a small group of them broke formation and ran for the woods.

  Longinus’ cavalry spotted them and made for the trees.

  The legions picked up speed as they descended the slope, casting their javelins and then drawing their swords. They hit the defending line of barbarians with incredible force, sending men hurtling into the air, flailing arms broken by the heavy shield-bosses. Once the initial charge was over, the Roman front line broke up into personal, brutal combat, allowing the next few ranks to move between them and into the fray. Fronto surveyed the scene and was pleased with what he saw. He had never commanded an army before, and could see now how much of the individual tactics became the province of the legate and the centurions. Scanning the combat and looking for a way to usefully influence the action, he smiled. Calling one of the dispatch riders over, he pointed to the far side of the battlefield.

  “Most of their baggage train is already across, but there’s still a sizeable amount here. They’re trying to get it loaded onto rafts. Get to Longinus. Tell him to get cavalry over to those rafts and stop them taking the packs. He can bring up the infantry afterwards and secure them for us.”

  The rider nodded, saluted and rode off in search of Longinus.

  Things were going well. The Twelfth had already carved an arrowhead through the tribe and the entire legion was now engaged. Roman outnumbered barbarian by around six to one, and the outcome was inevitable. In a few moments more, the Twelfth would reach the riverbank, and the Helvetii would be divided in two. Moreover, at that point the boats could no longer continue their transport.

  A cavalry officer rode up to Fronto.

  “Sir, about a hundred or so of them made it into those woods, and the cavalry can’t manoeuvre well enough in there to catch them. What do you want us to do?”

  Fronto scratched his chin.

  “How big is that wood?”

  “It goes on for about a half mile, sir.”

  “Alright, take the unengaged cavalrymen and keep the woods covered from every direction. They have to come out sooner or later. As soon as your legate is finished with the baggage trains, I’ll get him to come and help with the rest of the cavalry.”

  “Sir.” The soldier saluted and rode back in the direction of his unit.

  Looking back at the field, Fronto could see that it was all but over. Few pockets of barbarians remained on the field. A few were surrendering; others were unaware that their army had gone and were fighting on in the face of hopeless odds. How would Caesar handle this?

  A figure on horseback rode up the hill toward him. In the first glimmering light of dawn, Fronto recognised the stocky shape and dark features of Galba, legate of the Twelfth.

  “Glorious morning sir. What shall we do with them? Do we kill them or take slaves?”

  Fronto smiled his most wicked of smiles. “Round them all up and disarm them. I have an idea.”

  As Galba rode off, Longinus reined in his horse. Steam rose from its flanks and from the blood-spattered legate. All done sir.”

  Fronto smiled. “I need you to go and join the rest of your cavalry and pen in the group that fled into the woods. Don’t kill them. I might need them shortly.”

  Longinus smiled back. “Very well, but I think you should see this.” He handed a standard to Fronto, a staff with a burnished bronze dragon at the top and various streamers attached to it. Examining the decoration below the dragon, Fronto’s eyes widened.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  Longinus grinned. “Oh yes. And the rest is in those carts. I’ll leave you to preen if you don’t mind while I go check on my unit.”

  Fronto stared, stunned, at the standard in his hand. Shaking his head, he turned to the remaining four dispatch riders as Lo
nginus left.

  “Ride hard to Caesar and tell him what’s happened.” He handed the standard to one of the riders. “Give him this, and tell him that his advance on what remains of the Helvetii will be much faster accomplished if he comes this way.”

  The riders saluted and rode off.

  “What was that then?”

  Fronto started. He hadn’t realised that Priscus had joined him.

  “That, my friend, is payback. A Helvetii standard maybe, but made from a Roman one. One of the standards of Cassius’ army to be exact. There are several different sub-tribes of the Helvetii, and these ones are the miserable bastards that murdered Cassius. Caesar will want to see what else we dig up from their baggage.”

  Priscus gawped.

  “Hell, we’re going to be heroes. Is that why we’re taking prisoners? You know we can’t keep them on the march.”

  Fronto gritted his teeth.

  “That’s part of it, certainly, but we’re going to need a lot of free labour.”

  “Why?”

  “For the bridge.”

  Priscus was totally lost.

  “What bridge?”

  Fronto pointed out toward the river.

  “The one we’re building there. We’ve got at least five or six hours until Caesar and the army get here. We’ve got some damn good engineers right here, a copse of solid building lumber, and a whole bunch of slaves that we don’t know what to do with. The Helvetii have all their worldly goods with them, so we should find axes, saws and so on in their baggage, hopefully.”

  He pointed into the distance, where the rest of the Helvetii were moving away from the river as fast as possible.

  “We can have a bridge well under construction by the time he gets here and if we work fast we can have the entire army on the other side of the river by sunset. We’ll be a day behind the enemy at most. I think Caesar’s going to change his plans when he sees that standard, and we need to be prepared when he gets here. Get the prisoners roped up and ready to cut wood. Make sure they have a guard, but don’t hamper their work. You can promise them they won’t be harmed while they’re under my command, so long as they work. Tell Galba to get their baggage train searched thoroughly and separate all the usable goods out for us. I’m going to see Longinus.”

  Priscus saluted and, rather inexpertly, wheeled his horse before riding off in the direction of Galba and the Twelfth.

  Fronto rode down toward the woods that were now green and lush in the early dawn light.

  Finding Longinus on a slight rise with a good view of the woodland, Fronto reined in beside him.

  “Would you like to do the honours? If they surrender, they’ll be put to work cutting trees and otherwise unharmed.”

  Longinus nodded and rode down to the edge of the woods.

  Fronto took a heavy breath and wheeled, riding off toward the Tenth.

  Reining in on the mud-and-blood-churned plain close to where the Tenth were roping prisoners together at the ankle, Fronto raised his voice and called over the mass.

  “Pomponius. centurion Pomponius, report.”

  Gaius Pomponius, the Tenth’s chief engineer stood and stepped forward from where he was teaching a legionary to tie a specific knot.

  “Sir.”

  Fronto dismounted. Walking the horse down to where Pomponius stood to attention, he gazed thoughtfully out over the river.

  “Walk with me, Pomponius. And for heavens’ sake come down from attention. You’ll rupture yourself standing like that, and I need you at the moment.”

  Pomponius smiled and fell into step beside Fronto, his hands clasped behind his back, clutching his vine staff of office.

  “What can I do for you sir?”

  Pomponius was a young man for a centurion, remarkably young to have achieved such an office. He had joined the Tenth not long before Fronto, and the legate could remember the Tenth’s previous chief engineer receiving his honesta missio, and the promotion of the young and endlessly enthusiastic Pomponius to centurion. Still, there was no denying that he was good at his job. He seemed to have a knack for military engineering, bordering on an art form.

  “Pomponius, how many bridges have you built?”

  Pomponius scratched his mousy ruffled hair.

  “I dunno sir. Maybe six or seven temporary pontoon bridges and three more permanent wooden structures.”

  Fronto smiled. He could remember nine pontoon bridges and four wooden ones himself, and his memory wasn’t that good.

  “What’s your opinion of this place for a bridge?”

  As they reached the shore, Pomponius knelt, took a boulder and hurled it out into the river. It disappeared with a satisfying ‘plop’.

  “Somewhere between nine and twelve feet deep in the centre. About fifty feet wide. Current on the surface is negligible; current below is probably quite strong. Good wood nearby. Can’t see it being a problem. We’ve got three legions’ worth of engineers and a lot of helpers.”

  Fronto cast an appraising glance at the young engineer.

  “How long do you think, given enough labour and three legions’ worth of experts?”

  Pomponius scratched his chin and looked about.

  “I would think half a day, working at a full pace. The men won’t be fit for a full day’s march straight after that though, not after being up most of last night.”

  Fronto smiled. “You let me worry about that, Pomponius. I want you to gather all the engineers from all the legions together and start planning a bridge here. I’ll get Priscus and Longinus to sort out all the prisoners as labour for you, and in about twenty minutes all three legions will be reporting to the you and Priscus at the waterfront. Do your stuff, centurion.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Pomponius left, rubbing his hands together in a business-like fashion.

  * * * * *

  The rest of the army arrived just after noon. Caesar rode in the vanguard, with Crassus and the staff officers. Balbus rode at the rear with Crispus and the Eleventh, who came along behind the other two legions as rearguard. It irked Fronto that Crassus and Caesar still seemed to be treating Crispus as an inferior, and only Balbus deigned to join him. They all, to Fronto’s mind, looked far too rested, eager and healthy. While he stood on the hill waiting for the general to reach him, he glanced quickly back down toward the river. The three legions of whom he was about to relinquish command looked like peasants, slaves and lowlifes. Only the centurions and the small groups guarding the prisoners while they worked were wearing their armour. They were covered in mud and sweaty, mostly stripped down to their waist. The difference was vast, though with good reason. The three legions beside the river had managed only about three hours sleep in the last thirty. On top of this, they had marched at high speed into a battle and then immediately begun to construct a bridge.

  The crossing was well underway by now. The huge timbers that had erstwhile been some of the largest trees in the riverside woodland now stood vertically in the river, planed straight and flat-topped and stretching out most of the way across. The first of the horizontal beams had just been nailed and roped in place, and a unit of legionaries was bringing flat slats across from the woods in large numbers now. Most of the materials had now been cut and were being shaped and put in place. Three units of legionaries stood on hastily-constructed rafts in the middle of the river, placing beams and piles in place, their rafts roped to the banks on either side and held in place by captive Helvetii. It looked barely started to Fronto’s inexpert eye. He had quizzed Pomponius over it about an hour ago, and the young engineer had replied “With respect sir, you know nothing about bridges. We’re about four hours from complete if work continues at this pace. Let us do our job.”

  Fronto had given up at that point and gone up the hill to wait for a sign of Caesar and the army.

  The vanguard came to a halt at the top of the hill before Fronto, while the Seventh, Eighth and Eleventh Legions continued on down the hill toward the river.

  Ahead of Caesa
r in the vanguard came Crassus, who drew his horse to a halt in front of the grimy legate of the Tenth and sniffed.

  “Your men are a state, Fronto. A disgrace.”

  Fronto’s eyes widened. As the colour crept into his face and he struggled in his tired state to formulate an appropriate reply, Crassus merely wheeled his horse and rode away. Caesar nimbly slipped from his magnificent white steed and landed lightly in front of the legate.

  “Alright Fronto, you got your way. I’m here.”

  He snapped his fingers and reached out behind him. A staff officer passed him the standard that Fronto’s army had recovered.

  Gesturing at Fronto with it, the general continued.

  “I know you know what this is; otherwise you wouldn’t have sent me it. Tell me everything you know and what you have planned.”

  He began to stride purposefully down the hill.

  Fronto jogged for a moment to catch up and then fell into step beside him.

  “We caught maybe a quarter of the tribe on this side of the river. They must have been ferrying their men across for days in their little boats. We’ve got prisoners now and we’re using them to help build a bridge. We should have the thing finished by mid afternoon, and I figure the entire army could be across the river and in close pursuit of the Helvetii by dusk.”