Marius' Mules

by S. J. A. Turney

  Fronto smiled a little

  “I’ve heard what you did on the battlefield from the other commanders. Perhaps not the most prudent course of action, but commendable nonetheless. Going to the aid of a trapped unit is the sort of thing that gets one decorated, soldier. You can be sure that Longinus is already aware of your heroism.”

  He pointed at the other, unconscious officer. “Nice job, though you should have left him there. Man who leads recklessly like that’s a liability.”

  Ingenuus’ face took on a sombre cast.

  “I think you need to hear the rest sir.”

  Fronto frowned once again and motioned to the guards.

  “You lot help the medics take these others to the hospital. Don’t let anyone else near them.”

  He looked at Balbus and Priscus.

  “This has the feel of an important and possibly confidential conversation. It’d be better in my tent. Can we help this man there?”

  The cavalryman stood.

  “I can walk sir.”

  “Splendid.”

  The four of them made their way across the camp to the officer’s tent, where Priscus made himself busy lighting oil lamps and ordering the guards to patrol outside the tent. Fronto retrieved a flask of wine from a corner while Balbus helped the young man get settled on a seat.

  Fronto poured a wine for them all, watering all but one, which he handed to Ingenuus.

  “You’d best go on.”

  The young man took a deep, appreciative swig of the wine.

  “When the Helvetii’d gone, sir, we crawled out from under the bodies. The other officer was already in pretty bad shape, but he made sure he told me something before he passed out. Wanted it to get back, y’see.”

  Fronto nodded encouragingly.

  “Well, he said it was his second in command, a Gaul, who drove the ala to attack first. He was taken by surprise and had to charge in after his unit to try and break it up, sir. He said he was doing alright rallying the men until the bastard, meaning his Gaulish deputy begging your pardon sir, stuck him in the back with a spear.”

  Fronto looked up sharply at Balbus, who nodded gently.

  “You mean this Gaulish auxiliary officer led a fatal charge, attempted to murder his own officer, and then escaped to lay the blame at his feet?”

  He shared a glance with Balbus again. The older man spoke first.

  “I hope that other young officer lives through the night. We may need his evidence when we bring the Gaul to trial.”

  Fronto smiled grimly.

  “If this is who I think it is, he’ll not get a trial. I’ll gut the bastard myself. Balbus, do you think we’ve got enough legal grounds to detain that particular cavalryman in the stockade?”

  “More than enough. I’ll have a word with Longinus and ask him to arrange it. He and I can go through the man’s gear too. Look for some evidence to link our two incidents together?”

  “If it is him, Quintus, I want him. I want him myself.”

  Balbus nodded sombrely. “I know. You’ll have to talk to Caesar as soon as we have enough evidence. In the meantime, are you finished here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, decurion Ingenuus, I think we should go and see your legate.”

  The two stood and left the tent, Ingenuus giving a last salute to Fronto as he left.

  Priscus made to leave, but Fronto waved him to a chair.

  “You sleepy?”

  “Me? No, not really. Why?”

  “I’m a bit keyed up now. Not much chance of sleep tonight. Think I’ll drink for a while, then go see what Balbus and Longinus have turned up. Want to join me?”

  Priscus fixed Fronto with a hard glare.

  “So long as you’re not going to get all fired up and go do something stupid. I know you, Marcus. You’re going to go find that cavalryman after a skin full of wine and beat the man to within an inch of his life.”

  Fronto grinned at him. “It’s a possibility.”

  Priscus sighed.

  “I suppose I’ll have to stay, then. Someone’s got to keep you out of trouble. A primus pilus’ work is never done. As if it’s not enough having to look after five thousand men for my superiors, I have to look after my bloody superiors too. Give me that!”

  He snatched the jar of wine from Fronto’s hand and drank deeply from it.

  Chapter 8

  (Temporary Camp in Aedui territory)

  “Decimation: the worst (and rarest) form of Roman military punishment, saved generally for insurrection or cowardice of a whole unit. The entire unit would be lined up; the officer would walk down the line and mark every tenth man, who would then be beaten to death by his comrades.”

  “Gladius: the Roman army’s standard short, stabbing sword, originally based on a Spanish sword design.

  Pilum: the army’s standard javelin, with a wooden stock and a long, heavy, lead point.”

  Fronto slammed his fist down on the table so hard that he wondered if he had broken his hand. Caesar sat in his campaign chair fuming, his face red and strained.

  The guards standing by the tent doorway did their best to blend in with the leather. Balbus and Longinus had long since slipped out; the argument had been going for nearly ten minutes now.

  Caesar took a deep breath, ready to begin the next round of verbal pummelling.

  “The evidence you have provided, legate Fronto, will be laid before my chief provost. He will advise me on the appropriate legal courses and I will decide the case myself. I absolutely forbid…”

  Fronto once more rose from his seat and slapped his hands flat on the table.

  “General, I will deal with this myself! That bastard killed one of the senior centurions of the Tenth, and the attack was meant for me. You risk losing the respect and support of the whole legion if you take this out of our hands.”

  Standing back, he took a deep breath.

  “I don’t want to fight about this sir, but it really is that important.”

  Caesar lowered his head.

  “I will not allow one of my senior officers to put himself in harm’s way for the sake of a grudge. If you want the Tenth involved, I can arrange that. Any punishment, and I’m sure it’ll be execution, can be administered by your men.”

  “That’s no good, sir. You know I’m going to kill him, with or without official sanction. If I don’t, one of the others will; maybe even Priscus. Don’t make me disobey orders, sir.”

  Caesar sighed and cradled his fingers.

  “The prisoner can be held a while yet. We’ll keep him under the guard of the provosts for a few days. You need time to calm down and see this from an objective point of view, rather than a victim’s angle. We’ll discuss the matter again then. Maybe you’ll have seen sense.”

  Fronto said nothing; trusted himself to say nothing. He merely stood, hands flat on the table, glowering at his commander.

  Caesar sighed again.

  “In the meantime, the matter is closed. I would advise you to make it very clear to your men that no attempts on the life of the prisoner will be tolerated. I have no wish to hand out punishments for disobedience. If you fear that the whole Tenth will take the decision badly, I will have to take measures. I will not allow my legions to take matters into their own hands. Decimation has been rare as a punishment for a long time, and I have no wish to resurrect the practice for one legion who goes against their general’s wishes. Just remember who pays you all.”

  Fronto ground his teeth noisily, his jaw clamped shut to hold back the hundred vicious retorts flowing through his mind.

  “I will need you in an hour when the representatives of the Aedui arrive. In the meantime, you are dismissed, legate.”

  Without a further glance at the officer, Caesar turned and picked up a pile of reports.

  Fronto straightened with a stiff manner, gave an exaggerated salute and, turning on his heel, left the tent.

  Not far from the headquarters tent Balbus, Longinus and Priscus stood in deep convers
ation with Crispus and Galba. Still fuming in his ill humour, Fronto stormed down to the group and pointed an accusing finger at Priscus.

  “If the entire command system is standing here blabbing, who the hell’s looking after the Tenth?”

  Priscus blithely ignored the idiotic remark.

  “Things didn’t go according to plan, then?”

  Fronto’s brow lowered until it joined at the centre.

  “He won’t even listen to anything I say. Bloody politicians! Command of the army should be given to a soldier, not a social climber.”

  Balbus and Longinus grabbed Fronto by the shoulders and hustled him down the Via Decumana and away from the Headquarters.

  “You can’t go shouting things like that within earshot of the headquarters. You know that man has the senses of a hawk.”

  Longinus nodded.

  “None of this is our doing, so don’t take it out on your friends. Now are you going to calm down or are we going to have to throw you in the river?”

  Fronto stood for long moments, wagging his finger in the air and opening and closing his mouth before he pulled himself away from the grip of the other officers. His shoulders slumped in dejection.

  “He did agree to discuss it again in a few days. In the meantime no-one from the Tenth goes near the arsehole except you and me, Priscus.”

  The officers tensed as Fronto drew his gladius from its sheath, though in the end he hefted it for but a moment, looking down the blade before upending it and slinging it point first into the turf.

  “He threatened the entire Tenth if anything happens to the Gaul. He even uttered the word ‘decimation’, the arrogant bastard. If he tried that, he’d have a general mutiny on his hands, so no-one mentions that, alright?”

  He looked around at the solemn faces and waited for the acknowledging nods.

  “I’m not having him dealt with by trial. No way. I’m going to gut the son of a bitch myself. I’ll wait ‘til I’m a little fresher and calmer and talk to the general again.”

  Balbus held up a restraining hand.

  “You damn well won’t, you idiot. You’ll just get angry again, then Caesar will throw the book at you. Hard! I’ll have a quiet word with him this evening.”

  Longinus nodded his agreement, but Crispus scratched his head reflectively.

  “I think the muse of deviousness is toying with my brain. I have an idea.”

  The others looked at him. Crispus rarely spoke in their company. He and Galba were still fairly new to command and tended to treat the other legates with deference and respect, despite Balbus’ regular urging to consider them as equals. Crispus had the look more of one of Rome’s young, educated rhetoricians rather than a soldier.

  “I imagine it would be easy for influential, intelligent gentlemen like us to sow seeds of dissent among the men.”

  He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. Fronto regarded him doubtfully.

  “I’m not about to rebel against my general over one man.”

  Crispus shook his head quickly.

  “You misunderstand me sir.”

  “Don’t call me sir, Aulus.”

  “Anyway, should Caesar hear soldiers throughout the legions discussing the matter and advocating a fitting punishment for him, he may rethink his position.”

  Balbus grinned.

  “He could have something, Marcus. Caesar’s regarding this plan as your ravings, no offence intended. He might not realise how far across the army this might ripple. If we nudge things a little, we could make it plain to him. Good idea, Crispus.”

  Priscus turned and saluted Fronto, a grin on his face.

  “Permission to return to the Tenth and spread malicious and devious gossip, sir?”

  Fronto smiled indulgently at his second in command.

  “I can think of no better way of spending a lazy afternoon, Priscus. Get Velius in on the matter too. That man’s a born complainer, so everyone’ll take it seriously.”

  He turned to the others.

  “I’ve got to be back at the headquarters in less than an hour in full dress uniform, but I could spare half an hour to go and hate the prisoner in person. Care to join me, gentlemen?”

  Among the shaking heads, Longinus stepped forward and patted Fronto on the shoulder.

  “Someone’ll have to go with you, or you’ll end up stringing the man up in his cell.”

  The various commanders went their separate ways, leaving Fronto and Longinus walking alone toward the hastily-erected stockade in the camp of the Ninth.

  It struck Fronto once more that he was walking among men he had once commanded, and that he and Longinus had antagonised each other for so long that he had never considered the possibility that they could actually get along. The relationship was still nothing like that he already shared with Balbus, but every day he came to respect and like the legate of the Ninth a little more. He hadn’t noticed when he had become comfortable in his company and they had not slung even joke insults at each other for some time now. Perhaps it was the pressure of campaigning. Both of them had much more on their minds these days than the exchanging of petty abuse.

  Smiling at Longinus with genuine warmth, he passed through the gate of the Ninth’s temporary camp as the other legate gave the daily password to the guard.

  The stockade was a solid affair. Ten feet along each side, formed of sharpened stakes twelve feet high that had been retrieved from storage in the baggage train. Various materials were carried for just such emergencies. The one gate in the stockade was formed of the same stakes, bound together with heavy rope and barred with a six foot branch fed through two rope loops. A guard drawn from the Ninth stood at each corner of the stockade, and two of Caesar’s provosts stood by the gate, stiffly at attention, their eyes straight forward.

  Fronto had never much cared for provosts. They were always rules-lawyers with an obsessive nature and no sense of camaraderie toward the rest of the regulars. Velius regularly joked that they stood as though they ‘had a javelin stuck up their arse.’ Fronto looked at the posture of the provost guards and raised his hand to his mouth, coughing to cover a smirk. Velius had an eye for detail, it seemed.

  Longinus threw a questioning glance at Fronto and ordered the guard to open the door. Moving with mindless precision, the provost turned and withdrew the heavy beam, his counterpart levelling a pilum at the gate.

  Fronto, still trying to stifle a smile, could see how unnecessary the precaution was as the door was pulled open. The prisoner, disarmed and unequipped, stood at the rear of the stockade, clad only in Gaulish breeches, shoeless. He was chained to the wall and could reach no more than five feet toward the gate.

  Longinus regarded the prisoner for long moments and then turned and gestured meaningfully at the provost.

  “Get this man a tunic and some boots. I don’t care whether he’s comfortable, but if he dies of a chill before he can be brought to trial, you might be punished instead.”

  The provost stood still and emotionless, answering with only the curtest of nods.

  Longinus and Fronto stepped inside and the legate of the Ninth motioned to the provost to shut the gate.

  Once they were inside alone, the two approached the prisoner, staying out of reach of his restrained arms, though the Gaul stood still and relaxed at the rear, with no tension on the chains. Fronto regarded him coldly and the Gaul met his gaze defiantly and with head high and back straight.

  “There are plenty of men in my legion and probably in the others that would like nothing more than to personally unravel your guts in front of the whole army and I have to admit to being one of them myself. Longinus is here to make sure I don’t disembowel you at a moment’s notice.”

  He stood silently for a moment, waiting for a response that never came. He almost wished the Gaul would say something to goad him. For all Caesar’s words, Fronto was fairly sure he could get away with it. Still, killing a chained man was beneath him; even a traitorous dog like this.

  “Make no mistake.
There’s only one direction from here. Death is inevitable. However, I might be persuaded to make it quick and easy for you if you cooperate a little with us?”

  Once more he waited for a response, but the prisoner merely stood stiff and straight-backed, glaring at the two officers.

  “What the hell did I ever do to you? I assume you’re Helvetii, not Aedui? If that’s the case, then yes, I did attack your army and I did fight them. I’m not the only one, and I daresay that your generals would do the same to us if the situations were reversed. We would never stoop so low as to murder them in cold blood, though.”

  As soon as the words were out, he regretted them, visions of Caesar’s execution of the Helvetii prisoners swimming once more through his head. How could he hold the moral high ground when senior Romans were capable of such barbarism? The obvious response did not come. The prisoner merely continued to glare at him.

  “For Gods’ sake, say something.”

  The Gaul leaned back against the stockade.

  “What would you have me say, Roman? That I hate you? Of course I hate you; all of you. Why did I do it? What did I hope to achieve? Meaningless questions, all. What matters is that I tried and failed. For that I’m prepared to die. Now leave me be. It’s time I made peace with my Gods.”

  Longinus shrugged as they turned.

  “We’ll get nothing from him. Arrogant race, the lot of them.”

  Behind them the Gaul began to laugh. He muttered something in his own language, but the word ‘arrogant’ was clearly audible in Latin.

  As the two officers reached the gate and Longinus knocked, the Gaul called out.

  “I will offer you one scrap of information, Roman, to keep you warm and cosy at night: I am not alone. There are others. Many others, and not all of them Gaulish. I failed, true, but someone will succeed.”

  Fronto turned, ready to bear down on the Gaul and question him further, but Longinus held his shoulder fast.