Marius' Mules

by S. J. A. Turney

  Fronto opened his mouth to object, but Caesar gave him no time.

  “I absolutely refuse any alternative. I am not unmanning you Marcus. If you beat him, it will be legitimately, but if he gets the best of you, I will not lose you.”

  After a moment, Fronto nodded.

  “Also, this has to be a major exercise in morale-boosting. Despite what Liscus said, I suspect the corn will be a few days late for the troops, and we will need them to be in high morale to deal with a couple of days of relative hunger. Let the officers know that the corn is imminent, and make sure they inform the men.”

  Fronto grinned again.

  “Yes indeed sir. What do you mean by ‘major exercise in morale-boosting’, though? Am I to be preceded by acrobats and dancing girls, sir?”

  “Don’t be needlessly facetious, Fronto. I mean that this is to be a real show. Detail your engineers to raise an arena in one of the hollows around here. It needs to be as close to a true amphitheatre as we can manage with the meagre supplies available to us. I want it to be able to seat up to fifty thousand, so it’s a big job.”

  Fronto staggered back into his chair.

  “Fifty thousand? That’s three times as big as the one back home! You actually want to seat the whole army to watch us?”

  Caesar smiled a warming smile.

  ”I think it’s absolutely essential, don’t you? The whole army will be talking about it for months anyway. Let’s make sure they’ve all seen it. And I want as many of our Aedui allies as we can manage watching it too. Might do a lot of good to put a bit more fear and respect in them. See to it.”

  Fronto sat staring blankly at the tent wall, repeatedly muttering ‘Fifty thousand’ and ‘three times bigger’.

  Caesar watched him a minute longer and finally spoke.

  “Legate, are you alright?”

  Fronto snapped out of his mental reverie.

  “Sir? Oh, yes sir. It’s just a bit of a tall order. And a bit of pressure on me, sir.”

  Caesar smiled again.

  “This is what you wanted, Marcus, isn’t it?”

  Fronto grinned.

  “Oh yes. Don’t worry sir. I’ll turn him into joints of meat. I’m just not looking forward to what young Pomponius is going to say when I tell him what he’s got to do.”

  Caesar nodded.

  “I understand, but you don’t have to rush particularly.”

  “Sir?”

  “We’ve stopped chasing the Helvetii for a moment. One of Longinus’ scouts reported to me this morning that the Helvetii have stopped moving and are making camp about eight miles from here. The time might now have come to scratch our collective itch. We’ll be here for a few days. Tell your engineer he can draw labour from all six legions, so long as he has the arena ready the day after tomorrow. With our current supplies and manpower he should be able to work reasonably at leisure in that time.”

  Fronto couldn’t help but grin once more. The possibility of putting an end to the Helvetii was like a balm. And Caesar was right. Pomponius should be able to build an arena in over a day.

  After a fairly bad start, today was looking up.

  Chapter 9

  (Temporary Camp in Aedui territory, near the town of Bibracte)

  “Caligae: the standard Roman military boot. A sandal-style of leather strips laced to above the ankle with a hard sole, driven through with hob-nails.”

  “Vexillum (Pl. Vexilli): The standard or flag of a legion.”

  The sun shone bright above the makeshift arena. The twittering of birds, the humming of bees and the babbling of the river nearby were drowned out by the collective noise of more than forty thousand eager and expectant observers. To mark the occasion, the troops had been permitted to attend in their tunics and breeches, leaving their hot armour and kit in guarded compounds in the camps. Almost everyone was here, barring the various units that had opted to remain on guard duty on the promise of double pay for their efforts.

  The sea of white and red tunics was broken up here and there by small knots of Aedui observers who wore their traditional Gaulish tunics and breeches of patterned wool. The staff officers and higher level commanders sat in prime position just above the arena to one side, lounging in comfortable campaign chairs. The rest sat on the terraced banks of the hollow.

  Fronto, staring out through a narrow slit in the wooden door behind which he waited, marvelled at the work of his engineers. Pomponius had really excelled himself. Not only had the engineers levelled out the grassy banks so that they were even all around, they had dug concentric terraces just over a foot apart around the entire oval floor. On the lower of these terraces, they had laid wooden planks to serve as benches. The higher ones retained the cut turf. The effect was staggering. There was actual seating for over forty thousand people. The base of the hollow they had dug down five feet and erected a wooden palisade around the edge to protect viewers and prevent escape from the arena. At each end, a wooden hut had been built into the slope for the two combatants. Fronto stood in one such hut with the Gaul opposite him, some distance away, though just visible through the crack in the wood.

  Fronto adjusted the helmet strap. He felt strange in this equipment. He had served in the military for most of his adult life, but had never ranked below tribune, and had never borne the standard kit of a legionary. The helmet padding itched. His own padding had been hand-stitched by some high class tradesman or other in Rome. This was itchy and uncomfortable and, he was convinced, smelled slightly of urine.

  The sword and the shield he was used to. The shield was that of Cominius, borne by Fronto partially as a mark of respect for the dead centurion, and partially to claim vengeance for the man. The Tenth would appreciate the gesture. The sword, on the other hand, was his. Since the day he had been given it on a battlefield in Spain, he had never used another, and it had served him well.

  He wore the standard tunic and breeches of the legion, but had opted for his own enclosed boots rather than the caligae that normally went with the uniform these days. More protective and definitely more comfortable.

  On top of these, he wore a heavy tunic of fur and leather, to protect his skin from the pinch and rub of the armour. The armour itself was of overlapping scales sewn onto leather, a form that was currently very much in fashion among centurions and signifers.

  All in all, he was ready. Not decked out like a Myrmidon gladiator in the arenas of the capital, but very much like a soldier of Rome. He would have felt uncomfortable any other way.

  Balbus had told him that the organiser of the contest, Sabinus of the general staff, had given the Gaul the option of exactly the same equipment in the spirit of equality. The Gaul had refused, choosing only a bronze breastplate and horned helmet over his Gaulish clothes, along with a mid-sized, round shield and a heavy, long Gaulish sword.

  The heat in the small, wooden shed was becoming unbearable, and his breath steamed. Fronto stood and waited, unable even to give his sword a practice swing in the confined space. He listened intently to the sounds of thousands of expectant and excited people.

  After a few more uncomfortable and sweaty minutes, a horn rang out clear in the arena. The melody was disjointed and very military, such as a musician for the legions might produce if asked to play something other than a standard call.

  The crowd fell silent. Finally, for a few seconds, Fronto could hear the birds and the river.

  Then the roar began.

  Rising and falling like waves of a tide, the sounds rippled round the arena. Sabinus, standing next to the musician, held up his hands for silence and the roar diminished to a background rumble.

  Sabinus, his vine staff held high above his head, cleared his throat.

  “The combat this morning, for any of you who are unaware, will be between Marcus Falerius Fronto, legate of the Tenth Legion, representing the interests of Rome, and one Domiticus of the Aedui. Should the legate win, the death blow will be delivered without consultation of the crowd, as his opponent will be prove
d traitor. Should the Gaul win, he will be returned to the Aedui for trial, alive.”

  A series of cheers, boos and hisses accompanied the announcements. Sabinus waited long enough for the enthusiasm to wind down, and then raised his vine staff again.

  “Legate Fronto has elected to bear the arms of a legionary for this combat. He will be limited to helm, armour, shield and gladius. Domiticus of the Aedui has chosen his own Gaulish equipment. He will be limited to his helm and armour, a shield, and his sword.”

  The cheering began once more. Fronto knew that appearing in the equipment of a common soldier would earn him a great deal of respect from the watching legionaries. He would have to be careful, though. He kept reminding himself not to underestimate the Gaul. It was far too easy to view him as an assassin who could only stab backs in the dark. The defiance in his eyes at the stockade, though, spoke of fatalism and a quiet confidence – a deadly combination in close combat such as this. Fronto would definitely have to watch his step.

  Once more the cheering died down, and Sabinus’ voice rang out.

  “When the horn is sounded, the bars will be withdrawn from the cages and the two combatants will be free to enter the arena. From that point there will be no further breaks, announcements or interference. After five minutes, if both contestants still live, javelins and daggers will be dropped into the arena, two of each.”

  Provosts that stood around the arena, next to the wooden wall, held javelins and daggers aloft for the crowd to see clearly. The cheering began again.

  Not waiting this time for the noise to die away, Sabinus waved an arm and the horn sounded out over the crowd. Burly provosts at each end of the arena heaved the great wooden beams to one side and the doors swung open.

  The Gaul, Domiticus as he had been named, stepped out of the shadow into the glare of the dirt-floored arena. His eyes were locked on Fronto and he spared not even a glance for the watching thousands. Pieces of half-eaten fruit and salted meat bounced off the Gaul’s helmet and breastplate, as the assembled Romans vented their rage on the assassin.

  Fronto stepped out of the other end and into the light. He was aware of Galba’ words a little over an hour ago, as he was ushered into the shed. Galba had been a keen visitor to the arenas in Rome and had become something of a semi-professional gambler on the gladiatorial games. He knew what he called ‘form’ and how the crowd would react. Fronto had listened intently to everything the other man had said, nodding blankly, and had promptly forgotten most of it. Three comments remained with him, though.

  Firstly, crowd-pleasing. He had to be a showman. It was less important here, obviously, where the fight was to the death and the fickle crowd had no say, but the morale of his opponent would be affected by even the noise of the crowd around him. Plus the officers were looking forward to days of good spirits after this.

  Secondly, the man was tall. Galba had advised Fronto how to use that against him.

  “Thirdly”, Galba had wagged a finger in front of his face, “everything in the arena is a weapon. Every part of your body, every item you carry, the walls themselves and the dirt you walk on. Use everything you can. It increases your chance of success and makes it much more exciting for the crowd.”

  And here he was, standing in front of that crowd, not knowing what the hell to do other than attack. He glanced around the spectators, trying to pick out his friends. Finally, he spied Priscus in the front row, other centurions of the Tenth around and behind him. Priscus extended both arms, palms upwards, in a gesture imploring Fronto to do something. As he looked left and right, he became aware that he was standing like a statue and that the noise of the crowd was gradually fading away.

  He thrust his shield and gladius in the air.

  “For Rome!”

  Suddenly the cheers were back and increased tenfold. Fronto grinned. He could get the hang of this showmanship crap.

  “For Cominius!”

  Word of the realities of Cominius’ death and the true culprit had now been released, and every man present would have known that the Gaul had killed a senior officer of the Tenth Legion. Although few outside the Tenth would even have known Cominius by sight, every legionary resented such an ignominious death for a high-ranking Roman officer at the hands of a barbarian. As he invoked the name of the man most wronged by this Gaul, the crowd went mad.

  The barbarian had walked perhaps a third of the way across the arena and had stopped, his long, broad-bladed sword hanging at his side, and the small, round buckler shield strapped to his arm.

  Fronto realised that he couldn’t stand there and shout clichés at the crowd for long before he would begin to look like a coward. Gritting his teeth, he adjusted the large, oval red shield bearing the lightening stroke image and the ‘X’ numeral of his legion on his arm and hefted the shiny, pointed stabbing weapon. With a deliberate exaggerated slowness, he began to plod toward the Gaul.

  Domiticus looked confused at the speed and manner of his opponent, and readied himself to defend against a possible charge. But the charge never came. The Gaul watched in astonishment as Fronto reached a standard marching pace and tramped toward him, shield high and sword held out just next to the rim. The Romans in the audience, of course, knew exactly what he was doing. It was what Marius’ Mules had been doing for centuries. A determined attack with the shield covering as much of the body as possible. A pace that would not leave Fronto breathless.

  The Gaul, to his credit, did not launch the obvious charge, nor did he take the opportunity to taunt his opponent. Instead he stood his ground, arms at the ready, his grey eyes silently sizing up the Roman.

  Fronto reached the centre of the arena at his steady pace. The crowd had gone quiet again; this time not through lack of excitement, but rather with anticipation, as they waited the tense seconds that seemed like hours for the two to meet. Fronto was playing the role of legionary down to the last inch and the troops loved it. They could respect an officer fighting hand to hand for the honour of Rome, but this was something else. Not just respect, but love. He was one of them.

  As Fronto came within the Gaul’s reach, the tall warrior finally gave release to the tension that had been building for almost three minutes as the damned Roman had played to the crowd. He swung the great Celtic sword in a wide arc that could have smashed or removed a man’s leg. Fronto, however, was prepared. He swung the shield to the side and dropped down on one knee. The edge of the shield rammed into the dirt, and the Gaul’s sword hit the domed boss in its centre with such force that the shudder rattled every bone up from Fronto’s arm and to his jaw.

  It had been a heavy blow, but Fronto was a step ahead. While the Gaul wrenched the sword back, his own arm also ringing with the blow, Fronto sliced out with his gladius. The Gaul’s shield covered the more vital areas of the lower torso and upper thighs. Dropping his sword hand slightly, the pointed tip cut through the calf of the Gaul; not a muscle shearing blow, but one which would cause discomfort and blood loss. Fronto couldn’t allow the man to die too quickly. The legions needed a show, and so did the General. The Gaul gasped, but didn’t scream. If Fronto didn’t hate the bastard so much, he might have admired him.

  The barbarian had to pull his arm back a long way to make another swing like that, and Fronto took advantage, using the speed of his short, stabbing sword in close quarters. Another thrust brought a blossom of red in the thigh of the Gaul’s breeches. A third scraped along the man’s ribs with a sound that made Fronto wince. Again, the Gaul gasped. As the legate began to pull himself back to stand up, the tall warrior lashed out with a foot, catching Fronto’s shield and hurling him bodily backwards.

  The Gaul grinned as Fronto, stunned by the blow and lying on his back, tried to drag himself to his feet. Domiticus issued a smile of the sort more usually seen on the muzzle of a hunting animal.

  “My turn, Roman.”

  Fronto was stunned. Two wounds to the same leg and the man was walking relatively straight and steady, and picking up speed! The blow to the ma
n’s ribs was off-target, but must still be incredibly painful. The blood the man was losing would kill him eventually, but Fronto wondered how long he’d have to hold him off for that to happen.

  Struggling up, he came to his feet just in time to raise the large, oval shield and block the overhead swing of the Gaul’s sword. The blow splintered the shield and sheared a whole arc of wood from it, leaving just over two thirds of the shape intact. The bronze edging strip where it had been ripped apart protruded like the lightening bolts painted on the shield’s face. If took Fronto a moment to realise that the sword had actually grazed his arm. Very lucky he’d held it where he did or he’d have been fighting the rest of this with a stump.

  He attempted to get his sword into a position for stabbing, but the inevitable swing of that huge sword brought Fronto’s attention back to the shield again. The blow hit the boss at the centre again, severely denting it. The bones in Fronto’s arm felt like they had jumped about and jumbled up. He was sure at least one of the bones in his hand was broken.

  He stepped backwards, giving ground to avoid contact with that blade again. He was aware that this would look terrible from the stands, but he was past caring. There was more to worry about than the crowd. He had to avoid those blows long enough to think, and for the feeling to come back into his arm.

  Perhaps ten steps back and he stumbled, righting himself quickly, but not quick enough to avoid the Gaul’s next swing. He hurriedly threw the shield into the way, not paying attention to its most correct usage, and the huge sword cleaved a large portion off the top. The tip of the sword scraped along the brow of Fronto’s helmet and he could actually see down the length of the blade. That was too close for comfort. One more blow and his shield would be kindling. Nothing he could do then. He needed to fight for just a little more time. An idea was forming. If only he could just...