Marius' Mules

by S. J. A. Turney

  “Caesar, it’s not a matter of maintaining order and discipline among the men. The rank and file are frightened of the prospect of facing unreasonable odds. All the reports we’ve received have given the German army as considerably larger than ours. Word has spread of the unpleasant practices of the Germanic tribes, their sacrifices, the fact that they are driven on by blood drinking Druids eight feet tall. All a fiction, I understand, but a fiction designed to terrify our cowardly lower ranks.”

  As Priscus looked up once more, peeved at such comments from a man he already didn’t like, Balbus beat him to the retort.

  “Crassus, these ‘cowards’ you speak of are your own men, Romans, and the backbone of the army. They’ve been building and maintaining our Empire since all our families were farm owners. If the men are losing courage and morale, strength needs to come down from above. That’s what the centurionate and the tribunes are for.”

  Before Crassus could open his mouth, Balbus turned to face Caesar.

  “General, I have noticed among the Eighth that there is an air of despair and worry among the legionary tribunes. Some of the centurions have fallen to the same attitude, but others haven’t. Balventius, for instance, stands steadfast in his control and confidence. As a result, the First Cohort is still pulling its weight. In fact, due to the failure in morale with several of the other cohorts, the First is pulling more than its weight, and is moving and storing all the supplies for the entire legion. I firmly believe we have to pull the officers together.”

  Crassus snorted.

  “Don’t be naïve, Balbus. The officers are despairing because they can only do so much with non-responsive troops. I know my officers are trying their best. I’ve had six men beaten today and their century is back to work as we speak.”

  Again, Priscus opened his mouth to speak, but was beaten to it by Crispus, legate of the Eleventh, this time.

  “My dear Crassus, brutalising your men is hardly a shortcut to improving morale. Balbus is quite correct in his suggestion that the problem has to come down from the apex of the command structure. It is not to us that the troops look for potency, nor is it to the tribunes. The men look to their own commanders; to the centurions. The two most active and dedicated legions present are those whose primus pilus stands akin to a rock upon which the barbarian tide must break. I refer of course to the terrifying Balventius of the Eighth and the daunting Priscus of the Tenth. The path that we should be taking is that of a meeting of the centurions, just as Priscus has organised. If we can re-establish a dedicated chain of command, then the men will fall in readily."

  Various of the officers began to talk at once and Priscus stood, still near the door, wondering how anything ever got done in command meetings. They just seemed to argue for the sake of it. Caesar’s voice cut through the cacophony.

  “Quiet!”

  The racket died down immediately, leaving Crassus and Balbus glaring at each other angrily. Before anyone could speak again Caesar, red faced and fuming, called a halt to the meeting.

  “Get out. All of you. Priscus will let me know how things go with the Tenth this afternoon and I will then decide what course of action is to be taken by the rest of you. If any one of you dares defy me or open his mouth to object, I will send you back to Rome and replace you. A legate is not a permanent appointment, remember? Now go!”

  Priscus turned to exit, and was quickly followed out by the others, mostly wearing a sheepish expression. He was amused to see Balbus and Crispus following Crassus out. The looks on their faces and poise of their bodies suggested that murder might be done soon. He gestured to the two of them.

  “Gentlemen.”

  Balbus had forbidden him from calling any of them sir over a week ago, since he was the effective commander of a legion. The two legates stepped out of the line of departing officers and joined Priscus in the courtyard.

  “Gnaeus, what can we do for you?”

  Priscus pointed down the street.

  “There’s a tavern in a side street about half way down the hill that’s very used to me dropping in on my way back from these meetings. Care to join me?”

  The other two looked doubtful, so Priscus waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Balbus laughed, a smile cracking his lined and weary face for the first time that day.

  “Priscus, you have been too close to Fronto for too long. You’re both mad as March hares. Alright, I’ll leave Balventius sorting the Eighth and we’ll discuss your eyebrows.”

  The three of them wandered down the main street between rows of houses and shops built in the local style, with a ground floor of stone and a timber upper. The street was dry and reasonably clean in the warm weather of late August and early September, but they could easily imagine how unpleasant it would be in bad weather, with muddy water flowing down the incline. Halfway down the hill, they turned a corner and made for a small tavern with an inviting open doorway. The inside was fairly dim and of dark oak. A heavy, roughly-hewn trestle served as a bar, behind which stood a fat man in a leather apron leaning on one of three huge casks.

  Balbus and Crispus sauntered over to a table near a window, while Priscus approached the bar and purchased three jugs of the local ale. These Gaulish taverns were nothing like the ones within the Empire’s borders or even the ones among the Aedui. Here there was no Roman wine, just local beer, and, although Roman coinage was thoroughly acceptable, the change was given in low grade coins of strange denominations.

  He carried the drinks to the table and sat. As he took a healthy swig, Balbus and Crispus stared at their jug, Balbus with a look of mistrust and Crispus with open nausea.

  Priscus grinned.

  “Bottoms up!”

  Balbus took another look at the jug’s contents, a glance at Priscus and shrugged, upending the container and taking a large swig. His eye twitched slightly as he put the jug back down and said in a whispery, cracked voice “nice!”

  Priscus and Balbus laughed again and both turned to look expectantly at Crispus. The young officer had been told before about barbarian drinking habits and his mother had made him promise to stay clear or any such indulgence. He smiled uneasily.

  “I really ought not to. I do have a chest full of jars of excellent wine from southern Italy that my father had sent to me when we rested at Bibracte for a short time. Perhaps we…”

  Priscus almost spat his beer across the table.

  “Your father shipped a chest of wine outside the Empire’s borders for you? That must have cost a small fortune!”

  Crispus smiled again.

  “My family would not approve of my sampling barbarian brews.”

  Balbus looked at the centurion who was trying very hard not to laugh and turned back to Crispus with a broad, beaming smile.

  “Your family are a long way away at the moment, lad.”

  Crispus nodded once more, gingerly. Leaning forward and holding his breath, he raised the jug and took a small sip.

  Balbus and Priscus watched with bated breath, waiting for the young man to turn green or purple. Instead, Crispus swished the liquid around his mouth and gums with a speculative look on his face. He stopped swishing, swallowed, and then breathed in sharply.

  “Tangy.”

  He shrugged and took a much larger pull from the vessel as the other two stared at him.

  Recovering his composure, Priscus leaned forward conspiratorially and huddled with the other officers.

  “I’m worried about Fronto.”

  Balbus smiled reassuringly.

  “We’re all worried about Fronto, man, but you have to remember that that man has the luck of Fortuna herself. I can’t imagine he’s fallen foul of those Germans. He’s too bright for that. I do wonder why he hasn’t sent messengers, though.”

  Crispus nodded, but Priscus lowered his voice and expressed his concerns.

  “I think there’s something else going on here; something bigger. You remember that Gaul who tried to kill him. What if there’s more conspirators out there and they’ve a
ctually got to him this time?”

  Balbus’ brows narrowed.

  “That’s actually a worrying thought. I hadn’t put those two together…” He sighed. “But I’m not sure that any kind of conspiracy would stretch over the Roman army, the confederation of Gaulish tribes and the German army. Fronto’s not that dangerous. The Germans are heading for this place, and I’m sure Fronto will be either well ahead or well behind them now.”

  The other two nodded doubtfully as Balbus continued.

  “My other main worry now that you’ve said that is for the problems we’ve got here. I’d not considered the effects of conspiracy among the army, but it does strike me as odd that some of our best troops and our best officers are falling foul of panic and low morale. I mean, the Eighth I’ve known for a long time. They’ve faced the Helvetii and bared their teeth. Same goes for your Tenth, Priscus. I know they’re holding together at the moment, but how long before they start to fall apart?”

  Priscus frowned.

  “You’re suggesting that the conspirators are spreading some king of panic among the men?”

  Balbus nodded and Crispus put down his drink.

  “I think I agree. This disaffection appears to be descending from the higher levels of command in the legions. If there were perhaps a few tribunes or even centurions who had a grudge against either Fronto or Caesar, or even both of them, it could be ridiculously easy in the face of a threat such as Ariovistus to spread rumour and disaffection among the men.”

  Balbus nodded.

  “I think that while you two attend to your legions, I’ll go back and see Caesar. He needs to be warned about this alarming possibility.”

  * * * * *

  Priscus strode into the camp of the Tenth purposefully and with a face like thunder. The camp itself lay on the far side of the river from the town, a few hundred yards from the road and the bridge. At the gate the guards saluted and it soothed the primus pilus a little to notice that order was still being maintained among his legion.

  Heading for the praetorium, Priscus noticed one of the centurions from the Fourth Cohort standing leaning on his vine staff and watching two legionaries polishing armour. He marched up to the man and pointed at his command tent. The centurion saluted and, barking one last order at the men, made for the tent. Priscus called one of the legionaries over.

  “You. Take your friend and go elsewhere. I don’t want anyone in the area of the praetorium for the next half an hour. If I see a soldier here, I shall hold you responsible.”

  The legionary swallowed nervously.

  “Yes sir.”

  As he and his companion hurried away from the centre of the camp, Priscus listened carefully. There was a low murmur of conversation from within the command tent. Good; that meant that most of the officers were already there. Wasting no time, the primus pilus threw back the flap of the tent. The murmur faded as daylight fell across the faces of the assembled centurions and optios. Standing at the back in a small knot, separate from the rest of the officers, stood the six tribunes assigned to the Tenth. Of the six, only Tetricus was well turned out and standing easy; the others looked dishevelled and tired. Priscus stepped into the tent and let the flap fall back across the doorway.

  “Officers of the Tenth. I could be proud of the fact that there are six legions at Vesontio and the Tenth are the only one in fighting readiness; that we have guards, pickets and all duties are being attended to.”

  He paused a moment to let that register.

  “I could be worried that there are rumblings now even in the Tenth; worried that there could be a collapse in order and discipline.”

  Another moment for that.

  “What I am, gentlemen, is disappointed. The Tenth have always been the stalwart. That there is even the possibility of a breakdown in discipline in this legion annoys me. I don’t blame the legionaries. The men would follow a good officer into the jaws of Cerberus himself, but a bad officer is worse than no officer. The morale problems we have at the moment are not because the Germans are ten feet tall, eat Romans and fart fire!”

  A ripple of nervous laughter died as soon as it began. The look on Priscus’ face suggested that humour had not been his intention.

  “The morale problems we have are because the officers have succumbed to rumour and panic spread by a few illegitimate sons of whores. How are the men expected to maintain discipline if the officers are flustered and uncertain?”

  He became aware as he scanned the crowd that most of them had their eyes lowered, watching the floor intently, but Tetricus, the tribune they had recently acquired from the Seventh Legion, met his gaze levelly, nodding in agreement with everything he said. He realised that the tribunes theoretically outranked him and that they belonged invariably to the high-born families of Rome that would consider him scum. The Tenth were his legion though, and tribunes came and went. He was damned if he’d let a pretty-boy destroy his men. His eyes still on the tribunes, he continued.

  “I will not have weak men ruining the Tenth. Order and discipline will be maintained, stronger than ever before. I want the guard doubled. All duties doubled. I want training sessions instituted on a daily basis. If you’re frightened of the Germans, then I don’t want you. Anyone who won’t stand next to the men and bare their arse at Ariovistus can piss off right now.”

  He looked around the tent again.

  “If you stay, it’s going to get nasty here. I know some of you here are going to break. I’m not going to let you break right when I need you, though, so get gone.”

  No-one moved.

  “Now!”

  Priscus stood, breathing heavily, his face red and steaming. A number of centurions and optios shuffled toward the door in an embarrassed silence. Three of the tribunes made for the exit. The primus pilus didn’t even turn to watch them go. He scanned the men left.

  “Anyone else?”

  No one moved.

  “Good. How many have gone.”

  Tetricus, still standing at the back, piped up.

  “I counted three tribunes, four centurions and six optios. Not too bad, all things considered.”

  Priscus nodded.

  “Right. You all need to get back to your units and sort the men out. We’ll show the other legions what they should be doing. Two last things, though. Caesar will supply us with our new tribunes, but I want recommendations from all of you for promotions. We’ll need to replace those centurions and optios we’ve just lost, and I need you to find them for me. Secondly, you all need to write a will, and you need to have your men do the same. It’s time we got this legion sorted. I don’t know where the legate is, but he’s still alive and he’ll be back. I don’t want him to come back and think we’ve gone soft without him. Dismissed.”

  The officers saluted and filed out of the tent, grim, determined expressions on their faces.

  As Tetricus approached the door, he stopped.

  “Centurion, could you spare me a few minutes?”

  Priscus nodded. The tribune was polite and appeared to have a surprising amount of sense for a commissioned nobleman. The two men waited for the last of the other officers to leave the tent and then took a seat.

  “What can I do for you, tribune?”

  Tetricus smiled.

  “Nice speech. I daresay Fronto would have approved. Sounded a lot like him, really.”

  Priscus sighed.

  “I’ve been around him a long time now. He is the best commander we’ve ever had assigned to us. In fact he’s the only commander we’ve ever had for more than a month or two. Caesar seems to think it’s a good thing and I think I agree. He’s definitely done the Tenth good.”

  Tetricus nodded.

  “He’s a good man and I’m glad I serve with the Tenth now. I have some thoughts. I don’t want to step on your toes when it comes to command, but I thought you might want to hear them?”

  Priscus shrugged.

  “Always happy to listen.”

  “It strikes me that you’ve got
rid of the men who would have caused trouble, but we could do with trying to find out where these damned rumours came from in the first place. It’s useful to sort out the Tenth, but if we can staunch the panic at the top, it’ll help the other commanders get their legions in line.”

  Priscus grinned.

  “Bloody good point. Problem is, how do we trace it back now?”

  Tetricus gazed out past Priscus’ shoulder, through the tent doorway and up at the city of Vesontio.

  “I presume you can easily do without me here at the moment?”

  Priscus nodded.

  “What’ve you got in mind?”

  “I thought I might do some investigation among the other tribunes.”

  At the top of the hill, Balbus knocked on Caesar’s door and waited politely for an answer. When it came, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was dark, most of the oil lamps having been extinguished. Caesar sat in the darkest corner, his head in his hands.

  “Caesar? Are you alright? I can come back later…”

  The General looked up at his visitor, squinting in the half-light.

  “No, Balbus. It’s alright. Just a bad headache. Crassus has been back since the meeting requesting that I put you out to pasture. The arrogance of the man, just because he’s the son of the great Crassus. He doesn’t like you, or indeed any of the other commanders. I even get the feeling he doesn’t like me much, and I had to put him in his place just now. He left very deferentially, but not very happy. I’m going to have trouble with that one.”

  Balbus nodded.

  “I don’t like the man myself. That’s not why I’m here though, sir.”

  Caesar smiled.

  “I realise that. You’re not petty enough to come here demanding I get rid of Crassus. What did you come for?”

  “I was conversing with Priscus of the Tenth, and we’ve come up with a disturbing thought. He only thought it halfway through, but I’ve taken it a step further and thought I ought to see you.”

  Caesar rubbed his head and sighed.