The Great Revolt

by S. J. A. Turney

  Marius’ Mules VII

  The Great Revolt

  by S. J. A. Turney

  1st Edition

  “Marius’ Mules: nickname acquired by the legions after the general Marius made it standard practice for the soldier to carry all of his kit about his person.”

  For Garry & Gill.

  I would like to thank those people instrumental in bringing Marius' Mules 7 to fruition and making it the book it is. Jenny and Lilian for their editing, Tracey for support and love, my kids for delightful interruptions. Leni, Barry, Paul, Robin, Alun & Stu for their beta reading and catching the odd blooper.

  Thanks also to Garry, Paul and Dave for the cover work. Prue, Gordon, Robin, Nick, Kate, Mike and innumerable other fab folk for their support.

  Cover photos courtesy of Paul and Garry of the Deva Victrix Legio XX. Visit http://www.romantoursuk.com/ to see their excellent work.

  Cover design by Dave Slaney.

  Many thanks to all three for their skill and generosity.

  All internal maps are copyright the author of this work.

  Published in this format 2014 by Victrix Books

  Copyright - S.J.A. Turney

  First Edition

  The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Also by S. J. A. Turney:

  Continuing the Marius' Mules Series

  Marius’ Mules I: The Invasion of Gaul (2009)

  Marius’ Mules II: The Belgae (2010)

  Marius’ Mules III: Gallia Invicta (2011)

  Marius’ Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles (2012)

  Marius’ Mules V: Hades’ Gate (2013)

  Marius’ Mules VI: Caesar’s Vow (2014)

  Marius’ Mules: Prelude to War (2014)

  The Ottoman Cycle

  The Thief's Tale (2013)

  The Priest's Tale (2013)

  The Assassin’s Tale (2014)

  Tales of the Empire

  Interregnum (2009)

  Ironroot (2010)

  Dark Empress (2011)

  Short story compilations & contributions:

  Tales of Ancient Rome vol. 1 - S.J.A. Turney (2011)

  Tortured Hearts vol 1 - Various (2012)

  Tortured Hearts vol 2 - Various (2012)

  Temporal Tales - Various (2013)

  For more information visit http://www.sjaturney.co.uk/

  or http://www.facebook.com/SJATurney

  or follow Simon on Twitter @SJATurney

  Dramatis Personae

  The Romans:

  Marcus Falerius Fronto

  Legate of the Tenth Legion, husband of Lucilia and father of twin boys, veteran of the Gallic Wars, confidante of Caesar and protagonist. A long-standing veteran who has been with Caesar since his early command in Spain, Fronto is a career soldier with a habit of speaking his mind, even to his own detriment.

  Gaius Julius Caesar

  Proconsul of Cisalpine and Transalpine Gaul and of Illyricum. One of two notables (the other being Pompey) who currently vie for supremacy within the republic. Caesar is a brilliant tactician and popular general with a knack for lateral thinking. Arrogant and dangerous, he has fought for six years to subdue Gaul whilst attempting to keep Rome in his pocket.

  Marcus Antonius

  A distant cousin of Caesar’s, Antonius is known to be a profligate alcoholic and womaniser, but also a brilliant military officer. Called to Gaul the previous year to command the cavalry, he has become the second most senior officer in the army and a friend to Fronto.

  Quintus Atius Varus

  The commander of Caesar’s cavalry, Varus is now a veteran of six years of warfare in Gaul. Popular with his men, he leads small units of regular Roman cavalry as well as a huge complement of native levies serving as auxiliaries in the Roman army.

  Masgava

  A Numidian warrior from Africa, Masgava had survived for years in Rome as a gladiator before being bought and freed by Fronto to train him in physical exercise and the martial arts. Currently serving as one of the two commanders of Fronto’s Singulares (bodyguard unit).

  Palmatus

  A former legionary in the armies of Pompey, Palmatus had retired to Rome before a chance meeting there brought him into the employ of Fronto as a bodyguard. Since that time, he has become another of the commanders of Fronto’s Singulares.

  The Gauls:

  Vercingetorix

  Chieftain of the Arverni tribe, former allies of Rome who occupy the land in the south of Gaul, close to the border with Narbonensis. Vercingetorix is the son of a man who attempted to become overlord of all the Gallic tribes and over the past two years, with the support of the druids, has been building an army and numerous alliances in a bid to break Gaul free of Roman control.

  Vergasillaunus

  The cousin of Vercingetorix, Vergasillaunus is also a higher noble of the Arverni. He is known as a thoughtful man and a great general. He has been at his cousin's side since the beginning and is the most trusted of his men and second in command of the rebellion against Rome.

  Cavarinos

  An Arvernian nobleman from the oppidum of Nemossos. Along with his brother, Critognatos, he is one of Vercingetorix's most trusted men. An intellectual and deep man who does not trust the druids or their gods, Cavarinos' belief is in the strength of flesh and of will. At the opening of our tale, he commands a contingent in Vercingetorix's force.

  Critognatos

  The brother of Cavarinos, Critognatos is a more forthright and less thoughtful man than his brother - a powerful warrior and renowned leader whose sights are set on the goal of a free Gau,l and who will not allow anything to divert him from that goal. Critognatos is also a commander of a contingent.

  Teutomarus

  The elderly king of the Nitiobriges tribe from Aquitania, Teutomarus is one of the more senior and respected leaders of the Gallic rebellion.

  Lucterius

  A chieftain of the Cadurci tribe from the border region with Rome, Lucterius has long been an ally and supporter of Vercingetorix. His tribe are fiercely loyal to him, and he to his leader. Lucterius has a reputation as a more than able military leader, his cavalry being famous throughout the land.

  ‘Everything comes gradually and at its appointed hour’ - Ovid

  ‘And when it comes it invariably kicks seven shades of shit out of you’ - Fronto

  Prologue

  The ‘plain of mud and blood’. Summer 52BC.

  The Gallic warrior clutched his stolen Roman blade tightly, moving stealthily between two particularly tall clumps of wormwood - very little flora had survived on the plain, between the seemingly-endless fighting, the Roman siege works and general plant clearance. The legionary on guard duty was far from his camp and his officers, and barely within sight of his nearest compatriot. He leaned on the top of his shield, which rested on the ground, his pilum jabbed into the rich earth and standing free. He was clearly fighting off the reaching arms of Morpheus.

  The Gaul frowned at his own audacity. He didn’t really want to kill the lad. There had been enough killing to last a thousand lifetimes - enough blood shed to drown the thirstiest of battle Gods. And the poor lad was young. He’d been through enough. But the Gaul had only the one free hand, and that held his sword… the other fist gripped so tightly his knuckles shone white in the night.

  He waited for the lad to straighten and turn,
briefly checking the terrain towards the plateau and, taking advantage of the turned back, ducked from the wormwood to the narrow bole of an ash tree that would be dead before winter, its trunk deformed from sword blows where the Romans had practiced their killing. As he reached the cover of the tree, he looked out again and almost smiled. The sentry had stood his shield free, hung his helmet on the tip of his pilum and had hoisted up his tunic to take a leak into the dip.

  No killing after all.

  With a deep ragged breath, the Gaul sprinted across the open ground, slowing as he approached the unwitting Roman lad, busy shaking himself clear. Careful not to make a sound, the Gaul lifted his sword arm and raised it high, bringing it down pommel-first just as the sentry began to turn to retrieve his kit. There was a heavy thud, with the dull clonk of bronze on bone, and the young man folded at the knees, collapsing face down into the mud.

  Too much death.

  The Gaul crouched and rolled the Roman onto his back to make sure he didn’t suffocate in the cloying mud and moved on.

  The burial ground was neat. Everything the Romans did was so organised and effective. That was why they would one day rule the world and all the old peoples would be gone. No, the Gaul corrected himself, they would become Roman too. The legions’ dead were in ordered rows on one side of the flat field, the Gauls on the other. Not the bulk of the departed, of course. There were simply too many to give this kind of respect. The ordinary soldiers of Rome were in a mass grave - a great pile of ash and bone from the enormous funeral pyres that had burned for three days and nights, filling the world with the smell of Roasting pork. The Romans had fed the pyre ceaselessly with both timber and bodies, and only when the last legionary was dust, they had swept it into the centre of the excavated ditch and piled earth upon the top, erecting a monument formed from captured spears, helmets, shields and banners by which to remember the fallen.

  For all their fearsome reputation, the Romans had treated the native dead with exactly the same respect. The larger pile of native ash lay beneath another mound on the far side of the plain.

  But here in the middle lay the ordered rows of the notable dead. Romans commemorated with a wooden marker carved with their name, helmets, swords, torcs and the like hanging from the top to help identify them and the rank they held. Sons of Rome who led armies of thousands would be buried there, alongside their standard bearers, centurions and optios.

  The Gallic honoured dead were considerably fewer, of course. Hardly any had their names marked, for the Romans knew not who they were. They were mostly commemorated only by the richness of their gear, displayed above the resting place of their ashes, only the few leaders that had been identified by the prisoners bearing a named marker.

  The Gaul shook his head at the insanity of it all, and set off among the ordered lines.

  It didn’t take him long to find the grave he sought. It was strange to think that such a vital man could have become ash and nothing more, just one among hundreds lying here in the earth. If the Gaul had had any truck with Gods, he might think the man and his silent companions had gone on to some divine after-world, but he knew in his heart of hearts that ash was all they would be. Ash and darkness, and unfeeling silence.

  He looked down at the wooden marker with a sense of sadness tempered only by the knowledge that this man had been his enemy. A glittering sword hung on the wooden marker. In coming days that weapon would be stolen by one of the numerous scavengers who would move in when the Roman force left. Its beautiful orichalcum hilt, embossed with shapely Gods, identified it as a very valuable item.

  ‘I never wanted this. You know that,’ the Gaul whispered. ‘I argued against the whole thing.’

  He was hardly surprised when a tear leaked from the corner of his eye and drove a channel through the caked dirt, sweat and mud on his cheek. He looked down at his clenched fist and, with seeming reluctance, turned it over and unfolded the fingers. The bronze pendant of the Roman Goddess Fortuna gleamed in the faint moonlight. He had apparently been gripping it so tightly it had cut his hand in half a dozen places, and a patina of watery crimson tinted the metal.

  How appropriate.

  ‘Luck apparently wasn’t with us.’ He prepared to cast the bronze figurine onto the grave, but paused with a sad smile.

  ‘Actually, I think I’ll hang onto it a while yet. After this disaster, I think any of us could use a little extra luck. Go to your Gods peacefully.’

  Fastening the thong around his neck and tucking the figurine into his tunic, he fetched out of his purse the other thing he had brought - that had brought him here? Two shattered shards of slate, etched with shapes and strange arcane words that had once formed a whole. With a sigh, the Gaul crouched and jabbed the two shards into the freshly-turned earth above the buried jar of ashes. Standing once more, he placed his worn boot-sole upon the dreadful broken thing and pushed it down into the grave, out of sight.

  ‘Let it end there, in silence and darkness.’

  He looked up and across the flat ground, towards the oppidum of Alesia that rose above the valleys and the plain like an upturned ship. Land of the lost.

  ‘Let it all end here.’

  With a last sad look at the grave and the beautiful, rich sword, the Gaul turned, away from the man’s resting place, away from the silent rows of the slain, away from the Roman host, away from the last stand of Gaul and towards an uncertain future.

  PART ONE: OPENING MOVES

  Chapter 1

  Massilia, some months previously.

  Fronto missed his step and stumbled, brushing painfully against the wall. For a moment he paused, hardly daring to breathe, and listening intently for any sound. His eyes automatically strayed along the wall to the location of one of the hidden weapons and he silently chided himself for such a reaction. The background hum of the building’s occupants was barely audible from outside, and after a count of twenty he decided that he was safe and that no one had heard. Allowing himself a long, slow exhale which plumed in the cold winter air, he straightened from the wall, reaching out to one of the columns in the colonnade. Very carefully and being as quiet as possible, he looked down at the crusty dark red stain on his leg. Damn it!

  As carefully as he could he lifted his foot, causing the faintest of scrapes from the gravel underfoot.

  ‘Stop sneaking around like a thief and get back inside.’

  Fronto felt himself jump, leaving the ground in shock for a moment, and turned to note in particular the arched brow of Lucilia where she stood behind him, her fists on her hips in the universal sign of a disgruntled spouse. The army could use a couple of hundred of her, he thought, aware that after two decades of military service and at the peak of his physical fitness he had not even reached the safety of the gate before messing up and making a noise, and yet this delectable - if irascible - young woman had managed to plant herself right behind him absolutely silently.

  His heart seemed to be attempting to set some kind of speed record as he plastered his most ingratiating smile across his face.

  ‘Listen, beloved…’

  ‘Be quiet,’ she said in a calm, quiet voice that somehow managed to contain all the power and command of a military order backed by horns and standards. He had shut up before he had even thought about whether to… Lucilia certainly had that quality about her. She pursed her lips and Fronto experienced a moment of hope that he wasn’t in trouble, but then realised it wasn’t a matter of absolutes, but the degree of trouble that she was considering.

  ‘You agreed to the deal, Marcus. One more season… perhaps two. But you are a father now, and not getting any younger, and as soon as Caesar has this new province calmed and this rebellion you keep whiffling on about is put down, you are handing over your command and settling. Even Galronus has taken a step back from the army.’

  Fronto felt the lurch that he experienced every time he thought of retirement and almost spoke, but stopped himself in time.

  ‘And once you have done that,’ she went on
, ‘whatever you decide to do…’ she held up a warning finger, ‘and no, it will not involve any kind of arena or stadium,’ Fronto felt his spirits sink a little lower again, ‘you will need connections and the goodwill of the leading figures in the city. Remember, Marcus, that we are not in Rome now. In fact we are not even in the Republic as long as Massilia remains an independent city. We are subject to their laws and decisions.’

  She pointed an angry finger at the doorway that led inside. It had never looked more like an executioner’s blade to Fronto. Her voice jacked up a notch.

  ‘My father - your friend - has put a lot of effort into getting those men here tonight. Five of the city’s most important men, and they are all here to see you. All so that you can form a network of allies in local government rather than blundering along as you normally do, like a blind hedgehog in a maze. It has been almost ten minutes since you went to the latrine, and if I have to listen to my father make one more embarrassing ‘pushing out a difficult one’ comment, I swear I will not be responsible for the murder spree of Olympian proportions that will ensue.’