Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules)

by Turney, S. J. A.

  “I expect they’d laugh, once they were able to believe it. Why would we do that?”

  Volusenus shrugged.

  “We can’t hold them much longer and we need to buy some time while the enemy can’t cross them. If they’re on fire, the barbarians will have to hold back at least for a while. They’ll be in a state of confusion. We can add to that by madly firing the ballistae and the onager into their ranks.”

  “But what good does it do?”

  “While they’re milling about in confusion, we form the men up into testudos and break out of the north gate, across the bridge. The enemy are thin over there and the river will prevent the rest from joining them without following us over the bridge which, of course, they can’t do because of the blazing walls. Then it comes down to discipline, the ability of the men, and a little bit of luck. Once we’re clear of the barbarians, we do a triple time and head northwest as fast as Mercury himself.”

  Baculus frowned as he stared at the model.

  “It has merit, but there were a mass of barbarians on the hills on that side of the valley as well as this. Will they not be waiting for us in the open across the river? I’d assumed only the river and the bridge were stopping them from taking the north gate easily.”

  Volusenus shook his head.

  “We watched them from the west gate as they first charged. Once they realised we’d fired the town and they couldn’t get in that way, they spent a good hour and a half crossing the river to join in the attack. Had to put together rafts. Might piss them off a bit when they realise they have to do it again.”

  The legate leaned back in his seat.

  “It’s a mad plan… absolutely barking mad. Even Fronto would think twice before doing this, but then, I really can’t see any other way. Can we do it, tribune?”

  Volusenus grinned.

  “Given the alternatives, I’ll have to say yes.”

  “Then lets get back out there and start passing the orders down.”

  * * * * *

  Baculus mopped his forehead and then replaced his helmet.

  “Are we set?”

  The wounded legionary with the empty pitch bucket nodded and gave a weary half-salute, being careful to avoid the medical padding at his temple. The primus pilus turned and peered into the early light. Someone by the south gate was waving a torch. Reaching down, he lit one of his own from the brazier that burned at the top of the sloping rampart and as it burst into life, passed it to the legionary.

  “Wave that like you’re at the races.”

  The man did so and Baculus squinted off across the camp once more. Two tense minutes followed until he finally saw the twinkle of a torch being waved across at the west gate.

  “Fire!” he bellowed and, as the dozen men standing ready with blazing torches stepped up to the rampart, in a precision manoeuvre as beautiful as any parade ground exercise, the beleaguered legionaries defending the walls stepped back, disengaging the barbarians and feeding between the torches, retreating down the bank in an orderly withdrawal. Barely had they left the walkway and stepped onto the grass slope before the torches of those men that had stepped forward connected with the pitch that had been liberally spread on as many of the wooden surfaces as possible.

  The victorious cries of the Veragri as they began to clamber across the palisade in pursuit of the fleeing defenders turned in short order to panicked screams as the timber defences around them caught like dry tinder and leapt into roaring flames. Many of the front line of the barbarian attack were unable to pull back from the flames, the crowd behind driving them on, and blazing figures dotted the ramparts, screaming and floundering, as the Roman lines reached the bottom of the slope and, turning at Baculus’ orders, reformed quickly and ran in perfect order along the street toward the fort’s centre.

  At the call of a buccina from somewhere in the heart of the camp, Baculus and his men split into lines and hugged the buildings at the sides of the street as they ran. Overhead, a half dozen rocks, each larger than a balled fist, arced across the heavens toward the mass of barbarians beyond the walls. The chances of one falling this far short were very small, but Baculus had lost enough men for one day and motioned the centurions around him to keep close to cover.

  A roar of dismay arose behind them outside the fort, as the artillery fire of the Roman defenders began to take its toll on the mass of enemy milling around in confusion below the blazing walls.

  As they approached the central square where the siege weapons kept up as speedy a barrage as they could manage, Baculus spotted the men from the other walls, pouring in good order from different roads and into the space, where they converged, creating larger units and moving toward the northern street.

  With a quick gesture, the primus pilus passed down the order to continue on to the north gate, while he marched at speed from the advancing column toward the onager and its crew. As he reached the engineers, they finished winching the machine and stepped back. Baculus waited patiently until they fired the shot, launching a collection of small but deadly rocks away toward the distant unseen attackers. As the crewman reached for the next in the pile of ammunition, the primus pilus waved his vine staff.

  “Forget that now. Cut the cables, get your gear together, gather the ballista crews and fall in with the rest of the men. Time to go.”

  Leaving the men to their work, Baculus strode back, picking up his pace yet more in order to catch up with his unit. As they marched off down the street toward the north gate and the bridge that would take them to relative safety, he spotted legate Galba striding out alongside another column and angled across to join him.

  “Centurion.” The commander looked tired and drawn.

  “Sir. All went off rather nicely, I thought.”

  The legate shook his head.

  “We’re not out of it quite yet, Baculus.”

  The primus pilus nodded.

  “Perhaps, sir, but we’re on our way. We’ll be out in no time and then heading down for friendly territory. Mind if I ask, sir, what we do then?”

  Galba nodded.

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Caesar promised us extra recruits that we never got. He’s going to be a little put out by what happened up here, but even he can’t push the matter, given our numbers and situation. Even Scipio would have pulled out of there. So we’re going to go stay among our allies in Gaul and I’m going to start recruiting myself on Caesar’s behalf. Then I’ll send another report to the general.”

  “What do you think the general’s plans are for the coming summer, sir?”

  Galba shrugged.

  “That all depends on what’s happened to him in Rome, Crassus in Armorica and Labienus and the Belgae. I can see this being a problem season for us, Publius. Once we’ve replaced some of the losses and I’ve sent off a report, we’ll march off up to Vindunum, training the recruits while we move, and joining the main force there. At least there we can make use of their stores and armourers to rebuild the Twelfth.”

  Baculus nodded as they approached the gate. The massing Roman force within, added to the burning of the camp, had struck the smaller force of Veragri among the charred ruins on the opposite bank with uncertainty and, far from gathering to prevent the legion leaving, they had skirted away out of reach to the east and west, watching warily.

  “Been a hell of a winter, legate.”

  “That it has, Baculus… that it has.”

  Chapter 2

  (Februarius: The Andean oppidum of Vindunum in northwestern Gaul)

  “Have you made an example among the locals?”

  The tribune sighed inwardly but was careful to keep his expression neutral. He’d managed to avoid much direct contact with Crassus, but word got around.

  “With respect, legate, we’ve made an occasional example, but it really is no good. They simply don’t have the corn to spare and no amount of beating is going to made more corn grow.”

  He winced, aware that he could have overstepped the mark there. Crassus ma
y be only one of several legates with a command at Vindunum, but Caesar’s orders had been clear. Crassus was in overall command of the army in this region over the winter months. There were many rumours as to the reason for the extra power granted to the man, but the most common was that Caesar needed to tighten the bonds between himself and the legate’s father in Rome.

  Crassus stared at him, silent, those piercing eyes boring into his skull.

  “Also, legate, the Gauls are a proud people. If you push them hard, they don’t bend, sir; they break. I and the other officers are walking a fine line between keeping them subjugated and trying not to fan the flames of revolt. The failure of the Belgae’s revolt last year may have settled things for now, but they will only take so much.”

  “I fear you forget your place, tribune…”

  Gallus, senior tribune of the Ninth, ground his teeth, irked at such a rebuke from the commander of a different legion. A complaint to legate Rufus would be no use; Rufus was as powerless as he to put the influential Crassus in his place.

  “I mean no disrespect, sir…”

  Somewhere deep within, Gallus laughed at his own words.

  “…It’s just that the Andes have been nothing but accommodating and helpful. Given that we have effectively displaced them and tithed their stores during a fairly harsh winter, I feel we should be rewarding them, rather than punishing them. Perhaps we can send to Caesar and request that extra supplies be sent up from Narbonensis?”

  Crassus swept a hand angrily through the air.

  “I have conquered Armorica with one legion, tribune! Imagine that! While the rest of the army was bogged down with the Belgae, the Seventh alone pacified the whole of the north west! Do you think I am about to crawl to Caesar with my tail between my legs and beg for some extra supper?”

  Again, Gallus had to bite his tongue. He’d seen first hand the results of Crassus’ conquest. Pacification by near-genocide. The mass burial pits were still visited by weeping relatives all up and down these lands. Still, the winter would soon be over and then his own legate would return, along with the general and the rest of the staff. Things would change then.

  “What are your orders, sir?”

  Crassus glared at him for some time and finally slid from his chair and stood, reaching out to the table and swiping his crimson cloak from the surface, fastening it around his shoulders.

  “Come with me.”

  Gallus nodded and, turning, followed the legate out of the headquarters. The air outside was cloying and unpleasant. A fog had settled earlier in the week and seemed to be set in for the duration, lifting only briefly during the height of the day before descending once again to wrap them in its damp embrace as the sun sank. The unpleasant weather was affecting the mood of the army, who had weathered the crisp cold winter reasonably well, but this damp fog was a whole different matter. It soaked into the clothes and made even the flesh feel soggy and cold, it cut down visibility and shut out the welcome gaze of the sun.

  The headquarters had been converted from the house of the Andean chief at Vindunum during the Seventh’s campaign last year. Indeed, the Seventh and their allied legions occupied the entire Gallic oppidum and the surrounding territory on this side of the river, the surviving population having been evicted to the far bank where they had set up makeshift huts to survive the winter. The ‘Pax Romana' as demonstrated by the great Crassus.

  Still grinding his teeth, Gallus strode out into the street behind the young commander as he glanced left and right. There were the standard legionary guards on duty outside the headquarters, as well as the granary and other stores, but here in the hub of Roman command, the higher proportion of the sparse figures visible bore the crests and plumes of officers.

  “You!”

  Gallus frowned as Crassus gestured to two tribunes standing huddled against the cold and studying a wax tablet. The tribunes looked up and Gallus vaguely recognised them from meetings and dice games. Men of the Eleventh, if he remembered correctly.

  The two tribunes turned and saluted the legate, standing at attention.

  “Identify yourselves.”

  “Quintus Velanius, tribunus laticlavius of the Eleventh, sir.”

  “Titus Silius, tribunus angusticlavius of the Eleventh, legate.”

  Crassus nodded.

  “Come with me.”

  The two men exchanged anxious glances and, as they fell into step with Gallus at the legate’s heel, they looked around at him questioningly. Gallus shook his head and made a face suggesting they should stay quiet.

  The three tribunes pulled their cloaks tighter around them against the numbing fog and traipsed on down the street toward the former centre of the oppidum. As they entered the main square, once more Crassus waved an arm at a man with a tribune’s plume.

  “Terrasidius? Join us.”

  The tribune, one of the junior, or ‘angusticlavius’ tribunes of the Seventh, turned and came to attention, saluting, before striding toward them. As the five men converged, Crassus gestured to one of the buildings around the square, converted for use as an office for the clerks of the various legions and the camp prefect, nominally Priscus, ex-primus pilus of the Tenth, but who was convalescing in Rome with his commander during the winter.

  The small group approached and Terrasidius stepped out ahead to open the door and stand aside politely until the others had entered, closing it behind him as he joined them. This building had clearly been a shop or a tavern before being commandeered by the Seventh. Three clerks worked studiously at desks in the large open room.

  “Find something to do outside” Crassus said flatly.

  The clerks looked up in alarm and saluted hurriedly before gathering their tablets and styluses in their arms and leaving the room in haste, making their way out of the front door and into the damp, depressing square outside.

  “Right.”

  Crassus turned to the four tribunes as he leaned back against a desk and folded his arms.

  “Tribune Gallus here informs me that we are being too harsh on the Andes here; that we cannot demand any more grain or supplies from them or we may push them into open revolt.”

  Gallus’ teeth continued to grind in irritation but, as the other three officers glanced across at him, he noted the sympathy and understanding in their eyes.

  “So” the legate continued circling his neck to the sound of bones clicking. “What are the options?”

  He fell silent, but none of the tribunes fell into the trap. Crassus nodded to himself.

  “One: we banish the Andes altogether and send them to leech off one of the other tribes in this benighted land, while we commandeer their remaining stocks. Certainly the easiest option, and their own stores should see the army through until spring, when we will move again.”

  Gallus noted the almost despairing looks on his peers and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying desperately not to comment.

  “Two: We send to Narbonensis or Cisalpine Gaul in Caesar’s name for extra supplies. Of course, it would be more than a month before anything gets to us and we run the risk or putting forth the appearance that the better part of seven of Rome’s elite legions cannot even gather enough supplies to keep themselves fed.”

  He peered at the tribunes and allowed his gaze to rest on Gallus.

  “Or three: we extend our demands to other tribes. At the risk of testing tribune Gallus’ ‘bend-or-break’ theory, we procure every ounce of provision we need from the various tribes we have conquered.”

  One of the tribunes cleared his throat, but said nothing.

  “No opinions, gentlemen?”

  Velanius of the Eleventh scratched his chin. Gallus noted that he winced in anticipation as he opened his mouth.

  “It has been a harsh and freezing winter, legate. Most of the tribes will be in a similar state. I’m not at all sure how much they will be able to spare. Back down on the coast of the Mare Nostrum, however, where it’s been warmer…”

  His voice tailed off and he fell un
comfortably silent.

  “Since the lot of you seem to be so concerned about the tender feelings of these pointless barbarians, it strikes me that I could hardly find any better men to send.”

  Straightening, he strode across to the wall, where a map was pinned to the timber, giving the locations of the local tribes and settlements, along with the disposition of the various scouts and spies. He examined the map for some time while the tribunes watched unhappily. Finally, he tapped his fingers on the vellum.

  “There you go: Gallus, you’ll take a detachment of cavalry as a bodyguard and go to the Curiosolitae. Their capitol is some turd hole near the north coast. We checked it out briefly last year and it was hardly worth our attention, but there’s good farmland around them. You should be able to get fully half of what we need from them. I would suggest you threaten them with the heel of the Roman boot, but you can use your charm if you prefer.”

  Ignoring the rising colour in Gallus’ face, he turned to the others, his finger sliding down the map and coming to rest on the jagged lines of the southern coast of the peninsula.

  “The Venati are somewhat fractious and spread out and will be more difficult to deal with. We’re not even sure where their centre is, so you two” he gestured at Velanius and Silius, “will need to take two turmae of cavalry and go find them and draw supplies from them. I’m not expecting them to have much corn but, from what I read, they’re fishers, so you may be able to procure us stocks of seafood.”

  Lastly, his finger strayed up and right, deeper inland and back toward better-known territory and came to rest somewhere around forty or fifty miles north of Vindunum.

  “Terrasidius? You can take a detachment to the Esubii. They should be nice and easy to deal with and will have surplus corn stocks if I’m not mistaken.”