Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules)

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Crassus blinked.

  “Fleet? What fleet?”

  Brutus ignored him and scratched his chin.

  “A few days from operational, Caesar. A little rigging, some more sails, and the crews are imminent. Once the ships are ready, we can leave them to the new crews with just a skeleton staff and Galba can have the rest of the Twelfth back, preparing to move.”

  Crassus turned to look in confusion at Brutus and then Galba.

  “What rest of the Twelfth? What fleet? What in the name of Minerva are you talking about?”

  Caesar ignored the legate and nodded.

  “Very well. The fleet was a good idea. Moreover, it was your idea, Brutus, so I’m putting them under your command. Draw marines from the stronger legions who can spare the men, particularly the Ninth, and then head for Turonum. As soon as the ships are finished and the crews arrive, send Galba’s men back to him and get the fleet underway. Take them downstream to the sea and stay there until the legions arrive. Use the intervening time to get a little training and practice in. Are you happy with all that?”

  Brutus nodded, his face straight.

  “I’m no experienced admiral, Caesar, but I know the basics. We’ll be there and ready.”

  “Good. Where is Varus?”

  Fronto smiled nastily at the astonished face of legate Crassus.

  “I asked him to get riders sent out to the legions with the recall order.”

  Crassus opened his mouth to argue but, behind him Caesar overrode him.

  “Good. When he’s back, tell him to take half the cavalry and a few of the fastest moving foot auxiliary units and move across country as fast as they can to meet up with Labienus at Nemetocenna. The last report I had from Labienus a few months ago seemed to indicate that things were going exceptionally well there. He seems to be well on his way to Romanising the Belgae already and, with the cavalry reinforcements, he should be able to keep things settled and safe over there and hopefully keep the Germans on the other side of the Rhine.”

  Fronto nodded approvingly. Labienus was, most certainly, the man for the job. With him watching their back, Fronto felt reasonably secure.

  “So are we going to concentrate the rest of the forces on Armorica and hope the example we make keeps the Spanish and the British out of it?”

  Caesar waggled his hand in a non-committal fashion.

  “Partially. There’s very little we can do at the moment about Britannia. We just have to hope that either they decide against interference, or they take so long preparing that we have dealt with the situation before they can land in Gaul. Spain is a different matter.”

  Fronto nodded. He had personal experience of the Celtic and Iberian tribes across the Pyrenees. They were as hardy as the Gauls but less inclined to settle and negotiate, a fact that had contributed greatly to the heavy-handed and brutal tactics Caesar had employed there years ago when Fronto had commanded the Ninth.

  “We need something like the Labienus situation down there.”

  “No” Caesar disagreed, shaking his head. “This is different. What we need with the Pyrenean tribes is to frighten them into submission. They’ve no real experience or appreciation of Roman culture, despite being so close to Narbo. They won’t be talked out of action, and we need to put a stop to them getting involved and also to seal the passes over the mountains and stop the Spanish tribes helping them.”

  Sabinus, near the back of the room, frowned.

  “Sounds like we’re in danger of splitting the army and spreading it a little too thin for comfort, Caesar?”

  The general nodded, rubbing his temple.

  “We can’t spare too many men, for certain.”

  Sabinus cleared his throat.

  “If you want me to take a legion or two and deal with it, sir?”

  Caesar shook his head, examining the map by his hand.

  “No. I shall be sending you, Crassus.”

  The room fell silent, many faces quickly registering both surprise and disapproval. The tense quiet was broken when Crassus, finding his voice for the first time since the conversation began, turned to the general.

  “Sir?”

  The general glowered at him.

  “You took a peaceful situation up here and turned it into a war. You are a good commander for punitive campaigns, Crassus, but to be frank, you are just too brutal in your methods to administer a freshly-conquered land.”

  Fronto almost laughed aloud. To be considered ‘too brutal’ by the man who had ordered the execution of an entire captive tribe not long after they’d first ever marched into this country said a great deal.

  Crassus was nodding, though, as though the general had complimented him.

  “You want their spirit and their will to resist crushed?”

  The general smiled.

  “I see you have the picture. Can you repeat your success of last year?”

  Crassus nodded, an unpleasant smile creeping across his face.

  “I shall take the Seventh and seal off the southwest completely, general.”

  “Good. You will need to be highly manoeuvrable in the foothills of the Pyrenees, so I’m sending the rest of the cavalry with you.”

  Crispus leaned close to Fronto and whispered in his ear “That’ll please Varus!”

  Fronto nodded slightly and spoke from the corner of his mouth.

  “Question is: will he go with them to Labienus where he won’t have to deal with Crassus, or would he rather go south and keep his eye on his men?”

  He became aware that Caesar was glaring at him.

  “Sorry sir. Go on.”

  The general took a deep breath and then focused on Sabinus, standing at the back of the room.

  “Are you still up for a command, Sabinus?”

  “Of course, general.”

  “Good. I’m giving you the weaker legions, I’m afraid. Take the Twelfth, who are still busy training and re-equipping, the Fourteenth who are still very green and a little… Gallic… if you get my drift, and most of the Ninth.” He scanned the room for the legates of those legions and spotted Rufus near the door.

  “Sabinus acts with the full authority of Praetor over the three legions, while you’ll each maintain command of your individual legions. However, I require three cohorts of the ninth to join the navy as marines. The ninth had experience of naval combat near Saguntum a few years ago, so they may be useful.”

  Rufus saluted, his expression neutral.

  Sabinus frowned. “What am I to do then, General?”

  “You’ll take the Ninth, Tenth and Fourteenth up toward the north coast. Do whatever you have to in order to keep those tribes from marching south and joining the Veneti. Keep the peace if you can; keep them subdued if not.”

  Sabinus nodded.

  “Good,” the general said, leaning back. “That means the rest of you are with me. The Eighth, Tenth, Eleventh, and Thirteenth will be moving against the Veneti, backed by Brutus’ fleet. I intend to put this situation in order as fast as possible. I need to be back in Rome in the autumn, and I don’t want to drag this out.”

  Balbus cleared his throat.

  “We can move as soon as the roving cohorts return, general, but are we leaving a garrison here? We could be in danger of letting the locals rise up behind us, given how I hear they’ve been treated during the winter.” He cast a quick glance at Crassus, who glared back balefully at the veiled accusation.

  The general rubbed his chin thoughtfully and then pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I was trying to avoid it. We can’t really spare the men.”

  “There is another solution…”

  They turned to Crispus, who was smiling, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Yes?”

  “The Labienus solution? We are, after all, trying to Romanise the land and enforce the pax Romana? A little trust given goes a long way to receiving more in return.”

  Caesar frowned. “What are you suggesting?”

  Crispus smiled.


  “No caretaker garrison. We speak to their leaders, who have been dispossessed and moved across the river. We thank them for their help and support. We tell them that we are moving on and apologise for inconveniencing them. When we leave, we leave them some of our surplus supplies… we don’t have many, but Cita has more coming in from the south. They will have their oppidum back, but we have cleaned it, strengthened it, constructed an aqueduct channel from the springs to the north, and stockpiled goods. To give it back to them might go some way to repairing our somewhat tattered reputation and make our task easier?”

  Fronto laughed.

  “He’s quite right, Caesar. We need to stop burning bridges and build the occasional one.”

  The general took another deep breath and straightened.

  “Very well. You all know what to do. Let’s start clearing Vindunum up and getting the troops onto a war footing. Most of you are dismissed, with the exceptions of Crassus, Sabinus and Brutus. We have further plans to hammer out, so I’ll need you to stay behind.”

  He looked up at Fronto as the rest began to file out.

  “And when you see Varus, send him to see me.”

  Fronto nodded with satisfaction. He’d been getting soft back in Rome with all that easy living. It felt good to be back in the saddle… figuratively speaking, he added mentally, rubbing his still saddle-sore rump as he left the room.

  * * * * *

  It had taken four days for the various vexillations of legionaries to be recalled and to arrive at Vindunum, and then a full two days further to take down the defences of the various camps surrounding the oppidum and prepare to move out. The downside of having such a large army quartered in one place for so long was the extent of the roots they put down in that time and how long it took to pull them up and move on.

  The almost constant drizzle of the preceding week had finally let up, brightening the atmosphere of the soldiers working in the soggy conditions to demolish ramparts and pack gear. Still, the next week had, instead, threatened the advance of yet worse weather. The winds had become so strong that taking down the tents had required every man available and huge sheets of leather wafting away down the river valley were not an uncommon sight for a while. Then, once the horrendous winds had disappeared late yesterday, they had been replaced by Jupiter’s own clouds, roiling and threatening thunder and lightning.

  It was not, Fronto had to admit, an auspicious start to a campaign. He wasn’t feeling uneasy about it, though, as he increasingly had with last year’s foray against the Belgae, and the haruspices had found nothing untoward in the goat they disembowelled before departing. It was just the weather that put funny thoughts in one’s head.

  They had departed Vindunum in the battering winds and numbing cold, saying their farewells to Sabinus and Varus and their companions as the officers prepared to travel north and east to keep the peace while the bulk of the army dealt with the Veneti. Crassus had taken the Seventh and his cavalry detachment with no fond goodbyes, though Galronus, who commanded part of the cavalry, had dropped in to bid farewell to Fronto and his friends.

  And then the worst part of any campaign: the travelling. The four legions, with their auxiliary support and supply train had set off southwest from Vindunum for the hundred mile journey to the mouth of the Loire. Each day the legions managed perhaps fifteen miles, given the interminable pace set by the wagons with their oxen, and yet each day it felt as though they had marched forty miles, with the constant cold and the battering of the forceful winds.

  Fronto rode Bucephalus once more, at the head of the Tenth, grateful not to be traipsing through the soggy, muddy turf. The beautiful black steed was steady and calm, though clearly miserable in the unpleasant cold and windy conditions. Even Carbo, marching along behind him with his helmet hanging from his shoulder, had taken to wrapping his scarf around his hairless cranium to keep the numbing cold away.

  Where had the lovely Gaulish summers of the last two years gone, Fronto wondered? It was almost as though the land itself was turning against them. But finally, early on the afternoon of the seventh day out of Vindunum, the army had crested a low rise and the Atlantic ocean stretched out before them, the great wide mouth of the Loire feeding into it.

  Likely on a hot summer’s day the sight would be magnificent, the water a stunning turquoise and the coast visible for dozens of miles in either direction. With the black and grey clouds glowering above them, however, the water looked dark and forbidding and the waves began to make Fronto feel uneasy even standing on dry land and watching them.

  The army had paused there for a time, watching with fascination the numerous ships of Brutus’ fleet manoeuvring in the bay. It seemed to Fronto as he watched that they bobbed around barely under control, like those toy ships he and his sister had made of parchment when they were children and raced down the channel of the Aqua Appia where it surfaced near their home. He was unbelievably thankful that he was not currently on board one of them.

  And then the legions had separated as they descended to the coast to make camp, likely for several days. The officers, along with the general and his praetorian cavalry, however, had ridden ahead down to the water’s edge, where temporary ramparts contained the tents and support wagons of the fleet crews and their marines.

  As they reined in outside the command tent in the open muster area, Fronto handed the reins of Bucephalus to one of the Marines and turned to look at his fellow officers. Each of them, once they dismounted, spent a few moments stamping their feet and bringing life back to their frozen appendages. Fronto looked up apprehensively as a deep rumble some miles away caught his attention.

  “Let’s get inside, general, before Neptune pisses on us.”

  Caesar, weary from the journey and as cold as his men, nodded silently and strode through into the tent. Inside, several men in dark tunics with their cloaks tightly wrapped around them stood at a large central table with Brutus. Fronto almost sighed as the warmth from the four braziers that heated the tent hit him like a wall of comfort. The small hole in the roof issued smoke as though the place were on fire and the upper regions of the headquarters were invisible through the murk. And yet, down below, where the men gathered, the warmth was far more important than the smoky conditions.

  As the general entered, with Fronto and Cicero at his shoulders, the others behind and Ingenuus’ troopers creating a protective cordon outside the tent, the occupants turned to see who had entered and came suddenly to attention. Brutus, poring over the map, looked up and straightened wearily, saluting the general.

  Caesar waved aside the pleasantries and Fronto noted with concern the pale, haggard look of the young staff officer and the dark circles beneath his eyes that told of stress, overwork and lack of good sleep.

  “The army is here and ready to set up camp” the general stated. “I don’t mean to rush you, Decimus, but I need to know the status of the fleet before I can plan our first move. We’ll call a full meeting in the morning when the legions are settled, but what can you tell me quickly?”

  Brutus sighed and stood back from the table, flicking one of the little model triremes onto its side.

  “I’m afraid it’s not good, general. We’ve got a lot of good sailors and some experienced officers who’ve taken part in naval battles and after six days of training and manoeuvres they have uniformly come to the opinion that the Veneti could trounce us in the blink of an eye.”

  Caesar frowned.

  “What is the problem? You have a good number of solid triremes and quinqueremes; perhaps a hundred of them, with fresh sailors and experienced officers and marines.”

  Brutus nodded.

  “Yes, general. But conditions out there are nothing like anything they’ve ever dealt with before. We’re used to the Mare Nostrum. No Roman fleet has ever operated beyond the Pillars of Hercules and we just had no idea what to expect. The Atlantic Ocean is, if you’ll pardon the pun, a whole different pot of fish.”

  “The sea is different?” Caesar asked dubio
usly.

  Brutus sighed.

  “The Mare Nostrum is like a still, glassy pond compared with this. We’ve lost one quinquereme and two triremes in the last three days and all we’ve been doing is practicing. The waves and currents out there could capsize an island if it were small enough. We strike out forward but, despite the best efforts of the oarsmen and the captains, most of the time the ships go more sideways than forwards. We keep having very unpleasant collisions. And with the weather the way it is, there’s simply no way we can rely on the wind. The first attempt to unfurl the sails almost lost us a quarter of the fleet as they were thrown around the bay.”

  He waved his hand dismissively at the map on the table.

  “I can’t see how the Veneti can manage in these conditions. Their ships must be totally different to ours. I feel like the first Roman sailor to meet the Carthaginian navy.”

  Caesar frowned.

  “How could they be so different?”

  Brutus shrugged unhappily.

  “Well for a start, they have to be a lot stronger and heavier. Out there it feels like we’ve been thrown into the cloaca maxima on a leaf. We’ve little control over the ships and only stronger construction and a lot more weight would counteract that. Then they must have a much shallower hull. I don’t know whether you’ve seen the rocks around this coast, but there are shelves of them hidden just below the waves most of the time. We can’t even get within striking distance of the coast in most places.”