Marius Mules III: Gallia Invicta (Marius' Mules)

by Turney, S. J. A.

  He was not.

  Yet now he was nominally in charge of the most important assault in the battle and the responsibility was immense. Oh, clearly Galronus and the centurion knew what they were doing, but his was the accountability.

  He shrank back behind the tree trunk, peering at the defences a few hundred yards away. Already, he felt that worrying loosening in his bladder area again.

  “You alright, sir? You’ve gone really pale.”

  Rusca almost shouted out in shock and turned, his heart racing, to discover that a legionary had taken position by the tree next to him, others moving up all through the woodland, the cavalry gathering in a clear area not far back where they were hidden from the fort by the woodland.

  He felt like a child, out of his depth and on the verge of panic. Before he could stop himself, he found his mouth was busy, working independently of his brain and blabbing his worst fears to this ordinary soldier. In horror, he clamped his mouth shut and tried to think of a way to downplay what he had just admitted, but the legionary shrugged.

  “It’s natural to be scared a bit, sir. Only a complete nutcase would feel no fear. Trick is to go piss your heart out in the woods first. Start every battle with an empty bladder and an empty bowel, sir. Me? I’d piss myself soon as I got within arrow reach otherwise!”

  Rusca stared at the man.

  “Sorry sir. Didn’t meant to speak out of turn.”

  Slowly, a smile spread across the tribune’s face.

  “Which bit of the palisade are we aiming for then, soldier?”

  The legionary pointed at a stretch where a slight hump in the ground caused the palisade to rise and fall.

  “Good” Rusca smiled. “Should be easier to get to the stakes. Think I’ll pop off and relieve myself before we go.”

  The legionary grinned.

  As Rusca trotted off through the advancing ranks of men until he found a convenient spot, he chewed on his cheek. It was right to be nervous. Of course it was… so long as the fear didn’t stop you, it didn’t control you, and the only answer was to tackle it face on.

  Sighing with relief, he fastened his breeches again and made his way back through the ranks of men to the front, where it took a minute to locate his original position and the man who had spoken to him. The lump in the palisade, however, guided him true.

  As he fell into place behind the tree, he became aware that the centurion off to his right was waving an arm. Rusca was still waiting for the cornu to blare out the call in response when the men sprang from their hiding places and ran out into the open. Of course! The element of surprise was paramount. Why would they use musicians?

  Biting his lip, he ducked out from the bole of the tree and drew his sword. Stretching out his legs ready to run, he became aware that the centurion was shaking his head. Yes, an officer should be dignified. No running.

  Close to the centurion, Rusca strode out into the open ground with a purposeful gait. Ahead, the legionaries of the First cohort were running for the wall, eerily quiet, roughly one man in every twenty carrying a rope.

  The whole situation was so strange. The minimal number of defenders on this side had been so unprepared to witness any action and had spent the past hour or more staring at nothing, becoming bored beyond endurance, that they took far too long to react to the sudden rush of silent men. Moreover, the whole assault was so quiet that the overriding sound was that of Crassus’ assault on the far side of the large camp.

  The running legionaries were almost at the contemptible excuse for a ditch by the time the cry went up from the scant defenders on the wall. Rusca ground his teeth as he marched along behind the assault, next to the centurion. Time was now very much of the essence. Once that cry had gone up it was a race to see whether the four cohorts could break in and consolidate their position before the defenders sent reinforcements to the wall.

  The tribune strode forward, his heart racing, as the men of the First cohort ahead reached the earth embankment below the palisade and threw themselves against the timbers, scrambling for holds and pushing one another up, climbing precariously with one hand and a sword in the other, or with both hands and a pugio clamped between their teeth.

  By the time Rusca reached the ditch, fighting was already occurring at the wall top, men falling with pained cries back down to the turf outside. The number of men on the walls appeared to have grown, but only a little; presumably a number of warriors had been standing by to support them in case of just such an event: enough to make the assault harder, but not enough to change the course of the battle, certainly.

  He altered his stride to jump across the pitiful little ditch. Around the other three sides of the fort, the ground on the slope was turf with deep earth beneath, or grit that could easily be carved and dug. Here, the rocky bones of the spur neared the surface and had made the digging of the ditch near impossible, resulting in a channel hacked through the rock with great difficulty, a mere two feet wide and two feet deep. Barely enough to slow a running man.

  A cry ahead drew his attention. One of the men had managed to achieve the wall walk and was busy fighting off warriors on both sides while his companions climbed up behind him. His task was hopeless, fighting on two sides and with no shield, and he disappeared with a shriek as a barbarian raised a huge spear in two hands and then brought it down behind the palisade, ending the legionary’s life out of view of the tribune.

  The man’s achievement had been enough, though. His valiant fight had allowed time for two more men to reach the top, and the spear man was quickly dealt with, the legionaries pushing the defenders back along the wall as more and more of the cohort arrived. Slowly and painstakingly, the wall was coming under Roman control and, as he watched, the men at the base of the palisade threw ropes up to the top where they were caught and secured.

  Rusca hadn’t even been aware that the cavalry had joined them until four horsemen raced past him, leaping the ditch with ridiculous ease and slowing at the wall. The tribune, now approaching the rampart, watched as the ropes were secured to the horses and the cavalrymen slowly walked their horses forward, each line threaded round the saddles and straps of two beasts.

  A cry from above announced that something had happened on the wall, but Rusca was now too close to see clearly and his first warning that the defenders had gained the upper hand was when half a legionary plummeted to the ground next to him, his spine severed above the pelvis and the lower portion remaining somewhere above. He stared in horror as another man fell, screaming, a rent so deep through his shoulder and into his chest that his arm flapped about unpleasantly as he landed.

  He stepped back, fighting the bile back down in his throat and tore his gaze away from the men and to the horses, who had reached the strain limit of the ropes and were pulling with all their might, their riders urging them on, ropes groaning and creaking with the tremendous force. Rusca took a deep breath and offered up a quick prayer to Minerva, hastily promising to raise a new altar as soon as he was somewhere he could do it reasonably.

  Whether it was Minerva listening or pure chance, the tribune almost lost control of his bowels as the palisade suddenly gave way a few feet from him. The whole defence had been constructed Roman fashion, with the palisade backed by a huge earth embankment that formed the walk at the top and which would give great support to the timber when pounded by siege weapons but was of precious little use when the walls were pulled outwards.

  The sudden force as they gave way, the bindings at the top having been cut by the legionaries in their initial attack, was so powerful that four of the great timbers were literally torn from the ground. The one directly attached to the horses hurtled into the air like some gargantuan pilum, crashing to the earth with tremendous force some twenty yards away. The other three, still initially bound near the base, but wrenched from the earth with the fourth, exploded and smashed to the ground all around, one whooshing dangerously close to the ear of the devoutly praying tribune.

  Rusca stared as the great log
that had almost taken off his head rolled slowly into the ditch where it came to rest at an odd angle, pointing accusingly at him.

  He was still watching, stunned, when the cornu sounded and the remaining three cohorts ran screaming from the eaves of the wood toward the ramparts. The earthen embankment behind the shattered wall had crumbled, being only a recent construction, and was now a mere mound that stood between the tribune’s forces and the interior of the enemy camp.

  The centurion, about whom he had almost entirely forgotten, but who remained close by, nodded in his direction.

  “Would you like the honour, sir?”

  Rusca wondered what the man meant for a moment, then realised and, swallowing nervously, nodded and strode forward toward the breech.

  As he reached the shattered section of wall, he heard the explosive sound of the timber being wrenched free in two other locations along the defences, the distant thunder of hooves that announced the cavalry were on the way, and the roar of the three other cohorts rapidly closing the distance behind him.

  Readying his sword arm, the tribune stepped up onto the slippery, smashed earth bank and clambered up into the gap. His heart almost failed him as he crested the top. A virtual sea of enemy warriors swarmed toward the attackers between him and the fort’s interior buildings. His knuckles whitened as his tightened his grip on the sword.

  So many men. How could they ever hope…

  Beside him, the centurion clambered onto the bank and grinned.

  “Now we’ve got the whore dogs on the run, eh sir?”

  Rusca turned to stare at the centurion but, as he did so, two barbarians that had been running along the interior of the earth bank bellowed and ran at them.

  The tribune raised his blade as the first man launched at him and managed to turn the initial blow aside, more by luck then skill. He prepared himself for the lethal blow as the second man lunged, but the centurion was already there, smashing the sword aside and leaping at him, shouting curses.

  Rusca drew back. The barbarian lunged again, a blow that the tribune narrowly dodged. Panic began to set in as he took two more steps back. Any moment he’d be at the loose soil where the palisade had been and then he was in trouble… unless he could make it work for him. Fight dirty. Always fight dirty.

  Watching nervously as the barbarian ducked left and right, his eyes darting around, Rusca felt back with a foot and encountered only empty air. He’d been that close already.

  Preparing himself, he watched the man. It was all about which way he went. He’d been on his right foot for both attacks so far, so Rusca needed to go left.

  The man attacked with lightning speed, the long, leaf-bladed Spanish sword, so similar to a gladius in many ways, lashing out toward him. The tribune was prepared, however. As soon as the man put the weight on that foot and pushed, Rusca was already dodging to his left. Grasping the warrior by the shoulder, he used the man’s weight to throw him forward and past. The Celt cried out in surprise, his balance suddenly upset, as he plunged on and down the shattered bank. Rusca regained his own footing and shot his gaze around him. What had looked so hopeless mere moments before now held a strong grain of hope.

  Galronus’ cavalry were pouring in through a hole in the rampart further along, and the four cohorts of legionaries were now almost all at the defences and beginning to push inside, the First forcing a bridgehead in the very heart of the enemy camp. One of the advancing legionaries paused as he climbed the bank to thrust his blade through the back of Rusca’s fallen adversary and curiously the tribune felt cheated and a little disappointed.

  The wall was theirs and, given the calls that he recognised from a cornicen far away, Crassus’ force knew it and were pushing with renewed vigour.

  It would all be over soon.

  Gritting his teeth and silently thanking both Minerva for her assistance and the unnamed legionary for his advice, Rusca stepped down the embankment and put every ounce of his strength into the kick that he delivered with feeling into the dead Gaul’s bared crotch.

  * * * * *

  Rusca and his senior centurion straightened, their helmets beneath their arms, as they strode across the centre of the enemy camp toward the legate. The battle had ended less than twenty minutes after the south wall fell, the situation becoming increasingly hopeless for the enemy with every passing minute.

  Once the Roman force was inside, forming up into shield walls and squares, the fort had effectively fallen and many of the enemy had clambered over their own defences, fleeing down the slopes and into the woodland, leaving their comrades behind and running for their lives. Those who remained and surrendered had been surprisingly few in number.

  Crassus stood in the central space before the enemy commander’s tent, his standard bearers, cornicen and the other tribunes behind him, various senior centurions about and legionaries lining the square. Before him and under guard, perhaps two dozen richly attired and adorned Celts knelt, their heads bowed. Roman spears hovered close to their necks.

  The legate looked up and gave Rusca a rare and uncharacteristic smile.

  “Ah, tribune. My congratulations and thanks for a very successful action. Is the cavalry commander not present?”

  Rusca smiled back at him.

  “Galronus has gone for a while. I doubt he’ll return before nightfall. He and his men went off to hunt down the fleeing enemy. Whether he intends to return with them in chains, or just ‘chastise’ them, I’m not sure.”

  Crassus nodded in satisfaction.

  “He is to be commended.”

  The legate turned his attention back to the cowering men before him.

  “Who is your leader?”

  There was a pregnant pause and finally one of the kneeling figures spoke in a deep, cracked voice.

  “I am Beltas of the Cantabri. I lead this camp.”

  Crassus shook his head.

  “You led this camp. I am impressed with the scale of your adoption of our ways, though I am somewhat dismayed to find you using them against us, particularly in the defence of another people.”

  The man remained silent.

  “Good. At least you know when not to talk. Not all the Cantabri crossed the mountains to fight us?”

  “No, general.”

  Crassus nodded.

  “Good. I do not want to be remembered as the man who destroyed an entire people. You realise that I am not afforded a great deal of room for mercy?”

  Silence again.

  “You must die, Beltas; you and your followers. I cannot have the peoples of Aquitania and Spain believing they can rebel as much as they like without punishment. You have forced my hand to this, but you can rest comfortably in the knowledge that I will carry no campaign against your people across the mountains. You will suffer for what you have done, but your wives and children will live on safe in their homes, so long as they stay there.”

  The legate turned to the tribunes behind him.

  “Round up every survivor you can find from the area, marshal them here in the fort and then split them into tribal groupings. There are at least a dozen different peoples involved here, some Aquitanian and others Spanish. Take them in those groups and crucify them in all the high places so that they can be seen from afar.”

  A moan of dismay rose from several of the kneeling men.

  “Make sure that any Spanish tribesmen are raised on their posts in the passes that lead down from the mountains to greet any reinforcements that may be tempted to continue on against us.”

  He turned to walk away, but stopped, tapping his lip as though with an afterthought.

  “But I shall still show the little mercy that I can. Should any man request mercy, you may cut and break them to speed their death. Moreover, any survivor you find that you feel should be too young or too old to take up arms, send them home and tell them to stay there and grow crops.”

  As the legate strode away, Rusca wandered across to him.

  “Mercy? Is it wise?”

  Crassus shr
ugged.

  “With the will of the Gods, this will be our last battle in Gaul and I have no wish to provoke any further rebellion. Hopefully this will have broken resistance but not prompted the surviving tribes to continue the troubles. We will wait three days to see if any other force turns up and then I shall send to Caesar my compliments and the message that Aquitania is ours. I don’t think we will see any trouble in those three days.”

  Rusca nodded.

  “But we stay here as garrison for now, sir? To be sure?”

  The legate nodded.

  “For now. At least until Caesar clears my return to Rome. Summer passes rapidly, tribune, and I have no desire to winter with the troops another year.”

  Rusca nodded his heartfelt agreement. The more he thought about Rome and its pleasant diversions, the more he yearned for it. Perhaps they would all return soon, if the general had managed to suppress the Veneti.

  Chapter 18

  (Sextilis: Darioritum, Caesar’s camp on the Armorican coast.)

  Fronto drummed his fingers irritably on the tent frame, half hoping that the noise would distract the general inside enough to open up. The courier had been inside for five full minutes now, while Fronto paced back and forth, grumbling, under the watchful eyes of Brutus, Roscius and Crispus. Sighing, he rapped angrily on the wood and then began to pace once more.