Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  He was already running, pugio sliding back into the scabbard at his belt, when the cornu rang out with the warning call. As Fronto pounded up the ramp and onto the slippery timbers, he could already see men running back across the bridge. Behind him almost a century of armed and armoured legionaries answered the call, running onto the ramp, shields held ready and blades out, preparing to leap into action.

  The unarmoured work gang legionaries had dropped their tools and loads, while the eight-man contubernium that was the entire fighting-ready force on the bridge itself could be seen at the far end with the centurion’s crest bobbing around among them.

  Slipping a couple of times on the slimy wood, Fronto managed to keep his feet along the length of the structure, the near-eighty men on military duty hammering along behind and gradually catching up.

  Fronto, wondering what had caused the warning, found his answer as a legionary ran past him, panting, without even raising a salute or looking at him, clutching his left arm from which the shaft of an arrow protruded, the scraggy grey feathers dirty and unpleasant. Rivulets of dark blood ran down his sweating, dirty arm, joining the grime and diffusing in the rain.

  The legate turned his attention back to the group ahead and could now see that the centurion had formed his eight men into a small ‘testudo’ tortoise formation to shelter them from the dozens of falling arrows and to provide a shield to protect those men who were still fleeing the construction area.

  Fronto’s practiced and professional eye told him that they were at the very furthest range of the unseen archers. Most of the arrows were plummeting into the grey-brown torrents of the Rhenus, stippled by raindrops. A few had struck the timbers and lodged there, and perhaps one arrow in a dozen was actually making it to the bridge works.

  The section that had just been lowered into place was still loose; the ropes, pegs and nails that would secure it lying untended on the deck.

  “Get back!” Fronto bellowed at the centurion and his small party. The legionaries behind him finally came alongside as the centurion turned to see the legate pelting towards him.

  “Not yet, sir!” His eyes flitting to either side of the legate, he addressed the arriving soldiers. “First four contubernia join your mates and form a barrier. The rest of you lash and nail this bastard in place as quick as you can and then we’ll pull back. I’m not having this section wash away on my watch!”

  Falling in behind the small testudo of shields, Fronto crouched a little next to the centurion who stood proud as though nothing in the world could harm him. Men fell into place around them, creating a solid shield barrier against the arrows falling all across the bridge’s lip.

  Behind, the other men had dropped their shields and swords and were hurriedly securing the latest section of bridge. Despite the shield wall and all the protection it gave, even as they all fell into place and went about their tasks, two men dropped among the ropes and beams with black shafts protruding from head or chest. Another fell from the shieldwall, a man who’d kept his shield too high, screeching as an arrow slammed into his shin just above the ankle, almost pinning him to the bridge. As he fell backwards, other shields resettled to fill the gap.

  “We have to pull back. There are hundreds of them.”

  “As soon as we have the bridge secured, sir.”

  Fronto watched with desperate impatience as the men hurried about the business of nailing and roping the section down.

  “They’d better be bloody quick. We’re going to lose a lot of men if we stay here.”

  Even as he spoke another worker shrieked and vanished over the side into the roiling water, an arrow protruding from his neck. A grunt from the shieldwall announced a glancing blow.

  “This is nothing, sir. You wait til we start the next section and we come into proper range.”

  Fronto shook his head in anger. “We can’t have the men work under these conditions. It’s not viable. Can we maybe have a missile troop drawn up here to clear out the far bank?”

  Two more screams sounded as men collapsed to the ground, writhing and groaning.

  “No good, sir. We can’t fit an archery unit on here while the men work around them, and if you just put the archers up here and try and clear them out, they’ll just disappear into the woods and wait until an easy target turns up. They’re barbarians, but they’re not daft.”

  Fronto reached out and pushed a man’s shield back into place.

  “Stop paying attention to us talking and keep that bloody shield in place!” he snapped and, turning back to the centurion. “Well, we’ll have to do something. We’ve got to clear those archers out if we want to finish the bridge.”

  One of the legionaries bellowed from the side that the section was secure and the centurion smiled grimly.

  “Sound the defended retreat. Shields up until we’re at least twenty yards along the bridge. Then you can run!”

  Fronto turned, feeling the slight give in the boards underfoot, and fell in with the legionaries as they beat an ordered retreat along the bridge, workers picking up their shields and blades as they moved, joining the defensive lines.

  A dozen yards further and the last arrow fell a long way short of the men, the enemy fire ceasing and leaving just the eerie patter of rain on the timber. Fronto looked around the sullen century of men who stomped alongside him, five casualties being helped along and two dead carried by their companions. At least two more had disappeared beneath the surface of the Rhenus.

  As the rain spattered his face, Fronto nodded in answer to his own silent question. There was only really one solution to the problem.

  Chapter 10

  (The Rhine)

  Fronto held on for dear life as the wood clenched in his whitening fingers bucked and spun.

  “Whose stupid shitty idea was this?”

  “You really need an answer to that, sir?” Atenos grinned from the front of the low, flat boat where he stood boldly in a pose reminiscent of the great Colossus, seemingly uncaring of the lurching of the vessel with every churning trough or peak of the roiling surface. The rain, now a constant sheet of water, battered their forms, pinging off the metal of their armour and soaking into every inch of clothing.

  “I shouldn’t have come, though. You could quite easily have done it without me.”

  “I think it’s better that you did, sir, in the end.”

  Fronto looked up from the rail and noticed the huge Gaulish centurion’s eyes flicking meaningfully past him to the rear of the boat. Trusting in Fortuna and releasing one claw-like hand from the boat’s hull, Fronto turned, his gaze taking in the dozen other boats in the small, scattered flotilla before coming to rest on the figure at the rear: the object of Atenos’ scornful look.

  Tribune Menenius of the Fourteenth sat alone on the bench, the rest of the men keeping away from him – possibly out of respect for his rank, though Fronto somehow doubted it. The youthful, foppish tribune looked utterly dejected and a little frightened.

  Once again, Fronto cursed his luck for ending up with the ineffectual little turd as a second in command. It would be easy to blame Plancus, the legate of the Fourteenth, but Fronto knew deep down it was a symptom of having lost his Fortuna pendant.

  The plan had been simple enough: to take the boats the Ubii had donated and use them to ferry a small force across, downriver and out of sight, then to move stealthily up the east bank and fall on the archers that plagued the building work.

  Simple.

  So simple that anyone could have commanded it.

  A dozen Ubii scouts had been brought into the force, but the bulk of the expedition would be made up of the men of the Fourteenth: Gauls themselves, who may be able to pass as locals along with the scouts during the stealthy approach. So simple.

  Until Plancus had volunteered to lead the mission, given that it was his men who had been selected. Fronto had suffered a momentary premonition of how the attack might proceed under the cretinous direction of the unimaginative legate of the Fourteenth. So harr
owing was his mental image that he had found himself standing forward and demanding that he lead the attack, it being his idea. Plancus had been so outraged he had almost spat teeth, but Fronto was adamant; his plan, his responsibility.

  And so, having tricked himself into coming along, he had added a century of his own men from the Tenth into the force, troops upon whom he knew he could rely. Specifically the men of Atenos, the first century of the second cohort, a number of whom shared the Gallic origin of their officer. It seemed the only sensible course of action.

  Yet Plancus had still refused to relinquish control of his men to his brother legate and the resulting appointment had left a sour taste in Fronto’s mouth. Menenius, a junior tribune with, apparently, no combat experience, would accompany him as a second.

  The tribune looked up from beneath his sodden brown cloak, feeling the eyes of the other two officers on him. He cast an unhappy glance back at them and then lowered his eyes to his feet once more, lifting his sopping boots from the three inches of water that filled the bottom of the boat – yet another thing that sent cold shudders down Fronto’s spine.

  Like it or not, he was clearly saddled with this man. Gritting his teeth and holding his breath, the legate of the Tenth nodded to Atenos and stood, rocking unsteadily as he gingerly made his way along the wide, flat craft between the legionaries pressed together against the rain, rowing for all they were worth to try and stay with the other boats despite the unbelievably strong current.

  With a great sense of relief, Fronto arrived at the space around the tribune and sank to the bench opposite. Menenius looked up and tried to smile. The man looked like a fish – a fish out of water, Fronto thought sourly. The legate smiled with forced sympathy at his second in command.

  “You don’t like boats either?” he hazarded, well aware in truth of the cause of the man’s nerves, but offering him an out.

  Menenius sniffed, a droplet of mucus forming on the end of his nose like a six year old, which made Fronto simultaneously want to wipe it away and cuff him around the ear.

  “Once we land, stick close to me. Your best centurion in the unit is Cantorix. I’ve met him before and seen him in action. When I give orders, Atenos will deal with his century. You relay them to Cantorix and he’ll diffuse them as necessary among the other three centurions from the Fourteenth. If we get separated, remember the goal. Go as stealthily as you can to the bank opposite the bridge and separate out into a wide arc before you pounce, so they have less chance of getting away. Then keep moving the arc around so you can close them in against the bank.”

  The look of panic that flashed across Menenius’ face only served to increase the ire in Fronto, but he held his breath and forced the patience back into his voice.

  “Have you had no experience of a fight at all? You’ve been a junior tribune for more than a year now in different legions. You must have been in the battles we’ve fought?”

  “I’ve stood at the back, Fronto. I’ve occasionally had a musician send messages when required. I’m not at all cut out for this kind of thing, though. This is what centurions are for, isn’t it?”

  Fronto smiled, though without genuine humour.

  “The centurions will do nearly everything. Just stick with me.” He reached out and tapped the ornate scabbard of the tribune’s gladius. “With any luck you won’t need to use that.”

  Menenius looked at the sword and sighed. Reaching down, he drew it slowly with a well-oiled hiss.

  Fronto eyed the blade as it came free. Despite the showy scabbard and the eagle-embossed pommel, the blade itself was rust-free and unpitted, perfectly oiled and maintained and clearly sharp. Near the point where the tip began to taper, a pair of small nicks was visible.

  “You keep your gladius in good condition, but it seems to be marked?”

  Menenius looked at the blade in surprise, then spotted the nicks and nodded unhappily.

  “My father. It was his sword. He served under Sertorius in Hispania – with distinction apparently, a fact that he never let me forget until his dying day. I sometimes suspect that if I let the blade rust, he’ll find a way to come back from the dead just to punish me.”

  Fronto sagged. The tribune was clearly more suited to some administrative role somewhere.

  “Just stay close and try to stay alive.”

  Menenius nodded unhappily. “I wish Hortius was here. He’d know what to say.”

  Fronto cast thanks up to the heavens to any God that was listening that this wasn’t the case, but fixed the fake smile of sympathy to his face again and turned at a shout from Atenos.

  “We’re closing on the bank, sir.”

  Sinking to the bench, the legate grasped the side of the boat again and clung on, watching the grassy slope approach at a worrying speed. Despite the swiftness of the river, the boats had managed to stay in reasonable formation, drifting downriver only a little more than planned.

  The surface of the Rhenus hissed and spat as the rain hammered down into it, the boat’s bottom wallowing in several inches of freezing water. Fronto felt the numbing cold seeping in through the soft leather of his girlish boots and saturating the socks beneath and once again cursed Lucilia for offloading them on him and disposing of his good old hard boots. He really must get around to getting a new pair from Cita. Lucilia need never know.

  The boat hit the bank with a crunch, jerking forward for a moment, the occupants lurching around briefly before leaping into action. At Atenos’ command, two men leapt over the bow with a mooring rope. One produced his mallet and a heavy wooden stake and proceeded to smash the peg into the ground to make a mooring post, while the other looped the rope ready and then tied it off on the heavy stake.

  As soon as the boat was secured, the rest of the legionaries and the optio disembarked and began to disperse. Less than half a minute after the boat had touched earth, the men were formed up on the grassy rise, while the two Ubii scouts drifted toward the edge of the woods that surrounded them.

  Fronto clambered from the boat with a great sigh of relief, feeling his gut begin to steady itself again and his bowels unclench for the first time in twenty minutes. Scanning the ground, he nodded to himself. The landing site had been well chosen. Three miles downriver, the boats would have been invisible from the building site as they crossed even in clear weather. In this torrential downpour, they would be obscured from even close range. The landing was a gentle, grassy slope where the legionaries could assemble.

  Around the river-side clearing, the woodland stretched out who knew how far. This territory was beyond the ken of any of them and the forest could cover every inch from here to the end of the world for all they knew. But as long as they kept the river in view to their right, they would locate the construction site and the enemy enclave opposite soon enough.

  It seemed odd to look at the men formed up as they were: in the efficient lines of parading legionaries, yet dressed so nondescript.

  The reasoning had been simple: They would in theory need only a small force to deal with the lightly armoured archers they were to face and, between the element of surprise, their superior tactics and discipline and the quality of their weapons, they should not need their pila, helmets, shields or any such kit that would clearly mark them as Roman to even the least observant passer-by.

  And so the men of the Tenth and Fourteenth stood with the disciplined straight backs and raised chins of the legions, wrapped in plain wool cloaks, their only concession to equipment shirts of mail and a gladius on their belts hidden beneath the folds of wool.

  In a way it irritated Fronto that while, for the first time this year, he had the opportunity to control and command a military mission with a simple battle objective and no argument, discussion, or treachery, it still required subterfuge and sneaking. It would have been nice to arm up like a legion at war and tramp the grass toward a prepared and worthy enemy, rather than to run through the woods in disguise and fall upon a poorly-armed and soggy missile unit.

  Somewhere
deep inside, Fronto chided himself for hoping that the enemy were better armed and prepared than expected and the possibility of a proper fight, but looking across at Atenos, he realised that the big man was clearly thinking along similar lines.

  Still, a fight was a fight, and anything was better than endless arguing while good men were knifed in the back by their own side.

  Menenius fell in beside him, one hand wrapped around the hilt of the gladius beneath his cloak, the fingers white with pressure.

  “The last of the boats is landing, legate” he reported, his voice cracking slightly with nerves.

  The men poured out of the boats and fell in alongside those already gathered in the clearing. Fronto looked across the force: five centuries of troops. Three hundred and eighty two men, given the fallen and casualties back across the river; plus the two senior officers and twenty native scouts.

  Four hundred and four men. And of them, perhaps only fifty who had no command of the Gallic language. Hopefully, if anything went horribly wrong, the Ubii scouts would be able to handle it, claiming to be the warriors of a large Ubii village from downriver, forced south by Suevi advances. The women and children and wagons would be following on.

  “You all know why we’re here” he shouted through the siling rain. “To finish the bridge, the enemy archers on this bank must be dealt with. We have no idea about the disposition of enemy forces on this side of the river, so go carefully and quietly. If I hear a single Latin word spoken aloud once we leave this clearing, I’ll tear that man’s balls off and nail them to a tree as a warning to the rest.”

  The officers, of course, were discounted from such strictures, given Fronto and Menenius’ almost total lack of comprehension of the local language. But then the tribune hardly seemed his usual loquacious self and, given the way he was still shaking gently, he was unlikely to draw any attention to them in enemy territory. And Fronto knew he could restrain himself.

  “Leave any encounter to the Ubii if you can. If not, let those with the best Belgic dialects handle it. There should be very few native settlements or groups around here. The Ubii are all on the move due to the advances of enemy tribes, so it’s likely that anyone we meet will be hostile. I’m afraid we’ll just have to play it by ear. Listen to your officers and do your duty and in a few hours we’ll have cleared out the east bank and Caesar’s bridge will be marching toward us again. Right,” he pointed to the woodland at the northern side of the clearing where two Ubii scouts were waiting patiently “move out!”