Marius' Mules IV: Conspiracy of Eagles

by S. J. A. Turney

  That was the moment in every battle, though.

  The legions fought their mechanical fight with a feeling of invincibility until that breaking point. The first death seemed to trigger it, and Fronto prepared himself as first one and then two, then three men fell, some slumping forwards onto the earth bank, their heads smashed and slashed, their bodies opened and spilling their vitals to the wet ground, others tumbling backwards.

  Each time, one of the second rank ran forward, stepping into the gap and slamming his shield into place, continuing the butchery.

  The legate watched with held breath as his small force of reserves dwindled more and more, twenty five men now down to fourteen. Now thirteen. Now twelve.

  Even as he realised he was about to run out of reserves, Fronto blinked in surprise. Three of the auxiliary archers had joined the line of men, armoured in their light mail shirts, less than half as protective as a legionary version, but gripping spare legionary shields and hefting their backup blades ready to join the fight. Decius fell in beside him, grinning, as more Cretan archers armed up and joined in.

  “Ran out of things to throw” he shrugged, hefting his sword.

  Only seven legionaries were left and now eight auxiliary reserves. Fronto took another deep breath. “Think we might be in the shit, Decius.”

  “Seems that’s the only place I ever meet you!”

  Fronto laughed a hollow laugh and turned back as a man howled in front of him, falling back with a spear impaling his chest, snapped off near the solar plexus. “My turn!” he shouted and shuffled forwards, limping over the fallen, groaning man with difficulty. He barely got his shield into position before the next blow carved a small sliver off the curved corner of it.

  “Bollocks, that was close!”

  The legionary next to him grinned and thrust his sword into a man whose hands had risen for an overhead chop with a heavy axe. Even as the man fell away and Fronto stabbed at the nearest open flesh, his eyes strayed up and over the press of men.

  “Mars be praised.” The field was largely empty of enemy warriors, more than two thirds of the Germanic attack now lying in heaps around the field or piled up like cordwood before the shieldwall.

  “Nearly done ‘em, sir!” the legionary grinned.

  “Why haven’t they broken? We must not have frightened them enough.”

  “They know we can’t hold forever, sir. They’ll still win in the end.”

  The legate turned a vicious smile on his men. “Not today.”

  Withdrawing his sword and closing the shield gap again, he rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

  “Soldiers of Rome: advance!”

  Despite the gasps of surprise around him, Fronto smashed forwards with his shield and then turned it slightly, lancing a speedy blow that cut through a man’s neck cord. The warrior fell away, shrieking in pain, his head lolling obscenely to one side, and Fronto took a step forward and then another, almost collapsing as his bad knee negotiated the slope.

  Next to him, the other legionaries had reacted with professional discipline, despite the unexpectedness of the command, smashing the nearest enemies out of the way with their shields and stepping forward, reforming the line. Suddenly, Decius was there, pushing his way into the line, half a dozen men along.

  “You’re not winning this one without me, Fronto!”

  And the auxiliaries were there too, no longer plugging gaps, but forcing their way into the line, expanding it and extending it, following the lead of the legionaries on either side of them, learning the new tactics of legion fighting in the melting pot of battle itself. The men of the Tenth and Fourteenth reacted momentarily with the traditional distaste of legion men regarding the ‘inferior’ auxilia, but these men had proved themselves once and were doing it again, and within moments, the legionaries were giving their new compatriots enough space to work and yelling encouragement.

  The barbarians, until a moment ago throwing themselves against an ever-diminishing line of defenders, suddenly quailed in the face of the unexpectedly violent and enthusiastic advance. Across the field, shouts of consternation were raised in the guttural Germanic tongue and, through the periodic flashes of vision Fronto caught every time the shields parted for a sword blow, it was clear that the rear ranks of the remaining barbarians were now turning on their heels and plummeting into the forest in an effort to escape the scene.

  The sudden change in the fortunes of the enemy caused a moan of dismay to ripple across their massed ranks and, as they began to pull back en masse, a cheer went up among the men of the Tenth, the Fourteenth and the Cretan auxiliaries, accompanied by a fresh push of energy.

  The Roman line surged forward, each step accompanied by the smash of the shield boss, no longer a teeth-gritting, muscle-rippling heave against a wall of sweating flesh, the pressure easing as the enemy ranks thinned.

  A legionary a few men down from Fronto roared and stepped out of the line, desperate to deliver a killing blow to the man with whom he’d been struggling and who had now pulled away and opened a gap between them.

  Before Fronto could shout a warning or an order to return to the line, the man fell foul of three of the enemy who paused in their flight to dispatch the careless Roman. The legionary went down under the blows of two axes and a sword, hacking chunks from his upper body. The line surged a little faster again as the legionary’s compatriots made an attempt to reach his killers without making the same suicidal mistake themselves. The barbarians, though, were now intent on self-preservation, the attack having fallen apart around them, and were already out of reach and accelerating.

  “What are your orders, legate?” Decius bellowed along the line as the Roman force moved across the soaking, body-strewn grass at a steady pace, the barbarians fleeing ahead of them.

  Fronto peered off through the rain, which looked as though it might be finally lightening. “Hold ranks until we reach the woods. Then we’re going to split: I’m going to take half the men a few hundred yards inside the treeline just to be sure they’re not thinking of forming up for another performance. You’ll take the rest and return to the camp. Get the ropes going again and get the men resupplied and some more support brought across.”

  Decius grinned as he stepped over the twisted body of a wiry barbarian, pinned to the wet, sludgy grass with the sharp blade of an entrenching tool where his head should have been.

  Fronto took a deep breath and very carefully negotiated every grotesque obstacle with his swollen knee screaming at him. It was almost over. He couldn’t believe they’d done it with the few men and supplies they had, but Decius was almost certainly right: the barbarians wouldn’t be back. Everything that had happened on this side of the river had been the work of one tribe, while the rest seemed happy to sit back in their own lands and watch. The horrible defeat that had just been inflicted upon them by a tremendously inferior force would ensure that no further danger came Caesar’s way.

  The shields had stopped opening and closing to allow strikes now. Not a single living barbarian faced the wall of steel, iron, bronze and flesh moving inexorably across the turf. Indeed, the last few of the enemy were even now being lost to sight among the boles of the trees, going to ground in an attempt to evade death or capture.

  Decius’ voice rang out along the line. “Every second man withdraw to the defences!” Stepping back himself, he saluted Fronto as he took twenty three men back to the fortlet, leaving the remaining twenty four with the legate.

  Without needing a command, those men closed ranks as they moved and, within moments they had reached the edge of the forest. There was no longer any sign of the stragglers, but Fronto knew from horrible experience how dangerous it was to assume all was clear. There would likely be a few barbarians, willing to sacrifice themselves in the name of revenge, who would be hidden in the undergrowth in the hope of taking a number of heads with them when they went to meet their dung-ridden Gods.

  “Be wary now, lads. Stay within sight of one another and move care
fully. Watch every bush and every tree for movement. Be aware of your surroundings and every noise. We move in for five minutes only and then turn and withdraw. No chasing any juicy Germanic women, no matter how naked they might be!”

  A few laughs rippled out down the line as the soldiers moved into the woods, spreading out and forming a wide cordon to clear any hidden ambushes. Fronto realised very quickly that he was lagging, his knee was a serious impediment in the troublesome terrain of the forest, and he was grateful when Atenos and one of the other legionaries noticed. The centurion nodded at him and closed the gap, allowing the legate to fall back and leave the line.

  Fronto watched as his men very ably and professionally stalked deeper into the woods, and stumbled over to a fallen tree trunk, onto which he sagged with great relief, examining his swollen knee and worrying about whether it should be turning the shade of mauve that it appeared to be.

  He sighed with happiness and never noticed the heavy, shiny object descending before it smashed him over the head, obliterating all consciousness and driving him into darkness.

  * * * * *

  White light brought with it the sort of pain that Fronto usually only associated with heavy drinking bouts, though this was clearly not the result of any such activity. With a groan, he sat up, his hand going to his head to feel where the throbbing was coming from.

  When he regained consciousness the second time, he was lying awkwardly and the smell of relatively fresh vomit assailed his nostrils. He opened an eye a fraction and then squeezed it tight shut against the terribly painful light. The vomit was apparently his and had seeped into his clothing, despite having been peremptorily wiped away with a cloth.

  “He’s awake.”

  “If you can call it that.”

  “Did you bring the wine? Wine always heals Fronto” Even with his eyes closed and the fog of agonising unconsciousness still clinging to his senses, Fronto could almost hear the malicious grin on the face of Priscus, to whom he knew the voice belonged.

  “Piss off.”

  “It speaks!”

  Fronto cracked an eye open again, but held it so narrow that his lashes formed a veil against the light. Above was a white leather roof. Too high to be his own tent, so it was clearly a hospital one. His wandering gaze took in the beaming faces of Priscus and Carbo, with Decius sat next to them, the only one wearing any sort of expression of concern. Fronto noted with interest, his professional eye taking over despite the circumstances, that Carbo sported a recent cut to his cheek that hadn’t been there last time they’d met, just before the river crossing. A suspicion began to form.

  “How long have I been out?”

  Priscus and Carbo exchanged glances and then looked across at Decius. “Not sure. Who are the consuls this year, prefect?”

  Decius gave them a weary smile and focussed on Fronto. “A little over a week.”

  “A week?”

  “You took a bad blow to the head.”

  Priscus laughed out loud. “It was a truly magnificent wound. One of your best yet. The medicus said he thought he could see your brain, but I assured him that was unlikely.”

  The camp prefect burst out laughing and Carbo grinned evilly. “Actually, in all truthfulness, the medicus did say that you’ve got one of the thickest skulls he’s ever seen and that was probably what saved your life.”

  Fronto frowned and the pain the muscle movement caused almost made him vomit again.

  “What happened? I remember stopping because of my knee and then nothing.”

  Decius shrugged. “We’re still not sure. It appears that Menenius saved you.”

  “What?”

  The auxiliary prefect gestured to the bed on the other side of the spacious partitioned room. “When we found you, you were together. You’d been brained and Menenius had two stab wounds and an arrow jutting from his chest. But there were three dead barbarians around you too, and the tribune’s sword was good and bloody.”

  Fronto stared across at the still form of Menenius, whose chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. “Is he…”

  “He’s suffering a fever. Not been lucid yet and keeps dropping off for half a day at a time. The medicus said his arrow wound was infected. He should pull through, but nothing’s certain yet.”

  The legate shook his head in disbelief. “I’m going to owe him a few drinks apparently, if he recovers well enough. Any news of Cantorix?”

  “After a fashion. He’s lost his right arm at the shoulder, can’t feel a thing in his left leg, and swears every time anyone touches the right. But, somehow, the big Gaulish bastard seems to be getting stronger. It’s the end of his soldiering career, of course, but it’s impressive nonetheless.”

  A resounding crash made Fronto start and he almost sat bolt upright. “What in Hades was that?”

  “That was the bridge coming down” Priscus shrugged. “It’s nearly done now.”

  “Down? It’s only been a week!”

  “A week’s been enough” the camp prefect shrugged. “Looks like the bridge and your little party on the bank have put the shits up even the hardest bastards out there. We hardly had the legions across the bridge before we started getting ambassadors and tribute, hostages, promises and so on. Most of the tribes have capitulated and agreed terms with the general.”

  “And the rest?”

  “That’s what took the week.” Carbo leaned forward. “The dangerous tribes – even the Suevi – all abandoned their conquests and territories and melted away into the forests to the east. Doesn’t look like they’ll be coming back in the near future… especially given that we burned all their settlements, harvested their crops, slaughtered their livestock and poisoned the wells. Caesar’s declared the Germanic threat nullified and now we’re consolidating while the bridge comes down.”

  Fronto sank back to the comfortable surface.

  “Then it’s over. Any word on when we move out? Are the legions wintering here or do they get to come south this year?”

  The three officers looked at one another uncomfortably.

  “Not south, Marcus” Priscus said with a sigh. “West. To the coast.”

  When the legate frowned in confusion, the camp prefect sat back and squared his shoulders. “Caesar has it in mind to do to the tribes of Britain what we’ve done to Germania.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “He claims to still be smarting over their support for the Veneti last year, but the general consensus is that he wants to double the glory and tribute we’ve taken so far before returning to Rome. I’m not sure I disagree, mind. Cartloads of gold and a long chain of slaves. Every man in the army’s going to be quite well off this winter.”

  Fronto allowed his eyes to close as his mind formed a fantastic and somewhat worrying image of the strange and unknown island full of monsters and evils that lay across the ocean to the north.

  Fabulous.

  Just wonderful.

  An image of a smiling Lucilia that he hadn’t even been aware was in his head until now started to fade, replaced by a screaming horde of yet more Celts.

  “Think I’d better rest again.”

  ROME

  Lucilia smiled. “Father has such old-fashioned tastes. I tried to get him to buy a statue of Priapus or ‘Pan and a goat’ for the atrium, but he refused. So we’re stuck with a bust of my great grandfather who, to be quite honest, does not appear to have been a particularly handsome man. Who wants a party in such surroundings, I ask you?”

  Faleria laughed lightly.

  “Such statues as you favour might well lead to the kind of party that you’d be well advised to avoid, while your husband-to-be is still absent fighting the enemies of the Republic. Let us concentrate on the important things. The wine is already taken care of, but we need to order the meats, cheeses and fruit at least this afternoon. And before we head back, we should see what musicians are for hire. No offence to your father’s household, but if I have to listen to that wailing cat of a piper again I shall stuff his pipes with his
own innards.”

  Lucilia grinned. “Perhaps we should head onto the Aventine and see how your house is coming on? Most of the roof should have been replaced this week.”

  The older of the two shrugged. “If there’s time. The work will go on whether observed or not.”

  The pair turned into the side street, the noise of the forum fading a little behind them as the buildings muffled the din. Faleria frowned as she glanced back over her shoulder.

  “Where’s that useless Thracian? If he’s gone off on his own your father will have him flogged!”

  Lucilia turned to look and her shriek was cut off sharply as a sack fell over her head and tightened around her neck, a pair of strong hands grasping her wrists and yanking them up painfully behind her. She tried desperately to call out to Faleria from the suffocating, blinding confines of the sack, but was instantly aware of the cries of anger and pain from her friend, apparently being similarly manhandled.

  More hands grasped her shoulders and elbows and pushed her, almost knocking her from her feet. She was vaguely aware of the distinctive sounds of Faleria struggling and cursing their attackers and bit down on the fear and panic that threatened to overwhelm her, concentrating instead on yanking an elbow free from someone’s grip and then landing it in someone’s stomach. She was rewarded with a rush of air and a groan, but then the hands tightened around her and she found herself totally restricted and all-but carried, her toes brushing the ground as she moved.

  The only indications that the pair had been dragged and carried inside a building were the oppressive heat of an unventilated room and the further muffling of the background city noises. The sudden change in environment also allowed Lucilia to pay better attention to the more intimate sounds as they were shuffled along corridors, through rooms and, towards the end, down a short flight of stairs.

  She could identify at least five sets of footsteps and there were three voices, not speaking, but grunting or swearing, all in accents local to Latium or at least the central regions of Italia. Not pirates, then, and unlikely to be slavers. Thugs. And thugs always answered to a boss.