Marius' Mules: Prelude to War

by Turney, S. J. A.

  Ah yes… why was it so bright?

  * * *

  Clodius hit the pavement outside the window head-first and smashed like an over-ripe melon. Pieces of his skull and its contents bounced and spattered off the men of Milo’s small force who were even now reaching the door of the tavern.

  Milo stopped, his eyes wide in shock, staring at the body of his enemy lying shattered and shredded in the gutter a few feet from him. It was as though the Gods had dropped a gift before him. But how? His men were only now moving into the inn. Apart from a few minor cuts and abrasions, only two of his gladiators had been properly wounded, and only one of them severely. None of his servants or slaves had been attacked, and neither he nor his wife had been involved. Conversely, only three of Clodius’ men had survived the fracas, and then only because they had turned their horses and fled as they first realised the danger they faced. There would be questions, of course. Possibly even a reckoning to come, but the fires of the senate could be dampened to a soggy smoulder with the power of Pompey behind him. He would ride this out, even if it did cause a bump in the rise to his consulship. He would prevail, and now - with Clodius out of the way - he would do it a great deal easier.

  As he stood looking down at the mess that had been his enemy, his servants and slaves attempting to wipe the mess off themselves and from his shoes, the gladiators split up, some remaining at the periphery to protect their master, while others moved into the inn.

  For some time, he simply stood watching Clodius leaking into the gutter, savouring what a relieving sight it was. Then the door opened again and a man was escorted out by the gladiators.

  Clodius’ killer was spattered with gore and held a bloodied sword. The gladiators flanked him more in the manner of protective guards than arresting antagonists, and Clodius looked up at the man who had killed Clodius for him.

  ‘Saufeius?’

  ‘Domine.’

  Milo’s thoughts churned. What was Saufeius doing here? He was with Paetus these days, part of his crowd. He should be at Lanuvio. He frowned and rubbed his temple.

  ‘Saufeius, what are you doing here?’

  The hireling simply shrugged, wiping his blade on a rag and sliding it back into his sheath. ‘Apologies, Domine. Master Paetus sent me back to Bovillae to buy boletus mushrooms and Caecuban wine. The market in Lanuvio is sadly lacking in quality goods, and Paetus reckoned to know the best shop here for such items.’ Saufeius cast his eyes downwards apologetically. ‘I am afraid that while I was alone, I slipped into the tavern for a drink in violation of my orders.’

  Milo stared at him, his frown only deepening. Something here was wrong, but it was hard to work out what in this mess. Still, whatever had happened, Clodius was dead and Milo’s men had suffered but minor troubles. A resounding victory and one that could only be of benefit. Saufeius reached down towards the body in the gutter, but Milo waved at him.

  ‘Leave it there. And Lanuvio, I fear, will have to do without their new priest for another week or two. I believe it’s time we returned to Rome. There will be much to do. And you, Saufeius, should ride for Lanuvio and tell Paetus and the rest to head back to the city at their earliest convenience.’

  Saufeius nodded and straightened, risking one last look down at the pulp that had been Clodius. All was well.

  * * *

  Paetus leaned back against the wall on the walkway of the Tabularium on the Capitoline hill, peering out of one of the arches that looked down along the forum and the sacred way. Saufeius sat at the next arch, mirroring him, as the pair watched the black roiling smoke drift across Rome like a portent of dreadful things, smothering the city in its dark embrace.

  ‘What will happen next?’

  Paetus glanced across at his friend’s question and shrugged. ‘More violence; more destruction.’

  They had watched with detached coldness as that day - following their return from Bovillae - Rome had exploded into riotous violence on a scale previously undreamed. Clodius’ smashed and ruined body had been brought back to the city by the slaves of the senator Sextus Teidius, who’d happened to pass along the Via Appia mere hours after the clash.

  The corpse had been laid out on the public rostrum by Clodius’ supporters for all to see the horrible things that had been done to it. Milo had brushed aside all accusations that morning, and had been kept too busy to pry into the business of his men, and so Paetus and Saufeius had watched events unfold from this lofty perch. Despite Milo’s confidence that he was freed of a troublesome enemy and would easily rise above this, Paetus was starting to doubt it. Important names were now calling out in support of Clodius and denouncing Milo as a murderer. Big names. Names even Milo couldn’t easily fob off. And the violence of the killing had brought out even many of those nobles who had hated Clodius and forced them to condemn the deed.

  Rome had never been so close to tearing itself apart.

  The pair sitting in the Tabularium had watched in astonishment as good citizens of Rome ran amok, invading the senate house, smashing the seats and tables and forming a crude pyre. Then, in a move that no one could have predicted or condoned, the populace of Rome had burned the body of a man it had previously hated on a makeshift pyre inside the sacred senate’s curia! Within the hour the building that was the heart of Rome’s government was ablaze and the more forward-thinking of the populace were filling buckets with water and doing their best to stop the flames spreading to the rest of the forum.

  ‘Rome’s in danger,’ Saufeius noted.

  ‘Rome will settle in time. But something has begun here today and, while I would do it all again the very same way, I cannot say I am comfortable with the possible long-term results of our actions, Saufeius.’

  ‘Do you think Caesar will come to Rome? It is said he recruits men in his province to finish Gaul for good, but now, with the troubles, he might have to concentrate on Rome instead.’

  Paetus shook his head and watched the smoke making interesting shapes against the grey sky. It still looked like snow was due.

  ‘This is no setback for Caesar. In fact, what we’ve just done has probably freed him.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Caesar’s lost one of his hounds, but he has more. The youngest Crassus will help maintain his control, if no one else. And others in his camp will take this loss and turn it to his benefit. You’ve seen the trouble we’ve inadvertently brought upon Milo. Suddenly despite a lifetime of murder and debauchery, Clodius is the aggrieved party, and by extension so is Caesar. He will only gain from this. He’s lost a dog but gained a mob.’

  Saufeius sighed and leaned back. ‘Was it worth it, sir?’

  Paetus’ face darkened. ‘Yes. Yes, it was.’

  ‘What’s next for us?’

  ‘We keep working for Milo as long as that is reasonable thing to do. And now I start laying the foundations for the next step: when Caesar is done with Gaul and returns to Rome.’

  One down. One to go.

  Gergovia: Rise of kings

  Priscus fidgeted with his cloak clasp as he stood at the window, looking out into the fresh morning air, the damp smell of the night’s rain cleansing his nostrils, if not his mood.

  ‘Where is he? He should be here by now.’

  Behind him, the rankers-become-tribunes Fabius and Furius sat either side of a rustic table, rolling two ivory dice and moving coins around between them, apparently arbitrarily as far as Priscus could see. Fabius paused to nurse his bad hand as Furius flicked the dice across the table and turned to the prefect standing in the window.

  ‘How long do we give him before we go check?’

  Priscus tapped the windowsill irritably. The truth was that he wasn’t over-certain himself.

  ‘Doing so is dangerous. You know that. We need to try and keep our visits to a minimum.’

  ‘How much more dangerous can it be than not knowing what’s happening and wondering whether the next time you open the door there might be a dozen sickle-wielding druids outside with a wicker cage?
’

  Priscus’ drumming fingers increased their pace and strength as he looked this way and that through the window. The ‘farm’ as they knew it had once been just that. A couple of months ago its owners had moved away, escorted by a half dozen Remi cavalry. Carefully selected for a number of reasons, the family had been quite happy to accept Priscus’ proposal, which in his eyes marked them at least as innocent in Gaul’s troubles and confirmed that he’d done the right thing. The family had been given nearly ten times the value of their farm in Roman coinage in addition to a plot of land in Cisalpine Gaul where they could start a new life.

  For their part, the poor farming family went from eking out a borderline existence to being independently wealthy and to living in a land where they would be free of internecine tribal conflicts and the ever increasing danger of war on a national level, while still nominally Gaulish in culture. What was turning their back on a tribe that barely acknowledged poor farmers compared to the gains?

  On Priscus’ side, they benefited by transplanting the family far enough that they could not turn round and cause trouble for him and his men, where they were no threat; but mostly, of course, he gained the farm.

  The animals sheltered from the damp cold air in their huts, coops and pens and that was fine for Priscus, who over the past month had smelled enough dung to keep him going for a lifetime. And the bugs… each night he tossed and turned and scratched, convinced he was infested.

  He and his men had the same level of knowledge and skill at farming as the transplanted family had had at aqueduct construction, but it didn’t matter. All they needed here was a temporary façade of normalcy. Whatever happened, they would be gone by spring, and would not have to attempt crop sowing, tending and harvesting. In the meantime, feeding and mucking out the animals was a simple enough task, although they’d had trouble with a pregnant sow and a fox had dealt with half their chicken problems for them.

  It was a dirty, crude place, packed with stinking animals that seemed to have inherited the Gaulish temper and distrust of Romans. It was flea-ridden and cold and uncomfortable.

  But it was a necessary evil, for the outlook from this very window - past the half-occupied chicken coop and the fodder shed - held the best view they could have hoped for of the oppidum of Gergovia, its ramparts high and strong, smoke pouring from dozens of hearths and rising into the damp air like pillars of grey holding up the sky. Gergovia - a defensive jewel in the Arverni crown - had only one gate, and that was in clear evidence from this angle. Even at this distance, a watcher with keen eyes could see from the farm every time that gate opened or closed and someone entered or left the city. From their other vantage point in the woods, the gate was closer, but proximity brought danger, and thus limited their chances to observe from the trees.

  The first month and a half of the winter Priscus had passed at Bibracte with his two fellow officers, just two contubernia of legionaries and half a dozen native auxiliaries hand-picked by Caesar’s best long-term Gallic oathsworn. They had posed easily at Bibracte as themselves, on assignment for the army’s quartermasters, setting up a new supply depot, and had begun to ask around casually. As time passed, Priscus and his men had learned a great deal. Mostly that even the supposedly allied Aedui were recalcitrant in the company of Roman officers these days. But the natives serving with him had managed to glean a lot more from overheard conversation and gentle nudging.

  A young noble of the Arverni had been in Bibracte a number of times over the year, stirring things up and consorting with druids. It had come as no surprise to Priscus to discover that the man’s name had been Vercingetorix: the name that had been given by Ambiorix when Fronto caught the bastard in the autumn. It also transpired that this Vercingetorix was not overly popular among his own people, as his father had made a bid for multi-tribal power a few years past and attempted to lord it over them all. He had suffered a despot’s death for his presumption, and his brother - Vercingetorix’s uncle - who was still a power in the tribe had been the only thing that had prevented the young man following his father to the axe.

  Nothing had been mentioned concerning the building of a Gallic army, of course, but Priscus hardly needed confirmation of that after his investigations of the past two years, nor of the fact that Vercingetorix and his druid cronies were involved in the matter. The location of the centre of Arverni power - Gergovia - had been a useful discovery, as had the knowledge that the tribe was divided. Many of the elders still seethed over the old man’s failed and fatal attempt at empire-building, while many of the younger tribesmen lusted after glory and Roman blood, and some had even followed Vercingetorix last winter when he had gone into voluntary exile among the druids. A divided tribe presented an interesting possibility for Priscus.

  Where there were divisions, there were cracks, and he was becoming an expert at widening such cracks into chasms. The decision to move to Gergovia had been an easy one, and within a few weeks they had been installed at the farm, though most of the legionaries had been sent off with the farming family or back to Agedincum, with only three legionaries and three Gallic auxilia remaining. Too heavy a Roman presence in such hidden conditions was asking for discovery.

  The next step had been more dangerous, since it relied on putting his trust into a man he hardly knew and praying to Apollo that he wasn’t a traitor in their midst already. As they settled in at the farm, Priscus sent back to the main camp at Agedincum where, as well as the six legions encamped and making their presence felt among the natives, a sizeable shanty-town of native traders and sutlers had grown. In his time there in late autumn, working with the scouts to select the best and most trustworthy natives for his party, Priscus had come across a trader named Pixtilos, who was of the Arverni, but had left his tribe in search of greater profit margins. That he had decided on Rome as the source of that profit spoke at some length of his lack of ties to Gallic rebels, and Priscus had taken note of him at the time as potentially useful. It had taken gold to buy Pixtilos’ faith, but not as much as Priscus had expected.

  Now, for the past month or more, the itinerant trader had been back and forth between Gergovia, where he was accepted as one of their own, and smaller Arverni settlements in other valleys, making a passable living, pausing at the farm whenever he had anything to tell them and to deliver them the goods they needed to survive as they observed the Arverni capital.

  It seemed from what he had discovered that most of the Arverni elders were at loggerheads with Vercingetorix, and the druids had abandoned the oppidum in support of the young warrior. A little subtle delving by Pixtilos had revealed a mix of motives among the elders, ranging from the fear of failure and Roman reprisals, down to a deep-rooted loyalty to the Republic born of the interplay between the two over previous decades. Many of the old men had come to enjoy the luxuries Roman traders lavished upon them.

  The fact stood that as long as the elders maintained control of Gergovia and the Arverni then Vercingetorix was still little more than an exiled troublemaker with a small warband, for all his connections and druidic support. Aeduan auxiliaries among Priscus’ party resolutely believed that the chances of any alliance of Gallic armies was near impossible under the command of a man who was an outcast with no real power base. No strong tribe would follow a brigand prince living with his bandit gang in the wilds, and born of a despot to boot.

  And yet something made Priscus twitch. He had seen this Vercingetorix visit Gergovia a few times over the last month with his band of warriors, and the man exuded confidence and power even from a distance. Whatever the Arverni thought of him, and whatever the Aedui said about his lack of ability to build an inter-tribal force, Priscus noted that most of the young, strong warriors of the Arverni had followed him into exile rather than staying with their own families or the council of elders.

  Gobannitio, the exile’s uncle, was doing a sterling job of keeping his nephew from being declared an outright enemy of the Arverni by the council, and so he was still permitted to enter the oppid
um, but Priscus was not blind to the fact that if it came down to a struggle of straight power, neither Gobannitio nor his ageing compatriots on the council would be able to hold back the tide of muscle and steel upon which Vercingetorix sailed.

  Once again, Priscus began to chew on the inside of his cheek, drumming out a staccato rhythm on the windowsill… and then his fingers paused and he tilted his head and frowned.

  A carnyx?

  The Gaulish noisemakers instilled a sense of dread in Priscus, as they did with most Romans, for they heralded only two things: a parlay or a fight.

  ‘What was that?’ Fabius frowned, dropping the dice to the wooden surface again and striding across to the window to join Priscus. Furius moved to the door next to them.

  As they watched, a group of riders emerged from the trees near to the oppidum. Perhaps twenty of them, they moved openly and steadily towards Gergovia. Priscus couldn’t quite make out the details yet, but it had to be Vercingetorix on yet another of his visits, with his small band of personal warrior guards. But he’d never announced his presence with a horn before. Curious.

  ‘What do you suppose it means?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it’s different, and change unsettles me. I wish Pixtilos would hurry up. He said he’d be here by now. He’s supposed to be heading out to some pig-shit settlement of crones and farmers up on the Morgus. And we’re out of meat til he comes.’ Almost laughable, that, given the farm animals surrounding them.

  ‘Will he come now?’

  ‘Who knows?’ Priscus ground his teeth. He hated not knowing things, and this new development was worrying. He could really do with picking Pixtilos’ brain about it.

  ‘Do we go check it out?’

  Again, Priscus deliberated. Getting too close to the oppidum was almost idiotically dangerous when people were out and about near the gate, but sitting here in ignorance was almost as unacceptable.